#foo foo decor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shiny-jr · 1 year

Text

damnation (peek IV?)

Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

Characters: Jamil Viper, Kalim Al-Asim.

Summary: When you commit a crime, you receive a punishment. This is especially true in your society. No matter the crime, your punishment is the same: banishment. But to where you will be sent in exile and how miserable will it be? No one knows, because no one has ever returned.

Note: Got busy, planned to post this a while ago but what can I say? Plans change. Definitely will not have nearly as much time to write as I did a few weeks ago, but I’ll still try whenever I have a bit of time and some energy to do so. Anyways, like I mentioned in a few posts, I was not happy with how I originally wrote Scarabia, so I rewrote almost all of what I had, which was thankfully only like about ten pages. I’m a little more happier with how this is now. But again, things can always change, so the final result may look the same, a little different, or even completely different. Oh, and like mentioned in the previous notes for sneak-peeks, check the points in first post (heartslabyul, labeled “I”) for a bit of context to the situation and story if this is the first sneak-peek you’re seeing.

I . . . II . . . III . . . IV . . . V . . . VI . . . VII

THE VIZIER

Feathers. Colorful feathers tickled your nose. A woven shawl sat on your shoulders with vibrant colors and macaw feathers along the clip that held it in place above your collarbone. As your vision readjusted to the scenery, you could make out an old desert city stretching out as far as the eye could see, until it met over the horizon with the starry night sky. It was nothing like the court you were in moments ago. Instantly everything came flashing back to you, the trial, the judges, your punishment. This was your punishment. “Holy shit.”

“Is something wrong?”

You looked to the side, surprised to see a servant placing a tray of food beside you. You were on a balcony, a beautiful grand spacious terrace where the arches were decorated with ivy and walls of flowers while pillars of flames provided light and there was a large water fountain in the center. You were laying on the edge of that fountain, when you pushed yourself up and looked around. That’s when you noticed your clothes had changed too. Somehow your simple change of clothes from before had become easy-to-move-in loose trousers and a simple tunic, but with the colorful shawl over your shoulders that resembled wings. “What? What the hell?”

“Is there something wrong with the food?”

Food? You looked down at the tray the servant had brought, surprised to see plates of kofta and falafels with a chalice of water. The delicious smell wafted in the air, making your mouth water and stomach grumble. How long has it been since you ate? Probably well before you were arrested. If you got food, you were expecting cold slop, not this scrumptious meal that was cooked to perfection. Instantly you snatched it up, assuring the servant, “No, no, forget it! This is fine, uh, thanks…!”

“Very well.” They bowed their head to you, “Please, enjoy the meal, vassal.”

Vassal? You stopped mid-bite, about to ask them about it and where you were, but they had already taken off. Well, you weren’t complaining. You had thought you were going to die, or end up in some horrible hell. This place was actually quite nice. You could feel the breeze of the cool desert air and smell the flora growing on this terrace, you heard the city below with the crackling of fire from the pillars and the running water beside you, not to mention you were eating the best food you ever tasted! If this was hell, then being banished might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you!

“You! Jamil’s vassal!”

There it was again. What the hell did they mean by vassal? Falafels stuffed in your mouth, you slowly and awkwardly turned around to face whoever called you. Who was Jamil? You had no idea. A little annoyed that your dinner was interrupted, you eyed the approaching stranger up and down before swallowing your food and muttering, “What do you want?”

Appearing offended at your response, the young man stomped up to you, closer so you could see him better in the dim lighting. He looks a little young, if you had to guess, you’d say the guy was no younger than eighteen. Sharp blue eyes and long thick black hair styled into a single braid, not to mention he wasn’t smiling. This was no servant judging by the expensive looking blue garbs he wore and the gold on his bronze ears that complimented his handsome face. It had to be someone of high standing. When he was right in front of you, he frowned down at you and placed his hands on his hips, “Where is Jamil? And where is my cousin?”

You lowered your plate of food, squinting at this stranger. Who did he think he was? Jamil? Cousin? “Your cousin…? Jamil…? How should I know?”

“You should know. As the vizier’s only vassal, you should know where Jamil is. That is your job, to serve him. Or is he slithering about in places he shouldn’t be?” As his blue eyes bore down at you, he continued his tirade, “You haven’t bowed your head or greeted me as everyone does, by saying, good day, Prince Jaseer. And you’re here slacking off while everyone else in the palace is working.”

“I’m on a lunch break.” You mumbled in reply, tempted to snap. Wait… had he said prince…? A beautiful royal in blue wearing gold, with long black hair, who is spirited and no-nonsense, like a princess in a fantasy tale. A princess that lived in a palace just like this one, where there was a vizier and sultan–– oh fuck. How was that possible? This was like a stupid kid’s story you heard all the time! Before you could ponder on the topic, you were reminded of who was in front of you by him cleaning his throat. You immediately bowed your head sloppily, begrudgingly, as you recited the words he wanted to hear. “Good day, Prince Jaseer…”

At your less-than-satisfactory response, he crossed his arms over his chest and replied still with that frown, “If you can’t answer my question, then there’s no use talking to you. I’ll find someone that can tell me where my cousin and Jamil are. Let it be known, I have my eye on you and your master. My cousin may be fond of you both, but I am not.”

When you slowly lifted your head, you watched the prince storm away, likely to go find his cousin, whoever that was, and the vizier, this Jamil guy. As soon as he turned a corner, you scrunched your nose and scoffed, “Brat.”

Wait… that meant this was a story. It was all too similar to a story that began much like: it begins on a dark night, where a dark man waits with a dark purpose. If this was that story then what were you…? Apparently working for the vizier, wearing a shawl of rainbows, and feathers… oh my god, you were the fucking parrot. As you resumed your eating you busied your mind with processing these thoughts. “At least the tax collector can’t find me here.”

All you knew was that you were in the role of his parrot, his pet. What a stupid role to end up in! In this version you hoped you were at least some sort of glorified servant! At least you weren’t dead, this was much better than that. You knew the tale of Aladdin by heart, it was a very popular story growing up. You had even envied the protagonist, a thief, for ending up with a genie and winning the love of the princess. Turns out that princess, or prince in this case, was not all that. Well, they always say to never meet your heroes. But, there was one thing that was bound to be great, no matter how much this story would change. The magic lamp that held the genie. You wanted it. Maybe if you stuck around this vizier long enough, you could take it for yourself whenever the opportunity presented itself. You had the advantage, you knew exactly what was going to happen. That genie could grant any of your wishes! It could take you home if you wanted. You could make all those judges rue the day they banished you! You could rule this world and yours! You could bathe in an endless amount of gold and cash! The possibilities were endless!

As you finished your meal, another figure came into view. The figure of a guard, like the ones you’ve been watching patrol and march around, approached you nervously. Only when he noticed you glance at him and nod your head, did he begin speaking, “G-Good evening, vassal. The candidates, they’re ready for the vizier, he’ll be here any moment. You are the only one he trusts, everyone knows this, won’t you put in a kind word for me? I fear he’s in a foul mood, his venture to the cave in the desert didn’t end well again.”

Candidates? Vizier? Cave in the desert? After a few seconds of the guard waiting in anticipation, you were able to connect the dots. This must’ve been a specific rendition of the story where the vizier found the Cave of Wonders in the desert but instead of using a magic machine he created to find the diamond in the rough that could enter the cave, he used his power behind the scenes and in the dark to search through prisoners and criminals and send those he thought might be worthy to die trying to enter the mystic cave. This vizier, Jamil, would no doubt be growing frustrated since he’s likely been keeping at this for so long without finding a single person that can successfully enter the cave. Jumping off your seat on the fountain after finishing your last bite of food, you looked over to the guard and smiled, “Alright, let’s go. We can’t leave the master waiting, can we?”

“Of course! Allow me to lead the way.” So you followed the meek little guard, and as you trailed after him you thought about what would happen and what would you do. The guard had said that it was a fact that the vizier trusted only you, or rather, the person who you’ve replaced. The prince didn’t notice you were not the vassal, and neither did this guard or any of the other servants, so it was likely that no one would notice unless you slipped up, not even the Vizier Jamil. Hopefully.

You watched as the pristine halls of the palace became dark and dim the deeper you went. As the smooth walls became rugged stone lit only by lamps of fire, and the lush green plants and overpriced furniture and decorations became absent. There were also, noticeably, less people. It felt like you and guard were the only ones as you followed them deeper into what you guessed was a dungeon where you heard chains rattling and the echoing screams of those held captive. Before you could enter the room, the guard turned to you and pleaded,

“Please, stay here. I’m sure seeing you will give the vizier a bit of peace. He should be here any moment now. I will go ahead and be sure everything is in order.”

Before you could even protest, the guard scurried ahead to the end of the hall and not too long after, you detected footfall behind you. When you turned around, you saw what you presumed had to be the Vizier Jamil. The vizier looked sort of imposing as he appeared from the dimly lit halls, and with the flames on the wall you could just make out his appearance. A thin figure clothed in red and black robes decorated with gold, holding a golden staff that ended in the shape of a cobra’s head. Long thin hair as black as night coiled down his brown shoulders like snakes in multiple small braids and loose strands decorated with gold, and instantly his sharp gray eyes painted with eyeshadow darted over to you upon noticing your staring. He looked irked, but since you supposedly had a good relationship with him, maybe you could poke and prod without worrying about suffering any consequences. From what you recalled, the vizier’s parrot in the tales was a loud-mouthed creature with a bad temper.

“Welcome back, oh great vizier. So, how did it go?”

“Not a word.” The vizier hissed, sending you a glare. Yet it wasn’t threatening, it felt more… annoyed. Like when your friend was pestering you, except without the light-heartedness. At the least he didn’t snap, he did have the power to command you to be put to death. Yet all he did was give you a look before his frown instantly morphed into a stoic expression in the blink of an eye, so fast that it sent you reeling.

Jamil wasted no time in walking forward, not bothering with greetings as he entered the first room of the dungeon that was dingy and dirty. Inside was the guard from before, nervously standing off to the side just across from a line of prisoners in shackles with their heads hanging low, and more guards behind them. These prisoners reminded you of yourself, but less. Now you’re free of any shackles, you’re wearing fine clothes and eating food made by the best chefs while living in the luxurious palace. To avoid being at the center of attention, you stood off the side, leaning against a corner.

You watched intently, curiously, as Jamil approached the line of prisoners, scanning them all with those sharp eyes as he walked by them slowly. The men and women in rags and chains tensed when he stepped near, but kept their eyes glued to the ground. Whether it was out of respect or fear, you weren’t sure, but you watched as some of them squirmed in place or nervously glanced at him. After a minute of going down the line of a dozen or so prisoners, he stopped in his tracks and turned to face the guard who guided you. On his face was obvious disappointment.

“You bring me the rough, but never a diamond.” That cold stare of his remained on the anxious guard, never looking away even as he commanded the others, “Take them away.”

You pursed your lips and shook your head, watching as the other guards forcefully dragged the prisoners down another hall, to a fate unknown. Poor suckers. You could hear them pleading, begging the vizier for mercy from whatever end they knew awaited them. In one rendition of the story, when the princess snuck out of the palace and gave apples to poor children, apples she had no money on her to pay for, she nearly lost her hand as punishment. It was likely that these prisoners were about to lose much more than a single hand.

The meek guard sent you a pleading look as they whispered frantically, “You said you would put in a kind word for me…!”

Turning your attention to them, you scoffed, “I never said that. I said I would follow you.”

“You…!” At your shrug, he directed his sights towards the vizier who was walking away, his back toward him as he seemed to be prepared to follow the guards and prisoners going elsewhere within the dungeon. “Please, my vizier.” The vizier stopped, and the words were caught in the guard’s throat until he finally forced them out with wavering uncertainty, making it sound more like a question than a statement. “... Perhaps this diamond in the rough does not exist…?”

For a moment he paused but didn’t turn around, and quietly replied, “They’re out there.” A response with unwavering certainty.

“But we’ve searched for months!” It appears that the guard was showing signs of frustration as well. Who knows how many prisoners they’ve interrogated and how many criminals they’ve captured in these months, all in an attempt to satisfy the vizier’s wish of finding a diamond in the rough. “I do not understand what could possibly be in that cave that could help a… a man as great as you. You are already second only to the sultan!”

“Second? Uh-oh.” You exclaimed, bracing yourself for what was to come and ignoring the guard’s growing irritation towards you. In the tale, yes the vizier worked for the sultan, he was the sultan’s most trusted advisor. But, behind the vizier’s facade of charm and loyalty, there was only a burning hate for the sultan who believed in him. The vizier wished to be the most powerful man in the kingdom, second to no one. So to be told he was second, straight to his face, would be like a slap. You watched as Jamil turned to the guard with a deep frown, and you could only whistle, “Who’s in trouble now~?”

Jamil turned to face him fully, staring at the guard beneath him with such a piercing gaze before questioning firmly, “Do you believe second is enough?”

Without hesitation, they nodded, the answer to them was obvious. “Yes. You were not born to be sultan, you are not of royal lineage. His Majesty, Kalim Al-Asim, was born to be sultan.”

Kalim Al-Asim. So that was the sultan’s name. The mere sound of it was enough to tick off the vizier, he narrowed his eyes and began to speak in a quiet murmur, “Do you know that I’ve served him my entire life? From the day I was born, they dictated that I was a servant to him and they chained my entire existence so it depended on him.” Slowly he stepped forward, inching closer with every word he spat like venom. “You have no idea of the things I’ve been forced to do for him. The sacrifices I’ve made and blood that’s stained my hands, the bodies I’ve buried and times I’ve watched him be praised for his minimal efforts I can easily best.” The closer he got, the more frightened the guard appeared until he was right in front of them. “Everyone will one day learn that I am not worthy of a mere second place, I am supposed to be first. That’s why I need the lamp, and I no longer need you––!”

Right before your eyes, you watched as Jamil swiftly struck him with the bottom of his staff and he fell backwards into a well. A seemingly bottomless well, because you heard his scream growing distant until an unsettling silence lingered. You covered your mouth in shock, but Jamil paid you no mind. It’s as if he’s done a dozen times before, as if you had witnessed all of them before.

After a moment, he sighed and lowered his staff, regaining his composure to cover up for the anger that slipped through in that moment. Again, in a flash, he had a stoic expression as he turned to gaze at you in the corner, when he beckoned you closer with a motion of his finger. “Come here, my vassal. It’s time for a meeting with that irritating sultan.”

Now you were on your way to meet the sultan. Kalim. You hoped he wasn’t anything like Jamil. This vizier was to be feared, but at least he didn’t seem to mind you. So you probably won’t be pushed down a well anytime soon. As you followed him when he began walking, he questioned abruptly,

“What did you do while I was gone?”

This wasn’t good. You weren’t here for that long before he returned, and you got the feeling that Jamil was a particularly observant fellow judging by how he glanced at you from the corner of his eyes. “That royal brat confronted me while I was eating. They’re so annoying.”

“Ah, Prince Jaseer?” Slowly he nodded, as if agreeing with your words. Phew. You were doing alright, fitting the role just fine it seemed. “Annoying would be putting it lightly. He’s just another entitled royal born with a golden spoon in his mouth, an ignorant person who knows nothing of how the real world works.”

“You’re telling me. The guy made me bow and recite a greeting like I was nothing but a pleb beneath him! Then he had the gall to say I was lazy! I was eating! Can’t a person like me eat in peace once in a while? I was starving!”

By now you were in a better part of the palace, where you were once again surrounded by riches. Upon hearing your response, Jamil replied without hesitation, “You are lazy when I’m not around.” At his remark, you stared at him incredulously as he continued with zero reservations, “You are uncaring, murderous, deceitful, aggressive, cunning, and annoying.”

Unable to help it, you snapped back in reply, beginning to rant and list off your fingers. “ME? Look in the mirror bud, you just basically described yourself! You’re cruel, immoral, narcissistic, power-hungry, sadistic, and secretly deranged! You’re two-faced, snake!” When you looked over to him, he still had that stoic expression but he rolled his eyes. Your jaw dropped. There was no way he just fucking––

“You used that insult, two-faced snake, two weeks ago.” Before you could add anything more to the growing pile of insults, he lightly tapped your forehead with the cobra head of his golden staff, appearing unbothered. “Come up with something else or get on my level, then you can talk back. For now, be quiet. We’re nearing where Kalim wanted to meet us. I don’t need to remind you to be on your best behavior around the sultan.”

Rubbing your forehead, you glared at him and mumbled, “Oh, I’ll come up with something shocking, you sorry sack of––ACK!” You coughed, bending over in pain as he quickly jabbed the end of his staff against your stomach to shut you up just before a silk curtain separating the halls from a room opened up.

“Jamil! Oh, and your vassal too! I’m so happy to see you guys! You’re just the ones I wanted to see!”

#yandere #kalim al asim #jamil viper #twisted wonderland #twst #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twst writing #work in progress #damnation twst au

853 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 5 months

Text

I posted this fascinating 1885 townhouse in St. Louis, Missouri, 2 yrs. ago, but it's still on Zillow's site b/c it's so unusual! Thanks to thefurgler for sending it to me, b/c I love to re-post these homes in case anyone missed it. 3bds, 3ba, sold for $325K, which was much less than the $399,500 price tag. (I guess sometimes unique properties are harder to sell.) Enjoy looking at this one.

The first thing we encounter out front is this sign. What does it mean? The address is 1204 S. 18th St. Notice the Foo Dogs guarding the door.

The entrance hall has one of those magnificent giant wall mirrors and it was painted gray with silver accents. I'm getting a creepy castle vibe.

A lot of remodeling was put into this home, but I'm so confused by it. I THINK that this is what was once the sitting room, b/c of the original fireplace. (Notice how low above the coffee table the light fixture is.)

This piece looks like an architectural salvage church altar. An "altered altar," b/c it has a glass display in the middle.

Looks like conversation seating.

Okay, this is recognizable as the guest powder room. Interesting.

I have no idea where we are or what this is. Looks like a sunporch w/a lap pool, maybe? This house is surreal. Note that the gate is chained.

Okay, we're in the kitchen. What a weird stove. Nice exhaust hood, though.

Kitchen cabinetry, a sitting area, and a display case in the wall?

Going upstairs.

What is this place?

Where the hell are we?

One of the baths.

Modern gallery?

Oh, yay, I think we found a bedroom. This house is exhausting.

You can go out on the roof from here.

Not much up here, though.

That glass pyramid is kind of cool, but what could you do with it?

Bedroom #2 is modern and has an en-suite.

Big ol' heat stove down in the basement.

Zen garden in the back yard.

Have to be careful back here.

Covered patio.

Beautiful block, but you never know what kind of decor could be lurking behind someone's front door. $325K, I wouldn't hesitate to buy it, though.

#unique homes #unusual homes #surreal home #artsy houses #houses #house tours #home tour #submissions

110 notes · View notes

aithorin · 6 months

Text

oh, baby, I am a wreck when I'm without you - Lady Dimitrescu x Reader - Part 2 (Eventual 18+)

Synopsis: As Lady Dimitrescu’s loyal personal maid, you have watched for years as others have come and gone from your Mistress’ bed, desperately wishing you could take their place. Yet despite your deep love for Lady Dimitrescu, she has never once looked at you that way. Years of repressed pain reach their breaking point when you accidentally walk in on one of your mistress’ trysts, for it is then that you finally accept that she will never truly see you. You confront her in hopes of stepping down as her personal maid but soon discover that Lady Dimitrescu won’t so easily let you go.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49435549/chapters/124759192

A/N: Part 2 of 3. Part 1 and Part 3 are here.

_______

One week later

Darkness clings to the air, threatening to swallow the flickering candlelight that guides you through the silent halls of Castle Dimitrescu. The night is still. Nevertheless, you shield the flame as you turn a corner, only to find you no longer need it. Light spills through a cracked door, extending into the hall like an outstretched hand. It beckons you forth, and like a moth drawn to a flame, you drift closer to peer through the crack.

At first glance, the room appears to be empty. A fire roars away in the hearth, illuminating walls lined with books. Adjacent, twin settees decorate the inner part of the room, separated by a low tea table. Everything is in its proper place, untouched. And yet, something feels off. It’s almost as though it’s too quiet.

Your eyes roam the scene granted by your limited vision, keen to silence the nagging voice in the back of your mind, but nothing stands out. A sigh of defeat escapes you. You’re about to give up, certain that a servant had simply forgotten this room on their nightly rounds, when, suddenly, from the very corner of your eye, you catch something that appears to be a… shoe?

Curiosity rouses to life, and before you can stop yourself, your hand is reaching out, gently easing the door open. It swings back, the aged wood groaning in protest, unveiling exactly what you’d thought: a shoe. Your brows furrow in confusion. What was a lone shoe doing in the middle of the room?

You lean forward, trying to get a closer look, only to discover it isn’t alone. It is the first of many items. A few feet behind it, you catch sight of the shoe’s matching pair, haphazardly tossed to the side. A stray set of stockings follow it, succeeded by a maid’s uniform. And are those- are those your mistress’ gloves?

You swallow thickly, suddenly wishing you’d never opened the door. It’s obvious where the clothes come from, where they lead to , yet you can’t look away. Pandora’s box has been opened, and there is no going back.

A choked, pleasure filled moan breaks the silence of the room, a final warning, but by then it’s too late. Your eyes fall upon them, breath hitching as your heart shatters. The maid from last week, Imogen, lays pressed against a wall of books completely naked, head thrown back in ecstasy with Lady Dimitrescu buried between legs. Imogen shudders, finding her release, and Lady Dimitrescu diverts her attention to the thin rivulets of blood oozing from a wound in Imogen’s neck. She licks along the length of Imogen’s body, following the trail before latching on at the source and drinking hungrily.

“Imogen, dear, you taste utterly divine .” Your mistress groans in satisfaction, pulling back to reveal a mouth painted in red.

You stumble back in utter shock, the wind completely knocked out of you. This couldn’t- couldn’t be real, right? This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. The mistress was supposed to be yours . And yet, she wasn’t. You knew that, but still, you’d always hoped. For years, you’d sustained yourself on deluded daydreams, yearning for the day that your mistress would look at you and finally see you.

But looking at them now, you realize hope is nothing but a fool’s dream.

Tears burn at your eyes as you sink to the floor in utter agony. Why was it always someone else? There must be something painfully deficient with you. It was the only explanation. Why else would your lady continue to overlook you for others who were so pitifully average?

And yet, it’s not like they were any better. Tendrils of anger begin to creep in, momentarily souring your insecurity, for if anyone was deserving of her, it was you . Imogen’s face leaps to the forefront of your mind, causing your mouth to twist in a sneer. What did a simple kitchen maid have that you didn’t? You were the one who came to Lady Dimitrescu’s beck and call. You were the one who dutifully carried out her every need. You were the one who fulfilled her every wish. Why wasn’t it enough?

You pause as a tiny voice whispers that no one, including yourself, could ever hope to be worthy of her, and your anger shatters beneath the crushing weight of your revived despair. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how much better you were than them. You’d never truly be deserving of your mistress, regardless of how desperately you wished for it, for your lady was a goddess amongst men while you were nothing but a lowly mortal.

But still, couldn’t she see how hard you tried? Hot tears spring anew as your heart clenches painfully in your chest. You choke on a sob, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. God, if only you were given a chance. So many others had squandered the gift of her love, but, oh, how you’d treasure it, knowing she’d bestowed it on such an unworthy individual.

That chance was never going to come though. It was a truth you’d spent three years running from, but not anymore. You’d given all you had. There was nothing left. And as you gather yourself to your feet, piercing heartbreak dulls to throbbing numbness.

You continue on into the night, leaving the couple as well as the fractured, mangled pieces of your dreams behind.

88 notes · View notes

xo-urban · 1 year

Note

okay dear husband, got a lil request for you 😌

arthur morgan falling in love with a baker, an absolute sweetheart of a man and exactly the type Arthur meant when he told those ladies that were still a few people worth loving and dying for.

once they're in a official relationship, arthur get's so flustered bc his baker treats him like an absolute prince, like sure as hell he won't let anyone kiss his cheek and call him "my handsome man", or the baker hugging the shit out of him and arthur leaning in knowing how much he values his personal space.

plus, the baker is taller and naturally bigger than arthur, i'm a sucker for the gentle giant trope.

love youuu muack 💕

Love you too handsome 🫶

Made With Love

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Bigger!Baker!Male Reader

Summary: You find yourself falling in love with a cowboy who fell for your baked goods first.

Word Count: 1160

“Mr. Morgan!” Grimshaw called out to the man who was readying to leave camp for the nearby town for some time for himself. The tall man turned his head, giving her his full attention. He raised a brow, looking at her before she shoved some money into his face.

“There’s a new bakery in the town you’re going to, could you kindly get me one? Don’t care which, I just wanna try, also get one for yourself too Mr. Morgan!” The woman quickly spoke before hurrying off.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head with a smile. “C’mon then girl, let’s get this outta the way.” Arthur mounted on top of his beautiful mare before snapping the reins, trotting out of camp and into the heart of town.

…

The soft smell of freshly baked bread warmed your shop as you carefully made your way to a counter to place the hot tray down. You smiled proudly at the batch, tossing the rag that helped you hold it to the side before you let the bread sit, grabbing another tray that had been resting and carefully began to set it out. These were glazed in a fine dark chocolate, some with crushed almonds on top.

It has only been a few weeks since your grand opening, but business has been over the roof. It was only you who ran the shop, recipes were made by you, service was you, the baker was also you. But you handled it well, it was a small shop and you alone could run it easily.

Just then, the small ringing of your bell sounded through the small bakery, causing you to stand up straighter with a welcoming smile. You saw a rugged looking cowboy with a grouchy expression before he looked up to meet your eyes, his face softening and you could’ve sworn he took your breath away.

You definitely have not seen him before, but you had no reason to turn him away either. He was shorter than you by a couple inches, smaller too. He interrupted your thoughts when he walked up to you, looking at your pastries, his face thinking hard.

“Anything in particular that fancies you? Chocolate? Caramel?” You asked sweetly, placing down the tray to help the confused guy. The man tilted his head, pointing at the chocolate covered one that you were about to put out. “Can I have that one? If it won’t be too much of a hassle.” The man spoke softly, was he shy? This grizzled man being shy, talking to you?

You nodded with a smile, grabbing a small brown paper bag to put it in, “Anything else today sir?” You asked, turning to him once more. His face became rosy when he looked at your face again. “You don’t happen to have anything sweet? Sugary but not exactly chocolate?” He asked, watching you smile.

“Course I do! I’ve been trying out this new berry recipe but I haven’t got it to my liking yet, do you mind being the first person to try it out then Mr…?” You trailed off, looking at him. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan.” He replied, smiling, oh god his smile, the way it compliments his face so much and how it brightens up the room. It was adorable.

“And I surely don’t mind” Arthur chuckled, you quickly nodded, running out back to decorate the pastry before hurrying back out to see Arthur still standing there, patiently waiting for you.

You bagged the food up before turning to Arthur. “Don’t worry about paying for it, it’ll be on me!” You smiled at the man who shook his head. “No no! I’ll pay for it” Arthur protested, digging around in his satchel for the money Grimshaw gave him, pulling it out.

“I ain’t accepting it Arthur!” You exclaimed with a laugh, denying the money, trying to place the pastries into his hand. “You better!” Arthur huffed.

“Just take it, you can pay the next time you come around, just not today alright?” You offered, looking at Arthur’s rosy face before he sighed, nodding in agreement. “Better stick to it or you lose a future customer!” Arthur warned, hand extending as the other rested on the counter he leaned against.

You chuckled, “I will, you have my word Arthur” You hummed, placing the bag in his hold, your hands brushing against one another, the softness and warmth was so nice but so short lived when he pulled away.

The two of you shared a smile before Arthur turned to walk out but stopped midway, turning back to look at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow alright?” Arthur hummed, you nodded with an answer, “Of course, come visit when you have the time, I’ll have more for you to try out!”

Arthur smiled, tilting his hat before he walked out, leaving you alone with a warm bubbly feeling in your chest.

Arthur usually came to visit your shop every few days to buy a bunch of baked goods and to try out any new masterpiece you baked out back. Course you two grew feelings for each other. It began out with long conversations to longer lingering touches, compliments till he asked you to walk with him sometimes, a stroll around town, sometimes you’d dare to hold hands to keep each other closer for longer.

Then months later he asked you out, invited you to dinner under the stars after you closed up your shop, formally asking you, though it sounded more like pleading, for you to be his boyfriend.

How could you say no to him? He had the softness of silk, the protectiveness of a mother bear, the love of an angel, the understanding of your boundaries. What more could you ask for? Arthur was perfect.

But Arthur never came to visit you this week, saying he was busy and had to do jobs for his family before he could return back into your arms.

You missed him so much, dreading for your handsome man to return. You looked up when you heard your bell sound through the bakery once more, finding yourself staring at the man you missed for so long.

“Hope it wasn’t too long sugar” Arthur smiled, eyes widening when you practically leaped over the counter and into his arms, embracing the cowboy in a tight hug. “It was too damn long!” You exclaimed with a frown, his face tucked in its rightful place in the crook of his neck.

Arthur leaned into your hug, knowing how much this doesn’t happen before he cupped your face gently, kissing your cheeks before your lips met his own, his thumbs wiping your building tears away.

Arthur smiled softly, your hold loosening, putting your boyfriend down with a happy sigh before he spoke.

“Sugar.. I’m kind of hungry.. Can you make the berry pastry again? The one you gave me a long time ago?”

“Of course my love. With extra love this time so you stay!”

#fanfic #fanfiction #male reader #arthur morgan x male reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr x reader #no beta we die like men

375 notes · View notes

crab-milk · 5 months

Note

What is lion dancing? You've mentioned it before, but I don't think I've seen it before

I'm particularly new to the world of lion dancing myself, but I hope this could also help! Lion dancing is a Asian tradition that blends puppetry, martial arts, and dancing that has been around 206 BC. Although it originated from China, countries like Japan, Korea, Vietnam, and South-East Asian countries have their own respective forms of lion dancing. There's actually quite a few types out there, but they can be identified by their martial art forms, lion heads, or nationalities. I'm probably going to info dump now so I'll cut it here for others to read if they'd like.

Before we get into that, I have to clear some common misconceptions. Lions are NOT dragons. Dragons are puppets that generally have 6 or 9 people holding it up on poles and are long (龙 lóng - do you get the joke lol). Foo dogs are technically lions, but the terminology was derived from white people who mistook lions as chow chow dogs.

To clear further confusion, the reason they're called lions is because allegedly, when China started trading with the western world, lions and their pelts were only reserved for the wealthy. Poor people spread word about what lions looked like, and it somehow turned out that way. There's a lot of mythology surrounding why people do lion dances, but the shorter version is that the lion scares off demons and ill-intentioned spirits from villages. It's now a tradition at openings of businesses, weddings, funerals, and festivities.

Most people are generally used to seeing southern Chinese or Cantonese lions. Traditionally, all of these lions are male and have different variations, again based on nationality or style of martial arts that it's derived from. There are northern lions, which have a male and female (red and green bows respectively), as well as Japanese and Korean lions, which are mostly comprised of wooden masks and long fur.

I'll mostly focus on southern Chinese lions, but they're all pretty neat! I mostly practice Fut-San lion dancing, which is a pretty common form. They notably have a ":3" face and the style of martial arts (wushu) is considered a very common standard for southern Chinese lions. Recent variations of these lion heads also have pom-poms as they are derived from Beijing opera costumes. Each lion also has a pointed horn on the top. They can also have fluffy or wiry fur for its eyelids and mouth, but there exists variations with bristles instead, which may signify that the lion is based on a historical military figure (kind of similar to how Beijing opera singers do specific makeup for specific characters).

These are generally more common in other countries. South-east Asian versions of the lions are extremely decorated, intricate, and distinct.

Hok-San lions are also pretty common. They are distinguished by having a "snake" horn which means the horn curls into a circle at the end and a ":)" face.

Despite their differences, all southern lions have a mirror in the front to ward off evil spirits, some horn with a bow attached, and a beard. Traditionally, the mirror is there to scare off spirits who look into it. The horn is generally added after the lion is almost finished being made, and the bow on the horn is added ceremoniously to bless the lion and honor the gods. It is highly recommended people don't touch them, save for the practical reasons of dirtying the mirror or tearing off the delicate horn, but also to avoid getting bad luck from ill-intentioned spirits.

That aside, I'd like to finally to talk about what to do when you see lions! If you have red pockets of money, the lion eats them up (and the performer in the head puts everything in their sweaty shirt). Sometimes, lions go and play with the audience, so feel more than welcome to pet them or play fight with them! Each performer has their own distinct personality that they play in the lion and as a result, have a lot to share with the audience!

I could go on and on, but I'm afraid this is really long for no reason. I hope this info dump helped!

#i saw an opportunity to info dump and took it #sorry lol #lion dancing #info dump #silence crab

51 notes · View notes

hopelessdelusional · 11 months

Text

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You turned off the engine of the car, taking in the area that surrounded you and your best friend. You knew that Kaminari had been able to make a career off of just YouTube alone but this exceeded your expectations as to how he lived. Sure it wasn’t the most impressive neighborhood you’ve been invited to, but it sure as hell didn’t seem like a neighborhood you or Hitoshi could afford to live at in this moment in your lives.

You take a breath, then turn to Hitoshi who was busying himself on his phone, probably being too invested by people arguing on twitter.

“Hey.”

His brown eyes were suddenly looking into your eyes, there was an anxious look in his eyes, but he hid it well. Hitoshi rose an eyebrow at you, probably already annoyed by the fact that he knows you’re going to say something that might make him feel emotions.

“Thank you for coming with, I love you.”

A small blush fell on his cheeks before he reached out and shoved your face away from him. You started laughing at his emotional constipation, which only made him continue to mess with you. You were quickly able to get his hands away from you, just one of the pros of why you go to the gym. The two of you headed out of the car and walked up the driveway, making small comments about the interesting decorations that littered the front porch. In a way it reminded you of the shared home you had with Hitoshi, admiring the pride flag that hung proudly blowing in the wind. Hitoshi rang the doorbell, and after hearing an absurd amount of noise coming from the other side of the door (Taylor’s version from the vault) the door swung right open.

“Hey y/n!”

Kaminari had a wide grin on his face, and was wearing black sweatpants and a band t-shirt. You quickly greeted the blond back, before squinting at his shirt to get a better look. Your eyes widened as a sly smile spread across your face realizing it was a Foo Fighters shirt, knowing that was one of Hitoshi’s favorite bands. You were tempted to point it out for your best friend but you made the conclusion that even if you said something you didn’t think either of them would notice.

To say that Kaminari had heart eyes, was an understatement. You don’t think you’ve even seen someone in a rom-com look that head over heals, and of course looking at your best friend you swear you could see hearts circling around Hitoshi’s head.

“Hey Shinsou, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“You can call me Hitoshi.”

To a stranger, Hitoshi maybe just looked a little off his game, but after knowing this man for seven years you could easily tell how flustered he truly was. Kaminari was flushed with a big goofy grin on his face while Hitoshi’s posture was unlike you’ve ever seen him stand. It was pretty funny, seeing them give each other heart eyes.

“Oh, well uhm Hitoshi-“

“Hey Guys! Welcome to the crib!”

Kirishima, as loud and energetic as ever, popped up out of what seemed like nowhere. He was wearing gym clothes, athletic shorts and a tank top, but from what you can tell that’s probably just what his entire closet is full of. Kirishima’s grin stretched across his face with his arm draping around Kaminari. Though there was a sudden interruption, Kaminari didn’t seem to want to look away, while Hitoshi started to look away and peek into the home.

“How many people are here right now?”

You watched as Kaminari’s face fell, his love trance quickly falling, suddenly nervous to make Hitoshi uncomfortable.

“Yeah oh god y/n I completely forgot to tell you.”

You were honestly surprised that Kaminari would be taking to you again. You smiled politely grabbing for Hitoshi’s arm to keep him from bursting into the house uninvited. Hitoshi has a habit of not caring what others think of him, not that you think Kaminari would care. The blond would probably let Hitoshi do whatever he wanted and he would still be looking at your best friend like he was the only thing that matters in the world.

“It’s okay, you gave me a heads up beforehand. Now, can we come in?”

Kaminari’s face flushed, shoving Kirishima out of the way making you snort. You let go of Hitoshi and let him go in first, following close behind him.

Immediately you found ruby red eyes glaring into yours. It was almost laughable how quickly you spotted him, and as soon as you found comfortable eye contact he looked away.

You rolled your eyes. You should have known better he wouldn’t actually act like he knows you, especially because just a couple weeks ago your tongue was practically in his throat.

“Hey y/n! Shinsou! Come sit with us!”

Mina was sitting on the floor, back to the couch with Sero sitting on the couch behind her. You honestly have never really talked to Sero, but he always seemed like the kind of person you could come up to and strike up a conversation with no problem.

This time around, Hitoshi stays behind you, letting you make the first move. You wanted to laugh at how awkward the two of you were being, desperately hoping that they didn’t notice.

After a little more small talk, you all were able to sit around the coffee table, keeping your distance with Bakugou, and open up your laptop and start up the editing software.

“Holy shit! I forget how beautiful Katsuki is!”

It seemed those words left Kaminari’s mouth before he thought through the consequences of what could happen. Immediately the whole room bursted into laughter. Bakugou’s face went bright red, but you were probably the only person to notice because your eyes immediately fell to his figure when Kaminari made that comment. He caught you staring, but you challenged him with keeping eye contact and a wild smile.

“Yeah he’s definitely perfect for his job.” You kept eye contact, enjoying how his blush became more apparent.

His friends made a couple more jokes, but Kaminari quickly recovered and started to talk you through editing. Hitoshi sat on the chair behind you while you and Kaminari sat on the floor. Hitoshi and Kaminari were obnoxiously flirting the entire time, and you soon noticed that Kirishima and Mina also seemed to be head over heels with each other.

Besides all the flirting, it really was a nice time. Having serious conversations about your job and being able to talk to people who actually seemed to be interested in you. You also worried that they wouldn’t get you and Hitoshi’s rude comments or dry humor, but thankfully the two of you fit right in.

You noticed Bakugou seemed to get more and more comfortable, being able to read his body language throughout the hang out. Watching his biceps flex underneath his cuffed t-shirt sleeve, even enjoying the fact he was wearing (gray) sweatpants.

Suddenly, the fact that you’ve been so bold hits you like a punch to the gut and you feel yourself get shy. You weren’t interested in a relationship right now. Especially not with your client that the only spark you created was when the two of you were drunkenly making out at a party like a couple of horny high schoolers.

“Hey y/n did you know that Katsuki can cook?”

You snapped out of your inner thoughts, turning your head to Mina and the wicked smile she was shooting you. You cocked an eyebrow at her, putting your elbow up on Hitoshi’s lap behind you. He immediately put his hands on your arm, fiddling with the bracelets on your wrist.

“Wow so he can pose in front of a camera and make a meal? Now that’s a whole package.”

Kaminari and Sero were giggling like a kid. You honestly were enjoying how well this evening was going, especially how happy your best friend seemed to be.

Mina chuckled at your comment but continued. “It’s more than a meal y/n, it’s an experience.”

Her smile was wide, and there was a sparkle in your eye as she leaned toward you. When Kirishima came into the house with you, he stole Sero’s spot behind Mina, making him able to take her shoulders and lean her away.

You smiled gently at their domestic lifestyle, then turned to Bakugou.

“You wanna show me what you got?”

Thirty minutes later, filled with constant bickering between you and the ash blond, dinner was on the table for your friends. The two of you served something simple yet delicious, panang curry. Everyone seemed very happy for actual food in front of them, and the whole group ate so much they were scraping the food off their plate. You and Bakugou shared a small victory smile, and you soon realized how well you two work together.

Throughout the process of making the food, Bakugou always had something to say at your style of cooking, but you did catch him looking at how you did certain things. Besides that fact, it was quite nice being able to cook with someone who didn’t have a chance to burn down the whole house (aka your entire friend group), and being able to watch everyone interact with each other and yourself. Sero was sat in a seat that made him closer to you, starting up casual conversation with you. You couldn’t say you didn’t blame him, given the fact that Mina and Kirishima were annoyingly flirting, along with now Hitoshi and Kaminari. However, you felt as if you were possibly doing the same with the so-called cook that was right next to you. There was plenty of space for the two of you to be far away from each other and not brushing hands by accident, but you always found Bakugou right next to you. His body heat radiating off of him and onto you. You unwillingly thought of what it would like to be with him, your delusional mind making up some sort of fantasy living with him and doing this every night. You desperately shooed that thought away, not wanting to catch feelings for him. You had been through so much this past year, you didn’t want all your hard work to be ruined by some relationship. You were the type to put your all into someone, and somehow it always ended up with you being heart broken.

“I knew that Denki had a thing for purple hair over there, but I didn’t think it was that sickening.”

Bakugou’s voice was low, head down but near you so you could hear. The two of you decided to clean up the mess you made, wiping the counter and washing the dishes. The group insisted on helping out but you and Bakugou made them sit and watch the movie they picked out. Turns out neither you or Bakugou enjoyed the movie so it worked out. (You decided not to think about that yet another common interest you two shared).

You smiled at his comment, grateful that someone else noticed how disgustingly in love they seemed.

“I always had a thought Toshi liked Kaminari, but I never pushed it because he isn’t really the type to talk about feelings like that, so I never asked.”

Your focus was on the dish in your hands, but out of the corner of your eye you noticed Bakugou’s head rise to look at you.

“Really? Little miss ‘let’s make a dream board on how I feel about this certain color’ is best friends with someone who doesn’t like to talk about his feelings?”

His words were teasing, but just like that conversation a couple days ago in the meeting room, his tone was curious, wanting to know more.

You just chuckled, putting the plate on the drying rack next to the sink. You watched as Bakugou moved to the oven, where there were towels resting on the handle. It honestly cracked you up to see the built, handsome and ever stoic man with using a dish towel that said “when in doubt, pull out” with an oven on it but clearly the boys bought it for a completely different reason. You made a mental note to ask the boys where they got it from.

“Well you know what they say Bakugou, opposites attract.”

You smiled sweetly at him, but not really thinking about him. Your mind went back to the first day you and your best friend met.

It was the summer before college, you were moving in early because you were desperate to leave the house. Turns out your roommate and soon to be close friend, Ochako, had the same idea. The two of you got along very quickly, and she soon explained to you that her friend group from high school were still very close and she asked you if you wanted to hang out with them. You were not yet the person you were today, still shy and an anxious mess. You felt as if that idea was a bad one. You feared that you would be awkward and out of place the whole time. Let’s be honest, an entire friend group that can survive high school and still want to hang out together were very close. You felt as if you’d be interrupting those good vibes and would stick out like a sore thumb. However, that was when you realized Ochako was a very persuasive person, and somehow you found yourself at a small coffee shop with six other people. At the time, Izuku and Shoto were a new couple, and Momo and Jirou weren’t even together, neither was Ochako and Tenya.

Then, there was Hitoshi. Ochako explained that he came in a little later, someone Izuku had to practically force to hang out with them. Surely but slowly the two of you gravitated together, the more Ochako invited you to hang out with them, the more you and Hitoshi were able to form a friendship. Soon enough, the two of you started to hang out on your own, having much more in common than you thought.

The two of you went through hell together, surviving petty fights, miscommunications, and having to deal with each others toxic partners at the time. It scared you shitless when you felt as if you were going to lose him. Though he wasn’t big on feelings, he always put that aside and reassured you.

Your eyes found him sitting on the couch, looking much more comfortable than he did when the two of you first arrived. You felt your heart swell, so happy that you were lucky enough to have someone like that in your life, and most importantly that he was happy and safe.

You turned back to Bakugou, now handing him another dish. There was a different look in his eyes that you couldn’t say you recognized.

“Yeah?” He whispered, making you aware of the comment you made about you and Hitoshi’s relationship.

“Yeah,” you said back, but more nonchalant. “And that’s what’s going to make Kaminari and Hitoshi such an amazing couple.”

You went back to doing the dishes, wanting to keep talking so you can distract yourself from thinking about the way Bakugou looked at you. “I can’t believe they’ve been secretly pining over each other for ten fucking years, I mean come on, that’s just pathetic.”

Bakugou snorted, allowing you to fathom that he was next to you, towel on his shoulder leaning on the counter with his arms crossed which perfectly showed just how ripped he is. You felt a little claustrophobic at this sudden closeness, but the demon on your shoulder convinced you to stay within this close proximity that the blond created.

“Yeah, having to watch all these idiots fall in love with each other. Including your idiots.”

You allowed yourself to laugh at that, but it also made you not able to be that close to Bakugou. So, you shoved a pan into his chest and made him put it away. You sighed a breath of relief, feeling your face flush. His smell still lingered around you, leaving you to remind yourself just how addicting that smell was.

“It was quite painful to see Ochako and Tenya in the same room as each other. I mean it was just so obvious!”

In the middle of your frustration, because your hands were still wet from washing dishes, water splashed everywhere, including the man standing next to you. His face wrinkled immediately, you had to cover your mouth in order to keep in the laughter that would surely shake the house. There was no better description of his face other than a cat getting flicked by water. It was just so funning to see a man who looked like that look so…cute.

“And that’s why you shouldn’t stand so close to me.”

You were able to compose yourself from laughter and embarrassment, using Bakugou’s towel to dry your hands. He huffed at you, and snatched the towel away from you to dramatically wipe his face. Because your friends were still watching the movie you wanted to stay quiet, you had to lean over to cover your face to make your laughter quieter. Without even realizing it, you leaned forward into Bakugou’s chest, your face literally being smothered by him. You wanted to panic, but you were still giggling so you stayed there for a couple more moments. Finally catching a breath, you were able to resort back to your normal posture, now being able to see Bakugou’s face. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were bright red, but he had the smallest smile at your uncontrollable giggling. Jokingly, you shoved him away, busying yourself in an attempt to not fully comprehend what has just happened.

“So how were you when we were in high school? Any annoying relationships?”

His voice wobbled a bit, but he played it cool. Obviously that stunt you pulled also affected him.

“Oh you know, I grew up in the south so there wasn’t many dating options. I actually had to lower my standards in order to ‘get some.’

You rolled your eyes as you thought back to all the people you dated, and for some reason continued to talk out loud.

“I dated like two guys in high school, both traumatized me to the bone. As for girls, I never actually officially ‘dated’ them because, you know, homophobia.”

Your hands moved as you explained the sad stories of your dating life, worried that you were being annoying. However you glanced at Bakugou and realized that he was staring at you with that look in his eyes again, having fully caught his attention with your blabbering.

“Had a couple of situationships with girls, it was so awful. It made me so frustrated that we couldn’t just date, you know? And the college happened and I officially dated a girl, and it was good until she cheated on me, with her ex.”

Bakugou winced at that last part, and you laughed it off, regretting even telling him this. Why were you telling him this?

“But it’s okay! I met another guy and it was a really good time, we had to break up just due to a loss of spark, and after that I just…haven’t dated since. Honestly I don’t know when I want to start dating again, after all the shit I’ve been through I just can’t risk dating right now.” You chuckled, reminiscing all of your past exes.

However, what you didn’t realize was that Bakugou had gone stiff, taken aback by what you had just said. Suddenly, the mood in the room shifted, and Bakugou began to distance himself from you.

“What about you, man? Any crazy exes you wanna vent about?”

You turned to look at him, but his face was far away from you now, and there was a very different look set upon his face. You furrowed your eyebrows at the change in his attitude, and watched him hang up the towel.

“Nah, I’ve always been the crazy one.”

He looked back up at you, and the two of you maintained eye contact. You felt like you just lost the connection that was starting the grow between the two of you. The past hour and a half of bonding and bickering like and old married couple was now long gone, as there was an ocean between you two.

“I think I’m gonna head home, gotta get up early tomorrow.”

Before you could even think of a reply, he left, leaving you standing in the kitchen alone, feeling emotions you haven’t felt in a long time. A shiver went down your spine.

What the fuck happened?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

enchanted

HOLY SMOKES that was a lot

y’all poor things just wanted an smau and im like making y’all read a whole ass book dear lord

my sincerest apologies, i promise the next episode will have no written content. good lord.

anyways! hope you enjoyed! a LOT went down and the plot is getting spicyyyyyy i’m excited and you should be too!!

←Prev┊˚✧ ┊ Next→

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ updates every wednesday and sunday! happy wildest dreams wednesday ✧.*

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ TAGLIST IS OPEN just message or comment: @iiilovemilfs @0anodite0 @bakugouswh0r3 @amethyst123 @nijirosz @bakugoukatsukiwifiu @allnamesredacted @ch3rryhaze @ectoplasmictoast @cathwritestragediesnotsins @tati-the-fangirl @autumnfay @call-me-prodigy

91 notes · View notes

wilcze-kudly · 4 months

Text

More Beifongs owning winged boars brainrot:

Toph with a seeing eye boar before she developed seismic sense. Her name is Oma (after one of the two lovers)! Toph finds a companion boar for Oma and she names him Boss Man (to make fun of her father)

Lin gets one of Oma's babies. Foo Foo Cuddlypoops Jr - named by uncle Sokka!

Foo Foo is Lin's real best friend and he's extremely protective of her.

And Foo Foo hates Tenzin. Even while Tenzin and Lin were dating, Foo Foo was always out to get him. Eating his robes, sitting on him, smashing precious artifacts, stomping his big hooves onto his feet.

After Tenzin broke up with Lin, Lin unleashed Foo Foo onto Air Temple Island. He was actually the one who did the most damage on the island.

Su is trying to bolster the population of winged board (cause they're rare and endangered), so she is caring for and breeding them.

Her kids adore them. It is rather common for them to go missing from the house and be found asleep in the farm, curled up alongside the piglets. They'd playe with the piglets every day.

When Kuvira comes to Zaofu, straight from her parents farm, she asumes they're for eating. And when she voices her (completely rational) thoughs she makes the other kids cry.

Kuvira: oooooh bacon

Wing, on the verge of tears: Wh...what?

Opal getting SO EXCITED when she starts airbending and can (sorta) fly. She just starts gliding alongside the boars and freaks them out because 'human not supposed to fly... what why human in sky'

The boars are definetly overly protective of their humans. And they will headbutt people who they don't trust and try to lightly defend their Beifongs.

They're just so sweet and gentle with the Beifongs but pretty standoffish and semi aggressive with strangers.

Baatar Sr is still a bit scared of the boars, even though Su had been trying to get him acclimated to them for YEARS.

Huan decorating the boats farm with trinkets and paint and stuff. And they try to chew on his robe while he's at it.

Also every Beifong has, at some point, ranted and raved about something to the boars. Boar is best therapist.

32 notes · View notes

foofoodecor · 2 years

Text

Foo Foo Decor By Elayne & Don

Halloween Vintage Collectables Boney Bunches by Yankee Candle showcased in black curio cabinet for Halloween decor

#Boneybunch #Boneybunches #boneybunchdisplay #halloweencurio #ladylaynee #Decorations #Vintage #Halloween #Graveyard #Display #layneeloy #halloweendisplay #Spirit #Palor #spectrewavesllp #foofoodecor #foofoodisplay #spectrewaves #decor #foofoocemetery #halloweencollectables #foofoodecoration #VintageDecorations #foofoodecorations #ladylaynee #spectrewaves #spectrewavesllp #iconicDoll #emlcollection #haunted #HappyHalloween #Bonies #ladylayneesirdon

1 note · View note

mrsterlingusa · 2 years

Text

David Austin Roses

#mrsterlingusa #grandmillennial decor #grandmillennial #traditional decor #preppy decor #chinoiserie #david austin roses #english country style #country house #herend china #foo dogs

10 notes · View notes

ladamedusoif · 10 months

Text

Visiting - Chapter 6: If You'd Accept Surrender

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter summary: It's Thanksgiving in Barrow, and Lydia and Ben try to work out each other's feelings - and (kind of!) give in...

Word Count: 7.6k

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia turns 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; masturbation (F; implied M); descriptions of PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; descriptions of emotionally-abusive past relationship; liberal arts profs feeling weird about Thanksgiving, kind of; emotional insecurity; self-confidence issues; a bit of angst; a lot of yearn.

A/N: With HUGE thanks to @lunapascal for triggering a wave of late 90s nostalgia, the title of this chapter is taken from 'Walking After You' by the Foo Fighters. (I wish they would accept surrender too, dear readers.)

I don't quite know how, but this chapter just got together (ironically, given who we're writing about here) and, well, here it is. Aside from these two bouncing around not quite making contact, metaphorically speaking, Lydia learns more about Ben's family and finally visits his (very nice) home.

I had a bit of a wobble about the story after Chapter 5, and then got a wave of beautiful comments and responses to the story that made my heart sing for joy. Readers, you're all bloody wonderful and I love each and every comment and thought you've shared about these two and their story. In the words of a post I reblogged earlier this week: the love is requited. They're just idiots.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for loving Bendie as much as I do.

Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro

It’s just over a week to go before the short vacation around Thanksgiving. The four of you - Ani, Evan, you, and Ben - are eating lunch in the main campus restaurant. The seasonal decor - Halloween ghosts and smiling pumpkins now replaced by cartoonish turkeys and cornucopia displays - has triggered a conversation about plans for the holiday. In turn, because this is a gathering of liberal arts academics and you never miss an opportunity to overthink something, the conversation has also involved grappling with the more problematic aspects of Thanksgiving.

Ani is working through their complex feelings regarding the holiday. “As a queer person of colour, the annual celebration of coloniser assholes is my kryptonite,” they mutter. “But my mom loves this shit, and I love my mom.” Ani forlornly sips their water and looks at you. “I think you might be the only one here who can mark this thing without being a hypocrite, Lyd.”

You huff a laugh. “And that’s mostly because I don’t actually mark it, right?” The holiday is not and has never been a ‘thing’ in your neck of the woods, though you were very familiar with it through popular culture, access to American children’s magazines, and clickbaity BuzzFeed articles on “The 25 Weirdest Thanksgiving Dishes EVER”.

“So what are you planning on doing while everyone else is refusing yet more turkey leftovers, Lydia? You staying put or taking a little trip somewhere else?” Evan asks, swigging from his can of La Croix. He and David are bringing Evan’s mother to a fancy hotel in Boston for a spa retreat. Ben, meanwhile, is going to spend Thanksgiving at home on the west coast with his mom and extended family for the first time in several years. He’s incredibly excited about it, even if he needs to write a conference paper while he’s away.

You put down your fork and spread your hands ahead of you, preparing to wax lyrical about your Thanksgiving plans while everyone else is out of town.

“Dude, I’m going to live my best life. I also have to write my paper for that visual arts conference in New York in a couple of weeks, but only after living my best life.”

Ben watches you affectionately as you prepare to set out the details of your plans. He hasn’t told you this, not yet, but your ability to describe the most ordinary-seeming things in just the right way, with loving care and attention, is one of the (many) things he likes about you.

“We start the day with homemade blueberry pancakes,” you begin, eliciting exaggerated oohs and aahs from your friends. “Served with a scoop of crème fraîche and drizzle of maple syrup, with a giant pot of good filter coffee on the go. Then, we move on to the Macy’s parade. I’m mostly hoping for an inflatable going rogue.”

Ani laughs. “I’m going to open a book on that. A wager on whether there’s a rogue inflatable, and a sub-wager on which inflatable??”

“I will not be watching football,” you continue. “I have a better place to be. For reasons known only to themselves, the college film society has decided to take over the little film theatre downtown for a season of European classics over the vacation. I will therefore be giving thanks for Francois Truffaut and The 400 Blows, which is their Thanksgiving afternoon screening.”

Ben closes his eyes and hums appreciatively, nodding.

“I then intend to round off the day with takeout and a whiskey sour made at home,” you conclude. “But,” and you look down at the table and bite your lip, “and not to get sentimental on main, I’ll drink it and be quietly thankful for all the good things I’ve got to experience here so far. You three, most of all.”

You lift your eyes and realise that Ben is looking right at you, eyes and expression softer than ever.

It is just over a fortnight since your birthday. Two weeks, more or less, since he’d held your hand and spun you around on the dancefloor, making you laugh and smile more than you’d done in a very long time. No time at all, and forever ago. The ghostly trace of his touch on your waist, on your back, on your hip still haunts you. His card is still on your nightstand.

At night, you fall asleep trying - and failing - to resist conjuring up the image of his smiling face. Your dreams about him are erratic. Some are pure fantasy, some sexual, others decidedly unromantic. In some, he evades your grasp, slipping away just as you get close. In others, he ignores you completely. Worst of all are the ones where he ventriloquises the bullying you dole out to yourself, reminding you that you are too plain, too old, too big, too much.

You get used to spending the first few minutes after waking reassuring yourself that they were just dreams. Nothing serious. Nothing real, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. After all, it was your subconscious inventing the scenarios that crept into your sleeping brain.

For all that, things have continued much as they’d always done between the two of you. Lunch. Coffee. Sometimes drinks with others after work. Silly conversations in the staff lounge that make the two of you crease and wipe tears from your eyes with laughter. He never sees the sad expression that sometimes creeps over your face after he leaves your office or disappears to a class. Never catches you tracing your fingers over the memory of his touch on your hand or arm. He never hears you crying in the night when you jolt awake after another bad dream.

You don’t bother trying to talk yourself out of your feelings. What would be the point in denial? Far better to remind yourself that you can’t - indeed, rarely - get what you want, because he doesn’t want you. Couldn’t want you. He’d had opportunities. He didn’t do anything about it. The proof of his feelings - or lack thereof - was staring you in the face.

And besides: you were only visiting.

So settle for friendship. Settle for the warmth of a friendly glance from his chocolate eyes. Settle for a flash of that smile, for the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, for the sight of his broad outline at your office door, coffee mugs in hand.

It would have to be enough.

The grocery store is busy with last-minute Thanksgiving shoppers, picking up essentials for the next day’s family feast. You stare at your phone, brain whirring as you try to scale down a pumpkin pie recipe and convert the frankly bonkers system of US weights and measurements and then work out exactly how much butter you need to buy.

“They bang on about having had a revolution and yet they kept this system? The metric system is right there, fuck’s sake…”

Your screen flashes suddenly with an incoming call:

Ben Morales

An involuntary flip of your stomach. You tap the button on your earbuds to accept the call, forcing a casual tone.

“Hey, Ben. How’s the Bay Area? Everything okay?”

“Hi, Lydia. Uh, can’t answer to the Bay Area. Still here.”

“Still here? Oh - oh no. Is everything okay? Has something happened? What can I do - I’ll do whatever you need, no mat-”

He inhales and exhales. “It’s fine, I’m fine, everyone at home is mostly fine. My mom’s just called me in a fury. One of TJ’s boys got a vomiting bug and, well…”

Your face falls, devastated on his behalf. He’d been so looking forward to this. “I can guess. Everyone’s got it.”

“Everyone’s got it,” he echoes. “My mom is fine - fine enough to be really angry at Dylan, that’s my nephew - but it still sounds a bit like…” he trails off, and giggles despite himself. “Like a puke-pocalypse.”

You bite the inside of your cheek but can’t stop yourself from laughing. “Shit, I’m sorry, Ben. Just ‘puke-pocalypse’ is such a fucking funny term.”

He’s laughing now, too, and you feel your heart swelling at the sound of his voice, giggling away like a badly-behaved kid.

“Long story short, I am not going to California. They don’t want me getting sick, either. Not with that big conference in Louisiana the week after.”

“I’m sorry, truly. I know you were looking forward to this.”

He sighs. “I was. But what can you do? Anyway, the longer holidays are coming up. I’ll see them then and we’ll do a video call tomorrow. And I can really focus on getting my conference paper written. It’ll be okay.” He seems to be reassuring himself more than you.

“I’m calling because I was wondering if you’d…if you would want…” He pauses again. “If you’d like to come over and watch the parade tomorrow morning? If you’d like the company of a seasoned giver of thanks.”

You smile in the dairy aisle, even though you feel a flutter of nerves run through your body. “I would really like that. I can bring over the stuff I’ve bought for breakfast and make it at your place? I’ve got enough to feed the five thousand, honestly.”

Note to self: buy more blueberries before you leave the store.

He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but I was only after the food you described the other day. This is all a convenient ruse.”

You hum, as if trying to deduce whether this is a ploy. “I should have known. You only want me for my pancakes!”

The words are out before you realise what you’ve said. You hope to fuck he hasn’t noticed. Deflect, change the subject?

“Actually, Ben, do you want to come to see 400 Blows tomorrow, too? Or are you otherwise occupied with blueberries and batter?”

You swear you hear him sigh happily. You push it aside as a kind of aural illusion, putting it down to your overactive imagination, caught up in trying to distract from your stupid slip of the tongue.

He doesn’t want you. He’s just being nice. That’s all. He’s just really nice. He doesn’t want you to be on your own. He’d do that for anyone.

“I would really like that.”

He takes a breath and continues. “It’s a d- I mean, it’s a deal. So, uh, what time works for you to come over?”

Ben being Ben, he has insisted on picking you up, to save you having to walk over while carrying the supplies for the blueberry pancakes. You aren’t entirely sure how he manages to be as attractive (if not more so) in a grey sweatshirt, faded jeans, and a cosy navy pea coat as he is when he wears a shirt and tie, but somehow he just is.

“Let me bring these through to the kitchen, and I’ll dig out the utensils and pans. Have a look around - you can judge me on my DVD selection if you want.” He winks as he totes the bag of groceries towards the kitchen.

His house is nice. To your eyes, it’s like something from a picture book or an old movie: two stories, painted a sort of primrose yellow with white accents and sash windows. Steps up to a porch and the front door, a small but neatly trimmed lawn in front, a garage built in the same style as the house to one side. At a guess, you’d place it as dating from the first decades of the twentieth century.

Inside, a parquet hallway, walls lined with framed posters and prints, leads towards the staircase. Two doors open up off the hall: one to a spacious living room at the front of the house, and one to a dining room at the back, which is connected to the living room by glass-panelled doors. The kitchen, adjoining the dining room, wraps around the back of the house. A small deck accessible from the kitchen leads down to the back yard. The rooms are bright and inviting. You think there might be a basement, judging by the windows you could see under the front steps. Possibly even an attic, if the small round window in the gable at the front was anything to go by.

Fuck, this is really nice.

It’s also very him. There are little piles of books where you’d least expect them: on one of the lower stairs, on his hall table, on the floor beside the armchair in the corner of the dining room. The framed prints in the hall are clearly all meaningful to him: prints of various paintings, posters from gigs, theatre productions, art exhibitions, some vintage postcards. This is, without doubt, a lived-in home, and it’s clear that - as with his office at work - Ben is not terribly precious about everything being absolutely pristine or neat at all times. But even a cursory glance reveals something of his taste and sensibilities, and suggests the care he must have taken in picking out furniture, or even refurbishing pieces (the man clearly likes the period from the 1920s to the 1960s, you think), and making his house a home.

You try very hard not to fall for the house, too. Bad enough whatever you’ve got going on for the man who lives there. But - like him - it’s so charming and appealing that you’re fighting a losing battle.

You decide to take a closer look at the living room, admiring the fitted shelving in the alcoves on either side of the large, cosy fireplace. A small, wood-burning stove nestles in the hearth. Family photos line the mantel, with vintage railway posters advertising the Union Pacific Railroad’s Californian routes framed on one wall. The room is bright and high-ceilinged, TV in one corner, shelves of DVDs underneath. Through the glass doors into the dining room you spy a record player, speakers, and shelving holding an extremely impressive collection of vinyl records.

Best of all, though, is the Lego model of a Saturn V rocket that you spy on top of the shelving in the dining room. You idly wonder if he’s got the lunar lander set as well.

More family photos pepper the bookshelves in the living room, alongside the occasional trinket or tchotchke. A black and white photograph of a man who is Ben’s double in almost every way, save for having straighter hair and different eyes. You guess this must be his dad, captured in his twenties or so, wearing a beautiful light-coloured short-sleeved shirt decorated with abstract embroidery.

A small figurine catches your eye: a woman in a green mantle, with a pinkish red robe, covered in the unmistakable patina of age. You instantly recognise it as a miniature statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, standing on a little wooden base. Its presence here feels surprising, somehow. Nothing had ever given you the impression that Ben was remotely religious, but then again - had you even discussed it?

The doors from the dining room into the living room open and Ben comes in as you look intently at the little figure. “You know who she is?”

You nod. “Apart from my professional expertise including religious art, you’re looking at the product of a Catholic education. I may not be much of a believer, but I learned a lot about iconography. And, full disclosure, I still love a holy statue.” You hold your hands up. “It’s the kitsch, I can’t deny it.”

He smiles and moves towards you. “I’m not much of a believer, either,” he says, smiling. “But she belonged to my abuela - I mean, my grandmother.”

You nod, and a framed photo beside the statue catches your eye. In it, a woman - her long greying hair pinned up - is sitting on an armchair, holding a tiny infant and beaming. Standing beside her, a toddler - no more than two, you reckon - is scowling at the camera. He’s wearing a pair of denim dungarees and a stripy, long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Wait - is that - that’s you? That’s you, oh my god!” You look more closely at the picture and Ben puts a palm to his face.

“Dammit, you’re too quick. That’s my abuela holding TJ, just a few days old - that’s when he’d come home from the hospital with my mom. And yes, that’s me. I was thrilled to become a big brother, as you can see.” He rolls his eyes and chuckles.

You look carefully at the furious face of the little boy, his hair maybe a shade lighter than Ben’s dark brown locks now, but his eyes are unmistakably the same. Even the toddler’s pout is familiar. You’ve seen it in action, when the copier refuses to cooperate with him.

“You might have been pissed off, but you were still pretty cute,” you say softly, smiling at him with perhaps more affection than you might otherwise have deemed wise.

“Cute, huh? You must be wondering what went wrong.”

You good-naturedly roll your eyes and shake your head. “Far from it. I’m sure that kid would be thrilled to know who he’d grow up to be.”

He smiles a tiny smile and blushes slightly, casting his eyes downwards. Silence, for a moment.

“So you were close to your grandmother?”

He nods, smiling at the photograph. “She was really great. My dad’s mother.” He points to the photograph of the handsome young man in the formal shirt. “That’s him. Diego. He’s just a kid there.” He smiles at the picture, mirroring his father’s expression. It only serves to highlight the resemblance even further.

“Dad worked long, hard hours, and my abuela took care of us when my mom had to get a part-time job to help make ends meet - used to read to us, bring me to the library, tell anyone who’d listen that I was the smartest kid in the world.” He chuckles. “Not the easiest thing being a little boy who loved books and making up stories when everyone else was sports-mad or running around in a cut-up tshirt pretending to be Rambo. But she never stopped encouraging me. She encouraged all of us.”

He picks up the little figurine. It looks even tinier in his broad hand.

“She swore blind that nuestra señora here helped with my SATs. Or rather, her prayers to nuestra señora helped me get the grades I needed for college. Never mind all my hard work! So when I left for school, she gave me this. Said it would keep me safe.” He places it gently back on the shelf beside the picture.

“Like I said, I’m not a believer. But the statue is a little bit of her, and how much she loved me, and I liked having that with me. You know what I mean?” He looks at you, big brown eyes soft and searching.

You feel your heart swell. Shit, Lyd. You’ve got to get over this. You have got to get over him.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod. “I have a couple of things like that - little tokens that mean so much. She must have been so proud of you when you did so well at college, got into grad school...”

He exhales. “Oh, man. She was obsessed with everything I did in college. I had to update her on my classes every semester so she could brag to the ladies at the hair salon about how smart I was.” He laughs briefly, then his face falls a little. “I just wish she’d seen me graduate. She, uh, passed a month or so before we got our final degree results.”

He looks so sad all of a sudden. Spontaneously, unthinking, you reach out and gently touch his bicep in a gesture of comfort.

He turns to face you, eyes widened a little in surprise, and lightly pats your hand. “It’s okay, really. Sorry. Just got a bit…melancholy there. Anyway, I’m thankful I had her when I did.”

“Ah, bringing it back to today’s theme. Nice segue, very impressive, no notes.”

He grins. “She’d have liked you.” He’s rubbing his hands together and making a beeline back towards the kitchen.

“Okay - I can’t wait any longer. Pancakes and parade time, I think?”

You eat more blueberry pancakes than you thought humanly possible while you take in the spectacle of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade: three hours of inflatables, floats, and marching bands with special guests. Ben is surprisingly knowledgeable about the various character balloons and seems genuinely impressed when you recognise Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr Seuss, laughing as you point excitedly at the TV.

“Sorry! It’s just totally new to me, and I’m basically an overgrown child.”

He shakes his head. “It’s great. Next year they need to get you on board as an international commentator.”

Next year. Fuck. There is no next year, at least not so far as this is concerned. Next Thanksgiving you’ll be an ocean away, not tucking into fluffy pancakes on Ben’s comfy sofa and picking out your favourite floats.

“They’ll have to fly me back, I guess.”

The realisation reminds you how temporary all of this is. The fellowship. Your presence in this place. Your easy closeness to a man who, unbeknownst to himself, had stirred up feelings of affection, need, and desire in you, just when you thought they were gone forever.

The look on Ben’s face suggests that he’d forgotten this was temporary, too. You feel a surge of affection in your chest as you look at his face, a little crestfallen.

Push it down. Push it away.

While you’re clearing up, Ben’s phone buzzes with a message from his mom.

“Shit, she wants to do a video call now. Is that okay?”

“Of course! God, don’t mind me. I can leave if it’s easier, let you have your time talking to your family.”

He turns, shaking his head. “I’m not kicking you out, you’re my guest.”

“Okay, but let me keep clearing up in here and you go and talk to her. That way you get privacy and it means the clean-up is done and dusted when you’re finished.”

He grabs his iPad and heads back into the living room, closing the doors into the dining area and kitchen. You continue with the washing up as Ben speaks with his family on the other side of the country, popping back to the dining table every so often to gather other dirty dishes and plop them in the sink.

Then, you hear Ben’s mom’s voice clearer and louder than before. It’s enough to stop you dead.

“Who’s the pretty woman in your dining room, Benjamin?”

What the fuck? How did she…

The doors have glass panels. Which you forgot about. You are an idiot.

She could see you popping in and out. You’re not hiding, as such. But you don’t want to provoke any awkward questions for Ben.

“It’s my friend Lydia, mom. She’s the visiting professor this year, she’s on her own for the holiday too, so…we’re keeping each other company. I told you about her.”

He did?

You try not to think too much about his use of ‘we’, or exactly how you would like to ‘keep him company’.

“Well, does your” - Mrs Morales pauses for emphasis - “friend Lydia, the visiting professor, want to come say hi? Or have you confined her to the dining room and kitchen?”

Oh, shit. Shit. Could the ground just open up and swallow you, please? Come, friendly sinkhole, come.

Ben turns and looks at you over the back of the armchair, through the glass panelled doors. He raises his eyebrows, leaving it up to you to decide.

What can you do, but say hi?

You smile weakly as you come into the living room and settle on the arm of the chair, hoping you’re not at a terrible angle for the front-facing camera while repressing the screaming panic inside you.

It’s your friend’s mom. It doesn’t mean anything because you aren’t anything.

“Hello, Mrs Morales. It’s very nice to meet you. Happy Thanksgiving!”

You estimate that Mrs Morales is a little older than your own parents, though not by much. Her white hair is cut short and curls softly around her expressive face. He might be the image of his father, but he shares the same wavy curls, penetrating dark eyes, and kind smile as his mother.

“Please, call me Ana. Are you enjoying your first Thanksgiving?” She arches an eyebrow and nods towards her son, expression deadly serious all of a sudden. “I hope he’s being a good host.”

You exchange a glance with Ben, who looks affronted, and laugh. “He’s a very good host. He’s made me feel so welcome since I came to Barrow in August.” You feel heat rising in your neck. “There’s just a really nice group of people here. Ben mentioned that you were unwell - I hope you are doing better now?”

Ana Morales smiles and brings a hand to her chest. “Thank you, my dear. It has been unpleasant, as you can imagine. Difficult when you live so far from your family, too.”

Ben huffs quietly. “Mom, TJ and Teresa and their families are like, five minutes away from you.”

His mom turns her attention back to you. “I’m sure you must miss your family too, Lydia. You’re here on your own, hmm? Sometimes the visiting professor travels over with their partner and children…”

Is she trying to suss you out?

Ben looks slightly horrified at her line of questioning, but you nod and explain. “Nope, I’m on my own - no partner, no kids, unless I have really forgotten something at home!” Your joke doesn’t seem to land, and you try to deflect. “But I’m happy and I’m really enjoying myself here. It’s a wonderful experience and I’m very lucky. I guess that’s what I’m thankful for today.”

Oh, and I’m thankful for you and your husband because you created this specimen, congrats on the good genes guys.

She seems satisfied with your answer. This feels like a natural break in the conversation, and you stand up and start to make your excuses.

“I will leave you two, if that’s okay - I don’t want to keep you from catching up. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Morales, truly.”

Ana tilts her head and smiles a genuine, warm smile. You notice how her eyes smile too, crinkling just like his do.

“And lovely to meet you, Lydia. Let’s hope we will meet in person someday.”

Smile, nod, wave, retreat. Wait - in person?

You gently close the door into the dining room and return to the kitchen, out of sight of the iPad’s camera, before exhaling, long and slow.

The conversation continues in the living room, and you notice that Ben’s mother has switched into Spanish. In turn, you note that the timbre of his voice has dropped slightly as he switches into the other language.

It’s probably a good thing that your command of Spanish barely stretches to the basics - no fear of understanding what they’re saying. The most you actually overhear in spite of yourself is an exasperated “Mom!” from Ben, and his mother’s repeated use of a word that sounds like nobya or novya. Or was it nobeea?

You focus on putting away the clean dishes and cooking utensils, avoiding the temptation to ruminate on what his mother must have thought of you.

A round of goodbyes and you hear the door to the dining room opening again, turning to see Ben standing by the table. He looks a little awkward, running his hand through his hair to the back of his neck. You can guess what’s on his mind.

“It was lovely to be able to say hello to your mom. Really.”

“I’m sorry you got the third degree, though.” He extends his hands in front of him, as if showing two polar opposites. “This is mom and this -” he stretches his long arms further apart “- is normal personal boundaries, I’m afraid.”

You grin, relaxing a little more. “Man, if the roles were reversed, my family would have extracted full details of your blood type, social security number, and the name you chose at your Confirmation. And all in less time than I was talking to your mom.”

You can see the laughter rising from his chest through his neck to his face, and it is a comfort when you eventually hear it.

“Are you part of a family of superspies, Lydia?”

You pretend to think. “Hmmm. I don’t think so. But my mom would have been amazing at it. I mean, maybe she’s just in deep cover.”

“I don’t think my mom could do deep cover,” he muses, looking up at the kitchen clock to check the time. “She’d end up telling someone before the first hour was out. Probably call her friend Julia, tell her not to tell a soul, and the entire neighbourhood would know immediately. Hey - we should probably get going if we want to make the screening.”

You nod and grab your coat and purse, tugging a soft pink knitted hat over your head as you lead the way to the front door. You wait on the stone steps outside as he locks up.

“She really liked you, by the way,” he says quietly as he checks he’s properly locked the front door. You look at him, somewhat quizzical.

“My mom. Said you were clearly very sweet and told me I had to keep looking after you, or..”

“Or?” you offer the prompt.

“Or she’d fly over here and I would - and I quote - ‘know all about it.’” He grins. “Please use your new power for good, Lyd.”

The short winter days mean it’s dark by the time the film’s over and you leave the movie theatre, chattering enthusiastically about French cinema, the New Wave, Francois Truffaut, and the charisma of a young Jean-Pierre Léaud. You talk all the way to the Brunswick Café, a diner on Main Street that looked untouched since the 1960s - in a good way. Ben had insisted on going - best pumpkin pie in the world, apparently, and they had a tradition of opening for the afternoon and evening on Thanksgiving to cater to left-behind students and college staff. You were only too glad to continue the conversation over big plates of delicious grilled cheese sandwiches and golden, crispy french fries.

You’re waving your hands around as you describe a day you spent in Paris as a doctoral student, tracing various locations from the film and ending with a visit to Truffaut’s grave in the Montmartre cemetery. You have completely forgotten about the french fry you’re holding between your left thumb and index finger, now serving as a kind of pointer as you detail the excitement of tracking down the locations and planning your itinerary.

He’s listening intently with a smile on his face.

And that’s when the bullying voice inside you decides to pipe up, speaking the kind of words you’d had thrown at you by your ex.

You’ve been talking for ages. You must be boring him by now. All you ever do is talk. All I ever do is listen to you. You’re just too much, Lydia. It’s…a lot.

You rein yourself in quickly. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been rambling away here and taking up all the space. Sorry, I just get carried away sometimes, I forget -”

Ben furrows his brow behind his glasses and looks at you, smile wiped and replaced by a serious expression. “Why did you stop talking? What do you mean, taking up all the space?”

You wave his words away, as if it was all self-explanatory. “You know what I mean, me going on and on and on. I know I’m a lot. I don’t mean to be. Just that when I get onto something I really care about I can’t stop sometimes and I’m too much. I’m sorry.”

His expression has shifted to one of confusion, brow still furrowed. He rests his palms on the table.

“Lydia, why are you apologising for being so passionate about stuff? I like hearing you talk. You know so much cool shit! You’ve done so much cool shit! Why wouldn’t I want to hear that? You hear enough from me when I get to talking about one of my ‘things’.” He’s shaking his head, an expression of his disbelief.

He pushes himself back from the table, leaning on the dark red banquette behind.

“Lyd, I don’t want to pry but - have people told you you’re a lot or too much, or whatever, and that you need to talk less? Is that where this comes from?”

You avert his gaze. “It…it was said to me. And because the person who used to remind me isn’t, um, in my life now, I forget sometimes and get over excited and talky.”

He looks down. “Your ex?”

You nod, still unable to meet his eye.

Very gently, he reaches over and pats the back of your hand. A tiny electrical charge shoots through you. His words are shot through with a quiet fury. “A fucking idiot, then. And don’t ever listen to a fucking idiot like that. You’re not ‘a lot’, or whatever they told you. You’re not ‘too much’. You’re - you’re exactly right just as you are.”

He moves his hand away. Now it’s his turn to avert your gaze, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. You look up and try to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Ben - hey, look at me. Thank you. That’s really nice, you know? I’m still working on believing that for myself, but it helps when you have such good -” you pause, unsure what to say in this moment of quiet intimacy, “-such good, um, friends to help you remember.”

He lifts his eyebrows and for the briefest instant you think you see a flash of sadness in his dark eyes.

“Never say you’re ‘too much’ again.” His face is soft, and his voice reassures you in the same way as the touch of his hand.

The urge to lean over, hold his gorgeous face in your hands, and kiss Ben Morales there and then surges in you like mercury climbing on a hot summer’s day.

You take a deep breath and steady yourself, forcing the thought out of your mind before you do something stupid and make a show of yourself. And in public.

You’re interrupted by the server appearing at your table, her tray laden with enormous slices of pumpkin pie and a fresh pot of coffee.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Professor Ben! Long time, no see.” She beams at him. She must be in her mid-sixties, you reckon, short dark hair shot through with greys and the air of someone who has seen it all around here.

Ben returns her smile. “Hey, Emma! I’m sorry I haven’t really been in a lot this semester. We’ve got some new courses on, and -”

Emma raises her hand to stop him. “I know, sweetheart, I know. And I guess you’ve been busy in other ways, too, huh?” She turns and looks at you, eyebrows waggling and a huge smile on her face. “It’s so good to see good people in love.”

I’m sorry - the what in holy fuck now?

Ben looks as flustered as you feel. His eyes dart over and back as he looks from you to Emma and back again.

You try to help clarify things, words tumbling out in a rush. “Uh well no we’re not - I mean, I’m not - uh - I’m a visiting professor, Lydia. I’m Lydia. I’m a visiting professor. We -”

Ben finds his words. “We’re n-not a couple, Emma.” He shrugs gently. “I’m sorry, I know what you always say.”

Emma pulls herself up to her full height, coffee pot in hand. She looks at him sceptically, cocking her hip and raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sorry too. Just thought I saw what I saw from over at the counter. Didn’t say you were a couple, but…I got it wrong.” She offers a smile that seems more like a grimace. “Enjoy the pie, kids.”

You get the distinct feeling that Emma a) doesn’t believe you and b) feels personally attacked by the fact that you aren’t together.

Fucking tell me about it, lady.

Ben sips on his coffee and picks up a fork to start on the pie. He pauses just before digging in.

“Hey, Lyd?” You meet his eyes. “Sorry about that. I didn’t intend to give any impression to her that we were…y’know. I’m sorry if it upset you.”

You wish you were brave enough to tell him that the only reason you might be upset over this is because you aren’t actually involved. But everything today feels like more proof that he just sees you as a good friend - including his response to Emma.

You smile and shake your head furiously. “I’m not upset, I was just worried that you’d be upset!”

He looks up, a piece of pumpkin pie speared on his fork. “I’m not upset, Lyd.”

“Good. So no harm done. She was just eager to get you all coupled up.” You start into your own slice of pie, marvelling at the texture of the filling and the spices tingling on your tongue.

He laughs lightly. “True that. I’ve come here for years and she keeps saying it’s a crime I’m not with anyone.”

She’s not wrong there. But only because you should be with me.

You sip your coffee. “In that case, you’ve been joined by a fellow hardened singleton criminal. Cheers.” You reach over with your mug and clink it off his. “Here’s to pumpkin pie, the French New Wave, and good people.”

He mulls it over as you walk from Main Street back towards the residential areas around campus. The same questions he’s been pondering since the night of your birthday.

What if he just said something to you? Told you how he felt?

What would you do? Would you be happy about it? Would you feel the same?

Would it ruin everything? Ruin the friendship he loved so much?

He tries to keep up the conversation but is happy to let you chat away, too distracted by the questions in his mind. He’s replaying the things you said today, looking for crumbs as to how you saw him, or saw your relationship, or hints that you might want more.

You’d mentioned ‘friends’ a couple of times, hadn’t you? ‘Good people’.

Maybe that’s how you see him. Just a friend. Someone you really like but - not like that.

Better not to do something stupid and get hurt. Better to insulate yourself from the possible blows.

That, after all, is why Ben Morales’ dating history seems so empty to those who work alongside him. He’s no monk - far from it, as the occasional hook-ups and one night stands (at conferences, or trips out of town, of course, because everyone knows everyone around here) prove. But better to do that than go all in, and risk his heart and his self-esteem being crushed.

Again.

At least, that’s what he’d felt until you came along. He was happy, content with his life. He wasn’t lonely or looking for anyone.

Now, he’s not so sure if his self-preservationist approach is really the right course of action any more. Because of you, and because of what he feels for you.

He looks at you, profile peeking out from underneath your soft knitted hat and hands gesturing as you talk.

You just need to tell her. Say it. Say the words.

He steels himself. She’d have come on to him before now if she felt anything. Right?

He reminds himself of all the times you mentioned being ‘friends’. He pushes the feelings that swell his heart down, down deep, so that he can keep putting one foot in front of the other.

You part halfway between your place and his. It’s not very late, and you refuse to have him go out of his way just to walk you to your building.

“I know it’s the theme of the day, but - thank you. Best Thanksgiving ever.”

He raises an eyebrow when you’ve separated, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Isn’t this your only Thanksgiving ever, Lydia?”

“And nothing else will ever compete. Pie, movies, parades, your mom saying I was sweet and pretty - what more could anyone want?”

He groans at the memory of his mother’s questions to you - and to him, though he hopes you didn’t hear and understand those. “I’m sorry. But it did capture some of the familial tensions of a traditional Thanksgiving.”

You wave away his apology. “Seriously, I’m so grateful. I hope you know.”

You move a step closer and reach out to hug him to say thanks. You can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, trying to memorise the feeling of safety and warmth that comes with embracing Ben, however briefly.

He smiles. “I know.” He turns his head to one side, as if he’s mulling something over in his mind.

“Okay, well…good night.” You lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek that’s facing you, remembering his gesture the night of your birthday.

Maybe it’s your timing. Maybe it’s the angle. Maybe you startled him.

In the split second it takes you to move towards him, Ben turns his head. Instead of the softness and bristle of his cheek, your lips meet his.

The kiss, if you can call it that, can’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds before you break apart, startled and apologetic.

“Oh fuck Ben I’m - I’m so sorry, I was going for your cheek and then you turned and -”

He’s blushing, eyes darting around and fingers flexing as they tend to do when he’s nervous or panicking.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Lyd, I didn’t - didn’t mean…shit, I’m sorry. I turned and you were there and your mouth was - sorry.”

You pat him gingerly on the arm, trying to offer reassurance but terrified that if you feel too much of him, so solid and warm, you won’t be able to stop yourself going further.

“Ben, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Your tone is meant as ‘casual and nonchalant’ but is, in truth, very chalant indeed. “At least we got a kiss out of it instead of bonking our heads together and ending up with lovely Thanksgiving nosebleeds, hmm?”

He looks at you from under his lashes and does that half-smile that devastates you. “That’s something to be thankful for.” A pause. “I’d try to kiss you on the cheek again but, y’know, nosebleed risk. Need to keep at a safe distance.”

You smile softly and start to turn for home. “Good night, Ben. Happy Thanksgiving. And good luck with the conference paper!” He grimaces, remembering that he has to write his paper, then breaks into a grin, salutes, and walks away.

Lying in bed, trying to sleep, your brain returns over and over to the moment your lips met his. Accidental and over in a flash though the kiss might have been, there was no mistaking how his mouth felt - masculine and soft, warm and inviting, still tasting of pumpkin pie and coffee.

It was an accident. It had to be. But you knew, deep down, that when your lips made contact you’d both lingered just a second too long. You’d pressed your lips to his, and he’d returned the gesture, almost imperceptibly. You definitely weren’t imagining this. Or were you?

Should you have kept kissing him? What would he have done?

The more you thought about it, the more you reviewed every movement and gesture and moment of contact, the more your body began to ache for him. The gnawing pain between your legs demands to be relieved. You slip down your cotton pajama pants, and pass one finger over your slit experimentally. You gasp as you realise how wet and how swollen you already are, just from the memory of his mouth. His touch. His scent. The warmth of his body.

You begin to move your middle finger up and down, up and down, increasing the pressure on your clit, and he appears unbidden and unceasingly in your mind as you close your eyes, almost as real as if he was there in bed with you.

It’s him slipping a hand between your legs, splaying his fingers to create a bit more space as he strokes you. It’s his long, strong finger that’s dragging through the slippery wetness dripping from you. The pad of his thumb that begins to rub at your swollen nub in tight circles while he starts finding your entrance with the tips of his fingers.

You let yourself imagine what he would say to you, conjuring up the aural memory of his voice.

“You’re this wet for me already, baby? Is that what I do to you?”

You can’t even form the word, so you whimper and nod.

“I think you like this, don’t you? What about having my fingers inside you?”

Your hips buck upwards slightly as you pick up the pace and try to slip a finger inside yourself. It could never be a match for those hands: so strong and broad but so gentle and kind.

You can feel the coil tightening within you as you get closer and closer to coming.

“Or would you prefer my cock inside you, my love?”

Such is the wetness between your legs that the sound of your fingers working yourself to climax is loud and obscene. You’re so close now, getting nearer and nearer the edge as you imagine what it would be like to feel him bury himself in you, covering you with his broad body as he fucks you senseless.

The man in your head offers one final instruction to get you there and send you crashing over the edge: “Come for me, Lyddie.”

Across town, around the same time, the memory of your voice is issuing the same instruction to him as he seeks his own relief, unable to shake the lingering trace of your lips on his and frustrated at himself for not being brave enough to show you how he ought to kiss you. How you deserved to be kissed.

“Come for me, Ben.”

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: They're getting there. Slowly. But they're getting there. All that frustration has to work itself out before the end of the semester, right? And the next chapter sees them about to head into the longer break for the holidays... ahem.

If you haven't seen Truffaut's The 400 Blows (Les 400 coups), then please track it down if you love movies. It's wonderful. If only I could go and watch it in a small college town movie theatre with Ben Morales, sigh...