#A Natural Harmony of Ingredients

[lilacs-stars]

sweet like you

pairing: bridget x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is charming's sister) SUMMARY: you and your pink-haired best friend have your own ways of showing affection. but what will happen if you take things to the next level? GENRE: tooth-rotting fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining CW: nothing really, reader is down bad, thoughts of loneliness and worries she's not good enough, mouth-watering descriptions of food WC: 7k

A/N: this one was heavily based off of the five love languages! I personally think that bridget shows love by gift giving and quality time (although I am willing to hear people out on this), and reader is words of affirmation and physical touch, with maybe a dash of acts of service. hope you guys enjoy, and thank you to the anon who requested this! please give me feedback and suggestions, I’d love to know your thoughts!

You fidget nervously, skittishly glancing up at the girl in front of you.

You were so afraid to do it, to maybe ruin what you two already have.

But if you don’t, you’ll be trapped in a life overshadowed by regret, yearning for a love that will forever linger in your heart like a forgotten memory just out of reach, a devotion that has taken root in you so deep you know it is impossible to abandon or ignore.

And with that thought, you gently lean in towards her soft, pink lips.

“So? How is it?”

The pink-haired girl in front of you stands with her arms hugged to her chest, hands curled in fists that sit right below her chin. She looks at you with an anticipation so potent it's practically overflowing, rocking back and forth in a way that makes you think she’ll combust at any second. Her kind eyes are stretched wide open, staring down your every move as she eagerly awaits your answer.

You take a bite into the freshly baked fruit tart in your hand, the perfectly golden crust and masterful arrangement of strawberries, blueberries, and kiwi slices on top making it look almost too good to eat.

As soon as the flavors make contact with your tongue, you practically melt away at the sweet, delicious taste that graces your tastebuds. The pastry base is like a crisp and delightfully buttery embrace that unifies all the elements, a shell that cradles the flavors with care. The fruits on top are delectable and juicy, the natural sweetness and burst of tang adding a refreshing balance to the sugary taste of the pastry, like little fireworks on your tongue.

Your favorite part, however, is the heavenly vanilla custard filling. It’s smooth and decadent, like diving into a saccharine river of vanilla that glides across your tongue. It’s as if the very essence of pure bliss itself was captured and transformed into a rich, sweet nectar. The cool, silky filling and fresh fruits are delightful in how they contrast the warm, flaky crust, all the ingredients coming together in a harmonious composition of textures and flavors.

Your eyes, which had fluttered closed in sheer ecstasy, open again to see a Bridget that is buzzing with excitement.

Your mouth, still stuffed and chewing, manages to mumble out, “It-it’s incredible," as you cover it with your spare hand—proper etiquette being second nature to you by now—trying to get out the partially coherent words.

Bridget still looks at you with a zealous sparkle in her eyes, expression unchanged and expectant, relentlessly teetering on the balls of her feet like a hummingbird rapidly flapping its wings as it hovers by a flower. Most people would have stopped at the compliment, but you, being a near-professional taste tester from the number of Bridget’s creations that you’ve tried since you met her, have a full evaluation prepared as you swallow.

“The crust is very buttery and just the right amount of crispiness, perfectly balancing out the smooth creaminess of the custard. The fruits add a bit of tartness and a fresh, juicy taste that evens out the sweetness of the rest of the pastry, that could be a bit overwhelming otherwise. As for aesthetics”—you shift around slightly from your position on the edge of her bed, the fluffy pink comforter beneath you practically swallowing you whole—“your placement is very well-done. I would recommend adding a glaze to the fruits, both to make them glossy and to enrich the taste.”

Bridget nods her head fervently, absorbing your every word like your suggestions are an indisputable truth. “I feel like the crust is a bit soggy, too,” she adds, face wrinkled in a frown as she stares at the dessert in your hand.

You look down at your half-bitten treat—its original, untouched beauty now destroyed—in a scrutinizing consideration. “Did you wait for the crust to cool down before adding the filling?” Bridget tilts her head upwards, eyes deep in thought as she looks to the ceiling. “Hmm, now that you mention it, I don’t think I did.”

"That must be the cause." You are certainly no baker yourself, but you’ve had lots of practice critiquing Bridget’s creations to the point where you are highly knowledgeable in the theory of baking. “Still, it is unbelievably delicious.” As if hearing those words for the first time, Bridget’s face lights up, her features all but radiating a brilliant glow as she beams. She clasps her hands together, crying, “Aww, thanks!”

You can’t help but laugh a little—Bridget’s limitless joy is truly contagious. At times like this, when you're staring up at her, gaze swirled with pure adoration and awe as if she's an angel that descended from the heavens in front of your eyes, you start to think just how lucky you are. For once in your life, the strings of fate finally pulled in your favor, crossing your paths with the girl clad in a bright pink dress facing you.

Fate is often cruel to you, like an unrelenting winter wind blowing in your face and biting at your skin, like nature laughing at you as you shiver in raw misery, coldness seeping deep into your bones. A cruel trickster that seems to follow you with malevolent intentions, a vicious smirk painted on its face as it sends every misfortune barreling your way.

You might have been born a royal, a princess that has an unfathomable number of gowns stacked in her closet and an equal number of suitors lined up for her hand. But you aren’t like your brother; you don’t approach groups of strangers and introduce yourself with a wink and an alluring demeanor. He is Prince Charming, after all, which causes you to often ruminate over how accurately your parents named him.

Instead of flashing a winsome smile to every guest at a ball, or every visitor invited to your house, and strike up a conversation with them, you often seek refuge in the quiet expanse of your own room. When required to make an appearance, you prefer to loiter around in the shadows or pass by unseen, like a ghost. This has made you quite the anomaly in the royal world; everyone always whispers behind covered hands and in hushed voices, spreading rumors and wildly speculating about why the princess of such a gregarious family never makes a presence of herself publicly.

And it’s the same at school. Bridget, like your brother, will approach absolutely anyone with a smile gracing her features and kind eyes crinkled in the corners, oftentimes with a home-baked treat in hand. She has countless friends, many random people she mentions or smiles at in the hallways that you’ve never even seen before. She’s never had to worry about finding a partner in class, never avoided eye contact in a crowd of people she didn’t know, never sat watching other people’s carefree conversations with the weight of being an outsider, always looking in through the glass of isolation keeping you from them. 

Which is why, to this day, in moments like these, you question whether fate has made a mistake of some sort—maybe jumbled up different karmic ties or gotten confused with names when it came time to draw people’s futures. Or, your biggest fear, is that this is all some elaborate plan, a puzzle piece in destiny’s plan to make your life as ill-fortuned as possible.

In times like this one, you peer up at Bridget and wonder, why in the world, out of her multitude of friends, did she decide to spend the most time with you? To dub you her “best friend”, if you will. 

Bridget had noticed your solitary manners a long time ago—like a magnet, she’s drawn to the people who are most in need of a friend, the most ostracized of the outcasts. And so, she had patiently sat with you every day, struck up a conversation even when you gave her the shortest answers possible that were still deemed polite, and attempted to make plans with you, although you always tried to cover up your outlandish excuses with gracious thank-yous. 

Over time, the girl with the bright eyes and unfaltering smile finally wore you down, until you began sitting next to her yourself, began looking forward to your idle conversations, and even sought to spend as much time with her as possible. In fact, you spend more time at her dorm than you do yours; neither of you have roommates, so the only time you go back to your room is to get into bed. Besides that, you spend every waking moment basking in Bridget’s cheery presence, so much so that half your belongings are scattered on her floor (your doing), or neatly tucked away in a drawer (her tidying up after you leave).

Your relationship grew to a point where you began to know Bridget well enough that you couldn't keep denying the way she seemed to know everyone, and on a rather personal basis as well. How she had a party or event she was invited to every weekend, or how she had an entire roster of people willing to help her at the smallest of notices anytime she needed a favor. Sure, she may not seem like the “popular” sort, which had definitely deceived you as well when you first met her, but she was definitely well-known and especially well-liked. 

So you found yourself many a night sitting on her bed—as you are now—looking at the stack of pretentious letters and notes, carefully placed in ostentatious envelopes with cloyingly ornate lettering, wondering what about you made Bridget seek you out. And that’s when you first thought of it. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t actually like you.

And once that thought popped in your mind, once it was planted and dug its roots in your brain, it grew rapidly, spreading uncontrollably like a weed that was left unchecked for a bit too long. Bridget probably only talked to you in the beginning just to be nice, the intrusive, unwanted voice hissed in your mind. She didn’t really like you. And now you keep on leeching onto her, and she’s way too nice to say she finds you annoying.

Fueled by your disbelief that anyone, especially someone with as many options as Bridget, would actively want to spend their time with you, you started to believe that Bridget was only entertaining you out of required courtesy. And so, you tried spending less time with her after that, building up your walls again and shutting her out; suddenly, you didn’t approach her in the hallways anymore, were always too busy “studying” to hang out in her room, and your long rants about various, trivial topics were reduced to simple, curt responses.

But Bridget persisted, always choosing you amidst a myriad of familiar faces beckoning her over. She still wanted to make plans with you, still left you treats outside your door to taste test. And so, with a hesitant uncertainty, only brought out by your crippling fear and burning shame at the possibility of even coming close to hurting Bridget’s feelings from your cold actions, you decided that she might actually want to be with you, of her own free will. 

That night, you had thanked her for being such a good friend to you. She replied as sweetly and modestly as ever (“Oh, it’s nothing! Don’t even mention it.”). When you brought up how you wouldn’t have any friends if not for her choosing to persistently break down your walls, as you are undeniably terrible at making friends, she had simply told you that your style of befriending people was to wait for them to approach you first, whilst her style was to approach them first.

She had pointed out, with a compassionate wrinkle in her brow, that with your way, at least you could be certain that whoever cared enough about you to initiate something and work towards befriending you probably had genuine intentions, which was a drawback of becoming friends with just anyone, like she did—you never who truly likes you, and who’s plotting to stab you in the back. You kept your mouth shut that night, but you really couldn’t help but think if that were true, then did that mean that the only person with genuine intentions towards you in the entire school was Bridget herself?

Fate, you decided, is certainly an interesting character.

“Maybe I should make another batch.” Bridget’s musings draw you back to the present, where she now stands with a bitten fruit tart in her hand and two unoccupied cavities in the tray she had baked them in. “I was thinking of handing these out to my History of World Magic class tomorrow, but they aren’t very good…” She frowns again as she looks down at her pastry, as if furrowing her brow and staring intensely at it can miraculously fix it, or at least give her some insight into discerning what to improve.

“Bridget.” You push up off the bed, taking a step towards her and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to make another batch. These ones are already great.”

Abruptly, you swoop in towards her opposite hand, stealing a bite from her already partially eaten dessert. You chew with a smile on your face as you look at Bridget’s slightly startled expression, commenting, “See? This one is just as good as the other one.”

Bridget remains frozen for a moment, her forehead still puckered, before she relents into a soft grin. “Alright, then. If you say so. I guess they are alright.”

“That’s the spirit.” You let go of her shoulder, now leisurely strolling around the room, eyeing the various objects neatly placed on her furniture. Eyes scanning over each item, your hand subconsciously reaches out, fingertips languidly brushing along her possessions as if soaking up her essence. “About History, I’m so unprepared for that test we have coming up. Ugh, who even assigns that much work? Especially since Mr. Poirier already grades so harshly. Like, last test, he marked me down because I only gave three examples of goblin strikes in the past century out of the five he taught. I mean, you can’t mark someone down if you never said how many examples to give! He’s so unfai—”

Your voice cuts off as your eyes snag on a collection of objects on Bridget's desk that weren’t there before, an assortment of various tools and materials that when combined appear to belong to a crafting set: multicolored beads, tubes of sparkly glitter, delicate metal chains, a set of pliers, and a bright pink vial of glue.

“What are these?” you ask curiously, leaning in closer with a furrowed brow as you inspect the items on the desk, trying to make out what they are, or rather, what they are going to be made into.

“Ah! It’s nothing!” Bridget squeals, rushing over and throwing a spare blanket over the desk before you can take a closer look.

You spin around to face her, a frown etched into your features. “If it’s nothing, then why are you hiding it?”

“It’s not important!”

“You know you’re only making me want to know even more.”

“It’s really nothing! Just don’t think about it.”

You lift your hand, inching it closer to the draped cloth. “I’m thinking about it,” you tease, playfully moving your arm at a gradual, yet deliberate, pace towards the desk. “Still thinking about it. I’m getting closer, closer, closer…”

Just as your fingers are about to make contact with the blanket to pull it off, Bridget lurches forward, taking your troublesome hand in hers as she leads you away, towards the other side of the room with a nervous giggle.

“Come on!” you exclaim with a huff. “What’s so bad about what you’re doing that you don’t want to show me?”

“It’s not bad!” Bridget counters. “It’s just…look, you’ll find out what it is soon. Just give me some time, okay?”

“Hmm…” you hum, glancing upwards with faux consideration. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait that long.” A small, cheeky grin dances on your face as you try to conceal it with a feigned pout.

Bridget shoots you a look, a small smile finally spreading across her lips. “What were we talking about again? That’s right, History of World Magic. So, what were you saying?”

You notice the sudden—and rather forced—attempt to change the subject, but ultimately decide to brush it off. “Yeah, I was saying how Mr. Poirier is so unfair when it comes to grading! And his tests are always so hard. Like, seriously, he makes up test questions that he never even talked about during class. He just expects us to memorize the whole textbook or something.”

Bridget gives a small, rueful shrug. “Well, I guess he just wants us to learn the information well.” You shoot her a sharp look, one that screams "Seriously? You’re defending him?"

“Hey, I have an idea!" Bridget exclaims, eyes lighting up again. "How about tomorrow, after school, we go to the library and study for the test? With both our minds put together, we’re a lot less likely to miss something. After all, two heads are better than one. You aren’t busy or anything, right?”

You shake your head no, although it does pass your mind how Bridget must already know that you never have any plans besides the ones she makes with you. “‘Kay, study session tomorrow sounds good. Although we’re probably going to be there till midnight. I mean, seriously, who assigns one test on four different chapters?”

Just as you launch into yet another rant about your insensitive teacher whom you practically despise at this point, a deep, low horn sounds from somewhere out in the hallway, reverberating against the walls.

Both you and Bridget glance up at the clock on her wall, which is custom-made in the shape of a pink heart surrounded by a white rim, now with its glittery hands pointing at ten and twelve.

“How is it curfew already?” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Guess I have to head back to my room.” Many times, you’ve contemplated requesting to move in with Bridget, so you two can officially be roommates. After all, you practically are, with the way that people always knock on Bridget’s door first when asking for you (although that seldom happens, and the few rare times it has, it’s always been on a teacher’s behest). But every time you start to consider it, your mind plummets back into that dark place, the belief rooted deep into your consciousness whispering that you’d just burden Bridget with your inescapable presence and occupied space. 

“Aw, well, I’ll see you tomorrow in class! And at the library!” Bridget says as she walks you to the door, her constant smiling shining through once again.

You both bid each other goodnight, and as you walk the familiar solitary path back to your room, the absence of Bridget’s cheerful and bright energy is achingly present. It’s as if a piece of you was stripped away, torn from your very being and leaving you numb and hollow, merely a void of fleeting emotions just out of your grasp. Like the sun disappearing during an eclipse, leaving everyone shrouded in darkness as they await its return, you feel as though your very liveliness is missing from you. You glide down the hallways soundlessly like a ghost, your body nothing more than a shell of the exuberance brought out by the girl who’s constantly emanating pure, unbridled positivity.

Despite your feelings of emptiness, a soft ray of warmth settles onto your soul as memories of the evening, and every other moment you spent in Bridget’s company, replay in your mind. You still hear her melodious laugh, still see the bright sparkle in her eyes only displayed in someone who has not yet been dulled by the merciless, unsparing nature of the world.

Even though she’s not there, you still feel as though she is, carrying a piece of her deep in your heart while you reminisce over your memories, as you always do when you’re in the quiet loneliness of your own company. Even though she’s not there, your heart races at the mere thought of her: her gaze as she listens intently to what you have to say, the way her arms wrap around your torso and how her hair tickles your neck as she gives you a tight, enthusiastic hug.

Even though she’s not there, a shadow of her presence forever lingers in your heart and mind, leaving you yearning to bask in her warm glow again.

You step into the library the next day, after the final bell dismisses you from your last lesson. The library is one of your favorite places in the entire school—aside from Bridget’s room, of course. The peaceful retreat of the rows of dusty shelves and worn, rickety tables is unmatched. The tranquility of the gentle silence that always covers the area like a blanket, the smell of weathered books holding untold quantities of knowledge soothing you with the smallest whiff. Whenever you step across that threshold, it’s like being taken into a different dimension, one with fewer heavy burdens weighing down your shoulders and more blissful ease, a feeling one only reaches when in an untroubled state of mind.

No one looks at you as you walk in, not even sparing a single glance or the slightest movement that acknowledges your arrival. Not that that’s an unusual feeling for you.

You make your way down the aisles of books to your usual table, where you and Bridget always sit, standing in a secluded corner. The book bag slung over your shoulder is weighed down with all the books and notes stuffed into it, causing your arm to ache with strain. Grimacing as the hemp strap painfully digs into your shoulder, certainly leaving a mark that you’ll discover later, you mentally hurl a few obscenities at your teacher for his absurd teaching methods that make your bag so heavy.

However, as you move towards the table, you can see that there’s already some foreign object placed on top of it. A shocked, annoyed anger sizzles inside of you, vexation pumping through your veins at the thought of someone stealing your table. Sure, it doesn’t actually belong to you, and everyone has an equal right to choose any seat they desire, but it’s still your preferred spot and any other one would feel disconcerting and out of place.

As you near, now silently directing your colorful words towards the table thief, you begin to notice that no one else is around; nor do you see any materials on the table besides the peculiar item, which appears to be a small plastic container.

You approach the box, noticing that there’s a small, fuchsia-colored note stuck to the top as you get closer. Instantly, you recognize the handwriting, the half-cursive swirls and loops paired with the little hearts topping all the i’s instead of dots engraved into your brain.

“Dear Y/N,

I’m so so sooo sorry, but someone had an emergency and I had to go help them! I feel really bad for leaving you, and I promise I’ll make it up to you! 

For now, I made you some treats as an apology (and to help make studying a little more bearable). Sorry again! I hope you enjoy them! 

Love always,

Bridget

You smile at the little heart drawn next to her name, a staple of her signature. Opening the lid of the container, you see that sure enough, it’s stocked with plenty of macarons, a multitude of colors and flavors beckoning at you to try them.

You sigh as you grab a chair to sit in, the small wave of relief that washes over you soon overshadowed by the returning feeling of loneliness, rekindling inside of you like a greeting from an old friend you haven’t seen in a while. You reside in its arms with a comfort brought not by the warmth of a tender hug that soothes your pain and fills the hollow void residing in you, but instead by the ease of familiarity, the peace obtained when the outcome is a cruel one, yet one you foresaw. The security granted by basking in the solace of numbing arms wrapped around you, the feeling of being all alone and undesired, unwanted, something you’ve grown all too accustomed to.

Once again, you’re given a painful reminder of how popular Bridget is, how many other friends she has. How at the end of the day, you're simply an option, a choice she chooses to make. One that she can always change in the blink of an eye.

But you know that you can’t really be disappointed or feel so rejected because of this. After all, it's not like you can expect her to not have a life outside of you—ignoring the fact that you don’t really have a life outside of her. It would be selfish of you to want her to yourself all the time, right? 

Readjusting your chair closer to the table, you remind yourself that it’s nice enough of her to even remember your plans, much less take the time to stop by here and leave you a note explaining her absence, in addition to a sweet—both figuratively and literally—gift. She could have just forsaken you with no note, no warning. But then again, that’s simply not the type of person Bridget is. If she knew just how much her presence affects you, how she fills your days with a joy, a happiness so pure and unparalleled by everything and everyone else, you’re almost certain she’d never leave your side again.

To her, you’re just another friend, someone she enjoys seeing. To you, she’s your sun, the very being you revolve around and depend on to survive.

She truly is your everything.

The mouthwatering macarons eyeing you through the clear plastic invite you to take a bite, and you indulge yourself as you rip off the lid and relish in the soft crunch of the outer layers and the smooth flavors bursting within, reminding you of something akin to a dessert sandwich.

After munching on quite a few of them—you simply couldn’t help yourself, they were absolutely delicious—you begrudgingly heave your bag onto the table, pulling out the materials you so diligently packed.

You crack open your textbook to the first chapter, then your notebook to the first blank page. Ripping a sheet out from the spine, you place it down next to your notes. Every time you write something in your notebook, you copy it down on the empty page.

After all, you couldn’t let Bridget’s kindhearted nature get in the way of her good grades. Even if it did mean more grueling work on your part.

For her, you are willing to do anything. Just to see her beam at you again with those rosy lips, the sparkle in her eyes twinkling brightly at you. Reminding you that you’re the cause behind her happiness.

No matter the cost for you.

The sea of faces and bodies in front of you is slightly overwhelming, blurred flashes passing you as you struggle to find your way through the crowd. But then, your eyes snatch on a head of pink curls bouncing up and down animatedly, and instantly, you’re washed over with a wave of relief. Slipping through the cracks between the meandering crowd, you make your way over to the table Bridget is sitting at today in the Dining Hall.

“Hey,” you say gingerly, placing a hand on her shoulder to get her attention as you approach her from behind.

Bridget twists her head back, face visibly lighting up at the sight of you. “Y/N!” she exclaims, scooting over and excitedly patting the space next to her.

You take your seat, turning to face her. “Uh, so, about yesterday…” 

Your plan was to thank her for the macarons and the thoughtful note, but before you get the chance, her eyes widen at your words as her face erupts in a look of deep penitence. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Fay was trying a new spell and accidentally burned half her hair off…” Her face contorts to a look of serious shock and concern, probably reimagining the scene.

“I know that’s no excuse though! I felt so bad for bailing on you, that I stayed up all last night just to finish this…”

She turns around and bends over her seat, reaching into her bag on the floor. She grabs something, then twists back around to you, clutching the mysterious object tightly in her hand.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands!” she instructs, vibrant with pulsating enthusiasm. A bit tentatively, you do as she says, putting your cupped palm out in front of you as you shut your eyes.

You feel a small, very solid object get placed in your hands (So not a new dessert to try, you think with only the slightest tinge of disappointment). But that all dissipates as soon as Bridget exclaims, “You can open them now!”

Your eyes flutter open, gaze pointed downwards towards your palms. Immediately, a tender surge of awe floods your heart, making its pace quicken as it beats rapidly. Your heart throbs with such a profound gratitude you worry it’s going to burst any second from how touched you feel.

You pick up the chain placed in your cupped hands, an elated smile breaking through as you take in the bracelet Bridget gave you. Decorated with numerous charms, you take the time to study all of them carefully, running your fingers over the meticulous hand-crafted details as you realize the significance of each one.

They’re not random designs chosen simply for aesthetic purposes; no, each one resembles something, either about you or your relationship with Bridget. A clear-cut gemstone of your favorite color placed next to a small depiction of your favorite animal both hang off the chain. Then there’s a metallic red apple symbolizing the one time you two went apple picking at an orchard; a little set of playing cards with the same design at the deck she used when she first taught you how to play; a small face of a gray kitten with white whiskers, resembling the one you two saved from an incredibly high and strangely twisted tree the first time you visited Wonderland. 

Nevertheless, the finest of them all is the pink, glittery heart that sits right in the middle. Embellished on its surface is a fancy cursive B next to your first initial, conjoined with a small plus sign. 

An everlasting symbol of your intimate bond.

Your mouth is fully agape, eyes round as saucers and eyebrows arched in a mix of nearly tangible astonishment and disbelief as you turn the bracelet around in your hands over and over, examining each charm with a sharp, precise eye. Bridget sits in quiet anticipation, holding her breath as she awaits any kind of reaction that can give her even a glimmer of an idea as to how you feel.

“Remember when you were asking me about the stuff on my desk the other day and I said I'd show you soon?” she asks, breaking the thick silence that has grown to be unbearable for her. “Well, I was working on this as a surprise for you. And, I mean, I felt so bad for leaving you yesterday that I wanted to give it to you today as a little apology.”

Your gaze finally breaks away from the bracelet, meeting Bridget’s jittery eyes. Before she can even process what’s happening, the next thing she knows you’ve lurched forward, arms wrapping so tightly around her body that she struggles to even breathe.

After she gets over the initial wave of shock, Bridget’s wide eyes melt into a compassionate smile, returning the embrace. You hug her firmly, getting lost in the moment and not letting go until you hear a little, “I can’t breathe,” paired with a soft tap on your back, drawing you out of your daze as you realize you’re practically smothering her.

“Oh! I-I’m sorry!” you exclaim, drawing back quickly and examining her figure with knitted brows, making sure she’s alright. “I just…I love it so much! It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me!”

Bridget gives a bubbly laugh, eyes matching her grin as she says, “Oh, it really was nothing. I mean, you’re a princess. I’m sure you’ve gotten much nicer things.”

Smiling, you don’t mention how even the most lavish of luxuries, the most exorbitant of material goods only the finest money can buy, all pale into nonexistence when compared to her gift. The thought, the care, the hours of painstaking work and dedicated moments spent carefully crafting, all for you, is simply unfathomable and impossible to match. You may be holding a small bracelet worth not even a tenth of the simplest of rings you normally get gifted by your family, but to you, it’s worth more than every mansion and diamond in the whole world.

You shake your head left and right, tears of joy brimming and threatening to spill as you lean into Bridget for yet another hug (this time making sure not to squeeze her quite so hard). You know that later, you’ll probably lie in bed and wince at your brashness in this moment, hands covering your flustered face as you toss and turn in embarrassment—but for right now, you’re too swept up in your emotions to care.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” you exclaim, pulling away once again to reach into your bag this time. Retrieving a stack of papers neatly stapled, with lines and lines of orderly notes written in meticulous handwriting, you hand them to Bridget. “I figured since you probably wouldn’t have the time to take notes for the test, I took them for you.”

This time, it’s Bridget’s turn to be flustered from your benevolent gesture. “You really didn’t have to!” she cries, a stunned expression painted on her face as she flips through the numerous pages of detailed notes. She peers back up to meet your gaze with a swirl of shock and delight, her gently creased eyes and the lines on her forehead displaying her inner thoughts. Bridget often wears her emotions on her sleeve, and from sharing countless hours with her, you’ve learned to interpret her facial expressions so well you can practically read her mind. And through her gaze, you can see how she’s in disbelief at the thought that, despite your hatred for the subject and assignment—which you made very well-known—you still spent twice the time you had to on it, just for her.

“Well, I guess we’re even now,” you casually add, saving Bridget from having to formulate a response—you can clearly tell she’s having difficulty putting her emotions into words.

She shakes her head ardently from side to side, her springy curls bouncing vibrantly. “No, we still lost the time we were supposed to spend together! And I did promise I’d make it up to you.”

Before you can open your mouth to tell her that she’d made it up plenty, her head swivels to the side. You follow her gaze to a wide window a few meters away, the bright rays of sun poking out through the clouds and casting golden stripes on the table in front of you. 

Her head snaps back towards you, the light in her eyes burning bright as she enthusiastically suggests, “I heard the weather is really nice this weekend! How about we go on a picnic?”

“A picnic?” you repeat inquisitively. You don’t know what you were expecting, but this certainly surprised you. 

“Yeah!” Bridget’s talking quickens, the glimmer in her eyes shining brighter as she continues while the vague idea solidifies in her mind. “It’ll be a lot more fun than another study session. I can make the food and you can bring the stuff! The fields just south of here are a popular spot. It’s going to be so much fun!” 

She squeals as she claps her hands together. You match her smile, her enthusiasm once again infecting you. “Picnic it is, then,” you reply, grinning as she beams at your approval. 

A subtle sigh slips past your lips, unnoticed by Bridget. The same way you always wish she didn’t miss how you look at her, pure adoration and devotion mirrored in your gaze, staring at her as if she created the skies and stars with her own two hands. Which she really did—at least in your universe. 

A soft breeze blows against your face, tenderly caressing your cheeks as leaves rustle overhead, whispering to the wind of secrets unheard. The sky is a clear, vibrant blue, all but a few clouds lazily drifting by. Sunshine filters through the branches, casting dappled patterns of light over the checkered blanket beneath you. Birds somewhere in the treetops chatter and sing their pleasing songs, weaving a tapestry of notes that paint the horizon with harmonious brushstrokes. The grass sways gently, mirroring the serene breathing of the landscape.

Everything is tranquil, from the fluttering of butterfly wings to the laughter that sounds from pink lips, like the most melodious of music to your ears. The conversation isn’t that important to you; trivial, inconsequential topics that you really couldn’t care less for. But what truly matters is the way her eyes fill with the purest of sparkles, the way she doubles over as she giggles, the breeze brushing her captivatingly gorgeous curls out of her face.

There’s nothing in the world you would trade for this moment, this sliver in time where you are completely at peace. Where not a single care or worry can reach you, not when the only thing on your mind is how much your heart swells with pure affection, how simply perfect the girl in front of you is.

After she manages to catch her breath from laughing, Bridget meets your gaze—one that is directed at her, but isn’t really looking at her. Your eyes are distant, the unwavering smile on your speaking volumes of emotions.

“Those sandwiches were really good, weren’t they?” she asks you, referring to the special-made lunch that you two had just finished.

You nod, still grinning at her with a persistent gaze. “They were great, Bridget. Nothing that you make could ever taste anything less than delicious.”

She blushes, swatting at your arm playfully. “Hey, that’s not true!”

You laugh, sitting up from how you were previously lying on your back. Catching Bridget’s hand in midair, you reply, “Well, it is, because I don’t lie.”

“Oh? Since when?” she asks, mirth dancing on her features.

“Since always.” You feign annoyance at her accusations, your smile still shining through.

“Ah! Speaking of food, I have something special for you.”

You hum in surprise, watching as Bridget reaches over to your woven picnic basket. She shuffles closer to you, to the point where her knees almost brush against your thigh, with how she’s sitting cross-legged and you with your legs outstretched whilst leaning on one arm.

Opening the lid, her hand disappears inside for a moment before reemerging with a singular cupcake, topped with a swirly pastel pink frosting and decorated with small sprinkles in shades of white and red. 

“This is a new recipe,” she explains, holding the treat out to you. “I made it with this super rare flower essence, shipped straight from Wonderland. Let’s just say I gave the batter a lick, and I think it’s my best creation yet.”

“You haven’t tried it yet?” you ask, moving to sit in a position similar to Bridget’s as you accept the dessert. 

“Nope! I wanted you to have the first bite.”

Your smile only grows wider, now stretching from ear to ear, an undeniable sense of glee emanating from you. You’d normally argue with her, telling her that she really didn’t need to do something like this. But from all those failed attempts you’ve only learned that Bridget never listens, always putting you first time and time again. So, this time, you simply take a bite, nearly melting away again as the flavors hit.

The frosting has a sugary, saccharine taste, the sprinkles adding a delightfully contrasting texture to the creamy richness of the pink swirl. The cake below it is soft and moist, as if eating a fluffy cloud. The vanilla flavor is smooth, an undercurrent that balances out the sweetness. There’s a slight twinge from a distinct flavor as well, something you’ve never tasted and can’t quite put your finger on. The same way that coffee elevates the taste of chocolate, this special ingredient brings out the sweetness of the vanilla, balancing out the sugar of the frosting. Every mouthful is incredibly light and absolutely delectable, making each moment it graces your taste buds feel like an indulgent bite of heaven.

“So? How is it?” Bridget asks as your eyes swiftly open. Her anticipation lingers in the air, along with your awaited response.

But you barely hear her words, too focused on how the color of the frosting perfectly matches her delicate, roseate lips. They’re so gentle, yet lush, almost forming the most endearing of pouts.

Eyes darting from her eyes, to her lips, back up to her wide, doe eyes again, you throw caution to the wind and spring forward. Your hands move in front of you, supporting your weight as you lean in.

Your lips make contact with her velvety ones, which are even smoother than you imagined. A stolen kiss, lasting but a moment, yet enwrapped by the tender caress of your mouth, the purest of affections seeping in as you hold her lips between yours, then draw back for the briefest pause.

Eyes locked with her wide, expressive ones as you linger a mere inch away from her face, you respond to her earlier question.

“Delicious and incredibly sweet. Just like you.”

end x

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[tender-rosiey]

heyy, may i ask for a satoruxreader where its readers birthday and gojo and megumi are tryna bake a cake for reader? (ofc gojo has a backup cake that he bought just incase anything goes wrong cuz ofc its gojo what do you expect)

kind — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: what do you guys do when people start singing happy bday? I just smile until my cheeks hurt 🥲 anyways this is set when megumi was still a kid

"megumi, wake up!" satoru yells as he slams the door of the boy's room open. naturally, he is met with one ruthless glare, but he rapidly tries to save himself, "before you get mad, look at the date!"

the boy grumbles before getting up and checking the calendar. his eyes widen at the 'y/n's birthday' written under the date. quickly, he scrambles to his feet and starts pulling satoru downstairs and towards the entrance.

"where are we going?" satoru inquires the rushing megumi.

megumi pauses then looks at him, confused and wondering just why is this guy so stupid, "to get the cake obviously."

satoru laughs loudly and starts shaking his head, "megumi, megumi, megumi…we are going to bake the cake ourselves!"

the boy in question pales at the suggestion and looks at his sister's room in hopes of her waking up and rescuing him. however, the girl does not get the telepathic waves her brother is sending and is still soundly asleep.

so megumi is then dragged by one very excited gojo satoru. satoru eagerly wears his apron—one that has a very proud catoru on it—then he helps megumi put his own. megumi’s apron has a chibi drawing of his divine dogs and no matter how much he denies it, it’s obvious that he likes it.

while satoru gets the ingredients, megumi is laying out the rules for today’s baking mission. satoru does glare at him every now and then but he can’t exactly complain. his experiences with baking are disasters that can't be ignored.

so naturally, the little boy was in charge of the measurements cause god forbid satoru does it.

“satoru, how the hell did you mess that up?!”

“y/n, it said two spoons!”

“TABLE SPOONS NOT TWO SPOONS FROM A FREAKING SPATULA, YOU SUGAR OBSSESSED—“

so no, satoru shall never touch something related to measurements. the both of them stand in front of the ingredients, determination radiating off of them.

satoru takes hold of the recipe and starts reading, “we need a cup of white sugar!”

nodding, megumi swiftly gets the cup and hands it to satoru.

satoru pours it in the bowl and megumi has to stop him from ‘taste-testing’. from there on, they start working in (partial) harmony—fighting every now and then with megumi almost losing his marbles over the supposed adult trying to eat something every minute.

after a bit, they are finally done with the dry ingredients, each of them sporting a handful of flour on his hair. megumi glares up at satoru, “you ruined my hair.”

“now you will look more like me and people won’t think that I kidnapped you!” satoru beams but megumi easily ignores him.

said boy grumbles and starts padding away to get the wet ingredients, doing his best to gather them in his arms and delivering them in one trip. satoru simply watches him with a little grin before asking, “say, what do you think of y/n?”

after putting the ingredients on the counter, megumi looks up at satoru, confused, “why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I mean it’s obvious you like her more than me,” satoru fake sniffles—in megumi’s eyes it’s asking to be punched but oh well, “but, I want to hear you say it.”

satoru doesn’t expect him to answer so he doesn’t question any further.

satoru starts pouring the wet ingredients together. he starts humming a soft tune, your favorite song, and finally combining the ingredients together. he then hands megumi the bowl for him to mix the batter.

the boy silently does it. and they are left to bask in the silence, before megumi finally speaks up, “I think she is nice…probably one of the kindest people I have met.”

satoru smiles at him then laughs lightly, patting the boy’s head, “that’s good.”

when megumi is done with the mixing, he—with the help of gojo—pours the batter in the baking pan. megumi’s face is troubled for a moment before he looks at satoru, “you’re going to marry her, right?”

proudly, satoru nods, “was planning on doing it even before your little grumpy-self showed up.”

megumi watches satoru put the baking pan in the oven with ease. satoru then dusts his hands and megumi glares at him, “break her heart and I will fight you.”

satoru grins, frame towering over the boy, “you think you can win?”

the boy nods up at the white-haired man and gets into a fighting stance almost immediately, summoning his divine dogs. satoru quirks a brow and he seems like he is going to fight megumi as well, but, instead, he bends down to ruffle the boy’s hair.

normally, he would instantly swat his hand away, but right now, it catches megumi by surprise and he looks at satoru wide-eyed.

“you don’t have to worry about me breaking her heart.”

reluctantly, megumi looks down and mutters a small ‘good’.

after a long while, they hear your voice, “I am home!”

“Y/N!!!!!” your boyfriend screams the moment you step in. he tackles you into a very big hug and starts peppering your face in kisses, “how was your day?”

“it was okay,” you pat his head then you look at the boy, “hey, megumi! how’re you?”

megumi nods with a small smile and you chuckle before noticing what he is wearing, “what’s with the aprons, you guys?”

satoru, who hasn’t stopped kissing your cheek since you entered, replies excitedly, “we were trying cook something!”

you sweatdrop and nervously look at your boyfriend, “…and how did that turn out?”

“hey!” he huffs, “you need to have some faith in my cooking skills!”

“satoru, last time I did that you—“

“what’s that burning smell?” a sleepy tsumiki mumbles as she finally gets out of her room.

megumi and satoru share a look before satoru darts to the kitchen screaming about his masterpiece. you and the kids follow suit. when you enter, you find satoru on his knees—devastated and probably about to start act two of his ‘I am great cook’—with a very burnt cake in his hands.

tsumiki goes to pat the sad cook’s back while megumi grumbles, “I shouldn’t have unrealistic expectations anymore.”

you chuckle at the scene unfolding in front of you. however, you already find yourself walking towards satoru. he quickly throws himself into your embrace. rolling your eyes, you still rub his back to comfort him about his deceased cake.

what you don’t notice is satoru winking at megumi who gets the cue to close the lights.

you look around in the now dark room, “did the lights go out again?—“

satoru disappears from your arms and you hear rustling and whispers. however, it quickly quiets down and when the lights are back on, you’re met with quite the sight.

satoru, megumi, and tsumiki are all wearing birthday party hats. there is also a very humongous cake on the counter.

the cake has a miniature version of the four of you. mini megumi is noticeably grumpy with mini tsumiki having the sweetest smile on her face—just like the real one. mini satoru is latching onto your mini version who looks done with everything around her.

there are also towers of gifts distributed in the entire room.

but you barely have time to focus on them any further before satoru eagerly blows a birthday whistle and screaming out, “on my mark—three, two, one, go! happy birthday to you!”

the kids sing along—though megumi does it a little shyly.

overwhelmed, your eyes start to tear up and satoru’s feet naturally take him to you. his arm is around your waist as he pulls you close and continues singing for you.

megumi also makes his way to stand beside you with tsumiki tagging along. you lock eyes with satoru who smiles tenderly at you, singing, “happy birthday, dear y/n,” he presses a kiss right under your eye while wiping your tears, “happy birthday, y/n.”

“WOHOOO!” satoru loudly cheers and picks you up, twirling you around making you laugh. when he sets you down, he presses one loud smooch to your cheek once again.

tsumiki giggles before she quips, “blow the candle, y/n!”

your head snaps towards satoru who is already smirking at you. you narrow your eyes, “don’t you even dare. it’s my birthday!”

“really now?” he tilts his head before easily throwing you over his shoulder and quickly blowing out all the candles, ignoring your nonstop hitting of his back. he then starts spinning around and his laughter fills the room.

“SATORU, YOU’RE GOING TO DROP ME! STOP!”

“NEVERRRRR!”

meanwhile, megumi and tsumiki are left sighing at the scene in front of them.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[hsjazebel]

FRAGMENTS OF HAPPINESS

Y/n and Harry celebrate the arrival of their baby girl with a walk in the park.

masterlist

Y/n felt enveloped in the softness of her wool cardigan, which kept her company as she walked with Harry along the park path.

Every step they took together seemed like a harmonious ballet, marked by the sweet and constant rhythm of the nature that surrounded them.

The warmth of the spring sun caressed her skin, inviting her to let herself be carried away by the sensations of the moment.

Little Emma's pram moved silently in front of them, guided by Y/n's loving hand.

Wrapped in a soft and light wool blanket, the little girl slept peacefully, transmitting a sense of peace and tranquility that enveloped the entire scene with an aura of magic. Her regular and peaceful breathing was like a delicate lullaby that accompanied her parents' walk.

They found a secluded corner under the cool shade of a majestic tree, where Harry carefully spread a red and white checked blanket on the green lawn.

The softness of the cozy fabric seemed to invite Y/n and Harry to immerse themselves completely in the present moment, abandoning themselves to the beauty of the nature that surrounded them.

As Harry prepared the sandwiches with care and attention, the inviting scent of their fresh ingredients wafted through the air, enveloping their senses in a warm and welcoming embrace.

The sound of small woodland animals moving around them added a gentle melody to their peaceful walk in the park.

Y/n leaned towards Emma in her pram, gently stroking her face with her fingertips. "Look how beautiful she is, Harry," she whispered, a bright smile painted on her lips. "She is so perfect, as if she were sculpted from heaven itself."

Harry approached Y/n, placing a hand on her shoulder and letting her gaze wander into their little girl's sleeping face. "She is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to us," he replied in an emotional voice. “I couldn't have imagined a more precious gift than her.”

Y/n smiled, her eyes bright with joy and gratitude. "We are so lucky to have her, Harry. I can't wait to share all the love we have in our hearts with her."

Harry nodded, squeezing Y/n's hand lightly in his. "And I can't wait to see everything the future has in store for us as a family. I know that together we can face anything."

The sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, creating plays of light and shadow that danced on the green lawn.

The birds sang happily in the branches, adding a natural symphony to their sweet spring serenade. It was as if nature itself celebrated the beauty and purity of the love that bound Y/n, Harry and little Emma.

Y/n looked at Harry with eyes full of love as he carefully placed the sandwiches on her plate.

His presence next to her gave her a feeling of calm and security, as if together they could face whatever her life had in store for them.

Their bond was so strong that it seemed to defy time and space, enveloping them in an intimate and unbreakable embrace.

As they ate, they whispered about their dreams and hopes for the future.

They imagined the wonderful world they would build for Emma, ​​one of love, respect and understanding. Every word they exchanged was like a fragment of a precious mosaic, which would tell the story of their love forever.

After the picnic, Y/n and Harry decide to take Emma for a ride on the nearby swings.

The park, bathed in the golden light of the sunset, looks like a living painting.

The lush green grass contrasts with the colorful flowers blooming along the path, while the sound of leaves blowing in the breeze creates a soothing melody.

Harry gently pushes the pram as Y/n walks alongside him, the scent of spring flowers surrounding them adding a sweet note to the air.

Their laughter and whispers mix with the birdsong, creating a symphony of love and joy that fills the park.

“Look, little Emma,” Y/n says with a bright smile, pointing to the swinging swings. "One day you will be able to climb on those swings and fly high into the sky. But for now, enjoy the gentle rocking of the pram."

The swings, illuminated by the light of the sunset, seem to swing in sync with the heartbeat of Y/n and Harry.

Every movement is a preview of future adventures, of dreams to be realized and of joys to share together.

Harry joins Y/n's smile, affectionately caressing Emma's little face. "It will be amazing to see the world through your eyes, baby. Every day will be an adventure."

Sitting on a nearby bench, Y/n and Harry embrace each other tenderly, lulled by the tranquility of the park at sunset.

The sky paints shades of pink and gold as the sun slowly hides behind the horizon.

In that moment, they are pervaded by a feeling of peace and happiness, aware that their love, strong and unconditional, will always accompany them along the path of life.

[kelsonius]

What I find really interesting about Dungeon Meshi is how it explores the role of humans/humanoids in an ecosystem and what is okay to consume.

Take the kelpie for example. Senshi is attached to the kelpie that frequently joins him while he's fishing, even naming her. Marcille also thinks it's cute and supports the idea of Senshi riding it. After that doesn't turn out well Senshi apologises while delivering the killing blow, appearing remorseful. Nevertheless, he himself sets out to salvage usable ingredients from the now deceased kelpie and even Marcille uses some of its fat for soap.

That is an example of exactly the type of relationship I think humans should have with livestock animals. I'm mostly vegan (occasional exceptions made for fish and eggs) both because of the environmental and animal rights issues with large scale livestock farming/the meat industry. However, I very much support a harmonious approach shown by indigenous peoples and small scale farming for example. Where, similar to Senshi and the kelpie, the animal lives a good life and is loved by its keepers until it is killed and all its parts are utilised.

There is also something to be said about people's involvement in the slaughter of animals so they respect the origin of their favourite products, like Marcille with the soap, since that is likely one of the reasons people currently consume animal products in such copious amounts. I regrettably didn't save the post in my drafts, but I saw someone on here talk about how far removed we are in the west from the origin of our meat products and how absurd it is that people are disgusted by a fish served with its head for example.

Meanwhile, Laios and Chilchuck are arguing over whether it's okay to eat a fish-man since it resembles a humanoid. Laios naturally wants to eat everything but Chilchuck has reservations when it comes to humanoids. This comes up in later episodes as well, where the rest of the crew appears to have fewer reservations since the creatures are being killed in self-defense and they're now seeing the utility of not letting resources go to waste.

Now I wonder if they'll take it as far as cannibalism, but humanoids are already a close metaphor. In any case, it is a great way to showcase how the arbitrary values we attribute to different species influences what we consider to be acceptable food, even though it's all just meat. I mean, I could never slaughter a cat for example but somehow would be fine with eating human flesh...

[honestlyboringperson]

I Tried My Hand at Designing the Full Witches of the Main Cast of Magia Record.

CAMPANELLA (Yachiyo Nanami)

The ticket puncher witch. Her nature is admittance. From not only beneath her dress, but under her hat and as well as the multitude of eyes on her tail, black watery tears spill forth with such intensity that her entire barrier is flooded with her tears. She eternally waits for a train for her board on and be reunited with her friends, but she struggles to find the train station itself. Using her lantern, she will eternally wander her ever flooded barrier to find her way to the station. If one were to be harmed by the ticket puncher at the end of her scorpion like tail, great devastation and tragedy awaits them in the near future.

YU HONG (Tsuruno Yui)

The witch of ham. Her nature is harmonious. Both great fortune and great success are the ingredients used by this witch in her kitchen, but all that she ends up producing is dubious meals that may or may not cause harm to the human body. She detests any form of household tensions and if she senses even the slightest resentment of a family member, she will force her victim into eating a feast of her aforementioned dubious cooking. Only those who don’t hide themselves from family troubles or conflict can defeat her.

BEATRICE (Felicia Mitsuki)

The eyelid witch. Her nature is tumultuous. A witch who spends most, if not all her time completely asleep within her barrier, and will almost never actively hunt humans when awake. On the other hand, this witch for whatever reason harbours a complete and utter hatred for other witches and whenever she is awake, will mercilessly locate and smash other witches flat with her mallet like hands. If there is something positive that catches her attention however, she will fear that they will somehow leave her and attempt to bury them in her concrete like tears that she spews forth from her eyes.

THERESIA (Sana Futaba)

The inquisition chair witch. Her nature is transparency. Eternally sitting atop a chair with a mind of its own, this innocent witch lives in perpetual torment and agony. The chair itself is not a part of the witch, and carries out its duty to keep the witch chained to its spiked body and weaponize the truly staggering amount of torture devices it has at its disposal. The witch desires not to hurt anyone and is further tormented by the acts of intense violence that unfold before her. Due to being invisible, her sobs are the only clue where to strike if one wants to hunt this pitiful witch. When the witch dies, a single innocuous sound of a cat meowing will echo through the barrier.

ZOLA (Kaede Akino)

The witch of plot lands. Her nature is to be territorial. Within this witches’ head is planted the simple goal of expanding her territory. When she arrives to an urban area, she desires nothing but to return it to nature and covers it completely in rotten moss. She doesn’t tolerate any form of pest, as she sees them as encroaching on her property and will mercilessly destroy anything that steps into her barrier. Despite this outwardly aggressive behaviour, she is gentle towards the plant life in her barrier, which she grows herself. For some odd reason, these plants moan and can move on their own like zombies, so it’s best not to approach them at all.

CENDRILLION (Rena Minami)

The glass slipper witch. Her nature is transformative. This witch detests herself, and desires to change no matter what. When she senses someone in her barrier, she rush up to them and tear their face off. These faces are then turned into masks, and the witch can freely transform into them. However, she cannot imitate the soul of her victims and usually just ends up acting like a wild animal. If one were to gaze into the mirror on her arm like appendage for too long, she will steal their soul. When the witch dies, a single glass slipper will fall out of no where and shatter to pieces.

ELFRIEDE (Momoko Togame)

The witch of manicured nails. Her nature is self-discipline. This witch cares not where it’s power flies. It continually and proudly displays and decorates the fingers and nails that not only make up her body, but also fly around her as well. It takes great care of its shoddy manicures, but when someone insults it’s nails it becomes quite depressed and either attempts to pierce the victim with her razor sharp nails, or becomes paralyzed with insecurity. Only those who can get up again and again even after misfortune can successfully defeat this witch.

TOTENTANZ (Mitama Yakumo)

The witch of flower petals. Her nature is forewarning. This witch doesn’t forget that no matter what, death comes to all things. It resents its environment and desires nothing but it’s untimely destruction. It is strangely gentlemanly, and escorts those who enter her barrier with pure white gloves, but her terrifying power that is connected to the untimely end of all things often ends up decaying anything that her petals fall upon. Even if you manage to defeat this witch, the sheer amount of pent up curses will often end up taint a soul gem to its limit and will end with a new witch springing up in her place.

[jadeittic]

MUSE.

“Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me.”

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto + Artist!Fem!Reader

note : a small blurb for my favorite boy again cuz i cant get him out of my mind. lmk if u have any reqs! :)

In a bustling city, where creativity and gastronomy intertwined, there existed a love story that transcended the boundaries of personality. YN, an artist with a whirlwind of emotions, and Carmy, a stoic, introverted chef with an unyielding passion for food, found their lives intertwined in the most unexpected way.

YN’s vibrant art studio was a haven of color and inspiration. Her days were filled with laughter, conversations with her friends, and the rhythmic strokes of her brush. Her artwork, an extension of her expressive soul, captivated the hearts of art enthusiasts from near and far. She reveled in the joy of sharing her passion, breathing life into her canvases with every stroke of her paintbrush.

Carmy, on the other hand, found solace in the realm of flavors and ingredients. His restaurant, The Bear, became a sanctuary where he could let his culinary genius thrive. With unwavering determination, he crafted dishes that were unparalleled in taste and presentation. He poured his heart and soul into every recipe, channeling his stubbornness into creating gastronomic masterpieces.

Their paths crossed one evening at a charity event, where YN’s vibrant artwork adorned the walls, and Carmy’s delectable creations adorned the plates. Drawn to the energy of YN’s presence, Carmy found himself captivated by her contagious laughter and genuine enthusiasm. Despite his introverted nature, he couldn't resist the magnetic pull she had on him.

Intrigued by Carmy’s stoic demeanor and the unwavering confidence in his culinary skills, YN saw beyond his silence. She sensed the passion and dedication radiating from him, much like the flames that danced beneath his pots and pans. YN, with her boundless energy, brought colors to Carmy’s monochromatic world, and he found himself enchanted by her unfiltered comfort for life.

As their love story unfolded, they discovered a beautiful balance in their differences. YN’s enthusiasm coaxed Carmy out of his shell, encouraging him to share his culinary expertise with the world. Meanwhile, Carmy’s calmness and introspection grounded YN’s allowing her to channel her creative energy with focus and purpose.

Together, they embarked on a journey of culinary and artistic exploration. YN’s paintings adorned the walls of The Bear, creating an ambiance that resonated with patrons. In turn, Carmy’s mouthwatering creations became a muse for YN, inspiring her to infuse her art with the flavors and emotions that his dishes had.

Their love grew like a symphony, with each passing day revealing new harmonies and melodies. The pair celebrated each other's successes, finding solace and comfort in their shared devotion to their crafts. Their relationship became a tapestry of passion, understanding, and unwavering support, each embracing the other's uniqueness.

In a city where artistry and culinary genius thrived, YN and Carmy’s love story stood as an evidence to the power of connection beyond personality types. Their journey proved that love can blossom in the unlikeliest of places, uniting two souls whose passions complemented each other, painting a picture of a love story that transcended all boundaries.

[blackbacchus999]

Apollo's Delphic Dawn

Description: The Sacred Apollo Elixir is a divine tribute to the radiant god of the sun, music, and prophecy. This cocktail harmonizes the vibrant essence of citrus with the ethereal shimmer of gold, invoking Apollo's brilliance and purity. Each ingredient is carefully chosen to embody Apollo's attributes, creating a drink that is as sacred as it is refreshing.

Ingredients:

2 oz Premium Vodka: Representing Apollo's clarity and precision, vodka serves as the pure spirit that aligns with his pursuit of truth and enlightenment.

1 oz Fresh Blood Orange Juice: The blood orange symbolizes the life-giving energy of the sun, reminiscent of Apollo's chariot that brings warmth and vitality to the world.

0.5 oz Simple Syrup (optional, for added sweetness): The sweetness of simple syrup mirrors the soothing and healing nature of Apollo, the god of medicine and poetry.

Sparkling Water (to top up): Like the gentle flow of a sacred spring, sparkling water represents the clarity of mind and spirit that Apollo bestows upon those who seek his wisdom.

Ice cubes: The coolness of the ice reflects Apollo's ability to bring calm and order, cooling the excesses of emotion and tempering them with reason.

Dried Blood Orange Slice (for garnish): A symbol of the eternal cycle of life and death, the dried blood orange slice embodies Apollo's role as a protector of life and a guide through transitions.

Edible Gold Flakes (for garnish): Gold, associated with divinity and immortality, reflects Apollo's eternal nature and the golden light of the sun that he commands.

Instructions:

Prepare the Cocktail: Fill a shaker with ice cubes.Let the ice embody the calming influence of Apollo, ready to transform the ingredients into a harmonious whole.Add the vodka, fresh blood orange juice, and simple syrup (if using) to the shaker. As you combine these elements, envision the infusion of Apollo’s virtues: clarity, vitality, and healing. Shake well until the mixture is well chilled. With each shake, invoke Apollo's strength, allowing the drink to cool under his watchful gaze.

Serve: Strain the mixture into a tall glass filled with fresh ice. Pour the liquid with reverence, letting it symbolize the pouring out of Apollo’s blessings upon the earth.Top up with sparkling water to add a refreshing fizz. The sparkling water elevates the drink, much like Apollo’s music lifts the soul to higher planes of thought and emotion.

Garnish and Finish: Gently place a slice of dried blood orange on top of the drink. Allow this slice to rest as a token of Apollo’s guidance through life’s cycles. Sprinkle a generous amount of edible gold flakes over the top for a dazzling effect. Adorn the drink with gold, symbolizing Apollo's divine light and the splendor of his eternal presence.

Special Twist: The Sacred Apollo drink not only refreshes the body but also uplifts the spirit, connecting you to the divine energy of Apollo. With each sip, you partake in the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of poetry, and the clarity of prophecy. Perfect for rituals, celebrations, or moments of reflection, this drink serves as a bridge between the mortal and the divine, offering a taste of Apollo's celestial gifts.

[fallingstarsandthemoon]

Cookie Run x MCYT AU-ANCIENTS, anybody?

Feel free to send in asks and requests for this AU alongside my other AUs! Fanart is welcomed WITH CREDIT!

This is a little creative project I’ve been working on for a couple months now, (I usually draw faster than that, but procrastination is a bitch and some of these were hard to design due to it being a stark contrast from the usual style I have,) but I’m proud I got the ancients out of the way, whom I decided would be OG MCYTs. Here are their mock in-game descriptions:

Diamond Cookie (DanTDM)- Perseverance:

In a dark, yet lively, effervescent cave leagues below the surface, a radiant diamond cluster, naturally forged by the thickest molten sugar and pressure to withstand almost anything, surfaced within the cave. Little did it know that it would become the main ingredient to a legend. Diamond Cookie sticks true to his resistant and valuable ingredients as well as the Soul Jam of Perseverance, believing if something isn’t working out, try, try again. As a  past scientist, engineer, adventurer, and now a hero, he’s had several mishaps and failures over the years, but he still picks himself up again and keeps moving, seeking to help inspire others to push forward and make something new out of the broken and old.

Even if he or everything he’s ever loved is crumbling around him, he’ll fight to the bitter end.

Berry Soda Cookie (LDshadowlady)- Empathy:

Among the shimmering sands, the vibrant coral reefs, and the open blue, there lives a guardian and a master of the waves and tides, wielding a glittering trident and the Soul Jam of Empathy. Berry Soda Cookie, baked with a myriad of berries and having lived on both land and sea, she has a vast understanding of other’s distress and feelings. If there’s worry or a change in the usual nature of her domain, she’ll be the first to know about it. She loves getting to know about every perspective and lifestyle she can. She has eyes all over the ocean wherever the light touches, from the shallows to the deep blue, and tends to act as a mediator in most situations. She’ll do everything she can to keep a stable balance. That is, until that fateful day that caused her to retreat into the darkest depths of the sea.

Will her soul ever see the light once more?

Golden Cream Cookie (Stampy)-Compassion:

Baked with the sweetest and richest of merengue and cream, Golden Cream Cookie has a compassionate spirit for his denizens like no other, hence his Soul Jam. While he can’t exactly read minds, he always does his best to help those in distress. After all, his kingdom among the plains and forest is known for their bustling trade of goods and services. Despite being a king, he’ll help those communities in even the lowest of classes. He does have a tendency to overwork himself or sometimes misinterpret the cookies’ needs, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has a heart of gold. He promotes mutualism and color in life and strives for himself and others to leave Earthbread better than they came. He forgives many for their wrongdoings and does his best to guide them to fix it.

Even so, there’s always the hard truth to face that he can’t help or forgive everyone.

Cherry Choco Cookie (Captain Sparklez)- Harmony:

There stands a calm, solid, rhythmic presence at the center of the Chocolate Citadel. With a rose golden crown adorning his head and his Charred Cherryblade by his side, Cherry Choco Cookie firmly believes there’s harmony and unity in all things, hence his Soul Jam of Harmony. Where there’s chaos? There’s order. Where there’s death, life is sure to come in its steed. He was baked with the sweetest cherries and the most bitter cacao after all. In a way, it’s a miracle how he worked his way up from being just some bard to an expert swordsman and a king. He’s a soul of few words, but he means well, and he’s just as musically inclined as most of his kingdom.

Where has this sovereign of harmony gone? What has he seen?

Pure Iris Cookie (Aphmau) - Creativity:

There’s nobody who understands the diversity of talent more than the bold and energetic Pure Iris Cookie. Born from the petals of a perfect iris at the rebirth of summer, she started out as a simple mage who encouraged cookies to forge their own paths. She believes everyone has something they’re good at, no matter how common or rare, and that anything can be made into something special. No wonder her garden kingdom was a capital of the arts in Crispia. All cookies have to do is find their spark, which can be easier said than done at times, but the end result is what matters. She’d give anything to get the same glory of her old kingdom back… whether it be the petal feathers off her back or her own life…

She won’t fail them again. Over her crumbled dough and withered petals.

[itstheoneshot]

Kinktober Day 27

Aphrodisiacs - Yeosang

!dom Yeosang

Yeosang was smart, so much smarter than he gave on. He did research, as did you, science, natural remedies, plants that could alter your state, and his current fascination was with chemicals that increase your libido.

“Drink up,” He urges you, “I promise, it tastes good.”

You lift the cup to your mouth, the sweet aroma fills your nostrils as you let the liquid enter your mouth. Hot tea, herbal, a concoction created by the man sitting across from you who is consuming the same beverage. He was correct, it did taste good, warming your insides immediately. Yeosang reaches over to take your hand, staring at you lovingly at first… and then hungrily.

You were sceptical that a few herbs, leaves and spices could make you feel this way, but your cheeks warm up from not just the temperature, and that warmth continues downwards, tingling, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end, and alerting you to the source and centre of that heat.

“Come,” Yeosang murmurs, “Finish it.”

There was only a mouthful left, and you drink it quickly before placing the now empty cup down on the table. Yeosang squeezes your hand gently, feeling that same warmth, his eyes focus in on the way that you lick your lips to catch a stray droplet before he looks up at you again. It is exciting, partaking in his little experiments when they benefit you just as much as it does him.

“This was different to the last one,” You observe, “What should I expect?”

Yeosang chuckles, “Just feel it, my love… just let your body feel the way that it makes you.”

You follow Yeosang out of the dining room and barely make it a metre down the hall before you really begin to understand. Drawn to him more than usual, are you imagining this? Yeosang feels it too, turning you to face him with ease and stepping you back up against the wall with a fiery kiss, a warning of what is about to come. He is eager, dragging you down the hallway without pulling away, it is messy and desperate, each second apart is too long, he needs you and you need him now.

Finally reaching your bedroom, in an attempt to take control you pull him down on top of you, but not thinking it through, you have given him all of the power. With him hovering over you, your legs spread apart to give him space between them just so that you can wrap them around him, desperately trying to get him closer as if there were any space between you in the first place. Your hands slip under his shirt, needing it off him, needing to feel those perfectly sculpted muscles, a request which he happily obliges, only pulling back from the kiss for a moment to remove the clothing before he begins to work on yours. You don’t know which of you is more attracted, obsessed, and you swear you have never needed him like this before.

“Holy shit.”

It takes mere minutes to be fully undressed, you are already dripping, and Yeosang is rock hard, as he enters you without preparation, but you didn’t need it anyway. He fills you up, but again, this time it feels different. Increased pleasure, increased attraction, was this really all from a single cup of homemade herbal tea? You cry out his name as he pulls back to thrust into you again, letting your legs fall so that you can use your strength to lift yourself up and give him a better angle to fuck you in. Your back is arched and he reaches depths that he could not normally, his eyes roll back in his head and low moans leave him in harmony with yours of a much higher pitch.

“Good girl,” He praises you, “Do you believe me now?”

You weren’t really sceptical, you knew that there had to be some merit to the drink, and all the ingredients in it, maca root, ginseng, yin yang huo, what else was there again? but you had no idea that it would work so well. He fucks into you hard and fast, keeping you on edge for so long that you fear you are going to go crazy.

“Yes,” You nod enthusiastically, quickly remembering to answer him, “Yes, Yeosang, oh fuck, yes!”

The focus of his kisses soon move from your lips, to your jaw, and down your neck. They move back up, right to your ear, heavy breathing against it has your mind racing, vision blurring, you have got to be close. Your fingers tangle in his long black hair, soft to the touch, everything feels different now, in the best way possible. His skin is soft and smooth, muscles more… hard, veiny, and oh god, his cock, curved just a little, each thrust into you helps you up, up, up, and over… orgasming in his arms, so overwhelmed that you start to cry from the intensity of the pleasure. One orgasm leads to two, three, again you feel that nothing has ever felt this fucking good. You need him like oxygen, and you could go for hours if your body allowed it.

You are practically screaming when Yeosang finally pulls out, his hand racing to his cock to pump it only a few times before he releases, the force of his load so hard that it reaches your neck. Watching him while your own legs shake with the aftershocks of your high, mind still racing, body still reeling from the help that you had, it is too much, and you are already counting down for another round. You glance down at your body, stomach and chest slicked with his seed, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. Yeosang leans down to kiss you, not caring about the mess, just wanting to be with you, unable to be apart. It is hot, the hottest you have ever felt, not quite sure if you can find the words to describe it.

“I hope you kept that recipe,” You murmur in between a deep kiss, “I will definitely want us to drink that again.”

———

kinktober masterlist

[frozenfries]

Cozy Café : A VALORANT Headcanon

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for this game, but inspiration struck at a random time. This totally hasn’t been sitting in my drafts since last January

Prompt: If the agents worked at a café, what would their roles and/or signature drink be?

Amidst the chaos of battle, a quaint café stands as a sanctuary for the weary agents. Here, they can take refuge from their high-stakes duels, and trade their weapons for aprons to pursue a different kind of mission: the art of brewing the perfect cup of coffee.

Phoenix: with his vibrant personality and quick reflexes, he’s the charismatic face of the café. Entertaining customers with his barista skills comes naturally as he conjures up dazzling coffee concoctions with a flair of his hand, a burst of flame and a confident grin. His signature drink, The Ignition Latte, is a fiery blend that invigorates even the most exhausted of patrons. Jett: agile on and off the battlefield, she brings her lightning-fast speed and precision to the café. With a swift motion of her finger, she effortlessly crafts delicate latte art, transforming each cup into its own masterpiece. Her Cloud Burst Cappuccino is a smooth delight, creating a moment of feather-light happiness for those who drink it. Viper: the formidable chemist brings her scientific expertise to the world of coffee. With a touch of her gloved hand, she infuses her creations with unique flavors and aromas, leaving customers in awe. Her Venomous Mocha is a mysterious blend that tantalizes the taste buds and leaves a lingering, addictive aftertaste. Sage: with her nurturing personality and herbal knowledge, she adds a touch of serenity to the café and its menu. Her Rejuvenation Tea is a calming infusion that restores both body and mind, providing a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of everyday. Omen: ever the enigma, he brings an air of mystery to the café. With a flick of his wrist, he conjures up ethereal and smoky concoctions, leaving people wondering how he manages to capture such unique flavors. His Shadowy Cold Brew is a chilling experience that takes customers on a journey through darkness and light. KAY/O: the robotic agent assists in the day-to-day operations of the café, precisely measuring ingredients, ensuring efficiency, and maintaining the coffee shop's cutting-edge technology. KAY/O's presence adds a futuristic touch to the atmosphere, making customers feel like they've stepped into a realm where man and machine coexist harmoniously. Sova: a master archer, you can find him behind the counter carefully crafting his signature drink, The Tracker's Shot: a potent blend of espresso and a hint of blueberry syrup, topped with a delicate foam art of a wolf's paw print. Sova takes great pride in his creation, often using it as a conversation starter with customers, enthralling them with tales of his adventures in the wilderness. Cypher: the watchful surveillance expert provides security for the establishment. He has a keen eye for detail, which translates seamlessly into his signature drink, The Watchful Eye Latte: a meticulous combination of steamed milk, a shot of espresso, and a dash of vanilla spice syrup, served with a meticulous swirl of latte art depicting an intricate camera lens.

Chamber: the polished agent with a mysterious past has a taste for the unconventional, which is reflected in his signature creation, The Trademark Mocha: a rich concoction of dark chocolate, a double shot of espresso, and a hint of cinnamon, sprinkled with a dash of edible gold glitter that gives it an otherworldly shimmer.

Astra: with the ability to infuse her cosmic energy into any environment, she can elevate even a simple drink into an otherworldly experience. The Celestial Brew starts with a base of rich, smooth espresso, followed by a fusion of steamed milk and vanilla syrup, creating a swirling galaxy effect. To top it off is a dollop of homemade lavender-infused whipped cream, a touch of stardust and a sprinkle of edible glitter.

[wintersongstress]

— mornings ;

In the time of spring when the bark of trees and the flat of pavements were washed with rain, Simon liked to visit the farmer’s market after his morning run. He had left you today in your shared bed, doubtlessly still dreaming as the sun dithered behind the veil of clouds, and shrugged on a hoodie, getting his trainers out from a rack in the closet. His route was dewy with a gentle mist, not enough to keep people from going about their day, but it was the good kind that cleaned the city air and sweetened the long brooms of blossoms hanging over the sidewalks.

The canopy over a flower stall dripped onto his hood as Simon stepped underneath it. Bundles of flowers were arranged in buckets with chalkboard plates sticking out, the signs advertising 3 for £10, and he browsed for a bit, thinking of you.

There was a time when all Simon knew about flowers was the memory of a window box in his childhood kitchen. Long gone, he remembers his mother potting red and pink flowers and relishing the process—the fulfilling feeling of dirt beneath her fingernails and the satisfaction of roots tenderly planted. One day a hummingbird flitted to the window while he ate his toast before school, and it was a still moment of wonder as the tiny bird prodded the ruby petals before zipping on, quick as light.

Now he was in love with his own hummingbird. A love rare and fleeting, one that, when you don’t catch it in your hands and earn every moment of keeping it, would flutter away and never return. Love could speak in flowers, he decided, when he first began to visit your flat and admire the fresh bouquet you kept on your table every time he came. I like them, you had said simply, and he smoothed a petal between his two fingers. And though he saw himself as a brute with hands better suited for violence than caresses, he wanted to learn about the gentler things in life he once thought could never be part of his.

Simon frees his nose from his face mask to smell a strange spire of green, bell-shaped flowers he had never seen before.

“Those are called Bells of Ireland,” the aproned shop lady pipes up from behind her booth. He glances over and finds she isn’t put off by his tall, dark, and out-of-place presence in the least.

“I’ll take them,” he replies. Their scent was light and earthy, like mint and lavender mingled, and their bells resemble leaves with their vein-like texture. Rare and exquisite, and perfectly you. He also picks out a cluster of mauve roses and peachy ranunculus, thinking about the way you smiled with your eyes closed when you smell his bouquets, your lips still curved when you kiss him afterwards, and lays them all on the counter.

“What a lucky girl,” the woman comments, gathering his selections and bundling them in wax paper secured with a rubber band. Simon wasn’t so sure. He always thought you could do better than him, but you would never let him catch himself thinking like that out loud. No matter what he believed of his nature, he vowed to fight like hell to be the kind of man you did deserve. So he pays the woman and bids her good day, heading on to the next stall with you on his mind as he picks out fresh strawberries and bread for the beginning ingredients of a wholesome breakfast. 

At home, Simon fills a vase with the tap and trims the flower stems, arranging each fragrant bloom in harmony with the other. He brews one of your favorite teas and sets out the honey, tending to a sizzling pan in between, then decides to open your bedroom window to gently wake you.

A warm and pleasant wind sways the curtains. Amidst their wispy movements you lay on your back, breathing deep and slow, until the song of church bells and finches twittering from the chimney tops flutters your lashes to take in the tranquil morning. Simon draws his knuckles across your forehead and follows your cheek. With sleep soft in your pretty eyes, this was his favorite view of you.

“There she is, my everything,” he murmurs.

“Hmm. I was dreaming.” With a brush of his thumb over your smiling lips, you open your eyes and gaze at him warmly, happily, holding his hand there.

Funny…he muses.

You kiss his caressing hand. “You smell like oranges.”

“I made breakfast.”

And with that you’re throwing the comforter back, springing to your feet and wrapping a sweater around your nightgown-clad form.

“It’s not going anywhere, love,” he chuckles. These mornings were you had the whole day together were his favorite. You sat out on the balcony, taking in the trees with their sprouting green tips and cutting into your French toast, planning your day together with your bare foot resting over his socked one. The sunshine of your presence fills the depths of his chest to the brim with contentment, and he wants it to last forever.

[catmarlowastrology]

🎀✨ The Libra Moon Woman

The Libra Moon woman has the charisma of a movie star, the diplomacy of a U.N. ambassador, and the allure of that mysterious artist you once met at a party — all rolled into one. Her charm is a blend of Audrey Hepburn, James Bond, and a dash of something intangible, like a secret ingredient in a killer cocktail. She's the kind of person who could make reading the phone book sound appealing.

When she enters a room, the ambiance suddenly changes. It's as if she carries a little bubble of allure with her. Inside this bubble, everyone feels a bit more graceful, a bit more interesting, and maybe, just maybe, better versions of themselves. She has this uncanny ability to make people feel heard. Like, you're not just a blip in her day; you're the highlight. She's the conversation sorceress, turning mundane chit-chat into soulful dialogues with a flick of her linguistic wand.

Her charm isn't pushy; it's magnetic. She doesn't have to come to you; you'll find yourself going to her. It's a classic "I'll have what she's having" scenario, whether she's ordering a cocktail or laughing at a joke. Just standing next to her feels like a tiny win in the game of life.

If flirting were an Olympic sport, she'd take home the gold, silver, and bronze, then graciously donate them to charity while dazzling everyone with her acceptance speech. She can make a grocery list sound like erotic poetry, all while helping you choose the best avocado. That's right, she's so charming that even produce elevates its game around her.

Yet, it's all so genuine. That's the magic key here. Her charm isn't some well-rehearsed act; it's an expression of her balanced, harmonious inner world. It's her joy for life, her interest in people, and her natural equilibrium between listening and speaking that creates this intoxicating allure.

[sourvers]

01: DON'T BE A STRANGER

chapter summary: a familiar face visits and asks for your help. the choice of refusal is dim.

⤷ this is the first chapter of 'Petrichor'! hope you enjoy lovelies. minor plot change for my heart's sake.

cod main masterlist . petrichor masterlist . ao3 link . next chapter .

The Yukon was pleasant and frigid beyond belief. 

Nevertheless, you craved haskap berries, and spring was inching over the horizon; crawling up your spine and shaking you alive. 

You sigh, gingerly closing your copy of ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea’ , your hand instinctively tracing over the gold details as your French pronunciation lingers across the plain of your tongue.  

‘Vingt mille lieues sous les mers’ , You think, the ventures of Captain Nemo still fresh in your mind like Kate’s stilted voice reverberating in your ear: a siren, a horn, a whisper of dread you couldn’t shake. 

It started outside the grocery store, four days ago. 

Whitehorse was a 15-minute drive from your secluded home, found on the very outskirts of the capital and wrapped by lush pine trees. In the summer, grand fields of wildflowers spread across your horizon and became your choice of commerce during the warmer months, knowing how skilled local businesses made soap from dried fireweed. 

You drove into town to buy items you had put off: flour for the pie, extract, a new toothbrush after your other snapped in half, and red yarn. 

The locals kept to themselves and united all at once. A strange, inexplicable harmony you couldn't penetrate or grasp. Perhaps years of unyielding winters carve and shape people, like a sculptor holding the heart of their project. You hoped one day, you’d understand it too. 

Nevertheless, what you did understand was the townspeople's standoffish and overwrought nature. You were new to the town, a woman who only came to town to buy or sell, spending your ‘elusive’ days in or around the outskirts of your home or a vague “out” as you’d phrase it.

A group of the townspeople’s children even titled you the ‘Wicked Witch of the North’ after you accidentally struck over several vases during a summer market. While it was the talk of the town for several weeks; muttered under hasty quiet breaths despite being miles away, it was when the townspeople heard the most of your voice. From the strange resonance in your voice to how you pronounced your ‘o’s and ‘r’s. 

However, there was one citizen who seemed to find your presence jovial. 

“Oh my!” exclaims Sophia, her brown eyes gleaming under the fluorescent light of the grocery store; casting the small store in an odd shade of green, “Even you don’t come this late, what brings you here witch?” she teases, her bright smile flashing like headlights. 

“Well, I’ve come to pick up my ingredients,” you explain unfazed, your eyes scanning the shelves for your brand of flour,  “I have to keep up appearances of course. Can’t scare the children if I don’t tempt them with pie.” 

Sophia chuckles, her laugh bright and boisterous like the sun beaming down on you. “I suppose you can’t.” 

You scoff, yet, the subtle pull of your lips rivals your sarcasm. 

“You know, the new delivery of flour is behind,” Sophia smiles, “Small tip.” 

You take the one in the front, a small cloud of flour coming to life at your touch, “Thank you… I’ll take note of that.” 

Sophia smile dips and she sighs, tilting her head as she watches you promptly take what you need, contemplating for only a few seconds. 

“Do you have something to say?”

Sophia’s breath hitches, however, she gives you a small tentative smile, “You should come over… have dinner with my family some time, being alone in a place like the Yukon isn't good for the soul.” 

Your hand freezes as you reach for the vanilla extract, its sweetness exuding from the bottle like an elixir. Sophia’s eyes don’t reach you from behind the shelves. Despite being considerably older than Sophia, a part of you stung with childish envy. 

You sigh, and hum in mellow amusement, reaching for your thin wristwatch as you emerge from behind the shelves growing shadow, “And who told you that?”

“My grandmother,” stated Sophia, a small bud of pride growing in her chest, “She is our elder in the community.” 

The corners of your lips rise into a tentative and strangely warm smile, one of kinship even. “A wise woman I can surmise.” 

Sophia grins, “More than you can know.” 

Soon, you line your groceries on the belt and Sophia scans them silently. The beeping and incessant hum of the heater were the only words communicating in the air. 

“You must think I’m annoying.” 

You raise a brow, your eyes searching through your wallet before responding, “How so?” 

Sophia scoffs, “Well, I’m a nineteen-year-old store clerk who bothers a grown woman every time she shops. A bit of an asshole move if you ask me.” 

You let out a momentary laugh, swiping your card, “I’ve seen worse assholes, you’re by far the least dangerous.” 

“So I’m still an asshole?” 

“The good kind.” 

Sophia cracks a smile as she hands you the receipt, “If you let people know you more, they’ll like you.” 

“And why’s that?” you muse, stuffing the receipt in your jacket pocket while starting the car.

“I’m sure you know why,” states Sophia, “Don’t be a stranger.” 

You gaze at her, half amused, “I’ll take note of that.”

You amble towards the door, the sun long set as you reach for the door handle–

“Wait! God I almost forgot,” piped Sophia, “A woman came here earlier, I think she was looking for you given her description. Blond short hair, blue-greyish eyes I think? Anyways, do you know anyone like that? She spoke a bit fast too–”

Your eyes widen before promptly sharpening like the blade of a knife, “Thank you, Sophia. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“But wait-” 

You swing the door open, a blast of frigid evening air brushing against your cheek as the grip on your grocery bag tightens. You let out a slow, restrained sigh, tuning into the crunch of your boots on snow, leading you to your car. Despite the layers you wore, you still shivered as the moon gleamed down on you, its rays tender and soothing. 

Too soothing. 

“It's rather rude to not announce your presence,” you mutter quietly, lacking any bite as you sink your empty hand deeper into your right pocket, eyes fixed on your reflection in the car window and the crunching of snow.

“I hear the townspeople call you ‘The Wicked Witch of the North’, quite the title. I wonder what you did to get it.” 

You hum in amusement, gradually turning your head to face her, the first fall of snowflakes landing on the tip of your eyelashes, “What are you doing here Laswell?”

Kate let out a sharp exhale, a cloud of white rising into the atmosphere. She crosses her arms over her chest, “I need your help, but first, we need to talk.” 

Your eyes go up and down her figure, as your lips curve into a smile, ignoring her pensive face, “As punctual as always. But you didn’t come prepared did you?” 

“Winter’s never been my type.” 

“A shame, you’re missing out,” you quipped, turning your back as you opened the passenger door, “Come on, I don’t have a choice do I?” 

Kate gives you a small smile, uncrossing her arms and shoving her hands deeper into her thin coat pockets, “According to my weather app, it's expected to be spring soon.”

You scoff amused, “Word of advice? Don’t fully trust the weather app.” 

Kate’s smile falters and you become acutely aware of the paper cut between your fingers. You pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. Snowflakes collect on your windshield while the hum of your tires against gravel fills the silence; looping like a song’s beat, over and over. 

“Kate.” 

“Yes?” 

Kate turns her head to face you: your face stiff, steadfast, unwavering; gazing head-on into infinite darkness. Even now- face cast in the evening shadows and dim starlight- Kate’s stomach churned at the sight of you, twisting like a knot. You seemed to be untouched by time: delicate scars still engraved in your skin, acute angles and tender curves still bridging together the map of your face, sharp and ever more subdued. As if deep in slumber. 

It was just as Kate recalled it to be. 

“This ‘help’ that you’re going to ask of me,” you probe, eyes fixed on the road, Kate’s gaze burning through your neck scarf, “I won’t be able to refuse, will I?” 

Kate releases a strained sigh, leaning back into her chair, she gazes ahead. Frost grows on the window. “I don’t want to force you into anything.” 

“But it seems you’ll have to,” you reply smoothly, methodically as if in thought, “Don’t downplay yourself, the only reason I’m here in the Yukon is because of you .”

Kate stiffens and gazes at you shortly, awaiting your words behind the small, tentative pause. 

You shake your head and sigh, lowering your voice, the sound near soothing, “I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay.” 

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You look at Kate for the first time since you’ve entered the car; a sly smile reaching your lips before your eyes swiftly dart away from Kate’s weary stare. 

She notices.  

“Now that we have that out of the way,” you begin, promptly, “What exactly do you need help with?”

“I hope you don’t mind being in a bit of a boy band.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “I think the Backstreet Boys are alright if that’s what you’re referring to.” 

Kate releases a laugh, “It’s a different kind of boy band.” 

Kate gave you a week to pack, say goodbyes if you had any, then depart. 

The file she had given was still placed, rather haphazardly, on your coffee table alongside your book while your craving for haskap berries gradually faded, melting into the Earth like snow. 

You sigh, gradually rising from the couch and crossing your arms. The file staring back at you, its contents spilled across the table while its words were thoroughly engraved in your mind. 

“A covert task force,” you muse, bringing one of the papers to your face, your eyes dancing over the lines, rearranging them like a puzzle, “Four members. All men,” you scoff, “No wonder Kate called it a boyband.” 

Kate had given you a considerable amount of time to pack despite not owning any items worth considerable significance. A duffel bag would do just fine, you’d wear your trench coat, and leave the winter gear behind. 

You haven’t even begun packing.

“God. I even bought groceries,” you sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, “Might as well give it to Sophia for free.” 

After Kate stayed for that night, she left the following morning, her phone ringing call after call. 

“Busy?” 

“More than you can imagine.”

A part of you wondered why she decided to visit from the States; probing your mind until you wrestled in bed for an answer. She could have easily phoned you. Nevertheless, Kate plotted peculiarly. A method of thought meant for only those who understood. Perhaps she came to dangle the medicine for your terrors over your lips, to be of some consolation and company. Or more likely, to ensure the handcuffs around your wrists were still burning through your skin. 

“I never said we needed a new asset to the team.” 

Kate sighs, gingerly placing the cup of tea in front of John. Its smell quietly blended with the air, “You and I both know that we’ve run dry on information.” Kate pulled her chair open, taking a seat, “This friend of mine provides a new set of skills to the task force, something to give us an edge.” 

“Then why is there a strain in your voice?” 

Kate stares at John blankly, her voice low, grave even, “After what nearly happened to Soap, we should reconsider who we consider our assets and informants.”

John remains silent, heaving a sigh before gazing out the window, his eyes mellow for a brief moment. The cup of tea still untouched. “When is he coming?” 

A small smile reaches Kate’s lips, “Bold of you to assume it’s a he John,” Kate pulls out a thin file, its contents scarce, “She’s outsourced, not military but has more than enough skills to carry her weight.” 

John reaches for the file, his eyes scanning over the information: height, weight, eye color, name. 

‘Someone from the outside’ he remarks.

“No photo?” muses John, “She wears a mask like Simon?” 

“No time for a photo. Had to call her in quickly. Though, she prefers long coats instead of a mask.” 

John hums, amused, “Anything else I should know? Before telling the team?” 

Kate pauses, her small smile remains, her tone candid, “Negative.”

[unclewaynemunson]

prompt idea! :D

steve being a poet and eddie being a songwriter. they both reference each other in their works and no one has put it together yet.

( also hi you're awesome )

Oooh anon I love this, this is such an intriguing concept bc the possibilities are ENDLESS with this one! I hope you like the direction I ended up taking it in :) (and thank you so much for dropping this in my ask box! <3 )

EDIT: I wrote an expanded version for this one and it's also on ao3 :D

---

Jeff was the one who introduced Eddie to Ronan Right. His mom was moving and when Eddie visited to help, he found his friend with his nose buried in a small book that was nearly falling apart in his hands.

“What's that?” Eddie asked, flopping down next to Jeff among the boxes.

“My mom's favorite poet,” Jeff mumbled, barely glancing up from the page.

And as soon as Eddie got a chance to pick up the book from where Jeff had left it, he was hooked. He was no help at all for Jeff's poor mom, completely engrossed in poem after poem, reading them again and again and again.

Eddie liked reading poetry to get some inspiration for his songwriting, but a lot of poetry had this atmosphere of pretentiousness around it. This didn't. It was surprisingly simple. To the point, with a rawness to it, mostly short poems that had a simplicity with which they managed to cut right to the heart of things.

Ever since that day, Ronan Right became Eddie's biggest source of inspiration. He'd never start working on new songs before reading one of Right's poems first. And whenever he got stuck on his lyrics, he'd pick up one of Right's books – and every time, without fail, he'd find something in there to help him find the right words.

---

When people would ask Steve what inspired him, his answer was always the same, always simple: music. Most people probably assumed that by that, a poet would mean classical music or maybe jazz of some kind. They were wrong: Steve Harrington, professionally known as Ronan Right, liked to blast the most screamy metal imaginable whenever he was writing – much to the discontent of his poor neighbors. He didn't care much for lyrics, it was all about the sound for him: about volume, about harmonies, about a combination of ingredients that somehow managed to flip a switch inside of his brain that unlocked the more creative ways to look at words.

His favorite band was called Corroded Coffin. Something about them stood out in the long list of metal bands he loved to listen to. It was something about the sound of the singer's voice, about the guitar riffs, that simply made sense to him, made the words that he was looking for bubble up to the surface naturally.

He got halfway through the first song on Corroded Coffin's newly released album, when he froze at his desk. He didn't care much for lyrics, but those words... There was something familiar about them.

He replayed the song from the beginning and started frantically flipping through the pages of one of his earliest poetry bundles... Yeah, there definitely was something familiar about those lyrics.

They weren't copied, exactly. It could just be a coincidence.

But the album kept playing on and Steve kept getting distracted by the lyrics because there was so much familiarity in them. It wasn't like the singer was stealing from him, it wasn't even like he was taunting his copyright or anything like that... It was like he was building on Steve's words. Like Steve had laid a foundation that had sparked Corroded Coffin to make something beautiful. Like the two of them shared a mind, a soul, an inspiration.

And Steve wrote the best poem he had ever written, in one go, that day.

---

More bundles followed. More albums were released. And they kept interlocking with each other, one causing the other to do something new, try something different, figure something out.

Ronan Right was still an obscure poet, well-respected but not mainstream enough for bigger successes. Corroded Coffin was still an obscure metal band, praised by the connoisseur but too experimental to ever get anywhere bigger than the verge of the metal scene. The only one who noticed the textual similarities between the two, was Jeff's mother. She'd smile her knowing smile and chuckle quietly, delighting in her own private understanding.

---

A new book was about to get published. Steve had to drive down to Chicago to meet with his publicist and talk some things through, but his car was in the shop so he got on a train instead. The meeting went well, Don't try to be a hero officially got the green light, and feeling content, Steve pulled out the latest Corroded Coffin cd to put in his walkman as soon as he got on the train back home.

“Hey,” the guy opposite him said with a smile and a nod towards Steve's walkman, just before Steve could put on his headphones. “Corroded Coffin, nice.”

“You know them?” Steve asked, taken by surprise, a matching smile creeping onto his own face.

“Yeah.” The guy chuckled. “Yeah, I know them.”

Sunlight fell through the window and shone on the big rings around the guy's fingers, catching Steve's eye – and pulling his gaze towards the tiny book he was holding in his hands.

“Hey,” he said, “Ronan Right, nice.”

The guy stared at him for a few seconds, something like disbelief in his big brown eyes. “You know him?!”

Steve felt laughter bubble up in his chest. “Yeah, I know him.”

[itsonlydana]

I saw you opened requests and thought if you were inspired could you do a little sequel to "I Didn't Know That I Was Starving Till I Tasted You". I absolutely adore that story it is SO good!

Midnight Meetings in our Kitchen | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader👑

The night before the reopening of his restaurant, Thranduil is feeling antsy - you try your best to coax him back into bed.

warnings/tags: none

word count: 2,7k

an: This has taken me months to write and I apologize for the delay! My mind was just as frazzled as Thranduil's.

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

You woke up alone and to the faint metallic sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. The hand you blindly reach over to the other side of the bed comes in contact with a cold mattress and rumbled sheets, no residue warmth of the person that held you until you fell asleep nor any sign that he actually slept and not gotten back up immediately as soon as you had closed your eyes to his even breathing.

This is not the first time Thranduil snuck out of bed – in the weeks you now shared one it has become all the clearer how often he actually strayed through the apartment while you were deep in a slumber – but it is the first time he did it after he promised to stay. 

It would be easy to let the anger and frustration fester, let it grow either in a thoughtless fight or in weeks of unspoken feelings, and if this was anyone else you would holster these moments like munition. Keeping them close to your heart like ivy holding on to cracked walls. 

Thranduil however, is not anyone else. 

The blanket is pushed aside, your feet step into the slippers by the bedside and in passing of the desk by the door, you grab a cardigan to throw over your shorts and the top you slept in. The moment you open the bedroom door, the sounds from the kitchen grow louder. You quietly creep around the corner, passing by the room where you hardly ever sleep, and find your boyfriend in a familiar stance – leaning over the stove, a spoon in his hand and one in the mess of long hair bundled up in the nape of his neck, barely holding it together; your boyfriend as well as the spoon.

He doesn’t seem to realize you are there, your shoes did a good job silencing the steps, so it is no wonder Thranduil flinches as you wrap your arms around his stomach from behind and press your face against his back. He catches on quickly, snaps out of the murmuring of ingredients and a “Oh,” escapes him in a sigh. “I’ve woken you up, haven’t I?”

“No,” you mumble into the loose shirt. Thranduil is comfortably warm, not by nature – his hands are a blessing in the summer and he made it a sport to tickle you awake with his icey tips as soon as you spent the nights under mountains of blankets – but by the heated kitchen and the many pots boiling in front of him. Lips against the soft fabric, you continue: “But you said you wouldn’t do this. Not tonight, Thran.”

You feel his spine curve as Thranduil sacks into himself slightly, as he stops holding himself up on the counter and instead hugs your arms closer to his chest. His whole body rumbles at another sigh. “I know,” he is tired, his voice drips sleep more than he realizes, “I know, Darling. I will come to bed soon, let me just finish this recipe.”

You lurk past his right side into what you think is a pot of soup? 

“Do you plan on serving it later?” you ask and let your fingers trail over the bunched-up shirt, over the soft hairs on his lean stomach. 

“I’m not sure. It lacks something and I can’t figure out what exactly. Spices I used plenty, the broth is perfection and the vegetables have been in harmony every other time I thought of them.” – Thranduil is the only person in the world who you know can taste a dish without even cooking it, all that happens in his brain is a mysterium – “I need to find.. whatever it is that’s missing before I could serve it.”

“So, you will cook dozens of portions with a tiny thing changed?”

It is meant to be a joke though Thranduil nods. 

He could be unreadable and stubborn, especially these last few weeks. His restaurant ‘The Green Leaf’, is known as the best spot for fine-dining vegan food, praised high and above by the critics for excellent taste, extravagant and beyond thinking of known dishes taken to another level in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. Thranduil is precise, cutting dishes that fail his standards and not adding new ones till he reaches perfection only known to him. 

The turn to autumn brought not only harsher winds but it took one of Thranduil’s suppliers to sell out to ‘Oakenshields’, another star restaurant across the street and a thorn in Thranduil’s eyes ever since the press fueled heavy competition between two restaurants that are no were near the same category. They have close to nothing in common, except for two petty as fuck owners with their heads stuck that far up their arses, that they couldn’t see further than their rage. 

Thranduil, mature as he is, reacted to the news of his supplier changing sides – literally and metaphorically – as any normal person would, and decided on a night similar to this one, that he would change every meal that he had previously cooked with the ingredients of ‘the traitor’. Out with entrés made with apples, gone are the burgers simply because the cucumbers are no longer accessible. You realized quickly that going with the flow meant outings to farmer's markets testing fruits and vegetables, negotiating deals with you hanging on his arm, and new recipes he cooks for you to try. The work and effort of many nights waking up to find him in the kitchen all lead to tomorrow, the first day after the restaurant’s summer-closing and the presentation of a completely new constructed menu. 

To say Thranduil is spun tight is an understatement.

“Thranduil –” you sigh, your hot breath slightly wetting his shirt and your lips move against his spine. “This is nonsense and I don’t say this to be mean. You’ve been up the whole day, going through recipes you’ve been sure about and that you know by heart. Trying this won’t do no good; it will only exhaust you.” The tips of your fingers trail through the hair, higher up to lay a flat palm against the firm skin, feeling his intake of breath. You let your touch be gentle if he misunderstands your words. 

Communication between you had never been the problem – well, except for the obvious misunderstanding of the feelings you both had harbored for each other in complete ignorance that the other packaged them up in love languages such as cooking a meal or throwing out flowers of your dates – and you two had gotten even better at speaking your mind to avoid confrontations that could have been cleared up by a simple discussion at dinner or before going to bed. You never went to bed mad at each other, that is the rule you agreed on. You would talk it out and then make up. You have learned that Thranduil’s cold demeanor came on the second he felt vulnerable and alone which is exactly why you lean into the subject with your hands holding on to him.

“I get that this is important for you,” you continue and your knees nudge the muscles of his calves, “but you need sleep. Your greatest weapon is your brain, so, let it rest. I’m sure this will work out without a new dish.”

For a while, there is the boiling of water, the steam of carrots and celeriac drifting through the air. Thranduil’s hands continue to hold onto you, drawing figures onto your wrists to signal you that he did hear you and is thinking of an answer, not ignoring you. Then, he lets go with one hand. The stove clicks off, and the gas flame disappears, dipping the kitchen into more darkness now that the blue flickering light is gone. 

Other than that movement, Thranduil stands still. 

You opt for another lighthearted joke to break the tension that is obvious in his shoulders, the wings of them have the shirt stretched tighter at his hunch. You take the spoon out of his hands and fish in the soup, yes definitely soup, carefully balancing it around his stiff body and closing your lips around it.

“Mhmm, what excellent boiled potatoes,” you hum.

Thranduil's expression shifts ever so slightly, as if your words have finally pierced through the mental blockade, where he’s no doubt been sifting through countless possible events. An amused snort escapes him, his spine curving closer against you as he chuckles softly. “Did you have another Pride and Prejudice marathon this week?”

“What?” Your voice jumps an octave, betraying you instantly. “No! Of course not! Me? Nev–er. I don't even know that movie.” The words tumble out in a frantic cascade, and in the middle of your denial, Thranduil abruptly turns to face you, his sudden movement drawing a helpless grin from your lips.

One eyebrow arches in quiet amusement as he begins to crowd you against the kitchen island and leaves you to stare up at him. “If you didn’t watch it – and I certainly didn’t – how do you explain the ‘continue watching’ notification I saw at the restaurant?”

“Wow, uhm,” you fumble for an excuse, fingers toying with the strings of his silken pajama pants. “Maybe your brother decided to give my recommendations a shot?”

Thranduil lets out a scoff, his disbelief evident. “Las? When has he ever taken our advice on anything?”

True, his brother is going down the full teenager-who-listens-to-no-one-route like he’s doing a marathon but you are just as determined. Coyly you flutter your lashes up at Thranduil, pulling at the strings and twirling them around a finger. “Maybe that’s a sign of the universe, then. That you should stop banging pots and start bang– showing attention to your girlfriend.” 

Thranduil laughs so low in his throat, that you feel it swooshing straight into your stomach, the vibrato of his voice and the rasp of the few hours of sleep undoing every thought of getting him back to bed because this, Thranduil in just a loose shirt standing in the silver light of the moon in the middle of the kitchen and staring down at you might be the most attractive thing you have ever witnessed. 

His hands wander from your waist up to your shoulders, sliding up further to cup your neck in his large palms and gently tilt your chin up further. Your breath comes to a full stop, instead, your heart takes on the job of pulsing twice as fast at the gentle touch of his thumb moving over the underline of your jaw. The day you realized he cradles you just as gently as his favorite knives was surely one to process but now you lean into the lingering taps of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb pressing slightly into the plushness of your lower lip. 

Thranduil slots one leg between yours, casually and with an ease that you wouldn’t believed him to be able to when you first met him. “Have I recently told you how thankful I am that you’re you?” he asks and you shake your head slightly. His lips curve downward, as do his eyebrows. “I may have gotten lost in my work again, haven’t I?” 

You nod, never one to pour a lie into this intimacy. “But that’s fine. I know this is important to you. The restaurant opening and all can’t be easy.”

“That’s no reason to push away the one person that makes this journey bearable. You shouldn’t have to put up with my nightly disappearance out of bed simply because the restaurant is a large focus on my mind right now.” 

“It has become quite the habit of yours,” you agree quietly and slip one hand under his shirt again. 

There’s nothing sexual about the way you hold onto his waist, tracing the bones and muscles, all breathing softly and singing under your touch. Being this close to him grounds you the same way he needs physical touch as a reminder that he is still important in arguments and fights. That no matter how far apart your opinions are at that moment, your bond is still there. 

“I am truly sorry for this habit. I will work on it and I think once we have gotten through the worst of the press and critics I can rest easier but it’s nothing I can one hundred percent promise. The last time we closed for a month I slept barely after reopening.”

You tilt your head. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“No, everything you do makes me a better person already,” Thranduil says and leans down to finally catch your lips in a soft kiss into which you melt like butter on a hot pan. Every nerve ending is sizzling and burning, sighing as he holds your face close and kisses the breath out of you. “Or would you do me the favor and never watch your movie again?”

You laugh and bite down on his lip, “Never. Try something more realistic.”

He agrees with a huff of laughter, “Of course not,”  and pulls you back into another kiss. 

“Can we go back to bed?” you mumble against his lips. As much as you enjoy the loving kisses, the slow and languid draw of his tongue, the playful nip of his teeth in the lull of the night, his full body cornering you against the counter – oh, there’s this low sound of his throat again – but unlike Thranduil, you had a few hours of sleep already and you can feel the urge to hop back under the covers in the cold around your bare ankles.  

Thranduil’s head swirls around, seemingly taking in the state of the kitchen without the haze of a restless man dreaming of the perfect dish clouding his judgment and he raises a hand to tap against his lips, loudly exhaling. “Shit. I can’t leave this lying around and while it’s no good for the restaurant, I can’t just throw it out.”

You shrug your shoulders, sneaking past him to open the drawer meticulously sorted with plastic boxes. There are certainly enough of them to store the soups and their different varieties. Once Thranduil starts working on a new recipe, his tendency to fill the kitchen and run tests leaves its traces in the way you now look out for good lunchbox offers and Tupperware parties, always being mindful of having enough of them to stack up the freezer. Thranduil may be opposed to frozen food – and not only storebought, he would not eat something he didn’t cook fresh even if the whole idea of freezing food he cooked meant that it was still good and full of vitamins – but you don’t mind popping them into the microwave on a long day at work and relishing the soul food of your boyfriend weeks after he abandoned the thought of that particular version.

“We could pack them up and bring them around to the shelter tomorrow. Ah, wait, no. You have to be at the restaurant early for the deliveries. I can drop them off then, get home to change and still be there on time for the opening, oh! Thran–,” you are interrupted by the warm weight of Thranduil hugging you close from behind, surprising you the same way you had earlier, only that the height difference allows him to mouth a kiss into your neck. 

“I love you,” Thranduil says, digging his fingers into the wool of your cardigan. “All I’m doing is keeping you up at night and you’re still here, thinking about bringing the food to the shelter and my schedule. You’re brilliant, my love.”

The compliment goes through your heart like molten honey, sticking in all the slowly healing cracks that Thranduil mends each day he is there for you. The change from being roommates to best friends brings the risk of disrupting the carefully built balance yet Thranduil and you made it work and in times like this, standing in the darkness of your shared kitchen in the night before the re-opening of what Thranduil loves third-most in the world, every effort is worth the risk.

You smile, resting your head against his chest and looking up at him. His grey eyes are already on you, framed by long lashes and the strands of hair shining silver. “Love you too, most ardently,” you stand up on your tiptoes for a quick kiss upside down. “Soups can wait, let’s go to bed.”

[luckshmi]

Ayurvedic Secrets to Radiant Skin: Understanding Your Dosha and Simple Homemade Skincare

In the pursuit of healthy, glowing skin, many of us seek solutions in expensive creams, serums, and treatments. But what if the key to vibrant skin lies in ancient wisdom that's been practiced for centuries?

Welcome to the world of Ayurveda, where the holistic approach to skincare goes beyond topical treatments to address the root causes of skin imbalances.

What is Ayurveda?

Ayurveda, often called the "science of life," is an ancient healing system that originated in India thousands of years ago. At its core is the belief that our well-being is intricately connected to the balance of three fundamental energies known as doshas: Vata, Pitta, and Kapha.

Understanding Your Dosha:

Each person is born with a unique combination of these doshas, which influence not only our physical characteristics but also our mental and emotional tendencies. By identifying your dominant dosha, you can tailor your skincare routine to address specific skin concerns effectively.

Vata Dosha: If you have Vata-dominant skin, you may notice tendencies toward dryness, flakiness, and sensitivity. Vata skin often feels parched and is prone to premature aging. To nurture Vata skin, focus on moisturizing and nourishing practices.

Skincare Routine: Massage your skin with warm sesame oil to deeply moisturize and improve circulation. Use gentle, hydrating cleansers and rich, emollient creams to lock in moisture.

Homemade Recipe: Create a hydrating face mask by mixing mashed avocado with honey and a few drops of almond oil. Leave it on for 15 minutes before rinsing with warm water.

Pitta Dosha: Pitta-dominant skin tends to be sensitive, prone to redness, inflammation, and occasional breakouts. Excessive heat and stress can exacerbate Pitta imbalances, leading to increased oiliness and irritation.

Skincare Routine: Opt for cooling and soothing ingredients like cucumber, aloe vera, and sandalwood. Use gentle, non-abrasive cleansers and avoid harsh exfoliants that can aggravate inflammation.

Homemade Recipe: Make a calming face pack by mixing sandalwood powder with rose water and a pinch of turmeric. Apply it to clean skin, leave it on for 15 minutes, then rinse with cool water.

Kapha Dosha: Kapha-dominant skin tends to be oily, prone to congestion, and enlarged pores. Kapha imbalances can result in dullness, blackheads, and a lack of vitality.

Skincare Routine: Focus on purifying and detoxifying practices to balance excess oil and congestion. Use gentle, oil-balancing cleansers and lightweight, non-comedogenic moisturizers.

Homemade Recipe: Create an invigorating scrub by mixing ground oats with yogurt and a pinch of turmeric. Gently massage it onto damp skin in circular motions, then rinse with lukewarm water.

General Ayurvedic Skincare Tips: In addition to dosha-specific practices, there are some general principles of Ayurvedic skincare that benefit all skin types:

Practice Abhyanga, or self-massage with warm oil, to promote relaxation and improve circulation.

Drink herbal teas like chamomile or tulsi to reduce internal inflammation and support overall well-being.

Maintain a balanced lifestyle with adequate sleep, regular exercise, and stress management to promote skin health from the inside out.

Ayurveda offers a holistic approach to skincare that emphasizes harmony between mind, body, and spirit. By understanding your dosha and incorporating simple, homemade remedies into your skincare routine, you can unlock the secrets to radiant and healthy skin naturally. Remember, consistency and mindfulness are key to achieving lasting results. So, embrace the wisdom of Ayurveda and let your inner glow shine through!

Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or need further guidance on your Ayurvedic skincare journey.