#What They Won’t Tell You

[seefasterdraws]

i loeve you dai gyakuten saiban

[reflectionsofgalaxies]

A story told in pictures:

✨ I love this cast so much 🐉

and @toodrunktofindaurl (thank you to the person who reminded me of her URL! I had her insta tagged here before bc I couldn’t for the life of me remember her url.)

(also honourable mention to Yellowjackets’ Jane Widdop)

[moonyswoony]

Lost and found

Pairing: Five hargreeves x reader

Summary: You an Five discover more than just plants and strawberries in the greenhouse

Warning(s): kissing, fluff, nothing really

“What the hell is this place?” Five muttered, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“Beats me,” you replied, stepping further inside. “But it’s not like we’ve stumbled upon a better place than this one so far.”

The two of you had been on the run for what felt like an eternity. Your attempt to figure out the subway had gone sideways—again—and now you were stuck in this strange, green timeline with no clear path back.

Five stayed close as you ventured deeper into the greenhouse, his sharp eyes scanning every inch. “This doesn’t make sense. None of this should be here.”

You brushed your fingers against a nearby vine, feeling the life pulsing through it. “Maybe this is just a small piece of the world that refused to die.”

Five huffed, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “That, or we’ve stumbled into some kind of twisted fairytale.”

“Great. Does that make you the grumpy old troll under the bridge?” you teased.

“If I’m the troll, that makes you the annoying adventurer who won’t stop asking questions,” he shot back, though his tone was more fond than bitter.

As you explored, you found yourself drawn to a patch of strawberries growing along the far wall. They were perfectly ripe, a vibrant red that stood out against the greens and browns around them. Without thinking, you plucked one and popped it into your mouth, savoring the sweetness.

Five watched with raised eyebrows. “You sure that’s safe?”

“If it’s not, at least I’ll go out with a decent meal,” you replied, plucking another and offering it to him.

He hesitated, then took it, biting into the fruit with a thoughtful expression. “Not bad.”

“High praise from you,” you quipped.

There was a brief, comfortable silence as you both absorbed the strange beauty of this place. The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter over the past few days—or even years—slowly began to ease, the peacefulness of this place working its way into your entire being.

As you wandered deeper, you came across a patch of wildflowers bathed in golden sunlight. You knelt to touch them, their delicate petals soft under your fingers. “This feels like a dream,” you murmured.

“Or a trap,” Five countered, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

You looked up at him, catching an unguarded expression in his eyes,something softer, more vulnerable than you were used to seeing. “Five?”

He stepped closer, the sunlight casting a warm glow across his features. “You’ve always been fearless,” he chuckled,though his voice was quieter than usual.

You blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about? I’m not fearless, I’m—”

“You are,” he insisted. “And I should have told you sooner.”

“Five…”

“I’ve spent so much time trying to fix everything, trying to keep us all alive, that I forgot there are things I want, too,” he said, his gaze pined on you.

His words hit you like a punch to the gut as you realised what he was implying—not in a painful way, but in a way that left you breathless. You had always known there was something between you, a connection that went deeper than partnership or friendship, but his words still had that affect on you.

Without giving yourself time to overthink it, you reached up and pulled him into a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or frantic, but slow and deliberate, a promise in every brush of your lips against his. Five responded in kind, one hand slipping around your waist while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding you close.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth. You felt your knees weaken as a wave of heat washed over you, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt as if to support yourself. His hand slid down your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss grew more intense, more desperate.

It was a kiss that spoke of everything you had both been holding back,years of unspoken feelings, of missed opportunities, all coming to the surface in this one, perfect moment.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to catch your breath.

“I love you,” he said, his voice rough but certain.

You smiled, your thumb brushing against his jaw. “I love you too.”

For a moment, you both stood there in silence, the reality of what you had just confessed settling over you like a warm blanket. The world around you didn’t feel as interesting anymore, not when he was in front of you.

Five glanced around at the greenery, his expression contemplative. “You know, we don’t have to leave right away.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want to stay?”

“Just for a little while,” he admitted, surprising you with the softness in his voice. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a moment of peace. We could use the rest and some proper food.”

You looked around at the lush greenery, the golden sunlight filtering through the broken skylight, and felt a sense of calm settle over you. “Yeah,” you agreed, smiling up at him. “Let’s stay.”

With that decision made, the tension that had been a constant companion began to melt away. You found a spot to sit, leaning against a wall covered in ivy, and Five joined you, his hand finding yours and holding it tightly.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself relax. No missions, no timelines, no disasters—just the two of you, in a place that felt almost unreal.

Five squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “You know,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “if we’re staying here, we might as well make the most of it.”

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring every second. “I couldn’t agree more.”

[cowboysmp3]

it is always under appreciated how secretive phoenix is like he’s very breezy and hard to nail down. i feel like it’s bc he’s often seen in the context of his relationship with edgeworth but like. edgeworth isn’t cagey. if anything he’s somewhat willing to share a moderate level of personal details if he’s able to, he’s just awkward and very formal and task oriented. phoenix is snarky and impersonal but everyone allows it cause he gets deemed as harmless and goofy. kind of a slay

[soup-of-the-daisies]

cannot stop thinking about that meta that’s like “voldemort’s ultimate goal was to simply destroy the british wizarding world” because it makes so much sense. tom riddle was a poor, orphaned, assumed muggleborn boy with a (most likely) ‘commoner’ accent and a distaste for humanity who sorted into slytherin, the hogwarts house infamous for being filled with loud rich bigots. tom riddle, with his background, could not have possibly been very popular those first few years of his schooling. tom riddle would’ve loathed the lot of them, all those arrogant, spoiled rich kids boasting about their family line. finding out he was the heir of slytherin would have been both a relief (he has something to fit in) and a jackpot (if they knew, they’d bow before him). and he uses that heritage later, when ‘tom riddle’ has disappeared and a stranger called ‘voldemort’ appears in his place. the fanatics literally kiss his feet.

voldemort is canonically a genius. he would’ve known that non-magical blood doesn’t make you dirty or less talented, because he himself is the prime example of that. espousing the bigoted pureblood agenda was simply the easiest way to gain power over the ones in power—all to send society crumbling to the ground from the inside. he takes over the ministry and ruins it, taking the first steps in tearing down the establishment; he kills regardless of blood, implying he doesn’t give one flying fuck what your heritage is; he tries to destroy the sorting hat, which would render the concept of ‘houses’ void.

personally i think it’s very interesting and appealing to put this interpretation in the context of tomarry/harrymort. i’ve always HC’d that harry will grow tired when he’s older, after he’s saved the wizarding world once (at the expense of his own happiness and well-being) and sees that nothing has changed or will change. that voldemort was a symptom, not the disease. that he and hermione and ron keep struggling, working themselves to the bone to make their world more fair and to suppress and eradicate the rampant underlying bigotry, but that it just won’t take.

and with an older harry, an embittered one, turned caustic and cynical by the very world he once viewed as his sanctuary—i don’t really think their beliefs would differ all that much. they’ve both seen and experienced the injustices. they’re both annoyed and disenchanted. harry will always have a regard for life, and voldemort won’t ever, but if anyone would have a wish to tear society down and build it back up again it’s them both.

[the-meme-monarch]

what if i Entirely made up another relationship but with the express intent that they Don’t get together actually. this started out as a lol an lmao even but honestly i think i needed this. cathartically

based on the tags of my post here

👍if you ship scc go away

[demigodofhoolemere]

I know those stories were always only tenuously canonical but I’ll be darned if I ever let go of them

[tinseltownie]

Look I’ve watched the BTS footage a 100 times already. The thing is Oscar didn’t have to pop in. And Lando most certainly didn’t have to keep the conversation going. But he did. And Lando did. And it was all soft and warm and “I want to know the most mundane details about this exact thing that I’ve done for 6 years already but did you have fun Oscar?? Did you? Have fun? Osc? Nice smoothie osc. Gonna copy your cute lil pose osc”.

Everything I’ve learned about Lando in the last few weeks is that he just wants friends? He keeps talking about how he missed out on the uni experience and how his friends are all through racing. And it explains why he’s kept Max on at Quadrant and all that side of it. (Not saying he’s buying Max’s friendship or anything) And he kept being friends with his teammates thinking they were safe but Carlos left and Daniel was fired. Which is the nature of the sport don’t get me wrong that’s fine. But I think Lando is really comfortable because Oscar is here to stay for a while. So Lando has Oscar.

And Oscar has always been better than the rest at this sport so it was hard to make friends with the other boys because he kept moving a step forward, quicker than everyone else. His Prema vids are sweet but there’s a sense that everyone in them is still trying to make it. Plus Oscar has 3 younger sisters but he’s never had a brother and he’s a little quiet and Lando was okay bulldozing his way into Oscar’s heart so now Oscar has Lando.

They both love their families but the sport makes it so they feel distant from them? Yes Adam is at almost every race and Oscar has a very loving relationship with his mom but all they’ve known is this sport forever. This sport where there’s no loyalty and no love and a lot friendships are actually just colleagues hanging out in a work setting.

That’s what makes Carlando so endearing. It’s that the friendship persisted beyond the contract mandated hangouts. That’s what makes Landoscar so special. They’ve found each other, a support system, a person who actually understands every nuance of the car, every corner that they race, every debrief in a way that really only their teammate can.

They are each other’s competition but they’re also each other’s comfort and I think that’s really special. Plus, Oscar’s quite tall isn’t he 😏

[interstate35south]

listen. i like a good “hualian adopts wwx” au as much as the next guy. but do y’all ever think abt the fact that appearance wise. xie lian and hua cheng are supposedly like. 17-19

i forget about it until i’m consciously reminded of it but there’s comedic potential in there somewhere

like i imagine they could probably get away with it when wwx was a young child but it’s all fun and games until visibly 34 year old wei wuxian is still calling apparently 17 year old xie lian dad

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother further. No, Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[leroibobo]

another mena language post - i wanted to talk about judeo-arabic and clarify a little bit about what "judeo-arabic" means

the basics, for those of you who don't know: arabic, being a language that was spread over a large part of the world and has since evolved into many different forms, has many different things that differentiate certain dialects. languages/dialects can be influenced by languages speakers' ancestors spoke before, by the social structure of where speakers live, by languages they come into contact with, and by gradual evolution in pronunciation. (many letters like evolving into ones that are easier to pronounce - this is why arabic has no "p" sound, it eventually evolved into "f" or "b". the same thing happened in germanic languages to some extent, which is why we say "father" in english and "vader" in german while in romance languages it's some variation of "padre" or "père".) many arabic dialects in particular possess different substratum (obvious, traceable influence from languages people spoke in before shifting to the new one).

arabic, being a language that was spread over a large part of the world and has since evolved into many different forms, has many different regional dialects which are different for the reasons i described in the above paragraph. even though there's modern standard arabic (which is the subject of its own post), people speak regional dialects in real life. on top of that, there's a variety of social influences on different types of arabic, such as whether someone's living in the city or in the country, whether someone's sedentary or a bedouin, and in some cases religion.

in the middle east, religion was historically:

not seen as a personal choice, but as something you're born into and a group you're a part of, kind of like ethnicity;

not generally something governments actively wanted everyone to share one of at the penalty of ostracization due to sticking to your group being the more livable way of life in the area, or later, the benefits of things like imposing extra taxes on people who weren't the "correct" religion/branch (this is far from being a "muslim thing" btw, it's been in the area for a while now, i mean look at the assyrians);

an influential factor in where you lived and who you were more likely to interact with because of those two things. (for example, it wasn't uncommon for most of the people living in one village in the countryside to share one religion/branch of a religion. if your village converted, you converted, too. if they didn't, you didn't, either.)

this means that the influence of religion in different types of arabic is due to people of different religions living in or coming from different places, and who people talked to most often.

for example, in bahrain, most sedentary shia bahrainis' ancestors have lived on the island for a very long time, while most sedentary sunni bahrainis' ancestors immigrated from other places in the gulf and iran in the 18th century. therefore, while they've all interacted and shared different aspects of their dialects including loanwords, there are two "types" of bahraini arabic considered distinctive to sunni and shia bahrainis respectively, regardless of how long ago their ancestors got there. despite the differences being marked by the religion of the speakers, they have nothing to do with religion or contact/lack thereof between bahraini sunni and shia, but with the factors affecting the different dialects i mentioned in the first paragraph which influenced either group.

a similar phenomenon to this in english is class differences in accent in england. nothing in received pronunciation is actually something only rich people can say or unintelligible to poor people, it developed by the class differences influencing where rich and poor english people lived and the different pronunciation/linguistic histories in those places, as well with different classes keeping more to themselves.

the influence of religion on arabic dialects isn't universal and nowhere near as intense as it is with aramaic. some places, especially more cosmopolitan or densely populated places, are less likely to have very noticeable differences or any differences at all. in addition, certain variations of a dialects that may've been influenced by religion in some way (as well as urban dialects) may be standardized through tv/movies/social media or through generally being seen as more "prestigious", making more people who wouldn't have spoken them otherwise more likely to pick it up. (this is why so many arabic speakers can understand egyptian arabic - cairo is like the hollywood of the arabic-speaking world.) this is the case with many if not most countries' official and regional languages/dialects nowadays.

this phenomenon is what "judeo-arabic" refers to generally. like many other jewish diaspora languages, the "jewish" aspect is that it was a specific thing jewish people did to different types of arabic, not that it was isolated, possessed a large enough amount of certain loanwords (though some varieties did have them), or is unintelligible to non-jews. people were generally aware of differences where they existed and navigated between them. (for example, baghdadi jews may've switched to the more prestigious muslim baghdadi dialect when in public.) if you know arabic, listen to this guy speak, you should be able to understand him just fine.

judeo-arabic also often used the hebrew alphabet and some may have been influenced by hebrew syntax and grammar in their spelling. you can also see the use of script for religious identification in persian and urdu using the arabic script, and in english using the latin alphabet. in general, influences of hebrew/aramaic on different types of judeo-arabic aren't consistent. you can read more about that here.

"judeo-arabic" isn't a universal that definitely happened in every arabic-speaking part of the world that had jews in it to the same degrees, but it did definitely exist. some examples:

after the siege of baghdad in 1258, where mongols killed all muslim baghdadis and spared baghdadis of other religions, bedouins from the south gradually resettled the city. this means that the "standard" sedentary dialect in the south is notably bedouin influenced, while dialects in the north are more notably influenced by eastern aramaic. christians and (when they lived there) jews in baghdad have dialects closer to what’s up north. within those, there's specific loans and quirks marking the differences between "christian" and "jewish".

yemenite jews faced some of the most persistent antisemitic persecution in the middle east, so yemeni jewish arabic was more of a city thing and often in the form of passwords/codewords to keep jews safe. jews were usually a lot safer and better-regarded in the countryside, so jewish yemeni arabic was much less of a thing there, and when it was, it was less "serious".

due to the long history of maghrebi immigration to palestine, there's attestation of maghrebi influences in arabic spoken by some palestinian jews with that origin. this was also a thing in cairo to some extent.

(i'd link sources, but most of them are in hebrew, i guess you'll have to trust me on this one??)

still, the phrase "judeo-arabic" is often used with the implication that it was one all encompassing thing (which it wasn't, as you can see), or that jews everywhere had it in some way. many jews who spoke some version of arabic special to their mostly-jewish locale may not have registered it as a specifically "jewish" version of arabic (though they did more often than not). the truth is that research about anything related to middle eastern and north african jews is often sloppy, nonexistent, and often motivated by the desire of the researcher to prove something about israel's colonization of palestine (on either "side" of the issue). this is not me being a centrist about the colonization of palestine, this is me stating that academia is often (even usually) influenced by factors that aren't getting the best and most accurate information about something. i don't think we're going to get anything really "objective" on arabic spoken by jews in that regard for a long while.

for comparison's sake: yiddish is considered a separate language from german due to 19th century yiddishists' efforts to "evolve" yiddish from dialect to language (yiddish-speaking jews were said to speak "corrupted german" historically; on that note sephardim were also said to speak "corrupted spanish"). this was at a time when ethnic nationalism was en vogue in europe and declaring a national language meant declaring your status as a sovereign nation (both metaphorically and literally). for yiddishists to assert that they were speaking a language and not a dialect that intrinsically tied them to germans was to reject the discrimination that they were facing. (besides, german/austrian/swiss jews weren't speaking yiddish (leaving it with the connotation of being the language of those icky ostjuden), yiddish-speaking jews had practically zero other ties to germany/austria/switzerland, and yiddish-speaking jews (let alone the yiddishists) were almost entirely east of germany/austria/switzerland, so it's not like they were pulling this out of their ass.)

whether a jewish person of arabic-speaking descent calls it "arabic", "judeo-arabic", or something like "moroccan"/"syrian"/etc depends on who you're talking to, where they're from (both diaspora origins and today), how old they are, and what they think about zionism. despite "judeo-arabic" being what it's called in academia, on the ground, there's no real strong consensus either way because the social circumstances arabic-speaking jews lived in didn't drive them to form a movement similar to yiddishists. (not because there was no discrimination, but because the political/social/linguistic circumstances were different.) the occupation since made the subject of middle eastern jews’ relation to the middle east a contentious topic considering the political and personal weight behind certain cultural identifiers. the term "judeo-arabic" is modern in comparison - whether it's a distinction dredged up by zionist academics to create separations that didn't really exist or a generally accurate term for a specific linguistic phenomenon is a decision i'll leave you to make.

[claudia-lioncourt]

what if we get one last lesdaughter moment before the horrors. what if he tells her he doesn’t regret her. what if.

[recurring-polynya]

Bleach Pilot Chapter/Bleach Ch. 98 A Star and a Stray Dog

I am in shambles.

[purplepenntapus]

I love how many of us unanimously agree that Zoro would use Wado to kill Sanji. Kitetsu is too aggressive, Enma is too ambitious. Wado is Zoro’s heart. Wado represents all the softest parts of him. Wado is promises kept and undying loyalty. Killing Sanji wouldn’t be a conquest, it would be a mercy—an act of love done for a friend who’s suffering.

Truly, Sanji asking Zoro to kill him was placing his heart in Zoro’s hands and trusting him to do what no one else on the crew would be able to. What can Zoro do besides return that with his own heart?

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou

older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.

instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.

“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.

“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”

you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.

and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.

“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.

“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.

“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.

“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.

[blue-likethebird]

The explanation for why totk’s story is so Not Great and how disconnected from its predecessor it feels being that the devs didn’t want to alienate new players who didn’t know anything about botw’s story just falls apart the more I think about it. Nothing from this stupid half a plot works unless the player is familiar with specific details from the better games that came before it.

The believability of Link and Zelda’s connection to each other hinges on you knowing about the nuance of their relationship in botw. The ancient sages fighting with the champions’ arms and divine beast helms will only be impactful to botw/aoc players because totk doesn’t bother to explain the significance of that callback at all. Fi’s cameo is meaningless unless you either got every memory in botw or finished the master trial dlc (and know about her from skyward sword). You’ll only get the full context of Teba being sidelined in favour of a 12-year old if you played a specific chapter of Age of Calamity’s second DLC. Like sorry but I think Nintendo just made a bad story tbh