#... i dont think anyone would write that

[lilislegacy]

One thing I’ve always found interesting is that Rick never really showed us the bridge between Percabeth being just friends to being in a serious relationship. A few little moments in The Staff of Hermes were the closest we got. Like, we see them say “I love you” to each other a few times throughout Heroes of Olympus, but it’s never implied that those were the first times they said it. Which means before TLH even starts, the two of them have gotten to that point. But In Staff of Hermes (which takes place a month into their relationship), they’re still in that slightly awkward phase of their relationship—you know, where they’re super into each other and obviously enjoying the perks of being a couple (aka making out), but haven’t quite settled into that groove of mature, comfortable romance yet. But by the time Percy gets kidnapped (just three months later), they clearly have found that groove, which is evident the second they reunite in MoA, because they’re totally at ease with each other, affectionate, and intimate in a way that supports the implication that those “I love you’s” I mentioned have already been exchanged. So it just makes me wonder when that shift happened? At what point in those three short months did they go from “I’m just happy we’re still together, honestly” to “I'm in love with you, and this is forever"?

Ugh, what I would give to see how they were right before Percy got kidnapped. Still holding on to a bit of that teenage casualness that disappeared during their 6 month separation, but also hopelessly in love and finally open and comfortable with it. URRGGGHHH!!!!

I love them.

[krazieka2]

I've played the Fire Emblem Husbando Dating Simulator Games

[maple-leaf-feet]

Wanderers Above The Sea Of Fog

I hope you like this because I wanted this image to exist so much that I learned to paint in order to make it happen

[ihni]

Okay so, the basketball team at Hawkins High convinces newcomer Billy that the school is haunted and that it's a tradition for new kids to have to hide in the high school after it's locked up on Friday their first week on the team, and spend a night inside the achool to show they're not scared. What they're not saying is that it's also tradition for the team to show up at night to scare the shit out of the new kid (creeping close, making noises, tapping on the windows, preferably ending with them chasing said kid through the school etc). It's hazing of course, but it's presented like a challenge and Billy needs to prove his place at the top of the food chain so naturally, Billy accepts (with a scoff, because like, he's slept in worse places than a school, it's not a big deal).

Anyway, when the crowd disperses after practice, and Billy exits the gym to head for his car, a voice comes from around the corner. "It's hazing, you know."

Billy stops and glances to the side, and then waits there while a teammate passes him under the guise of taking out a cigarette and lighting it, and when the last classmate has left, he turns to the corner. And there's a guy there. Long hair, battle jacket. Obviously a metalhead, and also obviously very far removed from the top of the social hierarchy at school.

"Is that so?" Billy says.

"Yep," the guy says. "They'll show up at night, try to scare you. Just a head's up."

Billy, who has walked closer, doesn't say anything at first, but he holds out his pack of reds in offering. The guy hesitates for a moment before taking one and nodding his head in thanks before leaning forward to light it on the lighter that Billy produces.

"Why the head's up?" Billy says, after they've both taken a drag in silence.

The guy shrugs. "I heard what you played when you rolled in. Scorpions, right?" At Billy's affirmative nod, he gives a little lopsided smile. "Not many people in this town have a good taste in music. Maybe I just wanted to be nice to a fellow connoisseur." Billy raises one eyebrow and waits in silence, and is rewarded when the guy adds, "And maybe I'm not too fond of most of those jocks. Honestly, foiling their plans is like catnip to me."

Billy lets out an involuntary huff of laughter at that, and the guy looks doen at his feet but his smile can be seen behind his hair. They smoke the rest of their cigarettes in amicable silence.

Still, even after Billy throws his butt to the ground and grounds it into the asphalt with the heel of his shoe, he doesn't leave. Instead he looks out on the near-empty parking lot, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Oh, that looks like it hurts, California," the guy says. "What are you thinking?"

"My name's not California." A slight pause, then, "It's Billy. Billy Hargrove."

"Well, Billy-Billy Hagrove. Nice to meet you. I'm Eddie."

Billy narrows his eyes at the guy - Eddie - but there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The guy's got balls. He looks at the patches and buttons all over the guy's jacket. And good taste.

"Eddie," he acknowledges, his tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip. There's a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You look like you know your way around the school."

Eddie laughs. "One could say that I have more experience with this place than most, yes."

"I also get the feeling that you wouldn't mind a chance to ... let's say, play a little prank on my new teammates, there."

"Oooh, California," Eddie all but purrs. "Talk dirty to me. What do you have in mind?"

Billy smiles. "Turning the tables. You free on Friday night, Eddie?"

---

And that's how new kid Billy and social outcast Eddie team up and somehow manage to scare the crap out of the whole basketball team during what was supposed to be Billy's hazing. It's one for the ages, talked about for years to come. It involves a stolen set of keys from the janitor, carefully set traps around the school, a deer's heart (obtained by Eddie from a local hunter), a fake knife from the drama club's props, and Billy covered in dyed-red corn syrup. The team is not prepared. Two boys cry, one faints, and one runs out into the woods in a panic and doesn't come home until the following afternoon.

Come Monday morning, rumor of what happened during the weekend has spread throughout the whole school population, Billy is top dog just like he planned, and the first thing he does when he enters the school is fistbump Eddie Munson with a grin.

And just like that, a new order is established at Hawkins High.

[blamemma]

"Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race" emma i can't beliebe what i'm seeing. i can't believe max verstappen is beating us at this (writing daniel ricciardo fic)

okay. but what if we combined max saying that wild quote and this post i tagged as daniel the other day and created....fic...

cw: feminisation of both, kinda dubious consent <3

Daniel opens Max's drivers room door quickly, no secrets between them in their second year as team mates, PR bags slung in each others rooms, and mix ups of laundry scattered throughout their now shared-spaces. Max was used to these interruptions from Daniel, fond of them mainly. But it was that one fateful day, during the briefest of moments, Daniel's eyes wandered upon a soul-altering sight. Before him, the edge of lacy pure white knickers were peeking above the waist of Max's cream fireproofs. As he stares further, and his jaw opens wider, he begins to make out the imprint of them through Max's fireproofs, the way they curved around the cheek of Max's arse.

"Yes, Daniel," Max says, averting Daniel's attention quickly back to his face, blinking hard, trying to feign innocence over what he had just seen. It is only Max's upper body that has swivelled to address Daniel, his arms still suspended in his backpack, something Daniel is grateful for because he doesn't think he'd be strong enough to not look any lower. "Is it your socks you are looking for this time? Or maybe your Magnum condoms? Your stupid trainer tells you it is better if you do not have sex until after the races, doesn't he, so maybe I should keep ahold of them for safe keeping so you are not tempted."

Daniel feels ruffled, no quick quip back for Max on his tongue. His mind is running over the image of Max's lacy white underwear. Thoughts of his dick tucked up neatly at the front. Daniel's speeding towards the tyre barrier, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, Rolex sponsorship banners replaced by the image of Max in lingerie as he approaches at full throttle.

"Yeah, probably, yeah, keep them Max." Daniel retorts, the words stumbling out of his mouth as he exits out of the room, floundering backwards fast. He catches the smallest of glimpses of Max's face once more, a quizzical look raised in his eyebrows, and allows himself one last look lower, as he pulls the door towards him, closed.

---

They win. He wins, and Max stands below him on the podium, and they win. Red Bull and Daniel and Max. He watches as Max holds his trophy aloft, feels the burn through his arms as he lifts his own higher and prouder. Slams his champagne onto the ground and soaks Max, soaks himself, feels the cold wetness down his back, feels it seep into his underwear. Drinks from the bottle. Undresses his foot. Takes the shoe into his hand and pours. Lifts it high above his head, higher than the trophy, and then lets it pour from above him. Into his mouth, across his face, down his racesuit. Looks across at Max, his mouth wide open, agape, tongue barely contained. Raises his shoe slightly, a question, silent but deadly, and Max nods. Daniel slows down. Steadies his hand. Pours and pours, fills the shoe up once more, then hands it across to Max. The slightest graze of soft wet fingertips against his own, and the shoe is out of his hand. He stares, longer than he should, and Max looks back, gaze never breaking until the dark blue of Daniel's shoe forces itself between them. Max drinks, neck held back, bare, every last drop seeping from the shoe, into his mouth, down his chin, through his race suit. Daniel thinks about a singular droplet running all the way down to Max's underwear. Soaking him where it matters.

---

"Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race." Max says to the reporters, his eyes scrunching up in glee as he waits for the man in front of him to laugh at his joke. He never does. Daniel wants to punch him.

Daniel had finished media first, perks of being the winner, cutting the queue and demanding everyone's attention when you enter the room. He leans against the door, as Max sits at the head of the table now, cameras and microphones and dictaphones all pointed in his direction. He didn't hear the question, only the answer. Maybe Daniel could wear my worn underwear after a race. Daniel swallows the thoughts consuming him, rubs his crotch hard as he stalks down the corridors of Red Bull hospitality, and storms into his drivers room, waiting until he hears the similar click of a door closing from Max's room next door. He doesn't will his boner away, sits with it, sits with his thoughts. He won. He gets to indulge today. He gets to drink copious amounts of champagne, take back shots of questionable liquids shoved into his hands in the club, eat greasy pizza afterwards to settle his stomach, make out with whoever he wants, take one or two of them back home to his hotel room. He gets to indulge.

The muted click next door is like Pavlov's Dog, Daniel immediately up and onto his feet, ignoring the dizzying feeling in his head at the imbalance of blood in his body, storming into Max's room, and quickly locking it behind him. Max's champagne bottle is still gripped in his hand.

"Take your race suit off." Daniel demands. He won. He gets this. Max stares at him for a beat too long, his face unreadable to Daniel, until he slowly places the champagne bottle down on the table, breaking his velcro and slowly undoing his zip, before carefully stepping out of his suit, never once breaking eye contact with Daniel, challenging. Daniel won the race. He's more than happy to lose in here. He breaks eye contact and flickers his gaze downwards. The shirt of Max's fireproof has ridden up slightly, and peeking above the waist line of his trousers is petalled lace, a baby blue bow sitting in the middle.

"Your fireproofs. Take them off as well." Daniel says, his tone softer this time, giving Max the option to deny him. Max peels his shirt off first, revealing his pale sculpted chest, red puffy nipples, wet with sweat and soaked through champagne. Daniel grabs the champagne bottle away from Max, raising it to his own lips and swallowing. Liquid courage. When he lowers the bottle, Max is bent over, pulling the tight fabric over his feet. He stands straight once more, and stretching his arm forward, grabbing the champagne bottle back from Daniel, taking his own sip.

Daniel takes him in slowly, the curve of his tits, the hard shape of his stomach, the dip of his hips. He feels his mouth salivate when he reaches Max's dick. Neatly packed away, underneath tight baby blue lace.

"Being on the podium doesn't make you hard?" Daniel asks, cocky but disappointed Max is soft when Daniel is trying his hardest not to rip off his own race suit and relieve himself all over Max.

"Yes. I already dealt with it." Max responds, stoic.

"When?"

"During your interviews, in here. Quickly."

"In those?" Daniel quizzes, quirking an eyebrow towards Max's lingerie.

"Yes, Daniel." Max responds. Daniel's breath stops in his throat, and he chokes slightly, coughing to cover up his surprise. He moves quick then, doesn't let himself think any longer, gives into everything he wants. Everything he deserves. He removes the layers of his own clothing, nearly ripping the Nomex off his body into pieces so he can get to what he wants quicker. He stands there before Max, panting, lets him look for a bit, rake his eyes over Daniel's body. He knows he looks good. He knows Max likes to stare and indulge. He's caught him doing so before.

"Now what?" Max asks, breaking the silence sat between them.

Daniel begins to remove his patterned boxers, off his body, his dick hard, swinging upwards when its released, scarlet red, balls drawn tight. He watches as Max licks his lips. He strokes it once, his head falling back as a gasp leaves his lips, too much but not enough, twice, and then leaves it, removes his hand, locking his gaze with Max once more.

"Your turn." He demands, and holds his hand out waiting. Max tentatively steps out of the lingerie and Daniel watches as his soft dick drops, tiny pieces of dried cum stuck to his dick. Max deposits the underwear into Daniel's hand and Daniel climbs into them straight away, doesn't think, just does, hurtling into the tyre barrier.

"Daniel," Max whines, as he watches on, palming his own dick now. "Please."

Daniel hitches the underwear onto his hips and looks down at himself, at the obscene way the head of his dick sits above the waistband, pre-cum glistening over the top of it, dripping down over the bow, hopefully, eventually mixing with Max's own that has gathered and dried.

"Daniel." Max says again, his voice desperate, the only sound now in the room Max's dry hand jerking off his dick.

The tension is the room is suffocating, every vein of Daniel's on fire, rocketing him towards Max's body. But Daniel knows what he wants. Filth, want, regret. He likes the game. He likes the tease. He likes to win. He pulls his own race suit back onto his body, gathering the fireproofs off the floor, leaving his own boxers on the floor of Max's drivers room.

"Come and find me in the club later." Daniel says, exiting Max's room. "Bring the condoms. Don't shower."

"As long as you also don't," Daniel hears as the door clicks shut once more.

[seiwas]

sellllllll it's meeeeee. hehehehehehehehehhehe

so for ur writing exercises.... deku + light? please? pretty please?

:3c

heheh heheh hehe niku. this will be the death of me. me writing izuku for the first time 🥲 i will only do this for you </3

contains: established relationship, spoilers for the end of the manga, aged up deku but sometime in between the final outcome (he doesn't get the h*** s*** from bakugo yet), mentions of sex and scars

deku + light

izuku only sleeps with the lights off.

it isn't uncommon; many people you know can't sleep with even just a sliver of light turned on somewhere in the room. but the difference with izuku, you learn, is not that he's unable to stand the light―it's that he refuses to.

you quickly pick up on it the first few times he sleeps over.

he fidgets in bed, pretty badly, actually. the nightlight you sleep with glows a warm yellow, illuminating the side of your face and coating him in its afterglow. you chalk it up to nerves, how he pulls at his sleeves and adjusts his position constantly; he is, after all, one of the most anxious people you know.

and this relationship―it's new. heck, even you feel a little jittery with his arm wrapped around you.

the rhythmic tapping on your hip only increases pace. you don't think he realizes it, so your hand gently reaches for his, intertwining your fingers as you turn around in his arms.

he's close, nearly touching you nose-to-nose; the proximity leaves you fuzzy, a little ticklish, so you giggle, a soft "oops," as the freckles dusting his face almost glisten under the warm light.

"hi," you whisper, meeting his eyes; they stare back at you wide in surprise, "can't sleep?"

he looks almost guilty at your question, as if you’ve caught him with the one thing he's been trying to keep from you.

"just—" his voice comes out louder than intended, prompting him to chuckle nervously as he readjusts his volume, "just winding down, sorry."

you inch closer, nuzzling his nose lightly, "it's okay."

"did i wake you?" he asks, cheeks flushing pink as his eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. his expression is something caught between stifling a grin and feeling sorry.

you shake your head against the pillow you share, strands of your hair tangling with his. "just winding down," you tease, watching as his gaze turns softer, eyelids drooping heavier.

sometimes, you think, izuku holds the world in his eyes―a deep, dark green, the color of life. most times, they look at you with wonderment, bright and alive; photos from inko tell you they're the eyes of his inner child.

on nights like this one, however, they hide a depth in them weighted by what you can only assume is time, and all that has happened to him in such a short span of it.

you try your best to understand what lies beneath them, knowing full well he'll never tell you outright what truly bothers him.

"is it the light?" you bring up, some time after laying in silence.

"hm?" he clarifies.

"do you have a hard time sleeping with the nightlight?"

his eyes widen briefly once more, as if shocked that you've caught him again. these split second reactions are ones you've learned to be attentive to when it comes to izuku.

"no," he tries to lie, but you know better as you turn to your nightstand and reach for its switch, "you don't–"

"it was hurting my eyes," you quickly make up an excuse, tucking yourself closer under his chin as you cut off his attempt to deny it again.

finding out that the light was the problem was the easy part—

you'd begun to notice much earlier on that izuku was barely rested on the nights he'd spend at your place. it was only when your old nightlight broke that you began to notice him waking up much later than you did, groggily rousing from a deep sleep.

—what was hard, was figuring out why.

at first, you suspected it was his scars.

"s-sorry, it's not—" he'd warned you, right as your hands gripped the hem of his shirt the first time you were about to have sex, "—it's not nice."

you didn't care though; you still don't care, and you've made that abundantly clear to him since. you love izuku and all his parts―all the nicks and jaggedy pieces of skin that make up who he is.

when you eventually ask him about it, with a request that he be honest with you for once, he tells you that it is and it isn't―the reason why he exclusively sleeps with the lights off, that is.

it's an odd, comforting relationship he has with his body—that he is simultaneously grateful and sorry for how its become a canvas, both painted and marred to symbolize japan’s historic last stand.

you find out the real reason when you catch him staring at his hands.

he does it often, when he thinks you aren't looking—his fists bunched up in the same way he used to watch the power of one for all course through his fingertips; the same way he used to prepare them in battle.

there’s a faraway look in his eyes that lingers, you notice—a little wistful if anything.

“do you miss it?” you finally ask. he gives you the same shocked look he does every time, as if he’s been caught with a secret he’s been trying to hide.

he’s learned a fair bit about you now, too, though—lying to you is futile when you’ve perfected reading his truth. he stares at his fists again as you take a seat beside him, moving to give you space. you rest your head on his shoulder gently, waiting.

“sometimes,” he admits, but you know it’s an understatement.

“i think about the vestiges a lot. i miss them the most, i think,” he continues, clenching his fists tightly, “i always try to reach out to them, but i guess it doesn’t work that way.”

“i… i try to replicate the right conditions every night, but…” then he lets go, stretching his fingers out wide. the scars on the surface ripple through his skin, telling its own story.

you hum, acknowledging what he means. silence sits with the two of you as you take his hand in yours, slowly unfurling his fingers until his palm reveals itself to you. it’s rough to the touch, seasoned with hard work and all that he’s been through.

“is that why you prefer the dark?” you ask softly, after some time.

it's not often that you stay up later than izuku does. when you do though, you catch him shifting in bed, moving from side-to-side. you pretend you aren't awake, but you hear him mumble their names, dwindling in volume as he dozes off to sleep.

he stares at his palm for a moment before he admits quietly, "yeah." his brows furrow as if contemplating whether to say more, but he shakes his head, dark green strands swaying to the beat of his embarrassed chuckle, "nevermind, it's silly."

"it's not."

you intertwine your fingers, sandwiching his hand between yours. a slight sheen glosses over his eyes as he tilts his head up to look at you. he draws in a breath, before it spills over.

"it's..." he finds the words, and you squeeze his hand in comfort, "it's easier to believe it was all real when the lights are out, and that maybe it can happen again."

[aroaceleovaldez]

i still think a lot about how technically, it's implied Anubis and Walt started dating each other before they asked out Sadie, and if Sadie had said she wasn't interested they would have gone "Entirely fair have a nice day" and proceed to just go continue to date each other.

Cause like, that was the entire thing. They decided that themselves. That things would work best if they were together (as in both physically sharing a body and also relationship-wise). The "asking Sadie about it" part was secondary. If she had said no, they would have stayed together, because among other things Walt would kind of die if they didn't. Walt and Anubis are technically the first gay couple in the Riordanverse. AND they're in a polyamorous relationship with Sadie. Why does no one talk about them ever.

[ganondoodle]

carefully attempted to draw (still sick); wanted to give Shargon another redesign, this is an older version of him but the basics should also go for his younger self (idk yet about his lung replacement design; arms are posed weird to make anatomy clearer)

(wip, oc art, Shargon, he/they)

[corviiids]

i get the lines blur but there IS a big difference between media which doesn't explicitly tell/show you precisely what happens in the end but does point pretty clearly down the intended road vs legitimate open endings where you're supposed to decide what happens completely on your own and multiple interpretations would be supported

[moonshynecybin]

U can’t just drop a banger like “Marc Marquez cryptic pregnancy” and disappear.. I need to to know more

i was thinking about ways to babytrap him where he doesnt just mabort that thang for career reasons, and i think this could get the job done. i also think if its vale's (WHO ELSEEEE) that theres no way he believes that marc didnt know the entire time AND he is. as many other scholars have discussed borderline insane about marc presumably racing pregnant. i mean lbr the offseason is NOT long so he had to have been, and this is in many ways one of the keenest sharpest daggers you could drive into the soft wound of vale's injury issues wrt to marc's particular brand of psycho recklessness. like what if you had TRAUMA and you were ESTRANGED from the love of your life and he was RACING while PREGNANT with your BABY for MONTHS without TELLING YOU... okay saying that. i do realize that this is somewhat the plot of one those f1 heterosexual romance fiction novels but i stand by it!!!!!!! these guys are that level of insane anyways!!!! IDK! maybe marc gets knocked up like halfway through 2015 and has the baby at testing in february. truly maximum drama maximum soap opera marc has NO idea what is happening. its the first time loitering around the same hotel since sepang 2015, and it IS the trauma track, and marc truly thinks it is indigestion (at no point does begging off bike time happen however lol) until UH OH and the baby is there. and alex walks in on marc like on the bathroom floor with a BABY wrapped in a towel and baby goo truly more freaked out than hes ever been in his life its very soap opera. and honda is very smoke and mirrors about everything until genuinely six months later a pic of the baby leaks and its a tiny valentino rossi clone with brown intelligent eyes lol. and then vale puts the (confusing i think) dots together and the shit hits the fan

[sulatni-ree]

bro i wanna join sports au summer but all the sports i know are filipino,,,

[faunandfloraas]

certain contingent of minsungers have been having an absolute time over the 2min duet since it was announced, just freaking out about it, lee knows being forced to do this, minsungs being oppressed, etc. etc. seungmin's an evil villain, lee know hates him etc. etc. want so bad was suppressed blah blah and the thing is- im not shocked, ive seen this behaviour for ages now and i expect it. whats offending me at this point is no one ever mentions han and seungmin's dynamic. like okay be a lunatic and hate seungmin and freak out about lee know writing a song, fine- why does han never rate a mention? why does respirator and its sweet little lyrics never rate a mention if we're talking about unit songs. also respirator was the song the company wouldnt release for a yr and both han and seungmin had to repeatedly bring it up so lol cmon now han and seungmin are cute enough to rate a mention, put a lil respect on seungsung now.

[neolxzr]

you know aira as a mixed race character could have been made SO much more interesting with this story if it was written. like the exact opposite of how it was written

so aira in japan was often assumed to be a foreigner because he's blonde and (supposedly) racially ambiguous looking. this bothered him because he didn't like people assuming that he was so much different from them when, in reality, he had pretty much the same childhood as any other japanese kid.

but imagine for this story, they travel to france but instead of immediately being mistaken for a local for some reason (how white is this boy supposed to look), he's instead ALSO assumed to be a foreigner while in france. he doesn't dress like a local, he's not speaking french, and his group of friends is a lot more obviously not white than he is. this should make him happy, right? since they're not assuming he's something he isn't, like they did at home. but it makes him instead just feel really... othered. if he doesn't fit in japan and he doesn't fit in in france, then where does he fit in? why is he too much of something for one group of people, but not enough of it for the other?

but does this not make him even more fit to stand at the side of alkaloid, the unit who's united by their shared experience of being othered? so maybe its alright if a lot of the people around him don't make him feel like he belongs. because he's already found where he's supposed to be.

[bulbabutt]

one day ima write some long winded analysis thing about how i think 2012 has an abusive family dynamic going on and its the best part of the show and im either gonna be paraded like a hero or fucking cancelled

[good-beanswrites]

Happy 0203 day ❄️🔥🎉 I don't know if these are specifically meant for ships, but have a little platonic normal au thing I wrote of them hanging out and being silly :3

Yuno narrowed her eyes to study the shirt she was holding up to her unwilling model.

“No.”

She angled her head, undisturbed. “You don’t get any say in this.”

“I get all the say in this – they’re my clothes!”

“And it’s my birthday gift to you. So zzzzzzzzip!” she mimed zipping her lips, though she knew Fuuta was incapable of any such thing. She pulled the shirt away from him. “There’s nothing wrong with this one! It’s cute.”

“That’s exactly what’s wrong with it.”

She thought it would have been harder to convince Fuuta to come along on a mall trip this close to his birthday, but he’d answered her text almost instantly. He said he’d allow her to buy one pair of fancy sunglasses, and only so he’d have something cool to wear once he could take his eyepatch off. That one pair became two, then added clothes to match, then a handful, and now they stood beside a massive stack of items she was considering.

“Just try it~”

Yuno gave him a gentle push towards the dressing room. She could only laugh as he went spewing complaints the whole way in. 

A few minutes went by and she busied herself with sorting the clothes they’d looked at, pairing up tops and bottoms and jackets and scarves. Fuuta would probably tease her for shallowness if she admitted how much she enjoyed activities like this, but there was something about it that just lifted her mood. Shopping trips with her classmates left her feeling a bit hollow, but Fuuta’s wildly honest commentary always made it more fun. 

Right as she was starting to feel a twinge of impatience, he crept out. He was still clutching the shirt and hoodie he’d removed, covering up most of his chest. Yuno eased it out of his hands, leaving him with an expression of utter panic.

“It’s awful.”

“Are you kidding?” She pressed her hand to her cheek. “It’s super fun!”

He was looking less at the new shirt, and more at the people passing by, or checking over his shoulder, or down at the floor. Restless hands tugged at the collar, then the hem. It was certainly more form-fitting than his usual picks. 

As much as Yuno liked the look, she didn’t want the poor guy completely folding in on himself. 

She made a grand swing of her arms, ending in an X. “I like it, but I suppose we’ll add that to the ‘no’ pile.”

“What pile…?”

“I mean, you still have to try these on.” She scooped up the stack of clothes beside her and dropped the whole heavy mess into Fuuta’s arms.

“Eh? Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“All of them? Are you fucking –!”

He tried to protest, but his raising voice caught the attention of some other shoppers. His face burned red and he practically sprinted back inside before he could retrieve his original clothes from Yuno.

She folded them neatly over her arm, no longer excited that it forced him to try something else on.

Had she been too much? She thought this was something fun for him, but he was genuinely uncomfortable just then. What if, all this time, she’d only been projecting her own enjoyment onto their outing? Her stomach sank. She knew he took up her invitation so quickly because he didn’t have any other plans. She’d completely taken advantage of his loneliness – dragging him out here just for her to have a blast while he had no other option.

His phone buzzed from the hoodie pocket. 

He still hadn’t come out of the dressing room. So, he really was that uncomfortable. She bowed her head at her selfishness. They’d go right home, once he returned. 

His phone kept buzzing. Yuno glanced down in its direction.

She was never one to poke her nose where it didn’t belong. In her defense, this wasn’t a good sign given Fuuta’s history. She fished it out of the pocket, promising herself just one peek, for his own good.

A groupchat was firing off notifications.

@ fuuta where are you?

he said he was ditching, remember?

are you serious?

Broooo I thought he was kidding…

He’s out with a girl FR? No way, I still think he’s lying

you know you forfeit your spot if youre not here when we start the tournament

He was so hyped for this 💀 

must be quite the girl, huh

cmon man, we need you!

I can’t believe he’s finally touching grass 🙏

TRUE

happy for you man

“Is that my phone?”

Yuno nearly dropped it in surprise. “I – uh, it was going off, and –”

“Sorry.” He snatched it away without even glancing at the screen. “So?”

“So…?” Her heart raced with the panic of getting caught. He looked at her like she’d gone insane.

“What do you think of this thing?” He gestured to the new shirt he’d put on. “This was all your idea, but if you don’t want to be here as much as I don’t, we can –”

“No.” Her face broke into a smile. She exhaled. “No, I’m really glad we’re here.”

He blinked at the sudden warmth in her voice. “O-okay.”

“And I think it looks perfect. Really suits you~” It made sense he’d pick this one next; it sat right within his usual style. “Ooh, ooh! Why don’t we keep alternating things in your comfort zone! That would definitely help.” 

“Or we could just buy this one and be done with it.”

She kept her expression neutral. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

His face was obscured as he headed back to the dressing room. “I wish,” he spat, “but I’m fucking stuck with you.”

Yuno couldn’t help it as her smile spread even wider. 

She called after him, “hey, try on that colorblock one next.” 

“Ugh. It’s ugly. And asymmetric.”

“So’s your face. Put it on.”

“Oi!”

[many-gay-magpies]

oh a very sad idea i had a few days ago. in a world where edwin doesn't die at 16—whether the sacrifice doesn't happen, or it doesn't work, or whatever—he'd very likely get drafted into WWI. in a world where he survives THAT, then all the years that follow, he could... very possibly still be alive by the time charles comes around. the year charles is set to die, this edwin-that-survived would be 89. maybe he married a woman to make his parents and society at large happy, or maybe he managed to find some modicum of queer joy for himself even with the constraints of his time period (or maybe some combo of both—hey, lavender marriage!).

i'm just... imaging a scenario where somewhere, somehow, edwin and charles meet, both of them alive. charles, a 16 year old kid hiding his trauma with sun-bright smiles, and edwin, 73 years past where in another life, his life ended. maybe charles is out with his mum and meets edwin shopping, or maybe he runs away from home—in a world where HE doesn't die when he would have, either—and somehow winds up on edwin's doorstep. and i keep thinking, who would edwin be then? without hell, without charles? with 73 more years of life under his belt? and i'm imagining this small, fleeting moment of charles getting advice and solace from a queer elder edwin, and yet underneath it there's just this sense of... missed time. in this life, the threads of their destinies are barely intertwined, fated to only just graze each other this once before passing on apart from each other, but maybe—in that touch, there's the barest glimpse of another life. a life where their threads are so completely intertwined that it can't help but bleed through the slightest bit, even here—but it was tragedy upon tragedy upon tragedy that even made the connection in that other life possible.

charles meets edwin, but he is alive and young with his whole life ahead of him, endless possibilities once he manages to escape his father. charles meets edwin, but edwin is old, most of his life already behind him; he'll likely pass on peacefully within a few years if he is not already on his way. they meet, and they're practically strangers, and they won't be anything other than that, because in this life their paths cross only briefly—but in that brief meeting, the slightest sense of loss prickles somewhere in each of them.

haha. anyways