#those are just words but they stay with you forever
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caxycreations · 8 hours ago
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I feel like you guys are missing the point.
He's a 900+ year old Time Lord. He's living as much as he possibly can, and he feels like it's nowhere near enough, and far too much, all at the same time.
This SAME MAN, same face and all, is the person who said "Sometimes I think a Time Lord lives too long"
He's the man who, literally in his NEXT regeneration, spends a third of his series depressed because he can't find an ounce of joy in the universe himself and NEEDS humans to show around so he can catch a hint of it through them.
The Doctor even states that humans "look like giants" to him, specifically BECAUSE of the fact that they live so much in such a short time.
This isn't a show about an awesome, nigh-immortal time-traveling alien.
It's a show about the pains and soul-crushing responsibilities that come with time travel and immortality.
And, of course, you're all forgetting the glaring fact of this episode, entirely separate from the quotes you're so eagerly judging:
THE MAN THE DOCTOR IS TALKING TO HAS TO EAT PEOPLE TO STAY YOUNG.
He literally KILLS PEOPLE to survive. The Doctor, talking him out of eternal life, is not just doing so because "long life bad", he's doing so because "eating people to live forever is an awful way to be" as well.
You're also disregarding his point entirely in favor of giving bad-faith analysis of the show.
His point is that whether you have 10 years or 20, how you spend that time is what matters, not the amount of time you have to spend.
He has eternity, and it's not worth it. He knows it isn't, and he's trying to stop anyone else from making that mistake. He's living for so long, and has lived so much, but it just isn't worth it anymore.
Lucy Lacemaker, from Satellite City (or, more officially, The August Few: Amygdala, though she never says this in there) puts it very well:
"Billions of years we've been about. And life's not worth much once the rest is gone. You get bored of the wind and the birds and the sound of laughter and the smell of pine. Life is like a piece of paper. And the writing is our lives. Our stories. When you only have 90 years, the ink turns to gold. So valuable are the words, the days you live. Cause soon, the story will end. But what if you have a never-ending page? A bottomless inkwell? The more you write, the less it all means. That's our curse. We live so long that it's not even life anymore. We're not living forever, we're dying forever."
@another-normal-anomaly said that if they kicked ass for 80 years, got saved, and kicked ass another 80, that's twice as much as they would have done. But that's still only 160 years, and it reinforces the Doctor's point; it's not the time that matters, it's the person, because others may spend that 160 years doing nothing, and some may spend that 160 years doing everything.
But they would still only have 160 years. Not forever. What the Doctor is warning against is eternity. Eternity is pointless.
@dagny-hashtaggart said the show is hypocritical in it's transhumanist stance for featuring an "awesome, nigh-immortal, time-traveling alien", but that just tells me they've either never watched the show or they have and 100% missed the point of the character of the Doctor.
Because the Doctor is not happy with his long life. He's not content or pleased about it. He's miserable. The only worth he finds in it is giving other, shorter-lived life forms the pleasure of seeing things they never could otherwise, and protecting the lives of those more fragile than him because he, at his core, has two values above all others:
If it kills me, I can put an end to this opera of my life, and I can finally rest
If it doesn't kill me, it means I've stopped it and other, more meaningful lives will be spared.
The Doctor is not some happy, positive character. He's a victim of a tragedy, and that tragedy is, quite painfully obviously, the fact he lives so long. His lifespan, his regeneration, is a curse to him, not a blessing. The fact you can call the show hypocritical for that tells me you've never seen it, or you've never understood it.
@argumate made a crude joke about a man with a big dick, named after having a big dick, saying that life wasn't about having a big dick.
Well, fun fact. If your dick were, say, 14 inches, as a human (which is a real condition that has happened), you would have heart problems every time you got erect, be entirely unable to enjoy penetrative sex (aside from the heart problems, you'd be unable to get more than a small fraction of your length in without hurting them), and if you ever tried to get a little more out of it, you'd seriously injure your partner.
Not only that, but you'd have social problems as well. Try hiding the outline when your flaccid length still reaches down past your knee. You'd be a laughing stock early on, and if you had frequent erections (say during puberty, post-growth spurt, pre-calming of the hormones), you'd be unable to hide it no matter how hard you tried.
It would cause more issues than that, too, believe me. And yet you're saying if a man who suffered from all of these problems told you "it's not all fun and games, having a big dick", you'd mock him for not loving the "gift" he's been "blessed" with?
All of you missed the point of the show, the character, and even the point of the scene you're remarking on.
I expected better comprehension on this site.
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youryanderedaddy · 1 day ago
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Yandere! Best friend
Tw: female reader, emotional manipulation, jealousy, toxicity, crude language, implied parental abuse/neglect, implied drugs, non - consensual touching, i love manipulative men too much for my own good :((
Summary: Toxic, codependent friendship turns sour. But that's really no surprise.
You love Lauren's flat. You know he's renting it for cheap because his dad is friends with the landlord - and he doesn't give a fuck about the place. You know by the wrappers on the ground and the cigarettes stacked burnt inside the drawers, the stench of weed stuck to the ceiling for what feels like forever - and it's no surprise. Lauren doesn't care about all the good things in his life. And you know by the broken mirror pieces never to be swept away and the pills hidden behind the sink.
Still, you like his flat. The kitchen alone is bigger than your mom's entire house. The fridge is never empty - full from top to bottom, to the very brim, bursting with everything from your favourite chocolate candy to cheap vodka, from top shelf whiskey to pickled onions and fancy imported foreign items you have never seen before with your own two eyes. All colorful, all set in alphabetical order - he's a neat freak like that, and it's no surprise. The central heating never stops, and it's never cold. It's a land of dreams, and some days you wish you could stay forever.
***
"Haha, aw." You whisper to yourself, shoulders moving slowly up and down in sync. You try to stop the slight blush from reaching your face, but it's inevitable, truly. You barely notice when your best friend sneaks behind you, quiet as a snake ready to bite into your open vein.
"You look awfully happy." He observes with certain distaste, almost grimacing - you don't have to look up from your phone, you know him too well, he must be grimacing, and clicking his tongue. "Did the old hag kick the bucket or somethin'?" His lips twist in a cruel little smile as he wraps his arms around your frame - which never ceases to make you feel as if you have a tiny mischievous demon on your shoulder. "No, wait, don't tell me you're getting fired from the burger place. That's even better!" His eyes glow with childish joy as he teases you, and you can feel your cheeks heating up.
"N-no, it's nothing like that. It's really stupid..." You try to look anywhere but at him, fiddling with your phone nervously. "Just go back to reading your book and leave me alone, jerk." You attempt to joke back, but your anxiety gives you away. It's foolish to lie to him to begin with - he's known you for years. He's known you since your father died, since your mother stopped caring whether you're alive or not. He's known you since you broke down in his arms for the first time. He's known you in nothing but smeared mascara and torn bottomless pockets, though empty wallets; he's known you, body and soul (and lips too, all those years ago). So of course he knows that you're lying.
"What is it?" He humms playfully leaning over your shoulder, chin resting on top of your breast. You feel the sweat sticking to his neck (was he in a fight again?), the heavy colognue coming off his black shirt as he tries to read the words on your screen. You quickly turn off your phone, and Lauren pouts, pretending to be upset. "What's so damn important that you can't even tell your best friend?" His voice is light and airy, privy, overwhelmingly sweet and sticky like burnt caramel.
You open your mouth, but no speech comes out. You feel embarrassed. You don't even know where to start. Then the man raises an eyebrow expectantly, eyes prompting Well?, growls in irritation quickly after, and reaches for a new thin cigarette, all in the same breath. He's always been like this - quick to set aflame. Impossible to predict. Hard to resist. Soft, sometimes. In your arms, mostly.
"Fine." He snaps at last, brows furrowed like an angered father as he stands up to get his keys from the table, heading towards the door. "Do whatever the fuck you want. It's not like I'm the only person in this ugly, shitty world who, like, dunno, gives a fuck about yo-"
"You'll just mock me!" You squeak out, crossing your arms together - regretting even laughing in the first place. Then, even more quietly. "If I tell you."
Lauren stills completely, slowly turning back towards you. Your heartbeat speeds up even more, if possible.
"What the fuck happened?" He remains serious, although slightly less aggravated now. "You know I hate this cryptic bullshit you do. Just speak up, you're not a child anymore." He gets closer to you, pointing at your chest. "M not your mommy, ain't gonna hit ya if you say the wrong thing."
You take a deep breath, eyes focused on the cigar hanging off his mouth - together with the sport hoodie and the cheap black beanie he looks like a small fish delinquent, and you have to stop yourself from laughing. But then you remember why you even fought in the first place, and you feel flustered all over again.
"I met someone." You blurt out in a rush to get it over with, averting your eyes to the TV still playing somewhere in the background. The sound has been turned to low - he says the commercials make him want to scratch his head from the inside.
"Huh?" His cigarette falls off. Ash all over the dirty wooden tiles.
"I met someon-
"Yes, I heard you the first time." Lauren pronounces slowly, lips stretching into his oh - so characteristic smile again. "I just couldn't believe it." He stomps over the half lit cigar, burning a hole into the floor. It doesn't look out of order with all the filth. "Who would have known. Heh." He stares at you for entirely too long - until you squirm with discomfort. "Who's the lucky guy?"
You want to ask him why it's so unbelievable for you to meet someone - but it's hard to find the words to. At the same time you know he's just joking, he'd never do anything to hurt you. He's just... rough around the edges.
"You don't know him." Warm heat travels through your body as you think about your secret admirer. "We met online."
"Of course you did." Your friend scoffs, rolling his eyes at you. Then he claps sardonically, lighting up another cigarette. He must have hundreds, if not thousands lying around. "Well, congratulations, princess. You may finally get pounded like a real bitch in heat. Isn't that nice?" The more you look at him, the more crooked his smirk seems to get.
"You're fucking disgusting." You hiss, standing up - ready to collect your things and leave.
You hate when he gets like this.
"Oh, not so fast. We're still talking, baby. Tell me everything." Lauren grabs your elbow, pulling you in with ease, and if he wasn't your best friend, you'd be terrified by how strong he is despite his seemingly slim build. "Does he tell you that you're beautiful? That you're just the most precious thing in the entire world?" His voice lowers down to a whisper in your ear. "Or is he even less creative with his lies?"
You pull away, eyes widening with disbelief.
"He's not like this! How can you even say all th-" You blurt out incoherently, but he stops you in the tracks with a single sharp glare. "He's not like that?" The man snorts in a rather nasty way, pulling you back in while you're too shocked to resist. "You're even dumber that I thought." His eyes narrow to two slits bleeding bile. "Did he fuck you already? Is that why you're acting so naive? You get some mediocre dick and now you're all star - eyed." He laughs with unhinged madness, orbs mudded with pure craze.
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes. You both stare at it for what feels like eternity - but he's faster, always. Ever since you were children. And as you're jumping away, fighting with teeth and nail to get your phone back, he's reading away at your most intimate thoughts and feelings.
"I feel like I've known you for ages." He reads out loud, trying to imitate the voice of the sender. "You must be my other half. I'd love to hold you and cherish you forever." The mocking nasal tone sinks with each word, and once he reaches "forever", it's almost silent. His hands are shaking, eyes blurry. The ink drowns the screen as if trying to get under his own fingernails.
And when he smashes the phone in the ground, it's really no surprise.
"Lauren!" You gasp, falling down to collect the pieces, grabbing at the broken plastic with feral grip. But there's just too many of them, and not enough glue in the whole wide world.
"I should have known you were up to no good in that miserable house. That crack-whore mother of yours is putting these... ideas in your head." He chuckles coldly, staring at you from aboving with unreadable expression - and from so low on the ground he looks like the sun. "She made you believe someone could actually love... you."
He suddenly squats down to your level.
"News-fucking-flash, sweetheart." His fist wraps around your hair, pulling at will. It burns your scalp, but you can't look away, hypnotized by the motion of his lips, the silky cruelty of his voice teasing your ears. "Nobody loves you. Nobody will ever love you - not your poor dead bum of a father, not that bitch you call mother and certainly not this fool you think you love. How could they love you? You're a fucking mess!"
He's laughing at the tears slowly pouring down your cheeks. You're so beautiful when you cry.
"How could they love you?" He repeats softly, stroking your cold wet cheek with two slender fingers - the same fingers that always dry your tears. Then his lips touch your eyelids, slowly, torturously - the same lips that always bring you to tears. "They wouldn't know what to do with you. Such a fragile girl." His nose rubs against your collarbone and suddenly you're drowning in your sadness like a sailor lost at sea. "Such a fragile, broken little girl."
And yet you still love Lauren's apartment, it's never cold, and it's always silent. So silent you can hear your own heartbeat - and so lonely you can taste your tears on his lips.
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ktownshizzle · 3 days ago
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Love & Lullabies | Teaser
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Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)
Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility.
Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut (tbd), idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie
Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!), Mild cursing
Word count: 800-ish for this teaser
Posting date: November 7, 2024
Notes: This is for my friends and moots in the US. Please stay strong. One day at a time, my loves. Future’s gonna be okay 💕 This story is inspired by @yoongznme 's ask/prompt. Thank you for requesting!
Taglist is OPEN.  Leave a comment here to be notified when the story drops.
Masterlist
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Namjoon leans back in his seat, sporting an all-too-familiar, slightly conspiratorial glint in his eyes. Hmm. You know that look. 
It's the same one he had when he "casually" set you up to tutor one of his trainee friends in English—the one you let slip was kinda cute. Or when he signed you up to perform with one of his rapper friends in that underground club in Hongdae. Sure, you knew every word of the chorus to eminem’s Stan, but you were not a fucking singer. 
You still did it, though. Both times. 
Namjoon’s especially notorious for volunteering you to do things he insists are "right up your alley." There’s a fire in his eyes when he starts talking about one of his ideas, and before you know it, you're swept up in his vision, already picturing yourself right there beside him, doing something you’d never consider on your own.
Namjoon has been your best friend since forever and for reasons you can’t explain, saying no to him has always been impossible.
Right. It’s definitely that. It’s definitely not because in those two prior instances mentioned, both friends of his are actually the same guy. The one you had an almost crippling crush on over a decade ago. (You’re sooo over it, though. Trust.)
When Namjoon finally leaned in, you were already bracing yourself.
“So, you know Yoongi, right?”
You blink, pause, and slowly shake your head. It has taken years, but today is the day you tell him, “No.”
“The fuck? What do you mean no?” He replies, already looking hella amused. “I haven’t even said anything.”
Your face feels like a furnace, but you grit and steady your voice. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”
He lets out a hum, shifting in his seat, and you get the sense he’s working up to something. 
You sip your coffee, keeping your eyes on him. He gives you an exaggerated shrug, dimples deepening as he lets his shoulder sag. 
God you’re literally already about to break. 
“Fuck. Joon. Spit it out.”
He nods triumphantly, “Ok, there’s something I thought I’d run by you first, before he hears about it.”
The words hang in the air, and you raise an eyebrow. “What are you getting me into?”
Namjoon chuckles softly as he folds his hands on the table. “So… Yoongi has a son. A baby, actually.” He pauses, watching for your reaction. 
What? Someone has fuckboi Min Yoongi all locked down?! Huh. You never saw that coming.
You let that sink in, surprise filling the quiet space between you. “I… didn’t know he had a kid.”
“Not many people do,” Namjoon admits. “Only those close to him know. Yoongi’s an incredible dad, but his caretaker recently left, and now he’s scrambling to balance his schedule and take care of his son.”
“And his wife?”
Namjoon sighs, gives you a look that means he’s about to say something confidential. “There’s no wife.”
“Baby mama?”
“Out of the picture.”
You let out a small breath, absorbing everything you just heard. You already had an idea of where this is leading up to, but you want it said explicitly. “So what exactly are you telling me here?”
Namjoon nods, eyes hopeful. “Look, I know this is a big ask. I’m putting this out there because you’re one of the best with kids I know. And Yoongi—well, he’s pretty wary about letting new people get close to his son.”
You take another sip of your latte as he prattles on.
“While you’re still getting your bearings back, maybe you could take over the caretaker job, even part time?”
Namjoon scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly as he says your name. “I just thought you might consider it. You’d be doing us both a favor. Yoongi really needs help, and I’d trust you more than anyone with this.”
You sit back, letting Namjoon’s words settle. He knows exactly what he’s asking—knows exactly how hard it is for you to refuse when he gives you that puppy dog look, and then he’s throwing Yoongi into the mix. Honestly, you hate how you're apparently still soft for him even after all these years.
Namjoon also knows your current situation. Does he not realize it’s a bit unfair to ask this of you right now? Not when you're still picking up the pieces after your breakup with your long-term boyfriend. Not when you need time to heal. Not when you literally uprooted your life and just moved back to Seoul a month ago.
But somehow, you can’t shake the curiosity. What would it even be like to see Yoongi as a dad? To get a glimpse of this whole other life he’s got now?
It’s probably a terrible idea. 
Yeah, no. You don’t need this right now. Money isn’t tight. And you need to focus on… 
You take a slow breath, mentally tracing the edges of this mess. There are a hundred reasons to say no, and only one reason you’d even consider saying yes. And because it’s for Yoongi… damn, maybe just one reason's enough.
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Notes: So, what do we think? I'm genuinely excited to share my new baby with you guys! Let's go, let's go!
Taglist is OPEN. Leave a comment if you want to be notified when the story drops.
Help name the baby here
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emmyrosee · 2 days ago
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✨shiu’s version✨
“But! But!”
“Baby,” shiu chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, “it’s gotta come off, I’m sorry.”
He’s not exactly surprised this is your reaction, he’s had his mustache since the day you’ve met. Every kiss you’ve shared, every word he’s spoke to you, every time you’ve looked at him, his facial hair has been there.
And now he has to shave it off.
You pout at him softly, “it’s going to be so weird without it…”
He quirks a brow, “you’re not with me just for the facial hair, right doll?”
“No, but it does help!” You whine.
He snickers and shakes his head, “and now your loyalty is being put to the test. It’s going.”
You huff in annoyance and cross your arms, turning away from him childishly. He quirks a brow before leaning down to kiss you, which you don’t return. “Come on, don’t be a brat. You know it’s gotta come off.”
You sigh and gently press a kiss to his lips, even if just to feel the facial hair one last time. He smirks and presses one more, trailing his lips down your neck, where you giggle softly. “There’s my baby,” he hums, and you toss your arms around his neck to keep him close.
He entertains you for a bit, before finally pulling back with a sigh, “say goodbye, baby.”
You pout, “goodbye, the shiu I know and love.”
“You’ll love me ‘stacheless, I promise.” At his words, you pull a face, and he gently nudges your lip with his thumb before spinning on his heel to make his way down the hall.
He can’t remember the last time he was clean shaven, it was long and far from when you met him, but he could use the change.
He picks up the razor, rolls his shoulders for confidence, and gets to work.
The process doesn’t take long, a couple of nicks on his lip from the lack of experience, and within a few minutes, the deed is done.
“Baby?” He calls, wiping his face with a towel.
“No.”
He chuckles, “I’m coming out.”
“Stay in there.”
He exits the bathroom swiftly, and when you see him in your peripheral, your hands immediately fly to your eyes to cover them.
“You want to see it?” He asks, and with your hands childishly covering your eyes, you shake your head. He snickers and shrugs, “well, you’re going to see it at some point.”
“No I won’t,” you argue. “I’ll stay blindfolded forever.”
“What about the kisses that you beg and plead for? Won’t those pretty hands get in the way?”
You whimper in your throat before sighing and taking your hands off of your eyes, your eyes immediately darting to his upper lip and your face scrunches.
“Ohhh, it’s a baby!” You pout, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. He laughs as you whine, “god I’m dating a baby!”
“Don’t say that, it’ll get you on a list somewhere.”
“Shiuuuuuuhhhh,” you whine. “If you clench hard, will it grow back faster?”
He tips his head back in mock thought, “no. I don’t think so, angel.”
“Will you try?” You plead.
He sighs dramatically before looking down at you in amusement. “You know what? For you?” He leans down to kiss you again.
“Anythin’ doll.”
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black--sun · 12 hours ago
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The sound of that laugh tickles his ear and tightens his stomach. Ichigo’s eyes slide to Shiro. He feels haunted now. But even being haunted would be better than telling himself Shiro was gone and never coming back. He huffs out a breath and finds a smirk. “Yeah, let’s just see how things shake out over the next few days first. I might go first.” Getting distracted with sex is a bad idea, not that he expects they’ll actually sidestep that obstruction. He nods, but it’s a hesitant motion because he’s not sure he should agree to that. But they’re just talking. It doesn’t mean any of this will happen. They’ve always been like that.
He thinks Shiro is just trying to cover his ass in the conversation so he doesn’t look too involved, but the words are a little disappointing. He’s not even sure why.
Ichigo scoffs then repeats, “Fancy reading…” with an eye roll. It’s not even inaccurate, he just doesn’t like his job being reduced to two, semi-dismissive words. But he calls Shiro a drug dealer all the time, so maybe that’s hypocritical. He crosses his arms and presses his lips. “I just like the idea that someone three centuries ago put their words onto paper, and I can pick them up now, hundreds of years after they’re gone, and it’s still relevant. No one lives forever, but we do live on.” It’s completely inappropriate to butt up against all that sex talk, but he ignores that and presses on. “You’ve always been more than clear about that.” Maybe that’s why Ichigo has so much trouble picking people up. He isn’t clear about when he wants someone. He doesn’t even want that many people, but unless they’re completely obvious with their interest, he doesn’t know what to do. Like Grimmjow and Orihime, then Shiro and Yuu. Huh. Maybe that is his problem.
Shiro narrows his eyes, and those words carry just enough sass Ichigo can’t help his smirk. If Ichigo disliked Shiro’s tastes, he wouldn’t want in his closet so bad. But someone needs to harass Shiro. There’s no way he puts up with it from all those lackeys he keeps around. Then again, Shiro was always sensitive to comments about what he wears. “I’m joking. I wouldn’t want to shop with you if I thought you were bad at it.”
Ichigo glances over as they walk, then shrugs. “It’s just all the way out here. I have that job to finish. I can’t be everywhere.” And he doesn’t want Shiro alone. But Shiro seems… disappointed. Maybe Shiro likes it better out here. Maybe there’s less pressure. There’s also a lot more opportunity to murder him quietly. “If you’re really planning to go with me on that job, we need to think about where we’re going to be.” That meeting is in the early hours of the morning. Either really late tonight or really early tomorrow depending on how he looks at it. Ichigo’s guessing it’s normally a time Shiro is sleeping off whatever he’s on. They have enough time to get a little sleep before heading out for a long day that’ll end with him sneaking into a high rise. “But if you’d rather stay somewhere with your boyfriend, you can just tell me.”
“Yeah.” Ichigo circles the SUV Shiro points out, checking the outside before crawling under it. He’s not sure they’d use the same method twice, but he’d be an idiot not to check. He shimmies back out a few minutes later, clicking off the light on his phone. “It’s clear. Drop me off by my car. I’ll follow you.”
"About my- ?" He almost says boyfriend, but stops himself and shrugs. "I dunno. I guess I did. It's hard not to wonder if the cop you're bangin', who clearly knows who the biggest drug dealer in town is, is just being a cop. Under cover or whatever. Maybe it just looked less suspicious to be upfront about it when I asked him if he was a cop. You were worried about that girl in my bathroom, but the cop would be the right way to do it." Shiro's aware of his own weaknesses. A hot guy with that added element of forbidden and dangerous that being a police officer brings certainly got his attention.
He tosses his phone onto the bed after sending Ichigo the lady's contact info. He knows Ichigo would treat her right if he contacts her at all.
That laugh sounds uncomfortable. Part of him wishes they could dispense with the trying they're both doing, the other part of him is grateful for the efforts. "It's true, I been bad at not giving you what you want from the very start." Shirt? But it only takes him a second, because when he moved out of his apartment he found that shirt. He thought about giving it to Renji to give back to Ichigo, but he couldn't quite make himself do it. "That was your favorite?"
He gets his answer the moment Ichigo looks at him. They know each other well enough for him to read Ichigo just fine. It's flattering. Then the verbal answer Ichigo gives is weirdly touching. It's very sweet, and maybe too honest, but he finds himself liking it anyway. If they can't be together, maybe they can at least be on good terms. Even not being partners, he likes Ichigo's company.
He snorts. "Of course I did, I look good in or out of anything." But being put to bed sounds nice. Warm and cozy and comfortable sounds nice. He is tired, mentally at least. He offers up a little half smirk at the reassurance. "Let's get outta here. Where do you wanna go?"
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fortheloveoffanfic · 3 days ago
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The Profound Pleasure of Little Things
Hozier x reader
Author's note: Basically the thought was, "ohh, what if there was a real moment that inspired Wasteland!baby."
Summary: Andrew and Y/n spend an afternoon at the beach.
Warnings - poorly written fluff, I guess.
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"I think if the world ended right now, I'd be alright with that.”
After spending the past fifteen minutes or so bearing witness to her magnificence. Ireland's solem grey sky meeting the frigid, green water and acting as a cool toned backdrop to the brightness of her beauty. The way those deep, blue jeans hug her curves, the woolen burgundy coat, draped over a band tee, that follows the contour of her frame and her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stands a few feet off the edge, gaze cast out towards the horizon; as if the world below them had been thought up just for her.
As Y/n turns to face him, the wind whips her hair forward, and he smiles when she hastily brushes away from her eyes. “What?” She chortles, but there's an air of disbelief in the word and she tilts her head a little to the side, “why?”
Licking his lips, Andrew pushes off the boulder he's been perched on, one converse-clad foot planted on the ground while the other stayed propped on a smaller rock jutting from the lush grass. “Because,” he stuffs his hands into the side pockets of the denim jacket he's thrown over his red flannel, “I've seen you, standing here and that's gotta be the best thing that's ever happened to me.”
Y/n rolls her eyes; he's awfully romantic when he doesn't mean to be – and mind-bogglingly terrible at it when he actively tries. Just that morning he'd clumsily danced them into the kitchen table after daring more than their usual sway. But now, after a long afternoon drive and an impromptu hike up a hill that overlooks the sea, he's stringing together the sort of lines that make her cheeks go warm and stirs a flutter in her chest. “You're being dramatic,” she teases, relinquishing her hand when he reaches for it. Their fingers lace with ease; it's something they're so used to doing that Y/n rarely thinks much of it anymore. It's such a small, mundane thing and his hands have become so familiar to her that they almost feel like her own – and like she'd miss her own hand if it were gone forever, she'd miss his too.
He is a part of her; as vital as a limb, or the thing beating in her chest.
“Hardly,” his thumb ghosts the soft skin over her knuckles, and his eyes soften when they meet hers. It still startles him that she's his, and standing there with the smell of salt, autumn and her perfume flooding his senses, Andrew fears he might be dreaming, “you look…..” Like a painting, something that one could only wish to be privileged enough to see, let alone touch, “exquisite.”
Y/n giggles before glancing down at herself. She knows she must look plain at best, and a wind-tousled mess at worst. Even if she isn't the self-deprecating type, it's tough to believe that she looks like anything special without makeup, her hair free-styled by the breeze and her face nipped by the chill. The coat that she's owned for nearly a decade and a faded t-shirt probably isn't helping her case either. “Are you trying to get laid on this hilltop?” She asks conspiringly.
Snaking his free arm around her waist, Andrew simultaneously pulls Y/n closer and throws his head back in laughter. Lifting her gaze to drink him in, Y/n’s smile softens; she loves the way he looks when he laughs like that. Entirely carefree, as if he mightn’t have anything in the world to worry about, its a laugh she sees most off when he’s been home for a while and he isn’t concerned about deadlines and appearances, or when they have friends over and he’s had a bit too much to drink. Or when she says something that is a little absurd, but not quite funny, and he somehow finds the world of humor in it.
“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed,” his fingers curl into her waist. Then, when the shaking of his shoulders settle, he lowers his eyes to meet hers. It always baffles him how she could not know – not completely – what she does to him. Because if she did, Y/n wouldn’t doubt his credibility for a second when he says that she’s beautiful – and utterly in awe of everything that she is. “But I really do think that you look lovely darling,” he adds softly, freeing his hand from hers to gently cup her face, “if you saw what I did, you’d understand. If you could see yourself through my eyes…….thought of yourself with my mind, you would get to know the most breathtaking person I've ever met.”
Licking her lips, Y/n lays her hands on his chest, thumb grazing the sliver of skin left exposed by the undone top button of his shirt. “How do you do that?” She muses quietly, gazing up at him.
Andrew's thumb roves the apple of her cheek and she leans into his touch, “Do what?” He lowers his head a little, so their foreheads are that much closer to touching.
“Come up with…..stuff,” she hates the word in the context, “like that.���
“Well, it would just so happen, that I have the best muse,” because every beautiful thing he can think of is tangled up with the thought of her. He can’t see flowers without wondering how they’d look if they were laced in her hair, or held in her hands, he sees art and wonders if she’d like it too and when he’s faced with a day like this one – where everything seems to be in perfect measure – all Andrew wants to do is share it with her.
“I am just so in love with you,” he rasps, the sudden drop in his voice sending a shiver up her spine, “that it touches every part me, everything I do has a bit of you in it,” as if all the old parts of himself have been shed, giving way to something new, improved in a way that only be because of her presence.
The more Andrew thinks about the clearer one certainty becomes; in a way, the world has already ended. It happened the second he fell in love with her. Everything as he knew it was changed forever – reduced to a wasteland, and out from the ashes she came.
Lifting one of her hands, Y/n caresses his temple with the pad of her thumb. “What a beautiful mind you have,” she muses, gaze matching his. Y/n always faults him for having a way with his words, usually when he doesn't even mean to, but Andrew doesn't think she ever pays enough mind to what she's saying. “Who needs the rest of the world when they have this?”
His thumb continues stroking her cheek in that languid, gentle fashion and Andrew’s gaze softens so much that he thinks he must be melting under her touch. He must be putty in her hands – so easy to mold however she pleases, because the only thing he wants more than being with her is being exactly what Y/n needs.
May he always be a necessity, may her life be just a touch emptier without him, so she’ll keep him around.
“Who needs it, darling?” Who needs it when the best of it smiles when she looks at me? He’s just about to press his lips to hers in a kiss he’s been aching to steal since the moment she turned to look at him, when a wave – way down below – breaks so violently that a few droplets hit their faces, causing Y/n to shift her gaze towards the expanse of glacial teal.
“We should walk down to the beach,” she suggests suddenly, eyes alight with the wonder of someone yearning for the thrill of adventure. In an instant, Y/n is backing out of his embrace – like a dream just past his immediate reach. She takes his hand though, lacing her smaller, finer fingers with his and practically tugs him along, urging him towards the mouth of the stoney, sloped pathway that leads to the beach.
“Yeah, sure-” Andrew doesn’t even get to reply before he’s stumbling along, blindly following her. He isn’t even sure if she actually knows the way – he’s never taken her there, but Y/n is quick-witted enough to figure things out without anyone’s help. As he watches her trot ahead with purpose, feet clad in Chuck Taylor's stomping on the feathery grass as she moves ahead, Andrew keeps his gaze fixed on her. The way she holds her head up, as if she doesn’t need a map – or even him – to show her the way. The way the wind blows her hair and her delicate fingers work to keep them away from her eyes. She’s moving so quickly that its hard to take it all in, and Andrew finds himself wanting to ask her to slow down, so he can soak up the way she looks against the blur of the trees.
Sometimes, he wants to tell her – beg her – to just be a bit more still. Because while he adores watching her move, drinking in every miniscule action that is so specific to her, Andrew breathes for the moments where there isn’t the slightest quiver in her form. When his view of her is entirely unhampered by the demands of life; she doesn’t have to get up to answer her phone, or check on the laundry downstairs – when she’s just lounging in bed with her glasses propped on the bridge of her nose and a book held up in front of her face, when she’s sitting on the back patio while nursing an afternoon tea, watching the birds entertain each other.
When Y/n is standing before him, surrounded by a tapestry of greens and blues and other specks of colour that pale in her wake, like something he should never be so privileged to bare witness to.
His thoughts are interrupted when she stumbles on a rock and instinctively deserts her hand in favor of reaching for her hips. “Slow down,” he chuckles, reeling her close to his chest, one arm wrapping around her middle as they continue downward.
“But I wanna see the beach,” she protests with a giggle as his lips find her cheek. Reaching past herself, she lays her hand on his neck, holding his face close to hers for a few seconds longer.
“And you will,” Andrew mumbles, mouth still pressed up to her face, “but lets……enjoy the getting there too.”
“I think you’re enjoying it a little too much,” Y/n admonishes humorously when Andrew squeezes her to him.
“Impossible,” he bends his head to nuzzle the side of her face, “I actually think you’re not enjoying this enough.”
“Yeah?” She leans into his embrace, hand falling onto his forearm as she finally relents to stopping for a moment. She can hear the sounds of the sea a bit more clearly now, and the air is saltier than it had been when they were up on the hill. Through the foliage, Y/n spots bits of jewel toned ripples, a tell-tale sign that they aren’t too far off, and she’s actively holding herself back from urging him ahead. She does have a habit of rushing things, sometimes the need to just keep moving is almost overwhelming; she’s so focused on getting somewhere that she forgets the journey is half the experience.
Andrew, she often finds, is entirely the opposite. It's a quality she admires in him; his ability to revel in simple joys, the way he’s able to steady himself enough to thoroughly take everything in. While she’s eager to brush past everything in her way to get to her finish line, he’s perfectly fine with strolling through the trees, stopping ever so often to take pictures of things that interest him, or rattle off a random fact that he learned in a nature documentary.
“Yes,” Andrew hisses, kissing the corner of her lips, “just relax a little.”
“I’m very relaxed,” Y/n scoffed defensively, “we just have different definitions of that word.”
Andrew laughs loudly, finally letting her go and allowing her to take his hand again, “I’m not even sure that word is in your dictionary,” he chortles as she tows him along. Y/n doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even know if she hears him, because as the words leave his mouth, they reach the edge of the woods which opens up to the small beach. The sand is soft under his shoes, and the sting of salty air is sharp. “Happy now?” He teases when she lets his hand go in favor of going a few paces ahead.
“I was always happy,” Y/n corrects, “but now I'm…..satisfied.”
“If satisfaction is what you were looking for, I could've helped with that up there,” he nudges his head towards the top of the hill they’d been standing on about fifteen minutes earlier.
Y/n rolls her eyes as she turns to look at him, “oh shut up,” she giggles.
“Just sayin’,” he hums, moving to stand beside her, arm going around her shoulders. Immediately, Y/n tilts her head so its touching his side.
As she keeps her eyes trained forward, Y/n hums, “its so beautiful.”
Andrew returns the sound, albeit just a bit softer as he turns his head to look down at her, nestled against him. Its hard to describe just how much he enjoys the feeling of her tucked against him, its one of those simple pleasures that he never fails to appreciate; the way her form fits perfectly with his, like they were made to just click together. It's such a small thing; the comfort that comes with holding someone who wouldn’t trade the feeling of your arms around them for anything else in the world, and he can never seem to get enough of it. He lives for the way throwing his arm around her shoulder has become as natural to him as breathing, and how instinctive it is when she leans against him.
“Don’t you think so?” Y/n glances up at him, a smile dusting her cheeks when their eyes meet. There's always a little tingle that prods at her heart when she finds him looking at her, like the beat of butterfly wings against the petal of a flower.
Licking his lips, he glances forward at the ocean stretched out before then, and the near vacant beach that spreads out for at least a mile on either side.
He must’ve seen this beach near a hundred times by now. Andrew is well aquainted with the way the waves break against the collection of jagged rocks piled against once side of the shore, foam washing the salt-worn gray and seeping into the crevices. The crunch of pebbles and broken seashells under his boot isn’t foreign to him, and he knows all too well how frigid those waters can be around this time of the year. He’s seen the beauty of the place, he swears he’s done his best to appreciate it too, but there’s something different about holding her as the water pulls the sand seaward and salty sprinkles dust their lips. It feels like he’s seeing for the first time all over again.
And he loves it – all of it. The way it feels like a film has been peeled off his eyes, the thrill of enjoying the simplest things so much more than he ever has because he's sharing the moment with her.
“Yeah,” he looks at her again, lowering his head to touch the tips of their noses, “its beautiful, baby.”
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seoulmatez · 9 hours ago
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— 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓂𝑒? ౨ৎ
suna rintaro x reader. 609 wc. ノ sfw ノ fluff ノ timeskip suna ノ suna is out of the country ノ honestly just lovesick ramblings :3
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“do you miss me?” suna asks, only his eyes and the fluffy dark hair peeking out from his hood visible on the screen of your phone. if you had to guess, he must be lying on his stomach, phone lazily tilting back in his loose hold.
“hm, i don’t know.” a crease forms between his eyebrows at your unfavorable answer. you try to stop yourself from smiling as you continue. “having the bed to myself has been nice. i haven’t had to worry about your ice cold feet waking me up in the middle of the night.”
“they’re not that cold…” you can’t see it but you can hear the pout in his voice.
“liar—they might as well be actual blocks of ice.”
with a defeated sigh, suna’s phone tips back even more, obscuring the entirety of his face, leaving you with nothing but a view of the ceiling. even his voice feels a little farther away. “maybe i’ll just stay here forever then.”
“so dramatic,” you declare with a laugh. a smile lingers on your lips even after you put the joke to rest. “i’m just kidding. of course i miss you.”
he adjusts his phone once more, finally fitting the entirety of his face in the screen. he doesn’t look convinced of your words, eyes squinted in skepticism, lips still tugged down in a small frown. “what exactly do you miss about me?”
“everything,” you tell him.
“that’s not specific enough.”
you almost call him out for being so needy but you suppose listing off a reason or two is the least you can do, considering you were the one to start all of this. “okay, i miss the smell of your cologne in the apartment.”
it’s nothing specially, really—the same fresh scent he’s been wearing for as long as you’ve known him, but the lack of it seems to make you hyper aware of his absence. like a candle you light for comfort, his signature scent has become a homey one to you, not so easily replaced by others.
your answer seems to bring suna some type of consolation, his eyes softening. the frown he wore has all but disappeared but he doesn’t let himself smile quite yet. “anything else?”
you hum thoughtfully for just a moment before something comes to you. “i miss your late night snacking and how you always share with me.”
as much as you scold him about eating so late, you’re just as guilty whenever you find yourself sitting down to enjoy ramen with him far past midnight. though, there’s something strangely peaceful about the two of you passing a warm bowl between each other in the silence of the night—when the rest of the city has gone to sleep. little moments like those make it feel like the world belongs to the two of you alone.
suna nods in acceptance of your answer, although he still isn’t willing to let you off the hook. he meets your gaze through the camera, wishing that he was able to do so in person. “one more.”
“fine…” you don’t have to think for long to come up with one final answer for him. “i actually do miss sharing the bed with you. it feels empty when you’re not here.”
that’s probably your least favorite thing about him being away—how you have no choice but to go to sleep without him beside you, how you’re forced to wake up without him near.
“i knew it.” a grin takes over his face but it isn’t victorious nor cocky—he’s genuinely happy that you’ve admitted it.
because sleeping without you is like not sleeping at all to suna.
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thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting ❤︎
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just-dreaming-marvel · 7 hours ago
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Love That Burns ~ 30
LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST
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< previous chapter
Word Count: 1,855ish
Summary: You and Logan still struggle with your relationship. The two of you make a decision to help ease the struggles.
Warnings: Emotional, Angst, Injuries
Notes: crossing my fingers that you guys will be okay with this chapter...
Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! 
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“So, how are you and Logan doing?” Ororo asked one morning at breakfast.
“Fine,” you responded with a shrug. “We have a lot of work to do, but we’re working through it.”
“He does seem a little more on edge around the kids, as do you.”
You sighed. “I’ve actually been thinking… I think Logan and I should go away for a while.”
“Wait, you two want to leave?”
“I haven’t brought it up to Logan yet, and it wouldn’t be forever… we just need a space where we can focus on just the two of us. We’re constantly thrown every which way with classes, missions, and world-ending scenarios. Logan and I need to simply be us for a while and figure out what that means.”
“I… do whatever you have to do.” Ororo stood up. “I’ve got a class to teach.”
“Ororo, please stay and talk.” 
But she slipped out of the room. You sighed, hiding your head in your hands. That was the position Logan found you in. He quietly came up behind you and rested your hands on your shoulders. He leaned down and kissed the back of your neck.
“What’s wrong?” He whispered against your neck.
You leaned back into him, looking up at him. “I made Ororo upset.”
“What did you do?” You sighed, looking back down. “Hey.” He sat down beside you. “I thought we were doing better with the talking shit.” He hooked a finger under your chin and guided your face to look at him. “Tell me.”
“I told Ororo about something I was going to talk to you about.”
“And that was…?”
“About leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“I was thinking that we need some time to ourselves. To figure things out and just be us.”
“But this is your home. Would you really be okay leaving it?”
“Logan, you’re my home. And you were long before this was.”
Logan studied your gaze and could see that you were telling the truth, but he worried that after a while, he wouldn’t be enough. You at least had people here, other mutants, to lean on when the two of you were struggling. If it’s just you and him? Then you’d have no one. Logan was okay with that for himself but not for you.
“I thought that we’ve been doing well here,” Logan said, trying to see if he could get you to change your mind. 
His words took you back. “You want to stay? You’re constantly trying to run.”
“I just want you to really think about it, sweetheart. I don’t want you to leave and then regret it.”
“You think that I’d regret being with you?”
“That’s not what I said—“
You pulled away, standing up. “But it’s what you meant, right?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” He stood up as well, growing angry. 
“Do you not want this long-term, Logan? Am I just your person until a new, better one comes along?”
“Hey! That’s not fair!”
“Morning! Oh—“ Bobby stopped in the doorway. “I can see that this is not a good time, so I—“
“No, Bobby, we’re done here,” you told him, rushing off.
“Y/N!” Logan yelled after you, hurrying to follow you. He followed you into the gardens. “Now, who’s running?!”
“Oh, please,” you spun around. “You’ve wanted to run since the moment you got here!”
“Yes, but I stayed for you!”
“Oh, I feel so honored.”
“You know what, maybe I should go. Since it’s clear that I’m unable to hit the high expectations you have set for me.”
“You are the reason for those high expectations.”
“Ugh! I’m not that person anymore! And I’m sick and tired of feeling like shit all the time about that!”
Logan’s hand flew out as he was talking, his claws accidentally unsheathing. Before either of you knew it, the claws were cutting against your cheek. You gasped, stumbling back as your hand came up to hold your cheek.
“Oh my God,” he sputtered. He hid his claws before reaching for you. “Sweetheart—“ You stepped back, breaking both of your hearts. Logan’s fingers were tingling. If you didn’t let him try to fix this—if you didn’t let him touch you, Logan would never trust himself to touch someone again. “Please let me—“
“No,” you shook your head, tears falling down your cheeks. “Just… leave me alone.”
You rushed off back into the mansion. You knew that Logan didn’t mean to hurt you, but you needed time and space. 
Logan was frozen in his spot. The high emotions had gotten the best of both of you, but especially his claws. He had hurt you, and he was fully conscious for it. This was different than him having a nightmare. This was much worse.
~~~
You had sat in front of the mirror, watching the three cuts along your cheek heal into scars. Tears streamed down your face the entire time while you thought of Logan. Both of you were in the wrong here, and this was a complete accident. You were thinking about what to say to Logan when you started to hear drawers slamming in Logan’s room. Rushing out of your room, you looked into his room to see him stuffing his clothes into a bag.
“What are you doing?” You whispered.
Logan spun to face you. Slowly, his hand reached out to brush against the scars on your cheek, but he didn’t let his hand actually make contact.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” his voice was completely broken, tears lining his eyes. “I never wanted to be the one to hurt you… yet I keep doing it.” He shook his head and got back to packing. “I have to go.”
“What?”
“I can’t keep hurting you. I can’t be the person you need… The person I was before…”
“And this will make it better? I’ve messed up in this relationship, too. This is not just on you. I’m sorry for making it seem like I’m forcing you to be that person again. I know that you’ve changed, so I have, and that’s okay. I still love you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Stop that.” You slipped in between him and the dresser. He kept his head down, not willing to make eye contact. “Fine. Tell me you don't love me, and I’ll let you walk away. But you have to look me in the eye and be honest with me.”
You nibbled your bottom lip as you waited for Logan to make the next move. You could tell that there was a war waging in his mind. His eyes suddenly snapped to yours.
“I… I can’t do that,” he murmured. “I love you.”
You quickly pulled him by his shirt to kiss him. He dropped his bag and slid his hands to the small of your back.
“If you really want to leave,” you whispered against his lips, “then you have to take me with you.”
“Okay,” he replied. 
~~~
“It’s not forever,” you said as you hugged Ororo. “We’ll stay in contact and visit. Logan and I just need to figure things out.”
“I’ll miss you,” Ororo responded, pulling back. “I’ll miss the both of you.”
“You ready?” Logan asked, coming up from the truck he had just packed. 
He had already said goodbye to Marie and Bobby before packing the truck, knowing that you would need some time with Ororo.
“I think so,” you responded. “See you later, Ororo.”
“See you,” she replied.
You took Logan’s hand, and he led you to the truck. He opened the door and helped you in before going around to the driver’s seat. You turned back and watched as the mansion grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Logan placed a hand on your knee, giving it a slight squeeze.
“Are you okay?” He asked, clearly concerned. “We can turn back around.”
You laced your fingers through his and scooted closer to Logan, very thankful for the bench seat. “I’m okay,” you told him. You kissed his shoulder. “Where are we headed?”
“I have a place in mind.”
“Care to tell?”
“Not yet. Why don’t you get some rest?”
“You sure?”
He leaned over and kissed your head. “I’m sure.”
You hummed in content as you rested your head on his shoulder and let yourself relax. Logan’s lifted up in a barely-there smile as you tried your best to cuddle into him. 
~~~
You didn’t bother to ask Logan where the two of you were headed again. You kept yourself occupied with books and naps when you weren’t talking to Logan. It was already proving to be worth it, as the farther the two of you drove from the mansion, the less tension there was. Logan insisted on driving the whole way, and so far you’ve had to beg him to stop to sleep in motels for the three nights you’ve been on the road so far.
It didn’t shock you when the two of you crossed over into Canada. You figured that Logan would always feel a call back there. The shock factor was later as the two of you drove up an old, familiar road in the Canadian Rockies.
“Logan, where—“
“Just patience, okay?” He cut you off. “I’ll explain soon.”
You simply nodded, focusing on the trees you were passing out the window. Your heart started pounding the closer you got to the top. Before you knew it, the small house appeared and Logan was pulling up to it. It looked just how you remembered it. You were too busy staring that you didn’t realize Logan had gotten out of the truck and walked around to your side. He opened the door and took your hand.
“Come on,” he urged, tugging you out of the truck. “Let’s go inside.”
“Inside?” You repeated. “It’s probably a disaster. We—“ Your eyes widened as Logan pulled you inside. The place was clean, updated, and furnished. “What? How?”
“Charles. We had a conversation about when Jean died, and I got part of my memories back. He knew that we would need a place to start over and found where we used to live. Before I could stop it, he had people here fixing it up.”
You let go of his hand and began slowly walking around the house. Your hands gently trailed against the walls and updated pieces of furniture. 
“You and Charles…” you breathed out. “You did all this?”
“Is it okay?” Logan was clearly nervous. “We can go somewhere else. I just know that this was the—“ You shut him up with a kiss.
“This is perfect. Thank you. But know that I don't expect you to be the same person as before. Time has changed both of us… are you okay with being here?”
“Yes. I even already got a job as a lumberjack.”
“Oh, got the old job back?”
Logan chuckled. “Somethin’ like that. I start in a week.”
“So I have a week of you all to myself?”
“A whole week.” He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your lips. 
“Can we try out the new bed?”
A devious smirk formed over Logan’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”
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pikahlua · 10 hours ago
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Hi, Pika. Saw a post on my feed about how the "rest of our lives" quote by Katsuki from the last chapter of MHA means something similarly close to a marriage proposal in Japan/Japanese. Linguistically (culturally?), is there truth or basis to that claim? You never fail to provide the cultural nuances that most translations of MHA offer so I thought to ask you about this. Thank you for your response. Have a great day.
I don't know the post you're talking about, so I don't know what points they were trying to make, but if it helps, Katsuki doesn't say "for the rest of our lives" in Japanese. He says "zutto kono mama" which means "[stay] like this forever." The word choice particularly emphasizes that Katsuki's belief was that their present circumstances--their competing with each other--wouldn't change. The fact that things are changing, that Izuku is losing One For All, that they can't compete in the same way going forward, is what he's lamenting. He dreamed of always continuing on the way they had before.
As for the linguistics of marriage in Japanese, sure, there are formal or traditional ways of popping the question, but those don't include this phrase from Katsuki. That said, proposals can be just as creative in Japan as anywhere. It just depends on the couple and their history together, their way of being with each other. Those things will ultimately determine how the proposal will look and sound. There are proposals based on popular song lyrics about marriage, and there are confessions of love made to be more indirect and poetic than "I love you," but people also do sometimes say "Shall we get married?" and "I love you."
There's nothing about Katsuki's declaration that says "This is the Japanese way to propose," but that's partly because there isn't one Japanese way to propose in the first place. There are some customs many people are likely to follow, but many other couples will be just as likely to break from some of them and do things in a way that makes sense to them. And in THAT sense, Katsuki's declaration is profound. We're not meant to think "marriage marriage marriage" here. We're meant to think "This is a huge acknowledgement by Katsuki of his relationship and desires with respect to Izuku, and it is so quintessentially THEM." It's specific. It's cathartic. It's satisfying. It's special and unique to the characters they are. It's something Katsuki can say that carries such meaning but that also cannot have the same meaning when applied to any other two people.
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intrepidacious · 1 day ago
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❤️ a good time!
tat!bucky’s favorite (or least favorite) thing about twelve
… why not both?
cause and effect
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chapter summary: How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.
pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader
word count: 1.8k
warnings: light angst and negative self talk (this is bucky y'all); some light pining 🤭please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: i've literally had this one in my drafts for about two years and i hadn't actually planned on posting it for a while yet but i did promise distractions. and i missed him. i always do.
this is part of the time after time universe but can be read as a teaser and/or a standalone 💚
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Bucky’s relationship with time has been fractured ever since a cold day in January that stole away the life he was headed towards and turned him into the monster underneath a child’s bed.
It’s hard to feel good about the concept of time travel once a lot of your own time has been taken away from you. Even now, there’s only so many things in his life he has control over; like the fact that he’s actively choosing to go back to therapy now, or that he’s able to keep a pet for the first time since he was thirteen years old. Stupid little things, like what kind of food he wants for lunch or whether he should take the stairs or the elevator.
Every single one of these things he’s fought for tooth and nail, clawing his way out of the past and carving out his own space in reality again, struggling, trying, hanging on like he wasn’t able to all those decades ago.
He’s probably still failing.
Some days, clinging to the present is tense and brings him nothing but grief. Sometimes, it feels like he’s going to have to mourn the past forever, whatever might have been; and maybe that’s his sentence.
He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. He deserves worse.
And then there’s you.
Flickering in and out of time, constantly moving, changing in the time it takes him to blink.
It’s infuriating to him, the way you get to use your powers. The way you don’t need to think about consequences, because they don’t have to be permanent, don’t have to be something you need to live with for the rest of your life. To you, time has always been something that can be changed with a single snap of your fingers. Whatever you do can just as easily be undone.
Once you decide you’ve seen enough, you can just take the scene from the top.
And you’re so stubborn.
You’ve already seen how this goes on if you let it, and so you’re always right, end of story. There’s an ease to your steps because of it, a nonchalance in every movement, and it makes Bucky’s blood boil to see it so plainly.
With all the good that you could do, you choose to do nothing instead; to stay out of the picture entirely and burn through your powers just because you can, wasting them all on things that don’t mean anything.
How many lives could you potentially save?
Instead, you consume disturbing amounts of caffeine and then continue to provide running commentary to the world around you based on things that, to him, never happen at all. "Do this", "don’t do that", "take the other one", or, his absolute favorite, "don’t make me fix that".
Why not? he wants to ask, say, demand. Why not fix all of it?
It takes a while for him to realize that all of your fire means you’re burning from both ends. In fact, it takes Becca.
"You should bring her by sometime," she tells him on a rainy afternoon. "While I’m still alive and kicking."
His little sister just turned ninety-eight. Her kitchen sideboard is filled with black-and-white pictures reminding him of all the things in her life that he missed, arranged in perfect little wooden frames.
"And why would I do that?" Bucky asks, scowling at his cards.
"Because you keep mentioning her," Rebecca says dryly and whisks the cards onto her pile with quick fingers.
"You gotta be kidding me," he groans, noting down her points. "And I don’t."
"Do, too. I don’t remember you being this terrible at this game."
"Because I haven’t caught you when you’re cheating."
"Exactly. It’s embarrassing." She wins the next trick, too. "How’s Tuesday?"
"Am I clairvoyant now?"
"I was thinking lunch."
"No." Finally, he gets a couple of points down. When he glances up at his sister again, she’s looking at him expectantly and he sighs. "What?"
"You can’t fault me for being curious," she says. She has just as many opinions as she did when she was sixteen. Her eyes are still the same, too, the same shade of blue as his and the same glimmer of archness as their mother.
"Don’t you think it’s weird?" Bucky says, finally giving in. "The whole … time thing?"
"I think it’s very weird, but so’s you returning from the dead and kvetching about it." Her eyes narrow when he starts to protest. His mouth closes again. "Besides," she continues, shuffling her hand around, "it doesn’t sound all that fun."
"To have the power to never make mistakes?"
"To have to live through every mistake twice without anyone knowing."
Something about her words strikes him like a match, and so he tilts his head and squints at her and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s got it wrong.
That you carry not only your past, but all the futures you’ve seen that never came to be; all the what ifs having turned into answers.
And he thinks, how nice. And then he thinks, how horrifying.
It’s a thought that follows him over the next couple of weeks, and it starts reframing your interactions for him, in a way.
"Will you stop staring at me," you say without looking up from your book.
Honestly, he can’t. He’s still trying to pick up on it, the split second between before and after, that little change of your posture, your hair, your face, that tells him more time has passed for you than it has for him.
It’s more of a feeling than anything else, something right at the back of his mind telling him that something is different if he concentrates on it enough, but he’s never sure what it is. And he doesn’t like that; not one bit.
So Bucky crosses his arms and leans back. "Why?"
A flash of irritation makes your nose twitch, even though you still refuse to meet his eye.
"It’s rude, for one."
"Noted." He waits for the two that never comes. "Anything else?"
And there it is. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment, like the air shifting around you ever so slightly, a certain knowing glint in your eyes when you roll them and get up.
"Annoying!"
He can’t help it. He wonders what your original answer was.
***
Bucky’s relationship with time changes slowly, the deepest cuts carefully mending themselves until looking back doesn’t feel like getting his bones ripped apart anymore, until he looks at you on a cold day in January and realizes he’s fucked.
At first, he hopes that it might be a fluke. A trick of the light, maybe, or seasonal allergies. That’s the reason why his eyes are drawn to your face as soon as he enters a room; the closest source of discomfort always the thing he seeks out first. That’s the reason why his chest constricts like that.
But the truth is, he knows this feeling has been building slowly; he’s just been unwilling to admit it.
Something soft and delicate has started to nestle in that gaping hole inside his chest, unbothered by the walls he’s so carefully built up.
He’d never planned on you.
Fuck, if he’d known in the beginning, he might’ve …
No, he thinks. He wouldn’t have changed anything.
Because you’re too good for him, anyway, and he knows it. Smart and strong and funny and gorgeous and capable of things he’s not sure he’ll ever fully comprehend; and it’s worse than that, because he knows you now.
You’re grouchy in the mornings and you make terrible jokes when you’re nervous and you have a strange feud with his cat and your smile makes him want to put his fist through the wall because what is he supposed to do with any of this?
He’s not made for this dance anymore. That part was taken from him so long ago, and he’s delusional to think that anything or anyone could return it to him after all the bridges he’d been made to cross and burn. Why would someone like him deserve to be given tenderness anymore in this life? Why would anyone want to try?
But that foolish thing blooming inside him feels a lot like hope, despite of what he keeps telling himself.
There’s just something about you that keeps pulling him in, and honestly, he’s tired of fighting it. Then again, the thought of you feeling the same is nothing short of ridiculous.
He’s not the same guy as he used to be. Hell, sometimes he’ll look at old photographs and barely recognize himself.
He remembers life before, and maybe that’s what makes this so hard. He remembers talking to pretty girls, their bright smiles, their soft skin underneath his hands. Good times were easy to come by, even though life was hard in a different way, then. But he was good at it; acting on his feelings alone used to be simple, fun, second-nature almost.
It’s different now.
It used to be different only once before, and look where that’s gotten him.
No, he can’t say anything. Not ever; or not yet, at any rate.
Sometimes, though, Bucky lies awake at night and listens to the rain knocking against his window, and he remembers how much easier falling asleep used to be when he had someone next to him and his mattress didn’t swallow him alive.
He’ll remember the dark circles under your eyes and wish it could be as easy as asking, too. He wonders if there’s a universe you remember where he tries, but he doubts it.
These days, he knows his mind again. And it’s not a burden he wants to share.
You have enough to carry on your own.
Maybe, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling at three in the morning, maybe there’s still a certain comfort in your powers, in knowing all the possibilities, but it also means constantly losing something that’s real; always mourning the life that isn’t.
He can relate to that.
And maybe that means you can relate to him, too, at least a little bit.
It’s odd, how comforting that last little thought is to him.
When he does eventually fall asleep, you make your way into his dreams, too, sometimes. Those times are the worst.
You’re you, and he’s him, and there’s a sort of "us" in the both of you that doesn’t exist in real life. So when you let him lace his fingers with yours and press your lips to his forehead and it feels easy, that’s usually the point when he wakes up, heart tumbling over itself, right hand tracing the ghost of your touch, always too much, never enough.
He knows it’s not real.
He knows it’s just an indulgence; selfish, really.
The problem is that whatever small hope has decided to settle in his very core is impossible to kill, no matter how much he pushes it down; and he’s not sure he wants to lose it again.
Secretly, silently, serendipitously, you make him have faith in the future again.
But it’s not time for it yet.
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if you want to read more about these two (plus a lot of time related shenanigans), read the main series here. or check out the rest of my bucky fics, that's also an option 💚 i don't do tag lists but you can follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications
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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 2 days ago
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August
Hii guyss, here's a new one-shot about Taylor Swift's folklore love triangle, starring August x Max. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist :)
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Those late summer afternoons always came back in flashes — the way the horizon swallowed the sun in a blaze of orange and gold, the laughter between soft-spoken secrets, and the rusted gate they leaned on to watch the waves. For her, those days were more than fleeting; they were suspended in a timeless space where wanting felt like enough.
She remembered the first time she saw him, shirt loose and hair windswept, with a grin that promised trouble and his freckle on his lip. Max. His name tumbled into her chest before she even spoke it. That first night, with stars sharp above and sand cool beneath their feet, he’d looked at her and said, “You up for a midnight swim?” The sea cradled them in weightless silence, and she was lost.
Mornings were the softest parts of their summer. Sunlight would filter through the thin curtains, splashing warm streaks across his bare back. She’d reach out, fingers tracing idle patterns across his sun-touched skin, wishing she could carve her name there, stake her claim. Sometimes, he’d stir, pulling her close, their breaths mingling as if there was no air but each other’s.
“Are you sure about this?” she’d whispered once, unsure where the question began — was it about the summer, their reckless escapades, or her own heart now bound by the boy with the deep laugh and easy charm?
“Never have I ever been more sure,” he replied, but his eyes darted to the window, where the season tiptoed away. She’d ignore the way that look gnawed at her and instead leaned in, hoping to make the most of each dwindling second.
They spent sun-drenched days in his car, the top down, music loud enough to drown any creeping doubt. Every now and then, he’d pull over at a roadside stall, buy them lemon slushies that dripped down their fingers and laughed when she swiped a playful stripe across his cheek. He’d catch her gaze then, something tender lingering in those moments as if he, too, felt the edges of time slipping through their fingers.
But when late August shadows began to stretch longer, so did the silences. “When do you leave?” she’d ask casually, hiding the tremble in her voice.
“Soon,” he’d say, a word so simple, so cruel. He never mentioned what “soon” really meant — days? Hours? She learned to stop asking, but the question rattled inside her as she stayed up those final nights, her hand intertwined with his while the hum of crickets and distant waves kept them company.
The last day came like the closing of a book whose ending she dreaded. He stood by his car, bags packed, looking more like a dream than a boy she had memorized in hundreds of stolen glances. She’d pulled up to meet him, a silent plea lodged in her throat, and forced a smile when he met her gaze.
“Take care, okay?” His voice was soft, his smile bittersweet.
“You too,” she whispered, already feeling the absence press on her like the tide rolling out. The car engine roared to life, and with one last look — that fleeting, almost apologetic glance — he was gone.
The town felt hollow after that. Every part of it had whispers of him: the booth at the diner where they shared fries, the tree with their carved initials already fading, the quiet beach path where they used to steal moments that tasted like forever. She stayed up most nights replaying the summer in pieces, holding onto the way they’d been tangled in bedsheets, how his eyes held the sea’s color when he laughed.
For weeks, she found herself hoping her phone would light up with his name, the part of her still living for the hope of it all. But summer faded, and August slipped away like a bottle of wine, each memory burning on its way down.
She wished she could go back to that simple, carefree version of herself, one who still believed that late-night drives and whispered promises could hold more than just the fleeting heat of summer. Because she hadn’t realized that while she was changing, hoping, falling — Max was already slipping through her fingers, never truly hers to lose.
But as fall winds picked up, she knew one thing: for her, wanting had been enough. It was all she could hold onto, now that summer was nothing more than a bittersweet echo in the back of her mind.
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artslovergirl · 10 hours ago
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art & patrick at mark rebellato academy
[headcanons]
notes: i really enjoyed writing this because i just genuinely adore these characters and this movie so much. there's so many interesting little details and nuances there that i could just talk about forever and ever. i truly hope i did them justice here lol (also writing this made me jealous of people that are good at writing character analysis' and thinkpieces bc wow it is hard!) but yeah enjoy!
wordcount: 3.4k
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they met at age 12 during their first day at the mark rebellato academy in their now shared room. 
when art came in with a duffel bag (that looked comically big next to his scrawny kid body) patrick was already sitting on the bed he had claimed(the right side next to the door) all by himself, his parents didn't have a very tearful nor long goodbye as they sent their son off to boarding school.
in contrast art’s mom and grandma seemed keen to embarrass him in front of his new roommate with their cooing and hugging him goodbye. 
it wasn't even like his mom and him were really all that close though. she just seemed to want to squeeze in all the moments of a loving mother-son relationship into the small segments of time she actually spent with him.
the goodbye hug and small ruffle of his hair from his grandma felt a little more genuine. embarrassing all the same as he could feel the other dark haired boy try not to crack up at the display.
"mom. please." he pleaded with her as she gave him a kiss on the cheek. "i’m sorry, artie, but i need to make up for all the time i'm gonna miss with you!" yeah, he bets.
a few minutes later and a tear or two from his mother they did finally leave him be. as soon as he heard the door shut though, the awkward silence enveloping the room almost made him miss them. 
he threw his duffel bag on the left bed and sat down on the edge. he fidgeted with his bottom lip, a nervous habit he's had for as long as he could remember. 
the brunette boy shifted on the bed so he was now facing him. his mouth pulled into a toothy grin "so you're...artie?" 
art groaned and hid his head in his hands, slumped over his knees. "no, that's..just my moms nickname for me. sorry you had to see that." he says in a squeaky broken voice which didn't help the embarrassment he was already feeling.
the other boy just brushed right past all that and said "i’m patrick." and then as an afterthought, "zweig."
"uh." art leaned back up, still avoiding his gaze. it was weirdly intense. "yeah, i’m..art. um, donaldson." he said the last part like it was a question almost.
patrick began to swing his legs a little. it was clear to him that art was the quiet type even if they had just exchanged a few words so far, but luckily patrick didn't mind talking. it was something his father always hated about him. he almost talked enough for both of them which after a little while finally seemed to break the ice of art's shy exterior. 
art didnt know what he thought about patrick yet. he was pretty..confident that was for sure. even a little arrogant, maybe. art scolded himself internally for being so judgemental. it was quality he hated about himself, but seemingly couldn’t get rid of.
despite all of that he had to admit that patrick was easy to talk to. there was never an uncomfortable gap in conversation with him. which art liked since those kinds of things made him want to crawl out of his skin sometimes.
that first night he spent staying up with patrick, slowly realizing how much they had in common while simultaneously being complete opposites, is one of his fondest memories and probably always will be. he never experienced another connection that felt anything even close to that.
their room wasn't too small but with the way patrick would just constantly toss his clothes wherever he pleased it seemed a lot smaller. 
it's not like art was insanely neat or anything, he was still a teenage boy. patrick was just exceptionally messy.
"patrick, this shit is so gross, i told you to use the hamper." 
patrick groaned, "youre such a neatfreak, fuck off." 
at that response a pair of dirty boxers were thrown at his head, courtesy of art. "i don't want to see or smell your worn underwear. that doesn't make me a neatfreak." 
patrick just tossed it back in art’s direction, to which the blonde quickly scurried out of the way to dodge it like his life depended on it. 
"you know if tennis doesn't work out for you, you'll make a good housewife." patrick grinned mockingly.
“ha-ha.” art just rolled his eyes, stuck up his middle finger and let the door slam behind him with his racket bag slung over his shoulder. 
trying to get patrick to do anything was like trying to teach a cat to do a trick without any treats. borderline impossible. so by age 15 art finally gave up.
...until he realized a year later that patrick would clean his side of the room whenever they had a girl over so..
yeah, sometimes he did lie and tell patrick that a girl was coming over just so he would clean his side of the room. 
you can judge him all you want but you never had to room with patrick zweig
 and after the third time that trick stopped working anyway. art was never a good liar. or maybe patrick could just call his bullshit way too easily.
they didn't fight too often, it was more like they constantly got into little tiffs
except for that time where it got so out of hand that they duct-taped a line dividing their rooms into two sides. (i know this is giving sitcom i'm sorry but tell me i'm wrong)
eventually they kind of forgot what they even fought about in the first place but they were too lazy to take the tape off of the carpet, so it just stayed on there for like 2 years till it peeled off.
like i mentioned in my other post these two were BITCHES
they would def talk shit all the time. they were not even trying to be secret about it tbh. (see: them staring at anna crying at tashi's party)
they sat in the bleachers watching one of their classmates play a practice match
“dude, look at that forehand. it sucks.” art muttered. patrick nodded, “i know. no way she’ll even make it through the semester.” “i’ll be surprised if she makes it through this match without fracturing her wrist.” patrick snickered at art’s comment.
actual mean girls LMAO
and to be fair, they were fucking amazing at tennis, especially when they played together
so it's not like anyone could necessarily insult them back
but it also wasn't bullying or anything
they were just judgy and loved to talk shit
art had some decorum about it or felt bad about it sometimes. not patrick though. 
man has no shame. never did. as art so lovingly puts it “the part of his brain that feels shame withered away a long time ago.”
art wore glasses from ages 12 till 14 
he then switched to contact lenses because patrick said girls dont like guys with glasses and that they make him look nerdy
they weren't allowed to have any sort of electronics like computers or flip phones at the academy. not even mp3 players. 
now obviously patrick completely ignored that rule. he had like three flip phones under his bed in case his actual one ever got taken (it did)
he also smuggled in 2 mp3 players (one was for art, patrick is so kind… he did charge him 4 dollars for it though. that rich asshole. lmao)
honestly i would like to insert here what i think they would have listened to but..i was like..a baby when they wouldve been at the academy so..feel free to drop your music headcanons in the reblogs or comments 
they were only allowed one weekly call to their families from the communal landline.
neither patrick nor art were very fond of these calls so even though they weren't supposed to they would always go into the phone room together.
patricks mother always insisted on speaking in german with her son. he thought she only did it because it made her feel more connected to his father’s side of the family. not like it would fix their fucked up marriage though. 
“nein, mama, ich habe mein deutsch nicht vergessen.” (no, mom, i havent forgotten my german) he sighs. art sits on the floor next to him and flicks a rubber band at him. “ja, verstanden. ja, ich weiß.” (yes, understood. yes, i know.) he rolls his eyes. 
art understood a few of the basic words since patrick taught him some german after art asked how to correctly pronounce his last name. 
“..bis nächste woche. tschüss.” (talk to you next week. bye.) he hung up. his mom said i love you but he knew she didn't mean it so he didn't say it back. 
patrick groaned and stretched out his legs that were seemingly getting longer by the day (art secretly prayed for a growth spurt that would make him taller than patrick. right now he was still pretty short for a guy his age.) 
he handed the phone to art. “she always talks so much. it's like i'm not even on the other line.” patrick scowls. art just nodded. he knew that by now.
art called his grandma but his dad picked up instead. it was okay. talking to his dad felt a little like talking to some distant uncle that he only saw once a year, “how's it going, champ?” “good.” “great.” that kinda stuff
the phone call lasted 5 minutes. he stood up and hung the phone back on the receiver. 
“wanna smoke?” patrick asked already reaching for the two loose cigarettes stuffed into his jean shorts pocket.
art nodded. he didn't really like smoking, and he kind of only did it because patrick did. and whenever he did, all he could think about was how bad for him it was. 
he was always pretty conscious about that kinda stuff, it was a little drilled into him by his dad who was the most adamant about art becoming a tennis player since he used to be one when he was younger.
so sugar and fats (basically anything that tasted good) were pretty much banned in the donaldson household 
which kind of resulted in art subconsciously believing that anything that brought him joy or pleasure must be inherently bad for him or followed by a feeling of guilt and shame to make up for it.
needless to say art wasn't the best at indulging. he was a little jealous of how patrick never seemed to have any issue with that sort of thing.
patrick didn't care about maintaining a good diet or depriving himself of life's pleasures for the sake of tennis. he took what he wanted like life owed it to him. 
maybe that's why he smoked with patrick. to try and be more like him?
also because it gave him a nice sense of rebellion.
most things he did with patrick gave him that feeling.
at the academy they were the definition of ‘not sold separately’
if you saw one the other wasn't far behind
its not like they didn't have other friends. they did. they were pretty popular actually
but none of those friendships were anything like what art and patrick had.
especially when playing doubles.
it felt like they could communicate telepathically 
patrick knew when art was going for the ball before the other team even served and vice versa.
tennis felt different when they were playing together. better.
and it felt so easy, it felt like nothing they needed to work on. their friendship was the same. it was so easy, so natural.
after about a year or so of being friends they started being in sync. literally.
they cross their legs at the same time, they pick up their rackets at the same time, they adjust their forehand grip at the same time, they walk at the same pace, they sit down the same etc etc you get it
also that isn't really a headcanon, like this is canon in the movie. and it makes me SICK that they were still in sync in 2019. after not talking for 12 years. shut up that’s some soulmate shit
now let's talk about something else that is canon…the pushed together beds.
yes!
now, i think patrick is a person that is pretty open with his body in general in terms of like being physically affectionate. or just being physical. 
i don't know if art is, i think he's a little more reserved. (repressed if you will! i will!)
but patrick touching him so casually does fill a little tiny (gaping) void in him that yearns for touch.
he is a professional yearner as we all know
and patrick never had an issue satisfying those yearnings for him. (i think we saw that in the fact that patrick taught art how to jerk off ok next topic)
patrick would sling his arm around his shoulder, lay his long legs over arts lap, ruffle arts curls (“stop that, you're messing them up.” “no, i'm not they always look like this”),he would barge into their room after practice flopping his tall sweaty body on top of art to annoy him.
they were very physically affectionate it was just all under the guise of shoving and tripping each other and just general teenage boy roughhousing shenanigans. that counts as a love language to me ok!
art got used to patrick touching him very quick and even reciprocated sometimes 
also i do think that sometimes patrick would smack art’s ass as a joke. lol. (that's inspired by that video of the two doubles players doing that…do you guys know what i’m talking about)
OK SO!
the beds.
they were 16. patrick suggested it. “these beds are too fucking small.” he complained, laying on his staring at the smoke detector that he had covered with a shower cap so it wouldnt detect the smoke from his cigarettes. 
and to be fair…yeah. patrick stood at 1,80 cm right now and his feet were hanging over the edge of the bed.
art looked up from his book which he was only reading to impress a girl he had a crush on. patrick had told him to just pretend he read it but art said that was disingenuous and he wanted to know what she liked and why she liked it. 
“you know what we should do? we should push our beds together.” patrick sat up, grinning like he just had the best idea ever. 
arts features twisted up in thought. “isn't that a little close?” 
“nah, why, we still have our own beds. just more space.” patrick shrugged.
he glanced at their beds. “uhhh…i guess we can do that. the beds are a little cramped. although is that even allowed?” art began fidgeting with his lip like he usually did when he was in thought.
but patrick was already in the process of shoving his bed next to arts after which he let himself fall onto the two beds in a starfish position, with his gangly limbs almost stretching to every corner of the beds. “oh. great. and i’ll just curl up at the foot of the bed then?” art gave patrick a deadpan stare. 
“up to you.” patrick grinned in that specific way that really irked art. 
patrick did make some space for him once they actually went to sleep that night
even now they were two opposites making a whole
patrick always ran cold so he hogged all the blankets and art always ran hot so he immediately kicked them off of him as soon as he fell asleep 
that only made this new pushed together beds thing even better for patrick because he now got to have his own blanket AND steal arts every night
i wouldn't say they cuddled necessarily? i think it was more just like the regular amount of physical touching that happens when you sleep in the same bed
which is still pretty intimate to me idk about you guys
like their legs kind of thrown over each others, art’s arm occasionally draped over patricks chest (or literally on his face. art denies every time that he does it on purpose but patrick KNOWS he does it to annoy him. he knows.) 
one time art had a nightmare of being trapped under a rock only to wake up and find out that somehow patrick had rolled over in the middle of the night and was now laying COMPLETELY on top of art. right before he was about to push him off (because he was making art actively suffocate) patrick rolled over again and fell out of bed. he didn't even wake up from that. genuinely just slept on the floor that night. freak of nature that guy.
also patrick for sure twitches like a dog in his sleep
and i think it used to wake art up because he's a pretty light sleeper but eventually he just got used to it lol
when art went to stanford he never finished the last bite of anything he ate because he was so used to patrick being next to him and just stealing the last bite.
patrick really really wanted to get his ears pierced when he was 15. 
so naturally he asked art to do it for him.
you know…like how they did it in the parent trap. which if you asked them is a movie that they definitely haven't seen. ( but they did see it and art cried at the twins reuniting with their parents, oops.)
unfortunately for patrick art was very very squeamish with needles at that age (i think that mellowed down the older he got but he still refused to look whenever he got vaccinations or anything like that.) 
so now it was midnight, they were in their room sitting on the floor and arguing
“dude, just do it, stop being such a wuss. you're not even the one getting pierced.” patrick groaned, he had numbed his earlobe with ice but he could already feel a little bit of the feeling return to it, that's how long they had been sitting there with art squirming around because he hated even looking at the sewing needle.  
“that's worse though because i have to look at the needle going in your ear!” art argued
“ well, i can't do it myself.” patrick replied.
...
“are you wearing my shirt?” art squinted at him
“stop trying to change the subject.” 
“i told you to stop stealing my clothes. i don't want to do laundry that often.”
“can you focus?” patrick groaned
“dude.. okay, fine. just give me a second.” art took a deep breath.
“oh. my god. you're not performing open heart surgery.” 
“shut the fuck up.”
“you shut the fuck up.” 
and what do you know that response got art to get over his fear of needles for a second and stab that thing right through his best friends ear 
the little high pitched yelp patrick let out in surprise at that is something art didn't let him forget about for like two weeks after
it took about another hour for art to pierce patricks second ear and eventually they managed but then like a week later patrick forgot to put his earrings in and the piercings immediately grew shut
so all that drama was for nothing!
i think art has always kind of been the type of guy to want domesticity. 
i already posted about this somewhere but i kind of came to that conclusion because patrick said “he wants to spend time with his family” to tashi in the alley scene
patrick hadn’t spoken to art for like a decade at that point
and you could say it's a good guess but NO! 
patrick knows art like the back of his hand and patrick knows that art has always wanted a family and how much it probably kills him to miss out on time with them due to his career at that point in time (also just throwing this out there i think art always wanted to have a daughter more than a son, like that just makes sense to me. maybe bc i think his own relationship with his dad is so distant? idk!)
so yeah
also the sauna scene where patrick says that marriage isn't what he was for 
(to me) also implies that he is the opposite of art who was meant for marriage
anyway do i think that art shared his wishes for a family and marriage in the future with patrick? yes
do i think patrick jokingly made art promise to make him his best man? yeah
and furthermore do i think about the fact that patrick then had to read about arts wedding in some tabloid years later? yep!
i’m sure i could think of more in the future but that's all i've got for now! i hope this was coherent enough to enjoy because it’s not as proofread as my fics usually are lol! i just wanted to get these thoughts out there
if some of these seem familiar it might be because i took some of these from my twt!
i also have some more headcanons floating around on my tumblr that i didn't include here if you want to find those, or not, i'm not your mom! 
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deadpresidents · 1 day ago
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This is "thanks for being real" anon and just wanted to let you know my mental health is okay, part of that for me is just letting myself be angry/sit in grief for a bit. Thanks for your kind words. 🌈
I'm glad you're doing okay. I hope everyone stays strong and does whatever they need to be okay. Like you, I need to let myself be angry. When I was a teenager and young adult, I would bottle those feelings up and compartmentalize anger, and when it came out, it was volcanic and violent -- usually literally. That was very unhealthy and, when that anger ultimately revealed itself, it did so in ways that I realized I wouldn't be able to get away with forever. I'm reasonably confident that I never ended up killing anybody, but fortunately, I found healthier outlets for those emotions and it made my life better.
This is going to be a difficult moment in many of our lives. If there's one thing that I take a little bit of comfort in, it is the fact that I know we're not alone in the wilderness and I have no doubt that I am on the right side of history. If this country does survive this ugly era, I am positive that I'll be able to look back and say that I never accepted any aspect of the MAGA movement. I have nearly a decade of very public (and frequently profane) declarations of opposition to the ignorance and intolerance that Donald Trump has normalized and, from the very beginning, I've spoken out against what I quickly recognized as a repugnant cult of personality that is abhorrent to everything that this nation supposedly represents. I'll take a fraction of pride in the fact that everybody has known where I stand on this issue and it hasn't changed this entire time. It's a pyrrhic victory, but we are fighting the right fight and our side doesn't have to be ashamed of who we support and what we believe. We're on the side that isn't going to have to explain themselves to family members in the future.
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romanestuffsposts · 1 day ago
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Hi there love!
Ohh of course I can that really sounds lovely!!
I hope you enjoy the read love
Enjoy <3
*****
Warnings : tickle attacks, laughter, playful, pet names, kisses, cuddles, a little part of the aftercare
Pairings : Daddies!Stucky ; Daddy!Bucky x Papa!Steve x Little!Reader
Summary : you start a game you couldn’t win
*****
Your world is your Daddies.
And your Daddies’s worlds is you.
They will do anything to make you happy and to make sure you’re getting everything you need and want.
Every days they played different games with you. One day they do puzzles all day, another day they polish your toes nails, they love drinking tea with you and your plushies and staying under the sun all afternoon with you by their sides.
They will do everything to spend most of their times with you.
That’s why, when your Daddies came back from work, you hide.
After a quick talk with the babysitter, they start wondering around the room “where is she ?” Bucky asks, confuse as to why you didn’t run into their arms as soon as you heard their feet on the ground.
Steve shrugs “i have absolutely no idea” he quietly says as he trails his eyes around the living room. His eyes stop on the little table where a little piece of paper patiently wait.
He opens it and a big smile grows on his lips, making Bucky frowns “what is it ?” He asks walking toward Steve.
‘Find me’
Steve peers at Bucky with a grin “know what that means ?”
“Of course I do” he smirks before looking at the stairs. He just knew you were up there, you always are when you play that game.
“Baaaabyyyy” you daddy sings with a teasing voice “i hope you’re well hidden, little one, because we’re coming for you”
You hide your mouth with your hands to hide your squeal. You just love it too much.
“Princess” your Papa sings “my love” he adds “come to us baby we want to see you”
You wiggle a little on your spot after hearing your Papa in the room where you are currently hiding right now.
He’s getting sooo close.
“Come on baby we will go easy on you if you come to us” he grins. You will definitely have to go through what they prepared for you so you at least have to make it hard for them, no ?
“Oh you don’t wanna come” he keeps teasing “be ready for your punishment then”
Hearing those words made you gasp out loud without wanting to. There is a moment of silence where you just wait, wait until your papa finds you, wait until you hear his voice again, wait until you see his shadow behind the door of his closet.
“Hello there”
You look up to find two deep blue eyes looking down at you with hunger. You gulp and before you can react, your Papa grabs you “you thought you could stay hidden forever ? Huh ?” He teases, already squeezing your thighs.
Your Daddy enters the room, your laughters leaded him to where you were. “Good job, Stevie” he grins as he approaches you
“So where should we do it ?” He asks as if you weren’t there.
“Mhh i don’t know, maybe the bed ? Could be good to be comfy while doing so” your papa proposes as you watch them both with wide eyes
You squirm and yell as they approche the bed while they just laugh at you. They know it’s just an act, you wanted it and you’re gonna get it.
You Papa settled you against him and right after, before you can react and do anything, his fingers are on you.
They curl and shake around your ribs “you’ve just been waiting for this all day” he teases with a grin “am i right, baby ?”
You squeal at his teasing and keep shaking around while your Daddy just smile, watching the scene before him “you’re just too cute when you smile and laugh, babydoll”
You blush from his words and the fact that you know both of them are watching you make you even more shy.
He keeps your arms pin against his own chest as he moves his torture. “You like it better here ?” He asks tickling the space between your armpits and your side ribs making you scream from the ticklish sensation
“I think we already have our answers” Bucky chuckles as he keeps your ankles pin against the mattress
Steve laughs as he watches you getting more red the second he keeps tickling you. His fingers shake and squeeze the little spot that made you scream your little lungs out as he keeps laughing along with you and your daddy
“Why don’t we do another party ?” Bucky proposes “you can’t be the only one who has his fun here” he jokes, shaking your ankles.
You giggle and peer up at your Papa “of course we can” this one grin before looking at you “you have one minutes to run and hide, princess” he says, tracing his finger on your cheek “and make it hard this time” he whispers making you giggle.
You didn’t wait any longer before leaving the bed and running away from the room. You quickly find another hidden spot in your daddies office, right under their desk.
Some seconds after, you hear their voice in hallway as they search you. “I hope you’re ready, babygirl because we’re back” your Daddy teases, a big grin on his lips. He can’t wait to tickle you.
They both search every rooms on their way until there’s one left, the office. You hold your breath when you hear the door cracking and the wooden floor whining under their steps
“We know you’re here beautiful” your Daddy teases “no need to hide anymore” he makes his way toward the desk “especially when we know where you are”
He kneels down and sees you curled up against yourself “found you” he smiles “again”
Before doing anything, he looks up at Steve “you help me holding her ?” He looks back down at you “she’s gonna love a lot when her feet will be tortured”
Your eyes widen and without thinking about it, your fingers wrap themselves around your toes as a protection against his words. He tilts his head and grins at you “cute move” he winks.
You blush more when your see both of your daddies looking at you “i will be gladly to help you” Steve grabs you and hold you down, dropping a sweet kiss on your head as your daddy approaches your wiggly feet.
“Nervous, beautiful?” Your Daddy teases, playfulness ringing in his voice as he talks to you
You blush and nod your head, causing your daddies to chuckle.
Your daddy blocks your ankles in between his legs as he sits down on the ground “take a deep breath baby. Because you will soon won’t be able to” he winks
You flinch when his fingers touch your feet and he laughs “i didn’t even start”
Your papa laughs as well “she’s just too sensitive”
Before you can blush even more, your daddies fingers start dancing against your soles. You throw your head back, screaming as you try too take your feet back against you
“Waw, each time i forget her reaction and each time it’s a pleasure to be reminded of it” your Papa laughs as he hold you pin “you were right, you definitely needed my help”
His big and long fingers keep playing with your toes, your heels and of course, your soles, even the bottom of your feet has the attentions of your daddy’s fingers.
“What’s going on, babygirl ?” He teases “you can’t take it anymore ?” He chuckles, a few tears running down your cheeks because of how much you’re laughing
A few moments of torture later, your daddy’s attack slow down and is now just light tickles “you hates those, no ?” He chuckles
“Pease stoppp” you cry between your laughters.
He immediately stops the tickles and kisses your feet before rubbing them gently wile your papa caresses your temple and hair, dropping sweet kisses on your head and face “you handle it so well, baby”
“We’re so so proud of you beautiful” your daddy smiles
You smile and wiggle a little
“Did you had fun ?” Your Papa asks and you nod “lots of fun” you exclame making them chuckle “perfect then”
“Why don’t you go take a bath with Daddy while I cook dinner, after that we’ll watch a movie in bed. How does that sound ?” Your Papa proposes
You nod “oki” he smiles and kisses your nose. You’re soon lift into your daddy’s arms and carry upstairs for a warm bath after your playful moment
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charliedawn · 2 days ago
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Could we have the silent trio? (Michael, Brahms, and Jason) with a s/o that loves to read and write stories?
Maybe the S/O will read them the books they have or will get them to read together or one of them will find a small journal that basically had the S/O writing their love for them?
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Michael reads a lot himself. He would insist on having reading sessions with you and the others slashers—especially since they all like stories. But, he would quickly notice the discreet glances thrown his way and the way you would always sit next to him and start writing things in that leather-covered notebook of yours…If he found the journal with your words about him, he’d be both intrigued and moved in his quiet way. He might not be one for words, but the way he stayed closer to you afterward—lingering longer after each story and reaching out for your hand more often—would say it all.
He would never tell you that he read your words about him, because A) he is a gentleman and didn’t mean to read your private thoughts and B) he knows what would happen if he did. And he doesn’t want to kill you. He knew that if he fell in love with you then Myers would make him do things that he didn’t want to. And he really didn’t want to hurt you. But, he would promise to keep you safe and sound—for as long as you lived.
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Jason is a big fan of stories. He never really learned to read or write, so the only way he can get stories is by being read to. So he would be a comforting presence as you read, listening intently—even if he didn’t fully grasp every word. He’d find joy in the moments where you’d glance up, sharing a knowing smile with him over something in the story. But, you did start teaching him how to read and…he really wanted to learn and train his mind. So, he started looking around for something to read. Upon finding your journal, he froze, unsure if he should peek. But curiosity won him out, and he was surprised by the words he found with his name. Jason, who often feels he doesn’t deserve love, would be at a loss but also deeply moved. He’d probably bring you flowers or more of his handmade little wooden gifts soon after, silently expressing how much your words meant to him.
He would also read a lot more—just so he may understand even more of the words you used to describe him…
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Brahms would be the most curious about your writing process. He knows how to read and write. He had a very complete education. He’d watch you jot down ideas, endlessly interested in what you were writing and occasionally begging for details. Discovering the journal would make him feel cherished; he’d likely read it cover to cover multiple times, basking in every word. Brahms would be over the moon, hugging you and excitedly bringing it up later, asking you to read “that part where you called me lovely” again and again.
He would also shower you with praise and ask you to read every single page about him. He would become bit of a sucker for those. He has no shame, which means he wouldn’t wait before telling you that he loves you too and hug you tightly—promising to love you forever.
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sugar-omi · 3 days ago
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Oh gosh, now yan!Cove was mentioned on this blob, might I swoop in to further yan olba agenda by mentioning Baxter? (Bae-xter, anyone? Ahah) Like, *sure*, he leaves. But in step 4 his apartment is decorated basically to copy Sunset Bird rental home--who does that? He was there 3 months tops! He's also eaten away by guilt for 5 years even if you're just friends in the playthrough-- and if you date? He can fall in enduring *LOVE* in those 3 months!! That's hella Intense.
Perhaps yan!Baxter is on the more self-aware side, removing himself from u initially not just due to all his issues, but also an effort at protecting you. Poor sweet little martyr. Although one could say he's protecting himself. Most futile of him. There's no lover after or before you to rival your effect on him--no, there's no such *person*. Baxter's happiness is defined by your name. You fulfill him. His life it nothing but absence carved in your shape.
Could he survive being haunted by your memory forever? Who's to say. But he's certainly fated to loose himself fast once you re-appear in the flesh.
"his life is nothing but absence carved in your shape." A POET!!!! apologies for the late response but ive been reeling over this for DAYS. THIS IS SUCH A LINE......
but god... self aware yandere baxter who knows his obsession is unhealthy. he fills up his lonely life with shiny things, trips, and lovers to temporarily fill the hole and yet when he meets you. oh god.. he's hooked.
you're so beautiful, a special charm that comes with a small town local with a brilliant smile and caring nature.
he knows his love is like blood on white carpet. but even though he knows that he goes and falls for you anyway... you may not even return his feelings, you may even love someone else. but god if he doesn't center his life around you.
he remembers what your room looks like, the stuffed animals you had in the corner and the recovering fern on your windowsill, tucked in the corner carefully so that cove could come through your window...
his heart clenched painfully when you mention him.
he wants you to look at him and only him. he wants you to call his name in your sweet, attractive voice and look at him with those piercing eyes.
baxter looks at you and he sees heaven, he sees his future and his life and his end in your eyes and he is done for.
he wishes you would beg him to stay, to pull open his chest and see all the nasty stuff inside of him, filth and worms and darkness crawling around and reaching out from the cruelest part of his soul and you still ask him to stay.
you ask him to pull your body into his until your skin is flushed and your hearts beat at the same time and pace, that your breathing is shared and your world is blank when the other is outside of it.
he wants you to beg him, tell him, urge him to taint you.
put it in the most romantic words that only the sick but brilliant edgar allen poe could write, pull his darkness from his chest and cradle it..
but he knows that his obsession is too intense. it's too much.
because now, even though he hasn't heard a word from you in years-- a consequence of his actions, but if you knew.. if you knew why you'd talk to him still right? you wouldn't be mad because you know he did it for you.. right?
but furniture similar to the townhouse covers every inch of his home and your little gifts sit near his bed for him to gaze upon when he goes to sleep.
he has any and all little mementos of you.
he needs to fill up the empty space you've left in him... he knows he pushed you away, but he can still crave you, right? you don't mind that he has your picture on his shelf and that he kisses it goodnight when he's a little too drunk and indulges himself in dreams of you?
when you finally meet again though... god, everything breaks.
his sham of being put together and fine falls apart faster than wet tissue. he has been at the brink of snapping since he left you, his yearning increasing day by day, minute by minute in fact.
and even though you're looking at him with a mix of pure anger and sadness, he doesn't care, he loves it. he loves you.
your angry tone.. god he's never heard anything so beautiful in his life, and when you spit venom at him about breaking your heart and betraying your trust.. he knows he should feel bad, and he does, but he wants to kiss your feet and beg you for forgiveness and be allowed to serve you.
he wants to give you everything, he doesn't want to leave you ever again and he promises that he'll be good, he'll do better and he'll never hurt you and he will worship every step you take for the rest of your life if you just let him by your side.
even if you stay angry at him, he'll love that too. he'll take anything you have to give if you just give it to him and him alone.
and even though he promises to love you and take care of you (his normal way of saying he's going to worship you)... it's less like you are his god and he is your loyal servant, your beloved and treasured follower and more like you are his prisoner.
he treasures you hard, and deeply. he tries to hide the intensity of his feelings, he tries to be calm.. he knows that his jealousy and possession- his obsession. is wrong. it's sick and cruel and he is sick but he is also in love and what is more important than loving you?
you can start to hate him, you can start to find his habits and "treasures" creepy and/or concerning, you can try to talk to him and eventually snap and yell at him to let you go. to leave you alone. to stop being such a fucking werido! to stop being a stalker!
but he doesn't care, and he only reels when you slap him, caging you in his arms and inhaling your scent... he loves you so much.. everything you do, everything you are, everything about you he loves.
he loves his times with you, always recreating the memories, making new ones and even though he loves you like a believer giving an offering, he loves you like a cat loves a mouse.
you are his for his greedy heart to feast on, you are his beloved who loves him so kindly and gently, so wholly...
he can't let your time together go. he can't let you go.
not again... he'll never let go again. so stop asking him to let go, even an inch is too much. he has to give you his all, his everything... his heart, body, and soul is yours and he intends to give you every breath his takes if you just let him.
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