#singular and unserious

[wondercircuit]

little pointe after a kick

[julietasgf]

how vesta was pulling up to that party pre-war in the capitol (to #me

[3416]

people constantly about keefe's coaching in the playoffs: he just panics and doesn't know what to do and blenders the lineup and it never works

people now that berube's got the 'stick with it' method: and why isn't the coach changing the entire lineup? blow up the only line consistently out scoring their opponent right when you're on the verge of winning a series, it's time

[sunshinejinx]

i finished watching buffy for the first time this week and it’s been a wild ride but something i feel genuinely surprised about is this idea that ppl have where spike falls into the dark, brooding, bad guy turned good trope. comparing him to the likes of draco, kylo ren, etc. it makes me rlly???? bc am i delusional? from season 2 onwards, spike always felt very funny to me; silly, goofy, light hearted. i mean he has a whole backstory about being a momma’s boy/terrible poet. effulgent!!! blooming onion lover?? a loser and malewife first for dru and later for buffy. even peak “evil” spike doesn’t want to go along w dru/angelus’ plan bc he likes this world too much!! n that’s long before he even has a soul! has moments where he can barely look buffy in the eye, gets tongue tied, “why haven’t you killed the slayer yet” good question adam!! maybe bc he loves the slayer!! get’s chained to a tub and let’s buffy feed him blood out of a ‘kiss the librarian’ mug. “great pumpkin’s on in 20” & can’t forget about passions!! asking joyce for the lil marshmallows for his hot cocoa while he tells her all about how dru broke his fragile little heart 😭 and and when he gets turned into a vampire so of course immediately his first thought is to travel the world w his lover + can’t forget about his mommy like !!! hello!!! are we watching the same show like he’s just a freaky little loser who luvs a girl bc duh who tf wouldn’t love buffy, she’s literally everything and he knows it too!

[claudiadpdl]

like this is both unbelievable and absolutely fucking hilarious. free press for iwtv s3 ig

opened twitter to see tswift fans calling lestat ugly and disgusting and sam a gross manchild playing a fuckass vampire........im confused (because the latter is very unnecessary) but at the same time this is also the exact sort of discourse that lestat would find himself in if he were real.

[nightbeforethend]

random bf!ateez texts // yunho

a/n: it’s been longer than I meant for it to be but I finally finished yunho’s which means there’s only two to go, I love to see it. Also didn't mean for jun han to catch a stray, I just needed a non-ateez skirt wearer and he was right there

warning(s): swearing, a singular unserious death threat, slightly suggestive if you include bottomless mimosa drunk mentions of getting a man pregnant as suggestive

seonghwa | hongjoong | yeosang | san | mingi | wooyoung | jongho

ateez masterlist | general masterlist

[forsaken-headcanons]

1x and Shedletsky headcanons :D

1x1x1x1 often calls Shedletsky “Telamon” instead because he knows it’ll fuck with his head. He rarely refers to him as Shedletsky.

Using the headcanon that 1x1x1x1 and Shedletsky are reflections (and the idea that Shedletsky cannot feel negative emotions because they automatically get transferred over to 1x1x1x1), 1x1x1x1 will occasionally do something that will tick Shedletsky off as the sudden boost in negative emotions fuels him.

1x1x1x1’s form destabilizes often, causing discomfort and occasionally slight pain if severe. They typically have to pause and wait for their form to destabilize, otherwise they risk collapsing.

Adopting another anon’s headcanon of the killers occasionally being chosen so often they become exhausted (and risk collapse), 1x1x1x1 has collapsed the most out of everyone due to nasty combinations of destabilization and exhaustion.

1x will very rarely (only if he’s been chosen as killer for 4+ consecutive matches) decide to rest instead of hunting the survivors down. The survivors have unanimously decided that they’d never tell 1x that they’ve found him curled up asleep on Planet Voss once.

Despite the constant fueling and energy 1x receives from negative emotions, he will still wear out after a while to prevent them from becoming basically an unstoppable force during matches. 1x despises sleeping, so he rarely does so unless he’s exhausted and not willing to risk destabilizing severely.

1x, despite being Shedletsky’s reflection, is still capable of feeling positive emotions. These emotions are mostly overshadowed by negative ones.

1x is always confused by compliments, his brain doesn’t really register the compliments. He’d rather be insulted.

Speaking of insults, 1x doesn’t care if he’s insulted. He loves insulting Shedletsky, though.

1x’s form destabilizes when he feels positive emotions, the severity of the emotion determines how destabilized he is.

The Spectre once decided to get rid of 1x’s negative emotions for one singular round. The survivors were rather surprised when 1x was slightly willing to communicate once, with a few laughing at 1x’s predicament. 1x has never destabilized as much as he has that day, being forced into unconsciousness once or twice that round.

Shedletsky occasionally will pull out an entire bucket of fried chicken and will stand silently eating it. No one knows where it comes from, not even Builderman.

Shedletsky is usually unserious, but he genuinely becomes unnerved as he’s reminded of his prior admin alias and what he did to uphold the reputation he built. He’s told almost no one (save Builderman and Dusekkar) of he and 1x’s history and 1x’s origins, and hopes it’ll stay that way.

Shedletsky emits cooing noises every once in a while, often to Builderman.

Shedletsky can and will fall for the trick used to harmlessly paralyze or put chickens to sleep.

Shedletsky’s dead body is most often found in the Peter griffin death pose.

Shedletsky isn’t sure if he regrets creating 1x or not, but he is annoyed by the fact he can’t feel negative emotions at all while 1x is still somehow capable of feeling few positive emotions.

Shedletsky once accidentally angered the Spectre so much the Spectre gave them two killers to deal with one round. They’ve all learned to never do it again.

- Guest 666 Anon

I get to use the Shedletsky death pose image again.

Wait, I can't find it. Let me just make a new one.

[punksyeet]

- I Hate You, I Love You 2 ❥

Plot: A singular apology is all it took. Did he mean it? Who knows. But it worked.

Warnings: Mature language, manipulation, toxicity, & filthy smut!

A/N: welcome to the second and final part of ihyily <3 i had so many different ideas for this to the point where it almost became another mini series but i fear i only have the mental capacity to write one at a time so this is a little lengthy dhdjejdjsjs 🫣 anywhooo (as stated in warnings) this part does contain some manipulation and toxicity, so please keep that in mind while reading. enjoy! 🤍

part one is here! <3

———————————————————————————————

** jon’s pov! **

the low hum of josh and i’s rental car takes over as i turn the corner of gianna’s block.

he offered to come along for moral support, but i quickly shut the idea down, knowing i’d be begging this woman for forgiveness at some point.

and while i love my brother to death, that mother fucker is as unserious and tease-loving as they come.

i can just hear it now.

“she got you whipped huh, big bro? big jim on his hands and knees for a whole woman.”

fuck nah.

as i pull up to the front of her place, a flood of memories start coming back.

all them nights where i would come home from a show, tired as hell.

she’d open the door and immediately embrace me, even when i ain’t get the chance to shower at the arena sometimes.

that same night would be filled with stolen kisses in the bath, naked massages, and love making until the sun rose the next morning.

if only i realized what i had at the time.

man i fucked up so bad.

but josh is right. i need to take this one last chance while it’s in front of me. one last chance to make shit right.

i need my lady again. and i intend on getting her back. tonight.

———————————————————————————————

** gianna’s pov! **

“can i get a sesame chicken combo with white rice, an egg roll on the side, and a quart of egg drop soup please?” i ask the woman on the phone, fiddling with the tie on my plush, light pink robe.

with unintentionally shutting down my mom earlier and, even cutting my toe on a piece of glass while cleaning the broken glass from my mini crashout up, today has been hell.

i mean, every day since jon walked out the door has been hell, but today was just shit.

and what way to make it better than with the one thing that will never betray me: food.

“of course,” she responds, a cheery tone in her voice. “and you said that’s for delivery right?”

“yes,” i reply, before confirming my address and giving her my debit card number.

the faint sound of acrylics tapping on a screen take over before she speaks up again. “perfect. your food should arrive within the next forty five minutes or so.”

i thank her and hang up, immediately tossing my phone to the side and getting up.

i head to the bathroom and, by the time i get there, the faint sound of knocks on my door make me freeze in my tracks.

the last person that came to visit me was….no, it can’t be.

i slowly walk back into the living room and peek outside my living room window.

a black suv is parked right outside.

but it’s not just any black suv.

it’s his.

my breath hitches in my throat.

there’s no way.

brushing away a tear that managed to slip away, i sniffle and take a deep breath before opening the door.

the sight i’m brought with is equivalent to repeatedly being punched in my ribs.

jonathan fatu. the liar. the cheater. the damn near forty year old that swears he’s still sixteen. with a bouquet of my favorite flowers, no less.

and like nothing has happened, like the last time i saw him wasn’t literal months ago, he clears his throat.

“hey girl,” he says, confidence oozing in his tone.

i blink in response.

hi? that’s all? fucking hi?

my nostrils flare and my grip on the doorknob gets tighter.

“can we talk?” he asks, the slightest bit of hope in his voice.

and then, my mouth moves faster than my brain.

“are you fucking crazy, jonathan?” i ask, the expression on my face giving away nothing, but telling him oh so much.

this time, he blinks in response, his face hanging out like a moron.

like he’s completely innocent.

like he’s the reason i haven’t been a bundle of depression since he walked out this exact door all those months ago.

“brother and i are in town for work and i…uh…” he mutters, looking down at the flowers. “i wanted to come see you.”

“for fucking what?” i ask, throwing up my hands. “eleven months later and you finally care to show your face again. what in god’s name could you possibly want from me?”

he takes a deep breath before looking back up at me. “just to talk. that’s all. i swear.”

i shake my head, letting out a soft but extremely bitter laugh. “no. no you don’t get to use those words anymore, jon. your ‘i swear’ means jack shit. just like everything else that comes out of that hole in your face.”

he licks his lower lip and blinks in response.

“so again i ask,” i continue. “why the fuck are you here?”

“ba-“

“don’t,” i cut him off. “don’t you dare.”

he takes another deep breath before nodding slightly. “gi i…i just wanted to talk to you. it’s been so long.”

i scoff, placing a hand on my hip. “you don’t say.”

he looks back down at the flowers before holding them out to me. “i need to apologize, gianna. i can’t live without you no more.”

“you seem to have done a great job of that for the last year,” i reply, looking him up and down.

he shakes his head, taking the hint and putting his arm back down. “baby i-“

“goodbye, jonathan.”

just seconds from the door closing, his foot appears between it and the door frame, causing me to look back up at him.

“i just wanna talk,” he says again, much deeper now.

“if you don’t wanna be put into early retirement, i suggest you move your bitch ass foot now.”

“just gimme a fuckin’ chance, man.”

i open it back up and give him a “bitch are you serious?” look.

“a chance? a chance, jonathan?” i spit out, stepping closer. “your lying, cheating, caniving ass is begging for a fucking chance?”

he runs a hand down his face. “aight aight, not a chance. just five minutes at least? please?”

i run a hand through my hair.

maybe if i give him this he’ll finally stay out of my life.

for good.

“five minutes,” i repeat, emphasizing the ‘five’, opening the door wider and standing aside.

he gives me a soft smile and walks in, stopping mid way to scan the living room.

when the door closes, the turns back around.

i lean against it and cross my arms over my chest, waiting.

“i like what you’ve done with the place,” he exclaims, nodding towards the kitchen, which i recently got redone due to the memories of us at home depot looking for renovation designs.

i roll my eyes and look back at him. “get to the point, dickhead.”

he licks his lower lip in attempt of hiding a shit eating smirk and steps closer.

i let out an exasperated sigh, now tapping my foot.

“aight uh…” he begins, placing the flowers on the banister of the stairs. “first off, i wanna let you know how bad i regret what i did.”

he stops again to run a hand over his face, subtly wiping away tears in the process.

when i show zero emotion, he continues.

“i know how bad i hurt you, bae. i didn’t understand it at the time, but i’m well aware now.”

i stare deep into his eyes, stroking my arm.

“the truth is, i never thought i was worthy of your love. hell, i still don’t. your perfect, gi. your loyal, kind, compassionate, you love unconditionally. and i ain’t worthy of that shit. i don’t deserve it. i never deserved you.”

“and you thought betraying me would change any of that?” i ask, tilting my head to the side slightly. “like turning your back on what we had would make you feel any better?”

when he’s silent, i speak up again.

“do you have any idea how much i loved you, jon? how much i fucking adored you?”

“yes,” he responds immediately. “i knew how much you loved me. and that’s why i walked away.”

i narrow my eyes in confusion.

“because i felt so undeserving of you, i ain’t wanna hurt you. you deserved so much better than me, gianna.”

i put up a hand, shaking my head. “so let me get this straight. instead of breaking up with me, you went out and cheated on me, thinking that it would hurt me less?”

he chews on his bottom lip, nodding slowly.

when i scoff and turn around for the doorknob, he reaches out to hold my waist.

“don’t,” i scold him, backing away from his touch. “don’t touch me.”

he sighs.

“you need to leave,” i continue. “now.”

“baby please,” he begs, walking closer and taking my hand and placing kisses on my knuckles. “gi, i’ve changed. i promise. lemme prove it to you. please.”

i pull my hand away and open the door. “get out, jon. i don’t ever wanna see you again.”

he scoffs. “you serious?”

“do i look like i’m joking?” i ask, mocking his bitchy tone.

his desperate expression turns into a bitter smirk, as he fixes the lid of his snapback. “aight, girl. i’ll leave.”

when he continues to stand there, i nod towards the door. “well? the door is wide open for you.”

he lets out a deep, breathy laugh, showcasing his beautiful smile. “just don’t call me when you’re craving this dick again.”

oh.

my expression fades as he leans in to press a wet kiss to my cheek and starts walking out.

i reach out and tug on his arm, to which he turns around.

i take a deep breath, scanning his body slowly.

fuck it.

with one swift motion, i pull him back in the house, close the door behind us, and pull him in by his chain.

from the second his lips touch mine, it all comes back.

except this time, it’s all the happy memories.

more specifically, how much he loved me. and i loved him.

“i missed these lips so much ma,” he breathes against my skin, dragging his tongue across my lower lip.

“shut the fuck up,” i scold, my voice just above a whisper.

he smirks and lifts me by my thighs, grabbing ahold of my ass and bringing us upstairs.

the kiss never breaks until he practically throws me on the bed.

i damn near drool all over myself when he begins to lift his shirt ever so slowly.

“hurry the fuck up and stop being a tease,” i demand, getting up and pulling it over his head.

he lets out a dark chuckle before pulling me in by my waist and flattening out his tongue to run down my neck.

“fuck jon,” i whisper as he sucks gently just below my ear.

“daddy could never forget your favorite spots little girl,” he mutters, undoing the tie on my robe.

i slide my arms out of it and throw it across the room, now showcasing my entire naked figure.

he pulls away and scans my body, licking his lips.

“even more sexy than i remember,” he growls, reaching out to caress my breasts.

i let out a whimper as he takes one of my nipples between his index finger and thumb, playfully squeezing it.

he smirks, biting his lower lip. “such a sensitive little girl.”

i reach up and pull him back in by his chain once more, claiming his lips and falling back onto the bed.

“get this shit off,” i demand, playing with the waistband of his boxers, which are ever so slightly peeking out of his black skinny jeans.

“yes ma’am,” he teases, placing a wet kiss on my lips before standing up and removing what’s rest of his clothes.

and from the second my eyes are reunited with him, i turn into putty on the mattress.

“look how excited he is,” jon teases, grabbing ahold of his length and sliding his tip between my folds. “he missed you, bae. we missed you.”

“j-jon please,” i beg, throwing my head back.

he smirks, grabbing my face with his free hand and forcing me to look into his eyes. “please what, mama? tell daddy whatchu need.”

i whimper, my eyelids fluttering closed, as he begins to push his tip in.

“f-uck me,” i reply, tugging on his chain. “p-please.”

he smirks, stroking my cheek. “sweetheart, you can be louder than that. what happened to that bitchy ass mouth, huh?”

“fuck meee!” i whine, bucking my hips and uncontrollably grinding against his tip. “i need you so bad, jon, fuck!”

“there she is,” he mutters against the shell of my ear. “my greedy girl.”

———————————————————————————————

the quiet sound of crickets outside my bedroom window takes over as i gently trace the tattoos on his arm.

“i missed you so bad bae,” he mutters, pressing deep kisses into my hair. “missed my pussy so much.”

when i don’t respond, he gently lifts my chin.

when my eyes meet his, his gaze immediately softens. “you alright?”

i nod gently. “just tired i guess.”

except that couldn’t be more of a lie.

i’m anything but tired, especially with the way he just fucked me like it was our first time all over again.

if anything, i’m on cloud nine.

what i really am though, is disappointed in myself.

why did i let him back in? how could i do this to myself?

he smiles softly and presses his lips to mine for a quick kiss. “get some sleep, ma. i ain’t leaving.”

i nod again and take a deep breath through my nose, laying my head back down on his chest.

———————————————————————————————

my eyelids slowly flutter open.

instead of a curtain with sunshine peeking through, i see nothing but darkness.

i look over at my alarm clock.

3:23 AM.

i sigh and attempt to roll over, the soreness from in between my legs immediately reminding me of what happened just hours ago.

i eventually make it to my side and go to cuddle deeper into his arms, only to be brought with empty sheets.

he’s gone. again.

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[greylittlebird]

“Stansas are illiterate and can’t handle canon” they say in the same sentence they insist Sansa called Arya “Horseface” (when that is clearly a misremembering) and say that Sansa “abused Arya to the point she ruined her self-esteem” when Sansa called Arya ugly literally once in a very unserious way during a fight, and Arya’s insecurity about her looks is about way more than Sansa.

Let’s start with Arya Horseface. In AGOT, in a paragraph that is otherwise entirely complaining about Sansa, Arya specifies that Jeyne used to call her Horseface. Not Sansa and Jeyne, not they, Jeyne. The only thing Arya constantly says about Sansa in relation to her own appearance is that Sansa is prettier than her (by her perception and other people’s). Not that Sansa “relentlessly bullied her” about her appearance, but that Sansa just is considered prettier and Arya is unfavorably compared to her by other people (mainly by implication in that Sansa is frequently complimented for her appearance and Arya isn’t).

It wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward. - A Game Of Thrones - Arya 1

One book later, Arya mentions this again and this time says vaguely “they” called her Arya Horseface. She’s no longer even thinking about who said it, just that someone did.

At Winterfell they had called her "Arya Horseface" and she'd thought nothing could be worse, but that was before the orphan boy Lommy Greenhands had named her "Lumpyhead." - A Clash of Kings - Arya 1

It’s not until later in ACOK that Arya says for the first time in the series that Sansa specifically called her Horseface.

She bit her lip, groping for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father's men once dubbed her Arya Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted. - A Clash of Kings - Arya IX

Also worth noting that in this same conversation, literally a couple lines before, Arya had to take a second to remember how old she is so that’s how reliable her memory is this first time she ever “remembers” that Sansa supposedly called her Horseface after mentioning it multiple times and never specifying Sansa said it. Of course she isn’t thinking about Jeyne Poole right now, she’s much more likely to attach that memory to someone associated with Jeyne who is one of the few people on her mind still at this point in her traumatic journey.

The lord regarded her. Only his eyes moved; they were very pale, the color of ice. "How old are you, child?"

She had to think for a moment to remember. "Ten." - A Clash of Kings - Arya IX

Moving on, the broader issue of Arya’s insecurity about her appearance is complicated. There’s not one singular cause for it. One is that Arya is an outsider partially because of her appearance being more Stark-like and less “Southern” which is the conventional standard in an imperialist society, similar to how the eurocentric beauty standards have become the convention in our post-colonized world. And in this world, not fitting that standard and there being any question about whether you’re a “real” member of the highest class is extremely perilous.

Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her. - A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Another factor is, as I said already, that adults around them consistently compliment Sansa’s appearance and not Arya’s. Some even go so far as to insult Arya’s appearance in comparison to Sansa.

Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands." When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith." - A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"Well," Arya said, "my hair's messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard." Robb wouldn't care about that, probably, but her mother would. Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies. Just thinking of it made Arya try to comb her hair with her fingers, but it was all tangles and mats, and all she did was tear some out. "I ruined that gown that Lady Smallwood gave me, and I don't sew so good." She chewed her lip. "I don't sew very well, I mean. Septa Mordane used to say I had a blacksmith's hands."

Gendry hooted. "Those soft little things?" he called out. "You couldn't even hold a hammer." - A Storm of Swords - Arya VII

The Blacksmith’s hands line from Septa Mordane (which fuck the Septa, all my homies hate the Septa) comes up again in Arya’s insecurities and her comparisons of herself to Sansa. But Sansa calling her “ugly and hairy like Hodor” that one time doesn’t.

Conclusion/Golden Child vs Scapegoat

I’m not arguing Sansa is completely innocent in Arya’s insecurity, clearly Sansa internalized and to an extent perpetuated these comparisons made by the adults around them and saw Arya as worse than her. But she didn’t start or create this dynamic. This is the classic Golden Child vs Scapegoat dynamic that harms both children and their relationship with each other. You can see this harm when in Sansa’s chapters (which Im not convinced these people actually read except to skim with Bad Faith), a lot of the reason she thinks negatively of Arya is because she is extremely anxious and worried about approval from others. Sansa is constantly worried about being “like Arya”, of becoming the Scapegoat. She is not confident or comfortable with herself either, in her own way Sansa is as insecure as Arya. When Sansa speaks up for herself in the slightest way and dares not to act like a perfectly submissive doll, the immediate response from adults is to weaponize the Scapegoating of Arya to shut her down.*

And Sansa projects that fear and insecurity onto Arya as she’s been taught to by Catelyn and Septa Mordane and others around them. Especially in moments of distress, her fear comes out as “I’m not like Arya, I’m the good one!” not because she’s an evil abuser but because the fear of being “like Arya” has been used to coercively control her. Obviously it’s shitty and unfair to Arya and you can dislike Sansa for it, but the fact is it’s also shitty and unfair to Sansa though perhaps to a “lesser” extent. That’s the nature of this type of abuse.

*as just one illustrative not exhaustive example of that, when Sansa literally just states the fact that Lady is a Direwolf and that her father, whose authority supersedes the Septa, said she could have her. And the immediate response is to denigrate her with an Arya comparison. This illustrates how pervasive this dynamic is in casual circumstances.

"She's not a dog, she's a direwolf," Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. "Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want."

The septa was not appeased. "You're a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you're as willful as your sister Arya." She scowled. - A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

It’s fair to say that Sansa treats Arya unfairly and contributes to the environment of bullying she experienced, and it’s fine to personally dislike her character for that. But to say that Arya’s insecurity about her apparence is because of Sansa “relentlessly bullying her” and that Sansa is an abuser comparable to Viserys (which they say no one actually said and Stansas are “whining and can’t read” but then immediately defended the comparison). And not blame the entire culture of patriarchal, oppressive adults around both girls is absurd and not what the text shows no matter how much y’all wanna say it’s “canon”. We never see Sansa tell Arya she’s ugly except, again, one time that was clearly a childish outburst and is never thought on seriously again. We never see her call Arya “Horseface” and most likely it’s a misremembering as I’ve illustrated.

And to pretend Sansa is not also a victim in this toxic dynamic created by Catelyn and Septa Mordane and the sexist society at large that demands all girls meet the impossible standards even Sansa can’t reach and be protected by at all (which is the point GRRM is making, Sansa unlike Arya fits all the standards and tries so hard to be what she’s supposed to be but still loses because there’s no winning this rigged game no matter how hard you try) is a highly biased and superficial reading. If you don’t like Sansa, if she reminds you of the girls who bullied you in Middle School and you aren’t interested in her perspective, that’s fine, but don’t try to tell her fans who have analyzed her far more in-depth than you have or are interested in ever doing that we’re “illiterate” just because you want to grossly exaggerate her flaws and their impact to suit your bias.

[starlitsequins]

ship discourse is unserious but the "who would treat fiddleford better" arguments on tumblr are crazy to me because have we all forgotten nuance? anyways here's a relationship analysis:

fiddauthor has its own unhealthy aspects because ford not only tunnel-visioned on his research to the point of dismissing fiddleford, he was also being actively isolated by his abuser (bill), who was turning the two against each other. and, at the same time, fiddleford was actively lying to ford about the memory gun, then used it on ford, a complete violation of trust. in alex hirsch's own words, fiddleford was like a yes-man to ford (until he wasnt), to the detriment of both of them.

but also they found solace in each other, as two outcasts with similar interests. even if ford could be dismissive at times with his gifts, its so clear that he valued fiddleford as his one friend, that they found so much enjoyment in each other's company in both college and in gravity falls. and ignoring that is doing them both a disservice! none of the hurt they inflicted on each other was done out of malice; they were being slowly broken down by the environment around them.

fiddlestan is more difficult to dissect for obvious reasons but comparing stan's past failed relationships to a hypothetical one with fiddleford is a moot point. we're working with a vastly different scenario here. stan would need fiddleford to stay in his desperation to save ford, and fiddleford could be easily guilt-tripped despite his trauma. would stan be an asshole to fiddleford? yeah, he would probably grow impatient with fiddleford's anxiety, and they would have very clashing personalities and interests, along with bad trust issues. fiddleford would be very reliant on the memory gun at this point, and they both would be at their mental lowest: it would not be an easy or healthy relationship.

but at the same time, it's not difficult to see how two very broken people could find solace in each other, especially due to a shared grief. its a unique situation that only they could understand, so of course it would make sense that fiddleford's desire to fix vs stan's abandonment issues would lead to something, for better or for worse. at the end of the day, they both understand the broken bonds of family and they both want to feel needed. it's not farfetched to speculate that they'd find comfort in each other.

anyways. i love these three very flawed, very hurt, and very human individuals. i think they're capable of causing each other a lot of pain. they do cause each other a lot of pain. but also they grow and they heal, and it pains me to see people reduce them to their singular actions. (but also the jokes are funny so yknow...i get it carry on)

[daisyblog]

Gogglebox

Our Story Masterlist Summary: YN and Louis on Gogglebox.

Based on this request.

YN is sat on the blanket covered sofa, waiting for Louis to return. “Louis? Are you in the kitchen?”.

Off screen Louis can be heard calling back. “Yeah!”.

“What have you got?”. YN asked, as she put her feet up on the coffee table in front of her.

“Minstrels…dry roasted peanuts…your favourite chocolate…everything Tiny”. Louis named a few of the snacks he had before throwing her the chocolate bar.

YN gave him a grateful smile and a thank you as he sat next to her. “This is why you’re my favourite older brother”.

Louis frowned as he processed what she had said. “I’m your only older brother!”.

“Exactly…my favourite”.

“In London”.

“Saw someone tweet that they hate Yorkshire tea”. YN’s voiced played over the outside of the London home.

Louis and YN shared the same disappointing look, appalled someone would say such a thing. “Yorkshire tea is the way for me…the bands old manager used to drink them Earl Grey’s”.

“Earl fookin’ Grey’s?”. YN repeated, judgement high in her voice. “What the fook is an Earl Grey?”.

“Horrible!”. Was the only singular words Louis had to describe the tea.

“Brother and sister, Louis and YN!”.

“Just have a cup of tea y’know what I mean…it’s like those fookin’ avocados…trendiest food of all times, it’s like if I have an avocado and tag it in me picture like y’know what I mean…I’m a boyo”. Louis rambled on about his hatred for avocados, as he sat on the sofa with one leg rested up on the table. YN had switched off slightly as she let him talk. “They do piss me off, avocados!”.

At the mention of the fruit, YN snapped out of her daydream. “Are you still going on about fookin’ avocados?”. A giggle escaped her lips, as she looked at Louis sitting on her left. “How many times have you said fookin’ avocados?”.

“Avocados…said it again!”. Louis cheekily raised his eyebrows in a teasing way.

---

“Do you watch this?”. Louis asked his sister, who was getting comfy under the blanket, referring to the program University Challenge.

Without her lips threatening a smile, she sarcastically replied. “Nah, I’ve always worried I’d be smarter than them”.

The minute the joke slipped form her mouth, Louis chuckled at shook his head lightly at his unserious she was. “Shut up you idiot!”.

On the University Challenge, the contestants were asked “Of unknown origin what three letter word dates to the 1920’s in the sense of a live performance by a musician or group?”.

Without hesitation at the mention of a group, YN answered. “One Direction!”.

“Three letter word Tiny”. Louis rolled his eyes at his sisters answer.

The female contestant answered correctly. “Gig is correct!”.

“You should have got that”. YN pointed out to Louis, who only playfully nudged her with his shoulder.

---

“Doctor Johnson referred to which English literally figure…”.

“If they don’t know it…then we don’t know it”. Louis pointed out as the contestants looked a little confused themselves.

“Shakespeare!”. YN said with confidence, not realising that it was correct.

When the male contestant answered “Shakespeare”, and was told he was correct.

YN and Louis jumped in their seats at the realisation that she was in fact correct. “WHEEEY!”. The cheered tougher, matching their identical smiles.

“You go Tiny!”. Louis encouraged his sister, proud that she had it correct, even if it was a guess.

YN wore a smug grin, internally shocked that she managed to answer one. “Look at me…brains of fookin’ Britain”.

---

“In London”.

“Have you seen how much they’re trying to push American football now in England?”. Loui voice played over the outside of the building.

YN stared at him like he’d asked her the most ridiculous question ever. “Do you really think I keep up with football gossip?”.

“Brother and sister, Louis and YN”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You might…you enjoy coming to the odd game…you loved the charity match when we were in the band”.

“Yeah ‘cause I had some eye candy to look at!”. YN defended her reasoning, the eye candy referring to Harry who she was currently starting to let back into her life after their break up.

“Fair…fair!”. Louis let the conversation slide.

---

As the start of The Haunting begins, YN asked Louis if he believes in ghosts.

“Not really y’know…do you?”. It wasn’t a conversation the siblings ever had.

“I’d like to think there’s something after death…y’know…so kinda”. YN explained.

“You’d be a little shit if you were a ghost…just playing fook with everyone!”. Louis pulled at his jeans, trying to get comfy.

YN giggled. “Like real life you mean?”.

“Exactly!”.

As the scenes of The Haunting played, Louis and YN’s eyes were glued to the screen, watching intensely at what was about to happen. “I hate scary stuff…don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight”.

As the woman on the program woke up and sat up in bed, the camera quickly panned to the end of the bed where a large creature was stood.

“AHHHH!”. YN jumped up, clinging onto the cushion beside her.

Her scream caused Louis to jump in his seat. “Fookin’ ‘ell Tiny…you scared me more than that bloody creature!”.

After YN had calmed down her racing heart, she couldn’t help but laugh at Louis. “M’sorry you know I hate scary films”.

“I think the whole street know after that fookin’ scream!”.

---

Naked Attention was the next show the siblings had to watch. At first they were reluctant but it was part of of the show, and decided to make a joke out of it.

When the presenter on the show asked for the lower half of the bodies to be revealed, Louis and YN remained silent, both note for the first time all evening.

Breaking the silence, Louis spoke. “Do you know what’s mad about this…like they could get turned away now…and that’s all they’ve done all day is get out of bed and go on the tv and get their fanny’s out”.

“And bums and boobs…don’t forget them”. YN ended her silence. “I mean they’re naked on tv…like everyone can see this…imagine their poor Nan comes across this”.

“Let’s be ‘onest you’d hope your Nan wouldn’t choose to watch it”. Louis gave YN a worried look.

“Hey you never know!”. YN burst into laughter as she managed to make Louis embarrassed.

“Essentially they go on here…get naked…show off their bits and bobs and hope to get a date…it’s just mad”. Louis couldn’t understand the show and how it was a thing.

YN was deep in thought. “At least they know before the date if he’s got a little di-“.

Louis was quick to interrupt and groan in horror at what his sister was about to say. “Alright…alright that’s enough!”.

Tag List:

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[holyblonded]

Estrella to her barca teammates : I’m a real adult, just last week I bought a vegetable.

— the entire locker room goes silent after estrella’s declaration

— “one vegetable? singular?” patri asks, raising an eyebrow

— “yup,” estrella nods proudly. “a real adult move”

— “what vegetable?” lucy asks, barely holding back her laughter

— estrella pauses for a second. “uh… a cucumber”

— “did you actually eat it?” frido squints at her suspiciously

— estrella shifts uncomfortably. “no…”

— kika groans. “so you just bought it and let it rot?”

— “it’s the thought that counts,” estrella argues, crossing her arms

— keira shakes her head. “this is the bare minimum, estrella”

— “nah, i think it’s impressive,” vicky chimes in, completely unserious. “she’s growing up so fast”

— “shut up, vicky”

— the teasing doesn’t stop all week. anytime estrella tries to act tough, someone will go, “this from the girl who thinks buying one vegetable makes her an adult?”

— estrella insists she’s gonna prove them wrong next time. “just wait, i’m gonna get two vegetables next time”

— “so ambitious,” ona deadpans

— estrella grins. “i know, right?”

[diodellet]

stress (jamil viper x gn!reader)

where: jamil sort of interrupts your self-care session, but makes up for it with fervent participation. all for mutual stress relief. content warnings: -bottom!reader -reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect ++confidants-to-bedmates(? lovers? there's hints of mutual pining if you squint), swearing, masturbation, fingering, foreplay galore, sex toys, so so much banter, reader is unserious, there is no plot here. assume everything here is safe, sane, and consensual. word count: 2.6k words minors do not interact

Alone time is sacred. Especially when your weekly agenda consists of you running to-and-fro across a magical campus, constantly being buried under tasks tedious and menial, and keeping egotistical mages from ripping out each others’ throats over affairs concerning the student body.

Well, a “thank you” made you feel less shitty at the end of the day.

Sure, a good nap could revitalize you.

Being treated to an actual meal instead of Mystery Shop brand-instant food was great. But, your alone time, you’d kill if anyone desecrated that.

A sigh leaves you. You click on a higher setting, angle the vibrator against a spot that has your thighs trembling. Your free hand plays with one of your nipples. You’re past fantasizing about phantom sensations and honeyed words.

For a brief moment, you think of firm and callused hands holding you down. Long silky hair brushing against your heated skin. Perceptive gray eyes drinking in your every reaction and the way you arched yourself for more stimulation. They are the last coherent thoughts that flicker through your synapses before your mind is overrun by the singular desire to rut until you come your brains out.

Sadly, the universe does not believe in the sanctity of your alone time.

The vibrations abruptly cut off.

This can’t be happening.

Not even left teetering on the delicious cusp of release, you’re dropped back into your body. Nerves hyperaware of each silicon inch of the toy as you pull it out of you. You click the button multiple times, confirming the worst—

“Stupid batteries. Fucking useless…” Similar curses strung together fall from your lips. You slip on a graphic tee and head to the bathroom, carrying the toy in one hand. 

Your phone powers on as you sit on the toilet, the device buzzes with the simultaneous arrival of message notifications. The sound is a mockery of your interrupted alone time.

Maybe you could rub one out in the shower… That thought will probably become more appealing in about fifteen minutes.

Your eyes catch the first line of a text preview that makes a cold pit open up in your stomach.

J. Viper: I am going to lose my mind. I’ve had it with…

Reading the full text doesn’t ease your worries. There isn’t any more of that dulled neediness tugging at the back of your mind. Your hands move automatically, dumping your cleaned toy and unused towel on your bed’s mattress. While slipping on the first set of bottoms you could reach for, you fire off a reply—Hey don’t say that and other similar placating messages—then pick up your discarded blazer off the floor before finally leaving your room.

[...]

“You’ve been making that face for a while now.”

“What face?” You ask, feigning obliviousness as you keep your attention focused on the electric kettle.

Maybe there was one exception to your need for alone time. Fitting, that it would be one of the few confidants you made in this place.

Never mind about the last thirty minutes before this moment. Like a switch, you’re back to being a dutiful errand-runner, a sympathetic listening ear.

(Once, Jamil called you one of the few other sensible people on Sages’ Island and you have yet to stop riding the high of that moment.)

“Like my being here is making you uncomfortable.”

No shit, Sherlock. Feeling his sharp gaze on top of the sensation of your clothes chafing against your oversensitive skin was uncomfy as fuck. “Look man, I could give you a mug of tea or we can open a new can of worms. I suggest you take the tea.” You lean back against the counter top and tug the end of your blazer a bit more protectively around you.

His lips press together in a thin line. “I can see myself out. Thank you for the offer, though.”

The sound of boiling water reaches its apex. In that split-second, you backtrack. “Wait—I’m sorry, I’m just, I was busy.” Your hand readjusts the pair of pajama pants you hastily threw on, index finger dipping just a fraction of an inch beneath the waistband. Your eyes don’t miss the way his gaze follows the movement of your wrist before it returns to rest itself atop the counter. “I’m not…uncomfy because you’re here. I was just nervous and—and I thought I could serve you tea instead of bothering you with my…current predicament.”

“Oh.” Very eloquent, you’d say the same thing if the positions were reversed.

“So, could we focus on you first? Over a cup of tea, as friends?”

The kettle finally calms down, announcing the newly-boiled water with a loud Clack! of its switch.

Jamil doesn’t immediately respond, scrutinizing you with an emotion you can’t parse. Until it settles onto one of faint interest. “We can have tea later.” He stands up and walks over to you, placing a hand on your waist. “Right now, I think we can both use some stress relief. If…you’ll have me, that is.”

“Really? I hear it’s better to talk things out though. Not that I wouldn’t be open to that second thing….” Your hand lays itself atop his.

“Oh, I’m sure this will be better for the both of—” He pauses, runs his fingertips along the expanse of your lower navel a second time to confirm. “—no underwear?”

Your cheeks warm. “Yes, shut up. I actually got worried for you—ah ah ah! No touching yet!” You slip out of his hold. “Give me five minutes to clean up or something, my room’s a mess.”

Jamil doesn’t let you escape so easily, arms coiling around your middle, your back against his chest. Close enough for him to mutter against your ear in a low voice. “There’s no point to that if we’re going to make a mess in the end.”

(And it’s unfair how the implication—the invitation hidden underneath that—stokes the fire in your gut anew, almost makes you ruin the set of bottoms you threw on.)

Any restraint either of you carried snaps once the lock to your room twists shut. Jamil tugs you close to him, pulling you into a fervent kiss. Once you shrug off your blazer, his hands slip under the hem of your t-shirt, teasing at the sensitive skin of your waist, hiking higher and higher—damn.

“Bed first,” you demand once you pull yourself free. You aren’t panting—you try to convince yourself—though one of your hands is fisted in the front of his hoodie. When he sits on your mattress, you get pulled straight into his lap. His fingers hook against the waistband of your pants, sliding them down to bare your thighs.

Basically, confirming what he already knew. Felt, rather. Your hips buck against his palm as he cups your groin.

“How long were you at it?” There’s a sly smirk pulling at his lip, like he’s pleased to have you and your need for pleasure resting in his hand. All for him to control.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you huff. “I was already—ngh—washing up when you messaged.���

His smile doesn’t abate. A finger slips into your entrance. “And you couldn’t find the time to properly dress yourself? I’m flattered.”

You’re about to fire off another retort, but the digit curls infuriatingly into a come-hither gesture, slowly rubbing against your inner walls. What leaves your throat instead is a soft, needy noise. “Come on, you’re gonna make me come too fast…”

“So?” And he keeps that irritatingly steady pace. Letting the pleasure in your lower stomach build and build, until you’re shaking from exertion. “Go ahead, then.”

“Mmgh, I want—”

“More? How greedy of you.” Another finger joins the first one, a delicious stretch against your insides combined with each thrust of his wrist.

“No, fuck….wait, I mean—” Words longer than two syllables were suddenly harder to manage. “—you, what about you…?”

“...Me?” 

Maybe, just maybe, your insistence on having mutual reciprocation was biting you in the ass, you’re right on the edge of sweet release. Just one more stroke against that bundle of nerves inside of you, or maybe if you just clenched down hard enough—

“...You’re too considerate, really. To someone like me.”

His words are soft, barely heard over your mounting need. Your insides throb in time with the beat of your heart. But your voice can only manage a dismayed whine when Jamil’s fingers pull out of you.

(That you’re still on the cusp of an orgasm is another thing, but it helps to have your head clearing up a bit.)

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides you, palms caressing the sides of your thighs. But the smile on his features tells you that he’s drinking in your hazy gaze, simply endeared at how you were reduced to neediness just from his touch. “You wouldn’t want this to end too quickly, would you?”

…he has a point. Your tongue wets your lower lip. “Lose the hoodie then, so—so we can continue.” One of your hands reaches for the hem of his top.

It’s no secret that you find Jamil Viper attractive. Hell, the way he carries himself suggests that even he knows it himself. At least sneaking a few glances gave you some plausible deniability. But in baring just a sliver of his midriff, you might as well have broadcasted the very thought.

Better to get that sorted out before getting him inside of you, right?

Your eyes trace the toned lines of his stomach, the lithe muscles of his arms, the way his loose ponytail hung artfully against his shoulder. Off his hoodie goes, joining your discarded pajama pants and blazer. 

“Easy, there.” The way he drawls your name has your stomach flipping somersaults. 

“I guess you look fine.” You could burn a hole through him with how hard you were staring.

“Mhm, sure.” A warm palm cups the back of your neck, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss. Tongue swiping against your bottom lip, pulling a surprised moan from you.

What else can you do but melt into it?

Even though the two of you were urged on by fervent need, there’s an undercurrent of tenderness—something more delicate than your mutual pent-upness—with each graze of your skin against his. You could barely hold a candle to Jamil’s seemingly-innate grace and sensuality, yet he meets each of your tentative touches without pulling away, as if insistent to keep your hands on him too. To keep at least some point of contact on you as much as possible. Your hand dips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, to palm at his hardening dick.

You’re rewarded with a languid roll of his hips. The painful yet pleasurable scrape of his canine against your lip. That needy sound bubbling up from his throat, only to be swallowed up with another feverish kiss.

You could live in this moment forever.

Until you fall back against the mattress and feel the shaft of your forgotten vibrator digging painfully into the small of your back.

“Ow!”

Jamil’s palm soothes against the pained area. “Are you alright?” 

(You could’ve sworn you felt his clothed erection twitch at the sound you made.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grunt, fumbling blindly for the culprit. Guess you forgot to put it back in your nightstand’s drawer.

Well, you were in a hurry.

Jamil eyes the discarded toy in your hand. “That shade of purple is…a choice.” Yet he accepts it when you pass it to him, telling him to compare it to his own.

Which earns you a flustered huff, no trace of genuine malice in the look he gives you.

“It matches the school colors, doesn’t it? Go, Night Ravens, go…or something…?”

“That is not how the cheer goes.” Your grin widens at the scowl sent in your direction, though his eyes are soft with fond exasperation. “Hand me that.”

 “The lube?” And that too.

Oh, forget your room, you were the mess all along.

(You sneak just a glance at his groin, he’s still sporting a half-erection, so hooray..? There may yet be hope for getting dicked down? Maybe you should have asked him to remove those first…)

“What else?” And he pours a copious amount onto the toy. Drawing your gaze to the way he curls his fingers around the shaft of the thing, how he gives it a slow and obscene pump to coat it with lube, sending a rush of heat through your frame.

“The batteries died, it’s useless.” Still, you spread your legs as he presses the slicked-up tip against your entrance.

Jamil keeps a hand on your knee, eases the vibrator in slowly—even though you’ve been more than sufficiently stretched out with his fingers. “Don’t need it to vibrate to fuck you.” 

Well, there wasn’t much arguing against that logic. “Then, please…please…!”

He adjusts his grip on the base of the toy, accidentally clicks the button as his pace quickens.

What you don’t expect is the sudden pulse of vibrations against your core, you’d snap your legs shut from surprise if Jamil wasn’t keeping you lightly pinned down.

“Mm, that was a nice sound…” The smile on his face is evil. 

“Oh, motherfucker, don’t tell me you’ve got—” Your words taper off into an embarrassingly loud whimper as he presses the vibrator against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Who’d have thought the thing kept one final spurt of energy, if not to spite you?

“Would you look at that? It still works.” The pressure doesn’t let up, in fact, he’s meeting each desperate buck of your hips, making sure that each thrust brings you closer and closer to that peak you’ve been aching for. 

Your own coherence, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. A choked sob falls from you, and your abdomen clenches, and—

“That’s right, just let go,” Jamil croons.

In those few moments, the batteries of your vibrator truly and finally breathe their last. It doesn’t stop Jamil from prolonging your release with gentle thrusts. You’re lost in the waves of your orgasm, each motion pulling a high-pitched keen from your throat when it tips into overstimulation. Vaguely, you’re aware of the sparks of pleasure radiating up your frame, the feeling of his free hand interlacing your fingers together.

You didn’t know the touch of another person could also feel so grounding.

“Mmgh…don’t pull it out yet.”

“I wasn’t going to. You’re holding onto it really tightly.” Jamil gives the vibrator a little tap which makes you squirm away from him.

You’re past embarrassment though, letting the sorely-craved happy hormones flow through you. Your nerves have calmed down just enough to pull out the used toy. This time, eliciting a pleased sigh from you.

This time you make sure to set it aside properly.

“...you’re quite the treasure, do you know that?”

There he goes with another of those quiet remarks, making your cheeks burn. “If you said that a while ago, I was too busy coming to hear it.”

“I said, you’re hopeless.” 

“Nooo, say it one more time, at least!”

“Don’t be insufferable.” Even as he says that, Jamil lets you clamber into his lap to cuddle against his chest.

“So…”

“Hm?”

You trail a suggestive palm against his inner thigh. “...would you want me to use my mouth or…”

Surprise flickers over Jamil’s expression, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. “Ready to go again this quickly?” But there was no denying the amusement coloring his voice.

It takes a bit of maneuvering for you to remove your t-shirt. “Well, you haven’t had your fill of stress relief yet.” Jamil’s palms steady themselves on your waist as you properly straddle him.

Were you basically propositioning him to use you as he saw fit? Maybe.

“I’m afraid I’m quite the insatiable type,” Jamil utters, leaning close to you, breath fanning across your lips. Maybe he means it as a warning, you know this reflex. You were guilty of it too, sometimes.

But if he could still look at you with such warmth and tenderness, sentiments you could easily reflect back onto him, then—

“That makes two of us.”

a/n: icb jamil just dodged the impending heart-to-heart talk and just wanted the spicy smuttenings 😤 like that'll stop me from writing more angst and hurt/comfort scenarios. anyways i hope this was an enjoyable read! thanks @jessamine-rose for betaing this with your (slightly less) sleep deprived eyes, your assistance makes editing so much less stressful. to all my readers, thanks for enjoying my silly writing, i hope to bring more this coming 2025!

tagging: @viperwhispered @twstgo @just-a-little-silly @bakedgrape @mama-m1na

@cataclyysmiic (hehe i think ull also enjoy this) @sillystr1ngs @scint1llat3

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies!)

[animereaderinsertwriter]

we give what we can give (and take what little we deserve)

ch 3

pairing: alpha!kakashi x omega!reader

tags: omegaverse, arranged marriage, angst and fluff and smut, plot twist!

description: Kakashi agrees to marry an omega princess-- the adopted daughter of the daimyo. However, what he agrees to and what he gets aren't exactly the same thing...

Excerpt: “You’re hurting me,” she cried, those glistening tears making glittery tracks down her cheeks. Her pain wrenched at his heart even as he held her fast. “Let go, let go!”

“If I let go, are you going to hit me?”

“No,” she sniffled piteously, and like a fool, Kakahshi let her go.

She poked him in the eye and made a break for the door.

masterlist

ao3

Kakashi woke with a splitting headache. 

He vaguely remembered having very public outdoor sex with his wife— his wife!— last night before leading her to where he currently lay for more of the same. Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, he’d decided that the living room floor of his father’s house was terribly uncomfortable, but had forced himself back to sleep, unwilling to face (Y/N) so early after the wild night they'd had. He vaguely remembered pleasing her with his hands and his cock, even once with his mouth— through his mask of course— and faded vignettes of him taking her over the coffee table haunted him. She had proved an excellent partner, willing but not desperate, laughing but not unserious; Kakashi found that she had a temperament suited to such general affability that she seemed all a dizzy dream. 

A dizzy dream whose laughter drifted towards him from the kitchen, along with the scent of fresh-made coffee. 

Kakashi sniffed more deeply, then felt himself flush from his chest to the tips of his ears. He smelled completely and utterly sexed out. It was obscene how strongly he smelled of her, and, embarrassed, he made to scuttle off and catch a shower before his bride noticed that he'd woken. 

He made it as far as the doorway before a voice called out to him. 

“Oi, Kaka-sensei! You're not even gonna stop and say hi?!”

Kakashi blinked. There was no way— was there? He padded back to the living room, following the smell of coffee, and found his loudest student seated at the dining room table, looking taller and broader and tanner than when Kakashi had last seen him. Across from Naruto, clothed in what Kakashi could only assume was the most expensive silk housecoat in the world, was (Y/N). The fabric of her robe was a deep, rich indigo, and he would be willing to bet that the suns and crescent moons embroidered in glittering patterns across it were made with real gold in the thread. Her eyes shone brightly as she gazed at him, and even with all her makeup gone and her hair visibly wet, she somehow managed to look for all the world like the royalty she was. 

“Maa, Naruto, I thought you were out training with Jiraiya-sensei,” Kakashi said by way of greeting. He affected his usual lazy slouch, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, knowing it would disguise his undercurrent of worry. Why was the kid back so soon?

“And I thought you were still a bachelor!” Naruto turned to (Y/N) with one of his blinding smiles. “Then I come home and hear you got hitched! And then I meet her, and turns out, she's a princess! A princess! I don't know how you managed it, but she's a princess!”

(Y/N) was hiding her face behind her cup, but her eyes betrayed her smile. Naruto was staring at her like she was a singular, glowing star. 

Kakashi withheld his sigh. 

“It was arranged for us,” he replied carefully, sliding his eyes over to his wife. “So I didn't manage it myself, not really.”

(Y/N) lowered her cup. Her smile was soft, her eyes tired— or, perhaps fond. Kakashi couldn't tell.

“Your sensei is humble. He is a war hero of Konoha, a seasoned veteran and wealthy heir.” As she spoke, her eyes never left him. Kakashi got the feeling that she calculated all in that gaze, saw right through to the core of him with little more than a look. “In terms of power, status, and reputation, he is more than an equal match for me.”

Her voice was strong with pride and approval. Naruto’s jaw dropped, evidently in awe that his “Kaka-sensei” could be so admired by a royal omega. Kakashi couldn't blame the kid. After all, “Kaka-sensei” was having a hard time wrapping his own head around it. 

“Coffee?” She offered him, gesturing to the pot of it that she had evidently made. “Naruto-kun was just telling me how you prefer it to tea.”

Against his will, the sharingan brought forth the memories of him watching her face as she choked the Mist nin. That snarling scowl overlayed her present calm and beauty, creating a strange creature with too many eyes and noses and mouths. Kakashi shook his head, willing the image away. 

“No thanks.” It would be a while yet before he would eat anything that he didn't watch her make himself. “I'm going to go shower.”

“Of course.” (Y/N) lowered her head to him, almost a dismissal, then paused. “Before you go, though— I thought you should know that some men came by earlier to see you. They wanted to update you on the ongoing investigation, so I told them that you would report to the Hokage’s office as soon as you were awake and ready.”

Kakashi's eyes did not bulge out of his head. He did not grit his teeth or clench his fist or give any outward indication of the cold fury that iced his veins. For all that, though, the fury remained, serving as a sharp reminder of why he hadn't wanted a wife in the first place. 

“That was not your place.” The words were not growled, simply spoken. “You should have woken me.”

(Y/N) blinked at him. Her brows knit slightly, creasing her smooth forehead. 

“If they had needed you, they would have woken you themselves, whether I wanted you woken or not— and as your bedfellow, I can assure you that you did not sleep well during the night. The floor, it seems, was not kind to either of us.” She paused as if daring him to argue. “I thought it best if you had time to regain your strength if their need was not urgent, and they agreed.”

Naruto was watching their exchange like a tennis match, whipping his head from one of them to the other. Kakashi very carefully did not lock his jaw, but did not soften his tone this time as he spoke. 

“It was not your place to decide that. I am a shinobi and my duty is to the village.” 

“True,” she countered, “but the village also has a duty to you and to your health. I was not the only one to make this decision, Kakashi-san. I thought you should rest; Yamato-san and Gai-san agreed.”

Naruto looked back at him expectantly, making no effort to hide his grin. No doubt the boy thought he was losing this… discussion, but there was nothing to lose. 

“Wake me next time.” That statement was not a request. “I need less rest than you might think.”

(Y/N) was silent. She looked at him with an unreadable expression— another mask, it seemed— then took a sip of her coffee. When she still did not reply, Kakashi considered the matter settled. Perhaps pride had stitched her mouth shut, preventing her from acknowledging orders. That was just as well. Kakashi didn't need speech from her. He needed obedience. 

Bonehead, a voice whispered in the back of his head. Boneheaded alpha, asking for submission. What's next, chaining her to the stove?

(Y/N) just kept on staring at him, unimpressed. Kakashi turned around, unable to bear looking at that beautiful, placid face for one more second. Scowling behind his mask, he stalked to his shower, grumbling internally the whole way. 

Several hours later, with leaves in his hair and moonlight in his eyes, Kakashi meandered home. 

Time on the training grounds had mellowed his earlier disgruntlement. As so often, a little physical exertion did wonders for his mental state. In the world there were vexations aplenty, but in battle, there was only jutsu. Even in a mock battle, the rest of the world fell away, and after— well, after, the world was usually kept at bay for just a little while longer on the trek home. 

Maybe it was his mood, but the village seemed to glow with unusual warmth as he made his way back to the compound. Strings of lights that had swayed above his head as a child twinkled merrily above him now; friends and neighbors huddled in and around one another, and the cool evening breeze carried the warmth of their bodies and commingling of their scents. Every day of his life, Kakashi woke knowing that there was nothing he would not do in defense of his village, but on nights like tonight, Konoha did him a similar kindness in turn. Konoha was home, a shelter, a solace. Kakashi loved Konoha, and Konoha, he felt, loved him back. The ever-present rustle of the leaves said so as he passed, murmuring their sweet hellos, dropping the occasional leaf overhead in fondness.

It was good, he thought, to notice the bounty of the village and give thanks, even when he'd rather be reading the new Icha Icha installment that was burning a hole in the pocket of his flack jacket. 

In his defense, he had thought to finish it earlier, during the battle for the bells. He'd wrongly assumed that Naruto and Sakura would have given him a few moments’ peace to do so. He should have known better. Those brats had never given him a moment’s peace. Still, though, it had  been good to spar with the kids again— another of Konoha’s gifts. It had been a while since Kakashi had stretched his legs, flexed his abilities. It had also been a while since he had lost. A little losing was good for the soul, he supposed, but it wouldn't do to make a habit of it. He'd need to redeem himself in their eyes soon. With a new jutsu, perhaps? He'd have to think on it. 

Kakashi was so reluctant to leave the night behind him that he was almost sad when he reached the front door of his father's home. Almost— except that the feeling was aborted with the realization that the door was left slightly ajar. Senses sharpening, Kakashi sniffed the air for foreign scents; he detected nothing, but that did not mean that something had not been there. With light steps and practiced movements, he slipped shadow-like into the house, cleared the room he entered. He repeated the process with the kitchen, then a bedroom, until he came to the end of the hall, where the door to the cellar has hanging slightly open on its hinges. As he neared, Kakashi stiffened— blood-scent tainted the air. With a careful, silent hand, he pressed the door until it opened, and his heart gave a painful lurch at what he saw. 

Lying on the floor was his wife, her face angled away from him. Blood— God, her blood— made a perfect, rust-red halo around her head. It was dry. A dim blue glow emanated from her, and it took Kakashi a moment to realize that it was chakra wire, not her ghostly manifestation, that caused it. With that realization, he understood perfectly what had happened. 

His next actions were swift, methodical. 

Check for pulse— find it, withhold relief until further examination. Sever chakra wire. Assess wounds— big scrape on the head, and ligature marks, bruises on extremities. Head wound moderate. Might need stitches—

At the gentle touch of his fingers to her forehead, (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Kakashi-san…”

Her voice was weak and rough. Kakashi summoned a flame with his fingers and checked her pupils. Yep, concussed alright. 

“Lay still,” he told her. “I'm going to summon Pakkun to get some medi-nin—”

“No.” 

Slow and, Kakashi imagined, aching, (Y/N) moved to sit up. Her eyes closed as she righted herself, but that was the only outward indication of her pain. When she turned her head to look at him, her eyes were intense, her expression unreadable. 

“I'm alright. I've had a concussion before.”

That was all she said. No questions, no panic. Only reassurance— for him! And she'd been concussed before? How? And what on earth had she been doing down here with the dirty great clan secret that was etched in seals across the far wall? 

Suspicious. 

“What happened?” 

“I was hungry,” she said. “You didn't have anything in the pantry, so I decided to look around. I came down here, then saw the wall, and I—”

She looked away, towards the warding seal on the wall across from them. The very same wall which would have shot a shock-filled chakra wire out to bind anyone who tried to break it that was not of Hatake blood. 

“I touched it. It was so beautiful, and I just—I didn't think it to be anything but art…”

At once, Kakashi felt hot with shame. What had he been thinking? This woman was no shinobi. He’d seen her chakra levels with the sharingan— she wouldn't have been able to activate the seal on purpose. In order for her to have mustered enough chakra to even trigger the seal’s effects, she would have had to have been having a strong emotional reaction. It was perfectly possible that if she had been excited by the art— or even irritated by her hunger— that it could have caused a surge in her chakra levels. More than that, if she had truly been poking around with the intent to gather intelligence on him, what would she have been doing in the cellar anyway? His personal effects in the other room would have been a better start. 

And besides… there really hadn't been any food. 

“I'm sorry. It was thoughtless to leave you here without stocking the kitchen first. If you're still hungry, there's a takeout place not too far from here…”

(Y/N) blinked. The look she gave him somehow made him feel even more ashamed. It was at once a look of reproach, reticence, and stubborn neutrality. Sulking, he might have called it, if he thought the description apt. 

“Thank you for your offer, husband— but I'm in no mood to walk.” 

Her voice was deceptively soft, but Kakashi heard the daggers in it anyway. 

“I meant that I would fetch it for you.”

“How thoughtful.” Kakashi was certain she thought nothing of the sort. “You’ll forgive me if I don't have much of an appetite at the moment.”

Kakashi frowned. The woman had to be starving. She'd had nothing to eat all day! Why was she being so stubborn?

“I insist. If you don't eat it now, you can always have it later. What kind of food do you like?”

“Kakashi-san, I don't want to eat anything right now.”

“I understand that.” Kakashi tried very hard not to grind his teeth. “Allow me to bring something home for you.”

“No.”

(Y/N)’s hands balled into fists at her side. She was making no effort not to grind her teeth— Kakashi could practically hear them crunch as her jaw tightened. Incredulous, he asked,

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to be alone in a house that has already tried to kill me!”

A hand flew to her head as though the force of her exclamation had rattled her brain, and Kakashi was immediately contrite. Of course she was frightened. She hadn't understood what had happened to her. For all she knew, the whole house was booby trapped. 

“It appears I've been thoughtless again.” Kakashi smoothed a hand against her temple. “Forgive me. I'm too used to giving orders and having them obeyed. I won't leave you here alone if you're uncomfortable with that, but you do need to eat.”

(Y/N) leaned into his touch. Her eyes closed, and her expression went slack. 

“M’not hungry,” she protested. “Really, I'm not.”

At that precise moment, her stomach let out a long, low growl. Her eyes opened, but she looked away, studiously avoiding Kakashi's gaze. 

“I'm not,” she insisted still, and Kakashi sighed. 

“I can send a clone for takeout. You wouldn't be alone then.”

She shook her head. 

“I wouldn't want to put you through the trouble of it.”

Kakashi smiled ruefully. 

“I'm going to have to make a clone anyway. Someone needs to stay up and watch after you, and I have a mission tomorrow.”

(Y/N) cocked her head to the side. 

“So soon?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. 

“Then I certainly don't want to trouble you more than I have to.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe— well, you say ration bars are awful, but they'll do the trick if you're hungry, won't they?”

Kakashi only just kept himself from laughing at the idea of a princess choking down a standard-issue ration bar. 

“You won't like it,” he warned her. 

“I've eaten a great many things that I've disliked.”

Not like this, Kakashi wanted to say, but he figured he'd let her find out on her own. 

“Here.” 

He reached into one of the pockets in his flak jacket and retrieved a ration bar. It was a little crushed from his tussle with Naruto and Sakura, but largely unharmed. (Y/N) took it from him and began gently unwrapping it, folding the sides down with care. Kakashi watched her, curious, as she raised the bar to her lips and carefully bit down. 

She didn't so much as flinch. 

“Not so bad.” Her eyebrows were raised as she took another bite. “Not great, but certainly not terrible.”

Kakashi said nothing. Clearly the head injury had rewired the part of her brain that told her when something was disgusting— nothing to be done for it, certainly. 

“The offer to grab you something from town is still on the table, if you'd like.”

She shook her head. 

“Thank you, but no. This is just fine, Kakashi-san.”

Bafflingly, she took another bite of the ration bar, unfazed. Between bites, she continued to talk, as sweet and casual as if nothing had happened at all.

“So— am I allowed to know what it is that your wall objected to regarding me?” 

Kakashi hesitated. Technically, what lay behind that wall was a clan secret… but also, (Y/N) was now technically also a member of the Hatake clan. In wartime, which might very well be soon, it could be useful to have someone who knew and could use it. 

“What you triggered was a seal painted on the wall.” Kakashi pulled a kunai from one of his pockets and sliced his right forefinger. With his other hand, he pulled (Y/N)’s unused hand to his own and began to trace the pattern of the seal. “You probably shouldn't have been able to trigger it because of your chakra levels, but if you were feeling… intensely, it's possible that your chakra surged and caused the seal to activate. Because you are not of my blood, it rejected your unwitting request to open and treated you as an enemy.”

“The wall can open?”

“Yes.” Kakashi inspected his handiwork, and in the process, smudged a line of the seal. He drew it again, allowing his throbbing finger to kiss the coolness of her palm. “It leads to an escape tunnel. Provisions are stocked along the way. There are several exits, but to follow it to its end is to go past the Fire Country’s borders. Come, press your hand to the wall now, and I'll show you how it works.”

She looked up at him reluctantly, but stood and allowed him to guide her to the wall. Once they were properly positioned, he pressed her bloodied hand against the seal and murmured, keying her handprint into the chakra. The wall shuddered, then peeled back, and (Y/N) flinched backwards, stumbling into Kakashi's chest. Darkness yawned before them, and the cold, dank scent of the tunnel bled out into the cellar. 

“It should recognize you now, should you ever need to use it. Chakra or not, it should know your touch. If anything were to happen to the village, you could gather as many civilians as you could find and direct them here. You could survive.”

(Y/N) looked at him, her expression unreadable once more. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

Her scent mingled with the tunnel’s, earth and damp mixing with green tea and foliage and fresh-falling rain. It wavered, as if trembling. 

“You may need to know it. The world is not as safe as it once was.” He reached out a hand, touched her shoulder. “And you are my wife. It is your right.”

Her scent quieted, and her expression calmed. Though her face was suddenly smooth, she wore no mask; hers was the face of duty understood, and she bowed low at the waist. 

“Thank you. You have given me a lot of trust. I won't fail you should that trust be tested, Kakashi-san.”

That was yet to be determined— but there was something in her manner, her upright, queenly air, that reassured him of it. 

Despite himself, Kakashi liked her more and more. 

“I hope the day never comes when you have to use it.” Kakashi placed his own hand over the bloodstain her hand had left, pulsing chakra to close the wall. The structure shuddered, then slid closed once more. “Come. I want to see you comfortable before I have to rest for my mission.”

Kakashi offered her his arm. She took it, and he guided her upstairs, back to the living room. Without thinking, he arranged the pillows on the loveseat, fluffed the cushions, pulled up something for her feet to rest on. That done, he summoned a clone, ignoring the faint pull of strain against his weakened chakra reserves. 

“You aren't supposed to sleep too solidly with a concussion,” he said, turning to (Y/N) once more. “He'll do his best to wake you when necessary, keep you company. If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me.”

He bowed shortly. She did the same. 

“Goodnight, husband.”

Her eyes on him were soft, like the faint touch of a feather against heated flesh. For a moment, a gentle pulse of want wracked him, and the sharingan summoned the image of her moonlit nakedness— but Kakashi resisted. His wife was was tired, injured. She hadn't even finished her ration bar. They were all but strangers, really. Tonight was not a night for those things. He was not sure if there would ever be a night for them.

That didn't stop him thinking about it, though. 

“Goodnight, wife.”

Kakashi turned and made his way to his bedroom. His feet were heavy against the hardwood floors, but each step got easier and easier to take until he was safely behind closed doors, able to collapse onto his mattress, flak jacket and all. 

One chapter, he thought, feeling his brand new Icha Icha dig into his ribs through his jacket. One chapter, to ease my mind. 

(It is never just one chapter.)

[whitehairandtraumatized-bracket]

White Hair and Trauma Brawl Round 1; Poll 39

remember, voting is based on swag, trauma, and favoritism!!

trauma and propaganda under the cut!

Trauma! 

Furina: Furina was brought into being as the non-divine half of a god who needed a body double during her 500 year long suicide plan. Her very first memories were of being informed by her god-self that she needed to keep up the ruse of being a real god for an indeterminate amount of time, or else everyone in the nation would be condemned to death by Heaven, leaving her to cry alone on her divine throne. Despite having a grand total of zero magical god powers (aside from not aging or dying,) Furina succeeded in making her subjects believe she was a real god, at the cost of being seen as a frivolous, unserious diva and never once being able to confide in another person lest she doom her whole civilization. At the end of her reign as a fake god, her ruse was uncovered by a group including her closest coworkers (she did not have friends.) who attempted to force her into revealing the truth through a public humiliation court trial in which Furina chose to kill herself on stage rather than break character (only to find that the method of presumed suicide was fake and not fatal, so she could continue having her performance picked apart.) After that, she was sentenced to death by her most trusted coworker and left sobbing in her chair as she believed she had failed and everyone was about to die. Even after everyone did not, in fact, die, Furina departed from her role as a god believing that everyone who had worked alongside her hated her for the act she put on, and she had no friends to lean on in her attempt to live as a normal human being. 

Bepo: He got very, very lost as a child. He’s been stranded among humans for a very long time. He spends so much time looking for his brother, only to eventually learn that he died a while ago. 

He watched his entire crew sink with their ship. His captain (the only one left) is badly hurt and he’s not sure what to do next. He just lost almost everything and everyone.

Propaganda!

Furina: Everyone needs an adorable girlprince failgod who was born to bear a nation’s sins in her fragile human heart. Despite having the exterior appearance and combat capabilities of a singular cream puff, she mustered up the courage and strength of will to serve as her people’s figurehead and unacknowledged savior for 500 interminable years. Even after centuries of unimaginable loneliness, abandoned by her divine self and locked behind the mask of a carefree god, Furina never lost sight of the selfless love that drove her to accept her role in the nation’s grand opera.  

Bepo: He’s a polar bear. He’s big and soft and cuddly. He’s also so, so sweet! He constantly apologises and has such little self-esteem, and yet he can become utterly ferocious for someone he loves. Did I mention he looks cute?

[kittycattscathy]

Costume analysis!

And I wanna analyze Mercutio’s French 2010 costume today. This purple one:

Under the cut because it’s gonna be long

The coat

Let’s start with the coat, the outer layer. It stands in stark contrast with Tybalt’s red coat in length and in cut as it’s more similar to what Romeo and Benvolio wear. This of course is to show that they are his friends and he shows his allegiance to them and the house Montague by wearing this coat. Even though he’s supposed to be a neutral party in this feud.

Let me go into the details of the coat a bit. In length it’s shorter than Romeo and Benvolio’s coats, but a bit longer than Tybalt’s, so a good in between. It’s decorated with the same rhinestones that grace the Montague coats. They are however only present on one lapel and on the right side on the bottom, more sparsely used. The lapels are unique in their shape, one more round, the other more spiky and no one else has such lapels. There’s slits at the end of the sleeves, again copying the style of Romeo and Benvolio’s coats.

Under the arm is also a slit which I believe is in reference to a 15th century fashion, called slashing. It’s something they would do so that the garment underneath would be visible and since at the time they all wore linen shirts and camicias it would be white. This underarm slashing also featured in the other coats, as seen here:

Now the fabric. It’s obviously shiny which fits him well, but I want to focus on the texture of it here. Romeo and Benvolio’s coat’s fabric is smooth, not textured safe for the rhinestones. Tybalt’s coat’s fabric is textured however. Now the fabric of Mercutio’s coat is also textured, but less so than Tybalt’s. It’s visible in close up pictures, but it’s also clear that the fabric isn’t smooth from further away. Once again, it’s a perfect mix of both sides.

The belt(s)

For some reason, Mercutio wears two belts copying the Montagues who also wear two belts. But where Romeo and Benvolio’s belts are black and not decorated, his are. It’s not easy to spot and it’s even more difficult to make out what the pattern is. But! I did find some decent pictures and could make out the patterns that Mercutio has on his belts. It’s upside down jolly rogers.

Of course I do dive into the symbolism now. The first association is pirates of course (which I don't really see how it relates to Mercutio. Do tell me if you think other tho). But! According to wikipedia Roger was a slang word for Penis. So a really sneaky dick pun, which fits Mercutio very well. The jolly Roger is upside down however. If the jolly Roger flag is flown upside down, it signifies 'give no quarter'; a declaration of lethal intent. Which he literally does declare in le duel. It of course has also been used as a symbol of anarchy and rebellion more recently. This ties in nicely with how Mercutio appears to be silly and unserious to everyone, but he actually is more than those things and he observes and knows more than you might think. (And if you know more about the symbolism of the jolly Roger, do tell me more.)

The shirt

The reference to historical fashion is more obvious here. The sleeves on Mercutio’s shirt are split in half, yet still connected at the top and bottom. This is meant to remind you of the overcoats, gowns and houppelandes with one long slash in the sleeves, revealing the garment underneath.

Now the garment Mercutio is wearing underneath is sheer mesh, modernising this 15th century fashion a lot. The collar of his shirt is the same in shape as Benvolio's and Tybalt's shirt. Romeo's collar is very different from theirs, but we're not here to talk about that. This collar and the strips where the buttons are, are in a darker shade than the rest of the shirt. Once again there are rhinestones on his shirt, looking like singular flames. Those flames are scattered all over the shirt — save for his left sleeve — unlike Romeo and Benvolio's rhinestone formations, which drip down the shoulders.

The cuffs on Mercutio's shirt are interesting. From what I can tell, they're completely covered in rhinestones. Only Romeo's cuffs are decorated with rhinestones too, which makes me think that Mercutio copied him. It's probably also supposed to show how he's in love with Romeo. But if you've seen the show you know that already without me ascribing this meaning to his cuffs. The second part that intrigues me is how there's jagged bits of fabric at the very end of his cuffs. The only other character whose fabric is cut jagged and uneven is death. This leads me to believe that this is supposed to show how he's marked for death since the beginning. It's a clever little detail.

The pants

His pants are fairly standard, not decorated or anything. From what I can see, they're most likely made out of jeans material or a similarly slighty thick fabric. In length, they go to about mid-calf, once again highlighting his in between-ness with his clothes. They're darker than the shirt and closer in colour to the coat, maybe even the same colour, but it's difficult to tell exactly. I think they're a bit lighter than the coat.

The shoes

They're black boots, similar to those the rest of the cast are wearing. But where the Capulets wear boots that go up just until the muscly part of the calf and the Montagues wear boots that go just above the ankles, Mercutio has boots that reach about the middle of the calf. Again showing how in between and not part of the feud he is, as with the coat.

So, all in all I think his costume in the 2010 version is showing, despite how he's not supposed to be a part of the feud, he is dressed more like his friends rather than completely different from anyone else, like his uncle is. The costume shows his obvious bias, while also showing his personality and role in the show. The purple he wears is not worn by anyone else, making him stand out among the crowd. It's all fascinating when you pull it apart like this and look at the different parts of it one at a time.

If you have more thoughts or ideas, I'd love to hear them.