#n: neroli

[myscentarchive]

11 11 Azure - Lake & Skye

Eau de Parfum - 2 ml (atomizer) Fragrance Oil - 2 ml (dabber)

Notes- TOP: Water, Hyacinth, Bergamot, Dewy Greens MIDDLE: Lotus Blossom, Orris, Indian Jasmine Sambac, Neroli BASE: Blue Amber, Oakmoss, Indonesian Patchouli, Musk

Gender: Unisex Blue skies, Azure waters, meet 11 11 Azure. Inspired by the sheer power and boundless energy of the ocean, this scent is an aquatic take on our classic 11 11 fragrance. With notes of water accord, lotus blossom, and blue amber paired with our signature musk, this sophisticated scent is a bright and fresh extension of 11 11.

We like to think of it as the ultimate wearable good luck charm. Use it to manifest strength and confidence in all that you do. Wear it on its own or layer it with 11 11. 

[luveline]

𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Spencer gets a bad bout of amnesia. Or, your boyfriend forgets he’s your boyfriend, but he still has a crush on you. [3k]

c: fem, bombshell!reader, head injury, hospitals, amnesia, fluff, spencer can’t believe he bagged you, requested here 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

Spencer wakes to an empty room. 

He lays on a pillow too flat, neck twinging, the back of his eyes throbbing when he moves.

He struggles to breathe through his nose and lets his mouth open for a few achy breaths, his mouth dry like he’s been sucking on cotton balls. 

Spencer’s alarmed, without a clue what it is he’s done. He wonders where Gideon is, if the older man has come to see him yet. He hopes somebody told his mom he’s okay. 

Maybe Hotch will come. He and Hotch have grown closer while Gideon was on his mandated recovery time; Gideon spends far less time in the office, sticking to lectures, seminars and consults, while Hotch, Morgan and Spencer handle the away cases. Spencer might go as far as to say Hotch likes him. And Morgan can tolerate him now, less grudging when Spencer offers a random fact or statistic to further the case. 

A stab of pain at the back of his head makes itself known sharply.

Spencer doesn’t want to move, but he needs to assess things. He frowns at his arms, naked as they are. His silver watch is missing. A t-shirt that he doesn’t remember buying stretches over his chest. What state are they in, and who dressed him? 

He’s scowling at the window with it’s wide-open blinds and all the sun when the door opens. 

You’re looking at the bags on your arm as you come in. Spencer startles in his blankets —what are you doing here? Agent L/N, Morgan’s friend and a candidate for the open position on the BAU team. You’re from the Sex Crimes Unit, like Greenaway. 

Spencer flusters every time he sees you, not just because of how kind you’d been the first time you met, or even the easy flirtation you send his way when you cross paths. It’s because you’re the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. He’s not talking about the golden ratio or statistical beauty, you’re just stunning. You stop him in his tracks whenever you steal into the office. It’s better when you notice he’s awake and light up like he’s the winning numbers for tonight’s lottery pull. Everything about you illuminates. 

“Hey, babe!” you say, not not yelling as you drop your bags in the seat by the bed and reach for him.

He doesn’t think to move away as you take his face into your hands.

“I’m so glad you’re finally awake, you almost slept for the full twenty four hours.” Your hands are soft. They smell like neroli. When you stroke his cheek and lean down to give him a chaste peck, he almost passes out there and then. “It's a good thing, obviously,” you say, and then kiss him again distractedly. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed. “You heal more when you’re asleep. Or so I’ve heard.” 

You pull away, Spencer blinking for his life. You have such a nice mouth, but Spencer’s never thought about what it might feel like on his. He doesn’t have the audacity: in what world would you ever kiss him? That’s the joke, right, when you flirt with him in the office?

“How are you feeling?” you ask, losing some of your pep. “How’s your head, handsome? You know, there are easier ways to get a haircut.” 

“They cut my hair?” he croaks. 

“Shaved it at the back to stitch you up. Not much, don’t worry. They were pushing for a buzz cut but I put my foot down on that one,” you joke. You nudge his legs aside without worrying about sitting on him as you get comfortable. “It’s not much. You can’t tell.”

“I…” 

“You feeling okay?” you ask softly. Your nice mouth purses. Your eyebrows pinch. They’re cute eyebrows. 

“You look different than the last time I saw you.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it aloud. He’s noticing things now. You’re wearing less powder under your eyes than you used to. You seem to have gained a little weight, and you look good. You didn’t look bad before, but this is different. Your hair isn’t too different, nor your brows, but you’ve begun lining your lips in a new way. Your blush is a subtler hue. Spencer doesn’t claim to know everything about you, but he can say that you look neatly the same each time you visit. Why the sudden change?

“It’s hard to sleep when your favourite person in the world gets his head cut open,” you say, taking his hand where he’d left it loose in the blankets. 

Your fingers slip into his with ease. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, attempting to swallow his nerves. 

“Of course you can.” 

He licks his lips. “Uh, I think I’m confused. I don’t– I don’t remember what happened, and…” 

“Oh, right. They told me this might happen.” You draw yourself up with a breath. He’s fascinated by the movement, an air of heat around him as you begin rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. “You got hit in the back of the head with a cinder block, honey. Went down like a lead balloon.” You turn your face to show your cheek. “We’re even now on good scares, yeah?” 

You have a scar on your face he’d missed, carefully concealed but yet not invisible. Your hand in his feels so alien he holds it wrong, fingers twined but palms apart. 

“What happened to you?” he asks. 

Your brow crinkles. You go very still. “My cheek?” you ask. 

“What…” 

“Spencer, what’s the last thing you can remember, honey?” you ask, all the horror in the world to be found in your eyes. 

“Uh…” He feels sick to his stomach.

“Spencer?” 

Without having to be told, you slip off of the bed with two taps of your shoes and reach for the bedpan, thrusting it into his lap. 

His mouth fills with spit. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“No, I don’t think so. Let me get a doctor.” 

��Wait,” he says, clutching the bedpan and pushing his wave of nausea as far down as he can. “Please don’t go.” 

“My face was months ago, honey. I got hit in the face with a hammer by a UnSub, you don’t remember?” you ask incredulously. 

“Why do you keep calling me honey?” he asks. He knows the answer, but it’s not computing. 

Your face drains of any happiness. “I’m going to get a doctor,” you say, shoulders rigidly tight as you exit the room, leaving Spencer in your wake wishing he’d just pretended he knew who you were, just until you kissed him again. 

—

“And he really can’t remember you at all?” Morgan asks. 

You’re a little less startled than you had been, and you’re trying not to punish poor Spencer, but realising your boyfriend forgot years of flirting, and yearning, and friendship —years of kissing in secret and otherwise, years of holding hands, and staying at each other’s places to get that extra time together, even if it was just getting to sleep in the same bed between cases— was a slap. 

“He remembers me,” you say, leg crossed over the other, arm over the railing of Spencer’s bed to hold his hand. “He just doesn’t remember a thing after Gideon came back, after Boston.” 

“I remember when you had hair,” Spencer says to Derek. 

Derek glares at him, “This Spencer doesn’t get to sass me.” 

“But I do eventually?” 

“How come you’re holding hands if he doesn’t know who you are?” Derek asks pointedly. 

You shrug. “We talked about it, didn’t we?” you ask Spencer, who perks up every time you talk, which isn’t unlike your usual Spencer. Whenever he catches himself doing it he flusters. Every time you call him baby he loses his mind. “He doesn’t remember me, but he wants to. And I remember him.” 

“This must be pretty weird for you, kid,” Derek says. 

“Sort of,” Spencer says. 

It’s funny. Now you know Spencer thinks he’s twenty three again, you can’t not notice his shyness and his awkward tries at casualness. You’d forgotten what he was like back then. 

“Wait, does that mean you don’t remember Emily?” Derek asks. 

Spencer frowns. “Uh, no?” 

You sit up in your chair. “Emily’s one of your best friends, honey. She joined the BAU when Greenaway left.”

“Not you?” he asks. 

You dramatise your pain as Derek laughs. “Not me. I didn’t transfer for a long time, unfairly. It’s okay, though, you’ll remember Emily eventually.” 

When you realised Spencer wasn’t as okay as you’d thought, you gathered a gaggle of agitated doctors to assess him. He knew his name and birthday. He was wrong about the date, the president, and the state. You’re in Arizona where he’d thought Indiana. Your bag talks to the heat: Spencer’s fan, his sunblock, his antihistamines. He couldn’t believe it when he asked where his stuff was and you passed him your handbag. 

You’re trying to drive home to him that you’re not just dating, you're common-law partners, Spence. He adores you. You’d spend life in his lap if you could afford it. 

“How’d she get you to believe her?” Derek asks Spencer. 

“Uh.” 

“I kissed him a couple of times before he came clean about the amnesia,” you say. “So I didn’t have to explain.” 

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Spencer says. 

He’s looking less haggard now you’ve brushed his hair. It was sweet to watch his shoulders relax. He shuddered when you tucked a strand behind his ears, and didn’t flinch when you asked if you could kiss his cheek. It’s hard to have him vulnerable here and not be allowed to lick his wounds for him. You feel better the better he feels. You’ve fluffed his pillow, wrapped him tighter in blankets. When he got up to pee and you offered to help, he gave a resolute No Thank You, which in hindsight is hilarious but at the time made you wanna squeeze your eyes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly, “I don’t mind kissing him, even if he doesn’t remember me. Just so long as he doesn’t mind it back.”

Spencer manages to squeeze your hand. It’s a soft one, but it’s real. “I don’t mind.” 

“You dog,” Derek says. 

“Stop, stop. He’s not doing anything wrong, is he?” you ask. “I’m the evil one, forcing kisses on him when he doesn’t know me.” 

“I do know you,” Spencer says. 

“What’s it like to have a crush on your own girlfriend?” Derek asks, unwilling to quit his teasing where he’s crossing his arms in the chair opposite, his cup of coffee drained on the side table. 

Spencer swallows. “Uh, nerve-wracking.” 

“Believe it or not, that’s not so different to now,” Derek says. 

Spencer looks to you for confirmation, which you love. You slide your chair closer to him and clasp his wrist with your free hand. “Sometimes you're still a little shy, but it’s not so bad. Full of myself I may be, Spencer Reid, but you do love me. It’s easy with us.” 

“Do we really live together?” he asks. “You said common-law.” 

“Not technically. I stay at your place four nights a week. You stay with me for the weekends.” 

“Every week?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

“We’re never apart?” he asks. 

His face is turning pink. You could kiss every bit of colour on his cheeks. 

“Derek, would you get Spencer something to eat from the cafeteria? Please?” you ask, levelling your friend with a pleading gaze. 

Derek gathers himself up. “Sure. We gotta feed the string bean something, don’t we?” he asks. 

Alone again, you draw lines up and down Spencer’s arm with your nails. You’re going to be indulgent in yourself, and ask him everything you’d ever wanted to know. And then a little extra, too. 

“You’re not as skinny anymore, have you noticed? You’re quite lean.” You stand to sit where you’d put yourself before he confessed. Your hand falls to his knee. “Solid, sometimes. You and Derek go for walks occasionally.” 

“We do?” 

“Mm-hm. And me and you do yoga in the living room when we can summon the energy. We tried couples Pilates, but Pilates is hard.” 

“We did?”

You smile warmly. “It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves in the same way.” 

“How do you love?” 

His ears are bitten-red. “Oh, you know. I’m too affectionate. It’s hard not to be with you. Everyone used to think we were… I don’t know, playing a game.” You slide your hand up his thigh, leaning on him to watch his pupils blow. “But I love you for far more than your constant propensity to blush. You get me flowers every time you see my favourites, and you never let me go to sleep without a kiss. Usually here.” You poke the skin beside your eye. “But sometimes you’ll surprise me and kiss my nose.” You're going lax with love, remembering things he’s done, and does every day.  “On a Saturday morning we make tea and I put my hands in your t-shirt. You do the crosswords for fun. Sometimes we time them.” 

“That’s not how you love, that’s what you love,” Spencer says. 

“Oh, you want a play by play of things?” He ducks his chin, but he smiles when you laugh. 

“I just can’t believe this is happening.”

You try to think of things you don’t think about anymore. “You love my sugar lip gloss, so I always wear it.” 

He reaches out tentatively. Shy as a wren in a hedgerow. You let him curl a hand over your elbow, feel the crook of it with his index finger. 

“I buy you stamps, and t-shirts for bed, and stupid stuff you wouldn’t get yourself. We’re… it’s like, it doesn’t feel like gift giving anymore because we’re always getting stuff for each other. You’re just as sweet, you know? When I first started sleeping over you bought me this huge pack of socks ‘cos yours are all odd,” you laugh. “I knew I loved you already, but…”

It’s a little sad, actually. He can’t remember all the stuff that makes you the couple you are. It’s not what you’d meant to get into. 

“Can I ask you something?” you ask. 

“Anything.” 

He’s slept-in and breathless, like he ran laps in his dreams. 

“What do you think of me now? I always wondered if you liked me back then, or if I just caught you off guard.” 

“Who wouldn’t like you?” 

“But did you?” 

He looks away hurriedly, his hand dropping from your elbow. “I guess so. But it’s not– not real. I have a crush on you.” His mumbling is sweet. “I have no idea why I’m telling you that.” 

“I had a crush on you, too, back then. It wasn’t anything serious, but it wasn’t a joke. And the more time we spent together, the more I thought we could fall in love,” —you take his hand and put it back on your arm— “and we did.” 

You toy with his fingers. Without looking, ashamed of your own self-indulgence, you ask another question. “What do you think of me now?” 

“I can’t remember,” he says sorrily. 

“What do you think?” 

“You feel like a dream.” He shakes his head. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. I don’t really get how this is real.” 

You shouldn’t be surprised that he’d say it, you practically begged for it, but you can’t stop yourself from sitting up to kiss his forehead gently. “It’s real. Promise. And for the record, you’re handsome. They stopped saying ‘aged like fine wine’ a while ago. Now they just say ‘aged like Spencer Reid’.”

He gives a choky laugh. 

The door opens again. You lift your head expecting Derek and find a weather worm Hotch in the doorway. “Reid, you’re awake,” he says, not bothering with a smile. “Morgan said you have amnesia?” He directs it at both of you. 

Spencer’s looking at Hotch in clear shock. 

“He hasn’t aged that badly,” you chastise teasingly. 

“Hotch, you’re– I thought you would’ve– You’re still–?”

Hotch squints. “You didn’t think I had the stamina for it?” 

Spencer squirms under his gaze. “No, sir, it’s not that–”

“Sir,” Hotch says, and then he smiles. “I forgot when you both used to respect me.” 

“I have the utmost respect for you, sir,” you say through your own smile. 

“Has she been kind to you, Reid?” 

“Uh, yes? Is she not usually?” 

Hotch presses his lips together rather than answer. There’s a sympathy in his expression you resent.

—

It’s a thankfully quick bout of amnesia. The memories start to draw in like a dusting of powdered sugar, his head finely silted, one particle at a time. He finds that the more you talk, the quicker his memory is jogged. You tell him about your first kiss —I tried to kiss your cheek but you moved, it was the funniest thing— and your second. You spin stories of cases, the worst ones and the best, all the times you held hands without people knowing, the times you’d been caught. He can’t imagine it, goes hot with the memory, picturing kissing you as you’d described and the mortification of being walked in on. 

You tell him about your vacation to Nevada a few months ago and he thinks about how you’d fallen asleep on the plane. Your nose in his arm, your unhappy sigh at the tight leg space. 

Remembering you is more than half of remembering himself.

Your hands —his hands. Your smile —his laugh. The way you fold his hands in your lap —the urge to catch your chin for a kiss. 

He doesn’t know how to deal with it, and then suddenly he feels like Spencer. Your partner, your love, his proudest title for years. You’re standing at the end of the hospital bed in pajamas folding your clothes, allowed to stay the night while he’s so urgently confused and upset, you can’t make him stay here alone, please, I know you guys have those little cots for the kids ward, and he just knows you completely. 

Hours of diligent if embezzled storytelling gives it all back to him. 

“I like the lipgloss because you used to wear that perfume that smelled like sugar donuts,” he says, scratching a hand through limp hair. “And every time I crossed the square by the station–”

You let out a surprising squeal of joy. “Spencer!” you say, racing to take his hands, “Yes! The donut truck!” 

You go in for a kiss he gladly returns. “Oh, you remember,” you say, softening as he takes your neck into his hand. “I was getting worried.” 

“Some of it’s still hazy, but not so much you.” 

You wrap your arms around him for a hug, careful of his sore head. “I missed you, Spencer. I still loved you when you couldn’t remember me, but I missed you. Do you remember you?” 

He traces the scar on your lower cheek with his thumb. He’s genuinely relieved to be able to say he does. He’s not scared of what you think of him anymore, ‘cos he knows that everything he feels for you is mutual. “I remember you telling me my bad feeling was just a case of the heebies.” 

You bend into his touch. “Honey, I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know you’d get your skull whacked with a cinder block? It was a bakery. I thought the worst that could happen was getting a face full of red velvet or something.” You kiss his nose quickly. “I’m so glad you’re you. Now I can sleep in the bed with you, and not that collapsible camping cot.” 

He shushes you. “Don’t give us away. They’re not gonna let you stay if they think I’m fine.” 

You giggle excitedly, arms around him again for another squeeze. “I missed you so much. You’re so devious now.” 

He rubs your back. “I missed you too. And I still have a crush on you, I swear.”

“Thank you, honey, that means a lot to me.” 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

thanks for reading!

[miedei]

coming home

a/n: kind of stream-of-consciousness style in this one, just got the urge to write a cozy evening and the words flew away i think. tell me what you think of this because i’m not sure if it’s something i should continue for small drabbles like this, the atmospheric style is new to me

wc: .4k

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

mlist

Arriving home always went one of two ways for you. More often than not, the place would be silent, a blanket of quiet laid over the cozy apartment. You’d come in, flick on all of the lamps in the living room (not the overhead light, you were very adamant about that), make yourself some tea and plop yourself on the sofa with a book. Not a bad routine, all things considered. But the other way, the way you come home today, blows that out of the water.

The moment you toe open the door, it feels like tension has physically slid off your shoulders. The lights are on, you can smell the neroli scented candles burning, and the notes of Andante in C Minor float through the air towards you. It’s clear the heaters have been on, a pleasant warmth seeping through you as you take off your shoes. However, it seems like the cause of all this warmth hasn’t noticed your arrival yet. Creeping through the hallway on socked feet, you hear a soft humming emanating from the kitchen, the smells of tomato soup entangled with it.

The door of the kitchen is ajar, warm light from countless flea market lamps spilling out through the crack. As if unconsciously, a hand reaches in front of you to push the door open further, and it feels like an angel has lifted you off your exhausted feet.

Because, on days like these, you come home to him. A broad-shouldered silhouette is framed with rays of light, and no matter if the posture is hunched, weary, or world-worn, it is Spencer, and it is home.

Long fingers are tangled in your hair and the scent of belonging envelops you, a sigh bubbling up out of your lungs.

Your feet advance into the light, coming up behind him, and oh!

He’s heard you, and he’s turned around and his arms are open and this feels so right.

Words are exchanged, ladles are cradled to your mouth ‘just for a taste’, lips meet, and suddenly it feels like even breathing is euphoric.

[highladyandromeda]

Shadows of the Heart

Part 5

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions. 

WC: 3.1k

Warnings: mentions of blood, self-inflicted injury, a brief moment with unhealthy thoughts about body image (this is specifically marked with 1 star (*) at the start and 2 stars (**) at the end), unhealthy thoughts about pushing oneself too far

[Prologue], [Part 1], [Part 2], [Part 3], [Part 4]

Y/n was exhausted. 

She could feel her muscles ache as she dipped deeper into the bath the house had drawn for her. The smell of tuberose and neroli drifted up from the bubbles surrounding her, the perfectly warm temperature adding to the pleasant atmosphere.

Yet she couldn’t get herself to relax a drop. Come to training, they said…it’ll be fun, they said…what liars, she thought.

Who invites an injured and recent coma patient to train, at dawn no less? Isn’t this the bloody Night Court? Y/n fumed, why do they all wake up so early now?

A glass of wine appeared by her side as if the house sensed her irritation as well. 

Sighing she picked it up, and finished it immediately, a bottle appearing once she placed the glass down. She let out a laugh, wondering if she should feel offended that the house assumed her morale was so low. As if understanding her thoughts, a bottle of whiskey appeared and disappeared next to the wine, before a series of books dropped down. Judging by the titles and bits of conversation from last night, Y/n had a feeling the house was using a…tried and tested method of comforting raging females. 

And speaking of rage, she was quickly losing the high of recusing Mor and returning to Velaris. Yes, she was exhilarated to see her family thriving, but the duties she had would quickly catch up to her. Counting down, it had been nearly 3 weeks since she disappeared from Vallahan and the magic tower must be getting frantic now. Not to mention, Demetrius, who’s sure to assign her so much work, that she’d not have a chance to leave the tower once she’d returned, or Ryder, who’s definitely praying that she’s dead in a ditch somewhere. Y/n knew she could use the investigation for the cult, the same cult she felt poisoned Mor, as her cover, but that excuse could only hold for so long. 

Ugh. Stupid Rhys and his stupid bargains. She hoped Demetrius would receive her message fast enough, the only reason she forced herself to the training ring before sunrise. Her mediation session was a chance for her to send a holo projection to Demetrius’s office. The time-consuming aspect was not bypassing the wards of the house, which she should actually speak to Rhys about strengthening, but rather condensing her…situation and what she wanted him to do, as to expel the least amount of energy. Teleportation with blood meant her magic would take a longer time to recover. Besides, the last thing she needs is someone sensing her magical signature in the tower when she's been away for so long. 

Luckily, she was able to mask her communications from the IC with her subsequent spar, which she convinced herself was necessary. It wasn’t because the moment she locked eyes with Azriel, she had this urge, this desperate desire to know what it would be like to go one-on-one with him.

No, she only offered because she knew she could last as the participant of a spar, rather than give up control for exercises or obstacles which would reveal her current weaknesses. She refused to think further on how beautifully he moved and met all her strikes, and how pretty he looked under her–No, think Vallahan, magic tower, angry masters….

Just recounting it all was giving her a headache, Y/n thought, dunking her head underneath the water. She almost wishes it could swallow her whole right there, and give her a reprieve from this. 

She came back up gasping, water sloshing onto the floor. 

*Y/n grabbed a towel, standing up and deciding that she might go too far should she stay in there any longer. She faced the mirror while drying herself off, looking closely at how prominent her collarbones were and how her ribs hit out. She looked away, trying to bury the simultaneous discomfort and pleasure she felt, the same as the morning when she changed into her leathers and needed to tighten them with her magic. 

Y/n knew that she looked unhealthy and her magic could only take her so far if she let her body fail, but a voice at the back of her mind enjoyed the visuals, a lasting validation of her struggles. With her magic usually healing her immediately, Y/n rarely got the chance to convey her struggles, always pushing forward since it seemed the pain was never there in the first place. She briefly wondered if Azriel would understand, he seemed to know that sort of darkness, of both craving and despising it. **

Feeling a bit claustrophobic, she decided to step out onto a balcony before dinner, knowing that everyone would be there after she missed lunch. Though she could already feel her appetite disappearing at the thought of facing Amren and Nesta’s piercing gazes, not to mention Mor and Rhys’s overt concern. She raised a hand to her head, trying to rub away another impending headache before halting right at the balcony entrance. 

Mother above, Y/n felt herself freeze in horror, unable to look away from the smeared and dried runes. All in blood, all in her blood. No wonder she slept for so long if she kept losing even more blood after this she thought, a cold dread settling in her bones. 

Why is it still here…The thought that Rhys might hesitate to erase them, out of fear or respect, and that Amren and Nesta might see them as a curiosity to be studied, only deepened her sense of isolation. How could they not see the horror in what those runes represented?

The world began to tilt, a disorienting spiral that made her stomach churn. The vast sky above seemed to press down on her, the air growing thick and heavy, a physical force that threatened to crush her. 

"Are you okay?" The concern in the question was palpable, but it only served to startle her further.

Cauldron boil me, Y/n thought, spinning around so quickly her knees gave way beneath her. But before she could fall, strong, calloused hands steadied her, the familiar touch of shadows wrapping around her with an almost protective embrace. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was—the shadows were a signature she'd come to recognize.

"Y/n, are you alright? You seem faint," the voice came again, soft and concerned, lifting her gently until she was forced to meet his eyes—hazel orbs filled with a depth of concern and understanding that momentarily stilled the chaos within her.

It was a connection, fragile and fleeting, but in that instant, Y/n realized she wasn't as alone as she had felt. The shadows that enveloped her, the hands that steadied her—they were a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of her own darkness.

She swore time stopped for a moment before she felt the hands around her quiver, his gaze drifting to the runes behind before her actions caught up to her. It was then that reality snapped back into focus for Y/n, prompting her to instinctively step back and slip out of his gentle grasp.

In her quick withdrawal, an attempt to shield her sudden vulnerability, she missed the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed Azriel's features. Y/n hurriedly filled the silence that had grown between them.

"We shouldn't keep them waiting" she announced, her voice carrying a forced lightness that couldn't quite mask the disquiet lurking beneath. Her smile, tentative and fleeting, was an attempt to hide the depth of her unease from Azriel’s perceptive gaze.

Dinner was a silent affair, the burning stares and questions on Y/n waiting to reach the surface, especially after her display earlier that morning. 

Each forkful of food echoed louder than usual until Amren, with her characteristic bluntness, pierced the quiet. "Y/n, the blood magic you used before...how did you know about it? "

Cassian, unable to resist adding to the conversation, jumped in with a grin. "Yeah, the teleportation was so cool! Are you part-witch?"

Amren's sharp glance cut him short. "She's a sorceress, you oaf. Obviously, she's mastered more than a few ancient tomes."

As Nesta voiced her curiosity, "Mastering tomes? What does that mean?" Cassian overlapped with, "How did you even find Mor?" The barrage of questions seemed to only spiral from then, with several of them wanting details on her magic and her discovery of Mor. 

Amidst the several inquiries, Azriel, ever attuned to Y/n, noticed the tremble in her hands hidden under the table, a stark contrast to the calm facade she presented. His shadows stirred restlessly, a mirror to his growing concern.

Mor's complexion turned ashen as the fact dawned upon her—Y/n had ventured onto the balcony, the very place of their nightmarish ordeal. Attempts to steer the tide of questions fell on deaf ears, "Y/n, I... we didn't think..." Mor’s voice trailed off, her apologies swallowed by the growing fervor of curiosity.

Y/n took a deep breath, attempting to veil her frustration with patience, a task made increasingly difficult. They meant well, she repeated, she owed Rhys, she thought before the noise got to her. She hated being faced with curiosity and pity just as much as she hated being questioned–she had saved Mor and shown she wasn’t their enemy, wasn’t that enough?

With a huff that signaled her surrender to the inevitable, she pushed her chair back, its screech halting the interrogation, and drawing surprised glances from the table. Rising from her seat, she walked away, leaving a trail of astonishment in her wake.

Azriel reacted with swift concern, following her with a worry that mirrored the concern etched on Rhys, Mor, and even Feyre and Lucien's faces, while Cassian remained behind, a shadow of guilt tinging his features.

Y/n paused for a moment at the split between the staircase and the hallway to the balcony, debating the merits of locking herself in her room. She felt she deserved the right to scream into her pillow before rejoining them. 

But the sound of footsteps behind her reminded her of the nosey nature of her friends here. If she tried to hide, there’d be no telling the lengths they’d go, she may as well just complete it now.

Upon reaching the balcony, Y/n summoned her magic, materializing a dagger in her hand. With a steady hand, she made a precise incision along her arm, her expression unflinching as crimson blossomed against her skin. She cast a fleeting glance at Azriel, her vibrant red eyes catching the light, mesmerizing him as her blood began its descent toward the magic circle below.

His shadows twitched uneasily at the sight; the others, having followed, stumbled into a collective pause, caught in a mix of awe and horror as they watched her blood reanimate the runes. Y/n commanded the runes to levitate, dripping and spinning around before she condensed them into a single, blood-diamond-like point, which then vanished within her grasp. Turning to face them with a smirk, she downplayed the gravity of her demonstration. 

"See? Not a big deal," she stated, though her casual dismissal did little to ease the tension.

Azriel, moving with a purpose, reached for her, his shadows conjuring a cloth to softly wipe the blood, still dripping from her arm, away. The gentleness of his touch left Y/n taken aback, her heart skipping a beat at the care with which he wrapped her arm, his shadows having brought bandages as well. She couldn’t remember the last time someone else had treated her wounds, especially those so insignificant, so kindly. 

Meeting his gaze, she was confused at his crossed expression, but before words could form, Mor enveloped her in an embrace, her apologies spilling out in a hurried flurry.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I should've—" Mor's voice cracked, the weight of her remorse tangible in the air between them.

"It wasn't your fault, Mor," Y/n reassured, her arms wrapping around her friend in a firm hug. "I would do it all over again for you," she whispered a vow that drew a fresh wave of tears from Mor, her embrace tightening in response.

As they finally parted, Lucien's voice cut through the momentary silence. "I must say, your control was impressive back there."

Y/n couldn't help but roll her eyes, a playful retort on her lips. "I've always been this good, Lucien. Maybe you just weren't paying attention."

His laughter echoed around them, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "Is that so? We should spar sometime then. Test out that control of yours."

Y/n pretended to be annoyed but she was grateful to him for changing the atmosphere. Lucien always knew how to put others at ease. 

"Sure if you think you can keep up. Feyre, you're welcome to join his side. He'll need all the help he can get."

Rhys chimed in with feigned indignation, "And why am I excluded? My mate should be my partner."

Y/n's laughter mingled with theirs, and her spirits momentarily lifted. "Because I've beaten you too many times, Rhys. It wouldn't be fair." She teased, earning a gasp of mock indignation from him.

Their laughter was a balm, easing the tension that had settled over the dinner.

Walking back, Y/n glanced at Lucien with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Resting her hand lightly on his shoulder, she leaned closer, her voice laden with playful intent. "Looks like we're teaming up then" she teased.

A knowing smile danced across Lucien's lips, a silent agreement forged in the span of a heartbeat. Together, they proclaimed, "We'll scatter them like leaves in a storm!" 

The statement, filled with the memory of past battles, echoed around them, their laughter a symphony of friendship and challenge.

Feyre, caught in the ripple of their amusement, couldn't help but interject with a wry smile. "Well, I guess I'm stuck with Rhys then." Her words, light and teasing, were accented with the unbreakable bond she shared with her mate, even as they prepared to face off in friendly competition.

All the while, Azriel's gaze lingered on the casual touch between Y/n and Lucien, their laughter and the seamless harmony of their declaration stirring an unfamiliar pang within him. His stare was intense and unyielding, as he watched the easy rapport they shared—a connection he found himself envying, as he stood silently on the fringes of their banter.

Azriel's desire to offer Y/n the same sense of belonging and ease was palpable, yet he chose the quiet acts that spoke volumes of his intentions. As they walked back to the dining room, he found an opportunity to express his support. With a gentle touch, he slid Y/n's chair out for her, a gesture of silent solidarity that sought to make her feel seen and valued in the way he knew best.

"Thank you," she whispered, her gratitude a soft note amidst the evening's chaos of emotions. Though her gaze briefly wandered back to Lucien, caught in a moment of quiet tension with Elain, it was Azriel's thoughtful action that anchored her.

Amren's voice drew her back. "I’m sure you created quite the spectacle, sorceress”

In response to Amren's observation, Y/n met her gaze firmly. "I don't owe anyone explanations, Amren…But out of gratitude for the welcome back," she paused, weighing her next words carefully, "I will tell you that yes, I am a sorceress. A highly ranked one, at least in Vallahan’s magic tower."

Her eyes flickered to Mor, a silent pact of trust between them. She wouldn't reveal the intricacies of their reunion—how a royal meeting had spiraled into chaos and Mor's dismissal of her warnings had nearly cost them both dearly.

"Part of my work has led me to investigate a cult revering Koschei, a dark sorcerer," Y/n continued, her voice steady despite the weight of her revelations. "It was through this that I found Mor in danger. The use of blood magic wasn't a choice made lightly. It was the only method swift and silent enough to ensure our immediate return without leaving traces of magic that could be tracked. And given Mor's poisoning, traditional portals I could open—with their elongated passage of time—weren't an option."

The table fell silent, the gravity of her words settling heavily upon them. Each member of the Inner Circle sat a little straighter, their expressions alight with a mixture of awe and deepened as she explained further about her work and magic. The dinner conversation, initially subdued, blossomed into a vibrant exchange of stories and insights.

Lucien, seizing the moment, shared his own adventures and the bond he'd formed with Vassa, expressing a hopeful desire to introduce them, perhaps as a means to unravel the curse that bound the queen.

It was then that Rhys saw an opening, his voice slicing through the conversation with a proposal for Y/n. "Y/n! This is the perfect opportunity, if you feel up to it, why don't you continue your research here?"

Before Rhys could elaborate, Mor chimed in, eager to offer the resources at their disposal. "Exactly, the House of Wind has a wealth of books that could aid in your research. I can ask the priestesses to help—"

"I can help. You." Azriel's voice, cutting through Mor's suggestion, carried an uncharacteristic nervousness. "I mean, in your research. I can help you with the research." The room fell into an unusual silence, all eyes turning to him as he attempted to clarify, "If you're conducting research, that is. I don't want to rush you, of course. You need time to recover. I'm just—uh—offering since I have experience with such investigations... not to say you need my help. I—I thought it might be... more efficient, yes..."

Azriel's voice tapered off, his gaze skirting around the table to avoid Cassian and Nesta's barely concealed smirks and Rhys's poorly disguised cough of amusement. The surprise etched on everyone else's faces spoke volumes, each one silently wondering if they had ever witnessed Azriel speak so awkwardly and at length.

"Oh, I'd appreciate the company, Azriel," Y/n finally responded, her tone warm.

"You would?" Azriel's gaze snapped to Y/n, a flicker of hope lighting his eyes, only to be momentarily dimmed by her stern look toward Rhys. "Since I'll be intruding for the foreseeable future, I might as well be productive."

"I—I wouldn't want to invade, though," Azriel hurried to add, the earnestness in his voice unmistakable.

Rhys couldn't hide a snicker, quickly masked by a sudden straightening in his chair, bouncing his right leg up. 

Azriel’s shadows whispered something about a kick, but his attention was already captured by Y/n's soft smile. "I'd welcome the help," she reassured, her simple acceptance igniting a spark of anticipation in Azriel.

A/N: Hi everyone, sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I was traveling and then dying with studies. But the plot thickens...Are we curious about Y/n's work as a sorceress? I planned out the next scenes on my flight so I should have the next few chapters up in a faster succession.

And thank you to everyone who's liked/commented/reblogged this story -- it means so much to have you all enjoy this!

For my tag list, I tagged everyone who asked and those who commented on the previous parts. If you'd like to be included, please just let me know. 💕

TAGLIST: @strangelygreat @enfppuff @trip-n-sal @inloveallthetime @annamariereads16 @mybestfriendmademe @mariahoedt @annblvd @ania-swissweet @yearninglustfully @sleepylunarwolf @quiettuba @gorlillaglue25 @lilah-asteria @naturakaashi @sillymercury @itsswritten @xlosttdreamss @kennedy-brooke @xyzmeh @lucky7rosie @copenhagenspirit @collide-with-the-music @starsinyourseyes @dianxiaxiexie @maybefoxysouls @golden-canyon @violet-potter @thisiskaylin @acphengene @katherinejess @sevikas-whore @kalulakunundrum @hibye02 @madscamp02 @willowpains @jaybarding @kalulakunundrum @sevikas-whore @katherinejess @acphengene @thisiskaylin 

[eekshade]

Hello Eli.

I love your Bucky stories.

Could you write something about Bucky and his boyfriend?

After Bucky returns from a long mission, Y/N surprises him with a romantic dinner.

Surprise!

Bucky Barnes x m!reader

Word Count: 1101

Warnings/info: use of y/n, reader is playfully cocky, Bucky and reader live together in an apartment, reader drinks wine, fluff hopefully, not proofread

Y/n frantically raced from counter to counter putting away the ingredients that were no longer needed. His phone buzzed harshly against the counter catching his attention, “Just parked, see you soon.” The message sends his heart into a frenzy. He glances around the warm, dimly lit room, a smile growing on his s/c face as the feeling of pride bubbles in his chest. He takes a small spoonful of the simmering, soft orange sauce, bringing it to his lips; his smile grows as the tangy, slightly thick substance melts on his taste buds.

With a final nod he sets the spoon back onto the counter. He grabs two wine glasses, white napkins (that thankfully arrived on time), and two white candle sticks. The items are neatly placed in their respective places, the wax from the candles rubs off onto his shaky fingers causing an uncomfortable sensation to run through his veins and up his spine.

The loud sound of the door unlocking broke through the quiet apartment, causing the male to jump and swiftly walk to the nearest mirror checking out his appearance, straightening out the suit that draped across his torso. He hears Bucky take a few steps into the main entrance before stopping.

The smell of spices fill the brunet man’s nose, partnered by the soft jasmine and neroli candle lit in the corner of the room, bring a strong sense of comfort to the older man. A confused smirk dances on his chapped lips, he drops his bags next to the front door. Walking farther into the apartment, curiosity turns to amusement when he realizes what his boyfriend has done.

“Darling…?” he calls out, slight anxiety naws on his brain thinking he has forgotten something important “What’s this all for?” He glances around in search of his lover.

The younger man comes out from around the corner, his nervous smile brightens at the sight of Bucky’s lovesick eyes, “Surprise!”

“I -” Bucky searches the other’s face for something, anything, “I’m sorry but I don’t understand.” He says defeated.

“Well, I know how hard you’ve been working and I wanted you to know how proud I am.” As y/n says this he slowly makes his way to Bucky like a fox stalking a brittle, white bunny.

“Thank you doll.” Bucky says feeling unable to comprehend how someone could love him this much.

Y/n takes Bucky’s hand in his own, leading him to the small table adorned in a white table cloth, a dark red overlay and a black runner layered on top. A bundle of roses and baby’s breath sit in a darkly colored vase, candle sticks and all one could think of sat across the placements on each side of the vase.

Y/n pulls out Bucky’s chair for him, laying a quick kiss on the elder's temple as he sits. “And after I can draw you a nice warm bath,” y/n says, dragging out the first word, “even bought you some bath salts and such.” He mumbles onto Bucky’s forehead before leaving another kiss.

Y/n goes to move but Bucky grabs his wrist gently tugging him down to his level, “I love you.” Bucky quietly gushed before planting a suave kiss on y/n’s lips.

“I love you,” y/n echoed, “now can I get the dinner I have just so lovingly prepared?” He jested, Bucky grinned back as he let go of y/n’s wrist.

Y/n walks into the kitchen for a few moments fixing up two plates with the orange pasta gently grating parmesan cheese on top of the dressed up noodles, elegantly walking back to the table and setting them down while softly spinning to go retrieve the deep, dark red wine, before pouring it into the two glasses, finally he pulls a lighter out of his pocket lighting the candles.

“Thank you, y/n.” The use of his first name caused him to glance up only to be met with a teary eyed Bucky.

Choosing to not embarrass the other y/n decides to go the humor route, “Thank me after you’ve tried it, lemme tell you I may or may not be the best cook to ever grace this lovely planet.” Bucky rolls his eyes lovingly at the e/c man.

Bucky is unable to hide his smile as he takes a bite, y/n’s eyebrow quirked up and hummed at the other man, “Oh yeah, I think you might just be.” He grins up at y/n.

“‘Course I am” y/n scoffs.

…

After a slow dinner Bucky feels the tiredness of the day, hell the last few weeks, start to overtake him. Y/n stands and takes the plates to the sink quickly rinsing them before placing them in the dishwasher, Bucky comes up to the other with the empty wine glasses going to wash them. Y/n grabs the glasses out of Bucky’s hand and puts them in the sink while softly scolding him.

“Let me take care of that.” Y/n uttered, “Your night isn’t over yet, come on.” Y/n leads him to the bedroom and connecting bathroom, he follows - content.

“Go to the bathroom and undress, I’ll be quick.” Y/n softly ordered, opening the closet to take out pajamas for the two of them.

“Well, I would say take me to dinner first but…” Bucky snickers.

Y/n rolls his eyes, “Just go.” Bucky puts his hands up and backs into the bathroom.

Bucky whistles eyeing what y/n put together earlier. He sits on the edge of the tub taking off his shoes, he then stands and grips the hem of his shirt pulling it over his head. Y/n walks into the bathroom immediately going to the tub turning on the water letting it run until it turns warm, on the hotter side. He slips the plug into the drain, gathering the supplies, sprinkling the salts into the water.

Once the water is all nice and ready y/n helps Bucky into the water. He steps away to turn on some slow jazz (particularly one album that Bucky listened to all the time when he was much younger), y/n kisses Bucky again right above the eyebrow, he stands to make his exit, both men laughing when his knees pop.

Y/n closes the door and makes his way back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, and unpacking Bucky’s bags. He smiles widely at the thought of the man in the other room, listening to the very quiet music that drifted out through the home.

MARVEL MASTERLIST

[mistydeyes]

perfumes i think the 141 boys enjoy

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summary: Scent is one of the most powerful senses, so what kind of fragrance do the 141 boys + Alejandro like on their significant other?

pairing: 141 x Reader

warnings: none

a/n - i also work for a perfume company so I've had a couple of ideas about what scents the boys like :)

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price - loves expensive, smokey scents on anyone. imagine the scents of a fresh cigar-that's what price wants in a fragrance. notes like pepper, leather, tobacco, cedar wood, and iris will make him crumble.

masculine

oud wood - tom ford notes: oud wood, sandalwood, chinese pepper

osmanthe kodoshan - maison crivelli notes: leather, tobacco, sichuan pepper, apricot, peach

functional fragrance - the nue co. notes: cardamom, iris, palo santo, cilantro

unisex

hinoki fantôme - boy smells notes: tobacco leaves, oak moss, and smoked leather

jazz club - maison marigela notes: pink pepper, rum, tobacco

lumière d’iris - veronique gabai notes: rose, iris, cedarwood, amber

feminine

baccarat rouge 540 - maison francis kurkdjia notes: jasmine, ambergris, saffron, cedar wood

cuir béluga - guerlain notes: leather, powder, vanilla

platinum 22 - floris london notes: rose, violet leaf, blackcurrant, oat, black tea

soap - woodsy, floral scents are soap's surprising pick. it brings back memories of the scottish countryside, adventuring in the woods and smelling the fresh flowers his mam had. notice notes of herbs (sage, rosemary, mint), lavender, and violet.

masculine

sauvage - dior notes: pepper, amberwood, bergamot, powder

h24 - hermès notes: clary sage, narcissus, rosewood

new york wall street - bond no.9 notes: sea kale, cucumber, lavender, ambergris, vetiver

unisex

voodoo chile - dries van noten notes: rosemary, patchouli, hemp

libre - yves saint laurent notes: lavender, musk

dirty grass - heretic notes: black pepper, lemon, hemp, violet

feminine

melancholy thistle - jo malone london notes: thistle, english ivy, cool wood

portrait of a lady - frédéric malle notes: frankincense, black currant, raspberry, patchouli

la tulipe - byredo notes: tulips, cyclamen, fressia, rhubarb

gaz - FLORAL CITRUS will make this man fall in love with you. it reminds him of a warm summer day sitting in the grass and smelling flowers. look for summery fragrances with notes of citrus, lemon, sage, and fresh herbs.

masculine

bleu de chanel - chanel notes: citrus, labdanum, sandalwood, cedar

polo black - ralph lauren notes: iced mango, lemon, tangerine, sandalwood, sage, patchouli

l'homme - yves saint laurent notes: bergamot, ginger, cedar wood, vetiver

unisex

cactus garden - louis vuitton notes: maté, bergamot, lemongrass

velvet cypress - dolce & gabbana notes: pine, lemon zest, bergamot, clary sage

eau de campagne - sisley notes: grass, citrus, herbs, jasmine, lily of the valley

feminine

brazilian crush cheirosa 62 - sol de janeiro notes: pistachio, almond, sandalwood, heliotrope, jasmine

her blossom - burberry notes: mandarin, plum blossom, sandalwood

flora gorgeous jasmine - gucci notes: mandarin, jasmine, magnolia, sandalwood

ghost - likes a light, musky scent! he loves when a scent adds to a person's natural smell (he hates sugary, gourmand scents). ingredients like musk, ambrox, pepper, sandalwood catch his eye as he pictures fresh sheets and a rainfall in a forest.

masculine

geranium pour monsieur - frédéric malle notes: mint, aniseed, sandalwood, geranium, frankincense

atlantis - blu atlas notes: orris, oak moss, violet, musk, ambrette seed

gentleman - givenchy notes: pear, lavender, patchouli

unisex

glossier you - glossier notes: pink pepper, iris, ambrette seeds, ambrox

not a perfume - juliette has a gun notes: ambergris

santal 33 - le labo notes: violet cardamom, cedar wood, iris, ambrox

feminine

missing person - phlur notes: musk, bergamot, jasmine, neroli, sandalwood

golden nectar - nest notes: florals, orchid, amber, musk

apollonia - xerjoff notes: white floral, orris butter, white musk

extra! alejandro - if ghost likes it simple and light, then alejandro is the exact opposite. he loves when he can smell someone's fragrance across the room. focus on bold fragrances with spicy notes of nutmeg, myrrh, and rum that is mixed with the gourmand of vanilla, almond, and tonka bean.

masculine

the last day of summer - gucci notes: cedarwood, cypress, nutmeg, patchouli, vetiver

bibliothèque - byredo notes: peach, peony, violet, leather, patchouli, vanilla

london myrrh & tonka - jo malone notes: almond, vanilla, myrrh, lavender, honey

unisex

tobacco vanille - tom ford notes: tonka bean, vanilla. cacao

dark rum - malin + goetz notes: anise, plum, leather, rum, patchouli, amber

tao dao - diptyque notes: sandalwood, cedar, cypress, myrte

feminine

lost cherry - tom ford notes: black cherry, tonka bean, almond

brazil aroma - costa notes: white jungle flora, orange oil, pink pepper, bourbon, vetiver, patchouli

babylon - penhaligon's notes: saffron, nutmeg, coriander, cedar wood, vanilla, cypriol

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[cryptixani]

matching perfume/colognes to jjk characters...

a/n: i did a bit of background research but i mostly went off gut feeling, and i'm no professional when it comes to fragrances and i haven't actually smelled any of these in person, so please correct me if i'm wrong about any of them!! i added fragantica links if anyone wants to check them out.

warnings: none.

characters: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, choso kamo

satoru gojo

i dunno why but i always picture gojo to smell kinda soapy?? not in a bad way but just a very clean, fresh, dove bar kinda smell. i can't picture him smelling overly masculine or mature, it just doesn't seem to fit how i view his personality and all that. i don't think he'd go for more juvenile smells either, but definitely something a bit lighter and fresher than heavy, musky colognes.

so for this i've matched him with prada amber pour homme. from what i could find, it has very soapy and clean notes of neroli and citrus as well as a bit of spice to it. it also supposedly smells very expensive and high quality, which i think would also fit as something for gojo to wear given the fact that he's, yk, fucking loaded.

suguru geto

geto has always given me earthy, oud-y vibes. probably the monk getup and that one figure of him with a smoking pipe. i feel like he'd smell of a woodsy, smokey incense with maybe just a teeny bit of playful floral - overall masculine and mature but with a bit of youthful playfulness.

for that, i've decided to match him with oud essentiel by guerlain. it's a unisex perfume that has top notes of agarwood, leather, and saffron. definitely gives vibes of mystery and luxury, it's described as a darker and heavier fragance with a nice bit of smokiness.

kento nanami

i can't help but imagine him with a very nice, simple, classic masculine fragance. i'm not really too much of a nanami girl (i get the appeal tho) but he seems like such a classic guy. musky and leathery scent for sure, with maybe a bit of light woodsiness.

givenchy gentleman feels like a good fit for nanami. from what i've read it's a very classy, masculine cologne. there's top notes of pepper and bergamot that give it a spicy sort of smell as well as a powderiness to it that then fades out after some wear. supposedly it's a very mature, masculine and 'daddy'ish cologne.

choso kamo

choso gives me kinda sweaty vibes. i say this with all my heart as a choso girlie, i think he smells at least a bit BO-y. not because i think he's dirty, but some people just sweat a lot, yk?

i think haute concentration by yves saint laurent. it's a masculine fragance that has some herbal notes that would work well with a BO smell rather than against it (mask the worst of it and enhance the muskiness). it also has citrus and spicy notes, which i think adds a fresher and more comforting touch, and is described as a slightly dated but still enjoyable sort of masculine scent.

[brights-place]

Haikyuu Boys and Their Scent

A/N: I went out shopping with friends to a market and passed by candles and lotions along with perfumes and thought about Haikyuu characters and what they would smell like in my view. I enjoyed writing this and I might do this to other characters too. Enjoy these everybody these are just Headcannons on what I think they’d smell like. List: Miyagi Boys, Tokyo Boys, [Here]

Inarazaki

Aran: Ginger, Clove, and Lemon Kita: Cedarwood, Patchouli, Balsam Wood, and Vanilla Ren: Guava, Peach, and Lychee Atsumu: Bergamot, Neroli, and Orange Osamu: Tonka, Amaretto, and Musk Ginijima: Apple, Lemon, Lime, and Grape Suna: Lemon Zest, Lime, Lemon grass, and Malt Riseki: Grape-Jasmine, Violet, and Strawberry-Geranium Akagi: Brandywine, Raspberry, and Rose Kosaku: Vanilla, Caramel, Sandalwood

Kamomedai

Hoshiumi: Orange peel, Blueberry, Lemon Zest Hirugami: Blackberry, spun sugar, milky notes

[ornii]

Ya dun goofed. Now I'm invested in My Bitter Half and I will binge all of it and support it as long as you're willing.

My Better Bitter Half Part 3

Sibling Rival, Part 2

(Y/n) and Wednesday talk about their feelings.

Wednesday was inside her dorm, typing upon her typewriter to the utmost intent. She listens softly to “La Llorona” as she continues but eventually stops to speak to someone.

“You can stop your perverted staring.” She says, In the corner, (Y/n) is leaning against the wall, he walks over behind her.

“Well I would, but I can’t trust you to go ten feet without trying to escape. And I don’t have a tracking collar to put around your neck, so this is the only option.” You say, Wednesday stands and turns to face you, her arms folded.

“As Ive Said before you cannot stop me.”

“Oh I can, and I will. You have no other options Aki Hermana, and I detest the idea of my other half living as some puckish fugitive. So put you big girl garments on, and accept your fate.”

“If you think you can stop me, I implore you to try, you may be taller by a measly five inches but I excel in all things you fail in.”

“Listen Here—“

The siblings bicker until the bed creaks, catching their ears, the two stop and slowly turn to Wednesday’s bed.

“Did you hear that?” You ask.

“Of course I did.” Wednesday replies and the two slowly approach the bed, Wednesday grabs the edge and swiftly removes the cover, and they come across a hand, switches together and living without any other body part.

“Hello, Thing.” The twins say, thing is pinned to the desk as (Y/n) has a pair of sharp scissors in the other hand.

“Did you think my highly trained olfactory sense wouldn't pick up on the faint whiff of neroli and bergamot in your favorite hand lotion?” Wednesday says. You grip him tighter and smirk,

“I could do this all day. Surrender?” You say and he relents, you let go and he begins to frantically tap.

“Mother and Father sent you to spy on us, didn't they?” Wednesday said, listening to Thing disposition.

“Hm, it seems even I’m not above the watchful eye of mother and father.” You say, and Wednesday shakes her head.

“That they thought I wouldn't find out proves how much they underestimate me. Oh, Thing, you poor, naive appendage. My parents aren't worried about us. They're evil puppeteers who want to pull the strings even from afar. The way I see it, you have two options. Option one. I lock you in here for the rest of the semester, and you go slowly insane trying to claw your way out, ruining your nails and your smooth, supple skin, And we both know how vain you are.” Wednesday says.

“Option two.” You chime in, “You pledge your undying loyalty to us.” You say, Thing reluctantly bends his, finger to the twins.

“Good.” You say.

“Our first order of business is to escape this teenage purgatory.” Wednesday thinks.

“Our first order of business is to keep my dear dreadful sister within the confines of her prison.” You think.

Even when the Addams twins are on the same page, they still continue their deception upon even each other. Suddenly the door opens and a tall, beautiful woman steps out, Weems.

“Ah. Addams, it’s good I do not have to search for the other, come. Your therapist is awaiting.”

“Well dear sister, I must say goodbye.” You say, but Weems pipes up.

“You’re coming as well (Y/n).” She says, you jerk your head suddenly to her.

“Excuse me?” You ask.

“Yes, you’d mother wished for you both to attend, to work out your issues.”

“Issues? I have no issues.”

“That’s a lie.” Wednesday chimes in.

“I— if I’m lying then let god strike me down right now.” You say, suddenly they can hear thunder boom in the distance. Wednesday turns back to him coyly.

“It seems he has spoken.” She says, (Y/n) and Wednesday were driven to the therapists office. The two sit in separate chairs, Wednesday with her classic deadpanned demeanor, (Y/n) with arms folded, leg folded as well. The two sir across from a woman with slight dirty blonde hair, Dr Kinbott.

“I read the notes from your school counselors.” Kinbott says.

“Mrs. Bronstein. She had a nervous breakdown after our last session and had to take a six-month sabbatical.”

“How did you feel about that?” Kinbott asks Wednesday First.

“Vindicated. But someone who crochets for a hobby isn't a worthy adversary.” She responds.

“Adversary? I hope we can forge a relationship based on trust and mutual respect.”

You scoff at this.

“This isn’t some Kumbaya ritual.” You day:,

“This is a safe space, (Y/n). A sanctuary where we can discuss anything. What you're thinking, feeling, your views on the world, personal philosophy.”

“That's easy. I think that this is a waste of time.” Wednesdays says. “I see the world as a place that must be endured, and my personal philosophy is kill or be killed.”

“So, for instance, when someone bullies your brother, your response is to dump piranha in the pool. Or in your case (Y/n), when a few boys push your sister down, you burn their houses down.” Kinbott says to the twins.,

“You know the old saying, never bring a knife to a sword fight Unless it's concealed.” Wednesday said, Kinbott turns to (Y/n).

“(Y/n), you can understand why it’s bad to burn social bridges like this.”

“I don’t burn bridges, I demolish them.” You respond.

“Point is, you assaulted a boy, you’ve committed arson, and showed no remorse for your actions, That's why you're both here. He lost a testicle.”

“I did the world a favor. People like Dalton shouldn't procreate.”

“And children should know to keep their hands to themselves, common courtesy. Are done here?” You ask.

“We're not done yet. Therapy is a valuable tool to help you understand yourself, It can teach you new ways to deal with your emotions, it can also help mend bridges with your family.” Kinbott smiles at the twins.

“Why don’t we begin, with You (Y/n). How do you feel about your sister?”

“How do I feel? She’s smart, resourceful, and a genius. But she gets in her own way and is a stubborn black Mule when it comes to people giving her genuine and honest advice.” You say.

“That’s.. something.” Kinbott said, “Wednesday?”

Wednesday looks a bit uncomfortable, but opens her mouth.

“My brother is clever, intelligent and surprisingly deceptive. But his personal issues stem from his inferiority complex. Therefore he has some grandeur ideal to be some savior for me.”

“It’s not some grandeur ideal, you’re going to get yourself killed running away.”

“That’s my problem, not yours.”

“You are my sister, my problems are your problems.”

“It seems you don’t understand, I share nothing with you besides the blood we share.”

“You can’t accept the fact someone is looking out for you.”

“Why would I want a self indulgent Narcissist to help me?”

“Because the antisocial sociopath will get in her own way and get herself in trouble she can’t escape from.”

“Please, you two.” Kinbott said, let’s be more respectful of each other. It’s obvious you two have, issues with coach other and perhaps we can come to an understanding of love, let’s start with Wednesday, Why don't we dig into that?”

[sleekervae]

New York Romantic 1.2

Masterlist

a/n: I'm so so soooo sorry I'm dragging out the date sequence... but I also love a good build up and I hope I did them justice! And I promise that the actual date is next!

pairing: Tom Blyth x ballerina!oc

summary: the seagull

word count: 4,943

taglist: @watercolorskyy @carolanns-world @alana4610

"Tom, how many hours did you sleep last night? Quickly," Tom glanced up at the call of his name, finding Marcelline standing over him with her phone.

"Are you filming me?" he asked plainly.

"Yeah! We're gonna look back on this when we're in fourth year!" she replied ecstatically, "How many hours did you sleep last night? C'mon!"

Tom was taken aback at first, his mind blanking out before he stuttered a quick, "Erm -- six?"

Marcelline's face fell into shocked dismay, dropping her camera lens and turning around, "What the f-- how are all the guys sleeping better than us!?" she shouted to another classmate, Kathy.

"Because men don't fret like women do," she replied.

"Hey! Brian got three hours!" another student pointed out.

While Tom managed about six hours of sleep, it wasn't exactly the kind of rest that left him feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world. Instead, it was a restless, fragmented slumber filled with half-formed dreams about missed cues and forgotten lines. He'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, his mind running a relentless marathon of overthinking. Every detail of the day ahead looped through his brain: rehearsals, costume fittings, the potential pitfalls of his performance.

An hour on the phone with his mom before bed had been both a blessing and a curse. She was her usual buoyant self, overflowing with encouragement and excitement, "You're going to be brilliant! I just know it!" she'd said, her voice brimming with pride. Tom could almost see her smiling on the other end of the line, her enthusiasm a bright beacon in his otherwise cloudy thoughts. She'd wished him all the best for his show and reminded him how much she was looking forward to having him back home in England. One more week and he'd be on a plane again...

As he got ready that morning, he tried to shake off the lingering drowsiness. The mirror reflected a version of himself that looked more frazzled than he'd like to admit. Dark circles underscored his eyes, a testament to his lack of rest, but there was a spark there too—a determination to push through the fatigue and give the performance of his life.

He packed his bag with a meticulousness that bordered on obsessive, double-checking that he had everything he needed for the day. Script, check. Costume, check. Snacks to last the day, check. With each item he ticked off his mental list, he felt a tiny surge of control in the midst of the chaos.

Sunny's performance review was the following Monday, so he had the luxury of staying home that morning. He lounged on the couch, feet up, looking more relaxed than Tom had ever felt in his life. That being said, he wish Tom luck and told him he'd catch him at the show. Just as Tom was about to leave, Sunny stopped him and tossed him a small bottle of cologne, "Trust me, you'll want this for your date,"

Tom caught it, barely. "Thanks, I think?" he read the Jo Malone label with intrigue, "Basil & Neroli..."

"It'll make a better impression than just deodorant," Sunny assured him.

Tom stuffed the cologne in his bag, feeling a bit overwhelmed by Sunny's thoughtfulness, but grateful nevertheless, "Seriously, thanks mate,"

"Go knock 'em dead," Sunny said, waving him off, "And remember, the date's about having fun. Don't overthink it!"

With a final nod, Tom stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with Noelle. She emerged from her door at the exact same moment, wearing a navy mini dress sprinkled with delicate white flowers. A light white cardigan draped over her shoulders, her hair cascading in long, soft waves that framed her face. The white trim on her black backpack coordinated nicely with her converse sneakers, and there were little white berettes clipped at the sides of her hair that added a lovely touch of innocence and charm.

Tom felt his breath catch. This was a far cry from her usual ballet attire which was clean, sleek and perfectly packaged. She looked relaxed, fresh, and irresistibly sweet. Every time Tom thought Noelle couldn't be any cuter, she somehow managed to surpass his expectations.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice betraying his admiration.

"Hi," she replied, a shy smile curving her lips.

He couldn't help but stare, feeling like a giddy schoolboy, "You look... wonderful,"

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, "Thanks. You don't look too bad yourself,"

"Thank you,"

They started walking to the stairwell, slower than usual to a fault, "So... are you excited?" she asked.

"For what?" a teasing smile tugged at his lips.

She shrugged shyly, "For tonight,"

"What part of tonight?" he asked, his nerves easing a bit, "There's a lot happening tonight!" he laughed as she rolled her eyes.

Noelle shook her head with a candid smile, "And I'm personally excited for all of it," she said.

"Me too," now, if he could just make it through the next twelve hours with peace and calm...

They hit the lobby and immediately heard the sound of sticking and cutting, they were both curious and dismayed to find Doris putting up 'DO NOT ENTER' tape over the elevator doors. She was mumbling under her breath, only pausing when she turned and found Tom and Noelle watching her.

"Elevator's out of commission," she simply said, "Don't ask,"

With an uncertain glower Noelle looked to Tom, who simply shrugged back as they started for the doors and wished Doris a good day. The older woman was so frustrated and annoyed with her renovations plans, she was none the wiser to the palpable energy between the pair.

The ride to school was nothing remarkable—New Yorkers squeezed together like sardines, the air thick and unmoving. Noelle and Tom managed to snag the last two seats at the back of the bus, a comfortable silence settling between them.

Tom turned to her, curiosity piqued. "So, when did Daniel give you the ticket?" he asked.

Noelle shook her head, her expression softening into a smile, "He didn't."

Tom blinked, confused, "Then how did you get your ticket?"

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement, "Stanis is a magician," she replied, her smile widening.

Tom didn't press for more details; there was still a part of him that found Stanis intimidating. He could very well imagine Stanis being involved in a high society crime syndicate, the type where he knew dirt on everybody and would use it to his advantage. So instead, Tom settled back in his seat, smiling to himself as Noelle locked her pinky around his, the simple gesture filling him with warmth.

And that was how Tom found himself here: sitting on the cold auditorium stage floor, watching his castmates run through their final rehearsals. The memory of her finger wrapped around his was still fresh in his mind, a welcome reassurance that he could push his nerves down. The bustling energy around him, the snippets of dialogue floating through the air, all of it seemed more manageable with the thought of Noelle in the audience, her presence a comforting anchor.

As he tried to focus on his lines, a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.

"Jordan! How many hours did you sleep?" Marcelline's voice carried across the auditorium.

Tom couldn't help but snicker to himself as Jordan forced himself to look up at the camera, a dry, tired glare crossing his face.

"Eight," Jordan answered bluntly, his voice tinged with irritation. Somehow, it still didn't look like enough for Jordan.

Tom's amusement was short-lived as he realized his own exhaustion mirrored Jordan's. The final rehearsal was proving to be as challenging as he'd anticipated, but the thought of Noelle watching him perform kept him going. He straightened up, ready to dive back into his role, determined to give it his all.

In the dressing room, the tension wrapped around Bianca like a suffocating shroud. She meticulously adjusted the layers of her costume, her movements sharp with a lingering resentment she refused to acknowledge. As Iseul delicately applied makeup nearby, she ventured cautiously once more into the fraught silence.

"You've been awfully quiet all day," she noted, carefully applying her eyeliner in the mirror.

Bianca scoffed back, "I've had a lot to do today," she replied simply, "Stanis doesn't have just one star pupil, after all,"

At that, Iseul put her liner down, turning to her friend with a concerned scowl, “Bianca, I know how close you are with Noelle,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “but do you think there might be a part of you that’s feeling… maybe a little jealous?”

Bianca froze mid-adjustment, her brows knitting together defensively, “Jealous? No way,” she retorted, her tone sharp with denial, “Why the hell should I be jealous of her?”

Iseul sighed softly, sensing Bianca’s resistance. “It’s okay to feel that way, Bianca. It happens between friends, more often than you think. But maybe… maybe you’re projecting your fears onto her?”

Bianca shook her head adamantly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. “I’m not projecting anything,” she insisted, her voice wavering slightly. “I'm not afraid of anything, either. I'm a friggin' ballerina in New York City for Christ sake...” her voice trailed off, the unspoken fears lingering heavy in the air.

Iseul reached out, placing a comforting hand on Bianca’s arm. “Bianca, listen. Noelle’s not you. She feels things more, she had a lot of compassion for people. I'm not saying you don't!" she held up a finger before Bianca could interrupt. "But... even you've admitted you can be intense, and stressed. And we know how stressed you've been since getting this part --"

"What is your point, Iseul?" Bianca finally asked, "We have like -- ten minutes before we have to be on stage!"

"I know!"

"So get to the fucking point!"

"Don't be so mean to Noelle! And lighten up about Tom," she told her.

Bianca scoffed, "And what does Tom have to do with anything?"

"Noelle told me what you said about him. How he's no good for her? For the record I completely disagree, but... Maybe you think that because you're jealous of her? You're jealous of what they have?" she reasoned gently, “Maybe instead of antagonizing her, you could talk to her. Tell her how you're feeling, truly,”

Bianca hesitated, her emotions a tumultuous storm inside her, “I'm not jealous, Iseul. I'm just... I'm so sick of everything coming so easily to Noelle!” she admitted quietly, her eyes avoiding Iseul’s gaze, “She's got a great body, flawless hair, everybody loves her -- even friggin' Stanis! And why not me? Why can't I be that likeable? Why can't the guy that I like just pay attention to me and not to her?"

Iseul’s heart ached for her friend, seeing the vulnerability beneath Bianca’s facade of strength, “Bianca, of course people like you! We're your friends!” she reassured softly, “But to be honest... you can be really bitchy sometimes, and just really unapproachable. And if that's the way you've been feeling then maybe you should talk to Noelle about it? Just be honest with her! She'll definitely understand!”

"Will she? How could Little Miss Perfect possibly understand?" she rolled her eyes.

Iseul cocked a brow, "What perfect? She gets zits and period cramps just like we do. She farts and burns her food just like us. Her parents are deadbeats who probably don't even give her a second thought. And she had to miss this recital because she got really sick, and you got her part! So really -- how perfect is her life?"

"You're not gonna' guilt me, Iseul!" Bianca snapped, "I worked just as hard for Giselle as she did!"

"I'm not trying to guilt you, Bianca!" Iseul snapped back, "I just want you to chill! You and Noelle have been best friends since kindergarten, and you know she has your back! You don't need to be threatened by her!"

Bianca nodded slowly, her thoughts swirling with conflicting emotions, “I guess so,” she murmured finally, a mixture of resentment and determination simmering beneath the surface.

As they finished preparing for the performance, Bianca’s heart was still heavy with unspoken fears and unresolved feelings. Deep down, she knew she needed to confront the truth she had been avoiding: the fear of losing herself in Noelle's shadow, losing her to someone who might not understand her as deeply as Bianca did. Yet, amidst the swirl of emotions, Bianca clung to her denial, unwilling to admit the jealousy that gnawed at her heart.

Just as the tense silence settled between them, a knock on the dressing room door broke the moment. Startled, Iseul turned to see a delivery person holding a bouquet of vibrant red roses, a card nestled among the blooms.

"I've got a bouquet delivery for Iseul Jeong," he announced. Iseul's surprise was palpable as she accepted the flowers.

"Oh my gosh, thank you!" the delivery man took off with a curt nod and Iseul settled back in her chair, both girls adamant and curious as she read the note.

“Dear Iseul, good luck on your performance tonight! Wish I could be there in person, but I already know you're going to kill it! All the best... your secret admirer? I've got a secret admirer!” Iseul exclaimed softly, her cheeks tinged pink with pleasure.

Bianca’s gaze flickered to the roses, her irritation simmering beneath the surface as she averted her eyes. The timing of the gesture felt like a cruel twist of the knife, a reminder of her own tangled emotions. She busied herself with her makeup, her thoughts a turbulent storm of envy and uncertainty.

As Iseul admired the flowers, a faint smile playing on her lips, Bianca wrestled with her inner turmoil. She knew she needed to confront Noelle, to voice her fears and concerns. Yet, as she watched Iseul’s delighted reaction, a part of her couldn’t help but resent the happiness that seemed just out of her reach.

The auditorium hummed with the low murmur of excited conversations, the anticipation of the upcoming ballet recital palpable in the air. Noelle and her family settled into their seats, Franca fussing with Chiara's hair and trying to fix her slightly smudged makeup. And ever in her teenage angst, Chiara batted her away like a bratty cat. Noelle, however, was only half paying attention. Her eyes kept darting to the illuminated face of her watch, or she would double check that she had her ticket in her purse.

In another part of the campus, Tom was in the final stages of preparing for his performance. The backstage area was a flurry of activity as actors milled about, doing vocal exercises and stretches. Tom adjusted his costume, the stiff collar and unfamiliar fabric feeling both thrilling and constricting.

He glanced at the mirror, taking in the reflection of himself as Boris Trigorin. Excitement bubbled in his chest, mingling with a gnawing apprehension. He could hear snippets of lines and bursts of laughter from his castmates, their warmups filling the air with a kind of chaotic energy. Tom’s fingers tapped nervously against his script, the worn pages a comforting anchor amidst the chaos.

Back in the auditorium, Franca leaned over, her voice coming in a whisper "Are you feeling alright? Do you want to stand up before the show?” Franca’s voice was a soft but frantic hum in the background as Noelle’s gaze flicked to her watch again.

"I'm fine, Franca. Don't worry," Noelle smiled reassuringly.

The house lights dimmed, signaling the start of the performance. Noelle’s heart pounded, not only from the excitement of seeing her friends dance but also from the anticipation of what lay ahead with Tom. She forced herself to focus on the stage as the first notes of the orchestra swelled, the curtains parting to reveal the dancers.

Tom, meanwhile, took a deep breath, the finality of the upcoming performance settling in. He moved to join his fellow actors, feeling the camaraderie as they wished each other luck. The scent of greasepaint and the soft rustle of costumes created a familiar backdrop to his growing nerves.

As the ballet began, Noelle’s eyes flickered between the graceful movements on stage and the persistent ticking of her watch. Her friends twirled and leaped with ethereal beauty, their dedication evident in every precise step. Noelle felt a pang of pride and longing, wishing she could fully immerse herself in the moment but knowing that her mind was already halfway to Tom’s show.

Despite the tremendous music, Maurice could still hear Chiara's nails tapping away over her phone. She was texting furiously. With aloof dismay, he leaned over, his voice barely a whisper as he scolded her, "Put the phone away, Chiara. Security's gonna think you're filming," Chiara sighed dramatically beside them, clearly unimpressed, but Noelle remained oblivious, her thoughts far away.

As Noelle watched Bianca gracefully glide across the stage, her emotions swirled like a tempestuous sea. Pride welled up within her, a fierce joy that threatened to overflow as she witnessed her friend's flawless execution of each pirouette and arabesque. Yet, beneath the surface, a trace of lingering resentment lingered from their recent argument. Despite the saltiness tainting her admiration, Noelle couldn't deny the admiration she felt for Bianca's talent and dedication, her heart swelling with conflicting emotions as she applauded vigorously at the performance's end.

Sunny sat in the dimly lit theatre, his anticipation palpable as he waited for the play to begin. His fingers twitched with nervous energy, but he was anxious as his phone buzzed discreetly in his pocket. Retrieving it, he read the confirmation text: his flower bouquet had been delivered anonymously. The gesture warmed his heart, and he couldn’t suppress a giddy smile as he imagined Iseul's surprise and -- hopefully -- delight. He hoped she wouldn't think she had a crazy stalker or anything. Adjusting in his seat, Sunny glanced around the theatre, his excitement growing as the lights dimmed and the stage came to life.

Tom’s turn on stage was fast approaching. He joined the others in a circle, their whispered encouragements a soothing balm to his nerves. His mind wandered briefly to Noelle, imagining her in the audience, her presence a steadying force. He straightened his costume one last time, taking another deep breath.

As the ballet performance reached its crescendo, Noelle’s eyes met her watch once more. It was almost time. She leaned over to Franca, whispering her plan to slip out quietly. Franca nodded, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

Noelle rose from her seat, her heart pounding with a mix of emotions. She cast one last look at her friends on stage, then slipped out of the auditorium, her steps quickening with purpose.

Tom stood in the wings, the stage lights casting long shadows. The call for his scene came, and he moved forward, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and apprehension. Somewhere out there, he knew Noelle was making her way to support him, and the thought filled him with a surge of confidence.

As he stepped onto the stage, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the performance and the promise of seeing Noelle after the final bow.

Noelle slowed her pace to a cautious jog, mindful of her surgeon’s warnings against strenuous activity, including running. She focused on reaching the theater without pushing herself too far into discomfort. The new auditorium for the theater kids was more accessible this time, and she navigated towards it with determination, her purse clutched tightly as if afraid her ticket might escape.

Arriving breathless, Noelle found the door attendant in the process of closing up. Her lungs protested the exertion, legs already sore from the brief jog. She managed to catch her breath enough to hand over her ticket, which the attendant glanced at briefly before nodding her through the entrance. The theatre was already dark, the actors already on stage opening up the scene when Noelle ducked in. She skimmed along the wall and finding one in a handful of empty seats in the back row.

Just as she sat down, Tom stepped onto the stage, his heart racing with a mix of nerves and excitement. The auditorium stretched before him, a sea of expectant faces shimmering under the soft glow of stage lights. His gaze flickered across the audience, searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of Noelle.

"In this tranquil setting," he began, his voice steady and resonant, "where the lake whispers secrets to the wind, I find solace in the embrace of nature's beauty."

Marcelline, embodying Nina's youthful admiration, approached him with eagerness, "Boris, tell me of your latest story. Your words weave magic in my mind."

Tom, as Trigorin, smiled warmly at Marcelline, his eyes reflecting the character's depth of experience. "Ah, Nina," he replied, "your enthusiasm is a balm to my soul. I draw inspiration from the simplest of moments, the fleeting whispers of life."

Jordan, portraying Konstantin, interjected with a hint of resentment. "Your stories, Boris, they enchant Nina and the world. But do they speak of truth or mere fantasies?"

Tom met Jordan's gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ah, Konstantin," he mused, "the artist's eternal dilemma. Truth, illusion—perhaps they are two sides of the same coin, perceived differently by each soul."

The other actors, fully immersed in their roles, engaged in a lively discussion that echoed Chekhov's exploration of art and existence. Tom's performance carried the weight of Trigorin's introspective nature, his voice resonating with the character's complexities.

Throughout the scene, Tom's eyes darted to the audience between lines, silently hoping to spot Noelle among them. His performance, a delicate dance of words and emotions, captured the essence of Chekhov's themes while his heart beat in anticipation of her presence.

Noelle sat in the dimly lit auditorium, her gaze fixed on the stage where Tom, transformed into Trigorin, held court with his eloquent words and charismatic presence. The play's dialogue floated through the air, mingling with the soft rustling of the audience and the occasional cough. Yet, for Noelle, all peripheral sounds faded into insignificance as she watched him.

Tom's voice resonated with a depth that captivated her, each word a brushstroke painting vivid images in her mind. His eyes, usually warm and inviting in their everyday encounters, now held a new intensity—a reflection of Trigorin's conflicted soul. She noticed the subtle shifts in his expression, the way he leaned forward in earnest engagement with his fellow actors, and the graceful gestures that punctuated his dialogue.

As Trigorin, Tom embodied a blend of charm and vulnerability that stirred something deep within Noelle. It wasn't just the character he portrayed but the essence of Tom himself, laid bare on stage. She felt drawn to him in ways she hadn't fully acknowledged before, his presence enveloping her thoughts and emotions with an undeniable allure.

In the darkness of the auditorium, surrounded by the unfolding drama and the palpable energy of the performance, Noelle's heart beat in sync with the rhythm of the play. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Tom, each fleeting glance he cast towards the audience igniting a flutter of anticipation in her chest. The distance between them seemed both vast and infinitesimal, a tension she struggled to define yet couldn't deny.

Noelle's fingers curled around the armrest of her seat, her breath catching in moments of poignant dialogue that resonated with her own inner turmoil. She watched Tom with a mixture of admiration and longing, the lines between reality and fiction blurring as she found herself caught in the spell he wove with every word and gesture.

She glanced around the theater, noticing the rapt attention of the audience, but her focus remained on Tom. In that moment, watching him embody Trigorin's complexity, she couldn't deny the magnetic pull he exerted on her heart. Each word, each gesture only deepened her admiration and affection for him.

And then finally, finally, Tom saw her. As his gaze settled on Noelle, a soft smile touched his lips, and he delivered his line with an intensity that resonated with his own emotions:

"Amidst the chaos of life's stage, a solitary figure emerges—a beacon of serenity in a sea of tumult...."

The words carried a dual meaning, echoing both the character's sentiment and his personal recognition of Noelle's presence; a calming presence amidst the nerves and anticipation of the performance. He was doing so well, he was so close and he would be at the end.

On stage, Bianca's movements were fluid and precise, each step echoing the rhythm of the music pulsing through the theater. As she pirouetted and leaped, her eyes occasionally strayed to the audience, seeking a familiar face. Amidst the sea of spectators, she caught sight of Noelle's family—her aunt adjusting her seat, her uncle leaning forward with interest. But Noelle's absence was palpable, a void in the audience that Bianca couldn't help but feel keenly.

A flicker of disappointment crossed her features, mingled with a hint of resentment that tightened her movements, infusing her dance with an unexpected intensity. She pushed through, channeling her emotions into each graceful arc and turn, determined to make her performance memorable despite the absence that weighed on her heart.

The final curtain fell with a hushed finality, the stage bathed in the glow of the overhead lights. The audience erupted into a thunderous standing ovation, hands clapping in unison as cheers filled the air. Backstage, the cast of gathered, their faces glowing with relief and pride. Tom stood among them, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He ran back on stage to take a final bow with his cast mates, so overwhelmed and grateful for the reception.

Amidst the celebration, Tom's gaze found Noelle in the audience. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she clapped enthusiastically, a radiant smile lighting up her face. Their eyes locked briefly, a silent exchange of shared joy and accomplishment passing between them. Tom's heart swelled with happiness, knowing that he had not only impressed the audience but also earned Noelle's admiration.

As the curtain fell and applause thundered through the theater, Tom found himself swept up in a whirlwind of backstage activity. He exchanged quick hugs and high-fives with Marcelline, Jordan, and the rest of the cast, their faces alight with exhilaration and relief. The adrenaline from the performance surged through him, keeping fatigue at bay as they navigated the maze of corridors backstage.

They reached the dressing rooms amidst laughter and excited chatter, the air thick with the lingering euphoria of a successful show. Tom sank into a vanity chair, his legs trembling with lingering nerves and the lingering rush of performing. His costume felt like a second skin, a reminder of the character he had just inhabited, and he couldn't help but replay moments of the play in his mind.

"Tom! Group photo!" Marcelline's voice broke through his reverie, pulling him back to the present. He pushed himself up with a smile, joining the cast for a photo that captured their shared triumph. Flashbulbs popped as they posed, their faces still flushed with the heat of the performance.

As the theater buzzed with post-show excitement, Tom stood near his dressing room, scanning the crowd with anticipation. Amidst the throng of well-wishers and fellow actors, he spotted Sunny weaving through the crowd, a wide grin plastered on his face. Sunny approached with his characteristic exuberance, arms outstretched in a gesture of camaraderie.

"Mate!" Sunny exclaimed, pulling Tom into a quick but heartfelt hug, "You killed it out there! Seriously, the whole audience was eating it up."

Tom laughed, returning Sunny's embrace briefly before pulling back to meet his friend's enthusiastic gaze. "Really?"

"Yeah! Fuck'n move over, Dicaprio!" Sunny clapped Tom on the shoulder, nodding towards the dispersing crowd, "You were incredible. And hey," he added with a wink, "I reckon someone else agrees with me," Sunny nodded subtly towards the hallway where Noelle stood, her presence a beacon amidst the backstage chaos.

Tom followed Sunny's gaze, his heartbeat quickening at the sight of her. Noelle's eyes met his across the room, her smile radiant and genuine. She approached them with a grace that seemed to quiet the bustling energy around them, her focus solely on Tom.

Noelle moved gracefully through the bustling crowd, her steps echoing just behind Tom's. As she approached, a rush of excitement and pride filled her chest. When Tom turned to face her, she couldn't contain her joy. With a playful squeak, she threw her arms around him, feeling his warm embrace as he lifted her off her feet for a brief moment. His presence, neroli oil mixed with the faint scent of his costume, enveloped her, filling her senses with a blend of musk and the lingering energy of the performance.

"Oh my gosh, Tom!" she murmured against his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity, "You were incredible!"

He chuckled softly, "Thank you, Noelle," he replied, his breath warm against her hair, "I'm so happy you could make it!"

"I wouldn't miss it for anything," she said softly, her fingers brushing lightly against his as they stood close together, "You're always worth the wait,"

Tom's smile widened, his gaze softening as he squeezed her hand gently, "And you make every moment special," he replied, his voice filled with quiet sincerity.

In that fleeting moment, amid the buzz of the crowd and the shared euphoria of the evening, Noelle felt a comforting warmth envelop her. As she locked eyes with Tom, a silent giddiness passed between them, a taste of whatever adventures lay ahead for them for the night...

[merinsedai]

Rooftops of London snippet 2

for @dreamlingbingo

Snippet 2/5 for my WIP: The Rooftops of London :)

Square/Prompt: B5: Parallel Dimension

Title: The Rooftops of London

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: n/a

Additional Tags: Second Chance, Mary Poppins AU, yes you read that correctly, Dream is Mary Poppins, Hob is Bert, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus is Good with Kids, popping in and out of paintings, teaparties on the ceiling, Developing Relationships, potential flying of kites, Will Roderick Burgess be redeemed? Is it possible? Who knows, read on and find out, fat pigeons

Summary: In 2025, Dream awaits Death as the Kindly Ones ravage the Dreaming.

In 1910, two young boys send out an advertisement for their perfect nanny.

or, the tale of Dream attempting to Mary Poppins his way out of his 20th century nightmare

Read the first chapter on AO3 here

And snippet 1 here

A scene from Chapter 4(??), and it's time for a little bit of popping through paintings

When the Vortex of swirling sand clears, Hob- and the boys too- can only stare in amazement. Gone are the grey and gloomy streets of London and in their place: rolling hills of green, bright blue skies with cotton-fluff clouds. They stand in the shade of a wide trunked and clearly very venerable olive tree, her branches laden with little black fruits, and in the distance a majestic river sparkles in the sunlight as it wends lazily through the countryside. It is the Italy of Hob’s memory, complete with that particular scent of sun-warmed citrus and neroli, and the sound of the wind sighing through the cypresses. Overcome, he laughs loudly, bringing his hands to his mouth like a prayer, and turns to Morpheus. 

“We are not in Tuscany,” he says, an edge of giddy madness to his voice. “Tell me we are not in actual Tuscany.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see little Alex leaping through the grass, clouds of brightly coloured butterflies bursting up at his every jump, shrieking with delight. Randall, though not so animated as his exuberant little brother, looks similarly entranced, gazing in drop-mouthed wonder as he stands at Morpheus’s side.

“We are not in Tuscany,” Morpheus confirms calmly, seeming not at all bothered by the boy racing and roaring around. Hob had thought (if he had thought about it at all) that Morpheus would not be the type to abide the disturbance of high-spirited children so easily.  

“Then where…? Gods, I always knew you were a little bit magic,” he says, eyes scanning the incredible scene before him again. He remembers this view so clearly, standing here with Guiliana and her little Andrea, helping them collect the olive harvest before enjoying the fruits of their labours in the Italian sunset. Andrea had liked to splash in the river to cool off…. The river which definitely did not have a humpbacked bridge over it in reality.  “Hang on, I drew that bridge!” he whips back round to Morpheus who he swears is looking back at him with amusement in those cool blue eyes. “We can’t be in my picture?”

“Your picture, or your mind, or even another realm entirely.” Morpheus replies serenely. “Who is to say?” he looks down then at Alex, who has returned to his side and is tugging his sleeve.

“I saw a butterfly as big as my head!” he declares. “As big as your head! Bigger!  And it had FANGS.”

“Butterflies don’t have fangs,” says Randall automatically, ever the elder sibling intent on correcting the younger. “They have a proboscis.”

“Pro-bo-siss FANGS” Alex insists and tugs Morpheus’s sleeve once more. Hob feels a tiny flare of… something… that this little boy is allowed to be so familiar with his mysterious stranger when Hob had managed to send the man into a towering rage for daring to even suggest they might be friends.  He tries to imagine what Morpheus would have done if Hob had had the nerve to actually lay a hand upon him. 

“Morpheus! Did you see it? The fangs were dripping BLOOD. It was a vampire butterfly!”

“It was not.” insists Randall, “And they don’t have fangs!” 

Morpheus squeezes Randall’s shoulder in acknowledgement and smiles down at Alex. God, a proper smile Hob thinks, not the tiny upturns of his lips that Hob held treasured in his memory, but the genuine article,  rounding his cheeks and crinkling his eyes. It looks a little unpractised on Morpheus’s face, but it is genuine nonetheless, gentle and kind.

“I am sure they were the most spectacular fangs, and positively dripping in blood.” he assures Alex gravely. “Now. Have you forgotten the fair? It is just over the brow of that hill.” He nods in the direction of the river and smiles benignly as Alex gasps in remembered delight and immediately tears off down the hillside towards the bridge over the river.

Randall looks torn. “Alex, wait!” he cries, hovering on his toes, glancing between his brother and Morpheus. He clearly wants to follow his sibling, but equally clearly is fearful of running away from adults. Randall wants to be seen as grown up and responsible, Hob thinks, certainly he does not want to be seen getting excited about something as ‘childish’ as a fair. How bloody sad for the lad, to have had the joy of fun knocked out of him already.

“Well, Randall?” Morpheus says with a raised eyebrow when the boy looks to him for instruction. “Are you not going to go after him?”

That seems to be all the impetus Randall needs. Released from his obligation to behave like a staid and stuffy adult, Randall gives Morpheus a brief, excited grin before he is dashing off after Alex, hollering at his brother to wait up.

[myscentarchive]

Good girl gone Bad - By Kilian

Eau de Parfum - 0.7 ml (wand)

Notes- TOP: Osmanthus, Peach, Neroli, Bergamot, Mandarin, Cinnamon MIDDLE: Indian Tuberose, Jasmine, Narcissus, Rose de Mai BASE: Amber, Cedarwood, Vetiver, Sandalwood, Patchouli

Gender: Feminine Inspiration: The uninhibited Good girl gone Bad by KILIAN finds herself in a luscious floral whirlwind in the garden of good and evil.

Fragrance story: Half-innocent, half-voluptuous, the apricot-tinged osmanthus absolute, orange blossom and rose of May absolute that open the fragrance are beholden by the ultimate temptress: an explosion of the three-sirens of flowers: tuberose absolute, jasmine and narcissus.

[haydenigmatic]

What is RO’s scent? Like lavender with a hint of sth ect? I hope that makes sense 🥲🥲

Don't worry I got you, I did tried my best here, I'm not really good with scents guys.

Odette: Carries a delicate fragrance that intertwines the timeless elegance of roses with the warm richness of amber. Being a harmonious dance, where the floral sweetness of roses mingles with the deep, resinous notes of amber.

Aurelia/n: Carries an intriguing scent reminiscent of olibanum—woody and grounded, with a subtle hint of spice.

Verena: She exudes an intoxicating fragrance that blends the soothing notes of lavender with the sensual undertones of musk.

Nesrin: a carefully curated blend of white jasmine and delicate neroli with undertones of sandalwood.

Jasira: Cedarwood and pine, a blend that captures the essence of the dense, untamed woods she adores. Carrying a grounding, earthy quality, laced with subtle notes of wildflowers and a hint of crisp, cool air.

Sorin: Cardamom and clove. The spicy notes intertwine with subtle hints of leather, like the essence of a spice bazaar.

Hanniel: The dominant note is the earthy aroma of damp soil, grounding and reminiscent of the outdoors. Woven into this is the robust and rugged scent of leather.

Damon: A blend of leather and sandalwood, underscored by a hint of cedar.

Doria/n: an aroma that blends the sea's briny essence with subtle notes of aged leather and smoky undertones.

Now I kind of feel like Jean-Baptiste, without the murdery thing, I had never actually thought of a signature scent for y characters.

[rom-e-o]

The boys (including Bob) all being invited out for a "business dinner" by a prominent but sleazey associate that ends up being in... an adult entertainment venue that's geared mostly towards the gentlemen. This associate doesn't bother to mention this to the boys for whatever reason, so, naturally, the wives are invited along, because, unless it was top secret, why would you not invite your lovely, charming better halves along for an evening of what you presume to be fine dining? Needless to say, NONE of the couples are very impressed, but this associate insists on having the "meeting" here, and because he is someone with significant pull on high places and would be ideal to have an ally in, they all bite their tongues and go along. Cue the ladies kind of putting a damper on this man's (and, really, a lot of men's) evening as they naturally kind of monopolize a lot of the working girls' time with genuine and friendly chatting. Yes, they definitely offer up help and services to lots of the girls who would like to get out of the business but feel stuck. Yes, they also discuss beauty tips. And work out routines. And like be connections. And just have lots of positive interaction with the girls working there, because these are three core Pack women, why wouldn't they connect with these women?😅. Maybe they even talk with a depressed man they find in there or help a guy who's trapped there by his mates but wants to get back home to his own girl so he doesn't screw things up with her.

And the hubbies are just as enchanted with their beloveds as ever.

Ooooh ... I love this! And how absolutely in-character that entire scenario is for them. They would SO be the type to walk into a room of topless waitresses and dancers and immediately start making friends.

The associate brings them to this private area, just swarming with ladies. Poor Bob is red in the face the WHOLE time, and can barely glance up from the floor. Thankfully, Ethel leads him along. ("Careful, watch your step.")

I feel like the ladies are mostly amused by the showboating. The obvious display of 'manliness' in the form of this entertainment display. It's incredibly transparent.

As they settle in, waitressed bringing them drinks and rubbing shoulders, the ladies start working their magic around the table.

"Mmm...someone on here is wearing Neroli Portofino by Tom Ford. Who is it?" Connie asks.

And one of the more timid girls, who obviously is hesitant to be there, stammers, "O-Oh, me. I'm sorry, is it too fragrant?"

"No, it's lovely! Perfume smells different on each person because of pH. It smells delightful on you."

"Oh, thank you! I-It was a gift from my mom."

The head gent starts snapping for another round, but oh no. The ladies talk over him.

"Your mom? Is she local?"

"N-No. Um. She lives in Lavenham. You wouldn't know-"

"Suffolk, right?"

"N-wait, yes!"

Meanwhile, another convo with the woman starting to dance, Bess says, "Oh, hey, excuse me! I don't mean to leer, but your legs look amazing! Do you also do pilates, or ...?"

"Oh? Actually, I do kickboxing."

"Kickboxing? Oh my gosh, you're kidding. I do, too!"

"Not shit, really? Honey, we should got o class together. I've been dying for a spar partner to help me keep my reps up. Want to trade info?"

"Absolutely! Here, sit down right here."

The men are flabbergasted as their entire entourage of ladies completely shifts attention away from them and onto the women in the room. EVEN when he sends that group away and bright new ones into the room, the convos continues. Make-up. Morning routines. Where did you go to collage? Aw, your dog is a viszla? How long have you had her?

Ethel, meanwhile, insists on taking the trays from the girls hands and helping pass drinks, and she is giving these men NO victory. No sashay, so giggles. Just a 'here' and she practically drops it into their palms and goes back to bantering with another woman about her child starting preschool. "Oh, you must be so excited for your little Marguerite! Congrats, pet! Does she knows what she wants to be? ... London's first astronaut? Well, I'll be watching the skies for her!"

The hubbies are enamored, and so proud. They already weren't going to let this sleazeball walk all over them, let alone use an adult venue to turn this into some pathetic excuse for a pathetic excuse of a stag party. But to see their wifeys give these ladies a good time while completely talking all over the plans of this sleazeball? Oh, it's glorious.

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

Basic Laws Vol. 1 2001 Deep House / Broken Beat

Got four brilliantly deep and lush dance tracks here that were originally released as exclusives back in 2001 on the small, yet still operational Italian label, Neroli, whose tagline on this debut 12-inch of theirs was "sexy house for the whole family."

Now, I'm not sure that I know *exactly* what that means, but this whole record is nonetheless smooth and sleek as hell, packed with wonderfully thick and built-up atmospheric grooves whose kick-drums sometimes pound and throb with a little bit of softness 😌.

And while all of these tunes are quite good, I think the best one among them is undoubtedly the first one, Nubian Mindz' "Can't Wait," which is by a guy named Colin Lindo, who had actually previously been a drum n bass artist on the elite Reinforced Records as Alpha Omega, but then decided to diversify his output.

What Lindo really seems to exemplify with this track of his here is just how artistic deep house really has the capability of being. A lot of people seem to regard deep house as more of a vibes-based type of genre and something that's satisfying as looped-up ambiance, but this is a song that advances far past some of those limiting categorizations, because "Can't Wait" isn't just one of those dime-a-dozen, super chill beats that you study to; it's really something that deserves to be put on a pedestal and requires your full, undivided attention in order for you to fully appreciate its truly mesmerizing beauty 😋. And can you believe that it had been missing from YouTube up until just about two weeks ago too?!? 😯 Insane!

And the rest of these tracks are on the same exact type of wavelength as "Can't Wait" too, but I really don't think that any of them are quite as transcendent, because as far as deep and soul-piercing electronic music of any kind goes, what Lindo managed to do with that tune in particular is really damn near perfect.

Highlights:

Nubian Mindz - "Can't Wait" Stephane A - "Distant Planet" Domu - "The Long Way Up" Chateau Flight - "Pergola"

[seiwas]

Hi sel!! I am free from the shackles of finals _(´ཀ`」 ∠) _ crawling out of my uni's computer room into your inbox for the pretty ask game hehe :] idk if you've done them yet but how about silk and perfume?

midi!!! aaaaahhhh congrats on finishing ur finals!!!!!! 🥺 am so happy n proud of u 🫶🏻 akkzndkdn nawt u using ur uni’s computer room heLP 😭

thank u for sending some asks doe 🥺

silk; what outfit makes you feel confident?

honestly, a rlly good gym outfit is my go-to 🥺 leggings, sports bra, long socks, and some kind of fitted cropped top/baby tee!!! i loooove the look, also bc it’s comfy for me and i feel like i can move around freely!

perfume; favorite scent?

ooo i like clean and fresh scents 🥹 cotton is one of them, and based off my perfumes, the notes i gravitate toward are:

top — quince, mandarine, bergamot, grapefruit, neroli

mid/heart — jasmine, hyacinth, white tea, peony, freesia, violet

base — cedarwood, white musk, amber, oak moss

send me pretty asks!