#rosewood cast

[hollywoodoutbreak]

There are only two actors who have appeared in all four of the Beverly Hills Cop movies, including the new Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F. One, of course, is Eddie Murphy. After all, what would the franchise be without him? The other is Judge Reinhold, who plays Billy Rosewood, the detective with whom Axel Foley was originally paired in the first film and who has, over time, become a trusted friend. That would make Reinhold the "buddy" in the "buddy cop" genre that has defined the franchise, and Reinhold said that's been a big part of what has made the movies -- and especially the 1984 original -- so special.

Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F is currently streaming on Netflix.

[aberooski]

The thing about Harrington that I hate the most, apart from him just kinda claiming Alexis is his girl and getting mad at Jaden literally just for talking to her when they are literally friends, is that he's voiced by Jason Griffith so he and Atticus have the EXACT same voice.

Like if I don't constantly look at the screen and actually see that it's Harrington talking, when he talks my brain just assumes it's Atticus talking and it sounds like it's her brother who's in love with her this episode and I haaaaaaaaaate it 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[sabrinatheteenagewitchsworld]

012 rosewood

[ur-mag]

So Long Rosewood! See What the 'Pretty Little Liars' Cast Is Up to Now | In Trend Today

So Long Rosewood! See What the ‘Pretty Little Liars’ Cast Is Up to Now Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[hybriddhthepoet]

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

[jackalopesao3]

HCs For What The Obey Me Cast Smell Like 🌹🌼

Characters: everyone that has had a face reveal

This has been in my drafts for over a year. I finally finished it. Enjoy!

Lucifer

A cologne with a signature mix of fresh scents with some notes of leather. When he’s tired, he’ll occasionally switch to a cool cologne with minty notes to perk himself up. There’s also a faint aroma of tea or coffee in him depending on what he’s brewing to stay awake to burn the midnight oil to finish his endless work.

Mammon

Money Hmmm…a luxury cologne for sure! We all know he has a taste for high end items. I think he’d go for an old school fragrance, maybe something citrusy with a hint of tobacco.

Leviathan

Say it with me: Axe Body Spray

When Asmodeus yeets his axe into the void like the good little brother he is, he will gift Leviathan with cologne he thinks he will like. This means anything that comes in an anime-style container. So Leviathan’s scent will vary.

Satan

New book smell, old book smell, catnip - it depends on what he’s up to. I don’t doubt for one second he always has at least one pouch of catnip on him. He probably has some nice cologne too courtesy of Asmo or his various connections in his social circles.

Asmodeus

He likes to burn vanilla, sandalwood, and amber scented candles and incense so he has those scents on him. Asmo also has a variety of colognes and perfumes so his scent changes almost daily.

Beelzebub

Beel could smell like the most heavenly cupcakes ever baked or the greasiest burger ever fried. It all depends on what he just ate. Because of how much the boy eats he tends to smell like the food he ate.

No one is to give him food-scented cologne because he will just eat the bottle. He uses neutralizing scents to bathe so the scents don’t get in the way of him enjoying his food later.

Belphegor

Fabric softener with notes of lavender. He needs the softest of sheets with the most relaxing scent possible. Sometimes he’ll opt to use a lavender and eucalyptus scented pillow mist too so that scent will cling to him.

Diavolo

A woody cologne to go along with his naturally smoky scent from his constant use of fire magic. Sometimes he changes it up with warm scents like cinnamon and ginger or something lively like citrus.

Barbatos

If he were to wear cologne at all it would be something very subtle with notes of bergamot that closely matches earl grey tea. The notes are calming yet revitalizing at the same time. Sometimes it’s whatever pastries he’s just baked. He smells sweet and warm. Barbatos can also smell very clean like tea tree oil with notes of mint. It just depends on what he’s doing at the time.

Simeon

Most mornings he smells like pancakes since he’s constantly making them for Luke. Simeon also likes refreshing scents with minty notes or anything with an “ocean” or “sea” label as it helps him to relax and focus on writing.

Solomon

He is constantly burning sage, patchouli, nag champa, or frankincense to cover up the smell of his various potions and experiments so he smells like an incense hippie shop. (I highly approve btw!)

BUT I could also see this weirdo quickly spritzing Old Spice on himself as well.

Luke

Little angel baby bakes a lot so he smells sweet with notes of whatever it is that he’s baking or like the pancakes he loves to eat!

Thirteen

It depends on her mood! Some days it’s strawberries like her favorite strawberry shampoo and body wash. Other days she goes for something different like amber or a floral scent.

Mephistopheles

On days he pulls all nighters working on the newspaper, coffee: black, medium roast. Besides that he wears a posh cologne brand with notes of rosewood and tobacco.

Raphael

Pine trees and woody notes with a hint of spice. Is it cologne, his body wash, or his natural scent? You’ll have to ask him!

[blankd]

the first NPC from my ~NEW~ DnD campaign, 20-Count(down), Gizmo the First Aid Kit(ten)- he's better than potions AND he scales with the party!

*the text is non-canonical to Gizmo, he does not speak

if you'd like to run Gizmo in your own game, check out the Read More/Keep Reading below to get his stats and features

(this png is included for use as a tabletop icon, etc.)

GIZMO Small Construct, Neutral Good

AC: 13 (10 + DEX MOD + Party's PB) natural armor HP: 9 Speed: 30 ft, climb 30 ft

STR - 8, DEX - 12, CON - 10, INT - 8, WIS - 10*, CHA - 6

Saving Throws: Dex/Wis (+Party's PB) Damage Immunities: Poison Condition Immunities: Exhaustion, Poisoned Senses: Passive Perception 10* Languages: understands Common but cannot speak

Carved Rosewood Serval This rosewood statuette is of a stylized Serval named Gizmo. A command word can be used to change Gizmo from a figurine to a Construct.

While being touched, Gizmo can be turned from a Construct back into a figurine. When it reverts to this form in this way, it cannot assume ts construct form until 24 hours have passed.

If Gizmo is reduced to 0 HP while in construct form, it is forced back into its figurine form and cannot assume its construct form until 7 days have passed.

Adaptable Helper Gizmo is treated as a [party's level]-caster, with Wisdom as its innate spellcasting ability. Gizmo's WIS score increases by 1 for every 2 party levels (rounded up, minimum of 1).

Gizmo can cast spells without material components (unless the spell consumes the materials). Spells which consume materials must have the materials provided respectively.

Medical Meow-gic When first turned into its construct form, or after a Long Rest, roll [party level] x d10s, Gizmo will have that many spell slots until the next Long Rest.

Any 10 that is rolled can be counted as a lvl 9 slot OR can be rerolled as 2 additional d8s.

Cat Nap Restock Once per day, during a Short Rest, Gizmo can roll HALF the party's level (rounded up, minimum of 1) in d10s as detailed in 'Medical Meow-gic'.

Construct Maintenance Gizmo can remain in its construct form until reverted or its HP is reduced to 0.

While in construct form, Gizmo's HP can only be restored through use of a Tinker's Tools, Woodcarver's Tools, or spells like Mending.

(Use of any of these methods restores 2d4 HP)

SPELL LIST: Cantrip: Spare the Dying Spells: Cure Wounds, Healing Word, Lesser Restoration, Prayer of Healing, Mass Healing Word, Revivify, Greater Restoration, Mass Cure Wounds, Heal, Regenerate, Mass Heal, Power Word Heal

ACTION: Scratch. Melee Weapon Attack, +1 to hit, reach 5 ft., one creature. Hit: 1+1 slashing damage

REACTION: Without a Scratch. Gizmo can take this Reaction multiple times. In response to another creature dealing damage to Gizmo, Gizmo reduces the damage to 0.

This feature can reduce damage in this way 3 + [party's PB] times.

Gizmo regains all uses of this feature after a Long Rest.

-----

NOTE: The theme for Gizmo was for a cute little healer NPC while leaning into all the cat-isms. If you find that Gizmo's 'Medical Meow-gic' to be too random or unfun, simply give him the same spell slots allotted to a full caster- I choose the dice because I personally find it as a suitable tradeoff for being an NPC.

The spells chosen for Gizmo are due to the high-level nature of the campaign I'm running, adjust his list according to the power level of your own.

If you do NOT want to deal with his 'Without a Scratch' reaction, simply add more HP at a rate of [5 x Party Level] HP. 5 is chosen as that is what the non-rolled HP is for a cleric.

Feel free to make any other changes for your table, I only ask that if you find yourself using the art, text, etc., that you credit me appropriately

[inkykeiji]

character: fyodor x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, bratty reader, toxic relationship, impact play: caning, blood, physical abuse (fyodor breaks one of reader’s bones), jealousy (feat. nikolai), princess used as a pet name, reader does not know russian or ukrainian, size difference (fyodor is bigger than reader), one instance of Sir

words: 2.7k

You’re getting restless, he can tell; can see it in the way you’re running your index finger along the spines of the old, crumbling books as you listlessly pace around the library, collecting dust on your fingertip; can hear it in the way you sigh, soft and delicate, wistful and weary, shoulders deflating a little with the exhale. 

Bratty and bored, that’s what you are, casting longing side glances at your Daddy from the corners of your eyes, desperate and hopeful for him to take notice of you, of your current state, and relieve you of it. Bratty and bored, but brats don’t get Daddy’s attention, especially not when they know he’s busy. 

He wonders how long you’ll hold out before you succumb, how long you can reign in your inherent selfish and spoiled nature before the restraints finally snap beneath your yearning for attention.

Not very long, he wagers. 

“Nikki,” you whine a mere moment after the thought passes through Fyodor’s mind, the nickname stringy and drawn out.

“Yes, princess?” Nikolai responds without tearing his gaze from the pages of his book. 

“I’m bored,” you grumble with a pout, sauntering over to the plush armchair Nikolai is snuggled in and perching on the edge, ass and thigh pressed up against his resting forearm. 

The action surprises him slightly and he looks up at you, a question lingering in his mismatched eyes. 

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “So I came to see what you were reading,” you continue as a way of explanation, leaning forward under the guise of getting a better view of the book between his palms, swelling breasts—perky and practically spilling out from that slutty milkmaid dress Fyodor loves so much—pressing into Nikolai’s cheek as you do so. 

The curiosity on his face develops into something wicked, eyes darkening and smile furling in on itself as he casts you another glance.

Oh, he knows exactly what you’re doing. 

Holding out the book further, he leans into your chest, nuzzling your bosom ever-so-slightly. 

“It’s called Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka,” he says. “You can read it with me, if you’d like.”

“I can’t read Russian, though,” you frown, sounding as if you’re genuinely disappointed.

With a shake of his head, Nikolai laughs gently, the melody both fond and condescending.

“It’s not Russian,” he says. “It’s Ukrainian.”

At your lost look—eyes widened, brows wrinkled, head tilted, so precious, so pathetic, like a stupid little puppy—he laughs again, releasing a corner of the book and holding his arm out, welcoming you into his lap. “Here,” he beckons, nodding his head a little in indication. “I’ll read it to you, then.”

Holding his stare, you hesitate for a moment, as if you’re weighing your options, carefully considering your choices and determining which packs the most heft, the most hurt. 

Then you’re settling onto his lap a moment later, a little palm planted high on his thigh as you lean forward, scanning the page. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, resting the hinges of his jaw on your body, his back pressed flush to yours. When he speaks again, you can feel his voice vibrate against his ribs. 

At the commotion, Fyodor looks up from his rosewood desk across the room, pen hovering above his papers as he observes, dripping splotches of ink across the page.

Nikolai’s murmuring to you, slowly, softly, lips grazing the cartilage of your ear as he reads, too low for Fyodor to make out the words flowing from his mouth. 

But he doubts Nikolai is actually reading to you, your sweet little giggles and bashful fluttering lashes telling him as much, Nikolai nosing along your jaw as his lips continue to move, the ghost of a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth. 

And, for a little while, Fyodor allows it to continue, jaw flexing infinitesimally with every hushed sound you emit, nostrils twitching, on the verge of flaring with each calculated exhale. 

For a little while, he’s alright; for a while, he can handle it. 

But you all knew it wouldn’t last long. 

A little squeal breaks in your throat in response to something Nikolai’s done or said, chest hunching in on itself only stopped by Nikolai’s large hands on your waist, fingers splayed wide and keeping you upright, so long they’re overlaying your ribs, thumbs just beneath your breasts.

And that’s all it takes, really.  

The sound of wood scraping wood has your body snapping into action, a switch flipped—automatic, inherent—and you slip from Nikolai’s grasp easily, flitting out the door with the grace of a single dove feather. 

Echos of your bare feet slapping against marble fill the wide hallways, tangled with breathless bubbles of laughter and the muted stomp of his rubber soles against the pristine floor. He’s panting behind you, pushing his body to the limit as he shoves himself forward, lungs aching, outstretched hand missing the hem of your dress by the width of a hair, again, fingers curling into a fist of nothing. 

The muscles in your legs are burning—his own legs are longer than yours, his strides more adept as they cover a larger area of ground, but you won’t give in; not until he catches you. 

And he’s close. 

Giggles are barreling up your throat and past your lips, an endless stream of amusement only slightly stuttered by your gentle, uneven huffs of exertion. The soles of your feet skid audibly on the marble as you sharply round a corner, skin squealing, but you don’t stop, not until you round the next curve in the knotted hallways, not until you realize that he’s no longer following you; that you are, suddenly and abruptly, all alone. 

Your feet scuttle to a stop, heaving chest adorned with dewdrops of sweat, glistening prettily in the warm lamplight of the manor. The silence is dense, ears ringing with the pressure, your own breathing muffled by it. The silence is heavy, crushing, almost, burdened by the immense scale and size of the manor, the whole structure so monstrous, so massive it feels nearly suffocating, like it could swallow you whole in a single gulp.

“Daddy?” you call out, voice small and hesitant, eyes darting around the empty space. The lamps on the walls waver for a moment, as if a breeze had somehow passed through the bulbs, but the air is stagnant and still. 

You turn slowly, balls of your feet sticking to the polished floor, gaze careful and cautious as it searches for any signs of life. 

“Daddy, where’d you—”

A large hand claps over your mouth and smothers your words, long fingers wreathing around your jaw, jagged nails digging into your cheek, and yanks you back against thin muscle and hard bone, engulfing you in darkness a second later. 

It all happens so quickly, so unexpectedly that you hardly have any time to meditate on the instance before you’re being whirled around, spine slamming against drywall, your body caged between the surface and the steady rise and fall of your Daddy’s chest. 

You had forgotten that this place contains many secret passageways and hidden rooms. 

You had also forgotten that Daddy knows all of them, and you know none. 

He’s got a large hand cuffed around either of your wrists, pinning them to the weathered wallpaper, warped and peeling, just above your head. 

You struggle a little, wriggling in his grip, and his fingers tighten in warning, palms pressing your limbs further against the wall, the bones of your wrist ground together in each of his hands, your features tweaking in a suppressed wince.

“Why are you on such bad behaviour today?”

“I’m not.” 

An eyebrow raises. “You’re not?”

“No. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He laughs, nothing more than a gentle huff, and it sends chills skittering up your spine.

“You know how many lashes lying to Daddy gets you, don’t you?”

“Fifteen,” you answer dutifully.

“Yes. And how many lashes does flirting with someone else get you?”

“Twenty five.”

“Exactly. And how many lashes is that total?”

“Forty.”

“Forty,” he repeats slowly, as if he’s tasting each letter, molding it with his tongue. “Can you handle that? Do you think it was wise to act out in such a manner while Daddy was working?”

“You weren’t paying attention to me,” you say in simple explanation, though your voice is solemn, words filtered through a petulant pout.

“You have my full attention now.”

“Good.” 

Blinking twice, both eyebrows quirk. “Would you like to add to your current sentence of forty lashes?” 

“Depends. What else do you got?”

His tongue runs along the front of his teeth, curling over the edges, bulging beneath his top lip as he considers. “How about an extra ten for generally pissing me off?”

“Fifty.” you say plainly. “I’ll take them.” 

“Yeah? You won’t be able to sit properly for about a month or so.”

“I don’t care. Give them to me, I want them.”

Fifty it is.

He smiles at you then, and it’s sharp, it’s sinister, curling up at the corners and nearly furling in on itself, his eyes glowing. 

He says nothing as he latches a large hand around your bicep, grip just hard enough to be uncomfortable, just hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have a pretty cuff of all four fingers and his thumb, seared into your skin in brilliant blues, by the following morning. 

But then he tugs, and a yelp cracks in your throat despite your best efforts to keep it from happening. His fingers twitch, tighten, and you grind your teeth together, an attempt to keep from making another sound. 

Because you didn’t miss the telltale flutter of the edges of his mouth when you cried out, the way his chest puffed out just a little further, raising him to his full height. 

Because as well as he knows you, you know him, too, and the last thing you want to do is give him any further satisfaction; not after he ignored you all day, acted as if you didn’t exist, nothing more than a slightly irksome ghost lingering around the edges of his consciousness, gaze only occasionally flicking up from his thick books and crumpled papers and ink-stained fingers to trail you for a moment—to make sure you were still there—before returning to his work.

“I will not be restraining you,” he tells you, as nonchalantly as if discussing the snow outside, soles of his boots echoing against the marble as he stalks towards the wardrobe. “You move so much as an inch and I will add an additional five lashes. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

And you can’t suppress the smug little grin that slithers across your face as you assume the position—hips bent at a ninety-degree angle, chest pressed into the mattress, cheek nuzzled against the silk comforter—feeling exceptionally proud of yourself for remembering the Sir, for not giving him another reason to lengthen your punishment. 

“Good,” he says, and oh, you can hear it, that minuscule barely there tremor of fury, wavering in the word like a maggot under his skin. 

He decides on his favourite cane, black ebony wood with the silver handle, made of pure platinum and topped with a sphere. This is a uncommon occurrence; he rarely uses this cane, for fear of breaking it on you, as he’s done to so many other so many times before. 

He’s unrestrained today: which is to say, he has decided to be unrestrained today, a conscious choice to be harsh, cruel, messy with it all. 

You know not to mistake this with true lack of control; he could be constrained and neat with all of his lines if he wanted to be, but he doesn’t want to be. 

Not today.

You don’t deserve it.  

Every smack of the cane against your ass leaves raised, swiftly swelling welts in its wake, first materializing in thin lines, then in thick, before the skin finally begins to tear, spanked raw and rubbed down from the constant friction. 

They crisscross over your backside, crooked slashes and streaks embellishing your bum and the very tops of your thighs. Each stroke of the wood leaves a sharp sting searing across your flesh, followed by a dull, deep ache, the pain so dense you fear it may never fully leave you, throbbing as it burrows into your skin.

He doesn’t demand you count aloud, nor does he order you to keep quiet, and for this you are thankful, little whimpers and soft cries building as the punishment proceeds, evolving into full on shouts and sobs, fingers sore and stiff from clenching the edges of the mattress, desperate not to move. 

Only five left, you’re thinking to yourself in an effort to self-soothe, when the end is finally in sight. Only five more, and then it’s over; and then I’ve taken it all.

The next hit comes not with the heel but with the handle of the cane; a sphere of dense platinum, heavy and hard as it thwacks your tailbone, higher than any of the other strikes have been thus far.

A scream splinters in your throat, and you shove your face in the mattress, a feeble attempt to smother it, whole body recoiling from the impact.

You can feel the bone fissure, sending bolts of jagged pain shooting through your backside, sharper than the blunt ache the wood commands. Your fingers curl in the sheets, teeth sinking into the plush flesh of the bed, quivering muscles gone rigid as you try not to move around too much, lest Fyodor add another five lashes to your nearly completed punishment. 

He makes a masterpiece of your backside, a landscape of dark violet and navy blue, glittering scarlet pooling in the grooves of fields, fragile skin split from the constant whack of the cane. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes, fingertips skimming over his work, catching on the rapidly expanding bumps and ridges, bulging and thickening as blood rushes to cushion the injuries.

He digs a jagged nail into the wound, drags it through the hollowed gouges and collects blood beneath the sawtoothed edge.  

In a week or so, after the final bruise has fully developed and the blood has seeped through several layers of tissue to the surface, your shattered tailbone will serve as a massive moon, hanging low and heavy over the landscape. 

It will be one of the most stunning pieces of art he’s ever created, he’s sure of it.

It will be one of the most painful, extensive punishments you’ve ever endured; he’s sure of that, too.

It was fucking foolish to have challenged him, you knew it was right from the start, but—as expected—you just couldn’t help yourself. The whorish need for attention was too potent, too strong to resist, to ignore, to shove away into a corner of your mind and let it fester. 

But technically, ultimately, you got exactly what you wanted.  

Because when it’s all over, when you’ve taken your fifty lashes like the good little girl you are and you’re sobbing into the mattress, smearing spit and salt across the silk sheets, he collects you in his arms easily, scoops you up against his chest with a bicep cradling your neck and an elbow hooked beneath your knees and begins carrying you towards the small in-house infirmary.

You wail into his neck, little fingers curling in the collar of his sweater and yanking, desperate to pull yourself close, closer, as close as possible, finding comfort in your very own monster, your personal hell; delicious, decadent, devious. 

“Daddy, Daddy, Da-Daddy!”

Tender hushes fall from his lips, soaking into the crown of your head as he scatters placating kisses across your hair. And he’s so gentle, he’s so careful, minding your fractured bone as he hugs you to his ribs, rocking your shuddering body in his embrace ever-so-slightly, grip tightening as another one of those rough sobs rips through your chest.

Most of his anger has calmed now, beaten from his chest with the whip of the cane against your supple skin, but a few cinders of fury remain, simmering low and hot and quiet in his words. 

“Maybe next time,” he begins, softly seething, accent thicker than normal, “you’ll think twice before pressing your tits into Nikolai’s cheek, yes?”

[actualdiscord]

Introducing the new contestant - Hairdresser Octopus! She's bringing a whole new flavor to the cast, sure to chop down the other girls on her path to the crown!

Cartoon drag race founder is my bestie @golden-heart-beats. Blog to document our progress on this over @cartoondragrace!

(Previous contestant/host promo looks - Bugs, Coilette, Phaggie Pattie, Violet, Katanya, Morning Rosewood)

[jaywonjuice]

📄🖇️ — without you ~ p.sh

pairing ex!sunghoon x gn reader (feat. bf!jay x gn reader)

genre non idol au, angst, crack (model!hoon ?!), oneshot

request summary: ✉️ sunghoon never moved on, but you did. you bump into your ex at a cafe, only for him to realise you’re here with… your new boyfriend.

warnings none ??

wc 945

a/n wow,, tysm for 100 followers !! :’) endlessly grateful for u all enjoying what i write <333

🎧 Without You — Oh Wonder

the smell of sweet syrups and ground coffee beans hung finely in the air. you inhaled deeply - you loved this cafe so much. the dark rosewood floors, the warm, open-bulb lighting; there was such a perfectly cosy atmosphere in this place that no other coffee shop in town could replicate, no matter how hard they seemed to try. you’d take it over a starbucks any day.

you’d managed to snag your favourite spot, an old, but extremely comfy, large grey sofa in the corner of the cafe. as you surveyed the rest of the shop, you noted how it was impressively busy for an ordinary tuesday morning in this small town, and you were glad to see business was doing so well. you felt a twinge of guilt.

no thanks to you. you hadn’t dropped by in quite some time now. not since the breakup. you and sunghoon used to come here for coffee at least once a week back when you were dating… anyway, it felt good to be back, at least.

‘y/n?’ a voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

you turned, eyes widening as you were greeted by sunghoon, standing at the end of the sofa. he looked good - great, even. in just a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans, he still managed, somehow, to look effortlessly put-together, as if he’d just strolled straight off a runway and through the doors of a coffee shop.

‘y/n,’ he repeated your name awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. ‘hey, it’s been a while... how are you?’

you did your best to push past your shock at seeing him again so unexpectedly, and forced a smile.

‘hoon! i’m doing good! how have you been?’ you gestured for him to sit, and he took the seat opposite you.

‘i’m not bad yeah, been working a lot.’ he set his iced latte down on the table in front of him. ‘no drink?’ he added with a slight eyebrow raise, nodding to the empty coaster in front of you.

‘i’m just waiting on it,’ you replied, tilting your head towards the collection point by the coffee machine at the end of the bar. your smile came a little more naturally now - sunghoon had always been so observant when the two of you were together.

‘you look great,’ he said, honestly. feeling his gaze on you, your cheeks flushed slightly. ‘uh, thanks. you too,’ you admitted after a moment. because he really did. you had to make an effort not to stare; the way his dark hair was styled parted, framing his face quite perfectly.

‘so you’re still working down the office then?’ you cleared your throat, changing the subject. you felt a stab of sympathy, knowing how much of a bore he’d always found his desk job.

‘actually, no,’ he smiled, stirring the ice around in his glass with his straw, causing it to clink softly. ‘i’m actually… modelling now,’ he glanced up and shot you a sheepish grin.

‘be serious,’ you replied, gawking in disbelief. ‘what?! how?’

‘i got cast just, y’know, on the street. some guy invited me to the agency, said i had the face for it,’ you thought he almost looked a little shy as he was telling you this. ‘i thought it was a bust at first, i almost didn’t go along, but… that was a few months ago now. i’ve had some bookings since then.’

you caught yourself with your mouth still hanging open in shock, and shut it quickly. you tried to gain a little composure. ‘who could’ve guessed: hoon the model,’ you teased, and he flashed a grin back at you before poking his tongue between his teeth cheekily.

‘oh, that’s it right there, that’s the face he must’ve been talking about!’ you laughed as sunghoon leaned into your teasing, continuing to make silly faces at you from across the coffee table.

when you’d finally managed to stop laughing, sunghoon smiled to himself, secretly pleased at how relaxed you still seemed around him even after all this time. he took a sip of his drink as he watched you glancing around the space that the two of you had spent so much time in together. he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t miss it. didn’t miss you.

‘and you?’ he prompted. ‘anything new and exciting going on in your life? any contenders to top my news?’

you looked down, suddenly feeling embarrassed. ‘uhm, not really. nothing much has really changed for me, except-’

‘here you go baby,’

a tall, angular young man with slicked back hair leaned down between the two of you, placing two mugs down on the table before sitting beside you on the sofa.

he slung an arm around your shoulder and kissed your cheek.

‘who’s your friend?’ he asked, with what sunghoon thought was an irritatingly charming smile.

‘um, jay, this is hoo- um, sunghoon, he’s an old friend, sunghoon, this is jay, my… boyfriend,’ you bit your lip hard, watching sunghoon’s expression carefully as you relayed this information to him.

for just a split second, you thought you saw hurt flash across his eyes. but then it was gone. he shook jay’s hand when it was offered, before promptly excusing himself. as he got up to leave, you caught his eye, and for just a moment he gave you a small, sad smile. and then he was gone, leaving you staring holes into his back as he exited the coffee shop.

‘swear i’ve seen him somewhere before,’ jay muttered, stirring a spoon around idly in his mug.

‘mm, he’s just got one of those faces,’ you murmured quietly.

a/n okay okay so hear me out: i have half a mind to make this into like a longer series, maybe a two/threeshot with slightly more action…? so if you’d be interested in that then let me know,,! ;)

TAGLIST ೃ⁀➷ @thejakeslayla @shawnyle

©jaywonjuice | do not copy or re-upload my work on any platform

[oneshotnewbie]

Spencer Hastings finding Reader on the ice doing her favorite sport to get her head off from the time they were kidnapped by A. Spencer knows that Reader is suffering the most

ᕚ---ᕘ

The winter darkness enveloped the streets of Rosewood in a silent, frosty embrace as Spencer began her search for you. The street lamps cast diffuse, yellowish shadows on the freshly fallen snow, which crunched beneath her boots. A chill that was not just from the weather permeated the young brunette as she pulled her jacket tighter around herself and lowered her head to shield her face from the icy wind.

You had withdrawn yourself since your release from A's dungeon, and she recognized a silence that was louder than any words. Spencer knew about the internal struggles that all of her friends had, including herself. However, it had hit you the hardest. The side effects of the trauma had intensified for you in the last few weeks and it was like you were trying to hide from the dark waves that were inexorably coming towards you.

She roamed the familiar streets, looking in cafés where you had spent quality time together and other places that were meaningful to you. But everywhere she looked, she found no trace of you. The snow began to fall thicker, the cold became sharper, but she did not give up. Spencer had to find you and show you that she was there for you before you destroyed yourself.

The cell phone in her pocket had remained silent since this morning. No message, no call from you even though there was not a day before the incident that you did not write her. Worry wrapped around the brunette like a heavy cloak; she knew the lonely depths you sometimes fell into when demons overwhelmed you.

Her breath puffed in the icy air as she walked faster, eyes searching intently for a clue. Finally, her instincts led her to a park where an ice skating rink was being built at the time. At night it looked like an enchanted winter landscape, embellished with large fairy lights. The snow covered the trees, the paths and the benches around it. And there, on the ice, you were skating around on your skates. Spencer's breath hitched when she saw you, wrapped in a beige coat, your hands fisted deep in your pockets. You stared at the cool ice beneath your feet, eyes empty and far from reality. The snow had accumulated millimeters thick on the ice, with fine lines in between that showed your path.

The eldest of the group approached slowly, cautiously as she tried to not make any abrupt movements that might startle you. Spencer carefully stood at the ring of the ice ring without saying a word. The cold seemed to fade at that moment as she felt the tension inside you slowly ease as you noticed her. "Hey Spenc. What are you doing here?“

"I am sorry for being so persistent in looking for you," Spencer began softly, her teeth chattering in the cold between each word. You did not react, keeping your gaze fixed on the ice as an uncomfortable silence hung between you. The brunette sighed until she finally found the courage to speak her thoughts, her worry casting a dark shadow over her voice. "I am worried about you, y/n. These last few days.. you were so absent, so far away like never before."

You flinched, barely noticeable, but it was enough for Spencer to let her know she was heard. She continued with her one-sided conversation. "I know you are going through an incredibly difficult time. Probably harder than any of us, judging by your injuries. And I just want you to know that I am here. That you are not alone , no matter how dark it feels."

Her words hung heavy in the cold air and you remained silent, but she felt your wall slowly crumble as you inched closer to her- a silent gesture of closeness and acceptance. "I can see the suffering in your eyes, y/n, and it breaks me to see you like this because I know how strong you usually are. But it is okay to not be strong as long as you open up to someone you love."

With those words, a single tear glistened on your cheek before you turned away, as if to prevent Spencer from seeing you. But she gently placed a hand on your upper arm, an attempt not to put any further distance between you. It was an attempt to provide comfort, even when words were not enough. "I will not force you to talk about it if you do not want to, but promise me you will not walk through this darkness alone. Promise me you will look for me for support and comfort when you need it. Please, y/ n. I can not bear to lose you like this."

"I am sorry, Spenc." You slowly lowered your gaze, your shoulders shaking slightly in a silent sob. It was a moment of opening, of allowing weakness in the midst of the strength Spencer gave you. "It is okay. But do not let yourself hang. I am here for you. Through better or worse," she quickly wrapped an arm around you and pulled you into a tight hug with a deep connection that spoke things that could not be said. In that moment, you felt the burden you had been carrying on your shoulder alone feel a little lighter.

[dujour13]

Owlcatober 20. Honor

Fandom: Wrath of the Righteous

Also on AO3

---

Shelyn, by your grace, let me not punch this man in the mouth.

Sosiel closed his burning eyes.

“Newly arrived and only survivor, eh?”

“I told you ten times. I. Wasn’t. Here.”

“Conveniently.” The Inquisitor didn’t even look at him. Just tapped his plume on the desk between them. Deliberately irritating.

“Listen. I’m not a cultist. I’m here to heal, not—” He couldn’t finish. A dry sob stuck in his chest, his grief igniting into rage. He flexed his hands.

“Would you believe that’s what they all say?” mocked the Inquisitor with a humorless smirk that vanished just as quickly beneath his mustache. “Where were you at the time of the attack?”

“I told you. I was at the City Day festival.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

Sosiel slumped deeper into his seat. He was exhausted, emptied out, lost. How much longer would they make him sit here in the Temple atrium while a few yards behind him he could hear the wet slap-swishing of caretakers mopping up bloodstains where his Shelynite brethren had been massacred? He took a breath against the nausea and grief. And anger. “I doubt it. There was one Garundi paladin I talked to—she offered me a beer but we hardly had time to talk before she was called off to tend to that injured man they brought in. I went to help but by that time Terendelev already had things in hand.”

“Seelah, I’ll wager.” said the paladin standing on guard beside the Inquisitor’s chair.

“And then?”

“I told you. When the demons attacked I helped as many of the injured as I could and led a few people back to the Temple. The Prioress told me to ride for Nerosyan. I didn’t want to—but I’m the least experienced healer.” He sighed. “So I was the one who had to go for help.”

“To go for help?” The Inquisitor leaned forward. “Or to lure the Queen into a trap?”

Enough.

Gripping the armrests of his chair white-knuckled Sosiel half-rose and leaned forward as well. Into headbutt range. “I already told you twice and you have the Queen’s clerk’s testimony. What more do you want?”

At that the paladin laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “I know Seelah. I’ll follow up with her. Everything else he says has been corroborated, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor narrowed his steely eyes at Sosiel, rapped his paperwork on the rosewood table and stood, the loud scraping of his chair like a threat. “Fine. I have enough on my hands already.”

Sosiel rubbed his face. He wanted to yell that he had enough on his hands too—burial arrangements, letters to families, reports to the High Temple in Nerosyan. Had the constant pressure of the Abyss squeezed every last drop of mercy from these people?

Perhaps not. When the Inquisitor had gone the paladin offered him a gauntleted hand up. “You handled that honorably. Let’s go.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Crusade camp. We’ll find Seelah and get this sorted,” she said kindly.

“Crusade?”

“That’s right. The Queen’s declared the Fifth Crusade.”

Now that was the best news he’d heard since the liberation of the Gray Garrison. Sosiel gathered his cloak and rose wearily, but with a new spark of hope. A Crusade was something he could get behind, and even better, something Trever could get behind. A chance to honor Shelyn by wiping the ugly stain of the Abyss off the face of Avistan.

(Not, he reminded himself, by wiping the smirk off the Inquisitor’s face. No. By the Eternal Rose’s grace he was past that now.)

The more he thought about it the surer he felt that it was only a matter of time before his brother showed up to pledge his sword to the Fifth Crusade, and then it would be the two of them—the Vaenic brothers—against the Abyss, and O the Abyss shall tremble!

As she walked at his side the paladin’s armor clinked. Sosiel closed his eyes a moment, and in his mind it was Trever, walking with him on the way to join the Fifth Crusade, sun glancing off their twin breastplates as if through a prism, casting rainbows across the smoke and ruin of Kenabres. The paladin and the priest, here to honor the sacrifice of Shelyn’s fallen by bringing beauty and kindness to the desolation of the Worldwound.

Their joyous reunion was close, he just knew it.

[ur-mag]

So Long Rosewood! See What the 'Pretty Little Liars' Cast Is Up to Now | In Trend Today

So Long Rosewood! See What the ‘Pretty Little Liars’ Cast Is Up to Now Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[mostlyinthemorning]

Oh, hello you!

You might not know that I have a couple of real live books (I'm still surprised about it, too!).

This Sweet Magic:

When Andrew unexpectedly inherits a commercial building from his estranged grandmother, he’s certain his problems have been solved. Once he sells the building, he’ll have the money to help his sister and start a new business. Or so he thinks, except one of his new tenants is determined to do everything he can to stand in Andrew’s way.

As Rosewood’s resident witch and self-appointed guardian, Damon spends his days baking cupcakes and casting charms to protect his friends and neighbours. Devastated by the death of his longtime mentor, his world is upended even further when his sexy new landlord’s plans threaten everything he holds dear.

But Andrew doesn’t believe in magic and Damon doesn’t understand the pressure that’s driving Andrew to sell Damon’s home. If they want to be together, they’ll have to let go of the past and share their secrets. Because sometimes, misunderstandings are magic.

Stick Handling:

This might be fashion journalist Devon Waters’ worst nightmare. Instead of interviewing the best and brightest from the runway, he’s forced to profile hockey star Jamie Bennett. But kind and confident Jamie is nothing like Devon expects and soon Devon is faced with another problem—how to finish his assignment without giving into Jamie’s charms. Or worse, falling in love.

If you buy the ebook of either This Sweet Magic or Stick Handling directly from me before the end of the year, you can get 50% off with coupon code: AZX3RLE3HQ

I can't give coupons for other retailers but if you can find both This Sweet Magic or Stick Handling at your usual retailers as well.

Happy holidays!

[multifandomfix]

Zelda Spellman Fluff Alphabet

A = Aroma (What do they smell like?)

Zelda smells of rosewood and patchouli.

B = Babe (What would they use as pet names? Do they use them a lot?)

Darling and dearest are often used when she wants something from you. She uses pet names on a regular basis, but usually when the two of you are alone.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Sometimes, when she’s in the mood for them, then hell yes she’s a cuddler, but when she’s not feeling it, best keep your distance.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? What would they think about living together?)

She wouldn’t mind settling down, though she does fear that will make her seem old.

E = Emotion (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

She’s affectionate in subtle ways. A whispered praise, a quick peck on the cheek. She doesn’t like to make a whole public display of it.

F = Flirt (How do they flirt? Are they smooth or awkward?)

She’s an incredibly smooth flirt. Direct and seductive.

G = Gifts (Are they a gift giver? What kind of gifts do they give?)

She’s not a huge gift giver, though boy oh boy does she love being on the receiving end. She’ll occasionally buy you flowers and the occasional surprise gift.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

She’s alright with hugs, and she does give good ones, but they’re not near the top of the list on her favorite types of affection.

I = I Love You (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It’ll take a while to get that out of her. She might be thinking and feeling it, but it does take some time for her to admit it to herself, and even longer to say it to you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

She can get majorly jealous. She’ll snap at whoever brings out the jealousy in her and it can be amusing to watch. She gets all red in the face and kind of possessive.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you?)

Zelda’s kisses are generally very passionate when it’s just the two of you. When around others, she tends to let it be more casual and chaste.

L = Little ones (How are they around children? Would they want some of their own?)

She’s good with children, though doesn’t often consider having her own, considering how Sabrina is such a handful. But she could be reminded of their better points and be convinced to give it a go with you to help out.

M = Meet (How did they meet you?)

She met you in the woods. She was preparing for a celebration with the church of night and you were out picking herbs and flowers. You caught her eye, smiled and she struck up a conversation.

N = Nurture (Are they good at taking care of you if you’re hurt/sick?)

She can be, though she often assigns that sort of thing to Hilda, who is better at it. She’d want you to have the best care possible, rather than her care.

O = Out (What’s a typical date night with them like?)

Candles, an incredible meal and slow dancing to an old record. Classic romance, but perhaps with a bit of a darker twist.

P = Propose (When do you/they propose? How does the proposal go?)

You propose the night before her birthday. She’s so busy worrying about what her family will have planned for her that she doesn’t see it coming. Though she does graciously and tearfully accept.

Q = Quirk (What small habit/feature/quirk do they have that you find especially endearing?)

The way she pays so much time and attention on her appearance when she has such natural beauty already. Watching her put on her makeup or choose an outfit is an art form that you never get tired of seeing.

R = Routine (What does a typical day together look like? Routines, schedules, habits?)

Your bedtime routine often involves you helping her unwind, which she is eternally grateful for.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you?)

She can be protective, casting spells to help ensure your safety or having Hilda keep an eye on you when she can’t.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, etc?)

She can really go all out if she has a mind to. She’ll plan everything down to the last detail to impress you, not that she has any need to go to so much trouble.

U = Unique (What’s something they’d only do for you?)

Wear pink. She is adamant that pink is not her color, and she’s right, but if for some reason you wanted to see her in it, she’d begrudgingly oblige.

V = Vulnerable (How long does it take them to feel comfortable being vulnerable around you?)

It’s definitely going to take Zelda a while to really open up to you. She can be fairly closed off until she gets to know someone.

W = Wardrobe (What would they wear to impress you?)

A suit. You’ve seen her don a million beautiful dresses and skirts, so if she really wants to blow you away she’d do it with a designer pantsuit.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Zelda isn’t a morning person. You don’t dare wake her until she’s good and ready to get up on her own.

Y = You (What are some things they would like in a partner?)

Zelda wants someone who won’t threaten her independence. She still wants to maintain her own life and interests outside of the relationship and if you can’t get on board with that, she’s out.

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

Zelda can be a deep sleeper, and she does on occasion softly snore. She’d deny it if accused, but it’s that kind of snoring that is more cute than bothersome.

For @zennyreadsbooks

Zelda Spellman (CAOS): @derry-n, @riveranddoctorsong123, @jona-lea, @allthemoresapphic, @akeldamasemele, @320viada, @theroyalgaymess, @lady-darkswan3

[theoutcastrogue]

19th century Sheffield bowie knives

A HUNTING KNIFE, JOSEPH RODGERS & SONS CUTLERS TO HER MAJESTY, SHEFFIELD, CIRCA 1860 with tapering blade formed with a spear point, stamped with the maker’s details on one face, and ‘The Hunter’s Companion’ in script, rectangular ricasso struck with star and cross mark, German silver hilt comprising recurved quillons with flattened scrolling terminals, cap pommel (fitted with later copper alloy oval), and spirally-bound fishskin-covered grip, in its leather scabbard with German silver chape and locket, the latter with a belt hook, 23.5 cm blade

A HUNTING KNIFE FOR THE AMERICAN MARKET, MAPPIN & WEBB, SHEFFIELD, CIRCA 1880 with robust blade formed with a clipped-back point with false swage, notched at the forte, stamped ‘Celebrated American Hunting Knife’ in capital letters, ‘Self Defender’ in script on a scroll, rectangular ricasso stamped with the maker’s name and ‘Trustworthy’ on one face of the ricasso and ‘US’ on the other, German silver oval cross-piece and chequered horn scales retained by six rivets, in its German silver mounted leather scabbard with locket and chape each engraved with groups of three lines, and the former with a stud for suspension, 25.3 cm blade

A BOWIE KNIFE, LATE 19TH CENTURY with single-edged blade formed with a pronounced clipped-back point, etched with a Federal eagle and inscriptions on one face including ‘America The Land of Freedom’ and 'The Patriot’s Self Defender’, recessed ricasso stamped ‘Best Quality Rough & Ready’ German silver guard, ferrule and pommel, the latter chased with flowers, and rosewood grip, in its tooled leather scabbard, 19.8 cm blade

A SMALL BOWIE KNIFE, JONATHAN CROOKES, SHEFFIELD, LATE 19TH CENTURY with broad blade formed with a clipped-back point, recessed rectangular ricasso struck with the maker’s name and heart and pistol mark, German silver hilt comprising recurved guard, ferrule and pommel each decorated with scrolling foliage in low relief, and mother-of-pearl grip, in its German silver mounted leather scabbard with belt loop,14.5 cm blade

A BOWIE KNIFE, JONATHAN CROOKES, CIRCA 1880 with straight blade formed with a clipped-back point, slightly recessed rectangular ricasso signed by the maker and with heart and pistol mark, and natural staghorn grips (perhaps an early replacement), 15.3 cm blade

A BOWIE KNIFE, JOSEPH RODGERS & SONS, CUTLERS TO THEIR MAJESTIES, NO. 6 NORFOLK STREET, SHEFFIELD, LAST QUARTER OF THE 19TH CENTURY with broad blade formed with a clipped-back point, struck with the maker’s details and star and cross mark on one face (small areas of light pitting), oval German silver guard, and natural staghorn scales retained by five rivets, in its leather scabbard with large German silver locket and chape, 20.8 cm blade

A DAGGER, MARKED MAZEPPA, PROBABLY SAMUEL HANCOCK & SONS, LATE 19TH CENTURY with broad blade formed with a clipped-back point, recessed ricasso struck with a figure strapped to a horse’s back and ‘Mazeppa’ on one face, German silver hilt cast in low relief, comprising guard and pommel decorated with scrolls, milled copper alloy fillers and hardwood scales, in its tooled and gilt leather scabbard,17.2 cm blade

A BOWIE KNIFE, LINGARD, PEACROFT, SHEFFIELD, PROBABLY 1870 with single-edged blade formed with a clipped-back point and part swaged back-edge, rectangular ricasso stamped ‘Lingards Celebrated Bowie Knife Pea Croft, Sheffield’, German silver hilt comprising two-piece guard and pommel each cast with scrolls and foliage in low relief, brass fillets, staghorn scales, and vacant German silver escutcheon, 21.0 cm blade

AN ARKANSAS BOWIE KNIFE, MORTON & SON, SHEFFIELD, CIRCA 1850-60 with tapering blade of flattened-diamond section, recessed rectangular ricasso struck with the maker’s details (worn, partly illegible), German silver hilt comprising ‘split’ cross-guard and two-piece pommel each decorated with scrolls and foliage in low relief, and a pair of small bone scales retained by two rivets, 22.7 cm blade

A BOWIE KNIFE, WRAGG & SONS, SOLLY ST, MID-19TH CENTURY with broad double-edged blade, recessed ricasso signed in small stamped letters, German silver cross-piece and pommel, the latter cast with an alligator-horse on each face, and horn scales (restorations), in its tooled and gilt leather scabbard with German silver mounts, 30.8 cm blade

tinyurl.com/yr4hd4pr