#to the writing board teehee

[heartfeltcherie]

you know what? i’m tired of reading fics about lucifer that portray him as awkward and shy and stutters with every sentence (not that i’m saying he wouldn’t)

but did you guys see his confidence in the finale?

the way he talked to adam about stealing his two wives?

or even singing his part in “hell’s greatest dad”

or when he says “charmed, i’m sure” in that voice

i need more fics with him being, i dunno… cocky? confident?

[anonymocha]

I finished it. Get your juice. I can't say if it's good or not tho :(

I DRANK IT.... I DRANK IT ALL... TYSM....

AND ITS GOOD TRUST 🥹🥹🥹💗💗💗❣️❣️💗💗❣️‼️‼️‼️ I LOVE IT VERY MUCH... I adore the way you present your characters. It's both concise but also has a layer of underlying deep characterization which I am a fan of... (Meanwhile my writing style is brainvomit /neu).

[pettyprocrastination]

its just hitting me that I am now on the editorial staff for a literary journal. 

what the fuck 

[kamen-fox-258]

how self indulgent can i get with my geats ar world before people start getting annoyed /hj

[simstoyourdismay]

need to create one singular google doc full of lore for equi/cholia because it’s spread throughout so many different mediums and it’s stressing me out!!!

[cerealmonster15]

Hsdagahsvsv ye . I was like oh hey ik that guy they wrote that cool jamiazu fic... And that other cool jamiazu fic... jdgehd can u tell i like jamiazu

god u🤝 me -> liking jamiazu fjksdlfjdslkjfkldjKLJFDSKLJFKL LOL im honored u like my jamiazus i love writing them 🫡 literally found a way to put in background jamiazu in this idikei fic im working on Right Now bc. well. how can i not, truly

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Safer to Kiss (part 2) - Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

read part 1 here!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 3236

Summary: the day after drunkenly kissing your best friend and coworker, Spencer Reid, the BAU catches a case. Lots of talking with other members of the team, general group dynamic chaos, and ✨Pining✨

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, normal Criminal Minds violence, maybe some mild cursing? Mostly just pining teehee

A/N: thank you so much to everyone who interacted with part 1! I am so pumped about this lil series, and part 3 is already started 🙈 I love love LOVE hearing from you guys, it makes me so happy and inspired to continue writing. 🥹 also not my gif, all credit to the owner bc LOOK AT HIS LIL FACE

————

Spencer’s hands were on your hips. Spencer’s hands were on your hips. Suddenly the three glasses of wine and 2 glasses of champagne were null and void, because you felt completely sobered by the time your mouth pulled away from his. The reality of the situation hit you like a bus - you, in a drunken stupor, had stupidly, idiotically, irreversibly kissed your best friend. Right on the lips. There was no excusing it as a friendly peck on the cheek.

Your entire face felt hot as you pulled away, and as Spencer’s hands retracted to his own space. You felt wobbly - okay, maybe you hadn’t sobered up - and when you were once again leaning against the railing of the stairs on your apartment building’s stoop, you blinked a few times.

Spencer blinked a few times, too, as if to process what had just happened. He’d tasted like red wine, which you saw he’d only had one single glass of tonight, and spearmint gum. The combination reminded you of spring.

Your best friend tasted like spring.

Your eyes widened, buggy, as if they might pop out of your head, and you opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Spencer spoke instead, with an earnest expression on his face. “Y/N-“

“Thanks for getting me home in one piece, okay, goodnight!” You rambled off, the words sliding off your tongue like they were on a luge, all blurring together into one, long megaword. You slid in behind the door and stumbled up to your unit before you could say another word.

You couldn’t believe yourself, replaying the moment on your stoop over and over as you locked the door, leaning against it and running your hand over your face. Spencer’s expression had been completely dumbfounded when you pulled away from the kiss. There was no doubt in your mind that he had been about to politely reject you, in that way that only he could do. I’m sorry, Y/N, but I think we’re better off as friends, he would say, simultaneously humiliating you and ripping your heart in half.

That’s why you’d cut him off, before he could say anything, before he could address the situation, before either of you had to acknowledge that it had actually happened.

You slept poorly that night, your anxiety getting the best of you. It was that look on Spencer’s face, how you just knew he was going to tell you in the kindest, most sensitive tone that he didn’t like that you kissed him. And your Nan’s voice ringing in your head - You’ll find someone someday, Button. You’ll be just as happy as your sister someday, Button.

You tossed and turned, and woke up with a violent hangover. All the coffee in the world was not enough to cure the aftershock of the night before.

Your stomach was in knots, a lethal combination of hangover ickies and irreversible mistake anxiety, and as you took a cab to work, you leaned your head against the seat behind you.

You flashed your badge to security and boarded the elevator to ride up to the sixth floor. The doors opened to reveal Penelope Garcia, clutching a stack of folders to her chest, waiting for you.

“Good morning, pumpkin,” Penelope flashed a smile, then grabbed you by the wrist, practically yanking you along behind her as she headed towards the conference room. Your head was pounding and while you loved Penelope with all your heart, in that moment, you wanted to throttle her. “You look horrible. We’ll discuss that later, and don’t even think about trying to internalize it and brush me off. I might not be a super magic genius psychic profiler, but I can tell when one of my love-bugs has had a wild night and I want details. Unfortunately for you, darling, you have a case. Hotch asked me to pull you directly into the conference room. Everyone’s waiting.”

Usually, when Penelope rambled on like that, you were able to keep up. In this weakened state, however, the words hit you like someone throwing putty against a wall, and it took a minute to process. You found yourself standing in front of the closed door of the conference room, with slackened posture and narrowed eyes. “Okay,” you managed to murmur before Penelope dragged you behind her, into the conference room.

You could feel the team’s eyes on you as you slumped into the empty seat. You avoided eye contact with everyone, especially Spencer, projecting to the room that you were not to be asked about your disheveled appearance and obvious headache. You spared a glance at Spencer. He looked perfect, as per freakin’ usual, with a purple button-up dress shirt and a dark tie over it. He sat up straight in his desk chair, as if last night hadn’t affected him in the slightest. You hated that.

Hotchner cleared his throat. “Let’s begin. Garcia?”

Penelope’s eyes lingered on you, fluttering from you to Spencer, and you watched as she seemed to resist the urge to say anything. “Ooookay,” she spoke, drawing the word out as she stood before the table. She used the TV remote to present the case’s info on the monitor. “We’ve got a local case today, my fine furry friends. Three men killed in three weeks,” you took a drink of the water in front of you as Penelope presented three driver’s license photos on the TV screen. “All bodies have been identified. Twenty-three-year-old Harvey Gibson, twenty-nine-year-old Kyle Moore, and twenty-eight-year-old Malcolm Greene. All three were found in alleys in downtown D.C, cause of death multiple stab wounds to the chest, stomach, and genitals.”

You choked on your water when you saw the last photo. Malcolm Greene, as in, Malcolm Greene, the guy you spoke to last night at the art gallery? You remembered spotting him from across the room, and thinking about how Spencer had said he’d gone on a date (albeit, an unsuccessful one) over the weekend, and you wanted to prove to yourself that you could be interested in other men. And then you’d gone over to Malcolm, spoke to him for an embarrassing two minutes and twelve seconds, and walked back to Spencer with a red face. And now he was dead?

Concerns about your relationship with your best friend aside, your eyes met Spencer’s across the conference table and the two of you seemed, for a moment, to fall back into your old dynamic, having a somewhat telepathic conversation with just your expressions.

That’s the guy…? Spencer seemed to say, his brows furrowed slightly.

A subtle bob of your head was how you responded. Yep, that’s him.

Spencer’s mouth formed a straight line, a mannerism that everyone around the table seemed to notice.

“Reid, Y/L/N, what’s going on?” Derek piped up, inclining his head to the side curiously. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”

Spencer’s mouth opened as if he were about to spill the beans, but he paused, seemingly deciding not to rattle off whatever he was going to say. Instead, he gestured to you.

“Spencer and I went to an art gallery after work last night,” you sighed, feeling your cheeks turn pink. “I may have… flirted, briefly, with Malcolm Greene.”

Derek let out a low whistle, and you saw Emily and JJ share an amused look. Rossi was even cracking a smirk.

Only Hotch remained as stoic as ever. “How long did you speak with him?” He asked.

“Two minutes, twelve seconds,” you and Spencer said simultaneously, and your eyes snapped to his across the table. You swallowed the lump in your throat and somehow felt your whole face turn even redder.

“Some smooth-talker you are,” Derek snickered, and you shot him a glare. Penelope, standing behind him, smacked his shoulder. “Did you get his digits that fast?”

“I don’t really see how that’s pertinent to the case,” you protested, sitting up straight and crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s just like any other witness interview, Y/N,” Hotch reminded you calmly, shooting the rest of the team a warning glance. “Even the most minute detail could help.” He seemed to realize that you were humiliated, and that the rest of the team’s eyes on you were not helping the situation. “We can talk about it later,” he compromised.

“So, multiple stab wounds to the chest, stomach, and genitals, huh?” Rossi offered as a rough transition back to the topic at hand. Across the table, you heard Emily stifle a laugh.

“Yes, sir. All bodies were posed in a classic casket fashion, arms folded across their chests, eyes closed,” Penelope reported.

“Sign of remorse,” JJ noted, jotting it down on her pad of paper.

“Any cash missing from their wallets, or jewelry missing off their body?” Hotchner asked.

“No, sir, all wallets were found in the clothes of the victims, presumably where they had been kept untouched,” Penelope answered.

“So, not a robbery gone wrong,” Rossi concluded.

“The disposal of the bodies feels inconsistent with the cause of death,” Spencer pointed out, twirling his pen around his finger. His cadence was quick and pensive. “Multiple stab wounds to those particular areas of the body indicate intense rage at the time of the murder, disposing them in alleyways seems to be a choice of opportunity and convenience, but posing the bodies is a sign of remorse, like the UnSub suddenly realizes what he’s done and regrets it.”

“Do the victims have any friends or family in common?” You asked, crossing your ankles beneath the table.

“As far as my preliminary scans can tell, all three men were completely unrelated,” Penelope said. “The only common denominator is how they died and how their bodies were disposed of.”

“Not entirely,” Emily pointed out, standing up and using her pen as a pointer, gesturing to the three ID photos on the screen.

“Don’t these guys all look… strikingly similar?” Emily proposed. All men were white, with aquiline noses, dark hair, and dark eyes. “In fact, don’t they all look exactly like someone we know?”

You took in a sharp breath, just as Penelope let out a small gasp and Derek let out a soft chuckle. “They’re all pretty boys, like Pretty Boy,” Derek laughed.

“So our UnSub has a type,” JJ added.

Derek smirked. “The UnSub and Y/N both have a type.”

Your face turned bright red, and your jaw tensed. You felt Spencer’s eyes on you for a fleeting moment, and before you could say anything, Hotchner stepped in. “Let’s get going on this. Reid, JJ, and Morgan, I want you at the crime scene. Prentiss, Rossi, and Y/L/N, come with me to the local police precinct and interview family and friends. Garcia, too.”

There was an array of agreements murmured, and everyone began to disperse. You wanted to shake Derek by the shoulders for his little comment, especially after all the teasing you took when you realized the man you briefly spoke to last night was now dead.

You were on your way back to your desk when you felt a light touch on your elbow. When you saw it was Spencer, you bit the inside of your cheek. “Can we talk for a second?” He asked, and you shook your head.

Pointing pathetically to your desk, you responded, rather articulately, with, “The case…”

“Yeah, I know. The case. But, Y/N, we have to talk about last night,” Spencer said, looking down at you. Even though you were actually tall for a woman, Spencer still had at least four inches of height on you. Maybe five. “I mean, you just, like, escaped from me the first second that you could. Was it…?”

You furrowed your brows, confused as to what Spencer was trying to say. “Did you mean to kiss me?” He asked.

This was it. This was the out. He was giving it to you, whether he knew it or not. This was the opportunity to take it all back, to say it was a mistake. You could blame it on the wine, on your Nan’s phone call, on Malcolm - what was he gonna do, sell you out?

The chance to save your friendship with Spencer Reid was right there, and you stood there and you looked up at Spencer with your mouth open, words ready to spill out, when -

“Hey, Reid, you coming, man?”

Saved by the Morgan.

You saw Spencer’s jaw tighten, and he exhaled sharply. You were still frozen, unsure of what to say, of how to say it, so when Spencer simply frowned at you and then turned around to join Derek, you weren’t surprised.

You ran your hands over your face, still reeling, foggy from your hangover, thoroughly embarrassed from the entire situation.

“Y/N,” Rossi’s voice piped up, and you turned to see him with an arched brow. “C’mon, we gotta get going,” he gestured for you to follow him.

You sighed, your shoulders slumped, as you joined Rossi. You boarded the elevator with him, just the two of you, to head down to one of the Bureau’s black SUVs. “What’s going on with you?” Rossi asked, furrowing his brows.

In terms of group dynamics, David Rossi was like the team’s mother, in comparison to Hotchner, who was most certainly the patriarch of the BAU. You loved Rossi. He was kind, fairly level-headed, and he always stuck his neck out for the people he cared about. He also was pretty funny, and could make a killer lasagna. All those merits aside, you so did not want to talk about it.

“Not right now, Dave,” you shook your head, leaning against the wall of the elevator, running your palms down your thighs.

Rossi nodded understandingly, but you had an inkling he wasn’t about to just drop it. “I get it. Hungover, in a weird spot with Reid-“

“I’m not in a weird spot with Reid,” you corrected him, and Rossi smirked, knowing he had gotten you to crack. You shot him a (mostly) playful glare. “I had maybe a little too much to drink last night. And I maybe had, accidentally, perhaps…” you groaned, rolling your eyes at the idiocy of your actions the night before. “I kissed Spencer last night. It only lasted for, like, a minute, and right when it was over, I freaked out and went inside my apartment, and now things are just, like, weird between us. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, kiddo,” Rossi began, and you pursed your lips. He always hit you with a kiddo when he was about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear. “As a person who has been with many romantic partners-“

You feigned a gag.

Rossi just chuckled and continued. “I think you have to ask yourself - how do you want Spencer to react? Would you prefer to bury this and never speak of it again, or is this the catalyst you needed to finally tell him how you feel?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, tell him how I feel?” You asked, playing dumb. Maybe Rossi was just grasping at straws.

“Oh, c’mon, kid, we’ve all seen how you look at each other. The only person who doesn’t know that you’re in love with Spencer is, well, Spencer.”

You felt your entire face flush. “You’re not serious,” you chuckled in disbelief.

Rossi looked at you and batted his eyelashes in a very feminine expression. The expression dropped and he said, “You make this lovestruck school girl expression at him at least once a day.”

“I do not!” You crossed your arms over your chest defensively, just as the elevator dinged, signaling your arrival to the Quantico lobby.

“Yeah, kid, you do. It’s pretty cute, actually. You’re like two lovesick puppies, chasing each other’s tails.”

“He does not think of me like that, Rossi,” you insisted indignantly, your voice taking a more hushed tone as the two of you walked at the same quick pace through the lobby, and outside towards the garage of Bureau vehicles.

The sun hit your face just as Rossi spoke again. “You’re such a good profiler, Y/N. How do you not see it?”

You decided not to dignify Rossi’s opinion with a response. Rather, you just shook your head and continued towards the garage to meet up with Prentiss and Garcia.

When you arrived at the police precinct, Garcia set up in the conference room, and you, Emily and Rossi each took turns interviewing the next of kin for the victims. You interviewed the mother of the first victim, Harvey Gibson.

An art student at Georgetown, steady boyfriend for three years he planned to propose to on Christmas, no criminal record, called his mother every other day. He was a good kid. Comforting his mother, walking her through all the questions the police had asked her three weeks ago — it was always a lot. But with your head already fuzzy and your mind on other Reid-related things, by the time you escorted Mrs. Gibson out of the police station and thanked her for her time, you felt heavy.

It didn’t help when the team reconvened about an hour later, sitting around a conference room at the local police station. You could tell Spencer’s eyes were floating to yours every so often, but you refused to meet them. You were working right now. You couldn’t let the revelation with Rossi distract you from your job.

Penelope took the lead, addressing the entire team. “So, our original thought of the three victims being unrelated actually has turned out to be incorrect,” she began. “Not only do all three of our victims look alike, but they all visited the same art gallery twenty-four hours prior to their murders.”

“Not the one we went to last night?” Spencer asked.

“No,” Penelope clarified. “From Emily’s discussion with Malcolm Greene’s brother, along with tracking the location of the other two victims’ cell phones prior to their deaths, we can determine that all three victims visited a different art gallery - The Restful Owl, just two blocks over from where you and Y/N went last night.”

“So, the victims all meet a certain physical description,” JJ recapped. “Brown hair, brown eyes, early-to-late twenties, and all visited The Restful Owl art gallery.”

“The gallery seems like a solid lead,” Hotch agreed. “All three victims were interested in art in some capacity - Harvey Gibson was studying art, Kyle Moore worked at an art museum, Malcolm Greene was a collector.”

“Perhaps the ruse the UnSub used was related to a particular piece or artist,” Spencer proposed, wrapping and unwrapping his fingers around his pen. “We should get the security tapes from each victim’s visit to the gallery, observe who they spoke to, how they reacted to specific pieces. Maybe the UnSub lured these men to the sites of their deaths by promising them a deal on a work, or something of the sort.”

“Good idea,” said Hotchner. “Prentiss, Morgan, follow up with the gallery. If there’s a specific person or piece all three victims stopped to interact with, I think our next step is pretty clear.”

“What’s that?” Penelope asked.

“We send in someone who just so happens to be exactly the UnSub’s type to the art gallery as bait,” Rossi concluded.

All eyes, including yours, moved across the table, landing on Spencer.

[photo1030]

Heyyy I have a suggestion to make it’s kinda stupid whatever so it takes place at the mayor’s party where Arthur Morgan and Dutch is meeting mr Bronte and reader come running to Mr Bronte for some random reason and sense she’s wearing a corset she can’t get all the air in her lungs AND SHE PAST OUT so Arthur or Dutch (I LUV THEM BOTH teehee) gotta RIPS her out the corset.. that’s all I got LOVE YOUR WRITING BTWW MWAH! ❤️❤️❤️

Hi there @lizzie2980 So sorry this has taken me forever. Thank you for being so kind and patient (and hopefully still interested?) This was a great prompt, had a lot of fun with this one.

This is a bit out of the canon story, hopefully that is OK. This is a little bit of flirty and protective Arthur, with a smidge of charming Dutch in there...lovely combo, if you ask me....which you did...(This is not part of my existing fic, Leather and Lace, btw)

(The images used here were found on a lovely blog that is apparently designed to help fanworks. Check it out! Thank you to whoever put that together. https://reddeadreference.tumblr.com/post/679731317406072832/the-gilded-cage )

*Special thanks to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

DON’T MAKE A SCENE 

Summary:  You are at Angelo Bronte’s house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.

Your hands clamp down tighter as the plump elderly matron apologetically yanks the strings of the restrictive corset. Nails of already shaky fingers dig into the wooden bedpost that you use to support yourself with as you stand on wavering feet. You wince on the verge of painful tears as Bridget stands behind you and pulls the threads of the already too tight garment even tighter still, testing the limits of its stitching and causing a gasp to quickly get sucked into your folded-up lungs with each pull.

Sunset has already begun, the brilliant orange disc settling itself softly behind the horizon line for the day, and your room slowly dims to a pastel dusk as you get ready, the wall sconces glowing against the ivory painted walls of your lavish private quarters inside Angelo Bronte’s mansion. The garden party below will be starting any minute, and the shadows that dance along the walls inside the house mask the dread inside your chest. It is as if your hope and spirit are diminishing with the quickly-fading sun. You are hoping that Bridget doesn’t see the trepidation creeping into your expression as she flits about you, but the older woman is too shrewd for that. 

“You know...Mr. Bronte…he isn’t going to wait much longer for you”, she murmurs as her weathered fingers begin to run over your frame, smoothing out the fabric of your dress, picking at errant threads. “He will eventually want what he feels he is due.”

The obvious statement hits your gut like a prize-fighter’s punch. “I know,” you utter with a dejected sigh, your voice almost a whimper in the air.

The thought of the man’s pock-marked, oily skin against your own makes you sick to your stomach. It would be like a vile lizard rubbing up against you. 

But Bridget is not unsympathetic to your situation. She is definitely a woman of experienced years, as the graying hair of her loosely tied-up bun gives testament to. And she knows a thing or two from her twenty-some years in service to upper-society households. 

“You know, sometimes when you’re a woman, you just have to do what you have to do. Close your eyes and let your mind go somewhere else when it’s happening.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air as if speaking about the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “Just tune it all out, let the man have his way, and then it will all be over quickly. In fact, it’s usually over quicker than you think.” She gives you a whimsical wink as a sharp cackle snaps out of her throat at her own joke. Whether Bridget is speaking specifically about Bronte, or any man for that matter, you are not sure, as this seems to have the feel of a rehearsed speech she has given many times over.

When Bridget sees the distaste of such a thing clearly coating your face as you silently stand there with your hands fidgeting over themselves, she continues.

“If you’re clever enough, you could let him have what he wants, but then have something for yourself on the side, you know.” 

Your eyes immediately shoot up to hers to find that knowing twinkle in her eye. The thought causes a humorless huff from your lips. 

“I can barely manage to look after myself, Bridget. I couldn’t manage that cat-and-mouse game.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and continues to primp and preen your outfit. 

Despite the odd advice, you are grateful for Bridget’s counsel. She is the only friend you have here in Angelo Bronte’s mansion. You are not a hostage per se, but he has made his opinions very clear on how he feels about a woman, especially one indebted to him, leaving the premises to socialize without him as your escort and chaperone; so improper, so ungrateful. 

It is especially warm tonight on the evening of the garden party that Mr. Bronte has been planning for weeks now. The whole household buzzes with excitement and anticipation for the fancy event, despite the sweltering weather. St. Denis is dreadfully hot and muggy, making it difficult to breathe on a good day. You’re not used to such heat. You come from the northern state of Massachusetts, which is much cooler. The heat here is bad enough, but the humidity clings to the air like a wet blanket. 

And this damn dress doesn’t help in the slightest. 

The dress that Angelo Bronte hand-picked for you to wear tonight is way too tight, making you lightheaded already. You watch in the full-length mirror as the constricting fabric pulls your body into shape under Bridget’s strong, able fingers, transforming your voluptuous figure into an hourglass. A deep midnight blue hued fabric that shimmers in the light is cut to hug and accent your physique, leaving little to the imagination of the observer. 

If the origins of the dress weren’t so distasteful, you may have very well liked the beautiful gown that currently clings to your form and drapes over your hips in a cascade of silk. But you know Bronte did not provide this gown to please you. No, he did it for his own inflated ego. Bronte will parade you around tonight like a prized horse out of his stable, showing you off to all in tonight’s attendance. And he’ll treat you as such too - like something he’s purchased and owns outright.

You curse yourself for letting yourself get into this situation. You hate that you have to rely on this man for a place to live. You arrived new to St. Denis a month ago and were promptly robbed upon arrival, leaving you with nothing. So much for civilization. 

Bronte noticed you at the train station, frazzled and lost, and totally beside yourself as to what you would do now. You came here with no relatives, no contacts, just the promise of jobs and new adventure out West from an ad you saw in the newspaper back home. The man quickly made your acquaintance, preying like a vulture on your vulnerable situation. He was charming with a note of authority, like he knew exactly what to do and where to go. But it quickly became apparent that he offered you his home as a sanctuary in hopes to win your affections. You’ve managed to play coy for awhile, however, agreeing to be on his arm and accompany him to various social functions in town in exchange for residency in his home. But you have denied the man what he wants most - you in his bed. 

An involuntary sigh passes your cherry lips as Bridget takes your hand in hers, patting it in the same way a grandmother comforts her troubled grandchild, and leads you to the vanity along the opposite wall so she can set your hair. Your body mindlessly drifts to the tapestry-padded stool, like a lost flower petal in the wind, void of any energy or enthusiasm. 

Bridget’s nimble fingers curl your hair and pin it back to showcase your pretty face, adding in beautiful crystal clips for decoration and she even weaves a few flower buds from the garden into your locks. You sit silently in front of the vanity mirror with a blank stare, a melancholy overtaking your soul as you watch her prepare you to be the perfect accessory to the rich man’s life. The motherly woman’s presence comforts you, but she is also serving you up to the master of the house like a slice of beef on a silver platter for him to devour. 

“There, now. Don’t you just look breathtaking?” she breaths in awe. The deep-set lines around Bridget’s hazel-colored eyes crinkle as she admires her masterpiece. Your eyes refocus to catch the old woman’s proud gaze in the mirror, and then back over your own reflection.

“Yes, Bridget,” you whisper with a sad smile, your lower lip quivering just slightly. “You did a fine job. Thank you for your help tonight.” She catches the reluctance in your fluttering eyes and can only nod in agreement. She lovingly pats your arm in an attempt to comfort your growing uneasiness. 

“Well, I had better get downstairs and tend to the kitchen, then. Don’t hide up here too long, miss.” And she wipes her hands on her apron as her wide hips carry her to the bedroom door before she slips out and you are alone with your thoughts once again. 

With a deep sigh, you haul yourself up to stand. You swish the heavy fabric of your dress-skirts to the side to allow you to amble over to the balcony doors of your private room. Pulling the double-doors open wide with both hands, you step out onto the freshly painted wood as a rush of humid air hits you like a wall, causing you to take a brief pause to try to catch your breath. Your hands eventually find their place upon the smooth railing as you step up to the edge to look out over the balcony at the garden party below. 

Jovial music floats up to your ears from the string quartet that is playing on the patio beneath you. String lights delicately criss-cross over the open garden area, resembling a net that has caught a thousand fire-flies. Bronte’s guests have already started to arrive and their chatter fills the air, alternating with the clinks of champagne flutes. You casually observe as greedy fingers grab at the delectable food and free alcohol that is meticulously displayed along elegant tables that dot across the property, the delicious aromas wafting through the evening air. 

The scene laid out before you is like a page out of the society section of the newspapers. Always over-the-top, always impressive, Angelo Bronte spares no expense in his functions. Decadent food, expensive wines, extravagant decor. Always to impress the upper echelon of society. And yet, you have no desire to mingle with the high-society of St. Denis. From what you’ve seen, it’s hardly impressive to you. 

You watch with disinterest over the crowd, observing from the elevated vantage point as people collect in small groups, then turn to whisper to each other like conniving socal piranhas the moment one of the fold turns to leave to join another circle. With a scornful roll of your eyes, you have no idea how you are going to make it through this evening unscathed. 

And then, a collection of unknown men catch your eye. You’ve never seen them in Bronte’s circle before. And they clearly don’t belong. Under closer observation, this is an assembly of rugged looking gentlemen, a sharp contrast to the other guests in attendance tonight. Though they may have donned fancy tuxedos and hats, the way they carry themselves indicates they are not used to wearing such garb. Their eyes nervously shift all around instead of at whoever is addressing them as if more interested in what is happening around them rather than trying to assert social connections. Your bottom lip gets pulled between your teeth as your curious gaze lingers on them, trying to determine if they were invited or snuck in with the crowd.

As if he can feel your eye on him with the sixth sense of a trained outlaw, Arthur instinctively looks away from the men he is standing with and looks up towards the balcony of the great house and notices you. He doesn’t smile or even move for that matter, other than a single eyebrow lift as if in confusion. Your breath catches a bit at being caught staring. But yet you cannot bring yourself to break eye contact with the startling blue eyes gazing back at you from across the garden. And you can’t help the soft smile that blooms across your blushing cheeks at the ruggedly handsome man. 

When the mystery man eventually turns his attention back to his companions, you shake your head back to reality and decide you’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to begin to make your way down to the garden party and get this over with. You leisurely stroll along the length of the wrap-around balcony of the house to the stairs that will carry you down to the patio. Your hand has to grip the railing of the staircase as you walk, as your dress is so tight that descending the stairs makes you out of breath. The boning of the corset digs painfully into your ribs and hipbones as you move. Such a dreadful, masochistic thing, you wonder why on earth women put themselves through such torture for the sake of fashion. Once at the bottom, you attempt to take a deep breath, bringing your fingertips to your temples before bracing yourself to join the guests. 

First order of business, you scan the crowd to locate your host. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually lock-in on him when you hear his boisterous, condescending laugh echoing over the throng of people. Angelo Bronte really is a toad of a man. And despite his money and power, he is rather socially inept. Maybe it’s the fact that he's not from this country. Or maybe society is held differently in Italy. But either way, the elite here in St. Denis have mixed feelings about the wealthy man. Mixed as in, they like his wealth but do not care for the man. And that is where you come in. 

Bronte’s idea is that having a beautiful, refined and charming woman on his arm will make him appear more distinguished. Your role in this little arrangement with him is to be the doting young paramore, helping him to navigate the social circles. No one needs to be the wiser that the two of you sleep in separate rooms on completely different ends of the house. But for appearances sake, Angelo Bronte has acquired himself quite the crown jewel with your presence. 

As you meander through the crowd, you keep getting intercepted by random party guests, each one handing you a new glass of champagne. Your eye catches Bronte’s a few times as you mingle, as he checks to make sure you are performing as expected. Of course, the witty jokes, effervescent laughing and demure little smiles that emanate from you work according to plan. You can see Bronte pointing you out to guests from across the garden, a crude grin of approval splitting across the faces of the men he leans into, all chattering with hushed tones and hungry eyes. It’s enough to make your corset-restricted stomach turn. 

After about forty five minutes of false chuckles and empty smiles, you are desperate for fresh air and peace and quiet, so you discreetly head to the rose garden which is off to the right side of the party, hoping to find less people there.

Wandering aimlessly through the maze of hedges and rose bushes, you manage to find a quiet little corner away from prattling visitors and raise your tired eyes to the heavens above. The smog of St. Denis covers the night sky and it leaves you with a heavy feeling of disappointment that even the vast galaxy of stars is being kept from you in this dreadful place. With a dispirited sigh, your tear-misted eyes slowly roll shut, attempting to find some sort of solitude from this hell on earth. 

“Is this a safe place to hide?”

The sound of a deep, gravelly voice suddenly cuts into your mind, causing your eyes to snap open as you spin to see who is speaking to you. 

And there he is. The handsome fellow who you were staring at from the balcony. He stands quietly, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. It takes you a few moments to realize that he is indeed real, no fantasy apparition to come to stand before you. Confused blinks skitter across your face as you take in the sight of him. Now that you are up close to him, you can see just how tall and broad-shouldered he is. 

“Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offers when you hesitate to answer, his simple apology carrying little fanfare or bravado. Just a simple statement with no malice, no ill-content and no agenda towards you. 

“Oh…no…you didn’t startle me,” you manage to stammer as you try to regain your composure.

The stranger’s ocean-blue eyes float across your frame, head to toe, assessing you with a slight tilt of his head.  “You sure about that?” he jokes as he gives you a deeper smirk now.

Picking up on his genuine humor, you release the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “No, you’re fine,” you assure him. “I just needed a minute, is all. I didn’t expect anyone to be back here.” 

When you lob a smile back at him in return, Arthur takes a gamble and begins to move slightly closer to you, specifically intent on maintaining this conversation. “Hmm, needing to get away from the herd? Is that it?”

The term causes a chuckle to erupt out of your throat. “Yeah, something like that.” You begin to step towards him as well, both of you moving slowly yet purposefully towards the other to close the gap between you until you are about three feet from each other. The air surrounding the garden is like that before a thunderstorm, exhilarating because it could be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time. The two of you stand quietly, simply staring at the other like a couple of clumsy teenagers not knowing what to say. 

“No offense, but you don’t seem like you belong here,” you finally break the amorous spell with a raised eyebrow. As your words hover like a butterfly in his ears, you note the faded scars along the man’s chin, embedded into his tanned skin and nestled beneath his rugged beard that you can see was probably hastily groomed for this evening.

He doesn’t deny it, but counters almost playfully with “I could say the same for you.”

You flirtatiously narrow your eyes at him. “What makes you say that?”

He waves his large finger towards you. “You carry the same disdain for this place on your face that I do.”

Well, you have to admit, he’s got you there and all you can do is nod in agreement. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pinch his fingers together to accent his point. “It's ok, though. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.” And he tosses a perturbed glace back over his shoulder towards the noise of the party. 

“I guess that makes us two peas in a pod, then, doesn’t it?” you muse with a glittering smile that makes his chest tight.

A grin pulls at the corner of the stranger’s plump lips, causing his scarred chin to wrinkle. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?” 

“My name is Y/F&LN”. You extend your hand out and his large hand completely engulfs yours, dwarfing your delicate fingers with his own. You immediately notice how his skin is rough, yet warm to the touch, his hand strong in a comfortingly protective way. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

And the two of you hold each other’s gaze like a spark of electricity pulsing through the air to connect you. You can feel your fingertips go numb as your heart beats faster within your perfume-dusted chest. And Arthur hopes that you do not notice how he thickly swallows, flexing his now-sweaty hands before awkwardly kneading his thumb into the opposite palm. 

But your beautiful little moment together is short-lived when you hear your name being called out into the night, snapping you back to the real world. And before you know it, a very anxious-looking Bridget appears from around the hedges, her eyes darting around, her lips pressed tightly together in worry. 

“Miss Y/N, there you are! Mr. Bronte is asking for you.” She gives you a sharp wave in her direction before her eyes quickly slip to the burly gentleman to your right.

An embarrassed school-girl blush dusts your cheeks as you clear your throat. “Yes, of course, Bridget, thank you. I’ll be right there.” You turn back to Arthur. “Well, Mr. Morgan, it was very nice to meet you. If you will excuse me, please.”

“‘Course.” Arthur dips his head with a respectful nod as you float past him, your fingertips nervously tucking a few tendrils of hair behind your ear. 

Bridget gives Arthur a good look up and down before she turns and follows behind you back towards the music of the garden party with a sly, smug smile drawn on her lips. “Maybe you’re more clever than you think,” she whispers impishly in your ear. You shoot her a cautionary look as you smooth your hands over the fabric of your dress, making sure that you are presentation-ready before you make your way to your host. 

As you navigate the crowd to approach Bronte, you take notice that he is talking to the other men that came with Mr. Morgan. The moment he catches sight of you, Bronte’s face lights up.

“Ah, Miss Y/N! There you are! Come, Come!” He waves you over to stand next to him. “I’d like you to meet some special guests.” Bronte crudely clutches your hand, bringing it to his saliva-slick lips before eagerly wrapping it around his arm. “This is Mr. Van der Linde, and his associates, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Matthews. Gentleman, this is my…’companion’, Miss Y/LN.”

You force down the bile in the back of your throat that the toad conjures up as a graceful nod and accompanying smile adorns your pretty face when you turn towards the men you are being presented to. “Gentleman, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mr. Van Der Linde greets you as he flashes a sultry grin in your direction, boldly reaching his ringed hand to take ahold of yours that sits tucked in Bronte’s elbow. He brazenly brings your digits to his warm mouth to place a tender kiss along your knuckles. “Call me Dutch.” His dark eyes fully take you in with a glitter of mischief behind them. “Mr. Bronte is indeed a lucky man.”

Unlike Angelo Bronte, you find this new social contact of his to be quite charismatic and charming. And while most of the attendees of this event carry some level of bravado, this man standing in front of you seems to be quite different, the type to put his money where his mouth is. 

Interest flashes through your eyes at this dark-haired stranger. And Bronte is quick to notice. With a deep scowl of disapproval, his arm quickly snakes around your waist, holding you possessively against him in the presence of these men, so tight that it makes you squirm against his grip. You are about to protest the moderately painful discomfort when Mr. Morgan suddenly joins the circle, his azure eyes immediately targeting the meaty hand that grips your hip before lifting to meet your grimacing expression. The sight makes his face turn dark with a menacing presence to it. It almost shocks you to see the stark contrast to his demeanor from your encounter a few moments ago. 

“Quite the shindig you got goin’ here, Bronte,” Mr. Morgan says cooly, his statement breaking the tension of the social circle. “You always run things like this?”

The disapproval in your new friend’s voice causes one of the other men in his group (Mr. Matthews, is it?) to shoot him a glare of warning, to which Mr. Morgan shrugs off. 

Bronte lifts his nose at the rub, but he will not be made a fool of so easily at the challenge. “Ah, I’m sure you country folk are not used to such luxury, yes?”  

“Personally, I don’t care for it,” snarks Arthur with a snort of derision. “Hard to enjoy myself like a gluttonous pig when there’s people right outside the gate starvin’”

As you stand there next to Bronte listening to these men throw thinly veiled contempt at one another, you begin to feel dizzy. Your head starts to swim, spots dancing before your eyes, making your stomach lurch. But no one notices at first, except for Mr. Van Der Linde.

“You alright, miss?” Mr. Van Der Linde questions you with concern skipping across his dark features. 

“Oh, yes,” you wave him off. “It’s just…just this heat…” You begin to fan yourself, desperate for some cool air to caress your face. 

And suddenly the world around you starts to spin and your knees give way underneath you as if they move of their own accord. You begin to crumple in front of everyone and Dutch is quick to catch you just before you hit the ground, his strong arms shooting out to enfold you and ease you into the grass. The moment Arthur sees that you are in trouble, he promptly hovers over you as well, catching your hand into his own and placing himself between you and Bronte as things go dark in front of your eyes.

A collection of curious guests begins to gather around the spectacle, whispers and fingers discreetly pointing in your direction.

“The lady needs some air,” asserts Dutch as he kneels behind you.

Arthur is at a loss on what to do at first, but is quick to notice how restrictive the corset of your dress is, as your chest can barely move as you desperately gasp for air, your face turning red from the heat of the evening.

With a look of determination, Arthur’s rough hands wrap around your biceps and carefully lift the upper part of your limp body to lean against Dutch, who cradles you into his chest for support. Without a word, Arthur grabs at the fabric of your dress and quickly rips the corseted area wide open, easily tearing the seams under his hands, to release your lungs, exposing the delicate silk undergarments and bare skin hidden beneath. Shock slaps Angelo Bronte in the face as he stands behind Arthur, helplessly watching this embarrassing little scene unfold before his eyes. 

Ignoring the judgemental gasps of the partygoers, Arthur then proceeds to snatch a glass of champagne out of the hands of one of the nosey women craning her neck to see the spectacle and tosses the liquid into your face. The moment the bubbly fluid hits your skin, your eyes instantly pop open as you deeply gasp, desperate to expand your lungs to draw in fresh air. 

Arthur cautiously watches your face in anticipation as you rapidly blink the sweet nectar out of your lashes. Your eyes land on Arthur in confusion as to what has just happened before looking down at yourself and realize that you are now exposed to the whole party. But Arthur immediately takes off his jacket and lays it overtop of you as you sit nestled safely against Dutch who is still behind you. And Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the threads of alertness brightening your features once again. 

“Get the hell outta here,” Arthur orders the crowd, waving them away with a wide arc of his long arm. “Nothing to see here, just a woman needing some air, is all.”

“Can you stand, miss?” Dutch’s deep voice carries softly over your shoulder and into your ear, anchoring you back to consciousness. 

“I think so,” you venture, although the wavering in your voice is not entirely convincing. Your head is still swimming with confusion, but at least you can breathe now and the pounding in your temples has started to recede. 

Arthur takes your hand again, his other slipping under your arm to guide you to your feet as Dutch carefully steadies you from behind. 

“I don’t know what to say,” you say sheepishly looking up into Arthur’s worried face. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bronte suddenly bellows, finally finding his voice of outrage. “Thank you?! You make a scene in my house and you say ‘thank you?!”

“Easy, leave her be,” Arthur growls out, turning his threatening gaze to the party’s host. “Can’t you see the lady isn’t well?”

“No, she most certainly is not!” Bronte spits back in anger. His heartless, burning eyes now land back on you, his nostrils flaring wildly with impatience as his expression screws up into a hateful scowl. “Nuisance! I knew it was a mistake to bring you here” he hollers at you, flecks of spittle flying in your direction. “Should’ve left you at the station where I found you!” His finger thrown in your face causes you to shrink backwards, leaning your back into Dutch yet again, where the man’s hands protectively come up to cradle your arms. 

But Arthur is not having any of it, protectively placing his large bear-like frame between you and Bronte, towering over the other man and desperately trying to refrain from landing his massive fist into his face. “You best keep that finger to yourself, Mr. Bronte, else I'll break it clean off.” Arthur’s tone is low and deep, his threat making a shutter cascade down your spine as you watch with baited breath for what is to happen next. 

“Get out! All of you! Get! Out!” Bronte screams, waving at the group of newcomers. “And take that bitch with you, too!”

Your heart sinks as you watch the Italian spin on his heels and storm off towards the house, his arms flailing wildly as he vents his frustrations and anger out into the ether. The party has clearly ended now, as the guests murmur and whisper amongst themselves about the outrageous scene and begin to file out of the garden to leave. 

Your head hangs a bit in shame as you nibble nervously on your pink bottom lip, holding Arthur's jacket over your chest like armor. You have no love lost for Angelo Bronte, but the idea that you now have nowhere to go is a little terrifying. You have no money, no provisions. Nothing. 

Arthur turns to look at you, seeing your soft face frozen in stunned silence. His own countenance turns sheepish as he now realizes that he has cost you your home. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rub behind his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to get you tossed out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” You shake your head and place a grateful hand along Arthur’s arm. “You probably did me a favor.” Your smile is warm and forgiving, but it doesn’t make him feel any less responsible for your new predicament. “But I meant what I said, Mr. Morgan. Thank you,” you whisper emphatically. Your gentle voice causes butterflies to flutter in his belly. 

“You have anywhere to go now?” Arthur asks, his blue eyes burning into your own. God, how you could get lost in those eyes for hours. 

Sadly, you shake your head, confirming his suspicions. 

“Well, then,” interrupts Dutch from where he still stands behind you, “If that is the case, you are welcome to come with us, Miss Y/L/N.” He offers you another of his charming smiles as he holds open Arthur’s jacket as you slide your arms in, and he pulls the oversized garment protectively over your shoulders. He then offers you his arm to escort you away from the party, with his entourage in tow. 

Arthur gives a lofty eye-roll to the heavens at Dutch’s attempt to swoon you, causing Mr. Matthews to chuckle at the interaction. But you smile graciously at Mr. Van der Linde’s offer as you gladly accept his arm and begin to walk with him. You look back over your shoulder and give Arthur a demure little grin, which he returns as he follows you and Dutch out to the front of the property towards the awaiting carriages with Mr. Matthews and Mr. Williamson close behind. 

“Thank you, Mr. Van Der Linde,” you smile brightly up at him. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.” 

Masterlist for more Arthur goodness

Taglist: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4

[ilovemesomeshortking]

BF!STRAY KIDS FINDING YOUR PINTEREST ACCOUNT / ot8 x gn!reader

thank you for 1k likes on my first post!!🥺 i still cant believe it!! also all of these pins belong to their creators on pinterest! and yes i saved all of them. and i also have every single board that i mentioned here so true story!! (except my name is not seungmintoeslover🙄)

GENRE | goofy

WARNINGS | swearing and mention of p🐱ssy in seungmin's one teehee

MASTERLIST

also i love this agenda that i created about i.n having beef with aespa and reader being constantly obsessed with chaeryeong in changbin's one so don't mind me writing about it

[shellseaisms]

downloading from the exchange without a registered game account lol

writing up this little "guide" both so that I remember how to do this & also for those of you who don't know this little trick yet. this isn't just for the crowd who illegally obtained their game; some of us registered our games when we were 12 years old, don't remember our passwords and no longer have access to the email address we used for the account teehee anyways guide under the cut

I use google chrome, things might look a bit different if you use another browser but it should be pretty similar across the board I would imagine.

find what you want to download (this is a world. obviously), right click the page itself and press 'view page source' (or press ctrl + u if you're a shortcut gamer)

this opens a new page, next thing you're gonna do is press ctrl + f to bring up the search bar in the top right of the page. search sims3pack and it should bring back at least one instance (sometimes there are two, if there's multiple you can use either link; it's the same one I'm pretty sure)

highlight the link that ends in .sims3pack (don't include the quotation marks or anything else, you literally just want the link) and either copy + paste that into your address bar, or right click and press 'go to insert link here'. it should just start the download from there.

sometimes its a bit finicky and brings back an error page; usually switching users on google chrome or opening an incognito tab fixes this for me.

ok cool that's it. hope this helps

[voltronisanobsession]

There’s a need for more Isaac Lahey fics and I’m glad someone just started watching the show again.

Taking a Break | Isaac Lahey x Reader

There needs to be more fics of teen wolf on here in GENERAL, it feels like I’m grabbing for scraps at this point😭💔💔 love my homeboy isaac so I’ll quickly write something teehee

Click. Click. Click

The sound of a pen echoed throughout the classroom, some students looking towards the source of the annoying sound, others sighing loudly at the persistent clicking.

Click. Click. Click.

You sat in silence, staring at the board in front of you. Not even realizing you had become a disturbance for the entire class, you continued playing with your pen, lost in thought.

With all the killings happening around town, your nerves had reached an all time high. You had no idea what to expect at this point! Everyone thought Stiles had found a pattern to the killings, or ‘sacrifices’, until the killer decided to change things up.

Click. Click. Click.

Everything was getting a little too frustrating, you couldn’t even focus in school! No matter what you did, your mind just seemed to be in another place. Not even your boyfriend could bring you back to reality at this point.

Click. Click. Click. Cli-

The pen that was once in your hand was snatched away from you, snapping you out of whatever spell you were under. Looking up to the teacher, you could only internally cringe at what was about to happen.

“Is this seriously necessary? This was the most annoying thing you could’ve done in my class of all places. I hope you don’t plan on becoming a professional pen clicker because that job would suck! For everyone!”

Coach Finstock walked away and began talking to the class about whatever he was teaching today, fiddling with your pen as he continued. Huffing, you slumped against your seat and stared at the clock as its hands slowly moved around.

Feeling eyes on you, you slightly looked back only to see Isaac staring at you. When you finally notice him, Isaac gives you a confused look to as if to say ’what’s wrong’ which you could only mouth out ‘nothing’.

You whipped your head to the front though when a book was slammed on your desk.

“Y/N! You just became my least favorite student in this class, congratulations! You’re making me question why I decided to chose being a teacher as a career, thank you!”

Finstock placed the pen back on your desk. His eyebrows furrowed at the face you were making.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s scary.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything?” Your face scrunched up in annoyance.

“Oh ho, yes you are! It’s the same face that that Silinski kid gives me when I make him run laps around the gym!”

The bell rang causing everyone to get up, you quickly packing your bag and rushing out the classroom. Coach totally made everything worse for you if you were being honest.

So eager to leave the school, you didn’t even hear the sound of your boyfriend calling out to you from the sea of students. Confused, Isaac fought his way against the current of students, all excited to begin the weekend and be away from school, to get to you.

Finally reaching you, he lightly grabbed your shoulder.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you ok?”

Shifting your attention to the tall boy, you gave him a small smile. Just looking at him made some of your nerves calm down.

“Uh yeah, stuffs just been taking a toll on me lately.”

At that, Isaac frowned. You both continued walking, hands now linked together. Walking out the school, you both fell into a comfortable silence. You lost in thought while Isaac wondered what was bothering you.

Was someone bothering you? Have your teachers been giving you a lot of homework? Glancing at your tired face, he couldn’t help himself from asking questions.

“Do you want to talk about it? I mean, about the stuff that’s been bothering you.”

Sighing, you let go of Isaacs hand, causing him to unconsciously chase after it. You smiled at the action.

“I guess with everything that’s been going on around town, with all the random killings, I just- ugh. I don’t know but it’s been really draining my energy. And making me kinda anxious, lowkey.”

Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop the waterfall of words that seemed to shoot out of your mouth.

“And not just the killings Isaac, but having to guess where this killer will take its next victim is so frustrating! We don’t know when it will happen and who it will happen to!

“It feels like we’re just sitting around waiting to find a new corpse! And like I said, we don’t know whose getting targeted. For all we know, it could be Allison, you, me-!”

Isaac cut you off suddenly, forcing you to stop walking by pulling you towards him. His hands gripped your upper arms, keeping you in front of him, forcing you to look at him.

“Hey, I know it feels like we’re getting nothing done right now, but we’re all trying. It’s a slow progress, but we have something. That’s what matters.”

He placed a hand on your cheek. Leaning into it, you sighed. “This really has been on your mind, huh?”

Groaning, you nodded and dropped your head onto the boys chest, causing him to let out a small laugh. Hugging you, the werewolf could only hope he relieved some of your nerves. Suddenly an idea popped up in his head.

“What do you think about a self care weekend? Something to get your mind off things.” He smiled as you let out a confused sound.

“What about the others? What if they need us or something?” Pulling away from him, you grabbed his hand and continued walking, pondering the idea of a self care weekend.

“I think Scott and the others can handle a weekend without us.” Isaac snickered, happy to see your mood changing as you got excited.

“And if anything, they can just text us. Or Scott can howl. Either works fine to be honest.” At that, you laughed, your body relaxing the longer Isaac spoke.

Silence again fell between you both but it was different. You were now smiling, happy that Isaac gave the suggestion of taking a break. Isaac internally high-fived himself, a grin breaking onto his face.

Bringing his hand up to your lips, you kissed the back of it.

“Thank you.” Smiling, he did the same thing, gently kissing your hand, loving the way your face flushed a pretty pink.

“Anything for you, love.”

[fairykazu]

hi pookie !!!!!!! congrats on 500 u deserve it frfr 🫶 for the event, can u have a bouquet of petunias with dan heng? thank you and congratulations again teehee :3

petunias with dan heng prompt: realizing feelings side note: oh mu god i think i brainrotted and then forgot my train of thought. this isn't exactly the prompt but he does realize it i swear. i might write a follow up afterwards because i hate the way i ended this. event masterlist 𝜗𝜚 hsr masterlist

nervous was a feeling that dan heng never allowed himself to feel, he only let it fleetingly pass by like the winter breeze. but he doesn’t understand how he began to feel anxious around you, just simply on edge just by being near you. he could just sweat pure bullets from the amount of sweat he could feel, making his palms sweaty. 

when the both of you went on an assignment for collecting extinguished cores, he nearly left mid-fight, not that he’d leave you in the middle of a fight, but your hand briefly touched his and he died within that moment. after that, he zoned out the entire mission, just focusing on the touch between his thumb and your index finger. his and yours, and his and yours- 

frankly, he doesn’t understand this feeling. if he asked someone on the express, surely, they would know why he’s acting this way. but he doesn’t want to seem like a bother to them. maybe he’d resort to them after a good dive into the archives. 

there was a gentle knock against his door but he didn’t hear it, head too deep in various books that were wide open. stacks of books and stacks of books littered the archives’ floors, it was like a maze to even just travel to dan heng. there were books like feelings and how to understand them and are you anxious? there are reasons why in the shelves. although, he was confused how they got there, maybe when march got them to read for fun, he was thankful. 

did he get the answers he needed? no. but they were helpful regardless yet he was in a dead end. well, it’s time to ask the express, maybe they’d know and surely, they would tell him. but when he tried to seek out answers from himeko and welt, they exchanged a look and laughed with each other. 

welt cleared his throat. “okay, himeko, let’s not laugh too much, maybe he knows why.” 

himeko wiped a tear from her face from laughing too much, catching her breath, “welt, c’mon, just look at him. he doesn’t know anything!” 

“dan heng isn’t clueless.” they were talking about him as if he didn’t even exist. until both of them looked at dan heng as if there was something he was supposed to know.  “is there something im missing?” dan heng asked, confused. 

“no…” 

“okay?” 

. ❀

back to the drawing board, he walked into his room, seeing march and stelle sitting in there. march raised a brow, “dan heng, your room’s a mess, even messier than stelle’s!” it was true, despite the silver haired girl protesting against the so-called “allegations” march is painting on her, his room was messy. there was post it notes on the walls, books on the floor, mattress and even the fan? was he really that deep into researching this feeling, if it is even real? 

“i was curious about something, that’s all.” 

“about what?” 

“name, something about name. they’re confusing me.” 

stelle quipped back, “what? that you like them?” the girl in pink gasped, march slapped stelle’s shoulder, “stelle!” she continued in a whisper-yell, “you weren’t supposed to tell him, he was supposed to figure this out himself.”  

dan heng tilted his head, deep in thought, ignoring the commotion the couple was making in front of him. 

what? no, no, he doesn’t like name like that. 

“look what you did, stelle! you broke him.”  march said, tapping on dan heng’s shoulder as if he was a buzzer in a game show. 

sure, sometimes, dan heng imagines a world where the two of you are together. tranquil hours spent in the park, just looking at each other. or cooking with each other, have a cat or a dog and rest together until the end of time or he’d pray to an aeon for eternity to exist forever just to see you as you both grow old.

but that’s because this is how friends act, right? 

[sotiredimbored]

/ intro post /

kuko/ollie, any/all, genderfluid, ace, biromantic, minor, asian-american, infp, slytherin, cabin 7, just a silly little guy, neurodivergent

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insta, art blog, writing blog, and pinterest!

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i cannot donate

cool info about me!!!

stuff i like✩: pasta, birds, the sound of pencils on paper, reading, writing(ill write for you if you ask), drawing(same with drawing just ask!!), animals, my friends(yeah you deal with it), heartstopper, yaelokre, epic, music(my heart and soul), my pets(i post them sometimes teehee), diet coke, purple grapes, learning languages, cosplaying, analyzing songs , bugs and jellyfish!(theres more but im lazy)

things i dislike✩: homophobes, transphobes, racists, mean people, and cicadas(no questions)

music! ✩: thazvoo, fish in a birdcage, chappell roan, kaden mackay, good kid, cavetown, tv girl, lovesick, baby queen, glaive, conan gray, the neighbourhood, ichika nito, the greeting committee, alex g, noah floersch, pkch, waterparks, sundial, yaelokre, emei, girl in red, SALES, mad tsai, and lyn lapid!!

a cool person(@funz1es) made me a mood board and it's amazing

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Crush Culture(Conan Gray)

1:42───ㅇ───── 3:24

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▯

[idea stolen from @starmanbutitsregulusblack]

my amazing moots who followed me even tho im weird(lmk if you wanna be removed/sorry if i forgot you)

@fishcow99 ˋ°•*⁀➷ actually so cool very good at comforting

@asters-tempo ˋ°•*⁀➷ BREAD AND AXOLOTL BUDDY

@omelettejunkie ˋ°•*⁀➷ cool and very much not scary

@crowofthestars ˋ°•*⁀➷ very nice, funny and such

@charlie-kelly-variant ˋ°•*⁀➷ this is a backup blog of someone else but i added it bc i can do what i want

@kunikisss ˋ°•*⁀➷ AMAZING ART WHAT

@kawaiibarty ˋ°•*⁀➷ gives off flower vibes idk

@butch-marauders ˋ°•*⁀➷ good opinions and also GIRL IN RED

@deleted-my-old-accountˋ°•*⁀➷ check out this to join the cult of kermit

@formertokenstraight ˋ°•*⁀➷ basically an unpaid therapist at this point(sorry token ik i should unpack my issues *sigh*)

@rat-detector ˋ°•*⁀➷ idk how we are mutual but r a t

@dino1nuggiez ˋ°•*⁀➷ my bestie and the coolest irl person and such

@cheekyboybeth ˋ°•*⁀➷ chappell roan enjoyer

@definitionoffuckup ˋ°•*⁀➷ i stole this intro idea from them so check him out

@your-non-irl-father ˋ°•*⁀➷ star wars vibes

@osemanverseenthusist ˋ°•*⁀➷ so coolio(cheerios)

@mun-urufu ˋ°•*⁀➷ such a nice human very enjoyable would recommend

@raeprise ˋ°•*⁀➷ the moon(yes)

@k-is-for-potassium ˋ°•*⁀➷ b a b n a

@here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can ˋ°•*⁀➷ i misread this username for an embarrassingly long time

@yourlocalbadgerscales ˋ°•*⁀➷ so brave and cool

@stqrgirl3 ˋ°•*⁀➷ here chick the bom from the bompalombalomp

@you-will-never-be-satisfied ˋ°•*⁀➷ coolest and also deserves love

@aesthetic-writer18 ˋ°•*⁀➷ basically a writing god

@gardenoflilys ˋ°•*⁀➷ *insert moth*

@klondyke-the-bear ˋ°•*⁀➷ very nice

@st4rry-c4tt ˋ°•*⁀➷ gives off poet vibes

bea!!(idk if i can tag but the actual tag is tequilaqueen) ˋ°•*⁀➷ nice. good at art. very good

@themortalityofundyingstars ˋ°•*⁀➷ cool person who i never expected to follow me

@barbthebuilder ˋ°•*⁀➷ genderfluid boss

@lifegoalsofafish ˋ°•*⁀➷ ONE OF THE FIRST MOOTS LETS ALL PAY OUR RESPECTS

@garden-of-runar ��°•*⁀➷ wow two cool people who i never thought would follow me

@official-panini ˋ°•*⁀➷ *stealthily hands you bread*

@gasolinehornet ˋ°•*⁀➷ httyd core

@choucon ˋ°•*⁀➷ the coolestest

@xx-neuro-xx ˋ°•*⁀➷ the silly(can play piano)

@starkissed-mars ˋ°•*⁀➷ rly cool wow

@pearl-div3r ˋ°•*⁀➷ we should talk more huh

ok bye

*scurries off into the distance*

[mouwrites]

hi there doodlebug:) may i please have eyeless jack x reader where someone hurts the reader intentionally like hits them or if you arent comfy writing that then just says something mean (can be another creepypasta character or some random person) and the reader gets really upset and jack comforts the reader but also gets pissed and confronts the person who hurt them and is all protective and threatening? 🩵 thank you sm, pumpkin!!! i hope you're having the best day 🥰

Absolutely, you sweetheart you!!

TW for some violence,, EJ goes a wee bit crazy teehee

Word count: 667

Creepypasta - Eyeless Jack When You Get Hurt

Midnight had long since come and passed. Most people were sleeping soundly in their soft beds, blankets pulled up to their chins in defense from the nipping cold. But not you, not tonight.

You were out with Jack. Late nights that turned into early mornings were the only times he’d agree to come into town with you, since the streets were mostly empty.

On this particular night you had gone out for a walk in the park, trying to catch the last glimpses of green before the dull gray of winter leeched all color from the trees and shrubs. It was cold, but you clung close together, keeping each other warm. Well, it was mostly Jack keeping you warm; he didn’t seem to get cold. Ever. One of the benefits of being a demon, you supposed.

Now you were on the subway, heading home at last. You leaned sleepily against Jack, your eyelids drooping as you fought to stay conscious.

You decided to stand up to keep yourself awake. Reaching up for the overhead bar, you wrapped your fingers around the chilly metal, focusing on the sensation of the cold to distract yourself from sleep.

The train stopped. Jack pulled at his hood when a man got on. You weren’t alone anymore. You shot him a reassuring glance, smiling a little.

You were startled by the train’s sudden motion. You stumbled sideways, slamming into the man who had just boarded on your way to the ground.

“Hey!” He snapped.

You didn’t even get the chance to apologize before he kicked you, knocking you off your knees.

“Watch it, brat!” He spat. He stormed to the far end of the car, muttering angrily to himself all the way.

Jack was at your side in a second. He lifted you in his arms and onto a seat.

His thumb brushed away the tears trickling down your face. They were from the pain of being kicked as much as the humiliation of the insult. You looked down, holding his wrist to comfort yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, but the tears kept falling.

Jack wrapped you in a hug. He stroked your back gently, letting your tears be sopped up by the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You shook your head. “Not your fault,” you rasped, voice breaking.

Your stop was coming up. The train screeched to a halt, and Jack fixed you on his back. You noticed the man following you as you stepped out, but he went in the other direction. You just buried your face in Jack’s hoodie.

Jack lowered you onto your bed, tucking your blankets up to your chin. He placed a kiss on your forehead, smiling when you stirred a little. You’d fallen asleep sometime between the train station and your home. No matter. Maybe this was better, actually. It gave him the chance to slip away into the night.

He glanced once more at your sleeping form before dropping from the windowsill, anger swelling in his chest as he ran.

“Please,” the man begged. He was doubled over on the floor, speaking between panicked sobs and wretches. “Please don’t kill me.”

Jack stared emotionlessly at the pathetic human at his feet. He turned the scalpel in his hand idly.

“It doesn’t feel very good to be kicked, does it?”

The man clearly didn’t get the hint. “No, no, no, it doesn’t, it doesn’t,” he wailed.

Jack crouched down. He grabbed the man’s face, turning it up roughly. “Do you know why I’m doing this? Think.”

He tried to shake his head. Jack held tighter, his claws drawing beads of blood from the man’s cheeks.

Jack sighed impatiently. “This is why I don’t work with conscious victims,” he grumbled to himself.

Then, more clearly, he said:

“Revenge, you toad, comes with interest.”

The screams that usually would’ve made Jack flinch only made him grin as he extracted his next meal.

When the screams had ceased, and there was nothing but a bleeding body on the ground, Jack stood, poking the lame form with his toe.

“That’s for messing with Y/n. Brat.”

Thank you for this request! And thanks for reading, take care loves <33

(divider by saradika)

[wanderersbell]

between the pages

wanderer x gn!reader

genre: modern!au, meet-cute, fluff

warnings: none

word count: 2206

✧.* a/n: sorry i haven't posted in forever teehee i had to use all of my effort to squeeze this out of my brain ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა

try as you might, it’s impossible not to notice the new customer perusing the bookshelves in the old, worn down shop you’ve taken a job at over the summer. compared to the aged shelves and creaky floors, it’s like seeing a shiny new car in the middle of a junkyard, pristine and vivid against the washed out backdrop. 

it’s pleasantly cool inside away from the sweltering july heat so for a moment you’re sure he only ducked in to cool off, but he actually appears to be looking for something as he approaches one of the towering displays. 

you watch discreetly from the counter as the boy slides a book out and opens to a random page, little specks of dust floating up from the pages and around him, visible only because of the sunlight from the window in the back that casts its glow right above him. 

you cringe a bit at the sight. no matter how often you dust, it never seems to go away, which you suppose is to be expected of such an old little shop. he doesn’t seem to mind though, hardly even seems to notice it as his violet eyes stay fixed on the words in front of him. 

he’s beautiful, so much so that you almost wonder if you’re hallucinating the first time he pushes through the door and takes in the towering shelves lined from wall to wall. he has an air of grace that shows through his calculated movements, almost like a robot that’s programmed to be perfect. 

but he’s very much real when he finally finds what he’s looking for and brings it up to checkout. 

“borrowing or purchasing?” you ask automatically, praying silently that your voice doesn’t sound weird. up close, you realize he can’t be much older than you, and that somehow makes him all the more intimidating. 

his eyes are sharp and cold as he meets yours, practically the textbook definition of unapproachable. 

“borrowing.” he replies. his voice is a bit softer and higher pitched than you were expecting, but there’s a hint of roughness to it that almost makes your skin prick with goosebumps in a way that you try to ignore. 

as you turn away to find the notepad for him to write his information down on, his eyes drift to the whiteboard next to the counter. ‘book of the week’ is written at the top in blue marker, with the title of a novel underneath. 

there’s a half written annotation on the board that you were in the middle of jotting down before he walked in. in your opinion it’s messy, unorganized, and impossible to understand. just a jumble of thoughts that you scribbled down as they came to you. 

you’re the only one who ever adds anything every week and most people coming in hardly spare it a glance, but when you find what you’re looking for and slide it over to the customer you notice his eyes flitting over your scribbles. 

it almost makes you feel self conscious of what you’ve written. it could be worded so much better, and your handwriting looks so much nicer when you slow down a bit, but you hadn’t anticipated anyone actually bothering to read it. 

he shifts his attention back to you as soon as he realizes you’re looking at him and he takes the notepad and pen from you without a word. 

you fidget with a stapler while he fills it out, suddenly becoming aware of how fast your heart is pounding behind your ribcage. when he’s done he hands it back to you, you hand him the book, and then he turns to leave without another word. 

your usual ‘have a good day’ gets caught in your throat for some reason so all you can manage is a small, awkward wave that he doesn’t even notice as the door swings shut behind him. 

when you glance down at the ‘borrow’ list, the first thing you notice is his handwriting, somehow equal parts neat and messy. the tops of his letters nearly loop together but blunt angles prevent it from being considered neat. the other thing, is his name. 

‘kuni.’

he seems to have chosen not to write his full name, which technically isn’t allowed but also isn’t really that big of a deal at the end of the day, because his phone number is still written where it should be and your boss never checks the list anyway. 

the entire thing was such a normal, boring interaction that had it been anybody else you probably would’ve forgotten about it by the next day—but this lingered on your mind throughout the rest of the week. 

the following week when he returns the book, he exchanges it for another one. there’s a new novel listed this week, and you don’t even process the fact that kuni pulls his phone out to write down the name of it because your eyes are glued to the red eyeliner lining his lower eyelashes. it’s stark against his pale skin, so perfectly drawn that you once again find yourself questioning whether or not he’s even real.

you almost choke on your spit when his gaze flicks up to meet yours and you quickly slide the ‘borrow’ list over to him, completely missing the way one of his eyebrows quirks up in mild amusement at your reaction. 

it takes him a bit longer than last time to write his information down because he pauses to skim over your annotation for this week's book, which is much more presentable this time around. 

if you weren’t awkwardly staring at your feet still caught on the fact that he looks like he walked straight out of a painting, you would’ve noticed the flash of an impressed expression on his face, but you keep your eyes pointed down until he sets the pen back into the tin cup to the side with a clink. 

when he grabs the book and silently turns to leave, you take a grounding breath. 

“have a good day.” you blurt out to his retreating form, internally thanking the heavens that the words come out even and not too quiet. 

kuni doesn’t stop walking towards the door, but he turns his head to the side and lifts his hand up in acknowledgement. 

“you too.”

you don’t work fridays and the shop is closed on the weekends, but when you return on monday, kuni’s book is already filled out as returned, meaning he must have stopped by on your day off. 

you feel a bit bummed out at the fact that you missed him when he came back, but he had replaced it with another so all you can do is hope he’d show up again sometime before friday. 

much to your surprise, when you turn around to erase last week's book and change it to another, there’s something new written on the whiteboard. 

just off to the side of your previous annotation are notes, scribbled in a slightly familiar somewhat elegant chicken scratch. it takes you a second, but when you realize it’s kuni’s handwriting your heart jumps into your throat. 

his notes branch out from what you have written in response, taking in your thoughts and then challenging them with a counter argument that has you thinking from a perspective you hadn’t been able to see before. 

after being frozen on the spot for a bit longer, you grab and uncap the marker and start scribbling a response to his response, trying to ignore the excitement thrumming in your limbs. 

to think that someone else would take an interest in the featured books, and even bother to pick apart your annotation and invite you to think harder about the story was almost hard to believe. 

especially because it’s him.

anyone else might feel a bit bothered having their opinions countered so bluntly, but you’re so stuck on the fact that you have someone to indulge you in this interest that it never even crosses your mind. 

when you finish and stand back, an entire half of the whiteboard is taken up by two people’s handwriting where it once would have been nearly empty. instead of erasing it to add the new one, you move to the other side of the board and add the new week’s novel, as well as your thoughts on it that you had organized over the weekend. 

still feeling elated by the unexpected happening, the rest of your shift goes by in a flash until an hour before the store closes when kuni finally shows up again, all intimidating sharp gracefulness.

it’s not until he walks up to the counter after wandering off to find something to check out that you finally realize it’s not the featured book he’s returning, and he had actually never even checked out the book that was listed on the whiteboard last week.

you had wanted to say something about the notes, but the way he doesn’t even acknowledge that they exist has you clamming up and doubting whether or not he was even the one who wrote them in the first place. out of the desperate desire to not embarrass yourself, you decide it’s best left unmentioned. 

“thanks,” you say almost hesitantly as you add the book to the return pile to put away later and pass him the clipboard so he can cross his previous entry off the list and add a new one. 

if only you had been paying attention instead of being lost in your own doubt, you would’ve seen how he eyed the whiteboard and the way a corner of his lips turned up a fraction at your messy reply, but his back is turned and he’s already leaving by the time you look up again. 

and you would never know it, but a while later across town a boy with the pretty red eyeliner walks into a library and checks out another book, one that had been hastily written down on an old whiteboard where a pretty person that made his hands sweat with nervousness works.

this continues for another two weeks and another two books before you finally muster the courage to mention it to him. one of the things he had written under your annotation didn’t make any sense to you, and you can’t help but ask the next time he comes in. 

he clearly wasn’t expecting you to know that it was him, because he looks absolutely taken aback when the words come out of your mouth. 

“what did you mean about the protagonist's actions mirroring the dialogue in the first half?” you try to say this as casually as possible, but your hands are wringing each other behind the counter as you speak. “i mean, i noticed that the emperor almost perfectly predicted what would happen, but it was still super vague.”

it takes kuni a few seconds to gather his bearings before he responds in stride. 

“it was in the story one of the elders told.” he explains. “the one that describes the man who had to pass three trials before he could figure out how to lift the curse.”

“oh!” you gasp, finally understanding what he had written. it was such a small section that you had completely overlooked it so you can’t help but feel a little amazed by his attention to detail. “i never caught that, good eye.”

“mn.” he responds stiffly. 

in the silence that follows afterwards, neither of you know what to say for a moment. the annoying fluttering is back in your stomach and even though you want to say a million things, not a single word forms on your lips. 

“did you know it was me the whole time?” kuni eventually asks, eyes burning holes into the counter. 

“yeah, pretty much.” you admit sheepishly. 

if you didn’t know any better you would think the tips of his ears looked a little red as you slid the clipboard in his direction, but you decide not to point it out and instead clear your throat and give a pathetic attempt at pushing the conversation forward. 

“so did you read the new one?” 

you don’t realize how stupid that question is until it’s already out of your mouth given the fact that it’s monday and you had just added the new one to the whiteboard about an hour ago, but he pretends not to notice that and glances behind you to see the title. 

“not yet.” kuni replies. “i’ll get around to it tomorrow.”

you can’t stop the smile that takes over your face at his words as a rush of warmth and anticipation fills your chest. 

as soon as you begin to internally debate whether or not to ask him where he’s been getting the weekly recommendations if he’s not borrowing them from here, it’s almost like he knows you’re waiting to bring that up because he’s already halfway to the door after he scribbles his information down on the list. 

“do you already own all of these books or-“

“see you next week.”

you can’t stop the tiny pfft that slips out as the door swings shut behind him. and just like that, the store is empty again. 

[vinylshifting]

ᘛMy Introᘚ

꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

Hei!! i go by Vinyl or Väinö (Mostly Vinyl on this blog)

Ive been in the shifting community for well over 2 years i first joined in around 2022-2023

Mystery age shhh (somewhere between 15 to 17)

I was on shifter tiktok for the start, but i actually spent most of my journey on shifter youtube. Ive been on and off on tumblr for a while, but im here now!

Im Finnish, but will only speak(mostly speak) english on this blog

I dont care what pronouns im called, But She/Her are fine (Even though im a guy in person lol.. im basically a girl in all of my drs tho-)

My lucky angel number: 77

Im in many fandoms and have many interests:

Music (All sorts of music, mostly metal, glam rock, or specifically just my queen, lana del rey), Crypitds/Mythical stuff, True crime, HTTYD, MLP, Visual novels, Lords of Chaos

Hobbies/Stuff i like to do:

Writing, Making scripts, Making moodboards, Worldbuilding, Reading, Making Drs, Shifting (ofc)

Im a strong believer of you can script anything, theres infinate amount of universes so it already exists

I make moodboards and take moodboard requests! (The only time i probably wont do a request is if i dont know the character/media srryy)

I have no DNI! Just please dont be weird

Dont be afraid to DM me! im alsways open to be friends, i just stuck at conversations wahh. especially small talk

Some of my DRs

† Vampiric WR: My WR where im an immortal vampire living alone and i can travel to all my drs through this WR (probably will permashift here someday). I live in Transylvania

† Hogwarts DR: Current main dr, im a student at hogwarts but im also a half vampire and know dark magic and am having my own side adventure from the golden trios adventures

† Jail Fiancée DR: Dating my boyfriend whos in jail wahhh, i can fix him i swear (i am fixing him and we will live happily together… when hes out on parole). Takes place in Ukraine

† Rockstar‘s Gf DR: Dating Kelly Nickles, My man. God i love him so much mmmmhhhehehe. I come from a rich family and live in Nevada <3

† Моргевейн Dr: An alternative Cr where im a Russian metalhead living in America, Im in a Band. Just living my life. I also live neer the woods and some lakes so i love walking there!

† Mermaid DR: Just a mermaid Dr, based off both H2O and the Waterfire saga. Im so excited to live underwater ahhh i love marine animals. (Havent created a script yet, mostly subconscious based and Also i have a pinterest board for it lol)

† Deirdre Eilís DR: An Alternative Cr where im Norwegian/Irish andliving in america and dating my rapper boyfriend. Im also pretty as hell in this Dr like omfg.

† Red Hot DR: A dr where im just living life in the 90s-2000s and also im Dating Joey jordison teehee. I might turn this into where i have my own band (will probably be based off Kittie, Hole, or/and Genitorturers..). This dr is also mostly Subconscious based + With a pinterest board

Drs im working on/want: A hogwarts Dr 100%(even though i havent even started the script wahh), Model/Actress Dr (i have moodboards and a small pinterest board for it already..), The LOC Dr i started today but haven’t finished yet

(I forgot who made these cute borders, if anyone knows who made them please comment so i can give creds! <3)