#am i going to make sure it gets in the dictionary one way or another? yes bc it's one of my best friends lol :3

[keeps-ache]

realizing i could also just doodle on the sketch layer has changed the game extramentally

[lucygxybaird]

billy x reader - time traveler billy

Everything happens so quickly that you don’t have time — at first — to realize how odd the situation is. The man’s clothes make him look like a refugee from a Western, and everything about him, from the curl of his hair to the way he stands marks him out as someone…different, somehow. Not to mention, of course, that he’s standing in the middle of the street, looking about as out of place and freaked out as a squirrel dropped into the middle of the ocean. 

But even if you could put your finger on it, you don’t have the time to consider what makes him so strange. 

First, you’ll have to get him out of the path of the oncoming car. 

You have, in point of fact, never actually tackled someone before, let alone someone who seems to be quite a bit taller than you and undoubtedly heavier. But you take your best shot, leaning in and diving at his waist, hoping to make him fold like a lawn chair. Maybe it’s just the shock, or maybe you actually find the right angle — you have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. You manage to knock the guy sideways, both of you stumbling toward the safety of the sidewalk as the car screeches past, the driver laying on his horn. 

You watch as the guy flinches at the noise, actually clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s praying with all his might that the noise will just stop. Fortunately for him, the car turns the corner up ahead, and the sound of the horn fades as it goes. You watch it go, wondering absently how long Speed Racer is going to keep honking, and then you look back at the guy whose life you’ve saved.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a stupid question, considering what little information you already have, but you don’t know what else to say. The guy lowers his hands and squints at you, staring as if you’re the one dressed like an extra from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. “Hey — are you alright?”

He shakes his head, more like he’s trying to chase away a bothersome gnat than answering you. 

You’re starting to worry that he’s hit his head, although you can’t see a cut or a bruise on his temple. Now that you’re looking at him properly, it’s really rather difficult to keep from noticing how…well, how hot he is. It’s probably — definitely — inappropriate to even think about it, you’re well aware, considering he’s either injured, intoxicated in some way, or just going through it, but you can’t ignore the fact now that it’s quite literally staring you in the face. 

His eyes are large and blue, framed by thick, dark lashes as long as your pinky finger, set above a strong, straight nose that reminds you of a Greek statue, as perfectly sculpted as if it’s been made from marble. His lips are astonishingly full, his jawline and cheekbones each as defined as the dictionary, and you think there just might be the shadow of a dimple in his chin. And he’s tall, too, topping you by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders tapering to an angular waist. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring, but then again, so is he.

“Are you okay?” you say again. “Is there something I can do for you? Someone I can call?”

He swallows, giving another shake of his head. “I don’t…I dunno where I am.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice brings to mind sage brush and sunsets, the smoke that swirls over a campfire as it crackles with life, warm and husky, with a twang that makes you think of the bite of whiskey. 

“Okay,” you say, and without thinking about it, you take his hand. It feels natural, like trying to guide a lost child, or trying to make sure you don’t lose him in a crowd. As soon as his palm touches yours, you feel a shock race up your arm, and you have the strangest sensation of a door closing, separating one moment from the next as definitively as an axe splitting wood. 

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Okay. Just…come with me. I’ll help you.”

You can tell, if not just by the expression on his face — half-hopeful, half-bracing, as if he’s expecting a blow to fall any second — that he’s not used to asking for help, especially not from strangers. It makes your heart hurt just a little bit. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, and you’re softened — or maybe melted — by the way he smiles at you, shy but appearing more heartened than he did just a moment ago.

Then another car whizzes by, and he winces like someone has taken a shot at him. He ducks down, his eyes so wide that they look like a pair of full moons, their cornflower centers the only source of color in his face. “The hell is that?”

You stare at him. If he didn’t look so terrified, you’d think he was joking. But if he’s not joking, then he’s either on an incredible cocktail of drugs, or he’s from that weird isolated cult town in The Village. “It’s…it’s a car,” you say. 

“A car,” he repeats, as if you’ve just told him the secret to life in Mandarin. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You know…a horseless carriage.” 

For some reason, this seems to impart some understanding to him, but you can tell he’s still plenty freaked out. “Carriages don’t go that fuckin’ fast!”

You try very, very hard not to laugh, but god, it’s hard. You’re having to draw on nearly every ounce of compassion you have. It helps that, really, he’s not wrong. Not that you’ve ever ridden in a carriage, because you’re not Keira Knightley in a period film, but you don’t think they’re capable of speeds like that. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you say, “you don’t have to worry about getting into a horseless carriage with me. I hate driving.” 

Now that it’s just the two of you standing on the sidewalk again, the road mercifully free of cars, he seems to relax a little, at least enough to consider your words. “Well,” he says. “That’s something.” 

Not entirely sure where to go, you decide the police station is as good a place as any. It might be a little Hallmark movie of the week, but maybe someone has already filed a missing persons report on him. With that thought, it occurs to you that you need some information first. 

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

The look he gives you indicates he has never been quite so offended in his life. You can’t help but laugh this time. “Well, I don’t know!” you say. “You don’t know where you are, you’re walking around here looking like a puppy at the start of an ASPCA ad — maybe you’re suffering from some kind of amnesia.”

He doesn’t look any less nonplussed, but something about your laughter has loosened the muscles in his face. He smiles at you. You try to ignore the way your stomach flips to focus on his answer. “Billy,” he says. 

You fight the urge to repeat his name, rolling it around in your mouth like candy. “Come on,” you say, his hand still in yours. “We’re not gonna get anywhere just standing here. Do you trust me?”

He smiles again, though this time with a bit of a razor’s edge to it. “Not like I got much choice, honey,” he says, and then pauses, softens. “Yeah. You’ve been nicer to me than most people would’ve, findin’ a stranger in the middle of nowhere, actin’ like he’s been dropped on his head. I wouldn’t have blamed ya if you’d run the other direction.”

You have no idea why, but what springs from your mouth before you can help yourself is: “I couldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a minute. His gaze feels as physical as a caress, and just as intimate. If not more so. You both do and don’t want it to stop. 

“Come on,” you say again, at least in part to break the silence. “Follow me.”

The two of you start walking, following the weathered gray slabs of cracked, uneven concrete that your small town calls a sidewalk as it winds its way into town. 

After a few moments of quiet, he says, “You never told me your name.” 

When you introduce yourself, he smiles again. “That’s nice,” he says. “Pretty.”

Your stomach flips again, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know anything about this guy, except — only just now — his name. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and really does give off a hurt puppy sort of vibe doesn’t matter. And it definitely doesn’t matter that his smile spreads across his face like a sunrise coloring the sky with ribbons of pastels. He could be a serial killer, or if not that extreme, some kind of — 

The two of you are still, for reasons not entirely clear to you and probably not much clearer to him, holding hands, so you’re jerked out of your thoughts by the fact that he’s gone stock still. 

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

If the dread clinging to his voice like a weed choking out a weaker plant wasn’t bad enough, he’s frozen still on the sidewalk, looking at you as if you’ve…well, as if you’ve betrayed him somehow. The pit of your stomach turns to ice.

“The sheriff?” you repeat. You feel oddly, stupidly, disappointed. A guy with nothing to hide doesn’t act like this when someone brings him to the authorities. The disillusionment washing over you makes your tongue sharp. “Who the hell are you, Barney Fife?”

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

“Yeah, I — never mind.” You shake your head and let go of his hand. The bare skin of your palm feels oddly cold. “What’s the matter? I thought someone might be looking for you. Maybe someone filed a missing persons report.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’.” He glances at the police station again, his throat bobbing. A pause, and then, softly, like he’s making a confession: “Nobody left that cares about me that much. Unless they wanna cause me some hurt.”

You feel the strangest mixture of sympathetic and prickly, as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong by someone who has been directly and seriously hurt by your actions. “Well…” You clear your throat, trying to find the right words to defend yourself. “I mean, listen, what kind of hurt? Are you a criminal or something?”

One corner of his mouth tilts up in a bitter approximation of a grin. “Or somethin’, honey,” he says. “I got a reputation I never wanted and that I’m not proud of, an’ not one person reads about me in the paper or sees my name on a wanted poster—”

Wanted poster? But something about his fierce, stung expression keeps your mouth shut.

“ — ever gave a damn about the truth. About why I did all that stuff. I didn’t want to!” When his voice rises, equal parts angry and hurt, you can’t help yourself. You reach for his hand again. He takes a deep breath, his fingers grasping yours. “I didn’t want to do any of it. I just wanted…I wanted things to get better. Every time I thought they would, they just got worse.”

You know it would make sense to ask what he actually did, but somehow, you can’t bring yourself to put the words out there. He looks ashamed and angry, but defiant, too, as if daring you to do it. Or, worse, to pass judgement. But you just press your lips together. 

“I wanted to go straight,” he says. “I wanted a good job for a respectable boss, so I could keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. Damn it, I just wanted some peace—”

When his voice breaks, you feel it in your chest, as if a fissure has opened up in your collarbone. Your own eyes burn, a reaction as instantaneous and out of your control as a burning red welt raising up around a bee’s stinger. It hurts you, to see him hurt, and you can’t even begin to explain to yourself why that is. 

“Well, I…I…” You fumble your words, not even sure what you’re going to say. But you know you have to say something. “I…okay, so, we’ll…we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks about as shocked to hear you say that as he was by the car burning rubber on the road leading into town. “You mean it?”

You swallow down the stupid feeling that you’re going to cry, and you nod. “Yeah, come on,” you say, and you hold out your hand again. He takes it. “We’ll go back to my place.”

He offers you another crooked smile, but this one is more surprised, almost tender, like you’ve shown him something sweet and unexpected hidden in the palm of your hand. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” he says. “You don’t know me all that well. I’d understand if you didn’t want a strange man in your home.”

Forget not knowing him that well, you don’t really know him at all, but you just tell him, “I’m sure.”

Because you are. In what seems to be the theme of the day, you can’t explain why, but it just feels…safe. Despite the little Dateline-themed voice in your head telling you otherwise, you can’t ignore the certainty, heavy and inexplicable, that you’ve been here before. He’ll step into your apartment and feel at ease, because this isn’t the first time he’s been your home. It will fit like an old coat, comfortable and soft and easy. 

It’s insane, but you can’t turn your thoughts away from it. 

His fingers lace with yours, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckle. The way he’s looking at you, so intently, his gaze never wavering from yours, makes you feel as though you’re being turned inside out, exposed. The moment when he froze with fear as the two of you approached the police — sheriff — station seems distant in both time and space, like you’ve gone forward many miles and many years in time in the space of just a few minutes.

“No cars, right?” he says, his crooked smile widening. The word cars sits in his mouth like he isn’t quite used to the shape of it, but you’re so charmed by the fact that he’s trying to make a joke. That the two of you have a joke to share. 

“No cars,” you say.

You’re walking again. Now and again you pass other people, who look at Billy the way you must have looked at him when you first saw him — eyebrows furrowed, pushing down over their eyes, glance flicking over him as if a quick look will make any more sense than a lingering one. Billy doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy looking around at everything else; it all seems to shock him to varying degrees, whether it’s the buildings around you, the streetlights and the power lines silhouetted against the sky, the concrete beneath your feet and the asphalt of the road running beside you. 

As another car zooms by, Billy lets go of your hand, dosey-do’s behind you, and takes your other hand. Now he’s standing between you and the road. “I don’t like those things,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But I like you near ‘em even less.” 

Your apartment building is a brick rectangle studded with windows, a pair of double doors set in the middle at the top of a wide set of concrete steps. You lead Billy inside and he stops as you reach for the elevator button. 

“What the hell?” he says, again speaking under his breath.

You push the button, watching Billy’s face as the call button lights up. He flinches at the ding, looking around for the source of the noise; you squeeze his hand gently. You wonder again where the hell he came from, that every piece of modern technology seems to make as little sense to him as ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. “It’s okay,” you say. “Just trust me.” 

Implicit in your voice is this: I won’t let anything happen to you.

He seems to hear your silent promise, or maybe the words you actually say are enough. Billy smiles thinly and nods.

When the doors slide open, though, he balks. “Are we supposed to go in there?”

“Yes. It’ll take us up to the floor my apartment is on, without us having to go up all those stairs.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

You step into the elevator and he trails after you with the air of a child who is expecting a switching out back. When the elevator starts to rise upward, Billy stares at you incredulously. “It’s okay,” you say again. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

He has a white-knuckle grip on your hand, and he jumps a little at the ding from somewhere above your heads as the elevator comes to a stop. When the doors slide open, he relaxes a little. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” you confirm, and you lead him down the hallway. He waits while you fish your keys out and let yourselves inside your apartment.

As soon as the door closes behind you, Billy’s shoulders soften. You watch him as he looks around, feeling oddly nervous. As if it matters whether or not he likes your place.

Your building is old — you think from the 1920s or thereabouts, if you remember what your landlord said when she showed you the place five years ago — and it shows in the way it looks. Wooden parquet floors the color of honey are softened by rugs that you found at a flea market, a brown velvet couch slouching in front of a square, red-brick fireplace, framed by a mantle scattered with knickknacks. Billy smiles as he wanders over, picking up a little statuette shaped like a cat, wearing a collar of flat chips of glass.

“Cute,” he says, offering you another smile, and you feel inordinately pleased. 

His gaze roams around the living room. To his left, a doorway hung with a beaded curtain leads into the kitchen, and in front of him, a hallway runs to the back of the apartment, with your bedroom on one side and a bathroom on the other. His gaze turns back to the mantle, lifting to the wall above it, where a flatscreen TV is fixed.

“What is that?” he says, leaning forward to inspect this dim reflection in the screen. “A mirror?”

Despite yourself, a snort works its way out of your mouth, and he shoots you a wounded look. “Sorry,” you say, putting your hand over your mouth. “Sorry. No, it’s my TV.”

You have another, smaller one in your room, but you decide one television might be enough for him to deal with right now.

“A — a T…V?” he says, repeating the two letters distinctly, as if they have nothing to do with each other. “What’s that?”

Your lips part, and you stare at him for a second. “Billy,” you say. “Where are you from?”

His brow furrows, like he doesn’t quite understand what you’re asking. “Well,” he says slowly. “Most recently I’ve been livin’ in New Mexico. Why?”

New Mexico. That really doesn’t answer your question. “Where in New Mexico?”

His puzzled frown deepens, but he doesn’t ask why you’re pressing him. Maybe he figures you deserve to know, after saving his life and bringing him back to your apartment. “Lincoln, right now,” he says.

You don’t know much about Lincoln — or New Mexico, for that matter — but you don’t think it’s some reclusive community where they wouldn’t know about elevators or cars. 

The next question you have is crazy, totally insane, really — but you think you’ve seen doctors on TV ask concussion victims the same thing. And that’s definitely all it is. Because there’s no way this could actually be the problem. 

“Billy,” you say again. “What year is it?”

Now it’s his turn to huff out a laugh through his nose. “What year is it? It’s 1881.” 

You’re so floored by this statement that you blurt out, without much — or any — tact: “No, it’s not.”

He looks like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, but maybe everything hits him all at once. The cars, the technology he doesn’t understand, the very world around him that looks so different from what he’s used to. “What…what year is it, then?”

You blink. “2024,” you say. 

This time, when he laughs, there’s no humor in it, only a sharp incredulity. “You’re crazy,” he says, but without much heat. It’s almost like a plea, as though he’s offering you the opportunity to take it back. To say something that actually makes sense, because — and you have to give it to him, he’s not wrong — this doesn’t make sense at all.

And yet, unless he’s been severely brainwashes or he’s just putting you on, it’s also the only option.

“How did I get here?” he says, and he sounds — and looks — like he might cry again. “What do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” you say. Then you reach for him, and even before your hands find his face, he’s moving closer to you. He holds onto your waist, like you’re a lifeline. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you got here, or why, but you’re not alone, okay? You have me.”

It doesn’t even register with you at first that this is an incredibly strange, if not downright dangerous, thing to say to someone you met not even two hours ago. Especially considering you’re saying it to a man who is bigger and undoubtedly stronger than you. But you don’t feel like you’re putting yourself at risk. 

Billy, though, says what you’re thinking, except he says it with a sense of wonder. It almost sounds like a prayer. “I don’t even know you,” he murmurs.

Yes, you do.

The thought seems to come from outside of you, as if someone has turned to a fresh page in your mind and written it there in their own hand. 

Billy says your name, still in that awestruck voice. It feels as though there is a web spun between you, gossamer-fine but indissoluble. The fact that he could be an honest-to-god time traveler makes more sense to you than the idea that you only met him today. 

“1881,” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“2024,” he returns. 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.”

“Oh,” you say, relieved. Although technically if he’s twenty-two and from the year 1881, that means he’s around 165 years old, but who’s counting? “Me too.”

He smiles, an uptick of the corner of his mouth that nonetheless makes your heart skip in your chest. You decide that you want his hands on you, always, his gaze on you, always, but then you remember something else you have to show him. 

“Come here,” you say, taking his hand again. You lead him down the hallway to the bathroom, the sight of which earns you another look at his stunned, disbelieving face. “Okay. This is my bathroom.” You point. “That’s a toilet.” You try to remember when toilets were invented. “It’s like…an outhouse. But inside.” 

Billy snorts. “I know what a toilet is.”

You hum. There’s that, at least. “This is definitely new,” you say, and you point to the shower. He nods. You have one of those with a glass door, which you — a little embarrassingly, now — have declared with decals of cartoon sea creatures, including a whale, a puffer fish, and a little scuba diver.  “Right. This a shower.”

You push the door open, reaching inside and turning the knob so the water comes pouring out. Billy jumps at the sudden noise and stares as steam fill the room. “It’s hot?” he says uncertainly.

“It can be,” you say. “If you twist this knob here, it can get cooler, though. But it won’t hurt you.”

“What do you do?” he says, peering at the shower. “It’s for bathin’?”

You nod. “You just…” You blush and gesture vaguely at his clothes, before gesturing equally vaguely to the floor. “And step in. There’s soap and shampoo for your hair.”

He smiles crookedly. “Are you tryin’ to tell me I don’t smell like roses, honey?”

You laugh a little. “I mean, well…”

He grins again before looking resolutely at the shower. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

You give him privacy, shutting the door behind you, though you hover nervously in the hallway in case he needs you. You’re worried about him slipping and falling, so you have to resist the temptation to press your ear against the door. Finally, you hear the water shut off — you’re proud of him for figuring out how to do that, without dousing himself in ice water or boiling himself alive — and you realize, just then, that you have to get him fresh clothes.

“Hold on!” you call through the door.

You hurry into your room and find an old college t-shirt that you “borrowed” from your dad, along with a pair of pajama bottoms that are advertised as unisex but absolutely swim on you at the cuffs, so you hope they’re long enough for him. You knock on the bathroom door, and when it opens a crack, you hold out the clothes while carefully turning your head away. “Here,” you say. “These should fit.”

“Thank you,” he says, voice muffled by the door, and then he takes the clothes and the door shuts again. 

You perch on the couch in the living room, waiting for him. The bathroom door opens fully, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam, and you smile encouragingly as you see Billy standing in the doorway. The pants do indeed fit, although the t-shirt hangs on him a little. 

“What did you think?” you ask. “Of your first shower experience?”

Billy chuckles, coming to sit next to you on the couch. You’re so aware of his proximity that it makes the air between you sing. There’s something about the sight of him, freshly showered and smiling, seemingly more relaxed now, that makes you want to lean into him. 

“It was nice,” he says. “Warm.” 

You’ve lost count of how many times today that it’s happened, but once again, he takes your hand. 

“Thank you for takin’ care of me,” he says softly. “You’re a sweet girl. I’m glad I met you.”

Coming from anyone else, being called a sweet girl would make you feel like a toy poodle. But coming from Billy, in his warm, molasses-slow drawl, it just makes you feel warm, like you’re bathing in sunshine. 

“I’m glad, too,” you murmur.

It would be crazy to kiss him right now, right? You know the answer is yes. You know that. Still, ever since the moment his voice broke outside the police station, you’ve felt…protective over him. More than that, you’ve felt connected. It’s as if seeing him break down, even if it was only for a moment, in turn broke down something between the two of you. 

You remember that sensation when you first took his hand, as if a door had slammed solidly shut between this moment and the rest of your life, and you think maybe there wasn’t so much of a barrier up in the first place.

Billy touches your cheek with the very pads of his fingertips, as if he’s afraid that you’re a bubble that will burst from rough contact. “What the hell?” he says softly, and you laugh, because you know it’s not really a question you’re supposed to answer. “We just met today?”

You nod.

“And some way or another, I’ve traveled…” A pause while he does the math. “140-odd years in the future?”

You nod again. 

“Alright, then,” he says mildly, and he kisses you.

It feels like the world turns inside out from a point centered around the two of you, spiraling and twisting outward until it forms again, entirely new, bigger and grander, humming and buzzing like a live-wire. Your hands grasping his shoulders feel like the only reason you aren’t just floating away, and the way he grips your waist makes you think he feels the same. You press closer to him, his arms encircling you as he pulls you onto his lap.

A hoarse chuckle comes from somewhere around the fireplace. “You kids usually take longer than this.”

You jump out of your skin, and before you can blink, you find yourself sprawled on the couch cushions, Billy on his feet in front of you. One hand goes to his belt only to grasp at the air. He scowls and brandishes his fists instead, and then—

“Old Moss?”

You sit up. “You know this guy?”

An old man has his elbow propped on the mantelpiece, a tattered hat perched on his head. He’s shorter than Billy, stockier, but their clothes are much the same, along with the weathered tan on their faces. The old man, though, has a beard covering the lower half of his face, spilling over his chest like dirty cotton. 

“I…” Billy shakes his head, seemingly just as flummoxed — if not more — than he was before. “I knew him when I was a kid. He helped my family cross the country.”

The old man — Old Moss — chuckles. “I’m not Old Moss, son,” he says. “I took on this form to make you more comfortable. Otherwise you would have tried to wallop me, I bet, and that wouldn’t have been good for you.”

Billy stiffens, and he puts one arm behind him, to keep you behind him on the couch. “Who the hell are you, then?”

Old Moss (you don’t know what else to call him) shrugs. “A representative of the universe,” he says, waving his hand to underscore this grand sentiment. “My speciality is helpin’ lovers find each other in every lifetime.” 

A shiver dances down your spine. “Every lifetime?” you murmur.

“Oh, sure,” Old Moss says. “You two have found each other in every life since your souls first came into being.” He smiles crookedly. “Thanks to me. You’re welcome.”

Another grin creases his face. “This time, I thought I’d try things a little bit differently,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve never pulled one soul from a different point in time before. I wasn’t sure if it would work, to be honest with you.”

He grins again. “Judgin’ by the way you were treatin’ her face like an ice cream cone, though, I’m guessing it did.”

Despite yourself, you giggle. 

Out of the corner of his mouth, slanting a glance at you, Billy murmurs, “What’s a—?”

“I’ll get you one later. You’ll like it,” you assure him, and now you do stand next to him, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, though, you kiss better than that.”

Old Moss chuckles. “You guys got any questions before I go?”

You think for a second. “How many lives has it been?”

“Mmm…” The old man tugs on his beard thoughtfully. “I’d say this is your…I dunno, I lost track. Somewhere around 200, I think, maybe a little north of that.”

Your hand creeps into Billy’s, and he squeezes gently.

“And we loved each other in all of them?” you say.

Old Moss’s expression is almost unbearably kind. He nods. “All of them,” he says.

Billy’s shoulder presses against yours, and you feel the contact from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. Somehow, over 200 lifetimes of loving him doesn’t seem like a surprise. 

“An’ I…I get to stay here with her?” Billy says now. “I don’t gotta go back there?”

Buried in the snowy tangles of his beard, Old Moss’s mouth twitches. You can’t tell if it’s a smile, or if he’s trying to swallow tears. “Yeah, son,” he says. “You get to stay.”

Billy’s hand tightens around yours, as if he’s worried — despite Old Moss’s confirmation — that someone is going to take him away from you. You grip his hand tighter in turn. Like you’re going to let that happen.

You look over at Billy, and he turns his head to meet your gaze. You can see every one of those lifetimes in his eyes, caught in his gaze like snowflakes on his lashes, and you hope there’s going hundreds more, going on until the world itself ends. Nothing else will be enough. 

By the time you can turn your eyes away from him, Old Moss is gone. You look over at Billy again, and he grins at you. “I guess representatives of the universe favor Irish goodbyes.”

You grin back at him, winding your arms around his neck. “It seems like I’m stuck with you now,” you say, and he chuckles. 

“Seems so.”

He leans down to kiss you. The world turns inside out and spirals again — and again — and again — and…by the time it’s settled again, and Billy breaks the kiss, you think that you’d be happy if you spent this lifetime and each one to come just doing this.

“So…” Billy smiles crookedly. “About that ice cream cone?”

You laugh. There’s a thousand things to set him up with — how the hell does somebody get a Social Security number at twenty-something years old? — but you can figure that out later.

For now — 

“Let’s take you to get one,” you say. “And I’ll introduce you to the unbeatable combination of gummy bears and ice cream.”

“What are—?”

You laugh, taking his hand and rising onto your toes to peck his cheek. “Just trust me. You’ll love it.” 

[keyotos]

i'm yours tonight

summary ⎯ late nights w/ dan heng. inspired by my sleepover hcs.

tana's words ⎯ having HELLA dan heng brainrot rn. also i'm getting through everyone's requests ASAP!! i just wrote this bc im having major writers block rn.

tags ⎯ fluff. unestablished relationship but the feels are there. oblivious idiot (you). reading together (real).

"psst. dan heng, are you awake?" you whispered. you were crouching down next to him on the floor, head circling his figure as you tried to find out if he was awake or not. it was the early hours of the morning and you felt slightly guilty for waking him up.

"now i am," dan heng shuffled around until he faced you. "what is it?"

"i can't sleep," you laughed dryly, "again. do you have a book i could borrow?" you stood up. dan heng wanted to pull you down by your hand so you could be back on his level. he reached out slightly and then shot his hand down.

dan heng stumbled out of his floor mattress. charming, he thought to himself. he moved towards his bookshelf as you followed him. you stood so close to dan heng that he started feeling goosebumps on his neck; the warmth of your breath making him shiver.

"what are you in the mood for today?" dan heng asked as he started browsing his shelf.

"anything, really," you sighed. "something boring? i've been having trouble sleeping for the past few days," you rubbed a hand over your temples.

"have you been alright?" dan heng swiftly turned to face you, all thoughts about the book forgotten.

"yeah," you rubbed your eyes, "i've been fine. you don't have to worry about me," you beamed through your drowsiness.

i always worry about you, he wanted to say.

"dictionary?" dan heng pulled out the book, emphasizing its thickness.

"words. perfect," you wiggled your eyebrows. you grabbed the book and flipped through a few pages. it's condition was pristine, as always.

"thanks, dan heng," you looked at the book and then looked back up to him, "hopefully i'll be able to sleep soon," you held onto the book tighter. for some reason, you wanted to stay in this room; stay with dan heng.

dan heng parted his lips, in awe of how you still look gorgeous even when you're exhausted, "no problem," he gulped, "if you need another way to sleep faster, i know a good herbal tea recipe."

"i might have to take you up on that offer one time," you smirked, "if you hear three knocks on your door, just know it's me."

dan heng laughed, "noted."

you waved goodbye and started walking out the door. you intentionally started walking slower than usual, in hopes dan heng would offer you tea right now. you didn't feel like going back to sleep, especially going back to sleep alone.

you stopped in your tracks. dan heng didn't move; he examined you, wondering if you forgot something or not.

"is it okay if i stay in here?" you turn back around, walking slightly closer to him, "i don't feel like falling asleep alone tonight."

dan heng raised his eyebrows in shock, facial expression slightly contorted, "i⎯uh. are you sure?"

hearing his reaction made you want to shrivel into your body. his confused tone made you worry, "um. yeah," you looked down at the floor, "unless you don't want me here. that's fine!" you looked back up at dan heng.

dan heng blushed at your disconcerted state, "no. you're welcome to stay if you'd like," you're welcome to stay all the time, "but my bed is uncomfortable. do you really want to stay in the archives?" he raised his eyebrows as a way to affirm your answer.

"oh!" your entire figure stood up, "i'll stay wherever you are, to be honest," you had no idea of the affect one sentence had on dan heng. while he was trying to hide his blush, you continued, "but if your bed is a problem, we'll just stay in my room."

"are you sure⎯" dan heng was cut off.

"yes," you vigorously nodded your head. "why else would i offer?" you wrapped your arm around his neck, "okay! let's move!"

dan heng keep rubbing his neck on the way to your room. when did it get so hot? luckily for him, he felt his warmth drain when he reached your room. it was freezing: definitely below (at least) 67 degrees. and then he noticed the heap of blankets lying on your bed, which explained so much.

"make yourself at home!" you waved your arms around, as if you were showing a grand prize. you flopped onto the bed and proceeded to wrap yourself in the blankets.

dan heng, on the other hand, chose to lay on top of the covers for two reasons. the first reason being, if he had gotten under the covers with you, he feared that he'd be too flustered to even face you. the second reason was he may burn up.

"are you gonna get under here?" you asked, shuffling around your mountain of blankets, "it gets really cold at night."

"i'll be fine. don't worry about me," he shrugged. as he tried to light the lamp on your nightstand, you grabbed his hand before he could turn it on.

"quoting me now?" you teased.

"i⎯" he paused. "i assure you, yn. i'll be fine," trying to hide his gaze from your eyes. your hand on his feels so blissful. your grip, so light and calming.

"and i assure you," you hold on tighter, "you're gonna be cold tonight. like, freezing. i saw your body react to when we came in here. you were about to shiver," you recognized his body language? "don't be stubborn. c'mon."

hesitantly, dan heng made his way under the covers. he could feel you next to him, your body radiating heat the blankets could not. unknowingly, he gravitated towards you, so much so that the two of you were touching knees.

"feel better now?"

"slightly, yes."

"you do," you dragged on the syllables in a sing-song way. you opened up the dictionary and began to read inside your head. well, struggling to read. it was dark and you insisted to not turn on the lights (it disrupts REM sleep, you said).

"give me that," dan heng grabbed the book out of your hands. though you try to protest, he holds the book out of your grasp.

while you try to reach for it, you end up sprawling yourself all over dan heng's body. at some point, you went from simply pressing your chest up against his to practically straddling him.

dan heng tried to take his mind off of your position; he focused on keeping the dictionary out of your hands. it was fun, teasing you. if his arm was standing in one place it would've been easier to reach, however, dan heng possessed a sense of agility you knew nothing of until tonight.

when you exhausted yourself in your efforts, you crashed down on top of dan heng. for someone who was (apparently) adept on dan heng's body language, you didn't notice how his chest was rising unevenly, how is breaths were more shallow and hitched. you concluded that his warmth occured from how many blankets were on top of him, and not the fact that you were practically centimeters away from his lips.

"how else am i supposed to sleep if i can't read," you mumbled in his ear, too worn out to talk at a normal volume.

dan heng tilted his face away from yours, scared that something would happen if he had gotten too close, "i'll read for you."

this time, you hauled yourself off of dan heng's body, now opting for leaning into his side, "how? you can't read in the dark either?" you leaned your head on your hand so you could look at dan heng. dan heng was grateful for the dark, otherwise, if not for the dark, you'd be able to see how red he was in the moment.

"i actually can," he opened the book, flipping through the pages to find the most boring words. you shook your head in disbelief; there was no way he could actually read in the dark (he could).

you shuffled through the blankets once more, trying to find the cold spot on the bed. the cold spot was nice, but it wasn't satisfactory, for you could not hear the sounds of dan heng's voice. so you leaned closer, resting your head on his shoulder yet again.

"quintessence: the most perfect or typical example of a quality or class," dan heng read out. you found that his voice started lulling you to sleep already.

"do you think people just make these words up and they just appear in the dictionary?" you slur out, consciousness slowly fading away.

dan heng softly chuckled, "maybe," he flipped through more pages, "tintinnabulation: a ringing or tinkling sound."

you laughed into his bicep, "are you sure you're not the person making these words up?"

dan heng wanted to sear your laughter into his skin, "i'm not. are you about to sleep yet?"

"i'm sleeping now," you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, "mimimimi⎯"

dan heng delicately smacked the dictionary on your face, "sleep," he stressed. when you moved yourself closer to dan heng, he couldn't help but pull you slightly closer. maybe it was the facade of exhaustion donning on him, or maybe it was because he wanted you closer.

as he felt your breathing slow and listened to you get less chatty, he knew you fell asleep. he set the dictionary aside and tilted his head down to look at you. how could one look so enchanting while sleeping? he carefully stroked your eyebrow, an endearment he used only for you, and pulled you closer into him.

when you two woke up in the morning, none of you dared to discuss how you were practically entangled and intertwined together.

bonus:

"i think that was the best sleep i've ever gotten," you laid on dan heng's shoulder. "your voice put me to sleep."

dan heng, trying to avoid even closer contact, "so are you saying my voice bores you?" he teases.

"what!?" you take your head off of his shoulder. though dan heng avoided the encounter, he wished for your head to come back down; he missed how his heart began to race with you near.

"no! your voice is just⎯ really peaceful. and calming. and nice," you try to explain yourself. when you see a slight smirk threatening to show on his face, you scowled. "it's too early for this," you playfully shoved him away from you, missing his smile on the way.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Qi Rong Transmitigation AU

I've been seeing a lot of people in the various mxtx fandoms posting their fic ideas in plot outline rambles and ya know what, that seems like a fun way to share some of my ideas that I'm not currently working on (and at the rate I write will never see the light of day otherwise)!! And who knows, maybe by sharing them, it'll spark more ideas and spiral into more plot info or even a full fic!! Asking me questions about a particular plot is a sure way to get me writing.

Anyway, so today's ridiculous plot ya'll get to hate me for is the newest one I came up with the other day!! Transmitigator Qi Rong!! (I was going to ramble about one of my many fengqing au's, but I was trying to pick one and then remembered that I hadn't written the Qi Rong/svsss plot out yet and-- yea, now we get cannibalism and violence instead!!)

Basically, the plot idea is that Qi Rong (who probably has a different name, but I haven't researched what to use instead yet... maybe something green?? The characters 绿色 lǜsè was the first thing that came up with the Chinese dictionary, so we'll go with that. His modern name was Qī Lǜsè) was from modern day and died reading tgcf, ya know, as you do. And he was really pissed off by Qi Rong's character in general because Reasons ™ (I'll decide later). Next thing he knows, he wakes up as a young Qi Rong, prior to Xian Le's fall, with a fancy system telling him to stick to the plot and stay in character!!

Now there are two ways we could go from here. One, Qi Rong can have a system similar to Shen Qingqiu's that allows the ooc feature to be unlocked after a certain point, but he has unavoidable plot points similar to the abyss, which would probably be the burning of Xie Lian's temples and/or the gilded banquet, that he has to follow through with or have his account terminated, i.e. die.

OR (and this is the one I've been brain rotting on because so. much. angst!! ...don't mind me I just like overdosing my fics on angst) Qi Rong is stuck with an asshole system that has decided he has to stay in character and cannot deviate too much from the main plot similar to Shang Qinghua's system. Just imagine!!

Qi Rong: but do I have to commit war crime atrocities?? A-System: yes ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡" Qi Rong: ...how 'bout I make it look like I'm doing war crimes and atrocities and then just.. don't? A-System: ( ¯ ³¯)♡ no Qi Rong: brb off to plot your murder A-System: (ó﹏ò｡)

I suppose the third route would be to find a middle ground where we get a-hole system AND ooc abilities, but I have yet to have the epiphany on how to marry the ideas.

I personally think the concept of Qi Rong's internal dialogue being a constant stream of "wtf" and "why am I doing this again" and somehow, inexplicably, against all expectations, being more chaotic than OG Qi Rong with meme references and random song breaks would be entertaining. Also, the bitch is absolutely going to argue with the system every chance he can get just to be petty.

I have a lot of other thoughts on this, but I'm going to end this post here before I accentually write another 5k summary at 3am. I'll continue this another day (￣^￣ )ゞ

[em1e]

ᶻz feat. toge + itadori + megumi !!

jjk && college tropes

☓ silly little college au's // insp from @k9wa my spinkle spoingle pumpkin pie's tr version

ᶻz・toge inumaki

⠀ ⬤ as the best damn tutor you’ve ever had

inumaki almost snickers when you all but throw your forehead against the table in the library, practically defeated by your ‘intro to anatomy and physiology' assignments. despite your clear distress, he taps the top of your head for your attention. with a huff, you barely sit up, chin resting on the polished wood with an angry red mark forming on your forehead. 

he points to the work again, typing out on his laptop to make it easier to explain. 

‘It’s easy once you realize the nervous system can be broken down to two different parts - the central nervous system and the peripheral nervous system.’

reading that makes you want to puke. 

“the way you typed that makes you sound like a dictionary.” you grimace. 

he smiles, one that has you flushing and looking away when he taps the hardcover textbook sitting open in front of him. you can hardly see it from the way you’re sitting, but just barely you’re able to make out highlighted text. the definition of nervous systems screaming at you in bright blue ink. 

“that feels like cheating when you explain it in just a slightly different way than the book.” you kick at his chair leg, but there’s no real intent to harm him in any way. he only hums, typing. 

‘It’s not cheating. I’m just using my resources.’

“using ‘em to make me look stupid,” you grumble, sitting up only to slump forward again with your head in your hands, “i’m hopeless, inumaki! i’m never gonna pass this stupid class and get my stupid degree.” 

you’re complaining just to complain at this point, too overwhelmed with too many classes and assignments and other things in life to do to really be so stressed over something you could easily have done in half an hour if you just stopped whining. 

if inumaki cares to unbox all that stress, he makes no move to show it, only typing away and nudging your foot when you don’t look up to read what he’s said. 

‘Let’s take a break and go to that cafe you like, then we can work through every assignment together.’ 

okay, maybe he does show it a little. 

“what about your assignments? i promised i’d help you make that diorama for your psychology class-” 

he’s waving you off while packing his bag, waiting to put his laptop away so you can still communicate. 

‘We’ll do it tomorrow. It’s not due for another two weeks.’ 

you puff out your cheeks, eyeing him. “you sure?” 

he sends you a thumbs up and that smile that leaves you practically melting in your chair, and that’s enough to encourage you to pack your stuff with a small grumble. 

“fine, but i’m buying.” 

you pull your wallet from your bag just to have it on hand, but he snatches it with a swiftness you never knew he had, sticking his tongue out at you and keeping it out of your reach when you swipe for it again. he shakes his head when you pout, shoving it into his jacket pocket and taking out his own to wave in front of you. like he’s taunting you, despite him being the only real loser for having to spend money on the both of you. 

“you’re no fair inumaki, how am i supposed to pay you back for tutoring me and buying me coffee?” 

he pulls out his phone to his notes app, typing for a second before facing it towards you. 

‘Maybe going on a date with me would be enough?’

you feel yourself flush, shoving his phone away as if that’d get rid of it, “o-okay, yeah, that sounds good. that sounds nice.” 

he smiles, offering you his hand to carry your bag for you, but takes it for himself when you don’t pass it over. then he’s grabbing your own hand, bold in his own way, to pull you out of the library when you’re still too surprised by his declaration to do any of it yourself.

ᶻz・yuji itadori 

⠀ ⬤ as the worst classmate to work on a project with

you felt doomed the second the words left your professors lips. 

“itadori and (y/n), you’ll be paired for the end of the semester presentation. what you’ll be graded on is in the syllabus, and . . . that should be it for pairings. class is dismissed.” 

your professor closes the book in his hand and everyone in the class begins to disperse, but you feel frozen at your desk with your head in your hands. 

fifty percent of your grade sits woven into this presentation, and you’ve been  paired with the one person in class you didn’t want. even megumi would’ve been better! at least you know he’d do his part! 

someone taps your desk, and you jump, looking at whoever saw it fit to disrupt your clear mental breakdown. 

“hi!” your presentation partner smiles down at you, cheerful and happy and god you hate to say attractive, “looks like we’re partners!” 

“yeah!” you force a smile, shoving your notebook into your bag with a little more hostility than necessary, “let me get your number and we can talk about the details of the assignment-” 

you flinch when he thrusts his phone in front of you, and it leaves him smiling sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, “sorry, ‘m not used to doing projects without megumi or nobara. i’ll do my best to help you!” 

the way he says it sounds so genuine, you almost feel bad for judging him so harshly. almost, if not for the warnings your friends in other classes told you about him and his group. that they’d do the barest minimum of work, questioned everything the other wrote, and all but argue over each slide in simple presentations. still, the way he looks at you reminds you of a puppy, cute and nonthreatening. you’ll take his promise with a grain of salt. 

you offer a real smile to match his, “it’s okay, we’ll work on it together.” and take his phone to enter your number, sending yourself a text so you can save it. 

and he does make due on his promise. hell, he’s done more than you when it comes to adding slides, and you only have to fact check him a handful of times! it’s honestly such a shock, practically gaping when you opened the slides for the first time to see it was almost done before you’d even had a chance to add anything yourself. 

still, you do your part, and you have a respectable presentation finished almost two months before it’s even due! 

you invite itadori out for ice cream to celebrate. he joins you only five minutes after you’ve been waiting, and the two of you stroll around campus to find a nice place to relax after you’ve acquired your goods. 

“i have to admit something.” he says when a nice silence washes over the two of you, ice cream long gone. you sit up from your lying position in the grass you’d settled in. itadori has that same sheepish look from when he’d greeted you officially for the first time, hand rubbing the back of his neck and smiling. 

“oh god, what is it.” he winces at your sudden dramatics, afraid you’ll actually be upset for what he’s about to spill to you. 

“i . . . didn’t do the whole presentation on my own.” he looks down, dejected and waiting for your barrage of insults he’s sure you’ll throw his way. 

“well yeah, i helped.” you say as if stating the obvious. which is partly true, he guesses, but not what he’s getting at. 

“no i- oh god, this is embarrassing to admit. i wanted to impress you so i had one of my friends help me put together a super cool presentation so you’d like me.” he flushes at the confession, leaving out the fact that he had to pay maki an embarrassing amount of money to help him. 

and he expects you to berate him, or ask him why he’d do something so stupid, but instead the air is filled with your laughter. 

“you didn’t have to do all that to impress me.” you say when you’re dwindled down to giggles, “you’re a pretty cool guy, i think i would’ve folded if you just asked me out.” 

his blush spreads to his chest, but his smile only grows, “i wish i knew that before i gave away all the credits on my food card.” 

ᶻz・megumi fushigiro

⠀ ⬤ as your favorite person to skip class with

you get the text while walking to your literature course, almost missing it to avoid being late. 

want 2 hang?

you stop dead in your tracks, offering half-hearted apologies when you realize you’re in other people’s way in order to reply. 

i have class. 

he should know you do, given the fact that you shared your schedule with him and even tried to sync some overlapping classes together, with the hopes that you’d get to hang out in between certain times. 

me 2. wanna get lunch?

you almost laugh, shaking your head to no one in particular. you are ahead in the course, and you rarely miss days for this class anyways. what’s the real harm in skipping just once? 

sure, meet u in the cafeteria? 

u know it. 

with a hum, you turn on your heel in the opposite direction, fingers crossed that your dear friend megumi would be willing to pay for your meal using his dad’s credit card. 

you spot him fairly easily once entering the cafeteria, sitting at the table you normally eat at, and greet him with a smile. 

“hey.” you sit down, placing your bag to your side and taking out your wallet with a hum. 

“hi,” he pushes one of the three items he has towards you, and you pause when you realize he’s already gotten you food. your favorite, no less, “how were your other classes today?” 

“you’re too good to me, megumi,” you almost drool, saying a quick thanks before diving into the meal, “they were okay, mostly just reviewing old stuff.” 

you pause for a second, eyeing him, “isn’t the class you’re skipping the only one you have today?” 

he nods, too busy eating his own food to reply. 

“what was the point of even coming today?” you laugh, flicking a packet of silverware at him, “why didn’t you just wait til’ after class? we could’ve eaten then.”

he shrugs, swallowing what’s in his mouth, “cafeteria would’ve been closed by then.” 

he says it like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and you can’t stop the giggles that pass your lips, instead covering your mouth with your hand as if that’d hide them. 

“we could’ve gone somewhere off campus, now both of us are gonna be behind.” 

megumi seems unbothered at this, but you’re sure he has someone in class to grab notes from. probably itadori, if he promises to take him out to eat sometime during the week. still, he takes a moment to reply to instead enjoy the food he’s eating. 

“if i did, we wouldn’t get to hang out for as long.” 

you roll your eyes, deciding to not bring up how the two of you spend literally every other day together, “we still could’ve hung out after class, feels like a waste that you came here for one thing and didn’t even go to it.” 

“‘s’not a waste if i’m hanging out with you.” he says casually, taking another bite. 

you’d almost blush if not for the fact he has ketchup smeared against the side of his lip. it makes you smile, reaching over with a napkin to wipe it off his face and he hums at the familiarity. you’re glad the class you skipped is your last for the day, knowing megumi means knowing he’d easily convince you to forgo any others you might’ve had in favor of spending time with him. 

he must pick up on the idea of you having a soft spot for him, because he takes each minute of your time in stride. deciding the hangout shouldn’t end at just lunch, he persuades you to join him at his dorm - it really didn’t take much from him, the offer of watching a movie with snacks provided leaving prettily from his lips being all you really need to say yes, and the day ends with you curled up beside him on his bed, ignoring the way itadori gushes at the two of you together in favor of watching the movie from megumi’s laptop.

[artificial-transmutations]

Two sides of the same coin - Buddies

"Yoooo Pete!", Tom shouted across the whole gym floor. He had just spotted his workout partner and waved.

"Hey! What's up?", Peter called back from where he was working out.

Tom walked towards him, wearing only his red gym shorts, showing off his toned body. Both of them would qualify for the dictionary entry of "jock": Both were young men in their twenties who met over their obsession with working out, drinking and picking up girls. Tom was the larger one of them both and had medium length blonde dyed hair, while Peter was half a head shorter and not quite as bulky as Tom. Still, both of them had definitely bodies that turned a lot of heads - and they knew that well.

"Are you doing anything later?", Tom asked the other jock after they had said hello with a short hug. Emphasis was on short, of course, since neither of them wanted to come across as gay.

"I don't think so," replied Peter. "Why?"

"Care for a post-workout beer?" suggested Tom.

"Sure." Peter responded, "But we will have to earn that first!"

"Yeah, let's go work out some more then," agreed Tom enthusiastically.

The workout was long and intense, with Tom and Peter spotting for each other in tandem. Back in the locker room, as Peter was waiting for Tom to finish his shower - the gym showers were pretty small and there was a mutual understanding between them that they would absolutely not shower together, that was gay shit - he spotted something on the floor under a bench. Curious, he bent down and picked it up: It was an old coin that looked like a silver dollar or maybe even a quarter.

"Nice", he said to himself and pocketed the coin, not realizing it vanished once he put it in his pocket. Tom finished his shower quickly afterwards and they both headed for Tom's apartment. It was close to the gym and a good place to enjoy a beer.

As usual, when they entered the apartment, it was sparkly clean. Both buddies were neat-freaks, and it was way easier to bring home girls that way. Peter flopped down on the designer couch and looked expectantly at Tom. "You mentioned beer?"

"Yeah, sure," Tom answered, going into the kitchen and opening the fridge door. He pulled out two bottles of cold beer and handed one bottle to Peter. "Cheers!" They clinked their bottles and took a sip.

Peter liked this kind of beer very much: It wasn't too bitter but still full of flavor. "So how are things with your new neighbor?", he made casual conversation. "The hot one", he added for not-needed clarification.

Tom smiled. "She's nice," he said, taking another swig of his beer. "Aaand really hot. Did I mention she left her door open while changing last week when I came home? She didn't seem to care if anyone saw..."

"Wow!", exclaimed Peter in disbelief. "And you're telling me you haven't fucked her yet?"

"Well, no... But I'm planning to." He took another sip of his beer before going on: "I mean, have you looked at her boobs? Just the right size!"

Peter had felt horny since they exited the gym, and his buddies graphic description didn't make things better. He tried to casually readjust himself to hide his boner. "They're nice, yeah. But what about the ass?" He asked curiously.

Tom nodded, thinking about her tight little bubble butt. "Yeah, she has a great booty. And she's got a killer rack, too."

God, Peters cock was throbbing. What was wrong? A little dirty talk didn't usually excite him so much. He reached down to his groin to readjust himself again, shivering slightly as he touched his cock through his shorts. His friends' comments made him feel strangely aroused, almost as if he would get a hardon just from looking at her.

"What is it with you today?", Tom finally asked, noticing the change in his friend's demeanor before suddenly laughing. "Are you having a boner, dude?"

"Yeah," admitted Peter, feeling embarrassed by the sudden realization of his erection. "It's your fault, talking about that hot babe."

"So, you're saying", continued Tom, laughing, "I am giving you a stiff one? No homo, man!"

Peter laughed nervously and looked away, trying to hide his hard-on. "Shut up, dude!"

But it was no use. His cock was harder than it ever was, and it was aching to be touched. He looked at Tom. They didn't have that kind of relationship, but he *needed* to touch himself now. Excusing himself to the bathroom would be even more embarrassing. So, he just fished out his leaking rod out of his shorts and mumbled "God, sorry, I hope you don't mind." as he slowly began to stroke himself.

"Dude! What the fuck!? Are you jerking off?! Do that at home!" Tom shouted, shocked by what he saw. He couldn't believe his best friend was doing that in front of him. He wanted to say more, but there was something else catching his eye: On the right arm that Peter was using to jerk his cock, he could see some hair growing in. Just a light coating, but clearly visible. Usually, Peter was well groomed, just like himself. His left arm followed suit.

"Dude! You're getting hairy!" Tom exclaimed, even though that adjective was really far from true yet. Peter looked down on the arm Tom pointed at, without stopping his slow jerking. Tom was right, this coating of hair hadn't been there before. As he looked to his legs, he could see the same thing happening there. For some perverse reason, this only served to make him even more horny. He moaned, as another spurt of precum wetted his hand.

"Dude, are you okay? Why are you fucking jerking yourself off in front of me?" Tom asked concernedly. He felt bad for his friend who seemed to be getting turned on by his own body changes. A small diamond patch of dark hair had now appeared on his friends chest and he could see small bushes of hair growing in under his armpits. That was when Tom smelled it. The manly smell of musk and sweat, coming from Peter. His armpits were damp from sweat, as this new smell only turned him on even more.

"Oh God Tom, I'm so sorry, but... I... You...", With a defeated grunt, Peter grabbed his buddies head with his right hand and forced it between his legs, and over his cock.

At first, Tom was surprised, before he tried to resist. It was no use, however. Even though Tom was supposed the stronger one of them both, Peter had his hand firmly at the back of Toms head and pressed him into his groin. Peters cock, which was slick with pre rubbed against his mouth which he kept closed at all costs.

"Come on!" Peter whined, increasing the force even more. "I need someone to suck me off here."

"I'm not..." Tom began to answer, only to recognize his mistake right after. As he opened his mouth to answer, Peters cock was pushed inside. He could taste the salty flavor of Peter's precum on it and almost gagged. He wanted to byte, but somehow didn't find the strength for it. He let out a soft involuntary moan instead as Peter's cock slipped deeper into his throat until it hit his tonsils.

Meanwhile, Peter noticed a visible trail of black hair running across his previously hairless cobblestone abs. He felt really bad basically face-fucking his workout buddy, but he just couldn't restrain himself. He *needed* to bob his bros head up and down his cock with his strong paw. As more and more hair grew in on his belly, he felt his body filling up more and more. His muscles were joined by a substantial layer of fat, giving him a burlier look by the second. At the same time, his smell intensified further, filling up Toms apartment.

Meanwhile, Tom was undergoing a change of his own. Every passing second, he felt weaker and weaker, his body visibly shrinking in on itself. It didn't help that his nostrils were simultaneously attacked by the increasingly intense stink of Peter and his large pubic bush that was growing in either. He was being used, and he hated every second of it, but found himself powerless to do anything about it.

Where Peters stink reached the apartment, it began to change, subtly at first, then increasingly fast: The designer couch became a cheap red leather sofa. In the kitchen, dirty pans and plates were piling up, a patina of dust and grime covered the surfaces. It looked like a wardrobe exploded over the room, as dirty laundry scattered over the floor, adding to the stale and stinky air with the same aroma that Peter was emitting full force now. If anything, this only served to excite him more. While his left hand went through his beard and his dense pelt of body hair, he grabbed more and more of Toms shrinking body with his right hand and pressed it into his groin, not caring that it changed into a wooly cloth like material that had seen much, much better days already. It was ripped and ragged, stained by numerous stains of various sources. Mainly, of course, cum, but also pre, sweat and even the occasional bit of piss that had leaked into Toms fabric body.

The cum rag that was once Tom was fully aware of everything happening to it. It could still taste and smell, all across its filthy fabric body, and was forced to absorb another huge load of cum that Peter shot into it, even though it was still damp from the previous one.

Panting, Peter threw the used cum rag onto a pile of clothing on the floor. He didn't care that his hairy body was crusty with dried up cum or that he stank like a cave man. Taking a shower was not a concept the new Peter needed, he was a real man after all.

If you're a fan of the theme, check out my other two sides of the same coin stories!

[aphroditestearsofjoy]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 📜

Before my new schoolyear starts I want to write a guide on how I am going to keep up with all my subjects. I will also include my study habits for this year, since they make sure I have the time and mindset in order to properly study.

𝕊𝕥𝕦𝕕𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕤:

🪷 I prelearn for every subject (except old Greek and Latin). That means I study the concepts before class, so I can use class for revision and ask all my questions.

🪷 Make a week overview of what needs to be done, then decide every morning what schoolwork to focus on. This way it's easier to adjust to unexpected plans.

🪷 When summarizing, I make sure I understand everything that I write down. If I don't, I will search for more information until I can explain it in my own words!

🪷 Nothing gets me in the mood to study, like making tea. I will make herbal tea or a matcha latte while grabbing everything I need to study after school.

𝕃𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟/ 𝕆𝕝𝕕 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕜:

🪷 The last few years I haven't studied a lot of words, to make up for it, I want to pay a little bit of extra attention to studying words. If I know more words, translating will go way easier since I won't have to search up every word in the dictionary. On school days and Sundays, I will study words for 10 minutes a day for either old Greek or Latin. I will study the words using Studygo (huge recommendation for other Dutch folks).

🪷 Another thing I lack with both subjects is my knowledge about grammar. And this is a HUGE problem while doing homework, translating texts and for finishing tests on time. I know how to use grammar, but I don't know most of it by heart. So I will study grammar for 10 minutes a day for both subjects on schooldays and Sundays until I've caught up. From then on, I will only occasionally memorize grammar. Studying grammar consists of literary saying it aloud like some song or poem until I know it well enough and then writing it down way too many times.

🪷 I also want to practise translating more. Since this is the most important skill for both subjects and I haven't done most of my work for the past years, I will make up for it by practising easier texts. Every Sunday, I will translate an extra paragraph for each subject that I will let my teachers correct the following Monday. I will do this until I am satisfied with my translating abilities.

🪷 This year I want to make all my homework for old Greek and Latin. Past years I skipped most of the work, and now I notice that I need more practise. I will study a few days before a test, but nothing more.

𝕄𝕒𝕥𝕙:

🪷 I love maths (controversial opinion, I know). But I believe that when you understand maths, you will love it! But how do you understand it? You should memorize the basics. When you study about a specific topic, watch or read an explanation and make notes. Make sure to make space in the notes for the basics, like concepts you've already learned that has a connection with your new topic. In order to make sure I know how to properly use the topic, I will solve or write down the solution of a practise question next to an explanation as to who I took that step. If I were to get really lost later on, I can follow these steps, but with the new question. Then the most important thing: Practise a lot! Even if it's hard at first. The more problems you solve, the more problems you get. You don't want to waste time when you don't know what to do. So read the question and start thinking what you need to do to solve it. If you genuinely don't have an any idea, look at the solution. But, you won't just look at the solution, you will study it, you look at the steps they take and ask yourself with every step why they took that specific step. When you are done studying the answer, make the question again. I personally write down the questions I struggled with most, to practise them again for my exam!

ℙ𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕔𝕤:

🪷 Physics is my favourite and one of my best subjects. I always start out with summarizing the concepts in my own words. The biggest problem I have with physics is understanding all the concepts that I can use them together. To make sure I get everything, I summarize. The parts I do not understand, I will watch a video about. Then I start with making exercises, I will look through the exercises and make at least one about every concept. I will make more about the concepts that didn't go well, until I get them right. To prepare for tests, I read through my summary and make lots of practise questions. I will revise everything that didn't go well and remake the questions that went wrong.

ℂ𝕙𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕪:

🪷 When studying chemistry, I mainly try to focus on practise. I would start out with reading the learning outcomes and then actively the entire text. I mark thing I find important, write the questions down that come to mind when reading, and connect information. Then I make a small summary in the format of a mind map. I write down only the most important concepts. Then I start making a lot of exercises about the concept, until I can do them comfortably and without mistakes. Afterwards, I make flashcards using the learning outcomes. By doing this afterwards I make sure I know the best way to answer, and with chemistry lots of question come up while doing the work. When studying for a test, I use the flashcards and remaking the questions I struggled most with.

𝔻𝕦𝕥𝕔𝕙:

🪷 This year I'm preparing for my Dutch finals. To work on my skill, I mainly have to make past finals. I really want to make a summary about all the concepts that come back on the finals. But other that, we mainly have exercises that I can't prepare in advance for. I do really want to expand my vocabulary, because it makes me feel fancy. I should start reading the news more, that way I will also be more informed about the world.

𝔼𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕙:

🪷 This year I am taking a Cambridge English exam. My goal is to score a C-Level (advanced). In order to do this I must work on my grammar, vocabulary, writings and listening. I will tackle each property with a guide on how to get better at them.

🪷 My grammar is pretty good, my only problem. I don't know the actual rules. When writing, having a grammatical correct structure kind of happens on its own. Most of the time, that's very helpful, but when I have to point out mistakes in high quality or older texts, I can't. In order to work on this, I would recommend using an actual book. The one I'm starting out with this year is "Advanced Grammar in Use with Answers' from Martin Hewings. I will work through it by reading the theory, using it on my own, and then making the exercises in the book.

🪷 To expand my vocabulary I will write down new words I see when interacting with English content and books and study them. The goal is to learn 30 words a week. I will add all the words to an anki list, so that I can keep practising older words.

🪷 During the proficiency exam it's expected from you that you are able to write formal letters, essays, reports and reviews. To practise, I will write one of these a week and ask my teacher for feedback. I will also use the writing site from Cambridge, where they I've you a writing a prompt, and you can submit your text and let them corrected by professionals. For people who are not able to ask their teacher for help, I would recommend using ChatGPT. Although this is not ideal, it will still help you improve.

🪷 By listening to a daily podcast in English, I will practise my listening skills. It's very important to practise your English listening skills without visual guidance. Of course watching movies will help you improve, but if you want to improve in the shortest amount of time, you need to listen to audios.

ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:

🪷 I personally find history one of the easiest subjects to study. I study history by chapter and not by paragraph. I always read through the entire chapter and then make a timeline with all the information. So I will include all the concepts, names and everything else in my timeline. Then I will study it by talking through it like I am teaching someone. Every time I miss something while explaining, I will memorize it again. I write down all the most important concepts down a few times, so I will remember how they are spelled and don't make any mistakes on my test! I don't make many exercises since they don't really help me that much. But if I have the time and energy, I make a few of the questions that were asked on previous finals.

𝔹𝕚𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕪:

🪷 Biology is a very information heavy subject, and I find that it's pretty easy to get lost in all the concepts. I have a pretty strict guide for myself, so I can study biology in the least amount of time. I will start out by reading the learning outcomes for the paragraph, so I know what the most important things are. Then I start actively reading through the paragraph. I mark thing I find important, write the questions down that come to mind when reading, and connect information. Afterwards, I will summarize everything in a mind map. Not just one mind map for every chapter, but one for every group of concepts that fit together well. These mind maps are very big and have all the relevant information, that's why you should minimize the amount of topics on a mind map, because otherwise it won't fit. Then I make the most important exercises and start studying the summaries by pretending that I'm giving a presentation about them, everything that I forget to mention I will memorize again. The day before the test, I will write down the explanation of all the learning outcomes from memory and correct them. Lastly, l review all the concepts that I lacked in.

Be sure to like, comment and reblog! If you like my content, consider buying me a book. <3 Sending you all the love, ~ Pearl 🐚

[ros3ybabe]

Current Japanese Study Routine + Resources 🎀

As you all may know, I am currently self studying Japanese and Spanish, though I am putting Spanish on the back burner for now so I can focus more on Japanese as that is where my passion lies at the moment. Lucky for me, there is a Japanese language and culture club on my university campus that I am (hopefully) going to join next week or the week after, given how busy my schedule ends up being. I thought I’d make a little post about my current routine that I use to study and what resources I am currently using and am planning on purchasing to use in order to build my proficiency in this beautiful language!

Current Resources 🩷

Apps - I am currently playing around with several apps to see which ones work for me, so here is all the apps I currently have downloaded to my iPad/phone

Duolingo - this has been a go to for all language I’ve ever tried to learn, it’s useful for me as a basic introduction to vocabulary, sentence structure, some grammar, and I just like how it involves typing, speaking, listening, and reading.

Drops - this one is just a fun little 5 minutes gamified way to learn vocabulary for me, it’s definitely a go to on my lazier language learning days

Bunpo - I like this for learning the kana but I didn’t realize it costs money to use fully so I am debating purchasing a subscription to the paid version

Write Japanese - this one I’m using to learn the correct stroke order for the kana and I like it for the most part

Renshuu - I just signed in to use this one last night and it looks interesting. I’ve seen it recommended by several blogs and even when google searching language learning and watching YouTube videos so I’m excited to try it out!

NHK for School - I saw someone recommend this on their blog and I remember using the website version in the past so I know this will be helpful when it comes to reading

Jisho - this is a dictionary app that I’ve seen recommended on so many platforms and I’m always open to a good dictionary!

Japanese - this one was recommended on a blog post and it allows you to add vocabulary and interesting phrases so I thought it’d be useful once I start on learning sentence structure and grammar

Italki - this one is the one I’m most excited to use. It connects you to people who speak and teach your target language for a set timed lesson, and it does cost money but you pay by lesson, not on a subscription basis. So if you do one lesson the first week and then another lesson in three weeks or something, you only pay for those two lessons. I’m really looking forward to trying this one out in the future once I get more comfortable with speaking.

Anki - a flash card app I am using to currently learn hiragana and will soon use for katakana and eventually kanji and phrases. I was gonna use Quizlet but I ended up liking this one better for my current needs.

LingoDeer, Memrise, Babbel, HiNative, HelloTalk, Hey Japan, Busuu, Kanji, Kana, Sensei - apps that I have and have not tried yet. I really like the ones I’ve already tried so I’m not sure if I’m going to use these ones soon but if I get bored of current apps than I at least have alternatives to turn to to continue learning

Textbooks/Workbooks/Materials - I currently own two workbooks but will include the resource I am planning on buying, as well as any stationery material I am also using!

Japanese for Busy People I - This was the workbook we had for the Japanese class I took at my university while in high school. My dad ended up buying it for me if I promised not to take Japanese classes once I went to college. (My parents don’t believe it is useful to know and they are helping pay for my education so I didn’t have a choice.) I haven’t started reusing it yet but once I am comfortable with the kana then I will resume using it.

Let’s Learn Katakana - this is a katakana writing book my older brother bought for me (he is supportive of everything I have an interest in even if he doesn’t understand it himself) and it is really useful for learning and practicing writing katakana. However I am still focusing on relearning hiragana so I will return to this workbook after I solidify my hiragana knowledge.

Genki I and Genki II textbook/workbook + answer key bundle - I am planning to buy this off of Amazon as I have heard from most people who are learning Japanese on their own that this set is really useful for self studying so of course I am going to invest in it once I get paid next week.

I am also looking for a hiragana, katakana, and kanji writing workbook to practice those skills.

Free Online Resources -

YouTube!

Anime!

Music

Manga

Anything free I can find online when google searching resources

Stationary Supplies -

Kokuyo Campus Smart Ring Binder in pink

Tombow Fudenosuke Brush Pens in black

Index cards

Pilot g-2 fashion pens

Zebra mild liner highlighter/markers

Papermate Mechanical Pencils

Mini notebook to carry around for vocabulary

My iPad + Apple Pencil + Goodnotes 5

My Chromebook

A lot of resources but I am trying to stick with this for the long term. A few years ago, I self studied Japanese everyday for about 2 years and gained a good understanding but fell off from studying Japanese when I went to university.

My Current Study Routine* 🎀

*when I have more than 30 minutes to study, if I only have 30 minutes or less I just mess around on my language apps

I currently do not use any workbooks or textbooks as I am trying to re familiarize myself with the language. Here’s my current study routine!

Practice Anki flashcards 3 times or until I get 85-90% correct

Practice hiragana writing in Write Japanese app (~10min)

Duolingo lessons for 10 minutes

1 Japanese language Drops lesson

Use Renshuu until I get bored (~10-15min)

Watch an episode of anime as a reward (Japanese audio with English subtitles)

I will switch this up to a more structured way of studying once I start using my textbooks and workbooks, but for now this relaxed style of learning is working for me time wise and attention wise (ADHD brain right here).

I also listen to Japanese music throughout the day and try to recall hiragana characters correctly in my head when I have the time. I also sneak in some practice when at work on my apps and whatnot. I mentioned in my last daily check in some of my favorite Japanese artists, and I also love Japanese versions of K-pop songs too! I’m currently watching Bungou Stray Dogs on crunchyroll right now, and I’m open to any recommendations for what to watch next!

If anyone has any language learning tips or resources they’d want to share, feel free to comment! It would be greatly appreciated!

Til next time my lovelies 🩷🤍

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for asking out my manager?

Hi there. Trust me this is a WIBTA and not just dating advice.

So I (35F) am basically working at my dream workplace. I cant say what exactly, because I know people follow this account there, but suffice to say its in a desirable industry with a lot of passionate folks, and while its a big (~150 people) place, there's an atmosphere of kindness and joy I've never seen anywhere else. I know a lot of you probably hate me for this, but I am truly aware how rare a workplace this is, and I am grateful. I dont take it for granted. Sometimes the work itself truly sucks, and the pay is outright atrocious, but when your coworkers have your back, it makes all the difference. They accept me even tho I'm trans, and when I've been sick or injured they make sure I'm taken care of. I feel like they are a family of sorts, and I've been working there for over a year now.

Anyways, this wonderful place is held up by a lot of wonderful people, but one in particular is my manager (30F). When I first got hired, I noticed she was cute, but more importantly she was welcoming and accepting. I set aside those feelings, of course, because its a workplace, but they havent gone away.

But lately, this all started to change. We now spend a lot of talking! We have lots of common interests, and there have been nights when both of us will stay for HOURS while the other works, just to chat about whatever! We even text a bit, even about not-work things. Sharing fandom stuff, whatever. The more and more we talked, the more I fell for her. I could hear her go on for days, even if its something I dont care about. Hell, she could read the dictionary and I'd be sitting there grinning because I get to hear her talk. I've got it bad! And then, a few weeks ago, she even brings up how she's given up on dating...but before I could ask more or say anything really, a coworker interrupted and the moment passed.

And here I am, weeks later, smitten like crazy. And I'd say "oh she obviously likes me, she sticks around for you, shares stuff with you" but she's like this with everyone. She's a bit airheaded honestly about it, I mostly find it endearing, but she could absolutely just be doing it because she talks like that to everyone. She's bisexual, and very pro-trans, so I dont think that would be an issue in any way.

But here's where the WIBTA part comes: I have told a couple other coworkers, and they brought up not only that its a dangerous move to date a manager, but also that it could hurt the workplace itself. I mean, this is a place where so many people get to have a joyful opportunity at life, and as I've said this is tremendously rare...what if I take up too much of this manager's time, and she cant be there for other workers? What if this manager gets fired for dating an underling, and gets replaced by someone awful? There's a whole lot of what-if's floating through my mind.

And then I start thinking, if I ask her out, wouldnt that be putting her in an awkward position? I mean if she doesnt like me, and has to turn me down, she still has to work with me, and I her. I can compartmentalize that, but...she might have more trouble. Is it selfish of me to even try, when I could just let well enough be? And on top of that, what did she mean by "giving up on dating"? It didnt sound like she was aromantic, just that she decided it wont happen, but maybe its just going to be a problem if I ask her out. It feels like the stakes of even asking her out are so high. So I keep chatting with her in hopes that I'll catch a lead, but...idk.

Anyways, I am primarily concerned with if it would be a dick move to anyone in my workplace, especially her, but genuinely I am just lost here. I've never dated anyone at a workplace, but like. The dating apps suck, and I dont think I've ever felt this way about anyone before. I've even thought about quitting or finding another workplace to make it an easier decision, but I feel like thats even worse; like it would put pressure on her to date me because I quit for her or something. So how about it? Should I keep my mouth shut, or is love truly worth all risks?

What are these acronyms?

[the-forbidden-pookie]

Little blunder

College AU

Tw: SFW, can be read as gender neutral tho written with a fem reader in mind, fluff.

Pairing: Dan Heng x Reader.

--------------------------------------------------

You pull up in front of the apartment complex and slowly get off your bike. You take out your phone, swipe past the 99+ notifications from every group chat you're in and go straight to Dan Heng's contact.

The last messages there were "Hey, I think I have a crush on someone and need advice" and his reply, "wanna talk about it after tutoring tomorrow?"

You type "Here", then quickly make your way up the stairs. With any luck, he's just woken up -today was his day off- and still hasn't seen any messages about this morning's... fiasco.

You reach his apartment door just as he unlocks it, probably after he heard you approach, and give him a quick greeting, closing the door behind you as you enter.

"So," he starts, "should we focus on History or Chinese literature today?" He asks, still under the impression you're here for your regular tuesday afternoon tutoring sessions. Then... He doesn't know yet. Ok, that's good.

"Actually..." You start slowly, gathering your courage to just be done with it. Come on, I can do this! You think, attempting to pump yourself up. "I'm here to borrow something" You lie instead... Hm. Maaaaybe I can't do this ...

"Of course you are," An eye roll. "what do you need this time? A dictionary? A calculator? Or am I a living dictionary, calculator, and thesaurus all in one?" Had things been normal you would've probably laughed.

"Well you see..." You glance around his apartment nervously, and say the first thing that comes to mind. "I kinda need your dish washer?" You try, and proceed to mentally facepalm. Really?! His dishwasher?!

He narrows his eyes in clear confusion. "You need... my dish washer?" He repeats. "What do you want a dish washer for? You don't even cook?" He sighs.

"If you're planning on borrowing stuff that's mine, then just ask. No need to make stupid excuses like needing my dish washer, of all things. I am your friend, you know that, right?"

"Ahahaha the school population might disagree at the moment." You reply nervously.

"..." He gives you another confused look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You take a deep breath. "Soooo you know how I've been volunteering to help out the broadcasting club? With equipment maintenance and such?"

He nodded, though now he just looks more confused.

"Right um, about a month ago, I found a club member crying alone after a bad breakup... To comfort him I told him he was a great guy, that anybody would be lucky to-"

"Didn't you already tell me all that?" He interrupted quickly, probably sensing you were still stalling.

"Right, right, just making sure you remember." You answer smoothly enough.

"So anyways, that guy may or may not have asked me out for the school dance?" You pause, gauging his reaction, but he turned his usual pokerface back on, and it gives away nothing.

"Uh? Congratulations?" Realizing he won't say anything more, you move on for now. "No, no. I didn't agree or anything," you say quickly. "Instead I uh, may have rejected him by saying I have a boyfriend, and when he insisted I was lying, I maaaaayyyyyy havesaiditwasyou?" You rush through the last part as your nerves get the best of you.

"..." There's silence in the room as Dan Heng stares at you, processing what you'd just said. He swallows and takes a deep breath. "You. Did. What?" His words are measured.

"I panicked? I'm sorry!"

"Panic led you to name-drop me as your non-existent boyfriend?" He asks with a hint of irritation.

"Well that's because I was thinking about you-" You say before you could think better of it, and by the time your hand slaps your mouth shut it was already too late.

A small smile spreads across his face. The first unguarded reaction you'd seen him make since the beginning of this conversation. "Really?" He asks. "Did you... did I happen to cross your mind as you rejected that person?" He looks at you, his eyes narrowed in amusement.

You blush. HARD. "Well- I- I mean! Yes! of course because-" You think of a quick lie "-because I needed to return your..." You slide your hand into your pocket, pull out the first thing you find, a chewing gum packet he'd given you the day before and say "The- This...?" You end Lamely.

He shakes his head, smiling. "Nice try," he says, "but there's something else on your mind. You're bad at lying." He puts his hands on his waist and smirks.

"Now, tell me the truth. Why did you name me?"

You sigh, utterly defeated... As expected of Dan Heng "Well, I guess I wanted to ask you out to the school dance? I- I've been meaning to finally tell you today but then that guy came out of nowhere and asked me to go with him and I just- welp." You shrug.

He raises a brow "Wait... am I... your crush?" He asks, not believing the question. "It's me, isn't it? Huh." He tilts his head, a bit confused and amused.

"But... why? Why would you be into me? I'm literally the definition of a nerd," he says while glancing over to his desk, cluttered with books and his gaming build.

You jump at the opportunity to tease him "What's this Dan Heng? Are you fishing for compliments?" You ask slyly, hoping to make him blush so it wouldn't be just you.

His ears immediately turn red. "No, I'm serious," he says, "Why me?" He looks at you with a puzzled look, then says, "I mean, I'm flattered, but I don't get it. Out of all the boys in class, why me? Not that I'm complaining, mind you," he chuckles.

A small win for me! He went blushy blushy! You giggle to yourself. "Well what's there not to like? You're always there for me, be it calling me first thing in the morning to make sure I'm awake for classes or tutoring me so I understand the material, you even cook extra portions of food for me because I am not um... adept in the kitchen. Like how thoughtful is that? Honestly how could I possibly not fall for you?" By now you've completely run out of breath.

Dan Heng's cheeks are flushed pink. I can die happy now "Y-You... you're actually serious?" He asks, feeling a wave of relief and joy wash over him. "Because I... I feel the same about you. You're so... you're the sweetest, kindest, most considerate person I've ever met, (Y/N). You're always helping people, even in things completely unrelated to your own life... I mean, broadcasting equipment maintenance? You had to learn a completely new skill just to help them with that."

He took a deep breath, seemingly steadying himself, then continued.

"And... I just have this feeling whenever I'm with you, my heartbeat quickens and my stomach turns in a flutter. Do you... do you feel the same?" This was probably the most honest and vulnerable he's ever been with you.

You smile brightly. "Yes! And I'm ecstatic you do too!!!"

He smiles as well and nods. "When's the dance, again?" He asks. "And how should we tell our friends that we're dating, now that I've said yes to your... confession?"

"If it even is called a confession?" He mumbles in amusement.

"Ah yeah about that..." You smile sheepishly, debating how to break this one to him.

"What... what is it, (Y/N)?" He tilts his head in curiosity. "Tell me. I don't bite," he teases.

"Sooo, remember how this whole thing started in the broadcasting room? Remember how March uhhh... Sometimes forgets the mic open?"

Dan Heng's eyes widen. "No way."

"Hahah... Yeahhhh." You fish your phone out of your back pack, unlock it and pick a random group chat. Sure enough, the chosen conversation topic is still the "Broadcasted failure of a confession LMAO!!" You hand him your phone, let him scroll through the messages, knowing he probably doesn't bother to even join most of these group chats.

"Huh," he starts, "aren't they being a bit... Harsh on this gu- wait." His eyes narrowed. "What does Jing Yuan mean by 'he was being a total creep??'" he asks alarmed, now looking at you.

"Ehh that might be an exaggeration? He probably means how the guy wouldn't take no for an answer, it's kinda why I had to lie in the first place, I mean I was being considerate at first but he really wouldn't let up... Huh now that I think about it, maybe Jing Yuan's right. "

Dan Heng didn't seem to like that one bit.

"You know what? I'm actually fine with the broadcast thing," He replied coolly. "If more people knew about my feelings for you, then that's great. As long as they know you're dating me now."

"So. Are you going to be my date for the dance?" He asks.

You grin. "I'd be honored to!"

"Great." Dan Heng smiles and reaches out to hug you. "So then... that means we're officially a couple?" He grins slyly. "And does that mean you'll call me honey now?" Oh he's trying to make you blush.

You smile back, every bit as mischievous "I was actually thinking of calling you: Darling, love of my life, light of my days, and saviour of my grades! But sure whatever you like." You say innocently. He laughs.

"I think I like that last one," he says, reaching out to brush a stray hair away from your face. "But I want you to call me Dan Heng, alright? If I ever heard someone refer to me as "Darling" or "Love", I'd probably turn into a ripe strawberry." He seems to consider something for a moment then says: "And when we see each other at the dance, will I be able to give you a kiss?" He asks cheekily.

"...!" When they go bold I go BOLDER! " You can kiss me right now." You say, summoning every last bit of confidence within you.

He leans in and gently presses his lips onto yours, holding it for a moment before breaking apart. "Will that suffice?" he asks with a grin.

"Now, come on. We better hurry up. All our friends are probably waiting for us at the cafe," he says and offers to take your hand.

"They're gonna be thrilled. Imagine how happy March will be, learning her little blunder for once caused something great." he adds with a bright smile.

--------------------------------------------------

Author's note:

Alhaitham: I'm just a feeble scholar.

Dan Heng: I'm literally the definition of a nerd.

Kaveh & I : \(O-o)/

[cherrybomb107]

Hi guys! I wanna make(yet another lmaoo) post about why I think ppl feel the way they do about Heimerdinger. In my children’s rights class the other day, we talked about the water crisis in my city. (Technically the city where my school is, but I live in the dorms, so let’s just call it my city for simplicity’s sake). Okay, so, the water in my city is unsafe. The pipes aren’t well kept, and there’s a lot of lead in our water that leads people to experience medical complications and get really sick later down the road.

My city’s population is 40% Black, and 15% Hispanic. It’s pretty clear that environmental racism plays a part. But, let’s put a pin in this for a second and come back to it. After talking about the water crisis, we talked about the idea of “slow violence” and “neglect vs. harm” and which one is “worse” between the two. “Slow violence” is violence that occurs slowly and gradually and doesn’t become obvious until it escalates. Perfect example is climate change. We’ve known how bad things would be if we didn’t make changes for decades now. But politicians, corporations and media outlets spent time and money spreading misinformation and downplaying the truly horrible effects of climate change, only now can we see how harmful that was because of the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene and Hurricane Milton.

The act of spreading mis/disinformation and downplaying how horrible something is is bad, for sure. But the true severity of just how bad isn’t easy to see until later, which is why I think it fits the criteria of “slow violence”. Now onto “neglect vs. harm”. The dictionary definition of “neglect” is: fail to care for properly. The definition of “harm”: physical injury, especially that which is deliberately inflicted. Now, when we were talking in class about if we thought that neglect and harm could be put on the same level, I was surprised by one of my classmate’s answers. False consensus effect beat my ass for a second lol. Because I don’t think they’re on the same level. I think neglect is leagues worse than harm. I think there is no greater evil than having the power to step in and stop something and choosing not to. My classmate disagreed.

He thinks that while neglect is awful, it’s not on the same level as actively harming someone. And to my genuine surprise(I am a bit of a know it all, so I was actually shook) he, and I’m sure many other people, feel that way. Which brings me back to how people feel about Heimerdinger, and his neglect of the Undercity. A lot of people don’t like Heimer because of how he failed Zaun. And even among his fans, it’s pretty universally accepted that he neglected the Undercity. But, because of the idea of “slow violence”, and the fact that many people don’t see neglect on the same level as active harm, Heimerdinger gets let off the hook.

Because at a certain point, ignorance becomes willful imo. Heimerdinger had 200 years to pull his head out of the sand and actually pass some policies that would help EVERYBODY, not just the folks in upper Piltover. But he chose not to. He actively made the choice, over, and over and over again to ignore the Undercity. He didn’t even THINK to go down there until Jayce kicked him off the Council!!! Imagine if Jayce hadn’t been there to give Heimer that much needed reality check! How many more centuries would’ve passed before he finally woke up and decided to do better??? I don’t even wanna think about it tbh. The “slow violence” that he was responsible for imo, is his negligence. Because in the face of arrogant, materialistic, self serving, condescending politicians as members of his Council, Heimerdinger did…nothing. He did nothing to stop all the horrible policies/laws these corrupt Councilors were most likely responsible for passing that only served them and the citizens of upper Piltover. He did nothing when the Enforcers were brutalizing folks and throwing them in prison. He didn’t even care to open his eyes to see what was going on in the first place! Jayce had to force him to!

He. Did. Absolutely. Nothing. And that’s the problem! People like Silco and the Chembarons are much more active in the forms of harm they carry out. Having kids work in factories, flooding the community with drugs, grooming a child into becoming the worst version of themselves etc, are all obviously violent. But being a politician who can afford to have all the power and all the ignorance in the world and allowing people like Silco to thrive in the first place is the ultimate act of violence imo. Being a politician who can kick back and wax poetic about “progress” and “scientific innovation” while Enforcers like Marcus are able to kidnap kids like Vi and throw them in prison without a fair trial is violent to me. So yeah😭😭😭

This post is an essay, my bad y’all lmaoo🤭🤭🤭

[lucygxybaird]

time-traveler billy preview

author's note: i have a feeling this one is gonna be super long -- potentially multiple parts? - so i thought i would share what i have since that prompt has been sitting in my inbox since the dawn of time (sorry!!)

Everything happens so quickly that you don’t have time — at first — to realize how odd the situation is. The man’s clothes make him look like a refugee from a Western, and everything about him, from the curl of his hair to the way he stands marks him out as someone…different, somehow. Not to mention, of course, that he’s standing in the middle of the street, looking about as out of place and freaked out as a squirrel dropped into the middle of the ocean. 

But even if you could put your finger on it, you don’t have the time to consider what makes him so strange. 

First, you’ll have to get him out of the path of the oncoming car. 

You have, in point of fact, never actually tackled someone before. But you take your best shot, leaning in and diving at his waist, hoping to make him fold like a lawn chair. Maybe it’s just the shock, or maybe you actually find the right angle — you have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. You manage to knock the guy sideways, both of you stumbling toward the safety of the sidewalk as the car screeches past, the driver laying on his horn. 

You watch as the guy flinches at the noise, actually clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s praying with all his might that the noise will just stop. Fortunately for him, the car turns the corner up ahead, and the sound of the horn fades as it goes. You watch it go, wondering absently how long Speed Racer is going to keep honking, and then you look back at the guy whose life you’ve saved.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a stupid question, considering what little information you already have, but you don’t know what else to say. The guy lowers his hands and squints at you, staring as if you’re the one dressed like an extra from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. “Hey — are you alright?”

He shakes his head, more like he’s trying to chase away a bothersome gnat than answering you. 

You’re starting to worry that he’s hit his head, although you can’t see a cut or a bruise on his temple. Now that you’re looking at him properly, it’s really rather difficult to keep from noticing how…well, how hot he is. It’s probably — definitely — inappropriate to even think about it, you’re well aware, considering he’s either injured, intoxicated in some way, or just going through it, but you can’t ignore the fact now that it’s quite literally staring you in the face. 

His eyes are large and blue, framed by thick, dark lashes as long as your pinky finger, set above a strong, straight nose that reminds you of a Greek statue, as perfectly sculpted as if it’s been made from marble. His lips are astonishingly full, his jawline and cheekbones each as defined as the dictionary, and you think there just might be the shadow of a dimple in his chin. And he’s tall, too, topping you by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders tapering to an angular waist. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring, but then again, so is he.

“Are you okay?” you say again. “Is there something I can do for you? Someone I can call?”

He swallows, giving another shake of his head. “I don’t…I dunno where I am.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice brings to mind sage brush and sunsets, the smoke that swirls over a campfire as it crackles with life, warm and husky, with a twang that makes you think of the bite of whiskey. 

“Okay,” you say, and without thinking about it, you take his hand. It feels natural, like trying to guide a lost child, or trying to make sure you don’t lose him in a crowd. As soon as his palm touches yours, you feel a shock race up your arm, and you have the strangest sensation of a door closing, separating one moment from the next as definitively as an axe splitting wood. 

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Okay. Just…come with me. I’ll help you.”

You can tell, if not just by the expression on his face — half-hopeful, half-bracing, as if he’s expecting a blow to fall any second — that he’s not used to asking for help, especially not from strangers. It makes your heart hurt just a little bit. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, and you’re softened — or maybe melted — by the way he smiles at you, shy but appearing more heartened than he did just a moment ago.

Then another car whizzes by, and he winces like someone has taken a shot at him. He ducks down, his eyes so wide that they look like a pair of full moons, their cornflower centers the only source of color in his face. “The hell is that?”

You stare at him. If he didn’t look so terrified, you’d think he was joking. But if he’s not joking, then he’s either on an incredible cocktail of drugs, or he’s from that weird isolated cult town in The Village. “It’s…it’s a car,” you say. 

“A car,” he repeats, as if you’ve just told him the secret to life in Mandarin. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You know…a horseless carriage.” 

For some reason, this seems to impart some understanding to him, but you can tell he’s still plenty freaked out. “Carriages don’t go that fuckin’ fast!”

You try very, very hard not to laugh, but god, it’s hard. You’re having to draw on nearly every ounce of compassion you have. It helps that, really, he’s not wrong. Not that you’ve ever ridden in a carriage, because you’re not Keira Knightley in a period film, but you don’t think they’re capable of speeds like that. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you say, “you don’t have to worry about getting into a horseless carriage with me. I hate driving.” 

Now that it’s just the two of you standing on the sidewalk again, the road mercifully free of cars, he seems to relax a little, at least enough to consider your words. “Well,” he says. “That’s something.” 

Not entirely sure where to go, you decide the police station is as good a place as any. It might be a little Hallmark movie of the week, but maybe someone has already filed a missing persons report on him. With that thought, it occurs to you that you need some information first. 

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

The look he gives you indicates he has never been quite so offended in his life. You can’t help but laugh this time. “Well, I don’t know!” you say. “You don’t know where you are, you’re walking around here looking like a puppy at the start of an ASPCA ad — maybe you’re suffering from some kind of amnesia.”

He doesn’t look any less nonplussed, but something about your laughter has loosened the muscles in his face. He smiles at you. You try to ignore the way your stomach flips to focus on his answer. “Billy,” he says. 

You fight the urge to repeat his name, rolling it around in your mouth like candy. “Come on,” you say, his hand still in yours. “We’re not gonna get anywhere just standing here. Do you trust me?”

He smiles again, though this time with a bit of a razor’s edge to it. “Not like I got much choice, honey,” he says, and then pauses, softens. “Yeah. You’ve been nicer to me than most people would’ve, findin’ a stranger in the middle of nowhere, actin’ like he’s been dropped on his head. I wouldn’t have blamed ya if you’d run the other direction.”

You have no idea why, but what springs from your mouth before you can help yourself is: “I couldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a minute. His gaze feels as physical as a caress, and just as intimate. If not more so. You both do and don’t want it to stop. 

“Come on,” you say again, at least in part to break the silence. “Follow me.”

The two of you start walking, following the weathered gray slabs of cracked, uneven concrete that your small town calls a sidewalk as it winds its way into town. 

After a few moments of quiet, he says, “You never told me your name.” 

When you introduce yourself, he smiles again. “That’s nice,” he says. “Pretty.”

Your stomach flips again, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know anything about this guy, except — only just now — his name. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and really does give off a hurt puppy sort of vibe doesn’t matter. And it definitely doesn’t matter that his smile spreads across his face like a sunrise coloring the sky with ribbons of pastels. He could be a serial killer, or if not that extreme, some kind of — 

The two of you are still, for reasons not entirely clear to you and probably not much clearer to him, holding hands, so you’re jerked out of your thoughts by the fact that he’s gone stock still. 

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

If the dread clinging to his voice like a weed choking out a weaker plant wasn’t bad enough, he’s frozen still on the sidewalk, looking at you as if you’ve…well, as if you’ve betrayed him somehow. The pit of your stomach turns to ice.

“The sheriff?” you repeat. You feel oddly, stupidly, disappointed. A guy with nothing to hide doesn’t act like this when someone brings him to the authorities. The disillusionment washing over you makes your tongue sharp. “Who the hell are you, Barney Fife?”

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

“Yeah, I — never mind.” You shake your head and let go of his hand. The bare skin of your palm feels oddly cold. “What’s the matter? I thought someone might be looking for you. Maybe someone filed a missing persons report.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’.” He glances at the police station again, his throat bobbing.  A pause, and then, softly, like he’s making a confession: “Nobody left that cares about me that much. Unless they wanna cause me some hurt.”

[emperorsfoot]

Another deleted scene from my on-going fic.

One day, I'm just gonna make a whole fic that's just about Jor-El (the Fortress AI, not Clark's dad from Krypton), because I keep giving him too much personality in this dumb fucking Superbat fic.

Bruce forgot he was talking to Clark’s computer-dad. “What?”

“I believe the expression is- one moment I am on Urban Dictionary -yes, ‘you scratch my back and I will scratch yours.” Jor-El sounded very proud of himself for getting an Earthling saying right. “You Earthlings watch televised dramas for entertainment, I watch Kal-El. Most Earthlings hold opinions of the side characters of your shows and believe certain characters should be paired off as mates, I have been running Krypton’s match-making program for Kal-El’s friends as well. There is no showrunner for me to write to and demand a certain couple become ‘canon’, but there are two of Kal-El’s friends I do believe are well suited to each other.”

Bruce wasn’t sure he believed what he was hearing. Did Jor-El ship RPF of Clark’s friends!? 

“Since, as Batman, I understand you would need to see the data that led me to this conclusion I have prepared a number of essays explaining why they are perfect for each other.” Continued Jor-El.

Bruce couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

Projected on the screen was a wall of binary code. Ones and zeroes. Of course, if Jor-El was a computer, his ‘essays’ would be written in computer language; binary. 

[ 01001100 01101111 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000101 01101100 01101001 01101110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00101101 01001100 01100001 01101110 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01010000 01110010 01101001 01101110 01100011 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000 01000100 01101001 01100001 01101110 01100001 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100101 01101101 01111001 01110011 01100011 01101001 01110010 01100001 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100010 01101111 01110100 01101000 00100000 01100010 01101111 01110011 01110011 00101101 01100010 01101001 01110100 01100011 01101000 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110111 01101111 01110101 01101100 01100100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01110101 01101110 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 01110000 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01101111 01110111 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100011 01101111 01110101 01110000 01101100 01100101 00101110 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100101 01111001 00100000 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101111 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101111 01100111 01100101 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 00100000 01110111 01100001 01111001 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01001100 01101111 01101001 01110011 00100000 01000101 01101100 01101001 01101110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00101101 01001100 01100001 01101110 01100101 00100000 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101111 01101110 01100111 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01001011 01100001 01101100 00101101 01000101 01101100 00101100 00100000 01101111 01110010 00100000 01010000 01110010 01101001 01101110 01100011 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000 01000100 01101001 01100001 01101110 01100001 00100000 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101111 01101110 01100111 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01010011 01110100 01100101 01110110 01100101 00100000 01010100 01110010 01100101 01110110 01101111 01110010 00101110 00100000 01001001 00100000 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01001001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01110010 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 00101110 00100000 ]

Bruce just stared at his phone. “You know I can’t read that, right?”

“I shall email it to Batcomputer and she can translate it for you at your convenance.” Jor-El did not seem the least bit discouraged. “She agrees with me, by the way.”

[gimlilithegreat]

One of the weirdest interactions I’ve ever had with a commenter happened today.

A couple of days ago someone started commenting on my HP/Twilight fic, innocuous things, it’s always fun when someone comments when they reach the end of every chapter because I can kind of see their progress through the fic.

They get to chapter four and there is a moment in that chapter when Harry is making fun of someone and they really didn’t like it. Left a multi paragraph comment with dictionary definitions and a lot of rage.

No problem. I get it. Stuff can be triggering. I get the email notification, go off and do some research to try and see it from their point of view and decide if I’m going to respond, if I want to make any edits, that kind of thing.

They continue to comment. So I’m like hey, that’s nice at least that didn’t ruin the fic for them.

Their next comment is about something completely different and when I go to respond to it I notice that there isn’t a reply button.

I have no idea what that means, but after some googling it looks like they blocked me. Fair, I wrote something, they had a reaction. I can understand blocking someone. But now I’m really confused because they are still reading, I’m still getting an email every two hours that they are commenting.

Positive things. Reactions to parts of the story. Favourite bits or characters. Things I’d usually respond to.

So I make a Reddit post to see if I am alone in thinking that’s weird. Maybe this is normal and I’m alone in finding that strange. I’m relatively new to writing fanfic maybe this is something people do.

Nope. Everyone thinks that’s weird.

Great.

One of the suggestions on a way it could be not weird was if they’d blocked me by accident. People suggest I leave a guest comment to double check.

After basically a day of getting fixated on how weird this is I decide to do just that. Head into incognito and leave this comment:

“Hey! Not sure you're aware but you've actually blocked me (the author) from responding to your comments?

If you have deliberately blocked me, that's obviously fine, you do you, but I'm not massively comfortable having comments I can't respond to in my comment section especially as I get an email notification every time you leave a comment and I just find that really strange. So I will be blocking you from commenting on this fic. And potentially deleting your comments. Unless this was a mistake, I'll leave this up for a bit to check.

I've appreciated you going to the effort of commenting either way.”

A couple of hours later I get this back:

“Not a mistake but don’t see the big deal. Don’t know if you’re really the author or not but if so it’s a little weird to go out of your way to message someone who clearly didn’t want further interaction than leaving a comment.”

Wow.

Just wow.

Now I’m offended BECAUSE I AM NOT THE WEIRD ONE HERE.

2 hours later she’s finished the fic and left another positive comment.

Like a weirdo.

So I blocked her back and deleted her comments.

Obviously this has become a point of fixation here. I am not going to get over how weird I found this for a while.

So that was my day, how was yours? XD

[archeronfilm]

My Own Private Idaho (1991)

"I wish I read more Shakespeare so I could have something thoughtful to say about this"

In case you don't want to read my deranged fully wrought thoughts on this film, here's the short and sweet version:

This movie was bizarre, rich in symbolism, deeply confusing. It was honestly kind of a rapturous experience and I would recommend it, even if you just watch it to see young Keanu Reeves be gay and homophobic. 4/5 stars.

Okay let's get into the meat. the substance. Spoiler warning for content below the cut.

Content warnings for mentions of sex, sexual violence, and drugs.

Word Count: 5,139

My Own Private Idaho, dir. Gus Van Sant, is a movie I can only describe as a series of deranged and feverish vignettes separated by Microsoft PowerPoint transition slides. It stars, most notably, River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves as the two main characters.

We open with a shot of the dictionary definition of narcolepsy, and then immediately following is our main character, Mike (Phoenix), alone in the middle of a rural road in Idaho. He talks aloud to himself about how he can recognize a road he's been on before, mostly musing about how the road resembles a face. He's got a bit of a coke sniff thing going on, which was a joke I wrote in my notes and then had to include here when I realized he does just have a coke habit.

Mike, as one might guess by that opening shot, is narcoleptic. I am not intimately acquainted with the way that narcolepsy actually presents itself in real life, so I can't comment on how realistic this depiction of narcolepsy is, but he at the very least has Hollywood Narcolepsy.

He falls unconscious and has a dream about his mother in some disjointed feverish farmhouse dreamscape where the clouds move in time lapse and there are no sharp edges. She cajoles him, vaguely, reassuring him that whatever he did was okay.

I can't exaggerate enough, if you haven't seen this movie, that the location-title-cards make me laugh every time they pop up because of the way they look.

A thing this movie likes to do is use Mike's narcolepsy to take him someplace else. Many times it's used to imply that he really did just wake up somewhere, but those are later in the movie. Here it's obvious there was just a time skip.

Mike is sleeping in a chair? No, Mike is getting head in Seattle. For reasons I can only describe as probably psychosexual, there is a harsh cut-in shot of a barn falling from the sky and breaking apart on the ground when Mike climaxes.

We get another core part of his character here, when the man who was just blowing him gets up and throws a couple bills at Mike's chest.

Mike has to beg this man for ten extra dollars through his bathroom door. His dad drowned himself recently, or at least that's what he tells the guy.

After he secures that ten dollars, we get a scene where he's crossing the street and sees a woman who looks vaguely (and I mean, really vaguely) like his mother, and then more of this strange farmhouse world. The people around him cross the street without him. This is going to come up many many more times.

Next, Mike (who it's become clear is also unhoused) is brought into a stranger's house. He asks him to put on slippers before walking in. This odd gesture made me think "Surely, he's not getting paid by this guy. That'd be so bizarre!" and then, "Daddy Carol" gets off cartoonishly to Mike scrubbing his (already completely spotless) living space. "My lucky 44th little Dutch boy. You must scrub Daddy Carol."

We do not get to see him scrubbing Daddy Carol.

Instead, we get another client of his. A rich woman who brings him into her ostentatious home. Two of his friends are already there, Gary, and Scott (Reeves). I say friends, but in this scene he talks to Gary about Sinéad O'Connor, and when Mike says he's never been to a concert in his life before, the word "dude" leaves his mouth like a small child trying to say "damn" for the first time.

This is something about Mike I noticed a few times throughout this movie, but especially in this scene, where he looks around this woman's room at her decor, thinks about how nice her house is. He holds a porcelain conch shell up to his ear to listen to the sea.

This woman who hired him walks in, takes the shell, holds it to her own ear. I can't pretend to know what the director was planning with this shot, but it feels transgressive and wrong to me. This woman walking into his space to initiate sex with him, taking an innocent gesture and almost sullying it with her intent. Not that I necessarily think she's evil. Of course, she's paying him. Of course, he does this for money regularly, but the following undressing feels choppy and stiff, like Mike doesn't know what he's doing.

He barely looks present here, and then remembers his mother and falls stiff and unconscious on this woman's carpet.

His friends carry him out. His narcolepsy is triggered by stress. Here, we get a more in depth introduction of Scott.

It's very cold outside. You can see his breath. Scott soliloquizes to unconscious Mike about how he grew up in a nice neighborhood like this one. He complains about his father, how he thinks Scott is a threat even though he's just a kid. Mike dreams of more decrepit farmhouses. The song "America the Beautiful" plays behind Scott's monologue, for reasons that are totally inscrutable to me.

Scott gives Mike his blazer.

Not speaking of non-sequitur, here is a bizarre and hilarious scene in a magazine shop! It's completely different than the rest of the movie, and I love it. It's barely relevant to anything. We get to see that Mike, Scott, and some other boys have gotten some work as models for gay adult magazine covers. Their photographs start moving and arguing with each other. I have no idea why this scene is here, but it's awesome.

Here's what we learn: Scott will only do gay things for money, because doing it for free makes you a queer. Scott is going to inherit a lot of money. These two facts are repeated at least one or two times throughout the rest of the movie, but I'm absolutely overjoyed that this is the way they chose to present these details. A bunch of shirtless gay magazine dudes cattily talking over each other from their covers.

Mike is running down the street.

Mike averts his eyes. He looks at the ground and then he never breaks eye contact. This man who's pulled over is a little too close to him. Mike doesn't want a ride. He tells the guy to go the fuck home, and the rude cussing leaves his mouth disingenuously, like he isn't used to talking that way. Refusing that ride doesn't work out, because Mike collapses again.

Mike is back in Portland, held by Scott. He doesn't remember the German man, Hans (the same guy from earlier) who drove them home.

Then, in a diner, shoes on the table. This diner is red everywhere, which might mean nothing, but it definitely looks and feels cramped partially due to how not-neutral the walls are.

Here, Mike asks Scott how much he made off him while he was out, and Scott seems affronted that Mike would assume he'd do that. "Mike, I'm on your side" he says.

Mike and Scott can talk to each other. It doesn't feel like Mike is grating words through his teeth under duress, even if it *does* feel like he doesn't care too much about what he's asking Scott about.

In this conversation, we also learn about a new important character, Bob Pigeon. Scott hypes him up a lot, says that he loves him more than his father-- no, more than *both* his parents. Mike sort of ignores this long prattling Scott does about Bob, flatly says it'd be nice to see him again.

There's also this bit right after where Scott talks to this guy and Mike calls him a dickhead while watching them talk through the window, in a way that really just makes him look jealous. It's barely relevant but I thought it was kind of funny.

In the same diner, Mike gets smoke blown in his face by some girl.

This is one of my favorite scenes in this film. It's a kind of interview-ish sequence, the only part of the movie that feels like some kind of documentary about street youth and sex work. It's two or three of Mike's people talking about their negative experiences with sex work. Interspersed are normal film scenes of this girl blowing smoke at Mike across the table, of another girl crying on Scott's shoulder.

Mike seems irritated at the girl hanging onto Scott, jealous. One of the interviewees talks about his traumatic experience with what he described as "basically rape." He winces. The second interviewee, too, reveals that his experience was deeply traumatic. Their discussions are light, casual, they smile, their eyes wander. The things they discuss are disarming, uncomfortable. They don't seem to confront it, laughing through the smoke in this cluttered, stifling diner.

Mike wakes up again. This time, in a plastic tent on the roof of a building. Scott and co. are there, disbursed on some adjacent roofs. They all spot a man approaching. Haggard, in a long coat. Ironically, their bird's eye view is of Bob Pigeon.

Here's an important detail. Bob speaks in poeticisms. In this first scene, there's a while where he speaks in rhymes. More on the poeticism will be interspersed throughout this review.

Scott takes a swig, gives away his cigarette, kisses a girl, walks up some stairs to go see Bob. Mike is already in the room with a sleeping Bob Pigeon, looking at the floor. And then, Scott and Mike gleefully steal Bob's cocaine and attempt to do lines off his boots.

Bob is incensed with rage. Mike hides behind a doorframe, still actively doing Bob's coke while he rampages around this decrepit building hunting down Scott. Scott flees playfully in his three piece suit. He is the only one in a suit, deeply out of place, the mayor's son.

Nobody else in this scene is in a Shakespeare play, only Bob and Scott, who bounce manically off each other while the surrounding scamps mob around them. Despite this, all of them move like they're on a stage, navigating the support beams of this half-constructed space.

Scott pulls Mike aside. Tells him he has a joke to play that he needs Mike's help for. Mike immediately agrees. Scott proposes a robbery scheme, and he, Gary, and Mike dance in a circle. Mike is full of odd energy, unwieldy and foreign.

Scott is 20 years old. He gets his inheritance at 21. In one week.

These street boys are thieves. When Bob and Scott are alone, they kiss, and Scott dances away from it. Scott, paradoxically, doesn't want to be a robbing street scamp. He says he's done it to improve later, to impress his parents with his sudden change of spirit. Bob says he will be his hatchet man. Scott monologues at him, the king of the scene. When they are alone, they keep up their Shakespearean play. Scott likes to talk to himself at people.

Next is the scene where they undergo this night robbery. This movie is so surreal that everything feels serious and ridiculous. All four of them dress in full length pink robes. Mike holds himself around the middle with his robe, he's the only one who holds himself this way.

They carry out the robbery flawlessly. Only for two more mysterious robe-wearers (Mike and Scott, who had broken from the group moments before) to rob them in turn.

Scott's father hasn't seen him in months.

Scott drives a motorcycle with Mike on the back. When they talk, Scott is still in the play. Mike speaks normally.

When they go to see Bob after the night of their prank, they link arms and skip to him. Seriously.

Scott is back in his zone, the surreal play whose script only he and Bob know. Mike, scriptless, speaks as normal.

Scott massages Bob's shoulders, exchanging mirthful glances and snickers with Mike as Bob aggrandizes and lies about the life-threatening encounter he had last night. One of their allies helps him lie.

There were two perpetrators. No, five. No, seven. And Bob fought all of them off bare handed. Scott tries to fact check him, Bob does not falter.

Scott and Bob may both have the script, but only Scott knows it's a script. He's the only one in on the joke. Scott is only playing, he doesn't live here. He smiles wryly as he plays his part across from his scene partner, who lives on the stage.

All the scamps hassle Bob for the lie that Scott exposed. Scott lectures Bob, picks him up, spins him around. Bob knocks him over, but Scott is still on the upstep. Still smiling, always winning their scenes.

Scott talks like a character from a Shakespeare play to put on a show for his friends, you might assume, but that he talks that way just with Mike as well.

Scotty is these kids' ticket out of poverty and destitution. Bob really believes this.

When the police barge into the house to hunt for Bob, Scott and Mike pretend to have sex as a distraction. This works, even though they still definitely have pants on. Scott keeps playing with Mike's nipple, even though Mike keeps smacking his hand away. This isn't thematic, it just made me laugh myself hoarse.

Scott's dad finally gets to see him. When Scott is with the boys, he wears nice clothes. With his father, he wears a denim jacket with no shirt. Scott, keeping up his play, still calls his father "dad."

Scott and Mike are going to Idaho to see Mike's brother, who Scott didn't know he had.

They take a motorbike that Scott stole, which refuses to start on a familiar road, the same road Mike walks down in the very first scene. Scott humors Mike when he asks him to look at the face, even if Scott can't really see it. They laugh.

The bike is still not turning over by the time night falls. Scott and Mike sit by a fire. Scott muses about how good getting away from his rich life. Mike only replies to Scott's casual admission that he had a maid. He would have liked to have lived Scott's life, which he almost says outright instead of just implying it.

Mike wishes he grew up normal, even though he feels well adjusted.

Scott asks Mike what he thinks a normal dad is. Mike doesn't know. He wishes he could really talk to Scott, be honest with him, be close to him. He can't word it. Basically, Mike asks Scott "what are we?" He beats around the invisible bush. He transparently loves Scott, more than Scott loves him.

Scott isn't gay. Two guys can't love each other. Mike agrees, or maybe he doesn't, really. He could love someone, even if he wasn't paid for it. He loves Scott, and Scott doesn't pay him.

"I really want to kiss you, man."

Scott says nothing. Mike gives up, wishes him goodnight, curled into a fetal position by the fire. I love you though, he reiterates. I do love you.

Scott tells Mike to come over to him, opens his arms, cruel. Deeply cruel. Mike crawls into them anyway, falls asleep there anyway. Scott strokes his hair.

Mike wakes up in the middle of the road. The bike still wont start.

The cops show up, and Mike books it. Scott stays on his bike, which could mean nothing about class and background. I did laugh at Scott saying "I guess he doesn't like cops" while we see Mike clumsily fleeing.

He collapsed while running away. Scott carries him someplace. With a trailer. A cat. A familiar house.

Mike wakes up to sandwiches being shoved in his face. His brother. He tries to show mike a photograph of him and his mother, outside "the institution".

Mike was in an institution because his mother "wasn't safe," his brother claims. They were still a family.

Mike is having a bad time about his mother, and Scott leaves to piss. Scott calmly washes his hands while Dick and Mike yell at each other. He saunters back into the room as Mike collapses again. Dick pretends like he doesn't know that Scott heard and saw that.

Mike twitches in his chair, unconscious. Scott steals glances at him. Dick is a painter. He makes family portraits. Sometimes, he doesn't get paid, and he keeps them. Family photos of strangers pepper his walls. It is, to be candid, super creepy.

They drink, Mike smokes, Dick is grilling Mike about what happened with their mom, says Mike is avoiding something.

Their mother fell in love with a scumbag, wanted to marry him. He didn't love her. Mike flashes back. Their mom used to have this gun. A .38 Smith & Wesson. She killed that guy. This cowboy fuck. With Rio Bravo on the big screen, John Wayne on his horse.

Scott says, "how corny." But Mike is fighting for his life. That cowboy was Mike's father.

Mike breaks, yells at Dick. He demands that Dick stop fucking with his head. Mike's mother wasn't a hooker, his dad wasn't some cowboy. His dad was Dick. He knows that, but Dick seems surprised that He does. He throws things. Mike looks at something else, a postcard from his mother. She's out having a great time.

Dick hugs Mike. He cries, grossly. He wants to look her up in the yellow pages. She's at some resort, Yellow Tree.

Apparently, she saved up all her money and headed to Rome. She claimed she was looking for her family, but Mike is not Italian.

In a moment of pure delight, Hans happens to also be at the Yellow Tree resort. He tells them his room number, 407. The number 4 comes up semi-frequently in this movie, and I don't think I'm smart enough to formulate a theory on why.

Mike's first order of business in Hans' room is to take a nice bubble bath. He seems in wonder at the concept of getting room service. He asks for two orders of fries. In this moment, again, Mike is just a kid. He's a poor little kid who never got room service or took a bubble bath.

Hans sits too close to Scott to show him a photo of his mother. He shows her to Mike too, running his hand up the leg of the little boy we just saw take a bubble bath.

Hans then has a full moderately uninterrupted sequence where he performs an avant-garde dance routine from a cassette tape of him when he used to be a performer. It's bizarre. He's kind of killing it (lying). Scott humors him, Mike barely registers it.

Despite this, I still felt a little bad when Scott unplugged the radio to stop him. They're there on business. They're selling motorcycles. Hans seems to understand that that isn't quite true.

Now here, finally, is a scene I really have thoughts about. This is a sex scene. One of the only sex scenes in the movie, shockingly. Hans, Scott, and Mike are portrayed as having sex with a series of still shots. These still shots, I should note, are *not* still images. They are static poses, held still by the actors. It is silent, motionless, odd, underscored by deeply unfitting and bizarre instrumental music.

Something about this scene feels grotesque, violating. It feels like watching violent and uncomfortable performance art, art that you can't really tell the message behind so much as you can feel the visceral unrest. This scene has nothing plot relevant about it, not really, but it's one of the most striking scenes in the film.

It seems like they succeeded in selling that motorcycle, because the next scene is Hans getting pulled over by the cops. Speeding. Hans, for some reason, barely speaks to the officer and spends most of this short scene tenderly stroking the bike.

Scott and Mike, however, are at the airport in Boise with no baggage. They both laugh loudly about what they've just done to Hans. It echoes off the walls.

Mike wakes up on a bench by a fountain in Roma, Italy. Around him are young men talking animatedly in Italian. These boys have something familiar about them. They look, you might suddenly realize, just like Mike and his boys. There's even a blond one in a similar jacket to Mike's. This does not really become relevant, it is just another visual detail of the movie that you can feel in your ribs.

Scott yells for Mike from a yellow cab. The bell tower tolls, and I forget to count how many times it rings. I think it might have been eight.

Scott and Mike take this cab to a building in the sticks. It's overcast, and the grass is green for miles out. It's a farm, the first farm we see outside of Mike's fever dreams.

Scott meets a girl, Carmella, who lives here. It's her uncle's house. She wipes off her hand before shaking Scott's

At the same time, Mike pokes through a dark room calling for his mother. The door in the center of the wall behind him is the only source of light. Outside, Carmella tells Scott that Mike's mom already left a while ago.

Mike's mother was Carmella's friend. She taught her English. When Mike returns, he doesn't really listen to her when he tries to tell him that his mom isn't here. We get another choppy montage of Mike's memories of his mother.

And then, we smash cut to Mike crying helplessly on Scott's shoulder. More memories. His mother dances. Mike cries. Her house was blue. No, green. How could he forget? Mike hums a song. His mother bounces a baby, wearing a little pink jacket, on her hip. The house looks neither blue nor green, but grey.

Mike thanks Scott for coming all this way. He's ready to leave, now.

What I assumed was the next day, Mike climbs the stairs up to a room Scott is in. Scott leaves him outside, so he can be with Carmella alone. Here's the second of two sex scenes.

This one is shot the same as the first. Shooting the sex scenes this way makes them feel similarly strange and almost impersonal, but this second sex scene manages to feel less sad, less avant garde. The poses are not bizarre, nothing about it feels transgressive but that we are seeing it at all. A strange whistling underscores the scene. Scott almost looks sad after they finish, almost, for half a second before closing his eyes.

All three of them eat dinner at a cramped table. Carmella and Scott make eyes at each other, sitting shoulder to shoulder across from Mike. Mike blows smoke in their faces, echoing his lunch with that girl in the diner.

Mike lays in a narrow bed with his coat on. A bed in another room is creaking. We can hear Carmella and Scott giggling.

The clouds on this farm never clear. There is always a mist clinging to the grass. Mike walks through the fields alone, accompanied only by the odd animal and the whistling of the score. He runs into Carmella. She seems upset.

She says it's nothing, but she asks Mike to stay when he stands up to leave. Carmella hands Mike a small spiky plant. La castagna. A chestnut. She says it isn't big enough to eat, but she gives it to him anyway.

Mike says he knows how she feels. She sniffles.

"I think I fall in love," she says. Mike turns away wordlessly. He has, too. But she's luckier than he is.

Their bed creaks again, and Mike lays awake.

Scott says he's gonna take a little time off, like he's cutting Mike loose. Maybe he'll "run into him down the road". He hands Mike money, his share for the bike. Pays him off. "I fell in love, Mike. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry we didn't find your mom."

Scott and Carmella leave in a cab. Mike calls for Scott from the balcony as the cab is pulling away. He watches it leave, powerless. He only ever feels and looks powerless.

Mike stands around with his back to a tree, along with the Italian street boys from earlier. It doesn't really look like he belongs there.

He tries to pick up where he left off. He's in an Italian man's bedroom. But he seizes again, and the older man decides to leave him there. We don't get to know if he left to get help, but I definitely assumed he just left him in that room.

The clouds pass in time lapse. Mike wakes up on a plan. They, *he* is back in Portland.

This is the first time Mike has ever been alone in the diner. The first time it's ever felt empty. The first time we see him wearing only black, his hair combed.

At night, Mike stands on the side of the road outside the diner. A man pulls up, he knows him. A customer.

The car ride is awkward. Mike tries to ask how the wife is. The man is apparently less talkative than usual.

The Simpsons plays on this man's TV. Mike is rapt, laughing and clapping. When he sees the man walk in barely clothed, it's like he disappears. His simple joy drains, and he isn't there anymore. He's transparent around the edges, like a wisp of himself.

Mike is on the street again. Steam billows from a nearby smokestack. Mike lays on the cement near a broken beer bottle, laughing drunkenly.

There's that farm house again, and the field beyond it.

Mike is with Bob. He can't begin to care about whatever the guy talking to Bob is saying. Bob mocks the man's shoes, which are lined with bells. Bob owns the street.

Scott Favor leaves the car, well groomed, with a beautifully cleaned up Carmella in a nice black dress. He wears a suit, and it doesn't feel playful anymore. He is his inheritance.

Bob prowls through, jingle bells ringing as he steps. So, he got the guy's shoes anyway. Hilarious.

This nice venue has Hans in it. It seems like he's with a lover, some blond thing that hangs on to his arm. Good for him.

Scott wears a tan suit, gets introduced to benefactors. HIs father is dead. Carmella is *there*, but she doesn't matter to anyone but Scott. Scott doesn't answer when asked if he wants a political career.

Bob walks in, obviously out of place in such a nice place. People stare at him aghast. As you might have suspected, Bob is not getting what he was promised, what he *thought* he was promised.

Scott doesn't even turn around when Bob calls for him. He stands facing the booth of possible investors, only gracing Bob with his back.

"I don't know you old man. Please leave me alone."

Scott calls Bob his enabler. And, for a moment, you have to believe it. The way that his Shakespearean affect remains even now, the thing he has common only with Bob. There is a red light cast on half of Scott's face. He tells Bob not to come near him now that he's changed. He never once fully turns around, feet always pointed towards the table. Bob is escorted out.

Bob shivers in bed, in the house. He calls out for God, and then he dies. Sweat coats his pallid face. The boys cover him with a blanket and place him on a table. There are candles. Scott Favor broke his heart. The lost boys weep.

These boys, suddenly, are Catholic. Solemn.

The very next scene is a wake, with a priest speaking. For a moment, you could almost fool yourself into thinking it's Bob's. Of course, it's for Scott's father. Scott is tearless. Carmella fiddles with some plant she has in her hands. He glances around.

Across the cemetery, singing. Accordion. The boys sing and hold flowers, sitting in humble metal folding chairs, dancing and swaying. Mike smells a sunflower. This shot is soft around the edges, loose and bittersweet.

Scott's father's wake is clear and crisp. Joyless. Silent. Catholic. The lost boys sway and hold each other while they grieve. They scream. They fight. They throw things. Scott sits silently and still as stone in his chair.

They chant Bob's name. Stomp their feet. Mike is blurry at the edges. He smiles, looks across at Scott, and it seems like he puts him away. Forgets him. Joins his brothers instead. They pile together and hug. A man plays the accordion. There is joy, here, under the overcast sky. We see another shot of salmon jumping through water. The clouds pass in Idaho.

Mike is back on the road again, musing about it again. He knows them, knows he's been on this one before. This road will never end. Mike is wearing blue. Not black, and not his ever-present orange coast. This road probably goes all around the world, he says, and then he collapses in the middle of it again. The camera draws back. The road splits the grass in two. Yellow on one side and green on the other.

A car pulls up to Mike. A truck. Two men step out of it. They rob him.

The next car that pulls up is a man who picks Mike up, puts him in his car. It looks a little bit like Dick. He drives off.

Another barn, the clouds lapse past again.

The movie ends with another text splash.

"Have a nice day."

This movie is hard to write about. I had to attempt to capture how jarring and yet cohesive the vignettes are. How they choppily transition but *feel* continuous. The way this movie is written, shot, is impactful. You can, feel every beat of story hit you while your back is turned. Nothing feels out of nowhere, but everything catches you offguard.

The movie's tagline, "Wherever, Whatever, Have a nice day" might speak to the way the movie is *shot*, but it doesn't speak to how the movie feels as a whole. Sure, the vignettes might be wherever and whatever, but they aren't disjointed, or at least not in a way that makes them feel thoughtless. Nothing means anything, whatever is happening, and all of it matters quite a lot, actually.

You should watch this movie, and then you should agree with me about how the way Mike is portrayed is a hidden, heart-wrenching tragedy that doesn't even lend itself to the main plot. Or how Scott doesn't really belong anywhere. Or how really well the subject matter is handled, shockingly.

More than that, you should watch it because it's good.

Have a nice day.

[maniculum]

Google Docs vs. Geoffrey Chaucer

A while back, just for fun, I pitted Google Docs's fancy new (read: hilariously inept) machine-learning spellchecker against a chapter of my dissertation that contained a lot of quotations from Le Morte Darthur:

At the time I suggested I might go back and do the same with the chapters that included substantial quotation from the Canterbury Tales and (shudder) Piers Plowman... and today I find myself with little better to do, so let's give it a go. Below the cut.

Extremely helpful there, thanks. For the curious, gilofre is a plant; in Modern English it's gillyflower. Clowe is just "clove". "Clowe-galofre" is nowhere on Google or in the OED, but it seems "Galofre" is an attested surname, so Google thinks maybe that's what I meant.

Fascinating choices here. That is of course meant to be nutmeg, and Google Docs has seemingly decided that putting in a space to turn one misspelled word into two words, one of which is spelled correctly, is a positive development. That or this is a continuation of the previously-observed trend that Google turns things into brands and corporation as much as possible -- apparently there is a company called "Emuge-Franken", which is the only result for "emuge" on Google Search.

It hasn't gotten anything right so far, by the way -- all those red underlines I haven't screenshotted anything for, it either suggests a word that is wrong but unremarkably so, or fails to suggest anything.

(Never mind, it got a couple right in between the last one and this one.)

This is interesting in that it shows Google Docs interprets things differently based on capitalization. This instance of bityde is capitalized because it's at the beginning of the line; the other one in the phrase bityde what bityde, which isn't capitalized, Google is able to correctly interpret as "betide". However, it seems to think the first is a proper noun and makes different suggestions. (Blyde is the Afrikaans name of the Motlatse River in South Africa, it would seem.)

I am reluctantly forced to hand it to Google Docs with this one. Like, no, that's not what Chaucer meant of course, but I can respect the shot being taken. Also interesting that it gets the blue underline because you can't really spell a transliteration wrong, but that's not how the system we normally use renders it. Not sure why spere "spear" (Google suggests "sphere") and vestiments "vestments" (Google gets this one right) are also marked as blue (style/grammar) rather than red (spelling), though.

... and now I'm taking what I just handed to Google Docs back away. WTF is this? Why...? you know what, we're moving on.

Bafflingly, Google thinks there is nothing at all unusual about that first line. Yep, that's normal Modern English there.

And here's our first example in this post of Google Docs trying to suggest a spelling that is also in Middle English, because I very much suspect the data it uses has been contaminated. Actually, come to think, if their machine learning system bases its judgments on what other users write rather than the old system with a set dictionary, I bet all the people writing papers about pre-standardized-spelling English literature are really screwing up the data. Which is hilarious -- if true, that would mean that I'm actually part of the problem for writing this whole dissertation full of Middle English quotes in Google Docs.

You might think this is another example of the same, but in fact the change from -ioun to -ion makes that suspect, and the Middle English Dictionary doesn't recognize it without the <u>. And if you Google Refleccion, all the results are in Spanish. However, I can't seem to find it in a Spanish-English dictionary, and those same dictionaries tell me the Spanish for reflection is reflexion -- maybe this is a variant spelling? I only have basic high-school Spanish to draw on here, so if any of my followers are fluent and can explain refleccion to me, I would be interested to learn.

Hm... no, that's not right either. Although a quick Google search tells me that there is a YA book called Physik, so that's probably what's screwing up this one. Probably not ideal for that sort of thing to happen.

And this one, it seems, is French. (Again, according to the Middle English Dictionary, all the attested Middle English spellings have the <u> -- but the French cognate is in fact spelled just like Google suggests, as far as I can tell. I don't speak French at all, though, so grain of salt.) I wonder how that happened -- do non-English words just kind of drift into the machine-learning system's vocabulary? Possibly through the same mechanism I speculated about with the Middle English above -- i.e., people write documents that are mostly in English, but contain some quotations or something in other languages, and if that happens enough, Google starts to think it's an English word?

Wait, is that maybe what's screwing a lot of this up? Either Google's system is going "This document is in English, so all the words in it are English words" and thus stuff just keeps bleeding between languages and screwing up the dictionary, OR Google's system is just kind of language-agnostic and sees no issue with suggesting French words in a document that's mostly in English? Is this why there are so many words that aren't correct Modern English spelling, but which Google Docs doesn't mark wrong? Like, they happen to line up with words in other languages, so Google just thinks you're borrowing really haphazardly throughout?

Also, side note, it tried to correct "hir" to "hirt", which is not an English word, but apparently stands for High Impact Resistance Training. Moving on.

Shenden is a Middle English verb that basically means "to damage or destroy". You don't really see it much in Modern English, though the OED has a couple examples of 20th-century usage. Anyway, I thought this was another case of Google bringing in different Middle English words, but a quick search tells me "Sente" is a skincare brand. That's probably more relevant.

Google Docs again just ignoring whole lines.

Odd choice there, sight being closer than site in terms of spelling. Maybe the algorithm assumes that if you end with an <e> you probably mean the second one.

Interesting, Google Docs. Why do you think that should be "night"? (Oddly, it actually gets all the red-underlined words in this line correct, meaning it pretty much has the context of the word.) Somewhat weird suggestion there.

I'm about a quarter of the way through the document and I think this is long enough for now; I'll probably come back and reblog with additions later. Before I go, however, here are my lists of "things spellcheck should be able to fix but can't" from what I've gone through so far.

First, spellings that differ from Modern English by only one letter, but which completely stump Google Docs (i.e., it marks them wrong but only gives the "why am I not seeing a suggestion?" message):

Goute ("gout")

Herbes ("herbs")

Melodye ("melody")

Smale ("small")

Swete ("sweet")

Syde ("side")

Ther ("there")

Wel ("well")

And second, words that are not correct in Modern English but that Google Docs does not mark wrong:

Anoon ("anon")

Attempree ("a temperate")

Beautee ("beauty")

Bowle ("bowl")

Dar nat ("dare not")

Daunce ("dance")

Dede ("dead")

Doon ("do")

Dronke ("drank")

Dronken ("drunken")

Fyr ("fire")

Gyse ("guise")

Hadde ("had")

Hir ("her")

Hir ("their")

Hond ("hand")

Lak ("lack")

Lakked ("lacked")

Lordes ("lords")

Maad ("made")

Pyne ("pain")

Rasour ("razor")

Sayde ("said")

Shere ("shear")

Som ("some)

Sondry ("sundry")

Spyces ("spices")

Styward ("steward")

Syk ("sick")

Thencens ("the incense")

Usshers ("ushers")

Wente ("went")

Wyf ("wife")

Y-goon ("gone")