Living With Choso Might Have Just Been The Best Mistake Of Your Entire Life. The Intended Plan Was For

Might I just say, that I'm standing with Gisèle Pelicot today, as should we all. She has been an absolute bastion of strength during one of the most hellish experiences that could happen to a woman. She should be utterly proud, and France should be utterly proud of her.

JUSTICE FOR GISÈLE PELICOT.

the flour massacre is ongoing. it is everyday. it was not an isolated event. it was not even the first time israel shot at and killed palestinians going for aid (they do it whenever they allow aid through). in fact, they did the exact same thing yesterday morning. just because smaller-scale murders go under the radar for lack of shock factor doesn’t mean they’re not happening continuously.

‧₊˚🪻✩ scent prompts

¹⁾ cigarette smoke

²⁾ cheap, dollar-store cologne

³⁾ pavement slabs after rain

⁴⁾ burning popcorn

⁵⁾ pungent gasoline

⁶⁾ heady amber incense

⁷⁾ salty sea air

⁸⁾ freshly turned earth

⁹⁾ sharp lemon zest

¹⁰⁾ floral laundry detergent

¹¹⁾ acrid black smoke

¹²⁾ stale sweat

¹³⁾ sweet coconut body wash

¹⁴⁾ rich coffee beans

¹⁵⁾ sautéing garlic

¹⁶⁾ iron-tinged blood

¹⁷⁾ sharp acetone

¹⁸⁾ crisp mint toothpaste

¹⁹⁾ synthetic cleaning supplies

²⁰⁾ cheap hotel hand soap

²¹⁾ pristine paperbacks

²²⁾ expensive, luscious perfume

²³⁾ cheap, waxy candles

²⁴⁾ grass cuttings

²⁵⁾ dense smoke

content warnings: implied blowjob and mentions of pregnancy and children

gojo!actor au and he’s just a bit of a loser.

and i mean that in a literal sense. he’s good enough to be nominated for the emmy’s, the oscars — all these prestigious awards. but he never wins.

each year, he dresses up all posh. puts you in a pretty gown and shows up — just to lose. and it’s an annual routine now, you look forward to it. he’s never taken these awards so seriously anyway. it's all a big joke, and you get free food!

but one year — one year, he wins. it’s shocking — to you, to him, to everyone. cheers and yips are so loud as he stands up. the next day people will publish articles about how this was deserved, how he should’ve been awarded a long time ago.

he walks up there — a soft red hue of a kiss on his cheek as he manages to stare and directly talk to his wife, despite the massive crowd, despite the mic, despite the bedazzlement. his eyes peer into yours as he speaks of gratitude.

and he finishes up with an endless list of thank yous — to directors, coworkers, production team, fans, his mom, his wife, maybe god if he exists? his wife again. his wife.

it’s the after party — you two never go but gojo’s manager warned him and you did your part in urging him, because he did win after all. people would be expecting him. he argues, he speaks of his comfy bed, and you proposition him — you tell him going would mean he gets head in the bathroom and of course, he’s a simple man so he agrees almost immediately.

after you deliver what was promised, under the fancy red glow of the bathroom you’re both in, you rub a hand to wipe your mouth as you stand up, fixing your dress as he fixes his trousers.

he speaks up, his tone rather serious and it scares you just a little. “baby, you promised me," he began. "you said if i won — you’d give me a baby.”

“that was 5 years ago, satoru.” you chuckled, as you fixed his mussed hair.

“and we’re here now — i won. it’s your turn now," his words teasing, but his eyes seeking affirmation in your gaze.

"you want a baby?" you asked as you looked up at his hopeful eyes.

“i want a baby,” he affirms.

“okay,” you smile. your hand trails down to his chest, only to suddenly push him back with force as he flops onto the toilet seat. “let’s give you a baby.”

bonus

"does this mean," he asked, "you'll give me a baby every time I win?"

“let’s start with one, satoru."

“but—“

“one.”

Stickers seen around NYC in the days after cops opened fire in the NYC subway, shooting a fellow officer, two bystanders, and an alleged "fair evader" they were attempting to apprehend.

I want to write. I have ideas. I open document. I type four of the worst sentences ever created in the english language. I daydream the rest of the scene. I close document.

Ship trope I'd love to see more of: "Are we in love? I mean, yeah, probably, but that's a problem for future us. Right now we're just trying to make it through the Plot."

i am

chocolate covered

freaky

habit forming