#i literally only add the part after valentine's day the rest is correct

[sunglassesmish]

happy valentine's day

#my gifs #spn #spnedit #dean #destiel #not really but i made it destiel #spn 11x13 #i literally only add the part after valentine's day the rest is correct

[hobidreams]

Tonight | Jung Hoseok III {m}

pilot!hoseok, f2l, fluffy valentine’s day smut.

tonight, a single minute after the private jet reaches 36,000 feet in the air, your co-pilot flips on the auto and turns to you with a damnable smirk on his lips. “so,” hoseok says, spreading his legs wide so the fabric of his navy dress pants stretches across his taut thighs, inviting you to sit. “is this romantic or what?”

“or what,” you say but get up from your seat anyway, planting yourself on his lap. you push the brim of his cap back and it careens to the floor while you press your lips to his forehead with a small smile. “but i appreciate the effort.” he’s strung some pink fairy lights around the back of this tiny cockpit, plastered some self-cut paper hearts around the door frame.

his wide hands toy with the hem of your skirt, knowing you can’t take it off when the owner of the jet could summon either of you at any moment. but really, you’ve both done this enough times to know the man’s usually asleep through these flights; the layers of fabric simply add to the thrill.

“how’re you gonna reward me?” he asks.

“most handsomely, my good sir,” you tease, since he was the one who teared up last week when you watched Pride & Prejudice together on your first official date away from work, away from… these temptations.

“you know, you may laugh, but that kinda just turns me on.” he palms the outside of your thighs as he slides up, under the skirt (or taking it with him, really), to where heat gathers quick and urgent. “ugh, pantyhose again?”

“you know the regulations,” you murmur, though you’re interrupted by your own moan when he runs the tip of his nail lightly against the fragile seams, right over your clit. he presses down too, the bastard, knowing pressure makes you weak, squirming against the thick leg muscles beneath your skin.

“brought backups this time?” his tone is rushed, anticipatory.

“mhm. your lucky day.”

you hear it before you feel it: the ripping, the coming apart that you’ll be doing yourself soon enough. then he’s pulling your panties to the side, eager to see what he’s been denied for a few weeks. you’re proud to note he’s breathing heavier, eyes dilated at the sight.

“so lucky,” he exhales, urging you bare against the unabashed bulge in his pants. “fuck, you’re so…”

“so what?” you undo the button at his hips, ease the zipper tension. let the underside of your fingers drag across his briefs to feel him twitch.

“cruel. devilish. the death of me. pick your cliché.” impatiently, he pushes his hips forward, stiffening even more when you finally free him and curl your palm around the base.

“hmm. i’m gonna go with wet.”

with that, you plunge down, so he knows you’re telling the truth. and all you know is the thickness of him, that sweet, sweet feeling of being forced to acquiesce to his cock. you barely staunch the moan that wants to spill out, because you still have to maintain some façade of actually doing your job right now to the passengers just beyond the door.

hoseok doesn’t seem nearly so concerned, or maybe your cunt’s just too damn good, because he’s soon panting, “god, baby. move your hips.” he’s all pleasure beneath you when you do, letting you take the lead for about one and a half minutes before something in his veins screams at him to take over.

you are, as always, unable to resist. craving the wicked rhythm only he can bring.  

and as he bucks into you, he’s sure to spin his seat, give you a look over his shoulder, because you love to see the expanse of the sky spread out before you, the soft, air-puff clouds that got you in the cockpit to begin with. a random placement assigned you with hoseok for a single trip and the rest, well, has yet to be seen. for now, you have his hand curled loosely around the nape of your throat, the breathy groans of his losing control in your ear, and the tensing of his cock as he slams himself as deeply into you as you can take. you bury your face into his neck, unable to control your instinct to claim him with small bites along the skin exposed by the undone buttons of his white shirt.

“fuckin—so tight—” hoseok doesn’t even know where he’s kissing you. any place he can reach, really. just wants to be closer. closer.

it’s no surprise when you cum first, as he angles himself against your clit. it’s a favorite trick of his, even when it inevitably ends with his nice pants all messy with your slick. but it’s worth it, a hundred percent to feel you shiver in his arms. he’s not long after, creaming you with a final thrust that wedges against the most intimate part of you, right where you want him. you’re both left trying to suck in breath, covered (or stuffed, in your case) with evidence of a good time.

“by the way... i got you a present,” hoseok says, when you eventually pull back a few inches to catch his expression. he’s got that grin again, the one that got you into this trouble in the first place. still, you can’t look away when he’s always catching your eye, especially now, glowing from the sweat that sticks to his honey skin.

“you’re not going to say it’s your heart, are you?” (even though some teeny, tiny, very small, not-important-at-all part of you hopes it is.)

hoseok sticks his bottom lip out in a pout as he produces an anatomically correct stuffed heart, complete with aorta and arteries and a beady-eyed smile. “well, shit. now i’m gonna return it.”

“don’t you dare!” you grab at it, scrambling back to your seat before he even has time to flinch. “it’s mine now.”

tonight, hoseok watches you squish the heart, delighted at the strange cuteness at the literal organ, and he knows, he knows damn well that he couldn’t return the real thing even if he wanted to.

a/n: happy valentine’s day, my friends 💗 i hope you spend it with love, whether that’s love for yourself, your friends, or a significant other. all forms of love are beautiful & precious 💕

#bts smut #hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jung hoseok #j-hope #bts #rain writes #drabble #tonight #💓💓💓

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Water (Ethan x MC)

Warning: NSFW, 18+

A/N: I finally finished the Miami shower sex fic. It’s roughly ~5K words of nonsense, 60% is filth, and the urge to re-write it is strong, but here it is.

Enjoy!

~v~

Being in Miami with Naomi unnerves Ethan in ways he can’t articulate. They aren’t in the confines of the hospital, bound by the strict boss and subordinate boundaries he’s attempted to set for them. And while they’re in the city for a medical conference, he can’t help but feel like he’s just Ethan and she’s just Naomi.

Her presence is overwhelming and intoxicating. From the way she took charge and ordered them drinks on the plane, to the way her luggage spills over their shared hotel suite despite being checked in for less than 3 hours, to the way it feels effortless just walking along the beach with her, Ethan can’t escape her and the role she’s slipped into feels too familiar and comfortable, which actually gives off the opposite effect. It terrifies him.

“We’re in Miami, for goodness’s sake, our hotel is literally on the water, and we are going to the beach,” is what Naomi told him after she slipped out of her plane clothes and put on something more appropriate for the warm Miami weather. She didn’t give him any time to object–and boy did he want to–before catching his wrist and dragging him out of their hotel room.

And that’s how he ended up taking a walk on the beach, the hot sand sticking to his toes, Naomi by his side. For reasons he’s not ready to face, he can’t say no to her and it’s infuriating. But on the flip side, the way her cheeks turn up and eyes sparkle at the enjoyment of the little things like this make his insides twist, and he’s a prisoner to her happiness.

“Come on, we’re hundreds of miles away from the hospital, the beautiful sun is beaming down on us, and there’s nothing but warm sand and ocean breeze around us. You have to admit that this is nice,” Naomi urges, poking Ethan in between the ribs.

They came to Miami on a mission, and that was to get help for Naveen and also fulfill his duties to the hospital. Frolicking on the beach was nowhere on the agenda.

“We’re here for work. And besides, I could be spending this time catching up on sleep or enjoying our air conditioned suite. That’s my definition of nice.”

“I swear, you probably came out of the womb a grumpy old man,” Naomi teases. “At least try to unwind.”

“The fact that you managed to drag me out here is testimony enough, don’t you think?”

“Nope,” Naomi says, leaving no room for debate. This is one of those times where Ethan isn’t all that enamored by her stubbornness.She sits down in the sand, throwing down her sandals. She extends a hand, and after a few seconds Ethan sighs and begrudgingly accepts it, allowing her to pull him down as well.

“Now close your eyes,” Naomi orders, watching Ethan closely to see if he listens. Once he realizes that she isn’t going to stop glaring at him, he closes them. “Thank you.”

“I’m only doing this so you’ll eventually leave me alone.”

“Always the fuddy duddy. Can you sit in complete and utter silence for 10 seconds? Please?”

Something about the way she says that word only adds to the list of things she does that make him uneasy. Only because he hates the way he responds to her plea, something stirring in the pit of his stomach.

It’s hard for him to handle the stillness of the moment. He’s gotten too used to always moving, always having something to do, but he sucks it up and tries.

“When was the last time you took a vacation?” Naomi asks.

“Is it bad to say I don’t know?”

“Yes. I’d kill to have your vacation days.”

“Well what about you?”

“I went to Aspen with my family for Christmas last year,” Naomi replies. “We used to go on at least one vacation a year when I was a kid. I don’t know how much of that I’ll be doing with my residency, but it’s nice to get away, even if it’s for a few days, you know?”

“I do. I think it’s been a solid three years since I had a real vacation. I went to Italy.”

“Rome?”

“Florence.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Of course.” Ethan feels her thumb trace a circle on the inside of his palm, and that’s when he notices that they never stopped holding hands when she pulled him down, and his pulse skitters. Part of him believes Naomi doesn’t notice she’s doing it, so he stays silent.

“Do you speak Italian?”

“I’m fluent in all of the Romance languages,” Ethan admits.

Naomi scoffs and playfully nudges him with her shoulder. “No one likes a show-off, polyglot.”

“What about you?”

“I speak very minimal French. My grandma taught me some basics when I was a kid and spent my summers with her, and I tried to fine tune my skills in high school, but I’m not fluent.”

This is the first time he’s heard her talk about her family, even a little bit, and he clings to the information as if it’s precious.

This time when the conversation tapers, Ethan actually doesn’t mind the silence, and he revels in the presence of the pretty intern beside him, her hand still warm in his.

“I should’ve booked you a spa treatment,” is how Naomi eventually breaks the silence. Ethan’s eyes snap up and he stares at her. “What?”

“I don’t think I’m a spa treatment kind of guy.”

“The sauna could be nice. Or a mud bath.”

“You’re such a comedian, Rookie.”

“I’m serious!” Naomi leans forward and presses her thumb between his eyebrows, gently massaging the crease. “I think a day at the spa would be good for you. Relatively speaking, you’re too young to be getting wrinkles.”

“What does that mean, relatively speaking?”

“You’re young in comparison to the average life span, but compared to me you’re…”

Ethan raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Are you trying to call me old?”

“It’s fine,” Naomi assures him. “Lucky for you, I like older guys.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, Naomi realizes her grave mistake. She’s said too much, revealed her slip, and the double meaning of the sentence hangs in the air between them. Ethan’s eyes widen. His eyes fall on their still interlocked fingers before flitting back to her face, and that’s when Naomi notices that they’ve been holding hands. This entire time.

Ethan leans forward, until their faces are mere centimeters apart. Feeling bold, he takes one of her loose ringlets, curling it around his finger.

“Ethan, I–”

He stands so abruptly, Naomi almost falls over but she catches herself with her hands.

Ethan clears his throat, trying to center himself. What the hell was he thinking, nearly kissing his intern? How did he get so caught up that he almost crossed that line?”

Naomi stands up, wiping off the back of her shorts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Dr. Valentine.”

The name change feels like a physical strike. He hasn’t called her by her formal title the entire time they’ve been out here, but now she’s back to Dr. Valentine?

“Are you sure because I could’ve sworn that you were about to–”

“You know what? I think I’ve had enough of this beach excursion for the day, and I’m going to rest before we have to go to the party later on?”

A party? Where the fuck did that come from? “Ethan, slow down. A party? What party are you talking about?”

“Every year there’s a party hosted in conjunction with the party. It’s a black tie event, so please dress accordingly. See you later.”

His long legs carry him away before she can even reply, and he’s trudging back to the hotel, leaving Naomi more confused than she was ten minutes ago.

They were sharing a moment and Ethan was going to kiss her…right? This isn’t some fever dream, she didn’t just make that up, it is a fact. And just as fast as they were connecting, he put up a wall and shut her out.

She sits down again, ruminating over the situation and trying to wrap her head around it all.

After a while, annoyance forms in the pit of her stomach. Ethan doesn’t get to just play with her like a ping pong. And if she misread the situation, he should be big enough to tell her that to her face, not run off. And the more she thinks about it, the more she stews, and the annoyance turns into anger simmering under her skin. She stands, brimming with righteous indignation. He doesn’t get to walk away from her, and she’s going to tell him as such.

The trek back to the hotel only makes her angrier, because she only has time and opportunity to think, especially with the long elevator ride up to their suite. Once she makes it to the room and the door shuts behind her, she hears some shuffling around coming from the en-suite as well as running water.

“Ethan, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you need to explain whatever that was on the beach,” Naomi starts. She doesn’t get an immediate response from him. “The walls aren’t that freaking thick, I know you can hear me.” She inches closer to the door and notices that it’s been left slightly ajar. “And you left the door open, genius. Now I really know you can hear me.”

Maybe the walls really are that thick because she thinks she hears him talking, but it’s muffled. She almost lets it go until she hears a gruff, “Naomi!” come from the other side of the door.

So he can hear her. Good! Because she has a lot to say. She doesn’t give it a second thought, she charges towards the bathroom and forcefully pushes open the door.

What on earth was she thinking, barging into the bathroom like a bat out of hell?

The correct answer to that is she wasn’t thinking, fueled only by her need to argue with the infuriating man who left her on the beach like an idiot.

And now she’s standing in front of him and he’s stark naked.

The professional clothes and the white coat he wears at the hospital do an amazing job of keeping him contained, but here in this bathroom, Naomi realizes for the first time just how massive this man is. Tall isn’t enough of a description. His wide shoulders lead down to powerful arms, all corded muscle and tension. His chest, those defined pecs and a six-pack. Of course he’d be built like this underneath those clothes. Like a Greek fucking god. Of course.

That still isn’t what steals her breath straight from her body. It’s his hand, strong and powerful, wrapped around the base of his cock.

She should really say something. Apologize profusely. Beg to keep her spot in the competition, beg to keep her job at Edenbrook period. But she can’t. Any form of coherent or rational thought has been banished from her brain, and this soaking wet image of her boss is the only thing running through her mind.

Dr. Ethan Ramsey masturbates.

And if he’s still thinking about the moment they shared less than an hour ago, coupled with the fact that she heard him call out her name, it’s safe to assume that Dr. Ethan Ramsey masturbates to thoughts of her.

The realization makes her flame, and Naomi swears her body temperature has spiked to near feverish. And the fact that Ethan isn’t doing anything to right the situation—putting his hands in a more appropriate place, saying something, yelling at her to leave—only makes things more insane. He keeps his eyes fixed on her, his gaze so intense, she swears he can see her brain.

The angel on Naomi’s shoulder is screaming at her to stop gawking at him like some fish out of water, but she can’t. Now that she’s seen him, really seen him, she doesn’t know how she’ll ever go back to him being anything other than this, six feet, five inches, 200 pounds of pure unadultered sex.

The urge to touch him is so strong, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to do anything else until her hands are on him.

Swallowing whatever nerves are trying to creep up, Naomi takes a tentative step forward, and reaches for the glass door. The glass pane slides away so slowly, she almost wonders if it’s her subconscious giving her enough time to bolt before she makes even more of an ass of herself, but she ignores whatever annoying voice in her head is telling her to go.

“I’m not an idiot, Ethan. I’m not naive, and I’m not blind.” Naomi takes another step forward, the steam of the shower and a light spray of warm water hitting her face. Gingerly, her hand finds purchase on his chest, and they settle on his left pec.

His heart is beating so wildly, Naomi actually gasps at the erratic thumping beneath her fingertips. “Naomi–”

“I was so confused earlier,” Naomi confesses. “I thought you and I had been vibing these past few weeks, I thought you and I actually had something. And then we had our near first kiss earlier, but you pushed me away and ran off faster than a lightning strike, and I was hurt, and convinced that I completely misread the situation. So imagine my surprise when I walk in on this. You are horribly affected by me.”

“Naomi.” The way he says her name is so much rougher than it was previously, and it sends a shiver down her spine. Yup. So affected.

“It’s okay though, you don’t even have to say anything,” she continues. Taking Ethan’s free hand, she places it on her own chest so Ethan can feel her own erratic heartbeat. “Because trust me, I feel the exact same way.”

He doesn’t say anything else, opting to pull her in by the front of her t-shirt instead, what very little restraint he had over himself gone in this instant. The full blast of water comes as a shock, but Naomi can’t even react to it before Ethan slants his mouth over hers, pulling her into a bruising kiss.

The first thing she notices is just how rough his stubble is as it scrapes her mouth. The second thing is she probably would have fallen over due to how forcefully he pulled her into the shower, and she’s thankful his grip on her is as tight as it is.

Fireworks. A million fireworks going off at the same time. That’s what kissing Ethan feels like.

He sets the pace, but she kisses him back with just as much fervor. He kisses her like they have all the time in the world and none at all, passionate and intense, like he wants to devour her.

Her lungs protest against this endeavor, practically begging her to inhale something other than Ethan. But she doesn’t want to stop kissing him, even if it’s just for a second.

Thankfully Ethan makes the first move to separate them, breaking the kiss. His tongue licks along her neck and her head falls back in pleasure. So caught up in their kiss, it’s easy for Naomi to forget that she’s fully clothed, Ethan tugging at the fabric of her shirt quickly reminding her.

The water has the clothes clinging to her like a second skin, and Naomi giggles at the frustrated huffs Ethan lets out in his quest to undress her. The giggle turns into a full on squeal as she hears the telltale sound of a rip as her t-shirt ends up on the shower floor, followed by her shorts, and Naomi has to kick off her sandals to assist.

Once her clothes are in a sopping wet heap on the floor, Ethan regains control of the situation. Naomi’s back is pressed against the cold marble wall and Ethan’s mouth is on hers again, bruising and hard. It’s almost like he wants to punish her through his kisses.

“I have tried my absolute hardest to keep you at arms length,” is the first full sentence he’s said since Naomi entered the bathroom. “I compartmentalize my feelings for you, I am constantly reminding myself of our power dynamic. And you just keep inching your way closer at every single turn despite my best efforts.”

Naomi hums in reply. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been trying to keep me away in the first place.”

He’s kept her away because he knew. Ethan knew Naomi would find a way to get under his skin, leaving him to feel open and raw like he just got scrubbed with sandpaper. Having her like this is a fantasy come true, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that once this line is crossed, he’ll never want to go back. He can be a selfish bastard sometimes.

“If we do this then–”

“I’m a big girl, Ethan,” Naomi assures him. One of her hands reaches in the tiny space between them, and she grips his erection. Ethan shudders and leans forward, crowding her space even more as she strokes him at a leisurely pace. “And we can talk about all of the messy stuff later, but right now, talking is the last thing on my mind.”

“Alright, Rookie. Enough talking.”

Her underwear is off before another word can be uttered.

Naomi isn’t sure what she was expecting, but he slides two fingers inside of her before she can think, and the sharp intrusion leaves her gasping. Ethan doesn’t treat her with kid gloves, the quite opposite actually. Whatever sound she’s going to make, he quickly swallows with a kiss.

Naomi is expressive. It’s one of the first things Ethan noticed about her. She’s going to be seen and heard at all times, and that extends to the bedroom. And since he has effectively cut her off with a kiss, Naomi sinks her nails into him, one set on his shoulder, the others raking through his hair, urging him to continue his ministrations. Good.

He breaks the kiss, leaving a trail of tiny kisses and bites along her jaw, neck, and collarbone, paying special attention to her nipples, lavishing them with his tongue. He drops to his knees in front of her, urging her to lean backwards against the wall behind them and Naomi does so without an ounce of hesitation.

The one hand not currently playing her like a fiddle runs along the smooth expanse of her curves, tracing every dimple and mark he can find. He does this until his eyes fall on the tiny tattoo marking her skin, resting on her hip. “I never took you as a tattoo kind of girl.”

“I have a few secrets left to tell, Ramsey.”

“Why on your hip?”

“My parents would’ve killed me if I got it somewhere visible,” Naomi explains breathlessly as Ethan continues to stroke her, slowly coaxing her towards an orgasm.

Ethan places a kiss on her left hip, right below the tattoo as if it’s to be revered before sucking a mark on it. Something to remember him by.

“Naomi?”

“Hmm?”

“Eyes on me,” Ethan commands her. It’s a tough task because the steam and the water have made it difficult to see and she would enjoy nothing more than to close her eyes and fully revel in what he’s doing to her, but they manage to lock eyes. “Good girl.”

The first swipe of his tongue against her makes her legs buckle, but thankfully Ethan keeps her upright.

His fingers curl inside of her, and Naomi swears her vision goes blurry for a second, but not once do her eyes waver from his. Ocean blue irises hold her gaze, and she feels like they’re burning her from the inside out. Everything is hot, too hot, but at the same time she feels like she might go insane without it.

The strokes are slow and languid. In, out, curl, twist, keeping pace with the way his tongue laves against her clit. Soon her breathless whimpers become more ragged, more labored and she grabs a handful of Ethan’s hair, tugging it so hard, she’d worry about actually pulling it out if she cared about anything other than finding the edge of the cliff he’s so close to pushing her off. Ethan can tell she’s close. The incessant tugging at his scalp, the increasingly louder moans, and the way her hand slaps against the wet tile.

She knows it’s coming, but her orgasm takes her by surprise, pleasure seizing her at the base of her spine. Her legs tense up and her entire body falls forward, taking Ethan with her. He cushions her fall, and they both land with a hard thud.

Naomi giggles again. And soon that giggle becomes a full on laugh, so uncontrollable that Ethan wonders if she’s snapped.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never…fallen over during sex before,” saying that out loud makes her laugh again.

“And is this a good thing?”

Naomi leans forward and kisses Ethan, smiling through it. “We’ll you’re the first guy to ever make my legs give out in the middle of an orgasm so…yes. I’d say it’s a very good thing.”

Well that is a healthy ego boost, Ethan thinks to himself. “Good to know.”

When blood circulation has returned to her legs, Naomi stands up, pulling Ethan along with her. She deposits him on the spacious bench built in along the back wall of the shower and he falls onto the seat with a hard thud.

He watches through hooded lids as Naomi straddles him, undulating against him in a way that makes him want to take control and bury himself to the hilt inside her.

“Question for you, Ethan Ramsey,” Naomi starts.

“Answer for you, Naomi Valentine.”

“When I walked in here, were you thinking about me? Was I the subject in your dirty little fantasy?”

“Always,” Ethan is shocked by how breathless the answer comes out, but at this point, pride and ego aren’t needed. Not when they’re like this. “Since day one, I have been consumed with nothing but thoughts of you.”

“Mhmm, what was I doing in this particular fantasy?” Naomi asks. She takes him into her hands, and at a tortuous pace, rubs the swollen tip of his erection against her clit, drawing out a moan from the older man.

His memory fails him. Nothing he conjures up in his head will ever be comparable to the sight of a naked Naomi in his lap. She’s so beautiful, water droplets clinging to her skin, lips kiss swollen, loose strands of hair clinging to the sides of her face, her round cheeks flushed.

He doesn’t remember what the fantasy entailed, he just knew this woman’s presence was so overwhelming, if he didn’t expel some of the tension, he wouldn’t survive going to a black tie event with her.

“I don’t know. I don’t care,” Ethan says honestly. “The real you is so much better.”

“I think I like that answer.”

Ethan lifts her by the hips and in one smooth thrust, he’s fully sheathed inside of her. He notices that way Naomi’s eyes are fixed on where they’re joined, glazed over by pleasure and he’s never seen something so erotic.

She starts to move, slowly at first because she’s still way too sensitive from her last orgasm to do anything else. But the slow pace she sets does nothing to ease her, it only makes things worse. Every slow glide, every brush of his pelvis against her is magnified tenfold, and the heat she felt earlier has turned into a bull blown inferno, consuming every inch of her. But now, the only way out is through, and she’s trapped in a delicious purgatory until the next wave hits. It only intensifies when Ethan’s mouth closes around one of her nipples, sucking fiercely. “Oh, fuck.”

He releases the bud with a soft ‘pop’, pulling a soft groan from her lips. Her head falls back, but Ethan catches a fistful of her hair and drags her back, forcing her to make eye contact. “Eyes on me, Rookie. I want to see your face.”

The tiny pinpricks of pain at her scalp give way to pleasure as his grip on her tightens. “Harder.”

Ethan smirks and wordlessly obeys the order, pulling Naomi’s hair even harder as she moans. Huh. He’s going to tuck this information away for a later date and time.

The hand not holding her hair goes back to her hip and he squeezes tightly before guiding her up and down. And that’s when the pressure starts building again, up, and up, and up, until the only sounds that can be heard are the obscene slaps of their wet skin and her broken whimpers. His hand leaves her hip, not having to move far before his thumb is on her clit, working it in soft circles.

Naomi comes so hard, her teeth chatter and she’s almost afraid of cracking them. Unable to keep up the eye contact, she leans forward, resting her forehead against his. He gives her a second to catch her breath before he rocks into her, trying to chase his own release.

“Naomi, I…fucking I’m going to–”

She nods, understanding exactly what he’s trying to say. She bites down on his earlobe, tugging. “Inside me.” Then she kisses the patch of skin right below his ear and grinds against him once more. “Or on the tattoo.”

Holy fuck. That alone sets him off like a bottle rocket. He bites down on her shoulder hard enough to break skin.

His heart beats so wildly, he doesn’t know if it will ever return to its normal resting state. With his arms wrapped around her like this, he wonders if this is their new normal. How that he’s been with her like this, how on earth will she go back to being his subordinate. Everything about her feels like euphoria, her taste, her touch, her scent is embedded in him, so deep in his skin, she might as well be woven into his DNA. But the thing about it is, he’s not sure he wants it to.

On top of being a selfish bastard at times, he is wildly possessive.

It takes a long time for them to separate , neither one of them wanting to move or disrupt the peaceful little bubble they’ve created within the confines of this shower.

Eventually Ethan pulls Naomi off of him, but his grip on her remains steady. He stands as well and reaches behind him, grabbing the bottle of shower gel he has on the shelf. It isn’t until the clean scent of citrus and sea salt hits her nose does Naomi realize he’s using his shower gel. A chill sweeps through her. Sure they just had sex–great sex even–but sharing this man’s shower gel is a subtle intimacy that she wasn’t prepared for, and her chest goes tight.

“I smell like you,” Naomi murmurs sleepily.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Of course not, you always smell good. I do draw the line at sharing shampoo. Whatever shit you use might destroy my hair.”

Ethan snorts. “I saw the amount of hair goop you stuffed into your suitcase. Trust me, I won’t get in the way of that routine.”

Once they’re both sufficiently lathered, they duck under the water to rinse off, and they finally step out of the shower. The entire room is full of steam, and Naomi almost feels bad that they wasted so much hot water. God, her skin is going to be so dry if she doesn’t moisturize soon.

Ethan wraps her in a large white terry cloth bathrobe before wrapping a towel around his waist.

“I’m still mad that you didn’t give me any sort of notice about this party,” Naomi huffs. Ethan rolls his eyes and takes a step forward, his hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer until her back is firmly against his chest.

“It’s in a few hours, how much more notice do you need?”

“What if I didn’t pack an appropriate dress?” Naomi implores hypothetically. “Or shoes?”

He shrugs. “I have a credit card, and this hotel has a boutique.”

“Well lucky for you, and your wallet, I packed a few dresses,” Naomi says. Her mother taught her to be prepared for any situation, including the spur of the moment black tie event. “I’ll pull together something decent.”

“You’re beautiful, you always look more than decent.”

“Compliments will get you everywhere with me, Ramsey.”

Using the palm of her hand, Naomi wipes some of the steam off of the mirror in front of them and takes a good look in the mirror. She looks thoroughly debauched. It’s going to take a miracle to pull herself together with just a few hours’ notice.

She also notices the dark mark blooming on her right shoulder, outlined by teeth marks. Ethan’s bite is only going to get darker and more prominent as time ticks on.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to cover up this mark you gave me though.”

Ethan slides the robe off of her shoulder to examine the bite mark. He runs his thumb along it soothingly before planting a kiss on the spot. “I have a solution.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

Instead of replying immediately, Ethan bends down slightly and scoops up Naomi, bridal style. “How about I give you a matching one on the left shoulder?”

~v~

Tags: @openheartfanfics @mvalentine @choicesaddict5 @professorkingslay @maurine07 @aka-calliope @bluebellot @whimsicallywayward15 @blossomanarchy @takemyopenheart @jamespotterthefirst @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @the-pale-goddess @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramseyx @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @cecilecontrera @thatysn @bellcat2010 @blainehellyes @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey @uneravine @choicest @schnitzelbutterfingers

#ns*fw #choices: stories you play #open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc

[itsapapisongo]

“AS YOU WISH”

Pairing: Johnny x Female Reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 2.0K 

Parental Advisory Note: The following contains explicit content like slight choking, language, and masturbation (fingering, clitoral stimulation). This is purely for entertainment and this in no way represents who Johnny is in real life or accurately portrays foreplay/sex/intimacy between two consenting adults.

Author’s Notes: This is a second attempt at writing smut—the first, featuring Hwang Hyunjin is still in development—and it came into fruition to see if a) I could make it work and b) tease Ro (@binniesthighs​). What first started as a small scene sort of transitioned into something a bit longer. I wasn’t going to post it but after some encouragement from Ro and some feedback from  I decided to just share it as a way to get it out my system. Hope you enjoy it. #HardHours.

PS: Special shout-out to @binniesthighs, @hanflix, @satanssmuts, @lilixeu, and @moonlit-lixie for being incredibly supportive and beta reading this. You are all amazing so this is kind of a Valentine’s Day gift for all the advice and support you’ve given me. I’m beyond grateful.

To set a Mood: Thirsty by Taemin.

AS THESE stories often begin, this one starts in the middle of something.

In this case, it starts in the middle of the night—a bit past midnight—when you hear frantic knocking on your front door and open it to find Johnny smiling down at you. The height difference is noticeable so it’s not unfair to say that, well, you quite literally don’t see eye to eye.

He’s dripping wet, from head to toes, hunched over, and trying his best to speak as his entire body shudders.  Not wasting time, you reach out, pull him into the apartment, close the door behind you, and chuckle when you hear him mumble a sheepish “thank you.”

“Better get a change of clothes before you catch a cold,” you say, gesturing toward your bedroom.

Johnny nods and chuckles. “Sure,” he replies, teeth clattering. “How about a shower first?”

“Do you even have to ask?” You raise an eyebrow and giggle when he shrugs. “Mi case es tu casa.”

“Oof,” Johnny exclaims, holding himself a bit tighter, waddling towards your room. “Gracias.”

You can’t help but smile. This is the man you’re dating and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

ABOUT TWENTY minutes later, nothing has changed.

It looks like it’s going to be one those nights where it’s colder than usual and it won’t stop raining anytime soon. You smile because rainy days with Johnny are usually days where you both seek warmth from one another; days where you can be lazy and not feel guilty about that.

And as you join him in the living room, watching him sit on the futon, you think to yourself if it rains, it pours—but, y’know, without all the shit about one misfortune after another because the phrase here only applies to the deluge outside your apartment window.

Johnny sits with his head thrown back against the wall, legs spread so that they almost reach the knee-level coffee table he bought in Ikea and spent the good part of an afternoon putting together. He’s bathed, dressed, and unwinding after a shift that was longer than expected. He still smells of coffee, not too strong but enough that you can smell it as you sit next to him and kiss his neck. His eyes flutter open and a knowing smile spreads between his lips, eyes glistening with mischief.

“Well, well, well,” he whispers, half-smiling. “Mi futon es tu futon.”

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Definitely.”

“Do you know of any fun activities that—“ You lean in, meet his gaze, then slowly kiss him in the lips. “—I’d be interested in while I crash on your futon?”

“Our futon,” Johnny corrects you. “I can think of several,” he asserts, his voice suddenly low. There’s a hint of dominance when he speaks again, “But instead of talking, I can just show you.”

“Show me—“ You begin but can’t finish because he leans in and kisses you.

His right hand holds your chin, the left caresses your thighs, slowly but surely making its way to your core. Johnny doesn’t ask or hesitate to spread your legs, his left hand suddenly playing with the waist-band of your lingerie. His touch is delicate yet firm, his movements paced and deliberate. He kisses you softly then roughly, as his right hand transitions from your chin to your neck and stays there; his fingers envelope your neck, compressing every so often but not quite choking you.

Feeling his light touch on your skin, a moan escapes your lips and you immediately crave him. Your eyes are closed, your breathing uneven, your entire body tingling as his digits linger so close to your pussy. You feel him lean closer and closer, his breath warm against your ear, and you shudder when he speaks in a low, alluring voice.

“What’s the point of talking when I can just do it, right?” Johnny bites your earlobe then lightly kisses your cheek, gradually descending to leave marks on your neck and left shoulder. He stops to lift your chin, leaning close to whisper, “Look at me.”

“Johnny—“

“Look at me,” he repeats, firm but not unkindly.

You oblige and see him staring at you. And while there’s lust in his eyes, you notice that he’s not simply looking but admiring. His eyes take you in—up and down, down and up—and a smile appears between his lips; a knowing, lustful, loving smile that makes you want him even more.

“Are you gonna stare or are you going to make me yours?”

The question slips out before you can stop yourself. He raises an eyebrow, his expression that of someone who’s surprised and amused. You’d try and fail to infuse confidence in your voice but instead it comes across as a needy and impatient demand.

Johnny notices and smiles even wider, eyes narrowing with malice. “As you wish,” he says.

MOST OF your clothing, both yours and his, are off: on the floor, neglected, no longer needed.

Johnny is behind you, legs spread to accommodate you. With his left hand he cups your breasts and teases you with his right. He’s leaving marks on your shoulder, lightly biting on your skin after each kiss, whispering ‘I love you’s and commenting on how wet you are. He tells you in a low, sultry voice how much that turns him the fuck on, how he’s going to take his time, and how euphoric you will feel soon. Your moans elicit such a strong response from him that you feel his cock throb against his jogger pants.

He lifts your neck, leans in so that you’re facing him, and hold your chin with a firm grip. Johnny looks at you, eyes narrowed, then his lips brushed against yours; it starts rough, passionate, as if this might be the last one you share, then gradually softens until he’s once again leaving traces on your neck. His left hand envelopes your neck, a stable but dominant gesture; with his thumb against your jaw, he lifts your neck once more and smirks at you.

Motherfucker, you think, mouth agape as you feel his right hand swiftly undress you, dexterously taking off your lingerie. With an idle gesture of his wrist, you hazily make out your panties fall to the ground but you don’t get too think too much of it because you feel his digits caress your pussy, hovering above your labia.

“I want you in me,“ you say, gasping. “Now.”

“As you wish,” he whispers in a low, haughty tone. He tentatively rubs your labia then brings his right hand forward and offers it to you, his index and middle finger inches away from your mouth. “Open wide.”

You suck on his fingers, lick them when he pulls them from your mouth, watch in awe as he directs them back to your pussy; the moment he introduces them in you, his thumb softly rubbing your clit, you tense up and immediately relax, moaning a whiny yet indecent “fuck!” as he very slowly fingers you. He’s left hand is still wrapped around your neck, his thumb still lifting your head so that you’re maintaining eye contact.

“You like this, don’t you?” Johnny whispers not before nibbling on your earlobe then leaving a love-bite on your neck. “Love the way I’m inside you, making you mine?”

“Fuck—Johnny—fuck, don’t stop!”

He smirks. The motherfucker smirks. “Who said anything about stopping, darling?”

You gasp and collapse against him, feeling his erection on your lower back; this only adds to your euphoria because you know he’s enjoying the fuck out of this. You know he can’t wait to fuck you silly and that keeps you going, that keeps you yearning his touch because eventually it won’t be his fingers inside you.

Johnny’s driving you close to the edge—fucking teasing you, building up, taking his time—when he unwraps his hand from your neck. He pauses briefly to adjust his position behind you but his right hand haven’t left your pussy; is fingers are still there, you still feel his fingers in your core—moving in and out, out and in, slow as fuck but nonetheless pleasurable as hell.

He lifts you up, enough so that you’re sitting on his lap instead of between his legs, and wraps his entire left arm around your neck; his palm rests on your right shoulder, the crook of his neck having replaced the hand that a second ago was gripping your throat. Johnny does all of this without breaking his stride, swiftly, with the experience of a man that embraces balance.

“You think you can last, baby? Think you won’t cum yet?”

“You—ah shit—you keep this up and I’m gonna cum.”

“Soon, baby, soon. Hold on a little while longer,” he coaxes and you can feel his smirk, you can practically picture it. “I know you want to cum but I want you to enjoy this moment. Flow with it—“ he thrusts his fingers faster then pulls them out slow, to softly pinch your clit and rub it again with this thumb “—stay here, embrace this, and lose yourself in it.”

“You fucking—just like that—” your breathe hitches, caught in your throat.

You feel your entire body tighten, your back arch against his chest, against his hard cock, and you immediately grip the edges of the futon. Your body is shaking and you’re just embracing this sensation; flowing with it, losing yourself in it. He doesn’t stop—in fact, the motherfucker doubles down, moving faster, his grip around your neck tighter—and bites your earlobe as you moan louder and bite your lower lip to keep from bothering the neighbors.

“You wanna cum?”

You nod, unable to respond. Yes, you think, yes, fucking yes!

“You wanna cum, baby?”

Another nod but this one is feeble. You’re too caught up in the moment to speak, too lost in your pleasure to form a full, coherent sentence.

“I can’t hear you,” he whispers. “You wanna cum?”

“Yes!” You exclaim against his chest. “Please—fuck, Johnny—I wanna cum.”

“Look at me,” Johnny says in a firm tone, his hands moving slowly now. He moves so that you can face him and you see in his eyes that he’s enjoying every second of this. Just as you feel close to coming undone, like you can’t hold any longer, he purrs, “As you wish.”

And you do cum. Right in his hand, right in his fingers, because he doesn’t stop nor does he slow down. He keeps thrusting his fingers in your pussy, faster than before, then pulls them out to spank, grip, caress your thighs; his left hand lets go of your neck and instead steadies you by your stomach. Your entire body feels light, electrified, sensitive to contact, and yet you yearn for more. He knows it because you feel his touch on your clit and labia.

You collapse against him, smiling as you catch your breath. He moves you so that you’re both facing and straddling him. Johnny has that frustrating but irresistible shit-eating grin that crinkles his eyes and he sports whenever he’s proud of himself.

In between breaths, you smile. “Is that all?” you ask, trailing a finger across his chest.

Johnny’s grin falters but doesn’t disappear. It’s instead replaced by a look that you know very well; that look that says, I see your challenge, I’ll take it, and you’re gonna regret it.

“That was just one of the activities,” he replies with a wink. “Let me just—“ he moves again, lowering his pants with a wiggle, showing yet again how dextrous he is with making clothes disappear. “—get more comfortable.”

Johnny’s cock, hard and veiny, is on his hand, the tip glossy with precum. You lower yourself and sit on his thighs; the moment you make contact, you can’t help but hold back a small groan of pleasure. He’s warm and sweaty and ready for you just  as you are ready for him. Johnny wiggles his eyebrows and strokes it, pleasuring himself, then bites his lip as his eyes linger on your figure.

“I could tell you about this activity—“ he takes your right hand and offers you his cock. “—but it’s best if I just show you.”

#johnny suh #johnny seo #johnny nct #johnny smut #nct smut #female reader #nct imagines #johnny imagines #johnny x female reader #teasing #johnny suh smut #johnny seo smut #happy valentine's day

[likehandlingroses]

“Realistic” Tom/Thomas Relationship Timeline

The S3/S4 Tom/Thomas affair is a theory that has been making its way around lately, and it is centered around the contrast in the interactions between Thomas and Tom during the Season 3 Christmas Special and their interactions in the Season 4 Christmas Special. 

This means that usually the start of the relationship is viewed as coinciding with the immediate aftermath of Matthew’s death, which occurs in the Christmas Special of Season 3 (September 1921). Due to the interactions between Tom and Thomas in the Christmas Special of Season 4, the relationship can almost certainly be considered over by that time (May-ish of 1923). But what happened in between, and how long were they actually together? There’s one view that the affair occurs in between Seasons 3 and 4, which means that at the very longest they lasted just under six months (generally I think this view cuts it even shorter than that)...but this leaves some unanswered questions and some peculiarities, so I took another look at the canon to determine when, in fact, Thomas and Tom broke up.

(Note: I definitely know that Julian Fellowes did not intend for them to be having an affair, but also Julian if I’m right just DM me)

Let’s start with what we know about September 1921 and May 1923—the definite before and after points—for reference:

Christmas Special Season 3—September, 1921

In this Christmas special, we see Tom left behind while the rest of the family goes to Duneagle, and we see Thomas still dealing with the Jimmy situation a year after its apparent resolution. On its face, this episode features Tom being challenged in his new role in the house—and being encouraged to step up and face that role—and Thomas finding a way to resolve things with Jimmy.

Except there’s a whole lot of other stuff going on in the periphery of those stories: Tom knows that Jimmy is bothering Thomas and appears to want to intervene at the fair, but he is stopped by Edna, who at one point uses Thomas’s injuries as an excuse to visit Tom and assure him that Thomas is “feeling much better.” And—of course—there’s the fact that Tom and Thomas hug at the fair (and lest you think this was a RJC/Allen Leech moment not caught by editing, it was in multiple takes! Someone—multiple someones actually—included it on purpose). They are friendly, aware of each other, and to be honest it isn’t impossible to argue that maybe the relationship predates Matthew’s death! I’m going to argue otherwise, however, based on how Tom breaks down when Edna kisses him—I think Edna is the first time he’s even really thought of himself in romantic terms for a long time! But Thomas is right there in the wings, and he just finally made some progress on the emotional problem that’s been plaguing him for over a year!

It’s a big difference from what we see in the next Christmas special, big enough to start the theory of the affair in the first place...

Season 4 Christmas Special—Summer 1923

Once again, Tom is left alone at Downton while the rest of the family goes to London...and the difference in how Thomas responds is striking. He’s furious at having to wait on Tom, for reasons both we and the characters cannot quite understand. The excuses don’t add up—at this point, Tom has been living at Downton for three YEARS, and this has never been a problem before. Now all of a sudden Thomas is slamming trays and clenching his fists and provoking Tom into admitting that he sees himself as Above sitting next to him...what?

Then there’s Sarah Bunting, a Miss Sarah Bunting...whose presence infuriates Thomas while also making him eager to use her as a way to embarrass Tom. And Tom knows it, immediately. He’s embarrassed, he’s uncomfortable, but still he’s quick to pull rank with Thomas when challenged. Something has fundamentally altered the way they interact with and perceive each other while sharing the same space.

All of this speaks to a breakup, and a messy one at that...so with the knowledge we have, WHAT exactly happened between September of 1921 and May of 1923? Let’s look at what Season 4 has to say:

4.1/4.2–February, 1922

“That’s right: it’s Valentine’s Day.” 

This is an important piece of the puzzle, because Thomas—Nanny West drama aside—is in a pretty good mood for the Valentine’s Day episode! He engages with Daisy and Jimmy’s Valentine’s card drama with good humor and even some genuine interest...something I do not believe he’d do if he’d only recently been broken up with, and by someone who lived in the house! The big one here, though, is the dialogue Thomas has with Nanny West in which she calls him “Thomas” and he says, “that’s Mr. Barrow to you...”

Now, where did Nanny West hear him referred to as Thomas? The episode makes a point of the fact that nannies do not as a rule spend much time with the downstairs staff—and even if they did, not many of the downstairs crew call Thomas “Thomas” on a regular basis. Nor do the upstairs folks...with one notable exception. Tom, who has to be reminded by Thomas in 4.3 to address him as “Barrow” (more on that later), routinely messes up names and titles.

To me, this suggests that Tom and Thomas are still talking, and it’s pretty clear from Thomas’s attentions to Sybbie in the episode that it would have been easy for Nanny West to overhear it in that context. Now, this doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re still seeing each romantically, but the “Mr. Barrow TO YOU” element implies that the correction was NOT made to whoever Nanny West heard using the name (we presume it’s Tom)...and the distinction is that Nanny West does not *get* to call him that! It definitely seems like whoever she grabbed the name from has been granted permission to do that, and she Has Not. And if it’s Tom...well.

So does that mean that Thomas and Tom were done by 4.3, when Thomas DOES correct Tom on his title? Not exactly...

4.3/4.4–The House Party (pre July 1922)

(tw on this section for discussions involving sexual assault)

The party features Edna’s schemes and assault on Tom in order to extract a promise of marriage from him. It also features a Tom who is incredibly vulnerable and entirely out of his element with the introduction of the Crawley’s friends. This is somewhat of a contrast from the Tom of the first two episodes, who stands up to Robert several times to intervene on Mary’s behalf, and even ropes Carson into the mission. It feels, for a moment, that despite Matthew’s death Tom has taken up the challenge presented to him at the end of Season 3 and begun seeing himself as a valuable, contributing member of the household and family.

But here, Tom speaks of himself as a fool, as walking a tightrope, and of not being understood. He relies on alcohol to get through the event, which Edna takes advantage of—and which gives us a Tom/Thomas interaction that speaks to, in my opinion, a continuing relationship (although perhaps an altering one):

Now, if I had to guess, I would say that Tom might be less *keen* than usual, given his overall demeanor and the new scrutiny placed on him by Edna coming back to the house (not to mention the house party itself). It’s very possible there’s been a lull between the two of them as of late. I do not believe, however, that there is evidence of a clear break between Tom and Thomas as of the house party.

For one, Tom doesn’t just say the wrong thing when addressing Thomas in the drawing room—he says, “Thomas, would you get me a drink for God’s sake?” That is Not how he talks to him in the Christmas Special, where he is stilted and uncomfortable and concerned about how the words will be taken. He isn’t worried about any of that, and while Thomas corrects him, he doesn’t seem all that bothered by it. Tom’s look of irritation at the correction isn’t overdone either.

“It’s Barrow now,” also has flexible meanings. Of course it literally is what Tom is supposed to call him now...but “now” seems like a weird word to use when it’s been what Thomas is meant to be called for several years. It could be a post-breakup smackdown, but we’ve seen what those look like in the Christmas Special, and this doesn’t feel like that! I believe, rather, that Thomas is making reference to the fact that it is incorrect at that moment, something Tom should know and has been discussed!!!

The house party has both of them overworked and tense (this is also the time where Thomas has to fill in for Jimmy because Jimmy hurt his hand...which is SO ridiculous if you think about it for more than two seconds), but Edna’s transgression still draws Thomas’s attention

And that’s important! Thomas had been friends with Edna until this point, largely for convenience it seems—she is a new lady’s maid, and she can feed him information. Thomas even worked with her to mess with Anna, who had earlier made a comment to Edna about his intentions in befriending her. There’s a bond forming there, and while I don’t believe Thomas would genuinely support the literal details of Edna’s plot, I don’t think it’s a foregone conclusion that he would be Opposed to Edna taking advantage of what she would frame as an indiscretion on Tom’s part. Not if he disliked Tom or was predisposed to believe Tom was at fault (ie: someone who expects to be “waited on Hand and Foot while he decides what Might Please Him Next”).

But right away, Thomas is suspicious the morning after. We see Thomas spying on Edna as she corners Tom, and he specifically brings it up to her later to catch her out. Already his tone is soured where she’s concerned. He’s sensed she’s up to something and he can probably guess the vague idea if not the particulars...and it turns him against her almost instinctively.

So what’s that about? Could it just be jealousy? The thing is, we know what Thomas would do if he believed that Edna and Tom were simply having an affair—we see what happens in the S4 Christmas Special with Sarah Bunting. This isn’t like that at all. 

Thomas immediately blames Edna for what’s happened, calling her a manipulative little witch and declaring that he’s delighted her plans didn’t work. There’s no question of Thomas’s loyalties, even though Edna assumes he’ll want to “keep in with” her. Not for one second does he appear to consider this, and that seems to distinguish this incident from later ones.

4.5/4.6–What Are These Episodes (pre-July 1922)

There isn’t a lot to remember about these episodes for Tom or Thomas, and so what people may not remember is that these are the episodes Tom starts floating the idea of leaving for America—a full season before he tries starting that conversation again, and over two years before he actually DOES temporarily move to Boston. Now, that kind of decision takes time, but it’s kind of...strange that he begins making it here in the spring of 1922 and will not seriously consider it again until well into 1924!

Whether this has anything at all to do with Thomas can’t be determined, but I do enjoy hearing Tom say it will be impossible for him to marry anyone at Downton because an upper class woman won’t have him, and would an “nice Irish working class girl” make everyone “comfy?”...and Thomas is standing Right There! What does it mean...

Thomas is also getting more paranoid, he’s got Baxter in the house feeding him information...and he’s generally giving off a different vibe than he has all season. 

Here is where I think the connection is starting to see some serious cracks—Tom is realizing he doesn’t belong and is making moves to change that. Meanwhile, Thomas is making moves to ensure Nothing Ever changes without him knowing about it ahead of time! Tension abounds, though we don’t see any evidence of it being directed at each other just yet...

4.7/4.8–Interesting and Modern (July 1922)

Thomas goes to America and Tom meets Miss Bunting...weird how that just happened like that!

Thomas is excited to go to New York, and it seems...pretty clear he fucked while he was there. I think if you’re gay and you go to New York in the 1920s and you come back and all you can tell your coworkers is that it was “interesting and modern” you definitely were not doing anything you can actually talk about

Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he and Tom are Done (they may not have ever been exclusive on paper), but the overall feeling from Tom is a dejected man in limbo...he can’t even say he’s a Socialist anymore. It’s not going well. So my inclination is to say that Tom hit pause (maybe not for the first time), and Thomas is dealing with it by getting some in New York (great!) and bullying his coworkers (bad!) So why do I think they weren’t totally done at that time? Because these episodes happen in the summer of 1922...the Christmas Special for S4 takes place in May of 1923. That’s a long time to have passed! A long time for Tom to keep Miss Bunting at arm’s length, a long time for Thomas to be fuming over something...I believe that in the Christmas Special what we are seeing is the last stand of two people who are grappling with finally cutting a fraying thread.

Another Look At The S4 Christmas Special

These scenes are truly some of the most incomprehensible things Downton Abbey ever presented to us with virtually no explanation.  So let’s take another look at what’s happening here.  

First of all, we have the scene with Tom and Thomas entering the house after sending Edith off and leaving Tom offically on his own--they don’t appear openly hostile, though there’s some tense looking when the other person isn’t and looking back down again when they are energy...but nothing egregious. 

Not until we see Thomas slam down a tray, that is. In fact, this whole thing seems to be coming from Thomas’s anger, while Tom appears eager to just smooth it over by not causing trouble and following the rules set forth by the household norms. This seems in line with Tom’s general dispositon--with both Edna and Miss Bunting he tries to ease out rather than break things off. 

 But Thomas interprets this as dismissive, and while he says to Ivy it’s about their positions in the house...as discussed above this really doesn’t logically check out. I do think it irritates him that Tom is essentially avoiding Thomas because it’s what “pleases him,” but it runs deeper than “he used to be the chauffeur.” Because that was always the case. 

And then Tom brings Miss Bunting back without telling anyone, and he takes her upstairs. And this makes Thomas INSANE, and Tom knows IMMEDIATELY that it will! And Tom is eager to assure “Mr. Barrow” that nothing happened (actually, what he’s really eager to do is have Thomas not stand there while he eats, but Thomas is not budging). 

Thomas is furious. He’s said to Ivy that he is SICK of this man, he’s tired of dealing with him...and then he tries to get Tom to sit next to him the car? 

Thomas stole a dog one time, and I still think this might be his wildest attempt at controlling a situation we see on the show. What is going on? If Tom HAD let him sit in the back, would Thomas have still gone to Lord Grantham about Miss Bunting? If Thomas hadn’t been such a jerk about Miss Bunting, would Tom have LET him? What is poor Ivy even processing this as? Am I the only one hearing Taylor Swift’s Better Than Revenge playing? 

Thomas acts immediately on coming to London, dropping the line of “Mr. Branson is stil a young man, and he can’t be expected to stay single forever”...he’s Angry Angry!! If they were on a break before, I don’t think it had fully set in for Thomas that it might be Permanent until now. And I think Tom’s newly avoidant personality we see in other scenarios gave him the wrong impression in this respect.

In Summary

I think that the relationship was relatively “on” from the period of September 1921 through whenever the house party took place. The house party caused some huge issues, mostly for Tom (understandably)—he may have unfairly blamed himself for what happened and drew wrongful parallels to what’s happening with Thomas. I think that after that it was very “off,” but I believe that neither Thomas nor Tom really committed to ending it either...and when we see them in 1923 they are in the peak stages of finally facing the end of things.

So what caused the final shift? Perhaps Thomas came back from New York with expectations, expectations Tom found himself intimidated by. Perhaps Thomas’s increasing paranoia and Tom’s growing agnosticism towards his own beliefs and identity are related and fed off of each other until they both just did not like the person they were seeing! Maybe it’s just that Downton Abbey is a really bad place for both of them, and even though they started off trying to protect each other from that, they got sucked in and turned on each other!

In any case, by Season 5 the romantic relationship appears over for good, though there is some evidence in later episodes that Tom and Thomas settled down a bit over time (Thomas defending Tom in S5 at Brancaster, and Tom saying he hates goodbyes in reference to Thomas). 

We will just have to see what happens when they realize they both are dating someone new, and they work together too :) 

#this is way too long to actually be Fun but to be clear I did it for Fun #anything to avoid actually writing #thomas barrow #tom branson

[bytheangell]

Let the Clichés Pour (Part 2, Epilogue)

(A follow-up to my Valentine’s Day fic from last year! You can find part 1 on Tumblr or AO3 here!)  (Read Part Two (Epilogue) on AO3 here)

It’s the one-year anniversary of the day they met, and Magnus tells Alec that he has something special planned. Alec isn’t allowed to ask any questions, he’s simply told that they’ll be going out to dinner and to dress nice, but nothing extravagant. That alone makes Alec curious because normally for holidays or special occasions Magnus is all about extravagance… but no matter how subtly Alec tries to pry more information out of his boyfriend he eventually has to give up and wait in eager anticipation for whatever romantic surprise Magnus has planned for their Valentine’s Day anniversary.

Which Alec really doesn’t mind. He’s much more of a small, sentimental gestures kind of guy, so when it comes to nights out or proper events he’s more than happy to let Magnus take the reins. It’s one of the many ways they seem to balance one another out so perfectly.

It’s one of the many reasons Alec is head-over-heels in love with Magnus Bane.

It didn’t take long for Alec to move from casual crush to full-on infatuation once he and Magnus started dating. He quickly grew to love Magnus’ grand gestures in the form of lavish house parties, reservations at exclusive high-end restaurants, and thoroughly planned vacations, while Magnus made it very clear how affected he was by Alec’s small, usually unintentional, constant declarations of his love through thoughtful gestures like picking up little gifts from stores he passed just because they made him think of Magnus for no special reason or occasion, or reaching out to one of his chef friends to learn how to cook a favorite childhood dish Magnus mentioned once in passing.

Alec hopes that their past year together - the first of many years if he’s lucky enough - was just as wonderful for Magnus as it was for him. Magnus says that it was, that he’s lucky to have Alec in his life… but then they pull up in front of the Olive Garden, overflowing with people going out to eat for Valentine’s Day in a scene that gives Alec an instinctive jolt of dread despite having left that job six months ago, and he has to assume he’s done something to piss Magnus off because otherwise there’s no reason for them to be here, of all places.

Alec looks over to see the smirk on Magnus’ face as he puts the car into park and turns off the engine. “Magnus…” Alec says slowly, warily.

“Surprise!” Magnus says. “Now, yes, I know - you made your feelings about men who take their dates here for Valentine’s Day very clear last year. However, it’s where we met, and it’s our anniversary, and you have to admit that holds at least a little sentimentality.”

Alec’s expression softens. Magnus is right, Alec does have to admit at least that much. It has a very ‘coming full circle’ feel, as far as gestures go, to return to where they first met for their anniversary dinner.

Noticing that Magnus is still waiting for his reaction to see if Alec might flat-out refuse to leave the car, Alec finally shakes his head with a small smile. “You’re ridiculous. Let’s go in.”

“I’m ridiculous, but you love me anyway,” Magnus reminds him.

“You’re ridiculous and I love you because of it,” Alec corrects, getting out of the car and circling around to give Magnus a kiss before they walk into the busy lobby. Alec says hi to a few familiar faces he recognizes, but for the most part, everyone is too busy to spare him more than a few words while they wait for their name to be called.

Alec is surprised when, instead of being taken to a table, they’re lead over to two seats at the bar - right where Magnus sat a year ago. “You didn’t spare any details, did you?” Alec asks with a laugh.

“Well, we’re going to be eating more than just breadsticks and alfredo the bartender gives me out of sympathy,” Magnus says. “Also, if you trust me, I already have an order in to Maia for us.”

Alec raises an eyebrow. “The fact that we’re even here makes me question why I still trust you implicitly, but I do.”

Magnus practically beams. “Wonderful. I promise you won’t be disappointed. I might be aiming for sentimental tonight, but I’m not going to make you endure the fast-food equivalent of Italian food for our anniversary.” Magnus makes sure to say that low enough that no one around them can hear, but Alec’s resulting laugh is loud enough to draw a few eyes their way before he covers his mouth with his hand.

Despite Alec’s initial reservations, the night is wonderful. They chat with Maia and Jace a bit, watching them work and banter throughout the chaos, and spend the rest of the time talking and laughing and drinking. When their food arrives Alec discovers that Magnus had Maia slip the chef a request that used things the restaurant had in stock to create a steak and shrimp dish that looks like it belongs in a 5-star restaurant. By the end of their meals, which each of them finish every last bite of, it’s late enough that the crowd around them is starting to thin out. Alec thinks he catches a look-and-nod between Magnus and Maia but doesn’t question it - after the surprise of their meals, Alec assumes Magnus just has some sort of elaborate dessert arranged as well.

What Alec doesn’t expect is for Maia to return with two glasses of champagne, complete with a strawberry on the rim and something at the bottom of Alec’s glass that sends little bubbles in a constant stream to the top.

It’s a ring.

There’s a ring in his champagne glass.

Alec looks up from where his gaze locked onto the ring to see that not only is Magnus eyeing him with a nervous smile, but Maia, Jace, and a few others linger to watch Alec’s reaction.

Alec’s first thought is that it has to be a prank - that Magnus (or Maia or Jace, maybe) is just messing with him because of the day, and where they are, and that there’s no way that Magnus would seriously propose to him here, anniversary or not. But then Magnus starts to speak and Alec realizes very quickly that this is serious.

This is actually happening.

“You know, I thought about making sure we got a booth we could both sit on the same side of and make out in,” Magnus says, citing one of Alec’s frequent customer complaints from his time working here, and that’s when Alec realizes how intentional all of this is besides just being the place they met. Magnus organized all of this to intentionally make them, by technical definition, the exact sort of couple that Alec’s snarky, ranting commentary about last year first drew Magnus’ attention. And at the look of astonishment on Alec’s face, Magnus has the audacity to wink at him.

“Alexander, a year ago today you turned what I thought was the worst day of my life into what ended up being the best day of my life. Meeting you here was the start of weeks, and months, and hopefully years and years to come, of time spent full of love and laughter and warmth and all the joy you bring me, even on the days you’re grumpier than Chairman Meow.”

At this point Magnus reaches into the glass and pulls out the ring, holding it out to Alec.

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood, it would be an honor to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

Alec smiles, looking from Magnus down to the ring and back up at his boyfriend again before replying. “Magnus, I love you more than anything in this world. Of course I want to marry you, and my answer will obviously be yes… but not until we’re literally anywhere but here.”

“...what?” Magnus balks.

“I refuse to get engaged here, it’s a matter of principle,” Alec says. It isn’t like he’s saying no - he’s already said it’s going to be a yes, which is the important bit of all this. They’re practically already engaged. “Look at it this way: I’m saving you years of telling new people you proposed to your husband at an Olive Garden on Valentine’s Day, you should be thanking me.”

Alec eyes Magnus carefully. He knows Magnus picked the location because of everything Alec’s said in the past, and because of their past. If he sees anything in Magnus’s reaction that says he’s going to actually be upset at the idea of not ‘officially’ being engaged until they’re back home then, of course, Alec will say yes here and now. There’s no doubt in his mind that yes, he’d do even that if it made Magnus happy. But Alec’s pretty sure he’s right in his gut reaction that the location of the proposal is a clever bit of good-natured fun more than a serious preference.

“So you’re telling me,” Magnus says, eyes wide in disbelief but not without amusement. “That if we were to leave here and walk across the parking lot to Home Depot, and I proposed there, you’d say yes.”

It’s that hint of amusement, the tick of a smile at the corners of Magnus’ lips and the fond exasperation in his tone, that tells Alec that they’re on the same page here - that they’re getting engaged, and the thrill of that inevitability outweighs the necessity of actually following through on the entire engagement happening here and now.

“I suppose that’s technically anywhere but here, so yes” Alec agrees after a thoughtful pause. When he says it he doesn’t expect Magnus to have meant it literally, but as a figurative confirmation, figuring he’d wait until they’re home or maybe stop at the nice park a few blocks down they like to frequent.

Instead, Magnus abruptly stands up from his chair.

“Alright, let’s go,” Magnus says. “We’ll be right back,” he adds to Maia, before waiting expectantly for Alec to follow.

“What?” Alec blinks.

“We’re walking across the parking lot until we’re off this property, and then I’m putting this ring on your finger. Come on, Mr. Stubborn-wood,” Magnus says, a hint of challenge to his words that tells Alec he’s waiting for him to admit that Home Depot is actually worse than Olive Garden by way of proposal locations.

Jace laughs so hard at the terrible play on Alec’s last name that he actually snorts, and Maia rolls her eyes. “Come on, Alec. I know we joke about how awful this place is-” she pauses at a pointed look from Alec. “Okay, maybe it’s more truth than joking, but still. You can’t honestly withhold your ‘yes’ until-”

Except Alec is already pushing his chair back to stand up, meeting Magnus’ playfully challenging gaze with his own. “Let’s go.”

The two of them walk out of the front door, turn to walk around the side of the building, and head behind it in the direction of the Home Depot. Neither of them say a single word about the absurdity of what they’re doing, and Alec only gives a quick glance behind to confirm his suspicion that Maia, Jace, and a small handful of others rushed out the back door of the building where people normally take smoking breaks to watch as he and Magnus cross the dark parking lot under the light of the streetlamps.

The moment they cross the obvious property line, where there’s a clear shift in pavement color as if one side’s been more recently repaved than the other, Magnus stops walking. This sprawling area of black asphalt between the two buildings is entirely empty given the time of night and there isn’t a car in sight. Not that Alec is able to look anywhere other than at Magnus as he drops to one knee and holds up the ring.

“You’re not getting the whole speech again, I hope you know,” Magnus starts. “But I will say this: Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you’re ridiculous… and I love you because of it.”

Magnus echoes Alec’s words from the car back at him, and for some reason, that’s Alec’s breaking point. He blinks away tears now, because out of all the heartfelt things they say to one another it’s those little moments, the ones where they’re so unapologetically themselves that it only causes their love for each other to grow, that solidifies that this is it for Alec. That Magnus is it for him.

“Will you marry me?” Magnus asks, for the second time that night, and this time Alec nods without hesitation.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, yes.”

As Alec repeats the word Magnus reaches out and slides the ring onto Alec’s finger before straightening his legs to stand again. The moment he’s upright Alec wraps his arms around Magnus and pulls him in for a kiss that he hopes conveys even half of the abundance of love he feels in that moment. They kiss to the faint sound of cheers and applause from across the parking lot, with Jace’s whooping yells ringing out the loudest.

“Maia’s never going to let me hear the end of this,” Alec says once they pull apart, as they start the walk back to the restaurant.

“Maia?” Magnus says, sounding incredulous. “I’m never going to let you hear the end of this. I cannot believe you made me propose twice. Once in a parking lot.”

Magnus huffs out a laugh that matches his tone of incredulity, and Alec laughs along with him, gaze falling to the engagement band on the hand he holds up in front of him to admire as they walk.

“Worth it,” Alec says, smirking and shooting Magnus a wink.

“Yes, you are, darling,” Magnus says.

Alec doesn’t have a clever retort to that. He just wraps his arm around Magnus’ waist and pulls him in close as they walk back inside to share their first drink as fiancés.

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #human AU #shadowhunters #tsc #did this need a second chapter? absolutely not #did i NEED Magnus to do this and lowkey planned on a follow-up for an entire year? absolutely #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

[anjuschiffer]

The Host Club’s Busy Week: Who Let the Rich in the Bakery?!

So during the middle of the night (at least it was for me), a group of us in the Maribat Discord server came up with this AU and thus this was born. Wanna thank @ficsforthestars for instigating this AU! I had a blast writing this.

Also, some things to know before you read: Mari goes under the name Marin when she's part of the school and Mari/Marinette outside of school. Adrien and Felix are called Twins since they look identical despite their different personalities and having different surnames.

With that, I hope you enjoy this!

@-@-@-@-@-

AO3

@-@-@-@-@-

“A competition?” The twins asked, Adrien and Felix looking at one another and then back at Damian. 

It was another day at the Host Club, the boys lazing around as Mari was crowded by the clients that were in the club at that moment. 

Today’s event: Tea with Marin (with cakes made by Marin). 

Damian smirked. 

“Marinette’s parents own a bakery, correct?” A series of nods. “Well, it just so happens that they’re very popular despite being a small commoner’s business, which leads to my next point.”

Damian shows them a flyer, Richard and the rest of the boys wondering what it was. 

“A piece of paper.” Tim says after skimming the flyer, going back to resting his head on the club’s pillow stash. “A flyer to be exact.”

“Correct.” Damian puts the flyer back into his case, Felix noticing other photos and templates in the leather file. Templates were marked in red, some notes scattered around the paper. 

What was Damian up to?

“What does this have to do with Marinette and her parent’s bakery?” Richard asked, something in his gut not sitting right. 

“Well, the bakery needs part-time workers or any volunteers that can help them this upcoming week.” Damian pulled out his remote to summon the club’s screen projector, showing some photos of Marinette’s parent’s bakery filled to brim with customers ordering cakes and other pastries, Sabine and Tom wearing panicked faces. 

Many of the orders and pastries were pink and red themed, the boys quickly picking up on the theme: Valentine’s Day. 

“But we also have our Valentine Day’s event coming up.” Jon chirped in, worried about possibly having to cancel their event to volunteer at the bakery. Not that he minded. Maybe he’d get to try some cakes there. 

“Like if we would ever raise a finger to prepare for the event.” Felix reminded the group, everyone nervously chuckling except for Damian. 

“Back to the matter at hands, we’ll be competing to see who can deliver the most pastries for that entire time we are there.”

Damian changes the slide, showing a map of the area around the Dupain-Cheng Bakery. There were dots scattered across the city, a lot circling around the outskirts of the city and around the bakery itself. 

“Sounds fun!” Adrien squeals, Felix placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Seeing as this is a competition, I’m sure there’s a prize involved.” 

“Nothing gets by you, does it, de Vanily?” Damian wipes out a tiny envelope. 

“What’s it got?” Jon asked, wondering what a small envelope the size of Damian’s hand would contain. 

“A one day baking class with Marinette.” The boys simply looked at each other and blinked, turning back to Damian new with confused faces. 

“We can literally just ask if she-“

“-with just Marinette teaching you in the bakery.” Damian grinned as he watched everyone straighten in their seats, wanting to laugh at the serious expression that morphed onto Grayson, Agreste and de Vanily. “A one-on-on class. Usually it’s take a lot of membership points to even gain a class with her parents, but with their daughter?” Damian chuckled. “You’d have to buy a year’s worth of pastries to gather the amount of points needed to purchase the class session.”

“We’re rich.” Tim bluntly stated, gaining a few agreements. “We can literally buy three year’s worth of-“

“Drake, do they look like a factory to be able to produce that quantity of goods?” Tim mumbled a no. “There you have it.”

“So, who’s in?” All the boys raised their hands. “Let the game begin.”

Marinette felt a shiver go down her spine as she drank some tea with the ladies, turning her head to see the boys arguing with each other. 

A storm was brewing. 

----

“STOP GROWING MUSHROOMS BY THE OVEN SENPAI! YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN THE DOUGH!” Marinette screamed, pulling Dick away from their oven, allowing himself to get dragged out of the kitchen and into the staircase that lead to the apartment. 

Adrien and Felix giggled as they watched their friend get scolded by Marinette, quickly going over to the counter to hand Damian over the money they had gotten from their recent delivery. 

“Did he mess up again?” Felix asked Damian, accepting the water bottle the Wayne had offered. 

“He sure did.” Tim replies, sipping on his coffee. 

“And he was so sure he was going to get it right this time.” Damian grinned. “He ended up getting lost towards the end and had to get our driver to help him, only to be off by a whole number.” 

“Should’ve seen how embarrassed he got when he knocked on the wrong house door and apologized for bothering them.” Tim said, smirking into his  coffee. “Wish I had known about this instant coffee sooner. Don’t have to wait for it to be grounded or anything! Just add water and it’s done!”

“Well thanks to you, we’re a bag short.” Marinette scowled, causing Tim to jump. “I swear I just saw you drink a cup a minute ago.” Mari said, rubbing her temple as she made her way back into the kitchen. 

“It was actually five minutes ago.” Tim mumbled, taking another sip from the coffee before planing it down to help ring the customer at the counter. 

“Wait, just how much has he been drinking?” Adrien said, turning to Damian for answers. 

“For every five cups he pours, one of them ends up for him.” Damian answered, glaring at Tim as he attempted to steal another cup. “This coffee is for the elderly lady over there so you can’t have it.”

“Party pooper.” Tim muttered, watching Damian give Jon a blind eye. 

Said boy was sitting with the elderly lady, chatting away as the two ate some brioche. 

“I thought you guys were here to help, not to be babysitted.” Marinette growled through her teeth, making everyone go back to their respected jobs. 

She knew, she just knew it.

That shiver that rippled down her back that day was this. She was being warned about this disaster. 

When the Club appeared at her door that morning -at four of the morning mind you-, she knew something was up, she knew they were plotting something. 

And today was not the best day to interfere with her life. Today was one of the busiest days of the year, so Mari didn’t need this ball of stress to start the day, knowing there was more stress awaiting for her further on. 

But just as she had finished scolding them and demanded them to go back home, her father decided to walk by, his face brightening upon seeing them. 

He started to cry and hug Marinette and thanking her for getting her classmates to help them out, thanking Marinette for always being so concerned for her parents. 

As Tom welcomed them in, Mari could only watch in complete annoyance as she watched them have their way. 

Oh the work that awaited them, which led to now. 

Felix and Adrien had finished delivering their 49th order while Richard was still on his 23rd. 

While Mari wished she could go and encourage Dick, but she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. 

Her parents had their hands full and she was needed in the back, trusting Damian with the money, counter and managing his monkeys. 

He wasn’t the Club’s manager for no reason after all. 

With a heavy sigh and after slapping her hands on her cheeks, she headed back to the kitchen. 

-----

“Thank you all for helping us today.” Sabine said with a bow, the boys also bowing, though at different times. 

“Marinette’s lucky to have wonderful friends like yourselves.” Tom said, patting his daughter’s head. Marinette gave her father a smile but dropped it when she turned to see the club members, her eyes narrowed. 

“If anything, we’re lucky to have Mari for a friend.” Jon said, running up to Sabine. “Now we know where she gets her kind personality from!”

Thank Jon was the only thing that rang through the member’s mind, thanking the oblivious boy and his sunshine personality. 

Sabine hugged the boy. “I’m just so happy that my little girl is getting along with her classmates and making friends.” She let go of Jon, who wobbled to compose himself. “We were worried she wouldn’t make any, seeing as it’s a very prestigious school the lot of you attend.”

The twins looked at each other before grinning, Mari not liking it one bit. 

“Don’t worry about a thing Mme. Cheng!” Adrien said with a chirp, Felix noticing the cue to continue. 

“The three of us are in the same class and club.” Felix said, smiling at the cooing Sabine gave them. He continued. “We are very close friends, spending a lot of time together, working on club activities and schoolwork.”

“And because we spend so much time together, we’ve practically her favorite duo. We are best friends after all!” Adrien ended with a smile, shaking Felix’s hand behind his back upon noticing how Dick wilted at their right. 

“Oh Mari!” Marinette was smoldered by hugs, the Club enjoying every bit of it. 

-----

“So, who won?” Felix asked, sipping on some Earl Grey. 

The weekend had passed, the Club spending their glorious three days there, getting fed by the Dupain-Cheng’s. 

Jon -in particular- adored Sabine, one of favorite things about her was how comfortable he felt around her. Almost like having a second mother. 

Tim enjoyed simply being in the bakery, to sit in the aroma of freshly made coffee was heavenly. 

The rest simply liked the bakery because of Marinette and the feeling of being home despite only being there for a few days. 

“Yeah! Tell us Damian!” Jon chirped, stuffing his face with some cookies the Dupain-Cheng’s had given him. 

“Well,” Damian pulled out his screen projector again, taking out a pointer. “Seeing as Jon and Tim lost interest in the competition as soon as they set foot in the bakery, that leaves the rest.”

He changed to the next slide, showing four lines on the map along with dots of the same color. 

“Ooo, what are those lines and dots for?” Jon inquired. On the map, there were lines of different colors along with matching dots. 

“These four lines show the route each of us took when delivering the pastries. The dots show the orders that were successfully delivered.” 

At the corner, there was a guide that named which color belonged to who. Damian smirked when he saw Richard cower behind Tim while the twins glanced at each other before Cheshire grins graced their faces. 

Felix tried his hardest to not laugh while Adrien didn’t bother to hide it. Turning around from his place, Adrien laughed at his senpai. 

“Look at yours Richard! Your blue line is all over the city! And you only got 30 dots on the map!”

Richard curled into himself, his face burning with embarrassment. 

It wasn’t his fault that all the streets looked alike!

“Sad to see that you got lost while being a few meters away from the bakery.” Felix added, smiling at his amount of dots on the map: 96. Meanwhile Adrien felt cheated. 

“Why does Felix get 96?! We went the same way! We should’ve gotten the same amount!”

“You only got 69 because you failed to notice Felix sneaking in other orders as he joined you.” Damian filled in, wondering why-

“Wait… how do you have over a 100 orders?” Oh. So the sleep-deprived idiot noticed. “You were inside the bakery the entire time. Did you cheat?!” Tim accused, Damian raising a brow. 

“Me, cheat?” Damian put the projector away. “No my dear brother. I simply found a loophole.” He took out another remote, the boys watching in anticipation. “I simply used drones to deliver the orders, no walking necessary.”

“SO YOU DID CHEAT!” Adrien and Richard yelled, Felix simply frowning. 

“And as I’m the sole winner, I’ll be using the opportunity to gather more photos for Marin’s monthly magazine.” Damian smirked. “It has become a club favorite, even gaining more demand than his Majesty himself.” Damian wanted to laugh upon seeing Richard wilt even more, dragging himself to a corner to mope. 

“I should’ve known.” A voice spoke up, causing everyone to whip their heads to their eavesdropper. 

“Mari.”

“You did all of that just for fun?” She growled, walking up to the boys, her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot. “For your entertainment?”

“A bit, yes, however-“ Damian was shortly interrupted by a fuming Marinette. 

“So you did!” Marinette yelled, grabbing Richard’s attention. “I can’t believe you guys!”

“Marinette, we didn’t mean-“ Adrien started, only to see Richard walk up to Marinette and placed his hands on her shoulders. 

“It started as a competition.” Richard said, dropping his hands once he had her attention. “And we shouldn’t have treated something so serious like that as a simple form of entertainment. Sorry.”

Marinette looked at Richard, averted her gaze and turned away from him. 

He had that look again. Glazed baby blue eyes and a thin line for a smile… the chirp in his being gone. 

Letting out a sigh, Marinette turned back to the ashamed group of boys. 

“It’s fine. I’ll look over it this one time.” Marinette turned to Damian. “However, whatever prize you were thinking of giving better not be rewarded as a condition for me turning a blind eye.”

Damian nodded, ripping the envelope from the beginning in half, making the boys scrunch up their faces. 

“We’re sorry Mari. We promise not to do something like this again.” Jon spoke up, making Mari feel guilty for getting angry at the group. Darn him and his baby doe eye strategy. 

“Like I said, it’s alright.” Marinette restated, now wondering how she was going to tell them what she came for.

“Did something happen Mari?” Jon asked innocently, the club fully knowing she was the softest for him. 

The perks of being a young, childish prodigy. 

“Well, my parents wanted to thank you all for helping out at the bakery the other day, so they want you guys to come over next week.”

“Next week?” The boys sang, watching Marinette fidget under their gaze. 

“You see… it’s my birthday next week.” 

Everyone went haywire, Richard quickly picking up Mari and spinning her around, shouting that his little girl was growing up. Damian started to jot something down and made phone calls. Tim simply blinked before muttering something into his phone and falling asleep. 

The twins managed to pull Mari away from Richard to only squish her between the two, throwing one arm each over her shoulder. They talked about how they felt betrayed that Mari kept her birthday a secret and how now they had to go shopping for her gift. 

Something about a house and a new building caused her to break away from them, warning them that they better not do anything of that extreme for her. Ever. 

Jon offered her to buy her his favorite cake from this world-renowned patisserie, which upon hearing their name, Mari paled. 

She knew that person, her parents’ idol and there was no way in hell was she going to allow Jon to buy her something worth thousands of Euros over a simple birthday cake. 

Damn rich kids. 

But seeing them fawn over her like this, to argue and have fun like this… it was like a dream. 

A dream that was her reality and that she was thankful for. 

She was blessed to be surrounded by such loving people. 

She couldn’t wait to tell her parents that they all said yes. 

It’d be a nice day filled with friends at her parent’s bakery, having cake and-

The floor began to rumble, scaring the entire club members and the other people there, a few of the girls screaming for dear life.

The floor parted open, Nino standing on a rising platform, light beams beaming pastel colors and Nino bopping his head as party music blasted from his speakers. His turntables glinted and his mixer sparkled as people began to gather around the uprising studio.

“Who invited that moron of a DJ?” Damian snarled, noticing the twins tense. “It was you two, wasn’t it?”

They looked at each other and then at Damian. “What? He’s cool.”

Everyone watched as Nino lowered the music and whipped out a microphone, grinning madly. 

“Hey dudettes! You’re probably wondering why I’m blasting party music, but get this!” A spotlight came out of nowhere, landing right on top of Marinette, causing her to freeze. “Starting today, we’re going to countdown to Marin’s birthday! Give it up for the soon-to-be-birthday dude!”

All the girls that were present at that moment turned their heads in unison to look at Mari, proceeding to squeal and surround her, asking her why she had hidden her birthday from them.

This was why Mari thought to herself as she was pushed and pulled on from the mob of girls she was surrounded by. She listened as some girls promised to bring her some pricey fabrics, threads, perfumes and other things from high-end brands Mari only wished to glance at and never touch.

This is why she didn’t say anything, but Nino just had to go and say something, didn’t he? Nino and his loose-lipped self.

-----

That following week, up until her birthday, Mari came home with a mountain of gifts, her parents panicking upon seeing the gifts and not knowing what to do. Meanwhile, one thing rang in her mind.

Damn these rich kids. 

After settling on what to do with the gifts, Mari excused herself to her room, her eyes landing on a box on her desk upon setting a foot in her room. 

She picked up the box, noticing how delicately it was wrapped, a pastel pink paper with ladybug print all over it, a single red ribbon at its side with a note underneath.

The note had her name, Marinette using this sign to open it and cry upon seeing the picture. 

In a simply glass frame with a single ladybug in the corner, there was a single picture of the day the stupid idiots went to volunteer at the bakery, everyone smiling at the camera.

Marinette wiped a tear as she placed the frame on her desk, a single phrase in her mind.

Damn these rich idiots… what would I do without them?

#maribat #maribat x ohshc #anju writes #had fun writing this #might make more in the far future #maybe

[im-basically-logan]

Happy Density Day!

haha get it cuz the formula for density looks like a heart. I still dont know how to title things. Analogical V-Day fic anybody? (quick note- sorry if the pacing is sorta weird??? idk how story writing works. personally my favorite part is the last few paragraphs lmao)

Summary: Logan wants to give Virgil a poem for Valentine’s Day, but wants to make it as perfect as possible. Either way, Virgil loves it. Words: 2,796 Ship: Analogical, Royality (tho, it’s only briefly mentioned and analogical is the focus) TW: Kissing, sleeping at bad hours, uh... Patton tackles Roman playfully at one point Please send me an ask/message if I need to add a trigger. Genre: Fluff!!

@riverbendover @nokatai-realm @crowsketches @living-on-the-virge

It was about 3 days before Valentine’s Day and as much as Logan would usually show nonchalance or distaste towards the holiday, he’s been Virgil’s boyfriend for 8 months now. He wasn’t going to brush off their first Valentine’s Day. He was going to make the perfect card for his Virgil even if it meant he didn’t get any sleep that week. Well, that was an exaggeration and Virgil would probably ask as to why Logan’s sleep schedule had suddenly done a 180. But nonetheless, Logan was going to make a nice little card.

Logan started out with printer paper as a planning stage, wondering what to actually put in the card. He went through scribbled out drawings, minimalistic pictures, telling Virgil how beautiful he was, and finally settled on writing a poem. He was good at those. Usually.

His trash can in his room began filling with balled up clumps of paper which were drafts that he deemed not good enough.

“Clothes are dark as space,  but eyes as bright as the stars. I hope-- No.” Logan mumbled the poem out loud to himself, then crumpled up the paper, threw it to the side, and started anew. The side of his hand was turning gray from being left-handed and the graphite of the pencil he was using. “I cannot describe to you how much I love you. It was a revelation when I had discovered my feelings for you. Like when Newton discovered gravity. It was fundamental to understanding life as you are fundamental to me understanding emotions…” He tapped the pencil against his head quickly, trying to think. It sounded… Like something. It wasn’t too bad, but he decided to trash and rewrite it again. It was probably just fine, but Logan was a perfectionist.

He began writing a bit more before deciding to create the decorations on the light purple construction paper he found for the actual card. He had the equation 128√e980 written along over the spine while the card was flattened. The equation was supposed to be read while the card was closed and turned a certain way, and it would read “I love you” from being folded in half. He found the little trick while looking up ways to say I love you to a partner. In pen he neatly wrote inside the cover of the card the beginning to his poem to Virgil. The beginning was the only thing he was happy with at the moment, but he would add more later. He checked his watch and read 11:30 pm. He sighed, put his materials away and went to bed. Although made sure to put the card neatly into the drawer of his desk. It was only 2 days before Valentine’s Day and he barely had anything! He wanted to keep working on it, but also sleeping was important and he and the others were working on getting a full night’s rest. Besides, Virgil would badger him in the morning about it and he couldn’t have his boyfriend find his surprise.

Logan went through the next day rather smoothly: Nice comebacks to Roman, reminding Thomas of important events, and of course a few nice kisses with Virgil in the middle of it all. Patton always grinned if he caught them and Roman always teased them until Logan mentioned it was almost Valentine’s Day.

“We are allowed to have physical affection, especially around this time of year, correct?” Logan asked Roman, raising a brow with a pouting expression.

“Well I suppose so, but… You two are such nerds!” Roman responded weakly, unable to come up with a witty reply. Patton butted in, putting his arm around Roman’s shoulders.

“Now, don’t be mean, Roman. It’s your time of the year, isn’t it? Valentine’s Day! A day of Roman-ce.” Patton laughed and Virgil, who was leaning slightly against Logan, snickered. Logan sighed with a very small hint of a smile while Roman rolled his eyes with a laugh. He exited with Patton, most likely about to go on an adventure or brainstorm. Logan, although, had a pit in his stomach as he was constantly reminded Valentine’s Day was just around the corner.

Such terrible planning on my end… He thought, biting the inside of his mouth before kissing Virgil on the head as they went to do their own separate things for now. He sank out and went to his room, relieved to find it just as it was when he left it. He hadn’t taken out his trash yet, but he assumed Virgil wouldn’t go digging through it at least and see the drafts. Checking his watch, which read 8:30 pm, Logan pulled out the drawer and took out the card. He drew a little density equation on the back, coloring in the little heart that the symbols for mass over volume created. He then opened the card back up, rereading the beginning of the poem he kept from a draft.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to explain my love towards you. Like how it is a mystery as to the true way the universe was created despite the many theories. How the chances of us existing together may have been smaller than a quark, But we managed to exist and come together.” Logan sat down at his desk and began writing a bit more, once again mumbling the words to himself as he wrote. “Your mind can be as far away as a galaxy,

but I’d travel the light years.

You’re a fundamental element in my life, Like gravity to planets and stars.” He bit the bottom of his lip, unable to think of anything else to add. “I can’t even write a simple poem…” He murmured to himself, dropping his pencil. He kept his head up with his left hand, trying to think. There wasn’t any specific pattern or rhyme to the poem. It was purely just him rambling about how great Virgil is in metaphors about space and science. Would Virgil even enjoy that? He created a small, curvy border with a blue pen on the inside of the card, but cringed as he looked back to the unfinished poem. Then he put another line. “I am and always will be unable to express how much I care for you.” It was true, but the poem felt too short and he barely had an idea on how to end it. He wrote on the other half of the inside of the card “Happy Valentine’s Day, Virgil. Love, Logan”, drew a simplistic galaxy on the front, and went back to his previous position of laying his head atop his hand. Instead of coming up with any ideas, Logan somehow fell asleep on his hand. He took his nap for about 4 hours, waking up at the superb hour of around 1 am and his head ended up on the desk with his hand still upright. Great. Only 1 day until Valentine’s Day and he was barely done with his card. He dug his hands into his hair in frustration. It should have been easy to write a poem. But no it was going to be difficult and now he was tired as hell. He decided to create the blue borders on the outside of the card while waiting for the others to get up. After finishing the border, which did look rather nice, he put it back in the desk drawer and went to sleep in his bed this time. Although he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Of course not. He was thinking about what Virgil would think if he barely had anything to give. The poem was pretty choppy… he should rewrite it again. What if Virgil didn’t even want a card? Would chocolates have been better?

Luckily, Logan didn’t stay up late enough to question anymore as he crashed into sleep while thinking about Virgil. Said side must have felt Logan still being awake because he made his way into Logan’s room having woke up early himself. It was dark so he couldn’t see the trash can of the Valentine’s drafts but he could feel his way over to Logan’s bed and curled into his chest almost like a human-sized cat. Before going back to sleep, he kissed Logan’s cheek and put his head half on some pillow and half on the mattress with his head lying against the top of Logan’s chest. He didn’t mind sleeping like this, in fact if he was resting next to Logan on just a mattress he’d be content like that as well.

In the morning, the actual morning of about 7:45 am, Logan found a Virgil sleeping next to him. He sighed dreamily, then remembered that he still hadn’t thrown out his god damn drafts yet. Logan tried to move as subtly and quietly as possible to not wake Virgil. He eventually got out of  bed and moved the plastic bin under his desk quickly as he heard Virgil shuffling on the bed. Then he went back over his bed, kissing Virgil’s forehead.

“Virge? C’mon, it’s almost 8 o’ clock,” Logan said, looking at his watch. Virgil was awake, but he kept his eyes closed as he replied,”I don’t wanna.”

“Patton’s making french toast.” “5 more minutes.”

“We both know that means 5 more hours, metaphorically and even literally at times.”

“Shush, nerd.” Virgil eventually opened his eyes and got up, his hair messy and partially standing. Logan smirked at the other’s appearance, holding out his hand for Virgil to take. So Virgil takes it gladly and they move on with the rest of their day.

Logan had barely any opportunities to work on his card but while there was a short lull he managed to write a few more lines. “You’re nothing short of breath taking. A star should be named after you. No, a galaxy.”

He stopped as he felt a presence in his room. It was Patton. Oh thank god. They both headed off to the commons to discuss with the other two about the big day tomorrow.

“What are you two doing?” Roman asked Virgil and Logan. They both shrugged, but Logan of course, had a small gift to finish.

“Why are you asking?” Virgil replied. “What are you doing, Princey?” Roman was about to respond when he was suddenly tackled by Patton on the couch, letting out a boisterous laugh.

“Well of course, romantic things! Anyways, I thought you’d both at least say something like spending time with each other.” He continued as Patton got off and sat next to him, a wide grin on his face.

“Well that’s a given, isn’t it?” That was Logan, who quirked a brow.

Virgil shrugged. “Sure. We can just chill out here since Romano and Patton are probably going to the fantasy realm or whatever.”

Logan nodded as Roman scoffed at the seemingly mundane idea. He said it was such a boring thing to do on Valentine’s Day, but Virgil didn’t mind.

They all went off to do their jobs and then night time came around again.

Logan was rushing through his notes after playing a game of 52 pickup with his slang vocab cards which he foolishly dropped while hurrying back to his room. He closed his binder with satisfaction after looking at the schedule, putting it away in a separate drawer from the card, which he took back out of its hiding place. He was clueless as to what to add. It had barely any stanzas. Logan tapped his pencil against the table, making a fast paced clicking noise.

“Ughhh!” The logical facet sighed, his mind totally blank. “I should have gotten more hours of sleep.” He looked at his watch: 10:40 pm. He could still finish it by tomorrow. Logan, although, was holding his head up with his forearms, consciousness blinking on and off. He decided, if anything, to add just one more line he could think of. Everything else was decorated and he could finish it after taking a quick nap. He wrote it down slowly due to fatigue, but still tried his best to make it look neat.

“I love--”

Then somehow passed out while writing with a pen. Though, Thomas used to do that at times so was it really that surprising? He was out cold for a while and even slept past 8 am.

“Logan?” Virgil called, noticing Logan’s absence in the morning from the commons. Then Virgil finally found his boyfriend’s head resting on his desk with a nicely decorated card next to his right arm. He noticed the still full trash can of paper and then picked up the card. He didn’t read the inside yet, wanting to see the other things first. He noticed the equation “I love you” message first and chuckled at such a nerdy detail. Then he found the density formula on the back and smirked. How had he been so blessed as to have had such a caring nerd in his life?

Virgil finally opened the card to see the partially unfinished poem on the left flap and a nicely written closing on the right. He saw his name, so this must’ve been for him.

“I guess he didn’t finish…” Virgil concluded out loud to himself, but he really wanted to read the poem. Logan had written him previous poems and he absolutely loved them. So he read it aloud, mumbling the words under his breath.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to explain my love towards you. Like how it is a mystery as to the true way the universe was created despite the many theories. How the chances of us existing together may have been smaller than a quark, But we managed to exist and come together. Your mind can be as far away as a galaxy,

but I’d travel the light years. You’re a fundamental element in my life, Like gravity to planets and stars. I am and always will be unable to express how much I care for you. You’re nothing short of breathtaking. A star should be named after you. No a nebula. I love…”

Logan had woken up as Virgil was reading the second to last stanza, although wasn’t completely aware of his surroundings yet.

“Morning, dear,” Logan greeted with a yawn, adjusting his glasses and hair as much as he could. He was calm and tired until he saw what Virgil had in his hand and then he was fully awake in an instant.

“I… did you read that?” Virgil nodded slowly, hoping the logical facet wasn’t upset. They sat in silence for a few moments before Virgil, surprisingly, broke the silence.

“Um… I really liked it, actually. Really.” He gave a genuine smile, moving to plant a kiss on Logan’s messy hair.

“Really?” “Yes, I did.” “It’s not even finished or--” Logan almost tripped over his own feet trying to sit up from the chair. It was way too early for this. (It was almost 1 pm).

Virgil laughed as Logan struggled to stand up and move, eventually falling onto his bed face first before slowly turning himself around and sitting up. Virgil made his way over to the bed too with much less stumbling, sitting down next to Logan.

“I assume this-” Virgil pointed at the word “love” at the end of the poem. “-is supposed to say ‘I love you’, right?”

Logan looked at Virgil deliriously for a few seconds before practically diving forward and kissing him. Virgil almost let go of the card, but held on and melted into the kiss, smiling as he did so. Then they both fell backwards onto the bed in suppressed giggles.

“I’ve never seen you this giddy,” Virgil commented teasingly.

Logan pointed an index finger straight up as in an objection. “In my defense, I’m very tired.” They both broke into laughter again. After a few minutes of Logan waking up, he had Virgil give him the card to finish writing out “you” and then gave it back.

“I love it, Logan.” He looked at the now fully visible trash can of drafts. “Man… I wish I made something.”

“It’s okay Virgil, you yourself are enough,” Logan replied, pecking Virgil on the forehead who look assured enough for now.

They eventually made their way downstairs, Virgil still latching onto the card, and had their first Valentine’s Day. It consisted of Virgil constantly complimenting Logan’s card and poem, making him blush, and Logan constantly saying how amazing Virgil is, making him blush as well. They cuddled on the couch and watched a few documentaries about space and other oddities.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.” Logan presses a kiss to Virgil’s lips for the millionth time today.

Virgil smiles into it and responds,”Happy Valentine’s Day, nerd.”

#sander sides #analogical #logan sanders #virgil sanders #royality but not rlly #patton sanders #roman sanders #sander sides fic #valentines day #kissing #analogical fluff #my fic #lo rambles

[shimmershaewrites]

Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 8 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title:  Waltzing's for Dreamers

Ratings:  G. 

Warnings:  No real warnings, unless you count fluffiness.  Implied angst, I guess. 

Characters/Pairings:  mild Carol Peletier/Other, Tobin, allusions to Nabila/Jerry, Sophia Peletier, original character, mentions of Daryl, Glenn Rhee, Tara Chambler, mentions of Maggie Greene. 

 It's 4:30 in the morning and I've been wide awake since about 8 am yesterday so...please forgive any glaring mistakes in this chapter and point me toward them.  I'll fix them when I've had some actual sleep, hahaha.  Insomnia sucks, yeah? 

  Waltzing’s for Dreamers

    Seven years after Vegas.  Less than a week before Valentine’s Day. 

      “Looks like you have company,” Tobin remarks as he turns onto her street.   

  “Looks like it,” Carol muses softly.  Her fingers tighten reflexively around the strap of the purse resting in her lap and she searches his profile, looks for further signs of the faint disappointment that laces his words but they’re not there.  At least not outwardly because that hopeful smile he’s been aiming at her for much of the night remains and guilt almost compels her to blurt out a reluctant invitation when he pulls into her driveway.  Almost.  Instead, she voices a gentle reminder when he parks the car and lets it idle.  “Not for much longer, though.  It’s getting late.” 

   “Walk you to your door?”

  “I hardly think the pizza boy’s lying in wait, just waiting to attack,” she deflects with a close-lipped smile. 

  “Never be too sure about those pizza boys,” he tries again, teasing her and chuckling at his own joke.  Gazing at her with simple, unfettered affection.   

  When his hand leaves the steering wheel and breaches the small distance between them to cup her cheek, Carol ducks her head and his incoming kiss.  It grazes her forehead instead and she gives his forearm an apologetic squeeze in response.  “Not tonight, okay?  It’s getting late and I’m tired.  It’s been such a long week with all the preparations for the dance, and I just…not tonight.” 

  “Not tonight.”  He finally nods.  Drops another kiss to her hair before giving her back her space.  “Say goodnight to the kids for me?” 

  “Of course,” Carol promises in parting.  “I’ll see you Monday.” 

  “Monday,” Tobin echoes. 

  She doesn’t actually turn around to head inside, rather watches until his taillights fade into the distance.  Stands there, arms wrapped around herself for warmth against the slight bite in the night air.  Blue eyes unfocused and teeth worrying her bottom lip until a light goes on in the house across the street and the garage door creaks open, her longtime neighbor emerging and eying her with thinly veiled concern as she approaches, only stopping when she reaches the end of her own driveway.   

  “Everything okay, Ma’am?” 

  Carol’s long since stopped trying to correct her politeness, just accepts it’s her way.  Has been her manner since they met, back when she and Daryl and Sophia first moved into this neighborhood years ago and found her and her husband on their doorstep bearing the gift of warm, sweet peach cobbler that hadn’t lasted the rest of that day.  “I’m fine, Nabila.  Really,” she hastens to add when her claim is met with a healthy dose of skepticism.  “What about you?  The kids have been gushing about the new addition to your family.  Especially Sophia.” 

  Nabila’s face splits into a wide grin and she bends to lift a stubby legged puppy in her arms, dodges the eager little tongue and laughs when her efforts lead the tiny ball of fluff to bark playfully at her.  “Meet Honeydew.  By Dr. Greene’s best guess, he’s a Corgi, Golden retriever mix.” 

  “He?” Carol smirks.  Her question is met with a shrug of the other woman’s shoulders. 

  “By the time we figured out she was actually a he, the name had already stuck.” 

  “Well, He’s every bit as adorable as Sophia claimed.” 

  Nabila puffs up with pride.  “Thank you.” 

  The opportunistic puppy uses her distraction against her, licking her full on in the mouth and wiggling its furry butt in pleasure and the sight melts the rest of Carol’s heavy thoughts from her burdened shoulders, makes her laugh and startle the puppy into yipping. Quite loudly. When her own kitchen light comes on and she sees a little face pressed up against the window framed by ten small fingers, she says her goodbyes.  “I better go.  Looks like someone’s up way past their bedtime.” 

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Ma’am.”

  Carol purses her lips.  “How long have you known me?”

  “Long enough to know not to get on your bad side, Ma’am.” 

  “Nabila,” she protests. 

  Not even a second later, the other woman’s mock serious expression cracks and she beams.  “Long enough to know that boy of yours is going to charm his way out of trouble.  Night, Ma’am.” 

  Nabila’s words turn out to be prophetic because all it takes is one look into her son’s big blue eyes and Carol’s sighing in resignation and overlooking the chocolate milk stains down the front of his Spiderman pajamas.  Leaving her purse on the kitchen table and bending to thumb the pizza sauce from the preschooler’s smooth cheeks.  “What am I going to do with you, huh?”    

  “Make me eat brushy spouts?” 

  “Maybe,” she says, matching her son’s seriousness even though she wants to laugh.  Because her baby boy and Sophia are night and day on the issue of food, and she knows from unfortunate experience that there’s literally nothing the falsely repentant little imp in front of her won’t put into his mouth.  In that manner and so many other heart-twisting ways, he reminds her of his father.  “Maybe we’ll just skip tomorrow’s bedtime story.” 

  “Mama,” he grumbles, folding his short arms across his chest. 

    “I said maybe,” she qualifies with a tiny, helplessly amused smile.  Tugging his arms from his chest, she scoops him up and places him on the cluttered kitchen counter in front of her.  Lifts the lid of the Gargulio’s Pizza box and frowns at finding it empty.  “At least tell me it was good.” 

  He nods, his dark blond bangs falling into his drooping eyes.  “The best.” 

  “You don’t have to brag about it,” she teases with a tweak of his nose that makes him erupt into giggles that she immediately shushes.  “Let’s use those sneaky genes of yours.  See what Glenn and Tara and Sis are up to, ‘kay?” 

  “’kay,” he whispers loudly.  Wraps his arms and legs around her like a sleepy monkey around a vine when she plucks him from the counter and perches him on her hip.  

  He’s warm and sweet and heavy in Carol’s arms when she pads toward the darkened living room in her socked feet.  She snuggles him close and breathes his little boy scent in when she reaches the doorway, lingers there and silently surveys the scene unnoticed. 

  Nestled amidst a sea of pillows and fleece blankets on the bay window seat, Sophia has her nose buried in her latest book of choice.  The tiny book light clipped to its corner illuminates the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks and the furrow of intense concentration between her strawberry brows.  That said, she’s not as oblivious to their presence or her surroundings as she pretends to be. 

  She’s ever observant, her sensitive baby girl, and the knowledge makes Carol’s throat tighten for reasons she doesn’t want to dwell on so she doesn’t.  She distracts herself with watching the pair with their heads together on her sofa, their faces lit by the glow of the muted television.  Lost in a conversation that makes her brows raise. 

  “I’m just saying, Tara.  I’ve been waiting a long time.” 

  “For two fictional people to smash?  Dude.  Me, too.” 

  “What?  No.  I’m talking about me and Maggie.” 

  “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but there is no you and Maggie.  So smashing's kind of out of the question." 

  “I want there to be a me and Maggie.”

  “Duh,” Sophia interjects without looking up, an expression that’s impressively deadpan on her face.  “Everybody knows that.  Except maybe Maggie.” 

  There’s something else there, just beneath the surface of that look that makes Carol’s heart sink.  Just a little bit.  A shimmery shine to the eyes that never leave their page that opens a door to the future for her, gives her a glimpse of girlish heartache she wishes she could help her little girl avoid. 

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to know,” Tara blurts, not unkindly.  “It’s not like you don’t trip all over your feelings every time you see her.  And seriously.  Everybody knows Gargulio’s doesn’t deliver as far as the Greene farm.  Literally everybody.  It’s in the middle of freaking nowhere.” 

  Crestfallen, Glenn runs his hands over the cap on his head.  Squeezes the bill and moans.  “Everybody?” 

  Carol announces her presence with a sympathy laden agreement.  “Everybody.” 

  Tara straightens from her slouch.  Winces when she sees her littlest charge nodding off in his mama’s arms.  “Again?” 

  “Again.” 

  “Ninja skills must be hereditary.  Jeez.  Want me to take him upstairs?” she offers. 

  “Like that worked so well the first time,” Glenn comes back to himself enough to mutter.  “Everybody?” he asks again, his face falling when they all nod in response.  “I am such an idiot.  I’m stupid to even think she would notice me.  To even like me like that.” 

  “No, you’re not,” Sophia speaks up, immediately hiding her pink cheeks behind her book when she realizes she has their undivided attention.  “I just mean…I just meant…you’re nice.  Is all.” 

  “Yeah,” her little man mumbles his drowsy endorsement against her neck, making everybody but Glenn himself smile. “Best pizza.” 

  “Pizza.”  Glenn’s eyes brighten and he jumps up from the couch, barely even waving a goodbye as he pulls on his jacket and heads toward the door.  “That’s it!  I know what I have to do.”

  “Should I stop him?” Tara asks.  “I should stop him.”  Shrugging on her own jacket, she ruffles both children’s hair before rushing after her friend.  “Glenn!  Dude, wait up!”  Ducking her pigtailed head around the door one more time before yanking it closed behind her, she holds up her phone.  “Call me if you need anything.” 

  Then she’s gone.  Both of them are and Sophia huffs, tosses her book aside in disgust.  Stands up and tucks herself against Carol’s other side.  “Boys are so stupid.”  

  The heat of her little girl’s would be tears warms her skin beneath the thin, loose sweater she wears, and her heart hurts for her when she struggles to hold her not-so-hidden feelings inside with a sniffle.  Mindful of the little boy drifting off to dreamland in her arms, Carol agrees.  Somewhat.  “Not all of them and not all of the time.  But yeah.  They are." 

#The Walking Dead #Caryl fanfiction #Caryl #Carol x Daryl #stuff that I write #Waltzing's for Dreamers #aka What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas fic #Tobin #Nabila #Jerry #Sophia Peletier #original character #mention of Daryl Dixon #Tara Chambler #Glenn Rhee #mention of Maggie Greene #fluff #and minor angst #mild Carol/Other

[trendingnewsb]

Donald Trump’s 6 Very Real, Very Insane Tips For A Good Life

Whatever you make of him politically, there’s no denying that Donald Trump has been alive for a long, long time. That is literally the least that we can give him. So it stands to reason that he must know something — that he must have some standards or guidelines by which a person can live their life. What a rich source of lifestyle advice he would be, if only he’d share this with us. If only he could find some time in his day to talk about himself.

Oh, it turns out he can.

6

Never Let Go Of Your Grudges

Much of Trump’s life can be defined by the grudges he’s held. Nobody thinks about Rosie O’Donnell that much under normal circumstances. “When people treat me unfairly, I don’t let them forget it,” he told reporters during his presidential campaign in 2016. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s often wealthier or more powerful than the people he’s holding grudges against. That’s not the point. The point is the revenge itself. “If people screw you, screw them back 10 times as hard,” he explained in 2011.

Read Next

Why Do Zebras Have Stripes? Turns Out We Have No Idea

Media organizations he doesn’t like suddenly find themselves blacklisted from campaign rallies and press briefings. One failed business deal in Mexico, and later he’s ranting about how most Mexicans are “rapists” who “bring in drug and crime.” When he won the Republican presidential primary in 2016, he took almost no steps toward reconciliation with his former foes, instead dishing out insults left and right to people he no longer needed to attack. And when Puerto Rico was stricken by a hurricane this summer, Trump dedicated a lot more effort than “none at all, are you crazy?” to a running feud with the mayor of San Juan.

Joe Raedle/Getty ImagesHmm … theres a Puerto Rican I dont get along with. Better screw over three million of them so she knows it.

When NFL players began kneeling during the national anthem, Trump didn’t just criticize the players like most conservative commentators; he focused a lot of his rage on the NFL itself, calling it weak and out of control. Which doesn’t make a ton of sense … until you realize that Trump has long held a grudge against the league for refusing to let him buy a team in the 1980s. And when he tried to buy the Bills in 2014, only to get outbid, he reacted the only way he knows how: with shockingly petty tweets about how boring the league was.

And then there’s the massive grudge he holds toward his predecessor, Barack Obama. Trump spent quite a bit of Obama’s first term cheerleading the birther movement because of, well … let’s say his passion for birth certificate formatting quirks. For some reason, he then attended the 2011 White House Correspondents’ Association dinner. There, Obama lit into him. For a solid two and a half minutes, Trump could do nothing more than slowly rock back and forth, tight-lipped, while Obama dished out insult after insult. The guy’s probably never had to sit through anything like that before, and the psychic impact it’s made on him can’t be underestimated. If you’re ever in any doubt about the motivations behind Trump’s actions as president, know that he’ll always do the opposite of whatever Obama would, be that building a health plan, entering the Paris Accords, or reading.

5

Decorate Like A Dictator

Being wealthy is great. You should definitely be born into that if you can. But it’s not enough on it’s own. You have to let people know you’re wealthy, so they know you’re better than them, and to go fetch you food and pelts. You can do that by shouting at them all the time (and you should; never stop shouting), but when your voice gets tired, or they simply get too far away, you’ll need something else. You’ll need to let your surroundings do the talking for you.

Which brings us the Trumpian aesthetic. The author of a book called Dictator Style identified a number of key design traits featured in the residences of most famous dictators: overly ornate decorations, big swinging chandeliers, marble everything, mismatched French furniture, that kind of thing. Decor which shouted wealth but not class, none of it presented with any kind of design or stylistic intent. And when this author saw pictures of Trump’s penthouse in Manhattan, he saw the same thing there. Vanity Fair even ran a side by side comparison of one of Trump’s mansions and a palace used by Saddam Hussein, and the similarities were not hard to find.

Vanity FairIts the aesthetic equivalent of shouting.

But The Donald does have one decorating quirk all his own: the desire to hang up obviously fake things, like this cover of Time that was proudly framed in five of his golf courses.

Angel Valentin/The Washington PostIt seems this was during Times brief First day using MS Paint series of covers.

It is completely fake. There was no Time issue printed on the date on the cover, and Trump was never on the cover of Time during the year it was supposedly made. And that’s not the only fake thing at his golf courses. Consider this sign:

Rob Carr / Getty ImagesAnd it is our great honor to do a modest amount of research to check if this is true.

Yeah, that’s fake too. Historians who know the area have no idea what battle took place there, and have never heard it referred to as the River of Blood.

Years ago, Trump’s biographer was interviewing the man on one of his presumably marble-coated personal jets. Hanging on the wall of the plane was a painting, a Renoir.

Pierre-Auguste RenoirSpecifically, the most famous painting by Renoir, which apparently no one is keeping track of.

The biographer knew this painting, and knew that the original was in a gallery in Chicago. But Trump insisted that this was the original, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t get rid of it after being called out, either. The thing showed up on the background of an interview with his wife after his campaign victory.

Fox NewsNice to add a splash of color to the uniformly gold room of horror.

4

Eat Fast Food And Nothing But Fast Food

Every celebrity lifestyle guide is at least 50 percent bizarre ultra-healthy diet tips — exotic grains, free-range kale, and egg white omelets all prepared by their aboriginal spirit-nutritionist, Klevin. Trump’s guide would have a similar section, but y’know, the total opposite.

First, let’s discuss his taste in steaks: well-done, with a side of ketchup, which the flavor experts among you will recognize as “not optimal.” We’re talking steaks so well-done they used to “rock when they hit the plate.” Now look, elitism is shitty, in food and all other things.

Trump SteaksCase in point.

Not everyone likes their steaks mooing, so if a guy likes to eat his steak well-done, that’s fine. It’s fine.

The ketchup is a little much, though.

The other staple of the Trump diet: the 2,400-calorie McDonald’s meals he’s been known to consume. That’s multiple Big Macs, Filet-O-Fishes, and chocolate shakes. Kentucky Fried Chicken, pizza, and Diet Coke reportedly make up the rest of his diet, and if that describes yours as well, congratulations on already thinking like a billionaire, I guess?

McDonandsThough maybe we should make time for the Friends dont let friends order Filet-O-Fish talk.

There’s an interesting explanation for this love for overcooked meats and salt: Trump is a germaphobe. Imagine how risky an acai root indigenous power bowl or something would look to him, all covered in fruits and grains and stuff that clearly once touched the earth, all prepared by someone with their hands. You could then see the appeal of mass-produced, pre-packaged foods. Not if you think it through at all, but if you took a cursory glance at those two options, and you were absolutely certain that the first thought that entered your head was always 100 percent factually indisputably correct for all time, forever and ever, amen, you might see where he’s coming form.

3

Be Born With Superior Genes

If you had to pick the perfect human, the one person whose intelligence, grace, and physical attractiveness surpassed all others, it’d be Donald Trump, right?

Well, there’s a reason for that. Trump has good genes, as he’ll tell you himself. It’s part of his so-called “racehorse theory of life,” which states that some people are bred to succeed, thanks to the genetic material provided by their parents. We’re not reaching here. He brings up his genes all the time. His health? Excellent, thanks for asking, and a result of his good genes. Same thing with his energy! Luck? He was born with it! He once even said he had a genetic gift for real estate development, which … scientists are not really rushing to confirm.

Pawel Marynowski/Wikimedia CommonsInvestors, either.

Anything positive that his family does is proof of the same genetic greatness. He regularly mentions his uncle who went to MIT. His granddaughter, who’s learning Mandarin, is more proof of Trumpian greatness. His kids have inherited the belief too. Here’s his son going on about his incredible genes, including his mother’s fictitious Olympic skiing background.

This kind of thinking is a little troubling, especially when we consider another famous political movement obsessed with superior genes. Yes, it’s usually hyperbolic to compare people you disagree with to Nazis. But not when they actually believe what Nazis believe. To the millions of Americans who might not have perfect genes, it is a little disturbing that their president said, “‘All men are created equal.’ Well, it’s not true.”

Remember this?

CNN

That would be the president doing an impression of a disabled reporter. It was a joke, but you know, not a “ha ha” one. And he now sets policy for disabled Americans!

2

Fill Everything With Asbestos

Asbestos was once used as a fireproofing agent, because it is extremely effective in that role. It also causes cancer, and is extremely effective at that as well. But for some reason (it’s probably money), Donald Trump has only ever really cared about that first bullet point. In his 1997 book, he suggested the drive to remove asbestos was led by the mafia, which controlled the asbestos removal business. In his view, asbestos was “100 percent safe, once applied,” which is true about undisturbed asbestos. But it does have a nasty habit of getting disturbed, which lowers the safety level a few (dozen) percentage points.

Mark Wilson/Getty ImagesOf course, that assumes you take safety advice from qualified scientists. Trump is having none of that.

Which is why for a few decades now, we’ve had regulations mandating asbestos use and treatment. This makes it a giant and expensive pain in the ass for anyone who owns buildings, e.g. Donald Trump. And seeing as Trump isn’t a huge fan of spending his own money and also has a casual relationship with facts, you can probably now deduce how he’s taken this position. On that note, he was once sued in the 1990s by Polish construction workers who claimed they were exposed to asbestos dust without protective equipment. But that’s probably a coincidence.

Anyways, whether it’s science, regulations, or angry Poles, nothing has ever changed The Donald’s mind. He still loves asbestos, and is even on the record suggesting that it could have prevented the World Trade Center towers from collapsing on 9/11. He was even on Twitter about it, because he’s been on Twitter about everything. Whatever the opposite of a grudge is, Donald Trump has it for asbestos. Which means that if you want to be a winner, you’re going to need a carcinogen of your own to love.

RealDonaldTrump/Twitter#science

1

Exercise And Sleep Are For Losers

On the subject of exercise, Donald Trump has a very hot take: don’t. He believes that a person is like a battery, with a fixed amount of energy, and that unnecessary exercise uses that energy up. He’s even mocked others for exercising. When he found out that one of his executives was training for a triathlon, he told the man he’d “die young because of this.”

This lines up pretty neatly with the exact opposite of what scientists say, which is that while exercise might temporarily reduce your energy, it strengthens your body, thus allowing it to be stronger and store more energy in the future. You already knew that because you went to gym class once or read anything about food ever. But who are you going to trust? Scientists and common sense? Or a winner with confusing ideas about batteries?

And then there’s the matter of sleep. For a long time, Trump has claimed that he gets very little of it, from 90 minutes to four hours a night. You should probably do the same. And what can you expect to do with all that extra time you’ll have, being exhausted and grumpy? Well, if you want to be like Trump, you’ll makes deals and plot revenge.

New York MagazineEverybody knows 3 a.m. is the ideal time to sit awake, sharpening a dagger and reciting the names of everyone whos ever wronged you. Thats Business 101.

The American Academy of Sleep Medicine recommends seven hours or more of sleep per day for an adult, which suggests that Trump has been wrecking his body and mind for decades now. Come to think of it, that does jive with a few things we’ve seen in the news …

Get a leg up on Donald Trump’s granddaughter and start learning Mandarin yourself with Rosetta Stone.

If you loved this article and want more content like this, support our site with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you.

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/article_25428_donald-trumps-6-very-real-very-insane-tips-good-life.html

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Donald Trump’s 6 Very Real, Very Insane Tips For A Good Life

Whatever you make of him politically, there’s no denying that Donald Trump has been alive for a long, long time. That is literally the least that we can give him. So it stands to reason that he must know something — that he must have some standards or guidelines by which a person can live their life. What a rich source of lifestyle advice he would be, if only he’d share this with us. If only he could find some time in his day to talk about himself.

Oh, it turns out he can.

6

Never Let Go Of Your Grudges

Much of Trump’s life can be defined by the grudges he’s held. Nobody thinks about Rosie O’Donnell that much under normal circumstances. “When people treat me unfairly, I don’t let them forget it,” he told reporters during his presidential campaign in 2016. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s often wealthier or more powerful than the people he’s holding grudges against. That’s not the point. The point is the revenge itself. “If people screw you, screw them back 10 times as hard,” he explained in 2011.

Read Next

Why Do Zebras Have Stripes? Turns Out We Have No Idea

Media organizations he doesn’t like suddenly find themselves blacklisted from campaign rallies and press briefings. One failed business deal in Mexico, and later he’s ranting about how most Mexicans are “rapists” who “bring in drug and crime.” When he won the Republican presidential primary in 2016, he took almost no steps toward reconciliation with his former foes, instead dishing out insults left and right to people he no longer needed to attack. And when Puerto Rico was stricken by a hurricane this summer, Trump dedicated a lot more effort than “none at all, are you crazy?” to a running feud with the mayor of San Juan.

Joe Raedle/Getty ImagesHmm … theres a Puerto Rican I dont get along with. Better screw over three million of them so she knows it.

When NFL players began kneeling during the national anthem, Trump didn’t just criticize the players like most conservative commentators; he focused a lot of his rage on the NFL itself, calling it weak and out of control. Which doesn’t make a ton of sense … until you realize that Trump has long held a grudge against the league for refusing to let him buy a team in the 1980s. And when he tried to buy the Bills in 2014, only to get outbid, he reacted the only way he knows how: with shockingly petty tweets about how boring the league was.

And then there’s the massive grudge he holds toward his predecessor, Barack Obama. Trump spent quite a bit of Obama’s first term cheerleading the birther movement because of, well … let’s say his passion for birth certificate formatting quirks. For some reason, he then attended the 2011 White House Correspondents’ Association dinner. There, Obama lit into him. For a solid two and a half minutes, Trump could do nothing more than slowly rock back and forth, tight-lipped, while Obama dished out insult after insult. The guy’s probably never had to sit through anything like that before, and the psychic impact it’s made on him can’t be underestimated. If you’re ever in any doubt about the motivations behind Trump’s actions as president, know that he’ll always do the opposite of whatever Obama would, be that building a health plan, entering the Paris Accords, or reading.

5

Decorate Like A Dictator

Being wealthy is great. You should definitely be born into that if you can. But it’s not enough on it’s own. You have to let people know you’re wealthy, so they know you’re better than them, and to go fetch you food and pelts. You can do that by shouting at them all the time (and you should; never stop shouting), but when your voice gets tired, or they simply get too far away, you’ll need something else. You’ll need to let your surroundings do the talking for you.

Which brings us the Trumpian aesthetic. The author of a book called Dictator Style identified a number of key design traits featured in the residences of most famous dictators: overly ornate decorations, big swinging chandeliers, marble everything, mismatched French furniture, that kind of thing. Decor which shouted wealth but not class, none of it presented with any kind of design or stylistic intent. And when this author saw pictures of Trump’s penthouse in Manhattan, he saw the same thing there. Vanity Fair even ran a side by side comparison of one of Trump’s mansions and a palace used by Saddam Hussein, and the similarities were not hard to find.

Vanity FairIts the aesthetic equivalent of shouting.

But The Donald does have one decorating quirk all his own: the desire to hang up obviously fake things, like this cover of Time that was proudly framed in five of his golf courses.

Angel Valentin/The Washington PostIt seems this was during Times brief First day using MS Paint series of covers.

It is completely fake. There was no Time issue printed on the date on the cover, and Trump was never on the cover of Time during the year it was supposedly made. And that’s not the only fake thing at his golf courses. Consider this sign:

Rob Carr / Getty ImagesAnd it is our great honor to do a modest amount of research to check if this is true.

Yeah, that’s fake too. Historians who know the area have no idea what battle took place there, and have never heard it referred to as the River of Blood.

Years ago, Trump’s biographer was interviewing the man on one of his presumably marble-coated personal jets. Hanging on the wall of the plane was a painting, a Renoir.

Pierre-Auguste RenoirSpecifically, the most famous painting by Renoir, which apparently no one is keeping track of.

The biographer knew this painting, and knew that the original was in a gallery in Chicago. But Trump insisted that this was the original, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t get rid of it after being called out, either. The thing showed up on the background of an interview with his wife after his campaign victory.

Fox NewsNice to add a splash of color to the uniformly gold room of horror.

4

Eat Fast Food And Nothing But Fast Food

Every celebrity lifestyle guide is at least 50 percent bizarre ultra-healthy diet tips — exotic grains, free-range kale, and egg white omelets all prepared by their aboriginal spirit-nutritionist, Klevin. Trump’s guide would have a similar section, but y’know, the total opposite.

First, let’s discuss his taste in steaks: well-done, with a side of ketchup, which the flavor experts among you will recognize as “not optimal.” We’re talking steaks so well-done they used to “rock when they hit the plate.” Now look, elitism is shitty, in food and all other things.

Trump SteaksCase in point.

Not everyone likes their steaks mooing, so if a guy likes to eat his steak well-done, that’s fine. It’s fine.

The ketchup is a little much, though.

The other staple of the Trump diet: the 2,400-calorie McDonald’s meals he’s been known to consume. That’s multiple Big Macs, Filet-O-Fishes, and chocolate shakes. Kentucky Fried Chicken, pizza, and Diet Coke reportedly make up the rest of his diet, and if that describes yours as well, congratulations on already thinking like a billionaire, I guess?

McDonandsThough maybe we should make time for the Friends dont let friends order Filet-O-Fish talk.

There’s an interesting explanation for this love for overcooked meats and salt: Trump is a germaphobe. Imagine how risky an acai root indigenous power bowl or something would look to him, all covered in fruits and grains and stuff that clearly once touched the earth, all prepared by someone with their hands. You could then see the appeal of mass-produced, pre-packaged foods. Not if you think it through at all, but if you took a cursory glance at those two options, and you were absolutely certain that the first thought that entered your head was always 100 percent factually indisputably correct for all time, forever and ever, amen, you might see where he’s coming form.

3

Be Born With Superior Genes

If you had to pick the perfect human, the one person whose intelligence, grace, and physical attractiveness surpassed all others, it’d be Donald Trump, right?

Well, there’s a reason for that. Trump has good genes, as he’ll tell you himself. It’s part of his so-called “racehorse theory of life,” which states that some people are bred to succeed, thanks to the genetic material provided by their parents. We’re not reaching here. He brings up his genes all the time. His health? Excellent, thanks for asking, and a result of his good genes. Same thing with his energy! Luck? He was born with it! He once even said he had a genetic gift for real estate development, which … scientists are not really rushing to confirm.

Pawel Marynowski/Wikimedia CommonsInvestors, either.

Anything positive that his family does is proof of the same genetic greatness. He regularly mentions his uncle who went to MIT. His granddaughter, who’s learning Mandarin, is more proof of Trumpian greatness. His kids have inherited the belief too. Here’s his son going on about his incredible genes, including his mother’s fictitious Olympic skiing background.

This kind of thinking is a little troubling, especially when we consider another famous political movement obsessed with superior genes. Yes, it’s usually hyperbolic to compare people you disagree with to Nazis. But not when they actually believe what Nazis believe. To the millions of Americans who might not have perfect genes, it is a little disturbing that their president said, “‘All men are created equal.’ Well, it’s not true.”

Remember this?

CNN

That would be the president doing an impression of a disabled reporter. It was a joke, but you know, not a “ha ha” one. And he now sets policy for disabled Americans!

2

Fill Everything With Asbestos

Asbestos was once used as a fireproofing agent, because it is extremely effective in that role. It also causes cancer, and is extremely effective at that as well. But for some reason (it’s probably money), Donald Trump has only ever really cared about that first bullet point. In his 1997 book, he suggested the drive to remove asbestos was led by the mafia, which controlled the asbestos removal business. In his view, asbestos was “100 percent safe, once applied,” which is true about undisturbed asbestos. But it does have a nasty habit of getting disturbed, which lowers the safety level a few (dozen) percentage points.

Mark Wilson/Getty ImagesOf course, that assumes you take safety advice from qualified scientists. Trump is having none of that.

Which is why for a few decades now, we’ve had regulations mandating asbestos use and treatment. This makes it a giant and expensive pain in the ass for anyone who owns buildings, e.g. Donald Trump. And seeing as Trump isn’t a huge fan of spending his own money and also has a casual relationship with facts, you can probably now deduce how he’s taken this position. On that note, he was once sued in the 1990s by Polish construction workers who claimed they were exposed to asbestos dust without protective equipment. But that’s probably a coincidence.

Anyways, whether it’s science, regulations, or angry Poles, nothing has ever changed The Donald’s mind. He still loves asbestos, and is even on the record suggesting that it could have prevented the World Trade Center towers from collapsing on 9/11. He was even on Twitter about it, because he’s been on Twitter about everything. Whatever the opposite of a grudge is, Donald Trump has it for asbestos. Which means that if you want to be a winner, you’re going to need a carcinogen of your own to love.

RealDonaldTrump/Twitter#science

1

Exercise And Sleep Are For Losers

On the subject of exercise, Donald Trump has a very hot take: don’t. He believes that a person is like a battery, with a fixed amount of energy, and that unnecessary exercise uses that energy up. He’s even mocked others for exercising. When he found out that one of his executives was training for a triathlon, he told the man he’d “die young because of this.”

This lines up pretty neatly with the exact opposite of what scientists say, which is that while exercise might temporarily reduce your energy, it strengthens your body, thus allowing it to be stronger and store more energy in the future. You already knew that because you went to gym class once or read anything about food ever. But who are you going to trust? Scientists and common sense? Or a winner with confusing ideas about batteries?

And then there’s the matter of sleep. For a long time, Trump has claimed that he gets very little of it, from 90 minutes to four hours a night. You should probably do the same. And what can you expect to do with all that extra time you’ll have, being exhausted and grumpy? Well, if you want to be like Trump, you’ll makes deals and plot revenge.

New York MagazineEverybody knows 3 a.m. is the ideal time to sit awake, sharpening a dagger and reciting the names of everyone whos ever wronged you. Thats Business 101.

The American Academy of Sleep Medicine recommends seven hours or more of sleep per day for an adult, which suggests that Trump has been wrecking his body and mind for decades now. Come to think of it, that does jive with a few things we’ve seen in the news …

Get a leg up on Donald Trump’s granddaughter and start learning Mandarin yourself with Rosetta Stone.

If you loved this article and want more content like this, support our site with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you.

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/article_25428_donald-trumps-6-very-real-very-insane-tips-good-life.html

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2EPM2Op via Viral News HQ

#IFTTT #Viral News HQ