when i have other obligations to attend to

peach blossoms (m)

❥ word count: 46k

❥ genre: fluff + smut + very minimal angst ; magic au + school au

❥ pairing: reader/jimin

❥ warning(s)/kink(s): tons of immature humor, teasing, dirty talk, riding, dom undertones, hickies, slightly rough sex, grinding, admissions of feelings, (honestly the sex is fairly vanilla, this is mostly fluff)

❥ summary: as your best friend tries to help you create a potion for a project, you end up making a mistake that changes jimin and you have to turn him back before anyone sees and fix things in time for your project presentation. the catch? feelings are stupid and annoying and they happen to mess with your head as you try and return jimin back to normal.

❥ a/n & music can be found here

Originally posted by kpop-zodiac

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anonymous asked:

I was really struck by something I read in one of your earlier replies to an ask, which was "we’ll never know what Rachel would have done after the war ended", and I wondered if perhaps you may actually have some thought about what might have happened if she did? How WOULD Rachel, who thrived in war, adapt to the mundane life after?


After a while Rachel’s aunt and uncle get so used to her stopping by that they just make her a copy of their house key; it’s easier than answering the door all the time or leaving a window open for her, besides which they’re grateful because she’s there almost every day to bully Jake out of bed and into the world to go do something.  Most days it’s just attending Habitat for Humanity builds in the devastated areas downtown or visiting kids from the local hospital who idolize them both.  Rachel doesn’t mind dragging Jake out of his room at all, because while Tobias is good for taking random college classes or exploring new parts of the country with her, there are still plenty of stupid things that she can only talk Jake into doing.  Together they surf during hurricanes, skydive without parachutes, swim to the bottom of the ocean as orcas and throw themselves off cliffs as birds of prey.  

Rachel doesn’t pretend to understand what he’s going through, because she quite simply can’t—if she even tries to think about what it would be like if it was Jordan or Sarah she’d had to kill during that last battle, she tends to lose the ability to breathe.  But while she can’t give him empathy she can give him this: the scream of wind rushing past their bodies as they hurl toward the ground at nearly a hundred miles an hour, the incomparable thrill of the ground approaching them faster than an oncoming train, the moment of simple euphoria during that millisecond decision to once again open one’s wings and tell death not today.  He doesn’t smile much, and never laughs, but that’s always been true to some extent.  She doesn’t concern herself with making him smile, but with forcing him to gasp for air in his refusal to give up on life, to morph when not doing so would mean drowning in the cold Pacific, to swerve a second away from spattering on the ground.  Because she’s the only one who understands the power of those moments to make them forget everything in the world except the heady rush of being so goddamn alive they can barely even stand it.


It’s strange, really, how tough and showy they can be around each other most of the time… and how vulnerable they can become when no one else is around.  Rachel’s pretty sure she’s the only one who ever saw Marco cry after they all watched Eva’s body tumble hundreds of yards to its apparent death, and she knows for certain that she’s the only one to whom he says “it’s like we never really got her back at all,” the day his parents announce their divorce.  In public Rachel and Marco become even more themselves, one-upping each other to see who can come out with the most embarrassing story in round after round of interviews and bantering at lightning speed as live studio audiences laugh and cheer.  Rachel gives a hysterical, exaggerated account of Marco’s failed attempt at gatecrashing William Roger Tennant’s award banquet; Marco comes back with a heroic narrative of how his llama-self saved an entire television studio from the crocodile Rachel conveniently forgot to mention she had puked out backstage.  When talking about the time Helmacrons invaded Marco’s nose, they each manage to make the whole mess entirely into the other one’s fault.  

In private, they sit on the back porch of Marco’s primary house once a week and work their way through a bottle of triple sec they’re definitely too young to own.  It’s during those long evenings as the sun sets over the Newport Beach mansions that they air the things to each other they’ve never told a living soul before.  Marco talks about the hard bright-edged joy of watching 17,000 yeerks sucked into space and only being able to imagine their screams.  Rachel confesses to having cried herself to sleep after she and Ax dropped David on that island.  They air their sickest thoughts, lance their most pus-rotted wounds, spew poison at each other because they know that they are both strong enough (hard enough, cold enough, ruthless enough) to take it and give back in turn.


Rachel’s honestly not sure how far Cassie would have gotten, politically, if not for her help.  Because that girl might have passion and conscience and common sense to spare, but Rachel’s not sure she’s met a more appearance-clueless person in her life.  The world of politics runs on fashion and makeup, though, especially if one happens to be a woman, and any time Cassie’s about to go tell the United Nations why they need to update the Universal Declaration of Human Rights today to include the hork-bajir and taxxons, or to scold Congress into giving the ex-hosts war reparations and not murder charges, Rachel is there in the background helping.  She shows Cassie the power of stalking into a room in a pair of towering heels, the ways to make a string of pearls or a Chanel handbag into a weapon of power.  Cassie laughs incredulously every time Rachel shows up at her house with a literal truckload of perfectly-tailored business suits and evening gowns, but over time she starts to understand just how much her reputation for being as elegant as she is fierce can work in her favor.  

Rachel, in turn, starts to put out patents for the kind of clothes Cassie would love: comfortable and practical items that can be worn for years without needing replacement.  Rachel figures that if she’s an international trendsetter already (and she is: her line of perfume makes millions every year, while black leotards are debuting on Paris runways) then she might as well have her best friend and the world of high fashion meet in the middle.  Of course Rachel doesn’t explicitly mention that her patent-leather pumps with arch support and heel padding are inspired by the experience of trying on Cassie’s Timberlands, or that her choice of size-16 models for all her advertisements comes from making dresses that would fit Cassie and sizing up or down from there.  But what’s most amazing to her is that the other dressmakers and shoe lines start to emulate her choices, emphasizing the comfort and sturdiness of everything they make even as they tout it as “cutting edge.”  If Rachel has dragged Cassie into being a fashion icon, then it turns out Cassie might just have dragged Rachel into being a social justice warrior along the way.


Ax seems somewhat dumbfounded when Rachel explains that there’s an Earth tradition that any ship’s captain can perform a marriage ceremony, and that even if there’s no law on the books about this particular power she wants him to do it anyway.  She’s not sure herself how her and Tobias’s small private ceremony (at least, that was the intention) has grown so much, but even she has to admit that somewhere between the 230-person guest list, the custom chuppah to be hand-embroidered by a team of local artists, the five-tier cake imported from a German bakery, and the dress which is personally designed by Alexander McQueen, things might have gotten slightly out of hand.  Ax takes the duties very seriously, practicing the strange mouth sounds he has to recite more than once in advance and promising solemnly that he will not eat any of the cake until Rachel and Tobias have had the chance to cut it.  

He serves as their best man as well (probably breaking with tradition, not that they care) and the speech he makes afterward is surprisingly heartfelt.  «There has been no greater honor in my life than to fight by your side,» he tells them, «and I owe you both my life many times over.  I owe you more than that, of course, for you have made this strange planet my home when I came to you lost and alone.  I am not sure what humans traditionally wish for each other with a bond such as this, so I will wish you this much: may your lives be long, may your battles be easily won, may you be loved and feared in equal measure, and may your chili always be perfectly seasoned.» 


It’s not like they get jobs, or hold down formal obligations, or do anything more structured than attend occasional classes at UCSB or consult with the fashion agency that sends Rachel freelance checks.  So there’s really no reason they can’t continue their odd lifestyle, only in the same form at the same time for two hours at most.  At least, that’s how it is for the first several years… and then one day Rachel comes out of the bathroom, a tiny white stick in her hand, and they both realize their lives are never going to be the same again.  Tobias is terrified, of course: he’s been abandoned (voluntarily or not) by two parents, four guardians, and countless authority figures, and he’s got no reason to believe he’ll be any different.  But he knows what the first step will be in committing to raising this baby for real.  And so he morphs human for the very last time.  

In the years that follow, after their daughter eventually gets a little brother as well, Rachel and Tobias become more boring than they ever could have hoped for.  Rachel starts working full-time as a fashion designer, while Tobias finishes an advanced degree in graphic design and gets a job with the marketing branch of the same company.  They go to PTA meetings and teach their daughter softball, buy a sedan with good gas mileage and a two-story house in Mendocino County where the reporters can’t find them.  They still get restless sometimes, leaving the kids with Loren or Sarah for a week or two at a time to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River or to climb mountains in Tanzania, but they always miss the kids enough to come home before long.  They donate thousands of dollars to end world hunger every year, and they fundraise millions more.  Someday they’ll retire.  Someday after that they’ll die.  For now, however, they’re alive, and that’s enough.  

Why your art isn’t getting attention from professional clients. | Insight from a client’s perspective.

So a lot of you guys don’t know this, because I don’t like to show my hand, but I am actually an author and the leader of an independent business [we’re JUST getting started so nothing too flashy]; but we’ve got 2 major projects in the works and we’re going to work closely with a lot of artists/designers in the very near future.

As someone who’s been on the “other side” of it, actually seeking professional artists for quite some time, I thought I’d share some insight as to why you’re maybe not getting the responses you want when you submit your portfolio for jobs. 

1: You’re too young.

| When I tell my graphic designer to find an artist, one of the requirements I have is that you must be 18 years or older. I don’t do this to be “ageist”, but there are a lot of things we’d have to take into consideration if we were to work with a minor. Here are just some of my personal reasons why I don’t work with minors.

| +Do you have your parent’s permission? Yes its just drawing, but it’d be frustrating to have to constantly go through your parents every time we wanted to work with you. You are not able to sign any sort of legal documentation [such as a contract to grant us rights to the work] and therefore they’d have to sign for you. 

| +Time vs Workload. In the United States you are legally required to attend school until you are 16/17 years old. You being in class for 8 hours a day, then having homework plus whatever other obligations leaves you a very small window to work for us, vs someone who does artwork full time or controls their own schedule. 

| +Ethics. When adults interact with minors there is a certain set of boundaries and power dynamics that need to be observed. I require anyone who does ongoing work for us to provide a secondary means of communication other than email; this is to make sure we can reach them if there’re any problems. It’d be inappropriate for a high school student [you] to exchange contact information with us, 25-30 year olds. While I know my team and none of them would ever behave inappropriately, this is to protect both us and you. 

So I don’t work with minors period.

2: You require payment up front, but don’t want to sign a contract. 

| When I purchase something online, whether it be from a store’s website or Amazon, I don’t have any problems paying up front. This is because I know it is an accredited retailer with a lot of people and systems in place that ensure I receive what I pay for within a certain window, as required by law. There is also quality control which ensures that I get exactly what I was promised. 

There is no entity that holds you legally accountable aside from me. Even with a contract, the legal process is a strain on time, energy, and resources that could be better spent elsewhere. I’d have to get a lawyer. They’d have to review the contract. They’d have to determine if we have a case. We’d have to wait months for a reply and a court date, then we’d have to show up, and then pay said lawyer: meanwhile for all the time and money spent I could’ve just hired somebody else.

It’s time, its money, its an entire ordeal that isn’t even worth it for whatever work we’re getting 80% of the time anyways. “I promise!” is not sufficient for me to give you a portion of our very limited budget.

If you require your clients to pay anything before you start drawing: expect to sign a contract. 

3: You have no variety/You look just like everyone else.

| I have personally looked through over 140 portfolios submitted to me and I can tell you all but maybe 8 of them: Looked. Exactly. The. Same. Both to each other and to all the other work in your portfolio.

For example: I said I was looking for an anime-style artist for my dark fantasy novel. Every single artist except 8 who showed me their work only had cutesy doe-eyed anime girls posing with pastel colors. They had the same faces, the same body types, the same poses, etc. Which is fine if that what you like to draw. But if you submit to my ad and I’m wondering “okay, but can they do a fight scene? Can they do a different style [chibi? shounen? shojo? etc] What about clothes? Weapons? Different facial expressions? Poses? Different genders? 

[Seriously, why do so many of you only draw young girls/women? 

If I have any male characters (like the protagonist!) then you just disqualified yourself right off the bat! 

Please think about this when you’re putting your portfolio together!] 

Different ages? Different skin tones? Different body types? Hair Textures?” 

- Then I’m going to pick someone else.

No matter what kind of artist you are, variety is so important. Because even if someone says “I need somebody to draw a lamp!” and all you literally draw is lamps- somebody else just submitted a portfolio that looks like an Ikea catalog. Why should I pick your lamps? Especially if all your lamps look the same. If all you draw is one thing and you have no range, it looks amateurish compared to someone who can do what you can plus more.

Telling me “I can draw guys!” when your portfolio doesn’t have one guy in it, vs someone who has male and female characters at the very least- right away I’m looking at them over you. 

| +You never know what someone is looking for. Don’t show them only what you think they’d want to see. It’s always best to show them a little bit of everything you can do. Your portfolio speaks for you. No matter what you tell me, the evidence is right in front of my face. Make sure your portfolio is always an accurate reflection of your skill and range. 

4. You come across as unprofessional.

| This one is a little bit harder to define, but please make sure you present yourself as a professional. Even if you’ve never done this before, approach it like a job interview because it essentially is. 

| +Always use proper spelling/grammar to the best of your ability. At least at first, then once you become more familiar feel free to relax a little. But you want to show people you’re taking this opportunity seriously. Someone who puts effort into their communication vs “lol ok xD” simply looks better. Your personal page/website can have whatever, but the important question you should ask is “how do I want to present myself?” If you come across like you don’t care about whatever you’re doing for me, I’m going to assume you don’t.

| +Keep your page/website active. If your page looks dead then you may get passed over for someone who appears more “present”. It can be as simple as having a blog update every once in a while or uploading a quick sketch of something, or even having a link to a twitter. Something where clients can see “Oh hey, this person is still around.” Even when there’s nothing going on, always try to have recent updates. 

| +Avoid harsh negatives. This is the big secret right here folks! Having your own set of guidelines and boundaries is important for anyone. However, if the first thing someone sees when they go to your page is a giant list of things you “ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT DO!” it makes you appear inflexible. 

A technique I suggest is one I call the “vague refusal”, at least when it comes to professional quarries. Instead of, for example, “NO PORN” a better phrase is “Unfortunately, I’m unable to accept work with sexually explicit themes at this time; however feel free to contact me with any other ideas you have!” This communicates 3 very important things.

|++1: That you understand and sympathize with the client’s needs [Even if you don’t really].

|++2: That you are not necessarily unWILLing, but unABLE [wording is important!]. Even if you’re unable because you’re unwilling- never say you wont, only that you cant. If they ask why then feel free to say whatever, but if a client is professional then they will not challenge your refusal.

|++3: That although you cannot do those things, there are lots of other things you CAN do, and you invite clients to approach you.

[This is a technique often used when it comes to rejection emails.]

“Hi Sarah! Thank you for your interest in a position at ___. Unfortunately we are UNABLE to offer you a position AT THIS TIME, however we will keep your application on file and encourage you to seek employment with us in the future.”

5. You can’t meet their needs.

| Sometimes you just aren’t what they need right now. Maybe your style isn’t what they’re looking for, maybe your price is outside of their budget, or maybe they need more done than your schedule allows for. Chances are it has nothing to do with you personally and it doesn’t mean you’re a bad artist. It just means that they’re looking for a very specific person right now and you simply aren’t that person. Keep drawing! Keep your portfolio up to date! Practice with expanding your range! 

In Closing

I wanted to write this to give a little bit of insight to what goes on in mind of a client who’s looking through your work. Whenever an ad is posted we get hundreds of submissions so it really becomes a game of choosing people who have that perfect storm of prices, quality, and professionalism. Hopefully you guys find this helpful! I had a lot of fun writing it. 

Sweet Scent

Word count: 3154

Author’s note: A little something that came to my mind. Also the very first imagine I’ve ever written with Derek. Enjoy! (p.s. the POV is alternating)

Your name: submit What is this?

I was in the forest, hiking, when I first caught that scent. I immediately decided to take a turn and figure out who that belonged to, because… I had never got such a feeling after getting such a tiny whiff of something. I easily found my way through the woods, leaping over fallen crusts of trees, moving my body so that it won’t collide into anything massive, just into some thin twigs. At the same time, I made sure that I made the least amount of noises so that I won’t scare away whoever that was.

The closer I got, the stronger the scent got, which had an insanely intense impact on my senses, and on me in general too. I even had to stop for a second to compose myself from this disorganized state I got into by a mere scent. I could feel my eyes bleeding red, and my fangs elongating, but I willed them to retreat. However, I could do nothing about my ruby-pierced eyes.

I continued my swift run towards the source of the sweet smell, and soon I arrived to a steep hill. I slipped, and it was a near call I would end up stumbling down on the side of the hill, but I managed to catch a tree and hold onto it. If I scratched it with my claws in the process, I didn’t notice it, because the moving source I had been looking for came into my line of sight.

It was moving in an erratic velocity, intermittently changing its pace from walking to running – it was covered in black and silver, but I could glimpse a hint of blue and white too. Realization dawned on me when my mind caught up and informed me about the obvious; that it was a girl, who was possibly on her usual run through the woods.

But then why hadn’t I noticed her, ever?

I shook my head and swept this thought into the farthest corner of my brain to dwell on it later. Right now I had a more important task to do, which was to keep an eye on this girl and figure out why her scent was so special to me. I took a deep breath through my nose, I could feel my nostrils flare and lungs expanding as they were filled with the chilly, fresh air of the forest.

My senses divided the usual, natural smell of the woods and the sweat covering her body from the girl’s individual scent that made my wolf vicious for some reason. It was a mixture of ember, rain-soaked earth with freshly mowed grass, lime and something else that made me feel like I arrived home. That last component was warm like the beams of the sun, loving like a lover and nurturing like a mother. I couldn’t exactly decipher it, but I did know I wanted it, I wanted, and only for myself. Just thinking about it being taken away by someone else made my wolf roar with endless anger and bloodlust.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her even if I wanted to – I realized with a shock that I was almost running merely on instincts, the only rational spark in my brain thankfully preventing me from launching at her right this second and taking her like the animal in me so desired. I bore with the wolf scratching at the surface, trying to break free to fulfil its wants, ignoring how its sharp claws were digging into the wall in my mind, set up only for the sake of holding it back at times like this. At times when my human side had to be in charge.

I dug my claws deeper into the crust of the tree and just kept my red-tinted eyes trained on her face, trying to solve it as though her whole presence was an enigma, waiting for me to solve it. Only me, and no one else.

. o O o .

When I got home, the first thing I did was rewarding myself with a glass of cold water after my exercise. My heart was nearly beating right out of my chest, my lungs were heaving, and I knew I was full of thistles. Apparently I was home alone, but it didn’t surprise me – Dad had always had lots of work to do, and he’d always spent most of his days at his workplace, which is why I had to take care of my little brother so many times in the past, when we were little.

My brother, who was spending his time somewhere else again, like always. I didn’t bother with thinking about it too much, rather went to the bathroom and took a refreshing shower to wash away the sluggish heat from my body, then lounged myself on the couch with a book, wrapped up in a quilt after throwing on some grey sweatpants and a white tee which was awfully big for me, it having been stretched out several years ago during a play fight between my brother and I.

It took him hours to get home, but when he did, he brought along his best friend too.

“I told you not to do that, Scott!” he said accusingly. I laid the book in my lap and turned, laying my arm over the back of the sofa to hold myself there more easily. I waited patiently for my brother’s figure to appear in the doorway of the living-room.

“I know, but you know how much I love her,” he said, wrecked. I couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on my face.

“Girl problems?” I asked. The talk at the front door was cut off in a second, and then Stiles came dashing into the room. He stopped at the entrance, staring at me wide-eyed, jaw dropped and mouth hanging open, before he moved again, practically tackling me to my spot on the couch. He hugged me so tightly I had a hardship breathing.

“Oh my god, you’re back!” he exclaimed. “Dad said you’d be back today, but I didn’t know when, and I just…” he trailed off, then smacked a kiss on my cheek. I laughed.

“I missed you too, bro,” I assured him, which had the desired effect on him; his smile widened more, leaving me with a few seconds to adore his happy face before Scott joined us on the furniture.

“Hey (Y/N), long time no see,” he greeted, and I reached out a hand, indicating to attempt giving each other a half-hug instead of a proper one, since Stiles didn’t give any sign of willingness to get off me any time soon. When we released each other with Scott, he asked me, “How’s college? It’s hard, isn’t it? I know it’s hard, I don’t even want to attend one yet.”

“Yeah, I have to study my ass off, but hey, the curriculum’s interesting and I get to do a lot of lab work, so it’s fine,” I chuckled, patting Stiles’ back, telling him wordlessly to let go of me. Reluctantly, he obliged. As soon as he was sat next to me, he noticed the book in my hand and took it from me.

“What are you reading?” he asked, but I knew him well enough not to bother with replying – he was already reading the cover, so he knew it was Hawking’s winning dissertation he wrote about black holes for Cambridge University.

“Want anything?” I asked, looking between them as I stood, ready to take their requests and inching towards the kitchen. Scott nodded.

“We’re hungry as hell,” he said, and I only nodded with a barely-there smile on my face, skimming through ideas in my head as to what to make for these two starving explorer puppies.

. o O o .

It took them a quite long time to convince me to leave the house. I didn’t plan on it, but when Stiles mentioned dropping me off at the police station, I agreed. I wanted to surprise Dad after all.

We sat in his Jeep. Stiles motioned for Scott to take the back seat this time so that I could sit next to my brother. According to the reaction Scott gave to that, I immediately figured out he was hardly-ever sentenced to sit at the back. Neither Stiles nor me was a touchy-feely person, so he didn’t expect me to start rubbing his arms or hands, or any kind of expanse of him I could get my hands on; he just wanted the knowledge that I was right there, next to him, back here in Beacon Hills, and not several thousand miles away in college.

He parked close to the building – it was a pretty chilly day despite it was summer. Back at home, I had only changed my too-big tee for a black tank top and the matching sweatshirt for the pants I wore. I also left my grey sports bra on myself, not bothering to change that too. I had put back on my white running shoes, and then I had declared myself ready. Everyone knew me at the police department after all, most of them since Stiles and I had been children.

Just as we left the Jeep, Scott whined, “What is he doing here?” Stiles quickly whipped his head around, then noticed a sleek, ebony Camaro.

“I don’t know, probably needed to talk to Dad,” Stiles shrugged and took off towards the station. We followed him with Scott. I fell in steps with him after having jogged to catch up to him and walk next to him. The rain started pouring softly, just a few drops dripping on us here and there.

“You don’t like the guy?”

“It’s not like we don’t like the guy. It’s more like… Scott has some personal issues with him. Dad likes him, I like him, the rest of our friends like him… so yeah, pretty much everyone likes him except for Scott,” Stiles explained, then pushed the door open. He let us all inside, but then turned back to me to tell me to stay behind him to surprise Dad.

. o O o .

That scent back from the woods just from a few hours ago was back. I cursed in my mind, already knowing I will have issues with self-control. My mind started running at full speed, desperate to try and find a way to get away as fast as possible. I swatted the nasty voice in my head, mocking me how I’m scared of a simple scent, then looked around, helpless as to what to do next and more importantly, how to escape.

What was that girl doing here anyway? I had followed her during her entire run after then, so it was practically impossible for her to have found a corpse in the forest that she now wanted to report. What else brought people to the police?

“Now stay here,” said an all too familiar voice not too afar, and I realized it was Stiles. I turned my head towards the source, my back still facing him, as he neared me. He grinned when he saw me, and greeted me with a wave of his hand. “Hey, Derek,” he said, then made a beeline for the sheriff’s door on which he knocked once, then twice, before being rewarded with an answer.

“Yes,” came the man’s muffled voice through the wall and closed door. When his son opened it and he saw who came to pay him a visit, I could hear him taking a long, deep breath – possibly to settle himself and his thoughts before speaking to his only child again. “Stiles, I’m busy right now. I don’t have time for…”

“I know,” Stiles interrupted impatiently. “And you know I left my habit of bothering you with menial things. Now it is something you definitely want to see.”

The scent of the sheriff changed; it went from pure anger to anger mixed with a tint of curiosity. The sound of his chair being pushed on the ground followed, then he himself showed up from behind his door with his son hot on his heels. Stiles took a hold of the man’s shirt and hauled him not quite gently to where I had first heard him speak. When they walked pass me, I instantly averted my eyes and looked down to hide my pupils from the sheriff should it be illuminated by a vivid red.

I had no idea what Stiles wanted to show his Dad, so I followed them with my sight. I craned my neck and turned my body halfway to grant myself better view on what was going on.

“(Y-Y/N)?” came the sheriff’s surprised voice not soon after. On its own accord, one of my eyebrows arched at the name and I full bodily turned towards them. I caught Scott’s eyes, which were filled with rejection and protectiveness as soon as they met mine, but I ignored it and devoted my attention to the scene before me. Two forearms appeared at the back of the sheriff’s neck as the girl – apparently named (Y/N) – hugged him.

“I’m home, Dad,” she said in her ever sweet tone. As her scent switched to a sugary tone, my knees almost gave out. It was like I was starved and I was forced to stand next to a bakery in the early morning when the first cookies were baked, their smell enveloping and engulfing me, coaxing me inside while it was still closed. I couldn’t go inside. I couldn’t have it, and it frustrated me.

“How’s college?” the sheriff asked when they released each other and took a step back to give each other some space to give a once-over to the other. This was the first time I got to see (Y/N)’s face from up-close, and all I knew was that I wanted her to be even closer.

Then my mind clicked.


This girl is older than Stiles, already in college, and she’s Stiles’ sister. This is why her scent was so familiar, and this is why I’d never smelled her in the woods before.

“Nice,” she replied, her voice a velvety smooth stroke to my ears. “I have to study a lot, though, but the curriculum’s insanely interesting.” The sheriff laughed modestly as he shook his head.

“I still have to get used to your British accent.”

(Y/N) just lifted one of her shoulders and ducked her head a little. Her shyness moved something in me, and urged me to do something I couldn’t pinpoint.

“I have to go now, but later when I get home, I expect you to tell me everything,” said the sheriff before he turned around and headed towards me, apparently to fulfill my request. He put his hand on my shoulder, giving me a look filled with warmth that hadn’t been there before. His scent had also changed; it was more tender now. “I’ll give it to you in a minute, son,” he promised, then disappeared behind his door again.

When I turned around I saw Stiles dragging his sister near me, and the next thing I knew was that my heart had jumped into my throat at some point and was beating there furiously. I was glad Stiles wasn’t a werewolf at that moment, because my traitorous heart didn’t give away anything about my insecure state nor giving him an opportunity to tease me with something new.

After a moment of consideration, Scott joined them too.

Stiles approached me with his sister, grinning at me again. Internally, I sighed and braced myself for whatever was about to come.

“So how’s life been?” he asked. I shrugged.

“Nothing interesting,” I said, my eyes involuntarily moving to rest on (Y/N). Stiles immediately picked up on the not-hint I hadn’t given him, and introduced us to each other with the girl.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about it,” he babbled, motioning between (Y/N) and I. “This is my elder sister, (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Derek Hale, resident dark and brooding, sourly lone wolf.” In my mind, I squashed Stiles down and dumped him in the trash as I presented (Y/N) with a smile I assumed was charming, according to the arched brow Scott was eyeing me with.

(Y/N) stuck out a hand for me to shake, my wolf going nuts in a fraction of a second at the mere thought of the contact. I schooled myself, my whole being not to look like I’m starving for it, then softly grabbed her hand with mine, enveloping her smaller hand with my bigger one. I faintly registered Stiles following the sheriff into his office then, but my mind decided it wasn’t important at all and so, the entirety of my attention was trained on the girl before me.

“I’m glad to have met you,” I said honestly. She nodded curtly.

“The pleasure’s mine,” (Y/N) answered, then slid her hand out from my hold in a swift movement. I immediately wanted it back, but refrained from showing that externally in any way. Instead, I trained my senses on the sheriff – practically on anything that wasn’t (Y/N) or her scent. However, she had other thoughts about that. “And what are you doing here? You work here?” I shook my head.

“No. I just needed a document.” She frowned at that, and I braced myself for the next, obvious question that was bound to come, however, never arrived. Apparently she was considerate, unlike her younger brother. “Stiles never told me he had a sibling,” I said, trying to find a topic and failing, so I ended up settling with this one. Before (Y/N) could react, Scott spoke up.

“Probably he didn’t consider it important to mention you to her,” he said. I would lie if I said it didn’t sting at all, especially because I had saved this kid’s ass numerous times by now. I suppressed the wolf’s reaction to his statement, instead opted to just acknowledge it with a small nod. (Y/N) had other thoughts about this too, though.

“Scott!” she said, her voice taming and slightly angry. Her feelings were pouring off her in waves. I could smell pure embarrassment, anger and disappointment, all of these directed at Scott, not me. “Jesus, what has happened to you? You weren’t like this when I left.” I couldn’t help but wonder where she’d been, which college she attended, and what was her major there. Then my mind caught up again, and I realized that I couldn’t be in a better position than now to ask those things.

But when I opened my mouth, the other two Stilinskis came back and as soon as I was given the papers, I guessed it was high time I left. I said goodbye to all of them, then made a beeline for my Camaro and drove off, my mind and nose full of (Y/N).

Bad Blood.

“I don’t even think I have to tell you how awful you’d look in one of those bright BVB jerseys compared to a nice, subtle blue Schalke one,” Julian spewed confidently before he took a bite from his fork.

Erik snorted as if Julian’s suggestion was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “I’m sure she knows that blue isn’t her color.”

The two had been like this ever since we hopped on our Skype call with each other, going back and forth on which jersey I would be wearing this weekend when Dortmund and Schalke met for their match. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been in this predicament before. I had been friends with Erik and Julian for quite some time now and it seemed fate was always on my side as I found myself busy with other plans whenever the two sides met so I wouldn’t have to be dragged to a match.

This weekend though I was free and I couldn’t find a quick enough excuse to get out of the obligations to attend. Plus, Julian had somehow synced my calendar to his phone so he knew firsthand that I was free. He made sure to remind me of that when he asked me for the second time whether I would be attending.

“I think since it’s going to be in Dortmund it’s only fair that she wear my jersey. There’s already going to be thousands of BVB jerseys in the stadium. Why not stand out?” Julian tried to reason.

Erik wasn’t hearing it. “That’s all the more reason to wear mine. It’s a home match.”

“Can’t I just wear something neutral?”

“No,” they answered in unison.

I groaned. It really sucked being stuck between these two stubborn individuals.

I found it funny their bickering on which club I would support this weekend. In reality, I didn’t really care who won. I knew someone wouldn’t be happy with the result either way and I would have to deal with it.

They had even spent the last week posting pictures of me on their social media. Erik posted a picture of me and him from a match a few weeks ago where I wore one of his BVB jackets. The caption read:

‘What a great best friend. Always supporting me.’

Julian had taken the less subtle route. He posted a picture of me from a few months ago where I was holding two thumbs up. I wasn’t wearing any football apparel but instead in regular clothes.

‘Leave an emoji below if you think my best friend should wear my jersey this weekend instead of a BVB kit.’

Needless to say, he got a lot of votes of approval and the inevitable questions of whether I was really a girlfriend instead of a best friend. I had grown used to those sorts of comments as well between my friendships with the two adored Germans.

“I’m just ready for this match to be over with so I won’t have to deal with you two.” I playfully rolled my eyes. Internally I was excited that I would at least get a bit of time with them after the match to just hang out. I got plenty of chances to hang out with Erik since I was living in Dortmund as well but my time with Julian was more limited. I had to choose which weekends I would make the short drive to him.

“Yeah yeah. Sure you are. I’m going to head to bed though. Love youuu,” he sang out to me in a playful tone before blowing me a dramatic kiss which I pretended to catch. “You two don’t dream about me too much tonight,” he remarked to both me and Erik.

“I dream about you every night, Draxler,” Erik said with a chuckle.

“Ah, the bromance is so strong.”

I walked into the stadium and I knew immediately I was probably getting a lot of confused glances. I had chosen to wear a BVB jacket with a Schalke 04 shirt underneath. It was easy to see the two colors contrasting but I didn’t care. I was going to find a way to support both of my best friends and this was the only solution considering no place sold jerseys of both clubs sewn together. That would have been a bit weird anyway.

I made my way to my seat which had a perfect view of the pitch. I pulled out my phone to take a picture to post on Instagram, adding in a caption that showed I was supporting both sides before I put my phone back into my pocket.

I watched the game intently, jumping up from the seat whenever someone got dangerously close to the goal. It seemed that happened a lot throughout the match but neither side could draw blood.

I had expected some form of mass chaos, one side ending up breaking through and just slotting away goal after goal but it didn’t turn out that way as the match ended in a scoreless draw instead. I was sure Erik and Julian would blame me wearing both clubs on my back for that result.

I found my way towards the players’ area where I knew they would be able to see me. I wasn’t sure how long it would take them but it didn’t seem like much time as I soon heard my name being called through the hall and Julian running towards me.

He enveloped me in his arms as soon as I was within reach, lifting me off of my feet. “Oof!” I uttered as the breath left my body with the way Julian squeezed me tightly. He placed an array of kisses to all areas of my face except my lips, though he had ‘accidentally’ kissed those plenty of times as well. He always blamed it on the heat of the moment.

“Ah, I missed you.”

“I can tell,” I giggled.

“Could you not squeeze my best friend like that?” I heard someone say from a distance and I knew immediately it was Erik. Julian finally let me go to greet his other partner in crime though his hug was a little less intense.

“Hey I’m her favorite. I think you tend to forget that fact,” Ju responded. All I could do was shake my head at the pair. I still wondered how I had become a member of this threesome.

“What a game, huh? A scoreless draw is always fun right.” I gave them both a bright smile which they returned with stale glares. I guess it wasn’t as fun for them.

“It was your fault for wearing both of our colors.”

“Definitely. If you would have just worn Borussia like I told you, we would have won.”

I knew I would be right.

“Oh grow up you two. Don’t be so superstitious.”

“Don’t be such a traitor,” Julian joked.

Erik draped his arm over both of our shoulders, leaving him in the middle as he brought us together. “Ah, I love you two fuckers.”

Dear Kendall,

Take a moment and remove yourself from your current situation, if you can, to a life that isn’t riddled with excess and only hearing the word “yes” to your wants and requests. Now, imagine you’re from a small town and/or Third-World country where your only way to get out of your current social class, achieve your dreams, get a green card or just gain better work conditions is to become a high-fashion model. You have to leave for six months to a year sometimes, signing contracts you can barely understand, let alone oblige to, almost without choice. You’re away from your family, your friends and everything you know. You live in a one-bedroom apartment with six other girls in the same situation in this Big Apple, New York City.

Did I mention you’re only 17 when all of this goes down? That means you have to go to tutoring and/or English lessons in between learning how to “walk” at the agency, attending castings every other day, going on test shoots to get you experience, trying to learn your new neighborhood, going to the gym and hoping to maybe make some money all at once. Oh, and your apartment and test shoots aren’t free, by the way. They are added to your account with the agency, as are your casting outfits and cellphone. These are going to leave you in some serious debt if nobody books you for anything; some girls owe upward of $30,000 after a year of trying to book gigs, so take that into perspective as well, Miss Jenner.

So now let’s pretend you actually lived through all of that, and it’s finally Fashion Week. Exciting, right? This could be your big break! You could send your family in Belarus or Woodbridge, Va., the money they need for your little brothers to have new clothes and/or books for school and/or even afford a plane ticket home for the holidays! Imagine standing in line after line of girls with your exact height and body measurements all day, each one hoping for a coveted spot on the New York Fashion Week runway.

Casting after casting, and you just can’t seem to get your place. But suddenly after a week full of the word “No,” killing yourself at the gym, exhausting yourself in classes, cutting your diet in half, not talking with your family and sleeping in a room with six equally exhausted girls, you get the call. Your agent texts you with an 8 a.m. fitting at Marc Jacobs. Oh my god, you’re going to walk for Marc Jacobs! This is a dream come true, someone finally said yes, and the prestige is beyond what you could have imagined! So you pack your model bag, a bottled water, your walking shoes and agency-approved casting outfit. This could be your big break, assuming they don’t cut your look last minute, a common practice done to no-name girls, so fingers crossed!

The fitting was perfect, your garment is amazing, and Marc was SO nice! And cute, too! One last fitting after that one, and it’s show time; you’re finally going to debut everything you’ve worked so hard for. You get to prove to your family that you left everything behind for a great cause, and you can finally pay back all of your agency debt, not to mention the money your parents lent you to make ends meet.

It’s the morning of the show, and you’re up and ready, grab some fresh fruit to nibble on, pack your bag, and you’re out the door. The subway is packed with lots of models, agents, buyers and fashion people in general, all exhausted, but ready to work. You’ve been bumped/tripped by both a hairstylist’s travel kit and a makeup guys’ enormous Caboodles-like suitcase, all before 10 a.m. You walk into Lincoln Center, and it’s like magic … you can’t believe you’re here! You’ve finally made it!

Backstage is a commotion circus of clothes, hair, makeup, yelling, Fashion TV interviews … it’s an Instagram overload! All the big names are there, your personal heroes including Hanne Gaby Odiele, Karlie Kloss, Joan Smalls, Jamie Bochert, Anna Wintour, Marc Jacobs himself — the list goes on! You’ve really hit the big leagues!

But wait, isn’t that a reality TV star over there in hair and makeup? Yea, that’s definitely a Kardashian or something. What is she doing here? Did she take the subway? Was she at the casting? What agency is she with? I didn’t see her last season … Does she need MORE fame? MORE money? A green card perhaps? Doesn’t she get enough cash from that show that all of ignorant America glamorizes? Didn’t her sister have sex with someone on camera and profit from the video sales to get their family its new line of limelight? This girl didn’t do and doesn’t owe half of what you did (remember, you’re NOT “KJ” in this scenario) to get here today, that much is certain. Her mommy surely called a top agency, got her in the door and the design houses just chose to milk her fame like the cash cow that it is. One by one like dominos from Vogue to Givenchy, fashion is selling out to the ignorant masses for money. What happened to the art, the cerebral part of fashion? Did it really all die with Alexander McQueen?

Well, there goes the neighborhood, I guess. Gone is the prestige you once felt as a “chosen one” by Marc, Anna or Ricardo — this cheapens your entire experience. You thought you were special, that your hard work had finally paid off. You didn’t realize that these coveted spots were for sale. The cost? The soul and dignity of a fashion house. The clothes will still sell, and the players will still play, but the image will be forever tarnished by these real life Veruca Salts buying their way in with sleazy fame rights.

You’re on to walk in five, so you’re smoking to calm your nerves. You need to ash your cigarette, and there’s Kendall Jenner’s drink. You already feel a bit better.

Until next time, Ariscestocrats!


Source: Cosmopolitan Magazine

Fabricated Empire

Starkiller Science: Chapter 1

Summary: When two captains from the First Order ask you, a recently graduated doctor, to conduct a year-long study at the Starkiller base, you accept without realising just what it means to be employed by the enemy.  Quickly, you learn that not everything aboard the planetary base is about science, and your relationships with the upper echelons of the First Order will make the difference between life and death—particularly the relationship with a certain member of the Sith who has no idea what to make of you.

Characters: Kylo Ren, you/reader, General Hux, Captain Phasma, Finn, original male characters, original female characters, your cat

Ships: Kylo Ren x Reader

Word Count: 1599

“So, do you accept?”

You stared down at the contract that was on the coffee table, swinging an ink pen around in your fingers as you read through it once again. The words hadn’t changed; they weren’t going to.  But you felt some trepidation as you mulled over the second to last paragraph.

First Order authorities are not to be held accountable in case of injury, whether psychological or physical, nor death.  In case of death, next of kin shall be informed within 14 days.  Limited resources aboard base may result in immediate disposal of body within said time frame. All possessions of the deceased will be left for probate if not claimed within 31 days after informing next of kin.

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“I’d like to be remembered as a guy who tried - who tried to be part of his times, tried to help people communicate with one another, tried to find some decency in his own life, tried to extend himself as a human being. Someone who isn’t complacent, who doesn’t cop out.”

“I’ve repeatedly said that for people as little in common as Joanne and myself, we have an uncommonly good marriage. We are actors. We make pictures and that’s about all we have in common. Maybe that’s enough. Wives shouldn’t feel obligated to accompany their husbands to a ball game, husbands do look a bit silly attending morning coffee breaks with the neighborhood wives when most men are out at work. Husbands and wives should have separate interests, cultivate different sets of friends and not impose on the other…You can’t spend a lifetime breathing down each other’s necks.”

“I like racing but food and pictures are more thrilling. I can’t give them up. In racing you can be certain, to the last thousandth of a second, that someone is the best, but with a film or a recipe, there is no way of knowing how all the ingredients will work out in the end. The best can turn out to be awful and the worst can be fantastic. Cooking is like performing and performing like cooking.”

January 26, 1925 - September 26, 2008: Happy Birthday to the late and great Paul Newman!

If You Try To Be Too Many Things To Too Many People...

…you won’t be enough for any of them.

Our store has Annie and me burning the candle at both ends and we’re wearing many hats for the foreseeable future.

In addition, I’m a civic minded person who does a lot of volunteer work that oftentimes takes up far more of my time than I ever dreamed of or bargained for.

Between Tumblr, Facebook and MyFitnessPal I have far more online friends than I could ever hope to keep up with. I try my level best– but there are just too many wonderful people and I couldn’t ever imagine “thinning the herd” of people that I follow. I’d rather touch base with you less frequently than not have you in my life at all.

This may come as a shock to many, but I also have a lot of friends in real life, too– and even if I didn’t have an online presence to maintain I would have trouble keeping up with just them. When they get sick I run errands for them or make food to take over to them. And I’m a confidante to many, which can take up an inordinate amount of time, as well.

I also write a newspaper column.

I perform fairly regularly as a musician at various venues.

And I’ve been job hunting on top of all that.

Just like everyone else, I also have family obligations.

My brain is usually such a blur that I sometimes forget things and lose track of other things.

I once asked a friend how her mother was doing. She replied, “She’s still dead.”

I had even attended the funeral.

She laughed about it but I was mortified.

Sometimes on Tumblr I’ll see someone’s honeymoon pictures and realize that I didn’t even know that they had gotten married.

If I am your friend I will screw up from time to time.

I’ll forget your birthday or won’t realize that you’re going through a difficult time and could use words of support.

I just have too many people to keep track of– and I’ve always been one who was good at keeping track of those kinds of things.

If I’m your friend I will, on occasion, fall short. Perhaps I’ll even fall far short.

But it will never, ever be on purpose.

I’m not that kind of person.

I don’t ever see someone in crisis and say to myself, “Oh, jeez. I don’t know what to say so I’ll skip by that situation.”

I’m usually the friend that knows what to say when nobody else knows what to say.

But sometimes I’m asleep at the wheel and something very important to you completely passes me by– and if that causes our friendship to end I will completely understand.

I would absolutely deserve that.

If a friend can’t be the kind of friend you need in your life then you are completely justified in letting that friendship go.

You guys give me far more than I could ever give back, here. In fact, there are times when I choose not to post because I know that I don’t have time to stick around and read what y'all have been posting.

I know that there’s no such thing as a free lunch and that many of you “pick up the tab” more than I do– or could– by generously spending time in my blog.

For the past several days I’ve considered the possibility that social media– and blogging in particular– might come with more responsibility and time commitments than I can adequately manage. It’s not right to “receive” if you can’t give back as much.

I considered taking a break until my life slowed down, a bit– but then many of you sent wonderful notes asking why I wasn’t posting.

For reasons I can’t fathom there seems to be a sizeable contingent who don’t mind having dog pics, random observations and occasional wide-eyed wonderments of life with a vajinglejangle litter their dashboards.

I’ll never understand you people. ;o)

I love to write so I’m sure I’ll be posting lots more mundane stuff, shortly.

And when I do I’d like to apologize, in advance, for being a cr@ppy friend.

I truly wish I could do better. You guys deserve better.