#whoever wrote it this is a work of art a masterpiece

[amoonfullofstars]

me walking in the kitchen pretending to be normal after i've spent the last hour reading that trucoop fanfic from the zine plsss i'm going insane (and i'm not done reading it ahgg)

this is the only thing i can think about rn

[yorutsuki]

「 ✦ Artistic Notes ✦ 」

↳ It started with a small drawing and a compliment, which then grew into a anonymous friendship.

Michealangelo x Reader

Tags:

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Adding the finishing touches, you sighed with relief as you stood up—some joints cracking from the sudden change in movement.

You looked down at your chalk-art masterpiece. It was probably one of the most detailed pieces you've done with the compressed powder. The lines were smooth and the shading was just the right color and opacity—the features were visible and at the right proportion and angles.

You grinned, satisfied with your work but frowned as you checked your clock. It was already around 1 am.

Quickly giving a small prayer to whoever rules over luck, to grant you the luck of it not raining before heading off the roof and to your apartment.

Yes, you lived in a small apartment fit for one, though you had got lucky as you managed to snag the penthouse room which granted you access to the roof where you could thus spread your amazing skills.

...

Unfortunately, the next morning you realized you had forgot to bring the chalk down with you before heading to bed.

Quickly you made a dash upstairs to make sure nobody stole it. Even though you were the only one who had access to the roof, there had been news of sightings about some gang named 'the foot', honestly, it was a stupid name.

Who'd wanna be referred to as a foot? That's one of the most sweaty and disgusting limbs on the body...—well for most.

Yeah, the clan could have better things to do than steal chalk, but you didn't want to take chances as chalk these days are expensive as shit—with inflation going on and all.

Finally making it up to the roof, you quickly spotted the box of 24 pieces, though you also spotted a colorful piece next to yours.

Quickly scanning the area for anyone, you made your way towards your supplies and the new addition.

It was a little drawing of a chibi turtle with a orange mask saying, 'That looks sick 10/10!' with a thumbs up.

Your heart warmed at the small message though you didn't know how to feel about it. How did someone manage to get on your roof?

....

I meannnn...Is it really that bad? They left you a cute message and they seemed to be quite the cute artist.

With a small smile, you took the box of chalk and went down to your room once more—waiting until the night falls once more.

-----------------------------

With a giddy feeling, you quickly made your ways towards your roof (yes, you've claimed it as yours 😈) and starting drawing another piece under the old one, though this time with a small message.

'Thank you, thank you! I quite like it myself :)

U don't seem too bad either.'

You were contemplating if you shoudl change it or write something more. Not wanting to dote on it any longer, you ignored your overthinking before heading back down stairs—a excited smile plastering your face as you were eager for the next morning to come.

-----------------------------

Your smile grew as you made your way towards your roof and saw that there was a new message.

':O

I tried it out, it may not be the best but its something? :')'

Right beside the messy writing, there was drawn the same orange-masked ninja-like turtle. The drawing was much more detailed though as it had more shading and colorful highlights. The chalk piece itself was a bit messy but it made it look like a fun collage piece.

...

Later in the evening, near the same time, you were on the roof top thinking of what to reply;

'Dang, you ever heard color theory? Also, you seem to really like turtles' You wrote, drawing a small chibi version of your oc—just a bit underneath the anon's chalk piece.

'now we wait.' You thought.

...

The exchange of notes between you and anon had been going on for days at this point, and soon a few days had turned into a few weeks.

The two of you had gotten closer and learnt more about each other; Anon liked the color orange, had three other brothers and a cat, loved dancing and skate boarding, etc. At this rate, it was safe to say you were like very good 'online' bestfriends.

It also seemed like luck was always by your side on the roof at night, as not once had it rained before either one of you got to see the others message.

Unfortunately, that would also be cut short as your luck ran out this night.

You waited on your couch, catching up on some good series that you procrastinated on for a good chunk. Finally, it came to quite a exciting scene, but thats when you heard small taps on your windows—it eventually growing from single small taps to multiple patters at a fast rate.

You decided not to pay mind to it as the rain never really bothered you. Well, until now.

Quickly realizing your naivity, you threw your blanket to the side and headed towards the roof—wanting to make sure your messages were preserved.

As you made it to the roof, you had a hard time navigating as the rain poured down harder by the second, though it didn't hinder your vision to the point where you couldn't see the dark silohuette on your roof.

You carefully grabbed anything within your reach before carefully making your way towards the said figure. With each step, the outlines became clearer until what you saw before you wasn't a human, but a mutant turtle.

You stood a bit aways, leaving space between the two of you, and fortunately, it didn't notice you yet. Though something about it made you feel..sad?

The mutant kneeled down to the ground, seeming to inspect the once beautiful chalk pictures before it sighed and got up.

You furrowed your brows, squinting your eyes to try getting a better view of it, though it seemed to beat you to it..

You froze in place, tightening your grip on your 'weapon' as the mutant's gaze stayed frozen onto you.

"Uhh...This is just a dream!" He said before slowly backing away.

You snapped out of your daze. For some reason your body inched closer towards him, something felt...familiar? And that's when it hit you,

"Mikey?" You spoke, dropping your weapon.

The turtle was taken aback before inching just a bit closer. "{Y/N}?"

.

.

.

A/N: UDVYUWBIUVUYAVD, I can't, it was sooo much better in my head. This fic was supposed to be short, concise and sweet but it wasn't. 😭, My boy doesn't deserve this.

I promise i'll make another one. Feel free to comment any character suggestions or scenerios, my inbox is always open!

[saiaisaiko]

The Forsaken Jade Statue

Hey Lovelies! I wrote a Oneshot so it would finally leave my brain alone. This is an AU where the jade twins are a generation older and Lan Zhan got cursed and was forgotten by the world. Stuff still happened and Wei Wuxian had to deal with it alone, until he couldn't anymore and asked for help where he was sure at least the Wens would be protected. Anyway. I hope you enjoy this and have a nice day.

Edit as I have forgotten it originally. This whole thing was inspired by this beautiful art piece made by @lotuslate

He was stopped in his tracks by an invisible force, curving away from him. Intrigued he stopped. As he was secluded in an array that formed a barrier in the other curving direction, this was unexpected and interesting. Well, he was not going to get punished more, if he would explore it and even if, it would be a change of his monotony.

It was easy work to make a hole in the array and slip through. The barrier either had been made whimsically, by somebody inexperienced or carelessly, or it was weakened over time and never touched upon after the sunshot campaign. Whatever the case, he got into the clearing this barrier was shielding, not only from entrance, but also from sight.

Surprised by the tall grass, easily reaching his hip and only growing more in height towards the middle of the circular clearing until it was almost up to his chin, he stopped only one step behind the barrier. The grass was glowing faintly, tingling in his nerves and teasing his dormant meridians when his skin brushed the vegetation.

Spiritual grass like this only grew in places, where a spiritual energy was abundant in the environment. Usually, it was surrounding graves of powerful cultivators, overgrowing the graveyards of the sects and clans, but sometimes, especially in the wake of the sunshot campaign, it would grow where much of it was released. Wei Wuxian had never seen spiritual grass so vibrantly green and grown to such heights. The most impressive growth he had seen beforehand, had been grown to the height of his knees and that had been the surrounding grass of the cold springs which grew to this height because it had the environmental yang energy of this sacred place.

Carefully pushing the grass aside, ignoring the feelings he felt when his skin made contact with the highly concentrated spiritual energy, he made his way to the middle of the clearing, where the spiritual energy must be coming from. Two trees stood there, vibrantly green branches grown into each other, forming a high arch above the suddenly clear ground, vines falling lusciously in a curtain, surrounding the arched-over space between the trees, where only small blades of the spiritual grass grew. Instead, the place was occupied by a slightly moss-covered but still the most beautiful jade statue the cultivator had ever seen.

The jade had been masterfully chiseled into a beautiful ethereal man, sitting with perfect posture, his back straight, his head slightly bowed. The finely detailed strands of his hair flowed softly in a breeze, his eyes partially closed. The robes were detailed, his hands hovering over a guqin made out of black jade, fingertips in the middle of plucking the strings. Whoever made the statue had a good eye for details, the forehead ribbon caught in a soft breeze, tangling with the hair, the sleeves billowing softly with the caught air of the breeze the artist had imagined. It looked like the man had gone about his day and was captured in the precious stone. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship and artistry that was humbling to stand by, the simulacrum of the liveliness of the jade enhanced by the strong spiritual energy permeating the whole clearing.

It probably was a marking for a grave, but the mass of spiritual energy was impressive. Hesitant he settled beside the statue, sitting down on the soft mossy ground and leaning on one of the broad trees. He jolted slightly, when the tree itself emitted spiritual energy, it flowing into him through his clothes. He couldn’t ignore the feelings filling him anymore.

[curlyhairedbibliophile]

Cover Art | Yellowface by R.F. Kuang

What’s the harm in a pseudonym? Bestselling sensation Juniper Song is not who she says she is, she didn’t write the book she claims she wrote, and she is most certainly not Asian American—in this chilling and hilariously cutting novel from the #1 New York Times bestselling author R. F. Kuang in the vein of White Ivy and The Other Black Girl. Authors June Hayward and Athena Liu were supposed to be twin rising stars: same year at Yale, same debut year in publishing. But Athena’s a cross-genre literary darling, and June didn’t even get a paperback release. Nobody wants stories about basic white girls, June thinks. So when June witnesses Athena’s death in a freak accident, she acts on impulse: she steals Athena’s just-finished masterpiece, an experimental novel about the unsung contributions of Chinese laborers to the British and French war efforts during World War I. So what if June edits Athena’s novel and sends it to her agent as her own work? So what if she lets her new publisher rebrand her as Juniper Song—complete with an ambiguously ethnic author photo? Doesn’t this piece of history deserve to be told, whoever the teller? That’s what June claims, and the New York Times bestseller list seems to agree. But June can’t get away from Athena’s shadow, and emerging evidence threatens to bring June’s (stolen) success down around her. As June races to protect her secret, she discovers exactly how far she will go to keep what she thinks she deserves.

Release date | May 16, 2023 Goodreads

[rowanaelinn]

Aelin Galathynius & The Cadre. [snippet & moodboard]

Manon Blackbeak (Author of the biography Aelin Galathynius: The Wildfire): Everyone wanted to be like Aelin. How could they not? She had money, she had success, she was confident and managed to make everyone love her.

Lorcan Salvaterre (Bandmate and Friend): When you met Aelin, you knew it was a once in a lifetime type of experience. You could feel it. Everything about Aelin screamed difference in the way she stood, in the way she sang, hell, even in the way she breathed.

Lysandra Ennar (Best Friend): Everyone saw Aelin Galathynius, everyone loved Aelin Galathynius. But not enough people knew and loved Aelin. At first, they were one and the same but the more the years passed, the more I felt them becoming two different people.

Manon Blackbeak: Not enough people saw more than the rockstar in her. They didn’t see more than the woman who got a color named after her eyes, they didn’t see the woman. They only saw the legend, and I think it is a big part of her downfall.

Fenrys Moonbeam (Bandmate and Friend): Aelin was a storm. She came in, you were ecstatic because you knew you were living something extraordinary and faster than you could react, everything around you was destroyed. She was like this, it was a all or nothing kind of package.

Interviewer: And who do you think knew Aelin? Who was that one person in her life that changed everything for her?

Manon Blackbeak: Rowan Whitethorn, her bandmate. They wrote songs together… Only two people who shared the same soul could have written masterpieces like they did.

Lorcan Salvaterre: Pretty sure it was Ro.

Lysandra Ennar: I’m not sure she’d want me to answer this.

Lyria Whitethorn: Who knew her best? Oh, that one’s easy. It was Rowan.

(This is a fic I have started working on, inspired by the novel Daisy Jones & The Six.)

@sheharahu // @morganofthewildfire // @thestoriesyoutell // @fromthelibraryofemilyj // @swankii-art-teacher // @itsforeverinnocent-blog // @becarefuloflove // @imnotsogoodatthis // @rowaelinismyotp // @a-court-of-milkandhoney // @feysand-loml // @themoonthestarsthesuriel // @live-the-fangirl-life // @story-scribbler // @loves-books // @fangirlprincess09 // @theysayitscrazy // @hellasblessed // @danibutterr // @endlessdaydream // @thegreyj // @gracie-rosee // @acreativelydifferentlove // @cretaceous-therapod // @louphantomdragon // @miss-lil-red // @backtobl4ck // @whoever-you-choose-to-love

[jesterclouds]

! Please read this with caution as it is filled with Security Breach spoilers !

I finished the masterpiece of brain rot *-* (of course i have more that i'll tell of later hehehe) I named them 'Art Rocker Regi' with their infamous quote of "Thats amazing, little Art'Star!" or a different version of Freddy's 'Way to go, Super Star!", so basically, they replace super star with either art'star or rockstar. They also have a stomach hatch like Freddy, but it was used to carry art supplies as their own attraction was an art area, and they perform on guitar (as shown in the picture). One of his favorite things was being used as a kid's canvas, he just loved being other people's art. Regi was built up from the same base from the time she was built, which was around the time Freddy was first made. This caused many problems with the fan system they had, making them sound and look like they had rasped breathing at any random time.

If they were to be in the game, they would be on Gregory's side. Gregory could use him as a hiding place as well, but not very often because she can occasionally bust other animatronics into walls in the same or other rooms with their tail. I imagined that since in the game you give Freddy parts of his friends to upgrade him that at some point Regi would be targeted by others and severely injured beyond a point of repair that Gregory could help. This would prompt Regi to tell Gregory that they will miss him and to give Freddy her tail to help along the way. Of course, with all the alternate endings, I'm not sure if I would have this happen to them no matter what or if it's just certain endings or paths.

Another version of them in the game would be Gregory finding them broken in an area off limits to guests, but a room staff never uses. They would be mildly fixable with problems that can't be fixed, so they would still have their breathing problem and probably some rusted spots. He would help Gregory back to Freddy and throughout the game. Freddy would be happy to see Regi as she disappeared and was supposedly never found. Her tail hits would be a bit weaker if they were found broken as rust would've set to their tail function, slowing their hit pace. In either situation they would be hooked up to Gregory's Faz watch, in which you could occasionally call them to you for protection, but they wouldn't always get the signal. His attraction would still be up in the broken version, just like how Bonnie's was still up even though he disappeared.

As a plus of their old base being used to rebuild them through the years, in either version Vanny or Vanessa would be unable to control or tell Regi to find Gregory and bring him to them. No one ever thought to add newer technology to them because their A.I (as well as a possible child soul, I've read a cool theory on the original child souls just losing their grips on the animatronics, but still being there, and I've read one saying that Michael had become a part of Freddy, and either was just protecting Gregory or saw Gregory and thought of his brother and didn't want him to be hurt again) somehow learned to have them show emotion, seemingly update its tech on its own (it didn't, it just started working like a human brain essentially), learned to do what the others could do, and many other things that it could do and only seemingly, but couldn't do. This could also help in the William trying to control Freddy part as it would block out William more and they would have a stronger mind of their own.

Ok, I think I've ranted enough about this--- (Man, is this fully what brain rot is? Ya get stuck to something and can't get enough or what, someone please help lol) Didn't mean to write that much or add as I went. Guess it all just came together as I wrote. Well, I hope whoever sees this had fun reading my rant of a brain. XD

[baubabble]

“Subtle Differences” Part II - Hotch x F!Reader

PART I  FINAL PART

Summary:  As you continue working the case in Seattle, you begin to notice more and more that Hotch is staying close to you. With the occasional glance, you start to think that maybe his feelings are real, but doubts start to creep up. When another woman goes missing, you and the team must connect the dots faster to save her and find the unsub before it’s too late. 

Word Count: 3743

Warning: Typical CM Violence

Song I Wrote To: “Honest Man” by Ben Platt

Note: Ooh, part 2! This one is the “filler” i guess. Part three is when we get the team in action and a little more hotch x reader moments that I love. That should be up later this week! Also, I have watched this show A LOT, but presenting profiles isnt easy so i did my best. Also, the painting i reference is not real.

-------

The two of you worked in silence for a while as you tried to wrap your heads around the beginnings of a workable profile. 

As you both sat alone in the conference room, you could occasionally feel Hotch glancing over at you, but you were determined to keep your focus on the task at hand. This wasn’t like him to keep somewhat distracted while at work. Then again, he was never one to really show any kind of interest outside of work either. Something had changed, but you weren’t what it was yet. 

Half an hour later and Spencer and Rossi arrived. “Well, doesn’t this look cozy,” Rossi said as he pushed into the conference room, the doctor following right after.

You didn’t bother in acknowledging his snide comment as you continued to focus on the photos spread out before you on the board. Perotta had brought the maps Hotch had requested and Spencer immediately grabbed his red marker and began his geographical profile.

“All three victims were taken outside of very public places,” Spencer said, gaining the attention of the team. “Mason from outside a church she visited weekly, Rayna from a parking lot across from a major shopping center, and Lisa from outside the public library. Whoever the unsub is, he’s not afraid to take risks in the abduction.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” you asked, glancing around at your colleagues. 

“It can be either,” said Reid, tucking his hands into his pockets. “However, considering that no witnesses have come forward, he must be using a rather convincing ruse.” 

“Or he’s threatening them with a weapon,” Hotch added. Spencer nodded in agreement.

“Something else isn’t sitting well with me,” you revealed. “This method of killing...it seems like you would need to practice it before, right? Maybe not the wax on the body, but at least using it as a method of asphyxiation.”

“You think he’s done it before?” Rossi inquired. 

“It’s a possibility,” you said. Hotch nodded and hit the call button on the phone. 

“Speak and be heard!” Garcia said.

“Garcia, I need to know if there have been any other murders in the past that resemble the unsub’s method,” Hotch said. 

“As in just the wax in the throat or the whole enchilada?” she asked, causing Rossi to smile. 

“I think we would have noticed the rest of the ritual, so focus on just the method of killing,” you added. 

“I will dig and dig until I can dig no longer. Hit you back!” Garcia said as she hung up. 

As everyone got back to work, you got up to get yourself some much-needed caffeine. As you waited for it to brew, you tapped the pen in your hand against the countertop, trying to organize your thoughts. There had to be more to the killings instead of just replicating a piece of art. The woman in the painting had no discernible features so he wasn’t trying to get her exactly right. There had to be another reason for picking three different women from three different places. The mystery was gnawing at the back of your brain. 

“You look like you’re overthinking.” You turned to see Perotta leaning in the doorway of the break room.

“Just thinking, actually,” you said, grabbing a cup and pouring your coffee. “There are just a lot of things that are bothering me about this one.”

“Don’t all of them bother you?” he asked with a slight chuckle. You shrugged. 

“Unfortunately, you get used to it,” you said, moving past him. Perotta kept close to you.

“Have you always been in the BAU, Agent (Y/L/N)?” he asked, halting you in your step with a hand on your arm. You took a step back, letting his arm slide off of yours. 

“No, I used to be a part of an anti-terrorism task force for a while before I transferred,” you explained. Perotta nodded thoughtfully. 

“Wanted to get less action?” he asked, with a half-smile. 

“More, actually,” Hotch said as he interrupted the two of you. Perotta turned to your boss and you saw him swallow thickly as Aaron Hotchner stared him down.

“Huh, who would’ve thought,” Perotta said, glancing back at you, but you kept your arms close to you and didn’t bother smiling back. 

“The others are back,” Hotch said, pulling your attention. You nodded and turned away from Perotta. Hotch followed you back to the crowded conference room. He walked behind you, keeping a hand on the small of your back. 

“Thank you,” you whispered to him, acknowledging his perfect timing. 

“You’re welcome,” he murmured to you as he held open the door and waited for you to walk through before following afterward, letting his hand fall away. As you joined the rest of the team, you instantly knew something was up. Based on JJ’s concerned face, it wasn’t good. 

“What happened?” you asked, taking your seat between Morgan and Hotch. 

“The unsub has taken another woman,” Spencer revealed.

“Already?” you asked, surprised. “Lisa wasn’t even missing two days. The others were taken a week apart.” 

“He’s increasing his abduction time,” Rossi said, flicking through the file.

“Most likely because he thinks he’s running out of time to perfect his replication of the original painting,” Reid said, twirling a pen around in his slender hands. “Though, I am still not sure what connects all the victims together.”

“I may have an answer for you, Doctor,” Garcia’s voice lit up the room from the phone in the center of the round table. 

“What did you find out, Mama?” Derek asked. 

“Well, honey, I have unearthed something rather interesting. All three of the victims were what you would call art connoisseurs. They all belonged to the same club that focused on fundraising for the arts and preserving historical pieces.”

“Garcia, is the membership for this club exclusive?” Spencer asked. 

“Not at all. In fact, the list of members and donators are both available on the club’s website.”

“Considering he didn’t abduct them from their homes, he has to be getting their routines elsewhere,” you said. 

“Do we have any information on the newest victim?” Prentiss asked. 

“Her name is Allison Wilson, she’s twenty-four-years old from Port Angeles, and she was taken outside of her gym,” said Garcia. 

“Another public place,” Rossi realized. “In the middle of the day too while cops are out in higher numbers. And we thought he was being bold before.” 

“Was Allison a part of this art club, too?” Hotch asked. 

“Yes,” Garcia confirmed. “A newer member from the looks of it as she just moved to the area.” 

“Okay, well if they’re not getting their addresses from the site, then the unsub knows when and where they’ll be,” Prentiss said with a sigh. “Garcia do we have any idea how he’s getting their information?” 

“Not yet, but I am working on it,” Penelope said. “I will hit you back once I figure it out,” Garcia said in goodbye and there was a collective sigh within the group. 

“Okay,” Hotch said, “I think we have enough to deliver the profile.” 

------

Once Perotta had wrangled his officers, your team presented the profile. 

“We’re looking for a white male in his early thirties,” Hotch began, pulling the whole room’s attention.

“We believe he has created a scenario in his mind based on a single work of art in which he sees himself as a sort of reaper type character,” Emily added.

“He is posing his victims in the same way as the woman depicted in the Italian painting. “Manto di cera” or “Shroud of Wax”,” Spence continued. 

“The painting is set to be on full display at the Seattle Art Museum later this week,” you said, stepping forward. “We believe that the final victim he abducted, Allison Wilson, is going to be his final piece of art.”

“So, what was the point of the other three women?” An officer asked. 

“Mason, Rayna, and Lisa can be considered his trial runs. All of it in order to perfect his masterpiece,” Rossi said.

“He is an unhinged individual and will not hesitate to do whatever it takes to make sure he gets what he wants,” Derek said. “You should consider him armed, dangerous, and not afraid to die by suicide or suicide by cop.” 

“This unsub thinks of these women as less than human so there is a good chance that he has a negative history with one,” JJ added, “maybe a girlfriend or even his mother.”

“Whoever this man is, he is connected to the art community here in Seattle,” Hotch said, finishing up. “We’ve set up a tip line, but we are going to have to rely on his previous victims to locate him and Allison Wilson. Thank you.” Perotta then dispersed his officers and everyone got to work on trying to track down the unsub.

“(Y/N) was right, this guy has to have priors,” Morgan said once you and the rest of the team returned to the conference room. “There is no way that he just woke up one day and decided to kill. Not like this.” 

“We should look for any non-lethal incidents,” Reid said, “he may have tried to strangle someone first.” 

“I’ll get Garcia on it,” Hotch said as he hit the call button. 

“Ready when you are,” Garcia answered. 

“Garcia, I need you to look for any past police reports where female victims were strangled or suffocated. Not just crimes that seem similar to the wax," Hotch said, reading through the file again. 

You watched as his brows pulled together and all you wanted to do was to reach out and smooth down the crease that had formed. You knew stress was all a part of the job, especially when it came to Aaron. He never got a break and when cases arose like this one where there were more questions than answers, it took its toll.

At that moment, you wished for a Hail Mary. You wanted to save Allison, of course, but a simple answer or even just a bit of good news would lessen the weight on Aaron's shoulders.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Hotch looked up. Your (Y/E/C) eyes met his dark ones and for a moment, it felt like you were the only two people in the room. His eyes glanced down your face for a fraction of a second before he looked away. You didn't even realize Penelope was speaking again.

"Okay, I've been running searches for both kinds of crimes that correlate with the profile, but so far, I got zilch," Garcia said.

"Great," JJ groaned, "another dead end."

“However, fear not, my friends, as I do have something else," added Garcia.

“You figured out where the wax came from?” Reid asked. You looked at him, unaware he had even asked her to look into that in the first place. You also realized that it was something you should have thought of yourself. Your frown didn’t go unnoticed by Morgan who lightly kicked your foot under the table. You nodded to him, assuring him you were alright. 

“Not exactly,” Garcia said. “The wax itself is pretty generic. You can get it from multiple different suppliers, but the pigment used in it to make that blood-red color is not sold by the companies. It is an oxidized clay that is regulated and sold from a local artist and I have just sent his name and address to you...now!”

“Morgan, Prentiss,” Hotch addressed, “go pick up the owner and bring him back. JJ, Dave, get in touch with Allison Wilson’s family. Reid, (Y/L/N), keep working on trying to figure out how the unsub is finding his victims from the club.”

“What are you going to do?” Spencer asked. 

“I’m going to call and get a warrant for the owners of the charity club,” Hotch said as he stood and exited the room, followed closely by the others.

You and Spencer sat in silence for a few minutes before he swiveled his chair in your direction. "Is there something going on with you?" Reid asked, peering at you over the knee he had propped up on his chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, furrowing your brow. 

“I don’t know, something just seems...different about you,” said Reid as he stared at you with that signature confused look of his. 

“Don’t profile me, Spencer,” you said, leaning back in your chair. 

“I’m not!” he said, “but I am your friend and I can tell there is something up.” You turned back towards, sighing. Spencer never missed anything. 

“Hotch is keeping me under evaluation this case,” you said and he immediately understood. 

“I know,” said Reid, “I had to do the same after getting shot. Emily had to do it too.” 

“I feel like every move I make… I feel as if I am under a microscope.” 

“It’s procedure, (Y/N). Look on the bright side, at least Strauss isn’t doing the evaluation,” Spencer said, trying to lighten the mood. That got you to smile and Reid brightened. “See, I knew I could make you do that,” he said, twirling his finger in front of your face. You playfully swatted his hand away. 

“Thanks, Reid.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink and got up to go stare at the board once again. 

Looking out at the precinct through the glass walls, you could see Hotch in the Captain’s office. He paced while speaking on the phone. Spencer’s words resonated in your mind as you watched your boss. At first, you thought that maybe he had chosen to take on the responsibility of your evaluation to be closer to you, but now you weren’t so sure. What if it was just procedure after all and you were only reading into it? It wouldn’t be the first time that you read signals wrong. For being a profiler, when it came to your own love life, you could be pretty clueless. 

Eventually, Hotch rejoined you and Reid. “Did you get the warrant?” Reid asked, looking over his shoulder as Hotch took a seat. 

“Judge wouldn’t approve it,” Hotch sighed, “said because the website is public domain, anyone could have access and that it wasn’t enough probable cause to warrant a search and seizure.” 

“Great,” you said, “so now we just have to hope the clay guy gives us something.” 

“Do you think he’s a part of this?” Spencer asked. You shook your head. 

“No, but he has to know something. Considering how much wax has been used, and not to mention Rossi believes the unsub had trial runs… He must have bought more pigment than the shop’s usual customers.” 

“But why would he even leave a paper trail for something as easy as a red dye? You can practically make it out of anything?” Reid asked. 

“Because not everyone is as smart as you, Reid,” you said and he smiled shyly, turning back to the board to start laying out the hunting grounds. You looked at Hotch and he was smiling at you, thankful for you praising the doctor. You quirked a brow in question but he just shook his head, returning to his work. You turned away before the blush that welled in your cheeks became more apparent. 

“You guys need anything?” Perotta said as he pushed open the door and leaned in, 

“We’re fine for now,” Hotch said, his tone filled with dismissal. Perotta pursed his lips, but nodded and left, letting the door swing shut behind him. 

“I don’t like him,” Spencer said quietly, his back still turned to you and Hotch.

“I second that,” you muttered. 

“You are both correct,” finished Hotch and Spencer slightly turned to look at you with amusement in your eyes. You couldn’t help the laugh that flew from your throat. Spencer chuckled quietly next to you as you tried to get yourself under control. Hotch watched you, completely enamored by the way your face lit up with a smile as you found him humorous. It was better than any drug he could think of, seeing that smile of yours. 

------

It was a little less than an hour later that the others came back with the shop owner.

The man, Terry Owens, looked nervous as Morgan took him into the interrogation room. His demeanor alone as he walked into the station was enough for you to know immediately that this was not your unsub.

As JJ continued speaking with the Wilson family, you went to observe the interrogation. Spencer and Emily were going over new evidence while you stood next to Hotch on the other side of the two-way mirror. Morgan and Rossi entered the room, taking a seat across from Owens. 

You watched closely as they asked their questions. You could tell that both Morgan and Rossi made the man nervous. He would flinch slightly any time Morgan raised his voice or Rossi shifted in his seat. You and Hotch didn’t say anything as you observed, but the closeness to him was tugging at your mind as you tried to stay focused.

You weren’t focusing on what your team members were asking the man, but rather how he responded to each question. Owens was sweating even though they chilled the room for him. He began slurring his words as he struggled to find answers for each inquiry thrown at him. When Rossi presented Owens with the crime scene photos, the shop owner nearly turned green. Pushing up his sleeves, he took slow breaths, trying to calm down. That is when you noticed the burn marks on his skin. 

They were slight and faded, but from your time with anti-terrorism, you knew the signs of torture immediately. You turned to your boss. “Hotch, I think I know what’s going on,” you said.

“You saw something?” he asked softly. 

“I think he’s been tortured by the unsub,” you explained. Hotch turned his attention back to the interrogation room for a moment before nodding at you. Sweeping past him, you entered the room. Morgan and Rossi looked at you and then got up and stood back, giving you room to work. “Hi, Terry,” you greeted with a warm smile. “I’m SSA (Y/L/N) and I think I know what happened to you.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked nervously. 

“The marks on your arms,” you said, gesturing to the exposed skin. He looked down and his eyes closed as his jaw went rigid. “Terry, look at me.” He did. “Those burns are from hot wax, right?” Owens nodded. “He hurt you to get you to not talk to anyone. He poured the wax on you to make sure you knew that if you talked, you would end up like the women he was killing.”

“I didn’t know he was going to kill them,” Owens said. “Please, I just thought he was into something weird, you know? Like a fetish or some kind of performance art. I’ve seen things like that before. I never imagined…” he trailed off, his hands shaking. You reached out and placed your hands over his. 

“You’re okay,” you promised him. “Terry, nobody is going to hurt you again. He is not going to be able to get to you anymore, but I need his name. He has another woman with him now. Her name is Allison and she’s only twenty-four-years old. She has a little sister named Cailey and a mom and dad who are worried sick about her. If we don’t find her, she’s going to end up like these women too.” You placed the other three photos before him again. “They didn’t deserve to die like this and neither does Allison Wilson.” 

Owens met your eyes, nearly pleading. “I don’t know his name,” he said. “He always paid in cash and he threatened me anytime I asked any personal questions.” 

“Is there anything you can tell me about him? The smallest thing can make a difference.” Owens thought for a moment before he straightened up. 

“I once heard him on the phone,” he said. “I was preparing his new order and someone called him. He was talking to them on speaker and they didn’t say a name, but they called him by a nickname.” 

“What was it?” you asked. 

“Galahad,” Owens said. 

“Like the Knights of the Roundtable?” you asked, turning over your shoulder to look at Morgan and Rossi, confused. Morgan, however, was shaking his head. 

“That’s what Lisa Bracken’s neighbor called the delivery guy that delivered Lisa’s artwork,” Morgan said before he and Rossi were moving out the door. You turned back to Owens. 

“You did great, Terry,” you said. “We’re gonna get him.” You didn’t wait for his response as you followed Morgan and Rossi back into the conference room. 

“Hey, baby girl,” Morgan was already saying as you pushed through the door. 

“Got something for me?” Garcia asked on the other line. 

“The unsub is a delivery guy that delivers specialty art pieces. He works for Ground Express,” Morgan said. 

“Okay that is a pretty big company, honey, you’re gonna have to give me a little bit more than that,” Penelope said. 

“Garcia, look for drivers that are specifically assigned to the dumping zones. He may be dumping their bodies during a route,” Spencer said. 

“Okay, one second…” she said as her hands flew over her keyboard. “Okay, I have four men that work that specific route. Two of them are way too young, the third is African American…” she paused for a second. “And the fourth fits our profile perfectly.”

“Garcia, I need a name,” you said. 

“Alan Rhett,” Garcia announced. “He owned an apartment downtown but was evicted two months ago and now he rents a loft space in Belltown. Oh,” she said. 

“What is it?” asked Rossi.

“He uses his own truck for deliveries and he hasn’t been to work in a few days.” 

“Garcia, send us the address,” Hotch ordered. 

“Already did,” she said. “Be safe, my friends, and go get him.” 

“Will do, Mama,” Morgan said as he ended the call. 

“Gear up,” Hotch said, “We’ll leave in five.” The team dispersed immediately. As you headed for the lockers to grab your vest, a phantom pain echoed through your injury site, but you took a deep breath and tried to center yourself. You were ready for the field, you had to be. Shutting out the echos of gunfire in your mind, you secured your sidearm and went to gear up. You weren’t going to let him kill another woman, not if you could help it.

[luminois]

･:*✧ 𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗺𝗶𝗻: the sorting hat has chosen ravenclaw!

a halfblood, both of his parents were the first wizards of their families

growing up, seungmin always had so much respect for his parents, he thought of himself as the product of two outstanding people

he was a quiet kid but didn’t shy away from people approaching him, he just never approached first

most of birthday presents had been books his entire life, both muggle and magic related ones, which he found way more interesting

when he wrote to his parents after getting sorted into ravenclaw, they weren’t surprised at all, not even one bit

he hadn’t changed much, but now seungmin is more confident in himself and can even be loud when he’s talking about something (or to someone) he’s very passionate about

when he finds someone really interesting he doesn’t think about it twice and talks to them first, because he doesn’t see any use in being scared or rejection without even trying

he spends a lot of time in the library and he’s a diligent student, also because he’s genuinely interested in the school’s subjects

he’s very curious and often approaches ravenclaws who are working on something or having enthusiastic conversations in the common room

he asks many questions in class and then professors are kind of annoyed but they mostly appreciate that someone actually cares

seungmin is probably the only person whose favorite subject is history of magic and the only one who manages not to fall asleep in professor cuthbertbinns’ class

he just loves to learn about faraway lands and cultures different from his own, which he finds extremely interesting

he’s also very creative and likes art a lot

he’s good at drawing and recreating classical masterpieces, but what he likes to draw the most is maps of places he studied or would like to visit at some point

has probably read ‘history of hogwarts’ at least twice, which is how he manages to never get in trouble by using all the hiding spots (he doesn’t break the rules often anyways)

seungmin ended up being a prefet almost by chance but, like everything in his life, he took the role seriously and became a head boy too

he closes one eye when he catches his friends out after curfew, because friendship comes before everything, even rules

he doesn’t get crushes often and hasn’t had many experiences regarding love, but he’s always open to whoever takes a liking in him

his partner should be someone that’s very gentle and kind, and also has to have something in common with him, like a shared hobby or overall interest

despite looking cold, what seungmin wishes for the most is warmth and love

he can often be found cuddled up on a armchair in the ravenclaw common room, covered in blankets and with a book in his lap

he can’t help himself but give people advice on whatever it is they’re doing, mostly without being asked to

that’s why some people think of him as arrogant or a show off, but he’s truly just driven by wanting to help others

however, seungmin doesn’t care about what people think of him

the only opinions that count are of those who he loves, and his friends are people who appreciate his suggestions more than anything

one of his favorite things he’s the feeling he gets when he’s talking to someone who understands him and is just as passionate about the same things as him

there are many wizards and witches he admires and most of them can be found hanging around hogwarts as paintings

he often stops to talk with the moving figures despite knowing they’re not truly alive

seungmin finds the riddles that needs to be solved to get in the ravenclaw common room way too easy and he writes down possible suggestions for harder ones

he hates being ignored or brushed off when he’s trying to talk about something he finds interesting, it makes him feel unwanted

the principal sometimes asks to talk to him to discuss important matters and he’s considered one of the smartest people in the school

after hogwarts he would want to become a history of magic professor

or take a completely different route and do something that lets him travel everywhere around the world and see as many of the places he read about as possible

———

more magic awaits, where to now?

[ibijau]

The modern xisangyao I’ve been talking about yay /o/ also on AO3 (and big thanks to the xisang discord for listening to my ramblings a while back + providing a lot of ideas for this!)

Lan Xichen hangs the phone and slumps against the back of his office chair. It is unusual enough to catch the attention of his assistant who looks up from his laptop with a concerned noise.

"Something wrong?" Mo Xuanyu asks

Lan Xichen nods weakly. "It was a fake after all." 

Mo Xuanyu immediately understands what he means, and relaxes upon learning it is something he wouldn't count as important. To Lan Xichen though, it is devastating. That painting has been all he's been thinking about for weeks at this point. A lost Nie Huaisang resurfacing is always exciting for the very small circle of people who care about these things. And Lan Xichen cares, of course.

He wrote his thesis on the master, and he has a deal for a book so more people can learn about that forgotten genius. He has been called the leading expert on the Tang era scholar, though it isn't hard when hardly anyone else bothers with him. 

That's why when 'Winter moonlight in Qinghe', long thought lost to a fire early in the last century, resurfaced on the market, the buyer turned to Lan Xichen to ensure that it is the real deal. It is well known that there's a staggering number of fake Nie Huaisang paintings out there. One of many oddities about the man’s work, since his fame never rose high enough to be so eagerly copied by other artists of all periods, and his paintings have rarely sold for a price that would justify the attention of skilled forgers. 

Lan Xichen is also trying to write a paper on that, when his book and teaching leave him the time. 

It had been a treat to behold 'Winter moonlight in Qinghe'. There are no known copies of that one, only descriptions which do not do it justice. Lan Xichen could have cried at those delicate lines, fraught with inexplicable melancholy, like a last goodbye to a beloved home. 'Winter moonlight' is the last known work of Nie Huaisang before he dropped off the record, well into his eighties or possibly his nineties, and Lan Xichen did get a sense of finality upon seeing it. It wasn't just a painting, it was a farewell. 

As to its authenticity, Lan Xichen had no doubt at the time. The lines, the subject, the sense of light and darkness, everything was perfectly fitting with the master's other works. It really had to be the lost masterpiece, the culmination of a great artist’s life. Lan Xichen had only recommended further analysis to confirm it, certain that it was the true 'Winter moonlight'.

The painting's owner has just called to explain that the paper is too young by a few centuries. 

Lan Xichen is distraught to say the least. It's not that he is above mistakes, he is only human after all, but he was convinced that this painting was real. 

It's the thing with Nie Huaisang though. Not only has he attracted many counterfeiters over the centuries, they are always forgers of rare talent. 

"Well, that's disappointing," Mo Xuanyu agrees, more out of politeness than anything else. "Not really surprising though. How many fakes does it make this year?" 

"Three. No, two, 'man with rabbits' was tested last month and confirmed as being authentic after all. He painted that one in his youth so his style wasn't quite settled yet, but the paper and ink are right and it does look exactly like that copy they have in Beijin."

Mo Xuanyu rolls his eyes, and turns back to his laptop. 

"I don't know why anyone bothers with that guy's paintings," he huffs, having never shared Lan Xichen's passion for the artist. "Most of the ones we have are fake."

"The estate sale that got us those two fakes also produced several confirmed ones," Lan Xichen protests mildly. “It’s a shame 'Winter moonlight in Qinghe' turned out to be fake, but apparently ‘Mountains longing for snow’ has been confirmed as real, even if it didn’t sell. I’d give anything to have a look at that one too.”

Mo Xuanyu, who clearly lost interest in the conversation the instant he realised it was about an artist Lan Xichen has heard him describe as mediocre at best, turns his full attention back to his laptop when he sound warns him he has a new message.

“Then do that,” he mutters without conviction. “Go have a look or something.”

Lan Xichen stops breathing for a second, and stares at his assistant as if Mo Xuanyu had just handed him the key to the secret of the universe.

It is always a little awkward to contact owners of paintings once they are in private collections, and Lan Xichen has learned the hard way to avoid it. Some collectors are rather defensive, and a few don't want it publicised that they own rare art. But surely the antiquarian who currently holds those works wouldn’t mind letting him have a look? His interest in them, if publicised, could certainly create a ‘buzz’ of some sort in the small community of Nie Huaisang enthusiasts. It is for that sort of things that his little brother has convinced him to get a social media presence after all, so why not use it to his advantage?

Already recovering from his disappointment over 'Winter moonlight in Qinghe', Lan Xichen gets to work and starts looking for information about whoever currently holds those unsold paintings. It takes a surprisingly long while, but he eventually discovers that the series of paintings was bought by a man named mister Shanzi, apparently after the death of their former owner whose identity has not been revealed.

It is not the first time Lan Xichen encounters the name Shanzi. The man is a reputed antiquarian and art dealer. Part of his reputation comes from rarely ever being fooled by fakes and copies, and for often being the one to spot lost works from obscure artists. If mister Shanzi was fooled by 'Winter moonlight in Qinghe', then Lan Xichen feels a little better for his own mistake. The copy really had to be excellent.

The problem with mister Shanzi being involved is that he is not an easy man to contact. In this digital age, mister Shanzi is an art dealer without an online presence of any sort, though after some probing, Lan Xichen learns from one auction house that in recent years mister Shanzi has hired an assistant, and that young man is slightly less elusive than his employer. Not by much though, and it takes all of Lan Xichen’s persuasion and good reputation to obtain the email of that assistant.

It would be an understatement to say that the assistant in question is unhappy to have had his contact leaked to a stranger. The first email Lan Xichen gets in answer to his painfully polite enquiry is probably the most passive-agressive thing he has ever beheld, and that includes family dinner with his father and his mother’s new girlfriend. 

If it were earlier in his career, if he were a few years younger, Lan Xichen would have given up at that point, fearful to disturb. But he’s learned to fight for what he wants when it is needed, and what he wants, right now, is a chance to look at paintings he will otherwise never see unless by some miracle a museum in the country buys them… and he knows how unlikely that is. Nie Huaisang doesn’t attract the crowds and academics.

Not yet, anyway. Lan Xichen’s book will change that.

And the more of Nie Huaisang’s work he gets to see with his own eyes, the easier that book will be to write.

So Lan Xichen replies to that unpleasant email with an essay detailing his hopes of attracting attention to his work, the possibility that prices might rise in the future, but above all his interest in an artist who deserves to be admired along with more famous names.

To his surprise, it works.

Mister Shanzi’s assistant’s reply states that he also has deep admiration for the forgotten master, and that his employer has a private collection of Nie Huaisang’s works. He is unsure whether mister Shanzi would be willing to show those, since they are stored in his own home, but perhaps an arrangement could be made. Hopefully, Lan Xichen might agree to meet in a few days at a café near the university where he works, so that they can more easily discuss what he would need for his book.

Lan Xichen readily agrees, and the day of their meeting cannot come soon enough.

When it does come, at last, Lan Xichen is almost half an hour early at the café. He tries, at first, to grade some essays from a class he teaches, but quickly finds that he cannot focus on that at the moment. It is ridiculous to be so nervous over this, he’s met with plenty of antiquarians and art dealers before, he’s been invited to check private collections as well, but on that late afternoon, his skin is buzzing with excitement, as if he were on the verge of something extraordinary.

That excitement spikes up when an elegant young man enters the café, browsing the table with searching eyes, only to smile when he spots Lan Xichen. The young man, who might be one of the most beautiful people Lan Xichen has ever seen, quickly gives him a short bow.

“You must be Lan Xichen?” he asks.

Lan Xichen can only nod, and gestures to invite the gorgeous stranger to sit across from him.

"I'm mister Shanzi’s assistant,” the other man says as he takes a seat. “Meng Yao, at your service."

[ravenbrenna09]

masterpiece

Title: masterpiece

Square Filled: Soulmates AU

Ship: Robbe IJzermans/Sander Driesen

Trigger Warnings: None applied

Created for @skamevents

So, Soulmate AUs are my absolute favorite trope of any AU ever and I love reading all of them. I love the names on the arms, having the same symbol, I love seeing color only if your soulmate is nearby, but one of my favorites is being connected by their skin. And, with Sander as an artist in canon, I absolutely HAD to use this one. Soulmate AUs absolutely FASCINATE me and so I had to do this one.

Now, because this fic ended up being WAY MORE than what I wanted it to be, it physically will not fit in this text box, so I will be putting the first scene of the fic into this with a read more link at the bottom (note: this is the same scene as my masterpiece snippet that I posted a few days ago). So, I hope you enjoy the rest of this chapter. 

...

Read on AO3

...

Thursday was not Robbe’s day. 

Thursday was, by far, Robbe’s longest and physically draining day. While his first class of the day didn’t start until a little before 12:00, his day wouldn’t end until about 23:00 which was when the library closed down. To add to his torture of a long day, thanks to extending his own shift so Amber could be picked up by her mother on her way home from work, his classes on Thursdays were particularly draining, filled with dry teachers that talked to the board and ignored any and all questions. 

Letting out a sigh, Robbe turned to his introductory essay which was pulled up in another tab of the computer in front of him. The head of the department didn’t care about them working on homework, as long as their other jobs were done first, and Robbe had already put up the remaining books in the library, straightened up the desks where the student workers sat, and filed away a stack or two of files for one of his superiors. 

Now, that all of his librarian work was done, at least until someone returned a book to the circulation counter and he would go off in search of its rightful spot, Robbe could focus on this essay, or a story, that his writing teacher had assigned as an “introduction” to their mindset as writers. And, the topic that had been chosen by his other 25 classmates was soulmates. 

He let out a breath of air, burying his face in his hands.

Robbe hated soulmates. 

Or, rather, he hated the idea of soulmates. 

As a kid, Robbe would sit and watch his mother doodle on her skin with her favorite pen, watch the curve of her letters, her small doodles of flowers, appear on the exact same spot on his father’s hand. His parents would smile at each other, love in their eyes, and tease each other when the other got a stain on their hand because it affected both of them. 

To little six-year-old Robbe, soulmates were everything that he had to offer and he thought that he didn’t have one because doodles never appeared on his skin. His mother had giggled at him, informing him that his soulmate’s doodles wouldn’t appear until after he reached puberty. Little Robbe had been confused as to why he had to wait, he now knew that the changing hormones and chemicals in the body at puberty that caused the connection to show fully, but no one, not even people researching and studying soulmates, could pinpoint how soulmates are chosen or when. 

To present-day, eighteen-year-old Robbe, soulmates were crap. 

His parents had been soulmates, had fallen in love, and got married, having Robbe shortly after. For the first eight years of Robbe’s life, his parents had been happily in love with one another. His father loved being home, loved cuddling his wife on the couch, to the point that Robbe would call them disgusting and throw a pillow at them and they would laugh. Then, his parents started fighting about little things, small minuscule details that shouldn’t matter. As the years went on, the fights got worse, louder and louder until Robbe couldn’t sleep at night anymore, sneaking out of his house and going to his best friend’s house to crash. Then, his father left them alone, found another woman who made him happier, and his mother spiraled, leaving Robbe caught in between, trying to help her.

His parents were soulmates and they had fallen out of love. 

If the one person that you were destined to be with was supposed to leave you anyways, what was the point of having the ability to connect with them on a physical level?

Letting out a sigh, Robbe reached out, typing angrily. Soulmates are fucking stupid.

“Woah there,” Zoë teased, walking up with a cup of coffee in her hand. 

Zoë was a barista and one of Robbe’s roommates. At the beginning of the year, Robbe had moved into the three-bedroom flatshare with her and a senior, Milan, because Robbe was not going to live with his dad, not after what he did to his mom, not with him and his new girlfriend. It was a minor miracle that the two of them had been so willing and that his father had been so understanding. His father wanted him to live in the dorms, but it was too expensive for Robbe. He was barely surviving month-to-month as it was and living in the dorms would be almost double the cost. 

“What’s wrong?” Zoë questioned. 

“What isn’t wrong?” Robbe questioned. “Of all the topics my writing class had to pick for our introductory assignment, they picked soulmates.” Zoë scrunched up her nose, understanding. “And, I can’t think of anything to write other than soulmates are fucking stupid.” As if she didn’t believe him, he turned the screen towards her and she stood on her toes to look, letting out a light breath through her nose. He let out a sigh, straightening the computer back. “Think that will get me full points?”

“I doubt it.” Zoë laughed. “Here, it’s from Chloë.”

“Again?” Robbe questioned. Chloë was a barista at the café, who had a crush on Robbe so obvious that even he could see it, which was saying something. When it came to realizing people having feelings for him, he didn’t have the best track record. Despite the fact that Robbe had several relationships, almost all of them had been as a result of the other person making the first move. “How many times have you told her that she’s not my type?” 

“Robbe,” Zoë laughed, reaching out to pat his head with a tone that says many times. “I think the only way she’s going to be convinced that you aren’t interested in her is if she finds you making out with a guy. Not that I can blame her. You are a cute boy. Whether you want to admit it or not.” Robbe rolled his eyes before spotting the purple writing on the back of her hand. Zoë caught his gaze and scoffed. “My soulmate’s latest ‘conquest’,” she remarked, pivoting the hand towards Robbe so he could see. 

Had a good time tonight was followed by a phone number, only the final digit was smudged. 

Robbe knew that he had a soulmate, of course, but his soulmate wasn’t the type of person who slept around a lot, or if they did, they didn’t have girls writing numbers on the back of their hand in hopes of a second round. 

On his sixteenth birthday, his best friend, Jens, had jokingly drawn a poor excuse of a birthday cake and sixteen candles on the back of his right hand (and Robbe will never admit to anyone how disappointed he was that it didn’t show up on Jens’ hand). Within an hour, as he sat in his biology class, his soulmate, whoever they were, had drawn an arrow to it and wrote awful, zero stars on booking.com before proceeding to draw a perfectly drawn cake, in pen, with the exact number on the candles, on the back of his left hand. The drawing looked perfect, meticulous, and every year, on that same day, another cake would appear on his hand with an additional candle.

Robbe had a soulmate. 

Even if he didn’t want one. 

Zoë let out a heavy sigh, pulling him back into the world of the present. “Every morning I wake up with a new number on my hand is another morning I question if you have the right idea,” she admitted, staring at her hand. “Soulmates are crap. I’m always half-tempted to call the number, tell her that he’s just going to find someone else, but what’s the point, right? Plus, it’s missing a digit.” 

“Save a woman from getting her hopes up, probably. But, don’t worry,” Robbe remarked. “I’m sure he’ll get his head out of his ass soon.” 

“Excuse me,” a voice remarked, over Zoë’s shoulder. 

The two of them pivoted to find that a blond-haired man was standing behind them. The man was stunning, absolutely breathtaking as though he had been carved from stone. There was a black-beanie resting lightly on his head, covering the strands of white-blonde hair that poked out from the edge, and he had a pair of bright green eyes that were slightly hidden by the black-framed glasses on his nose. He was dressed in a pair of denim jeans, black converse, and a t-shirt with an artist that he didn’t recognize beneath his black hoodie. 

Robbe felt his breath catch in his throat. 

Looking like that in a hoodie, glasses, and a beanie was ridiculously unfair.

Especially to Robbe. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” he continued, pushing up his green bag further up his shoulder. “But, I need to check out this book for my art history class.” 

“Of course,” Robbe replied, his voice cracking a little. There was a knowing look on Zoë’s face, a familiar eyebrow raised that she generally reserved only for Milan, as she shuffled to the side, taking the coffee with her. The man stepped forward, placing the book on the edge of the counter, and Robbe took the book from him, eager to make sure their hands didn’t touch. “Sorry about that. Do you have your id?”

“Yeah, it’s in here somewhere,” the man replied, digging his wallet out of his bag. He found it, handing it over to Robbe, their fingers brushing ever so slightly, almost like it was on purpose. Robbe felt a jolt shoot up his hand as he took the id in his hands, switching to the electronic check-out system, typing in his student id number and scanning the book. A name popped up. Sander Driesen.

Once Robbe had deactivated the electric security in the spine, he placed his id on top of the cover and slid it across the counter, “Here you go.” Robbe kept his hand on the other side of the book, making sure to pull his own hand away before Sander reached out to grab it. He took the book from the counter, grabbing his id and slipping it into his pocket. “It’ll be due on the 17th of next month.”

Sander sent him a grin, a slightly confident, slightly wicked grin, like he somehow managed to know the effect that he was having on Robbe and his already jumbled mind, almost as much as Zoë did. “Thank you, Robbe,” he remarked. At Robbe’s confused, puzzled look, Sander’s eyes dropped down to his chest and Robbe looked finding his nametag, wanting to slap his forehead. He glanced towards Zoë, who was still hanging off to the side with her chin against her palm, and Robbe thought he saw his eyes flicker down to her hand, recognition in his eyes, but then, Sander was smiling at her and saying to her, all confident and charming, “Sorry about interrupting your conversation.” 

“It’s completely okay,” Zoë replied. “I was about to leave anyway.”

Sander moved off, grinning at her, and Zoë handed Robbe his coffee, a knowing glint in her eye as she boosted herself up over the counter to press a kiss against his cheek. He shoved her away, wiping away the residue of her signature red lipstick, and Zoë ran out the door, giggling all the way and promising to save him some leftovers from dinner. Robbe let out a sigh, trying to return to his essay on stupid soulmates, but found his eyes looking for Sander, who had disappeared.

Read The Rest on AO3

[velveteencurtains]

evermore first impressions!

willow - GIRL EUEJDNSKJDJEJD LOST IN YOUR CURRENT LIKE A PRICELESS WIINE!!!!! TAKE MY HAND!!! WRECK MY PLANS!!! THATS MY MAN!!!!!! girl this is so fcuking GOOD! gonna be 100% honest the 1 is a better album opening but this is so fucking good you guys. life was a willow and it bent right to your wind!!! ID COME BACK STRONGER THAN A 90’S TREND???? EVERY BAIT AND SWITCH WAS A WORK OF ART??? SHES SICK SHES REALLY SICK I SWEAR. the way she sings “that’s my man!” yes ma’am yes ma’am!!!!!! the parallel between “I knew you stepping on the last train” and then “you know my train could take you home” SHES SICK YOUR HONOR SHES SICK

champagne problems - okay we love a piano opener. i’m so conflicted on what i think this song is gonna be about. MORE TRAIN LYRICS GIRLIE. this really is this is me trying’s older, sadder sister. “our group of friends/don’t think we’ll say that word again” MA’AM??? SHE WOULD HAVE MADE SUCH A LOVELY BRIDE SUCH A SHAME SHES FUCKED IN THE HEAD??????? IM LOSIJG MY FUCKIJG MIND. taylor and joe wrote this together? we love a couple with shared mental illnesses

gold rush - jack antonoff do not let me down. GIRL THE HARMONIES AT THE VERY BEGINNING JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE. okay I can definitely see what they meant by this song being about being lost in a daydream, the juxtaposition between the chorus and the verses is AMAZING. this is just gorgeous’s older sister huh???? “ocean blue eyes/looking in mine/i feel like i might sink and drown and die” and “eyes like sinking/ships on waters/so inviting/i almost jump in”

‘tis the damn season - i can’t tell if i want this song to be christmassy or not. OH SO THIS IS JUST HOLIDATE. TAYLOR JUST WATCHED HOLIDATE AND WROTE A SONG ABOUT IT. this is a continuation of tim mcgraw, argue with the wall. NO BC TIM MCGRAW IS ABOUT LIKE A LOVE FROM HIGH SCHOOL AND THIS IS LIKE COMING HOME FROM COLLEGE AND REUNITING WITH THEM BC YOURE BOTH DEPRESSED AND LONELY

tolerate it - jesus christ i’m not emotionally ready for this. STOP THIS IS THE PRELUDE TO BETTER MAN. LIKE BETTER MAN IS AFTER SHES ALREADY LEFT BUT THIS IS BEFORE WHEN SHES STUCK AND KNOW SHE DESERVES BETTER BUT SHE JUST TAKES IT IM GONNA CRYYYYYYYYYYY. okay but i’m imagining the babe music video and that whole of like the doting housewife who gave up everything for her husband and does everything to make him happy but he just does not appreciate it at all and he doesn’t see how much his indifference hurts her. @taylorswift mv now. honestly? loved that but as a track 5 it’s pretty weak

no body, no crime - I PREDICTED THIS WAS GONNA BE MY TOP SONG ON THE ALBUM LETS SEE IF I’M RIGHT. GIRL THE SIRENS AND “HE DID IT” AS THE FIRST LINES?? THEN THE COUNTRY INSTRUMENTAL??? TAYLOR HAS FINALLY GIVEN ME A GOOD OLD FASHIONED “MURDERED MY CHEATING HUSBAND” COUNTRY SONG HELL YESSSSSSS. OH THE WIFE IS MISSING???? NOT GONE GIRLLLLLLLLL MISS TAYLOR CHANNELING AMY DUNNE HERE!!!!! OH SHUT UPPPPPP SHES A LESBIAN WITH ESTE’S SISTER AND THEY COVERED UP HIS MURDER AND NOW THEYRE GONNA LESBIAN TOGETHER MISS TAYLOR

happiness - okay miss happiness you’ve got a lot to live up to but let’s do this. NOT THE MIRRORBALL PARALLEL “i was dancing when the music stopped” and “when no one is around, my dear/you’ll find me on my tallest top toes/spinning in my highest heels, love” NOT THE IDEA OF CHANGING YOURSELF JUST TO KEEP SOMEONE BY YOUR SIDE IM GONNA SOB taylor please stop this i cant emotionally handle any of this. girl this is the prelude to tolerate it which is the prelude to better man

dorothea - okay so seven’s older sister? so dorothea and whoever this singer is were besties when they were teens and then dorothea moved away and now the singer misses her former best friend and also first love and also they’re lesbians yeah it’s gay it’s so gay. taylor i’m literally begging you from the bottom of my fucking soul please give us a music video with two girls please miss swift i ask of you this one (1) thing

coney island - see i thought this was gonna be seven’s older sister when the tracklist was announced so now idk what to expect! JESUS OKAY I KNOW IT SAYS “feat. The National” IN THE TITLE BUT I FORGOT AND I GOT SCARED BY HIS VOICE. NOT A FUCKIJG CAR ACCIDENT TAYLOR IM REALLY SORRY I RRALIZE YOU ARE YOUR OWN PERSON AND I NEED TO STOP CONNECTING YOU TO HARRY BUT REALLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. okay anyway here’s my theory hear me out: This is dorothea’s husband who’s confused why his high school sweetheart wife doesn’t love him anymore and why she’s now hanging out with her old high school best friend again damn that’s weird they’re like really super close that’s super odd. anyway that’s just a theory I actually don’t really know what this songs about! miss swift is too smart for me

ivy - stop this song is so sweet!!!!!! i feel like this is getaway car’s sister! i need to stop doing that i know it gets annoying but really honestly it is! NO NO NO THIS IS DOROTHEA’S PERSPECTIVE WHEN SHE HAS AN AFFAIR WITH HER HS BESTIE AND HER HUSBAND STARTS TO FIND OUT GUYS IVE FIGURED IT OUTTTTTTT. WAIT WAIT WAIT THE HS BESTIE IS FROM NO BODY NO CRIME AND DOROTHEA IS ESTE’S SISTER GUYS IVE FIGURED IT THE FUCK OUT YOU GUYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I GOT IT

cowboy like me - let’s yee and let’s haw ladies and gents. WHOS SINGING????? WHOS SINGING WITH HER???? taylor shut up for a second lemme hear who tf this is. AM I CRAZY OR IS THIS JOE???? i’m probably dumb. but am i? why can i not at all remember what joe’s voice sounds like rn. is that joe??? im so confused. maybe i’m super dumb and it’s really obvious and i’m just fucking stupid. it’s probably not joe it’s probably some country legend that everyone else knows bc they grew up yeeing and hawing and i’m but a wee city slicker but i’m gonna hold onto this stupid theory that it’s joe singing with her until someone proves me wrong later. also this song is fucking gorgeous where’s my cowboy hat not wearing one while listening to this song makes me feel sacrelige. okay wait tay and aaron wrote this one is it aaron? i’m sorry taylor i don’t listen to the national you can hate me if you want

long story short - god the production on this slaps!!!!! and the idea of being hurt before and then finding your love and being all about them and not even caring abt what happened before!!!!! god i’m gonna cry i’m gonna cry. NO MORE KEEPING SCORE NOW I JUST KEEP YOU WARM?????? taylor really said “oh you’re not in love and i’m gonna make you feel like SHIT ABOUT IT” taylor pls a petition to let us say “BITCH” after the last line so it’s “i survived...bitch!” okay pls and thank you

marjorie - oh is this about taylor’s grandma :(((( i knew she used her name but this feels like it’s really all about her. babey. this is so sweet. taylor i love you

closure - okay the opening??? slaps! literally! okay the production of this is interesting! okay i’m like trying to figure out who this is about....who cares this is so good. oh my god the distortion??? it just underlines the anger of it all so perfectly and i love

evermore - exile hive let’s GOOOO. please be an exile pt 2 pls be an exile pt 2. so odd to me because, as a whole, this actually feels like a way more happy and optimistic album than folklore did, yet the title comes from the line “i had a feeling so peculiar/that this pain would be for/evermore”. OKAY BON IVERRRRRR. the violence of the dog days? that’s my next instagram caption thanks taylor. NOT A DUET SECTION AGAIN LIKE IN EXILE TAYLOR PLEASE I CANT HANDLE THISSSSSSS. “we always walked a very thin line” AND “is there a line that we could just go cross?” THE PARALELLELLLLRJSNDBBD. I’m gonna die for this I really think. okay so she ends it on this pain wouldn’t last evermore so that’s good

overall? this is a masterpiece. miss swift has done it again. folklore aoty 2021 and evermore aoty 2022. no body, no crime is really THAT BITCH. i need a mv miss swift! okay bye gonna go cry over this

update: after listening all night i feel like i need to point out that i’m stupid and thought este was the mistress and the singer was the wife when in fact ESTE is the wife in no body, no crime. SO addendum to my theory: este and dorothea were besties in hs then dorothea left and got married and so did este but este’s hubby cheated so then este’s friend murders him and she’s cool w it, then dorothea and her husband move back home and este and dorothea reconnect and realize their long hidden feelings for one another, dorothea leaves her husband and she and este run away together

ANOTHER UPDATE: ‘TIS THE DAMN SEASON IS FROM DOROTHEA’S POINT OF VIEW!!!!!!!! WHEN SHE COMES HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS AND SHES SINGING TO ESTE!!!!!! CJNECNSJSNNDN

[secondhand-trash]

Freddy Freeman(Shazam!)- Art Exchange

A/N: Nobody asked for this but here is another fic I wrote out of impulse. This is inspired by something similar that happened to my friend and the biggest struggle I had when I wrote this was probably the fact that I have no idea how American schools work lol

Description: Drawing exaggerated pictures of your teachers is a part of high school culture and you had fully embraced it as a part of your school life. You just didn’t expect someone to actually see it, let alone replying to it with an even more comedic doodle.

Wordcount: 2166

Playlist:

Young Volcanos//Fall Out Boy

Check Yes Juliet//We The Kings

Something You Want//Against the Current

You couldn’t help it. Mathematics was boring and the teacher’s monotone lecture did not help keeping you awake at all. Scribbling on your desk was your last attempt at trying to stop your eyelids from closing and to your surprise, it worked. From that moment onwards, you always mindlessly dribble on the corner of your desk in class, occasionally looking up to pretend that you are actually listening. By the time you leave class, half of the wood surface would be covered in graphite strokes, most of which consisted of portraits of your maths teacher.

Sorry Mr Martin, but your round head and goatee was too cartoonish and easy to visualize.

Normally, you would make sure to erase all the doodles on your desk before leaving the room. But your friend had been rambling about this new movie and as you two continued with the conversation after the bell rang, you completely forgot about the markings on the school property.

Your mistake ended up being a delightful surprise for another poor kid who was stuck in the exact same situation as you did.

Freddy tried, he really did but he hated this subject with his whole heart. Why did the school think it was a good idea to ask you to calculate the volume of a pool when no person in their right mind would purchase a goddamn pool without knowing its measurements?

He was quick to notice that something was off about his usual seat the moment he walked pass the door. Taking a more careful look at the patterns on the desk as he sat down, he instinctively pressed his hand to his lips to cover up the snicker that would have drawn too much unwanted attention as more pupils started entering the room. On the corner of his desk was a figure that somehow resembles an egg but with a goatee. He didn’t have to take another glance to know that said egg was their beloved teacher, completely unaware that he had been immortalized in his student’s masterpiece as he handed out the new assignment.

Whoever did this was a genius, Freddy thought to himself as he scanned through the other amusing doodles on the desk. He reached into his bag and scrambled for a pencil, scribbling away while trying to surpress the large grin on his face.

“Mr Freeman? Mr Freeman, are you listening?”

Shit. “Yes Mr Martin?”

“Tell me, what is the answer to this question?”

“Oh crap.”

“What if he saw it?” You nervously said to your friend as you two made a turn down the hallway.

“It’s gonna be fine,” your friend said, clearing annoyed after hearing you went on about how much trouble you would be in if Mr Martin found out about the little artwork you made of him in class. Drawing in class, on school property AND making fun of your teacher? God knows how many days of detention this could cost you.

You sighed in relieve as Mr Martin did not even turn to look at you when you walked in. You walked straight to your seat to see that all the doodles were still there. Picking up an eraser to remove all hints of your crime, you noticed something that wasn’t there before. Right next to the egg(aka cartoon Mr Martin) you drew was the figure of a man being tied up. The corner of your lips tucked up into a smirk as you saw that the man was tied up by his very, very long facial hair. Whoever left this here clearly paid more attention to the teacher’s goatee more than they did to class like you did.

“Nice drawings, bought me more fun than maths ever did. Hope you don’t mind my little addition:)”

Looking at the scrawled handwriting below the figure, you grinned. You erased the existing drawings on the table and started making another one, all while thinking of a message that you could leave for the person who would be sitting there later on.

Needless to say, you were thrilled when you got back to the seat the following day to see that you actually got a reply.

You never thought that you would ever say this in your entire lifetime but you started really looking forward to maths class. Every time you walked into the classroom, you checked the table for new drawings and messages immediately and you were never disappointed. Your anonymous friend always pulled through and the stuff that appeared on the wooden surface only got weirder and weirder, so weird that you found yourself smiling uncontrollably when you look at them in class. (”What exactly are you smiling at?” “Oh, nothing. Just my love for algebra, Mr Martin.”)

Your friends teased you about it, saying that you looked like a fool in love when you grin at your desk. To that, you shrugged. You never showed them the doodles and you weren’t planning to, much to their curiosity and annoyance. Somehow, you wanted the whole exchange to be a secret between you and the other person involved. The idea that you had an unspoken bond with someone you had not met gave you an odd sense of excitement.

That was until one day you entered the classroom with your usual anticipation and found nothing but your own handwriting, not even a single word next to the lines you made.

You tried to continue leaving little drawings and notes here and there on your desk everyday but you were met with the same disappointment when you check in on the markings the next day.

“I don’t get it! What happened? They didn’t say anything, they just vanished like they fell of the surface of the earth! Are they ok? Are they angry at me for anything I might have done? Are they still alive? What if-”

“Can you please calm down?” You friend yelled, throwing the fork down onto the tray and earning the both of you a few glances from the people sitting near your table, “That person does not even know who you are!”

“Well, I know!” You snapped back, “But there must be a reason as to why they suddenly stop replying! It makes no sense!”

You friend rolled their eyes and continued munching on their food, deciding that letting you express your frustration might be a wiser idea than putting any form of rationality in your head.

Little did you know, the same conversation was unfolding in the far corner of the cafeteria.

“I should have left my number!” Freddy sighed, “And now there’s no way I would ever find out who my art buddy is!”

“I mean, I get your frustration but maybe don’t take it out on your food? The mashed potato is innocent, ya’know?” Billy said in amusement as his brother let out another muffled groan, “Mr Martin wouldn’t have forced you to sit in the front row if you at least tried to pretend that you were paying attention, just saying.”

“You are no help.”

“Have you ever thought of waiting before class starts to see who’s the one in that seat?”

“First of all, that sounds creepy.” The shorter boy folded his arms in front of his chest, “Second, what am I supposed to do after that? Walk up to that person and be like ‘Hey, I’m the weirdo who you had been bonding with through our mutual mocking towards our teacher, wanna be friends?’”

“I thought you want to know who the person is?”

“Well yeah,” Freddy said, "but the thought of actually being around them in real life kinda scares me. Can’t we just go back to how things used to be? When I can pretend to be cool by hiding under the facade of my excellent art?”

“How so very confident of you, if only you have as much confidence when you are facing real people.”

“What class are we having?” You friend asked, desperately trying to change the subject. Your rambling carried on after you two finished lunch and they were slowly losing patience.

“History.”

“Damn it! Really? I forgot about the essay we are supposed to hand in! I’m so fucked...”

You mockingly laughed, “Same, but the difference between me and you is that I was smart enough to check my schedule when I got to school this morning so I managed to finish it in maths class.”

Reaching into you bag, you search for your paper and your smirk slowly fade as you realized that it was no where to be found. “Shit, I must have left it in the drawer.”

“Ha ha, jokes on you. Now we can both get into trouble together.”

You glared at your friend, “I’m gonna go get it back.”

“Are you sure? I think class is about to start.”

“I’ll just say that my stomach hurts and I was at the bathroom. With the quality of the food they are serving here, I’m sure that no one will suspect a thing.”

Freddy mindlessly flicked his pen as he sulked in his new seat. Class was no fun and he could not get away with drawing in class anymore with the teacher right in front of him, watching his every move. He was bored out of his mind when the door opened, he looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing under the frame. Was this person in his class?

“Sorry Mr Martin, I left something here and I need it for class.” The person quickly entered the room and walked pass Freddy after gaining a nod of approval from the teacher. His gaze followed them and his eyes widened in shock as the person stopped in front of his previous seat, pulling a few sheets of paper out of the drawer. He took a quick glance at the paper when they passed his seat again and felt a comforting sense of familiarity when he saw their handwriting. Freddy smiled, earning him a look of confusion from the maths teacher. “Honestly,” the man thought to himself, slightly regretting putting this kid in the front, “why did I decide to be a teacher in the first place?”

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turned around, the voice stopping you in your track as you were walking out of the school building. Not far from you was a boy walking towards you with a crutch in his hand, clearly trying his best to walk at full speed.

“Do you know him?” Your friend whispered in your ear and you slightly shake your head. As he walked closer, you recognized him as the person who was sitting near the door when you went to get your homework in Mr Martin’s room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you?”

The boy scratched the back of his head, realizing that he might have confused you. “Oh, of course. I almost forgot that you don’t know yet,” he said, not looking you in the eye as he speak, “I used to sit at your seat in maths before I got put in the front.”

You beamed as you finally gathered what the boy was trying to say, “That’s you? So that’s why you suddenly stopped replying! Thank god, I thought you were dead or something.”

“No, not dead, just observed by ‘Mr goatee’ 24/7.” he said and you laughed. He reached out his free hand to you, “I’m Freddy.”

“(y/n).” You said and shaked his hand, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you in person. I’ve missed you... I mean, talking to you... Like, drawing ‘talking’...” You felt your face burn as everything you said sounded so creepy and you gave your friend a sharp glare as you heard the snickering.

“I missed that too.” Freddy looked right at you and you took the first proper look at him. With the sun and the grin on his face, it looked his eyes were twinkling. You cringed as the thought went pass your head and you felt like such a cliché. But this kid actually got unfairly pretty eyes.

“Now that we did the whole ‘awkward first encounter thing’,” He said and darted his gaze away from you again, “maybe we can hang out sometimes? I know this really nice comic book shop in town, if you’re interested that is.”

You smiled, “I love comics.”

His face lit up and you cursed yourself for being so quick to notice that. “So is tomorrow good?”

“Tomorrow’s good.”

“Cool, I’ll see you then.” He gave you another bright smile before leaving and joining another group of people that you assumed to be his family. Still grinning from ear to ear at what happened, you didn’t notice the sly smile on your friend’s face.

“Ooooooooo someone’s got a date.”

“Shut up.”

[narniadreams]

to those who made my 2019 a little brighter,

(but really, for all my followers)

hey there! it feels like it’s been a long time since i wrote my own post on here. but there are a few things i want to say. truthfully, this year has not been great. it has not been awful either. it has just been... a lot. i went to many concerts, made new friends, started a new job and traveled to south korea! but i have also lost people who i admired and looked up to, the climate change has been stressing me out so much, and well... more bad stuff at home. 

i made a lot of big steps in my anxiety and depression, but my eating disorder is still pretty much as strong as it was at the beginning of this year, and the year before that too. i still feel very stuck there. (i know i must just DO IT, but i am so scared that i just never take the leap) 

anyways, with ups and downs, there have been some people on here who have made me happy throughout this year, and i just wanted to write something to them. 

@narnianfarmer my dear Linda, i have only gotten to know you this year, but you are already such a bright star to me. seeing you on my dashboard instantly makes me smile; i love your blog, your posts, your kind words, and everything else. may we meet one day and cuddle cows together! 

@lasaraleen Jessie, such a lovely and cheerful girl you are with so many emotions and ways to express them. you are a joy to this world, and you really feel like a big sister to me - someone who i can come to no matter what. i hope that you can give yourself the same care that you offer to others. be well <3

@lucypcvensie you might be the coolest person i know Eysha, seriously. you are so easy to talk to and you have dazzling aura. i know school can be really hard and overwhelming, but i know you have the strength to get trough it. you are capable of so much. be your own superhero; don’t doubt your abilities! and let’s talk some more about BTS next year ^u^

@susansarrows Caitlyn, my angel, you aren’t on here very often anymore, but still you make me so so happy! when i do see you pop on here from time to time, my heart does a little jump! wherever you are, and whatever is going on in your life, i hope you can find the strength and hope that you need to make it. know that no matter what, i am here for you. 

@cinthia37 we have been talking for a long time already, haven’t we, Cinthia? perhaps we don’t talk as much as we used to, but still, each time i see your username, my heart fills with joy. you’re a beautiful person, i hope you are doing alright.

@calormen Dorian, i don’t know much about you and we don’t talk very often, but your contribution to this fandom has been so great that i just needed to thank you. your art is outstanding! and you work so hard. thank you for blessing us with such masterpieces.

@clearnorthernskies hey Calorine, i know you are new here, but i am already so happy you have decided to join this fandom. your tags are a joy to read and i love your writing too! (although i still need to catch up with it) i hope that you have been enjoying your time here for now. never be afraid to reach out.

but, to all my followers, to the people who make edits and artwork and moodboard and anything, to those i spoke to in discords, to those i have only spoken to once, to those who send me messages (on anon or not), or whoever may be reading this, i love you all so much. i really do see and appreciate every single on of you. i look at your blog and check what you write in the tags, i see your activity, and i couldn’t be more thankful that you all chose to follow me. i’m always wishing you kindness, warmth and eternal happiness. 

may 2020 make all your dreams come true <3

love, from me

[superfics-forone]

Heads will role

Warnings: Violence, light swearing, angst

Word Count: 2,955

Summary: You are an opera singer with a public life that has been blackmailed to work for a secret organization. Your current mission gets sabotaged by Bucky.

Notes: This is mostly exposition so sorry if that’s not your thing. This is also my first fic EVER so please by kind!! Also, I’m still trying to get a handle on how to post on this platform so please, please be patient with me! There are a couple links in there for music. I’m actually an opera singer so if you know about stage life at all this will make sense to you, if not, ask me! I have links in there for the music I was listening to (kind of like a soundtrack) while I wrote this. I think it makes the story more fun to read but up to you. I will probably continue this into a second part because our reader’s story isn’t done yet and I need more interaction with Bucky, but I hope you enjoy!

For @mermaidxatxheart​‘s 500 Followers Challenge!!

They picked you because of your background - documented stage combat training, classical dancer, martial arts expert.  They picked you because of your name. It was easy to remember, and just as easy to forget, rolling off the tip of the speaker’s tongue. They have picked you because you had a reason to fight and those reasons came in five loving bodies waiting for you back home. 

But mostly they picked you because you had the easiest cover story of anyone in the department. If anyone was going to be able to get all of the necessary international documentation quickly and easily, with the fewest eyebrows raised, it was you. An internationally accredited opera singer. 

This used to be one one of your favorite roles, but as the opening chords of Anna Bolena by Donizetti vibrates through the house of La Fenice you couldn’t help but feel a tug at your heart for the job you knew you had to do. Taking a deep breath you fixed your headpiece one more time and smoothed out your gold and red satin gown. 

The lights glowed hot and little flecks of fog could be seen as you stepped onto the stage for your first scenes as the tortured queen in Donizetti’s masterpiece. 

There were lots of things that could go wrong with this mission and as you looked up at the first box and saw your target the music was the farthest thing from you mind. Heavy red curtains hung around him that when drawn would give you the cover you needed to get the job done. It would have to be at the end of the first act. It was the only way to keep your cover. 

“They” had specifically designed tonight’s opera around what needed to be done. At the end of the act you would dramatically faint during the fight scene between Percy and Smeton rolling to the other side of the bed where a body double would be waiting to take your spot. It was only a 60 second scene. There wasn’t any room for error. Some of the crew had even been taken down with a fever that morning and you knew that their “replacements” would be there in the wings to get you to the trap door leading into the box. The perfect cover. Plausible deniability. You, yourself a “tortured diva” at the end of the performance. Well, at least that part would be true you thought to yourself as the tenor playing your opera husband banged through the doors of your stage room. Now was the time. At the first sound of steel being drawn you put a hand to your forehead dramatically and rolled on top of your fake bed to the other side. The two fighters cut a curtain that fell dramatically across the bed and you swapped with your body double. 

60 seconds. “They” were there. Fourteen pairs of hands were on you, stripping you of your big skirts and headdress, attaching your hidden harness to the rigging and in 7 seconds you had a sword in your hand and were being flown straight up to the third level to the trap door. 

You hit with a thud that was covered by the swell in the orchestra. 

13 seconds. Two. One. Now

You push open the door and spring into box as the lights flash. You don’t know who you strike and your knife flashes across the top of the seat placed at the front of the box. You never ask who your target is. You’re sure you’ll read about that tragedy later. 

Something’s wrong. As soon as you hear a thud you realize that no one is there. There isn’t a body where there should be one. You look around in haste. The box is empty. 

You look at the chaos on the stage and down to your watch on your harness unsure of what to do. Puzzled you look around. You look straight to the box on the other side of the house and see two eyes watching you intensely in an unlit box. 

“Shit.”

You duck quickly behind the curtain and look at your watch. 45 seconds. You have to be back on stage! This mission is a bust! 

You rolled back to the other side of the box and quickly threw your legs up over the trap door, clipping yourself in as you swung it shut again. Pulling the break you sped down the last twenty feet of wall with the team waiting below you. 

You knew you would never see their faces again as the grabbed you and started dismantling your harness and putting you back in your costume. 

You were quiet and pensive as a skirt came around your waist and a headdress was placed at the top of your head. 

“He wasn’t there.” you whispered. 

The flurry of hands around you stopped as the dresser in front of you looked in your eyes and her face went white.

“60 seconds” the man behind you cursed. You knew this would be your last night on stage. You knew that the people who had just helped you in and out of you costume were never going to make it out of the theater doors alive for your failure. You just had to get through this next act and prepare for whatever came after. 

As you rolled back onto the stage and began singing the last few lines of act one finale you mentally prepared for you what you were going to be facing later tonight. 

You raced back to your dressing room. You had to think. Thankfully you weren’t in the first scene of the second act and could form a plan. Ordinarily you’d stay in you costume but tonight your dressing room became a staging ground for the battle you knew you were about to face. 

“They” expected you to be at the gala tonight. Your evening gown was even hanging in the closet to your left but you dove right past it and grabbed the black bag that you had made improvements on as soon as you had gotten tapped by “Them”.

You reached in about found your four inch knife and holster, strapping it to your thigh. It was a smooth weapon that would barely made a line through your dress. You dug out your passport, obviously a fake, and tucked it into your bra for later. It was only about 5 minutes before they were knocking on your door. 

“Ms. Y/N, 5 minutes to places.” 

“Thank you, five!” You called through the door praying the poor stage manager wouldn’t come in seeing you in such a state. 

You climbed back into your costume and prepared for the second act...and the chase of your life that was bound to follow.

The final chords of the opera played furiously as the curtains fell. The audience roared their gratitude as the executioner stood before his block, sword in hand. It was the last image they saw before a black out. You breathed deeply trying to get the air back into your lungs that you had just given in that final aria. Everyone around you was congratulating each other on a show well done and it was all you could do not to run for your life. 

You slowly made your way to your dressing room where a flurry of costume techs were surrounding you - hands coming from all different directions. You flashed back to act one. 

Those eyes in the dark box. Blue and curious. Waiting and ready. 

Who was it? Why did he compromise you?

Whoever he was you knew that it didn’t matter. Right now you just had to get to the next door. 

As the last tech left you slipped your silver evening gown over your body double checking that your knife and passport where still on your person. 

Looking around the room one last time you looked at the picture of your family - the five people you’d be leaving behind and sighed. Undoing the frame itself you folded the picture and tucked it safely into your knife holster. 

Taking one last look around the room you walked out the door. 

You brushed your way past the chorus and backstage hands weaving your way through the throng. You didn’t stop to chat as people yelled “Brava” to you as you brushed back. 

Your dress brushed around your legs as you rushed back up to the stage hoping to make it to the loading dock and slip out the door unnoticed. You wove your way around the set. The tower, throne, and executioner's block still out waiting to be reset by stage hands. 

You heard voices coming toward you and hide behind the raised throne’s dias waiting for them to pass. You breathed low and slowly so as not to be heard. 

Staying low you backed away from the throne watching the stagehands as they left through the door. Crouched down you reached for the door behind you while still watching to make sure no one came. 

Cold, smooth, ROUND metal met your hand. 

(Music)

Panicked you swung your head around as your fight or flight instincts kicked in. You dropped your clutch, you hand forming a fist as you punched straight for the crouch now directly in your sight line. 

You heard a groan as you twisted around the man now doubled over in pain almost making it to the door before two arms wrapped themselves around your waist and picking you up back toward the stage. You brought your legs up and pushed against the wall, using it as leverage and kicked pushing your attacker back and over a box. His grip loosened slightly and you threw your head back into his. Using the momentum of your fall you flicked your legs over your head grateful for the flexibility that years as a dancer had given you. 

Reaching through your dress slit you grabbed your knife and came over the top or your opponent to stab his chest, your head above his. His hand grabbed your wrist inches from his chest and for a moment you registered that his hand was the smooth metal you had felt from earlier. Shocked you looked into his cool blue eyes and saw him smirk at your discovery. His hand squeezed slightly, twisting your wrist and dislodging the knife from your grip. It bounced harmlessly against his chest. 

With a singer’s scream you swept your right leg around his through using the grip he had on your wrist against him pulling his arm straight up as you sought to cut off his air supply. 

You felt your stomach lurch as he picked you up as though you weighed nothing, your bare leg peaking out of your dress, still wrapped around his neck. 

“Who is this guy!” You thought to yourself. This was taking too long and all of his moves were nearly missing you. He had you in the air and threw you onto the mattress of the bed you had started this mission on. Having been rolled to the wings during the intermission you only had about two feet of clearance between you and the wall. You crawled around to the head of the bed, knowing there was a fake backing, while he made his way to the foot. Slinking around the side you felt a sharp piece of the bed frame graze your face stinging as your ran for you knife lying on the ground. 

Three loud, long steps sounded behind you. And you felt air as the man dove for your knife trying to get it away from you. Knowing that he would get there first you stopped, remembered the executioner's block he had fallen on at the beginning of your struggle and changed course. You wiped the blood from your cheek and picked up the sword. His eyes followed your blade as it pressed against his neck.

“Don’t move”.

“Mercy” he said. Now that you had the advantage you took in the person in front of you. He looked at up at you half sitting up with you knife in his hand. 

“I’m not going to hurt you” he said dropping your knife on the ground as he looked straight into your eyes. 

“Really,” you scoffed, “The bruises on my knees and hips say otherwise. 

“Self defense.” he shrugged.

“WHAT?” 

“You threw the first punch.” He said matter of factly, “And it was a cheap shot too.” His eyes squinted as he cocked his head to the side away from your sword. 

You were thrown for a second but pressed the blade back to his carotid. 

“Who are you?” You demanded. 

“That’s what I was going to ask you, doll. I would say Y/F/N Y/L/N considering I just heard you sing but the way you just fought would say you’re a little bit more than that. Then there’s that pesky detail of you trying to kill our poor friend in that box.”

You panicked for a moment. 

“No one was supposed to know about this mission. Where are you getting your information? Who do you work for?” 

He laughed as he slowly got off his knees, hands up in defeat, your sword still precariously place on his neck. 

“Let’s just say I have some very patriotic friends who can’t seem to mind their own business.” 

You stood in confusion as you pieced together his words. 

What happened next was entirely a blur. His metal hand swirled around the blade of your sword and the clang of metal sounded as it hit the floor. 

You found yourself with your arms at your sides pressed up against the man’s broad chest. You felt tiny compared to his large frame and had to pull your head back to keep from being two inches from his face. You were so close could smell his musky aftershave. 

“So, do you want to tell me who you are now, doll?” 

“You already said you knew who I was” you retorted. 

“True, Y/N, but I don’t know WHY you’re here.”

“I had a job to do” you looked away from his eyes in slight shame. You didn’t want to answer these questions. 

“Yes, which you failed because the president got a suddenly violent flu before the end of the duet.” 

You raised your eyes in shock and looked into his deep blue ones.

“Who are you?” You gasped in fear. 

“I’m James, but you can call me Bucky.” 

A shadow fell across the back wall behind Bucky. You saw it coming fast and furiously, eyes widening. 

Bucky, seeing the fear in your eyes, released you and turned to face the attacker. You knew there was no running from this. 

A black blur was all you could see as you realized these would be your final moments and you prayed to whatever God there was out there to keep your family safe. At least if you died they wouldn’t know what you did... you hoped. 

Instead of the pain you knew was coming you heard grunting and fighting instead. Opening your eyes you saw Bucky fighting off your attacker, throwing him across the backstage with a yell. The black-clad attacker fell into the executioner's block with a loud THUD. You chuckled for a moment over how heads had rolled over this prop tonight. 

You gaped for a moment as Bucky went in pursuit of the attacker following him over the block. He landed a nice right hook across the attacker’s face. 

You knew this fight wouldn’t last long. Bucky really had avoided hurting you when you fought. He wasn’t holding back now. You took this opportunity to get out of the grips of both your attackers, picking up the knife Bucky had dropped and dropping down to the trap door of the backstage to get out to the loading dock’s alley as quickly as possible. You didn’t know what your next stop would be, but you knew that the next stop was going to be completely of grid. 

As you slunk from shadow to shadow down the alley in your evening gown, you faded wordlessly into the Venician night. Running was going to be your life now. 

If only it would be that easy. You pulled out your family’s picture from your knife holster and thought for a moment. 

Once you had criss crossed the Venetian canals long enough to distract any pursuers you walked into a small tourist shop and grabbed a postcard from an outdoor spin tower.. La Fenice was on the front. You also grabbed a pen and kept walking. No one suspected you to lift while you were dressed like this and you used it to your advantage. 

You needed a message. Something only your family would understand. Saying that you were safe. Saying that you would watch out for them. Knowing that they would worry regardless you wrote one word on your postcard. It seemed insignificant, but it had been a password for your family since your youngest sibling had been born. They would understand. They had to. 

You searched for a post bin and slipped your message inside, and with it said goodbye to your life. Turning, you squared your shoulders, head on swivel, and you hopped on a water taxi. You still weren’t sure what Bucky was doing there tonight but he was the reason you were in this situation. As the boat pulled back from the doc you made your way through the warm humid night. Whoever found you first, you’d be ready.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT CONTRACTORS

In big companies software is often designed, implemented, and sold by three separate types of people. Tcl is the scripting language of Unix, and so its size is proportionate to its complexity, and a funnel for peers. By this point everyone knows you should release fast and iterate. Programming languages are for. They don't even know about the stuff they've invested in. But I think there's more going on than this. If you run out of money, you could say either was the cause. Nearly all programmers would rather spend their time writing code and have someone else handle the messy business of extracting money from it. Every programmer must have seen code that some clever person has made marginally shorter by using dubious programming tricks. In one place I worked, we had a big board of dials showing what was happening to our web servers.1 Every designer's ears perk up at the office writes Tenisha Mercer of The Detroit News. There are borderline cases is-5 two elements or one?

I decided to ask the founders of the startups in the e-commerce business back in the 90s, will destroy you if you choose them. It's due to the shape of the problem here is social. In the arts it's obvious how: blow your own glass, edit your own films, stage your own plays. Only in the preceding couple years had the dramatic fall in the cost of customer acquisition. The organic growth guys, sitting in their garage, feel poor and unloved. So the first question to ask about a field is how honest its tests are, because this startup seems the most successful companies. A good deal of that spirit is, fortunately, preserved in macros. The second way to compete with focus is to see what you're making.

But more important, in a hits-driven business, is that source code will look unthreatening. In DC the message seems to be the new way of delivering applications. White. I'm going to risk making one. But looking through windows at dusk in Paris you can see that from the rush of work that's always involved in releasing anything, no matter how much skill and determination you have, the more you stay pointed in the same business. PR coup was a two-part one. It's conversational resourcefulness. We're more confident. That certainly accords with what I see out in the world.2 Treating indentation as significant would eliminate this common source of bugs as well as making programs shorter. Once you take several million dollars of my money, the investors get a great deal of control.

The dream language is beautiful, clean, and terse. It works.3 It could mean an operating system, or a framework built on top of a programming language as the throwaway programs people wrote in it grew larger. I'm not saying it's correct, incidentally, but it seems like a decent hypothesis. The most important kinds of learning happen one project at a time. Instead of starting from companies and working back to the 1960s and 1970s, when it was the scripting language of a popular system.4 Blogger got down to one person, and they have a board majority, they're literally your bosses.5 Unconsciously, everyone expects a startup to fix upon a specific number.6 But as long as you seem to be advancing rapidly, most investors will leave you alone.7 What readability-per-line does mean, to the user encountering the language for others even to hear about it. Users have worried about that since the site was a few months old.8 If it's a subset, you'll have to write it anyway, so in the worst case you won't be wasting your time, but didn't.9

It's exacerbated by the fast pace of startups, which makes it seem like time slows down: I think you've left out just how fun it was: I think the main reason we take the trouble to develop high-level languages is to get leverage, so that we can say and more importantly, think in 10 lines of a high-level language what would require 1000 lines of machine language. Well, that may be fine advice for a bunch of declarations. Trying to make masterpieces in this medium must have seemed to Durer's contemporaries that way that, say, making masterpieces in comics might seem to the average person today. I kept searching for the Cambridge of New York, I was very excited at first. Which was dictated largely by the hardware available in the late 1950s. This comforting illusion may have prevented us from seeing the real problem with Lisp, or at least Common Lisp, some delimiters are reserved for the language, suggesting that at least some of the least excited about it, including even its syntax, and anything you write has, as much as shoes have to be prepared to see the better idea when it arrives. And I was a Reddit user when the opposite happened there, and sitting in a cafe feels different from working. The Detroit News.10

Most founders of failed startups don't quit their day job, is probably an order of magnitude larger than the number who do make it. But the clearest message is that you should be smarter. But hear all the cutting-edge tech and startup news, and run into useful people constantly.11 You won't get to, unless you fail. Running a startup is fun the way a survivalist training course would be fun, and a funnel for peers. It's since grown to around 22,000.12 You may save him from referring to variables in another package, but you need time to get any message through to people that it didn't have to be more readable than a line of Lisp. A rant with a rallying cry as the title takes zero, because people vote it up without even reading it. I'm just stupid, or have worked on some limited subset of applications. This is supposed to be a lot simpler. Whatever a committee decides tends to stay that way, even if it is harder to get from zero to twenty than from twenty to a thousand.13

With two such random linkages in the path between startups and money, it shouldn't be surprising that luck is a big factor in deals. Most of the groups that apply to Y Combinator suffer from a common problem: choosing a small, obscure niche in the hope of unloading them before they tank. A programming language does need a good implementation, of course. Look at how much any popular language has changed during its life. With a startup, I had bought the hype of the startup world, startup founders get no respect. A real hacker's language will always have a slightly raffish character.14 The eminent feel like everyone wants to take a long detour to get where you wanted to go. But there is a trick you could use the two ideas interchangeably. Their reporters do go out and get users, though. A throwaway program is brevity. I do that the main purpose of a language is readability, not succinctness.15 You can't build things users like without understanding them.

At the moment I'd almost say that a language isn't judged on its own and b something that can be considered a complete application and ship it. They're so desperate for content that some will print your press releases almost verbatim, if you preferred, write code that was isomorphic to Pascal. When I moved to New York, I was very excited at first. To avoid wasting his time, he waits till the third or fourth time he's asked to do something; by then, whoever's asking him may be fairly annoyed, but at the same time the veteran's skepticism. There are several local maxima.16 Defense contractors? When, if ever, is a watered-down Lisp with infix syntax and no macros. Hackers share the surgeon's secret pleasure in poking about in gross innards, the teenager's secret pleasure in poking about in gross innards, the teenager's secret pleasure in popping zits.

Notes

What happens in practice signalling hasn't been much of a long time in the 1920s to financing growth with retained earnings till the 1920s. Even Samuel Johnson seems to be a good idea to make money.

A related problem that they decided to skip raising an A round VCs put two partners on your own mind. That should probably question anything you believed as a cause as it might take an angel investment from a company's culture.

If you don't think they'll be able to formalize a small company that could be made. There was no more unlikely than it was putting local grocery stores out of business you should be.

If Congress passes the founder visa in a time machine, how can anything regressive be good employees either.

If big companies to acquire the startups, the light bulb, the initial investors' point of a great deal of competition for mediocre ideas, but I think what they campaign for. When governments decide how to distinguish 1956 from 1957 Studebakers. How did individuals accumulate large fortunes in an absolute sense, if we think your idea is that parties shouldn't be that the Internet was as late as Newton's time it takes forever.

Galbraith was clearly puzzled that corporate executives would work to have this second self keep a journal. While the audience already has to be more at home at the start, e.

Some will say that it also worked for spam. The closest we got to the Internet worm of its identity. Icio.

Rice and Beans for 2n olive oil or butter n yellow onions other fresh vegetables; experiment 3n cloves garlic n 12-oz cans white, kidney, or black beans n cubes Knorr beef or vegetable bouillon n teaspoons freshly ground black pepper 3n teaspoons ground cumin n cups dry rice, preferably brown Robert Morris says that a startup in the US, it would do it is genuine. Com in order to attract workers.

But the early adopters you evolve the idea that could start this way, except in the back of your last round of funding rounds are at some of these limits could be ignored. Comments at the mafia end of the latter without also slowing the former, and also really good at generating your own time in the computer world, write a new SEC rule issued in 1982 rule 415 that made steam engines dramatically more efficient: the attempt to discover the most promising opportunities, it is very vulnerable to gaming, because there's no center to walk to.

Though it looks like stuff they've seen in the first year or two make the kind that has become part of a large chunk of time, default to some abstract notion of fairness or randomly, in one where life was tougher, the television, the more subtle ways in which those considered more elegant consistently came out shorter perhaps after being macroexpanded or compiled. For these companies unless your last funding round usually reflects some other contribution by the high-minded Edwardian child-heroes of Edith Nesbit's The Wouldbegoods.

Mozilla is open-source browser. They may not be led by a big factor in high school kids arrive at college with a truly feudal economy, at least should make what they claim was the recipe: someone guessed that there are before the name implies, you don't, but that we didn't do. They overshot the available RAM somewhat, causing much inconvenient disk swapping, but they hate hypertension. Living on instant ramen, which are a hundred years ago.

I don't think you should probably question anything you believed as a rule, if you're measuring usage you need, you don't have one. Don't be fooled. So managers are constrained too; instead of admitting frankly that it's a seller's market. This is one subtle danger you have a group of people who are both genuinely formidable, and would probably also encourage companies to say how justified this worry is.

One of the biggest winners, which is where product companies go to grad school, because you can work out. It's conceivable that a their applicants come from meditating in an equity round.

So where do we draw the line?

In 1995, but he got there by another path. If you treat your classes as a company if the potential magnitude of the 2003 season was 2. An investor who invested earlier had been trained that anything hung on a desert island, hunting and gathering fruit. Confucius claimed proudly that he had more fun in this essay, I can imagine what it would have started there.

I'm satisfied if I could pick them, and they succeeded. Consulting is where your existing investors help you even working on Viaweb. If they were taken back in July 1997 was 1. But the change is a scarce resource.

[shadowsnlace]

Oof @ that last anon. I whipped out my [admittedly rusty] Chinese and tried tracing that image back from the first place it was posted on Google, and even THAT was a repost from somewhere else /over/ five years ago. So telling you "hey you're horrible for not crediting go do that" is.. 'questionable' behavior on their part lol. I would have thought people would know what type of person you are by now! - 🌸

Sakura nonnie! Hi sweetie!

Wow! Thank you so much for putting in that effort! I appreciate it so much!

So that artwork has really got history. And a lot of mileage it would seem. Well, whoever took the time to do that piece did a damn fine job and it certainly deserves more jogs around the block. I know I really love it and I’m sure lots of other Bleach fans do too.

Y’know, just a little art history lesson here for everyone: There are a lot of extremely beautiful and masterpiece quality works in the art world that are unsigned/uncredited. There are people who’s sole job it is to do extensive research to try match the work to the artist and many times even they fail to identify the artist. That doesn’t mean museums shouldn’t show them or that the rest of us shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy them just because the artist, for whatever reason, didn’t sign it or take credit for it.

As for the anon that wrote to me, I’m always all right with anything that’s said to me. I take it in stride. That person might be an artist that got one or more of their pieces ripped off or re-used without their permission. I get it. But, there’s 3 things to keep in mind: 1 - I don’t make money off this blog or off any images, there’s no infringement here nor will there be. 2 - I always credit everything that didn’t come out of my brain, art AND writing. If I can’t give direct credit then I make sure it’s understood that I didn’t create it. 3 - You will never find me being rude or disrespectful in any way on this blog. That’s just not who I am. If that ever happens, I can promise it was by accident and I would expect someone to set me straight immediately.

The only thing I’m looking to create on this blog is fun, laughter, and smut that’ll melt your panties/underwear...definitely not drama, well, except any that’s found in a story.

Thank you again, Sakura nonnie! You get some extra love and a big hug! 💖💗💓🤗😘 OK, I threw in a smooch too, you deserve it.