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canon / oc

[orumad]

canon   +   oc blog.   incl muses from:   btvs,   that 70s show,   the x files,  empire records, cruel intentions, roswell, ferris bueller’s day off, + others.

other places to find me: snakesimp - degrassi mumu. waylethal - btvs mumu. creepshcw - horror mumu. lcst - lost mumu. gangfrnd - indie rio from good girls.

{ template cred }

[orumad]

i’m rewatching the pitt already 🫢

i’m adding samira? abbotmohan rise. also need garcia and/or dennis thrown against my santos. also mel. or LANGDON and santos drama. or actually anything tbh. house md muses, er muses, greys muses. give me them pls.

[youweremythtaken]

Buffy rolls her eyes so hard it practically hurts, dropping her hands to her hips as she stares him down. "First of all, lose the kitten before I make you eat that leather jacket, Spike. Second, I don't care about your little imaginary property lines. This entire zip code is my territory, and last I checked, you don't pay rent here." Seriously, the nerve of this guy. Like she has the time or the patience for his usual posturing. Her boots are already totally ruined from the damp grass, Giles is bound to give her a lecture tomorrow anyway, and the last thing she needs is a vampire with a bleached-blonde ego trying to play landlord in a cemetery.

She glances past his shoulder into the foggy darkness, checking the shadows before locking her eyes right back onto his. "I'm trailing a Frayer demon that skipped out on a tomb down here, so unless you actually have some useful info on it, get out of my way or else I'll start using your ribs for stake practice."

[orumad]

"touchy," he chides, clicking his teeth, making the whole thing take much longer than's strictly necessary. shoulders roll under the bliss of her attention, clipped though it may be. all the same to spike, and he considers these little tiffs with the slayer a new unmined vein of satisfaction in the wake of his defanging. "frayer, eh?" tongue sucks against his canine. "yeah, i know the beast. been dabbling in the fresher corpses, has it?" he feels for the thing, making do with what it's got while dreaming of the hot-blooded stuff it prefers.

"only matter of time before it dips it's fingers into one of your small-minded townsfolk. bet it'd love to wear you for a night." pushing it, he knows. smiles wide, then his eyes roll. "you'll need help."

[youweremythtaken]

Buffy looks up at him, a faint, slightly crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She shifts just enough to give him room, her eyes tracking the easy, boyish slouch of his shoulders. There is something deeply grounding about him. Something that smells like starch and laundry detergent instead of graveyard dirt and mouldy crypts. It’s nice. It’s terrifyingly nice. She looks away for a second, watching a couple of his frat brothers attempt a deeply uncoordinated beer slide across the kitchen counter, before landing back on his face. "Corn-fed normal is highly underrated, Riley. Trust me. Some days I wish I could just put the weight down. Like, just be a girl at a party who worries about her grades or what she's going to wear tomorrow, instead of always waiting for the next impending disaster."

She shifts, leaning forward to close the distance between them. She loops her arms through his, linking herself to his side, and rests her chin lightly on his shoulder. From this close, looking up at his profile against the backdrop of the noisy room, the chaos of the party just sort of fades into background noise. "So if you want to sit here and appreciate the slow stuff, even if the slow stuff currently involves a guy named Gopher doing a keg stand, I am completely on board. You don't have to fight the normal around me. I kind of like it."

[orumad]

"you look like a girl at a party to me," he tells her, fond. a little narrow of his eyes. "could be a little more worried about her grades." all his grins have been easy since the era of buffy, the one on his face now is no exception. she is the exact last thing he expected to find on this whole sunnydale mission. any sort of relationship was going to be a nonstarter, but she is the specific exception to the rule. sometimes he wonders if, to her, he is the rule. something normal. innocent. easy.

riley works to block the language out of his mind, slides a wide hand up and down the slim of her forearm. "actually, his name's beaver." and he's not even joking. "hey, if normal's what you want, you know, the president of our sister sorority was telling me she wants to rush you." another not-joke, though riley's grin has turned mocking, like he can't imagine buffy doing the whole greek thing. "hell, could get yourself a lava lamp."

[teveharrington]

richies,  almost  as  a  rule,  didn't  have  part  time  jobs.  if  they  did,  it  was  usually  some  bullshit  internship  with  their  parent,  their  parent's  boss,  or  some  ivy  league  stiff  that  will  ensure  open  doors  down  the  road.  for  harrington  to  work  at  the  video  store  across  the  street  from  trax  in  the  less  boutique  part  of  downtown,  it  was  a  phenomenon.  ask  anyone.  steve  had  adopted  a  phenomenal  streak  in  the  past  year,  his  senior  year,  that  was  shocking  just  about  everyone  at  school.  steve  wasn't  blind  to  the  fact,  but  he  elected  to  ignore  it.  which  only  made  him  more  cool  about  the  whole  thing. 

when  things  were  slow  in  the  vhs  racks,  steve  would  skip  across  the  road  to  loiter  through  the  record  studded  space  of  andie's  workplace.  it  wasn't  his  intention  to  annoy  her  with  the  habit,  but  their  exchanges  always  turned  out  to  be  interesting  in  steve's  mind.  like  today,  he  knew  he  shouldn't  snoop.  he  could  clearly  see  the  clasp  of  a  lock  on  the  edge  of  the  notebook  she  laid  open  on  the  counter.  curiosity  and  a  lack  of  self  control  got  the  better  of  him,  and  before  he  could  talk  some  sense  into  himself,  he  was  reading  one  page  then  flipping  to  another. 

steve  realized  when  someone  journaled,  they  wrote  like  they  were  talking  to  a  friend.  as  he  skimmed  through  her  observations,  he  could  see  it  was  more  than  that  for  andie.  it  was  her  entire  heart  laid  out  in  girly  cursive.  bold  and  tangible  without  fear  of  judgement.  of  course,  they  say  a  person's  name  is  their  all-time  favorite  word.  so  when  steve  discovered  his,  he  stopped  dead  to  absorb  every  line.  once  caught,  his  eyes  shot  directly  to  hers,  and  he  feigned  his  most  innocent  face.  he  wasn't  quite  sure  what  he  was  feeling.  reading  what  she  really  thought  about  him…  it  wasn't  cruel,  but  something  inside  of  him  felt  SCALDED.  steve  pulled  back  from  the  counter  and  idly  shuffled  towards  the  nearest  rack  of  albums.  sixties  psychedelic  rock. 

❝ sorry,  i'm  REALLY  sorry.  i  didn't  mean  to  do  that.  i  think  i  was  possessed  or  something.  ❞  when  he  looked  back  at  her  from  his  browsing,  the  words  floated  in  the  air  between  them:  i  can  tell  when  he  pushes  his  hair  back.  steve's  hair  was  his  trademark  for  better  or  worse.  to  learn  it  was  a  chip  in  his  mask,  the clue  was  earth-shattering.  his  greatest  confidence  was  his  ultimate  weakness.  harrington  schooled  his  features  while  he  flipped  over  each  lp.  ❝  let's  make  it  even,  and  you  can  ask  me  anything  you  want.  i  have  to  be  honest  about  it.  ❞

[orumad]

he fingers through vinyl like nothing happened and she doesn't wait for the joke to land. a burst of laughter is inevitable, andie's no stranger to public humiliation, or at least the attempt of it, so she moves quick to the counter and snaps the book shut, stuffs it in her bag on the ground and kicks the sack further under the register.

she wishes she could steel her reaction, hates for the pink flush on her cheeks to betray her anger, or worse, the stinging knife of embarrassment. that's what they want, after all. the acknowledgment that they got to her. when she looks at steve, though, there's no humor. in fact, he almost looks like it was his diary that got peeked into.

"sure, how come you feel so goddamn entitled to everything?" she blurts out, feeling breathless. and... to be fair, it's general you. his crowd. those people. the ones who can say and do whatever they want, totally untouchable.

a bangled hand rakes through the short crop of her hair as she drops into her stool, blinking down at the inventory list she had just been finishing up in the back room. she bites hard on her lower lip and then, deciding to rise to the challenge, lifts her chin high and finds him with an anchored gaze. "tell me something nobody else knows."

[youweremythtaken]

Buffy pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, slow breath that is roughly ninety percent exhaustion and ten percent sheer disbelief. She stares at the ancient, dust-caked tome open on the table between them, then blinks up at her sister, wondering for the hundredth time how a cosmic key of pure energy could be so deeply, single-mindedly invested in the Volkswagen catalogue. "First of all, if we are summoning anything right now, it's information on how to stop a primal evil from eating the town, not a early-2000s compact car. And second... Minty green? Really? Because nothing says stealthy Slayer backup like a pastel roller-skate with the top down."

She gestures vaguely toward the dark, menacing text on the parchment, her voice dropping into that classic, deadpan cadence that usually precedes a patrol. "Besides, you're assuming we both survive long enough for you to get a license, let alone midterms. But fine. If we don't all get devoured by the literal mouth of hell, I will personally look into the magic Volkswagen logistics. Until then? Focus on the translation, not the parking permit."

[orumad]

scoff rips from dawn's open mouth. "right, 'cause you've never patrolled in pastels before." head cocked, half a smirk edging her lips. the expression of a little sister who knows she's right. buffy sure knows how to kill the good times though, the pride stung right off dawn's face as she blinks down to the book. right. research. translation.

"i think that's what it's saying," she offers lamely, a little beat down by the concept of, like... herself and everyone she knows and loves getting ate up for dinner. another curt sigh and she gestures at the book, then leans back, arms crossed. "the guy-- or... the thing. the mouth? whatever. it conjures up... it's a periapt. and then he-- it wears it and then does the hokey-pokey, turns itself around." yadda yadda yadda. she raises her shoulders. "then it brings hell." she didn't actually get that part from her translation studies, but it feels implied.

[floralege]

“stupid and squirmy, aren’t we a pair?” lou’s not exactly proving him wrong, worming their way deeper into the scratcher and, much to his delight, away from dylan, albeit briefly. a man of meager and curious sustenance, even a chiding response is enough to immediately lift his spirits. “a brat? really?” his head tilts back with a bark of laughter, somewhat surprise when it quickly hardens. “see, that’s quite something, yeah, because from where i’m standing,” towering physically, dancing on thin ice in every other way, “you’re the bratty one. feels like i haven’t gotten a word from you in fuckin’ forever, and upon our reunion, it’s nothing but insults. honestly, what gives?” he’s trying to keep a game face, his pride undeniably wounded yet unwilling to falter. in fact, seems he’s resigned to make it worse. “you know what little blonde actually returns my calls…?”

[orumad]

"mmmmaybe 'cause every time i see you, you're, like, rage baiting me?" she suggests, brows drawn up, shoulders, too, like it's really anyone's best guess. and he really is so fucking good at it. her lips press together hard, eyes darting away. "bas, i really don't give a fuck that you're screwing jenny, okay? like, enjoy the cooties in silence." it actually hurts her frayed feelings from both ends, but at least jenny has had the decency to cut her out, spare her the details. sucks, too, that it's too hard not to give him the reaction he's obviously gunning for. "this isn't a reunion, b-t-w," she adds, an air of humor shadowed in her face again, even as she snaps her eyes to his and tries to steel herself into seriousness. "if you're gonna be a dick, like--."

[firebad]

@orumad

The manor kitchen is filled with the frantic, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a wire whisk beating a bowl of heavy cream into submission. Piper Halliwell does not have time for an existential crisis, a magical crisis, or whatever crisis Paige is currently harbouring, which means she is going to bake about it instead.

Her shoulders are tight, her jaw locked in that familiar, stubborn line that usually precedes something exploding. Piles of flour dust the marble island, a half-dozen eggs sit waiting to be cracked, and the scent of vanilla is doing absolutely nothing to soothe her nerves. Piper checks her watch, then glances sharply toward the kitchen doorway, her eyes narrowing as if she could willing her youngest sister to appear.

"Paige!" Piper barks, her voice carrying that perfect blend of maternal authority and big-sister impatience. She slams the metal bowl down on the counter a little harder than necessary, a stray dollop of whipped cream flying off the whisk and landing squarely on her forearm. With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, she wipes it off with a dishtowel and tosses the cloth over her shoulder. "If you are avoiding me because you forgot to buy the baking powder, I swear to God, I will turn you into something small and easily squishable!"

[orumad]

it should be no consolation to piper that paige immediately shuffles into the kitchen with a look of scandalized reproach, brows furrowed together, mouth screwed up. "i did too buy the stupid baking powder!" there is actually a completely different, possibly worse reason for paige's avoidancy, thanks! "it's not my fault this kitchen looks like it was organized by somebody with ocd from hell. here -- see, i put it right in here, with all the other boxy things." voice is muffled, then reemerges from the pantry, a box of baking soda in her hands.

there's hardly any time to call paige on her mistake, she continues, "and another thing? distribution of tasks." the box thunks onto the crowded counter so she can loft her hands to her hips, more brazen by the minute and thrilled to use some buzz word terms learnt after enough HR meetings. "there are three people in this house -- four, even! and who cooks the least?" a beat of wandering thought. "well, okay, maybe phoebe and i are tied, but --," she gestures both hands, fingers splaying up, "i've been so busy stocking up on potions, i practically live at the apothecary shop and, frankly, we're lucky i didn't mistake psyllium husk for baking powder." she finishes with a hard tap to the top of, again, the box of baking soda.

[wintcrstcrfall]

The sound of his laugh was a welcome surprise, and while Jo's body did flinch, it was out of astonishment that she'd managed to illicit such a reaction out of him. A ghost of a proud smile flickered over her features, the feeling welcome and warm despite the chilly night. "Me?", the redhead countered quickly, her voice raising a little like it did every time she was about to tell a half-truth. "I'm always relaxed!" The notion was laughable even to her own ears. Even before, she had been unable to stay still and not practice; maybe if he'd been in her life from before, he would've known relaxing just wasn't running in her blood. Now, though, there was another reason for it, something that made his presence needed in order to be able to sleep at night. "I can't not worry about you. Sometimes I think if you knew how boring your job was going to be, you wouldn't have agreed to it." It's an innocent tease, because at the end of the day, who didn't want an easy job? And while her threat was always going to be real, it didn't mean that her life was truly valuable. "Food doesn't sound that bad, actually. Do you want to make dinner at home? I promise I'm getting better at the kitchen!"

[orumad]

i can't not worry about you. it draws his gaze, eyes sliding sidelong to find her face. he knew some things about bonding on the job, familiar with the slow shift from strictly professional to vaguely friendly. usually angel wasn't scared of making a connection, usually he wouldn't consider it a problem, no big distraction from his work. usually. his jaw works back and forth, head tilts. "that's you, uh... projecting," he tells her, humor ghosting his features. "m'not bored. that's all you." but he figures, to her, boredom is ideal to the alternative. he thinks they can figure out a happy medium. a soft exhale through his noise passes as a doubtful laugh. "mm. yeah, i never somebody could burn spaghetti. that's... yeah, that's almost impressive." he rolls his shoulders, nods distantly. "i can handle it. let's go."

[orumad]

replies and starters and memes toooonight<3

[firebad]

@orumad

She doesn't look up when the door opens; she doesn't need to. She knows the exact cadence of Sebastian’s footsteps, the specific brand of arrogant friction he brings into a room. Instead, she keeps her focus, her manicured fingers idly turning the pages of a leather-bound, handwritten ledger she’d stolen from the Headmaster’s private study just a day prior. "The headmaster keeps a meticulous diary of every student's psychological breaking point, and honestly, the man has no imagination," She doesn't look at him, but her tone dictates the room's gravity, closing off any space for him to interrupt. "He thinks suspension is a punishment. He thinks a bad grade is a tragedy, and he's ignorantly blind to the fact that the real wreckage happens when people get exactly what they think they want."

She turns a page, her eyes scanning a name with dark relish before her gaze finally flicks up to lock onto his. Her smile is sharp, clever, and entirely unbothered by the white dust coating her designer shoes. "Everyone expects us to tear down the innocent, but that’s a spectator sport for amateurs. Look at Headmaster Reynolds. A man who has spent forty years policing our morality while secretly laundering the school’s endowment fund to cover his gambling debts in Atlantic City. He thinks he’s a god in this valley." She closes the ledger with a heavy, final thud, leaning forward until the shadows fell away from her face, leaving only her brilliant, dangerous eyes. "I don't want his money, and I don't want him fired. I want him compromised."

[orumad]

of all the chesterfield chairs in all the parlors of all his father's estates, kathryn, as usual, has used her demonic intuition to choose the one he was headed for. he knows better than to betray the thought by stalling though, doesn't miss a step as he continues into the room, white sea island cotton button up flapping untucked around his waist. the headmaster keeps a meticulous diary of every student's psychological breaking point. he purses his lips together -- who doesn't?

sebastian mimes dull disinterest in her monologue, punctuating it only with a curt hm around the crush of a grape. he's brought in a bowl full of finger fruit, lets it rest on his chest once he's claimed his own spot sprawled on a silk velvet tufted chaise lounge adjacent to her. only when he's sure the book has her full attention does he let his gaze slide to her face, can imagine her pleasure doubled - quadrupled - if she got her hot little hands on his logbook. of course it's then that she snaps her eyes onto his.

he sighs heavily as they zero in on her point. "so, what then? you'll make a sex tape with him and distribute it to the PTA? i'm eating," he points out, lip curling with disgust. after he sinks his teeth into the end of a strawberry, a smug smirk starts to form. "you're just upset reynolds refuses to write you a recommendation letter." like most men in power, their headmaster is a believer in the old tradition of misogyny, probably can't bear the thought that kathryn will amount to anything more than a CEO's wife or maybe a glorified executive assistant. sebastian appears to be one of the few who understand the breadth of her capabilities. "leave the man to his white collar crimes. it's only a matter of time before you're inducted into the family business." not that he knows for sure fraud is at the root of his crest's wealth, but he's happy to spit on it all the same. "leave it alone, kathryn." and then, pointing at her with the half eaten strawberry. "it's too big. even for you."

[orumad]

“that’s a fun way to get in trouble.” / @floralege

"yeah, i know all the ways," max assures her and she can take her pick. being at the hotel pool long after hours. laid out on a lounge chair puffing a cigarette right in front of the no smoking sign. he's starting to get the impression that them being alone together is a paved path straight to trouble. or maybe she's just getting some fresh air. the wedding's in a couple days, guests are starting to flock to the resort, rehearsal dinner tomorrow. he ashes his cigarette. "truth or dare."

[orumad]

your  muse  walks  in  on  my  muse  changing  clothes . / @floralege

bottom lip rolled inward, angel tucks his teeth into flesh, meaning to look admonishing, impatient. "my bad," he tells her, flat, wonders if she planned it like this. his eyes stay tuned to her face, mostly, maybe a quick dip down as he pivots, turns his back. "i'll wait outside."

[orumad]

“this is actually kinda comfortable. this would be a nice grave.” / @teveharrington

a big sharky grin unfurls over sonny's face, he nods encouragingly. "can you believe somebody left it on the side of road?" the plaid, pea green wall recliner is among one of sonny's few possessions, treasured by all accounts. he can't really imagine dragging it out of this apartment he's commandeered once it's inevitably time to move on, but, damn, he'll be sad to leave it.

"that's prolly why old people, yanno, fuckin'-- up and croak on those things all the time," he muses, turning back to his project -- graffiti-ing a huge black cat on the wall of his living room. an arched brow is thrown over his shoulder at steve, jester humor laced in the expression. "how many people you think died in it?" not that he's really tryna scare steve off, the company is kinda nice. sonny just can't help it, all manic grins and skittering movements like there's too much energy in his veins for his body to handle. "hey, it's all yours whenever i bounce, f'you want."

[orumad]

my  muse  discovers  your  muse  reading  a  diary  entry  that  my  muse  wrote  about  yours . / @teveharrington

"hey!" realization crashes over her like a cold rip tide, her shocked face crescendos up into horror, falls swiftly into indignance. "that's private." and maybe it's andie's bad for bringing her diary into her closing shift at trax, but she's also mostly sure she'd left it behind the counter, half tucked under her slouchy boho bag.

what did he read? the damage could be truly tragic depending what day he opened it up to. depressive entries analyzing her station in life, sobbing out loud over the shit hole known as high school? her account of the crappy first date she had with the guy from the club who spilled his drink on her newly thrifted shoes and licked her teeth when they kissed? or worst of all - the bizarre dream she'd had of steve harrington. set in the rain - movie rain, the kind where everybody still looks good - where he'd pulled up on her in his dumb bmw, invited her in and loaned her his jacket. ultimately a crime of an entry that would have reasonable doubt if it hadn't been followed by a paragraph of her own undeniably conscious thoughts.

i don't know. there's something about him, i guess. he acts so smooth all the time like he's got this whole performance memorized, but every once in awhile he says something honest before he can stop himself. most people don't even try to hide how shallow they are. at least steve seems embarrassed by it sometimes. i can tell when he pushes his hair back.

[orumad]

open to: all! any potential shipping will prob lean f/nb. setting: hole in the wall bar next to ptmc.

"sorry-- sorry. hold that thought." this phone will be the death of him. his thumb carefully punches in a message, then clicks the screen to black, sets it face down on the bartop. "work update." he doesn't elaborate, just holds easy-going eye contact as he grabs his fresh modelo and takes a sip. "so. you were trying to convince me to buy your next round."

[orumad]

open to: all! any potential shipping will probably lean f/nb. setting: karaoke bar, 10pm.

"oh. my god, don't be that guy. seriously. you have to do a song, don't be a pussy. --wait, i'm thinking...," gestures like she's trying to rope out thoughts fresh from their mind, nodding, getting it now, "shots. you need shots. plural. double, even. say less."