#there will literally never be another him again

[eva-knits12]

I was born on November 4, 1979. What happened on that day? The Iranian Hostage Crisis. Yes, I was born on the day of a historical event.

1980's-the AIDS pandemic.

What happened on November 9, 1989, five days after my 10th birthday? The fall of the Berlin Wall.

What happened on January 20th, 1993? Bill Clinton is Inaugurated.

February 26, 1993-The World Trade Center is attacked the first time.

January 6, 1994-Tonya Harding's ex-husband and his cronies attack Nancy Kerrigan at Joe Louise Arena.

January, 1998-Bill Clinton goes on National TV and denies he banged Monica Lewinsky in the Oval Office. She also gave him a blow job!

October 8, 1998-Ken Starr gathers evidence to impeach Bill Clinton.

December 19, 1998-Bill Clinton gets impeached over his affair with Monica Lewinsky and the blow job she gave him. Yep, he literally gets impeached over a blow job! But everyone forgets about the affair with Gennifer Flowers, and Linda Tripp, right?

November, 2000-Florida has a recount of ballots due to 10,000 votes being thrown out. Gore actually won, but the Supreme Court intervened and gave the Presidency to George W. Bush.

September 11, 2001-The World Trade Center and the Pentagon are attacked.

2002-2003-SARS appears. Eight Americans die. Bush closes the country to prevent it from coming in and spreading even further.

2007-The economy crashes.

November 4, 2008-Barrack Obama is the President. He's the first bi-racial president. Best birthday ever for me!

January 20, 2008-President Obama is Inaugurated.

2008-20120-there's a MAJOR recession as a result of the 2007 economic crash and banking crisis.

2009-H1N1 is on US soil. (I'm convinced I had this thanks to my cousin who brought it back to MI with him. He's a trucker.)

November 8, 2016-President Donald Trump is elected, and wins. I voted for Hillary Clinton, but I digress.

January 20, 2017-Trump is Inaugurated.

January 21, 2017-millions of pissed-off women hold the women's march. The pink cat hats were actually knitted or crocheted by knitters and crocheters themselves! Here's a pattern to the famous hat!

December 18, 2019-Trump is impeached for the FIRST TIME! This was over his phone calls with Ukranian President Volodmyr Zelenskyy to get him to dig up dirt on his political opponents, including Joe Biden.

March 18, 2020-COVID 19 enters US Soil while Trump was busy tweeting and throwing another hissy fit on Fox. (Him phoning in Fox News every morning was him throwing another hissy fit. It's going to happen again, but worse this time!)

March, 2020-With no pandemic plan, Trump tweets. Trump keeps tweeting. Borders are closed. The world is shut down. Trump sends aid to red states only, tells people in blue states to basically go fuck themselves. Calls MI governor Gretchen Whitemere "The crazy lady from Michigan" when she was asking for some aide, because states had NO resources or no epidemic plan to follow. Trump got rid of Obama's pandemic plan, which prevented the Ebola virus from spreading when it first entered US soil.

November 3, 2020-Joe Biden is elected President. Trump actually tries to rig the election.

January 6, 2021-Trump and his cult storm the capitol.

January 13, 2021-Trump is impeached. AGAIN. See January 6.

November 5, 2024-Trump wins the election! He's the first convicted felon as President. He cheated, he rigged this election, and there's evidence that proves this. Kamala lost, and still, all hope isn't lost.

There, I've been through 27 historical events in my 45 years on this planet.

I've never felt Squidward on so many levels right now.

[sincerelyneo]

heaven | z.cl

“beyond infatuation, how i obsessively adore you”

💿now playing: heaven by niall horan

❯ summary: Chenle has never been in love—but then he meets you—and he slowly realises he’s become obsessed. He just needs to tell you…and there’s no better time to say it than when he’s fucking you senseless.

❯ pairings: chenle x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, tooth rottingly sweet smut, swearing, brief mention of marking, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), creampie, no plot lmao, fluffy sex, excessive use of pet names, nipple play, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), chenle being obsessed with reader, love confessions, literally just chenle being a cute boyfriend because i want him, i’m so serious this is just smut lol

(chenle lovers rise, you’re just like me 🤭)

He loves you. 

Chenle’s never been in love before—didn’t really know what it felt like until you walked into his life. He’s never said it outright, hasn’t even realised how deep he’s fallen until you pull his lower lip gently between your teeth, fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. The cool metal of your ring—the one he bought for you—presses against the warmth of his skin, and his heart pounds like it’s trying to break through his chest to reach you; wants to tell you he’s yours, and has been for a while. 

Chenle’s fingers dig into your sides a little harder, and you gasp softly into his mouth. And God—suddenly it feels like there’s too much fabric between you. That’s how he knows he’s in love: because he loves that dress on you, adores it actually, and still, he wants nothing more than to see it on his bedroom floor.

His hands tug at the fabric, pulling it up just enough to bunch above your hips, and you shift to free it from where it’s pinned between your thighs and his.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, jeans growing tighter as his hands slide beneath your skirt, settling on your hips and landing on your ass. 

He presses a soft kiss at the corner of your mouth, then another along your cheek, trailing a line down to your jaw. His tongue and teeth make themselves known as he works his way toward your pulse point, and he has to bite back a grin when your head tips back, a soft hitch catching in your breath.

“Lele,” you mutter, fingers tugging on his shirt. “Please...too many clothes.” 

He hums, the sound of his sweet little angel begging for him, needing him, has every ounce of blood rushing to his cock. 

He wants to savour this, tease you for it, as he bites softly into the skin at your neck, leaving the faintest mark. But then you shift above him, pressing down, and any control he thought he had slips. He nips at you a little harder, breath catching, because your touch is just as intoxicating as it is maddening—truthfully, heaven couldn’t compare.

He brings one hand up to your hair, fingers exploding until he reaches the back of your head and gives it a gentle tug. Your hiss in response and a shiver runs through him. His tongue soothes over the mark he’s left on your neck before he trails up toward your ear, lips lingering there, breath warm. 

“So do something about it,” he says, and his voice deepens with want, low and gruff, and he feels the way your thighs tense at the sound.

Your palms glide along his stomach towards his chest and you hastily try to free him from his shirt. And there it is again, the cold press of metal into his feverish skin. It’s like your touch is made of something—something that pulls the air from his lungs and with it, a muttered string of moans muffled by more kisses. 

He lifts his arms, letting you remove his shirt, but wastes no time sliding one hand back under your dress, the other rising to cup your cheek, pulling you closer. With you on his lap, Chenle has to tilt his head slightly to meet your gaze. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, and your eyes flutter closed, the soft sigh escaping your lips drives him insane. 

Fuck, he loves you so much.

You look like an angel—his angel—as the light filtering through the curtains surrounds you, casting a soft glow that makes you seem otherworldly. Chenle can’t quite believe his luck, can’t fathom how he’s managed to strike gold, to reach Heaven, and have you here with him. He gets to touch you, no one else. 

He must have been a saint in a past life. 

He can’t help himself, his body urging him to lean up and press his lips to yours again. The kiss is soft, slow, and sweet, and you melt against him, body relaxing completely in his arms. Chenle could die like this—solely in your kiss. He’d die the happiest man on record, simply because he knows what it’s like to kiss you.

You smile against his lips—his favourite thing ever—and he nearly pouts when you pull back, ending the kiss. Your eyes meet his, pupils blown wide, eyelashes casting soft shadows against your flushed cheeks. Chenle’s mind takes a photograph. 

Your palm flattens against his chest, pushing him to lie flat on the bed. His eyes fall closed as you repay his earlier touch by pressing your lips to his jaw, your hand squeezing his bicep, and your hips moving above his again. His jeans feel unbearably tight now, and he can practically hear the smirk on your lips as your nimble fingers slip down his stomach, making quick work of his buckle.

He sighs your name, hands roaming the smooth expanse of your thighs before squeezing your ass when you decide to grind down on him. Your moans are quiet, gradually syncing with his, your fingers teasing at the waistband of his boxers, making his pulse race. 

“So fucking perfect,” he mewels in between kisses.

You practically melt into him, and Chenle takes the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist to roll on top of you—just how he likes it. 

“Chenle.” 

You breathe heavily, hands clutching the hem of your dress, tugging at it desperately. The way you’re practically whining his name, those pretty full eyes begging him to take it off, makes him feel dizzy. He just needs you out of that dress.

So he does. When he finally pulls the dress off, he settles onto his knees between your slightly ajar legs, hands sliding up your sides, feeling every curve of your body. He leans down, pressing a deliberate kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, taking his time, savouring the way you hum beneath him.

Your hands tangle in his hair, your hips shifting as you silently beg him for more, and Chenle gets the hint—of course he does—but making you a wreck is one of his favourite hobbies. So, he only lets his breath ghost over the place you want him most, teasing you with soft kisses along the band of your underwear, knowing exactly how to torment you. 

Just because he’s realised he loves you doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be a menace. In fact, it only makes him more determined to make you feel everything—each kiss, each touch, each teasing move a reminder that he’s completely and utterly consumed by you.

“Chenle, I…” Your words trail off into a gasp as his fingers trace the curve of your breast. 

“What, angel?” he asks, voice low again. 

He places a kiss into your hip bone, sucking a mark into the skin, and your fist tightens in his hair, the sensation making you pant.

“Mmh, I just—fuck, Lele—”

He cuts you off, his mouth moving down between your legs again, his tongue moving along the soft skin of your inner thigh, nose brushing against the edge of your panties, but never quite hitting where you want—need him to be. He nips, bites, and kisses his way along your skin, drawing soft moans from you until you can’t hold back anymore. You let your legs fall further apart, and he feels the subtle, rhythmic motion of your hips seeking friction.

So fucking cute, he thinks. 

And when he hears his name fall from your lips as a wanton whine, he groans, unable to hold back. His hand slips to your chest, thumb and forefinger teasing at your nipple. 

“Shit, Chenle, please,” you plead, and the desperation in your voice sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock.

He loves this—loves you—needy and desperate. The sound of your voice, the way you crave him, it has him straining in his jeans, and he no longer wants to tease. Not anymore.

One of his hands trails up the inside of your leg, from knee to inner thigh, slipping beneath your waistband. He can feel the heat radiating from you, even through the lacy layer still separating you.

“I want you,” you murmur lazily, and who is he to deny you anything? He’s never been good at it anyway.

Chenle’s fingers move quickly to pull your panties to the side, and he swipes one of his fingers through your folds—so wet—relishing in the way your breath catches and your chest heats the same way as your cheeks. 

He pulls away, allowing himself a moment to really look at you. You’re looking back at him with half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling shakily, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your skin. He’s hit gold—fucking gold.

He brushes a finger over your clit, drawing out a sharp noise from you that makes his cock twitch in his boxers. His lips drop to your skin, his teeth grazing your peaked nipple as he sucks it into his mouth.

A soft cry escapes as you arch up, and Chenle takes the opportunity to press a finger at your entrance, barely dipping in before pulling back. The tease leaves you tense, a whine slipping out when he returns to circling just outside.

His free hand grips your other nipple, pinching, pulling, and rubbing his thumb over it until you’re grinding against him, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him down like the bossy girl he knows—and loves.

“Chenle, I need you,” you whimper, pushing him with a little more urgency.

He slides a finger inside you, twisting and curling it until a breathy curse slips from your lips in response, and to him, it feels like a reward.

“Need me?” he teases, curling his finger again. “You already have me angel.”

“Fuck, I—oh, do that again,” you beg.

He chuckles against your stomach, but still, he gives you exactly what you want. His thumb finding your clit, making your hand shoot up to your mouth to stifle the needy sounds you're making—that won't do.

Chenle releases your nipple, using his now free hand to tug your hand away from your lips, which are swollen from his earlier kisses. He waits until he hears you moaning again for him, loving the sound, before properly removing the last bit of fabric. You whimper at the sudden loss of his touch, but you eagerly lift your hips, legs slowly falling apart as he drags your panties off, until, finally—finally—you’re laid bare before him.

The sight of you laid out like this only reminds him of how much he loves having his head between your thighs, his mouth on your cunt. It’s funny, really—Chenle’s always been a selfish lover, but when it comes to you, he can’t get enough of giving.

So he slides his ring and middle finger deep inside your pussy. Pressing up against that spot which always makes you grip his hair. And to top it all off, he wraps his lips around your clit; you scream. It's the kind of scream that Chenle loves to hear when he's worshipping you with his fingers and tongue—so he can't help but moan into you. 

You clench around his fingers from the vibration of his moan, thighs trembling as they move to close around his head. But he’s quick, wrapping an arm around you, his hand gripping your thigh firmly to keep you open for him. Your taste fills his mouth, sweet and addictive, and he thinks he’d spend every moment of every day tasting you like this if you’d let him.

Because he loves making you cum. It’s a skill he’s mastered, one he’d probably show off if he wasn’t so possessive.

He knows that if he moves his fingers just right, he’ll draw a gasp and a sharp tug on his hair; if he circles his tongue slowly over your clit, you’ll press harder into his mouth. And if he pulls your clit between his lips, sucking with just the right amount of pressure whilst his tongue moves in tight circles and his fingers work against your g-spot, you’ll fall apart beneath him in seconds.

And you don’t disappoint.

Your breath catches, your stomach tightens, and your hands scramble for anything to hold—his shoulders, the sheets, his hair. Your legs try to close, but his hand keeps one pinned down, relentless as he keeps going. A broken sound slips from your lips, your back arching, head thrown back. You tremble beneath him, and he feels the warm gush of wetness against his fingers as the hand tangled in his hair tries to push him away.

You’re panting, choking out a string of his name and curses, and it’s easily Chenle’s favourite sound.

He pulls his mouth from you with an obscene pop, but keeps his fingers still and full inside you, leaving you gasping as you prop yourself up on your elbows, trying to catch your breath. Chenle presses a kiss to your lower stomach, looking up at you. You give him that sleepy, post-orgasm smile he loves so much.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he murmurs, sucking another mark into your skin.

He wants to see you fall apart again, to watch you sweat and tremble, be incoherent and glowing—but his dick is throbbing against the mattress, and he thinks he might actually combust if he doesn’t feel your warmth around him in the next few seconds.

You whine when he finally pulls his fingers from you slowly, and because it’s Chenle, he makes sure to brush his thumb over your clit one last time. Then, he quickly sheds his boxers and is back on top of you, his hips pressing against yours as his mouth eagerly finds your lips.

Your hand reaches down, wrapping around his length, and soft fingers start to move up and down. Your thumb rubs over his sensitive tip, spreading the bead of precum that’s gathered there, and his forehead falls against your shoulder, a low groan leaving his mouth.

You make him weak, his breath catching at the way your skin feels like fire against his, the way you fit against him like you were made for him—it’s more than just lust.

“I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said it to a girlfriend, said it to you, and it makes him drop his head, kissing your bruised neck, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. The words echo in your own  ears, and you smile—not just at how cute he’s being, but because you know he means it. Your free hand taps his chin, tipping his head up to meet your gaze.

“I love you,” you say back, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, hand still working him. 

With the other, you drag a thumb against his cheek, over his lips, tugging at the bottom one down gently; he takes it in his mouth, eyes full of love as he swirls his tongue around it, and your hand tightens around him. 

Chenle grabs one of your legs, his hand gliding up the curve of your calf and thigh until he can bend it toward your chest, resting it on his shoulder. You guide him to your entrance, and without resistance, he’s sliding in—as he said—you were made for him.

He pushes until your hips are flush with his, groaning at the way you moan, pulling his chest down to yours. And when he finally decides to move, he takes his time and great pleasure in, teasing you with just his tip before pushing back in.

From there, he finds a steady rhythm—in and out, in and out. Reckless and rough. He uses the leg on his shoulder for leverage, hitting all the spots he knows make your breath hitch, eyes flutter, and name fall from your lips. Chenle’s hand drifts to your chest, his thumb brushing over one of your nipples, and you nod frantically up at him.

“Yes, please—oh fuck,” you whine as he pinches the sensitive skin, tugging gently.

He drops his head, watching himself disappear into you, and you clench around him. Your nails dig into his back as he keeps teasing your soft peaks, knowing exactly how to make you close again.

His hand moves to seek out your clit, his fingers drawing small circles across your sensitive bud. You let out a drawn-out, high-pitched cry and his thumb moves quicker, more desperate. With one more final, particularly hard, deep thrust, he feels you fluttering around him, and you’re pulling his head down to crash your lips to his. 

He works you through your orgasm, mumbling a muddled mix of your name and I love you and a string of curses into your mouth as you shudder under him. Starting from now, Chenle will pride himself on his restraint, because he has to force himself not to follow after you straight away. He wants to see you cum again—needs to hear, feel, and witness you unravel for him. He wants you like putty beneath him, several orgasms deep, blissed out and so fucking sensitive that every brush of his body against yours has you gasping out his name.

He presses his lips to yours one more time before slowly pulling out, the whimper you make beneath him making his heart race and his dick twitch. Your hands reach for him, but he grabs your hips, rolling you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You look back at him over your shoulder—so fucking beautiful.

He really does love you.

He presses a kiss to the base of your spine, his hands gripping your hips. Inch by inch, he mouths his way up your back, squeezing your flesh with just enough pressure to leave red marks of his fingertips, but not enough to hurt.

He ruts against you, teasing your cunt as he refuses to thrust into you. You drop your head between your arms onto the pillow, mumbling something incoherent. He leans down, close enough to nip at your earlobe.

“I can’t hear you when your face is in the pillow, angel,” he coos, still only letting his hips grind.

You push back against him, needing more, and he digs his fingers into your hips a little harder. He reaches down, takes himself in his hand, and lines his cock up with your pussy, making you hum.

"I still can't hear you," he slides his tip over your clit, making your hips jerk. "Can you try repeating it for me, angel? Properly this time?"

He does it again, twice more, before you lift your head and plead with him.

"Shit, Lele, please. Oh my god, I—," Your words dissolve into a cry when he pushes into you, and you drop your head back down. "Fuck."

You move your hips back in a broken rhythm, trying to meet his thrusts. Your skin is slick with sweat, and you turn your head to look at him, breath coming out in desperate pants every time he fills you.

“Oh, oh, don’t—fuck—don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. 

“God, angel,” he grunts. “So fucking perfect for me.”

He gathers your hair, giving it a sharp tug that tilts your head back. Your hips move needily and quickly, and Chenle pulls you up by the waist, pressing your back flush against his chest. His fingers still hold your hair, and he tugs it, making you rest your head on his shoulder. Your lips find his, and you're babbling broken noises into his mouth.

Fuck, he’s so close, you feel so good wrapped around him. You know it too, tensing and trembling, and then collapsing against him, with your nerves on fire. Chenle holds you close and tight with him until he meets your orgasm with his own. Thrusting deep and roughly until he’s releasing spurts of cum inside you with a strangled groan of your name.

Chenle holds you intimately even after you've both come down, his hands rubbing gently up and down your sides. You’re breathing heavily, your body still quivering every so often. You struggle to keep your eyes open as he drops a small, sweet kiss to your lips. Your thumb brushes his cheek, and he kisses you again, then once more, just because he can.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers.

You smile up at him.�� “I love you, Chenle.”

But he doesn’t just love you. The word doesn’t feel strong enough. He’s obsessed. Tormented by thoughts of you that go far beyond infatuation. He obsessively adores you—and you think, no, you know, you obsessively adore him too.

[gotta-winwin]

OT13 Reaction -- when you ask them for an absurd amount of money as a prank

SCOUPS:

will transfer you the money, no questions asked. unless it's like an insane amount of money - like enough to buy a car - then he'd be concerned and ask why you need it. are you in trouble? are you being blackmailed? what can he do? he's ready to assist you in anyway possible and will be sulky when he finds out it's a prank. relieved, but a little sad that you'd even feel the need to test his loyalty to you.

JEONGHAN:

his immediate reaction is no. have you guys seen that interview where one of the members (i think it was dino? mingyu? my memory is so bad) said that jeonghan doesn't play when it comes to money and it lowkey stingy? yeah that. he'll definitely be hesitant and might even just flat out say no. extremely proud when you reveal it was a prank all along. i knew it was a prank, baby~ the student can't fool the teacher~

JOSHUA:

his immediately worried something terrible has happened. it's uncommon for you to ask him for money, usually its small enough sums that you don't even have to ask - you have his card anyways. stressed and annoyed when you tell him its all a prank. ai~ you know my weak heart cannot take you stressing me out.

JUN:

a little confused why you're asking him for money. he's the type to not catch on, you being in danger isn't the immediate thought when you ask him for 300 thousand dollars. will not react when you tell him it was a prank, the request for the money hasn't even properly computed in his head yet.

HOSHI:

he's going to complain he doesn't have that much money even though we all know he does. he'll agree to transfer it to you, but will whine and nag the whole time that this is his hard earned money! he loves you but why are you taking it away! another type to get sulky when you tell him its a prank and you don't actually need the money.

WONWOO:

ummm...why? he'll ask a shit ton of questions before agreeing, he needs to know why, when, what, where, who? all the details. this is his money after all, he needs to know where its all going. it gets to the point where you give up, just telling him its a prank cause his questioning isn't making it fun anymore. he tsks and asks if you have too much time on your hands to be pranking him.

WOOZI:

the money is in your bank account before you even finish asking. he's lowkey surprised you haven't asked sooner, he's always open with how much he's making and constantly tells you he'd just rather you guys have a joint bank account so he can spoil you. refuses to let you return the money once you admit its a prank. he makes more than enough anyways.

MINGHAO:

another one that's immediately worried. money's never been a topic you guys have ever talked about so he knows there must be something wrong. asks a boatload of questions trying to make sure you're okay and not getting scammed online or something. ends up just chiding you for even falling into a trap where you need that much money and narrows his eyes at you when you tell him its a prank. he thinks you're crazy and has too much time on your hands.

DK:

poor baby's scared. sure he makes a lot of money but he's never needed that much. eyes are popping out of his head when you tell him the sum of what you need. he agrees, of course, anything for you, but his hands are shaking as he reaches for his wallet. dramatically flops onto the floor when you tell him its a prank, begging you to never do that again - he might be rich but in his mind he's got like 5 cents in his bank account.

MINGYU:

blinks. pretends to think about it, but really he's been waiting for this day. the only possibility in his mind as to why you need the money is only for good things, and who is he to not spoil his baby? begs you to take his card anyways when you tell him its a prank. it's literally the only reason why i work, baby. just take my card.

SEUNGKWAN:

he's dramatic, screeching about how that's an insane amount of money and that he wouldn't even drop that kind of money on himself- and he loves himself very very much! calms down and genuinely sits your ass down to ask why you even need it. feels extremely betrayed when you tell him its a prank and vows to get revenge.

VERNON:

he sighs. he knows this trend and he's not having it. baby, you know i'd do anything for you right. you've got me like wrapped around your finger. you literally don't need to test my loyalty. apologizes when you get sulky over him already knowing the prank and offers to let you try again - this time he'll play along. ohmygod that's a lot of money are you being blackmailed? shopping in the black market? getting us a house in Bali? shrugs when you complain about his reaction being ingenuine and over the top. there is only so much he can do.

DINO:

his jaw is dropping at how large the sum is. yeah, he's got that money, and he'll show you his bank account just to prove it. but he'll start listing out what everything is for. that sum's set aside for our house, that one's to send our kids to school - we never said how many we'd have but i set aside enough to four university tuitions, and- you'll cut him off cause he's going to make you cry with how thoughtful he is. scolds him for ruining your prank. prank? he's confused. what do you mean prank? he got so invested in telling you everything he's saved up for your shared future he kinda forgot the original question.

[anthropwashere]

THIS but fucking. MBTI. When I was still in the Air Force my... hell, I don't remember his position name. I'm so happy to realize I've brain dumped so much military minutiae after only three years out. Anyway. My supervisor's supervisor. This Master Sergeant (MSgt) was OBSESSED with MBTI. It was literally the first conversation I had with him when he took the position and was doing the rounds to meet all of us. We were working for a 3-letter agency AND working outside our unit in an almost wholly civilian org on top of that, so thankfully we didn't work in the same office, but good christ he took potshots at ANYBODY he ASSUMED was one flavor of alphabet soup or another that he didn't "agree with."

He did, for whatever it's worth, correctly guess my flavor of alphabet soup (I have never ever been able to remember or care what my MBTI is, it's fucking alphabet soup, leave me alone) after a 5-minute conversation. He also, however, failed to notice my far more aggressive and obvious extremely mentally and physically unwell signs thanks to my miserable recent divorce and far more miserable unfolding chronic illnesses that were going to end up with me getting a whole-ass 100% disability rank/pay with Veteran's Affairs and insisted on visiting my shit-ass cubicle EVERY. FUCKING. DAY. to CHAT. USUALLY DISCUSSING FUCKING THE MBTI OF VARIOUS OTHER DUDES IN OUR CHAIN OF COMMAND (COC). THAT I BARELY KNEW THE NAMES OF. NEVER MIND WHAT THEY LOOKED LIKE OR WHO THEY WERE AS LIKE. ACTUAL DUDES. BECAUSE. I MUST STRESS AGAIN. WE WORKED IN A MOSTLY CIVILIAN ORG. SO 90% OF THE MIL FOLK IN OUR COC DIDN'T WORK ANYWHERE NEAR ME. TO THE POINT WHERE I LITERALLY DIDN'T HAVE THE DOOR CODES TO ACCESS WHERE THEY WORKED. AND THE OTHER 10% DID LIKE. ACTUAL INTEL SHIT IN OTHER OFFICES I HAD RARELY ANY REASON TO EVER ENTER. AND THE ONES I DID HAVE REASON TO ENTER WITH MILITARY FOLK IN THEM WERE USUALLY FUCKING INSUFFERABLE. AND I AVOIDED THEM AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. SO. I DID NOT. FUCKING KNOW. WHO HE WAS. EVER!!! TALKING!!! ABOUT!!!!!

Hngh. This is why I try not to think of those awful fucking 5 years of my life. I get caps-lock-y about it. Sorry.

Anyway, this motherfucker like. Trauma bonded? To me? Because of his also miserable recent divorce? And he wanted to fuck me SO HARD while also endlessly ranting to me about MBTI horseshit 60% of every conversation we had (the other 40% and his otherwise normal behavior did actually meet me compatibly on the Normal Human Scale and we got on well, and also he was my supervisor's supervisor so like, I had to be somewhat respectful of his stupid MSgt rank). It was an exhausting fucking. What. 8 months? A full year? MBTI this. MBTI that. Etc. Etc. Etc. ETC.!!!!!!

Anyway the SECOND I said "asexual" he entirely quit talking to me entirely, so I guess that's something.

Secondary anyway birthstone-obsessed people are wild to me. Us March folks got royally fucked over by boring-ass AQUAMARINE and you expect me to take that stuff seriously? Lol

Thirdly anyway I haven't dealt with any hardcore astrology people since high school, but she was my friend's mom and she and her husband were honestly the best role models in my life at that age? To the point my shit-fucking-terrible mom resented her otherwise a-okay positivity in my life for like? A decade?? Hell, she probably still does. It's wild how many times I had to remind my Chronic Gaslighting Bitch of a mom, "I haven't talked to Betty since I was 18, WHAT are you talking about."

Fourthly anyway shout-out to Civilian Megan (whose spelling variation I can never remember on account of having one of those Normal White American Girl names with 50 spelling variations, even with her full name on a paper name plate) who sat across from me and went out of her way to save me from Awkward Lengthy conversations with MSgt MBTI and SSgt Marvel Movies Nerd every goddamn day, she was a real one and I should probably shoot her a 'hi how are you' message on Steam today

“Bat swinging at wasp nest” post but I cannot be nice about astrology people. No you did not find the one good or cute or quirky way to believe the quality of someone’s character is biologically pre-determined. Just because you found a way to not base it on race or ethnicity or gender does not make judging someone’s character on an innate and uncontrolled attribute suddenly teehee fine.

I’m even more baffled by the people going “it’s just fun!” “It’s just a hobby!!” Sure if it was something harmless. It’s not. We are quite literally talking about how you intend to judge, treat, view, respect, and interact with someone entirely differently based on an inherent trait. How are you not aghast? How are you not embarrassed? Why are you so insistent on needing to operate on a hierarchy of pre-determined character judgement?

[rafecameronsleftbicep]

want more, rafe cameron

When reader and Rafe have been sneaking around with each other for the last two months, y/n can't help but want more. Bringing this up with him, she's under the impression he's embarrassed to be seen with a pogue.

warnings: swearing, insecurities, arguing, mentions of sex, angst, always a sucker for a happy ending though, it's a looong one <33

pairing: rafe cameron x fwbpogue!reader

Y/n was sat on the little bench outside her small home, right by the water as the wind blew through her hair. Her knees were tucked up to her chin as the kook boy who usually plagued her thoughts did just that, sink into her mind.

It was never meant to be more than a good time, something to pass the summer. He made her feel good - in more ways than one - he would take her out on dates, whisper sweet words to her, and the way he looked at her. She could swear he was in love, that he was just as infatuated with her as she was him. But the way he only took her to private and secluded places, the way his words were the most affectionate when he was deep inside her, the way he would put space between them whenever he saw someone he recognised. These small things, things he may not even realise he does, they all reminded her that she wasn't anything to him. He would never let himself fully be hers, he could never let his reputation fall like that.

He gave her just enough that she felt completely and utterly consumed by him. Craved his attention, his touch, even a small message would complete her day. However, as time went on she knew she needed more, she knew that she couldn't bear much more before she completely lost herself to please him.

"Come over" The message catches her attention, the illuminated screen laying on the bench beside her pulling her from her wandering thoughts.

She knew the message was from Rafe before her eyes even flicked to the screen, she never really had anyone else calling on her. It wasn't that she didn't have any friends, but she wasn't one to go out and the friends she kept knew that.

A couple weeks ago, she would've been on her way to his before she could even start replying, no thought needed except the thought of being in his proximity. Now, however, she was tired. Tired and sad, feeling pathetic really after spending so long thinking about him.

"feeling tired tonight. sorry, rafe" She replies slowly, her heart pounding as she sends it. She turns her phone back off, yet before she can place her phone back down her screen lights up with another message from him.

"Please, baby. I need you" He responds, her heart sinks. She doesn't know how much more she can stand up for herself, fighting that craving feeling she has for him.

"not in the mood rn tbh" She tries to stay strong, holding onto that tiny bit of dignity she has left in her.

"Don't even need to fuck"

"Just wanna be close to you"

Her heart pounds faster and her breathing is shaky. Fingers hovering over her illuminated screen. Every possible message she could write spinning though her head.

"you can come over then" She types out, deletes and types out again. She had never been so unsure in herself before, never doubted her own thoughts like this. But she sends it, stopping herself from contemplating and worrying further.

Rafe had been to her place a couple of times before, only ever to pick her up. Each visit shorter than the last, hurrying to leave as if humiliated to be caught in such a place. It made her feel ashamed of who she was, how she grew up and she felt even more embarrassed that she let a guy make her feel so insecure about something that could never change, something that literally made her who she was.

"Coming" The phone lights up for a last time in her hands and when her eyes run over the message she is filled with surprise and even more shame as her heart warms for him. She knows that him visiting her is the bare minimum. That being able to step foot in the place she calls home should not be seen as a difficult task. But she feels happy that he's coming to see her because he wants to.

She sits with her pathetic thoughts as she waits for him. Curling up on the bench as she watches the way the pearly moonlight glimmers across the waves perfectly. The soft wind sending chills down her spine and strands of her hair across her face.

"Y/n?" She hears his voice call out and for a moment she feels like she's lost hers. "Baby?"

"Yeah, around here" She replies softly as she sees him bend round the corner of her home. She has a tiny smile on her face, never fully reaching her eyes.

"Something wrong, pretty girl?" He mutters softly as he moves to sit next to her on the bench. He's dressed in sweats and she can only assume he's been relaxing at home prior to coming over. He gently takes her bare legs and slides them onto his lap. He can't help but let his eyes rake over her perfect body. The way she looks so small in his shirt he must've let her borrow once and some pyjama shorts. Yet for the first time, he puts aside his vulgar thoughts because he can tell she's unhappy.

Her eyes look into his, the way he's cracked open her feelings so easily, reading her like a book despite keeping a wall up of his own. Her breath shaky again as she gives a small shrug, her eyes dropping down to his hands. The way his thumb gently runs back and forth over her knee.

"Talk to me" He says softly, the crease between his brows deepening as he loses her gaze.

"Do you even care?" She voices gently. Not looking at him, to maintain the little power she has left over herself.

"What?" He mumbles with confusion, his body straightening up as he didn't expect such blunt thoughts from her.

"Do you even care that I'm upset? Or what I'm upset about?" She mumbles a bit louder as her gaze moves back over to the glistening waves ahead of them.

"O-of course I do, I don't understand?" He mutters as his thumb stops the stroking and instead slides to her chin, moving her face to look at him.

"I mean we aren't dating, and it feels like you've never really cared about how I feel outside the sex." She tells him for the first time. The tension feels suffocating, yet at the same time the weight off her shoulders is so liberating.

"That's what you think?" He asks her, a strong tone of annoyance or maybe disappointment.

The eye contact between them so intense that she feels as though she needs to take a deep breath before replying or she might pass out. "That's exactly how it feels." She admits gently with a shrug.

"That's not what this is." He says firmly, shaking his head as his hand slips off her chin and runs down his face with a huff.

"You're embarrassed to be seen with me. Face it, Rafe. It's not like we're dating. You only keep me around for a good fuck." She says shakily, running off adrenaline and the fact that there's no use stopping now that she's started.

"You don't embarrass me, I'm just not ready to make things official." He tells her unwaveringly, yet his eyes darting towards the water, the ground, her. Everything about his body and words make him seem so secure in himself. Yet his eyes express all his true emotions, how hesitant and insecure he really feels.

"God, Rafe. You can barely be seen with me, and I can't bear to be just some girl you fuck and take out secretly." She tells him, her throat feeling scratchy and sore as her eyes water lightly. She curses herself for getting so emotional, it wasn't even that serious yet she couldn't keep herself together.

His heart breaks, pained as she expresses her feelings to him, pained as he watches her fall apart in front of him. "I'm sorry for making you feel that way." He mutters gently.

"Don't be. You never promised me anything more than what you've given me." She shakes her head gently, as her eyes look at the side of his face.

"I want to give you more, I want to promise you the world." He whispers with his head in his hands.

"I can't continue feeling like this, Rafe." She tells him softly, "I can't handle craving you privately."

"I didn't know you felt like this..." He replies shamefully, his hands sliding down his face as he turns to look at her with torment. His eyes are glossy and his jaw is clenched, he doesn't know what there is to say to make this better.

"Don't bullshit." She mumble with a soft frown, not believing for a second that he didn't know she was completely infatuated with him.

"No, y/n. I mean it. I've... I feel for you. And I don't know how to handle it, express it. Fuck. I'm a mess, baby." He spills to her helplessly. "If I knew how I was hurting you, I would've done something, said something. I just- it's so difficult for me." His voice rasps and cracks unsteadily.

She doesn't know what to say, heart pounding as she watches his sincerity. She fiddles with her fingers anxiously as she tries to think of anything to reply with.

"Please believe me, pretty girl" He practically whimpers, his hands itching to feel her near him.

"What are we gonna do?" She whispers as she looks down at her hands. "Something needs to change... I can't go on like this" She tells him.

"I wanna make you mine." He tells her, giving in to his desperation to be close to her as his hand moves to rest on her anxiously fidgeting fingers.

"What's holding you back?" She mumbles as her eyes remain glued to their hands, fluttering closed for a moment as she soaks in the warmth of his hand.

"I-I don't know. I just, I feel so stupid because I want to give you the world but I'm the one stopping myself from giving it to you." He opens up quietly, his eyes boring into the side of her face. "But I know I need you, for more than just your body. I need you in every way I can have you." He whispers to her, gently pulling her closer so that his lips brush the shell of her ear. His closeness, warmth and the way his breath tickles her ear shoots a shiver down her spine.

"Please let me have you."

(a/n: i had to end it there or i would keep writing all night, i hope you all enjoyed!!)

[suzukiblu]

Day ten of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” behind the cut. tw: implications of past grooming/abuse and the inherent problems that causes for someone who was in that situation and hasn’t processed it trying to have a relationship with someone actually age-appropriate. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“I mean–it’s nice,” Kon says, smiling just as helplessly into his collar and keeping his eyes on the sidewalk as they walk. “Just, you know, it’s not the kinda stuff you usually get me. Like–it’s just, you know–pretty, or whatever. It’s not for anything. Like, I can’t wear it for you and it’s not, you know, food or a game or anything.” 

Tim did not actually realize that he hadn't bought Kon anything that didn't count as “useful” yet, though given the video games and candy and jewelry he's pretty sure they just have different definitions of what “useful” actually is. Also he needs to take a moment to not burn alive over Kon saying the phrase “wear it for you” again, which definitely takes the full moment, because Jesus Christ. 

That has not gotten any less affecting, yeah. 

“Oh, I guess,” he says in his best imitation of a normal person's normal voice. “I didn't really think about that. I just thought you might like it, so I got it for you.” 

Kon somehow finds a new shade of red to turn that honestly might actually be a Kryptonian-related one, considering the intensity of it. It is, unfortunately, cute as fuck. 

“I mean, I do like buying you clothes and stuff, obviously. You look really nice in that outfit, for one,” Tim says, and Kon glances away again, still smiling helplessly and still just as red-faced. He really does blush so easy. It’s weird, Tim thinks, given how much flirting he does. But maybe Kon’s just the “can dish it out but can’t take it” type, he guesses. 

Alternately, maybe people just aren’t complimenting him as often as he deserves and he's not used to hearing it. 

. . . Tim makes a mental note to pencil in some affirmations in Young Justice’s next training session and also to buy Kon even more flowers than he was already planning to. Flowers that come with little hand-written cards that say nice things about him, specifically. 

“You better think I look nice in it, pretty boy,” Kon says, biting his lip around another grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me all fancied up.” 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked the crop top too,” Tim allows, and Kon bursts into laughter and then lets go of his jacket collar and just–beams at him, actually. Just–literally actually beams, brighter than anything in Gotham that doesn’t run on electricity. 

Tim manages not to step off the sidewalk into traffic by Robin-reflexes alone and literally nothing else. 

Jesus, that expression. 

“I like, uh–that,” Kon says, and then blushes a little darker again. “Um–I mean, I like that you, uh . . . like to get me stuff you think I look good in. Uh. I don’t know how to say this without it sounding weird, fuck, just–just I like it.” 

“Oh,” Tim says. The warehouse district in his brain is a lost cause; the fire has officially spread to the docks and across downtown. His mental Gotham is going the way of 1871 Chicago, he’s pretty sure. “Uh–um, good. I’m glad.” 

“It’s just, um–I dunno, it’s just nice to look nice for somebody,” Kon murmurs a little bit shyly, tugging his jacket collar up over his mouth again but still obviously smiling behind it. Tim isn’t sure if that’s a line of thought he should be concerned by after the kind of things Kon was saying earlier, if–“Instead of, you know. For everybody.” 

. . . Tim decides that actually, never mind the concern. Kon can look as good for him as he wants to, if what Kon’s used to is being stuck having to look good for some stupid ad campaign or magazine shoot or what the frick ever. And like–it’s not like he has a problem with Kon wanting to wear things he thinks he’ll like. That is pretty much the opposite of a problem for him, in fact. 

It probably explains the makeup, too. There were definitely not any ad campaigns with glitter eyeliner or nail polish involved. 

. . . not that Tim’s seen all the ad campaigns or anything, just–

Alright, fine, he’s seen all the ad campaigns. That’s just Bat SOP, alright? And definitely only Bat SOP.

[rainbowcaleb]

a soft familiar sight

Caleb’s hair is long enough to braid.

It has been for a while, a pleasure Essek has enjoyed intimately. The silver twined with copper makes for a lovely contrast as the strand becomes a twist becomes a weave. Like magic pulled from leylines and coaxed into the exact precision of spells, Essek eases the hair from the catch of pillow and cheek, gently so as to not interrupt the quiet snores of his bedshare. 

Caleb sleeps more than Essek, which could be a lonely endeavor in the early faded light of the morning when trance is not needed anymore, but it is a privilege to watch the rise and fall of a chest at ease. Caleb is beside him and he is quiet, he is at rest. It is an honor to know Caleb is so unbothered, and so Essek busies his hands and stills his now-awake mind with his gentle work. He is up to number five in clever braids, beating his previous record by one. 

He is a metalsmith in another life; perhaps also in this one. Essek loops soft red around his finger, then the next. Rings upon rings that join the one Caleb has already given him. He is careful to twine a precious silver into the band, a reminder of time and of choice. There’s an indent in the pillow on the side Caleb always sleeps; two bedside tables both stacked with their own treasure of books. The extra blanket, crochet carefully mended to keep age away; a gift that keeps Essek’s feet warm and the cats lingering on the bed until breakfast. He slides the hair from his finger, the curl gently heat set from his own touch. Essek tucks it behind Caleb’s ear.

Caleb has a tell, the way his breathing lowers. The unshamed snore quieting, the micro lift of the sides of his mouth.

Essek keeps twirling hair into braids, but there’s a speed that comes with no longer needing to be subtle.

“Schatz, six? Is that a record?” He murmurs. 

Essek could kiss that cheeky grin and so he does. “Counting in your sleep again, Widogast?”

“Is it truly sleep if one’s partner is playing hairdresser?” Caleb’s eyes still lie closed, all orneriness twinkling in the corners of his lips.

Essek drops the long strands and combs his fingers through the crown instead. “Good morning. Do not pretend as if you do not like it.”

Caleb shivers into the scratch. “I have never said otherwise.” He peeks one eyelid open. “Guten Morgen. I hope you have not been waiting on me long.”

A familiar song accompaniment to a familiar dance. As if this is not the joy they have shared for the majority of mornings over the last few years. 

“I am always happy to watch over you.” Essek slides both hands to Caleb’s cheeks, running his thumbs across the cheekbones. “Sleep well?”

“This night, yes.” Never a guarantee; always a celebration when it occurs. Essek also knows this feeling well. 

“It is your turn.” Essek removes his hands and sits up. He trades warm skin for the worn leather and paper of the closest book. “I’ll be down in fifteen or so.”

“Ah.” Caleb laughs and sits up in bed. “Make it twenty, Jester has lent me a new recipe for black moss pancakes.”

Essek squints at the page before him, a slight wrinkle to his nose. “I am fairly certain Jester is the only one who can make those palatable; it's her magic touch.”

“Sometimes literally.” Caleb pats Essek’s knee before getting out of bed and shrugging on the knitted brown cardigan he picks up from the side chair. “Apple honey toast it is instead.”

“I look forward to it.” Essek lifts his eyes from the page to send a smile Caleb’s way, and is met with a mirror of soft familiar sight. It can be years or decades or more, but Essek is certain he’ll never tire of that bright Widogast smile.

[errorkey]

so guess who's never getting over what jack says here!

it's a line that's devastating on it's own. it's heartbreaking, because jack feels so terribly betrayed by joke all over again, even though all joke was trying to do is save him.

but it's not just that. it's worse, because that's what the whole show's been about this entire time.

in english, the title we've been given is "Jack & Joker: U Steal My Heart!" which is the most darling, lighthearted little play on words ever.

but the thai title? it's "Jack & Joker: ทำไมต้องเป็นเธอทุกที," which (according to MyDramaList) translates to "Jack & Joker: Why Does it Always Have to Be You?"

and isn't that exactly what jack's asking now? of everything that had to happen, of everyone that is to blame, why does have to be joke that is at fault again?

from the beginning, this entire show was meant to be about how it's almost inevitable that these two will hurt each other in some way or another. their lives have been entwined since that first moment 5 years ago, and regardless of whose fault it is, both of them are bound to be hurt because of just how much they want to save each other. ultimately, jack and joke are – quite literally – doomed by the narrative that they're in.

and all they can do is find a way to break this cycle that viciously dictates their lives – both in the world they're in and in the grand scheme of the show itself.

[iichfilwypj]

percy's new obsession | percy jackson

ღ percy jackson x argentine! reader ღ warnings: percy lifts reader on his shoulder, sex implications? (i am freaky lately!) ღ wc: 596 a pedido de mi nueva bestie <3

“I had breakfast at the new café today! I wanted to try the chocolate cake,” they were both on the sofa, and even though he had been paying attention to her at first, he had tuned out when an action movie came on TV. “but they said there wasn’t any, so I had the… em...” 

He tilted his head a little when the sound of her voice stopped, a smile forming as he watched her squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of the word she needed. 

And then, she spoke to herself. “Ay, ¿cómo se llama?”

So, here's the thing; Percy heard her speak Spanish before, but only a handful of times and with simple words like si, no and hola. 

But he had never, ever heard a complete sentence. It might sound dramatic, but when the words left the girl’s mouth, something inside Percy shifted. The simple fact of listening to her speak literally another language made something in his perception of her change, like suddenly she was a fucking goddes or a divine creature.

And what struck him the most was her accent. Her voice had somehow shifted, turning a bit lower and richer. He had never heard that accent before, and within seconds, it was already his favorite.

He had no idea what she had said, but his cheeks flushed as if she had said the sexiest and most lustful thing in the world. 

“Almond cake, eso! Sí, it was very good!” He just nodded, still a bit dazed. “Oh, and the filling! It was dulce de leche and-”

“Oh my god, stop” Percy put a hand on her cheeks and turned her head towards him, causing her to stop mid-sentence and look at him confused. She found Percy staring at her almost with lust, his eyes wide and his jaw slightly dropped. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Eh?” She looked honestly confused, and he stared at her with obvious intent. 

“Your accent! How come you never speak Spanish?” 

“Cause you don’t understand it?” I mean, she has a point. 

But who even cared? He would learn Spanish if it meant listening to her accent every day. 

Oh God, just imagining it excited him. 

"Never speak English again, English is banned in this house." His voice was frantic, almost as if he were pleading for his life. He seemed ready to drop to his knees in front of her and beg. "Please, speak Spanish from now on."

“Oh my God, I-” she looked taken aback, but she gathered herself and, with a playful smile, she told him. “Dale, si vos querés, yo hablo así. No hay drama.”

He left out a small scream, and if he hadn’t rushed toward her to bury his face in her stomach and clutch her legs tightly, she would have seen his eyes roll back and hear him groan.

He was torn between wanting to keep listening to her voice and knowing he shouldn’t tempt himself any more.

Meanwhile, she could barely contain her laughter, gently tugging at her boyfriend’s hair (I swear she was trying to kill him!) and thinking about how this would benefit her.

“¿Querés ver algo en la tele?”

“Sure.” She looked at Percy in surprise, thinking that he had understood what she meant. 

Clearly, he hadn’t, because before she could blink, he sprang to his feet and tossed her onto his shoulder. The sudden movement made her gasp, and she couldn’t stop herself from giggling when he kissed her thigh, which was right beside his face.

“¡Bajame, boludo!” 

While walking toward the bedroom with the girl on his shoulder, Percy found himself wondering what he was going to do now.

Dam, the hottest person alive was completely his.

hello hello! hoy me siento más patriota que nunca!! i want to apologize cause lately evertything i write feels kind of sexual HAHAHAHAHA me sale así porque es fin de semana no me juzgen!

[naomi-nana]

✎ᝰ. jealousy is a disease !

there's nothing wrong with a little bit of jealousy, right? as long as you're honest about it, surely...

featuring : till

cw : fluff, gn!reader, mentions of death/being killed but nothing too graphic, probably ooc till...

a/n : OMGOMGOMG ALNST FIC ON TUMBLR???? i wasn't expecting to find any, but i find quite a lot!! i was so happy so i decided to make one myself and joined all the other writers>:) i've never watched any theory videos, so i dont really know how till acts. but from the limited videos alone, i can atleast know his personality;)

he really wouldn't have cared at all if you got closer to another human, or even an alien—is what he thought, as if he isn't glaring at you talking to your fans. your smile at those aliens lining up to shake your hands doesn't help. why would you even smile at all the aliens anyways? they all look ugly. he knows that how popular you are is not under your control, and that this is all arranged by your owner. but still, he doesn't like it, not even a single bit.

but he is happy that you're getting the recognition you deserve, after being forc—i mean, working hard for it all. but it still upsets him at how happily you talk to all the aliens, the smile you gave them, the look of adoration that you gave them. you noticed that he's been staring at you the whole time, though. but you made it seem as if you didn't, which annoys him. if he could, he would grab you by the wrist and ran away as fast as he can with you following him. but he won't. he doesn't want or like the risk of the both of you being killed because of that.

so, he endured his jealousy for what felt like an hour, and it all finally ended. "i'm sorry, have i kept you waiting?" you finally turned at him, your face glistening with sweat. even with how messy your makeup and hair has gotten after all those handshake, you still look as ethereal as ever. "till?" you tilt your head curiously when he didn't reply.

"uh—huh, what? sorry. was zonin' out." he noticed that he have been looking at your face the whole time and unintentionally ignored your question. "what did you say again?" he asked, looking away from your face this time in embarrassment. you only chuckled softly at him before finally repeating your question. "no, you didn't, it's alright." he answers quickly, as if trying to hide something, making you raise an eyebrow. "really? i really didn't keep you waiting?"

"no, it's fine. let's get inside the car before the driver leaves us here." the driver really won't leave you both here, since it's literally his job to drive the both of you from place to place. it's just his excuse to leave the place faster so he could make you get away from all your fans. "you seem to be eager of leaving this place, is something wrong?" you come closer to him, concern lacing in your gaze. with how close you are to him, it's hard for him to hide his flustered face.

so, he just turned around and walked towards the exit, making you even more confused and concerned for him. he walks really fast too, while you struggle to follow him behind.

"till, are you alright? do you feel sick? uncomfortable? or is it something else?" you asked him once again, and he avoided your gaze again. it keeps happening over and over to the point that if someone else were to watch you both from afar, they'd thought that the both of you are playing a game of tag. it took a lot of convincing from you, but he finally tells you why. not directly though, he doesn't want you to think that he's too clingy.

"i-i got a little... annoyed, when your fans got closer to you, i guess..." he muttered to himself, which made you unable to hear what he says clearly. you tilt your head to look up at him, then cup his cheeks in your hands, earning a soft gasp from him. "w-what are you—"

"are you perhaps... jealous?" you grin at him, his face growing redder as time pass. "i'm—not! let go of my face!" he grips one of your wrist with his hand, but he didn't even make an attempt to move your hands away from his face. "really? your expression says otherwise." you giggle when he glares at you, although his red face betrays the 'scary look' he's giving you.

"i said i'm not, end of the story. let's get in the car or whatever..." he finally swats your hand away, not too harsh though, and he walks away from you. your giggle only grew louder at how flustered he got just from one single interaction with you. "wait for me, till. you can't leave a celebrity like me behind... you don't want any of my fans catching up to me, do you?"

"ugh, stop talking about that!"

naomi-nana. do NOT repost, do not use,(with or without permission), do not reccommend or talk about my works outside of tumblr.

[vaguely-concerned]

To the ‘themes I am picking up on in Veilguard’ list, let's go ahead and add what I have a sneaking suspicion will actually turn out to be The theme:

— the world has changed and can never be as it was again.

— I have been changed and can never be who I was again.

— in this simple unavoidable truth there is endless grief and endless hope.

And I… may be getting a bit emotional about it haha. Let me show my work a bit: 

if da:o is a game about people who are already dead or half ghosts in some form (through societal forces, psychologically, functionally, literally, in body, through the joining etc.) coming together anyway to save the world from being swallowed by total nihilism and despair (symbolized by the blight) through the power of love and friendship and also this sword/potential heroic sacrifice that I found, da2 is a game about people who have lost their homes and been set adrift finding and building new homes in each other (while completely failing to save the world. also through the power of love and friendship. as well as years of petty bickering <3 we must imagine kirkwall if not happy then worth having been because the love was there the love was there and that's the only sanctifying force we can ever have in this doomed world and city of ours), and da:i is a game about old stabilizing-but-unjust comfortable lies vs. disruptive but potentially liberating uncomfortable truths, and the power of friendship to help us distinguish the one from the other and navigate through them...

folks… I'm starting to think that veilguard might be a game specifically about moving towards recovery and acceptance after trauma — about how even in this flawed, severed, scarred state, what is here right now is worth loving and worth caring for. even in an imperfect and impermanent world and self, there is worth and joy. and of course the first real tragedy — and threat — of Solas is that he just cannot find it in himself to accept this and move on, to let go of what was, the regret won’t let him go or he won’t let go of it. which means that even though on the surface it’s Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain (and the will to subjugate and violate they represent) who are the main villains, the real antagonistic force in this story beneath that is the Dread Wolf’s despair. A despair Rook must make an answer to by the end of the game, one way or another, compassionately or with righteous fury, triumphant or pyrrhic.

The world will change again and again and so will you — BUT the crucial element is that so will everyone else who exists along with you, you are fundamentally not alone in this existential truth. all we’ll ever have is each other and my god that is plenty, my god that is enough!!! Which is the second thing Solas just can’t accept, he keeps himself separate and completely alone out of an awful mix of fear and pride and feeling himself unworthy of anything else. Rook and the player want to save the world of Thedas because it’s where everyone we love lives, Solas wants to go back to the past because that’s the only neighbourhood where he can still visit those he loved — and the person he himself was, before. A very sympathetic and human instinct/trap to fall into when touched by trauma, I think, if only it wasn’t backed by godlike power, a fundamentally oppositional personality, and a catastrophic lack of therapy to make it literally everyone else’s problem too lol. It’s varric and solas’ banter about the man on the island and where meaning in a life comes from all over again, writ large and with detail work — and the added idea of ‘what if there are also other islands out there, though. With other people on them that you could find if you reach for each other’. Rook with the best of intentions has to make choices to which there are no perfect outcomes and live with what happens — and not cut themselves off from everyone else around them even when there is regret or shame. You get back up every day and you make a life with other people doing the same and you do your best, and that’s the only victory this world will give you. In the end, that is more than enough, that is essential. And I um. I love that. So much. It’s why some of the writing clumsiness on top can’t hurt me because this thematic spine is so solid and so beautiful to me. It’s DA2 all over again that way for me personally — I forgive this story for what it isn’t and couldn’t be, and I love it with my whole stupid open heart for what it actually is. Thank you for coming to my TED-talk and goodbye etc.      

(For my fellow TLT heads out there — you know what this story is reminding me of most of all, actually? It has some big Nona the Ninth vibes down there in the deep. It’s about… the horror and unspeakable beauty that can only be found in liminality, and the role of love in making that basic fact of existence bearable. And also even more unbearable at the same time. I'm so sorry.)

[lucygxybaird]

billy x reader - time traveler billy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

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

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

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No cars,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “2024,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you do.

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

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

“1881,” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“2024,” he returns. 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh a little. “I mean, well…”

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

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

“Hold on!” you call through the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was nice,” he says. “Warm.” 

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

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

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

“I’m glad, too,” you murmur.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

You nod again. 

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

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

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

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

“Old Moss?”

You sit up. “You know this guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite yourself, you giggle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seems so.”

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

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

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

For now — 

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

“What are—?”

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

[cher-rei]

Hey babe

Your such a good writer please more lamine yamal fics im acc begging there literally none🙏🙏🙏🙏😪

the sitter— lamine yamal [ l.y ]

met you at the right time. this is what it feels like– feels like [gracie abrams]

pairing: lamine yamal x fem!reader

summary: a rushed call from lamine's mother to babysit kenye turns into more than just a regular afternoon

genre(s): toothrotting fluff (have your dentist on standby)

[w.c: 2.8k] masterlist

notes: I wrote this instead of watching the real sociedad match to cope with the fact that we're losing. I got a bit carried away with this one but I hope you like it <33

as you stepped into the familiar house, not even having to ring the doorbell you were greeted with the smell of fresh baked cookies and comfort. you shut the door behind you and easily walked through the familiar hallway.

when she saw you, lamine's mother's shoulders relaxed a heavy amount along with the breath of relief she let out. “my saviour,” she said with a smile and pulled you into a tight hug, her gratitude evident. “I'm so sorry for calling on short notice but I have an emergency— ow!”

she bit her tongue in frustration and looked down to see the toy car that she stepped on, her head spinning at her son's carelessness. “never have kids, you’ll regret it eventually,” she said half-joking and hurriedly led you to the living room where kenye was sitting on the floor, a toy car in his hand while he watched tv.

she didn't even have to call out to him, the second he saw you he was up and in your arms with a toothy grin. “hey, buddy. didn't expect to see me today did you?”

the older woman watched with a smile as you interacted with her son, the moment being cut off by her ringtone. she didn't even bother to look at it and instead grabbed her purse and made a beeline for the front door, yelling out instructions and goodbye's as if you hadn't been doing this for a year already.

“and thank you, sweetheart! I owe you! kenye, behave!”

the door slammed shut, leaving you to the 5 year old's energetic grasp. you quickly settled into your usual routine, skipping the snack part because he had his breakfast already since it was only after 10 am.

you took your usual seat on the carpet with him because he was usually full of energy this early and jittery. so to get it out of his system, you played games with him— built some lego, played with his toys and so on.

an hour had passed and you found yourself trying to make his yogurt seem edible. it was never an issue to get him to eat, all it took was one “hereeee comes the airplane” and he was more than compliant.

“there you go,” you said with a smile and lifted the final spoonful of yogurt to his lips, the boy clapping alone happily when it was finished. “you took that like a champ.”

that didn't last long however and he was starting to grow antsy again, his suffocated whines piercing your ears. it was obvious that he was sick of the house and needed to get out, so without another thought you cleaned him up and took him out to the backyard.

it was any kid's dream back there. a playhouse, jungle gym with a slide, a ball pit and his personal favourite— the mini football net that was more of a self indulgent addition from his older brother.

you'd known lamine for over 3 years now seeing that you attend the same high school but it was a cute coincidence that his mother picked you for the babysitting job. the job wasn't even needed, you were just bored and needed something to do on weekends, there wasn't even a proper answer for how she found you.

as you and kenye played in the sun-drenched backyard, laughter and joy radiated from your every move. the mini football net, a testament to lamine’s passion for the sport, stood like a sentinel awaiting kenye's energetic kicks. your eyes sparkled with delight as you cheered him on.

the air vibrated with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, infusing your playtime with an idyllic charm. kenye's giggles echoed throughout the yard, mingling with the chirping of the birds.

meanwhile inside the house, lamine stirred from his sleep, rubbing the remnants of sleep as he descended the stairs to look for his mother. he called for her a good few times but she didn't reply, so naturally he searched the kitchen and her bedroom only to realise that the house was awfully quiet.

she would of said something if she had something planned today, and the tv was still on so someone was definitely home. then he entered the living room, his feet padding on the tiled floor as his eyes adjusted to the light from outside.

with a yawn, he neared the sliding door to check the backyard, but just as he was about to open it his hand froze on the handle. his mind blanked, his immediate reaction to seeing you play with kenye being to hide behind the curtain.

his thoughts were reeling, not expecting you to come over today. in panic, he took one last peep outside which only made his pounding heart thump even louder at the sight of you passing the ball to his brother so effortlessly.

run. that's what he did when he got the clearance, not wasting a second to rush back upstairs and grab his phone and hit the facetime button in the group chat. after 3 rings, hector and pau were on the line with him— their confused faces synced as they watched the boy lock himself in his bathroom and start pacing.

“what happened to ‘hello'?” hector said, judgement evident in his tone but lamine didn't have time to fight his snarky comments.

he propped his phone up against the mirror and rushed to get his toothbrush, his palms sweating against the toothpaste tube.

“bro, are you going to tell us what's going on or is this some type of ‘get ready with me’ gimmick?” pau spoke up finally and put another spoonful of cereal his mouth, quickly getting distracted by the cover on the box and commenting on it.

“she's here. she's not supposed to be here today so I don't know why!” lamine muffled out through his mouth full of toothpaste but his friends got the gist of it. perks of knowing each other for nearly their entire lives.

hector couldn't suppress his laughter, his smile on the screen teasing lamine. ��this is even funnier because it's actually never that deep.”

pau joined in on the laughter. “imagine asking why your brother's babysitter is over to babysit,” he snorted. “it's been a year, you're insane.”

lamine finished rinsing his mouth, double checking to see if there was anything in his teeth before splashing cold water on his face. “does it look like i just woke up?” he asked and touched up his hair. “is it giving ‘I just woke up and look this good’ or ‘I freaked out and had a panic attack in my bathroom’?”

his friends went silent, their jaws on the floor at the amount of overthinking that he was doing. he's liked you since he could remember. at first it was simple attraction, and then came the longing to know you more personally, and when he did that's when everything went to shit.

you were beautiful, that's for sure but you had this natural charm that he couldn't get enough of. you made an effort to talk to him, to help him with anything that he needed and your selflessness was barely the tip of the iceberg. family was the most important thing to him, and the fact that his family loved you and treated you as their own had him on his knees.

“it's giving, ‘I can't talk to girls I'm actually interested in'” hector deadpanned and pau was quick to follow.

“I got a better one,” he said in between his laughter. “It's giving, ‘professional winger by night, but professional wreck by day.”

the bathroom echoed with pau and hector’s non-stop laughter, both boys having rolled onto their sides by now while lamine stood with his head in his hands to try and calm himself down.

worst wingmen of the year, he liked to call them. the only advice he got was to breathe and not trip over his own feet. it was pathetic of him to let his attraction towards a girl make him this… messed up? but what was a teenage boy to do?

he put on his game face and made his way downstairs again, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw that you were watching kenye as he played in the ballpit.

when you turned around you saw him there, your heart skipping a beat as he opened the door with a warming smile. it was your turn to take a deep breath. “hey, I didn't know that you were home today,” you greeted cheerfully, you confidence oozing.

“yeah, we got the day off so I took the liberty to sleep in,” he answered a took a seat beside you on the grass to greet his brother who immediately threw one of the plastic balls at him.

laughter tickled at your throat as you watched lamine playfully throw them back at him but kenye took it personally and began hurling them at him. “we're going to have to put a warning sign on him or something,” you joked in between laughter and lamine scoffed.

“the real threat is his ability to kick a ball,” the footballer said with this lips pursed.

you playfully rolled your eyes at his comment. “oh, please, you're just mad because he already has better dribbling skills than you.”

lamine's face was contorted with mock offence, and he leant back on his hands to look at you. “are you talking about the same guy who won the kopa trophy less than 2 weeks ago.”

you couldn't shake off how laid back he looked in that moment. the way he was looking at you with such ease and playfulness made your head spin. “yes, yes I am.” you answered confidently to which he put a hand over his heart.

“you wound me,” he joked. “I'm going to start making you nurse me back to health.”

funny. he was joking. right?

kenye, thrilled by the attention hurled another ball at lamine to which his older brother caught and tossed it back at him with a gloat. “nice try, but we already have the backyard champion sitting next to me right now.”

you smile faltered for a moment. “that's only because you let me win.”

lameye's eyes twinkled as he took notice of your slightly flushed cheeks and he thought that maybe he was doing something right. “you literally crushed me.”

you shook your head at his retort, ready to counter his argument as you put your hands in the air, and swiftly as if it were second nature lamine gently took them into his own to stop you from talking further. “consider my ego bruised, you're just too good,” he joked with a shrug, his hands still holding yours.

it was for a moment that you stopped breathing, unable to function properly until you realised that kenye fell asleep in the ball pit. his light snores took the attention off from your banter and onto his peaceful figure that lamine effortlessly picked up and carried to his room.

when he came downstairs again, the house had gone quiet while you cleaned up kenye’s mess that he eventually helped with. “oh wow, okay mr house husband,” you teased and tossed one of the toys at him, his smile not wavering as he continued to help you in comfortable silence.

after lunch the two of you found yourselves in the backyard again, chatting as per normal while lamine kicked the ball at his feet. he ended up stopping mid sentence to propose an idea that you weren't too eager about. a rematch at what cost? your embarrassment?

unfortunately for you, he was persuasive as hell.

“what do I get if I win?” he shrugged at your question with a knowing smile.

“anything you want, amor.”

you nearly choked on air at the term of endearment that came from literally nowhere. he didn't seem fazed by saying it though so you were almost certain that you heard him wrong and pushed it to the back of your mind and focused on the little tournament in front of you.

the sun was high, the barcelona heat was warm on your skin as you watched lamine ready the ball. the game wasn't supposed to carry on for as long as it did, but both yours and his passionate calls for cheating and distractions played a huge role in the 40 minute rematch.

“okay, this is the last round I swear,” you said with a tired huff which he was more than happy with. the ball was at your feet for a split second before you felt lamine's hands on your waist, holding you close to his chest as he sneakily took the ball and shot it into the back of the net with ease.

you jaw dropped at the utter foulness of the round. “you cheater!” you said in shock and turned to look at him, but he was too busy relishing in his glory to care. he let go of you with a proud laugh and picked the ball up again, giving it one last kick.

“I didn't cheat,” he said through a cheeky smile and took a few steps towards you. “it's a contact sport, so it's fair.”

you rolled your eyes jokingly at his counter, still in disbelief that he'd go that far. but you weren't a spoilt sport so you congratulated him on his win, fair or not and he humbly thanked you.

you turned back with a smile and began heading inside but his hands were on your waist again, the familiar tingle setting your body on fire as he turned you to look at him, the smile on his face making your heart race.

“I'll be taking my prize, thank you,” he said with a boyish grin and let his lips gently brush your cheek, a gentle, fleeting kiss that had your knees weak for a split second.

he craned his neck to look down at you, a blushing mess and he couldn't help but coo even thought he was internally jumping off buildings. “aw, don't get shy on me now.”

you quirked your brow at what you took as a challenge, mild irritation clear in your eyes that were fluttered shut seconds later when your lips met his for what was supposed to be a quick peck.

keywords: supposed to be.

the feeling of your lips on his sent a surge of electricity through his body, and he couldn't waste the opportunity. he dropped the football that was underneath his arm and pulled you in, one hand resting on your cheek and the other on your waist as he relished the taste.

the long-awaited kiss finally came and it was everything that he hoped for and more. the way you melted into him, sent a warmth through his chest that had his head spinning and hoping that you'd never let go.

when you eventually pulled away to catch your breath, your lips tugged up into an amused smile at his lovestruck look and flushed cheeks. “isn't that a better prize?” you joked, your hands still loosely wrapped around his neck.

“I want a rematch, now,” he said immediately after, and pulled you back into the yard, his eagerness getting the best of him because he was not going down like this— “if I win then you have to marry me.”

“what?!”

[dragon-gem]

I love the bonus 😂😭 imagine Jay finding it though hahahaha

-

Nya dug through the chest, smiling at all the old clothing and notebooks filled with drawings and stickers. “Look, Jay! The first few iterations of the Samurai X mech!”

Jay glanced up from where he was examining an old practice sword of hers, smiling at the designs drawn in the shaky hand of a 15-year-old. “Now that is a throwback. Who knew you still had all this old stuff in here?”

“As if you don’t have a similar trunk stuffed somewhere,” she teased, “I’m just actually showing you mine.”

“Point taken.” He pulled out another notebook, this one bright pink, sparkly, and completely covered in stickers. “What’s this?”

“I don’t remember.” Nya scooted back, peering at it thoughtfully before going back to the halfway empty chest. “I think Kai bought it for me. It’s probably empty.”

“Maybe.” Jay opened it up, his eyes going wide. “Oh wow.”

“What?”

Nya glanced over at him, her gaze flicking over the page.

It was covered in her signature. But not just any old signature.

Nya Walker.

Mrs. Nya Walker.

Mrs. Walker.

She blushed. “Ahh— see, you were never supposed to see that.”

Jay laughed, flipping through it. “Is this whole thing filled with this?”

“Most of it— okay, you don’t have to laugh like that! Give it back!”

“Hold on, Water Lily, I want to see how many times you wrote my last name—“

“Jay!” She reached for it, blushing so brightly her cheeks were burning. “Oh my FSM, this is so— you were literally never supposed to lay eyes on that—“

“How old were you?” Jay laughed again, finally letting her take the notebook. “Come on, tell me that at least.”

“Maybe fourteen?” Nya snapped it closed, her blush refusing to die down. I have never wished to have Kai’s powers as much as I do right now. “We hadn’t known each other that long, it was probably before the whole deal with the Overlord.”

Jay snickered. “I mean, you have to admit, Nya Walker has a nice ring to it…”

“I will kick you out of my room,” she threatened, waving the notebook, and all its damning evidence, at him threateningly.

“Point taken!” He put his hands in the air, still grinning widely. “Although you’re the one with ‘Nya Walker’ scribbled all over a notebook…”

“Jay!”

“What!? It’s cute! I mean, it’s not like I ever did anything similarly embarrassing…”

She gave him a flat look, tossing the book back into the chest. “Yeah right. So we’re lying to ourselves now? You were down so bad.”

“You’re one to talk! So were you, apparently!”

“The threat to kick you out of my room still stands, Mr. Walker.”

Jay saluted her, his smile still refusing to fade. “As you insist, Mrs. Walker. I will shut up now.”

“Good idea.” Nya shook her head, trying not to smile back at him. He was never ever supposed to see that, by the FSM.

Oh well, at least it could never be said she hadn’t been as cringy as him back then.

“If anyone else finds out about this, I swear…”

Jay laughed, picking up the old Samurai X specs and peering at it closely. “This one will stay between us. I promise.”

Little headcanon I have—

Nya, being a roughly 14 year old girl in season1 and crushing incredibly hard, definitely wrote stuff like “Mrs. Walker” “Nya Walker” “Mrs. Nya Walker” in a notebook.

Nya is allowed to be just as cringy as Jay in early jaya <3

Bonus: only time she ever wished to have Kai’s powers is a couple years later when she finds said notebook and immediately wants to burn it

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

War of the Roses wedding day:

Jaune: *serves Weiss and Ruby a slice of cake*

Jaune: Bam cakes done. It’s conquered.

Weiss: Not quite. Ready Ruby?

Ruby: Bombs away.

*Weiss and Ruby pick up their slices and mush it into Jaune’s face*

Jaune: *smiling through the frosting*

Jaune: Really? Are you two serious? Grow up.

Weiss: *laughs* You would do the same to us. You told us you would.

Ruby: Your exact words were ‘I think that would be adorable. Give me some of that.’ So we planned on this. If we’re going to get smeared we might as well deserve it. Don’t you think?

Jaune: *picks up a slice in his hands* You’re going to get exactly what you deserve. This is what’s comin’ to ya.

Jaune: Ruby… Come here won’t you?

Ruby: *Giggles and twists away* No!

Jaune: You have to trust me. What’s the matter? You don’t trust me?

Ruby: Not at all. No! Stay away from me!

Jaune: Come here. Come on. You have to trust me. Remember your vows. You gotta. Come here sweetheart.

Weiss: *rolls her eyes and steps forward*

Weiss: I’ll bite. Do not get any on my dress.

Jaune: *very delicately places the slice in her mouth*

Weiss: *licks frosting off her lips*

Weiss: You asshole. You’re literally the worst.

Jaune: *picks up another slice*

Jaune: Come here Ruby. Nice and slow like.

Ruby: *shoots Weiss a glance but steps up*

Jaune: *puts most of the cake in her mouth but gets a little frosting on her nose*

Ruby: *licks off the frosting laughs and wipes her nose*

Ruby: Now I feel bad.

Weiss: Don’t feel bad Ruby. That’s how he gets you. That’s how he wins.

Jaune: I got what I wanted. I mushed cake into your faces and got to see some tongue action. Fuck yes. That’s all I wanted. That’s what I said would be adorable. You girls always take things too far and abuse me. You only get one shot at feeding your spouse wedding cake and you two blew it. I barely got any in my mouth at all. That’s your fault. You have to hold that.

Ruby: You butt. You manipulated us!

Jaune: Did I though?

Weiss: Don’t get drawn in Ruby. This is how he makes his money. This is how he makes the big bucks. He gets to be all sweet on us but if he had had his shot he would have smeared you. Make no mistake.

Jaune: That’s impossible to prove, darling. And I resent the accusation.

Ruby: But he was a honey to us and we mushed him. Oh! You frustrate me. Even when we plan things in advance we still lose. How does that work?

Weiss: I’m telling you Ruby this is how he wins. He acts all sweet and makes us look bad. Classic shock tactics.

Weiss: *folds her arms and gives a huff*

Weiss: You’re such an asshole. How is it possible you made it somehow worse than if you smeared me in frosting. How did you do that?

Jaune: You did all the work. I’m going to get a second plate for me to eat.

Ruby: *whines* Give me a second try to feed it to you.

Weiss: Would it make you feel better if he did? If he sits there and gives you a second shot you don’t think it would make you feel worse. He’ll do it too. He’ll sit there and give you a take two with a grin on his face. He’ll do it. On gods he’ll do it. Look at him smirk! You really want a second try?

Ruby: I don’t know!

Jaune: Well while you two are figuring it out I’m going have me some cake.

Ruby: *bounces in place* You butthead. Ugh.

Jaune: I defy you to tell me exactly what I did wrong.

Weiss: *nods slowly* You know what you did. You can act like you don’t know but we all know you know what you did.

Jaune: Again difficult to prove. Isn’t it. And still I defy you to tell me what exactly I did besides be nice to both of you. And I’m still the bad guy?

Ruby: It’s because you were so nice!

Weiss: You are the bad guy! How did you do that? I don’t know how you pulled that off. You’re so conniving.

Ruby: I got it. Jaune you have to mush my face.

Weiss: He’s not going to…

Ruby: You told me I was going to get what I deserved. I deserve to be mushed.

Jaune: I did say that. And I gave it to you. I gave you exactly what you had coming to you. I could never smear you. It would break my poor little heart. I couldn’t handle it.

Weiss: Don’t you see Ruby? He wanted to frustrate us. That’s what he meant. We walked right into it. Checkmate in one move.

Jaune: This cake is delicious. Is this what you two had?

Ruby: Mush me!

Jaune: Open up.

Ruby: *steps forward and opens her mouth*

Jaune: *delicately places cake in her open mouth*

Ruby: You butthead. You mushed me even less the second time. You made it worse!

Weiss: There’s no way out Ruby. Give up.

Ruby: I demand you mush me.

Jaune: I could never. I love ya too much. I couldn’t. Not ever. Not even if ya begged me. Not to my little sweetheart. I couldn’t do it.

Ruby: Fine! You win or whatever!

Jaune: Win what?

Weiss: Dumb blonde. You know what. Don’t play dumb. At least own up to it. Don’t act like you don’t know. It’s unbecoming.

Jaune: I don’t know what you girls are so upset about. Can’t figure it out for the life of me. You know how I am with women. The ladyfolk as it were. I’m just a ‘dumb blonde.’ Gosh this cake is so good. Chocolate and vanilla?! What a winning combination! Who came up with that?

Ruby: You do too! You’re such a liar!

Jaune: A good thing honesty wasn’t in my vows. Convenient.

Weiss: So clever and conniving! Why did I marry you?

Jaune: Something something hard work. Something something obsessive in a good way. Something something push one another.

Weiss: Asshole.

[thelunarfairy]

TYSM FOR ANSWERING MY LAST QUESTION EEEEEEEE

Sorry to be back so soon- but I had another question I was curious about. Again, if this one happens to be stupid you don't have to answer it heh.

But anyways, my question revolves around Hanako's names and how he's referred to. Like, I guess it's hard to consolidate into one specific question, but I've always wondered why Hanako lets Tsukasa call him Amane, and why Tsukasa calls him that. Well, then again, Tsukasa does whatever the hell he wants, but Hanako doesnt correct him either.

Similarly, Tsuchigomori only calls him Number 7, despite knowing his real name. Doesn't even call him Hanako. And that struck me as odd because since he cares so much about him, why keep it so professional? Is he just trying to distance himself? Or did Hanako get angry in the past and pull rank or something, telling Tsuchigomori to refer to him that way?

Nene is a whole nother story. She knows Hanako's name is Amane. You'd think she'd bring it up or call him that, right? Even once? And on top of that, in the fictional world, Hanako used his real name. Like he KNEW Yashiro already knew it too. He had to have known, because otherwise I don't think he'd use his real name if Yashiro didn't know it. Especially since he doesn't want to share his past with her. And to avoid confusing her further in the pp world, bc he wanted her to know it was him- well, alive version of him. Since the whole point he stayed was to see what it was like to be alive with her.

I wonder, if anyone else tried to call him Amane, how would he react? (Outside the pp world of course) Would he get flustered if Nene did it? Would it piss him off or make him uncomfortable? And what would happen if Tsuchigomori referred to him as Yugi again? Ugh so many questions I don't have answers to.

I'm probably reading way too much into this. I know it's likely that Tsukasa refers to him as Hanako because he knew him as Amane, and Tsuchigomori refers to him as Number Seven to be respectful. And Nene calls him Hanako-kun still because, well, "Toilet Bound Hanako-kun". But idk, thought it could be interesting to think about!!

Thanks again for answering my other question btw!! I loved your take on it

hahahahaha yeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!! happy to see you happy!!!!! XDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD.

Don't worry, don't worry 😉

So, in JSHK we have a meaning for names, not just the literal meaning of the thing, but the sentimental meaning.

If you notice, Hanako is the only one who calls Nene "Yashiro", and she said so herself.

In addition to including the fact that she likes the way he calls her. There is a sentimental meaning here, only he calls her that.

In Hanako's case, Tsukasa never called him that way because Amane is his brother and he always calls him that, maybe because he doesn't see the point in calling him by any other name than his real one or because he doesn't agree with hiding the truth.

Tsukasa has always been very truthful about everything, including about their past. And Tsukasa was willing to tell Nene the whole truth about Amane, so it simply doesn't make sense for him to call his older brother Hanako.

Tsuchigomori apparently made a deal with Amane that he wouldn't talk about absolutely anything about his past to anyone, including his real name.

Tsuchi used to call him Yugi, as a sign of respect, he followed Hanako's wishes, not calling him by his false name, but by the title he now has, leader of the seven.

Hanako wasn't surprised to see that Nene knew his name because Tsukasa called Hanako "Amane" in front of her, so he probably deduced that Nene knew his name because Tsukasa mentioned it several times.

So, he did know that she knew his real name.

He wanted to show Nene his "true" side in the PP arc, even though Nene called him Amane-kun a few times, it's like she doesn't associate that name with the boy she knows.

She wants Hanako, that fun and "happy" Hanako that she lived with for so long, Amane is like a version of him that died, that refers to sadness, that refers to something that she doesn't recognize as the person she likes.

Nene associated the name with the past, she discovered his name when she saw that he was suffering in the past. She was the one who was curious about him, and the first thing she discovered was his name and the short story of how he gave up on his own life.

So, the name Amane has this weight for her.

No matter what reality she is in, or what version of Amane she meets, she will call him Hanako.

I still imagine that this will change at some point, her calling him Amane would be like a symbolic way of saying that she has accepted him completely, that Hanako is Amane, that they are the same person and that she has to understand that there is not only the "happy Hanako" but also the "sad and lonely Amane".

They are both the same person, but ever since she found out about Amane's existence she seems to want to run away from it, so I imagine that's why she always calls him Hanako.

About how he would react if someone else called him that, he would probably try to understand how they found out, but only if it was someone important. He doesn't seem to care much about that.

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