#with hints of rustic brown and black

[crofter]

001: a (visual) study into lara croft.

[2b4st4r]

Oh hi! I hope you're doing! Been enjoying your work a little too much, I thought maybe I could make an ask..

I love katakuri, but there isn't much on him. Could you please write something for him?

Here's a scenario if you'd like to you use one:

The reader is a talented pastry chef who becomes Katakuri's new assistant on Whole Cake Island. As they work together, Katakuri develops strong feelings for the reader, but struggles with jealousy when they receive attention from other family members (cracker, oven, Daifuku etc.)

The Pastries Heart 

Reader x Reader

Words: 4,168

Warnings: implied power imbalance, jealousy, minor injuries, wholesome/romance, use of y/n.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───

The humid air of Whole Cake Island usually felt like a warm hug, but today it was more of a suffocating embrace. You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, the scent of melting chocolate and simmering fruit clinging to your clothes like a second skin. Most people would find the constant sugary perfume overwhelming, but to you, it was the sweet symphony of your life's work.

Your small corner of the Chateau was a whirlwind of flour, sugar, and artistic chaos. Unlike the mechanical precision of some of the other Big Mom pirates' kitchens, yours hummed with a different kind of energy—one born from passion and an almost obsessive attention to detail. This was where magic happened, where simple ingredients transformed into edible dreams.

You hummed along to the distant clang of a blacksmith, a surprising but not unwelcome sound on an island dedicated to confectionery. Your hands moved with practiced grace, rolling out a delicate sheet of feuilletage so thin you could practically see through it. This wasn't just any puff pastry; it was destined to become the crispy, ethereal layers of a Mille-Feuille aux Fruits Rouges. Each individual fruit—plump raspberries, glistening blueberries, and fragrant wild strawberries—had been personally selected and glazed to perfection, their natural sweetness heightened by a hint of vanilla bean. The crème pâtissière, a silky, golden custard, was cooling in the chiller, infused with just the right amount of Madagascar vanilla.

Your eyes, however, were currently focused on something far more intricate: miniature Mont Blancs. These weren't the rustic, hearty versions you might find in a mountain cafe. Yours were individual works of art, each a delicate mound of sweetened chestnut cream piped into intricate swirls, resembling freshly fallen snow. Hidden beneath the chestnut "snow" was a light-as-air vanilla sponge and a dollop of tart blackcurrant compote, providing a bright counterpoint to the richness. A single candied violet graced the peak of each, a tiny edible crown.

The oven timer chimed, pulling you away from your precise piping. You carefully pulled out a tray of your signature Pain au Chocolat, their golden-brown exteriors gleaming, promising a buttery, flaky interior filled with rich, molten chocolate. You smiled; Katakuri always seemed to appreciate those, despite his usual stoic demeanor.

Working for the second son of the Charlotte Family, Katakuri, was… an experience. He was a man of few words, especially when it came to compliments, but you'd learned to read the subtle signs. The way his shoulders would relax slightly when he took a bite of your latest creation, or the almost imperceptible nod of approval he'd give after finishing a particularly complex dessert. It was enough. Your pastries spoke for you, and they spoke volumes.

As the aroma of freshly baked goods filled the air, a familiar shadow fell across your workstation. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of mochi and strong black coffee preceded him, a strangely comforting combination that had become as much a part of your daily routine as the flour on your apron. You simply smiled, a silent invitation for him to taste the magic you’d created today.

You felt a familiar presence behind you, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of mochi. It was Katakuri. You didn't even need to turn around anymore; a year of working side-by-side had forged a comfortable, almost silent understanding between you two.

"Just finished the Mont Blancs," you announced, gesturing with a flour-dusted hand. "They're still cooling, but the Pain au Chocolat are fresh out of the oven if you want one."

A large hand reached past you, not for the pastry, but for your arm. Your breath hitched slightly as Katakuri's fingers, surprisingly gentle, closed around your wrist. You’d barely registered the sting, but he clearly had. He turned your hand over, revealing a small, angry red mark just below your thumb – a fresh burn from a moment of distraction near the hot oven rack.

Without a word, he led you to the sink, turning on the cold tap. You winced as the icy water hit your skin, but the immediate relief was undeniable. He held your hand patiently under the stream, his gaze fixed on the burn. This was Katakuri. The formidable second son of Big Mom, a man who faced down pirates and marines without flinching, yet he’d stop everything for a minor kitchen mishap.

It had been like this for months. Your occasional kitchen mishaps, the late nights perfecting a new recipe, the frustrating moments when a soufflé refused to rise – he was always there. Not with grand gestures, but with quiet, steady care. If you were muttering under your breath about a batch of curdled ganache, he’d simply listen, his presence a grounding force. If you accidentally nicked your finger, he’d be there with a bandage before you even thought to look for one.

You’d often find yourself ranting about the humidity affecting your meringues, or the struggle to source the perfect seasonal fruits. You’d talk about your childhood dream of opening your own small bakery, about the joy of seeing someone’s face light up at the first bite of your creations. And he would just listen, his dark eyes seemingly absorbing every word, his silence more comforting than any advice.

Katakuri, for his part, found himself drawn to your vibrant energy, a stark contrast to the often grim reality of his life. He loved the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of a new pastry idea, the almost childlike wonder you possessed when a complex recipe came together perfectly. He loved the genuine passion that fueled you, a fire that burned so brightly it felt like it could melt through his perpetually stoic exterior.

He admired your resilience, how you’d bounce back from every burnt crust or collapsed cake, learning from each mistake with an unwavering determination. He respected your talent, a skill that transcended mere cooking and ventured into artistry. The intricate designs, the perfect balance of flavors, the sheer beauty of everything you created – it was all a reflection of the beautiful, dedicated soul he saw in you.

But more than anything, he loved your kindness. You saw him, truly saw him, beyond his intimidating reputation, beyond his large frame and imposing scar. You treated him with a gentle familiarity that no one else dared to offer. You worried about him, in your own quiet ways, leaving out a special batch of his favorite mochi when he’d had a particularly long day, or simply offering a soft smile that reached his rarely seen depths. He loved the way you made him feel, not just like a formidable warrior, but simply… Katakuri. And that, to him, was everything.

You finally pulled your hand from under the cool water, the sting of the burn already subsiding. Katakuri’s hand lingered for a moment, his thumb gently brushing over the reddened skin before he finally withdrew. "Be more careful," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that always sent a strange shiver down your spine. It wasn't a reprimand, more a statement of concern.

You just nodded, already turning back to your workstation. "I know, I know. My mind was on that new berry compote. It's just not quite hitting the right note yet."

Katakuri, instead of leaving, simply stood beside you, a silent sentinel. You continued your work, pulling out various jars of spices and sniffing them thoughtfully, occasionally holding a small spoon of compote to your nose. He watched, utterly still, as you meticulously added a tiny pinch of cinnamon, then a whisper of star anise, stirring and tasting with intense focus. To him, this was endlessly fascinating. He’d seen you spend hours on a single flavor profile, your brow furrowed in concentration, your tongue darting out to sample, your eyes alight when you finally found that perfect balance. This unwavering dedication to perfection was something he deeply admired, a mirror to his own relentless pursuit of strength.

Later that afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour lashed against the Chateau windows. You’d been meticulously piping ganache onto a batch of chocolate truffles, a task that required absolute stillness and concentration. The sudden crash of thunder made you jump, and a delicate truffle rolled off the counter, splattering onto the floor.

A sigh escaped your lips. "Oh, for…!" You crouched down, gathering the ruined truffle. Just as you were about to wipe the smudge of ganache from the pristine floor, Katakuri moved. He produced a crisp, white handkerchief from seemingly nowhere and knelt with surprising grace for a man his size, wiping the spot clean himself.

You stared, slightly dumbfounded. "Katakuri, you don't have to—"

"It's fine," he interrupted, rising smoothly. He just handed you the now-stained handkerchief. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, Don't worry about the small things; I've got them. This quiet attentiveness to your struggles, no matter how minor, was a constant source of comfort.

One evening, after a particularly demanding day filled with orders for a special occasion, you found yourself slumped on a stool, nursing a cup of herbal tea. Your feet ached, and your shoulders were stiff from hours of standing over counters. You barely registered Katakuri's presence until a warm, steaming mug of something sweet and aromatic was placed gently in your hands.

It was ginger tea with honey, exactly what you needed for your tired muscles. You looked up to see him standing there, his back to you, looking out over the moonlit ocean. He hadn't said a word, hadn't even looked at you, but he knew. He always seemed to know when you were at your limit. This intuitive understanding of your needs, anticipating them before you even voiced them, was a silent testament to his deep care for you. It was in these quiet, unspoken moments that the true depth of his feelings for you shone brightest.

You were humming a lively tune, a habit you picked up whenever you were particularly pleased with a new creation. Today, it was your new line of fruit tarts, each one a miniature masterpiece of shimmering glaze and perfectly arranged berries. You beamed, holding one up to the light, satisfied with its vibrant colors.

A booming laugh echoed from the doorway, and Oven, his massive frame filling the archway, strode in. "Those look fantastic, Y/N! Sending some over to the main hall?"

"Of course!" you replied, genuinely pleased to see him. "I just finished a batch. Help yourself, Oven. And tell me what you think."

Oven, surprisingly gentle for a man who could boil someone alive with a touch, carefully selected a tart. He took a large bite, his eyes widening. "Magnificent! The crust is perfect, and the berries are so fresh." He flashed you a rare, genuine smile, making you feel a surge of satisfaction.

Just then, the clanking of metal announced Daifuku’s arrival. He peered over Oven's shoulder, his lamp genie hovering nearby. "What's this? Pastries already? Don't tell me you've been slacking, Y/N." His tone was gruff, but you knew him well enough to detect the underlying curiosity.

"Never!" you chirped, playfully flicking a tiny bit of flour at him. "Just perfecting my craft. Try one, Daifuku. I made an extra batch just for you brothers."

Daifuku grunted but took a tart, his genie mimicking the action with an ethereal version. As he bit into it, a flicker of appreciation crossed his usually stern face. "Hmm. Not bad, for you." You simply laughed, knowing that was high praise from him.

A rustle of biscuits preceded Cracker, who, ever the dramatic one, burst in with a flourish. "My dear Y/N! I smelled your artistry from across the hall! Are those my special chocolate ones?"

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. "They're everyone's special chocolate ones, Cracker. But yes, I saved you a few."

Cracker's face, or rather, his biscuit armor, seemed to brighten. He snatched a chocolate tart, taking a theatrical bite. "Exquisite! You truly are the jewel of Whole Cake Island, Y/N!"

You blushed slightly at his effusive praise, secretly pleased. You enjoyed your interactions with them. Oven's straightforwardness, Daifuku's gruff affection, and Cracker's flamboyant charm – they were all part of your daily life here, and you genuinely liked them. They were Katakuri's brothers, after all, and you saw glimpses of him in each of them.

Katakuri, however, did not share your enjoyment.

He stood in the doorway, his usual imposing figure seeming even more rigid. His eyes, normally fixated on you, flickered between you and his brothers. He watched as you laughed at one of Cracker's boasts, as you playfully jabbed Daifuku, as you shared a genuine smile with Oven. Each interaction felt like a small dagger twisting in his gut.

He saw the way Cracker preened under your attention, the way Oven’s stoic face softened when you offered him a fresh pastry, the way Daifuku, for all his bluster, always made a point to seek you out. It was infuriating. Your attention, your smiles, your laughter – they were precious. They were yours. And his brothers, oblivious oafs that they were, were soaking it all up.

He felt a familiar, unpleasant clenching in his chest – jealousy. It was a raw, visceral emotion he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, let alone feel so strongly. He was the most formidable, the most respected, the strongest. Yet, here he was, silently seething because you were being kind to his siblings. He knew it was irrational. You were genuinely friendly, and they were, technically, family. But he couldn't help it. He wanted your undivided attention, your exclusive smiles, your singular focus. He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh, the only one you fretted over, the only one you instinctively cared for. He wanted to be the one you vented to, the one who saw your little mishaps, the one you offered a freshly baked Pain au Chocolat to, first.

He watched you now, handing Cracker another tart, your fingers brushing lightly. His knuckles whitened, and the scent of burnt sugar, not from your oven, but from the heat of his own irritation, began to faintly permeate the air. He cleared his throat, a low, guttural sound that instantly silenced the boisterous room. All three brothers turned, their expressions shifting to wary respect.

Your head snapped up, a bright, welcoming smile gracing your lips as you finally met his gaze. "Katakuri! Perfect timing! I was just about to send some of these over to your quarters. Which one would you like?"

He looked at the array of vibrant tarts, then back at his brothers, who were suddenly very interested in the floor. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "The chocolate," he finally said, his voice flat, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in his eyes. Mine, he thought, you are mine.

Cracker, oblivious to the simmering tension that had just entered the room with Katakuri, took another dramatic bite of his chocolate tart. He leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was still loud enough to carry in the now-silent kitchen. "You know, Y/N, these are so good, they almost make me forget the endless paperwork Mama dumps on us. Perhaps you could join me for a break later? I'm sure you could brighten up even my tedious reports." He punctuated his offer with a charming, if slightly smug, wink.

You, utterly caught up in the warmth of the compliments and the casual banter, simply smiled. "Oh, Cracker, you're always trying to rope me into something! But maybe, if I finish this special order for Brulee, I'll bring some fresh macaroons over." You were just being friendly, completely missing the loaded undertone in his voice, the slight shift in his posture, the way his eyes lingered on your face.

But Katakuri saw it all. He saw the way Cracker’s gaze lingered, the subtle, almost imperceptible lean of his body towards you, the confident smirk playing on his lips. He saw the overt attempt to monopolize your time, to pull you further into Cracker's orbit. And he saw your charmingly oblivious response, your innocent agreement to bring him macaroons.

A low growl, like shifting tectonic plates, vibrated in Katakuri’s chest. His eyes, usually half-lidded, narrowed imperceptibly. He moved.

It wasn't a sudden, aggressive motion, but a deliberate, unhurried stride that brought him to your side. His large hand, the one capable of devastating blows, settled lightly yet possessively on the small of your back. It wasn't a squeeze or a pull, just a firm, undeniable presence that radiated a silent warning. His fingers, calloused from countless battles, were warm against your apron, a silent claim.

The air in the room thickened instantly. Oven stiffened, his eyes darting between you and Katakuri. Daifuku's genie seemed to shrink, and he cleared his throat, suddenly finding the wall immensely interesting. Cracker's smile faltered, his confident posture subtly deflating. His eyes, fixed on Katakuri's hand on your waist, widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of understanding—and perhaps a touch of fear—crossing his features.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware. You merely leaned back instinctively into the warmth at your back, a comfortable acceptance of his presence. "Oh, Katakuri," you said, your voice cheerful, "are you picking out your chocolate tart now?"

Katakuri’s gaze remained fixed on Cracker, his eyes promising swift and unpleasant consequences should the biscuit man dare to push his luck again. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, even rumble that seemed to fill the entire kitchen. "Yes. And I believe Y/N was just about to tell me about her new macaroons." His grip on your waist tightened, just barely, a silent reinforcement of his words.

Cracker coughed awkwardly, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "Right. Well, I, uh... I just remembered I have pressing matters in the main hall. An urgent report, you see." He backed away slowly, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Oven and Daifuku, sensing the shift in the wind, muttered their goodbyes and followed him out with remarkable speed, leaving the kitchen suddenly quiet.

You blinked, a little surprised by their abrupt departure. "Well, that was fast," you mused, turning back to Katakuri, oblivious to the silent battle that had just been fought and won. "So, about those macaroons..."

You looked up at Katakuri, a bright, questioning look on your face. "So, about those macaroons… I was thinking a new flavor for them. Maybe a salted caramel or a passion fruit? What do you think?"

Katakuri's hand remained firmly on your lower back, a comforting weight that you now barely registered. His gaze, however, had softened considerably, his earlier intensity replaced by his usual thoughtful stillness. "Passion fruit," he rumbled, his voice a deep thrum. "Less sweet."

You chuckled. "Always thinking about balance, aren't you? Alright, passion fruit it is. I'll get started on a test batch after I finish up these tarts." You stretched, a small groan escaping your lips as your back protested. "Whew, long day."

Without a word, Katakuri shifted. His vast presence, usually so imposing, suddenly felt like a solid, warm wall behind you. He didn't pull you, didn't push. He simply… was there, providing an anchor. You, still feeling the lingering fatigue, found yourself leaning back against him.

It was a little awkward at first. His chest was incredibly broad, and your head, even when leaning back, didn't quite reach his shoulder. You were a little taller than average, but he was a giant. Your back pressed against his firm, muscled front, and you could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of mochi and strong coffee was more pronounced now, warm and comforting.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more natural position, and he subtly adjusted with you, a silent dance of two bodies finding their fit. Your head eventually found a surprisingly comfortable spot just below his chin, nestled against his chest. His arm, the one that wasn't on your back, slowly, almost imperceptibly, came up to rest lightly on your shoulder, completing the embrace. It wasn’t tight or demanding, just a quiet, protective hold.

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting away. The sheer size of him, which once felt intimidating, now felt incredibly safe. It was like leaning against a mountain, solid and unwavering. You could hear the faint, steady thump of his heart against your ear.

In that moment, a warmth spread through your chest, deeper and more profound than the heat from any oven. It wasn't just comfort; it was something else entirely. You found yourself admiring the quiet strength of him, the way he just was, without needing grand gestures or flowery words. He was always there, always steady, always looking out for you in his own silent way.

You liked the way his large hand felt on your back, the solid presence of him behind you. You liked the way he listened to your rants, the way he cared for your small cuts and burns, the way he silently chased away anyone who dared to annoy you. You liked the way he anticipated your needs, bringing you tea when you were tired, picking the less sweet option for your macaroons.

A realization, warm and bright like fresh-baked bread, bloomed in your heart. You didn't just like him; you really liked him. A lot. It wasn't just comfortable; it was something deeper, something that made your own heart beat a little faster against his vast chest. Resting there, enveloped in his quiet strength, you knew you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You chuckled. "Always thinking about balance, aren't you? Alright, passion fruit it is. I'll get started on a test batch after I finish up these tarts." You stretched, a small groan escaping your lips as your back protested. "Whew, long day."

Without a word, Katakuri shifted. His vast presence, usually so imposing, suddenly felt like a solid, warm wall behind you. He didn't pull you, didn't push. He simply… was there, providing an anchor. You, still feeling the lingering fatigue, found yourself leaning back against him.

It was a little awkward at first. His chest was incredibly broad, and your head, even when leaning back, didn't quite reach his shoulder. You were a little taller than average, but he was a giant. Your back pressed against his firm, muscled front, and you could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of mochi and strong coffee was more pronounced now, warm and comforting.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more natural position, and he subtly adjusted with you, a silent dance of two bodies finding their fit. Your head eventually found a surprisingly comfortable spot just below his chin, nestled against his chest. His arm, the one that wasn't on your back, slowly, almost imperceptibly, came up to rest lightly on your shoulder, completing the embrace. It wasn’t tight or demanding, just a quiet, protective hold.

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting away. The sheer size of him, which once felt intimidating, now felt incredibly safe. It was like leaning against a mountain, solid and unwavering. You could hear the faint, steady thump of his heart against your ear.

In that moment, a warmth spread through your chest, deeper and more profound than the heat from any oven. It wasn't just comfort; it was something else entirely. You found yourself admiring the quiet strength of him, the way he just was, without needing grand gestures or flowery words. He was always there, always steady, always looking out for you in his own silent way.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Muscle Memory : Chapter Six

Pairing: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS Restaurant Owner Bucky Barnes x Cardiac Surgeon Female Reader Alternate Universe

Summary: In a town that never forgets , she thought she could hide the bruises behind a perfect smile and life. But someone from her past sees too much—and remembers everything. sorry its so vague just don't want to give too much away!

Word Count: 2.8k+

Chapter Warnings: Starts off super fluffy and nice then dips into - Emotional abuse & gaslighting , alcohol consumption , psychological trauma , victim-blaming , verbal threats/degradation , physical violence , mental health topics.

A/N: hey everyone! a new chapter in only two days eee. This one is a pretty rough one im sorry :( but this story does have a happy ending and i promise i will not steer you wrong! i hope you enjoy and take care of yourselves 💖

also next chapter is our halfway point and as a treat im posting the teaser for my new seriess im wiritng rn!! hehe

series masterlist

<- previous chapter - next chapter ->

If there was one thing that didn't change from the time Y/N knew Wanda Maximoff growing up to knowing her now , was that she was truly incapable of—no matter how she tried—keeping things especially parties small.

So , as the countdown to her and Vision's wedding crept closer and closer , it was inevitable that she'd find an excuse to throw a dinner party.

Not that anyone in their group minded. Especially not when it was hosted in this house.

Wanda and Vision’s place was an architectural day dream , a blend of sleek modern lines softened by vintage details. French styled windows framed the setting sun , and the interior glowed in amber hues. 

The walls were adorned with old and new framed book pages and antique sconces , one room effortlessly flowing into the next. 

An already pre prepared nursery sat quietly off to the right of the upstairs hall , already painted in soft sage and brown tones with a mobile of little animals and characters swaying in the air from the cool breeze of an open window. 

The library across from it was cozy , all dark reddish wood and muted velvet chairs , the air carrying hints of cedar and the waft of old novels. 

The dining room—well , the dining room was the crown jewel of the home: a long hand carved and made rustic table lit with strung lights and flickering floating candles in water-filled mason jars that adorned the table top , the exquisite centerpiece was made of freshly picked eucalyptus and peonies from Wanda’s garden.

It was intimate. Warm and familiar.

When arriving Y/N sat near the middle of the long table , Tyler right at her side arm tucked behind her back or snug to her waist , her hand clenched under the table in his too-tight grip he currently had on her. His palm hadn’t loosened once since they got in the car to head this way.

Directly cross from her sat Bucky. Sam and Inaya had taken their seats beside him , with Clint and Laura next down the lavish table. 

Everyone was deep in their own conversation , it bled into wedding talk , honeymoon destinations and plans and now a friendly dessert table debate.

Wanda , was in a soft black spring dress with a soft gray cardigan draped over her frame standing with an expensive wine bottle in one hand and a dish towel in the other , laughed as Vision brought over the last plate of food announcing:

“No one touch the roasted potatoes just yet,” she said firmly. “They need exactly four minutes to rest or I'll put a spell on you.”

That drew a collective laugh from all ends of the table and room.

Y/N smiled at the joke raising her glass and took a slow long sip of her wine.

If she was being honest , she didn’t even like the taste of wine. Not really. It was too dry and not her usual pick. But it gave her something to do with her hands that kept from making her cuticles bleed by her nervous picking. 

And the warmth it provided dulled the thrum of anxiety in her belly and veins that came with being seated at the same table as Bucky Barnes—with Tyler right next to her.

Bucky , for his part , had also loosened up with a glass of the red lquid. He rarely ever drank—ever cautious of his actions and , ever in control—but something about the mood , the dim flickering lights , the hum of shared memories made it feel safe to have a few sips or maybe a few glasses. 

Just for tonight , he told himself.

At some point during the chatter of lifelong friends and their spouses , the conversation had shifted. 

The newlyweds-to-be were asked about their honeymoon plans or if there were any.

“We’re going to Sicily ,” Wanda smiled , practically glowing as she leaned on Vision. 

“We found a tiny villa , no WiFi or distractions , just sun and lemon trees and Vision shirtless on a beautiful beach.”

Vision smiled modestly blushing at his soon to be wife's comment. “She makes it sound way better than it will be.”

“I don’t know about that Vision,” Inaya said , resting her chin on her hand. “I think it sounds like pure bliss and heaven.”

Sam groaned leaning back in his seat. “When can we go back to Europe again?”

“When someone gets a passport that hasn't been way expired,” she teased , “-and when that same someone doesn't keep leaving a child in my uterus.” 

Y/N laughed loudly with the group at that. 

Her head was beginning to feel a little light , her cheeks warm with that wine buzz. 

She wasn't drunk—yet—but she was definitely tipsy , her tongue was  looser, her chest less tight and angry. 

She’d poured herself a second full glass before the first was even fully empty.

Across the table , Bucky had started the conversation now ,  recounting and recalling the time they’d tried to build his family pet ,  a dog house together when they were about fourteen.

“No joke ,” he said , lifting his fork from his plate with emphasis, “she tried to nail the boards into a piece of wood that was warped and wasn’t even remotely usable.”

“I was testing the materials ,” Y/N defended herself , giggling.

“You then hit your finger with the hammer stumbling backwards landing right on your butt and screamed,” Bucky added, teasing her more and more, “but the only thing you broke was the sandwich you’d hidden from me in your back jeans pocket.”

Sam snorted. “Wait , she…you had a sandwich in your pocket?”

Y/N was full-on belly laughing now thanks to her lightheadedness and ease. “I always had snacks on me , okay? You can’t build memories on an empty stomach.”

The group laughed loudly with her. Even Wanda half in the conversation half , refilling glasses and snacking on roasted almonds , chuckled at her friend.

Tyler , however, sat utterly quiet.

Not smiling. Not speaking.

Almost seeming invisible.

The laughter around the table continued , flowing freely like the wine that was endless. 

Every shared story seemed to stretch back into a time when things were easier. When love didn’t quite hurt. When home wasn’t as dangerous.

Bucky noticed it. 

How Y/N leaned into those memories like a lifeline gripping onto them , her eyes brighter , her body and guard down and  looser. 

Her smile was more real than he’d seen in the weeks she had been back.

She looked at him across from the table , once or twice , longer than necessary but shorter than they both wanted.

 The kind of looks and glances old friends shared. 

The kind that said we’ve been through it. The kind that asked: Do you still remember who and how I am?

He did.

Of course he did.

She was still his girl , the one with the broken sandwich and scraped bloody knees , the one who memorized the stars and used sarcasm like armor. Even if she'd forgotten herself in the mirror Tyler made her use , he hadn’t. 

He couldn’t.

At one point, Bucky quietly pushed , sliding the cheese platter a little closer to her , seeing there were only a few of the smoked gouda slices left , knowing it was her favorite. 

She didn’t say thank you , didn’t need to. 

Their eyes met with a glowing smile on both of their faces. 

That was enough.

And Tyler had caught right on it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

More wine was of course poured. Someone—probably Vision turned on soft jazz as it flowed through the house speakers. 

Dessert was offered and greatly accepted—mini chocolate tortes topped with cold fresh whipped cream.

Eventually , after Sam and Inaya said their goodbyes with Inaya having an early shift in the morning , and Sam , of course, insisted on escorting her out –they moved to the living room and started a simple game of cards. 

Something easy. Something casual. Fun.

Y/N was perched and settled on the couch legs tucked up underneath her , Tyler beside her , Bucky across parallel to the coffee table. 

The others fanned out around the room with drinks and some still with dessert still in hand.

 It was lighthearted , a little loud, and full of teasing jabs about who cheated at Uno and who hoarded all the wild cards.

But then as Clint placed a green four card…Y/N dropped Tyler’s hand.

She hadn’t even realized she’d done it. Her laughter from Bucky’s sarcastic comment about Clint’s bad hand still hung in the air when she just… let go.

Maybe it was her tipsy comfort. Maybe it was instinct clawing.

But the absence of her hand in his did not go unnoticed.

His grip had been controlling and sweaty. And when she let go, dropping it on the table in front of the others , that loss of the ownership he felt was everything.

Tyler’s jaw tightened hard, grinding his jaw. His hand found her bare thigh under the table and clamped down roughly , thumb pressing against the soft skin near her knee bruising the supple flesh there.

Y/N winced. Her back stiffened and jolted slightly.

And in that second—the laughter and safety faded from her eyes.

She tried to breathe normally. To smile. But the look Tyler gave her as she glanced from his grip on her to his gaze… it was the look of a man who would not forget this. 

Would not forgive it.

She felt instantly sick.

Across the table , Bucky's gaze sharpened , the mirth in his features cooling instantly. 

He’d seen the subtle wince. The flicker of fear.

His grip on his cards in hand tightened.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When finishing the game after many , many long hectic rounds everyone began to bid their goodbyes , Tyler practically dragged Y/N out by her elbow the moment people were busy picking up and walking out. Not even allowing her to say goodbye to her friends.

The car ride home was deathly silent. Eerie.

The kind of silence that screamed without a word having to be spoken. 

That familiar eeriness clawed at her and made every mile on the way home stretch into an eternity.

She sat still , her body rigid and tight in the passenger seat. 

Her fingers trembled, shaking in her lap , curled twisting tightly together. 

She didn’t dare speak. Not with the way Tyler was gripping the wheel and in control of the moving vehicle , white-knuckled ,  his jaw locked and twitching under his skin. 

The muscle tick in his temple pulse and pounded in time with the rage she could feel radiating off him like a heatwave.

The second they turned into the driveway , her breath hitched.

She already knew , and accepted. Braced herself.

She didn’t need the slamming of the car door or the quick , pounding footsteps up the front porch to tell her this night would not end quietly.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

As soon as she stepped inside their home anc kicked her shoes off closing the door behind her, it began.

“You think I didn’t see you?” Tyler’s voice snapped like a whip. “You think I’m stupid?”

She flinched at his voice , recoiling slightly as he tossed his keys onto the table so hard they slid off and clattered to the floor. 

He was already pacing , hands gesturing wildly , words slurred just enough to show how much wine he’d also taken in. He definitely shouldn't have been driving.

“You were laughing. Laughing with him like I wasn’t even there,” he spat voice breaking. “You embarrassed me.”

“I wasn’t—Tyler, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh, don’t give me that innocent pathetic act now,” he snarled , getting in her face , breathing on her nose as she closed her eyes tight. 

“You were all over him with your stupid giggling and whispering and touching.”

“I didn’t touch him,” she said quickly trying to use her voice to soothe the storm beginning to spin out of control.

 “I was just being friendly. You know I haven’t seen Bucky in years , I was just catching up. That’s all.”

“Liar!” he roared.

Her knees buckled slightly at the volume. “Please… please don’t—”

He grabbed her by the wrist so fast she didn’t have time to react or move. 

“You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t get to act like some flirtatious little slut in front of all our friends and then lie to my face!”

“I wasn’t—” she tried , her voice cracking , the panic rising fast now, crawling up her throat like bile as hot tears pooled in her eyes. “I didn’t—Tyler, please—”

“You love him , don’t you?” he hissed then began to laugh dryly.

“That’s what this is. You’ve always loved him. You’ve never stopped. You were thinking about him the whole time we were there werent you. Every time you smiled, it was for him wasn't it…..”

“WASN'T IT?!” He shoved her hard , sending her backwards.

She hit the wall with a sickening thud , her shoulder scraping against the sharp edge of the doorframe and the picture above fell and shattered at her feet.

“Tyler!” she gasped , pain shooting down her back and head.

He stalked forward , his face twisted in pure fury. 

“You’re mine. Mine. You hear me? You’re lucky someone like me even wants you. You think he’d take you back after knowing what you’ve become?”

“I didn’t do anything—” she sobbed , trying to push herself up slipping on glass as it dug into her palms.

“You’re disgusting ,” he snapped. “God , you make me sick. Don’t forget who takes care of you. Don’t forget who loves you. No one else will. Not after finding out what you are.”

Her head spun , vision blurring with tears as they poured down her cheeks.

“I love you,” he said sharply , grabbing her jaw in his hand. “Say it back.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t just cry out sobbing, turning into an almost wheeze.

“SAY IT BACK!”

“…I love you,” she whispered , barely audible. 

Not because it was true—but because she was so and entirely afraid of him at that moment. 

He stared at her for a long moment scoffing as she kneeled before him.

Then he dropped his grip and stepped back like nothing had happened.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered. “Don’t follow me.”

She didn't look up ; she stayed still on the floor, chest heaving.

The pain was spreading out now , her back , her shoulder , her cheek. 

She wasn’t sure where she’d been hurt the worst. Her body? Her heart? Mind?

Everything just ached.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The silence after he left was impossibly louder than his screams had ever been.

She curled in on herself on the living room floor , her sobs barely making it past her throat. Her hand trembled as she reached for the throw blanket on the couch and pulled it down , wrapping it around herself.

And somehow, the worst part wasn’t even the pain , the blood or anything remotely physical.

It was the guilt.

Guilt that clung to her skin like lingering cigarette smoke. 

Because she’d laughed with Bucky. Because she’d let herself forget—just for a moment—what her life really was. Because when he looked at her like she was still someone worth caring about , she’d wanted to believe it.

She hated him–Bucky for it.

Because it made this hurt more. He had tricked her.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Her fingers curled around the edge of the couch cushion as she dragged herself up , slowly , gingerly , her body sore and heavy. 

She winced feeling the glass in her knees and hands but just brushed off whatever she could off her skin and laid down pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders , knees drawn to her chest.

She cried for a long time. Her voice was raw and missing.

And when she couldn’t cry or wince anymore , when her throat was gravelly and her face sticky flooded with tears , she stared at the ceiling fan as it spun.

As Tyler’s voice fills her mind.

“You’re mine.”

“No one else will love you.”

“He doesn’t want you.”

“He never did.”

And the worst part was—Some part of her believed it.

-end

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[muwapsturniolo]

✯Sturniolos as Half-bloods✯

Goddess version

God version

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Chris would be the son of Aphrodite

Aphrodite is the goddess, of love, beauty, and desire. I think it makes perfect sense for him to be her son. I could see him always wearing some shade of pink (preferably a baby pink), pearl earrings, and just being the most wholesome person ever. He already is wholesome (besides the times when he is being an absolute menace) but it would definitely be elevated. With his mother being the goddess of love and beauty, he would do his best to ensure everyone feels loved and beautiful. Being stationed in camp half-blood, he would give all the girls flowers, brightening up their day and complimenting them on their beauty. When it comes to males, he would hype them up and play cupid, encouraging them to talk to the girls/males they have a crush on.

His cabin is number ten, and I would imagine it to be right by the water, the sun always shining in. His room in the cabin would be white with pink and creme accents. Pink silk bedding, a white desk, and a gold-encrusted mirror. It's no secret that Aphrodite is a bit vain, so he would put a lot of effort into his looks. His hair would sit perfectly, being brushed and combed with a rose-quartz hair tool. His skin would be clear and almost reflective. His lips would never be chapped, tinted softly with a pink lip balm. He would often show off his body, going for swims with the son of Poseiden (Nate possibly) his shirt being off, his abs prominent. A smirk would adorn his face knowing both males and females were fawning over him.

Going on to the desire and sexuality aspect. He knows he's handsome asf and he would use it to his advantage. He would flirt with multiple girls, even managing to get a few in his bed, but it would stop when he meets who he believes is the love of his life. The daughter of Hades.

Aphrodite's animal representation is usually doves and swans. In Chris's case, I think his would be a baby doe.

In the Percy Jackson series, Aphrodite's children didn't have many powers but the one that stands out would be charm speaking, almost like a siren song. Chris would definitely possess this power, being a smooth talker to get who and what he wants. As for a weapon, I could see him having a rose quartz shield paired with a sword, the handle of the sword being gold and white. The shield would be disguised as a ring, and the sword would be in the form of a pearl necklace.

his songs:

" He want lipstick, lipgloss, hickeys too" kiss me more- Doja cat

"Drop of a hat she's as willing as ,playful as a pussy cat" killer queen- queen (i like the 5sos version)

"i was made for lovin you baby and you were made for loving me" I was made for loving you-kiss

can't lie, all I was thinking about while writing Chris's part was @gamermattsgf fic silk ribbons 😭

Matt would be the son of Demeter

Demeter is the goddess of agriculture/harvest. Considering Matt has been the designated driver, does the laundry, and is labeled the navigator, I feel like this suits him. Agriculture is very important and tbh, without it, nothing in the world would work. I could see him always wearing jeans or overalls (barking at the thought of him wearing overalls omfg), he would wear a wife beater or a simple black t-shirt (preferably cropped teehee). He always would have his horse chain on, never taking it off, even when he's getting his hands dirty. Matt's quiet so I feel like that would carry on into the halfblood universe. He would stay near his cabin unless he was training or cooking in the camp kitchen. He would talk to a few people but would mostly keep to himself.

His cabin is number four, I would imagine it to be located near the back of the camp, close to mountains, and having a lot of land to farm. I would think it would be more of a rustic vibe, very serene. A lot of browns, cremes, with hints of green. A statue of his mother would be perched right in the middle of his backyard. He would sit next to it, offering her grains and cups of water as the sound of nature buzzed around them. Due to his mother being the goddess of harvest, he was in control of the food for the camp. He's basically a farmer. With being a farmer, there are multiple animals, his favorite being the horse. He would have an array of horses, his favorite being a pearl white horse he named Lucky. He would always take hikes along the trails, and teach other half-bloods how to care for the horses and how to ride them as well.

I could see him having a crush on Poesiden's daughter. It would be a beautiful relationship, after all, you cant grow plants or food without water.

In the Percy Jackson series, Demeter's children did possess powers. The ones I feel Matt would possess would be enhanced growth, (manipulate plant growth which would come in handy during battle.. He would also possess the power to manipulate seasons. It wouldn't be anything crazy, but he could make the temperature rise or fall drastically. His weapon of choice would definitely be a lasso, made with a golden thread. He would definitely ride on a horse, Lucky being the horse in question. The lasso would be disguised as the chain to his horse necklace, and the horse pendant itself would be Lucky.

Demeter's animal representation is usually a snake, pig, turtle doves, and a screech owl. The horse was also mentioned due to Poseiden creating the horse as a form of affection for Demeter. For Matt, I know for a fact his animal would be a horse (like I said multiple times) and a dog. Since I do think his love choice would be the daughter of Poseidon, he would gift her a horse.

His songs:

"I climbed a mountain and I turned around, and saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills" Landslide-fleetwood mac

"The dog days are over, the dog days are over. Can you hear the horses? Cause here they come." dog days are over- florence + the machine

"I've been searching for a trail to follow again, take me back to the night we met." the night we met- lord heron.

Nick would be the son of Athena

Athena is the goddess of war, wisdom, and craft. It's no secret Nick loves the idea of wielding a sword in a horse-drawn chariot, so this is perfect for him! He would always wear reds, golds, and black. I can deff see him wearing black docs for training, as well as jeans and some type of long sleeve. His attitude is very fierce, and he has a slick mouth. With his slick mouth comes wisdom, he's just very harsh with it. He is definitely the best fighter in the camp, being labeled as the winner and leader. I wouldn't say he was always looking for a fight but, he isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

With his cabin being number six, I would think it's located near the training center of the camp. Lots of dirt and mud trails, and weapons being thrown across the front of the cabin. His room would have wooden flooring, with a four-post bed. The bedding would be plain white sheets with red satin pillowcases and a big red blanket. A bust of his mother would sit on his nightstand, a blade perched next to it. With fighting being in his blood, I could see multiple shields and swords in the bedroom as well, maybe some mounted on the walls.

As far as relationships go, he would want someone who is equally as skilled in fighting and can handle his mouth. With that being said, he would deff have his eyes on the son of Apollo. His archery skills and knowledge would captivate Nick.

In the Percy Jackson series, Athena's kids didn't have powers, they just had really good intelligence and fighting skills, as well as craftsmanship. Nick would have very good craftsmanship, constantly fixing things for people in camp half-blood, building buildings, etc. I also think he would be the one to come up with battle strategies during dire situations. His choice of weapon would switch between a sword and a staff. The sword and staff would be much like the son of Poseidon's, disguised as a pen. His staff would be disguised as a ring as well, throwing it up into the air and catching it in a dramatic yet impressive fashion. A horse-drawn chariot wouldn't be possible, so he does take one of Matt's horses instead.

Athena's animal representation is an owl. Despite Nick's fear of birds in real life, I do think he would take after his mother with the owl. The owl would alert him when there is danger near , and guide him in battle.

His songs:

"If it makes me a king, a star in your eyes" all for us- labyrinth

"And if you complain once more, you'll meet an army of me" army of me- Bjork

"And I had a thought about wreaking havoc on an opposition, kinda shocking, they want static with precision." enemy- imagine dragons

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im in love with this!!!! im deff going to do a version for the gods!!!

TAGLIST🍑

@bernardsgf @bernardsleftbootycheek @blahbel668 @mattfrfr @gdsvhtwa @sturniolo-aali @lily-loves-struniolos @kynda-avery @causeidontlikeagoldrush

@st7rnioioss @carolinalikesthings @mattslolita @suyqa @xxloveralways14 @pepsiimaxx @judespoision

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[loudlyhappycupcake]

Roseclipsa: A Fusion of Elegance and Enigma

Roseclipsa stands as a striking fusion, embodying the ethereal beauty of Rose Quartz with the regal, mysterious allure of Eclipsa. Her complexion is fair, serving as a canvas for the vibrant details that define her. On her cheeks, a delicate yet distinct red spade symbol marks her lineage, a nod to Eclipsa's iconic markings. A small, perfectly formed pink rose quartz gem, mirroring the beloved gemstone, is nestled elegantly on her belly, radiating a soft, gentle glow.

Her hair is a magnificent cascade of teal blending seamlessly into vibrant pink, extending to an impressive length that almost reaches the floor, a testament to both their individual styles. It possesses a voluminous quality, particularly around the lower ends, where the pink takes on a more pronounced, almost cloud-like form, reminiscent of blooming rose petals.

Roseclipsa's eyes are a captivating blend of lilac and pink, reflecting a deep wisdom and a touch of playful curiosity. Her attire is a masterful blend of their distinct aesthetics. The core of her gown is a beautiful pale pink or blush color, echoing the soft hue of the rose quartz gemstone. This section of the dress is designed with multiple, flowing layers that beautifully resemble the delicate petals of a rose, creating a sense of graceful movement.

Over this lighter base, she wears a long, dark purple, Victorian-inspired gown that exudes a sophisticated, gothic elegance. This overdress is slim-fitting, creating a slender silhouette. A striking brown ring cinches the waist of this dark purple gown, adding a touch of rustic contrast.

Completing her majestic ensemble is a large black sun hat, adding an air of dramatic flair. This hat is adorned with elegant gray and white feathers, and a thorny branch, hinting at a beautiful yet formidable nature. Around her neck, a crisp white cravat with a subtle light purple crescent moon detail adds a refined touch. Her hands are graced by long mauve gloves, and her feet are clad in simple black flats with pale purple socks, grounding the elaborate outfit with understated grace.

Roseclipsa's overall appearance is one of unparalleled beauty, a harmonious blend of light and shadow, gentleness and strength, truly a queenly figure. @cartoonfan21 @twiliartsdreams2017 @twinklemaddie @aria-blue-donut-muffin @wolfie245 @samantha80ssuperstar @saltysoulballoon @bitter-yet-civilized @moonlighteclipse17 @untitled14360 @punk-63 @leo-x-u-raptor-fan @shironezuninja @roselyn-writing @anon55mystery @jeffreybrosseau @msking0 @ellie67 @in--dna @princess-paige-place-of-fun @princesshillaryellaworld25 @princessfandom812 @ohmarjorie @bloodmoon24 @bossbabyfan2 @pianodogdodge @patchcat-likeswolves @iagomorales @wisefestivalloverpatrol @torkmadox20 @jedimemories

Deep Research

Gemini c

[theprongspotter]

State - Jegulus - @stag-microfic - Day 27 - 810 words

When Sirius moved to the United States and begged Regulus to visit him, Regulus did not expect to find himself standing in front of a sprawling ranch. The main house, a charming yet rustic structure with a wide porch and peeling white paint, stood proudly amidst acres of rolling fields. Horses roamed in the distance, their silhouettes framed by a backdrop of towering mountains. It doesn’t seem like a place to find a Black. The Blacks belong in opulent manors, with manicured lawns and marble floors—not here, where the air smells of hay and the earth crunches underfoot. But his phone has no signal, so he stares ahead for only a moment longer before hesitantly walking closer, the gravel path shifting under his polished shoes.

He doesn’t even make it to the barn, a weathered structure with faded red paint, when a horse comes flying up behind him, kicking up dust in its wake. Regulus startles, instinctively taking a step back as a cloud of dirt settles over him, clinging to his tailored slacks. He makes a face, wiping at the smudges with a huff, thoroughly unimpressed by the situation.

The palomino, golden and gleaming in the late afternoon light, comes to a graceful stop in front of him. Regulus lifts his gaze to the rider, and damn if he isn’t gorgeous. Dark skin, rich like polished mahogany, hazel eyes that gleam with mischief, and brown hair that sticks out in unruly curls from beneath a weathered cowboy hat. The man’s stupidly bright smile is almost blinding, more dazzling than the sun that casts a golden halo around his figure.

“How can I help you?” the man asks, his voice carrying a thick southern accent that makes Regulus' stomach do an unexpected flip.

Regulus straightens his posture, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “I’m looking for my brother. Is he here?”

The man’s brows shoot up in surprise, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I’m not sure, darlin’. You sound an awfully far way from home, though. Are you new to the States?”

Regulus nods stiffly. “Yes, but I won’t be staying long. Just long enough to visit my brother.”

“That’s a shame.” The man’s eyes take their time as they rake over Regulus’ body, and there’s no mistaking the appreciative gleam in his gaze. “What’s your name?”

“Regulus,” he replies, crossing his arms defensively, though there’s a spark of curiosity in his own eyes now.

“I’m James. This is Leah.” James grins wider, patting the horse’s neck affectionately. Leah’s ears twitch in response, the horse shifting its weight as if pleased with the introduction.

James dismounts Leah with an effortless grace that makes Regulus’ heart skip a beat. The fluid motion is smooth, practiced, as if James has been riding horses his entire life. He dusts off his jeans as he walks toward Regulus, the dusty trail settling around his boots. "So, Regulus, you’re Sirius’ brother, huh?" he says, extending a hand, roughened from hard work but surprisingly gentle in its offer.

Regulus eyes the offered hand for a moment before taking it, surprised by the warmth of James’ grip, the way it feels solid, grounding. "Unfortunately," he replies dryly, though there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, betraying the humor beneath his stoic facade.

James chuckles, clearly amused. "Well, I think you’re in for a surprise. Sirius has really settled into this place."

Regulus raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Settled? My brother? In the middle of nowhere? I find that hard to believe."

"You’d be surprised what a bit of open sky can do to a person," James says, his tone gentle, as if he’s trying to make Regulus see something beyond the dusty ranch and endless fields. There’s a sincerity in his words that Regulus isn’t used to, something almost disarming. "But don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll make sure you find him."

Regulus feels a flutter of something he can’t quite place as James leads him toward the barn, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. The barn doors creak slightly as they approach, the smell of hay and leather wafting through the air. There's a strange sense of ease around this man, despite the dirt on his clothes and the roughness of his hands—things that Regulus would usually turn his nose up at. But here, with the sun setting over the horizon, casting long shadows across the ranch, and the sound of Leah's hooves echoing softly in the background, everything seems... different. Almost like he belongs, though he’s not ready to admit that.

He pushes the thought away as quickly as it comes. He’s here for Sirius, nothing more. But as James walks beside him, that bright smile still on his face, Regulus can’t help but wonder if this trip might end up being more than just a family visit.

[nincompoopydoo]

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

BETRAYAL — ; PART 8 / 9

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.7k SUMMARY: Awakening in an unfamiliar setting with restored memories, you encounter someone familiar. However, a lingering sense of betrayal clouds the reunion. Meanwhile, Theseus uncovers a concealed message in your letters, hinting at the potential discovery of your location. A/N: Hi everyone! I know I said I was going to put this on permanent hiatus until I was ready to pick it up again, but your girl finished her degree (kinda did badly, but glad it's over!), and now I have ample time to put all my energy of my one brain cell into finishing this series before I fall into depression again lol. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this and thank you for all the love for this series and my baby, Theseus <3 I'm also sorry for ending it with another cliffhanger haha WARNINGS: Angst. Kinda scary shit (I literally scared myself while writing this lol) no beta we die like men. MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Your environment is an enigma through the lenses of tunnel vision—hues of darkness circle in textures, contrasts of colour that dance along with your darting eyes. Your slow mind tries to keep up with your sight, unravelling the mysteries of your surroundings.

You first notice wood. Brown, battered, dim–a wooden beam trailing along the expanse of plastered white walls, grimed with dirt and age. Through blinkered sight, you catch a glimpse of light, dim orange hues casting fluttering shadows on the wall. You see it now, a flame dancing upon melting wax perched on a rustic candlestick. 

Flame. Fire. Heat.

You remember it all now.

Inferno swept through the foundations of your tiny household, leaving you and the fragility of your lungs gasping for air as you stumbled around for an exit. Yet, things were dense, billowing colours of deep grey and red, blinding your vision. You still feel the parchedness scratching down your throat. 

You remember how your hands clambered to grasp something before falling to your knees. You remember how your environment began to twist and spurn before your very eyes, vivid colours of the blaze swirling.

Then, everything went black.

…

…You…

You remember emerald cobblestones—a mesmerising golden statue.

You remember the warmth of the colour red – the trees in fall, the crackling of a fireplace, a desk with scattered papers across its surface. 

You remember.

Theseus.

Dim blue eyes. Sad. Freckled cheeks. Flushed. Brown hair curled and tumbled in autumnal hues. Trees. Barcham trees that line the sidewalk are carpeted in autumn gold. The tenement. His home. Warm, petite, charming. Gardenias. Tea. Your suitcase. Magic.

Little glimpses of returning memories flood your whirling mind like gushing water. It’s overwhelming. For weeks, you sat with a sense of longing, a missing piece, settled within the depths of your mind. And now, it all traces back to the odd familiarity of the man you met on the bus. Perhaps you recognised the glint in his eye when his eyes met yours or the patterned freckles along his cheeks, tinted in blotches of red from embarrassment.

You remember.

Your elbows immediately shift under you, perched as you rose midway, wondering yet blurry eyes moving along your surroundings. You’re in a room, and it’s not your own. Small, humble, solid walls encircle your surroundings. You have seen places like these during the war. You push yourself up, weight now on your splayed-out palms on what you realise to be a settee. It creaks at your very touch, and every little shift echoes throughout the room.

Its walls are far from pristine, with petite flowers scattered across the yellowed wallpaper with tears at its curling edges, perfectly still yet timeworn.

Your eyes trace the trails of sunlight that glow through the room, diluted by a translucent curtain that hangs before a window, shadows of a tree swaying in the gentle wind.

There’s a bed on the far left of the room, narrow and meticulously made with a quilt reminiscent of autumn hues. You can barely distinguish its patchwork from where you are, and it itches a part of your brain – a sense of familiarity.

Before you can make sense of that feeling, you are overcome with searing pain. Tearing through your head and coursing through the very confinements of your skull as if something was begging to break free from the back of your mind.

Eyes squeezed shut, you cannot help but bring your palms to the sides of your head, the heels of your hands harshly pinned to your temples, yet all you see are flashing lights dancing around in the darkness. 

Then, a flash. White. Blinding.

At that moment, you found yourself transported to an apartment. Yellow-bricked, warm honey-coloured hues of Autumn. Golden, falling leaves. Bright eyes, cheeks tinged with a touch of red. Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun. Like you hold a weight of significance, a tapestry to his existence.

“I know I’ve said this a thousand time before, but I’m sorry. Truly. You don’t deserve to be involved in this.”

You feel yourself smile; tears threaten to slip from your saddened eyes. 

“I would usually say it’s alright, but I don’t think I can say it for everything that has happened. But, thank you.” 

A hand reaches for his, gentle and soft to the touch. You feel his fingers twitch under your hold.

“Truly.”

Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun.

Theseus looks at you…

Theseus…

Suddenly, you find yourself in a narrow bus. You see him blinking wide-eyed at you, his expression paled. You had said – no, asked something. 

“No. I don’t think we do.”

You see it, the pain in his eyes, the sadness in his tone. It clenches your heart, but you don’t know why.

That was the first time he had lied to you.

…

You hear your name.

Distant but frantic. It repeats again and again and again.

A grip on the curve of your shoulders, and you find yourself back in the narrow, unknown room you awoke in moments ago.

But then you see his eyes, his tousled hair. It’s him who calls you.

“Theseus?” you breathed, disbelief flickering in your wide eyes. Without a second thought, your hands reach out to grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his dress shirt as if to ground yourself in the reality of his presence. A counterpoint to the disarray within your mind.  

But as Theseus meets your gaze, a furrow forms on his brow, and a shadow eclipses the warmth in his eyes. The frown, subtle yet profound, settles an uneasiness in you. Your grip weakens.

“We need to go. Now.” His tone is cut-throat, laden with urgency, and you cannot help but jolt at his words. You find your fingers slowly releasing their hold as the weight of his statement settles in the room.

He pulls away and reaches for your elbow, swift and deliberately, that reflects the gravity of the situation. His touch is so firm that it prompts you to stand. Questions hang heavy in the air, but you know you’re in some kind of trouble. Yet, you catch your eyes lingering on the dark look in his own, and you can't help but think he's changed since you last saw him. Since you last remembered him.

Something feels…wrong, but you don’t give yourself a chance to even think about it before you’re being led out the door. 

The narrow corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, bricked walls with a single lamp casting a glow across the space, revealing its worn walls and your flickering shadows. The air is cool, carrying a faint scent of dampness that permeates the space. All you hear is footsteps reverberating along the narrow passage, echoing against the walls. You realise you are underground and feel your stomach lurch at that thought, making your skin crawl.

“Come on.” Theseus pulls you along, the grip on your elbow never weakening. You can feel the tension emanating from him, the stiffness in his movements, the rigidity of his jaw.

You find yourself staring at the back of Theseus' head, studying how the dim light catches on his hair. He seems so different.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask.

He doesn’t respond.

Theseus continues to pull you down the corridor, and you take the time to scan your surroundings despite the quickened pace. You see the occasional rusty pipes that snake along the ceiling, contributing to a low mechanical hum and the flickering of overhead lights that seem to swing periodically at a light rumble that makes the ground shake for a second or two.

Then, he eventually comes to an abrupt halt, revealing a dead end. Your feet stagger back, trying to stop yourself from bumping into him. You see Theseus' brows furrowed in thought, eyes darting between the walls, searching. His fingers trace the rugged surface and abruptly pause as you catch sight of a carving on a specific brick, nearly invisible.

Theseus taps it, and a warm glow emanates from the wall. The carving becomes illuminated, and the wall seems to dissolve into seemingly ethereal dust. It shines golden under the dim buzzing lights. What once was a wall reveals an entrance to an alleyway; it greets you with a rush of cool air and the sounds of the city.

You step through the entrance after Theseus as he beckons for you to follow hurriedly. Yet, your focus is elsewhere as you close in on the intricate symbol carved into the brick. As you inch nearer, the features sharpen, and a sudden recognition sparks within you.

It's a Gardenia, delicately depicted.

Gardenias always had a particular significance in your life, and it’s all because of your mother. That same Gardenia on your mother’s necklace is an heirloom that spanned many generations. It was important and personal to her, and you don’t know how or why it is doing here.

Flowers for your mother – a bouquet of Gardenias.

The bigger picture materialises as if the puzzle pieces are beginning to click.

Your place in the unfolding mess remains unclear, but it hints that you've anticipated the arrival of this revelation for a long time.

Theseus is calling for you, a slight note of panic in his voice, but you ignore his calls, remaining rooted in place. As you watch the glow that details the symbol disappear, you wonder if Theseus knows everything, even though you swore you never told a soul.

Unless…

You still don’t know how you got your memories back.

As you finally turn to Theseus, there’s a gripping sense of uncertainty. His approach, marked by a frustrated expression, erodes the strong familiarity you once held for this man, a trust built in such a short time. With each step towards you, that trust begins to dissipate.

That vulnerability quickly turns to anger – betrayal.

“What the hell is happening, Theseus?” you question fiercely, pressing him for an explanation. 

Again, Theseus dismisses your insistence and attempts to reach for your arm, but you instinctively step back, maintaining a wary distance. 

“Answer me.” you insist, voice growing louder, eyes boring into his.

His gaze lingers on your face, and you watch his expression harden, jaw tense.

“Look, you’re in deep trouble right now and it’s best we leave right now he’ll come looking for you.”

He.

Not they. Not she.

Not The Restoration Movement. Not Morrigan.

Something is very wrong.

And his eyes. You can’t quite place it, but something about the look in his eyes has shifted. They look so different.

In moments like these, you aren’t sure what to do, but you know to trust your gut. Your mind races at the possibilities of how this could all end, and the only thing you can think is to run.

And so, you run.

—

Theseus believes he has only survived through self-deceit – the deception of his ability to stay grounded and keep his emotions at bay. His heart was never to be trusted, never to give in or give up. Yet, how does one cope when a situation relies on promised perseverance but is tangled amid his emotions he suddenly lacks control of in your presence?

Theseus knows there was something between the two of you, but he will never admit it despite his now aching heart caused by your sudden disappearance, even though you might as well be considered dead to the muggle world. The thought of your death pulls his thoughts to the night he first met you, how an unforgivable curse nearly struck you, how you looked at him, knowing you couldn’t have survived if he hadn’t been there in time. 

Merlin, he hopes you aren’t dead.

No, you’re not. He knows it. You’re relentless. So relentless that death would never want to claim you without a fight. So relentless that you manage to squeeze yourself into his thoughts at every waking hour. Every fibre in him wishes he hadn’t let you slip away that day, wishing he hadn’t abandoned you, betrayed your trust.

He wishes you hadn’t agreed to leave.

To leave him.

Now all alone.

Alone.

Theseus was never certain of his feelings for you when you were ambling within the expanse of the four walls he calls home. Whether affections were simply out of pity or was it his admiration for your entire being, your perfections, blemishes, and everything in between. Yet, at this very moment, he couldn’t be more unequivocally sure that his affections are true because presently, you have consumed all his waking days and nights, leaving a hollowed space perhaps once filled by your presence. The constant worry in his brow made his eyes tired but sleepless due to his fear of the worst for you.

Dread fills his senses, and tears threaten to seep through the cracks of a carefully sculpted, hard-headed man he had spent years practising, performing as a so-called war hero. Theseus never let himself cry, especially over you, not even when you parted with a touch to his cheek. Not even when he set his eyes on you again and you were completely unaware of him. 

Yet, it’s the possibility he has lost you forever that he’ll never see you again. Never.

Theseus breathes a shaky breath, fingers clamped in his trembling hand as he tries to remember what he’s been told to do. To find you. To stop Morrigan. To stop whatever mess he has landed you in.

No, you’re not. You’re not dead. He reminds himself again.

The sun had set moments ago, darkness creeping between the cracks of light, shimmering from the candle alight by his tableside and the flames of the fireplace. Its crackling grounds his very notion of stirring into panic. Theseus finds himself tucked in the same corner of his living room, and his couch now houses a collection of books and particular pieces of evidence of your whereabouts.

He merely fears this has everything to do with Morrigan, the Restoration Movement, your supposed living brother and perhaps your mother – also dead. Theseus gains a strong premonition, a gut feeling that your disappearance is all a part of a larger plan than he had initially expected. Your disappearance may have caused a flurry of commotion amongst the Aurors. Still, the ministry has its sights on the movement rather than your supposed connection as more than just your brother, which Theseus feels strongly about. Yet, with Travers breathing down his neck to arrest Morrigan and her acolytes, Theseus needs solid evidence rather than vague instances and misdirected clues that all seem to lead to spiralling trails.

Frankly, his career is at stake, but he couldn’t care less.

He just wants to see you again.

Theseus heaves, fingers carding through his deep brown locks when his eye catches sight of the only two letters that he found to be related to you in one way or another. He finds himself drawn to it, finding the letter from your brother within his grasp for what seems like the millionth time this month. The same words, again and again, were already engraved in his mind.

When he shifts his elbow, the letter catches the candlelight from behind, and something immediately seizes his attention. Something he hadn’t recognised before now.

Inscribed in the very material of the parchment – the symbol of a Gardenia, its intricate lines glowing against the candlelight, seemingly burning. Theseus props up in his seat, back straightened, shoulders tensed, and eyes wide.

Bloody hell…

He scrambles for the other letter, holding it up against the light, eyes settling on the darkened edges of the page only to discover the very same symbol.

A Gardenia.

How could he have been so blind?

It must have been instinct when he decided that the two letters were puzzle pieces meant to be joined. Theseus would try anything at this point.

Seemingly, luck was finally on his side when he pressed the letters together, above one another – new words formed before his eyes, written with burning lines, every curve of each letter appeared between the gaps of the original text to only form a new paragraph.

Sister,

If you're reading this, I'm likely gone, and you're in trouble. Morrigan and The Restoration Movement hide a darker truth. Their agenda involves our mother and a woman named Miriam Monet. I'm unsure of the details, but Miriam plays a crucial role. Stay safe.

As his eyes shift down the page, his heart nearly stops when his name comes into view.

To Theseus,

If you see this, my sister is in danger. You know more than you think.

TAGLIST (tagging everyone who commented in my last post just because it's been awhile <3):

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

@inlovewithfictionalcharacters27

@aterriblelangblr

@yournewmommy

@mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@never-let-them-change-your-self

[natsnerd]

Desire at first sight.

Prompt: Regina is the evil queen, set in the enchanted forest, the reader is a soft and innocent librarian in a village that regina goes to, regina takes interest in the reader and stalks her and makes her imagine things

Warnings: Fingering(R receiving) magic used, sucking on the clit, degradation, slight mommy kink, bondage

pequeña puta - Little whore (Google translate)

______

Regina stepped off the carriage and looked around the poor village, a sheer cross her lips at the disgust of how poor this village is, she sighed and walked through the dirt into the village, people staring at her with fear and terror but trying to please her desperately so they aren't killed by her men.

Regina felt her stomach turn at the state, broken houses, dirty clothes, she looked around, looking for a reason to kill these people, put them out of their misery whilst having fun doing it, as her eyes travelled they landed on a library, a hint of interest in her eyes as she stepped closer to peer into the window.

Inside was a girl, her hair soft and curled, the colour gorgeous complimenting her skin tone perfectly, her dress was a charming vintage-inspired style. It features a fitted bodice with a V-neckline, a sleeveless cut worn over a puff-sleeve blouse, and a flared skirt that falls below the knee. The warm brown tone adds to the autumnal, rustic aesthetic.

Regina's eyes darkened with desire and annoyance, fuck sake, now she had a reason not to kill this village, she was never a single person but she could practically feel the innocents radiating off this girl, she needed to be slow and careful with her attempt at 

courtship.

She turned on her heel, a sharp ‘tsk’ coming from clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth as she walked towards the carriage, yanking the door open and getting inside, frustration bubbling inside of her at being unable to take the lives of innocents

_________

A few days later 

_________ 

Regina had been watching you closely, watching your every movement, the slight movement in your lips when you like a book you're reading, the way you pull your lip between your lips when you read a steamy chapter. She smirked everytime you moved, crossing your legs when you felt a pang of arousal whilst reading a book about two women, leaning back on your chair when you were reading a comforting romance but sitting straight up rapidly when reading a thriller.

Enough was enough for regina, she summoned a book into her hand, a spicy romance between a witch and her apprentice, smut scenes that make her turned on, she smirked softly and made the book appear in your bookshelf with a small curse, the first time you touched the book she would be able to send in thoughts, but only the first time, she didn't want you thinking you were crazy.

She sat back and waited for you to pick up the book

_________

It wasn't until a few hours passed that you noticed the book, the black and purple cover catching your eye as you cleaned your shelves free of dust, your fingers wrapped around the book, Regina felt you touching the book, a cruel smirk crossed her face as she projected an image into your mind.

Your wrists bound to a chain hanging from the ceiling, naked, shaking from the cold, your nipples perking up at the cold breeze, her in front of you, her fingers trailing up and down your thigh, teasingly, getting you wet in seconds as an ache forms.

Your pussy clenching around thin air as she dips her fingers into your pussy, collecting your wetness on her fingers, “A sweet innocent girl, bound in front of me, I'm going to enjoy devouring this pussy, mi amore.” She smirks before gripping your thighs.

Her eyes glowing purple she guides your legs over her shoulder, she would never kneel.

Her tongue glides through your walls, groaning at the taste, she buried her head between your thighs, as she sucked on your clit, your slit rolling down your chin as your body becomes more and more aroused, her fingers glide under her chin, finding your entrance, she pushes one in and gently pushing it against the sides, moans falling from your lips as she stretches you out, sliding a second finger inside before she begins to roughly push in and out, pounding your pussy as she eats you out like your her desired dinner for the night, soft whimpers as your head lulls back, the chains a silent thanks to the gods knowing you'd fall without them keeping you up.

“You're so tight, pequeña puta” she groaned softly as she lapped up your wetness before going for your clit, nibbling and sucking as you got closer and closer to cumming 

“Oh, pequeña puta, cum, cum on mommys face” She mumbled against your clit, never moving, a cry of her name came as you-

The image ended, leaving you panting, your panties ruined, face flushed, confused…

“What was that…”

_________

Word count: 788

Part 2

[animeangelriku]

in every picture that i drew (i saw you)

[Also read on AO3!]

Crowley chances upon the briefcase by accident.

Aziraphale’s gone out to pick up a few records and a package of coffee blends Maggie and Nina sent them, as well as a couple of sweets from his favorite bakery in town to celebrate that they’ve finally finished moving into their cottage.

Of course, there are still a few things left to tidy up—some trinkets, two or three books in the study, a pair of plants here and there—but for the most part, they’re done. This place is fully theirs now.

Crowley rubs at his chest, over where his demonic heart rests within his corporation. Oh. Oh, that’s new. That feeling of encompassing relief, of absolute certainty, of overwhelming calm. He… doesn’t dislike it, no. It’s just… something to get used to. And he’s got time to get used to it, doesn’t it? They both do. That’s—that’s part of the deal.

Fuck, there it is again, like the warmth of sitting close to a fire during a cold night. Of having Aziraphale’s tartan blanket tucked around him at the end of the day. Of catching the giddiness in Aziraphale’s voice with his mouth.

Crowley shakes his head to himself, snatches his mug of coffee from the kitchen isle, and heads upstairs, to their bedroom.

(Their bedroom, for Someone’s sake.)

He stands at the doorframe to simply take it in for a second. The rustic dresser doesn’t match the bedclothes in the slightest, the hideous combination of Crowley’s satin pillowcases and Aziraphale’s decades-old duvet and sheets, and the rug by the foot of the bed is a stark contrast to the hardwood floor, which is a contrast in itself to the marble tiles of the ensuite bathroom, and the bloody nightstands stick out like a sore thumb, and Crowley will be blessed to admit it’s his favorite room in the entire cottage, he loves it so fucking much. He could spend the rest of his immortal life here, as long as Aziraphale is with him.

Then something catches his eye. 

Right there, beneath the bed, almost hidden by the corner of the rug, is something… brown. Kind of leathery looking.

Crowley kneels by the bed and pulls the object out. A bag? Some sort of briefcase? It’s definitely Aziraphale’s, if only because it’s at least eighty years old, but Crowley doesn’t remember ever seeing it before. And why is it that Aziraphale hid it under the bed? Instead of hanging it by the front door or putting it in their walk-in closet.

When Crowley stands with it, the latch pops open, and the contents of the briefcase spill out onto the floor. Nothing but several papers of different sizes: papyrus sheets, scrolls, scraps pieced together.

“Shit!” Crowley mutters. From the looks of it, at least there was nothing that could’ve broken or snapped apart, but if Aziraphale kept this stuff, it must be important, and Crowley doesn’t want to accidentally ruin any of it.

He kneels down to immediately start to get everything back inside the briefcase, except that his eyes catch the corner of one of the papers, and what he sees makes him stop.

It’s a sketch of him.

His hair is much longer than it’s been for a few decades, curls cascading down to his chest. The expression on his face is unguarded, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. He seems to be wearing a robe, though he can’t really tell, given that the sketch isn’t finished. It looks almost as if whoever drew this stopped once they reached his shoulders, like the artist got distracted or couldn’t bear to finish it.

Crowley stares at the piece of parchment for what feels like an eternity. It has no signature, and the nearly washed out black of the lines gives the impression that it’s much older than one would assume at first glance.

Did… did Aziraphale draw this?

Crowley picks up more of the pages still on the floor. They’re all sketches of him at different points in time. But not only that—they’re all instances in which he and Aziraphale met up throughout the millennia. The oldest sketches are the ones that are incomplete: Mesopotamia, Uz, Golgotha, Rome, Wessex, even their encounter outside the Globe Theater. Some of them are a little more detailed than others, sometimes including a bit of his arms and torso, but those, he finds, are the unfinished sketches.

Then the sketches change. They become a little more complex, a tad more alive, more like pictures than scribbled lines. There’s him in Paris, sitting across a table with a glass of wine and a plate of uneaten crepes in front of him; him in Edinburgh, his head thrown back and his mouth open with what seems to be a loud cackle; him in London, staring straight ahead as he holds out a folded piece of paper.

(The folded piece of paper is scratched out, covered by angry lines and splotches of ink, but Crowley knows exactly what it is. He knows exactly what words are written on it.)

Him in the backroom of the bookshop, having a drink with Aziraphale after the angel’s first professional magic performance.

(He can still remember how badly he shook as he raised the rifle to aim it at Aziraphale, the fear and nausea that he would betray his trust by discorporating him.)

Him in his car, holding a tartan thermos gently, carefully, in his hands.

(Aziraphale looked so bloody gorgeous, backlit by the neon lights of Soho. Crowley recalls his fingers twitching with the desire to cup his jaw and kiss him.)

Him on a bench, his lips curled up in a lazy, amused smile.

(“We will win, of course,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley allowed himself to think he meant the two of them.)

“My dear, I’ve been calling you for— Good Lord, what are you doing?!”

Crowley’s head snaps to the door of their bedroom (their bedroom, he still can’t get over that). Aziraphale is frozen in place, his eyes wide in shock and a beautiful blush pinkening his cheeks.

“Huh?” Crowley asks.

The angel rushes into action. Crowley remains stunned, cross-legged on the floor, while Aziraphale picks up the scattered pages and clutches them tightly to his chest.

“Why do you have these?!”

“I…” Crowley licks his lips, clears his throat. “The… bag. Briefcase. Under the bed.”

Aziraphale lets out a frustrated groan. “You weren’t supposed to ever see them!” Then he glares at the briefcase on the floor. “And you were supposed to be locked away, not hiding under the bed!”

The briefcase, Crowley thinks, seems to almost give a nonchalant shrug.

“Sorry,” Crowley says. His mind hasn’t stopped reeling with the realization that Aziraphale has been drawing him for millennia, and he feels a bit like he’s missed a step in this conversation.

The angel puffs out his cheeks and huffs out a breath. His brows knit into an upside-down vee that Crowley immediately wants to kiss away. “No, Crowley, I—I’m sorry. I should not have yelled at you, I was simply… surprised. I’ve kept these hidden for so long that I… I forgot I no longer have to.”

He kneels down by Crowley’s side. He looks at Crowley, and his face softens, and the corners of his mouth curl upwards in a shy smile. Crowley moves closer to him, brushing their shoulders together. With an exhale of air, Aziraphale spreads the sketches out in front of them.

There truly are so bloody many, it’s a miracle they all fit inside that briefcase.

“I suppose you have questions,” Aziraphale says.

“Sure,” Crowley agrees. “But you don’t owe me anything, angel. You can tell me whatever you want me to know.”

Aziraphale reaches out to push a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear.

“I didn’t mean to start sketching you,” the angel begins, his gaze back on the sheets of paper. “At first, I mean. I-it was an unconscious thing, you see. A-and whenever I realized what I was doing, I-I would stop, but I— Well, I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them, so I just… hid them instead.”

Crowley glances down at the first sketch he saw, with his long curls and unguardedness. He thinks it might be the first time he met Aziraphale as a demon, on top of that wall. He sure as fuck looks like a smitten, lovesick schoolboy.

Hell’s bells, he’s always worn his fucking heart on his sleeve, huh.  

Aziraphale touches one of the pages closest to him: Crowley holding a coin between his fingers, about to toss him for Edinburgh.

“But no matter how hard I tried,” Aziraphale goes on, “I couldn’t stop completely. I would always find myself drawing you again, despite my futile attempts to push you out of my mind. You’ve always been there, one way or another.”

Crowley bites his lip to stop the words from spilling out: It’s always been the same for me, too, angel.

The space between their bodies is nonexistent now. Crowley leans against Aziraphale’s arm and rests his head on his shoulder. His angel turns to press a soft kiss to his hair.

This is also kind of a miracle, Crowley thinks. The touches and casual displays of affection. How easily those come to them, after millennia of dancing around each other. How quickly they fell into them.  

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. His mouth trembles as he opens it to speak.

“After the world didn’t end, I kept myself from sketching you as often. We were spending more time together, I—I didn’t want to risk you finding out. I was just coming to terms with the depth of my feelings for you, and I… I didn’t know if you felt the same, or if you would think I was silly, or if you would decide not to talk to me again. But I still couldn’t stop altogether.”

Crowley takes one of Aziraphale’s hands between his and touches the pad of each finger, pressing his thumb to the center of the soft palm. He can almost feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat through the skin, knows that’s impossible but doesn’t care much—their corporations have always done what they wanted them to. Crowley might not be good with words, but this, he’s gotten good at.  

Next to him, Aziraphale shudders.

“Even in… Even in Heaven,” he says, his voice quivering, his eyes squeezed shut, and Crowley wants nothing but to pull him close and kiss his temple and tell him it’s okay, it’s all right, they’re here now, Crowley’s forgiven him, there’s no need for more pain, more heartbreak, they’re okay, they made it.

Aziraphale carefully grabs one of the sketches from the pile and shows it to Crowley.

The expression on his face is… it makes something break within Crowley, makes his essence wriggle and writhe in discomfort, makes his skin burn like a scar he can’t touch without slicing it open anew. The devastation in his damp, golden eyes and the defeat in the tight, flat line of his parted lips would be enough to bring him to his knees if he weren’t already sitting.

He doesn’t want to recognize this moment. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to be back there, having poured his heart out, hoping he won’t lose Aziraphale forever, afraid that he will, anyway.

(He did. He did, and he’s dwelled on it enough, and he won’t anymore. It’s not worth any more tears.)

It’s not the only sketch of that day. Crowley counts at least seven more pages with similar images of him (heartbroken, abandoned, alone), not to mention the ones he can’t see.  

“Even while I was… Up There,” Aziraphale starts again, curling his fingers around Crowley’s. “I was unable to stop thinking about you. About your beautiful eyes, your wonderful mouth, that kiss… I…”

He trails off, his eyebrows pinched in what looks like pain. He bites his bottom lip so hard that Crowley swipes the pad of his thumb over it to pull it free. “Aziraphale.”

“Oh, my love,” the angel says, leaning their foreheads together. He pushes his nose against Crowley’s cheek, like he wants to make up for the distance that separated them for months, and all Crowley can do is hold his hand, cup his neck, kiss his eyelids. “My darling, I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” Crowley replies, the only thing he can say without falling apart. “I know, angel. Me too.”

He focuses on the fact that Aziraphale never forgot about him, just as he never forgot about Aziraphale, despite everything. It helps bring him back to the present, to the life they have now. The life they chose for themselves.

Aziraphale slightly shakes his head to himself. He smiles—a small, timid, almost self-conscious sort of thing—and hands Crowley a stack of papers.

“I don’t know about you,” Aziraphale tells him as Crowley takes the stack gingerly, as delicately as he did with a tartan thermos sixty years ago. “But I like these ones much better.”

And then—oh, and then.

The sketches in his hands amount to more than the rest of the drawings combined. The way his hair is styled and the clothes he’s wearing and the lack of sunglasses indicate that these are portraying moments from the last five years or so, once they were… once they were truly on their own side, finally on the same page: him sleeping, smiling, watching the telly, yelling at the plants, working in the garden, looking out the kitchen window, sharing a glass of wine with Aziraphale, and, most telling of all, looking ridiculously, stupidly, tit over arse in love.  

When Crowley runs a finger through the pages, careful not to crinkle the paper, he can feel that love in them. The same love he sees in Aziraphale’s eyes every day, the same love that courses through him whenever Aziraphale holds his hand and entwines their fingers and noses his cheek and scratches his nape and sighs into his mouth.

It’s… it’s surreal, in a way, to see himself the way Aziraphale sees him. His body language is much more relaxed, the edges of his eyes softer, the lines on his forehead less pronounced. Even though the sketches are all black and white, these seem brighter somehow, as though the cloud covering the previous six thousand years of drawings had dissipated before Aziraphale sketched the more recent ones. Not that Crowley can blame him—their time in this cottage has been the happiest he’s been in… centuries. Millennia. Maybe his entire existence.

In these drawings, he looks it, and it would be embarrassing to be so fucking obvious about it if he didn’t know that’s how Aziraphale looks at any given moment as well.

Retirement suits them.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. “Yeah, I like ‘em better, too.”

He turns to catch Aziraphale’s gaze, and the radiating joy and calm in his eyes and the easy twitch of his mouth is too much of a temptation to resist. Leaning in to kiss him is the easiest thing in the world, and Aziraphale meets him in the middle.

When the angel holds Crowley’s chin between his fingers to pull him closer, to find the perfect angle so he can deepen the kiss, Crowley melts against him, sinking his hand in the curls on the back of Aziraphale’s head.

Thank you, he wants to say. For loving me all along.

He doesn’t. Instead, he kisses back harder, hoping Aziraphale will still understand what he means.

(He does. Of course he does.)

Later, sitting at the kitchen table, Crowley drinks his cup of coffee and listens to Aziraphale rave about how excited he is to go to the farmer’s market next week while he eats one of the sweets he bought at the bakery. Crowley reaches over the table to take Aziraphale’s hand, and he hides a smile on the rim of his cup when Aziraphale immediately interlaces their fingers, like it’s only natural that he would.

And if, later on, out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale miracling a notepad and beginning to sketch him, well—he simply looks away and pretends he doesn’t notice. He hopes that’ll convince his angel to show him the finished result.

(Aziraphale shows him.)

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To integrate style seamlessly, color can significantly highlight or disrupt your decor. Therefore, Vents Basket provides an exclusive selection of colors and offers unique metal vent colors, including: 

•            Desert Sand – Provides a warm, earthy neutral ideal feel for rustic or natural flooring. 

•            Mountain Fog – A soft gray shade that works perfectly in minimalist or modern interiors. 

•            Burnt Leaf – A rich brown tone resembling autumn foliage, perfect for wooden floors. 

•            Safari Dust – A warm sandy beige that beautifully complements light hardwood and tile flooring. 

•            Arctic White – Crisp and clean, great for contemporary homes. 

•            Midnight Black – Sleek and bold, for dramatic, high contrast interiors.

•            Brushed Platinum – Enhances industrial or modern chic spaces with a touch of metallic elegance.

•            Smokey Shale – Deep charcoal with hints of silver complements transitional décors.

•            Silver River – Complements gray-toned floors, adding brightness with its metallic silver hue.

These selections will not only stand the test of time in enduring wear and fading, but are also chosen for their durable resistance. 

Wood Floor Vents: Aesthetic Warmth and Timeless Appeal

Looking for a classic and inviting touch? Our wood floor registers blend beauty with performance. Made from premium hardwoods, these vents can be stained or finished to align perfectly with your flooring, enhancing the overall aesthetic.

Sizes and Thickness Options in Wood Floor Vents:

At Vents Basket, we offer wood floor vents in various sizes and thicknesses to suit both standard and custom openings. Common sizes include:

•            2-1/4” x 10”

•            2-1/4” x 12”

•            4” x 10”

•            4” x 12”

•            4” x 14”

•            6” x 10”

•            6” x 12”

•            6” x 14”

The standard 3/4” flush mount for hardwood floors is ideal, but custom options for thicknesses are also available.

Customization for Wooden Registers:

Vents Basket offers wooden floor vents crafted from various wood species such as Red Oak, White Oak, Maple, Hickory, and Cherry. These can either be left unfinished for onsite staining or prefinished to match the flooring. Our team also accepts custom orders for unusual measurements and specialty wood types.

Selecting a Floor Vent for Your Space 

These factors must be considered when choosing a floor register: 

• Material – Metal is more durable, wood has a warmer aesthetic. 

• Size – Must be in sync with your duct opening and the space layout. 

• Color/Shade – Flooring and the interior style should be complemented. 

• Mount Type – Flush mounts offer a sleek, seamless look, while surface mounts provide easier installation.

At Vents Basket, we strike a balance between practicality and style. Our collection of metal and wood floor vents is vast. When it comes to accenting a space, you can choose between a bold metal statement or a subtle wooden accent. With numerous sizes and finishes available, as well as customizable options, there is literally something for every space. 

Order now and upgrade to stylish yet practical vents from Vents Basket.

[usa2025store01]

Hartford Yard Goats 2025 Malmö Oat Milkers Limited Edition Baseball Jersey

Cream of the Crop: The 2025 Hartford Yard Goats x Malmö Oat Milkers Jersey Redefines Baseball Fashion

When it comes to reinventing tradition with a splash of streetwear irreverence and indie charm, no one’s doing it quite like the Hartford Yard Goats and the Malmö Oat Milkers. Their 2025 Limited Edition Baseball Jersey is more than just an athletic uniform—it’s a cultural landmark. This jersey is proof that fashion, sport, and sustainability can collide in the most deliciously unexpected ways.

In a sea of over-designed sportswear collabs, this piece stands out not for being loud, but for being clever, intentional, and joyfully rebellious. With its retro-inspired minimalism and confident typography, the Oat Milkers jersey isn’t just a uniform—it’s a lifestyle.

Farm-Fresh Aesthetic Meets Field-Ready Function

The very concept of “Oat Milkers” already hints at the offbeat brilliance of this design. Where else can you find a jersey that channels the essence of a sustainable oat beverage and makes it cooler than dairy ever dreamed of?

Crafted from lightweight, breathable fabric that’s game-day ready, the jersey balances performance functionality with cultural playfulness. The palette is stark yet bold: black sleeves contrast sharply with a creamy white torso, evoking both the classic baseball look and the rustic roots of its oat-based namesake.

On the chest, the “The Malmö Oat Milkers” logo bursts with vintage flair, its curved script and bold serif lettering straight out of a 1950s Americana diner—but with a Swedish twist. The mixture of fonts feels like sipping an oat latte while watching a minor league showdown: grounded, quirky, and oddly sophisticated.

Personalized Identity in Every Stitch

The back of the jersey is where the fan’s voice takes center stage. With fully customizable options for both name and number, each jersey becomes a canvas for individual expression. Whether you're repping your favorite player or branding your own alter ego, the Oat Milkers jersey invites you to become part of the story.

And let’s talk about those details: the numbers outlined in rich oat brown with black and white trim give a strong vintage sports card vibe, while the team’s monogram “OM” cap in the image completes the ensemble with a nod to timeless baseball aesthetics.

This is not a jersey built for sidelines—it’s built for stylelines.

A League of Its Own: Minor League Maximalism

There’s something beautifully rebellious about minor league baseball fashion. Free from the corporate polish of the big leagues, teams like the Hartford Yard Goats have leaned into weird, wild, and wonderful branding—and nowhere is that creative liberty more alive than with this Oat Milkers concept.

This is a team jersey that wears its humor on its sleeve—literally. The left sleeve’s insignia plays with dairy iconography and sustainable symbolism, making a smart yet subtle statement about climate consciousness in a league not typically associated with environmental activism.

It’s eco-conscious without being preachy, fun without being juvenile. It tells us you can care about the planet and still knock it out of the park with your fashion game.

From Dugout to Streetwear Icon

One of the most exciting things about this jersey is how effortlessly it transitions from the ballpark to the sidewalk. Pair it with distressed jeans and high-tops for a streetwear-friendly look, or throw it over joggers and a hoodie for cozy game-day layering. Either way, the Oat Milkers jersey is guaranteed to turn heads—and start conversations.

It taps into the global shift toward ironic, hyper-local fashion, where micro-narratives and regional flair become more meaningful than mass-produced branding. This is a piece that screams you know, if you know—an inside joke between fans of sport, design, and alternative milk.

In an era where authenticity is currency, this jersey is the real deal.

Final Sip: A Must-Have for Collectors and Culture Lovers Alike

The 2025 Hartford Yard Goats x Malmö Oat Milkers Limited Edition Baseball Jersey is not just a novelty. It’s not a gimmick. It’s a beautifully absurd piece of sports couture—playful, ironic, and deeply intentional. Every detail feels lovingly considered, from the typography to the tailoring.

Whether you’re a Yard Goats die-hard, a Malmö transplant, an oat milk enthusiast, or simply a connoisseur of fashion that doesn’t take itself too seriously, this jersey is for you.

It’s wearable proof that sport and sustainability, nostalgia and novelty, can all coexist in one glorious, weird, wonderful garment. And if that’s not worth celebrating, what is?

[estherbgraham]

The Art Beneath Your Feet: Why Abstract Rugs Are the New Statement Piece

Rugs are no longer just cozy afterthoughts tossed under your furniture. Today, they're central to a room’s personality—and abstract rugs are leading the charge. With their free-form designs, bold color combinations, and versatile energy, abstract rugs bring a modern edge to any space, from minimalist bedrooms to eclectic living rooms.

Abstract Rugs: Where Art Meets Function

Think of an abstract rug as a piece of artwork for your floor. These rugs don’t follow a pattern; instead, they let texture, color, and shape do the talking. Whether you lean toward muted tones or a splash of something vibrant like a blue rug, the right abstract design can tie your room together or spark a complete style transformation.

Imagine a big rug in soft beige with expressive brushstroke patterns—it sets a calming tone for a bedroom carpet. On the flip side, a boho rug with fiery oranges and cool indigos might be the soul of a cozy reading nook. The beauty is in the freedom to experiment.

Color Psychology Underfoot

Color plays a huge role in how a rug influences a room. A beige rug brings subtle warmth and allows bolder furniture or wall art to take the spotlight. For something moodier and more grounded, brown rugs for the living room add richness without overpowering.

Then there’s the undeniable charm of a blue rug. Cool and calming, blue abstract rugs work wonders in bedrooms or even as a carpet for dining areas, offering serenity while resisting the visual noise of food spills or heavy furniture.

Shape and Geometry: Adding Intent to Improv

You don’t need a traditional pattern to create visual structure. A carpet geometric in style—even when it's abstract—adds dimension to open spaces. When paired with clean-lined furniture and muted walls, even a carpet grey with fragmented white and black shapes can add intrigue without taking over.

Abstract rugs with geometric hints are especially effective in larger rooms where a single piece can create zones, define walkways, or anchor a seating area. A big rug in the living room might not just serve as decoration—it can literally ground your layout.

Mixing Styles Without the Stress

One of the best things about abstract rugs is that they play well with others. Whether your space is full of mid-century lines, rustic wood tones, or clean modern shapes, an abstract piece can bring it all together. A soft, watercolor-inspired blue rug can soften industrial spaces, while a multicolor boho rug adds depth to minimalist rooms.

And don’t feel limited to just one. Layering rugs—like a neutral beige rug under a smaller, bolder abstract option—can add texture and visual interest without clutter.

So...

Abstract rugs are more than a trend—they’re a design solution that balances creativity with comfort. Whether you're refreshing your bedroom carpet or looking for the perfect carpet for the dining area, there's an abstract rug out there waiting to become the star of your space.

Remember, the best rug isn’t just about color or size—it’s about how it makes your home feel. And with abstract rugs, that feeling is always artfully original.

[naturalfarma-blog]

Be Healthy! Plant-Based Weekly Menu (UK Style) — Lunch, Dinner & Dessert Ideas

🌞 Monday

Lunch: Tofu and Roasted Veg Wraps Grilled tofu slices with roasted courgettes, red pepper, spinach, and hummus wrapped in a wholemeal tortilla.

Dinner: Lentil & Carrot Shepherd’s Pie Green lentils cooked in a tomato base with onions, garlic, carrots, topped with mashed sweet potato and baked until golden.

Dessert: Chia Seed Pudding with Berries Chia seeds soaked overnight in unsweetened soy milk with vanilla, topped with fresh strawberries and blueberries.

🌞 Tuesday

Lunch: Wild Rice Salad with Chickpeas and Avocado A refreshing salad of wild rice, chickpeas, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, parsley, lemon juice, and diced avocado.

Dinner: Mushroom & Tofu Stroganoff Tofu cubes and mushrooms in a creamy cashew sauce, served with whole wheat pasta and steamed broccoli.

Dessert: Baked Pears with Walnuts and Cinnamon Pears halved and baked with crushed walnuts, cinnamon, and a drizzle of maple syrup.

🌞 Wednesday

Lunch: Quinoa & Black Bean Stuffed Peppers Bell peppers filled with a mixture of quinoa, black beans, sweetcorn, and tomato sauce, baked until tender.

Dinner: Chickpea and Spinach Curry A mildly spiced coconut curry with chickpeas, baby spinach and diced tomatoes, served with brown basmati rice.

Dessert: Oat & Banana Cookies Mashed banana, oats, chopped dates, and a hint of cinnamon — baked into soft, chewy cookies.

🌞 Thursday

Lunch: Falafel Bowl with Tahini Dressing Homemade falafel served on a bed of couscous, lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, and tahini-lemon dressing.

Dinner: Aubergine & Lentil Moussaka Layers of grilled aubergine, lentil ragu, and cashew béchamel sauce baked until bubbling.

Dessert: Avocado Chocolate Mousse Blended avocado, cocoa powder, maple syrup, and a splash of plant milk — chilled and topped with raspberries.

🌞 Friday

Lunch: Sweet Potato & Black Bean Burrito Bowl Roasted sweet potato, black beans, brown rice, salsa, avocado, and lime — served in a bowl.

Dinner: Seitan Stir Fry with Ginger-Soy Sauce Seitan strips stir-fried with broccoli, bell peppers, carrots, and a ginger-soy glaze. Served with soba noodles.

Dessert: Coconut Yoghurt with Mango & Granola Dairy-free coconut yoghurt layered with sliced mango and homemade oat granola.

🌞 Saturday

Lunch: Grilled Veg & Pesto Pasta Salad Whole wheat pasta tossed with grilled courgette, cherry tomatoes, spinach, and a walnut-basil pesto.

Dinner: Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms Large mushrooms filled with a mix of lentils, walnuts, garlic, and breadcrumbs, baked and served with steamed greens.

Dessert: Apple Crumble (Vegan) Baked apples with a topping of oats, almond flour, coconut oil and cinnamon. Served warm.

🌞 Sunday

Lunch: Tempeh BLT Sandwich Crispy tempeh “bacon”, lettuce, tomato and avocado on whole grain bread with vegan mayo.

Dinner: Butternut Squash & Red Lentil Stew A hearty stew with red lentils, squash, carrot, and warming spices, served with rustic wholemeal bread.

Dessert: Berry & Oat Parfait Layered jar of oat porridge, mixed berries, and chopped almonds.

[surfseeking]

Tenmoku Tea Cups: Timeless Pieces for Modern Tea Lovers

Tea has long been a beloved ritual for many people around the world, transcending cultures and generations. Whether it's a calming morning routine, an afternoon break, or a ceremonial event, the experience of enjoying tea is made even more special when accompanied by a beautiful, thoughtfully crafted tea cup. One such cup that stands the test of time in both beauty and functionality is the Tenmoku tea cup.

These exquisite tea cups have a rich history that stretches back to ancient China and Japan, offering tea lovers not only a unique drinking experience but also an aesthetic piece that enhances the tea ritual. In this blog, we will dive into why Tenmoku tea cups are a must-have for modern tea enthusiasts and explore their timeless charm.

The History Behind Tenmoku Tea Cups

The roots of Tenmoku tea cups trace back to the Tang Dynasty in China, over a thousand years ago. Initially, the style was known for its glaze and design, which was typically used on tea bowls in the tea ceremonies of China. However, it was during the Song Dynasty that Tenmoku tea cups began to gain prominence for their distinctive appearance, largely influenced by the culture of Zen Buddhism.

The name "Tenmoku" refers to a type of glazed pottery that was brought to Japan by Buddhist monks. The glaze is usually dark and rich, often ranging from deep browns to black, with striking highlights of rust or amber. These elements created a natural, rustic feel that was highly prized for its simple elegance. Over time, Tenmoku tea cups became synonymous with the Japanese tea ceremony, where their beauty and understated nature contributed to the calming atmosphere of the practice.

Why Modern Tea Lovers Adore Tenmoku Tea Cups

The allure of Tenmoku tea cups is undeniable, especially for modern tea lovers seeking to elevate their tea-drinking experience. Here are a few reasons why these cups have become a favorite among contemporary tea enthusiasts.

1. Aesthetics and Craftsmanship

One of the primary reasons tea lovers are drawn to Tenmoku tea cups is their exceptional craftsmanship. Each cup is unique, with subtle variations in color and texture, a result of the glaze's natural flow. This glaze gives each piece a hand-crafted appeal, making each cup a work of art in its own right. Whether the glaze is dark and glossy or matte with hints of rustic hues, the design evokes a sense of tranquility, making it the perfect vessel for sipping tea.

Tenmoku tea cup is appreciated not only for its beauty but also for the intricate firing process involved in creating the glaze. The deep, rich colors come from firing the cup at high temperatures, which creates a stunning contrast between the black, brown, and amber hues. This technique, passed down through generations, has evolved but maintained its traditional elegance, giving each cup a timeless appeal.

2. Versatility for Different Teas

Another reason Tenmoku tea cups are so loved by modern tea lovers is their versatility. Unlike some specialized tea cups that are designed for specific types of tea, Tenmoku cups can be used for a wide range of teas. Their balanced shape and size make them ideal for both delicate green teas and robust black teas.

The deep, smooth interior of the cup enhances the aroma of the tea, allowing tea drinkers to fully appreciate the nuances of the flavor profile. Whether you're enjoying a fresh Japanese matcha, a fragrant Chinese oolong, or a rich English breakfast tea, a Tenmoku tea cup provides an ideal vessel to enhance the tea's character.

3. Connection to Tradition and Mindfulness

In today's fast-paced world, many people are turning to tea as a way to slow down and practice mindfulness. The ritual of brewing and savoring tea offers a welcome break from the digital noise and stress of daily life. A Tenmoku tea cup, with its centuries-old history, creates a connection to the past, inviting the tea drinker to slow down and engage in the moment fully.

Holding a cup crafted by centuries of tradition is more than just drinking tea—it's an experience that grounds you in the present. Whether it’s part of your daily routine or an occasional indulgence, drinking from a Tenmoku tea cup elevates the tea ceremony, giving it the respect and reverence that tea has always deserved.

4. Perfect for Collectors and Enthusiasts

For tea collectors and enthusiasts, Tenmoku tea cups are more than just functional items—they are collectible treasures. The unique characteristics of each cup, from the color and texture of the glaze to the shape and form, make every piece one-of-a-kind. Collecting these cups provides a beautiful way to appreciate the artistry and craftsmanship involved in their creation.

Many tea lovers enjoy acquiring different styles of Tenmoku cups, each with its distinct glazing technique or pattern. As a result, Tenmoku tea cups make for an exquisite collection, and their value often increases as they become rarer or more historically significant.

5. The Perfect Gift for Tea Lovers

Looking for a thoughtful and unique gift for a tea lover in your life? A Tenmoku tea cup is an ideal choice. Its beauty, rich history, and the calming effect it brings make it a cherished gift. Whether it's for a birthday, a special occasion, or simply to show appreciation, a Tenmoku tea cup offers a personal and meaningful gesture.

Gifting a Tenmoku tea cup goes beyond giving a physical object—it's about sharing an experience. The recipient will enjoy not only the tea but the sense of tradition and mindfulness that comes with it.

6. Sustainability and Durability

As environmental awareness grows, many modern tea lovers are becoming more conscious of the products they choose. Tenmoku tea cups, made from natural clay and glazes, are not only beautiful but also eco-friendly. These cups are durable, meant to last for generations with proper care, reducing the need for single-use items or mass-produced ceramics that often lack sustainability.

In fact, a high-quality Tenmoku tea cup is built to withstand the test of time, both in terms of aesthetic appeal and functional use. Over time, it may develop a unique patina or even show slight wear, adding to its charm and character. This durability makes it an investment that can be passed down for generations.

The Ritual of Tea: How to Use a Tenmoku Tea Cup

For those new to the world of Tenmoku tea cups, the experience of using them in the tea ritual can feel like a return to tradition. Here are some simple steps to enhance your experience:

Select the Right Tea: Choose your favorite tea, keeping in mind that Tenmoku cups are perfect for a wide variety of teas. Experiment with different types of tea to find which one you enjoy the most with this particular cup.

Prepare Your Tea: Brew your tea as you normally would, paying attention to the water temperature and steeping time to bring out the best flavors.

Savor the Moment: As you take your first sip, notice how the cup's smooth surface and the aroma of the tea meld together to create a peaceful moment. Try to focus solely on the experience—the taste, the warmth, and the quiet that surrounds you.

Appreciate the Craftsmanship: Take a moment to appreciate the artistry of the Tenmoku tea cup, admiring its craftsmanship, glaze, and shape. Every detail adds to the experience.

Tea is not just about drinking—it’s about immersing yourself in a moment of calm, and the Tenmoku tea cup helps facilitate that connection.

Conclusion

The Tenmoku tea cup is a perfect blend of history, beauty, and functionality. Its rich heritage, unique glaze, and versatile design make it a timeless favorite for modern tea lovers. Whether you're a casual tea drinker or a dedicated enthusiast, incorporating a Tenmoku tea cup into your tea rituals adds a sense of elegance and mindfulness that elevates the experience.

With its deep connection to tradition and exquisite craftsmanship, the Tenmoku tea cup is not only a tool for drinking tea but a piece of art that enhances your daily ritual. It’s a perfect gift, a unique collector’s item, and a reminder to slow down and enjoy the moment.

[onceuponmykpop]

THE BOYZ Valentine's Day Scenario's...

Sangyeon:

Cozy & Warm: Think rustic charm with a touch of elegance.

Color Palette: Warm neutrals like cream, beige, and soft browns, accented with pops of deep red or burgundy.

Decor: Candles, soft blankets, wooden accents, maybe a vintage record player.

Flowers: A classic bouquet of red roses or a mix of wildflowers with a rustic feel.

Jacob:

Romantic & Serene: A soft, dreamy atmosphere with a focus on music.

Color Palette: Pastel shades like blush pink, lavender, and soft blue, with hints of gold or silver.

Decor: Fairy lights, sheer fabrics, musical notes or instruments as decorative elements.

Flowers: Delicate blooms like lilies or cherry blossoms.

Younghoon:

Adventurous & Scenic: Emphasize the beauty of the location with natural elements.

Color Palette: Earthy tones like greens, browns, and blues, with pops of vibrant color from the surroundings.

Decor: Picnic blanket, woven basket, maybe a small telescope for stargazing.

Flowers: Wildflowers or a simple bouquet that complements the natural setting.

Hyunjae:

Fun & Energetic: A bright and lively atmosphere with a focus on movement.

Color Palette: Bold and vibrant colors like red, orange, and yellow, with accents of black or white.

Decor: Dance-related elements like ribbons, balloons, or a disco ball.

Flowers: Bright and cheerful flowers like sunflowers or tulips.

Juyeon:

Grand & Impressive: A luxurious and over-the-top aesthetic with a focus on spectacle.

Color Palette: Rich and opulent colors like gold, purple, and deep red, with dramatic lighting.

Decor: Candles, balloons, maybe a personalized banner or backdrop.

Flowers: A large and extravagant bouquet of roses or lilies.

Kevin:

Thoughtful & Personalized: A focus on meaningful details and personal touches.

Color Palette: Warm and inviting colors like peach, coral, and soft yellow, with hints of metallic accents.

Decor: Personalized gifts, framed photos, or handwritten notes.

Flowers: A mix of flowers that hold special meaning or represent the recipient's personality.

New:

Cozy & Relaxed: A comfortable and intimate atmosphere with a focus on simplicity.

Color Palette: Soft and calming colors like blue, green, and gray, with warm lighting.

Decor: Blankets, pillows, snacks, and a good movie.

Flowers: A simple and elegant bouquet of white or pastel-colored flowers.

Q:

Playful & Fun: A lighthearted and whimsical atmosphere with a focus on enjoyment.

Color Palette: Bright and cheerful colors like pink, blue, and yellow, with playful patterns.

Decor: Balloons, streamers, and fun props.

Flowers: Colorful and whimsical flowers like daisies or carnations.

Ju Haknyeon:

Charming & Picturesque: A focus on natural beauty and rustic charm.

Color Palette: Earthy tones like green, brown, and beige, with pops of color from the flowers and food.

Decor: Picnic blanket, woven basket, flowers, and delicious treats.

Flowers: A mix of wildflowers or a bouquet of roses with a rustic feel.

Sunwoo:

Sincere & Heartfelt: A focus on expressing emotions through words and small gestures.

Color Palette: Soft and romantic colors like pink, purple, and white, with hints of gold or silver.

Decor: Handwritten letters, candles, and small gifts.

Flowers: Delicate and meaningful flowers like forget-me-nots or lilies of the valley.

Eric:

Energetic & Enthusiastic: A lively and spontaneous atmosphere with a focus on fun.

Color Palette: Bright and bold colors like red, orange, and yellow, with a touch of black or white.

Decor: Balloons, streamers, and maybe a "Welcome" sign.

Flowers: Cheerful and vibrant flowers like sunflowers or tulips.

[regalokitchen8130]

Top Modular Kitchen Color Scheme Trends for 2024

Source of Info: https://www.regalokitchens.com/blog/top-modular-kitchen-color-scheme-trends-for-2024

Introduction

See the most recent trends in kitchen design with Regalo Kitchens, 2024 guide to the popular color schemes for a modular kitchen. Warm ceramic, gentle pastels, grayscale patterns, bright emerald tones, natural greens, deep blues, clean blacks, and traditional whites are all used this year to achieve the perfect mix of importance and design. In addition to making your kitchen look better, these trends make sure that it remains the stylish and functional center piece of your home.

Traditional White and Gentle Grays

White modular kitchen styles are still going to be the most popular in 2024, even with their beauty that never fades. Soft colors like gray, ivory, and brown combine with white's natural beauty to create a feeling of openness, space, and freshness. This combination of colors works well in small kitchens since it can give the impression of more light and space. The white cabinets, marble countertops, and light-colored walls are the main attractions of this stylish design. Regalo Kitchens wide selection of customizable kitchen layouts featuring these classic colors makes sure your kitchen will remain stylish for many years to come.

Bold and Beautiful Blues

Blue is a stunning color option for a modular kitchen this year. Any shade of blue, from deep navy to vibrant teal, expresses richness and calmness. White or light-colored counters and walls complement it beautifully. For a stronger look, try a kitchen with a two-tone design, with blue cabinets on the lower half and white or light gray cabinets on the top half. Regalo Kitchens provides a variety of blue colors for our kitchen renovation services, allowing you to personalize your kitchen to your preferences.

Earthy Greens and Natural Tones

There will be a major change in 2024 toward bringing the outside in. Natural colors like sage, olive, and forest green are being used in the kitchen to create an inviting and organic ambiance. When paired with stone worktops, brass or copper fixtures, and wooden designs, these colors will make your home look cozier and more organic. Regalo Kitchens modular kitchen layouts with these natural colors are a perfect mix of modern and organic elements.

Clean Black and Charcoal

If you're looking for a more intense, trendy look, black and charcoal are the colors to watch. These dark colors display luxury and beauty, especially when paired with metal components like gold, silver, or brass. Matte-finished black cabinets, clean items, and simple decoration make this modern and stylish kitchen. Your dark-toned kitchen will look fantastic and experience a long time because of Regalo Kitchens use of high-quality materials and finishes in our modular kitchen concepts.

Warm Terracotta and Rustic Reds

The return of rough red and ceramic gives warmth and a hint of rustic appeal to modern kitchens. These colors complement hardwood cabinets, brass hardware, and countertops made of natural stone. Using ceramic wall tiles or flooring can give your modular kitchen an Italian vibe. Browse our collection at Regalo Kitchens to find the perfect earthy and natural red components for your customized kitchen design.

Soft Pastels for a Touch of Elegance

In 2024, gentle pastel colors like blush pink, baby blue, and mint green will be in style for those wanting a clean and delicate look. Without overwhelming the color scheme, these colors brighten everything. Appliances, tiles, and kitchen islands can all be highlighted with pastels. White or light wood cabinets look good with them. Regalo Kitchens offers a range of pastel color options in our modular kitchen plans to preserve a soft and welcoming appearance.

Monochromatic Magic

Monochromatic color schemes are used to create depth and interest by using many tones of the same color. The beauty and simplicity of this trend will make it more popular in 2024. Grayscale colors, which range from light to dark, are especially popular because they provide a sense of modern simplicity. Clear attention is created by combining monochromatic alternatives with various textures and finishes. Any of Regalo Kitchens modular kitchen styles can be changed to give your home a perfect uniform appearance.

Vibrant Jewel Tones

For those who support bright, stunning colors, jewel tones like ruby red, sapphire blue, and emerald green are trendy in 2024. These rich colors give the kitchen a sense of strength and beauty. Jewel tones can be used in cabinets, tiles, or decorative walls to create a really eye-catching focal point. Regalo Kitchens offers modular kitchen solutions that feature these stunning jewel tones, ensuring that your kitchen stands out with beauty and class.

Conclusion

Choosing the best choice shades of color for your modular kitchen can help you design a functional, fashionable space which reflects your personality. There will be a wide variety of themes in 2024 that will suit all tastes, from gorgeous jewel tones to traditional whites. Regalo Kitchens is dedicated to collaborating with you to create a perfect futuristic kitchen that satisfies your requirements and desires while adhering to the most recent trends.