#i remember tidbits of last night

[heavenknowsffs]

😟

[ddejavvu]

this is cheesy but when spencer and reader start getting more comfortable in their relationship and they exchange keys to each others places, reader starts going over while hes away. just to chill because she misses him or borrow something or get something she left. but then dhe notices his apartment is a little messy and he doesnt have a lot of food in the fridge.

the first time he comes home to a full fridge and clean apartment he's a little confused, but when he brings it up and she confesses hes just sooooo touched and appreciative.

the first time he comes home and shes asleep on the bed or couch or wherever he just MELTS. like an actual puddle on the floor kinda melting bc hes just so overwhelmed with love 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Spencer Reid is, quite possibly, the smartest motherfucker in the FBI. As an esteemed profiler, he notices right away that you've been in his apartment, from the post-it note grocery list sitting on the top of what's in his trash can, and a lack of dust over his kitchen counter like there typically is after he's gone on a case for a few days.

He spots 'donuts' on the list, and when he pulls the fridge open, lo and behold, there's a bag of mini chocolate donuts on the top shelf. He smiles to himself, giddily so, more than elated that you'd remembered an offhanded comment he'd made about liking them so much, especially when they're chilled.

He remembers everything anyone tells him, but people rarely stop to listen to his own words. So often it can be cast aside as nerd babble, so knowing that you'd picked up on the small tidbits of personal information he'd given you makes his seldom-fluttering heart do just that.

He feels a little bad that you'd stocked his fridge and ran, but he doesn't have to for long, because when he heads to the living room to drop his messenger bag there, and restock it with a different book, you're snoozing in his chair.

It's a recliner, one he'd splurged on so that late-night reading would be more comfortable. You've popped the footrest up, but your feet barely touch it, because you're curled up closer to the seat. Your head rests on one of the arms and is dangerously close to slipping off, so he kneels by the armrest, joints cracking.

His face hovers millimeters away from your own, your breath hitting his cheek and vice versa. He smooths a stray wisp of hair away from your face, leaning in to kiss the skin it had been covering.

"Hi, angel," He croons, keeping his voice as soft as humanly possible. He doesn't want to ruin this, whatever heavenly moment that the seldom-kind universe has decided to grant him.

Your lashes flutter at the feel of his lips on your skin, and you turn your face to lean into the touch you don't yet know is there. He can't help but laugh at the way you arch like a cat to be closer to him, and the breathy huffs fan out against your forehead.

His slender hand comes up to hover beneath your head, because when you worm closer to him, it slips off of the armrest. He holds your head up but you're finally starting to stir from the movement, and you lift it to blink groggily up at him.

"Spence?" You ask, like you're verifying his identity and not asking why he's home.

"That's me," He smiles, dimples puncturing his cheeks. His hair is slightly sloppy, frizzed and out of place from the day's hectic activities. At his confirmation you hum sleepily, resuming your cat-like activities by shutting your eyes again, leading with your nose as you nudge your face into his own. From the angle you're at his lips can only pucker to hit an awkward spot between your cheek and your nose, but the skin there is warm and soft from a facial mask he knows you used last night.

"Morning," You grumble, and he won't inform you that it's 7 at night.

"Hi, sweetheart." He croons, unable to stand up straight before you decide you want a hug. It means his butt hits the floor when you lunge for him, and he laughs as he tries maintaining an upright position.

"Oh- ah!" He laughs, eyes scrunching in a gleeful smile-turned-laugh when you knock into him. He cradles the back of your head, feeling you settle into his embrace like he's your new reclining chair.

"'Missed you, Spence." You mumble against the fabric of his jacket that's covering his shoulder. He curls his fingers into your hair at your admission, stroking briefly through the strands.

"I missed you too," He agrees, "I saw you bought me donuts."

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I did." You recall, eyes already drooping again, "We can have some for- for dessert later."

"That sounds like a good plan," Spencer grins, but you can't see it where you're nestled into his shoulder. He's waiting for you to get up, not because he doesn't want to hug you anymore but because he wants to stand and move, but when you stay firmly in place he realizes you're sleeping again, and that there's no way he's getting off the floor in the meantime.

He could wake you, tell you it's time for a late dinner and ask you to work on the eggs so that he can chop up the add-ins for an omelet. He could corral you back into the chair and take the bed for himself, read for a bit after getting changed. He could do any number of things to make himself just a bit more comfortable, but instead he chooses to commit his butt to the floor, surely flattening it for all eternity. He scoots back carefully until his back is up against the couch, so that his less-than-perfect core strength isn't relied upon as much.

From there he rests, disinterested in using his phone and too far away from his bookshelf to read. But he finds just as much meaningful entertainment in counting the breaths that you release against his shoulder, as well as counting the different possessions of yours he can see scattered around his apartment.

Your shoes, one. Your water bottle, two. Your sweatshirt, three. Your snack, four. Your keys, perhaps the most meaningful possession of all, the spare that he'll never regret giving you, five.

[rubberduckyrye]

Okay DRV3 Fans Let's Talk about Canon Ages.

Because I woke up and my brain connected the dots, and because some of you are fucking weird about High-school students. So let's clear the air here--and let's just say they're probably over 18 years old.

In my Gonta rant (which yes I'm linking here, go read it) I call him a young adult. Some people are under the impression (like that anon I got last night) that the V3 cast is canonly 16 or younger due to... whatever the fuck reason. But! I am here to argue a counter point--that the V3 Cast is actually much older and are more college age than young highschoolers.

First of all, let's remember the fact that in all DR games, the cast has gone to high school for some amount of years before their memories are wiped. V3 Also has this feature, and it is within the canon story that these kids remember attending HPA.

Now whether or not you believe this to be true is irrelevant right now because I need you to remember that the backstory for these characters was that they were being hunted down by the Ultimate Hunt, which means they were Ultimate Students at HPA first. Then they had their memories wiped to go into hiding. Yada yada.

The important part actually comes from Kirumi, however. Kirumi is the character that proves that the V3 cast is older than 18 years old.

Remember this tidbit--where Kirumi was the maid of the Prime Minister? Well, when do you think she became the maid for the Prime Minister, do you think?

I have an answer for you.

This is the dialogue from Kaito's "My Future" cutscene from DR:S. The "My Future" Cutscenes take place at the end of the run with the character chosen, and DR:S takes place right at the end of their 3rd year of attending HPA.

Kirumi doesn't specify who she will be working for, but considering that this person is such a big deal what she felt the need to consult Kaito about it, to help her sort out her feelings, I think we can all agree this is heavily referencing V3's plot where she is the Prime Minister's Maid.

This means that Kirumi only took the job as the Prime Minister's Maid at the very end of high school.

That means that by the time V3 runs around, she's well out of high school.

Now you can argue that V3 and DR:S aren't in the same canon--and you'd be right! I would never consider them to be canon to one another. However, this scene shows that in DRV3 and in DR:S, the intention for Kirumi to have been the Prime Minister's maid started at the very tail end of her time in high school. Same character, same backstory, different situation.

Meaning by that logic, Kirumi--as well as her other classmates--are over 18 years old in V3.

They are young adults.

[604to647]

Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

Second Movement (Allegretto)

6K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: Pero continues to be a source of encouragement and support as you navigate the marriage mart.

Warnings: Some pining and light angst. Soft!Pero warning. Liberal use of Bridgerton characters and canon.

A/N: I'm sorry for any historical inaccuracies/liberties taken! Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Series Masterlist 🎼 First Movement 🎼

You think you should have been warned that the days following season events are somehow always busier than the events themselves.

The morning after the Danbury ball, with hardly enough sleep and exhausted almost to the point of delirium, you find yourself yawning through Daphne’s chipper recitation of your schedule for the next few days.  You must have agreed to it all while inhaling your breakfast, because you’re now dressed in a prim and proper powder blue frock, sitting prettily in the Bridgerton’s upstairs drawing room, waiting for what feels like the millionth young man you must have met last night to make your reacquaintance.  Although there was no one who had caught your attention particularly at last night’s ball, you do recall several gentlemen being very pleasant and look forward to getting to know them better.  Every visitor and potential suitor that waits for your audience today is afforded your full consideration and open heart, even if you are still very, very tired.  And though the conversation gets repetitive and the gifts are slightly impersonal, you appreciate everyone’s efforts and invite them to return all the same.

---

It’s well after lunch by the time Pero steps into the front hall of Bridgerton House and is shown into the waiting room where he finds you and all the Bridgerton women in various states of exhaustion, draped over chaise lounges and chairs, while the Bridgerton men chat merrily and sample from various boxes of candies and treats that had been brought as offerings by your, Eloise and Francesca’s suitors this morning.

“Pero!” Though you are delighted to see him, you’re so worn out, all you can muster is a small wave.  You return the bemused expression he has on his face as he takes in the room and the collection of gifts and offerings piled high with a soft smile of your own.

“No peonies,” Pero observes readily.

Daphne chirps, “No, but lots and lots of flowers.  Expensive ones.”

“But peonies are your favourite,” he says pointedly to you.  You nod, heart swelling with fondness, “You remembered!”

“Of course, Dulce, I remember everything about you.”  You feel warm at his affectionate tone; you remember everything about Pero as well, but would never have expected him to do the same.

“How did this morning go?” 

The Duchess answers for you and runs through the list of suitors that called on you this morning, including tidbits on their pedigrees or impressive accomplishments.  Pero half listens as he looks over the table of gifts; refusing a biscuit when Benedict extends a box in his direction, he murmurs, “Busy morning.”

You and the women nod.  Eloise yawns.  Francesca closes her eyes.  You sigh.

Pero kneels before you, comforting hand on your leg, “What’s the matter, Dulce?”

Sighing again, but this time a little less weary, “I don’t know?  I suppose it’s that there was no spark.  I didn’t spark with anyone.”

Daphne is quick to reassure you, “It can take time!  Simon and I did not spark right away.  In fact, we hated each other.  But as we spent time together, our feelings emerged.”

You nod in comprehension, but joke, amiably, “Well now I do not know if it’s a good thing then that I did not hate anyone either.” When you see Pero still looking at you with an apologetic expression, you smile sheepishly, “You must think me very naïve.”

“No, not naïve.  Very, very sweet, and even romantic.  There’s nothing wrong with being hopeful, Dulce.”

Nodding gratefully at Pero, he smiles when he sees that you’re taking solace in his words and decides now is a good time to produce a tin from behind his back that you hadn’t notice he was holding, “I know you have received a lot gifts already and the day itself has been quite overwhelming.  Perhaps you do not have the energy for one more?”

There’s something familiar about the container Pero is holding out to you; when you open it and see the delicate wafer cookies contained within, you’re instantly transported to a small Italian bakery that you and Pero used to visit daily in Florence. “Oh Pero,” you breathe, your eyes bright.

“I was in Florence recently and could not help but revisit our old haunt.  Did you know Signor Russo is still there?  I’m embarrassed by how many tins I purchased.  I remembered last night they used to be your favourite and it just so happened that I had one tin left in my luggage,” grins Pero; all he has wanted to do since he said good night to you after the ball, is to draw out the smile that’s currently on your face.

“Thank you so much, Pero,” you close your eyes and hum in contentment as the familiar sweet flavour washes over your tongue.  “This is the best thing I received today,” you grin, “May I share?”

“Of course,” Pero isn’t the least bit surprised by your display of generosity and he watches with satisfaction as you excitedly pass around the tin to your friends, sharing with them its origins and small snippets of the time in your life when these cookies were a daily treat.

Invigorated by the nostalgic treat, you and Pero spend the remainder of the afternoon catching up and recalling fond memories of your childhood together.  You learn that after completing his studies, Pero embarked on the customary grand tour before returning to Spain to help his father with the Tovar estate.  Subsequent to his father’s passing, at his King’s insistence he resumed his father’s former diplomatic duties and has spent the last five years travelling under the same charge previously entrusted to the old Barón.  When you tell Pero about the many places you have travelled with your father since you saw him last, you delight in the discovery that you’ve been to many of the same places, sometimes missing each other by only weeks.  Your never-ending conversation comparing new and old favourite discovered delicacies and sights runs all the way until dinner; you can’t remember the last time you’ve had so much fun just talking.

It’s exactly what you had wanted to do since the moment you saw Pero last night at the Danbury Ball.  Your grateful heart overflows with joy that you’ve been allowed the grace of closing out this whirlwind twenty-four hours in the laughter-filled, carefree manner that can only be possible when catching up with an old friend.

When you enter the Ramsbury Ball the following week it’s with Pero as one of your party.  His inclusion the most natural thing given that he’s become a regular fixture at Bridgerton House, often joining Colin in the morning for breakfast and returning in the afternoon to check in on how you’re doing and how the day’s suitors have treated you.

You can hardly express your appreciation at having your old friend’s support while you endeavour on the daunting undertaking of your first social season.  Though you remain a popular fixture among the ton, you must admit that socializing so much does not come without effort, being used to much quieter and calmer company.  It does not escape you how lucky you are to have a group of friends and supporters such as Pero and the Bridgertons with whom you can momentarily relax and jovially chat in between dances and some of the more awkward attempts at flirting by your suitors.

“Wait, wait!” laughs Colin, “You mean to tell us that you were actually there when our good Barón got his scar?  Please, pray tell, how did it happen?  I have tried in vain to get Tovar to reveal his dark secret!”

Pero catches your eye and you see his own twinkle in mischief.  “I’m afraid my lips are sealed,” you proclaim, falling easily into conspiracy with your friend, “and on any account, the tale is not suitable for polite society.”

Eloise, Colin and Benedict all groan and try various tactics to convince you to give up your story, but to no avail.  You simply will not tell them that the fearsome scar over Pero’s left eye is the result of a boy falling off the dock after running too vigorously towards the lunch bell and slipping on a wet fish.  Though you can laugh about it now, at the time you had been scared witless when the sailors from your father’s fleet lifted Pero’s wet, limp body from the water; you had cried by his bedside all three nights he was unconscious, praying he would be alright.  Even now, Pero remembers the force with which you had punched him in his uninjured shoulder when he woke, scolding him for scaring you so and making him promise never to do it again. 

Later, when you’re once again gliding across the dance floor in Pero’s comfortable but firm hold, he grins down at you, “Thank you, Dulce, for keeping my secret and upholding my reputation as a dastardly rogue.”

“My pleasure!  Have you been telling people that your scar is the result of some great feat of bravery?  Perhaps you fought off five pirates in order to protect the virtue of a young maiden?”

Pero laughs, “Sadly my imagination is not as inventive as yours.  I have simply been saying the details of the incident are difficult for me to recall.”

You nod, knowingly, “Ah yes, on account of all the injuries sustained.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I will be sure to drop enough vague hints to satiate their curiosity and raise you in their esteem.”

“Thank you, Dulce,” Pero says, amused as always by your good humour.

But you haven’t finished teasing, “... and perhaps they will be more forgiving of when you are dull, if they understand that you suffered a great many head injuries in your past.”

“Why you…”

Luckily for you, the dance requires you to spin away from Pero at this exact moment so you never hear what he says; by the time you turn back into his arms, he has already forgiven you – he’s never been truly upset with you before and has no plans to start now.  As the two of you continue to dance, your happy banter floats over the quickness of your steps and the laughter Pero pulls from you rings loud and clear across the dance floor.

---

Pero watches as you dance yet another dance with some seemingly upstanding gentleman from the ton.  A Lord something-something-shire.  Though he stands stiffly next to Benedict, scowling, inwardly he smiles and admires your graceful form.  You really have grown up to be a lovely, beautiful young lady, and yet – he finds in many ways, you’re hardly changed from the spirited, kind, and funny girl he knew in his youth.  You’re elegant and poised, but even as you extend your arm to your partner, the lilt of your fingers denote a playfulness that he remembers, something he does not observe in the other girls of the ton.  When not dancing, your pretty smile and witty remarks, coupled with the way your entire being lights up during the energetic story telling of one of your anecdotes, charms the entire room.  He’s exceptionally proud of you.

Still, he can tell you’re holding back, that you’re not entirely comfortable to be yourself in this setting.  Perhaps it’s modesty that begs you not to draw the attention of the entire room.  Or you’re following some outdated tutelage to conform with the subdued formality of such events.  All he knows is that to him, you’re radiant, a beacon of light, but he has yet to see you unleash the full extent of your charisma on the ton.

A weird, inexplicable part of him is glad that you don’t.  Something in him oddly akin to possessiveness wants to remain the only man at these events that knows you the way he does; knowing the depth of your wry humour, your never yielding compassion, and your unique perspective on the wide world that only a handful of people in this room have seen.  This same part of him leads him to spend most of the balls and societal events with his face set in a deep, glowering frown, standing apart from the other members of the ton, needing to be alone in order to wrestle with his thoughts.

Since the day following the Danbury Ball, Pero has brought you a single stemmed peony every single day, reasoning that if nothing else, you will have at least one of your favourite flower if none of your suitors sends any.  You come to look forward to the quiet meditative minutes you spend carefully clipping and arranging your one peony every day; it’s as if Pero has not only given you the flower, but also permission to take some relaxing time to yourself amidst the hustle and bustle of your social obligations.  By the time the Somerset House Gallery viewing arrives, you have yourself a fairly impressive bouquet that brings you peace and joy every time you look at it. 

As usual, Pero joins your group for the outing, but to your surprise, Eloise does not.  The reason for this is soon clear when Colin announces that he will be escorting Penelope Featherington as part of your party today.  You haven’t broached the topic with Eloise, but it’s clear that something has happened between the two women.  For as long as you can remember, Eloise and Penelope were thick as thieves, the very best of friends – when she thinks no one is watching, you’ve seen how this rift has affected her, but you can also tell Eloise would rather not discuss it.

Although you do not know her as well as you do the Bridgertons, Penelope has always seemed to be a lovely and friendly type of person.  Spending the afternoon with her today, you find her to also be witty and observant, direct in her comments and transparent in her thoughts and feelings as your group wanders through the galleries and enjoys the art on display.  Periodically, a friend of the Bridgertons or a suitor will join your small group as you move from piece to piece, making small talk and asking you or Francesca what you thought of this painting or that. 

When your party gathers around the refreshments table, Mr. Barnett, a young man you recall dancing with once at a recent ball, joins the conversation and remarks that the entire event is too dull for his tastes.

Met with polite but awkward looks and a light scoff from the Duchess, he apologies and tries to explain himself, “I simply mean that a sporting event, say a boxing match might provide more excitement than simply standing around and looking at pictures.  Although, I’m sure, Miss Featherington, you and your family might find this banality preferable to the type of action that typically surrounds the boxing ring.”

You’re absolutely shocked.  Even having not returned to London for several years, you had heard the rumours surrounding the late Lord Featherington’s untimely death.  Although certainly scandalous, as far as you knew, it was all speculation and you can’t imagine any reason to bring it up in polite conversation, never mind the gall of doing so directly to the poor deceased man’s daughter.

Colin looks murderous, his hands flexing, clearly battling himself on how he’d like to handle the situation without creating too much of a scene.  Next to him, Pero glares menacingly at Mr. Barnett, ready to follow his friend’s lead and provide whatever backup is necessary. 

Your candy laced voice snaps all three men back to the present, “I’m honestly so astonished, where do the men find their courage nowadays?” directing the question at Mr. Barnett who perks up at your attention.  You continue, all smiles, “For the life of me, I don’t think I could ever be brave enough to voice a thought like that out loud.”  Mr. Barnett turns bright red and mumbles something that sounds like “Right,” before bowing slightly and scampering away.  Pero finds himself smirking and filled with pride.  He remembered this viper-tongued hidden side of yours – you, who was always so sweet and good-natured, but irrevocably intolerant of cruelty or injustice.

Once in a small town in Greece, he had watched you chase away a group of boys bigger than you who had been stealing candy from a local girl, with nothing more than the ferocious spitting of admonishments and a small stick.  That the bullies probably didn’t even understand a word of English did not apparently leave your harsh rebukes lost in translation; the fury in your face and the conviction in the stance of your small frame doing all the talking for you.  After comforting the little girl, you had then given her all your candy and seen her safely home.  Later when Pero had offered to buy you more candy, you had been surprised that he knew you had run out, embarrassed he had witnessed your display of ferocity.  That was the day he bestowed the nickname “Dulce” on you, telling you as he refilled your candy bag that he was proud of you; the same way he’s proud of you now.

Unsurprisingly, Penelope excuses herself shortly after and when Colin follows her, your group breaks apart and you end up walking through the gallery with just Pero.  You wait as long as you can, making sure you’re out of earshot of others before putting your heads together the way only close confidants do, recounting what had happened.

“The audacity of that man, if he can even call himself that!” you practically hiss, still so incensed at the lack of civility that you had been witness to.

Pero chuckles, he’s always quite liked it when you would get riled up and vent to him; it was like watching a soft kitten bare its claws, “Well you certainly put him in his place, Dulce.”

Sighing, you certainly hope so, “I hope Penelope is alright.  And I hope Mr. Barnett at least has enough sense not to approach her ever again.”

“Well, if he does, I’m sure he will have plenty to contend with, including another fearsome tongue lashing by the prettiest lady of the season.”  While you feel your cheeks flush at his compliment, Pero continues, “My guess is that you won’t be seeing him in the suitors line at Bridgerton House.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, “Pity.”

“But what if he would have brought you peonies, Dulce?” teases Pero.

You take Pero’s arm, leading him back to a painting you’ve been wanting to revisit, “I’d throw the bouquet at his head.  Besides, I already receive the most beautiful peonies from someone I actually want to spend time with.  You can tell the men of the ton that peonies are taken, they need to find their own flower.”  You chuckle cheerfully and Pero finds that the sound lands deep in his chest and makes his heart expand.

If you thought the Italian cookies or the peonies were thoughtful gifts, Pero renders you absolutely speechless when he presents you with a breathtaking necklace before the Crawford Ball.  When he sees you, he’s secretly pleased that the necklace will compliment the cream gown that you’ve chosen for the evening, but he also can’t help but notice the way it shapes to your curves and accentuates your pretty features.  He waits with bated breath as you open the black velvet box and triumphs at your gasp and the way your eyes grow wide as you lift the delicate ruby necklace from its soft resting place. 

“Oh Pero, are these…?” you whisper, so full of awe and disbelief that you’re unable to finish your sentence.  It’s not often that something or someone renders you speechless.

“The rubies from India?” he finishes for you softly, “Yes, they are.”

Your eyes shine bright at the recognition of the rubies that had been gifted to Pero’s father by Indian dignitaries; when you were younger, you were so entranced by their beauty that you would often ask the old Barón to show them to you, and the kind hearted man had always indulged you with a chuckle.

“May I?” asks Pero gently, and you turn to let Pero drape the necklace around your neck, letting it rest delicately over your collar bones before he clasps it securely.  Hand gingerly touching the precious jewels you turn to Pero, still stunned, “Pero, this is too much.”

“Nonsense,” he smiles generously, “it always amused Father how much joy these rubies brought you.  I think he would have loved to see you wearing them.”  Your eyes well up with emotion, remember the gentle man whose sweetness you see shining so brightly and clearly in his son before you.

That night, when your necklace attracts the inevitable compliments, Pero watches with a full heart as you proudly talk about his father with love and generosity, regaling your admirers with tales of the far-off lands where you knew the man who raised him best.  Unavoidably, heads would turn in his direction during your stories, and Pero finds himself grimacing at the attention; choosing to turn away and move out of your audience’s line of sight to somewhere where he can once again admire you from afar in peace.

It doesn’t escape the ton’s notice that Pero only ever dances with you at balls; though your dance card is always full, the second and sometimes even third dance are permanently reserved for him.  Your smile is the brightest for him and ever present whether you’re together, on the dance floor or off.  There is no politeness or restraint with the two of you, only lively and animated conversation - the cheerful and melodic harmony of your joint laughter often carrying above the noise of the room.  He only ever smiles for you.

In between dances, if you’re not engaging in small talk with other young ladies or your suitors, you can always be found chatting happily with Pero and the Bridgertons; the other ball goers looking over in jealousy that your little corner of friends might actually dare to enjoy yourselves at an event meant for the very serious business of finding husbands.

Mornings at Bridgerton House include the usual parade of suitors waiting with gifts and flowers to have an audience with you or Francesca, and to Eloise’s extreme mortification, sometimes her as well.  If he doesn’t stay after breakfast, Pero generally arrives mid-morning to visit with Colin, but spends the majority of his time scowling at the young men waiting patiently in line, making no secret of the fact he’s scrutinizing them as he passes by.

The Duchess cannot decide if the Barón is a help or a hinderance to your marriage prospects.  On one hand, his fearsome glower and imposing figure have been enough to scare off any potential suitor who either had less than honourable designs on your fortune, or, via consensus with the Bridgerton brothers, was deemed to be a rake, or worse.  On the other hand, it was clear to any person with eyes that the two of you have a deep friendship - your company the only one he sought out, and his always cheerfully received by you.  Daphne could only imagine that it might intimidate even the most strong-willed, unwavering of suitors.  She wonders if any of your suitors ever question if your friendship with Pero masked a deeper affection between the two of you; she herself having started to wonder the same.

Convincing herself that it’s for your ultimate well-being, she endeavours to talk to the Barón about it. 

The morning after the Crawford Ball, when the line of suitors is the longest its ever been, Daphne waits for Pero to make his usual appearance mid-morning, and when he is seen in, she’s already anticipating him at the bottom of the stairs.  After he greets her courteously, she asks, “Barón Tovar, may I please request a moment of your time?  There is something with which I need your assistance.”

Following the Duchess into a room off the main hall, Pero asks with curiosity, “What may I do for you, your Grace?”

Daphne starts by thanking him for his support during the season, acknowledging that his presence has meant so much to you and helped you tremendously in conquering any nerves you may have had about debuting.

“Of course.  The pleasure has genuinely been all mine; it sometimes feels almost unbelievable that it has been over ten years since we last saw each other.  I have found it remarkably easy to fall into old patterns.”

“Yes, it is evident that the two of you are very close,” Daphne hopes that her comment comes out as the compliment she intends while at the same time hinting to Pero why she may have asked to speak to him in the first place.

Countenance faltering a little but still keeping his tone kind, Pero queries, “Is there something you wish to ask me, your Grace?”

Daphne decides from the limited time she’s known Pero that he is the type of person to appreciate transparency and directness, and so she ask with what she hopes is an impassive look on her face, “Do you intend to court her, my Lord?”

Pero nearly stutters, so caught off guard by the question.  He contemplates the implication of the Duchess having asked this question, and then, more seriously, his answer; after a few moments of silence, Pero responds truthfully, “No.”

Daphne nods in response, “I see, my Lord.  Please do excuse me for asking what you may have found to be an impertinent question.”

“Not at all, your Grace.  I rest easy at night confident that you always have your friend’s best interests at heart.”

Daphne nods, “Yes, always.  That is my highest priority.  Please consider with me: if I have wondered, do you think it is possible that some suitors and potential suitors have pondered the same question?”

And there it is, a perfectly reasonable question that Pero knows if he were to answer, would expose a part of his heart that he’s been keeping hidden, maybe even from himself.  Pero was telling the truth when he said he would not court you, but he is not so selfish to wish to keep you from another if he cannot have you for his own.  Truthfully, he is aware that he presents an intimidating and imposing figure, the mettle of which might scare off any number of gentlemen interested in pursuing you. 

“I should step back,” he announces abruptly and with finality.

“No, no!” protests Daphne, “I do not think that is necessary!  Your presence and attendance with us at the season’s events have been most welcomed and to be honest, a comfort.”

“I do not wish to do more harm then good, though,” Pero says, resigned, “If my presence deters someone who might be her match, I could never forgive myself.”

Again, though Daphne has only known Pero for a short period of time, she somehow knows that he’s made up his mind, and that even she, a Duchess, does not have the power to change it.  Pero thanks her for all her continued kindness and attention towards you and bids her goodbye with a bow.  Heading to leave out the front door, he looks up, as if looking through to the drawing room where you’re currently sitting, one last time before exiting Bridgerton House with a heavy heart.

You haven’t seen Pero in a week and a half and you’re worried sick about him.  He hasn’t been by Bridgerton House at all and he missed the Trowbridge Ball last week.  He, of course, does not owe you a tally of his coming and goings, but you feel unsettled at having not seen him for such an extended period of time after having seen him nearly every day for the past two months.  Your days, though full of engagements, feels empty when he doesn’t make an appearance.  You miss him.  You miss his gentle teasing, his reassuring presence and the way only he can make you laugh.  You have not really laughed in nearly ten days.

You convince Eloise to show you how to sneak out and traverse the alleys that run behind the houses of the square safely and quickly, the way you know she used to in order to visit Penelope, so you can secretly pop down the street to check in on Pero one evening.

You follow Eloise’s instructions exactly as you hurry along the pathways that weave behind the grand houses and it takes you only five minutes to reach the house Pero is staying at.  Standing in the small courtyard, you spot one window with a light on; hoping Pero is in the lit room, you find a few stones on the ground and launch them upwards.  Your aim could be better, but you do manage to hit your target a few times, ricocheting a few stones against the glass with the lightest of clinks. When you see Pero’s face appear in the window, you’re more than relieved – he doesn’t look so ill that he can’t move about and that’s good news.  You wave at his confused face and watch as he leaves the window; it’s a minute before the back door opens, “Dulce, what are you doing here?  Is everything okay?”

Pero is looking around into the courtyard, concerned for why you would appear at his door in the middle of the night, alone.

“I could be asking you the same thing, Pero!  I am so relieved to see you up and about, I’ve been so worried about you!”

Pero melts a little at the concern written across your face, “Me?  Why?”

“I haven’t heard from you in… well, it has been ten days now!  You haven’t been by Bridgerton House, Colin did not know where you were, and you missed the last ball!  I thought you must have taken ill!” your voice sounding a little shrill as your finish in a huff, as if why you might be worried was the most obvious thing in the world.

Pero laughs a little at your theatrics and his jovial manner makes you laugh as well, “I am very glad that you are not.  I mean, you’re not ill, are you?”

“No, I am not, Dulce.  Thank you for being worried about me.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, “You are very welcome.  Well!  Now that I am convinced you’re not at Death’s door, may I ask where you’ve been?  Why have you not come to see me?”

Pero scratches the back of his neck and looks mildly uncomfortable, “I had some business to take care of over the last few days that took up a lot of my time.”

“Oh!  Well, I hope it has all been settled to your satisfaction!”

“It has.”

You’re glad for him, “Good.  Then things will be back to normal?  You will be able to come to the Queen’s Luncheon this week?”

“I do not think so, Dulce,” his chest tightens a little at the way your face falls, “I think it is probably better if I stay away for a while.  I don’t think I am helping your marriage prospects very much.”

You’re so confused, what does Pero have to do with your marriage prospects? “Pero, I’m not sure what you mea-” but you’re cut off from finishing your thought when you hear a distinctively feminine laugh ring out from inside the house, followed closely by a response from a second, also feminine voice.

Your hands fly to your mouth to cover your gasp of shock upon realizing that Pero has company.  Female company.  And for some inexplicable reason, your eyes start to fill with tears, “Oh Pero, I’m so sorry!  I did not realize you were not alone!  I am so sorry to interrupt!”

You’re babbling and you’re not sure why nor can you seem to stop yourself, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” It’s not from embarrassment.  You’ve known Pero far too long to be embarrassed by anything with him; the two of you have always been able comfortable enough with each other to laugh off most things.  No, this is something else - an uncomfortable, sharp feeling right in the middle of your chest, “I just thought you were sick and I am so very glad you’re not.  I’ll go now!  I am sorry, so sorry!”  You fight back tears as you turn and flee back to Bridgerton House.

Eloise is waiting for you as she promised she would; she freezes when she sees your tear-stained face but to her credit, doesn’t pry – she just asks if you are okay and ushers you back into the house when you nod.  By the time you’re tucked into bed and your lights have been blown out, you’ve been able to name the dreadful feeling that’s made a home in your heart.  It’s devastation.  You’re devastated.  And plenty confused and angry at yourself for feeling that way!  It’s selfish, you think, selfish and childish.  You have become so accustomed to being the only woman Pero ever paid attention to, you realize that you had somehow come to think of him as yours, and having been confronted tonight with the fact that he decidedly is not, you’re now feeling foolish and plunging headfirst into a sense of loss for something that was never yours in the first place.

But… was that all it was?  No, it wasn’t.  You had liked it.  You liked being the only one he danced with.  The only one who he seemed to smile for.  The only one who could make him laugh.  Oh, his laugh.  Deep and booming - you lived for the way it shook all the way from his belly and crinkled the little lines around his eyes.  You harboured pride in being the only one who could pull it from him and you liked all the other ways that his countenance would seemingly soften just for you. He made you feel special and so worthy.

And that wasn’t the only way he did so.  He was so thoughtful and considerate; remembering even the littlest things about you: what you liked, what brought you joy.  He knew you so very well; always knowing the exact thing they would make your heart sing and taking every opportunity to do so.

You think about how Pero had let you lean on him this entire season - every request for reassurance or support met with kindness and words of praise for your wit, your mind, your sweet nature that you couldn’t help but believe based solely on the earnest and genuine expression in his eyes.

He had been there every step of the way with you, shouldering some of the pressure of the season so you wouldn’t have to; being your reprieve and relief, a shelter where you could laugh loudly and unabashedly be yourself.

He made you feel free and cared for.

And Lord, was he handsome. Closing your eyes, you think of the distinct slope of his nose and the strong cut of his jaw, covered in that scruff of his - unkempt but somehow still so distinguished.  You think of Pero’s deep brown eyes that would fleck with gold when he laughed, and wonder how you haven’t fallen into them every time he looked at you. And his hair. Oh, his hair. Your fingers actually itch just thinking about the soft curls that frame his face so perfectly; how you wish you could run your hands through them.

The thought that there is another woman who might be doing exactly that right now shatters your heart so completely.

You love him.  The realization is both a relief and a complete shock to your system.

The unexpected admission to yourself that you’re in love with Pero, followed closely by the certainty that your feelings are undoubtedly unrequited, is a one-two punch to your heart.

You cry and cry until sleep overtakes you.

I've never done a tag list before so please let me know if it doesn't work, or you don't/do want to be on it, or it sets your phone on fire 😅 @drewharrisonwriter @inept-the-magnificent @tuquoquebrute @stcrrjoon @anoverwhelmingdin

@callsignmedusa

[legobiwan]

I want to spend a moment talking about Ford's relationship with alcohol and how it ties back to both his social isolation and relationship with Bill. Warning, there's no real thesis to this post, but I do want to explore the concrete tidbits we get in so-called 'canon.'

Before Ford meets Bill, it's more or less stated that Ford doesn't really drink - maybe on occasion (high school/college shenanigans and such) and in small amounts, but never to excess. To do so would be to lose control of both his intellect and actions, and we all know Ford loves to try and exert control over his environment.

And then Bill comes around with this proposition:

"How about I mix you a drink to make it up to you? It's called the 'Myoclonic Jerk' and it can get you loaded in your sleep. Salvador Dali loved 'em!" "I was flattered but politely declined - I'm not much of a drinker."

Well, we know how that turned out.

Long-standing crush/obsession peer pressures you into drinking and you give in, finally able to slough off your many, many inhibitions for a delightful evening of...well, we're not exactly sure what happened but we're kind of sure via insinuation. (And let's be honest. The man did build a literal shrine to Bill, a point which I feel we're ignoring in the whole Bill-crying-over-his beer-because-he-got-dumped fiasco).

Anyway, Bill feels awkward. Ford feels awkward. They get cosmically smashed and then whatever happens, happens, but there's no reason this is considered a negative event considering Ford's escalating shrine and Bill's consistent fixation.

Fast-forward to the Krampus incident.

"He asked if I was finally coming around on holidays, or if this was just to keep the Krampus from coming back. I told him it was time to drink nog until we couldn't remember what a Krampus was."

I don't think Ford's referring to virgin egg nog here.

This is fascinating shift for a man who claims he doesn't really drink not all that long ago. There has to have been enough positive reinforcement for Ford to default to suggesting getting blackout drunk again for him to even bring this up. (The last time ended up with him and Bill doing something...good - he thinks. Ford doesn't want to consider the Krampus and how he insinuated that Ford was a callous, lonely man who cared for no one by not offering 'holiday cheer' to others. He might even feel that his natural anxiety and 'oddness' dissipate when he's drunk - a common enough rationalization for people with social anxiety/issues finding a social home. Hell, it might even be a fragment of what could be attraction to Fiddleford that he's working through the same unhealthy way Bill did with him).

This isn't the last time Ford gets plastered in canon.

"I was so excited that we [Ford and Jheselbraum] spent the entire night partying and drinking Cosmic Sand - the very same kind Time Baby himself consumes. When I awoke the next morning, she was gone and I was in another dimension entirely."

Again, I don't think Cosmic Sand is a Dasani bottle in this universe. Ford waking up in a whole new dimension with no idea how he got there is more than enough evidence, not to mention the fact the Oracle used to run with Bill's gang of Henchmaniacs and Ford himself outwardly states that they (him and Jheselbraum) 'party,' which is amazing for a man who was so socially tortured for so long. (But there is something to be said for being a freak in a situation where you know you'll be a freak. For example, living abroad in a country you have no chance of fitting in due to the way you look. You accept that you're going to be perceived as weird and that takes a certain amount of pressure off you, although it doesn't really help if and when you go back home. I have the feeling Ford experienced something similar on the other side of the Portal, and aside from not being able to kill Bill, it may have contributed to some of his bitterness upon coming back to Gravity Falls. Because at the end of the day, you can't run from yourself, and Ford had been running for a long, long time).

Funny enough, this habit doesn't seem to cease even after Ford comes back through the Portal, the most notable moment being after Stan and Ford are captured by Bill while the kids run off on a - as Ford so aptly puts - 'suicide mission.'

I would bet good, legal currency that this isn't water. Why even include it in the animation - in a set of episodes that were already constrained in terms of time and plot - without good reason? The fact that he passes his canteen to Stan afterwards is telling.

They're bracing themselves.

Now, why Ford had this on him before the surprise Weirdmaggedon (and that has to be when he equipped it, as he was in captivity throughout the rest of the timeline up to the point where the Shacktron and Stan/Mabel/Dipper freed the Gravity Falls citizens) - well, that's anyone's guess.

Addiction? Wanting to feel something the way he did so many years ago? Trying to bury a fuckton of emotional issues, including the nature of his relationships with Bill and Fiddleford? (He is a child of 1960s New Jersey, and that is bound to fuck you up). Too much time spent hanging around Rick Sanchez in the multiverse? (Not out of the realm of possibility).

I've seen a few fanfics touch on this topic and I don't think it's that much of a stretch to consider that Ford - for many, many reasons - may have developed an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, not solely, but at least partially due to Bill's initial influence and that first true influenced moment possibly resulting in a scenario where Ford would be able to drop so many of his barriers and, for once, (in his mind), be a human who is worthy of acceptance without needing to prove and justify his existence through achievement and accolades.

Anyway, this would be great fodder for Stan O'War II content, especially considering the massive guilt complex/hair shirt Ford dons after the whole Weirdmageddon event.

[fantaatix]

a stolitz post? in the year of our lord??

warning this is genuinely a long ass post

okay so sometime last month i was watching 3bskyen’s JLMW reaction (really tells you how long i’ve actually been cooking this post), and he was talking about color theory or something but what caught my attention was that he was paused on THIS frame:

he said something about the red/blue contrast throughout the music video; red being symbolic of blitz (the moon) and blue being symbolic of stolas (the ocean (?)) and it got me thinking, i wonder what the gold might symbolize? because this definitely isn’t the first time we’ve seen the color gold in reference to stolitz. first think back to truth seekers, there’s gold in quite a few places

golden rails, golden feathers, golden shackles; this is why i say gold and not yellow. at first i thought it might be symbolic of the power imbalance, but that’d be too easy.

quite the selection of objects, isn’t it? rails imply safety but can also be restricting, the feathers seem harmless but then turn into shackles…possibly reminiscent of the nature the book deal and the role it actually played in blitz’s mind about his relationship with stolas.

but there’s one more thing i left out; the golden dust

...okay...don't laugh...

first time i saw this scene in truth seekers i was immediately reminded of shrek ever after

AND I’M NOT COMPARING BLITZ TO RUMPELSTILTSKIN, i’m not trying to imply they stole from shrek ever after, THAT'D be a stretch. if anything blitz is better compared to shrek himself, but i'm not gonna write about that because i Don't Want To

but if i’m remembering correctly, that movie revolved around the theme of taking good things for granted, like your partner and your friends, which aligns pretty well with how blitz’s bad trip ends:

“i believe your subconscious is trying to tell you that you simply cannot fathom proper intimacy, but also craves it as well. it’s rather unfortunate, sir, considering it’s often how you treat those who stand by you, such as myself. are you worried i may have enough of it one day, as well?”

"you cannot fathom proper intimacy."

blitz doesn’t know how to be close to other people–i don’t think he understands the relationship he has with any of the people in his life.

we still don’t truly know blitz’s full belief on love and we can only deduce it from his actions; he says monogamy is boring but then goes on to stalk his monogamous employees, on their anniversary no less, bringing along his own singular date...

he focuses on the sex in his relationships because that’s what he’s good at; he finds sex less complicated than romance... and then struggles to get his asmodean crystal to open a portal because he can’t get it off.

he has this recurring pattern where the title of “best friend” eventually turns into something else, often unrequited...

“...my first ever friend!”

he didn't expect stolas' intimate attraction to him. stolas made the connection and it succeeded in making blitz feel guilty about stealing the book; that was why he stayed the night. blitz isn't used to not being rejected, even though he has a record of relationships that stopped once the Evil Four Letter Word came up. when he goes into a relationship, blitz has learned to not expect it to evolve past sex. love has negative connotations to him.

the worst part is we don’t know for certain WHY any of this is, or if it can even be chalked down to a singular thing

yeah, his mom died in a fire blitz caused, his best friend/crush lost his limbs in a fire blitz caused, he’s been treated as property since a young age; you can makes all kinds of correlations between these events and how they might have affected him later in life but as it stands now, we have no concrete answers other than the conclusion that blitz hates himself and has commitment issues.

but back onto that “taking things for granted” tidbit–subconsciously, he knows relationships can be good, but he feels he has to give up a lot of freedom in order to maintain one of his own.

also note how blitz is desperately crawling up the staircase, feathers kind of just hitting him haphazardly as he does so, as opposed to trip!moxxie who takes a few steps up after picking up a feather of his own volition. he knows moxxie’s relationship is more stable than any relationship he’s ever had, and yet:

“stop fucking talking, all of you!”

cue the gold dust.

now, i'm not saying the book deal was a good thing. in fact, it kind of reinforced the power imbalance between blitz and stolas. i'm saying that from blitz's perspective, it was a safeguard. any feelings he might have had for stolas before could be dismissed, and he does exactly that one episode prior;

"it's a transactional fucking, you see..."

what i think he does take for granted is the advice “moxxie” gives to him, his attempts to reach out in a meaningful manner, kind of like stolas’ attempts to reach out. he ignores them both; he’s too deep into his own denial.

also, STAIRCASES IN THIS FUCKING SHOW.

why do these fruity little men think so low of themselves and so highly of others??

i guess that's a bit of a rhetorical question, we all know the answer, but. wait. hold on a sec

ohhhh.

OOOHHHH, that's what this post was gonna be about!

i fucking GOT all of you, you thought i could go a post without talking about him you're WRONG and should feel SILLY.

so this was the OTHER thing i realised when watching 3bskyen's JLMW reaction: it follows the same theme as moxxie's bad trip!

JLMW vs. moxxie's bad trip

in helluva boss, we're used to seeing staircases being symbolic of a difference in power or importance, or a staircase to heaven, or a highly anticipated event going wrong *cough cough ozzie's cough full moon cough cough*

however, i think in the context of moxxie’s bad trip and JLMW, it can also be attributed to emotional distance. like stolas, moxxie's also looking for an emotional intimacy/understanding between him and blitz (he spends his whole trip actively trying to get on the same level as him for crying out loud).

this could also fit into blitz's bad trip; he's trying to get on the same level as stolas, but feels like even if he ever did, he'd still be inherently worthless. a "play thing".

he doesn’t know why anyone would want him for anything else, but he���s clearly not all about the hierarchy.

they need to get on the same level as each other emotionally; they need to break the power dynamic, and thats why the book deal had to go.

the difference in the symbolism is that while blitz has a straight and narrow path to trip!stolas, moxxie’s path to trip!blitz is this winding, unguarded staircase. he almost falls off.

now, compared to both of those, stolas’ path is a fucking stroll. albeit an emotionally damaging stroll, but it takes less physical strength.

conclusion; stairs are symbolic of a difference in power, but gold is symbolic of something else.

and there is a power dynamic between moxxie and blitz. it's not like stolas and blitz's dynamic, it's an artificial imbalance; blitz is the boss, moxxie is the employee. and moxxie has his own inferiority complex, which i think plays a role in it too.

the imbalance between stolas and blitz is kind of, unfortunately, inherited. but it's not impossible to manage. of course, stolas doesn't care about where blitz is on the hierarchy, he doesn't care about the hierarchy period. but it's still there. blitz cares because it affects him.

"you will be technically under his jurisdiction, but..."

this was problem one. stolas unintentionally demonstrating his power over blitz. "surprise, i technically made you someone else's property! please love me!" i'm exaggerating but this is definitely not the kind of thing you spring on your partner; they needed to talk about this beforehand, but according to stolas:

"no need for an arrangement, it can just be him and me!"

sigh. the many different ways this night could've gone

this is enough to trigger blitz's fight or flight. he wants to be with stolas, but he doesn't want the freedom to choose to be with him, which is problem two:

because blitz's belief of love is so inherently fucked up,

what are the chances that the very thing stolas gave to blitz to reaffirm his free will was just interpreted as another shackle?

blitz doesn't do commitment; stolas doesn't say "i love you", he doesn't need to. if you love something, you let it go, and if it comes back then it's yours--which happens in the very next episode.

blitz is the first person to mention love.

but if they want to love each other, they have to be equals, which was why the book deal had to go. they can't hold each other to these super high standards because that'd just set themselves up for disappointment. they have to be on the same level.

tldr: they're two sides of the same coin. literally!

color theory for dummies, a brief intermission

fun fact: i actually didn’t learn color theory in an art class, but in a textiles class. we love american education. but anyways, i’m gonna ask you to draw your attention specifically to the complementary colors.

we start the chorus of JLMW in a purpley sort of place, which then shifts into gold, and then into the red/blue contrast.

except red and blue aren’t complete opposites, they’re both primary colors.

if they wanted complete opposites, they could’ve used red and green, or blue and orange, which are admittedly uglier combinations but the point is that stolitz aren’t complete opposites.

however, purple and yellow, or gold, ARE complete opposites; they’re complementary colors. if purple is implied to be symbolic of stolitz together, then could gold imply stolitz apart?

well…no. i think that’s the wrong angle. if they wanted that contrast, they could have left the gold out entirely, because red and blue separate is stolitz apart.

so how are we supposed to deduce what the gold is actually symbolic of? because no, i don’t actually think it’s an extended shrek 4 reference. that kind of exclusively pertains to blitz’s trip.

listening to the lyrics in the gold part;

This unspoken contract

A deed we forged for mutual gain

If that's all this was when you're not here

What is this rooted pain?

I don't care that you're of lower station

Or primed to sate my dark temptations

Why can't you understand? Let me explain

And I'm terrified as I cry

To make these feelings true

What's left for me and my broken heart

If I cannot have you?

a direct mention of the book deal…and another mention of the power imbalance…so i realize am starting to sound insane, but please hear me out.

i think the main theme of helluva boss IS learning to love in spite of damages and traumas and insecurities–not ignoring either of those, but learning to work around them or possibly heal those parts of yourself so you can love someone else effectively. learning from mistakes.

so what if the gold is symbolic of the simple desire of a mutual understanding? or a meaningful connection with someone else?

tying it all back together somehow

both moxxie and stolas want to connect with blitz (in different ways), but for stolas, that means severing possibly the only thing connecting them thus far (the book). for moxxie, that means climbing the staircase and possibly being pushed even further away.

moxxie also has this high opinion of blitz despite all his obvious (and not so obvious) flaws. i think it's partially because of his own inferiority complex, but to him, blitz is the phantom--his scar becomes the mask he hides behind. he knows blitz puts on this loud, crude personality to hide his cracks and keep others away, and has a scarily accurate portrayal of him in his mind.

moxxie wants to be on the same level as blitz, and he knows it's possible to get there, because he's a damaged character himself and he gets it. he's just yet to take the actual first step.

stolas, even in his own imagination, doesn't think it's possible to be emotionally intimate until the deal is broken. he could reach for blitz, but blitz wouldn't reach back. he's not looking. not to mention the literal celestial view he has of blitz in his head.

while stolas can see blitz's damage, he can't fully comprehend it yet, partially because blitz won't give him the chance and partially because stolas isn't damaged in the same way he is. they both had deadbeat dads, but they adapted in different ways.

that's just the way trauma works, you adapt to deal with it, and then have to unadapt those unhealthy coping mechanisms once you're finally safe. it just takes a while for people to realize they're actually safe, and these fruitcakes are no exception.

conclusion? uhh, i don't know, i guess i don't really have one. just. enough with the discourse about these bitches i guess??? just give them each some time, change takes more than two seasons.

i guess i could compare the way the songs are set up but this was supposed to be out like two days ago and it's already 11:45 so. maybe some other time, maybe in a post about moxxie's Interesting taste in musicals

was unfortunately unable to finish the mox vs. fizz masterpost this month but we'll see sometime in the coming months, maybe sometime after the next helluva short comes out. been a bit too busy with school and other social things to have time writing these long asf posts about my skrimblos

okay goodnight o/

[homunculus-argument]

Also hey, have the only random tidbit I remember from a dream I had last night:

There was some classic high culinary fancy french dip or condiment (whose ingredients were explained to me but which I can't recall), which was invented in the 1700s or 1800s, which is creamy white in colour. And because The French are like that, the name of the sauce was also a mid-1800s slur/slang term for gay men. This was explained to me by a guy who had a creamy white cat whom he had named after the sauce, because he thought that was hilarious.

The sauce was also traditionally supposed to be served at the table in a very distinct, specific kind of porcelain bowl, and the reason why this guy was explaining this all to me in the first place was because I was visiting his home, and since his cat liked sleeping in bowls, he had gotten a custom-made giant novelty version of this specific kind of condiment dish so his cat could sleep in it. For no other reason than because he thought it was so unfathomably funny that his cat, named Faggot Sauce, was sleeping in The Faggot Sauce Bowl.

[rivangel]

a tidbit-experiment-prologue for a canonverse Levi x reader fic i may or may not be writing called 'Oceanic' :)—

It felt strange.

The stairs as you ascended them seemed stiff and begrudging: the top floor was considered the Commander’s quarters for all intents and purposes, and it had been funny being considered between yourself, certainly Levi, and your friends as his “vice” sub rosa.

But the joke was no longer funny… Even though jokes were funniest when about something untrue, right?

What was stranger was the faint dread in your gut considering your destination, like a thin layer of oil in water. Perhaps to the shock of everyone who’s ever fought Levi, given they were alive to tell the tale, he was predictable, routine-oriented, which had been true when you were “brats” even, but became more true over time. It was a safe space to live in, mentally. But everything was changing so fast…

Was it because of what they did, or what you didn’t?

Another thing about Levi, but this one was plain across a crowded room, was Levi’s phenomenally stubborn nature. You wonder if anyone would believe he’d venture to almost get himself killed just to spite Farlan and you.

At the top of the steps, you put your face in your palm. Then you felt a jolt of self-consciousness before remembering that there were seven Scouts left total. (For right now, huh.) So, none in this whole building besides you and him.

Anyway, you shouldn’t have been thinking about that.

So stubborn. A compromise was typically in order…

It’s not like Levi’s own quarters had disappeared off the face of the earth, hadn’t been a deadline for going unused for long enough. Hange was in Mitras, but everyone was in such low spirits, it was a genuine question whether they’d kick him out if they were on base.

The brass plaque that once was so bright it practically jumped off the wall for so many years—Thanks to Levi—was gone and in its place, ironically, a grody shadow that resembled dirt. You wondered what they did with “Commander Erwin Smith”. You wondered if Levi stole it.

Straightening, you promptly unlocked the formidable chamber doors.

—But there was no Levi.

You’re frankly stunned at the sight of the empty office. Not a speck of dust, but it was like that this morning.

You lock the doors back, and continue down the hall with a touch more haste. After last night, he couldn’t have left outright, right?

You unlocked the commander’s chamber door quietly, and swung it open, frowning. You hadn’t even known it had a kitchenette till just now.

Eventually you found the bed chamber, and to hell with your anxiety, you found Levi too. To hell with your distress, he’s curled up on top of the covers like a cold cat, on the far side. The bed could’ve snugly fit three or four of him. He was doing that thing he does too, the cute thing, having his arm propped under his chin and covering his neck like a scarf. He never, ever napped like this, despite being in full uniform save his jacket, collar loose and unbuttoned, shirt untucked.

Fondness further expanded in you, like a beautiful morning. He didn't wake up when you came in. He was really still under the weather.

Rounding the bed, he was as asleep as ever, for a few moments, long enough to appreciate his slightly messed bangs from being pushed into the pillow and his utterly relaxed eyes—not hard or fixed. It was strangely comforting to see him resting while the shadows under his eyes are so dark.

That was what you can see of his face outside of the handkerchief folded like a mask, like he had it when he cleaned. You couldn't believe he fell asleep with it on.

As if he could sense your feelings now that they were at their strongest, he blinked his eyes open with effort. On seeing you, they closed again, and he pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

He grunted, remembering something it seemed, and you knew what. You loosely crossed your arms, but you wandered closer.

He looked up at you with his one visible eye. You signed, Kind of pointless, yeah?

He wriggled backwards, giving you space to sit.

His strict no-contact policy with other living souls when he was ill was a bit moot after last night, even he could've admitted.

The bed dipped beside him when you sat, you rubbing your hands together, and cupping a firm fist so your hands would be warm. Levi's eye fluttered open intermittently.

The buzzed region of hair below his undercut felt satisfying under your palm. He moaned a little bit. While you worked on the handkerchief knot with one hand, you playfully tapped his knuckles with the other.

'You shouldn't wear that while you sleep—, you insisted, can you even breathe?'

"No."

You flicked his knuckle for joking about that. He pulled his arm to his chest.

You tried to mildly smile. It didn't do a lot.

"What... What is it?"

"Mm-mm." You shook your head. You give the nape of his neck another faint squeeze before gliding your fingers through his hair, swallowing hard.

His eye looked profoundly weighted, and plainly, tired. What you could see of his cheek was decently red with fever still.

Tutting silently, you carded his bangs off his forehead. When he was sleepy like this, his guard was down, or typically. Not now.

'I'll stay until you fall back asleep?'

You picked up your fingers and signed it seeing clear as day Levi's eye was closed, and he wasn't looking at you.

You didn't blame him.

You felt guilty just sitting there.

feedback and a reblog is appreciated<3

[bradshawssugarbaby]

She’s So High - Jake Seresin x Reader

A/N: Inspired by the song She's So High - Tal Bachman.

pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader

warnings: pining, mentions of death/combat, swearing

word count: 1.7k

“First class and fancy-free, she's high society. She's got the best of everything, what could a guy like me ever really offer? She's perfect as she can be, why should I even bother?”

“Oh, Bagman’s got it bad,” Javy teased, smirking as he took a sip from his beer glass, the draught’s foam catching on the top of his lip as he took a drink.

“Aw, leave Loverboy alone, she’s too good for him, he’s trying to numb the pain,” Bradley quipped as he gave Jake a slap on the back, grinning ear to ear as he saw his friend and usual rival squirm in his seat at the mention of the girl he’d been pining after for a couple of weeks now.

“Ha. Ha. You guys are killing me with your humour,” Jake retorted, shaking his head.

Jake wasn’t the crushing type. He hadn’t had a crush since he was 16 - crushes were juvenile and cowardly in Jake’s mind - he was a man who knew what he wanted and went for it when he saw it. He couldn’t remember the last time he fell this hard for someone who barely even knew his name, he was always found no-strings-attached relationships easier, no one had unrealistic expectations, there was little to argue about, and no one ended up heartbroken when things fizzled out and inevitably ended a month or two later. He knew he was getting too old for it, and eventually women would start to become disenchanted by a man in his mid 30s with a fear of commitment, but, he’d cross that bridge when he got there. He was happy with how things were in his life - he never got hurt, and neither did anyone else when he got shipped out halfway around the world or relocated.

That was, until he saw you. Jake played in a beer league baseball tournament on weekends, and she had joined his team a couple of weeks ago as an alternate player. You were the sister of one of his teammates girlfriends, and just happened to have played ball in high school, so you volunteered yourself to play when their second baseman broke his ankle earlier that week.

You'd become a regular replacement for second base, and the entire team was in awe of your talent on the diamond. Jake had noticed right away, your long, sporty high ponytail, piercing eyes and the way you looked in a pair of athletic shorts was enough to get his heartbeat to race, taking away any and all focus he had during the game.

Instantly, he was captivated by you. He caught himself feeling things he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he didn’t know what to do about it. In retrospect, he should have just let it go, or sucked it up and said something to you on his own accord like he did with every other girl he’d liked, but, instead, he confided in Bob, a member of his flight squadron, who apparently, can’t keep a secret to save his life.

Bob had accidentally let it slip to Natasha during a flight exercise, and Natasha couldn’t resist the juicy little tidbit she could now hold over Jake’s head. She kept it to herself for about a week, until the new object of Jake’s affection had entered the Hard Deck one night with another of the baseball teammates and his wife.

Jake was caught off guard, for once in his life, rendered speechless and vulnerable, unsure of how to proceed. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole right there, not wanting to say a word to her, especially not with his friends around. His friends were great towards him, and he had no doubt that if he did ever bring an established girlfriend around them, they’d welcome her with open arms, however, a girl Jake had a crush on? He wasn’t ready to admit to it, and he knew he’d have to if they caught his reaction.

Natasha, however, was able to put two and two together when she noticed Jake slinking down in his seat in an effort to hide himself behind Bradley’s shoulder. Bob gave a bewildered stare at Jake’s odd behaviour, until his gaze drifted towards the door and landed on the girl Jake had been describing to him. Bradley, not wanting to be left out of the secret, but also having the loudest mouth of the group found out, and once that happened, just about everyone in North Island had learned of Jake Seresin and his not-so-secret crush.

“You’re telling me you can fly into enemy lines and shoot down planes, staring death in the face and laughing at it as a pilot, but you can’t…ask a girl on a date?” Javy taunted, trying his best to keep a straight face as he quizzed Jake about his nerves and reservations about asking her out.

“It’s not that I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous,” Jake replied with a cool tone.

“Come on, Bagman, everyone gets nervous.”

“For the last time, it’s Hangman, and not me.”

Jake sighed as he sipped his beer, running a hand through his perfect, sunkissed hair, golden honey coloured strands becoming tousled free from the hair gel he’d used to comb it into place. He frowned as he set the glass down on the table. He knew his friends would never let him live it down if he didn’t go over and at least talk to this girl, and the longer he waited, the more his friends would egg him on. He stood up from his seat silently, taking a deep breath before shooting the group one of his infamous cocksure grins - trying to force a look of natural confidence without coming across as being mistaken for arrogance.

“Alright, I’ll go talk to her, watch and learn boys, and lady. Watch and learn.” He said, thickening his accent to mask his nerves as best as he could.

With a cheer of encouragement from the table, and a hopeful thumbs up from Bob, as well as a wisecrack from Natasha about how there had to be another woman out there who was able to resist his southern charms and graces, Jake walked over towards the girl he’d been pining over for the last few weeks. He’d never pined for someone like this before, and the thought of feeling this way over a girl he barely knew was completely foreign territory to him. He’d never admit it to anyone, but fuck, he was nervous.

He’d never been good at addressing his feelings, having grown up in a military family in Texas - emotions weren’t something you shared or acted on typically. At least, not the positive ones. Love itself was almost a foreign concept - sure, he’d had girlfriends. He thought he’d been in love with a few of them, but these newfound feelings towards her? They had him questioning everything he had ever known about love. Maybe the feelings for his exes leading up to this point were something less intense than love, or, maybe this was something more intense. He couldn’t quite tell. All he knew was that for the first time in his life, he was lacking all confidence.

You were tall, almost taller than Jake was at just under six feet tall (though if anyone asked him, he stood at six-foot and half an inch), and you looked like something straight out of a magazine, with long flowing hair, piercing eyes, and a radiant smile. You were the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Stunning, and nothing short of perfect.

And he was…he was Jake. He knew he wasn’t bad looking, in fact, he usually figured he was one of the better looking guys in his squadron, save for maybe Javy and Bradley - Javy was smoother than he was when it came to flirting, it was so effortless for him, whereas Jake always felt like he was trying too hard, and Bradley had the one thing he didn’t and couldn’t - a mustache that actually suited his face. He couldn’t help but feel like she might be more suited with one of them, they were certainly better matches for her in his mind. He just hoped and prayed that she’d give him at least a drink shared between the two of them before she’d meet Bradley and be swept off her feet by him.

“Hi darlin’, what brings you here?” Jake said with a smile, immediately regretting his decision to go with the pet name.

“Hi! Jake, right? I’m just here with Derek and Alexis, you know, third-wheeling their date,” You laughed as she sipped her cocktail, and for a moment, Jake thought he was in heaven.

“How about coming to sit with me for a drink? I’m sure Derek and Alexis won’t mind if I steal ya for a few minutes, right?”

Jake held his breath for a moment as he waited for you to respond. Was he taking it too far? Was he coming on too strong? Should he backpedal and clarify it as friends? Should he leave it and let it go? Should he just turn around and walk away, spare himself the heartache that he was sure would inevitably follow if he waited for you to reply.

“I’d like that. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. Do you play darts?”

“Do I?” He laughed softly, breathing a sigh of relief as he nodded his head, his lips now curling up into a grin at you, “You’re looking at the darts champion of the entire bar. Hasn’t been a single serviceman or woman who’s been able to beat me. I’m somewhat of an undefeated legend around here.”

“Oh, is that so?” You challenged, a wicked grin forming on her lips as you laughed, “You’re on, Jake.”

As you walked towards the dartboards, Jake followed behind, completely on cloud nine. He passed by the table where his friends were seated, and at their thumbs up and silent applause for him, he simply mock-saluted before keeping his eyes on the girl of his dreams. You may end up leaving him tomorrow, finding someone better for her before you even leave the bar, but for now, you were all his, and he wasn’t going to fuck this one up.

[putellas14]

It Was Only a Matter of Time, ficlet 1 (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

This ficlet was getting out of hand and becoming a full blown fic, which was never my intention. I cut it back down into ficlets. Hopefully that means you can get little tidbits of this story over time rather than having to wait another millenia for a full fic.

If you haven't read It Was Only a Matter of Time yet, I'd highly encourage you to read that first.

The next 15 hours were a whirlwind. You barely remembered last night, given the amount of alcohol consumed in the Barca locker room and the party afterwards. But the one thing you remembered was that Alexia refused to leave your side for more than 10 minutes. Which is why it didn’t surprise you to wake up next to her with her arm tossed over your waist.

It didn't surprise you but it did make you so unbelievably happy.

Smiling to yourself, you took in her sleeping form. You were in a hotel room, presumably Ale’s, although you weren’t sure. Turning your head gently, you checked the other bed and saw Patri sound asleep.

Turning back towards Alexia, you leaned closer to press your lips to her forehead. She opened one eye and smiled seeing you next to her.

“I’m going to run over to my apartment quick and get a change of clothes,” you whispered.

“No,” she whined, using her arm to drag you closer.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Shower here.”

“And clothes?”

“Use mine.”

“I know we’re close, Ale, but I don’t want to wear your underwear.”

Her nose squished up in an adorable expression of disgust. “You’re right. But I’m coming with you.”

You laughed softly. Of course. Jesus, why was she so adorable? “Okay, let’s go.” You tried to roll out of bed and found yourself pulled back and flipped over with Alexia hovering over you. “Well, hi,” you muttered.

“Morning.” She leaned down and just as her lips met yours, a pillow hit you both in the side.

“I can see you, you know,” Patri groaned. “No nasty business while I’m here.” Rolling over, she buried her head under the cover and let out a snore. Laughing, Alexia pushed off of you.

At your apartment, you barely managed to convince her that you weren't going to shower with her. It didn't matter that you'd seen each other is many stages of undress before. You'd never showered together. And even though you were insanely in love with Alexia, you didn't want this to be the first time you were together, still mildly drunk, verging on hungover, officially together for less than a day.

However badly you wanted Alexia, this was not how your first time was going to happen.

You walked out into the kitchen towel drying your hair. She handed you a coffee. "Oh thank you." You gave her a kiss in return.

"You're welcome," she answered as she pulled her shirt over her head. "Guess I'll take my shower now."  Dropping it on the counter, she walked around you, trailing a single finger along the band of your pants.

Groaning, you tried to hold it together. She kept walking. "Care for another shower?" she asked over her shoulder when she got to the bathroom door.

"Ale." Her sports bra hit you in the face and she giggled. "Oh my god. You're going to kill me. Let me drink this coffee before I die." You slumped over your coffee, refusing to look in her direction.

"And here I thought you'd want to have your way with me before you died. But okay, enjoy your coffee." A second later you heard the shower come on. You groaned again.

Do not think about her in the shower.

Do not think about her naked in the shower.

Do not think. Period. There. Just stop thinking. 

Shaking your head, you finished off your coffee and put your cup in the sink. Hands settled on your hips and you felt lips on the back of your shoulder. You turned to face her. Her hair was still a wet tangled mess. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower. She was dressed in one of your shirts. Cupping her cheek, you wrapped your other arm around her to hold her close. "Feel better?"

"A bit hungover. Maybe you can kiss it better," she whispered. Despite how stupid the line was, you couldn't help the smile that formed as your lips met hers. You'd lost track of how many times she'd kissed you since yesterday. But every time she did, it still felt unreal. It felt like you were living in a dream.

"I'm so in love with you," you said, leaning back. Her nose scrunched as she looked up at you.

"I'm completely in love with you, too," she whispered.

You kissed the tip of her nose. "What times does your bus leave?"

She glanced at the clock on the wall. "We should probably head back soon," she answered with a pout. "I have to be on the bus in an hour."

The two of you walked slowly back across town, not wanting the time together to end. You learned that the city of Barcelona had organized a parade for the team, which would be the day after tomorrow. The league's final match would be midweek and then Alexia would be on holiday. Officially, you had already begun holiday, but you'd signed on to help at a few youth soccer trainings. It pained you to tell Alexia you wouldn’t be able to come to Barcelona for her final match of the season.

"Oh! But you could come to Ibiza, maybe? We leave next weekend."

You'd already committed to a vacation with some of your teammates. They'd get over it. "I miss our Ibiza trips," you quietly admitted.

Alexia put her arm through yours and leaned her head against your shoulder. From then until she boarded her bus, she clung tightly to you, not wanting to let you get too far in the short time you had left together.

Though the next week was busy,  she returned to the memories of your touch often, desperately missing you. You  talked every day, multiple times. You watched Barcelona's last match and cheered for them as they all celebrated their league win. You kept yourself busy with the youth camp. It was fun to teach excited children about your favorite sport. But you were glad when it was over. The year without Alexia had been difficult and you had a lot to make up for. All you wanted was to get to Ibiza and back to Alexia.

[sgiandubh]

@outlanderskin :"For those who have doubts: just research a little about Caitríona's dating history. See how she treated Dave and James and how she talked about them in interviews. See how she wrote about the Irish boyfriend she had in Paris in that article. Compare all of this to the impersonal way she treats or talks about Tony. Bingo🙃"

Good point 👌

Dear Good Point Anon,

You know, it's really serendipitous, as I have just finished a weeklong deep dive in very, very old press articles on (or at least mentioning) S and C, who clearly had a life before OL, thinking it would be nice to put some of my archive work skills to good service.

I think @outlanderskin was referring to C's New York Times article I reviewed and analyzed last summer, but I just found way better: a very long report in the Irish Independent's Sunday issue of July 11, 2004, focused on the next generation of Irish supermodels. Of which there could be only one, at that time: C, who dominates Roxanne Parker's 'Through Thick and Thin".

I am sorry, there is no link available to my knowledge, so we'll have to work with these very poor xerox scans:

I took the liberty of generously using my dreaded highlighter and, for the people who need to translate this post with Google, I am now taking my time to type what I find damn interesting in this almost twenty-year old article:

'If Ireland ever has a hope of having its own supermodel, then Caitriona Balfe is it. Sitting in the Pink Pony Café on Ludlow Street in New York, Caitriona swirls a wad of bread into her carrot and coriander soup while informing me that her musician boyfriend just brought her a breakfast-in-bed of cream eclairs and coffee a little over an hour ago. But that doesn't stop Caitriona from finishing her lunch and chasing it with a large cocoa-dusted cappuccino. Ebony-tressed and ivory-skinned, Caitriona clip-clops down the cobbled street after we leave the cafe, heading towards her apartment in Chinatown with Dave Mailone (sic!), the boyfriend, in tow.'

This reads, in 2024, like an interview with a more benevolent C clone from a totally different planet, indeed. A young, carefree, in love and hysterically funny C, who apparently had no problem heavily dishing out happy tidbits of her private life to her home country's press. A C also very much reminiscing anyone with a brain of the 2013-2018 bantering C, as this quote shows:

Again, you'll have to indulge me retyping it, Anon (tedious, I know - but helpful). She is remembering her real breakthrough, in November 2002, at the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, in New York:

That was the most I've ever been paid for a show. I've got 18,000 euros for one day's work! They made me get a spray tan before the show, and I was still the whitest and the least well-endowed girl in the entire show! So what did she have to wear on the big day? `Not a whole lot! I think I described my outfit on the day as something Wilma Flintstone would wear on her honeymoon night. There wasn't a whole lot to it and it had bits of fur hanging off it.'

And, for good measure, we even have a (admittedly, awful) picture with the season's fiancé, with whom things did not end well:

I know, it looks like a Pravda pic, circa 1957 and I am honestly sorry. But it's still very clear. And, which is more important, very eloquent.

Anon and reader, you draw your own conclusions on this. I know where I stand. The only guy C has similar pics taken with and released in the press or on social media is the peasant some love to bash every single day in here. Their problem, not mine.

Yes, of course Mordor will yell and hiss. Of course they will throw rotten tomatoes at the blunt knife and scream THIS IS OLD. But hey, do you have any better than this poor (but oh, so endearingly authentic) picture or than any given S&C pic before the fucking EFH and IFH, when she gradually started to turn into today's Reclusive, Restrained and Rarefied Greta Garbo wannabe?

Oh, and please: don't give me the 'he's shy' or the paperwork crap again. Her public persona has drastically changed, and not for the better. It's plain to see and there are reasons for this.

Who's to blame? This question is so wrong, in so many ways.

The question should be 'what's to blame?'

I'll stop here, Anon and I hope it was somewhat useful. Thank you for dropping by.

[daffi-990]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday ✍️

Tagged by @wikiangela @tizniz & @hippolotamus

Sharing a little something from Chapter 7 of Rival Firefighters 🚒. I think I’ve shared some of this before but don’t know how much, so we’ll just all pretend I haven’t shared any of it, okay? 😅

“Wake up, Buck!”

Buck’s eyes slowly blink open, sleep still heavy on his eyelids, trying to pull him back under its spell. He brings a hand up to rub at his eyes as he carefully sits up, blanket falling to bunch around his lap.

Huh, he doesn’t remember grabbing a blanket last night.

Or a pillow for that matter.

He doesn’t actually even remember falling asleep. He must’ve dozed off when Eddie was putting Chris to bed and then Eddie must’ve slipped a pillow under his head and gotten him a blanket. The thought of Eddie taking care of him like that has warmth swirling in his belly.

“I’m up. Where’s the fire?” He shifts around a little, mindful not to jostle his leg too much. Even though it’s in a brace, one decent bump can still hurt and he’d like to avoid any more pain if he can.

“Dads not cooking so there’s no fire” Chris replies nonchalantly.

“Hey!” An offended squawk sounds from somewhere behind him, Buck turning to find Eddie leaning against the door frame trying to look insulted, but the big fond smile on his face is his downfall.

Chris giggles. “We’re going out for pancakes!” He says excitedly, blue eyes alight with joy.

Buck looks to Eddie for a bit more information, but Eddie simply shrugs. “Better get dressed or Chris will drag you there as is.” And then he’s pushing off of the door frame and walking away, calling out over his shoulder. “We’re leaving in ten!”

Buck turns back to Chris who is looking at him expectedly. “Suppose I best get up then, don’t want to miss out on pancakes.”

Chris claps his hands in excitement as Buck gets off the lounge, hobbling on one foot until he can grab his crutches. He heads to Eddie’s room to change since he doesn’t have any clothes of his own, having not planned on staying the night. He borrows a hoodie and a pair of loose fitting basketball shorts that slip easily over the brace before hobbling out on his crutches to meet the Diaz boys at the door.

Eddie does a double take when Buck comes out, his eyes slowly mapping out Buck’s body before finding his face. Eddie licks his lips and subtly shifts on his feet, Buck suddenly feeling self conscious. He nervously fiddles with the sleeves on the hoodie.

“Uh- I hope you don’t mind that I- that I borrowed some clothes?”

“No, I don’t- don’t mind at all. They uh- you look- yep.” Eddie stammers out, a subtle blush blooming on his cheeks. He points his thumb over his shoulder at the door. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, let’s go eat some pancakes”

Hope this helps tide you over @smilingbuckley 😘

No pressure tagging: @spotsandsocks @devirnis @diazsdimples @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @missmagooglie @monsterrae1 @rainbow-nerdss @exhuastedpigeon @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @sibylsleaves @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @madneywedding @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @lover-of-mine @loserdiaz @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @fiona-fififi @dangerpronebuddie @giddyupbuck @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @hoodie-buck @hawaiianlove808 @jesuisici33 @jeeyuns @king-buckley @neverevan @bekkachaos @captain-hen @steadfastsaturnsrings @fortheloveofbuddie and as always, anyone who has something they want to share, consider this your official tag 🏷️

[lees-chaotic-brain]

I'M BACK HI HI SONGFIC EVENT WOO

"Can't help falling in love with you" covered by aeseaes. For the blue-eyed king himself, Gojo Satoru (I will never change)

For this ask, I was thinking of it as a sequel to the "dancing with your ghost" fic (reincarnation), but idk if that's allowed, so if it's not, just ignore this little tidbit.

Basically, just reader being so in love with gojo and feeling that their love is inevitable, like they are destined to be together. Mutual pining, fluff, SAPPINESS! If you can make the reader an absolute SIMP, that would be amazing omg (I am down BAD)

summary: when the expired mochi in your pantry leaves you with such a resounding sense of wrongness that you find yourself rushing out to buy some more the last thing you expected was falling in love with a stranger...

wc: 2.3k

cw: none!! one kiss, fluff, reincarnation au, one sorta implied mention of itafushi bc i know you love them luna, reader is a bit of a hopeless romantic, overall cuteness

a/n: this is technically a part two to this, but you can also read either as a standalone! also special thanks to @pandora-ophelia-blog for all the help with gojo headcanons!!

listen to this while reading

event guide | event masterlist | jjk masterlist | blog navigation

You had never truly fallen in love before, but you imagined that when you did in the future it would be nothing like the movies. Truthfully, you didn’t want it to be anything like the movies. The whole idea of love at first sight seemed rather…superficial to you. Like, how were you supposed to look at someone and just know that they were the one for you?

In your opinion, love at first sight didn’t exist. Maybe attraction at first sight did, but how could you love someone you didn’t know anything about? The first time you saw someone the only thing you knew about them was how they looked. That’s why love at first sight always seemed shallow and fake to you. It was more about your outer appearance than who you were as a person.

So no, you didn’t believe in love at first sight. You never had, and you didn’t think you ever would. And although you had never fallen in love before, you had plenty of ideas about what it should be like. Probably too many for someone who hadn’t even had their first kiss. But that didn’t stop you.

In your mind, love was slow, like the trickle of syrupy sweetness that slid off your popsicle and pooled on your skin on a hot summer day. Love was something like that line from The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. You know, that one that goes “I fell in love the way you fall asleep. Slowly, then all at once.”

Because love wasn’t something that just appeared. It was something that had to be built, something that built up over time before sucker punching you in the gut when you least expect it. You can’t just decide to love someone and charge blindly in. Love chose you, and it took time.

Being a hopeless romantic, you had spent countless nights laying awake and formulating what your idea of love was. But in all of those sleepless nights you never once imagined love would look like a uselessly tall fool with freaky blue eyes nearly bulldozing you over outside of a mochi shop.

Wise men say only fools rush in

The bright packaging on a box of kikufuku mochi on display at your local supermarket had caught your eye a few weeks ago, and you had impulsively tossed it into your cart before promptly forgetting about it until earlier that morning when you had found it in your pantry. For some reason, the resounding loss that filled you at the sight of the expired mochi was so strong, you found yourself struggling to breathe momentarily.

By the time you had remembered how to inhale properly, you found yourself putting your shoes on and headed out to buy some more. You couldn’t explain why you suddenly needed the mochi, seeing as you didn’t even particularly like it, yet you instinctively knew that the expired mochi in your pantry was wrong.

And so, guided by a foreign sense of loss, you found yourself walking to a nearby mochi store, confident you knew where you were going despite having never been to the store before. Lost in your thoughts, you had somehow managed to not notice the lanky giant leaving the store right as you stepped in, causing you to crash forcefully into his chest.

To your mild chagrin, he barely budged, not even wobbling while the force of the impact sent you flying back on your ass.

“Hey there.” Startling blue eyes stared at you from behind tinted shades as their owner bent down with a crooked smile. “You good?”

Meeting his eyes, you couldn’t help but feel something just click into place. There was just something so right about him and his presence. Something that was as familiar and comforting as crawling into your bed after a long day. Something that felt like home.

Time seemed to stop, and the two of you just looking at each other, mapping out faces that already felt so nostalgic. Your gaze lingered a little longer on the dimples in his cheeks, as they were possibly the cutest things you had ever seen, screaming boyish humor and good looks. 

The laughter of his friends teasing him for freezing because he accidentally knocked an attractive person over shook you out of your stupor, reminding you that you were still sitting on your ass on rough, filthy concrete.

Their teasing seemed to reawaken him as well, as he reached out a hand to help you up. You accepted, your face heating as a full body shiver ran through you as your palms connected.

Releasing his hand, you scrambled to your feet, brushing yourself off as you apologized. A little freaked out by the inexplicable connection you felt with him, you sidestepped him and attempted to enter the store.

But it seemed the handsome white haired stranger had other ideas, one long arm extending as he grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Flustered, you looked back, and when your eyes met for a second time, you knew it for sure. 

So this is what falling in love at first sight was like. Who knew it actually existed?

But I can't help falling in love with you

That day, the two of you exchanged numbers, and after that things flew by. You went from being complete strangers to best friends in a matter of months, hanging out one on one or in a group at least three times a week. 

As much as you tried to fight it, as much as you hated the idea of love at first sight, you couldn’t help yourself. The instant you had laid eyes on him you had just known somehow. Known he was the one. And despite your attempts to fight it, to fight the inevitability of him, it was far too late for you. If your first encounter had been your downfall, then each interaction after that had been bolts locking your fate into place. Your fate with him.

During that awkward phase where you both pointedly ignored the obvious connection you shared in favor of getting to know each other as friends, you got to know the man Gojo Satoru was, and found yourself falling deeper, the little details adding up and pulling you further.

Like, for someone who pretends to be super cool and popular he’s actually a total dweeb. The first time he let you into his room you spent several minutes gawking at the sheer amount of Digimon paraphernalia carefully placed around the space. When you had finally regained your ability to speak you made the mistake of asking him about it, and were regaled with the tales of his epic Digimon achievements and boasts about how he’s never even touched a guide. 

What can you say? Dweeby men are hot. Apparently slightly pathetic men who are desperate for your affection are also right up your alley. And sure, he was a little clueless when it came to interacting with someone he’s interested in (ie. buys ridiculously expensive gifts/flat out begs), and definitely more than a little immature (ie. dick jokes and pranks) be he was also so much more than that.

Watching him interact with his students and coworkers and hearing him recount stories, you could see just how deeply he cared. From putting the comfort of his students before his own, to always being ready to go to bat for them, he showed his reliability and the type of man he was.

Sure he was annoying at times, and probably indulged in childish shenanigans a bit too much, but at heart he was a good man. A caring man who would give everything he had and more if it would make his students happy. So maybe it was only natural that you found yourself picturing a life with him when you weren’t paying attention.

When you were with him things just felt right. You could count on him to watch out for you, and listen with care and attention. He instinctively knew when something was wrong, and never failed to cheer you up.

In a short period of time you had become so dependent on him it scared you a little. But you knew that you were what he needed as well. When the dark thoughts took over and he couldn’t stop wondering if he was doing enough, if anyone actually liked him for him you were there to haul him out of the murkiness of his own mind. 

The two of you just clicked…who knows, maybe if you hadn’t only just come around on the idea of love at first sight you would consider the idea that the two of you were soulmates. That’s just how seamlessly the two of you fit into each other's lives.

Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

All the months spent in the weird limbo between being completely in love with each other and just friends finally came to a head one particularly rough day. He found you curled up in bed, your burrito of depression and fluffy blankets the only thing protecting you from the outside world. 

Bouncing into your room, he was already halfway through a dramatic retelling of some tea about Megumi and Yuuji when he noticed the dank mood emanating from your swaddled form.

“Hey,” He tones down his voice and approaches your bed, sitting gently on the edge instead of violently flopping on top of you like he normally would. “What’s up with the mood? Something happen?”

The bed dips as he scootches closer to you, moving around in an attempt to catch a glimpse of your face. “Hrgghh it’s nothing- hey!”

You squirm away as he prods your cheek, burrowing further into your massive mountain of comfort blankets and stuffed animals.

“Nooooo.” You feel him flop his chin onto your shoulder, his long arms snaking out to gather you up in his lap. “Let me see your pretty face. Please?”

You ignore him, remaining firmly hidden away in your cocoon. “I said I’m fine.”

“And I don’t believe you. So, do I need to go throw you in a pond, or are you going to talk?”

“Why would you throw me into a pond?” He’s silent for a moment. “That’s beside the point. I just want to know what’s bothering you. Is that too much to ask?”

You hear more than see the pout in his voice, and the knowledge that he’s going to continue to pester you until you give in convinces you to spill.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I just wonder if people actually like me. Like, I don’t know. I’m just me. And I want to go outside and do things, I just can’t. On top of that, there’s nothing that special about me to make up for any of my flaws.”

He hums quietly, rubbing your back through the many layers of blanket. “Remember when I was in a funk a few weeks ago because I felt like people only liked me for my looks, or what they thought I was?”

You scoff a little. “Imagine being so confident in your looks it makes you insecure. But yes. All jokes aside I remember. Why?”

“Because you told me that I was amazing and special and that I have so much more than my looks and wealth to offer.”

“And?”

“And if I’m that special, it would make the person I’m in love with pretty special too, wouldn’t you say so?”

Silence and his smug satisfaction over his logic fill the room as you struggle to process what he just said. “I-What. Satoru. Did you just confess to me? I’m pretty sure I heard you wrong because there’s no way you just said that so casually.”

“Nope you heard me right. I’m in love with you. Have been for a while.”

You splutter, unable to formulate a response, completely thrown off  guard with the causal suddenness of it all. “Uh…I um. Well…”

He stands, gently peeling the blankets off you, one after another until you’re left sitting on your bed in one of his hoodies and a pair of sweatpants. Placing them neatly to the side, he cups your face in his large, calloused palms and looks at you with unfettered affection.

“There you are.” He plants a kiss on your forehead, then straightens and extends his hand out in an invitation for you to take it.

“I don’t know how to fix you feeling like you’re not special, but I do know that I’m completely, foolishly in love with you. I wish I could make you see yourself the way you do, but I can’t so I’m just going to do what I can. Which right now looks like helping you get out of your own mind and outside to have some fun.”

He coughs awkwardly and rubs the back of his head with his other hand. “Like, as a date. I love you, and want to give you my everything. If you’ll have it, that is.”

For the first time that day, everything felt right. Or maybe things started feeling right the second he entered your room. You weren’t sure. What you were sure of though was how much you loved him. Beaming so hard your cheeks hurt, you look at him.

“That sounds amazing, as long as I get to give you my everything. If you’ll have it, that is.”

Relief shines in his eyes as you place your hand in his and allow him to pull you to your feet. When the two of you lean in, getting closer and closer until your lips finally touch, you feel complete. You know that everything will be okay from here on out. 

Because things will always be okay as long as the two of you are together, and neither of you are going anywhere anytime soon.

Take my hand, take my whole life, too If I can't help falling in love with you

taglist: @arlerts-angel @ponderingmoonlight @m0k0k0 @starlightanyaaa @pandora-ophelia-blog

@hotvinimon

feel free to comment, send me an ask, or dm me if you want to be added to any of my taglists!!

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

got any fun tidbits about the porsche 944? :3

I've got a fun bit of one of those Porsches: the right indicator!

And that's a fun story, so I'll go with that.

Porsche, early to rise as always, spent all morning perfecting its latest project, a fancy little sportscar requested by none other than its day-one friend Volkswagen. After a morning spent, just like the days and nights before, working on the project with the trademark Porschefectionism, right on midday's strike the pencil was finally awarded its rightful rest. Attention turned to the phone - its dial was spun in that old, familiar pattern and, a concerning number of tones later, the line transmitted the clattering of a handset being fumbled up.

"whoizziiit?" "Guten Tag, Volkswagen! It's your friend Porsche!" "christus, tone down that vooooooice", Volkswagen yawned out. "Don't tell me I woke you up!", Porsche exclaimed flabbergasted. "i said tone it down, i've still got a splitting headache from friday. -a brief pause protested the incompleteness- and i guess from yesterday after seeing the bills. i'm really messed up. what do you want" "Oh, you will feel better now - I'm finally done!" After waiting a couple seconds, Volkswagen realized that wasn't going to be clarified. "with what" "The sportscar!" The brow furrowing could be heard from the other end of the line. "the what??" "The sportscar project, the one you commissioned me to design!" "what are you talking about?" Porsche adopted a conciliatory, clarifying tone, trying to empathize with the clearly hazy friend. "You called me Friday at 23:47, and asked me to design you a sportscar. You went on about loving me very much and wanting one of my "sick sportscar things" for a while, and then you hung up before I could ask for details. You seemed to be in a very busy room, so I didn't call back and just went to work."

A small silence filled the line.

"are you joking" "About what?" that was a no.

A small silence filled the line.

"fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck" "What's the problem?" "what did you design" "Oh, you'll love it! It's a transaxle-equipped, low-slung beauty using a 2.0l to-" "yeah bro, i'm sorry for what i... apparently told you, but like, that's all waaay too hardcore for me" "B-but... you asked me to design a sportscar..." "i was off my sheiβen that night bro. i don't remember anything past the sixth large can of dunkelbier." "Six cans of dunkelbier? But you drink those everyday!" "no, i mean those large cans, uhhh, what do you call them..." "...barrels?" "yeah." "But you do need a sportscar in your lineup... right?" "ugh, if i do i'll just flatten the golf or something. that project sucked all my money, dude." "B-but... I did all this work... and it came out so well... does it all have to go to waste then?", Porsche asked with a trembling voice that betrayed the full extent of the emotional hit - at last, waking up VW for good. "Oh, nonono! Don't worry! Uhh... you can make it yourself if you want to!" "But... but I've designed it to be built with your parts..." "Oh I can sell you the parts, it's no prob" That seemed to restore Porsche's spirits. "Really? That would be fantastic! Oh, I have a wonderful name for it already!" "Oh? What is it?" "924!" "...sure. Alright, we'll figure that out. Sieg heil bro" "Er, we don't say that anymore." "Fuck, you're right. Sorry, still a bit cloudy. Uhhh... what do people say now?" "Auf wiedersehn seems to be a popular option." "Auf wiedersehn then." "Auf wiedersehn"

Thus, Volkswagen went on to launch a lightly stepped on Golf it called Scirocco...

...and the project at the heart of our story would end up being made and sold by Porsche,

and as such, getting incrementally refined year over year over year, evolving into the 924 S, which then evolved into the more muscular 944...

...which itself, after three revisions and countless special versions, evolved into the 968.

Which itself, after a couple of special versions, almost thirty years from the 924's launch... ended production for good in 1995. And frankly, I have no idea what finally compelled Porsche engineers to let the damn thing be. Wait actually, hold on a second...

I have one idea.

Okay, to be fair, the exchange rate situation from the Kadett story had only gotten worse making a now dated platform too expensive to make sense and to low a seller to justify remaking. But worry not, they did still have the 911 to keep messing with. Combine that with Pokémon and they were still plenty enriched.

And indeed like the 911, this platform's development is essentially a long, drawn out cleansing of the VW components it started off heavily based on. While the 356 was simply based on a VW platform, though, the 924 was a hodgepodge of bits from all over - engine from the LT van, brakes from the K70, front suspension from a mix of Golf and Beetle...

(I can feel your pulse thumping at the mere idea of a mix of these)

...and of course, this extended to one of the most recycled part of all: the side indicators. And that's important. Because my old Volksvagen had a broken indicator, and I happened to know of an abandoned 924 'round here. C:

Although it did take some work (while the lens was the same, the base was different, so it had to be transplanted from my broken unit - there were probably a couple variants of this part for reasons), I now officially participate in the popular trend of putting Porsche bits on your Golf.

Not in a way that actually makes any difference, but hey.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

[sagesolsticewrites]

Love’s Light Wings - Prologue (“For stony limits cannot hold love out”)

John Brady x Juliet Thompson (OC)

Trapped in Stalag Luft III, Captain John Brady does his best to keep morale up, whether that be playing in the small dance band with the other prisoners or passing along the tidbits of information they catch with their hidden crystal radio. The letters they receive are best of all, though, and Brady is no exception— the letters from his girlfriend, with her ramblings about Shakespeare, home, and the goings-on of her high school English students, do more for his spirits than any saxophone solo.

Now he just needs to make it home to tell her… and hopefully ask her a very important question.

a/n: Here it is! The beginning of my darling Juliet's story. So excited for y'all to meet her, and a huge thank you to my bestie @winniemaywebber for letting me slip her OC Olive into this world! I love her so so much, y'all have got to go read the snippet Winnie posted for her story 👀 (and another huge thank you to Winnie and @ginabaker1666 for reading this over and over before I posted it 😅 love y’all!!)

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: none, I think? But please let me know if I missed anything!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

March 1944

“Mail call!”

Every soldier crammed inside the small hut perks up at the familiar shout, the one bright spot in the long days, weeks, months spent inside Stalag Luft III. 

“Murphy!” the man calls out, doling out letters to each man as their name is called, “Cleven!”

“Brady!”

John Brady looks up from his well-worn, dog-eared copy of Romeo & Juliet, eagerly grabbing at the wrinkled envelope.

A grin spreads across his face at the return address, the neat cursive as familiar to him as his own name.

Voices eagerly proclaim who they’ve received messages from — “It’s my mom!” an eager, sun-bright announcement, “Marge” in Cleven’s soft, reverent tones.

“Who’s yours from, Brady?” Someone asks, knocking him in the arm.

He fumbles to protect the letter and keep the fragile book balanced in his lap, trying to buy time to will the blush in his cheeks away.

“Juliet,” he says softly, thumb running over the seal of the envelope as he gently opens it, releasing a familiar, though faint, wave of gardenias and vanilla.

Demarco signals for the boys to give the people who’ve received letters some privacy— as much as they can find in the cramped quarters, at least— and Brady nods gratefully as he moves to his bunk to devour the words from his girl.

Juliet Thompson had begun writing herself into Brady’s world the night they met at a small bar in Ithaca, on a cool fall night during his senior year of college. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of the pretty dark-haired girl sat at the nearby table filled with Cornell students, and his Ithaca College friends had jeered at him until he worked up the nerve to go talk to her.

Her friends had quickly paired off to dance, leaving her alone at the table, which she seemed perfectly content with. One of them leaned down to whisper something to her as they left, their eyes flicking over to where Brady had been staring, and he quickly averted his gaze as she waved her friends away with a giggle.

Quickly downing the last of his beer, he began to make his way over to her table, accompanied by a few encouraging claps on the back from his friends. 

“Um… hi,” he had said, hands behind his back so she wouldn’t see how he was nervously wringing them.

“Oh!” She looked up from the book she had surreptitiously hidden just under the table, turning to face him with a smile, green eyes sparkling, “Hello.”

That bright smile was the beginning of the end for John Brady as he tried to remember how to speak.

“I, uh… I’m John, I just, er… wanted to come say hello?”

“Well, mission accomplished,” she laughed, and oh Lord take him now, how was her laugh even prettier than her smile?

“Very nice to meet you, John. I’m Juliet.”

“Juliet,” he said, testing the syllables on his tongue. They were as sweet as her smile. “As in… Romeo &?”

“Yes,” she had replied, her red-lipstick smile growing as she joked, “The cost of having an English professor for a father.” 

“Well I think it’s very pretty,” he dared to say, the risk well worth it to see her preen slightly at the compliment. 

He nodded to the book in her hands, “What are you reading?”

He’d never been one for books, but anything, anything, to keep talking to her.

“Well, as it just so happens,” she turned the cover to face him, letting him see for himself.

“Romeo & Juliet,” he laughed, “Very fitting.”

“Why?” She asked, arching an eyebrow, “Because we go to different schools?” She added a theatrical gasp as she continued, “Two houses, both alike in dignity… Are we destined to become star-crossed lovers?”

“I— no, no!” John had rambled anxiously, “I just meant— because of your name—”

“I’m teasing,” she assured him, patting the seat next to her in a gesture for him to sit down, “Apologies if I’m being presumptuous, but you don’t know much about Shakespeare, do you?”

He had admitted that he didn’t, no. His interest had always been music, he’d never paid much attention to his other classes.

“Ithaca makes sense, then,” she nodded, clearly knowing the history of how Ithaca College had started as the Ithaca Conservatory of Music, “What do you study there?”

“Well, I play the saxophone,” he had replied, “and I’m not quite sure what I want to do long term, but I’m working towards my Bachelor of Science, and I like the idea of being a music teacher.”

His heart had done a funny fluttery thing in his chest, seeing how she perked up at the mention of being a teacher.

“I want to be a teacher, too! It’ll be my way of getting to keep talking about Shakespeare once I’ve finished my English degree,” she laughed.

The conversation had flowed easily after that, and before he knew it his friends were waving to get his attention, ready to head back to the dorms.

He had looked at her apologetically as he stood.

“Sorry, I’d better…,” he waved in the general direction of his friends, “ but hopefully I’ll see you around?”

“Hopefully,” she’d said, adding with a grin “If you’re ever in Cornell territory, I’m usually wandering the bookstore on Green Street, especially on Saturday afternoons.”

Today was Thursday. Was that… an invitation?

“In fact,” she said, holding out her book to him, “here. If you get a chance to read it, you can tell me what you thought next time we see each other.”

The words stuck in his throat as his eyes flicked from her to the book, but he’d managed to eventually ask, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she’d assured him with that sparkling smile, adding with a laugh “I’ve got plenty of copies, this is just the one that fit in my bag for tonight.”

He had a thousand more questions, a thousand more things he wanted to know about this girl— How many copies? Did she always have a book with her? What time on Saturday?— but he could tell his friends were getting impatient.

“In that case… thank you, Juliet,” he said, “And I’ll try to get it back to you as soon as I can.”

“I look forward to it,” she grinned, “It was very nice to meet you, John.”

“It was very nice to meet you, too,” he said, and he had spent the entire journey back to the dorms thinking about the way his name had sounded in her voice.

Back in his bunk in a prison camp in Germany, he can hear her voice in his head just as clearly as he could that night, as if she were standing right next to him.

February 14, 1944

Johnny,

I know it will be long past by the time this reaches you, but what kind of girl would I be if I didn’t wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. Hopefully you boys find some small way to celebrate— if the band is still going, perhaps you could play our song? I’m sure I could hear it from all the way over here.

I haven’t done much celebrating myself, granted— I’m saving that for when you’re home, darling— but I surprised my students today with a discussion about ‘Much Ado’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’ rather than the grammar quiz they were expecting, which they seemed to enjoy. I believe one of the boys has a new sweetheart: he was very earnestly taking notes when ordinarily he’d be asleep halfway through class! He seemed particularly fond of R&J’s Act 2, Scene 2– the balcony scene, in case you do not recall. The look on his face as he heard “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep. The more I give to thee, /The more I have, for both are infinite.”…

Dad and Mama have gone for a night on the town— a bit of an early anniversary celebration on top of the usual Valentine’s Day festivities— while I’m off to pay a visit to your mother. I’ve been doing my best to keep her company since your father passed, and will do my utmost best to lift her spirits today. I know it’s difficult to get letters out, but do write her as soon as you can if you get a chance. It would do her a world of good, and I know it would be good for you as well. 

Oh, and do tell Benny that I’ve been keeping in touch with dear Olive. Fellow Shakespeare enthusiast aside, she’s been a true comfort— we have each other to lean on when we start missing you boys too much (though you know I’m always missing you, darling).

I hope and pray with all my heart that you’ll be home soon and we can spend our next Valentine’s Day together. While I adore Olive and your mother, ‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you’. Stay safe, my Romeo.

Sending all my love, a thousand hugs, and a million kisses,

Your Juliet

He reads and rereads her words, closing his eyes as he brings the paper to his nose to inhale the quickly-fading scent. With her being so far away he’ll take what scraps of her he can, the faded perfume, the heart after her signature at the end of every letter, but his mind can’t help but drift back to the last time he had her— on the train platform, just before he was shipped off across the Atlantic.

She’d sniffled, pretty green eyes welling up with tears as she’d forced a brave smile on her face.

“Write to me as often as you can, promise?” She’d said, smoothing out the lapels of his uniform, “I don’t care if you’re telling me what you had for lunch, I’ll wanna hear about it.”

“I promise, sweetheart,” he’d chuckled softly, thumb tracing under her eye to catch the first tear, “As long as you do the same. Keep me updated on what the kids think of our friend Shakespeare, yeah?” He’d bumped her nose playfully, hoping the inside joke would put her real smile back on her face.

And it did, for a moment, before there was a call of “All Aboard!” and her face crumpled and she had thrown her arms around him and it had taken every drop of strength to step away before they left without him.

“Honey,” he’d said softly, cupping her cheek as he took her in one last time, doing his best to memorize every detail— the dark curls framing her pretty, round face, her green eyes, the sweet floral scent of her perfume, the hand slipping surreptitiously into her purse to thumb nervously at the paperback she had inside— “Juliet. I’m coming home, I promise, pretty girl.”

“In one piece,” she’d sniffled, “Come home to me in one piece, please.”

“In one piece,” he’d agreed, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on her mouth. Pulling away just so their noses brushed, he murmured “Parting is such sweet sorrow—”

There was that smile again, and he couldn’t help grinning as she finished softly, “That I shall say good night till it be morrow.” She took a shaky breath as he stepped away, squeezing his hand tight, “I love you, Johnny.”

“I love you more, Jules.” He’d said, brushing a kiss to the back of her hand before he’d had to drop it to pick up his bag, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

The last he’d seen of her was her blowing a kiss in the distance as the train had pulled away, and him waving desperately, far past the point where she’d be able to see it.

He’d promised her he’d come home in one piece, and that’s a promise he intends to keep, even here, even now.

Home. When he thought of home before he met Juliet, it was always him with his parents at their little house in Victor, New York. But especially since he was assigned overseas, his idea of home isn’t so much a place as it is her. Her in his arms, her pretty green eyes lighting up as she rambles about Shakespeare, meeting for lunch in her classroom during her planning period, in the audience at one of his performances with the Army band… he wanted her to be his home, to be by his side ‘til death did they part.

Brady had toyed with popping the question in a letter— if they never got out of here, he wanted her to know that he wanted her that way, that she was his forever person.

But no. They were going to get out of here eventually, they had to, and he would do it properly— having asked her parents for permission, down on one knee, with grandmother’s ring— when she was back in his arms.

With that warm, golden thought settling to the back of his mind, he rolls back over to pass on her message to Demarco— with letters being few and far between, his friend will be happy to hear even the tiniest scrap of news about his girl.

[talesfromlissom]

TFP!OPTIMUS HEADCANNONS  // Optimus x reader tidbits || Part 2 

WARNINGS -  Infertility/sterilization, some mentions of pregnancy(??) , mentions of genocide 

A/N - I put down Elita-1 just because why not, but you can imagine this as an x reader instead. These are mostly Optimus headcanons. I have another post with headcanons about him before he became a Prime HERE. This also is alot longer than I thought it would be please help.

Elaborating on the previous bullet point about Optimus being the last of the data clerks. In the early stages of the war, the High Council ordered a mass extermination of miners after Megatron’s rise to fame. They blamed Orion for it, which caused Megatron to retaliate and order every data clerk to be killed. He was mostly successful. 

After being anointed the next Prime, Optimus was confused. One of the main reasons he advocated for a peaceful resolution to the caste system problems is that he had seen what the Quintesson War had done. He had seen war at its worst and didn’t want that kind of violence put onto the planet again, hence the reason why he always advocated so strongly for peace. 

After becoming the new Prime, he was isolated from the world. He wasn’t allowed to contact any of his friends unless supervised, but he would often sneak out to see them. He doesn’t remember why and thinks that it was because he was friends with many people who hated the caste system like he did. 

If he wasn’t seeing them, then he was painting. He liked to do giant graffiti art murals the most, hence the reason why he has ‘steady hands’. He’d spend an entire night in some abandoned theater or an empty alleyway. You could probably find one if you looked hard enough during the war. He often left the citadel late at night to do this. . 

After the war, most of his murals were knocked down or destroyed. 

Nighttime seemed the only time he had to himself back then, so he’d stay up late doing whatever he wanted. 

He always claimed to be a Prime of the people, not the government. This was reflected in his actions, as he would often donate large amounts of shanix to charities outside the High Council’s jurisdiction. He increasingly got frustrated by the high council’s lack of concern for their people and their refusal to listen to him. 

The High Council eventually appointed him a Lord High Protector due to his increasingly ‘rebellious’ antics (could be the reader/Elita-1, depending on what suits your fancy, ;] ) 

He despised the Protector, as they felt more like a glorified babysitter than a bodyguard. 

Eventually, the High Council got fed up with Optimus’ refusal to listen to them. At his last ceremony, to be officially inducted into the Primacy, they planned to give him a drink laced with sedatives so he’d be more accessible to shadowplay. 

Optimus’ Lord High Protector found this out, contacted his friends, and helped him escape, which made him trust them more. He then went to find the Matrix of Leadership because Megatron’s war was starting to poison the planet. He could feel it somehow, though he couldn’t explain how or why. He still can’t. 

He enjoys drawing A LOT. Given his size, he obviously can’t do graffiti art on earth, but when he goes on ‘patrols,’ half of it is him going somewhere to draw. However, he doesn’t do creative or fun drawings nowadays. It’s mostly art of the people in his life, nature, etc. So, it's primarily observational art. That datapad and pen are his most prized possessions, and he always carries them in his subspace. No, you cannot see it. 

A MASSIVE touch of the ‘tism. He could talk for hours about ancient history, famous literature, or anything like that. He visibly gets more expressive when talking about these things, too (actually canon lmao). He enjoys learning about mythology from other cultures as well. 

He hates group settings and despises oil. He most likely suffers from high empathy, but he tries to be empathetic towards people or animals only to mask this. 

More on the high-functioning side of the spectrum.

He’s very aware of life and deeply existential. He always wonders how life came to be and related matters. He asks many questions and thinks of new ones every day. Hence, Agent Fowler and he are so close. He got stuck in a storage house with him once and asked so many questions about human life/purpose that Fowler aged 50 years. 

His interest in history was easily hidden as just a plain interest in it. He was a data clerk, specifically a data clerk in the history-keeping field, so it’d make sense he’d know a lot about history. Not only that, but he’s also a Prime, so he has to know about the history of his own planet/people exceptionally well. It’s a good thing he already did before the primacy. 

He tends to focus too much on things, almost becoming obsessive, for example, trying to repair his relationship with Megatron, nearly bordering on obsession with doing that very thing. There are times when he will be working at the console and he’ll be so wrapped up in his work that he’ll forget to eat, sleep, take a break, and do things like that. 

He spaces out a lot more than people realize. He’s pretty good at making it look like he’s listening, but he does listen(partially), just not as much as people think he does. People think he’s quiet due to this (which he kind of is but yeah)

His audio finals move a lot, and he used them to stim. The only issue is that due to the energon shortages, many people had to shut down certain parts of their frame, and his fins ended up being one of them. He resolves this by tapping his fingers on his knees instead or letting his smokestacks shake, but this makes people think he’s angry, which confuses him because he’s not. This is probably due to the MASSIVE RBF he has. 

Speaking of brain stuff, he also suffers from C-PTSD. If we’re going by the lore found in The Covenant of Primus, Optimus has been involved in two civil wars—one as a soldier and the other as a leader. Regardless, both of these wars are terrifying. I’d imagine that’s why he seemed to handle the war much better than others—he’s used to it. It doesn’t change the fact that he hated experiencing both of them. 

He has most definitely stumbled upon sparklings once or twice. He usually contacts a neutral colony planet or ship to take them and does so quickly. He’s gotten attached to every sparkling or youngling he comes across, barely able to prevent any sire/carrier protocols from activating. And when I say attached, I mean EXTREMELY attached. You need a parental figure? Congratulations! He’s adopted you. No, you cannot go home; let’s decorate your bedroom together 😀

Speaking of children, he wants his own, but the Matrix is annoying. Most Transformers constantly drift to being hyper-fertile or sterile (I headcanon that the Allspark is primarily responsible for this, but I will probably go into that later. I have a whole process and everything), and Optimus is no exception. 

However, the Matrix takes a lot of power from his frame, including his processor and other parts. It's very taxing. It’s rendered him completely sterile, no matter how potent the Allspark is. This is a sore spot for him, and due to how long the Matrix was in his frame, these effects have remained even after he was resurrected without it. Only Ratchet/Elita-1(or you) know this. 

Jack, Miko, Raf, Bumble Bee, and Smokescreen are all registered under the sparkling category. Those are his kids; don’t touch them. 

WORD COUNT - 1239

Other Links & Support | Ask box | Rules