#or maybe lemon? something bright and fresh!

[crabsnpersimmons]

Crab crab, here I am to say again how adorable and pretty your art is at the point I want to BITE IT

[and keep your Chibis safe because I want to bite them so much /affectionate]

awwww thank you, Niko!!

yknow what, i kinda get it. the chibis give off a "fruit candy made with real fruit" kind of vibe to me haha

and don't worry, they have their caretaker Y/N* watching over them:

Y/N: please don't bite the kids.

Sun and Moon signs: (your dentist will be disappointed.)

Y/N: i mean yeah?? but also?? don't bite kids?? period??

*Y/N is an ex-Fazbear technician! they built Sun and Moon's chibi bodies to fulfill a promise to an old friend

[donatellawritings]

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🐇 introducing princess!reader, ugh i love her sm <3

you were fairly new to kildare island, completely wet behind your chanel-adorned ears. it had only been a few days, since your parents had made the switch from the cozy countryside of puerto rico, unpacking their final cardboard box that harshly clashed against the dreamy interior of your bright and sunny lakeside home. you weren’t surprised that your parents had chosen such a picturesque home of grandeur, they always had a niche for the finer things in life, a trait that was undoubtedly passed down to you.

you see, you had always been a spoiled princess, always insisting of having anything and everything that you wanted — and it was always given to you, without question. perhaps it was the fact that you were an only child? who cares, you were the precious little girl that your parents would go to the ends of the earth for, so why should you accept anything less, from anyone else?

as privileged as it may seem, you did have to admit that you loved living a life where you were pampered and had every single need, no matter how minute or ridiculous, fulfilled without question. you always wore the finest of fabrics from the most upscale brands, exercised in the cutest athleisure wear as you worked up a sweat on your peloton, i mean, you even made it a point to get your hair and nails done every other week. your parents’ banking statements were essays long, detailing your multiple visits to sephora, mainland boutiques, your hefty car note, and monthly spa membership fees.

but, you were far from a ditzy girl, in fact, you were so entitled to the point where you turned your button nose upward at every guy who approached you. you had yet to find a man who didn’t allow you to walk him like a pathetic little dog, you knew that you needed a man who would put you in your place, yet shower you with adornment and lavish gifts.

carefully scraping the tiny smear of residual lipgloss with the tips of your long almond french-manicured nails, you huffed as you flipped your blown-out hair over your shoulder. “ma, m’going to drop this off now!” you called out, tugging on your light grey mini skirt, your fingers dancing over the black lace and pink ribbon adornment, before you grabbed ahold of the white ceramic tray of lemon squares that your mother prepared the night prior.

you’d been given the task of introducing yourself to your neighbors, especially since you father had made it a point to extend the services of his construction company to the fellow members of the country club. your parents had praised you for being their sweet little girl who would be staying home for college to the community, so it was now your turn to seal your reputation as the perfect girl next door, and help uphold your parents’ fresh reputation as newcomers on figure 8.

your perky tits were cutely pushed up against the undone buttons of your undersized button up top, your gold rosary glinting against the sunlight as you made your chanel mules stepped out on the floorboards of your front porch.

𝜗୧

after about an hour of walking from door to door and exchanging your rehearsed pleasantries, while offering the sweet and tangy sticky treat, you’d finally made it to the final home that seemed to overlook the entirety of the community. your puffy cheeks ached from your stretched smile as the soles of your french-pedicure feet throbbed — maybe wearing heels as you walked from porch to porch wasn’t the smartest idea? balancing the tray of lemon gooey lemon squares onto one hand, you brushed a strand of hair from your extended lashes, letting out a small huff, before you mushed your finger into the doorbell.

it didn’t take long before the front door was answered, your rehearsed introduction flitting away from you as you looked up at the blue eyes that stared down at you. your lipstick stained lips parted as the twenty-something year old man stood, his jaw tight as he raised his eyebrows at you, before his eyes shamelessly fell to your pushed-up tits, “i, uh, hi! my family and i recently moved in, so i just wanted to introduce myself,” you smiled, a blush creeping to your cheeks as you revealed your name to the tall man.

“ah, s’that right?” he questioned, clearing throat with a nod to himself as he took it upon himself to lift the plastic wrap that concealed the melted lemon squares, before his curtain bangs fell in front of his eyes. “y’walked all the way here, by yourself, huh,” he mumbled, placing the wrapping to close around the tray, before bringing his intimidating gaze to yours.

with a nod, you nudged the tray in his direction, “would you like one? my mother made them fresh!” you beamed, restoring your role as the mannered girl next door, your trained resolve slowly burning away under the unforgiving north carolina sun.

oh, how he saw right through you.

wordlessly, the young man lifted the plastic wrap, one more, being the small gooey treat to his lips as he kept his eyes on yours, not missing the way you swallowed thickly as he wiped the corners of his pink lips with his ringed index finger and thumb. you watched pathetically with your lips parted as he licked over his lips, “rafe cameron,” he smiled smugly, extending a hand to you.

there was something dark, yet tantalizing about the young man that towered over you, it even brought an undeniable ache to the bundle of nerves between your plush thighs.

accepting his hand, you batted your dolly lashes at rafe, a warmth growing in your tummy as his large hand enveloped yours in a firm grip, his thumb barely kneading into the soft skin between your forefinger and thumb.

deciding to fall back into your stuck-up persona, you were the first to break the hold between you and race, your eyes squinting a bit as you took one step backwards, “it was a pleasure, rafe,” you sang, clutching the empty tray to be tucked into your side.

spinning on your heels, you could feel rafe staring at the under-curve of your soft ass that peeked beneath the tight knit fabric of your skirt, watching as your hips swayed with each step you took. it wasn’t until you were far enough from the young man that you tugged on your skirt to remain secure around your thighs. internally, you scolded yourself for losing event the slightest bit of your cool. you were too good for him, you were too good for him. way too good.

rafe knew this as well, yet he was always proactive when it came to getting what he wanted — even if he had to get a little dirty.

[vodika-vibes]

True Love

Summary: Fives is a man on a mission. His mission? Remind his riduur that she’s the only one for him.

Pairing: ARC Trooper Fives x F!Reader

Word Count: 828

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So, full disclosure, this was supposed to be the event request for @l0nesome-dreams but I only read the first part of the request and went, yes, ideas, and only realized I went off the rails when I finished writing it, lol. SO. That will be properly written at a later point in time. So, uh, have a random Fives story?

The worst part of having a secret wife, is the fact that he can’t be as blunt to the people flirting with him as he’d prefer. The second worst thing is the fact that his brothers think that he’s lonely and needs help getting dates.

That leads him to this situation. Where an, admittedly pretty, woman is leaning into his personal space, and his mind is racing for what to say that won’t be too insulting, but also won’t out the fact that he’s a happily married man.

She leans further into his personal space, and Fives takes a half step back, keeping some distance between them. He glances at his chrono and his heart sinks. He’s late. 

His poor riduur is probably wondering where he is.

The woman leans closer to him, and Fives moves quickly to keep her from touching him, “Aww…you’re shy.”

“Look, I’m flattered, but I’m really not interested.” He says.

“Your brothers said that you would say that.” She smiles at him, it’s a pretty smile, but Fives really isn’t interested in her. “I can go as slow as you like.”

“Again,” Fives says slowly, “I’m flattered, but not interested.” He glances at the chrono one more time, maybe, if he’s quick, he can stop at the bakery that his riduur likes so much and get her a lemon bar.

The woman huffs, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Fives grabs the chance with both hands, “Yes. Actually. And I’m late. If you’ll excuse me.” He almost makes it to the entrance of the Club before Rex flings his arm over his shoulder, “Son of a kriffing-”

“Where are you going, Fives?” Rex asks.

“Cap, Rex, I’m late. I have to go.”

“Oh? Have a hot date?”

Fives doesn’t answer, and he averts his gaze from his brothers, it’s a damned shame he isn’t a better liar, “I just have to pick something up before the store closes.”

“We went through all of this trouble to help you find a date, vod-”

“I’m not interested.” Fives blurts, “Not in her. Not in anyone you’ll ever pick for me. Rex, I have to go. I’m late.”

Rex presses his hand against Fives’ chest plate, “Late for what?”

Fives flounders, and then he sighs, “I was supposed to meet my wife half an hour ago, and if I leave now I can bring her a lemon bar from her favorite bakery to make up for being late. Can I go?”

“You’re married!?”

“REX!”

“Yes! Go.”

Fives pushes past his brother and out of the club.

He’s lucky, the bakery is still open when he arrives, and he’s able to get a whole box of the lemon bars his riduur prefers, before he runs home. He takes the stairs two at a time and impatiently keys in the door code before he stops in the front hallway.

Home smells like her. Like vanilla and flowers and everything good and nice in the galaxy that he never thought that he’d have. Home also smells like stew and fresh baked bread.

Fives quickly pulls his armor off, with one hand, and he heads into the kitchen. His riduur, his perfect beautiful Riduur, is still making dinner.

Thank the Force.

“I’m home,”

She turns and a bright smile crosses her face when she sees him, “Fives, welcome home.” She lays her spoon over the pot and turns to greet him with a hug, “You stopped at the bakery?”

“I know that I’m late-” Fives replies as he sets the box on the table, “So I stopped and got your favorite dessert.”

She giggles and presses a hand to her mouth, “I got a late start too, honestly. I’m sorry dinner isn’t ready.”

“Don’t be. I don’t mind.” He settles his hands on her hips and leans in to lightly press his forehead against hers, “Rex and the others dragged me to 79s.” He admits, “They think, thought, that I was lonely.”

“Oh?”

“They set me up on a blind date,” Fives adds.

A glimmer of uncertainty crosses her face, “Was she pretty?”

“I suppose. I wasn’t paying attention.” He brings one hand up to brush her cheek, “I was thinking about you.”

She ducks her head, a blush crossing her face, “You’re a sap.”

“True.” Fives kisses her gently, “I had to tell Rex about you before he’d let me leave.”

“Oh, Fives-”

“It’s okay. I doubt I’ll get into much trouble.” He kisses her one more time, “Don’t you worry about it. You won’t get into trouble, I promise.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I know. Don’t worry, Rex is reasonable.” He kisses her again and again, “Now, how much still needs to be done for dinner, and how can I help?”

“Um…a lot. How about you go shower and change, and you can help after?”

“Deal.” He catches her lips in one more kiss, “Love you, riduur.”

She sighs, a dreamlike smile on her face, “Love you more.”

[cleolinda]

My nephew reviews perfume

I'm not sure how my sister heard about Noteworthy Scents, but the concept is, you take a quiz, and they'll send you four Scientifically Chosen samples ($25 USD) based on your answers.

Noteworthy is a new, exciting way to discover your signature scent. Rather than relying on flashy celebrity branding or overblown marketing promises, we want our customers to be in control of deciding which Noteworthy fragrance is right for them. We’re excited that you’re joining us on this journey - we can’t wait to help you find your signature scent.

I have looked at all the fragrances on offer, and I can tell you, they don't happen to have the notes I would want in my One Perfume to Rule Them All (if there's no peach or ylang ylang, I’m not forsaking the rest of my collection). But more to the point, I don't want just one. I've been writing up the things I've been trying for a few months now, and I enjoy the experimenting. But I appreciate what Noteworthy's trying to do, especially for wearers who want something straightforward, and I was perfectly happy to let my sister be the one to try them.

(I did take the quiz, though, and after telling them I don’t like aquatic scents, they said they would send me one that smells like the beach. I closed the tab. My sister told the quiz that she does not like florals and she does not like amber. You’ll never guess what happened next!)

So her Discovery Kit arrived yesterday. She announced this by texting me,

I’m gonna give you feedback from [Nephew] smelling the perfume

Me: Yeah?

As you may recall from one of my music posts, my nephew is six.

(My sister gave me permission to post this.)

n,841

Lemon, tarragon, cedar wood. A powerful, understated blend of citrus and woods. Drawing from poetry’s ability to spark joy and inspiration, this bright lemon and bergamot blend leaves an instant impression before mellowing out into a rich amber and leather base.

My sister: [Nephew] said

smells like raspberries or being in a dungeon like down in a well

Me: ……..I do not see any of those things on the card

n,551

Lily of the valley, amber, sandalwood. A sensual, comforting, woody scent that cocoons the wearer in notes of warm, glowing sandalwood and cozy, soft cashmere—freshened up with Lily of the Valley.

smells like lime juice or being inside a pumpkin

n,307

Mandarin, basil, sandalwood. Inspired by nostalgic childhood trips to lemon groves, fresh flowers swirling together in the summer breeze, and the radiant colors of perfectly ripe citrus, this energizing fragrance stars juicy mandarin and soft sandalwood, plus light notes of basil.

green grape juice or being on top of an umbrella at the beach

Me: that’s very specific

n,057

Passionfruit, vanilla, tonka bean. Let n,057 become your signature: remarkable, evocative and distinctly yours. Keep your fragrance at home or take our travel spray with you. Fitting snugly in your purse, pocket, or suitcase, it's the perfect on-the-go perfume.

My sister: I think he’s losing his focus on this last one. He said

lemon juice at the lemon store

My perfume sample budget got used up on, like, ugh, actual necessities this month, or I'd give Noteworthy a try for science. On a second try, my quiz results were (very likely overlapping with my sister's):

A captivating blend of warm woods and zesty citrus, like strolling through a sun-drenched forest grove. An intriguing fusion of exotic spices and earthy notes, evoking the vibrant energy of a bustling cityscape. A delightful combination of tropical fruits and delicate florals, reminiscent of a refreshing breeze in a lush garden. And for an unexpected wild card fragrance, a scent that defies expectations because science cannot always predict desire.

Currently, my sister says that she can tell that the Noteworthy fragrances are well-made, but they're not "her"; apparently she's in the 11% algorithm failure group—or maybe she just needs time for them to grow on her! Who knows! She'll bring over her samples for Sunday dinner, and I'll report back if they do, in fact, smell like being inside a pumpkin.

Perfume discussion masterpost

[shirefantasies]

Idk if/what you’re open to writing right now, but can you possibly write something focused on pippin? Maybe fluff or headcannons or oneshots, whatever you want. I’ll put my trust in a fellow pippin girlie 😉❤️

Ahhh I definitely was not when this very first rolled in but barring any more grievous wounds I am always down to write about my beloved 😌

Pie in the Sky- Pippin x F!Hobbit!Reader

(Gif by @lotrcolors! Didn’t see rules about not using them but will take down if they prefer!)

Perfect dough never fails to put a smile on your face. Sticky as it is, even the feeling of it beneath your hands as you knead it is pleasing. Flames to your left tell you the oven is more than ready to receive its eventual bounty. A few rolls beneath your pin and there you have it, a beautiful drape on the tin before the real treasure is stowed away. Twirling in your flighty joy, you turn for the stove, taking up your pot of wonderful sparkling scarlet raspberry filling. Pouring it in, you see you’ve made a bit extra- muffins might just be in your future, too! Last step is cutting the lattice and then your oven is finally presented its trophy.

You already pulled out the right size hourglass when you got your start, so all there is to it is giving it a flip and you’ve got a little time for inventory.

The fishers had a wonderful haul: bright, shiny salmon you had filleted earlier in the afternoon, leaving only the need to coat them in lemon juice and seasoning. Potatoes as well, potatoes fresh as the salmon, though they are to be fried into chips, not grilled. A plate of roasted zucchini and carrot to say you’re getting your vegetables in. Not to mention the pie.

Every voice in your head had told you to just make enough for yourself, but having a visitor is likely enough, is it not? May as well make a bit extra, you think as you reach for a tin of dill weed.

~

Foolhardy, they say. Foolish indeed to leave a pie cooling upon the sill of your hole’s window lest some rapscallion make short work of it. But what is life without a little chance, you ponder as you check up on your treat, glancing out to the passing road…

“Well, that is about as fine a pie as I’ve ever seen! What’s the occasion?”

Peregrin Took. Pippin, just about the whole Shire calls him. Sprightly, smiling, and green-eyed, the young hobbit comes from quite the family. He is the only one you know of so well, though. Oft is he seen alongside his cousin Merry, particularly for goers of the Green Dragon. You are not quite in that guild, though it has been tempting enough of late.

“No occasion, really,” you reply with a smile, glancing up at Pippin through your lashes, “to be honest, I just felt like it.”

“I can see why," he muses, tone dreamy.

"I made extra. Care to join me for supper?" Leaning further upon your sill, you rest your chin upon your hand.

"If you insist," he answers quickly, "then who am I to say no?"

He slips around the remaining perimeter of your yard, disappearing from your view until you hear a knock at your door. At once you abandon your pie, crossing through your kitchen and hall to open it.

"Well, hello there," Pippin jokes with a wide smile, arms outstretched and heels rocking, "fancy meeting you here!"

"Master Took," you play along, waving him in, "what a pleasant surprise! Please, come in."

Hands running over his shoulders faintly, you help him out of his coat, taking notice of how eager he is to strip himself of the extra layers, unwinding the scarf in record speed and glancing around the entry of your home.

"The kitchen is this way," you wave a hand, "Shall we?"

You take the way he practically trips over his feet on the freshly polished floorboards going forward as a yes, holding out a quick hand to steady him, thinking better of it, withdrawing shyly. Leading him to the dining table, you sit him down at the head of it and make for the kitchen to procure all your supper fixings. One by one you set down steaming platters, Pippin's eyes tracking your every movement before landing on the offerings themselves. You hear his stomach rumble as the smell of the first platter of chips fills the room, say nothing but smile and simply compound the feast until his eyes are wide as saucers.

Master Peregrin Took had caught your eye some time ago, from what day you cannot even say, but at that moment and beyond his wide, wonderful smile and lovely singing voice permeate the back of your mind far too often. Often enough, in fact, that you've taken up the peculiar little habit that finally serves you so well, making far more of anything than you need lest you ever are gifted the luck of the Shire's jolliest soul at your door. And as he sits before you, so close your arms brush as they reach for cups and utensils, engrossed in sharing a story his cousin's gardener told him about the Proudfeet's pumpkins, all you can feel is a glow of warmth and satisfaction.

~

"Mmm," Pippin hums in pleasure between forkfuls, "how did I never know what a good cook you are?"

You shrug, suddenly feeling a little shy. "I suppose I never labelled my creations all too well at any festivals."

"Well, if you keep this up," he teases, "I may just have to keep coming to call."

"Be my guest," you wave a hand and smile widely, eyes remaining upon his, "it isn't often I get company."

You barely trust your ears at his next words. "I can hardly believe that! But I'm more than happy to take up the task."

Wit utterly fails you at that, words lost in the fluttering of butterflies filling your entire being and a smile you cannot have hidden for all the gold in the Shire.

~

Pippin greets you by name this time, leaning into your window with eager familiarity. “You wouldn’t happen to be baking, would you?”

“Why, yes,” you smile back even wider, bending down for a moment to collect proof in the form of a steaming yellow cake before you tease, "if you don't mind waiting for it to cool and get frosted I'd be happy to share. Unless you were just hoping I was busy."

Pippin practically runs around to your gate, bringing yet another smile to your lips as you turn from your cake to the strawberries you'd been slicing.

~

“Excellent party, no?”

Glancing up from your tankard, you see Pippin has slid up to your side, leaning an arm casually upon the edge of the table and giving you that easy smile that makes everything within you flutter. His sandy hair is sprinkled with tossed flower petals and falls about his face, which flickers beneath the lanterns set all about. He’d undone his ever-present scarf, this time letting it hang loosely about either side of his neck and down onto a green velvet waistcoat that brings out those eyes of his.

Nothing else but a smile could have broken across your face at such a sight, joy alongside warmth you can luckily blame upon lanterns and the fires on which spits had been roasting and sheer proximity to all the dancing couples whirling by and other hobbits stopping at the table and idly chatting.

“Just grand,” you reply, only aware in post the surefire dreaminess of your expression, “the music's wonderful, everyone is in such cheer, and the spread is great, too! And now I've got fine company as well!"

"As have I," Pippin replies, glancing away from your gaze, then back to it, "and you are so right about it all. I can't wait to dance the night away! And I've just had about the best cookies of my life!"

You giggle at that, fingers tightening around the wooden mug you held. "Oh yes? And what kind were they?"

"Lavender sugar."

"Ah," your eyes light up, "those would be mine! See what I mean about the labeling? Oh, I'm so glad you liked them!"

Seeing as how it's the sole reason you made anything at all for the birthday of someone's aunt you didn't even know too well.

"Liked them?" He leans closer. "I loved them! But enough of that: how would you care for a dance or five?"

Nothing would have gotten your hands off your tankard with greater haste, its base hitting the red tablecloth at your back faster than he could say "South Farthing".

"I would love that," you tell him, and without a moment's hesitation you are swept up into his arms.

Pippin's hold about your waist is tighter than you'd have expected, but you don't complain a mite at the feeling of his hands on your hips, even the twitch of a finger you'd almost suspect to be the beginnings of roaming if you were any more full of yourself. He goes fast with you, something you hadn't doubted for a moment, and you get a thrill from the way he pulls you in so quickly from a twirl, sending you flying into his chest and caught with his other arm each time. Perhaps you aren't so graceful as some of the other, older or more leisurely pairs out on the open grass, but you know as your bare feet struck the soft ground again and again that you would have it no other way.

~

“Oh, now it’s shortbread?”

You put the hand that isn't holding the basket on your hip, fixing the younger hobbit with a look. “Do you want some or not, Marigold dear?”

"Oh, yes," she replies, golden head bobbing and petite hand reaching to loosen the cloth you've wrapped over the bars, "and I will take one for the old Gaffer, too.”

“Oh, he should enjoy them. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, after all.”

“And who else shall?” Marigold muses, fixing you with a positively catlike smile. “How is my advice about a man’s heart going, then, with Mister Peregrin Took?”

Your easy smile melts into something dreamier, grip on your basket relaxing slightly. “Well, all my baking certainly is bringing us together more.”

“And showing him what a good wife you’ll make him, too. He looked very happy there dancing with you at old Violet’s birthday!”

Before you can stop yourself looking a fool, your smile is widening tenfold. “You think so?”

“Oh,” Marigold waves a hand, “you’re incorrigible! Next time you two dance, just lean in for the kiss!”

“Easy for you to say,” you shoot back, crossing your arms and nearly, but not quite, upsetting your shortbread basket, “I could tell you the same about Tolman Cotton.”

Paling then reddening, Marigold gapes at you and sputters. "Now that is quite different! Tolman is a family friend, after all! If I were to- Why, that friendship might-”

“Uh-huh,” you nod in mock sympathy, a sardonic smile upon your lips, “well, then, perhaps you ought to bake him something. After all, a good friend told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Marigold grins. “Yours, maybe! Tolman cares much more about a good spot of fishing than all that.”

“Then you come over to sit in my kitchen and make him a new lure while I muse over what Pippin’s favorites might be. I’ve some dyed feathers I could spare.”

“From what?” Marigold asks, tilted head and smile incredulous as you make your way down the lane.

That is all Pippin catches of the conversation, but it is more than enough, he reflects with a brief proud smirk that quickly melts into a wide, dreamy grin as he glances down at the pair of chocolate-covered shortbread bars in his hands. Your grandma had some good ideas, but she’d never get his heart beating like you did.

~

It is not the most common occurrence in the world to hear your bell ring, so to say you shot up from your sewing is an understatement. All but tossing the shirt whose sleeve you’re repairing down, you pad across your planks to the door, mouth widening into an ‘o’ at the sight of Pippin at your door, a bunch of daisies in one hand and a basket slung upon the opposite arm. Today he is wearing a lavender vest; you don't think you've ever seen him wear lavender before, but of course it suits him.

“Hi there,” he said your name, voice lowering, “I thought I could maybe…take you on a picnic.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, habitually glancing down at your dress and feeling a hand shoot up to your hair. “Well, I don’t know if I’m picnic ready, but-”

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he remarks with a shrug and the most casual smile, as if he’d commented upon the balmy state of the weather.

“Well,” you glance down toward your feet and fiddle with the end of your sleeve, one arm shyly across your chest, “how can I say no to that? Of course I will go, then. Do you need anything for your basket, though? I admit I haven’t made much fresh today, but I can always-”

At that, Pippin shakes his head, curls flying about his smiling face. “This one is my mother’s treat. It’s about time I pay you back, after all.”

“Oh, alright. Because I do have a leftover pie in the-”

“Yes, bring that.”

You giggle as Pippin continues. “Don’t you worry, though- my mother’s cooking is almost as good as yours! Just don’t tell her I said that.” Punctuating his joke with a wink, he extends his arm and beaming, you take it.

~

Pippin leads you down to the bank of a stream and spreads out a blanket you hadn’t noticed him carrying before, probably due to being too occupied looking into those sweet green eyes and fluttering your lashes at any affection that potentially swims within them. The ground is soft already beneath the blanket, making it quite easy to settle upon your little spot across from Pippin and his basket. Water babbles tranquilly at your side by your feet, glistening in the spring sunshine.

Your companion offers quite the spread, for on top of your pie there is cold chicken and hard boiled eggs, sandwiches with salted meat and cress, cheese alongside the end of the sandwich loaf, fresh red raspberries, and turnovers.

“I hope this is enough.”

“Are you joking?” Your eyes light up, glancing from Pippin to the array of food to the sunlight filtering through the greenery at the stream’s edge. “This is perfect. All of it.”

"It had to be," he says, "I wanted our courtship to start off right."

Falling suddenly deaf to the chirping of birds and babbling of stream, you looked up from your sandwich with wide eyes, again seeing Pippin smiling at you like he'd made the most natural conclusion in the world, this time before tilting a fistful of raspberries into his mouth. Blinking, you search for words, failing momentarily in favor of just grinning over the way Peregrin Took never fails in his unwitting quest to always surprise you. Heat creeps to your face, heat beyond even the beating of the sun down to your head.

Pippin, it seems, takes your silence as a form of denial. All but dropping the plated slice of pie in his hand, he wipes one set of fingers off on the edge of a napkin before waving both hands hastily back and forth.

"Unless I heard your conversation with Marigold wrong. I just got so excited thinking that we could be everything I'd dreamed of and that what you were doing was working. Not that you needed to do it because I already thought you were the prettiest thing I've ever seen and why am I saying all this?"

"Because you're cute," you gush, heart still flip-flopping at his words, at the way the sunlight dances off the curves of his sheepishly smiling cheeks, "and you're always managing to find new ways to steal my heart."

"Me?" His voice is so quiet it's all but a whisper of joy. "You think I'm... Well, I think you're just sweet as this pie here. No, sweeter. Besides finding new ways to steal your heart, might I find new ways to kiss you?"

"Smooth," you tease, shaking your head playfully, gleefully, "you might indeed."

If Pippin is thinking anything you made was sweet, not a single delight you could have whipped up in your kitchen stands a chance against the feeling of his lips on yours, dancing lightly against them in the springtime breeze.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 💕

[comphy-and-cozy]

Bad for Business - Mikko Rantanen

Pairing: Mikko Rantanen x massage therapist!Reader (f)

Summary: Mikko has a crush on his massage therapist.

Word Count: 4.2K

Author’s Note: I don't know where this came from and I’m not sorry. I didn’t research if this is anywhere near factually accurate (I’m pretty confident it’s not), but it does the trick.

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Language, unprotected sex, risqué sex, voyeurism (kind of?), size kink, morally/ethically gray professional decisions (don’t fuck your clients people), Mikko’s a little bit of a simp.

NHL Masterlist

Hockey is and always will be Mikko’s first true love. The feeling of stepping out onto a fresh sheet of ice, the sound of a puck hitting a stick right on the tape, the euphoria of scoring a goal under bright lights and the eruption of thousands of fans—it’s something he’ll never, ever get tired of.

The other perks—millions of dollars, private jets, personal chefs and five-star cuisine—are all great, but not why he got into the league in the first place. They certainly don’t hurt, though, especially not the myriad of girls at his disposal. His DM’s are chock full of them, some more blatant than others, but either way, he’s definitely a fan of the accessibility his celebrity provides.

And then there’s you. One of the team’s massage therapists, but you’re undoubtedly everyone’s favorite, considering the other two are middle-aged men. You’re not employed directly by the team, so you technically have other clients, but the Avalanche are certainly your highest priority and most important. 

Most of the guys certainly prefer when they’re on your schedule, but they don’t complain if it’s one of the other two. Mikko, on the other hand, specifically requests you, a half-assed excuse that your smaller hands work his muscles better. But really, he just likes getting to talk to you afterwards. 

It’s safe to say he has a crush. A hopeless crush, one that’s surely unrequited, but it doesn’t stop him from asking you about your day, your weekend, and of course, your cat.  

What he doesn’t know, what you’ve never told him, is that he is your favorite client for that exact reason. For the most part, all of your clients are polite, especially the Avalanche players, but Mikko’s the only one who’s made a real effort to talk to you, to get to know you past the usual salutations. Sure, a few of the guys flirt a little, but it’s all surface level, while something about Mikko seems so genuine.

You’re not sure you’d use the word “crush,” but you certainly feel a flutter in your chest when you see his name on your docket for the day, pleased that he’s your last appointment. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll walk you to your car so you can spend a few more minutes bathing yourself in his sweet smile and the deep boom of his voice. 

So, maybe it is a crush. Whatever. 

It’s a quarter to 4, and Mikko’s knee bounces as he pulls into the parking lot. He likes to arrive early even though he’s already filled out the paperwork, just in case you’re free to spend a few minutes chatting before the session. Today, he’s disappointed when it’s only the receptionist that greets him with a smile, offering him a lemon water and asking if he needs to be walked back to the locker room.

He doesn’t, instead glancing down the hall toward the massage rooms, wondering if you’re in one and who you’re with. Once he’s changed into his robe, he sips his lemon water as he waits for you.

“Hi, Mikko,” you greet him with a smile, and he smiles nervously back. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he breathes, his heartbeat quickening at the sight of you—the exact opposite of what it should be doing. “Good, and you?”

“I’m good,” you say, and he hopes that he’s part of the reason why.

He follows your lead into room 4, appreciating the intimacy that’s created when you quietly close the door behind you. 

“The usual, right? Swedish deep tissue massage?”

“Actually, I’ll take the Finnish massage,” he jokes, then immediately wants to kick himself for how stupid it is. You laugh anyway, and he feels warmth emanating in his chest.

“Any problem areas?”

He grimaces. “My shoulders and my quads are pretty tight. Think I might’ve strained something in practice.”

“We’ll take a look at it. You know the drill by now,” you say, gesturing to the table. “Dress to your comfort level, and we’ll start with the back first—so face down on the table. I’ll give you a few minutes to get situated.”

Mikko nods, watching you step out and shut the door quietly, finally breathing once it latches. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. The robe is soft on his body, discarded and set on the table beside the massage table as he climbs in the warm bed, letting the sheet cover his back. He adjusts so his face is resting on the cushion, enough room for him to breathe. 

As promised, you return a few moments later, knocking softly and pausing before gently pushing the door open. Mikko listens to the sound of you preparing the towels and nods when you quietly ask if the temperature of the heated table cushion is okay.

He can feel himself tense even before your hands touch him, when they’re still collecting the oil you’ll soon rub into his back. He almost jumps when your hands come into contact with his shoulders, soft and warm and already working sinful magic on the sore muscles between his shoulder blades.

“Is the pressure okay?” you ask, voice soft. 

All you hear in response is a low groan of approval, followed by a muffled, “Perfect.”

For the next while, it’s quiet except for the sound of the aromatherapy steamer humming softly in the corner and the slick sounds of your hands and arms rubbing over his back. Mikko can’t tell what feels better; the way your fingers expertly massage out the tension in his back, or the gentle, smooth glide of your hands on his skin. Either way, he’s in heaven, lost in the haze of your presence. 

When you carefully pull his arm out from under the sheet, you gulp almost audibly when you see the size of his bicep. It’s strong and prominent in your hands as you work your way down his forearm. When you reach his hands, he feels the tingle where your fingertips caress his, threading your fingers with his to maneuver his wrist. Mikko closes his eyes and pretends that you’re just holding his hand because you want to, and not because you’re being paid to.

He has to stop himself from huffing in disappointment when you let go, placing his hand back down. Then it’s on to his other arm, and he gets to enjoy your fingers laced together for another few precious moments. 

Every time you’re finished with an area, he’s filled with a brief despair before you’re moving onto a different body part, and he’s appeased again once your hands return to his skin. This time, you’re moving to the end of the table, shifting his left leg out from under the sheet. It isn’t until you’re halfway up his leg that you realize there is no additional fabric barrier around his hips—he’s naked.

This time, you can’t help the gasp that leaves your throat. You can feel your cheeks turn hot, embarrassed even though he chose this; you did tell him to dress to his comfort level, after all. It certainly isn’t your first naked client, but it is the first one that’s stopped you dead in your tracks, mind shamelessly wandering to what lies between the apex of his massive thighs. 

You keep yourself contained, though you can’t help from glancing at the edge of the privacy sheet that’s bunched near his ass, part of you wishing he’d had a sore glute so you could have an excuse to touch it. The second leg is a little easier, and you lose yourself in the motions and the feeling of his strong muscles beneath your fingertips.

“Mikko,” you whisper, unsure if he’s fallen asleep. He hums to let you know he hasn’t. “I’m going to lift the sheet over you, and I want you to flip over onto your back and scoot down, okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

It’s only once he starts to turn around that he realizes he’s got a problem—one that’s throbbing against his leg. Before he can do anything to adjust himself, you’ve laid the sheet down over him and made a small gasp of surprise as you, too, realize his situation. There’s a tent—a big one, you think as you gulp—in the sheet, and for a moment all you can do is stare. You don’t know if you should acknowledge it or ignore it, teetering on the edge of indecision.

Mikko stammers an apology, mortified, his cheeks pink as he tries to tuck it between his legs. He wishes he could melt into the massage table and never show his face again. 

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “It happens more often than you think.”

You meant for it to be comforting, but all it does is make Mikko blind with jealousy, the thought of your hands on his teammates and witnessing their boners. He wonders, have any of them ever made a pass at you? Do you wish any of them had? Is there any part of ou that wishes he would?

He clears his throat in an effort to vanish some of the discomfort that hangs in the room, accepting the weighted cover you place over his eyes, grateful for an excuse to hide his face. If you’re flustered, you don’t show it, though part of him is disappointed you didn’t react—selfishly, he wants you to be impressed, or turned on, or something. Mostly, he’s glad that you didn’t instantly kick him out, never to speak to him again.

You pull out his tree trunk of a leg, tucking the sheet underneath in an effort to keep him protected and contained. Your work on his leg begins, intimidated by the sheer size of his thigh that’s staring at you. The bareness of his hip reminds you of his lack of clothing, and you’re once again struck with the revelation that only a very, very thin sheet lies between you and his most private possession.

You do your best to ignore it, but as your fingers massage his leg, it’s difficult to avoid brushing him in more delicate places. But, hell, maybe you want to.

It’s on the next leg that your knuckles graze against something soft between his legs, and he lets out a guttural groan that has your low belly igniting in a blazing flame. You mutter an apology, even though you don’t entirely mean it.

The first time was an accident. The second, less so. The third time—well, now you’re just playing with fire. 

A warning flashes through your mind, a memory seared into your brain of ethics and boundaries, and part of you can’t believe you’re really considering crossing them, here, now, for this man in front of you. His eyes are covered, but you’ve seen him lick his lips enough times to wish his tongue was your own, and you’ve stared at the aromatherapy steam puffing and billowing for long enough in an effort to avoid the dilemma that’s still standing proudly before you.

The question is out of your mouth before you can stop it. Though, once it’s out, you don’t regret it.

Mikko’s eyes shoot open from underneath the covering over his face, hearing the way you purr the words. He doesn’t know if it’s real or if he imagined it, not until he feels your fingers tracing the inside of his thigh in a massage technique he’s pretty certain is not something you learned in school.

“Do you want me to take care of that for you?”

He can’t nod fast enough, the words caught in his throat as he tries to swallow his sharp inhale. His hands fight against the sheet over his torso, quickly ripping off the face covering to find you smiling.

“You don’t—I—you—” he stammers, his cheeks flushing a gorgeous shade of pink.

“I don’t? You don’t want me to?” you pout. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees your hands move to the buttons on your polo.

“No—I mean, fuck yes I do—” he gulps, eyes darting down to the shadow of cleavage that you reveal. “I just want to make sure you’re sure.”

It’s sweet, so incredibly sweet, that you can’t help but smile. You walk to the head of the table so you’re looking upside down at him as you gently lay him back down, only this time, instead of covering his body with the sheet, you’re working it down his torso. Your movement is slow, deliberate, holding his eyes as you press forward. 

“I’m sure, Mikko.”

His mouth surges forward, blindly mouthing at the material of your uniform as he pulls your body to him. The next thing you know, his hands are tugging the material of your top down to get a better taste of your breasts. It’s clumsy, given your position, but neither of you care; he’s just happy to finally get his hands on you after so many months the other way around. 

Mikko maneuvers your body with ease, pausing frequently to grope your body and press his lips against any open skin he can find, ultimately getting you where he wants you: on top of him on the massage table. The new position is intimate, somehow more intimate than you with your hands all over his naked body; this time, you can feel the width of him as your legs straddle his hips, the sheet barely covering his modesty—and certainly not covering the cut muscles of his torso. 

His hands run up the sides of your legs, scorching you even through the material of your uniform pants. You’re distracted as you trail your hands up the firm muscle on his stomach, one of the few places on his body you’ve never touched, and certainly never at your own leisure. Mikko flexes his abs, hard and tight as he gives you a cheeky wink, allowing you to admire the fruits of his labor. What’s the point in being a professional athlete if not to have pretty girls ogle your body?

Before long, your desire urges you to move past his muscles—though you’re convinced he’s got nicer tits than you do—and lean down until your face is inches from his. His expression is soft despite the darkness in his eyes and the pulse in his neck that’s heightened with every touch on his body. 

Mikko pauses, waiting for your action, itching to know what it feels like to have your lips against his own. His eyes are drawn to the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips, slow and teasing in a way that has him twitching between your thighs. 

“I could get in so much trouble,” you murmur. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in your voice; instead, it’s replaced with desire, a compulsion to do something bad.

“We don’t have to,” he says quickly. He means it, but he’s hoping—praying—that you won’t change your mind.

“Maybe I want to get in trouble,” is your reply. Mikko doesn’t even wait for you to say anything else before he’s lunging forward to kiss you, finally capturing your lips with his. It’s just as magical as he thought it’d be, even better that he’s already naked.

His tongue slides into your mouth, meeting yours for the first time, and you moan when your hips begin to move of their own accord, dragging your core over the flimsy sheet and his throbbing length. It doesn’t take long for the temperature to reach searing levels, his hands fumbling with the hem of your top before you’re helping him to tug it off, tossed haphazardly on the floor. 

Mikko’s frozen in place, staring at the way your breasts sit, perfect, in your bra. Part of you wishes you’d put on cuter undergarments today, but then you remember you weren’t exactly planning on this happening. He doesn’t seem to be fazed by the ‘boring’ nude, too transfixed by the way your breasts feel in his large hands. Before you know it, he’s shifting you so he can sit up, pressing his mouth against your chest while his hands work their way to the clasp of your bra, expertly flicking it open. He barely pauses when the fabric falls between your bodies, flinging it blindly out of the way before his mouth is attaching to your nipple, hot and wet in a way that causes you to gasp.

“Mikko,” you sigh, and he decides in the moment that the way his name sounds in your mouth is his new favorite sound. He hums against your chest, switching to grant your other breast attention while his hand is quick to replace his mouth against your now wet nipple.

His hum morphs into a groan when your hand snakes between your bodies to stroke his erection, almost painfully hard now. Your eyes widen when you feel how fucking thick he is, barely able to fit him in your fist, and you let out a mewl as you imagine what it’ll feel like inside you.

“Fuck,” he grits out, mouth trailing up to the sensitive place where your neck meets your shoulder, careful to nip gently to avoid making too big a mark. Your hands are magic, having worked miracles on the majority of his muscles, though this time undoubtedly takes the cake for his favorite session with you.

He can’t wait any longer, his hand sneaking past the elastic waistband of your uniform pants, teasing at the hem of your panties. His fingers dance over your mound, familiarizing himself, before he’s probing at the damp fabric at the apex of your thighs with a curse, deeply aroused at how wet you are. A choked moan leaves your throat, vibrating against his lips that are trailing across your neck.

When his fingers slip into your panties, the mere heat of his hand against your clit is enough to make you moan. The feeling of his finger slipping inside your walls has you throwing your head back, relishing the way he grunts at how snugly you squeeze him. 

“So tight, baby,” he murmurs, voice muffled as he laves at your collarbone. A second finger joins his first and immediately they curl together to hit the spot that makes you see stars. He grins when he feels your hand clutching onto his shoulder as he works you, drawing out the sweetest whimpers. 

After a brief pause to shove your pants further down your hips to grant him more space, his fingers are back in your greedy cunt, eagerly accepting the long, thick digits. Mikko knows what he’s doing, knows exactly where to put his fingers, knows how much pressure to use, knows the perfect way to circle your clit with his thumb. He wants to drink in the erotic noises that spill from your mouth, heart beating faster at the way his name sounds like in a moan.

“Mikko, I’m—s-so—”

His lips press kisses against your jaw as your eyes squeeze shut, an explosion erupting in your belly. Your hips roll against his hand, dragging out the waves of your high as you feel him hum against your skin. He’s pleased with himself, feeling the way his balls clench at the way his entire hand is soaked with your juices. 

“Fuck, gotta have you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, before he’s wrenching his hands away from your core and flipping you onto your back. Your legs can’t kick off your pants fast enough, his hands smoothly slipping your panties over your thighs. Once all of the offending garments are removed, Mikko takes a moment to admire the sight of you, spread out and naked for him after all this time. He’s sure none of his teammates have had this type of session.

His calloused hands are rough on your skin as they slide up your thighs, spreading them apart slowly to create space for his hips. As he sits up on his knees, the privacy sheet slips from his body, freeing his erection. Your jaw drops as he releases one of your legs in favor of stroking it, and your mouth waters watching it slide in and out of his hand. Unconsciously, your leg falls open as you begin to imagine what it’s going to feel like inside you, part of you wondering if it’s even going to fit.  

Mikko smirks at the way your legs spread for him, taking in the lust in your eyes. He can’t believe he’s here, right now, with you, and he wants to pinch himself. But, he thinks, if it is a dream, he’s not ready for it to end quite yet—not when he hasn’t even been inside you.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut at the mewl you let out when he lets the tip of his cock bump against your swollen clit. Repeating the action, Mikko bites his lip as the sound trails directly to his balls. He isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to last before he loses control, but he pushes through it as he guides himself down, positioning himself at your entrance. 

“You sure you want this?” he asks with a smile that tells you he knows you want it and that he just wants to hear you say it. 

“Yes, Mikko,” you whine out, bucking your hips until he rewards you with the very tip pressing into your entrance. With a frustrated sigh, you add, “Fuck me, Mikko.”

He groans at your words, eyes shutting again as he wills himself not to finish right then and there. Another call of his name brings him back to the present, eyes connecting with yours, powered by the desperation in them. Slowly, patiently, he pushes forward, feeling the way your pussy grips even the first inch of him. He watches the way your eyes roll backward, relishing the way he stretches you.

It’s delicious, and as much as you want to tell him you can take it, part of you loves how he takes his time, letting you feel every single ridge and vein as they ease past your drooling lips. Before long, though, he’s sheathed inside you, feeling the flutter of your walls surrounding him.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, face buried in your neck. “You feel so fucking good.”

“You f—so—” gasp— “big. Fuck, Mikk—”

He wants to celebrate the fact that he’s rendered you almost speechless, that you’re a whimpering mess stuttering about how big his dick is, but he needs to move or he’ll die. He does, and he’s rewarded with your fingers digging into his shoulder blades—which is impressive, considering they’re covered in massage oil.

You’re in awe of the sheer size of him and the way that he reaches places you didn’t know existed. He reveals more of them each time he punches his hips forward, and you’re absolutely positive that he’s touching your organs when they nestle against the back of your thighs. It’s hot, it’s raw, it’s real, the way his skin feels on yours and the hot puffs of breath he exhales onto your neck.

Mikko is loving the way you mewl in his ear, determined to keep drawing those delicious sounds until you’re crying out his name and creaming on his cock. A hand slips from his shoulders to frantically paw at your clit, adding fuel to the fire that’s now roaring in your core. He can feel how wet you are, how tightly you’re squeezing him, the way your body is begging him to let you come.

The way you orgasm is ethereal, he thinks, how your mouth falls open and your head tilts back and your eyes flutter closed as the ripples of your release flow through you. The sound of the cry of his name is even better. He drinks it in, using it to drive himself home inside your quaking walls. A few pumps later and he’s pulling out to shoot his load on your lower stomach with a groan. Your pussy clenches at the sight, already wishing for a round two as you gaze up at him and how big he looks kneeling over you.

With a shy grin, Mikko slides off the bed and grabs an extra cloth from the counter to clean you off. It isn’t until after he’s pressed a few gentle kisses to your lips that he searches for your clothes and hands them to you; as the moment returns to normal, the reality of what you’ve just done sinks in and you gasp.

“I can’t believe we just did that—I—this is so unethical,” you say, envisioning the Board tearing your license to shreds.

Mikko frowns, slipping his robe back over his shoulders. “I’m not going to tell anyone, you know.”

You glance at him gratefully but shake your head. “It’s not just that—it’s so taboo and—I mean, a relationship is one thing, but just sex is so demeaning to myself as a female massage therapist—”

“Do you want to go out with me?”

“—and I—what?”

“Like, to dinner.”

“What?” you repeat incredulously.

His pinks turn pink and he casts his eyes to the floor. “Oh, it was just a question—”

“Mikko, I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

With the excitement of a child, your heart melts at the way his eyes light up in an instant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod with a smile. “You owe me for making me risk my career.”

“I think that’s more than fair,” he grins. “But I can’t honestly tell you I’m sorry.”

“Me either.”

Six days later, when you’re panting through your third orgasm of the night, Mikko’s name a prayer on your lips, you think to yourself it was more than worth the risk. 

[zannenilsson]

Bubastion

Originally published in Issue 5 of "Vulture Bones." New illustration by @stariteart CW: ableism towards main character

Oh shit. Putting in a prescription never takes this long. Is there a problem with the insurance? Oh no, please don’t let it be my insurance. This is the only place in town that takes it.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Winters” the pharmacy assistant says, “but it looks like we don’t have any Bubastion in stock.”

Shit.

“We’ll have to put in a special order for it. It’ll get here in about…” Rapid typing, a few clicks, and the punchline: “One week.”

SHIT.

“Ah,” is what I say out loud in my bright work-voice, now with a bit of an edge. “Is it possible — I mean, do any of your chain’s nearby locations have it in stock? Can you transfer it there?”

The assistant hums and says she’ll check; clicking ensues. Behind me, the next person in the drop-off line sighs loudly. Screw them.

My grip on the edge of the counter tightens. Please, please say yes.

“No, sorry,” she says instead. “It looks like it’s backordered at every location within a fifty mile radius.”

My hands release and fall to my sides. “Okay. Thanks for looking.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” she says in a sympathetic tone. “We’ll get it to you as soon as possible, I promise.”

I thank her and turn away; the next five people in line sigh in relief.

My feet shuffle over the scratched linoleum floor, but my mind is racing. I struggle to remember how I managed my condition back in college, before I finally got treatment. Well, “managed” isn’t the right word. Back then my condition managed me.

Before Bubastion I missed classes all the time — the bad days outnumbered the good ones. So I kept failing, and failing, and failing. I was smart, they said, but didn’t apply myself. Of the seven off-and-on years I spent in college, only the last one was with medication. Suddenly I aced everything. Things were so easy that I was downright angry, because it could have been like that the whole time.

Shit, I’m going off track — is it starting already?

Focus. I used some kind of home remedy to help keep myself together. Think. I start snapping my fingers to help me think. A taste comes to mind and I struggle to place it. Wait…

“CATNIP TEA!” I shout. Nine people in this crowded pharmacy turn to stare at me. I smile apologetically.

I stroll towards the herbal supplements aisle and grab the last two boxes of catnip tea. Hm. I need something else to explain why I look nervous. My free hand snaps its fingers: condoms and lube. God bless the sex aisle.

At home I leave the tea to steep and check myself in the mirror for any signs of change. Things look good — no sign of whiskers, excess hair, tongue roughness, or anything else inhuman. So far.

No, stop it. Deep breaths. Getting anxious only makes it worse.

The kitchen timer dings and I pull the teabag out of the cup — can’t let it steep too long. Squeeze in some fresh lemon juice, or maybe add a touch of mint, and bam: a damn fine cup of catnip tea. It isn’t as tasty as spiced chai, and it doesn’t handle my symptoms as well as Bubastion does, but it’s the best I can do right now. So: bottoms up.

Another cup follows, and another. I start planning ahead, making a few gallons of iced catnip tea to put in my work thermos in the coming days. Excessive? Yeah, but necessary. There is no way in hell I can let my coworkers know I’m an ailuranthrope.

Yes, I know ailuranthropy isn’t that uncommon anymore. And save me the speech about how the stigma will never go away unless people affected by it talk about it, okay? I know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s not my fault and I know.

But I mean, spontaneously changing into a cat-person isn’t the kind of thing you can bring up in normal conversations, let alone work conversations. “Sorry, I need to take a personal day today. I can’t get out of the house — it’s raining, and I’m having one of my cat days. You understand.”  

Yeah, like hell they will.

My coworkers absolutely wouldn’t get it — not even my manager, as lovely a person as she is. I hear the jokes they all make whenever somebody’s being “catty” at the office: “Did you forget to take your meds or something?” They throw it out without thinking, but I notice it. Every. Single. Time.

So, for the next week, I decide to keep my head down, stay at my desk, and get so much work done that nobody will think anything’s wrong. The fewer people I see and the fewer people I talk to, the less I’ll have to worry about anyone noticing. I count down the days until I can get my Bubastion again.

Five days. David, the office gossip, refuses to leave me alone. He sets his coffee on my desk, which means he plans to stay a few minutes. Great.

“Hey, Freya. Did you hear about Amy in H.R.?”

I haven’t, and I don’t care. I hum neutrally and he continues.

“She went all werecat right in the middle of a meeting. Apparently she ran to the bathroom and tried to splash water on her face to make it go away but, like, you can’t wash off being a cat.”

I hum again and keep my eyes on my computer screen. My typing intensifies.

David shakes his head, smiling. “Crazy, right? I would have never suspected her— she doesn’t seem like the type.”

There isn’t a ‘type,’ asshole. “Crazy,” I echo.

Only now do I realize how close his coffee cup is to my right elbow. Perfect.

I look up at David and fake a laugh. “Oh man, that reminds me of this one time at my last job.” I turn towards him, keeping eye contact. My elbow hits the cup and sends it flying off the desk and onto the floor, splattering coffee all over David’s new shoes. He yelps.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” I say, grabbing a tissue out of my desk drawer. “Here, I’ll clean it up.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he mutters. “I’ll take care of it.”

Four days. My arms are definitely getting furry now, but thankfully it hasn’t spread to my hands yet. Ginger tabby fur is hard to explain away, even if it matches my normal hair color. Long sleeves will take care of it.

“Aren’t you hot?” David asks during his morning coffee break. He’s wearing his old shoes.

“Hm?” I say, looking back to my computer.

“You’re wearing long sleeves and it’s ninety degrees outside.”

Well I’m not outside, am I? “I’m always cold in here. They turn the AC up too high.”

“Seriously? If anything, it’s not high enough.”

I make a neutral noise, and eventually he leaves. The truth, of course, is that between the fur and the sleeves I’m hot as hell. Soon I won’t even be able to sweat anymore, except through my paws — I mean hands. Hands.

Three days. My tongue is getting rough now and I keep getting the urge to groom myself. I guess that’s understandable; with all the fur I can’t really shower anymore unless I want to take thirty minutes blow-drying everything.

At home I brew more tea, even though I’m sick to death of it. How the hell did I do this through most of college?

While the tea steeps I call the pharmacy hoping the Bubastion came in earlier than they expected. It hasn’t. After hanging up I let out a long, complaining whine. Well, not exactly a whine; more like a meow.

Shit.

Two days. And I’m starting to think I’ve developed a cat allergy sometime since my last transformation. Is it even possible to be allergic to yourself? Guess I’ll find out.

My eyes are too noticeably catlike now to get away with at work. Sunglasses? No, wait, then they’ll think I’m hungover or stoned. Do I still have…?

Digging through my bin of assorted junk under the bathroom sink, I finally find my old cosmetic contacts. Probably gonna get an infection or some shit, but what else can I do?

I keep rubbing my eyes all through the workday. Stop touching it, dumbass, you’ll make it worse.

When David wanders over for his daily chat and opens his mouth, I immediately excuse myself.

“Gotta put in some eyedrops, be back in a minute.”

He seems a little offended but doesn’t say anything, which is exactly what I wanted. Not even remotely sorry. My patience will be back once the Bubastion comes in.

Last day. I don’t have hands or feet anymore. They’re full-on paws now. Sure, they’re polydactyl paws so I can theoretically keep doing the thumb thing, but this isn’t something I can easily hide. Gotta call out sick.

Have you ever tried to operate a phone with cat paws? Even with pseudo-thumbs it’s goddamn impossible. I dig out an old stylus and use it to pull up my manager’s contact on my phone.

In my best sick-voice I answer her greeting with: “Can you all handle things without me today? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve got some kind of stomach bug — it kept me up all night. If you need me to, I can come in, but if not, I think it might be best if I don’t spread this around the office, you know?”

She agrees and tells me to stay home. As soon as I hang up, a knot of guilt forms in my stomach. I hate lying to her. Hell, I hate using sick days even when I genuinely need to. But I can’t function like this. What work can I even do when I can’t type?

Long naps eat up most of the day until I get the call I’ve been waiting for; the Bubastion finally arrived. Tomorrow morning can’t come soon enough.

Refill day. Finally.

But, I’m a full-on cat now. Sure, a human-like one that stands upright and all, but a cat in every other way.

In the front hallway, I look from my paws to the door and back. I struggled my way into real outside-world clothes for this but I just can’t seem to get out the door.

It’s not the driving to the pharmacy that’s the problem — I’ve already learned how to manage that on a cat day. It’s the being out in public part that has me sweating through my paw-pads.

I can do this. I’ve done it before. Come on. Just open the door.

But when I do, I’m frozen with indecision. Do I go out and face the stares and judgements and laughter, all for a medication that some people say I don’t really need?

I try to snap my fingers to help me think, but I don’t have fingers anymore. Dammit.

Do I put up with the people treating me like I’m infectious or unpredictable, that I’ll scratch them and they’ll get this, too? It doesn’t matter how many doctors say that’s not how you get ailuranthropy. Some people still believe the cat-scratch “truthers” who perpetuate a myth that was used to drown people like me for centuries.

Maybe it would be better to stay inside where I know I’ll be safe. Maybe this will go away on its own. Maybe the Bubastion isn’t worth it.

Wait. I know these thoughts — they followed me all through college. They prevented me from getting treatment for years. I spent those years struggling and hating myself. They were never really saying the treatment wasn’t worth it; they were saying my life wasn’t worth it.

Fuck that.

I step outside and slam the door behind me. I’m not going to let anyone’s ridiculous thoughts — including my own — stop me from doing what I know will help me.

Ten minutes later, I stomp through the door of the pharmacy. Or try to at least; stomping isn’t really possible with cat feet. I walk straight back to the pickup counter through the center aisle, disregarding the whispers of the people I pass. I patiently wait my turn in the pickup line.

“I can help the next…” the pharmacy assistant’s voice trails off when he sees me, and it takes him a moment to remember to smile as I approach.

Smacking my front paws down on the counter, I look the assistant dead in the eye and tell him who I’m picking up for and what my birthdate is. He goes back and fumbles through a few bags before returning with mine.

“We have one prescription for you, it’s the—”

“Bubastion. Thanks, I know, I’ve been waiting for it.”

“Ah,” he replies and quickly looks away to finish processing it.

When he asks for a signature on the touchscreen, I leave a paw-print. He hands over the bag and mumbles something about having a nice day.

“Thanks, you too!” I reply in my work-voice and turn to leave. When I do, I bump into the next customer behind me: David.

“Sorry, David, I didn’t see you.” I’m not surprised he’s here; like I said, this is the only place in town that takes my employer’s health insurance. I smile at him.

“How do you — wait.” His eyes widen. “Holy shit. Freya? You’re… you’re a…?”

“Ailuranthrope, yes.”

He looks me up and down as the shock on his face morphs into disgust. “And you didn’t tell me? What if I’d caught it from you or something?”

“Well, David, I’ll put it like this.” And while he waits for my explanation, I lean towards him and hiss directly in his face.

As he stands there stunned, I walk by and pat him on the shoulder. “See you Monday!”

[christinesficrecs]

Hi! I am really thankful for everything you have been doing with this blog and i am hoping you can help me.

Can you give me some rec with some sterek where derek works in garage and stiles come in or something au preferably with werewolves and Derek as alpha and a happy ending? Thank you and have a good day <3

Sure!

Wolf Pack: Beacon Original by Beerwolves, fearfrost1211 | 33.1K

When his father landed the Deputy Chief of police position in Beacon Hills, Stiles moved to his new town gladly, embracing the chance of a fresh start. What he didn’t expect was to find himself hopelessly drawn to the gruff Vice President of the local motorcycle gang, the Wolf Pack. Derek Hale, resident bad boy of Beacon Hills, spent his time helping his sister lead the Wolf Pack and working on motorcycles at his family’s automotive garage. Then, one hot summer afternoon a bright-eyed boy walked into his life and turned his world upside down.

The Dealership by Kikileduc | 7.8K

Derek is a mechanic in Beacon Hills and also the local werewolf alpha.

Stiles is returning home after 15 years overseas. He just wants to get his mother's old Jeep running again.

And, Peter owns a bar, and some dept.

The mating rituals of the American werewolf by thedaughterofkings | 12.9K

When Stiles moves to Beacon Hills for his new job, he expects many things, but not to ask a wild wolf for directions. And that's just the first day.

Broken Car, Lemon Bar by inhystereks | 27.8K | Mature

Stiles got out of his car so whoever was coming wouldn't think he was just being an asshole and stopped in the middle of the road on purpose. He almost laughed when he caught sight of the approaching car. A black Camaro. Which meant Derek Hale was the one slowing down to pull up behind him. The town mechanic and also the scariest fucker around.

Oh, sweet irony.

He was exactly the person Stiles desperately needed and was also terrified of.

Perfect.

Stolen | 21.2K | Mature

When Roscoe starts making funny noises, Stiles take him to the garage to get fixed. But when he gets there he gets far more than he bargained for, like a brand new mechanic who looks like he just stepped out of Stiles' most intimate daydreams and might actually maybe be flirting with him.

Break Down, Build Up by moretomhardy | 6.3K | Explicit

Stiles has been in his new home of Beacon Hills for a grand total of one week when his Jeep breaks down on the side of the road after business hours. Lucky for him, Hale's Garage keeps long hours, and the owner is willing to give Stiles a hand, and then a whole lot more.

Fade and Then Return by paintedrecs | 15K

When Stiles reluctantly called for emergency roadside assistance to help with his beloved Jeep's dead battery, the last thing he expected was to form a connection with the Hot Battery Dude, who showed up in fluorescent yellow pants with heartbreaking news for his wallet and a surprising connection to his past.

It was only logical, then, for Stiles to invite him home for Christmas...right?

[fabfabanni]

Dungeons & Daddies fic 2/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)

I see there are a whopping 2 likes on my previous post, which is honestly 2 more than I thought I'd see. To celebrate that, here's part two of my silly Grant&Marco fic. Thanks for the brilliant people in DnDads discord who gave me the inspiration for this one! <3

---

I have a weird feeling about this. To start with, it’s ludicrous I agreed to go on a date. After pulling an all-nighter no less. I had to stop Lark from setting the shooting range on fire on two different occasions. One might think you wouldn’t need to babysit an adult man at his own company. One would be wrong. 

Marco smiles at me from the driver’s seat. I do feel a little bad about how I make him work for it. His words, repeated just a minute ago. He talks, I answer. I should be asking questions, and holding up my part of the conversation. It’s just, I’m fucking tired. Literally and figuratively. 

He drives well, the acceleration is smooth and I can feel him releasing his foot off the gas way before he needs to start braking. Dad would be impressed. Not that he’ll learn about this, date, thing. There’s no reason to get his hopes up over nothing, this thing will crash and burn before we finish the pancakes Marco keeps talking about.

“This is it,” Marco says, pointing a little ways ahead of us. I see the blue text on a white background and scoff loudly before I can reign my reaction in. 

“IHOP, really?” I seriously doubt we’ll even see the menu before this is over. I could be palming a handful of melatonin and crashing on my mattress to the sounds of my rainfall soundtrack right now. 

Marco’s hand settles behind the back of my chair as he parallel parks to a spot right in front of the diner. “It’s not IHOP, not as in International House of Pancakes. The letters stand for something else,” he says. “I forget what they stand for, but I’ve heard this place is all the rage. My friend has been raving about it for weeks.”

Somehow that rings a bell in my mind. I’m not sure why Marco’s explanation is familiar, I do not follow social media. I shrug off the thought and step out of Marco’s car. From the outside, it looks exactly like an IHOP. Maybe I’m being scammed? Now that I think of it, I can’t even recall what Marco’s position is at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. It has to be something important if he has clearance to my floor. Unless he stole a badge, twice since I saw him on Monday too. 

The inside of the restaurant is somehow the opposite of IHOP if that’s possible. Instead of faux leather seats and cheap laminate tables, nearly everything is made of warm, amber-colored wood. Marco greets the host behind a counter covered in moss and greenery. The space smells like fresh air and fruits, a vast difference to my memories of burner grease and lemon-scented cleaning spray. I swear I hear birds singing behind the greenery fixture that covers the whole back wall. 

“Li for two? Right this way,” the host says and takes two wooden menus from the counter. This place is ridiculous. Just the sort of place my uncle-.

“Grant? Is that you?”

I turn in slow motion towards the familiar voice. For a fraction of a second, I consider just leaving Marco here and bolting out of the door. Alas, however bad my reputation is, ditching a perfectly kind man without explanation is where I draw the line. 

“Uncle Henry,” I notice my pitch is higher than usual. Clearing my throat I continue, “What are you doing here?”

Henry wipes his hands on an apron and steps out of the open-concept kitchen. I see he hasn’t gotten rid of his Birkenstocks still. He looks good, not only because he is ridiculously healthy and doesn’t seem to age. He looks happy, too. Content. 

“What am I doing here, you ask?” His voice is bright and a little too loud, like always. “This is my restaurant, I Heart Our Planet. IHOP".” Uncle Henry sounds so proud as he gestures around him. There’s a diminishing, hidden part of me, that feels some kind of way seeing that. 

“That’s what it was!” Marco says behind me. 

Henry’s eyes fixate over my shoulder. I try to think of ways to lie myself out of this. Henry is not known to be subtle, and asking him to keep this a secret feels shitty. 

“Now now, who’s this gentleman?” he asks, with a smirk so wide it should be illegal. 

“Marco Li, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he answers and offers his hand to my uncle. “I’ve heard amazing things about this place, it seems you have something great going on here,” he continues. 

“I like this one,” Henry stage-whispers to me and I want to sink underground. He wraps an arm around both of our shoulders and ushers us towards a booth set up against the greenery wall. The table is unadorned, set with cloth napkins, sturdy-looking silverware and glasses that look like they’ve been made out of the bases of glass bottles. 

“I’ll leave you to peruse the menu,” Henry says as the host hands them over to us. “My favourite is the sunrise,” he points to the top of the menu, “but you boys order whatever you like. It’s on the house! And all plant-based, and very healthy for you of course.” 

Uncle Henry likes to ramble on, I let him. When he finally takes his leave, Marco turns to me and says, “What a funny coincidence this is your uncle’s place.”

“Yeah, funny,” I say.

Marco orders oat-banana pancakes with banana-peanut butter nice-cream and rooibos tea. I might get full on the hyphenations on that order alone. Instead of figuring out something to order for myself, I ask for the same.

“How was the night shift?” Marco asks when the waiter pours us both a glass of water and takes away our menus. 

“It was fine.”

“Don’t want to hear how my night was?” he asks.

“I assume you were sleeping.”

Marco rolls his eyes at me and for some god-forbidden reason, I find that attractive. This must be sleep deprivation. He takes off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt and I see a peek of his stomach over the low table. Now, that is a whole other thing. 

Settling the glasses back on, Marco continues. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? I was never very good at racket sports and this solo tabletop tennis I’m playing is getting a little tiring.”

I huff out an uncomfortable laugh and scratch my neck. The image he is painting of me is not very pretty. “Why did you ask me out then if I’m that insufferable?” I ask. There is no heat to my words, even though the sentiment is there. 

Marco tilts his head and there’s a soft smile forming on his lips. I kind of want to get lost in it. I shouldn’t, but I want to. Everything about this man feels different. He seems sincere, but I can’t quite put a finger on why that is.

“The things I’ve heard about you are not flattering,” he starts. I think my original guess that this date thing will be done before we even get to the pancakes is not that far off. 

He continues, “Still, I can’t help but think there must be more to you than that. I want to get to know the man behind the rough reputation and short surly sentences.” Marco takes a sip of his water and smiles mischievously. “Also, I think you are really fucking cute.”

“Here are your pancakes,” Henry singsongs right next to us, handing over the plates. His voice is even louder than usual if that’s possible. My uncle’s smile is so big it’s a surprise there are no tears at the corners of his lips. As I lift the cloth napkin off the table to make space for the plate, I can’t help but think he must have heard what Marco just said.

[welcometololaland]

Hello Lola, and a very happy Nice Asks Day to you ♥️

Weird question, but I kind of want to know -- how do you pick what scents you associate with characters?

When we write, I'm certain everyone has a set of scents they like to associate with the character they're writing (like ACD in my brain always smells like coffee, a little cinnamon, and laundry detergent). And I'm just curious, for the couples and characters you write, what do you gravitate to and why? :)

oh orchid this is such a lovely ask and not something i feel terribly qualified to answer! i have to admit...my olfactory sense is not the strongest (i had heaps of ear, nose and throat problems as a kid lmao and i've never been good at breathing in through my nose LMAO). i recently went down a fragrance rabbit hole with @celeritas2997 so let's see if she will agree with me. i'll try to describe the notes i think i would associate with these characters, rather than their characteristic scents (like coffee), because that's how my brain works lol.

alex - i subscribe to the santal 33 theory because i do think that something woody, spicy and musky suits alex. nothing too deep - i think something super warm and deep would overpower the zest he has for life. i think cedarwood, maybe sandalwood with a few florals thrown in.

henry - i always write henry as smelling of sandalwood and citrus - a masculine scent with the zing of something a little unexpected - but i actually think he could go even zestier. maybe it's because i like the idea of henry's personal scent attempting to counteract his bad days, idk, but i see jasmine and lemon, maybe blackcurrant on top of a woody base.

carlos - carlos is patchouli or vetiver for SURE. i would say perhaps patchouli and vanilla, maybe something fresh on the top. earthy, masculine, warm and deep. i think i'm basing this purely on the way he fit out the townhouse - it was so dark and moody in there! i think the loft is so perfect because it shows the big, bright, ball of energy tk has brought into his life, which brings me to...

tk - i can see tk as someone with a musky undertone but a heck of a lot of sweet as well. maybe citrus, jasmine or ginger for a little freshness but it would need that almost candy-like sweetness on top. there's a le labo scent called cedrat 37 - i can see tk as that.

SO INTRIGUED TO HEAR OTHER THEORIES ON THIS PLEASE PIPE UP

[rockingrobin69]

Off

The orange doesn’t taste like orange, but it doesn’t taste like anything else either. A little sour, a little sweet. A little bit yellow, for some reason. A little strange.

Draco takes another bite, shrugs. It’s fresh, is what matters. Fresh and Draco has been, well, in his corner all day long and forgot to, forgot to look up. To breathe. Usually that’s Harry’s job, reminding him, but Harry’s out today, just him here. And the orange, bright in the near-empty basket. So Draco took it, and he meant it as well: took it and will eat it, even if it feels… yellow. Even if it’s a little off. Perhaps he’ll like it all the more for it. Maybe he’s a little orange as well, a little nuts that is, and someone might find him tasting slightly yellow.

Juice trickles down his chin. His cheek sticky with it, orangey-fresh. There’s something to winter, Draco thinks, something tangy and bright, a bit like an orange. Outside the window the sky is plastic grey, the branches of the tree all moving, a peculiar, heart-wrenching dance.

It’s only Wednesday. A hump of a day on the shoulders of a small, unimportant week. And Draco has been too, small, and not very important, curled in his blanket on the sofa, frowning at the ceiling. But it’s okay. He’s allowed to be small. Not odd, is it? Not too strange. Sometimes you think you’re eating an orange, but then it turns out it was a lemon all along.

He looks down at the half fruit. Possibly a tangerine. Definitely not—he’d know if it was a lemon. He’d know, because he isn’t mad, because lemons are sour and very much themselves. And Draco is too, he thinks: himself. The root of all his problems, and the solution to some. Himself.

In, out. Not so overly complicated after all. You take a bite, and then another, and another till you’re full. Life is just like an orange: sticky, and strange, and small, and in his hands.

The orange—Draco blinks—almost gone, and possibly not exactly an orange. Doesn’t taste like much anymore. And Draco likes it. Just like life, unimportant and a little off, and he likes it.

Looking up: he’ll shuffle back to his corner, to wrap under his blanket and be small. Thank you, maybe-orange, with the nice smelling peel. For the breathing.  

[colorsofmyseason]

color me red

Summary: Every Arsenal player has different taste.

Pairing: None

As usual, part of my supernatural au!

-

Sometimes, Leandro wonders what he's done in all those centuries he's lived to experience such luck. He's gone through different identities, various jobs, even multiple clubs in his current life as a footballer, but he's never felt so comfortable, so belonging before. Maybe because there are a bunch of other supers at Arsenal. Maybe because they know and accept him for what he is, and don't even bat an eye when he brings a pack of blood to the breakfast table instead of a plate of beans on toast. Or maybe because they don't mind him taking a sip here and there whenever he needs it. 

Alright, so maybe there are lots of alternatives to feeding nowadays – blood packs, synthesized blood, blood pills – and Leandro will take those without comment. But he also won't refuse the opportunity to get fresh blood if he can. And now he has a myriad of beautiful men to choose from…

Martin tastes like expensive champagne. Light and sweet, flowing down Leandro's throat effortlessly like a warm drink on a cold day, yet intoxicating, making Leandro wish to drink him again and again. Yet he rarely does, because it's too delicious for his own good. He fears he doesn't deserve to experience such taste in his life.

(Also, the sight of Martin's pale white throat always catches his breath whenever he plans to do so, and he doesn't want his fang marks to ruin the beauty of such a specimen, but that's a different story).

Kieran's is different – thicker in consistency, definitely not as sweet as Martin, maybe a little piquant, but it's the aftertaste that leaves Leandro fascinated. The Scottish full-back always gives him the feeling of eating a full course homecooked meal, tasty and hearty and fulfilling, and Leandro always thinks that he won't need to feed for days after he has Kieran for a meal.

Aaron is lemon, lime, orange… anything citrusy really, so fresh and bright, but with a hint of spice underneath it. If sunshine can be turned into a flavor, Leandro thinks it must taste exactly like Aaron's blood, and it warms him up thoroughly inside like the sun coming out after a bad storm. On the other hand, Bukayo is a little too sweet for his liking, since the kid literally tastes like a truckful of cotton candy, and while it isn't exactly unpleasant, Leandro fears he might end up with diabetes at some point if he feeds from Bukayo too often. Okay, well, not literally since he can't really get diabetes, but still.

Mikel has this rich, exquisite flavor that reminds Leandro of fine dining (and yes, he's been to such places, mostly to keep up appearances, but still). And the Spaniard's blood is the closest thing to perfection he has ever tasted. Just the right amount of spice, the right texture, the right level of sweetness. Normally managers are off limits, but Mikel says he deserves it after a string of fine performances, and Leandro believes him. 

The one holding the title for the spiciest blood in the squad must be Granit. Maybe that has something to do with his personality, the vampire doesn't know. But he tastes fiery and strong and sharp, to the point it nearly scares Leandro to feed from him again. But the Swiss midfielder will just brush it off and calmly "persuade" Leandro to feed from him, and rinse and repeat.

Ben is…special. Leandro has fed from him many times since their Brighton days, and his blood always tastes the same – plain, a little dry, completely devoid of any kinds of flavor, like unseasoned food. Perhaps it has something to do with the defender being one of the most nonchalant people he knows, but it's still fascinating how someone can be so effortlessly bland. Not that Leandro doesn't enjoy it, though – he likes to savor the taste (or lack of it) in his mouth, marveling at how different it is from any other kind of blood he's drunk.

There are other guys too, with all their respective flavors and quirks, and Leandro can honestly write a whole book describing all of those, alongside a tier list of the tastiest blood within the squad. He won't do it for real, though. Not that he's scared they will find out – they're all good guys, and often make vampire jokes to him out of fun, but he just enjoys getting various tastes to feed so it won't get boring, and he appreciates his teammates for providing him with that.

And he honestly cannot ask for more.

(Also, if he much prefers the first two people more than anyone else, for reasons other than feeding, that's his personal business.)

fin

[uroboros-if]

Omg I'm speechless.

The background, the transition, the codex? Everything was just so pretty, different and chefs kiss 💋 .

Thank you for the hard work put into this, and I can't wait to play the rest of the chapters. Also, torn between the ROs...I need to know more about them, plzzz anything, even crumbs.

I'm so glad you recognize and like the design! I can't tell you how much time and tears I spent learning how to get all of them working (somewhat) 🥹💕

Oh, I am so awful with coming up with what to say about each of them that would be interesting! If you ever have any specific questions to grill them on, send them in!

For now, I'll be assigning each RO a body wash/shampoo from my bathroom! Maybe that'll entice you, or give you a vague sense of who they are!

SALVATORE. This one's easy! I have a body wash simply titled "Sun," which comes in a cute, orange-pinkish package with a dash of golden specks. It is the scent of orange flower and sandalwood. I also have Sunshine Mimosa, with both the packaging and the substance itself a lovely orange. Lastly, I also have honeysuckle and orange burst, which is a yellowish-orange that has such a pretty substance! They're all quite strong, though.

LUCIEL. A nice and elegant Silk and Magnolia. The smell isn't overwhelming, but mild and pleasant! Also not over-the-top like some of the others. I also have lavender and vanilla, which of course comes in a lavender and white bottle with a gold accent. Lastly, for a more interesting scent, I have neroli blossom and bergamot, which also comes and simple but tastefully clear bottle! The kind of scents and wash you'd expect from a person who has it all together.

CIOCANA. Oh, so here are the really fancy scents. I have Steeped Invigoration, a dizzying blend of rose, tangerine and tea, and it is so very pretty with flowers and a tangerine strewn on its front! There is arabica coffeefruit and waterlily, which comes in a rich red bottle adorned with leaves and what appears to be the arabica coffee. Lastly, I've got white strawberry and sweet mint, enclosed in a clear bottle and rosy motifs! These all sound fancy, but they definitely give me a headache, since I have a sensitive nose.

ALESSI. Definitely have to be some refreshing scents! There is rosemary and lemon, which is a shampoo that comes in a BIG, clear container with lively lemons and greenery! Fresh eucalyptus and mint, which is so invigorating, just as bright and alive as its bottle! This wouldn't be complete with something fruity for Alessi, so juicy pomegranate and mango definitely suits them! I think I typically like these best, since they're simple but enough to wake me up in the morning!

There are a lot here, but I promise I don't have a problem! Most of these have already been used up, and I just remembered a couple I've had recently! They are, however, localized entirely in my bathroom. 🥹

Sorry this is so tangential and random, but again, feel free to send in any specific questions and I'll be happy to answer!! Thank you so much for asking ✨💕

[danbisroom]

Ep. 17 - If I can meet you beyond the seasons, could I call your name?

Hello my beloved fellow souls,

welcome back to Danbi’s Room, your weekly dose of safe space. Go grab a cup of something warm and get yourself cosy.

I must start with apologies since I disappeared for the past three weeks. I am very sorry, it was a rather difficult time for me, I made some life-changing decisions and I struggled a lot with my mental health. Now I feel better, I’m recovering and facing new things, and, honestly, this feels like a good, big breakthrough. I’ve never felt this fragile and vulnerable in my entire life, my heart is completely bare and as and as frightening as it can be it also feels like a fresh start. I can finally blossom and shine and actually be myself, stripping myself off of the countless burdens that have been stored inside my souls since before I was born. It’s difficult and tiring but I can do it, now, I’m ready. I got some very nice people, some right beside me, some afar, but nonetheless, I know we fill each other with love. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s scary, even when we only want to give everything up. Sometimes you just want to run away, run away from the world, run away from yourself. But run…where to? Where can you go? Is there a safe place anymore? Where do we go now? It seems like the only shelter can be nothingness. Blacking out every three days and sleeping for a year until, hopefully, we can wake up brand new. Then again what’s there to miss when the sun isn’t bright anymore, when it doesn’t caress your cheeks, when you can’t feel the seasons shifting, inside and outside of you. Why bother?

I don’t know.

I don’t have an answer.

I wanna bother because I still want to eat snacks watching Ghibli movies on Sundays, I still want to read stories together and talk about them for hours, I still wanna swim into the sea. These are the small things that make my life worth living. Hopefully, one day, I will get to laugh with my husband about how awkward we were on our first date and I will be able to witness the crazy colour era on my teen-age kids. Maybe I will pick my own tomatoes sipping lemon water among morning dew. I love these little things with all my heart, little things that are like fireflies at dusk in your flower garden. They serve no goals, they’re not slaves to human greed, they’re just beautiful and lovely. Often we hear we shouldn’t rely on little things, we’re told other people can’t be the reason we live and smile. So why should we live then? What other grandiose meaning is there? As much as my ambition demands bits of my souls every day, as much as it eats me alive, I’m still aware that even the Pyramids will turn into colossal wrecks buried by the sand of the desert. How many empires have we forgotten already?

So why should we live? Just to live. Just to experience and cherish these small things occasionally surrounded by revolutions. We already have enough pain, too much to be so eager to inflict more on ourselves. We’re constantly mourning the options we haven’t chosen and there’s no escape from that. But at the end of the day we must get to tomorrow, even if crawling while being hit by a thunderstorm. I’ll do it, so I can feel the wind of October kissing my skin once more.

You can always call my name and I’ll call yours until we find each other, finally being side by side, forever, even when we are specks of dust floating in the universe, I hope we can float together. And then we can form a new star together and shine for a long time until time doesn’t exist anymore. That would be nice.

A nice little thing.

Today’s song recommendation is 白日 (Hakujitsu) by King Gnu. Pure poetry delving into these questions and matters.

I hope you enjoyed this episode and that you have a beautiful week ahead of you!

I’ll see you in the next one, big hug!

With love, yours,

Danbi

[theflyingfeeling]

regarding to the shared flat fic ideas: something with drunken confessions?? and maybe it gets all awkward and the others being done with them and all thst?

so...maybe it goes like this:

One week into the California song camp and the band accidentally drinks too much wine at dinner: Niko turns all giggly, Joonas is flirting with the guy he met in the men's room, and Joel is arguing with a loud seagull that came to hang out behind the window by their table. Aleksi and Olli, though? They start exchanging warm looks over the table more frequently as the evening progresses, whispering their stupid inside jokes the others never even bothered to try to understand. Maybe their feet touch under the table, way too many times for it to be an accident. Maybe one rests their head on the other's shoulder on the taxi ride back home. Maybe they lean onto each other as they stumble upstairs to the bedrooms. Olli knows he should at least try to resist when Aleksi drags him to his bedroom instead of letting Olli retreat to his own. Maybe the look in Aleksi's bright, shining eyes has got a hold of Olli and his rapidly thumping heart, and the words just come out of his mouth before he can stop them. Maybe there's sloppy, drunken making out afterwards, although Olli isn't all so sure about that (maybe it was just a dream).

The following week they're barely able to look at each other, the memories of that night coming right back whenever their eyes accidentally meet (oh, how Olli misses the blue of Aleksi's). The others are quick to notice something's off but decide to not intervene, thinking it's best they solve it by themselves (they're dying to help them out actually, but this is Tommi's orders, all the way from Oulu). Maybe there are more secret looks excanged as the week goes on, perhaps even a silent chuckle at the other's joke or a soft nudge as they walk side by side to some local attraction near the Hollywood Hills Joonas is dragging them to. Maybe they stay behind the others, intentionally walking a little slower. They're still far too scared to say much of anything to each other, but maybe it's enough to just have the other there, right next to you, after a long week of yearning and worrying. Maybe holding their hand a little is a start (of what, Olli doesn't dare imagine just yet).

The Sunday of their second weekend in L.A. is chilly and kinda rainy, so it's decided they're staying in. Aleksi offers to look up his best pasta recipe, but he couldn't possibly go to the grocery store alone in such a big city, could he? (Tommi's orders also include they should always go out in pairs at least.) After all, he could really use a second opinion on which lemon looks the most juiciest or which pasta shape to choose, and maybe the others are occupied with tasks of their own, so Olli must offer his helping hand for Aleksi to hold all the way to their local super market and back. Maybe they slowly fall back into their easy Olli-and-Aleksi routine of silly jokes and soft smiles and physical intimacy, no longer caring nor knowing how to hide how much they've been missing each other, even though they've spent every day for the past few weeks in each other's immediate proximity. Maybe they stop at the door of their rental home away from home, hoping the other would say something, but suddenly the words that were so easy to blurt out the other night now seem to be stuck somewhere down their throats (or maybe they're right on the tip of their tongues and all it would take to lure them out was just a little more encouragement in the form of another tongue).

The evening is spent in the dim lighting of the kitchen (dim because they haven't figured out how to turn on the ceiling lamp), grating lemon peel and crushing garlic and torning fresh basil. Maybe they're standing close enough to each other to feel the other's warmth against their own arm (the kitchen is tiny, so who's to judge them?), but not close enough for the other to notice how you're trembling, or so Olli hopes (he's wrong). When their dinner preparations advance to a more passive stage, maybe the glow of the range hood light, although not the most romantic one, is just bright enough to reveal the whirlwind of emotions raging in both their eyes. Maybe the rain strumming on the windowsill in rhythm with Joel's acoustic guitar sounding from the living room is just comforting enough to have their shoulders relax; just homely enough to make them both forget they've travelled to the other side of the globe to be exactly where they've needed to be for so long.

"Are we done running in circles yet?" Aleksi asks, his quiet, familiar voice muffling all the other noises currently hitting Olli's eardrums.

A sigh of relief emptying Olli's lungs of air, then a sudden, yet long-awaited feeling of warmth and hope and love filling them again. Olli doesn't know which one of them leans in first (or maybe they both do, on a silent agreement), but once their mouths are reunited at last, there's no more uncertainty.

It is then Olli knows for sure; it had not been merely a dream.

[not-poignant]

32 & 62 pls!

32: What is your favourite color?

It honestly changes, but anything generally green or blue (especially a peacock blue) is a safe bet. I also really love bright reds. But there's no colour I don't love, and I don't have an exact favourite. :D Right now I'm really enjoying grass greens.

62: What makes you happy?

That's honestly a question for the ages, because Major Depressive Disorder means sometimes nothing makes me happy, and not consistently.

But... in general, when I'm not in an episode, I am easily pleased, though it may not seem like it in my social media, because I often forget to post when I'm happy, because I'm too busy living in the moment-

The way jarrah trees all blossom at the same time.

A perfectly ripe peach

Raspberries

Fresh sheets

When Moet snuggles into the small of my back in winter

My other cat Maybe sitting on the top of my chair and nuzzling my head

Shibari and kinbaku

A really good brewed cup of oolong or green tea

Crunching on ice

Rewatching my favourite shows

Starting a new game of Stardew Valley

Talking with my friends

Seeing my Mum on Fridays

The sound of black cockatoos as they fly overhead, heavy and proud

The feel of the ocean on my feet and ankles at night, especially on a warm summer's night, when the sea is cool but not cold

Galeforce winds, and the shuddering of the house at the mercy of the world

Hail

Thunder and lightning

Clouds, especially during summer sunsets

Lemon and mango sorbet

When an art piece starts to come together

Connecting through my writing

Knowing that I actually wrote something pretty well

Sank! toys

My bookshelves

My Studio Ghibli collection and Studio Ghibli movies in general

Researching and reading non-fiction

Alternatively reading mindless and fluffy or whumpy manwha

The feeling of my legs after moisturising them

Stepping into a hot shower in winter

The feeling of a plane taking off (I used to hate it!)

The feeling of a plane landing when you know you're home again

Seeing the final street back to my house at the end of the day

The light on the hills

The lizards in our garden

The ladies at our local bookstore, who know us by name

Decent biltong

Crepes with lemon and sugar

A junior whopper with heavy onion from Hungry Jack's

Simpatico with my doctors

Silvia's art

My liked Tiktoks page

The way the MRI machine can sound like a janky dubstep concert and how funny that is to me.

When I make my therapist laugh (x.x)

Art supplies, washi tape, and stickers

Murderbot

Bun bo hue, my favourite comfort food

A perfect hot beef (or pork) and gravy roll (or chips and gravy)

Feeling accomplished

When mutuals and other folks create things, like writing or art or posts or theses.

The way stalks of grass, empty of seeds, glow in the afternoon sun

And...so many more things.

The world is an exercise in finding more and more reasons to be happy, or things to be pleased by, and it's a never-ending exercise. I try my hardest. (Sadly my mind is just as good at finding things to be upset by, but like, at least I keep looking for things that make me happy).

-

From the horrible questions meme! (Except these questions weren't horrible at all!)