this is a freshly laundered shirt

Purification with Baths

(All of this is from this book that I made a post about. Authors: Raven Kaldera & Tannin Schwartzstein. This is from chapter 4, Internal Hygiene: how to not get ugly)

The problem with smudging is that it always involves smoke. People with asthma or sensitive fire alarms may want to use a different method. The nest most common purification method is baths. You will need a bathtub for most of them, although we will include shower formulas for those of you with only shower stalls.

Floral bath

Soothing, calming, and brightening for depressed days. Also good for getting one in a romantic mood, not just before the a date but when the magic is going out of a long-term relationship due to stress and exhaustion. You can either use floral oils such as jasmine, rose, lavender, or apple blossom, or use live flower petals. For the destitute, check dumpsters behind florist shops and pull the petals off the discarded or bruised flowers. You will need at least two cups of flower petals. If you’re worried about clogging the drain, put them in a bag (even an old t-shirt with the holes knotted shut will do) and float them in the water. If you like them floating around on the water, put a piece of fabric over the drain when you let the water out.

Herbal baths

Cook the herbs into a strong tea on the stove and pour them into the water. Simmer, do not boil. Suggested herbs include sage, rosemary, thyme, tarragon for courage, ground sandalwood for sensuality, bay leaf for warrior energy, or mint and eucalyptus to promote physical health. Resins will not break down when boiled. If you want to use a resin, you must add the essential oil or absolute (resin tincture).

Shower formulas

For this, you need to brew up one to three gallons of a strong tea. Take your shower first, like you normally do, and then at whatever temperature you can tolerate, dump the pots of water over your body. These teas can be boiled and set aside in gallon plastic jugs for when you want them – in the hot summer, you may want to dump them over you cold. Don’t keep them for more than a week and check them frequently for nasty, green floating things or bad smells.

Steam baths

Yes, baths can be done in an apartment, if you have big pots and a stove. Fill all your large pots with boiling water and add herbs or oils. Fill the tub half full with the hottest water you can get from the tap and place a chair in the tub. (If you use a metal chair, rest your hand on it before sitting down to test the temperature. If it I wooden, make sure you have a place for it to dry out afterwards. Avoid padded chairs as they will absorb moisture and get mildew.) Then, pour the boiling water and sit on the chair, being careful not to touch the water. Relax in steam until water cools.

The White Bath

Famous in Afro-Caribbean traditions. It is associated with this Orisha (deity) Obatala, who represents justice, compassion and healing. The most common ingredient in a white bath is coconut milk, usually canned, since if you use real coconuts, you’ll have to split a lot of them. Other suggestions are baking soda, or sugar, or a few drops of vanilla extract, or powdered milk. Powdered moo-juice will last forever and may be carried with you anywhere. You can combine any or all of these, but no more than two cups of material per tubful. For dissolving purposes, make sure the water is pretty hot. Soak for as long as you need and then rinse off with the shower. Lighting white candles around the tub is also good, as is coconut incense.


Although you will want to rinse off at some point, we recommend that you wait at least twenty minutes before rinsing, in order to let the energy of each bath soak into your skin as you get up and move about. It’s traditional, though not necessary, to wear only white for the first few hours afterwards. (A really big t-shirt works well.) If you hate white, you don’t have to wear it, but please, whatever you put on should be clean and freshly laundered, and also have clean towels ready to dry off with.

Mirror and stone

Sameen’s voice in Farsi is liquid and gentle. At least, it seems that way to you now, hearing her speak for the first time, your head in her lap and your eyes closed. One hand weaves through your hair; the other holds her father’s battered copy of Rumi’s love poetry.

It’s late, but neither of you can sleep. The spring night is unseasonably warm, so you’ve folded back the sheets and are currently sweating in a tank top and a pair of boxers from Sameen’s drawer. Seemed fair to steal, since you’re the one who dropped off and picked up her laundry at the wash-and-fold around the corner. The shirt you’re wearing is old enough that, even freshly laundered, it smells like her.

You don’t know what the words mean; you simply let them wash over you and through you. Sameen reads limpidly, fluently, in musical phrases. She smooths hair over your temple, cards through the strands, winds a curl around her finger.

The heat is making your shoulder ache; the painkillers you reluctantly took have only just started to work through your body and soften your thoughts. None of that matters much now, with your cheek resting on Sameen’s inner thigh and her voice pouring over and into every part of you.

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anonymous asked:

Can I request a little angsty prompt where Jughead sees Archie and his father having a really intimate moment and Juggie breaks down in the shower crying because it hurts him to not have this with his father. Betty makes a surprise visit and comforts him? With a teenie tiny bit (meaning: a lot) of fluff in the end? Enjoy your day 💓

Thank you for the prompt, sorry it took so long!


“Voicemail again?” The gruff, muted tones of Fred Andrews float down the hall. Jughead pauses, one hand still gripping the banister, socked foot making a barely distinguishable thud as it hits the floor.

“Yeah,” came Archie’s reply. His voice sounds thick, like he was talking around a substantial lump that had formed in his throat. Jughead knew the feeling well. “I just really wanted to talk to her, especially after everything that happened with…” He trails off, and Jughead could picture the way his face would be flushing red, clashing awfully with his hair. While the secret of Archie’s less than conventional summer fling with his very own Miss Honey had finally seen the light of day it still wasn’t exactly a topic that everyone was rushing to converse about openly.

Jughead hears a rustle of fabric, assuming that Fred has slapped a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder in a way that fathers in movies always do.

“She does care about you, Arch. Things are just busy in Chicago I’m sure and… hey, come on,” Fred trails off. There’s the scrape of metal against tiled floors followed by a shuddery exhale, muffled by the close press of flannel against lips. Jughead can feel the uncomfortable prickle of intrusion crawl up the back of his neck but he’s never been very good at impulse control - must run in the family, he thinks wryly. He holds his breathe, as if that would lessen his chances of being caught, as he peers gingerly round the doorway.

Fred has Archie in his embrace, one arm securely around the expanse of his back, the other hand clasped at the nape of his neck, one finger gently rubbing back and forth through the short hairs there as Archie’s face buries itself against the dip in his dad’s collarbone, shoulders shaking to expel his sadness.

“It’s alright, son. I’ve got you,” Fred repeats soothingly, and Jughead always was fond of how Fred disregarded the toxic boundaries of fragile masculinity. His eyes are glued to that finger, moving so little against Archie’s hair but doing so much to dispel the tension, easing the ache in the boy’s chest. Jughead blinks rapidly as a thick, wadded up ball of want smacks him directly in the chest. Clawing fingers tighten round his heart, threatening to pierce the barely beating muscle the longer he stays watching the prime time scene unfold before him.

A shiver runs down his spine and he’s suddenly frozen from the inside out. His fingers are shaking as he turns on his heel and ascends the stairs once again, as quietly as he can, hoping the phantom chattering of his teeth doesn’t give him away. He stumbles into the bathroom, closing the door by pressing his weight against the wood when his body becomes too heavy to hold up on its own. He moves in a daze, fingers turning on the shower and mechanically stripping himself of his many layers of armour until they are in a puddle at his feet, beanie lost beneath them.

The room clouds over with a haze of steam, but Jughead doesn’t notice it past the film that’s already covering his eyes. His skin burns beneath the scalding water and he welcomes the pain. Anything is better than the persistent numbness that makes him itch all over, wishing he could crawl his way out of his skin for just a few hours relief. His head falls forward beneath the spray, a fountain of water dampening his dark locks, creating a curtain around his face and flooding his ears with a roar that is so much more appealing that the ever-present reminder of abandoned, unwanted, alone that plays like a stuck record in his mind.

He can’t recall when he started to cry but suddenly the water filling his mouth has a distinct salty tang on his tongue, eyes screwing shut and lips pulling back over his teeth as he wracks with silent sobs; if there is one thing he knows it’s how to avoid drawing attention to himself. He slips down the condensation covered tiles, sinking to the porcelain tub below with a marked slowness. Knees press to his chest, arms circling his legs, while his head tucks itself in the small, dark cavern his crumpled body creates. His shoulders shake and the ghost of a comforting finger strokes the hairs at the base of his neck.

***

“Oh. Hey, Betty,” Fred greets the blonde at the door with warm surprise, returning her gentle smile.

“Hi, Mr Andrews. Is Jughead home? I was supposed to come over so we could go over the edits for The Blue and Gold,” she chirps, peering around his sturdy form in the doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of grey and blue lurking in the depths of the house.

“Err, yeah I think he’s in his room. Head on up,” Fred replies, waving her inside. She smiles at him again, her eyes briefly flicking over his shoulder when she catches a view of Archie in the living room. He’s lain out on the sofa, worn checked blanket draped over his bulky frame, Vegas curled on top of his slightly tucked up feet. Betty’s brow creases slightly as she takes in his eyes, noticeably puffy even though they’re closed and flickering in light sleep. She drags her worried gaze from her best friend as she climbs the stairs, making a note to ask Jughead if he’s okay once she finds him.

“Jug?” she calls uncertainly as she rounds the banister, poking her head inside his doorway but coming up empty, greeted only by the sight of crumpled sheets and strewn clothes. The rushing of the shower reaches her ears and she takes tentative steps down the hallway. “Juggie?” She hesitates, pressing her ear closer to the white painted wood.

A gut wrenching sob echoes from within and Betty’s trying the handle before she can even think about what she’s doing. The door gives under her hand, swinging open to allow her inside. Green eyes roam frantically around the room before landing on the hunched body beneath the shower head. A gasp slips from between her parted lips as instant tears prick the corner of her eyes.

Jughead looks so small, swallowed up against the vast whiteness of the bathroom, lost behind the cloying steam that has accumulated around them. It presses on Betty’s chest, making it even harder to breathe as a tightness settles in her chest at the sight of the broken boy before her.

She rushes forwards, dropping to her knees and reaching out to him. The fabric of her sweater soaks the cascading water up thirstily, causing it to lay heavy and irritating against the delicate skin of her wrists. She barely notices the sensation, pulling at Jughead’s shoulder and placing her hand on his cheek until he lifts his face to her. There’s a void in his eyes that snatches all the oxygen from her lungs.

“Oh, Jughead,” she breathes, her voice merely air as she leans further over the lip of the bathtub, clutching at his back and pressing his face into the curve of her neck as he continues to cry.

Betty isn’t sure how much time passes but the water begins to run cold and soon enough Jughead begins to shiver beneath her embrace. She doesn’t speak as she reaches out with one hand to turn off the tap, plunging them into a sudden silence, only his jagged breathing echoing off the walls now. She guides him up with gentle, persistent hands, moving to pick up one of the Andrew’s fluffy blue towels from the rack behind them as Jughead keeps his eyes downcast, unseeing.

His nakedness doesn’t go unnoticed by her as she wraps him in the warm fabric, helping him step onto the ground with a palm between his shoulder blades. But there’s a whole other nakedness he’s showing her right now, a vulnerability of his soul that’s so open and raw in this instant that she’s afraid to touch it in fear of infecting the wound. They shuffle into Jughead’s room, Betty guiding him to stand by the desk while she goes to close the door softly, checking the hallway for any sign of the other occupants in the house. Jughead still hasn’t spoken, chapped lips hanging open slightly as he pulls in rough, tired breaths.

Betty strips off her drenched sweater, leaving it in amongst the other clothes on the floor before she opens his dresser, picking out a shirt at random and pulling it over her slightly damp head.

Jughead can feel himself coming to his senses, thankful that the hot flush of his skin could be attributed to the water, even though he knows that she sees his shame burning beneath. Betty only addresses him with soft understanding, coming over to press a sweet kiss to the dark spots of colour on either cheek.

Her hands begin to move over his body, rubbing the towel gently against his wet skin to dry him off. She’s methodical and attentive in only the way a Cooper could be, making sure he’s completely dry before she’s satisfied. She crouches at his feet, pulling at one foot and then the other to help him into a clean pair of pajama pants before sliding them up his legs and settling the elastic comfortably against his waist. She raises his arms, slipping the freshly laundered shirt over his torso, too.

She’s treating him like a child, and he can’t bring himself to mind. She’s flooding him with an affection that borders on motherly and it just feels so nice that he doesn’t want her to stop. The tender touches and systematic routine of it all reeks of nostalgia for something he can’t even remember if he ever had. Jughead thinks he’s probably only read about it in books, seen it on TV, but he knows what it’s supposed to be like and this is it. His heart begins thrumming faster as she runs her fingertips over his chest.

Betty pushes on his shoulders until he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, kneeling behind him with the towel in hand again. She drags it over his dripping hair, gently scrunching her hands in a motion so soothing that it has Jughead closing his eyes, drawing his lower lip between his teeth as he fights back tears he doesn’t even think he’s capable of anymore. Tears of contentment.

The towel is abandoned once she’s finished, replaced by the drag of his comb through his drying waves. Betty remembers how she’d sit before her vanity as a child while Alice pulled a brush through her flaxen locks, sending her into a dazed sleep before she even made it between the sheets. The corners of her mouth tilt upwards as she notes the way Jughead’s head is beginning to loll, and a low hum reverberates in his chest at her ministrations.

At this, Betty sets the comb down, pulling him back onto the bed and into her embrace, draping the duvet over both of them, kissing his forehead chastely before she tucks his head beneath her chin, legs tangling together beneath the covers.

“You are loved, Jughead Jones,” she whispers into the stillness, feeling the rhythmic fanning of his breath against the skin of her neck stop as his next exhale catches in his throat. The tension leaves her shoulders as it resumes, Jughead shuffling closer to the enveloping warmth of her body.

“I know,” he replies. And he’s starting to believe it.

Alone, Until I Get Home (6/?)

Summary: In Boston, Henry Swan’s six-year-old brother Ian finds a book titled “Once Upon a Time” hidden beneath the seat in their mom’s old yellow bug. As soon as Henry touches it, he remembers.

Season 3 Canon Divergence-Emma finds out she’s pregnant a few weeks after she and Henry leave Storybrooke with new memories and new lives. Nearly seven years later, another Dark Curse puts her family in danger, and Emma must return to Storybrooke to help them.

Who’s powerful enough to cast the Dark Curse? And how the hell is she going to tell Hook they have a son together?

A/N:  Ok, I’m a little bit “leave, get away from me, get out of my life” with this chapter right now, so there may be some errors that I’ll try to correct within the next few days when I can read it again with a clear head. The next two chapters will probably drop back to being shorter, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to get them finished faster than in two weeks, but, you know…LIFE.

Also on: AO3

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anonymous asked:

Hi. Could you write more Jason-centric Hurt/Comfort? I really enjoyed your previous fic in which Jason has pneumonia. So I was wondering if you are willing to write more sick!Jason with respiratory illness? Like, he has bronchitis on top of abdominal wounds so every time he coughs (and he coughs A LOT), it's extremely painful for his wounds (also his chest hurts and coughing sucks). And Batfamily try to take care of him during his recovery.

I hope this is to your liking anon :) Sorry it took so long to get done, Jason was being very stubborn about accepting care from his family…

The gash across his stomach alone wouldn’t be a problem; it’s far from the worst injury he’s sustained. But of course he doesn’t just have an abdominal wound because his body likes to be really - what’s that word Tim is always throwing around? - Extra™ about punishing him. For what, he has yet to figure out. Alfred seems to think it was going on patrol while he had (what he thought was) a mere cold. But that couldn’t possibly be it. Must be because of all those cardinal sins Bruce is so disappointed he broke (like the man himself is such a damn saint).

Although, in hindsight, maybe the fever did have a little bit to do with it because apparently he’d gone out without his armour, just in the leather jacket and a long sleeved shirt which, in his defence, does kinda look like the Kevlar-reinforced one he usually wears as the Red Hood. Jason is sure he checked that he was properly outfitted before leaving his apartment (through the door apparently, which, yeah, he’s starting to see how the fever might have been a little higher than he thought and messed with his decision making a little more than he remembers) but the whole night is hazy in his memory. He can accept, begrudgingly and only in his mind, that the version of events Tim and Alfred retell is probably correct.

He’d been surprised to wake up in the Cave. Even more surprised to see the Replacement slouched over a tablet beside the bed, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but stubbornly not moving in a way that probably meant Alfred had ordered him to keep an eye on Jason. (Or he was worried, which, weird. It was only an unlucky slash across his abdomen.) Then Jason had tried to speak and any surprise had vanished beneath the fire that ignited in his chest.

Tim’s head had snapped up immediately, wide eyed and so damn concerned as he stuttered through some soothing bullshit about being okay and calming down and just breathing. Easy enough for him to say; he’s not the one who’s entire body from waist up is protesting every incremental movement with agonising pain.

(“You’re being dramatic.”

“You wanna swap places and see how fucking dramatic you are when even breathing hurts?”

“I’ve had bronchitis before, Jason. It sucks but it’s not that bad.

“Oh yeah? And did you have thirteen stitches across your stomach at the same time?”

“You know, maybe if you stopped complaining and got some rest you’d feel better.”)

All Jason wants is to curl up beneath two or three blankets - preferably one of those fancy electric throw rug ones - but, unfortunately, curling up isn’t exactly possible. Not without pain. Stupid fricken knife wound.

And Alfred probably wouldn’t give him an electric blanket anyway because apparently his fever is “worryingly high”. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Surely if his body was trying to bake his brain, he wouldn’t feel so dann cold all the time? There had been brief warmth when Titus had got into the Cave and jumped onto the bed with him, but Alfred had put a stop to that real quick.

(Spoilsport.)

There’s an oxygen tube irritating his nose and a pulse oximeter clamped around his finger. He suspects its more so Alfred will be alerted if he tries to leave than for any actual medical necessity. He’s not that badly hurt.

(He’s stubbornly not including the severe case of bronchitis Alfred had informed him he had. With his disapproving eyebrows and everything. It’s not fair how that man can make Jason feel guilty about things that aren’t even his fault.)

“When can I get outta here?” he asks.

“If your vitals remain stable, you can move to one of the guest rooms upstairs at the end of the day,” Alfred replies.

Which they both know isn’t what he actually meant but. Whatever. Nobody argues with Alfred. Jason is just glad he didn’t suggest moving into his old mausoleum of a bedroom.

Even with the painkillers Alfred is pumping through his system, coughing really fucking hurts. And it feels like he’s constantly coughing.

“You should drink some more water,” Dick says after a particularly bad fit that has his muscles aching and his eyes stinging with tears he refuses to shed.

“You should fuck off,” Jason rasps, so not in the mood to deal with Mr Sunshine’s mother henning. It’s approaching midnight and he’d been looking forward to the peace and quiet and lack of suffocating caring while all the Bats were on patrol, but Dick, out of the goodness of his oversized heart, had decided to stay back and keep his little brother company. No amount of grouchiness and swearing have managed to drive him away yet.

Dick’s face falls a little, settling into an expression somewhere between subdued and downcast, which is so not fair because Jason knows that he knows that Jason wasn’t being serious. Well, not completely serious. His brother’s company (and the laptop and movies he’d brought with him) has actually been a mostly pleasant distraction from the itch in his lungs and the pinch of his stitches every time he moves too much. But Jason has a reputation as an arsehole that he needs to maintain. He can’t just go around reciprocating mushy feelings with other mushy feelings.

He sighs. Grumbles, “Okay, fine, I’ll drink the damned water. Just. Shut up yeah? You’re almost tolerable when you’re quiet.”

Dick’s answering smile is so soft and fond and fucking loving that it makes his chest ache for reasons entirely unrelated to bronchitis.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to blame the damn bronchitis anyway.

Someone pauses outside his door and Jason knows who it is without even thinking about it. He can imagine the pensive frown carved into a tired face, the hand hovering over the doorknob, the silent sigh. Then the steady beat of footsteps moving further along the hallway.

Restless and sore and craving a distraction from his own scattered thoughts, Jason makes a snap decision and rolls out of bed, landing with a much-too-loud thump on the hardwood floor. The whole movement is uncoordinated and clumsy and it makes his abdomen scream and triggers another round of dry, chesty coughs (what doesn’t these days?). So by the time he stumbles across his bedroom to the door, it’s already opening, Bruce’s brows furrowed with concern as he sticks his head in.

“Jay?”

“I’m fine,” Jason says immediately, pretends it’s gruff dismissal instead of the hasty reassurance that it is. He’s not entirely sure why he was suddenly so desperate to see Bruce when he’s been avoiding him most of the week Alfred has had him coupled up in the Manor (most of his new life, even) and now that they’re face to face words stick behind his teeth. He runs his tongue along cracked lips. Asks, “How was patrol?”

“It was fine.” Bruce is still frowning a little, still worried, hand tightening on the doorknob because he wants to reach out but he’s sure Jason will just shrug it off. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was just.” Jason rubs his chest, hopes it will quell another cough. “I don’t know. I heard you walk past. I thought.” He coughs into his elbow. Shrugs. He has no real reason for being out of bed except that his irritated chest was keeping him awake and his abdominal wound was keeping him from getting comfortable. And maybe Bruce pausing outside his door made him remember when he was a kid and he used to check in on him before going to bed. And maybe it made him miss it. Just a little bit.

Bruce nods, as though the stilted answer made any sense, and then he offers, cautious and hopeful and, goddamit, fatherly, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Jason opens his mouth to say yes, a cup of tea would be lovely on his sore throat, just what he needs to relax his body enough to maybe get some sleep. But then his mind flashes to memories of being younger, of sitting on a stool wiping tears away with his pyjama sleeve, of Bruce setting a mug of camomile in front of him and telling him that he doesn’t have to talk about the nightmare, but if he wants to he’s here to listen. Memories of comfortable silences turned awkward except not really because they don’t even spend enough time alone together for there to be silences anymore. And he steps back, turns toward his bed, says “no thanks, I’m going to try get some sleep”, because he’s an arsehole and he doesn’t want Bruce’s worry or love or care.

Doesn’t deserve it.

The door clicks shut and Jason pretends that he doesn’t notice the long pause (the pensive frown, the hovering hand, the silent sigh) before Bruce walks away.

“Don’t be stupid next time.”

Jason rolls his eyes, shoves another freshly-laundered shirt in his bag, checks that his wallet and phone are still in his pocket so he doesn’t have to meet Cass’s gaze. Of all the Bats, she’s the one who manages to make him feel guilty about not making more of an effort to do the bullshit happy-families crap instead of just feeling irritated like he does whenever the others bring it up.

“Thanks for the advice,” he retorts sarcastically. “I’ll make sure

"Hey,” she grabs his arm, forces him to turn around and look at her, pokes a finger against his chest because - and this is one of his favourite things about Cass - she’s not afraid to fight dirty. “Take care of yourself. Or we will.”

Jason winces. Partly because his chest is still a bit sore and she pokes hard, but mostly because he knows that’s a promise as much as a threat. “Okay, okay. Jesus. Fine.”

Cass nods, satisfied, then steps back and smiles. Small and beautiful and gentle and overflowing with compassion. If Jason had to have someone looking out for him, he reckons he probably couldn’t do much better than her. And since he’s being sappy and sentimental, he can admit that the rest of them aren’t too bad either.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not glad to finally be getting out of the Manor and going back to his safehouse to finish recovering in peace.

The Maid | L.H

Requested (like months ago, but I finally got some inspiration. Better late than never)

You walked up to the iron gates of the grand house at the end of the street. It was the first day of your new job. You had been looking for a part time job for a while.  You were in your final year of uni and your student loan had long since run out; so if you wanted to eat you had to get a job.

When you saw the ad for a maid online you were sceptical. You were not the most tidy person and you didn’t really like the idea of cleaning up after someone else. Then you saw that the employer was offering much better pay than you would get elsewhere. So you decided to apply, not expecting much as you were inexperienced in the field.

However if by some miracle, he picked you. You had been a bit wary, as you didn’t know this man’s name, only what he required of you. It had occurred to you that he may be a creepy man trying to lure you to his house under false pretences. However you were so desperate that you had decided to put a little faith in humanity.

You pressed the buzzer on the gate. A few moments passed before the gates opened allowing you onto the property. You walked up the obnoxiously large driveway until you eventually reached the front door. You knocked on the door before looking down at the extravagant marble porch.

You heard the door open.

“No Fucking Way” you heard a deep voice.

Your head snapped up to see familiar blue eyes. You would know those eyes anywhere. Your eyes traced his face. He had aged well, he had let his hair fall in natural curls and a well groomed beard adorned his strong jawline. You looked back to his eyes. There was no doubt, it was Luke, your high school ex.

“Sorry I must have the wrong house” you say turning to walk back down the drive.

“Y/N wait” he says grabbing your wrist. His touch was foreign yet familiar. You turned to look at him. “You’re here about the maid position right?” he says.

“Yes” you mutter.

“Well you’re in the right place, come in” he smiles, leading you inside.

“Okay so I need you to clean the kitchen and the master bedroom and the bathrooms twice a week” he starts explaining your duties.

“Wait a minute” you interrupt him. “Doesn’t this bother you?” you said gesturing to the situation. It surprised you how open to this he was, although you parted on good terms it was you that broke up with him and he wasn’t too thrilled at the time.

“Well I knew you’d come back to me eventually” he mutters.

“Luke, I haven’t come back to you, I needed a job. I had no idea it was you” you respond, “If I’d known it was you I probably wouldn’t have come” you added quietly.

A hurt expression flashed across Luke’s face but it was gone in an instant. “Oh and how’s that career working out for you if you’re having to clean my kitchen. I know how messy you are so you must be desperate for money.” he spat with a cocky smile.

What he said was harsh, but you couldn’t blame him, after all you had broken up with him before university. You wanted to focus on your career and you didn’t want to do long distance. Luke had tried to convince you that you didn’t need to go to university. He was set to take over his father’s company, and he tried to convince you that he could support the both of you. You knew he could but you didn’t want him to, you wanted to make your own way in the world not rely on your rich boyfriend for everything.

“Uni’s going great actually, I’ve got a job offer at an amazing company when I finish because I did an internship with them last summer. I just have to finish the year. I only need money so I don’t starve to death in the meantime” you finish with a sarcastic smile.

“Oh”  was all Luke said his cocky demeanour vanished. 

There was a moment’s silence before he finally said something “That’s great, I’m happy for you, the job’s still yours if you want it”

You thought about leaving, not knowing whether it was good idea to work for your ex but then you remembered how poor you were and realised you didn’t really have a choice.

-

You had been Luke’s maid for three weeks now. You didn’t really see him often. Most of the times you came to clean he was at the office. He had given you a key and you tried to be in and out before he got home. The two of you were civil towards each other, but there was still some tension.

You were cleaning his bedroom. Dusting his shelves and changing the sheets. You open his large walk-in wardrobe to put away his clothes. You pushed his shirts on the rail to one side to make room for the freshly laundered ones. In the bottom you found a small cardboard box that had ‘Do not open’ written on the lid. It looked tatty and old. You knew you shouldn’t look but your curiosity overcame you. You carefully lifted the lid and peeked inside.

It was full of photographs and a small teddy bear that looked familiar. You picked up a handful of photos. The first was a picture of you and Luke in the local diner back home. It was taken on your first date. You flipped through the rest of them. Smiling as the memories of your time together resurfaced.

“What are you doing?” a deep voice interrupted your thoughts. You turn around to see Luke in the doorway to the wardrobe. His eyes fall to the photos in your hands. His eyes widen.

“You weren’t meant to find these” he grumbles in annoyance. He takes them from you and put them back in the box.

“Why do you even still have them?” you ask wondering why he kept them after your separation.

“I couldn’t throw them away” he looks down at the floor, not wanting to meet your gaze. “Our time together was the best time of my life. And I know I have money now and a good job and I should be happy, but I don’t have you. I kept them in the hopes I might find you again.” he sighs.

You didn’t know what to say. Luke clearly hadn’t moved on. You hadn’t either to an extent. You hadn’t been with anyone since you parted; you had thrown yourself into your studies and any lingering feelings were forgotten in the whirlwind of your new life. But now that you were back in his presence and you had seen the photos, the feelings you had suppressed came flooding back.

The two of you stood in silence, Luke was staring at the ground, embarrassed over his confession.

You made a bold move, striding towards him and wrapping your arms around him. You pulled him into a tight hug.

His head snapped up in surprise when he felt your warm embrace. When you didn’t pull away he hesitantly wrapped his arms round you. You didn’t know what this meant or if things could go back to how they were. But right now you were content being wrapped up in his embrace.

Masterlist

Last Expiration

By: Kurisu678

All characters belong to @smokeplanet.

One Year Ago…

Late morning sun shone through the blinds into the bedroom shared by Mitch Mueller and Jonas Wagner, painting thin lines of yellow light against the bright blue walls. The space was kept in a state of comfortable chaos, a delicate balance between order and disarray. As per usual Sunday custom, alarms had been left off and both Mitch and Jonas were left in a blissful state of dozing while snuggling.

It was however, not to last.

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mino; on the run (p.2)

Originally posted by cyphermaniac

“I would never hurt you, I hope you know that.”

WARNINGS: Violence and strong language, please don’t read further if you’re not okay with that. 

sidenote: Much shorter than the first part, hopefully there will be two more parts of the same length until the final! Again, I hope that this is not all word vomit. I have no idea what I’m doing. 

Hitman! Mino AU, 3.1k words

Others: Part 1 , Part 3


Lightning cracked the midnight sky then the thunder rolled in. Rumbling deeply into the distance and through their bones.

 “We should get going.” Minho clears his throat, walking away without sparing her a glance. “I’ll take you home.”

Their previous conversation dissolves, swept away by the sudden gush of wind that Minho silently thanked for. Her response left him tongue-tied, a reaction that happens almost every time they’re together and it terrifies him.

The absurdity is almost laughable. How he could barely bat an eyelash when pulling the trigger but to know that someone will be there for him has him foolishly shaken.

As if sensing his distress, she quietly follows suit, keeping her eyes to the ground when Minho fastens the helmet over her head. The usually precise movements of his fingers disappears, infuriating him further as he fumbles with the clasp longer than necessary.

It didn’t take long before the storm ruptures through, the downpour of rain smacking down the stretch of roads viciously, her grip on his shoulders digging into his jacket down to his flesh as Minho speeds his way like they’re losing time.

Everything is a blur, a projection of the state of his mind and trying to stitch back the edges of himself she unraveled is a futile attempt, feeling everything slip beyond his power.

Upon reaching her apartment complex, she hops off the motorbike, drenched hair plastered to her neck when she hands the helmet back to him. Minho looks at her through the exposed panel of his helmet, unable to piece his goodbyes together while the roar of the rain seals the silence between them.  

And when she leans in close to his ears, Minho can’t help but stiffen. Her voice raised yet muted by the chaos that surrounds them.

“Stay the night!”

She’s met with the widening of his eyes as she pulls back to face him, the rain intensifying with each pulsing second.

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white-- jungkook drabble.

basically an idea i’ve been playing around with a while, and a good way to dip my toes back into writing after taking about a six-seven month break from it. i always picked up on the way someone smelled when i first met them, and quickly associated feelings and colors ( hence the title ) that went along with each person, so i tried taking a whack at it with the boys. 1/7, obviously! i know it’s short but hopefully it’s good lmao

word count: 938


Contrary to popular belief, you had always believed that a scent that lingered on a person was the way to their soul– not the eyes. And yes, you’ve been called a freak, a creep, a weirdo, many a time by your friends for voicing your thoughts, but you couldn’t help that the first thing you picked up about a person was the smells that lingered with them. Your sister always had a lingering scent of sweet fruits, peaches and strawberries, a light flowery perfume scattered across her collarbones that made you just want to hug her and, well, not let go. Your father smelled like wood stain and ash from the work he did in his workshop, callous but carrying memories of the projects you did together in your younger years.

It was the same with him. You’d instantly picked up on the scent that followed after him, from the first time he’d been rushing out of the coffee shop to get to the job he was already a solid twenty minutes late to, or each time he stood before you in line. It was a constant, from the first meeting where he sat himself down at your table because there was nowhere else ‘and you’d seemed the least intimidating’, to your first date of an evening on the boardwalk, to the first night you spent at his apartment, in his sheets. You’d come to associate Jeon Jungkook with comfort. Every time you picked up on the lingering scent of his being, you felt butterflies blossom in your stomach and warmth spread from the tips of your fingers to your toes, a smile coming to form on your lips before you’d even realized it. It was just the effect he had on you. And well, you weren’t complaining about it all.

He smelled like simplicity. The hint of his mint toothpaste lingering on his lips and inside his mouth when you would kiss him after his morning shower and routine, when you kissed him goodnight each time you spent the night at his apartment. The scent of cleaned cotton you assumed was his fabric softener’s responsibility every time he pulled you into his freshly laundered clothes and gave you a big squeeze before you left for the day, every time you would opt to throw one of his shirts in after a round of passion and couldn’t seem to find your own clothing items ( they’d been discarded long before the two of you had even entered the bedroom ). The gentle air of an ocean breeze hanging on to his dark locks when you ran your fingers through them before the two of you embraced sleep for the rest of the night, or when he would bow his head for you to fix his hair after gentle nagging about stray hairs sticking up in places they shouldn’t be, and the like. His friends liked to poke fun at him for it– having a more feminine scent instead of musk and irish spring, among other odd shampoos and conditioners giving men their ‘manly’ scent, but you told him you thought it made him all the better, and he didn’t have a problem with it since. And don’t forget that subtle hint of marijuana that left an underlying smell that just naturally clung to him. That brought memories of sharing a blunt and laughter between kisses and what ifs when the two of you came home from a long day and decided it was time for some damn well deserved relaxation, or when the two of you were still left nude from more than climactic moments and decided a good end to the night was a hand running through your hair and the other holding some loosely rolled weed between his fingers.

It was an odd mix of scents, but all of them screamed comfort to you. Safety. Simplicity. Tenderness. Softness. Warmth. Love. They screamed Jungkook to you. Every time you were caught a whiff of him, whether he was resting his head on your shoulder in bed or rushing around the kitchen to get to work, you noted the warmth that blossomed inside you and the smile that immediately took its place on your face. Every day you spent home alone doing the laundry, or laying in bed, you could quickly pick up on his fabric softener, or the lingering scent of his conditioner he left on his pillow, and thoughts of him quickly flooded your brain. His soft smile across the sheets on your bed while his thumbs rubbed soft circles in the small of your back before the two of you spent the next two hours making a mess of the sheets with breathy sighs and moans of each other’s names, or the time he refused to let go of you while you washed his clothes with bouts of laughter and kisses to your neck and shoulders the whole time.

You’d known you loved Jeon Jungkook for a while– he was the man you were planning to marry, after all, but you didn’t realize you’d dived head first in the second your nose picked up on his intoxicating scent the first day he darted out in front of you. You didn’t realize that you’d quickly come to associate everything that came along with safety and love. You didn’t realize it then, but now, in the quiet nights with nothing but his breathing and the chirping of the crickets outside your window, you quickly came to this realization, and to be honest– you were completely fine with the fact that a part of you loved him since day one. 


a/n: lolol i kept saying i wanted to start writing again, but every time i did i would slowly start to dislike each thing i wrote, so i kept deleting everything over and over. so, this is a one take piece, i wrote it in maybe an hour, so forgive any typos #yikes. i’m gonna finish it off with each of the boys, but jungkook seemed the least daunting for me to start with after taking such a long hiatus. any thoughts or pieces of advice would be much appreciated, since my ass wants to get better at writing! love u guys lots but a meme has to sleep so good night

Laundry Day

Originally posted by justanothereverydayfangirl

Characters: Reader, Sam, Dean

Word Count: 1305

Warning:  Fluff everywhere

Request: Could you please write a fanfic where you wake up in the morning after a tiring hunt and since you feel dirty you decide to take a shower. But because you’re still tired you accidentally grab Dean’s shirt instead of yours, but he insists that you keep it on. Then Sam gets jealous of Dean so he tries to get you to change into his sweater instead. Then can it end with an embarrassed reader who ends up changing back into her pajamas since all of her day clothes are dirty? I love you please write it

A/N:  @thereaderoffanfics, sorry it took me for-fucking-ever to write this.  I’m fairly confident future requests will not take so much time.  I feel like I’ve kind of got my mojo back. Also,I suck at speaking or writing in Spanish.  I’m well aware.  


You woke with drool gluing your wild hair to your cheek, feeling like death.  Blearily you looked around the motel room.  Dean was still sleeping on the couch and Sam must have left for a run.  You stumbled to your feet and hoped he would at least bring you back some coffee.  On your way to the shower your grabbed a spare shirt to change into.  

When you were clean and only slightly more awake you tugged on your shirt, a soft, worn black and while flannel.  There was something wrong with it that you couldn’t place.  You looked down at the sleeves of your shirt, flapping your hands slightly.  The excess fabric billowed, the hem extending past your fingers.  You shrugged, and in your sleep starved state simply began to roll the sleeves and wandered out of the bathroom.  

Sam had returned from his run and had, to your infinite gratitude, brought you coffee.  Dean was awake now, though just barely, and sat across from his brother at the small motel table.  You snagged your coffee and grunted in thanks.  You sunk down onto the edge of Sam’s bed between the brothers and inhaled a deep breath of coffee, sighing contentedly.  When you looked up, two shocked faces were staring back at you.

“What?”  You looked between the two surprised faces, sipping your coffee.  Dean looked at his brother, shrugging and Sam returned the sentiment by raising his eyebrows and tilting his head.  You loved these two, but boy if their silent conversations weren’t irritating sometimes. You winced as the coffee scalded your tongue.  Finally, Dean seemed to lose their unspoken argument and turned to you again, pressing a hand to his thigh, elbow sticking out absurdly.

“Is-is that my shirt,” Dean asked, his eyebrows folding together, stubble sparkling as he smacked his lips.  You looked down at the flannel shirt and your black athletic shorts peeking out below the hem.  It suddenly occurred to you why your shirt had magically grown several sizes overnight.

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lesser-known lesbian aesthetics

a library lesbian, tall socks with awkward knees and big sweaters. tired eyes and a shy smile. smells like air conditioning and freshly laundered clothes.

a butch garden lesbian, dirt under fingernails and a trowel in hand. a t shirt rolled up at the sleeves. smells like earth and crushed tomato leaves.

a debate team lesbian, pantsuits and black binders. a concealed tube of lipstick. smells like freshly printed paper and dry cleaning.

a bakery lesbian, sensible white aprons and flour in hair. hands flaking with dry batter. smells like sourdough and brown sugar.

simple things that reminds me of exo
  • Chen : the first rays of sunshine, sweet desserts, the color yellow.
  • Xiumin : the smell of freshly laundered clothes, soccer on a rainy day, scent of coffee, beanies.
  • Lay : a soft piano melody, footprints on the sand, letters and dairies.
  • Kai : white t-shirts, lazy cuddling, bed hair, morning wishes.
  • Baekhyun : an unexpected act of kindness on a bad day, stargazing, backhugs, slow kisses.
  • Chanyeol : the sound of laughter, late night texts, bonfires.
  • Sehun : your best outfit, joyriding, polaroids, denim jackets.
  • Kyungsoo : home cooked food, a hug from someone you love, silent whispers.
  • Suho : dandelions, the sound of trickling raindrops, oversized sweaters on a cold day.
For You

Summary: You’re best friends with Kiseok since college and on an unsuspecting day, he confessed to you that he liked you and that he wanted more nothing more than to be your son’s father. You should choose between him and your worries before it’s too late.


“You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

Deciding that you weren’t going to admit it until he forced it out of you, Kiseok took two long strides to catch up to you. The two of you were walking on a street near his label’s building since he still had time before he was supposed to go back for a meeting with The Quiett for a possible collaboration.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” He asked.

You stopped walking and turned to him, cocking your head on your right. “I am looking at you now.”

Kiseok knew that he shouldn’t be smiling when you were obviously not in a good mood, yet he couldn’t help it. Ever since you left the restaurant you refused to look at him in the eyes.

You furrowed your eyebrows, annoyed at the grin setting on his face. You stomped your foot and turned back to continue walking.

“You still didn’t answer my question!” He cried out and ran to your side. “Just tell me—”

“I’m not mad. I’m upset,” you said.

“Finally!” He moaned out and raised his fists.

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fic: Some Kind of Wonderful (NSFW!!)

Some Kind of Wonderful
Rating: R
Summary: With the beach house all to themselves, Pearl seizes the opportunity to show Amethyst just how much she cares.

Note: So it occurs to me that the number of fics where Pearl’s in control – and I mean like, in control – are kinda few and far between. Maybe I’m just not looking hard enough, but hey these wish-fulfillment PWP’s aren’t just gonna write themselves!



Pearl didn’t often give in to such things as trickery to serve her own ends, but the temptation to put a little creativity in her approach was just too great not to obey.

A small form had wandered out of the Temple and into the kitchen, coaxed by scent of freshly baked cookies – one of her greatest weaknesses – and was currently in the process of devouring the entire platter by lifting it high into the air, oblivious to the fact that Pearl was stationed in the loft in the midst of covertly tucking a pile of newly-laundered shirts to Steven’s dresser. Typically, she might jump at the chance to scold her teammate for being so careless in the way she inhaled her food, but it occurred to her that she couldn’t fault Amethyst for taking the bait. After all, she’d been planning this all morning.

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anonymous asked:

Can you please do a memevengers Diana/Sif "Is that my shirt?"

‘Is that my shirt?’

This world is strange, Diana mused as she looked for her clothes for the day. But I am getting to know the people quite well.

Diana had been in the Tower for…. oh, a couple of months now. And while she missed her universe, that would not stop her from… enjoying everything that this one had to offer.

Like a laundry service that delivers straight to my room, Diana smiled, finding a freshly laundered pile of clothing. And the perfect outfit.

~

Sif was sitting in the Kitchen, reading an interesting article on a tablet, when she heard someone enter.

“Hello.. is that my shirt?”

Sif’s eyes widened as she took in Diana’s appearance; and yes, that was Sif’s shirt that Diana was wearing.

But wearing would be an understatement- she looks devine in it.

Diana looked down at the shirt, before looking back at Sif with a smile. “Oh, there must have been a mix up with the laundry service.” Diana reached to begin ubuttoning the shirt. “I can take it off-”

“NO!” Sif held her hands out; Diana froze, raising an amused eyebrow. “Uh… I, I mean… it looks good on you?”

Diana considered Sif for a moment, expression seeming amused, before she dropped her hands and went to the fridge.

“Very well, I shall leave the shirt on. It is rather comfortable, after all.”

Sif kept her eyes firmly on the tablet until Diana left again, at which point she dropped her head onto the counter top and sighed.

~

Diana knew that the shirt wasn’t hers, and had hoped that it would be Sif’s.

Nice to know what her reaciton to me wearing her clothing is. I may have to experiment further. For the sake of knowledge, of course.
~

‘Send me a ship + a 4 word prompt & I’ll write you a thing

anonymous asked:

blurb where niall and his girl are doing something domestic and he realizes how in love with her he actually is

Folding laundry in our house is a sacred ritual.  As much as my girl is all about “breaking down the constraints of the patriarchy” and “total division of labor” about everything else in the world, folding laundry is her one weakness.

It used to drive me absolutely mental having to sit on my arse and watch her fold my pants and sort my socks, but over the years I’ve gotten used to it. Still don’t know why she’s such a nutter about it, but I’ve just accepted it as one of her adorable quirksnnn

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not going back would be rude, or so billie keeps telling herself. she’s only here again because she’s just meeting the minimum requirements for human decency and her second visit to dunkin’ donuts in two days has absolutely nothing specifically to do with the american hero who saved her from the most florescent orange puke she’d ever seen in her life (what had that kid been eating? no wonder his entire body thought it’d be better on her beige, silk blouse). 

and, she reminds herself one more time as she pushes the door open causing the bell to ring, it has nothing to to with how funny the shirt was, how it smelled like laundry detergent, sugar and the soot of the subway, and how compelling that sad, guarded look in it’s owner’s eyes was. 

it’s obviously not donut time in new york because the place is basically empty apart from the very person she’s looking for. in order to return the freshly laundered t-shirt, of course. 

“hi!” she smiles, pleased to see annie (yes, she read her name tag because, weirdly enough, in the commotion of being vomited on and ushered to the staff bathroom there hadn’t been time for formal introductions) behind the counter. “i’m glad to catch you again, i have your shirt - thought you might need it back as soon as possible. it is good advice — you don’t want to forget it.” she places the very neatly folded shirt (not that you can tell because billie’s also wrapped the shirt in blue paper with little suns dotted across it, as if it were a gift… which does feel weird now that she’s here) on the counter.

@flaxsturbation 

Missing [3/3]

<< Part 1 >> << Part 2 >> << Part 3 >>

It’s two in the morning before Arthur finally passes out from physical and mental exhaustion. Of course this is a minor victory for Alfred, who’s already managed to convince the guy to take a nice hot shower—as long as he needed—and gave him clothes for the night. Cleaned up and dressed in newer wear than he probably personally owns, Arthur looks almost like an entirely different person. That fact is a little alarming to Alfred, somehow, like he keeps forgetting that the tattered, well-worn hoodie and jeans aren’t just some kind of fashion statement.

Regardless, he takes that opportunity to wash everything, knowing that if Arthur were awake he’d likely protest. It’s four in the morning by the time it’s done drying, but it’s not as though he was going to be able to sleep tonight anyway. 

Not with Arthur in his bed and the half-starved kittens in a box in the corner.

No, attempting to sleep would be moot.

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My Unasked for Commentary on the Hammer of Thor Sneak Peek

Source article (Plus cover reveal!) is HERE

Chapter One: Could You Please Stop Killing My Goat?

Is that not their purpose lmao

LESSON LEARNED: If you take a Valkyrie out for coffee, you’ll get stuck with the check and a dead body.

I hadn’t seen Samirah al-Abbas in almost six weeks, 

Wait, what? Why? I suppose Odin didn’t waste anytime with missions. It’s a shame they can’t keep in contact, though? Like, do the same rules for cell phones apply to Norse demigods? One who’s dead?

so when she called out of the blue and said we needed to talk about a matter of life and death, I agreed right away.

Is that literally not just a regular Tuesday?

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The Ghosts We Carry

Title: The Ghosts We Carry

Pairing: Reader x Sam

Word Count: 1,411

Request: Hi there. I’m really sad and lonely right now.. Could you write an imagine when the reader is really sad and lonely and cries herself to sleep/cries a lot and sam hears her and then comforts her and it gets really fluffy? Thanks.

hey, i LOVE your imagines/one-shots, so i wondered if you could do one where the reader and sam are cuddling in bed and she has a lot of tattoos and he is like looking at all her tattoos (in a fluffy way?) and then he finds a list of coordinates and he questions her and it is like the list of places where she couldn’t save a victim that was still alive? thanks!!! <3

Theme song: Comes and Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell

x

Your name: submit What is this?

—————–

You walked the halls of the bunker, hearing your footsteps echoing off of the barren walls. Empty. Either no one was home or both Sam and Dean were in their rooms for the night. Figured. Your feet felt heavy as you treaded towards your own room, for no reason other than having nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.

All day you’d been in town, surrounded by people, but here in the quiet of the bunker and in the dead of night, you felt just as alone as you had all day. You shut your bedroom door softly behind you and laid on your bed, feeling the day press in on you. It was beginning to feel like too much. The familiar sensation of tears brimming in your eyes overtook you and you embraced it, knowing there was no fighting them once they came. You curled onto your side and pulled your pillow to your chest, and cried yourself to sleep.

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