citrus tang

tambelon  asked:

I love Smitty but let's get some other ponies in here! Any new ideas for Poppy and Citrus Tang? :D

Nothing too much. Mostly anything I’ve been picturing of those two has been snuggle this, cuddle that, snoozing together pones.

Now I have settled a little bit more that they both will live with Mocha but Mocha only has like 3 bedrooms and one is a office so the girls have to room together which is pretty stressful on everyone (except poppy???). So my immediate goal is just honestly doodle silly slice-of-life things of the Mocha household and them all adjusting to having ponies around and learn how to support each other. <3

Last year was all peaches, and strawberries, and you. This year I’m trying to lose myself in the sweetness of mangoes, the tang of citrus. See I’ve spent this year learning about the meaning of flowers and wondering when I stopped being able to use my words. When everything turned into a string of metaphors that leads me back to your mouth. So maybe the butterflies are hatching, and we’re all so susceptible to the power of pollen that when allergy season starts, we’re all falling in love again. And maybe winter blues don’t feel lonely because they echo back your name, but the warm months do because it’s the time of the year I didn’t get to have you. So I’m out grocery shopping, and I’m forming poems about how I don’t know if your mouth tasted like strawberries or if strawberries taste like your mouth but either way, I can’t stomach them anymore. I’m weighing mangoes. I’m zesting oranges over my cuts. I’m planting 98¢ roses and hoping they’ll bloom where our love couldn’t.
—  MANGO SEASON, angelea l.

anonymous asked:

😷 Danny :0 ?

high fever

This one got a little, uh, weird? In the interest of doing these quickly, I’m not going to edit it to try and make sense.  I got preoccupied by the question of what happens to your ectoplasmic self when your own body becomes a hostile environment?

-Hj

-

“A hundred and four?!” Tucker nearly dropped the thermometer.

Danny groaned and dragged a pillow over his head. “Head’s still killing me, Tuck,” he rasped, muffled by the pillow. “Wanna shout a little louder?”

“Excuse me if I’m freaked out, dude, that’s like a whole six degrees above normal for normal people. It’s ten degrees for you.” Using degrees twice in a sentence was just asking for some kind of punny comeback, but Danny just made an unhappy noise into the pillow. 

Tucker picked up his PDA, flicking open the chat app and letting it load in the background while he opened a browser. “Let me google it. I need to know whether this is ‘find an adult’ bad or ‘go to the hospital’ bad.”

“No, and no,” came the muffled answer. “We know this is probably a ghost thing, and last time I checked hospitals don’t treat  ghost sickness or half-ghosts. And the closest adults are my parents who definitely don’t need to know about half-ghosts living in their house.“ 

Tucker gave his best friend a worried glance. The pillow covered his face, but he’d yanked off his shirt sometime in the last hour, and there was an angry flush creeping across his usually pasty-white chest. "You not dying is priority over secret identity, okay?”

“Tucker, relax, I’m not dying. I’m just…” Danny flopped a hand weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

“The magic words.” Tucker grimaced. “You’re gonna jinx yourself." 

Google reassured him a little; most of the results recommended fluids and ibuprofen. Fluids and ibuprofen he could do. He skimmed past the ones listing things like seizures and serious diseases. He’d drag Danny to the hospital himself before it got that bad.

The chat programmed pinged.

S: Well? How’s earth’s crankiest hero this morning?

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Mercury in the 11th house - Sky Writing

With Mercury in the eleventh the voice is made to elevate and be heard by a mass audience of people. There will be a tremendous need to spread the word pertaining to humanitarian issues, self improvement, and empowering the vulnerable. She is valued by her friends for her wicked mind and ability to keep the lines of communication open. One of her most delighted pastimes is engaging in conversation and exchanging ideas with friends. She is like a cosmic secretary, the penman of knowledge leaked from the heavens to repair social wounds through information and wisdom. Mercury is the astrological brain and expression of thought. The winged messenger is quite comfortable in the airy eleventh house, because he is free to disperse nourishing information at will. The ideas conceived by Mercury in the eleventh are catalysts of global change and revelation. This individual has the potential to shift the values of our mass conscience. Such ideas envisioned by the individual are light years before her time. She may suffer social exclusion partly due to presenting information that the world simply isn’t ready for yet.

Mercury in the eleventh thoughts are dialed into the collective signal. There is a great intuition for what the public needs in a psychological, spiritual, and psychosocial framework. The globe is her child who is thirsty for knowledge and wisdom. Much of the individual’s thought processes will reflect the values and opinions of the friendship group. She is capable of achieving magnificent endeavors with intellectual talents and using her thoughts as the weft that weaves her design of life. The highest octave of Mercury in the eleventh is cherishing humanity with the riches of her mind. The celestial magic of the intellect can be expressed through public speaking, blogging, activism, writing, becoming involved with community consultation and public service broadcasting. It’s like she will speak on behalf of humanitarian concerns, as if she is a spokesperson for every molecular structure that does not have a voice. This stems from the needs of people living in poverty to animals that have been abandoned or a general group of people that are searching for inspiration. The individual delights when her mind is indulged by friends who are educated and clever. Her interest in human beings triggers a great desire to understand the psychological undercurrents that dwell within people. Siblings are likely viewed as friends.

The eleventh house Mercury person expands and generates creative inspiration from the ideas that have been cultivated by her friends. There inner rebel is a muse who encourages her to challenge consensual thinking and develop an originality of thought. Sparks of genius arouse through the intellect when she is in the company of like minded people. But Uranus is disorderly, surprising, and demanding. Maybe the individual abruptly withdraws from friendships to meet new groups of people and dance with the winds of change. Or maybe she is demanding in the sense that her friends must provide a constant source of mental stimulation, conversation, and vision. The individual can be quite discriminating about who she lets into her inner circle even though she is relateable and communicative. Maybe she expresses herself better on the internet or in front of an audience that does not know her personally. The perception of Mercury in the seventh tends to be the intellectual enigmatic, intriguing, and sugar mixed with citrus tang. She is the verbal representative of a group that needs a voice and a sounding board. It’s like there is a halo around her head that reinforces the cosmic resplendence of her mind.

-Cherry

art by jasmine becket-griffith

Fic: The Window Seat

Apparently I am being assailed by plot bunnies. This one hit me as I attempted to sleep last night.

Its just a short one though.


————————————————————————————————-


A cloud passed over the sun

He watched her. His wife, his Sassenach. Claire. She sat where she sat every morning, in the window seat of the kitchen. She loved that spot. She stretched herself like a cat in the sunlight and the comparison made him smile. She reminded him of a cat sometimes. At once languorous but with an air of suppressed ferocity. He’d seen her lose her temper.

It was a warm morning. The sun shone into the kitchen and a breeze danced through the room. It lifted her hair slightly and she raised her face towards it, eyes closed. He had known her for a decade. Lived with her, seen her everyday, but even so he could not help but to admire her. The strong line of her jaw, the paleness of her skin, so rich and creamy, that cloud of dark hair that he thought was brown but reflected light in a way that it shone red and gold and silver. He knew what her hair would smell like. It would smell of citrus, a soft tang. It would be soft and wild under his touch. His eyes closed as he remembered the feel of her hair on his body as they made love, the tickle of the curls against his face as they kissed, the softness of it in his hands as he held her close to him.

Sorcha. It was a wholly apt name. Not only Claire in the Gaelic, but light. With the sun shining in behind her she seemed illuminated. Like the angels he would see in the churches of his childhood. Earthly but not. Familiar, but hinting of something more, a promise as yet unrevealed.

Sorcha.

His eyes shut briefly as a tear escaped. He opened them. The window seat sat empty. The breeze ruffled the service booklets on the counter. He felt his brother in law’s hands on his shoulders.

It was time.

He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. The scent of her was still here. How long would it linger for? Would it gradually leave this place or would he wake one morning and find that all trace of her was gone?

The memory of that day. Her voice floating through the window from the street outside. Some mundane conversation with a neighbour. Then a squeal of brakes, a scream, the hideous sound of metal making contact with brick, with something softer..

The memory of her lying there. Her hand in his but growing cold as her listened to the sirens coming closer. As he in turns reassured and pleaded. Her hand sliding from his as she left. The feeling that his very core had been ripped from his body.

He stepped out into the garden. The sun was too bright. The cars were there. Black as the wound in his soul. She was there. She was leaving their home for the final time.

‘I will find you, Claire.’ He made the vow he had made a thousand times since that day.

A sob broke free from his throat.

A red haired little girl took his hand.

He looked down at her and stroked her hair, hair so much like his own.

They walked down the path.

God, I love Halloween.

“Woah, nice costume!” My coworker Alex tells me as I walk into the office party. Alex is dressed as a superhero, one of the Avengers, I think.

Heads turn as I walk deeper into the room.

I pass Henry from sales. “Nice!” he tells me, “It looks just like him.”

The office is decorated for the Halloween party. It looks so cute and festive. Paper cut-outs of black cats and pumpkins are strung along the walls of the cubicles. Someone has rigged the PA system to play spooky music, and there are snacks and treats galore.

I walk over to the break area where the food is laid out.

Jaqueline and Leah are by the punch bowl. When they see me, Leah gives a little shriek.

“Oh, wow. That scared the crap out of me.” Leah says with a smile. She’s dressed as a nurse.

Jaqueline doesn’t smile, but she does give a low chuckle. “You’re sick, you know that?”

She isn’t wearing a costume. Hardly very festive.

With my left hand, I grab a plastic cup and dunk it in the orange-colored punch. I try a sip and am greeted with a tang of citrus and a heavy dose of alcohol. Parties are such fun.

I decide to park by the snack table for a while and do some people-watching. A new girl from IT is dressed as a character from a sci-fi movie that I vaguely recognize. A couple of interns are dressed as the presidential candidates. But my favorite of the night has to be Alvin, the custodian. He’s the spitting image of Frankenstein’s monster, and a woman who must be his wife is done up as The Bride of Frankenstein. They look so spooky and adorable.

I drain my punch, drop the cup, and scoop up a handful of candy-corn. Delicious.

A funky beat starts playing on the overhead speakers. I definitely know this one. A Halloween must!

“You gonna dance?” My friend Drew asks. He’s dressed as the pope. I’m amazed that his hat doesn’t fall off as he boogies.

What the hell. I step out onto the dance floor, formerly the conference area.

Michael Jackson’s Thriller is just getting to the good part. I don’t know all the moves, but I sway along to the music. I leave a few drips on the carpet, but I don’t think anybody notices. I feel bad for Alvin, since he’ll be the one to clean it up tomorrow. But I try to put it out of my mind and concentrate on watching my coworkers cutting some rugs. They’re such great dancers!


I walk into my apartment, still humming the Thriller chorus under my breath. I decide to ignore the mess in the kitchen for now. I click on the lamp and step into my living room. Casually, I drop my boss’s severed-head on the couch, and then I plop down next to it. I’m still buzzing from the fun of the party. God, I love Halloween.

anonymous asked:

laurent and damen masterchef au? or great british bake off. or any cooking show honesltly. thank you so much for writing all these ficlets <3 they make my day

Laurent can feel his concentration wavering, and has to take a deep breath while his hands stop shaking before he eases the second cake tier atop the base. He can count the hours of sleep he’s had over the past three nights on both hands, what with attending lectures and completing assignments and standing in the kitchen at 2am, making and remaking fondant flowers, writing and rewriting his recipe and plan, while Auguste tasted scraps and made coffee and directed not-quite-worried glances at Laurent over the top of his glasses.

It paid off. Laurent is sticking exactly to his plan, down to the minute, and the raspberry teacake is now a blushing masterpiece above the flawless Earl Grey sponge. It only remains for him to ice the top tier, a simple lemon cake with no frills and nowhere to hide, all technique: just the way Laurent likes it. He adjusts his grip on the bowl and whips the yellow-tinted buttercream, eyeing the lemon cake with a critical eye. The colour is not quite even, one side a little browner than it should be, but the buttercream will hide that nicely.

Damen’s laughter rings out, and Laurent doesn’t need to look up to know that the cameramen will be gravitating towards it. Damen, with his photogenic face, his jaw somehow always smudged charmingly with flour, and his stupidly large arms emerging from the tight t-shirts he wears beneath his apron. Damen is a builder from Manchester and everyone can already tell he’s going to be the audience favourite, what with his unexpected cleverness and his dry humour, the barbs he throws out about Londoners–never looking at Laurent but always, somehow, managing to imply that he’d like to be–and his infuriating habit of spending two hours flirting indiscriminately with Mel and Paul, wandering over to taste someone else’s batter while bestowing praise and manly shoulder-claps, and then somehow still managing to produce a perfect batch of sultana-studded scones, or a gingerbread version of the Parthenon that makes Mary Berry give one of her sharp, delighted inhalations.

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3

Also from last nights stream, can never seem to resist my own pony bait.

tho why all my pone angsty it’s like I love to see colorful things unhappy. lol

Mocha Delight comforting her niece Citrus Tang before she leaves back home.

Harley in regrettable situations.

And a generic unimpressed Storm Thrasher.

Love Is... (Part II of II)

A/N: This is the second and final part of this scenario! ^__^ Enjoy!

Pairing: You x Kai

Summary: When he breaks up with you because he’s afraid to love you

Three weeks later

Is this what love was supposed to feel like? Pain, searing through not only my heart, but my entire being? My hands trembled by my sides before I clamped them around my glass of Jack Daniels and coke, eyes blinking rapidly as my table of friends glanced around awkwardly.

I shouldn’t have come out tonight. But after almost a month of moping, I had decided that I couldn’t do this to myself anymore. I couldn’t let myself wither away like that just because of Jongin.

Except he was never ‘just’ Jongin, was he? He was the love of my life, the most important person to me. Without him, I had no meaning.

And of course I had to bump into him at the club. I had to see him standing by the bar, talking to that tall, beautiful, model-like woman who flirted and laughed with him whilst I sat some distance away, unnoticed by Jongin and close to bursting into tears.

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anonymous asked:

Person A watching with a heavy heart and forced smile as Person B reconnects/reminisces with their ex. Eventually, they get up and leave, curious if B will notice. By the time Person B does notice, A has made it all the way home in tears. Steter + a happy ending plz? I just want something angsty but fluffy.

A/N I bring you fluffy angst. Or angsty fluff depending on your view.



When Stiles come back from college, older, wiser, taller, more confident and more attractive, well, it’s understandable that Peter wants. Peter has always liked Stiles and Stiles has always been attractive, but the boy hid it beneath layers of clothing. He may have used large gestures, but he made himself small.

Now, well now, he’s at ease in his skin, dresses considerably better and smells like confidence and happiness.  Peter allows himself the indulgence in Stiles scent, it’s comforting, like pumpkin spice and warmth. Peter is used to not always getting what he wants, or at least he gets a twisted version of it. This time, Peter wants Stiles and will accept no lesser version. All he needs to do is seduce the boy.

He thinks dinner is the best place to start. They’ve got a good friendship, forged from years of research and late nights. They are comfortable with each other, so Peter hopes that this familiarity will allow the seduction to be simple. It’s not like he’s never noticed the citrus tang of Stiles arousal when he’s worn a particularly low V-neck or tight jeans.

“This is super expensive,” Stiles mutters, staring at the menu with a worried brow.

“My treat,” Peter says, smiling warmly.

“It had better be because I’m a poor student,” Stiles replies, “I can barely afford a glass of water in here.”

“Ex-student,” Peter corrects, placing the menu on the table, “So, what are your plans now that you’ve finished college? Do you plan to stay in Beacon Hills?”

He tries not to sound overly enthusiastic about that last idea.

“Yeah, stay with the pack,” Stiles begins. A loud cry of ‘STILES!’ cuts him off. Peter looks up while Stiles turns. A short girl with curly blonde hair waves, walking across the restaurant towards them.

“Heather,” Stiles says happily, getting up to give her a hug. Peter slips the napkin off the table so he doesn’t do something stupid like claw the tablecloth.

“How are you?” Heather asks. Peter wants to claw her throat out so she’ll stop talking.

“I’m great, how have you been doing?” Stiles replies.

Peter doesn’t like the way they’re interacting; it demonstrates a previous intimacy, something more than friends. Peter doesn’t want competition for Stiles affections or attention tonight.

“Hey, would you like to join us?” Stiles says, motioning to a waiter to get them another chair. Peter’s claw start to appear as he twists the napkin in his lap.

“Oh I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Heather asks, “This isn’t a date right?”

“No,” Stiles replies casually, “Peter’s a friend.”

Peter rips the napkin in half, though nobody sees.  

“Peter, this is Heather, my ex-girlfriend,” Stiles says, tucking in Heather’s chair when she sits down. Of course she is. Peter forces a smile onto his face, trying to be charming despite his desire to tear her apart. His wolf prowls at the back of his mind, unhappy that their chosen mate is talking to another.

“A pleasure,” Peter says, managing to contain his claws when he shakes her hand. He could so easily break it.

Heather and Stiles immediately start talking about college, reminiscing about good times and their relationship. Peter ends up fading into the background, Heather monopolizing Stiles attention. Despite them not being together anymore, it is clear that the break-up was amicable. There’s an intimacy there that Peter desires for himself. Peter is feeling murderous and is about five minutes away from ripping Heather’s arm off if she laughs and touches the crook of Stiles elbow again.

He feels invisible and that hurts. He wanted a nice evening with Stiles, a chance to show that being someone’s boyfriend is an achievable option. He wanted to prove that he’s not broken or evil, that he can have feelings like a normal person. But he wasn’t even given a chance to and whilst Peter doesn’t believe in fate, perhaps this is a sign that he’s not meant to have this. Not meant to have Stiles.

Beautiful, intelligent Stiles, who is hanging on Heather’s every word. Peter gets up, not bothering to excuse himself. He pays the bill at the bar, deliberately not paying for Heather’s meal. Then he leaves the restaurant without a backwards glance. He gets into his car and drives to the preserve.

Once he’s there, he strips, carefully folding his suit so that it won’t crease.  The wolf takes over that and everything becomes a blur of senses. He howls mournfully as he runs, the solid feel of the earth beneath his paws and the smell of the forest surrounding him. It’s comforting, connecting with the earth, being the wolf he’s meant to be. He stalks a rabbit, snapping its neck with a satisfying crunch. He should bring it to Stiles; prove he’s a good provider. The idea of providing for his mate is sends a deep thrill through him. It’s only when he returns to being human that he remembers. He leaves the rabbit in the woods.

Despite being incredibly sweaty, driving nude would probably raise too many questions, so Peter puts his clothes on and drives home. He hasn’t given up on Stiles completely; if Peter is good at anything it’s being patient but that doesn’t mean he’s not disappointed. He concentrates instead on getting home, having a nice long shower and then sleeping until midday. The sun is rising, tinting the sky with a pink hue.

Peter is so tired that he just parks and lopes his way up to his apartment, barely taking note of his surroundings. In retrospect his probably should have, for when the elevator door opens, Peter breathes in the pumpkin spice and citrus smell that he’s come to associate with Stiles.  He freezes in the middle of the hall.

Stiles is leaning against Peter’s door, in last night’s suit and with a hint of Heather’s god awful perfume tainting that enchanting natural scent of his. Peter’s hand curl into fists and he breathes shallowly to avoid the stench.

“Stiles,” Peter says, trying to keep his voice level. It’s hoarse from howling all night and speaking causes it to grate slightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“For someone so diabolically clever,” Stiles says, folding his arms, “You’re actually really fucking stupid.”

“Oh insults,” Peter replies, “How charming?”

“All you had to say to me was ‘Stiles this is a date, I want to date you’,” Stiles says, doing a frankly awful impression of Peter, “And I wouldn’t have invited my ex to sit with us.”

“I was working my way up to it,” Peter grumbles but he’s pleased, “It was a process.”

“Yeah right,” Stiles replies, walking up to Peter and bringing him into a tight hug. Peter buries his nose in the crook of Stiles neck, relishing in being able to smell Stiles scent so purely. He nuzzles Stiles skin, pressing soft kisses against it.

“Maybe I should have brought that rabbit,” Peter muses. Stiles snorts, pulling back so he can look at Peter’s face.

“I’m sure that made sense in your head,” Stiles says, “Now we are going into your apartment, having sex, then having a shower and then we’re going to sleep for like ten hours because I’ve literally been up all night waiting for you to come home. Mrs. Cárdenas from thought you’d locked me out on purpose and almost let me sleep on her couch.”

Peter presses a kiss to Stiles forehead.

“Well then, let me atone for my mistake,” Peter says, breathing in Stiles arousal and grinning wildly.

Fisherman’s Knot Chapter 12

[AO3]

[Title songs]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11]


I Signed Up For the Whole Damn Run

Ford tossed a tangerine from hand to hand, humming aimlessly as he stared at the food the townspeople had sent and pondered which they should cook first. For once, they didn’t really need to worry about rationing—they’d dock soon, and Fiddleford had made it clear that he would send them along anything else they needed. “Anything,” he’d said with a meaningful look that made Ford wonder how much the twins had told him. He’d already found a box of full-spectrum lightbulbs that was labeled, “In case you dudes run out!” with an added smiley face. The handwriting was heavy and uneven. He recognized it from when they used to get more printed letters; it was the writing of Stan’s handyman. Well, not anymore. Stan’s successor? Stan’s … something. There was clearly more to the relationship between his brother and the large rodent-like manchild than Ford understood, but Stan got grumpy and clammed up whenever Ford tried to ask him about it. That was all right. He’d figure it out in time. They had time, now.

He peeled the tangerine and bit down, savoring the sweet citrus tang. Judging from the amount of produce the town had sent, everyone was worried that they’d get scurvy. It was … probably a more rational fear than he’d like to admit, he thought, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d seen their bottle of Vitamin C supplements.

Stan had moved to his bunk at some point during the night. Last time Ford checked on him he’d been snoring like a thunderstorm. He smiled at the mental image. Stan deserved to have a good morning—he deserved to have every morning be good, but this one in particular—which was why Ford had washed the dishes and was going to cook a real breakfast.

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