#in defense of lavender brown

[unhinged-romione]

Ron bashing fics out here talmbout how Ron can't please his partner when canonically there is only ONE MAN whose woman at the time COULD NOT keep her hands and mouth to herself

[sparklyandhaunted]

But then no one, Lavender knew, could kill a good time quite like Daphne Greengrass.

In third year, when the Slytherins had their turn listening to Professor Lupin’s loopy swing while confronting a closet Boggart, it turned into Astoria on Daphne’s go, collapsed in a pool of its own blood, and caused Daphne to completely breakdown herself – right there, in the middle of class. She had to be taken to Madame Pomfrey, given a calming drought, and when she came to an hour or so later – in the hospital wing – she became convinced she had fallen asleep at St Mungo’s and little Astoria had to be brought out of class, had to be shown to Daphne to stop her from hyperventilating.

<...>

Lupin was appropriately contrite (it was, Lavender noted, almost impossible not to be when Snape was lecturing in a string of alliterations – a tick or tell of his if there ever was one.) Ultimately though, the afflicted professor never did get around to asking Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw if any of their students had a terminally ill sibling or something else putting them in acute emotional hardship. Professor Spout, having had to release Astoria from Herbology, having spoken to Madame Pomfrey afterwards, flat out refused to subject her Hufflepuffs to that torment. Flitwick had gone a step further, insisting that Lupin submit all of his proposed lectures for prior peer review.

- Crimes of Passion by tvsn

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks.  Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club. 

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

 Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen. 

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.  

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls. 

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away. 

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over. 

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll.  “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke. 

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!” 

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over. 

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her. 

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend. 

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door. 

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his. 

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent. 

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.” 

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots. 

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach? 

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line. 

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next. 

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.  

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.  

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party. 

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?” 

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?  

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words. 

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life. 

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

 You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him. 

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.   

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start. 

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face. 

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would. 

He showed up. 

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same. 

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours. 

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious. 

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd. 

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. 

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends. 

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far. 

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.   

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to. 

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout. 

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer. 

“Six,” you sob. 

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.” 

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it. 

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once. 

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

one time, on a trip into town, you buy a hammock from the camping supplies store.

it’s a quick trip, insignificant. but, you’d argue that any time you get to spend with logan is significant.

you ride into town on his motorcycle, your front pressed into his back, your head resting against his shoulder, wind whipping your hair. he tells you to stay put while he runs into the general store— being two of the older residents of the x-mansion, you often go into town and buy a stash of stuff for your rooms.

logan gets beer, cigars, beef jerky, crossword puzzles, cards, razors, and a new pair of aviators.

you get pencils, oranges, iced teas, rolling papers, batteries, sunscreen, and lavender body wash.

you also get condoms, bandages, painkillers, and whatever else the mansion’s infirmary might need.

and one day, you get a hammock.

logan finds you leaning against his motorcycle, a small brown bag in your grasp. he nods to it, asking what it is silently.

you’re fluent in his language.

“it’s a hammock,” you beam, “it’s supposed to be 90 degrees tomorrow. i figured i can set it up on the edge of the woods and relax.”

he just smirks and shakes his head at you.

“cmon. we’ll be late to supper.”

the next day, he finds you just where you said you’d be. you’re dressed in shorts and a tanktop, lounging with one of your iced teas and your sketch book.

logan throws a sandwich at you, startling you.

“lounging about, spitfire?” he wonders and you roll your eyes.

“you’re just jealous that you don’t let yourself relax.”

he scoffs, defensively.

“of course i do.” he grumbles, and you shake your head.

“okay, prove it. come sit.” you say, moving to sit up, patting the area on your hammock where he can sit.

he saunters over, letting himself sit down, and—

immediately, the straps that are wrapped around two parallel trees snap, causing both of you to fall down, right onto the ground.

right. his skeleton alone weighs 200 pounds.

both of you sit there for a minute before you’re laughing at how silly it, leaning against him as you laugh your ass off.

your hammock was nice while it lasted.

but, you wind up laying on the hammock’s fabric, the sun shining just a bit through the shade of the trees. you wind up sketching him as he naps, focusing on the curve of his nose, his side burns, and his hands.

your sketchbook is full of drawings of his hands.

[anachronismstellar]

I'm here again, this time to further the MQF/SQH agenda!

And I'm happy to help the MQF/SQH agenda fjshskdjsk :D

-----

Mu Qingfang had no idea how he got there, all he knew is that when he blinked he had walked all the way to An Ding Peak, hand up in the air, ready to knock on Shang Qinghua's private quarters.

In his defense, it had been one of those days... For the past weeks. And today it seemed that the Heavens decided to test all his skills, only to deem him unworthy.

He considered leaving, now that he had woken up from his haze, but the Heavens intervined once more, apparently. The door opened slowly, and a sleepy Shang Qinghua blinked at him looking like a dream, his outer robe open, revealing the silk of his inner shirt and pants.

"Mu-shidi?" He asked as he opened the door fully for the other get inside. Mu Qingfang hesitaded, considering his options, an excuse ready on his lips. But the final blow came in the form of a hug, strong arms picking him up, their bodies melting as two soft candles burned out by long nights.

"I head about the attack," Shang Qinghua said he walked them towards his room, gently laying the doctor on the unmade bed, kneeling next to him to help with his boots. "Here's what we are going to do. Are you with me?"

Mu Qingfang nodded, even though he might not being entirely truthful, focusing on Shang Qinghua's voice to ground himself.

"Good. I'm going to make us some tea, the good lavender blend you like," Shang Qinghua said as he got rid of the first two layers of Mu Qingfang clothing, pulling a heavy blanket over him, the weight making Mu Qingfang sigh with relief. "Then you're going to eat and sleep. Sounds like a good plan?"

Again Mu Qingfang nodded, blinking as his glasses were carefully taken from his face and left on the small table next to the low bed. After that came off the pins in his hair, Shang Qinghua's hands combing it until all the knots were gone, scratching Mu Qingfang's scalp here and there.

"Good. Take a nap, I won't be long," Shang Qinghua whispered and Mu Qingfang didn't need to hear it twice. He didn't actually sleep, body too wired to let go without anyone there to wake him in case of trouble, but he was able to lull himself into a meditation state, focusing on his breathing and heart beat.

His mind wandered, eyes closed, the smell of ink permeating the bed mixed with the scent of Shang Qinghua’s bitter tea. He made a mental note to pull his ear for drinking it too much, chuckling when the memory of his first time he had to scold Shang Qinghua came to his mind.

It had been just another afternoon, and technically it was supposed to be just another mission. But as a Head Disciple, Mu Qingfang was starting to learn that nothing was "just a" or "normal" when certain disciples were involved.

"So explain to me again," He held back a sigh, because sighing in front of a patient was unprofessional and made things harder for him in the long run. "You were responsible for a delivery of-"

"Two, one for Zui Xian Peak and-"

"Two deliveries, right." And this time was impossible for him to hold back his sigh. Honestly, this guy had his brain scattered all over the place, how he didn't end up in his office before was a miracle. "Two deliveries, one of Jasmine tea and another of- What's the name again?"

The An Ding disciple shuffled his feet as he looked everywhere but Mu Qingfang's face, a drop of sweat running down his cheek even though outside the winds of Autumn were already strong enough for him to force a ban on sword flying for the next weeks.

"Uh. Tiger Lilies?" the other said with a weak laugh, picking on his nails as he finally had the courage to look Mu Qingfang in the eye, warm brown almost vanishing under the size of his dilated pupils. "But then I ran into Qi Qingqi-shiji and she had to have tea delivered immediately because of a party and-"

"And between one delivery and the other you mixed the parcels and-"

"And I kinda gave the Jasmine tea to Qi Qingqi-shiji, the other tea to Zui Xian Peak and-"

"And you brew some Tiger Lilies tea for yourself."

It was Shang Qinghua's time to sigh as he pressed both hands against his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the embarrassment he must be feeling.

It happened to all of them at some point, no need to shame. But to be hit with an aphrodisiac for the first time because you mixed up the delivery order?

Yea it was a bit embarrassing.

"Here's what we are going to do," Mu Qingfang got up from his low chair to check his cabinet for all the things they would need, picking up some bottles. "I'm going to prepare the room, and I'm going to help you out. Then you're going to drink proper tea and eat, and rest for at least two days, got it?"

The fever must be picking up, because all that Shang Qinghua could do was nod, licking his dry lips as he stared at the bottles on Mu Qingfang table. For a second he seemed terrified, and it crossed Mu Qingfang's mind that- this might be his first time.

He felt bad, scratching his head as the considered if it was a good idea to ask. The poor guy already looked so stressed, Heavens, should he offer to call someone else?

"This one- This one appreciates Mu-shixiong offer, but I know you must be tired, you don't-!"

"Shang-shidi," he interruped the other with a wave of his hand, cutting off that nonsense by the root. "You don't need to worry about me, I'm here to help you, I won't stand here and watch you suffer-"

"No! No, I know, Mu-shixiong is a good person, and I know you care about us all, even when we make dumb mistakes I- Uh. I just-"

The compliment made Mu Qingfang pause, surprised that the other had such high esteem for him. He thought they had met just a few times?

"- so, I think, maybe I could take care of it by taking care of you?!"

The hushed sentence made no senses for a long while, Mu Qingfang trying to process what in the all realms was the other talking about. And his confusion as plain to see, because Shang Qinghua took a deep breath and started explaining again, blushing all the way up to his hair, picking on his nails again.

"I mean, Mu-shixiong is kind and I've seen how you treat everyone and- I also know this is your third night shift so you must be tired, so I was thinking, maybe, since I have all this energy and Shixiong- Not that you won't be able to handle your duties! I know you are a strong cultivator, I just thought-"

"Yes," Mu Qingfang answered half to spare them the embarrassment of the situation, half because-

Holy shit when was the last time someone wanted to take care of him? And what a sad truth, but a truth one nonetheless.

"I mean, if makes you more comfortable, o-of course." he quickly corrected himself, trying to ignore his own sweaty palms and the heat climbing up his neck.

Memory mixed up with reality as Shang Qinghua kissed him on the forehead like he did for the first time so many years ago, making Mu Qingfang smile as he forced himself to stay in the moment, humming as Shang Qinghua kisses went all the way down his face until he got a peck on the lips.

"Feeling better?" Qinghua asked, to which Mu Qingfang nodded, still not entirely ready to speak. "Good, come on, I've stolen some cake from Shen-shixiong, they're really good."

It took him a moment to be able to stand, but slowly and surely he walked, Shang Qinghua's arm a comforting presence on his waist, his blabling a soothing white noise.

And just like that Mu Qingfang let himself go, allowing someone to be there for him for some time.

[the-mortuary-witch]

BAPHOMET

WHO ARE THEY?

Baphomet is a Pagan deity that represents duality and balance. Most people work with Baphomet in order to become more peaceful, understanding, and balanced. Baphomet is often referred to as ‘Satan’ or ‘The Devil’, which isn’t true. People mostly say that because Baphomet has pentacle on their head and they have the head of a goat. A goat represents fertility and spiritually.

BASIC INFO:

Appearance: in some Pagan traditions, Baphomet is seen as a symbol of balance and unity between the Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine, represented by a human figure with the head of a goat. In other traditions, Baphomet is considered the personification of the primordial chaos and oblivion. In some folklore and myths, Baphomet was a symbol of fertility and reproductive power, and was often depicted as a hermaphrodite or a hybrid creature.

Personality: Baphomet is often depicted as a fierce and formidable entity, representing the destructive and chaotic forces of nature. Although they can seem intimidating and unpredictable, they also have a nurturing and compassionate side. Their personality is often reflected in the dual nature of Baphomet, where they are both masculine and feminine, gentle and fierce, peaceful and intense. They are a symbol of balance and unity, the meeting point of opposites and contradictions.

Symbols: pentagram, head of a goat, human body with an animal head, pentacle, sword, key, male and female, and the words "As above so below"

God/Goddess of: sexuality, demonic forces, wisdom, nature, balance, darkness, and pride

Culture: Demonic

Plants and trees: rosemary, lilacs, irises, lavender, aconitum napellus, black walnut, and cacao

Crystals: obsidian, amethyst, onyx, crystal quartz, garnet, black tourmaline, ruby, selenite, and brown quartz

Animals: black goats, snakes, wolves, ravens, dogs, oxen, and black cats

Incense: dragon’s blood, black musk, opium, frankincense, and mag champa

Practices: transformation, ancestor worship, shadow work, balance sex magick, manifestation, death magick, and nature worship

Colours: black, white, yellow, red, green, purple, gold, and dark blue

Numbers: 8, 13, and 666

Zodiacs: Pisces and Aquarius

Tarot: The Chariot, The Hermit, The Empress, and The Devil

Planets: Saturn and Mars

Days: Saturday, Tuesday, Walpurgis Night, Halloween, Blavatsky Day, and Yule

Parents: N/A

Siblings: N/A

Partner: N/A

Children: Azazel and Astaroth (not official)

MISC:

• The Union of Male and Female: Baphomet is often depicted with both male and female characteristics, symbolizing the unity of the masculine and the feminine.

• The Balance of Good and Evil: Baphomet is an entity of balance, symbolizing the interplay between good and evil in nature and in life.

• The Sabbatic Goat or The Horned One: Baphomet is often portrayed as a goat-like creature with horns.

• Harmony

• Knowledge and wisdom

• Power and strength

• Spiritual knowledge and enlightenment

• A balance scale, which represents balance and harmony

• The word "Solve and Coagulo", which translates to "divide and combine" and refers to the dualism nature of Baphomet

• Rebellion and defiance

• Freedom and individuality

• Unity and togetherness

• Chaos and disorder

• Sexuality and sensuality

• Nature and wildness

• Protection and defense

• Magic and witchcraft

FACTS ABOUT BAPHOMET:

• Name: Baphomet is named after the Greek word "baphos," which means "the virgin."

• Symbol of the Satanist: the imagery of Baphomet has become a symbol of the Satanist church, with variations on the iconography being used by other satanists.

• Relatioinships: Baphomet is a figure in the Gnoetics who often represents the synthesis of female and male principles.

• History: the figure of Baphomet is believed to have originated among Gnostics, a group who blended early Christian and Greek-Roman mythology.

• Role: they are believed to represent the balance of male and female and the union of good and evil, acting in many ways as a symbol of the Satanist.

• Associations: they are often associated with the concept of balance, as well as various other aspects of Gnosticism, such as the concept of the duality of existence, the synthesis of opposing forces, and the merging of opposites.

• Connection to the beast: it is said that Baphomet symbolized the balancing of the inner animal nature with spirituality and intelligence.

• Nature: Baphomet is considered to be a symbol of the balance of opposites, blending the masculine and feminine elements into a singular whole.

HOW TO INVOKE BAPHOMET: 

You must ask Baphomet if they want to work with you. Baphomet is a deity, so you shouldn’t be commanding them or telling them what to do. You must be patient with them. (Watch out for trickster spirits). Respectfully ask them to give you a sign, and if you’re respectful enough, you might as well get an answer. 

If they answer YES, you can create an altar to be more connected, but if you cannot then have something that reminds you of them. It can be small and simple. 

If they answer NO, respectfully apologize for disturbing them. If you connected through an object then you don’t have to throw it out, you can cleanse it and get rid of that intention. If it’s something from nature, you can bury it.

PRAYER FOR BAPHOMET:

"Great Lord Baphomet, keeper of balance and bringer of harmony, I come to you seeking your wisdom and protection. I offer myself to you, my heart and my spirit, and I ask for your blessing in this prayer."

"Thank you, Great Lord Baphomet, for walking by my side and guiding me on this path. I depart from this space with balance and peace in my heart and with a sense of purpose and direction. Hail Lord Baphomet.”

SIGNS THAT BAPHOMET IS CALLING YOU:

• A strong connection or attraction to Baphomet.

• Desire to explore or study Baphomet's teachings.

• Wanting to explore your own masculinity or femininity and find balance in your own nature.

• Desire to challenge social norms and embrace your own unique identity.

• Feeling of being guided by a force outside yourself.

• Feeling of being called to a higher purpose or feeling like there's more to your life than just everyday existence.

OFFERINGS:

• Your time.

• Meditation.

• Communication.

• Carving Baphomet’s symbol or name into a candle.

• Any kind of art of them.

• Being respectful.

• Learning about them.

• Candles.

• Liquor.

• Ropes.

• Incense: dragons blood, black musk, frankincense, etc.

• Animal skulls, bones, horns, etc.

• Dark or red flowers

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

• Reject traditional values and social norms

• Embrace your masculinity and femininity

• Live a chaotic, self-guided life

• Reject authority and control

• Seek freedom and autonomy

• Balance your masculine and feminine energy

• Practice self-love and self-acceptance

• Live a hedonistic lifestyle of pleasure and indulgence

• Be brave, adventurous, and open to new experiences

• Live an unconventional life.

[avianyuh]

Lecture Notes | Jake Sim

Summary: In which Y/N, a college student, can’t seem to focus in her psychology lecture due to an attractive boy. The culprit? Apparently his name is Jake. 

Word Count; 4.5k

Isn’t it funny how a man can completely derail your priorities? Okay, let me explain myself.

There I was, sitting in my psychology lecture, notebook open, wearing my comfiest sweater and sweatpants. After all, it was a Friday lecture. I was mentally done with the week and already planning out my watchlist of movies for the weekend. And of course, studying, (If I had time…)

What was comical about that Friday, and almost a quarter of the semester's lectures, my notes would start out strong, really organized. I’m talking color coded with six different colors; light blue, peach, neon pink, yellow, pastel green, and a very pretty shade of lavender. Bullet pointed, sectioned by main and sub topics. The whole nine yards. But then, after about a page, the notes would start to look sloppy, then, absolutely nothing. I paid the price on my midterm for the lack of proper note taking by the way. Sorry to Sigmund Freud. Upon first inspection, it would seem like psychology is not my strong suite. But that argument is easily debunked by my last A grade from my last semester's psychology class.

So, what’s the problem? Well, it’s this guy. And in my defense, I see other girls getting distracted by him too! Which I secretly hate, but hey, he’s not my boyfriend. I’ve had one encounter with him, three weeks ago, a Monday to be exact. He sat in front of me and handed me a paper that needed to be passed back. Our fingers touched and I noticed how calloused they had felt. Call me a loser, but I sat there for the rest of the lecture hypothesizing why his fingers felt so rough. Yet again, I completely fault myself for doing so badly on that midterm.

His name is Jake. The reason I know his name is because I heard the professor call him by his name a few times. All I really know about him is that he comes into class routinely late. In the beginning of the semester, he would come in 5 minutes late. At first the professor took notice and called him out, but after the second week, he for some reason seemed to look the other way and Jake started showing up 10 minutes late, which has become the norm. He tip-toes to wherever his friend is sitting, high-fiving him and slinking down in his seat. But, I’ll give him credit, once he actually makes it to class, he takes a lot of notes, occasionally volunteering an answer or question. I don’t know what it is about him. Maybe his voice? It’s really calming, he’s pretty soft-spoken. Plus, the fact that he has an accent, my guess would be Australian? But I don’t know that many people with accents so maybe he’s English? I’ll probably never know…Or maybe it’s his eyes that make him so attractive? He has these kind, brown eyes. To me, he’s just intriguing. I know nothing about him other than the fact that his time management skills are horrible and he has a large group of friends. I see him around on campus a lot. A swarm of people follow him around, always laughing. I also can’t help but notice the rotation of girls that seem to be on his arm every other week. They always look so happy with him. Usually the girl is walking with him, staring at him adoringly, but he’s always looking straight ahead. I never understood that.

And not too long after I see him with one girl, there’s a new one doing the exact same thing. Right after I had that passing the paper back encounter with him, I saw him walking on campus with this girl. Like I said, normally, he’s looking straight ahead, but this particular time, he looked right at me as we passed each other. I quickly averted my gaze away from him, internally screaming all the way back to my dorm room.

One time I went to a party with a friend of mine. She made me go, and said it would be fun. What a liar… So I get there, the dorm room is packed, barely any room to move around. The room was decorated with LED lights that were all red, I swear it looked like a rave or something. Turns out, I have claustrophobia by the way. I felt like I couldn’t breathe due to the lack of personal space. I saw Jake there, which in hindsight wasn’t very surprising because it seemed like my whole campus was trying to fit into that dorm room and hallway. I sat in the corner with my friend who 20 minutes into the party was also starting to come down with a case of party-goer's remorse. I watched from that stool in the corner as he danced with his date. How they made out against the wall. I even watched when he stumbled to the cooler to get another drink, obviously drunk. Then I saw him wander back over to her, and accidently spill his drink all over her blouse. The people in the surrounding area all went Oooooo, and the girl gasped. Stomping her foot, she yelled out, “What the fuck Jake?! You did that on purpose!” Then she shoved him. Now, in her defense, I could see that he was trying to conceal his laughter as he handed out some half-assed apology. She stormed out of the party, leaving him and his friends in hysterics. ���Babe, I’m sorry, but accidents happen.” Jake threw his hands up defensively as his friends laughed at her. That next Monday in class I didn’t even notice that he had snuck in. And for a few days, I honestly thought I was over my little infatuation with Jake. I choked it up to him being an attractive douchebag.

But remember, I said I thought I got over my infatuation. And here I am. Sitting in class, empty seat to my right. The person who usually sat there, a guy with a buzzcut who always came in with a cup of coffee from the coffee cart outside and his giant water bottle, was seemingly missing. Overall, a quiet guy. The few times I had spoken to him had been pleasant. Just a few basic, ‘Hey's' and ‘Nice weather, right?’ or even a ‘Nervous about the exam?’.

15 minutes into my lecture. It was a rainy day. I already mentioned my lecture attire, my sweater, a tan colored cozy knit one and my black sweatpants. My notes were organized and I was actually pretty invested in the topic today. Everything was going well, but I couldn’t wait to be done for the day and back in my bed. After all, it was cold and dark outside. But then, the sound of the door creaking open, the gust of wind that came along with it hitting me and making me shiver. I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. I could hear his footsteps, searching for wherever his friend was sitting. But this time, the footsteps started to sound more frantic. I could hear him pacing, but I refused to look in his direction. After all, I was supposed to be focused on my professor, not him. And I saw first hand how much of an inconsiderate jerk he could be at that party. He wasn’t worth the distraction and another week of incomplete lecture notes. Then the footsteps started to get closer. Going from a distant tapping sound to almost a persistent stomp.

And that’s when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Um, excuse me?” That familiar voice, just a whisper, was now in my ear. “Is anyone sitting here?” I looked up at him, taking note of his beautiful smile as I nodded my head yes to his question. His closed lip smile transformed into a full toothed one, “Thanks!” he said enthusiastically. I quickly looked back down at my notebook, scribbling down what was on the board. I suddenly felt hyperconscious of my breathing. How loud or erratic it may have sounded to the insanely attractive Australian next to me. I wondered if he could hear me swallowing. And I prayed that my stomach wouldn’t make any noise for the rest of the class, considering I felt myself becoming hungry. I tried to be as quiet as possible. Also trying to make sure that my elbow didn’t accidentally touch his. A few minutes later, I felt him nudge my arm. At first I didn’t look because I thought it was a mistake. “Excuse me?”, he whispered again. I turned my head to face him, looking over expectantly as I waited for him to continue asking his question “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but would you mind if I looked at your notes? I know I should have gotten here sooner… I get it though if you don’t want to share…” he rambled. I held up my hand up in front of his face, stopping him from whispering.

“Sure, I don’t mind.” I shrugged as I moved my notebook closer to him.

“Thank you so much!” he exclaimed as he started to copy them down.

“No problem.” I replied. Well, there goes another week of half-complete notes, I thought to myself as I tried to refocus my attention back on the professor. By the end of the lecture, Jake had taken down all my notes and I had missed the second half of the lecture. As I started to pack up my things and head out, Jake did the same. Normally he rushes right out and has a group of people waiting for him outside of the lecture hall. Today, he was lingering. And then just as I was zipping up my bag, he cleared his throat. I looked up at him and he stared back at me, looking like he wanted to say something.

“I just wanted to say thank you again for letting me copy the notes down. You have great note taking skills, not to mention, really nice handwriting.” He complimented me, that same warm smile on his face. I couldn’t understand how someone could appear to be so kind, yet come off as so inconsiderate of other people. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but admit that I was flattered by the compliment.

“Oh, thank you. I actually always thought my handwriting was sloppy.” I responded back. Throwing my bag over my shoulder and pushing my chair in. I stared out the window, noticing the light rain had now turned into a heavy downpour. I groaned as I laid my bag back on the table, unzipping it and pulling out my jacket and umbrella. Jake looked at me in confusion upon hearing me groan, before peeking past my shoulder and letting out an understanding ‘Ah’ before doing the same as me. We stood in silence as we both put on our jackets. I made the first move to leave, though he was closest to the aisle. He made no attempt to move as I tried to maneuver around him.

He stopped me again, speaking up, “I feel kind of bad. You missed out on taking notes for the second half of the lecture because of me.” He continued, moving out of my way. “Do you have any other classes today?” he questioned. I pursed my lips together as I tried to figure out a response to his first statement and more importantly, what he was trying to imply with the question regarding my schedule.

“Well, first of all, it’s okay, I was paying attention so I’ll probably just go home and try to write whatever I remember down. But to answer your question, no I don’t have any other classes today.” I decided to be truthful with him, as I assumed he was just asking me to be nice for letting him copy my notes.

“So you were going back to your dorm after this?” He raised his eyebrow. I let out an awkward laugh.

“Um, yeah, it’s a torrential downpour out there, my hiking plans have been ruined for the rest of the day.” I responded sarcastically. To my snarky response, his warm smile now morphed into a devilish grin.

“Instead of sitting inside all night, why don’t I buy you a coffee and give you the rest of the notes” Jake proposed. To that question, I gave him a puzzled look.

“But you didn’t get the rest of the notes either?” I responded back, confused.

“Yeah, but the professor keeps a copy of the lecture notes in that desk over there. And luckily for you, I know how to pick locks.” He bragged, pulling something pointy out of his pocket as he started to make his way down the steps towards the professor's desk.

“Wait, doesn’t he take his lesson plan with him?” I called out after him, looking around the two exits nervously, expecting someone to come in and catch Jake breaking into the professor’s locked drawer.

“Not on Fridays. You’d be surprised how many of the professors leave things out in plain sight.” He explained as he bent down so he was eye level with the drawer. He pulled out a lock pick and got to work. His eyes focused intently on the drawer.

“But this isn’t out in plain sight, you’re literally picking his lock…” You tried to rationalize.

“So…Who cares, he already taught it. It’s not like we’re cheating. We’re just going to get the notes and I’ll sneak back in and put it back before Monday morning. I do it all the time.” He got silent for a minute before he jumped up. “Aha!” and with that, the drawer was open. He pulled out the lecture plan, before he grabbed your hand with his free one and started running up the stairs. I tried to keep up with him, your head spinning by how weird your seemingly calm Friday had become. “Grab your bag. You know the coffee shop across from this building right?” He asked. I squinted my eyes before nodding as I threw my bag over my shoulder. “By the way…What’s your name?” Jake titled his head at you, waiting for a response.

“I’m Y/N.” I responded back, extended out my hand for a handshake. He smiled at me, making my heart sort of melt, before placing his hand in mine.

“Jake.” He said, and you pretended to act like you learning his name was a recent development.

“Nice to meet you, Jake”. I grinned as we both made your way out of the huge lecture doors. What was supposed to be a boring Friday just turned into one of the most surprising days of my life. By the time we made it to the coffee shop, fighting our way through the rain, and fully situated in the back of the coffee shop 10 minutes later, you pondered if all this really was going to amount to was a study date?You wondered if he had his next girl of the week yet? Or worse, what if you’d end up being his next temporary fix? You ended up telling yourself that you wouldn’t know how this would all pan out unless you gave him a chance. Part of you wanted to abandon whatever this was with Jake to go back to your dorm. A place where you didn’t feel self conscious in front of hot guys. The other part of you was really tempted to stay and try and see if there was more to him other than a cute accent, a rebellious streak and inviting eyes. I watched him closely, his back turned to face the counter as he placed the two orders. I noticed a friend of his had snuck up behind him, patting him on the back as they greeted each other. They were murmuring something to each other and I decided to look away before he caught me. I looked down at my phone as a way to look busy, but readjusted myself in the seat so I could get a small glimpse of Jake and his friend through my peripheral. All I could tell was that the conversation was light hearted, I heard something about an exam, a party over the weekend and then I heard his friend ask if he was at the coffee shop alone…To which I could see Jake out of the corner of my eye turn towards me. But they got kind of quiet as I assumed he was saying something about to his friend. I pretended to keep scrolling through my phone, even though I really had nothing to do on there. I texted my friend, who had hopefully finished all of her classes for the day. But to be honest, she was quite unreliable since she took a long time to respond to text messages. However this time after sending a quick, Hey, she surprisingly responded back almost instantly.

Hey! Done with all your classes?, she wrote.

Yeah. Going to go home pretty soon., I texted back.

Oh, you’re not home now? I was going to ask if you wanted to watch a movie? I have snaaacks… Now I’ll be frank, that offer did sound tempting.

I want to but I’m at the coffee shop trying to get some notes from this guy for my psychology class. It’s a long story. You explained.

WHO?! Anyone we know?, she questioned.

That guy Jake who I thought was cute…, I typed back.

Girl no! He’s such an asshole, remember that party?-

But before I could read the rest of her message, Jake appeared in front of me, setting down my coffee and sliding into the seat across from me. He gave me that beaming smile of his I had seen quite a lot of today. “Sorry, that took so long. I don’t know if you saw but that was my friend Jay.” He explained as he waved at his friend who was now on his way out of the coffee shop.

“Oh, no problem, the longer I sit here, hopefully the rain slows down and it’ll make the walk back to my dorm easier. But you didn’t take that long so don’t apologize.” I reassured Jake as he nodded understandingly. Jake stared at me for a minute, before opening and then closing his mouth, hesitant to speak. “What?”, I questioned, grinning at him. His eyes went wide, as he tried to conceal his smile. “No seriously? You looked like you were going to say something!”, I teased him, waving your hand for him to continue.

“No, it’s stupid.” he said under his breath. I hummed in response.

“Almost everything is stupid. Plus, I don’t judge.” I lied. The truth is, I can be pretty judgmental. Hey, I thought I had written Jake off as a douchebag, and I still wasn’t completely comfortable letting my guard down in front of him just yet.

“I don’t know, I just wish we had spoken to each other sooner. I’ve seen you around campus a few times and I knew we had a class together. But I never sat near you or anything pther than a few weeks ago...” He explained, avoiding eye contact with you. I took a sip of my coffee as I listened to Jake intently. “Plus, I know most people probably already formed their opinions of me…” He concluded.

“What do you mean?” I questioned, furrowing my eyebrows at him. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I come in late almost every class. And I know that’s fully on me. But I’m sure you’ve noticed?” he looked up at you hesitantly. I nodded my head in agreement and he groaned. You chuckled before trying to make him feel better.

“The professor doesn’t seem to care, so maybe it’s not a big deal? If it really bothered him, you probably would’ve been kicked out of the class.” I rationalized.

“He did want to kick me out of the class. Apparently my Dad made a phone call, they know each other from college. I got an angry call from him, telling me I was an embarrassment to the family, that I wouldn’t amount to anything, needed to get my act together, blah, blah, blah.” Jake’s voice got deeper, no, more frustrated as he looked as if he was thinking back to that said phone call. You leaned your arms on the table as you listened to him.

"Well…can I ask you a question if you promise to not get mad?” I tilted my head at him. He took a sip of his coffee as he hummed in response. “Why exactly do you come to class late?” He put down his coffee as he sighed again.

“Honestly? My other class is a business law one. It’s on the other side of the campus. One time I just skipped it, which was why I was on time for psychology. I explained it to my advisor and my father, but I can’t drop it because I need the credits. Whoever designed this campus was an idiot in my opinion.” He stated as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. I assumed that you just didn’t care enough to show up on time. But you always seemed interested because you’d ask a lot of questions so I was always kind of confused by the whole showing up late thing.” I explained as Jake kept his eyes on me. “Second question…how the hell did you get into the habit of picking locks to get the lecture plan.” I giggled, covering my mouth as he himself started to laugh.

“It was actually back in freshman year. I had been one of the last people in the room with a professor on a Friday. I noticed that she had left the lesson plan in her drawer. I needed a few more notes so I went down after she left the room and picked the lock. That was something I learned to do back when I was a kid. But all I did was copy what I needed and I put it back, I swear.” He explained, throwing his hands up defensively.

“Hey, I believe you. And if I didn’t say it before, I’m really thankful that you wanted to help me with the notes. You didn’t have to…” I responded.

“No, after all you did, it was only right. And now look, we got to know each other. I’m having a good time with you.” He confessed, fidgeting with his coffee cup. I mimicked his movements, starting to feel a little antsy. I toyed with the idea of laying out everything I was feeling about Jake with him. I was feeling unsure if he was truly just going to give me the notes and that would be it. I wondered if he just saw me as a potential friend. And of course, maybe he was into me, but I had no desire to date him for a week and then have to go the rest of college seeing a guy who dumped me around campus for two more years. But I guess I made the decision easy, because before I knew it, I was involuntarily blurting out all of my intrusive thoughts.

“Okay, I just have to ask now. I want to be transparent with you. I was aware of you before we officially met today. I also saw you around campus a lot. Is this simply just an exchange of notes and nothing more? It’s okay if that’s what this is, I mean, I get it. Or is this just you trying to be my friend? That’s fine too.” I halted my speech for a second, looking into his eyes. Now he was the one motioning for me to continue. His expression was more so on the serious side now as he waited to hear me out. “Or, um, are you interested in me? Oh god…” I hid my face in my hands as I mentally slapped myself for saying something that sounded so self absorbed. “I feel like an idiot. You probably have a girlfriend already, I always see you around campus with a different girl.” I decided I didn’t really need the notes after all. After all, what was another mediocre test grade? At least the first half of the notes were written down for the week, right? I stood up quickly, reaching for my coat and quickly throwing a few dollars on the table, a repayment for the coffee, though he hadn’t asked me to pay him back.

Jake quickly stood up, grabbing my hand, stopping me from reaching for my coat. “Wait, wait, wait. You didn’t even let me answer” He laughed lightheartedly as he tried to persuade you to sit back down. “I didn’t realize I was sending out so many mixed signals. I thought when I said that whole thing about seeing you around and wanting to talk to you, I made myself clear…” He rambled. But I was still confused by what he meant. And by the look on his face, he could tell you were still confused. “To be straight forward, yes. I sort of had the intention of asking you out. I like you.” I couldn’t help but feel my heart flutter upon hearing that. Then he continued, “I like how sarcastic you can be. And I really find how honest you are attractive, not to mention I think you’re gorgeous.” I hid my face again, but this time, he murmured no and raised your chin up so that you were looking right at him. “I thought this would be a great way to continue talking. I didn’t want to ask you out earlier because I didn’t want you to say no since we spent most of class just sitting, not really talking.” Jake explained. “And for the record, not all of those girls were people I was going out with. I went out with two different girls between freshman year and now. The rest have all been friends.”

I thought back to that party. The girl he was with who he spilled the drink on. I assumed the girl from the party was most likely his ex-girlfriend. Though I was still curious, I didn’t want to pry. At first you didn’t know how to respond to him. Overall, you were ecstatic on the inside. “I’m willing to go on an actual date with you. But preferably, not when it's thundering and down pouring.” I joked as I turned my head toward the huge coffee shop window.

“I agree.” Jake responded, laughing. “But, how about we wait the storm out here and I’ll walk you back to your dorm later?” You both looked at each other, smiling. You couldn’t help the blush that was now creeping up on your cheeks.

"After the notes though! That’s how this all started…” I said as we both pulled out our notebooks. Two hours later, another coffee, two sandwiches and a 10 minute walk to my dorm, I had a date scheduled for tomorrow night, exchanged phone numbers and a long story to tell my friend. And to think it was all thanks to notes…

[pearlcatcher-problems]

a few finished projects that I've been vibing with a lot! and their bonus lore rambles under the cut to keep things a little more trim ; w;

» the wives [ Padparadscha | Bunanuhnanuh ]

antique jaguar ᛜ ginger breakup ᛜ terracotta koi bronze piebald ᛜ white basic ᛜ terracotta koi

» the twins [ Naberius | custard ]

stone piebald ᛜ white basic ᛜ spruce koi tarnish pharaoh ᛜ white basic ᛜ brown basic

» acolyte goblin ambassador [ moss ]

white basic ᛜ obsidian paint ᛜ hickory koi

I swear I'm normal about naming dragons-- I'll have serious names alongside dumb meme ones and treat them equally as seriously as characters. I swear, it makes sense in my lair. I promise.

» the wives [ Padparadscha | Bunanuhnanuh ]

Pad and Bun are wives, with Bun being the elegant airhead and Pad being the gruff behemoth. Pad is near twice Bun's size and tends to be more protective/defensive than the wildclaw is. Her pearl tends to stay with Bun when not in her pearl pouch, who keeps it in one of her silk scarves padded with dry moss and lavender sprigs.

The two of them are residing in the Bazaar, currently travelling between there and the Oasis to finalise some trade agreements before the encampments decide to make proper paths between them. While Bun is more than happy to keep the conversation for the two of them, Pad is just.... always listening. The pearlcatcher beast somehow always seems to know what is going on and can quickly get the answer to the most obscure questions if given enough time to think. This includes knowledge from any of their other outposts, somehow able to just.... know. ( Behind the scenes, she's actually a fraction of a hydra, and despite them being split, they are still able to communicate telepathically with each other, resulting in easy relay of information between allied outposts nearly instantly but the only one who controls/knows of this is Quail. )

Bun used to be part of the Roost outpost, which is why her namesake is so strange compared to the desert-dwellers. She's kept her name, although able to change it any time given how Roost customs are, and finds some joy in how hers and Pad's mirror each other in length. Those close to her may call her Bun or Bana, although Pad tends to call her Sprig, Sweetbean, and other soft little nicknames. When relaxing, Pad often gnaws on Bun's horns when cuddling to keep her tusks in check, something Bun doesn't mind as her horns constantly grow regardless.

» the twins [ Naberius | custard ]

The youngest of the Acolytes ( a subterranean clan that only emerges for three weeks a year and spends the rest of the year worshiping the Solstice trio I / II / III and tunnelling. More Info on them is heeeeeere! ) They have the same affliction post-hatchling that ogi and his younger sibling do, where they just haven't progressed further physically or mentally. They have a lot of inherent volatile magics because of what they are, but they can't always act on it in the way they want due to whatever is stunting them. This leaves the two a little hard to predict, scrapping as often as they'd play, all while leaving arcs of fulgurite along the tunnels from their warring elements.

They are often underfoot, eager to help tunnelling efforts and harvesting lichen, but are easy to tire out and will just nap wherever they run out of energy. It's not uncommon to find both of them blocking a tunnel because they need a quick powernap. Good luck moving them.

Naberius and custard's energy came from an old elemental, also named Naberius, who decayed on the Acolyte border after leaving the bounds of the Oasis. The two spawned from his fall and have many of his powers, but with the stunt and divide between them, it is just a grain of what it used to be. Sezha knew what they grew from, and decided to keep Naberius' name for one as a way to honour his fall, while casket was allowed to name the other, resulting in the mock-roost name: custard.

» acolyte goblin ambassador [ moss ]

Moss is the 'ambassador' for the Acolytes when they're out of the ground, or when dealing with people who come to 'trade' ( drop gifts and supplies, they don't actually want anything from the Acolytes in exchange and are just encouraged to do so by Quail and repaid for it in other ways ) at the outposts' entrance during their submerged seasons. She loves the idea of bartering and making a trade, only really knowing how trade works from her few visits to the Oasis grounds and seeing the elementals make pacts.

When trading, she wears The Hat. The hat is a combination of a few hats she's traded for over the years, worn around the edges and lovingly cared for. She often puts feathers, gemstones, or dried flowers tucked into the brim for flair, and will outright refuse to accept offers from other outposts if she can't get her claws on her hat at that time. All business MUST be done with the hat.

When not being Very Important, she spends most of her time tunnelling and setting up the lighting system in the deeper section of the lair. The Acolytes currently use a lighting method that leeches off the ley lines beneath them, giving them an easy method to track the health of the flow of magic and know when their worship is required. These free-floating orbs can be placed at any area of the lair as long as they're still connected to the earth, and so often will be rooted to the walls with vining plants from handsome's farm.

[julieverne]

Five times Maura nearly kissed Jane but didn't (and one time she did)

One.

Maura helped Jane back to her feet. She'd slid home on her hip, and she rubbed it now with a wince, even as she celebrated her home run. Her face was filthy, and so was her outfit. She hobbled back to the bleachers to sit out the rest of the game, jumping to her feet to cheer on her teammates at what she considered particularly crucial moments.

Jane didn't shower in the park. She'd go home in her outfit - uniform, whatever, Maura never knew what to call Jane's outfits - and then she'd lounge on the couch in her shorts and her legs over Maura's lap, lovely bare legs, warm and brown and completely unaware of Maura's hands smoothing over them. Maura packed up early, anticipating the groan Jane made when she stood, her muscles locked up and aching from impact with the ground. She slung Jane's arm over her shoulders and let Jane lean on her as she led her to the car. They'd come together. Maura was staggered by the intimacy of their lives, how firmly they were entangled. If they ever fought, Maura would lose more than the half a husband would have taken from her. She'd lose almost everything. Her hand gripped tighter on Jane's waist, keeping her close.

---

Steam slowly huffed from the bathroom, followed by Jane's anxious face.

"Can you come look at this?"

Maura wanted to joke that she's seen Jane's ass before, but hope springs eternal or so they say, so she gets to her feet, Jo whining as she displaced her from her lap. Jane had a towel wrapped around parts of her. Not really enough parts, but some parts. Maura flushed purely from the steam in the over-warm bathroom. Nothing else.

"Can you clean this out for me?" Jane asked. Her ass was already bruising, Maura could tell. She could see. She could see Jane's ass. She shook her head, finding an indulgent smile on Jane's face when she met her eyes. Jane was pointing at a wound on her face that had previously been covered with dirt.

Maura nodded and took the offered qtip. She leaned Jane back against the counter and tilted her face back to the light. Jane's towel brushed against Maura as she dipped the qtip in antiseptic, then dropped down, trapped between their hips where Maura leaned against Jane to reach up to her face. Jane didn't reach for it. Maura didn't either; she was too focused on the scratch on Jane's face. She dipped tweezers in the antiseptic as well, then pulled out a little dirt and gravel. Jane's hands had been resting on the counter behind her, but now they reached for Maura's hips, squeezing a little as she dug into the wound.

"Do you think I need stitches?" Jane asked, her breath brushing across Maura's cheek. She chewed gum when she played ball; she claimed it brought her luck. She smelled fresh and clean from the shower, the lavender soaps she used, her breath a cinnamon cloud. Maura took a moment to parse the question, no less because she'd pulled away a little and now she could see more of - more of Jane.

"You'll live," Maura chuckled. She examined the graze again, then decided it was clean enough. She doused it again with antiseptic and dug out a band-aid from the cabinet behind Jane, leaning across her, their bodies pressing together, Jane's hard nipples pressing into Maura's chest. She unwrapped the bandage without looking at Jane until Jane's forefinger tilted Maura's chin up to look at her.

"Aren't you going to kiss it better?" Jane asked, her voice a little challenging, a little defensive. Her shoulders had stiffened, along with her nipples. She looked uncomfortable for having asked. Maura grasped Jane's chin and tilted it down, getting on her toes to kiss Jane's cheek next to the wound. She pulled away, aware of how close Jane's lips were, aware Jane's face had turned to hers a little so they were even closer now. She only had to lean forward just a little and she'd be kissing Jane. On the mouth. The way a woman kissed someone she was romantically or sexually interested in. The moment lasted a little longer than it should have, driven by indecision. Maura's heart beat erratically, causing her some concern. She could feel Jane's hands on her hips, Jane's sweet breath on her cheek, across her lips, inside her own mouth. She moved closer, just a little, and Jane didn't move away.

Normally Jane would be saying something sarcastic, something to dispell the tension between them, but today she was silent. Waiting. She'd moved closer again, too. Maura let her nose brush Jane's nose and cheek, then she caught her breath and her lip with her teeth as she pulled away, aware of the solid warmth of Jane's pelvis pressed against her, aware of Jane's bare breasts brushing her arm. Jane's exhale was thready and broken, her hands unsteady.

"All better," Maura said, swallowing against a thickness in her throat at the way Jane stared at her mouth as she spoke.

"Not quite," Jane said, catching her breath as well, pulling a shirt over her head and some pants on under the towel. Maura stepped back and hung the towel back up for her. Jane took a jar of tiger balm from the cabinet and offered it to Maura. "I'm going to need you to rub that into my bruises, Doctor Isles," Jane said, a little smirk on her face. Maura rolled her eyes, but later, with Jane strewn over her lap and her ass accessible and smelling softly of cinnamon, Maura couldn't ask for anything more.

[starsstuddedsky]

Slice of Love

Haechan x reader

summary: birthday cake and boyfriend material

genre: fluff, non idol au, not really angst but haechan is so dramatic

warnings: swearing, food/dessert, i dont know anything about art, pls lmk if i missed any

wc: 1.8k (who is she???)

a/n: finally wrote something short and sweet :) it's been so long since i've done that lol. this is heavily inspired by 7dream cafe cake-making and my full belief that none of these boys should be unsupervised in the kitchen. thank you to @chocolatemilk139 for being my beta as always <3 (even though you didnt edit anything smh)

It’s not horrendous.

Donghyuck stares at the cake in front of him. The process started well: he made the tester cake last week week that the council (also known as his friends) approved with generous support (“wait, what’s actually kind of good,” from Jeno, “it’s edible,” from Renjun, “the hint of orange really sells it,” from Jaemin, “it’s not burnt so it’s already better than anything I could make,” from Mark, “you didn’t buy this?” from Chenle, and Jisung, who just stared at him with wide eyes). 

No, the problem isn’t the batter. He slaved over it all last night and chose the two cakes that rose most evenly in the oven. Everything but his tears went into making them. 

“Wow,” Renjun says, leaning over the counter. “You fucked up.” 

Donghyuck smacks him, leaving a trail of lavender buttercream on the wool sweater. 

“Hey, that’s going to be a bitch to get out!” Renjun cries. 

“Cry me a river,” Donghyuck says, “which is a good song, but also, you deserve it. It’s not that bad.” 

Renjun raises his eyebrows but Donghyuck raises a spoonful of extra frosting. Renjun backs off. 

Despite his strong defense, Donghyuck fears Renjun may be right. Though the cake stands tall, crumbs mix in with the frosting on the sides. What was supposed to be an artistically plump edging around the base of the cake and around the top corner looks like it exploded out of the piping bag (because it did, popping the cap off several times). In his head, the center would be filled with flowers and hearts and all sorts of pretty shapes in all sorts of pastel colors—but by the time he got to the center, he’d fully given up on piping bags, meaning he had to get creative for the flowers. Instead of flowers, he made blobs of frosting pushed off a spoon. In some spots he accidentally mixed the colors together, a green one shade away from brown, not at all like the field in the pictures on his Pinterest board. 

Jeno appears next, wandering out of his room. He misses Renjun’s warning glare, though Donghyuck doesn’t. He steps right next to Donghyuck, tilting his head. “What is this supposed to be again?” 

“What do you think?” Donghyuck asks evenly. 

Oblivious or uncaring, Jeno pauses to ponder. “A really ugly version of Shrek’s swamp?” 

“Get out.” 

“Get out of ma’ swamp!” Jeno attempts a Scottish accent, authenticity as questionable as the flower field in Donghyuck’s cake. Jeno retreats with Renjun on the couch, dodging Donghyuck’s frosting spoon. It would be a waste of the delicacy on his stupid dri-fit t-shirt, which he wears even when he doesn’t work out. 

“It’ll be fine,” Jaemin says. “It’ll taste good, which is the important part.” He sits at the counter, the only one to offer moral support while Donghyuck decorated. But his attempts at comfort are in vain; Donghyuck doesn’t just want the cake to taste good, he wants it to taste perfect, to look perfect, for all of it to be perfect. It’s the least you deserve. 

Donghyuck ignores the banging on his door, letting one of the guys let Chenle and Jisung in (no one else would threaten to break down a metal door instead of waiting the five seconds it takes to unlock the door). 

“We come bearing food!” Chenle shouts, plastic bag singing in his hand as Jisung follows precariously carrying a stack of pizza boxes. Far more food than needed, but Donghyuck won’t skimp out on you. Chenle tosses his bag full of snacks on the table, crossing the room to see the ‘masterpiece’ Donghyuck spent the past week hyping up. 

“Dude, are you seriously going to give that to YN?” 

“Are you trying to get dumped?” Jisung asks. “Ow!” he cries when Chenle smacks him. 

“Your welcome,” he says, “though he sort of has a point, that looks like literal shit.” 

“Does it really?” Donghyuck pouts. 

Chenle points at one of the browner spots. “You’re telling me that’s not a piece of shit?” 

“They were supposed to be flowers.” 

Jaemin, Renjun, and Jisung manage to cover their laughs as coughs but Chenle and Jeno let out a bark of laughter. 

“Yeah, you’re screwed,” Chenle says, clapping him on his shoulder that sags even lower than his normal bad posture. “You could call Mark and get him to pick up a cake on his way.” 

“He’s bringing YN,” Donghyuck says glumly. “Besides, I already told YN that I would make it myself. I’m not going to be a failure and a liar.” 

“It’s really not that bad,” Jaemin says, ignoring the chorus of dissent from the rest of the guys. “It’ll taste good!” 

Donghyuck shrugs. He can’t explain it, at least not so that they can understand him. He knows perfection is a subjective definition that he’ll never be able to fulfill but he strives for it anyway. If it isn’t perfect then why would he do it at all? Even if it’s his first time attempting this level of artwork, he should at least be able to make something that looks okay, or recognizable. 

And you—you deserve more than a dry store-bought mess and more than a half-assed attempt at love. You’ve only been together for a couple months but he’s determined to prove himself. A birthday was the perfect opportunity, even when you’ve known him for years and spent plenty of birthdays with him. This was his chance to show you the boyfriend material he’s made of, except instead of black velvet or creamy silk, Donghyuck thinks this cake is the work of a neon yellow polyester shirt worth less than $2 at the thrift store. 

“Mark just texted that he just parked,” Jaemin announces. He glances at Donghyuck. “You ready?” 

Donghyuck glances at himself. His hands are covered in frosting that’s dried and crusted, spread up his arms. His Kiss the Chef apron protected his shirt and most of his pants from the damage, but the mess is the least of his concerns. There’s nothing he can do about the disaster (he’s given up calling it anything else) in front of him. Shrek’s Swamp or a toilet bowl, it’s definitely not a flower field and it’s definitely not what you deserve. But it’s all he’s got. 

The final punch hits with a gentle knock at the door. Donghyuck crosses the room to his doom, stepping past his silent friends who bow their heads in respect for the walking dead. He pulls open the door slowly. He sees your shoes first, white sneakers you spent three hours with a Sharpie decorating, full of hearts and stars and unmistakable flowers—daisies and chrysanthemums and lavender, more than he can name. 

You wear your favorite jeans, loose bootcut that tighten at the thighs, hugging you in all the right places. A loose shirt hangs from your shoulders, one of the bands you always play for him with lots of bass and visceral lyrics that romanticize suffering. A family of silver earrings dangle from your ears, and he recognizes each of your favorites, the miniature swords, sparkling star shaped studs, a curly twist of metal that wraps around the higher part of ear. You look perfect. 

Donghyuck has always loved the way you smile, a gentle turn of your lips, like the happiness belongs to only you. You lean forward, pressing a short kiss to his lips, a peck more than anything. Donghyuck stares at you, eyes wide. You gesture to his apron. “Just following the rules.” 

He smiles though it fades as soon as he sees the frosting–no, the evidence of his failures, spread down the black fabric. “Happy birthday,” he says, wishing he could put more heart into it. A tiny frown furrows in your brow but you don’t question him. 

He steps back to let you walk in, trailing behind you as the rest of the guys wish you happy birthday. Mark catches up easily, clapping a hand on his shoulder, whispering, “Jeno sent me a picture.” 

Renjun hugs you, which Donghyuck belatedly realizes he never did. 

“I brought the food,” Chenle announces. “Don’t go thanking anyone else for my efforts.” 

“Our,” Jisung corrects. “You barely even carried anything.” 

“That’s because I had to drive,” Chenle says, waving his hand. “And don’t even get me started on the pizzeria, you better appreciate every molecule because—”

“Thank you, Chenle,” you say. 

“Thank me,” Donghyuck says. “It was my detailed instructions that perfected absolutely everything about today, which reminds me, did Mark behave?” 

You turn back to face him, linking your fingers with his. “Yes, babe, he followed your script. He almost cried because the barista messed up the order and he didn’t want to be annoying but he said you said ‘if anything goes wrong, I’ll kill you,’ and meant it.” 

“And I did,” Donghyuck says. He nods at his best friend for his service. 

“Now.” You squeeze his fingertips. “Where’s this cake you’ve been so excited about.” 

Donghyuck doesn’t try to hide his face. There’s no use delaying the inevitable. He lets go of your hands, leading you to the crime scene to lay the final verdict (the judicial system of his brain is in need of some reformation). 

You reach the counter and freeze. A list of concert dates greets Donghyuck, your back facing him while you study the cake. There’s no name for the opposite of a masterpiece, no artist that wants their worst creation recorded in history. 

He inches closer to you, peeking at your face. He recognizes the expression, the narrowing of your eyes, the way you flatten your lips. He’s been to enough art shows and spent enough time with you studying for art history to know what you analyze art. 

“It’s not Van Gogh or Monet,” he says, “it’s not even that asshole guy who made the Bean.” 

“Mm,” you hum, “no, you’re not any of them.” 

“It’s an ugly cake,” he says, “I know. I tried, I really did, but apparently you actually do need a decade or two of experience to make a decent cake, which is totally unfair, like, I spent more time on it than my research project, and this only looks marginally better than that.” 

“It’s amazing,” you say, “reminiscent of the expressionist era.” 

“Really?” 

“No,” you say, turning to grin at him. “But you made it, so none of that matters. Maybe it doesn’t look like what you thought, but seriously.”  You rest a hand on his arm. “It’s perfect.” 

He meets your eyes, sees sincerity and not an ounce of teasing. No, it wasn’t what he wanted for you, but that doesn’t really matter. Perfection is subjective and to you it’s perfect—why did he ever think it wouldn’t be? 

He grins. “Perfect?” 

You step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him into a hug, ignoring the frosting that must be smearing across the band member’s faces. 

“Perfect.” 

a/n2: thank you for reading! as always, i appreciate any feedback :)

[honey-makes-mogai]

[Image ID: A MOGAI flag with seven equal horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: navy blue, indigo, lilac, dusty lavender, lilac, indigo, navy blue. /End ID]

Defenisolatic -

[PT: Defenisolatic -]

A gender related to feelings of isolation due to defensive interests! This may be feeling like one is isolating themself by having defensive interests, thinking having defensive interests may lead to isolation, or any other combination of the two!

Tagging: @radiomogai @obscurian @the-mogai-archives

[Banner ID: A pastel yellow banner with a sunflower on either side. In brown text with a white outline, it says "- Please let me know if this has been coined before! -" /End ID.]

[DNI transcript: "-DNI- Basic criteria, anti-mogai, proshippers, ableists, aphobes, racists, zoophiles, rpf shippers, fandom discourse, under 13, transid/transx". /End transcript.]

[littlemisspascal]

Rockford & Roan

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader/OFC 'Roan'

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You meet Tim Rockford in the true crime section of the library of all places.

Rating: T 

Warnings: Language, reference of self-harming + assault, meet cute, Reader has a dog, Reader has military background, Superpower AU, They Were Roommates AU, self-esteem issues, soulmates-ish, original characters, worldbuilding

- Reader has no first name and no physical traits described in detail except for being shorter than Rockford

Author Note: Elements of X-Men and Sherlock/Elementary mashed together because my brain said so. I've got more of these two (plus another Pedro Boy *cough* Thief *cough*) outlined if y'all are interested in seeing more of this world. It was a lot of fun attempting this new guy 😊

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me 💜💜💜

Part 2

The Session

You cross your legs, trying to get comfortable, immediately grimacing when the plush leather couch squeaks as a result. Your psychologist’s office smells overwhelmingly of lavender from the burning candle on her desk. Dr. Odair insists the smell has a calming effect to combat anxiety, but you remain unconvinced. You’re unconvinced about a lot of the advice these mandatory sessions offer, actually.

“How’s your search going?” Dr. Odair asks, pen poised above a fresh sheet of paper. “Have you connected with anyone?”

According to the internet, Dr. Charlotte Odair is one of the leading experts on empaths, telepaths, and other similar mind-gifts in the world. She’s also renowned for helping discharged military personnel integrate back into civilian society which meant you didn’t have much of a choice seeing anybody else.

Most people’s emotions are a finicky and erratic mess, shifting and fluctuating depending on the countless number of influences stemming from one’s surroundings. Some feelings are easy to identify at once, others are too obscure or complex to be named. The latter are the ones which overwhelm you. The ones which bury beneath your skin, an itch you can’t scratch no matter how harshly your nails dig into your arms, deeper and deeper until they’re stained red. 

Dr. Odair’s emotions resemble crystalline waters, transparent and blatant. There’s no second-guessing with her, no hidden tricks. She’s been trained, masterfully so, to carefully bind her feelings to her will.

“Yeah, it’s been going great,” you answer, then nod down at your feet where a small, golden brown dog lies with his chin on his paws. “Connected with Banjo here over the weekend. We’re a total match for each other.”

She fixes you with a look over the thick rims of her glasses. “Is that so?”

Compared to humans, animals have a much smaller range of emotions. They broadcast exactly what they want like a neon sign, whether that be food, shelter, or a good petting. And if their desires are met, the hum of their contentment is a far more pleasant tune than most songs on the radio nowadays.

You’d actually been looking to get a cat when you went to the pet shelter, dismissing dogs as too needy and energetic for your liking, but fate had other plans. One look at the little mutt, with his tangled fur and deep, froggy bark, and you were signing the adoption paperwork within minutes. And still, even after that unexpected love at first sight moment, Banjo continues to surprise you with how easily he adapts to your routine, standing by your side like he always belonged there.

You tell Dr. Odair as much, but there’s no response even though you know she’s absorbing every word out of your mouth, turning them over in her head, analyzing each syllable. Her mood remains almost frustratingly steady, giving no indication as to what she’s thinking. That look remains though, blue eyes narrowing even further. 

“You never said my match had to be another human.” Your hands tighten around Banjo’s leash, hoping she doesn’t catch the defensive edge your voice has taken. 

Her pen starts to scribble a note across the paper, too similar to a doctor’s chicken scratch for you to read upside down. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, glancing towards the flickering candle. Damn it. 

“Miss Roan,” Dr. Odair begins, and you taste blood on your tongue, “I know it’s annoying, being forced to attend these sessions every week, but the fact of the matter is, empaths aren’t meant to live alone. Especially not after what you’ve endured. Finding someone to match with is what your empathy needs to finally settle down.”

She makes it sound so easy, like the rest of the world doesn’t have any issues with mind-gifts and the lack of privacy that comes with them. Like there isn’t a set of laws specifically written for people who can read thoughts with a single touch or predict the future through dreams because their gifts aren’t as flashy, as visible, and thus in the eyes of the government that makes them the scariest threat of all.

On the battlefield things were different. The laws of polite society didn’t apply, not out there amongst the pools of blood and ceaseless gunfire. Your mind-gift was a tool to take advantage of, capable of numbing pain away faster than drugs and boosting the troop’s morale to a near fever-pitch. There was no time to stop and assess the damage you were self-inflicting unintentionally by overworking your empathy. Nobody who cared enough about you as a person to recognize the warning signs—not even your own self.

It was a miracle, as your commanding captain would later put it, when enemy forces staged a midnight raid on the camp and a man pinned you to the floor, radiating nothing but vulgar lust, that your lapse of control only resulted in putting every hostile within a mile radius to sleep instead of killing them instantly. 

A miracle for the unit maybe, but for you it marked the abrupt conclusion of your military career. Loss of control of one’s gifts stipulated their immediate release from serving, even if in your case it saved lives. Your discharge papers were officially signed and filed by the higher-ups before you regained consciousness three days later with a pounding headache from hell. Your mind-gift, once seen as a helpful aid to win battles, was now a time bomb dumped into the hands of Dr. Odair to deactivate. 

And what is her brilliant solution? Matching. Or, as it used to be called back in the olden days when gifts were thought to be divinely bestowed instead of being entirely unpredictable mutations in one’s genetic code, soulbonding. A powerful connection forged between two individuals, locking their gifts together and intertwining their lives until death splits them apart. 

Movies and fairytales will describe matching as the ultimate manifestation of true love, but love’s got nothing to do with it. Matching is a direct result of a human’s innate instinct to survive. It most commonly occurs when one or both members of the potential pairing possess dangerous gifts likely to cause harm to themselves. Supposedly, the bond is instantaneous once the two meet, causing their gifts to settle down, easier to control. Balancing each other out as if they were two halves of the same whole.

Sounds wonderful. In theory, at least. The biggest problem with matching is it can’t be done with just any random person. It can’t be forced either, not even between established couples. The bond happens solely on the choice of the gifts, not the will of the people involved. The hows and whys and other intricate details of the fateful decision-making process remain a mystery, one perhaps beyond mankind’s ability to ever solve, but regardless, it’s hard to argue against the overwhelmingly positive end results. To date, every recorded pair has admitted their match stabilized their gifts and saved their lives from an early death.

So until your mind-gift figures out who it wants, all you can do is walk the streets of Fox Leap, searching for just the right stranger in a sea of wrong strangers, empathy buzzing like a live wire pressed against your brain with each disappointing encounter.

“I am looking.” You’re being honest, despite what the dropping of your eyes to the floor might suggest. It’s too difficult to meet her gaze, afraid of the pity you might find shining through her carefully maintained facade. “I’m just not sure they want to be found.”

The Meeting

You meet Tim Rockford in the true crime section of the library of all places.

Fox Leap Central Library has essentially become your second home ever since you sought shelter from the rain one miserably gray afternoon two weeks after moving there. It’s one of the few places in the city that doesn’t make you feel like ants are crawling along your spinal cord, designed with dozens of cozy spaces to curl up with a good book and cup of coffee and zone out for a couple of blissful hours.

Your eyes are drifting over the colorful covers of fantasy books offering to transport you to alternate universes full of mythical beasts when you feel it. A flash of anger, stronger and more intense than anything you’ve ever felt, illuminating your mind-gift identical to a streak of lightning tearing through the darkness of night.

The emotion fades just as fast as it made itself known, but your empathy bays like a bloodhound picking up a scent trail, urging you to follow it to the source. Your fingers twitch at your side. Not with the desire to scratch, you realize with surprise, but to soothe. You haven’t felt this kind of compulsion since you’d been on the frontlines, taking away the pain from bullet-stricken soldiers, but that had been your purpose back then, a duty expected to fulfill. 

This…This is a purely selfish want.

You bite your lip, glance down at Banjo, tail wagging as if to say what are we waiting for?, and then surrender to the temptation.

Three aisles down stands the library’s only other occupant in sight: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white shirt and tan trench coat with dark, unkempt hair like he’s been running his fingers through it lately. He’s rubbing at his stubbled jawline, brown eyes glaring beneath furrowed brows at a book on serial killers. 

He’s the perfect example of tall, dark and handsome but it’s not his looks that has your pulse quickening, a flutter of something dangerously akin to hope beginning to stir. If Dr. Odair’s emotions are a crystalline pool, then this man’s are an ocean in the midst of a storm. Turbulent on the surface, rough and irritable, concealing unexpectedly mesmerizing depths luring your mind-gift to dive deeper and deeper–

“Psychic or empath?” the man asks without looking away from the shelf, a slight raspiness to his voice that has your stomach flip-flopping before full awareness of his question even registers.

Startled back into your own head, you can only manage an eloquent, “Huh?”

He finally turns, piercing you with his gaze, intense yet not unkind. The storm afflicting his temperament lessens some, followed by a series of feather-light curious touches along the edges of your mind-gift.

You suck in a breath, expecting the stinging bolt of displeasure that usually follows when someone interacts with your empathy. Whether they’re being delicate or not, it’s never fun to have the most sensitive part of yourself poked and prodded and toyed with. But there are no symptoms of a headache in the seconds that follow. Only a strange sort of thrill at the connection. A sense of rightness.

And there’s that damn fluttering again…

Once again, you find yourself caught off-guard, unsure how the roles have swapped so quickly from you seeking to comfort a stranger to now you being comforted by him.

“Empath,” he says after another beat, answering his own question with a confidence that’s neither tentative nor arrogant. It sounds like a regular fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and you’re an empath. 

“Y-yeah, that’s right.” You nod your head, hands trembling where they are clutching Banjo’s leash. God, you don’t understand what’s wrong with you, why his stare has such a strong effect on your galloping heartbeat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

The man looks down at Banjo then, taking in his snaggletoothed grin and perked ears with a soft smile of his own. “Cocker, poodle, schnauzer—interesting ancestry. I bet you have quite the story to tell.”

How did he–? You shake your head, getting your thoughts in some semblance of an order now that you’re no longer the sole focus of his attention. “This is Banjo. I adopted him from the shelter last weekend. We’re still getting to know each other.”

“Oh, good,” his soft grin widens, revealing a dimple in the side of his cheek. “It won’t take long to catch up then. How do you feel about takeout?”

You blink, frowning because huh? Is he just asking your opinion or is he asking something…more? It’s been so long since you’ve been asked on a date, you’re not even sure what the common etiquette is anymore. Isn’t everything arranged online nowadays? Swiping left or right and all that app rubbish?

“My schedule is unpredictable which leaves little time for cooking or grocery shopping, so at least three days a week I order takeout,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to your increasing confusion. “I also have frequent bouts of chronic insomnia, sometimes I’m up for days without any sleep.”

“Why are you telling me this?” 

The question comes out sounding ruder than it had in your head, but if he’s offended by it the man shows no outward sign. “I figured if I were in your shoes, I’d want to know upfront the annoying traits of who I’ve matched with.”

“Who I’ve–?” you choke on the words, eyes widening.

Oh, you think faintly, a strange clarity sweeping over you, at last connecting the dots that seem so incredibly obvious now. What better reprieve for an overwhelmed mind-gift than an underwater safe haven muffling the chaos of the city. It’s you.

The Offer

“Rockford,” the man—your match—says, extending a hand to shake, warm and calloused. “Tim Rockford.”

You introduce yourself, probably looking a bit unhinged with how wide you’re grinning but you can’t help it. You finally found your match. The urge to run to Dr. Odair’s office and jump on her sofa, screaming he’s actually fucking real! at the top of your lungs is near irresistible.  

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Rockford says. “I had a feeling our paths would cross soon once I settled into my new place. An apartment a couple blocks from here. Three bedrooms. One for me, one for my office, and the other is yours if you’re interested.”

Your eyebrows lift incredulously. “Seriously?”

“A good roommate is hard to find these days,” Rockford responds easily, shrugging. “Who better to live with than my match?”

You think about sharing a space with someone else. Someone who's human that you can have a two-way conversation with over meals, who doesn’t react to your mind-gift with repulsion or contempt. He makes a good point; good roommates are hard to find. A yes sits on the tip of your tongue, held back by a little voice in the back of your head insisting it’s too good to be true. He’ll grow tired of you eventually. Get sick of you dipping in and out of his head like a parasite. You should say no. There’s too much of a high potential you’ll wind up hurt and alone again. It’s too risky.

But, another voice chimes in, deep down beside the fragile hope, if it worked out for all the other matched pairs, then aren’t the odds in your favor? 

“You barely know me,” is what ends up coming out of your mouth, a weak extending of a shovel for him to dig himself out of his offer.

He hums a thoughtful note, head tilting to one side, and your shoulders start to instinctively tense up in preparation of rapid backpedaling. A sudden wave washes over your mind-gift, though, steady reassurance drowning your budding fears.

“I know you’ve recently been discharged from the military,” he begins calmly, that same matter-of-fact tone from before. “I know you’re new to the city, not by personal choice but because you must attend mandatory sessions with a psychologist who resides here and has an excellent reputation with patients sharing your similar background. You’ve begun dreading the appointments—possibly because of trust issues, more likely because until you meet your match there’s very little she can do for your empathy and that frustrates you. And I know you adopted Banjo hoping he would pass as a substitute for me, but while he’s been helpful providing companionship, your mind-gift has continued causing you pain up until our meeting.” A pause for a quiet breath. “I think we have quite a solid foundation already, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Roan?”

“I–you–what?” You blink dumbly at him, brain function short-circuiting. Seriously, what? “How on earth…?”

“We all have our gifts."

And maybe it’s because he doesn’t elaborate further, meeting your quizzical stare evenly, still emanating steady reassurance, that makes it surprisingly easy for you to make a decision. You want to know this man. Not just his likes and dislikes, no, you want to know his happiness, his hurt, all the miserable shades of his sadness and every sharp pang of his rage. You want to look at him the way he looks at you: confident and steadfast. Unique to him in all the world.

If the stories are true and he’s going to be a part of your life for a long, long time, then you have the distinct feeling you’re going to need every one of those precious seconds to understand the infinite depths of Tim Rockford.

So, you nod your head. “Okay,” you tell him, lips curling at the corners into another wide grin when you detect how pleased he is with your agreement. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Meet me there tomorrow afternoon,” he says, grabbing the book he’d been burning holes into earlier with his glare. “445D Albatross Lane. Bright yellow door, can’t miss it.”

Then, turning on his heel in one fluid movement, he heads for the front desk, leaving you to process how a single meeting has just shifted your entire world on its axis.

[loveshotzz]

The last sneak peek of Whatta Man I’ll give before it’s finished, really excited to share this with you guys. 💗 Your blind date finally shows up an hour late and you’ve already decided you want nothing to do with him. Doing the logical thing, you decide to just play stupid to get him to leave and Eddie helps you out 😈

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I’m Craig, Ariana’s friend. I think I’m supposed to be meeting you?” Shoving his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, the maroon sweater he wears fits loosely over his thin frame, with dirty black chucks on his feet, his look screams ‘I listen to Nirvana’.

“Umm, I’m sorry? I think you have the wrong person? I wasn’t supposed to be meeting anyone here tonight.” It’s not believable in the slightest when the words come out of your mouth, the less confident delivery giving you away. The look on his face lets you know you’ve definitely been had.

“Are you sure? I was told to look for the girl with a lavender purse.” As if to prove his point he points to the exact one he’s talking about slung across your shoulder. He quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at you before continuing. “I know I’m late but this is ridiculous.”

“A lot of girls have purple bags, Craig.” His name comes dripping in venom, the need to get rid of him before Eddie’s return throwing any logic out the window. You needed to believe your own lie.

The sudden harshness in your tone has him raising his hands in defense, backing down a little under the daggers of your glare.

“Whoa, chill out, my bad. You just match the exact description I was given, that's all.”

Clenching your jaw in frustration because he just won’t give up, you try to hold your composure while your eyes flick towards the door in anticipation for his return.

“Well you’ve told me you were late twice already so she probably just left. Rude of you to keep her waiting honestly.” Narrowing your eyes at him, you know that he knows exactly what you are doing but you don’t care anymore.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened, and not her being bitter I’m one measly hour late.” The way his words clip signal the rejection sinking in, as a glare sets firm on his face.

It’s the stare down of the century before Eddie comes barging through the entrance with a loud huff, cheeks red from yelling and hair slightly more mused than before. He checks to make sure you’re still where he left you before he glances over to Craig for a split second. Hopping over the bar with another skid of his boots, he still manages to give you a lopsided grin when he gets to the other side. Hitting the top of the bar in a series of beats he’s a ball of energy now.

“Sorry to keep you waiting sweetheart, Steve’s lucky the girl he took a knuckle sandwich for has a first aid kit. Rick keeps saying he’s gonna get one but I have yet to see it. Want another cocktail?” Talking a mile a minute with the leftover adrenaline from the fight he doesn’t notice the way Craig watches the two of you until he catches the awkward look on your face. Eddie’s face hardens, the softness he was giving you disappearing. “Something I can help you with buddy?”

You don’t even have to look at Craig to know he’s puffing out his chest with a point of his chin while he addresses Eddie.

“Actually pal, maybe you can.” His tone makes Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, a tested smile spreading over his lips while he lets Craig continue. “I was supposed to meet someone here for a blind date, she said to look for a girl with a lavender purse exactly like this one. You haven't seen her around here by chance have you?”

Eddie’s wide eyes meet yours, amusement filling the specks of golden brown as he picks up on exactly what’s happening. The corners of his lips twitch before he nods his head licking his bottom lip holding your gaze long enough to make you squirm before bringing his attention back to Craig with a low whistle.

“Oh yeah, I remember that hottie man. It’s a shame you were late, she took off with this dude she met waiting for you. She didn’t stand a chance though honestly, I know the guy he’s too smooth for his own good. Pretty good looking too, can’t be leaving your girl unattended around him man. He’s more of a metal head. Not into the grunge scene like you though. Probably wouldn’t have worked out between you two anyway.” Eddie catches your eye roll at his self indulgent story as you cover your mouth with the palm of your hand to hide your face splitting grin.

“Why don’t you walk away with some dignity, what’s that saying? There’s always more fish in the sea or some shit.” Eddie adds more salt to the wound, finally breaking Craig enough to give up.

“Whatever you say man, this bar is fuckin’ lame anyway. Who wants to drink to Third Eye Blind.” Grumbling his insults he slinks away taking one last look at you and Eddie before making his final exit with a flip of his middle finger.

Eddie’s stare is hot on your face, while you bashfully avoid his gaze keeping your eyes lingering on the door. When you finally dare to meet his eyes the shit eating grin on his face makes you groan, the buzz of your drink pulling a giggle out of you.

“Eddie, don’t —“

“Well, well, well aren’t you just a little heartbreaker huh?” His teasing only makes your cheeks grow hotter as you try to hide your face from his view.

—

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fuck the read more tab.

[sweetnxthngs]

[ may calamawy, non-binary, they/she] — whoa!  IMAAN EL-SALEM  just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for TEN YEARS, working as a/an OWNER OF BROWNSTONE BOOKS  that can’t be easy, especially at only 38 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit SHY and FANCIFUL , but i know them to be WARMHEARTED and ARTICULATE. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to QUEENS! —character parallels: rory gilmore, monica gellar, lexie grey.

wanted connections • pinterest

BASICS

FULL NAME: Imaan El-Salem

NICKNAME(S): none, doesn't love nicknames.

AGE: 38

DATE OF BIRTH: February 14th, 1986

CURRENT LOCATION: Queens, New York City.

PLACE OF BIRTH: Bahrain

ETHNICITY: Egyptian, Palestinian.

GENDER: Non-binary

PRONOUNS: they/she

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual

RELIGION: Raised Muslim, does not follow organized religion perfectly by any means, but does believe in God and has faith.

LANGUAGES: arabic, english.

OCCUPATION:  owner of brownstone books.

FACECLAIM: May Calamawy

PHYSICAL TRAITS

HEIGHT: 5’7

WEIGHT: 115 lbs

HAIR COLOR: Brown

EYE COLOR: Brown

PIERCINGS: one lobe piercing in each ear, and an industrial piercing in the right ear.

TATTOOS:  here

SCARS|MARKS: freckles across her nose and cheeks,

SIGNATURE SCENT: Maison Margiela Replica Springtime in the Park.

PHOBIAS AND DISEASES

MENTAL ILLNESSES:  social anxiety.

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES:

PHOBIAS: 

RELATIONSHIPS

MOTHER:  Nashwa El-Salem ( Badawi) (deceased)

FATHER:  Omar El-Salem

CHILDREN: none

SIBLINGS: Laila El-Salem (younger half-sister)

RELATIONSHIPS:  coming soon

 PETS:  a black cat lovingly named sush, short for sushi.

PERSONALITY

ZODIAC SIGN:  Aquarius.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good.

FAVORITE FOODS: sushi, watermelon, mint and feta salad, garlic noodles with chili crunch, mutabal, french fries drenched in ketchup and mayo, shakshouka.

FAVORITE COLOR: lavender and pink

LIKES: the smell of the air just after it rains, and the color of the sky and it's orange-pink hue then, too, when svu or criminal minds marathons are on, the feeling of having a crush. romance books.

DISLIKES: anything above 70 degrees Fahrenheit, washing the dishes by hand,

HOBBIES:  as of recently, ballet classes just to get some movement in and they like the fluidness of it, reading fanfiction when they should be working, baking their feelings away, and self-defense classes.

BIOGRAPHY

tw death, tw religion, tw childbirth.

PAST.

BAHRAIN, February 1986.

It's February, but it's the Middle East in the 80s, so the weather is likened to the decade. Nashwa is in a hospital and still, sweating profusely. She's unsure if it's the weather or the pressures of childbirth. She is freshly married, and this is her first baby, when a screaming little girl comes out, Imaan, is placed into her arms she cries along with her. She barely gets to hold her though before the beeping of a machine rings in her ears and before she can even meet her daughter, to know her, Nashwa El-Salem is pronounced dead, complications in birth.

Omar, her father, has no idea what to do with a newborn daughter, and with his job, he doesn't really have the time to raise her alone, that's when originally, her jadda stepped in, helping raise the young child until she was of school age, and then, there was pressure for her father to remarry, to find someone to run the home while he worked. By the time young Imaan is seven, Omar is remarried, and expecting another child.

Their stepmother isn't from here, the States, actually, here as an expat, working for the embassy, and their little sister Laila looks more like her than their father. Imaan is barely eight but she knows that things have shifted.

They go back and forth from Bahrain to Washington often enough, two homes, and to Imaan, it feels like two families. Her father and herself, and then him and his wife and Laila. There is a passing comment about how she can't let go of a mother she never knew, and as Imaan gets older, they know that's true.

by the time Imaan is seventeen, laila is 10, and they are fully moved to Washington, leaving Bahrain, and everything Imaan has ever really known behind. They finish their last year of school in the States, and it is so different Imaan feels out of place, and alone. She tries to fit in, and tries to be the perfect daughter at the same time, but those two don't align. Raised strict Muslim, Imaan is used to a set of rules, and the western high school system is mostly not set up for them, especially in 2005. Her connection to her home and her faith gets lost somewhere along the way, more fights with her father about his expectations, about his wife and his other daughter, about how she will never be good enough. He calls her disrespectful and a disappointment, and she tells him she applied for college in Scotland far away from him, and the look on his face tells her she's gone too far, but the plans have already been set in motion.

The University of Edinburgh is a dream and an awakening. Imaan is still shy, an introvert one would say, but also more willing to explore who they are. Kissing a girl for the first time is like a rebirth, trying cigarettes, alcohol, and even drugs feel like things that make her stray from the staunch religious upbringing she had, and yet, the lack of restraints feels good.

By the time she graduates with a degree in English, she knows she is different, and she's not sure how much her family will like that.

She moves back home for a while and works in a library as an assistant, and the freedom college abroad brought her dwindles, it's back to dad's rules. her sister is just sixteen, and while they were never close, their relationship is not bad, but Imaan finds there isn't much they have in common. Her sister likes concerts, has a large circle of friends, and spends her time trying new makeup techniques, and that's all fine, except Imaan can't relate to it, as someone who finds their enjoyment in reading the newest romance boo release, or

She moves around a bit after two years at home, does two years in California, and two more in Chicago before moving with their roommate to New York. It's closer to home but totally different all the same, and it actually feels right. Unlike all the other cities. They get a job in a bookstore and share a two-bedroom with their roommate in Queens and life is okay, though not perfect.

PRESENT

Imaan brought Brownstone Books off the owner, who they worked for 8 years before she decided it was time to retire, and with a very small loan and the kindness of someone who took them in, they owned the place. It felt daunting, but the bookstore's popularity helped make the transition easier.

In those ten years since moving to New York, Imaan found that what was missing in her life was some sort of faith, and found a way to embrace spirituality and their sense of self, a sometimes uneven, but more comfortable balance. They got cat and name it sush, and they still live in a two-bedroom, though their roommate moved out recently to live with her boyfriend, so they're on the hunt. They love to bake, spending the time not in the bookstore either doing that or reading (books, or fanfiction, thank you). They don't see their family often, though her sister is 31 now, and has visited a few times.

wanted connections found here.

[altheia-featherstone]

OC aesthetic game

Thank you @anew-flame for the tag!

Rules: bold/color any which apply to your OC; remember to repost; feel free to add to the lists. 

Tagging: Anyone who wants to do it

*****

Altheia Featherstone

(The Arcana)

[ COLORS ]

red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige. turquoise.

[ ELEMENTS ]

fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset.

[ BODY ]

claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. sun-kissed. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. average. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

[ WEAPONS ]

fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. whips. knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

[ MATERIALS ]

gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. rubber. synthetics. jade.

[ NATURE ]

grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. dandelions. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

[ ANIMALS ]

lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. dragonflies.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]

sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey. cheese. pasta.

[ HOBBIES ]

music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. foraging. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. journaling. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. running. exploring. partying. yoga. potion making.

[ STYLE ]

lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. sandals. leggings. trousers. cargo pants. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

[ MISC ]

balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

[blodgmonster]

Assassin's Blade reread commentary that no one asked for. Though my ACOTAR reread posts were mildly successful.

-- some people say NOT to start with Assassin's Balde, and yeah, it's not how I started when I read the series for the first time but...whatever?

The Assassin and the Pirate Lord

-- oh, God. She's SIXTEEN. She's a BABY.

-- Celaena getting a whiff of a breeze from Terrasen as she's prepping to free a bunch of slaves. Nice poetic touch.

-- Celaena and Sam freeing slaves and kicking Rolf's ass. We love to see it.

The Assassin and the Healer

-- so Yrene is really pronounced Irene? Wild. Though I shouldn't get started on the pronounations. Manon? Adarlan? Ashryver? I've been pronouncing them all wrong and have a hard time mentally correcting them. I'm attached to my mispronouncations by now.

-- Yrene has "absolutely ordinary brown hair". I thought she had rich, curly hair that was brown and golden??

-- Celaena's self-defense lesson is great. I want her to teach me. "Do NOT let them move you to another loaction."

-- "Celaena...prayed that somehow, years from now, Yrene Towers would return to this continent, and maybe, just maybe, heal their shattered world a bit." Prayer answered, babe

The Assassin and the Desert

-- I wish I had Celaena's confidence, swagger, and beauty.

-- "She was Celaena Sardothien, gods be dammed." Celaena seems to think like that often, sort of repeating her name. Is that, perhaps, because she is trying SO hard to forget her true name?

-- Ruhnn Mountains...Ruhn Danaan...interesting.

-- my inner horse girl LOVES the Asterion horses, which are clearly modeled after my beloved Arabians.

-- "Where do men find it in themselves to do such monstrous things? How do they find it acceptable?" GOOD QUESTION, ANSEL

-- The Master having her study animals is cool as hell.

-- it's kind of cool that Celaena is a stone cold bad ass AND a girly girl who loves shopping and make up and clothes.

-- "Oh, how vain can you BE?" Ansel is low key hilarious even as she tries to kill Celaena.

-- our first look at that bitch, gloriella

The Assassin and the Underworld

--God, Arobynn is such an ASS

-- Hello, Lysandra!!!

-- Celaena's suit is cool as hell. Very Black Widow.

-- Hello, Dorian and Chaol!

-- "Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam." AAAAHHHHH!!!

-- Sam and Celaena are so cute and good together. Chaol could never.

--Arobynn tricking her into aiding a slaver...God, I fucking hate him.

-- noooo, don't sell Kasida to that slaver bitch

-- and then he used her money to buy Lysandra's virginity. SCUM OF THE EARTH.

The Assassin and the Empire. Here we go....

-- the lavender soap....

-- oh, Sam...you poor, poor boy.

-- "Reality opened wide and swallowed her whole. She didn't move from the bed...She hated the world for continuing on." Oh, Celaena. Oh, hon. I've felt that way before.

-- Arobynn setting her up like this. This motherfucker.

-- "Arobynn STILL hadn't rescued her?" Babygirl, he PUT YOU IN THERE.

-- God...having to face the KING on top of all of this. The man who terrified her as a child, who destroyed her family, her home, and her life. God, imagine if he'd taken a closer look at her eyes. Would he have recognized her for who she was?

-- The white stag. THE LORD OF THE NORTH. Come to her in her darkest hour.

-- the breeze of Terrasen giving her the courage to stand. "She would go into Endovier. Go into Hell. And she would not crumble." THAT'S MY GIRL.

-- "My name is Celaena Sardothien...and I will not be afraid." * incoherent screaming *