Ari

like… i don’t wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you “love” a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES… reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.

half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. that’s why people stop posting. that’s why fandoms feel empty. content doesn’t magically fall from the sky — it comes from people who feel seen.

and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly you’re personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just don’t let creators feel like they’re shouting into a void.

reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

And that's how Ghost learn that the MacTavish clan has a near legendary legacy of winners that stretch centuries amongst men and women who look like gods. Needless to say he never called it a 'skirt' again.

inspiration from @abraxos-and-ataraxia and @oreomonsterhunter

The first time had been an accident. Even though they had been mated for six months, Eris still felt awkward showing any kind of affection or preference toward Azriel. Their courtship was a whirlwind of seething emotions and stress over Beron’s assasination and Azriel deciding to leave the Night Court (which Rhysand still hadn’t forgiven). 

Eris had yet to adjust to the changes a mating brought into his life. Such as sharing a bed every night or even dealing with the snickers from various members of his Court whenever they caught sight of the many marks Azriel left on Eris’s neck each night. The intensity of their intimacy left Eris reeling. He felt selfish and possessive. No one else should be allowed to witness Azriel in all of his winged glory. So, he refused to express his deep love for his mate in public, choosing instead to come across as cool and unaffected. 

The nickname had come about one Autumn afternoon when Azriel suggested visiting a local pumpkin patch. After moving into Autumn, the Shadowsinger was trying to learn more about the people he was supposed to serve. His duty as the Lord of Autumn, Consort to the High Lord meant that Azriel's responsibilities mirrored that of a Lady of Autumn. Most of those things were antiquated and sexist tasks. Azriel, surprisingly, seemed to enjoy them. Eris suspected that after five-and-a-half centuries spent in dark dungeons torturing and killing, Azriel enjoyed drinking spiced cider with widows and reading to orphans. Azriel needed the light that Autumn offered; something to offset his deep insecurities and self-loathing. So, they went to a pumpkin patch. And ever since that day, after seeing Azriel truly smile with life in his eyes, Eris called him pumpkin (in his head). Just a little reminder of the first time Eris saw Azriel beginning to heal.

The first time was an accident. Azriel and Eris were sitting in the Autumn Court office, reviewing various reports. Eris, not even turning to his mate, asked, “Pumpkin, could you pass me that report to your left?”

Azriel had frozen. Then stared at his mate in shock. Eris was not ever publicly affectionate. He even refused to call Azriel “Az” like his brothers did. That little pet name, so cheesy, so dumb, warmed every one of Azriel’s limbs. Pumpkin. After that afternoon, Azriel refused to respond to anything else. If Eris had known this would happen, he never would have let that nickname slip. It was a constant contention of “Azriel, Azriel, AZRIEL… Pumpkin please…” Every. Single. Day. Until Eris was trained like one of his hounds. Only in bed did he call Azriel by his given name. In public, he was pumpkin. Which the Autumn Court seemed to love. From servants to other nobility, the snickers were constant, until it became normal. Until some of Eris’s own council began to refer to Azriel as pumpkin in their own heads. 

Eris shouldn’t have been surprised by what happened at the High Lords meeting, afterall, Azriel was stubborn and Eris well trained. The two of them sat in matching mahogany thrones, watching the usual bickering of the High Lords. At some point the conversation turned to the Autumn Court’s exports and Eris with great dignity deferred the conversation to his mate with a simple, “Pumpkin, do you mind elaborating on our current production rates?” The entire room froze. Azriel didn’t even blink as he jumped into the conversation.