#is that not enough for it to be special itself?

[dystopyx-blog]

Happy birthday, tweels! And hiiiii Plumi

Ive been wanting to wrote out a oneshot for this, and it's their birthday, so perfect timing, right?

Yeah, the brain's not braining rn tho.

Uhhhhh here's fragments because I want to give something back to my beautiful boy and his twin on their special day.

The Tweels invite you to the coral sea with them. They advertise it as a fun vacation opportunity. And they promise you Azul will be too busy to put you to work. And you end up agreeing.

Maybe you should've known better, seeing as everytime you go somewhere, something ends up happening. Whether it actually has something to do with you or it is all purely coincidence, there is most certainly a pattern, and so far there have been few to no exceptions. And this wasn't gonna be one. In fact, it may just be your last incident ever.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

You take the necessary potion to let you breathe underwater, though you're still mostly human and significantly slower than the Tweels. This leads to them Insisting on "carrying" you, which presents itself in many different forms under the sea. Whether it's Floyd having you hold on from behind, Jade holding you to his front, or with them both taking your hands and dragging you behind them, it is rare for you to travel without at least one of them holding onto you.

The sea is big and scary, so you're practically stuck to their hips. You're with one of them at all times. Sometimes they disagree on what to do/where to take you next, and in those cases it's up to you to decide for them, since you're the one theyre showing around.

But then you meet a nice merperson and that's where it goes downhill. Apparently Jade and Floyd knew them as children, but they can't remember this fuck at all.

Well needless to say they're getting too chummy with you for the Leech's liking, and, well...

Hey, don't be surprised when hunters hunt.

And then, after your forced to witness their feeding frenzy, they say that you're in the wrong and insist you owe more time with them. You're not seeing land until they say you've had enough fun under the sea!!

Might revisit this when the brain is braining better

What have you gotten yourself into now...

The more concerning question is, what have they done?

Started as a study on how to draw their merforms, ended in a pair of bloody eels. No story to this sadly cuz I'm pretty stuck on where to take it, but if yall have ideas to tell/comment/reblog them :)

Also a closeup on the faces, I was pretty proud with this one:)

[stellamancer]

flips and shit (katsuki bakugou + reader)

notes: more stuff inspired by things that happen in my kitchen. name me me attempting to flip scallion pancakes. it's been a while since i had one of these actually. part of the kitchen adventures series. mostly unedited.

wc: 1k

contains: gn!reader, pro-hero bkg (not actually mentioned) neighbor au.

You have never asked Bakugou to teach you anything before. 

Mostly because there’s never really been anything you’ve actually wanted to learn. Despite his griping, you think you're honestly a pretty decent cook. Sure, you may prefer taking convenient shortcuts over doing things the proper way, but it's not like it's the worst thing in the world. Still, Bakugou’s taken it upon himself to teach you in order to prevent you from committing what he considers to be kitchen atrocities. Admittedly, your knife skills have improved and you don’t hear your fire alarm going off as often (which you suspect is more due to Bakugou changing the whole thing himself in a fit when it dared to screech as he was broiling some fish during one lesson), but there are some things, like your instant miso soup, that Katsuki Bakugou can pry out of your cold dead hands. 

“Hah?” Bakugou whips his head around to face you, his expression twisted into his own special brand of confusion, eyes narrowed in an aggressive form of bewilderment. 

“Can you teach me how to flip things in a frying pan?” you repeat slowly.

His mouth twists, “Why? Usin’ a spatula not good enough for you?”

“It's not that,” you say. Bakugou shoots you an expectant look and you clear your throat as you elaborate. “It just looks cool is all.”

 “Y’got bigger things to worry about than lookin’ cool in the kitchen. Why’re y’worrying about that kinda crap anyway? Got someone to impress?” 

Grumbling, you say “Not really, but since you mention it, it would be nice if I were able to impress my smartass neighbor even just once.”

Bakugou snorts. “Maybe y’d impress me if you finally threw away those damn instant soup packets! I taught you how to make it yourself! Why do you still have them?”

You roll your eyes. What about cold dead hands does he not understand? You try to get the subject back on track. “Are you teaching me or not?”

He stares at you for a minute before shuffling past you into the kitchen proper. “Fine. Even an idiot like you should be able to do this much.” 

Feeling smug, despite his insult, you follow after him, watching as he pulls out your frying pan from a cabinet. He’s come over enough that he’s familiar with the layout of your kitchen, no longer needing to ask you where you keep this or that. It’s nice in a way, though you’re not entirely sure why. That said, you can’t help but be confused when he grabs one of your kitchen sponges and tosses it in the pan. Is he—

“Bakugou, I’ve got some frozen scall—”

“We’re using this first!” he barks at you. “No point in risking you flipping perfectly good food onto the kitchen floor!” 

You wince. It wouldn’t be that bad. You’ve tried flipping things before and the worst that’s happened is that the pancake flipped over on itself. 

Bakugou moves over to the stovetop, his arms gripping the frying pan’s handle. You stare at his arm— he’s in a black t-shirt today. The sleeves are loose, but you can see the defined shape of his arm muscles, from the near scandalous peek of his biceps down to the taut lines of his forearms. Maybe you’re staring a little too much, though, because you don’t quite catch what he says as he flicks his wrist. 

“What was that?” you ask. You could try to wing it and guess what his instructions were based on observation alone, but if you get it absolutely wrong he’ll scold you.

Though, since it’s Bakugou, he’s going to scold you either way. “Are you even listening?”

Now you are. “Yeah?” 

He eyes you suspiciously, but doesn’t mention if he noticed you oogling his arms. “So all you gotta do is just flick your wrist, but y’gotta do it like you’re shoveling dirt or some shit.” He does the motion a few times to show you, and you think you get it. It’s kind of like a flick and scoop. Watching him do it makes it seem easy, but you’ve learned that Bakugou makes a lot of things look effortless. 

He flips the sponge a few times before handing you the frying pan. The handle is still warm. Gruffly, he says, “Now you try.”

“Okay.” You try to mimic his motion, and the sponge goes up… but just falls back onto the pan without flipping over. 

“Weak,” Bakugou scoffs and you scowl at him, but he ignores you as he continues. “Try again, idiot, but put more force into it.” 

“Okay…” You do as he says and the sponge flies higher… before flopping onto the floor. Too much force.

“Not everything’s gonna weigh the same,” Bakugou says. “Y’gonna have to judge how much force to use for yourself.”

Right. You reach down and grab the sponge to put it back in the pan. It’s pretty light. You flick your wrist a couple times, not so much to flip but to get a feel of how much force you’ll need to flip it. When you think you’ve got an idea, you move your wrist and swoop your arm a little, sending the sponge up. It flips over and while it does catch the edge of the pan it still manages to land in it.

Grinning widely, you turn to Bakugou. “Look! I did it!” 

“Barely,” he says and while his mouth is curved down in a frown, there’s a sparkle in his eyes that makes it look like he’s trying to fight off a smile.. “Do it again! Make sure the flip is perfect this time!”

“Okay!” You try again and after a couple times you manage to flip the sponge perfectly. When you look at Bakugou for approval, he gives you the ghost of a smirk back, this time looking almost legitimately pleased.

But it only lasts for a moment before he switches out the sponge for a slightly heavier package of instant ramen. 

“Time for the next level, nerd,” he says, his eyes glinting dangerously. “We’re not stopping til every flip is perfect!” 

[matcrdolorosa]

SIN AND TONIC ᡣ𐭩 . . . featuring: dazai osamu ﾉ word count + warnings: 727, fluff, gn! reader, not proof read. [ SUMMARY ] : a moment of affection from dazai as you both laze in bed.

+ AUTHOR'S NOTE: if you know me, no you don't. <3

He’s taking your hand by the wrist, and he feels your pulse. It started out of instinct, disguising it as an excuse that it just happened to be easier, reaching for your wrist and pulling you closer, reaching for your wrist and holding you in place, and it comes naturally for his fingers to wrap around it, pressing his thumb right over that spot where he feels a subtle thumping.

His other hand busies itself, playing with your own fingers, grasping one by one at the first knuckle. he moves gently along them, feeling each and every one of your bones as he taunts and presses, tracing the expanse of the skin covering them as if it was expensive silk, bending your fingers or even cracking your thumb the moment you get distracted and peel your eyes away from him.

That elicits a groan and a laugh. a groan from you, of course, and he has to giggle at your antics, of course. it’s a subtle giggle that he muffles into your own palm, right after he brings it towards his mouth to kiss it.

Dazai’s kisses are purposeful, slow and delicate. He repeats it again when you blink a little slower -maybe you’re still tired, maybe you’re just confused on why he’s doing it- but he enjoys taking time out of his day to appreciate every part of you.

Sometimes it comes during lazy mornings, not ready yet to leave the bed, still clinging to your body and watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, drawing mindless patterns over your clothes, or during long nights where sleep doesn’t find him and he gets restless, only finding (and only searching) comfort in you, in how he needs to bring you closer, grasping your wrist like he always does, when you haven’t taken that special spot next to him yet where you bury your face into his chest and slot one of your legs between his own.

Dazai can’t get enough of your little grumbles, of your whines and his name muttered under your breath, when you wake up after his stupid drawings creep underneath your shirt and tickle your skin, earning goosebumps and short shudders that end up waking you up. or those sleepy, inevitable sounds he earns when you try to push him away, searching for the coldness of the sheets, the softness of your own pillow to get more sleep, but to no avail, as he wraps an arm around your middle and pulls you flush against him. It works like magic every time, since you slowly make up for all those complaints with a roll of your hips as you adjust, pressing your back against his chest, tilting your head to the side and he catches the memo, nuzzling against your neck, not before pressing a kiss to the slope of your shoulder.

His lips go to the heel of your palm, to your knuckles, to the tips of your fingers. he’s worshiping your hand with soft caresses, holding it close to his lips as if it was sacred. He mutters a little i love you when he finally reaches your pulse point once again.

You’re peering through your eyelashes, unaware of what he has planned, a smile tugging at your lips that makes his blood rush to his cheeks. It’s always when he least expects it, that you smile and his walls crumble even if it’s just momentarily. He feels like he could get lost in the sight of you laying on the bed next to him, but he has to balance it out with a bite to the spot he had just kissed, a grin plastered over his expression, and your own turn into a scowl.

The whimper from the bite is inevitable, a pout forms when he tries to go back to sink his teeth into your flesh yet again. He aims for your fingers as you wriggle in his grasp, he lowers his head to pull the skin on your forearm when you try to push him away, a hand to his chest even though the strength isn’t enough to actually get him away.

Dazai knows you too well to understand that you’re not really trying to push him off, and you know him a little to guess it’s just his nature: to bite you after showing affection.

[redvexillum]

I wasn’t planning on posting any stories this month since I’m still on a bit of a break, but with everything going on in America right now, I just felt the need to reach out. I know there’s nothing I can do to change things, and this may seem small and silly, but writing is what I know how to do. And if even one story can bring a smile or a bit of comfort to my friends, then I want to share it with you. Please hang in there. You’re not alone.

PART 01. CATASTOR AND HIS NEW DO

The mirror reflected back a tired version of you, someone with hair that seemed almost weary itself—dull, brittle, lifeless. It felt as if it siphoned off the vibrance around it, capturing any glimmer of light and snuffing it out. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes in concentration, pondering whether today might finally be the day to give it a fresh look, a touch of sparkle.

“Nyaahh,” came the unmistakable squeak from behind you. There was Catastor, your mischievous little companion, perched primly on the dresser. From his place in the reflection, his big, round eyes stared outward in comical opposite directions, his pink tongue lolling out as he mimicked your tilted head with an exaggerated, inquisitive look.

“Baby!” you called, your heart swelling with warmth as you spun around, arms open wide. The sound of your voice was enough to make his tail wag wildly, his body nearly vibrating with excitement. Without hesitation, he launched himself at you, his small, warm body landing like a soft, cozy blanket against your chest, his form molding against you with the comfort of melted cheese.

A purr reverberated through him as he nestled closer, pressing his face into your neck, his ears flattened in absolute contentment while his tail swayed in erratic, delighted rhythms. You ran a hand absentmindedly over his back, savoring the soft fur beneath your fingertips. His warmth seeped into you, a soothing weight that melted the day’s tension as his purring grew, a low, comforting rumble.

“I’m thinking of getting my hair done,” you mused, fingers trailing through his soft coat. His purrs only deepened, and the faint tug of relaxation settled over you like a spell, easing every muscle into stillness.

Catastor blinked up at you, each eye fluttering in its own haphazard rhythm. You chuckled at his antics, reaching down to tap his little nose. “What do you think? Should I cut my hair?” You knew he couldn’t actually answer, but you enjoyed these small conversations; there was a special solace in talking to him, as if he understood more than he let on.

In response, he stretched his neck, bringing his face to yours, then gave the tip of your nose a tiny lick before plopping his head over your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook between your neck and shoulder. A small laugh bubbled up as his soft fur brushed against your cheek, the feel of his familiar warmth filling you with a calm contentment.

After a moment, you lowered yourself onto the bed, trying to peel him off of you, but Catastor flopped onto the mattress with an exaggerated stretch, limbs splayed like a second blanket, his belly exposed and tail twitching in lazy arcs.

“Well, I’ll be getting my hair done today, so I’ll need you to watch the house while I’m gone,” you murmured, giving his soft belly a gentle scratch. His eyes drifted shut, head lolling back as a new wave of purrs filled the room, his front paw giving a contented twitch.

“I’ll even bring a treat back from Cannibal Town,” you promised, your heart melting as his purrs softened, his form going limp, edging on sleep. Catastor always struggled with separation, and more than once you’d found him nestled secretly in your hair after shrinking himself down to follow you. So, you’d learned to wait until he was fully asleep before attempting a quiet exit.

As his breathing deepened, his little paws twitching as if in a dream, you held back a giggle and rose carefully. Holding your breath, you tiptoed to the door, gently closing it behind you. Outside, you finally released a long sigh, the crisp air filling your lungs. You loved his protective nature, but he’d once torn apart a whole street after a gang had tried to hassle you. As grateful as you were for his fierce loyalty, his fervor sometimes led to more trouble than you bargained for.

Keys and wallet in hand, you glanced back toward your room, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. “Sweet dreams, baby,” you whispered softly. “I’ll be back soon.”

At the salon, you were greeted by Mel, the ever-charming Poodle Sinner who had a reputation for her wickedly red lipstick and long, flirtatious lashes, popping her gum with every word. She tossed her towel over one shoulder with practiced ease, flashing you a wide grin.

“Darling!” she greeted, smirking as she chewed her gum. “’Bout time you came back, hah!” With a wink, she gestured toward the chair, deftly laying out her trays of potions and lotions, each bottle filled with promises of shine, volume, and glamour.

“What’re we doing today, hun?” she asked, fingers weaving through your hair as she examined it with a critical eye. “My, you’ve let her grow!” She gave an exaggerated cluck of her tongue when she caught on a knot, making you wince. “Now, don’t you worry, we’re gonna make you shine like a star again.”

As you settled in, you couldn’t help but imagine Catastor napping peacefully at home, dreaming of treats and waiting loyally for your return.

You laughed nervously, watching Mel's smirk in the reflection as she raised a brow, eyes full of mischief. The cold mist from her spray bottle caught you off guard, sending a shiver down your spine as your shoulders jolted. Slowly, you settled back into the chair, letting yourself relax as she worked her fingers through your hair. “I was thinking…maybe some curls?” you mumbled, cheeks warming as a certain image flickered to mind—one of a tall, red-haired demon with that wily smile and fluffy ears.

“Oh my!” Mel snickered knowingly, brushing through your hair in slow, precise strokes. “There’s a new man in your life, isn’t there?”

Immediately, your cheeks flamed, and your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers twisting together as you stammered, “N-no! Nothing like that, really…he’s just, uh…just my boss.” But your heart betrayed you, racing faster with every word. The thought of admitting any hint of interest, even to your friend, left you shy and tongue-tied.

“Say no more, sweetheart,” Mel trilled in a sing-song voice, dismissing your excuses with a wink. “I’ll make you look like a knockout!”

A tiny squeak escaped you, your face now red as a tomato. “It’s not—it’s really nothing like that!” You tried to argue, though the grin tugging at Mel’s lips made it clear she didn’t buy a word of it. Before you could protest further, she gave your head a light pat, her smile bright and warm. You couldn’t help but smile back, the joy in her laughter lifting you from your shyness.

As Mel worked, the usual salon gossip filled the air, talk of the latest mischief and drama from the East Side of Pentagram. She’d been one of your first friends in this strange place—a friendly face in the chaos of Hell. You remembered that first day, scared and alone, stumbling into her salon. Now, as you sat there, chatting and laughing with her, you felt a happiness and warmth that chased away any lingering loneliness.

The smell of her berry-scented products wrapped around you as she applied them, each brushstroke feeling like a balm. And despite yourself, your thoughts drifted back to your boss—the Radio Demon. Would he be surprised to see you tomorrow, all dolled up with new curls? Maybe he’d even…like it?

Your hands pressed together, a hopeful smile spreading across your face as you imagined the look on his. You could practically see his eyebrow raise, his grin widening in that sly, amused way.

After what felt like hours, a sharp gasp broke your reverie. Mel had jumped back, a look of shock on her face. “Oh, honey, there was a…pest in your hair!” she exclaimed, eyes wide.

Confused, you frowned, tilting your head. A pest? Before you could ask, a loud, indignant yowl rang out from behind you, and you felt something shift in your hair. In a flash of pink, something furry tumbled forward, landing on the floor in a poof of exaggerated volume.

Your mouth dropped open as you stared down. There, standing in a mound of fluffy, pink fur—puffed out so large he looked like a living cotton candy puff—was Catastor. His fur had poofed to double its usual size, the familiar outward-pointing eyes and red monocle nearly swallowed up by the mass of fluff. His wide grin only made the sight more ridiculous.

“Catastor!” you gasped, dropping to your knees as he waddled toward you, his puffy paws kneading at your knee in that familiar, pleading gesture for comfort.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, scooping him up and pressing him close. His fur was so soft and squishy it felt like sinking into a plush cloud, your arms disappearing into the sheer volume of fluff. He burrowed his head against you, the tremble in his yowl finally quieting as you gently stroked his back.

“Oh, my, Satan,” Mel laughed, eyes twinkling. “You’re holding a walking ball of cotton candy!”

You looked down at Catastor, his little face half-buried in his own fur, his yowl softening to little meows. The sight of him, so utterly ridiculous and adorable, sent a wave of giggles through you. “Looks like we both got a spa day today,” you teased, scratching under his chin. His eyes drooped, his purrs growing content and low.

“I know just the thing!” Mel said with a playful wink, disappearing behind the counter. She returned with matching ribbons, one for each of you. Gently, she tied a little bow around the small, perfect curl atop Catastor’s head, then expertly fastened the other bow in your newly styled curls.

Turning back to the mirror, you burst into another fit of delighted giggles. Your hair looked amazing, vibrant and full, bouncing with every movement, and in your arms was Catastor, fluffy and bow-adorned to match.

You cradled him close, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, a happiness that lifted you. Tomorrow, you would see your boss…Alastor, with your new look, confident and refreshed. And maybe…just maybe…he’d notice.

But for now, you were content to just sit here with Catastor, your matching bows and poofy styles reflecting the joyful, silly energy you felt bubbling over.

[rabioa]

Dress Up!

Alastor x Reader - Fluff - Gender Neutral

A nice and slow morning with your lover, Alastor. You both try to figure out what couples costume to wear for Halloween. You both come to an agreeable conclusion, after all, he always believed ivory was a pretty color on you. 

TW: Nothing I think lol

This is my late Halloween special. Remember to stay hydrated and to not eat too much candy at once!! <3

It was a nice peaceful October morning. You were curled up in Alastor's lap, nursing a nice steaming drink. He was settled into his comfy chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. It was a slow yet cozy morning for you two, the fall equivalent of lounging in a lazy river. The weather outside was dull red and chilly to the bone. It beat winter, but it was still cold. The dreary outdoor weather was the perfect indoor weather. 

His arms rested on the arm rests, providing a comforting sort of cradle for your body as you snuggled up to him.

“Halloween is coming around,” you began, catching his attention. You tilted your head up, catching his expression. His eye brow was arched high, a bemused smile on his face as he took a sip of his coffee. 

“Hmm, I suppose it is, dear. We can carve pumpkins if you'd like? The roasted seeds make wonderful snacks,” he proposed.

A mischievous smile grew on your face. You faced forward, opting to not look at his face. “That's a great idea. We can decorate the hotel for Halloween. But, what about Halloween itself? It would be a pity to skip out on the festivities,” you mused, gently guiding the conversation into whatever tomfoolery you had planned. 

To be honest, it was way too early in the morning for your shenanigans, but Alastor had always enjoyed your odd sort of chaos. You shifted in his lap, turning around so you straddled him. 

Perfect, now he was totally trapped and helpless against your mischief!!!

His head was tilted to the side, boosting your courage through his curiosity. You silently noted the adorable way his ears stood. One was lax, flopping down, but the other was at attention, almost like an antenna facing the sky. 

“And what festivities would you propose? I know Charlie intends on hosting some sort of Halloween party. Are you suggesting we attend?” he watched you take a long sip of your drink, leaving him waiting.

Like a fly to honey, he fell for your trap. Of course you knew he was just humoring you and going along with whatever you wanted, but it was still nice to pretend you were some master manipulator. Perhaps you were secretly a master manipulator, after all you convinced him to date you.

“I don't see why not, ah- but it’s a costume party. You can just show up without dressing up! So, what if we do those couple's costumes? Imagine! You can be butter, I can be bread. I can be salt, you can be pepper. You can be Joker and I can be Harley!” You proposed ideas, the concept of a couples costume had been brewing in your mind ever since fall rolled around. 

He seemed bemused, a grin on his face. “Costumes? Dear, I believe I'm already a demon. That's enough of a costume, is it not?” He countered.

You groaned. “That's not the point! Its for fun! How about we go as a vampire and helpless maiden?” You pouted.

“Darling, I'm a cannibal. That's basically a vampire. And you're already a helpless maiden to my charms. There's no need for a costume like that,” he teased, sipping his coffee as he enjoyed your offended expression. 

“Little red and the big bad wolf?”

“Your cheeks are red enough, and I’m always ready to devour you. No point in dressing up as what we already are.” You ignored his flirtatious and flustering words, as he always said such things with the most innocent expression, as if he weren’t having the time of his life making you blush.

“Ugh, you're impossible! Corpse bride?”

“Hmm? What's that, dear?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head once more. 

He startled slightly when you suddenly grabbed his face with your hands. “Oh you sweet summer child. We need to get you culture. Tonight we are having a movie night. I don't wanna hear any objections,” you decided. “I'll be Emily, you'll be Victor.”

He cupped one of your hands on his face, gently easing it off to instead intertwine your fingers. “The title has bride in it. Does that mean you're the bride and I'm the groom?” He pressed a charming kiss to your hand that never failed to make your heart go pit-a-pat.

“Yup. I get to wear white and everything,” you grinned, seeing him genuinely consider it.

“I suppose its an acceptable costume…” After all, he always believed ivory was a pretty color on you. 

[sensivs]

Caked up Male!Reader getting hit on and felt up by his classmates at Jujutsu High.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 2nd yrs and 1st yrs x m!reader (w a FATTIE)

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ : zhellas bby.. ur reqs have my SOUL on a leash 😭

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ : m! reader w a big ol booty , (kindve??) oblivious reader , free-use reader , these students got NOO SHAME 🙏🏽‼️ , booty grabbing , booty slapping , groping (basically) , nsfw jokes abt the reader, i HATE panda so dont expect him to be here

YUUJI - ✦

y'all know yuuji aint the type of guy to let a perfectly good ass untouched, hes a literal FIEN for ts. so it wasnt a total surprise whenever yuuji was around his hand would sometimes (if not always) near y/n's voluptuous ass. his hand on one cheek gripping the ever living shit out of it. he just couldnt get enough of how circular it was and how it jiggled every time y/n walked.

before training, itadori would slap y/n's ass as a "good luck charm", as if the boner in his pants would help him in combat..

MEGUMI - ✦

fushiguro is the FARTHEST thing of a pervert, but when it comes to y/n.. god he just cant handle himself

hes very shy with his actions, mostly due to the fact that if he let himself get handsy with you, he'd go absolutely FERAL.

just the slight wobble of y/n's ass is enough to boggle megumi's mind and keep him busy for the next 2 hours.

but nevertheless, megumi is still a sane and sensible person around y/n, although he can be seen stumbling over his words whenever he does get the chance to talk to him.

NOBARA - ✦

goodness me.. nobara doesnt know how to keep her hands off y/n's fat ol booty..

she thinks she can excuse herself because shes "just a girl and girls can always feel up their friends butt whenever they want to" (her exact words) of course, because of her totally convincing tone, y/n doesnt think anything of the close and personal touching nobara does.

nobara LOVES grabbing handfuls of y/n's ass and wobbling it in her hands. making sure to take in every jiggle it produced.

INUMAKI - ᰔ

y/n is EXTREMELY lucky inumaki isnt such a freak, cs if he was, he would be commanding him to make it clap every second of the day.

inumaki isnt as handy as the others are, in fact, hes the most calmest of the bunch. but he does have his moments where he just cant help himself and starts to mess around with y/n. such as commanding him to grab something off the floor even if he was the one to drop it in the first place.

seeing y/n's arched back and his ass swaying back and forth just makes inumaki go into a frenzy. wishing he could act out everything hes ever thought of doing to you.

MAKI - ᰔ

LORD.. maki has absolutely ZERO shame in her body when it comes to y/n's fat ass. shes constantly hitting on him and fitting both of her hands around y/n's juicy and perky booty.

shes constantly making sex jokes between her and y/n and even goes behind to give him some "practice backshots".

maki makes absolute SURE that y/n's ass is constantly in perfect condition, even going as far as to carry a measuring tape to keep data on y/n's ass to see if it has grown or not.

definitely safe to say that she is very.. VERY... dedicated to the research of y/n's voluptuous booty..

YUUTA - ᰔ

im tired of ppl trying to play yuuta as a "sweet summer child", this man is DOWN for a BIG, JUICY FAT ASS like y/n's.

although he does get a bit nervous when hes around y/n due to his ass being so big it can make him hard just by one small movement.

yuuta is always taking the chances to feel up on y/n's bottom. if hes lucky enough, y/n will give yuuta special permission to lay his head of his butt.

which, safe to say, has made itself a special memory inside yuuta's brain.

[mustainegf]

Okay, I just thought this idea was so cute so I wanted to share - cliff practicing on quieter and calmer songs on the bass while reader lays in bed, so sort of like a lullaby in terms i suppose, and when he climbs into bed she just tells him how good it sounded and which parts of his peices she really liked before they go to sleep

Thank yew elena!!💋

THIS IS SO CUTE AHH since its a short little plot, this is more of a drabble!

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 & 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 ¹⁹⁸⁴

Its late, and the sleep tugs at me. Only that soft glow of the moon creeps in through the window. Cliff is sitting on the floor beside the bed, his bass in his hands. I can hear the soft plucking of strings, the way he strokes the notes. He's practicing again, but not the heavy, thrashing kind of music most people know him for. It's softer, more melodic, something that feels like a secret, just for us. I can't see his face where I lie, but I know the expression he'd wear.

Concentrated, yet calm, as though he has slipped into some little world of his own. His fingers trace along the strings so incredibly easily, forming sounds that are calming and almost hypnotic in nature. It's pretty- the way he plays. I can tell even from half asleep just how talented he is. I always think no one hears this side of him but me.

The music floats through the room, slow and gentle, wrapping itself around me like a blanket. I listen with eyes closed, letting the notes sink into my skin. Sometimes I hum along, but I'm too tired for that tonight. The soft plucking of the bass, the buzz of strings here and there, makes some sort of lullaby. I am so at peace, caught in this particular sound and time.

Cliff never plays like this when he's on stage, and that is one thing I always loved about him. He's so different at home, as if there are two versions of him living in two different worlds. He's fierce, wild, and full of energy on the stage. But in the quiet of our bedroom, he's gentle and still. It feels almost like he's giving me a piece of him that no one else ever sees. That makes me feel so fortunate.

After a little while, the music starts to slow down, and I can tell he's winding down. The notes become more infrequent, softer now, almost like whispers. Finally, the music stops, and all I can hear is the quiet hum of the amp. It fades after a moment, replaced by nothing at all.

Cliff eases the bass down gently, oh so quiet, it would appear. I feel the bed dip as he climbs in beside me. His arm wraps around my waist, and I can feel the heat of him beside me. He smells of leather and smoke, familiar and comforting. I smile, even though my eyes are still closed. His fingers trace lazy circles on my back, barely touching but enough to make me shiver.

"You're so good," I mumble. "It was beautiful, like always..."

He laughs softly, almost incredulous. Cliff never takes compliments well, but I say it anyway, every time. He presses a kiss to the back of my neck and sends warmth washing over my skin.

"You really think that?" he asks softly, his voice low.

"Mmhmm, " I manage to get out, too exhausted to say more, but sincere in my tone. I always am. There's just something about the way he plays that feels so special... such talent. Like he's pouring his soul into the strings, and I get to be the one who hears it.

He pulls me closer, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, the pulse steady and slow. It's moments like this that make everything else seem to fade away: long days, tours, chaos-all that seems so very far away when it's just the two of us like this.

I feel myself drifting off again, but I don't want to let this moment go yet. Sleep is pulling me under, and I know I won't be able to fight it for much longer.

"You're amazing," I whisper one last time before it pulls me under. Cliff says nothing, but I feel a smile against my skin as his arms squeeze tighter around me. And in that, I know he understands. He always does. In the dead of night, when the last sounds of his bass have died out completely, I fall asleep in his arms, and I'm at peace.

[would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend]

Have you done Roggenrola yet?

I haven’t! Roggenrolas are one of those cases on this blog where there’s a sharp contrast between ease-of-care and safety, which lands them on a firm C rating. A well-trained roggenrola could be a great little friend, but I must urge caution when adopting this surprisingly dangerous Little Rock-type pokémon.

While rather heavy, considering their size, roggenrolas are the perfect size to be a house pet. While roggenrolas are born and mostly live underground (Black), there isn’t any indication that they would be unhappy living above-ground with you. That isn’t to say that you won’t need to cater your lifestyle to a roggenrola at all, though: these little guys need constant noise. Wild roggenrolas use the sensitive ear on their front to seek out noises, walking towards whatever the loudest noise around them is (Black, Black2/White2). If it ever gets too quiet, roggenrolas are known to panic and topple over (Moon). So, in order to keep your roggenrola happy and healthy, you’ll need to provide them with constant noise to listen to. Whether this is music, white noise, or anything in between, you will need to be prepared to make sure your buddy always has something to listen to. It’s possible that someone out there had designed special headphones for roggenrolas, but you’ll have to look into that yourself as I’m not too familiar.

Besides that, caring for a roggenrola seems to be pretty easy. These pokémon are pretty laid back, and there’s no indication that they don’t get along well with humans. While wild roggenrolas have rivalries with other ground-dwelling pokémon like geodudes and carbinks (Sun), they don’t appear to be violent towards other pokémon either. I do need to warn you, though, to be careful while handling a roggenrola. While they are pleasantly warm to the touch (Shield), you need to take care not to touch inside a roggenrola’s ear cavity: that’s where an energy core is contained, and touching it will make them very upset (Ultra Moon). And trust me, you do not want a roggenrola to get angry at you.

Despite their small size, roggenrolas can be quite dangerous. As has come up again and again on this blog, rock-type moves like Rock Slide, Rock Blast, and Stone Edge can be very dangerous, especially in contained spaces. Roggenrolas can also use Explosion, which sort of speaks for itself. And then there’s Stealth Rock, which while not necessarily deadly could be super annoying to step on. Now, like I said earlier, these pokémon are pretty laid back so long as you don’t mess with their energy core, so these dangerous moves are far from a deal-breaker. However, if you live with curious kids or pokémon who might mess with your roggenrola in this way, I would definitely steer clear of this pokémon.

In conclusion, these little pokémon are quite charming and easy enough to care for if your don’t mind noise, but the possibility of a dangerous (or even deadly) accident with one is ever-present and must be considered. I could only recommend a roggenrola to someone responsible enough to see to their comfort at all times and who are aware of the risk that they’re taking on.

[2demondogs]

With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?

Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T

Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3

Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit

It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.

The house is warm enough, anyways.

There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.

Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.

During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.

Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.

You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.

Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.

Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.

"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.

"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.

Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.

Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.

The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.

He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.

Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.

For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.

Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.

Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.

"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.

"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.

The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.

The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.

It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.

Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.

"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.

"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."

"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."

The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.

A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.

"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."

The army knife was Hosea's.

"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"

"Yessir."

He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"

"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."

He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.

"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"

"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.

Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.

"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."

Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"

Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.

"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.

He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.

Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.

One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.

Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.

"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."

"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."

He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.

Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.

The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.

"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.

"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."

Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.

Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.

"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."

Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.

And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.

"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.

The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.

When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"

Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."

His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.

Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.

[aihoshiino]

ai and kana parallels brainrot.. young girls from abusive (in different ways) households.. who were made to believe that they had to present themselves a certain way or no one would love them.. who felt like they were not pure/innocent enough to be idols.. and yet they shine so bright.. so similar and yet so different (specially when it comes to understanding and expressing their feelings)....... EXPLODES

THE PARALLELS.... I FEAST ON THEM!!!!

A big part of why I've always liked Kana is because she touches on a lot of the same things that Ai's arc does, but comes at them from a different direction. In a lot of ways, Kana's long term arc and struggles kind of feel like a reflection of what Ai's might have been, if she'd lived? Trying to balance her career with her personal issues and relationships, not really always being able to take big steps forward in her personal development because the entertainment industry ultimately IS still her formative trauma environment, no matter how badly she wants to belong to it...

Honestly the story not really going ham on the Kana/Ai parallels at any point, or at least not chewing on them more explicitly, is always one of the things I'm gonna be bummed didn't get more focus in the manga itself but not even god himself will be able to stop me going hard on it in my gay little fanfics!!!!

[ohgodmyeyes]

i know most people who look at this part of tumblr have already kinda processed how severely underrated this movie was when it came out, but watching it last night and crying along with padmé as the world i grew up in (***no it already wasn't that great***) slipped away through the greasy little fingers of my whole generation was really something special.

when she talks to him and he doesn't listen — doesn't answer except to talk about himself — and when he slings political mud at her during a conversation as husband and wife ("you sound like a separatist!") and she knows he's slipping from her grasp — and when she can't do anything except watch as the senate she never could have preserved by herself turns into a writhing den of sedition and evil — and when he promises to protect her from the scary pictures in his brain, when she never fucking asked for that — — —

the whole final third of the film is a masterpiece in escalation that blends the personal and the political in such a heart-wrenchingly relevant way that it's almost physically uncomfortable to watch. i've always believed that the cringiest parts of the prequels are actually the best ones, because most of the time, what we're getting isn't "cringe" at all... just intimate, in a way that isn't necessarily attractive, but that feels raw enough to validate itself in spite of its ugliness (hence why i'll defend Hayden's acting to hell and back again, because his portrayal of that character was fucking DELIBERATE, and yes, it worked, whether you actually enjoyed watching it or not).

that's never come through quite as well for me as it did last night, which is really saying something: i genuinely believed i had taken everything i could from his performance in that film, but i was wrong. not happy to be wrong, really, given the circumstances — but maybe after last night other people will go back to it and see something in it that they didn't before.

and hey!!!! you still have a few months to get your hands on a physical copy before it gets banned. 🙃🙃🙃

watching revenge of the sith feels especially morbid tonight ha ha ha

[chilapis]

I think every moment is eternal in its own right and we hold no authority to deny it that status. Even if it is a forever that will escape our memories, it’ll still exist as a forever in the history of time. In the memories of no-one but the Earth itself. In the records kept and made by no-one, where everything is stored for all time to come. No love is lost and no existence truly unacknowledged.

[rainofthetwilight]

what people dont understand is that the way arin is special is bc he's. just a guy. just a kid who's a ninja fan, that somehow managed to learn spinjitzu entirely by himself. no official training, no nothing bro, just watching his idols do their things and he just. copies them. and he somehow succeeded. he doesn't need any powers, he doesn't need to be a reincarnation of the fsm, he's special just like that

[leslieseveride]

"hyacinth, i do not think penelope can breathe" → "i cannot breathe" + the clock chiming after penelope passes out, ergo.... she does indeed actually stop breathing.

[dykedvonte]

@gecko-in-a-can THIS ABSOLUTELY

Resentment is such a big part of Benny’s motives towards House, feeling he’s underserving to rule and shouldn’t have the right to keep the title of Vegas just because he claimed it first long ago. Say what you will, Benny puts the effort in, through honest and dishonest work albeit, but he puts in the effort. Not saying House didn’t but House had the luxury of having a lot of that effort done before the war and subordinates to do so after. House is untouchable, something everyone wants in the Mojave, if not for the power, but because of the security. House takes that for granted seeing how easy he thinks it is to buy people. Benny, a Mojave native, has to be irate about that seeing how he has seen the heights and slums of both lives.

Also with the AIs it’s so telling because in a lot of ways, Yes Man has more autonomy than House’s major personality securitrons. Yeah, Yes Man has to be helpful but he’s aware and able to be snarky and coy. Benny has an issue with not being listened to but that’s the only perimeter Yes Man needs to act on. He can’t condescend but lord you can tell when he wants to. House’s AIs serves specific and highly detailed functions but are confined to act in accordance. They are subservient to a T and are extensions of House while Yes Man really is a creation that adapts further, hence his desire for the assertive upgrade. Benny made something, or at least was okay with a helper, that can progress for itself. House made things that replicate or facilitate an era of the past and don’t hold the power to contest it.

[nyaskitten]

Seasons I dont remember shit about: s3, s7... s13.