#it's so late & early i actually googled

[rooolt]

I will use Demetri and Eli’s progress in the college admissions process to puzzle out the baffling timeline of Cobra Kai season 6 and YOU CANT STOP ME

[jrueships]

I HATEEEEE DYSPEXIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[cellgatinbo]

one of these days i’m gonna finally write a fic and it’s gonna be so fucking over

[foxgloveinspace]

Google having both II and Vessels names on the credits for Atlantic feels malicious I won’t lie.

[dandyshucks-moving]

juno having a special interest in dog-adjacent poke.mon 🤝 guz having a hyperfixation in bug-type poke.mon

[oncillaphoenix]

watched too many videos critiquing bad movie adaptations of movies and realized that my current fanfic wip would fit really nicely into the structure of a musical.

[just-another-author-i-guess]

This is mainly a question (by no means am i telling u to not write a fic tho if u find it in u) cs the way u characterize judd in ur writing matches so well with the shows but do u think he’d be into CNC?

And if he was how deep into it do u think he would be? Something tame like somno/his s/o telling him to stop but he doesn’t listen (HE STOPS WHEN THE SAFEWORD IS SAIDDDD OFC) or the more extreme part like him chasing the reader around the house 😛

(this is if ur comfortable w cnc ofc 🙏)

Girl the way I had to google what that meant— 💀

Also I really like that question lol, I’d like to do a more like “in depth” story about it but I’m stalling SOOOO HARD rn I just wanna get back into writing so bad ugh 💔💔

(ALSO YES!! MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN BUT RN I GOT 120+ AND IM IN OVER MY HEAD SO ITS JUST A SLOW PROGRESS)

But to answer the question; yes, most definitely.

Warning(s): nsfw mentioned mostly, I know I was reading this shit when I was a minor but guys pls don’t I’m begging you 🙏 minors dni.

≽^•𐃷•^≼

<3 Judd is freakyyyyy and would literally love to chase s/o around with a knife.

<3 like in a loving way tho, but yes that definitely turns him on

<3 I think I wrote something about him fucking s/o to a horror movie and to take it a step further, Judd would love love love to be in that horror movie

<3 Halloween? No wdym, it’s sexy time with Michael Myers (a/n: entertaining my own fantasies here ngl)

<3 if s/o is into it of course. His mom and sister definitely installed both the fear and respect of women and/or future partners into him quite early

<3 it’s something Judd and s/o has talked about beforehand, but if you’re out and about, in college or whatever he WILL find you. He’s unemployed and lives with his parents, it’s not like he has stuff to do, not if he’s horny anyway

<3 he definitely gets off on giving s/o a little scare. It’s the thrill of the chase for him and he’s hard before he even parks the van

<3 you asked him to pick you up after work and he’s late. His van is pretty distinguishable so it’s kinda weird you can’t see it parked outside, so you start walking.

<3 He’s in a black hoodie and sweats, the hoodie drawn above his head when he starts following you. It takes a while before you even notice and with the hoodie above his head, you don’t recognize him right away.

<3 the faster you walk, the faster Judd walks behind you until he’s falling in right behind you. When he grabs you, you freeze and think about all the murder weapons Judd undoubtedly has in his room to cut off the dick on this creep when—

<3 “Judd! What the fuck!” He turns you around and presses you against a nearby building, pulls down his hoodie and looks solemnly into your eyes.

<3 “The fuck would you had done if I was actually here to kill you? You’re not safe alone.” He’s only half joking because despite the fact that he planned this beforehand, he’s now suddenly concerned about your safety.

<3 “The only one making me unsafe is you, fucking asshole.”

<3 There are other less extreme examples where he’s not dicking s/o down publicly (which as stated above is definitely thing he’d enjoy)

<3 y’all have the consent talk at some point beforehand, but he’s not gonna ask.

<3 if you’re showering, he’ll slip in behind you

<3 he’s so fucking hard already, pressing into your ass or the small of your back and he doesn’t say anything but “c’mon. Spread your legs, slut.”

<3 what happened to hello? How are you?

<3 he does feel a little entitled to do so, yeah, but he’s also just very horny and he likes to touch you a lot

<3 not like he’ll give you a hug or anything. He’ll grope your ass (I’m labeling him as an ass man it’s just how I feel 🙏) or if he’s feeling wholesome and shit, he’ll let his fingers lightly brush the back of your neck and your hair

<3 with the safe word thing, he’ll definitely only stop if you say that word

<3 he’s not gonna believe you at no, he’ll need the word because I do feel like he’d have a bit of a hard time cooking off sometimes

<3 doesn’t mean he won’t respect the safe word because he respects s/o obv

<3 as I said, he likes the chase tho so if he’s stalking you, chasing you or some other normal boyfriend activity, he’ll def not stop from you saying so

<3 he’s into knife play and shit so that’s why safeword is important because he doesn’t want to actually hurt s/o yk? But he also doesn’t take squirming and “juuuuddd, stoooppp” for an answer right away

<3 ofc it’s also about reading s/o’s emotions you feel me??

<3 but bro he is NOT afraid to get freaky, he’ll be down to try a lot of things and he’ll he even happier of s/o brings stuff to the table as well, he likes pleasing his partner

<3 I feel like he’d not be THAT into somno bc he likes it when s/o is awake, like he likes to see that slight fear and excitement in their eyes and even tho he’s not opposed to doing it while s/o is asleep he’s still like,,, rather them be awake so he can be a dick bc he knows it turns them on lol

<3 but yeah, to sum this messy not so great headcannon up I think he’s DEEP into cnc, like genuinely I’d say it’s his main style bc he wants to be a horror movie character lmfao 💅

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

Hi HELLO I LOVE THAT GIF?? Who made him in the sims contact me immediately 🤝

Also it’s been a looooong while since I wrote for Judd and I feel like I’m kinda out of it haha. But I really wanted to get back into writing just something bc I’m still experiencing a huge burnout and feeling really shit about my writing and stuff bc I haven’t done it in a while,,, I’m super rusty rn 😭 I just wrote this on a whim it’s not even a real head cannon but I hope I answered your question?? Kinda?? I know it’s kinda tame but ahhhhh

But genuinely I really wanted to get back bc reading all the nice things you guys sent me and comment on my works and stuff??? Guys you are too good to me 🥹🤭 I genuinely really like the tiny mini community (if I can call it that?) around this blog and thank you so much for liking and commenting on my stuff!! It literally helps me so much— anyways that was cringe but like enjoy ok bye 👹

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

[covenofagatha]

The Psychology of Love (Part 7)

The Bar

Your date with Morgan leads to an unexpected confession

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: brief smut, fingering

A/N: I'll just go ahead and apologize for the cliffhanger 😅

The bar seems pretty crowded already, despite it not even being that late. There’s a line to get in that stretches around the building, ending right before a small alley. You and Morgan get in line behind a couple who is being very handsy and you and Morgan share a knowing look. 

“I know I can’t say much considering how we first met,” she mutters and you snort at the memory of her fucking you in the hallway of a sorority house, “but this is just out in the open.” 

“At least save it for a corner inside,” you agree and Morgan laughs. “How was your quiz yesterday?” 

She looks touched that you remembered. “It wasn’t bad! I think I probably got a B at least. There were like two questions that I genuinely had no clue on. The professor definitely didn’t say anything about them. Although, there was one girl who walked out crying so I think I definitely did better than her.” 

You grin. “As long as you weren’t the worst one. I can’t say I’ve ever seen someone leave an exam in tears.” Not yet, anyway. You think Agatha’s tests might put a few of your classmates over the edge, if those reviews hold any truth at all. 

Morgan waves her hand dramatically. “I’ve seen it a few times. Especially in the stats classes I’ve taken.” 

“Oh, god, yes,” you groan, your body shuddering. “I hate statistics with a passion. I’d rather do straight up calculus.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she giggles, “but yes, I agree. Certainly a few tears after that class. A few of them were mine.” 

It’s easy to talk to her, a lot easier than you thought it would be. You wish, not for the first time, that you could just be into her. It would certainly save you a lot of trouble. And overthinking. 

“How was the presentation thing you had last night?” Morgan asks and the question almost knocks you off your central axis. 

You’re a good girl. 

Not much else had been on your mind since Agatha said that to you. She had to know what she was doing by calling you that, she had to. And there was the unspoken promise of waiting a few months for her.

You could. You can. 

No matter how hard it might be. 

“It was interesting,” you answer, trying to think of details from the actual speaker but all you can remember is how the wine on Agatha’s breath smelled, the way she looked at you, the way her pinkie grazed against yours in the car. 

Morgan is talking about the little psychology she knows from the general class everyone had to take in their first year, but all you can focus on is the heat spreading from your cheeks down your neck to your stomach. 

The second you had gotten back to your dorm last night, you’d done some googling. Wanda had lifted herself on her elbows to watch you as you typed quickly, bent over your computer, but you’d ignored her as you searched Westview student-professor relationship rules. 

The first link was to the Westview University policies and you clicked on it. Scanning the pages, you let out a sigh of relief. 

Faculty shall not have amorous relationships with students who are in their classes, or when academic work is supervised by a faculty member over a student, or when a faculty member has or is likely to have academic responsibility over a student.

When you’re out of her class, it would be fine. 

But if you have her for grad school, it could get into a gray area, and you’re not sure if that applies to being a research assistant for her either. 

You next checked the syllabus for her class. The final exam was on the first Friday of December. Thank god the semester is done early. What will happen after you turn it in and you’re no longer her student? 

The fantasy of her taking you out to dinner after implants itself in your mind. Her approving smile as she toasts you with another glass of wine. Maybe her foot resting against your shin because she loves to tease. 

And after, she’d take you to her car and press you against the outside of it. Whisper about how she’s been wanting to do this for the longest time and how you’ve been so good waiting for her. 

You’re a good girl. 

The line grows shorter and you’re almost to the entrance. Morgan is still talking about psychology and you try to tune back in. 

“—and I was thinking maybe I could double major in psychology, you know? Like, maybe it’d be helpful with political science. Especially if I wanted to go on and be a lawyer. But even for just being able to relate to the constituents when I run for office.” 

You hum. “I could see that being helpful.” 

She shrugs like it’s a toss-up. “But I decided to minor in communications. My advisor—and my dad—said it’s a good combination.” 

The line keeps moving and you pry off your phone case to grab your ID. You didn’t want to have to carry a wallet around so you stuck that and your credit card behind your case. Morgan’s pants have pockets, unlike your skirt, and while you could’ve asked her to hold your wallet, this seemed effective as well. 

The bouncer waves you both in and you step into the bar. Alfie’s just opened about a month ago and it’s clearly the place to be, even on a Wednesday night. 

It’s a neat place, you think. Very 1970s, as the theme of the bar is stated. The entire room is encased in a fluorescent orange light, reflected by a mirror-ball spinning on the ceiling, there’s a DJ booth in a corner with a record player on the table and vinyls hung on the walls all around him, the bar itself is in the middle of the room, shaped like a rectangle, with green marble countertops and stools. There’s bottles of alcohol on a shelf jutting from the load-bearing wall that connects the ends of the bar and cool glass panes run from the floor to the ceiling on it. Old music that you know from driving in your dad’s car with him pumps over the speakers. 

The main room flows into a smaller one, where there's already people in line for the bathrooms and then there’s a section with disco floor tiles and couches around it. Only a few people are on the floor but they look like they’re having the time of their life. 

“This is a cool place!” you yell to Morgan, who has to lean in to hear you over the song and the busy chatter. “Do you want a drink?” 

She looks over to the bar top, which is packed like sardines in a can. “I’ll go find us a table while you get us something? I’ll just have one of whatever you get.” 

You nod and try to push yourself between two people. You spot some people who look to be your age on the adjacent side also trying to flag the bartender down and you think you might be here awhile. 

A lone menu is laying on the counter about a foot away from you and you’re able to slide it over easily with the smooth marble. You hold it up and then away from your body, trying to make out the words in the bright light. They have cocktails, martinis, hard liquor, and wine. Chewing on your lip, you read the cocktail list a few times, trying to discern which would taste the best and which one Morgan would also like. 

Fingertips drums on the counter in front of you and you look up to see the bartender standing in front of you. She has long red hair and a tattoo of a snake on her neck that runs down into her black tank top. “Do you know what you want, love?” 

You take one last look at the menu. “Can I get two Pink Ladies?” Gin, lemon, grenadine, and orange bitters. Sounds like a good combination, at least better than some of the others. 

She nods and turns away to start to make them. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” a low voice drawls in your ear and the air around you fills with a familiar scent. 

“Professor,” you chuckle, tilting your body to let her slide up next to you. Agatha smirks. You can’t stop your eyes from wandering and taking in her outfit and your jaw goes slack. 

She’s wearing a black dress that falls down to just below her knees, high collar, and the long-sleeves are mesh and see-through. It’s tight, hugging her curves in all the right ways. Her hair is pulled back in a low pony-tail, her shorter strands hanging loose. Different earrings from last night hang from her earlobes but they match the rings on her fingers. Her lips are painted red and you try to not stare at them. Her heels are open-toed and you can see the maroon nail polish on her toes, complementing the same shade on her fingers. 

It’s a far cry from the casual blazer over the t-shirt and pants she was wearing in class earlier. You started learning about the Biological approach and it was definitely not as exciting as the Trait approach. It felt weird just strolling into the room after last night, just having to act like nothing happened. 

But there’s the same classic twinkle gleams in her icy-blue eyes as she looks at you now.

It feels like the atmosphere between you two has changed since last night—it's almost become more level. Like she’s no longer holding all the cards. 

“Drinking on a school night?” she asks in the husky voice that makes you shiver. 

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.” 

Agatha’s brows raise at your retort before tossing her head back with a laugh. “Well, that’s because I was there to keep you in check. You know, make sure there weren’t any bad decisions being made.” 

If you had taken a chance and kissed her, would that have been a bad decision? Not that you ever would, unless she fully gave you permission, but you still wonder. 

“Well, you’re also here on a school night,” you point out and your breath catches when Agatha slides the menu out from under your fingertips, her knuckle brushing against yours. 

The bartender puts down two circular glasses with a liquid the color of watermelon pink and a lot of ice. She picks out two straws from the container and slides them into the drinks. You hand over your credit card. 

“Do you want to start a tab?” she asks and you sneak a peek over to Agatha before shaking your head. The bartender takes your card and goes to charge it as you pick up your drink and enclose your lips over the straw. 

Your professor watches intently as you take your first sip and flavor explodes on your tongue. It’s fruity and a bit sour but there’s only a hint of alcohol that you can taste. It’s not bad. 

Agatha taps the menu. “Which one did you get?” 

“The Pink Lady.” She hums and reads the description and you take a chance. You hold your drink out to her. “Want to try?”

She smiles slyly and leans over, lips sucking on the straw. Your mouth goes dry. She pulls back and hums, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “Pretty good,” she decides while you stare at her. 

The bartender comes back with your card and jolts you out of your stupor. She looks at Agatha, who orders a whiskey soda. 

“Where’s your plus one?” Agatha asks, nodding to Morgan’s drink. “If those are both for you, I think I’d have to report you.” 

You snort at her teasing tone and scan the crowd for any sign of your date. “She’s around here somewhere.” You think you see a flash of dark hair from somewhere in the corner. 

When you turn back to Agatha, you see that her teeth are slightly gritted, but other than that, she’s the picture of composure. 

She doesn’t say anything, so you take a long sip, feeling the alcohol course through your veins, before you ask, “So, uh, what are you doing here?”

“A couple other professors and I thought we’d check this place out,” Agatha says, pointing behind you. You turn to see two men and a woman lift their hands in greetings. You recognize the other woman and one of the men from previous classes. “We do have lives outside of the university, you know.” 

“Oh, yeah?” You smirk and her eyes light up. “You’re not just in bed by eight o’clock in pajamas, reading the newspaper or something?” 

Agatha scoffs. “How old do you think I am?” 

You lean in closer, unable to stop from laughing, and motion around to the bar. “I mean, you were alive in the seventies, weren’t you?” 

Her mouth drops open in mock offense and you take your straw between your teeth, smiling at her from around it. She shakes her head like you’re really going to get it, and then warns, “You better be careful.” 

“Or what?” you challenge and the air changes. 

Instead of being playful, it becomes charged. Agatha’s eyes lock onto yours and the bar fades away—it’s just the two of you again. She bites her lip and you chew on the straw, both of you afraid to break the moment. 

Agatha takes a step toward you, one of her hands coming up to ghost over your cheek, and you don’t move a muscle. Her eyes dart over to look behind you and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that three of her colleagues and your date are somewhere in this very room. At least she can check on her colleagues and make sure they’re not watching.

But it’s like the switch goes off in her head and she backs away. You immediately miss her warmth. She regards you, trying to figure out a comeback, but there’s nothing. 

“Here’s your whiskey, ma’am,” the bartender says, putting down a glass of dark liquid down before Agatha. “Do you want to start a tab?”

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” she says and pulls out her card. She takes a long sip and you stare at the liquid that beads on her lips when she puts the glass down and looks at you. “I’d offer you a sip but I’m not sure you could handle it.” 

Whiskey has never been your thing; it’s got way too strong of a taste, but you’ll be damned if you let her be right. And maybe you want to show her that you can handle more than she thinks. 

So you steal the glass from her hand, brushing your fingers against hers, and take a swig. Immediately, you want to spit it out but you swallow the whole thing and chase it with a gulp of your cocktail. 

Agatha looks impressed when you hand her back the glass. “Good girl,” she murmurs and a flush of heat tears through you. The bartender comes back with her check and your professor signs it without even looking down. 

She straightens up, holding her glass with her pinkie at the bottom and thumb tracing a line on the rim, and you know that she’s about to leave you. 

“For the record,” she starts and you watch her expectantly, “if I’m in bed by eight, I’m certainly not reading the newspaper.”

“Oh?” you rasp, a tingling in your veins. “What are you doing, then?” 

Agatha smirks knowingly. “Enjoy your night, hon.” 

She breezes past you, leaving you in a cloud of her perfume, the only real indication that she was there.

You pick up both drinks and glide through the crowd to find Morgan standing at a table tucked against the wall on her phone. She looks up when you put down her glass. 

“God, that took you forever,” she remarks, taking a long sip. She sighs happily. “This really is a busy place.” 

“Yeah, the bartender kept skipping me,” you lie, thinking it’s better not to tell her that the professor you have a massive crush on was holding you up. You can see Agatha through the people standing in the middle of the floor. She’s deep in conversation with the other professors, but every now and then, she’ll look over and you’ll make eye contact. 

Each time it happens, you feel a jolt run down your spine. 

Morgan peers at someone behind you. “I think that kid’s in my class,” she says, pointing. You turn and it’s a group of boys. You think you’ve seen some of them around campus. 

“Do you want to go say hi?” you ask, not sure if that’s what she’s hinting at. 

She shrugs. “I’d rather dance.” 

“Oh—well, that can be arranged,” you say with a grin and you grab her hand and lead her to the dancefloor. A song that you don’t know is playing so you and Morgan just sway to the beat while still working on your drinks. 

Out of your periphery, you can see Agatha now openly staring at you. 

Emboldened, and maybe feeling the gin a little, you wrap a hand around Morgan’s lower back and pull her against you. She lets out a little noise but puts her free hand over your shoulder. The music picks up, the beat thumping in your veins, and you and Morgan start moving against each other. 

It’s a bit harder with the drinks in your hands and you’re careful not to spill them on each other as you start to grind on one another. It’s not really the right music for sensual dancing, but you two lose yourself in it. Your movements are over-exaggerated because you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you. 

Your hand intertwines in Morgan’s hair, your forehead resting against hers, and she leans down to take a sip of your own drink. It’s intimate and Agatha scowls. 

Morgan pulls back and spins around and you untangle your fingers from her hair and wrap that arm around her stomach. She rubs herself against you and you shoot Agatha a scandalizing wink, the ability to think twice about anything eluding you. 

Agatha swallows the rest of her whiskey in one gulp. 

Morgan turns back to you and you know what she’s going to do before she does it. 

Her lips meet yours in an open-mouth, sloppy kiss because you’re both a little tipsy now. You hardly feel anything, hardly notice anything except for the buzzing in your head and the heavy weight of Agatha’s glare. 

Agatha—

You break the kiss, strands of saliva still connecting you to Morgan, and look over to where you know your professor is. 

Just in time to see her slam her glass on the table, say something to her colleagues, and storm out of the bar. 

Fuck. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you tell Morgan, who nods and lets you go. You drop your glass on a random table, ignoring the calls of the people sitting there, and chase after her. You shoulder open the exit door and barely even feel the pain shooting through your arm. 

The line outside the bar has dwindled to about five people now and in the distance, you see Agatha. She turns the corner into the little alleyway that you and Morgan were standing by earlier and when you skid to a stop in front of it, Agatha is standing a few yards in front of you, back facing you, arms crossed over her chest. 

She’s waiting, like she knew you’d come after her. 

You clear your throat and take a step closer. “Are you okay?” You’re not sure what to expect—maybe a declaration of how she feels or maybe she was just feeling sick or overwhelmed—but when she turns around, she looks mad. 

Fire burns in her eyes and you feel cold fear dripping in your blood. 

“You’re not being very subtle,” she snarls, advancing toward you, but you stand your ground. Whatever you were expecting, or hoping for, was not this. You didn’t think she would be angry. 

“What are you talking about?” you ask, bewildered. 

Agatha scoffs, her face contorting into something wicked. She is a completely different person than when she came up to you at the bar but there’s something hot about her like this. You get it now—she’s jealous. 

You like when she’s jealous.  

“Parading around with someone who looks just like me? Dancing like that?” It strikes a nerve, she sees it in your eyes. She smirks. “Tell me that’s not what you’re doing.” 

“It’s not,” you say, but your voice wavers. 

She steps closer—close enough for you to smell the alcohol on her breath. It’s dark and heavy. Her perfume clouds your senses and your judgment, like it always does. 

Agatha leans in, her face right against your ear and if you turned your head even an inch to the side, your lips would touch hers.

But you can’t move. 

“Are you sure?” She draws out the sure, making it nothing more than a low hiss, and you fight the urge to shudder. 

Agatha pulls back and flicks your chin up with two fingers, a stretched grin making her look mean. You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes because you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop yourself from doing something that you can’t. 

“You said we had to wait—” 

“Don’t,” she snaps, holding up her hand. She pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head, eyes closing. 

What is going on? Why is she doing this?

“Professor,” you breathe, you implore. “Agatha.” 

It’s the first time you’ve ever said her name. 

It’s a break in the facade you two have been keeping up. The facade that she’s just your professor and you’re just her student. 

There’s no way you can go on pretending that anymore. 

Agatha drops her hand and looks at you, something dangerous and new written on her face. Her eyes are dark and they make a chill run through you when she claims you with them. 

“Tell me you think about me when you’re with her,” she urges, demands, and you’re almost afraid to venture into this otherwise unknown territory. 

What happens if you say yes? 

“You made that pointed comment about transference outside the pizza place that night,” you rasp. The unspoken words of you already know are brimming beneath the surface—who will uncover them first? 

Agatha remains determined and clucks her tongue. “I want to hear you say it.”

You chance a glance down at her mouth and her tongue peeks out to lick her lips. If you say yes, will she give you what you want? 

What you both want? 

Your heart is pounding louder than it ever has before, so loud you can barely hear yourself whisper, “Yes.” 

She finally looks satisfied. Agatha smugly nods to herself in victory, composure settling back over her face, and turns on her heel. Her hair flips over her shoulder, almost hitting you in the process. 

You watch her stroll away from you—should you call after her? beg her to stay?—and down the entire length of the sidewalk until she vanishes around the building. You stand by yourself for what feels like hours, just dumbfounded, until finally going back inside in a trance-like manner. Disappointment is cutting a hole into your stomach—you were so close to something. 

But then Agatha just walked away from you. 

And she knows now that you like her. That you want her. That you imagine you’re with her when you're with Morgan. 

She seemed only too delighted in that fact. 

The gleam in her eyes, the way she made you say it, like she needed to hear it. Like she didn’t already know how crazy she was driving you, or maybe she just wanted the satisfaction of confirming it.

But you got to her too, no matter how much she pretends to be in control. She was the one who got jealous and stormed out when you were dancing with Morgan. 

Morgan, who didn’t even notice you were gone. You find her now talking to the boy she pointed out earlier about their shared class and she barely looks up when you sidle next to her. Your body is on fire, your breathing is ragged, and there’s a throbbing between your legs that is consuming you. 

“Are you ready to go?” you whisper in her ear and she glances at you for a mere second. “Maybe we could go back to your place? 

At the suggestion in your tone, she perks up. “Ryan, I’ll see you tomorrow?” she says to the boy and he nods, looking a little dejected. 

You order an Uber as you’re pulling her out of the bar by the hand and it’s parked out front of the bar in a matter of minutes. You look around one last time for any sign of your professor, but she is gone. Did she text the teachers she was with that she had to run? Or did she just up and leave with no warning, just because of you? 

It was risky for her to appear so bothered, but it only makes the pulsing of your clit worse to know that she didn’t care. 

The drive back to Morgan’s apartment is only about twenty minutes, and it’s twenty minutes of you squirming in your seat and Morgan giving you a look every now and then. 

“You okay?” she finally asks quietly. The driver turns his head slightly to the side so he can make sure to hear your answer over the softly playing music. 

You nod. “Yeah, just excited to get back.” 

When the car pulls up in front of her dorm building, you throw the door open and get out, barely remembering to thank the driver. You’ll give him five stars later. Morgan struts to the lobby door, key fob in hand. 

She had been waiting outside when you picked her up earlier, so you linger behind her while she shoves open the door to the stairs. You take two-at-a-time to the third floor and she walks down the long carpeted hallway to the door at the end. 

“Are your roommates home?” you ask, voice cracking. 

Morgan slides her key into the lock. “Even if they are, we can just go to my room. This is one of the four-fours.” Four bedrooms and four bathrooms. God, how nice that must be. While you love sharing a room with Wanda, you do wish you had more space a lot of the time. 

Especially some private space. And your own bathroom? 

“You’re living the life,” you say in awe and Morgan huffs out a chuckle. 

The door opens into darkness, the only light coming from the moon in the window, and you carefully follow her to the second bedroom on the left. 

She flicks on the light and closes her bedroom door and you take it in. She has a full-sized bed with a mossy green duvet and white pillows, a leafy plant in a translucent purple vase on the nightstand, fairy lights and artificial vines hanging from the walls. You kick off your shoes and feel the soft, plush rug under your feet as you step over to look at the pictures on her walls. There’s a lot of her and her dad, her in town hall meetings, her with friends. 

“This is a really nice room,” you breathe. What does Agatha’s room look like? You’re picturing something modern, something upscale. Definitely a lot of psychology books. 

Morgan’s hands slide on your hips and you turn around to face her. Her eyes look more green than blue with her eyeliner. You hadn’t noticed that earlier. Her hair is mussed up from dancing at the bar, effortlessly pretty. You cup her cheeks and she smiles, pink lips contrasting with her perfect white teeth.

You pull her to you, mouths meeting in the middle, and you can taste the fruity drink you both had earlier. It’s a soft kiss at first, just tentative brushes against each other, but then you inhale through your nose and smell her perfume. 

It’s suddenly Agatha that you’re kissing and one of your hands trails down to her lower back to press her closer against you. The coffee and vanilla and spice—the scent seems darker, almost—swirls around your head and you moan. 

Tell me you think about me when you’re with her. 

She pushes up your shirt and you gasp at her fingertips on your bare skin. Heat seeps through to your stomach and you grip her closer. Her tongue languidly moves against yours, a stark contrast to the urgency pooling inside you. 

How much more of this can you take? 

You reach down and tear off your shirt and then hers, your lips immediately dropping down to nip at her collarbone. You feel her chest flare under your mouth and a thrill runs through you. 

Tell me that’s not what you’re doing.

Everything is happening so fast. Her scent and taste overwhelms you and you breathe hotly against her pale skin. Her fingers creep up your back and unclasp your bra. She glides it down your arms while you now suck at her cleavage and she gasps. 

You’re pulled up by your hair, her lips clash against yours, and you lose yourself in the kiss with your eyes still closed. 

Fingers play with the hem of your skirt and when her skin brushes against your lower stomach, there’s a tug from behind your navel to your cunt. Your hands push down her bra over her breasts and cup them, thumbs rolling her nipple. She moans. 

I want to hear you say it.

“Yes,” you gasp and she slides her hand down and underneath your skirt. You feel like you’re floating outside your own body, like this pleasure isn’t really yours. How strong was that drink? You can taste it on her breath still, the lemon and the grenadine and the orange bitters. The gin. 

Your chest heaves and you see Agatha smirking at you, taunting you with condescending praise about how needy you are for her. You are needy for her—you don’t think there’s anything you’ve ever wanted this much. 

She finds your clit over your underwear and presses on it and you keen loudly. Your sounds are swallowed by her mouth and you frantically moan for more. You grip onto her wrist, feeling the muscles tense as she moves to stroke her fingers over your clothed slit. 

“Please—fuck,” you groan. 

She pushes the gusset of your panties over and skates her warm fingers through your swollen folds and you bite down on her lip to keep yourself from crying out. Her breath catches and she teases your entrance. Your walls are already clenching around nothing, your clit sensitive and aching, and her perfume is just making you wetter. 

“Please,” you beg again. 

You finally get what you want—her finger pushes slowly into you and your mouth drops open, panting against her lips. It’s good, so good, but you need so much more. 

A second finger enters you and your hips jerk. 

You’re a good girl. 

“Yes, fuck, yes—Agatha,” you breathe and immediately your muscles stiffen. You hear a slight choking sound and your eyelashes flutter open to see a pair of shocked green eyes. 

Not blue. 

Morgan stares back at you, hurt written all over her face. 

Part Eight

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika

[ready-to-read7]

prompt #1

This is my first attempt at a prompt so I hope I do it well also to my followers that usually are here for my (x reader) content I'm taking a small break from that I might continue in the future but currently I want to do stuff related to my new favourite fandom hyper fixation a.k.a. Danny Phantom.

Okay so I really like the prompts where Dan or Dani are de-aged  and are like Danny's kids, and another concept I like that isn't as common is Danny being Bruce Wayne/Batman's half-brother or brother does not matter so in this situation Bruce finds out that he apparently has a half-brother somehow like one of his parents donated when they were younger probably before they had Bruce and without them knowing there was a successful result and that ended up with Danny because God knows that the Fenton's most likely with their crazy experiments would've eventually ended up not being able to have kids like they had jazz and then found out they weren't able to have another one even though they want another one and would end up having an implant baby ( I don't know what it's called and I'm not going to Google it )

so, Danny's born and raised by the Fenton's becomes half ghost and obviously after the entire timeline with the inclusion of reformed Vlad and Dan along with good Fenton parents,

clockwork for some reason the ages both of dan and Dani wiping most of their memories and Danny was probably like somewhere within his early to late 20s maybe even a bit older raises Dan and Dani

Bruce eventually he somehow finds out about Danny and is weirdly excited to have a sibling even if it's only half more specifically excited have a younger sibling since I'm not 100% sure how old Bruce is but I'm pretty sure he's way over his 20s he's definitely is going to be older than Danny, he tells Alfred but for some reason he forgets to tell his children and he starts talking to Danny after getting in contact with him Danny is obviously sceptical or shocked and asks his parents they tell him the truth, explaining that he was technically like an implant baby (once again I have no idea what it actually is called) and he decides to get to know his half-brother they talk over the phone quite often Danny at one point also introduces Dan and Dani to Bruce and Bruce would tell him about his kids, Danny obviously being shocked at the amount of kids Bruce has but loves getting to hear about them

and at one point Bruce offers to fly Danny in both his kids over for them to actually meet, Danny would agree but once again Bruce what for some reason within his joy he forgets to tell his kids so during Bruce and Danny’s meet up Alfred leads Danny to one of the bathrooms and at that moment as Bruce is watching his nephew and niece most of Bruce's kids would walk in with varying reactions but all of them would think that Bruce had adopted two more kids and Bruce would be struggling to explain to them that they aren't his kids and all of this would only be resolved after Danny came back from the bathroom

(I was actually really nervous to write my first prompt but I think it turned out well)

[damaramegido]

so when i was in my early teens--i think this would've been when i was 13-15, somewhere between 2006 and 2007, give or take--i heard a song at the local hot topic that has been haunting me from time to time ever since. to be clear this is a bad thing, not because i can't find the song but because it was not a good song. but also, now i can't find the song, and i want to because i want to prove this is a real fucking thing i heard in my youth, somewhere in the mid-to-late aughts, at the capitola mall hot topic in capitola, california.

it was a lyrical adaptation (not directly one-to-one but clearly an adaptation) of edgar allan poe's classic poem the raven, and i THINK it also incorporated segments of annabel lee. but like. it was rapped. badly. over like, a gothy rock/metal backing track. i'm not sure but i think one of the lyrics was "lenore, lenore, my sweet sweet g/taken by the angels from me." i do not remember for certain if the rapper (male fwiw) actually called lenore a g but i would not put it past whoever was responsible for this.

googling just turns up a bunch of people directly rapping the raven more or less as it's written, which is NOT what i'm looking for.

tl;dr need help finding and identifying a terrible goth rap adaptation of poe's the raven (and maybe parts of annabel lee). heard at earliest in 2005 and at latest probably in 2009, but i think it was closer to 2006-2008, at the hot topic in capitola, ca, usa. can attempt to replicate what i remember of it if i really need to but i'm not prepared to shed my dignity that badly yet

EDIT: multiple people have suggested certain songs by mc lars but i'm fairly sure it's not him, and it's definitely not any of the tracks i've been linked. the rapper was almost certainly white, but was definitely trying to affect an """urban""" accent, and the backing music was, for lack of a better word, edgier-sounding. also, there was a refrain of "quoth the raven, nevermore," which doesn't seem to be present in any of the songs i've been linked. it's definitely weirdly similar in concept, but the execution is different.

[yeoldenews]

Can you shed any light on how Santa came to give naughty children coal, when coal used to be a reasonably useful present?? I tried googling it but nothing that came up seemed researched better than folk wisdom, or modern-day people trying to make it make sense.

Considering that the holiday has come to dominate upwards of 1/12 of the cultural calendar every year in much of the world - there has been shockingly little academic research done on the history of Christmas and Christmas traditions. So unfortunately folk wisdom is kind of all we have on this subject.

Coal has long been associated with various cultural figures who fall under the "winter gift-bringer" archetype. The Italian witch-like figure Befana brings coal or ashes to bad children, and the Basque Olentzero was traditionally a charcoal burner by profession. However, as most folk-lore consists mainly of unwritten cultural tradition, it is very difficult to determine exactly when and how these figures developed, and what, if any, influence they had on one another.

(For the duration of this I'm going to dub any item brought by Santa as a punishment as an 'anti-gift' for a lack of a better term. Also, the following information is specific to the continental US, as that's the area I most focus on.)

To begin with - coal, in the anti-gift sense, does not necessarily refer to valuable high-grade anthracite. It could just as easily refer to low-grade industrial coal or even charcoal. It was also given in such small quantities (small enough to fit in a child's sock, as that's what stockings were originally) as to be worth almost nothing, no matter the quality.

I actually tend to agree with what most modern articles written on this subject theorize - which is that coal was just a conveniently located item that every household had. Stockings were traditionally hung on the mantle or around the stove, so the coal scuttle was right there for any disgruntled parents looking to punish their child's misbehavior.

This theory seems to be supported by other anti-gifts I've come across in Dear Santa letters which appear to be overwhelmingly fireplace related - ashes, sticks, sand (commonly used in fire buckets) and once even buffalo chips.

Ashes in particular were a very common anti-gift in much of the US in the late 19th/early 20th century. Though often the belief was that Santa would throw ashes in your eyes if you peek at him, rather than leave them in your stocking for bad behavior.

By far the most common non-fireplace-related anti-gift I come across in Dear Santa letters is switches (as in branches/rods used for corporal punishment). I've only done the scantest of formal documentation on the subject but, just given my general observations, - I'd say that switches were just as common of an anti-gift as coal, if not more so, up until the mid-20th century when corporal punishment/spanking began becoming less culturally acceptable. I have also noted that switches were noticeably more common in the Southern US, where it is not uncommon to see them mentioned in Dear Santa letters well into the 21st century (though my attempts to document any very recent data on this has been somewhat complicated by the introduction of the Nintendo Switch.)

Coal being a relatively useful and valuable item seems to have been a joke for as long as it has been a tradition, and it is not at all uncommon to see adults pointing out that fact - especially during strikes and shortages.

Even in times of scarcity, I suspect most stocking coal ended up right back in the coal bucket, as I can't imagine most children were interesting in keeping it - thus costing the parents (or Santa) absolutely nothing.

Was coal the traditional anti-gift where any of you grew up, or was it something else?

[peachway]

the perfect sunrise · CL16

✦ characters - fem!reader x charles leclerc ✦ warnings - fluffy fluffff, suggestive, google translated french, so let me know if i have done any mistakes :) ✦ word count - 1.2k ✦ summary - Charles forgets your birthday so to make it up for it he kidnaps you to see the most beautiful sunrise.

A/N - The written birthday note here is from pinterest and is highlighted in italics. The pictures are curated from pinterest. happy reading ✨

Third Person’s POV -

You were currently in the hotel room. Alone. The silence and the ticking clock were killing you. You glance up to see the time.

“You’re late” you mumbled seeing it was already 12:44 AM.

It was your birthday. You thought you'd be surrounded by your loved ones and your boyfriend, celebrating like crazy till morning, but it was quite the opposite. You already had tons of wishes from everybody. Except for him. Did he forget? no it's wasn't possible. But as the time went by, it got very obvious. He indeed forget your birthday.

It was obvious to feel hurt. You weren't angry, but just kind of disappointed. You understand how demanding his career is but you had hoped, at the very least, that he would've remembered the day.

The distance between you—the hours spent in different time zones, the constant travel has already made the relationship a challenge.

At first you thought he was just pretending. It was the last race of the season so you thought maybe it must have slipped his mind or something. It was not at all possible that he had forgotten your day. But the fact that it was almost 1:40 in the night and he was still out somewhere you don't even know?

You had already dozed off on the couch waiting for him. When he was coming back to you, he ran into Pierre in the hotel lobby.

'Hey mate!' Charles gives a little nod.

'Oh hey! good i found you here. I was going to call you.." he says.

"Is y/n still up? because Kika wanted to give her a little surprise and she didn't pick up her phone so.."

"I actually don't know, I had gone out so... i'll call you." Charles nodded.

"You were out alone?" he asked.

"Yes?" he nodded.

"You do know what is today right?" Pierre asked again.

"Yeah, a Wednesday. What's the matter why are you asking so many questions?" Charles retorted.

"Mon Dieu Charles!! it's her birthday!" Pierre said with gritted teeth.

Then it finally clicked him.

“OH NO”

“TODAY'S DATE” His stomach drops as realisation took hold of him. It's not just any day—it's your day!

“Super travail d'oublier l'anniversaire de ta copine! idiot." he cursed himself. [Great job forgetting your girlfriend's birthday! idiot.]

“How the hell did i forget that.. I'm sorry I-” he shook his head to Pierre.

“It's okay mate. Don't worry about us. Good luck!" he patted his shoulder.

“Hoping you'll still be alive for the race tomorrow.” Pierre smiles and walks away.

In the fast-paced world of Formula One, he'd somehow lost track of one of the most important date. In the face of his mistake, he knows that mere words and gifts won't fix it. He has to do something meaningful.

You were still sleeping when he picked you up in his arms and carried you away from the hotel room to the car. You did wake up in the middle and saw the harbour. But you brushed it off thinking it was a dream. You clutched on tight to Charles and went back to sleep.

It was very early and with all those planning and preparations Charles fell asleep too. His eyes flew open abruptly after some time.

When it was almost 6:40 he gently rubs your shoulder to wake you up.

"Hey." "Amour, wake up." he cooed.

You responded in a little hm, not waking up fully. You wanted to sleep more.

"Y/n" he calls again.

When you didn't answer he started peppering kisses all over your face and neck. This time you did wake up feeling his soft lips against your skin.

"Charlie!" you giggled.

"Amour." he replied, his face still buried in your neck.

"It's almost time." he added.

"Time for what?" you ask, opening your eyes as you hear ripples of waves around you.

Instead of the white ceiling of your room you see the almost golden sky. You jolted up in thrill. You were in the ocean. Like literally in the ocean?

You look over the sea and see strokes of deep orange, pink, and golden yellow shade glooming over in the sky. The sky was lit and the sun was peeking out from the horizon. You could hear the sharp calls of black headed gulls from a distance followed by some other waders and seashore birds. It was so blissful. You look at Charles who was admiring the view before him. His perfect face looked more beautiful in the golden glow of the sun. His blue eyes were the deep ocean you'd want to drown into. You couldn't have awakened to something better on your birthday than this.

"You like it?" he asked.

"It's so gorgeous." you smile looking over at the ocean.

"happy birthday my love." Charles whispered in your ear.

"I thought you forgot. But you had this planned? This is the best surprise i can get. Thank you Charles."

"Cherié I..." he starts but doesn't continue.

"Yes?" you said.

"I am a horrible horrible boyfriend. You see... I um did forget your birthday." he said.

You didn't reply back but isn't just pulled his face and gave him a soft kiss, gesturing that you accepted his apology.

"Normally i would get flowers or your favourite cupcakes but it's very early so i'll start with this.." he says pulling a little piece of paper beside him.

It had small hand drawn flowers all over it with a little note that said,

"yesterday, i loved you. today, i love you. tomorrow, i will love you. next week, i will love you. in june, i will love you. on september 5th, i will love you. when i get home, i will love you. next year, i will love you. in five years, i will love you. for the rest of my life, i will love you.

happy birthday belle!"

"I'm not much of an artist but i tried!" he chuckled awkwardly, slightly embarrassed seeing his messy watercolour flowers on the card.

"It's so perfect!" you said, tears forming in your eyes.

"Hey! no crying on your birthday come on!" he said pulling you in his arms.

"Well it's not a birthday if you don't cry." you chuckled.

"Yeah not today, cherié. I have so much planned that you won't have any time to cry." he said.

"Can we please stay a bit more here?" you asked.

"Of course whatever you like!" he says stroking your hair.

"Your voice is so damn sexy. It makes me want to go down on my knees." you said, your head still buried in his neck.

"Whoa hey that escalated!..not that I'm complaining!" he chuckled.

"But it's your birthday so, i'll take care of you my pretty girl." he added.

"No! me first!" you protested climbing up on lap.

"This is so perfect. Thank you Charles." you said kissing his lower lip.

At the end of the day, it's not just the perfect race win or the fastest lap that matters alone but being with you, after every good or bad race — it mattered him the most. Coming back to you in your arms mattered the most. You were his home and he was yours.

[peekofhistory]

I just want to say, before anything else, that I love your blog! It's so helpful to me when I write things. I'm also sorry for how long this ask is going to be. I normally ask anonymously but it won't let me put the photo in.

I really like this hanfu set but I don't know exactly what dynasty it's from, or even if it's actually historically accurate.

I also wanted to ask about the hanfu from Flourished Peony, and how accurate they are. Specifically that one pink round-collar hanfu Mudan wears when she's getting flowers from the mountain that I thought was a men's item, rather than a women's one.

Sorry about the long ask!

Going to answer both of these together since they're about the same show.

About the hanfu in the picture, this is a Ruqun (襦裙) set from the Weijin. The biggest giveaway is the stripe at the sleeves (it looks like 2 stripes but I have another pic of this outfit and you can see it's actually 1 decorative stripe with two bright borders). Also, if you look at this pic below with it untucked in the skirt, you can kind of see that there's a horizontal piece of fabric along the waist area.

If you take a look at my post about the Ruqun (here) you'll see an artefact that's very similar.

For Flourished peony, I'm only going to comment on the hanfu as I don't have enough knowledge about Tang dynasty hair or makeup right now to make any judgements. I'm also not looking at the patterns on the fabrics, I'm literally only looking at the styles of the clothing themselves.

Disclaimer, I haven't watched the show. These photos are from Google and Baidu promotional pics, and I did click through a few eps to take screencaps.

And if anyone has a screencap of, or can let me know which episode, the "pink round-collar hanfu Mudan wears" that's mentioned in the ask I'd really appreciate it (I tried looking for it but couldn't find it T__T)

Looking briefly through some of the posts regarding this show, it seems the production team put a lot of effort into recreating the Tang Dynasty aesthetic, from costumes to props (there are some people who have found props and matched them to museum pieces). For the most part, the clothing seems appropriate for the time period, the only nitpick I'll do is that it seems to mix together clothing styles from early Tang all the way to late Tang (but the show isn't set in a specific period of the Tang Dynasty, so they can kind of get away with that).

Most of the men seem to wear the round-collar robes that was most common during the Tang Dynasty (my post on it here).

This style of qixiong dress (over-bust dress) seems to be most common in this show, and definitely a staple for women's hanfu during the Tang Dynasty.

If you look at the width of her sleeve here, it doesn't appear very wide. Sleeve width became wider and wider during the Tang Dynasty, so looking at these sleeves it seems more early-going-into-Gold-era Tang (my post on Gold-era Tang hanfu here).

This style looks more early-Tang with the very form-fitted sleeve and the non-qixiong skirt. I can't see clearly the pattern of her dress here, but early Tang skirts often had alternating coloured blocks on their skirts (called jianqun/间裙子)(my post on early Tang here and here).

I can't tell clearly if this dress is a qixiong dress, or a hezi dress. Hezi dresses so far are not backed by any artefacts, there are rumours of its existence but nothing has been unearthed to verify it (someone asked me about this, I posted on it here).

Looking at the long outer robe with the wide sleeve, even if this was a qixiong dress, this would be late Tang, edging into the Five Dynasties post-Tang (my post on this here).

In the first pic, the two maids are wearing outfits that are very typical in early Tang. The collars, the little vest/half-sleeve of the shirt, etc.

I'll nitpick that historically, Chinese capes did not have hoods attached. They came separately.

You can see in this pic (from the 1987 Dream of the Red Chambers), the woman is wearing her cape, the man is holding the hood for her.

My personal theory is because of the various hair styles women have, and the various hats/guan (head pieces) men wear, a separate hood offered more flexibility. Like in this pic from Romance of the Three Kingdoms (1994), he's wearing a very tall guan so trying to fit it under a hood that's attached to the cape would be difficult. But this is all just my guesses, don't quote me xD

This maid is wearing a round-collared robe usually associated with men, but actually during the Tang Dynasty it wasn't uncommon for women to wear this style of robe as well.

This man has half the robe on, the other half off his shoulder, displaying the half-sleeve underneath. This was a common way men wore their robes in casual situations (it looks like he's hunting) (my post on this here).

I took this screenshot because you can see the difference in lengths between these two men's robes. One is calf-length, one is ankle-length. Men's robes also got longer as time went on during the Tang Dynasty. It's possible this servant is wearing a shorter robe to make walking easier, but going by the length of the man in red, this should be at least late-Tang Dynasty (post mentioning robe length here).

This outfit's sleeve is very wide, indicating later in the Tang Dynasty. I think people believe form-fitted sleeves were more for younger girls, servants, or women of lower class who had to work and large, wide sleeves were for higher-level women or older women who sat around all day. In actuality, sleeve width was an indication of time period during the Tang Dynasty (for both men and women).

This look is straight out of a Dunhuang Buddhist donor mural. They painted these to commemorate people who were devoted to Buddhism and/or gave a lot of offerings, you can find these murals at the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang City today (my post on this here).

I know I said I wouldn't discuss hair but just this one, since it's such an iconic look for the Tang Dynasty. This hairstyle is a clear replica of the Ladies with Flower in their Hair painting (簪花仕女图), but they've changed the clothing. This painting was originally believed to be from the Golden-era or Mid-Tang, but in recent years historians believe it's more likely to be late-Tang or Five Dynasties (possibly even Song Dynasty) painted. Even in China a lot of people still associate it with the Tang Dynasty.

So overall, the show's production team clearly did research to replicate Tang Dynasty clothing. For the most part, they did a good job, no cross-dynasty clothing being tossed around. There's a bit of mish-mash for which period of the Tang Dynasty the clothing's from, but that's not a huge issue. Given some of the crazy costumes that's come out of period dramas in recent years, big applause to the production team to the costuming department.

【EDIT March 6, 2025】 @/time-is-a-communist-construct sent me a pic of the pink robe they mentioned in the original ask:

During the Tang Dynasty it actually wasn't uncommon for women to wear men's clothing, such as this round-collared robe. This trend initially started in the imperial palace, before spreading to others outside the court, only fading away at the end of the Tang Dynasty:

[vacate-et-scire]

“Again?!” – Part 1

Tony Stark x Civilian!Reader

Synopsis: You spilled your drink on a stranger. Then you Googled him.

Warnings: [None I hope, pure fluff and kinda awkward situations] [foriegn reader you are not from the states in this <3] [fem reader]

w.c 1.8k

You’re gonna be late.

Not fashionably, not charmingly. Actually late.

You’d planned to be early. You needed to be early. Your first day at your first job since landing in the country—everything about it made your heart pound a little too fast. You’d practiced your introduction three times in the mirror this morning, brushed imaginary lint off your blazer until it pilled. You couldn’t afford to look like a mess. Not today. Not when you’re already nervous that every mistake you make will be noticed harder, judged faster, weighed heavier.

You don’t want to be the immigrant they talk about behind closed doors. You want to be invisible. Or better: impressive.

But no. Your subway stalled, your walking directions turned you in a circle, and now, to top it all off, your English is trying to abandon you under pressure.

You shove into the nearest café, praying the line is short. It’s not.

You order fast. “Matcha, cold, uh—ice. Please. Tall. I mean… medium?”

You’re not even sure what you just said, but the barista takes your card and you move to the pickup counter, clutching your phone with the directions still open. 9:12 a.m. You need to be in the building by 9:30. It's a ten-minute walk. You're cutting it close.

So when your name is called, you grab the cup too fast. Turn too sharply. And crash right into someone waiting behind you.

The drink goes flying.

The ice arcs like shrapnel. Matcha explodes across an expensive grey button-up, dripping down in streaks of soft green horror.

You freeze.

“Oh no,” you blurt, already lunging for napkins. “I didn’t—oh god, I didn’t see, I wasn’t—!”

The man takes a stunned step back, blinking down at himself. The drink has fully committed to soaking him. There's a single cube of ice clinging to his collarbone like a final insult.

You reach out helplessly with a napkin, then freeze halfway, not wanting to actually… touch him. Not now. Not like this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, too quickly. “I am late, I—first day, new job, I was not—my hand slipped, but I pay for shirt, I clean, please don’t—don’t be mad.”

Your words trip and tangle with your accent. You hate how it makes you sound so unsure.

To your shock, the man doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. In fact, his mouth quirks upward like this is funny. Like this—you—are funny.

“Well,” he says, shaking out the front of his shirt like he does this sort of thing on the regular. “That’s one way to make a first impression.”

You flush. “Please don’t be angry. I don’t want to lose my job. I already… it’s already hard.”

His eyebrows tick upward. The grin softens.

“I’m not angry,” he says. “Trust me, I’ve had worse mornings.”

You frown. “You are… very calm.”

“Yeah, well. You look like you might actually cry,” he says, tilting his head. “Didn’t want to risk making you the one who ends up comforting me.”

You let out a helpless, mortified little noise and try to mop a bit of matcha off the counter. “This is so bad. I am so late now. I was trying to be professional.”

“Mm. How’s that going?”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “I will cry. Don’t test me.”

He laughs at that. It’s warm. Easy. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve already won something just by making it happen.

You glance at the barista, who’s biting her lip behind the counter, eyes darting between the two of you like she’s watching a scene from a romcom.

“Here,” she says finally, sliding a fresh matcha toward you. “No charge. And… maybe next time don’t drink and drive.”

“That is not funny,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

The man takes the extra napkins she offers and dabs at his shirt without much concern. You watch a splotch of green sink deeper into his lapel.

“I’ll live,” he says. “Though if I turn into the Hulk, I expect a formal apology.”

You furrow your brow. “That’s not how Hulk works.”

He pauses. Grins. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

You don’t have time to ask what that means. Your phone buzzes in your hand: 9:17 a.m.

You curse under your breath and look up at him one last time, guilt gnawing at your stomach.

“I really am sorry,” you say again. “You were just… standing there. I wasn’t watching. It’s my fault.”

He shrugs, stuffing soggy napkins into a nearby trash bin. “You were in a rush. I get it. Maybe I should’ve worn green.”

You smile, despite yourself. “Thank you. For not yelling. Or suing.”

“Maybe I’ll save it for next time.”

“There will not be a next time.”

He just hums. Like he knows something you don’t.

And before you can ask his name—or offer yours—he waves a lazy hand and slips out the door, sunglasses already on, like this was all just another Tuesday.

You're left with your second drink, a ruined timeline, and a weird buzzing in your chest like the day just veered off script.

The second time you see him, your heart doesn’t race.

It stops.

You’re halfway out the same café—new drink clutched in hand, head down, feet steady—when someone steps aside to hold the door for you. You glance up.

It’s him.

No spilled drink this time. No crowd. Just him. Crisp charcoal suit, clean today. Casual expression. That same slightly lazy posture, like he has nowhere urgent to be despite the fact that he’s clearly the kind of man who always has somewhere important to be.

You freeze.

For a second, you consider backing away and pretending you forgot something. Or leaving the drink behind. Or vanishing.

But he speaks first.

“You made it to work alright, then?” he asks.

His voice is calm. Dry, but not mocking. Like it’s a question he genuinely wanted to ask, even if he didn’t expect to get the chance.

You nod once, too quickly. “Yes. I was… not too late.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Didn’t want to ruin your first day. That’d be a hell of a reputation to start with. ‘Green-shirt girl who cries and runs.’”

You don’t laugh. You barely even breathe. Not because you’re panicking—more because your body is trying to figure out what the right emotion is. Embarrassment? Suspicion? Wariness?

You settle on something closer to cautious politeness.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you say quietly, shifting your weight.

He reaches for his drink from the counter behind you, then glances back. “Tony.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he says. And that’s it. He gives you a small nod, steps aside, and lets you walk past him like you’re strangers again.

You exit the café like a normal person. Even wave a little, because you’re trying to seem polite. Calm. Unbothered.

It works—until you get halfway down the block, and the name Tony sticks in your head like a splinter.

Tony.

Something about it itches at your memory. Not the name itself. Him. His tone. His face. The way people had been glancing at him inside the café. That weird moment when the barista caught your eye and gave you a look—like how does she not know who that is.

You walk faster.

You wait until you’re inside the breakroom at your new job, alone, your paper cup sweating in your hands, and then you unlock your phone. Open a browser. Type just Tony —then delete it, realizing how stupid that is.

You try again.

Tony suit glasses goatee.

You scroll. Nothing.

You bite your lip.

Then finally, you try what you should’ve started with:

Tony New York.

You were expecting some lawyer. A CEO. Maybe an author. Something mild.

What you get is headlines. Dozens. Articles. Photos. Entire pages of search results that feel like someone just grabbed the edges of your reality and tugged.

"Tony Stark Re-Emerges at Stark Industries Gala""IRON MAN Makes Surprise Statement on Midtown Innovation Project""Billionaire, Philanthropist, Superhero—and Now, Bachelor Again?"

You scroll. Scroll again. Then stop.

There’s a picture.

It’s him.

It’s him.

Wearing a different suit, yes—but the same face, same smirk, same stupidly expensive sunglasses perched in his hair.

Your chest feels tight. Not like fear. More like… the ground moved, and now you’re not sure where your feet are.

You remember holding a crumpled napkin out to him like a child.

You remember telling him you didn’t want to lose your job. That it was already hard.

You remember offering to pay for his shirt which was probably worth more than your years worth salary.

You lock your phone and stare at the wall for a full sixty seconds.

You walked away from Tony Stark like he was just some annoying guy in your way.

You wonder if this is the kind of story people laugh about at parties—"this one time, some foreign girl dumped matcha on Tony Stark and didn’t even recognize him."

You wonder if he's told anyone yet.

And across town—

Tony is lying on a sleek leather couch, changed into a new shirt, and grinning like a man who just had a religious experience.

He has no idea what your name is. No way to find you. And that is, frankly, unacceptable.

“You should’ve seen her, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he says, tossing a balled-up napkin into the trash across the room. “Didn’t know who I was. At all. Looked me dead in the face like I was just another guy.”

“Unthinkable,” the AI deadpans.

“And then the drink!” he says, raising his hands up up like it was a magical moment. “Most people notice me before running into me head on and making a mess.”

“She seemed… distressed.”

“She was honest,” Tony says, pointing. “You know how rare that is? No fawning. No social climbing. Just genuine gult. I haven’t seen that in years.”

“She did say she didn’t want to lose her job. Perhaps you should let her go.”

“Oh no. ” Tony leans back again, fingers steepled.

“What would you like me to do?”

Tony taps his temple. “Find her.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. hums in a way that sounds suspiciously like disapproval. “You don’t even know her name.”

“She bought a matcha. Around 9:15 a.m. from that coffee shop on 43rd. Cross-check her transaction with security footage. Filter for panicked young women with very good hair and poor aim.”

“You’re really doing this?”

“Listen,” he says, folding his hands over his stomach. “You get doused in iced green sludge and walk away with a crush," He says the word mockingly childish "You ignore the universe. I’m not that guy.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s thinking it: She didn’t look at me like Iron Man. Or someone to suck up to. She looked at me like a mess...She was kinda right.. very right.

And he wants more of that.

To Be Continued…?

[existennialmemes]

Ok so let's talk about chronotypes.

Our society is so preoccupied with the diurnal schedule, that if you Google chronotypes you're gonna find a lot of information that may completely ignore your chronotype.

For some reason, only four types are really talked about. All given cutesy animal names instead of any kind of meaningful distinction, because our society refuses to take sleep seriously, but I digress.

So the four they acknowledge are:

“Lions” commonly referred to as “the early birds.” People who tend to wake up around before sunrise, go to bed around 9 or 10, and typically experience their most active hours in the morning and early afternoon.

“Bears” are folks who tend to wake up when the sun rises, and stay up a little later at night. They're typically most active in the afternoons.

“Wolves” commonly referred to as “night owls” tend to wake up in the late morning, go to sleep around 2am, and experience their most active hours in the late afternoon and evening.

“Dolphins” are a category I'm actually impressed they include, even if the descriptions aren't great. Mostly these folks are described as sensitive sleepers who are easily disturbed by light and whatnot and tend not to have set schedules because they're easily shifted. However what this is nodding to is actually a phenomenon known as “non 24.” This means their circadian rhythms are on a non 24hr schedule. Some could be shorter like 22hrs, some longer like 28hrs. But in any case, functionally what this means is that their sleep wake cycle changes. They could be getting up at 6am one day and getting up at 3pm a few weeks later as their schedule naturally shifts. Disturbances to their schedule, at any given point, result in the same “night shift” disorder symptoms we see in diurnal folks who have to work at night.

And these are all great and very real chronotypes but did you notice who's missing?

All of the nocturnals!

What about the people who go to bed at 6am and wake up at 2pm? What about the people who go to bed at 10am and wake up at 6pm? And everyone else who's natural rhythms have them sleeping while the sun is up??

According to most of the readily available information, you simply do not exist. Except, you very clearly do exist. And it's frustrating that our society refuses to acknowledge that at all.

But cutesy names aside, your chronotype is a representation of your circadian rhythms' effect on your sleep/wake cycle. Your “internal clock.” Or rather, how your internal clock is set.

Humans have immense variance on this. Much like our neurotypes, we're talking about extremely varied categories here.

But if we must generalize, then personally I would generalize them like this :

(based on wake times)

Early Morning (4am-7am)

Late Morning (8am-11am)

Early Afternoon (12pm-3pm)

Early Evening (4pm-7pm)

Early Night (8pm-11pm)

Late Night (12am-3am)

And two additional categories for non 24s:

< 24hr cycle

> 24hr cycle

At best I could generalize them down into eight categories, but truthfully I don't think it's accurate to try to assign chronotypes into rigid categories like this. Not everyone sleeps for exactly 8hrs first of all, and the exact number you need varies based on various environmental circumstances, so even within your own chronotype, there's gonna be a little bit of variance in your exact sleep/wake times.

The biggest takeaway is that not everyone can get their best sleep (or any sleep) at the same times. We are wired to sleep and rise at different times, and while we can fight it (at immense detriment to ourselves) we cannot actually change our chronotypes.

You can force yourself to get used to low quality sleep, but you'll suffer the consequences for it no matter how used to it you get.

Aligning our schedules with our chronotypes should be an undisputed priority, but of course that wouldn't enrich the oligarchs so most folks are not granted the privilege of sleeping according to their own internal clock.