"use Chatgpt" That's The Devil Talking. Buy Four Caffeinated Drinks And Pull An All Nighter. This Is

Guys what we think about Mr Reca showing clear favouritism to you during filming. Doesn't matter what role you are or if you're even IN the film.

You can be the main, you can be a reoccurring character, you're part in the film could even just be strolling along the street.

But he will praise you like his life depends on it.

"Marvellous! Just marvellous performance there. You did so well"

"...I was holding up the prop tree-"

Even if you weren't in the film and perhaps just played a role in script writing, costume designer, the camera men. It doesn't matter, because he'll praise you for the simplest things. It's clear to everyone on set, (and hopefully you) that he has great bias and favouritism when it comes to you

oh dear my hands slipped and accidentally spent hours drawing owl ratio

(no i didnt i have been thinking about this for months)

i colored him (finally)

shes into older women

Scaramouche x Reader - Loss

tw: death, blood

(Y/n) spotted him walking towards her, her weaken state trembling under his gaze, Childe was behind him, arms crossed.

She kneeled infront of him, her legs shaking as she tried to keep the blood that filled her mouth inside.

"M-my lord" The girl spoke weakily, her tounge rolled up to contain the red liquid, but her teeth gave it away.

"Stand up, soldier" he demands with a cold gaze, totally clueless.

Childe sees right through her act tho, he watches her try to not faint infront of both of them from the pain, he notices the way her once pearl white teeth are stained with blood, and he glares at the hand holding her stomach, but her act was pretty good, not flinching, not shaking while one knee stood on the ground.

"I can't, i'm sorry my lord" (Y/n) apologizes, keeping her stotic facade on, her eyes dark red. Fury, or pain.

Scaramouche tch'd.

"Why aren't you obeying, you little slut"

Childe held an arm in front of the man, and walked fowards.

"(Y/n), lift up your shirt"

Panic crossed her eyes, but soon it dissapared like mist, biting her lip slightly.

"Sir, i-"

Childe made a bold move, took her by her forearms and lifted her up with ease, like she was a feather, while one hand kept her standing, the other one went for the black fabric of her fitted shirt, lifting it up, to see the injury.

Childe gasped, someone had pierced some type of weapon through the girl's stomach, almost letting her internal organs spill out.

"(Y/n)..."

She pushed him away, and fell to the cold floor, her eyes loosing the shine they usually held.

"I'm sorry my lord, i couldn't-"

"Shut up, Tartaglia, go get her some type of paramedics or something!"

Soon, the tall man was gone.

Her eyes widened as she watched as he fell to his knees infront of her.

"Who did this to you?!"

"It isn't important"

He slapped her, hard, making her stumble backwards, but he caught her wrist and lantched her to his chest.

"It is important, i'm gonna break all the bones of their bodies and beat them up with my own fist, to then-"

"Scaramouche, please" she begged, gripping the cloth of his armour tightly into her tiny fists, her wound long forgotten.

"You'll be ok, (Y/n), you've always been ok, you'll be back, you'll recover, like you always do"

The girl shook her head and smiled sadly, tears spilling down her cheeks and under her throat.

"I don't think so, my lord"

She looks at him like the fire in her eyes has been dowsed with ice water, if anything it makes the red more pale. He's not used to it, it unnerves him. He wants her to give freely like she always does but she won't. It's like she just crawled right back inside some invisible shell and no matter how hard he tries she's unreachable. She moves her eyes more slowly, like they're heavy, an effort to move. Scaramouche wants to crack a joke but he knows she doesn't have the enegry to laugh. He's kneeling right next to her but she might as well be on heaven.

She stops moving all of the sudden, her half-lidded eyes closing.

"Don't fucking close your eyes, you hear me?!"

Silence

"Soldier!"

Silence

"Soldier!"

Silence once again.

"(Y-y/n)?

He was trying to fight a rising panic, his heart leaping on his throat, uneasy, he was fucking terrified for god's sake.

He, the mighty Scaramouche was scared senslessly, his arms trembling as he shook the girl's limp form desperatly.

"Please"

He neared his ear to her chest, not hearing her heartbeates anymore.

She wasn't breathing.

"PLEASE!"

And with that, all the humanity he had left died with her, his precious soldier, his secret lover, his soon-to-be wife.

cw: drunk reader

Diluc’s strength is no joke.

You barely remember in your late teenage years when, for some reason, Kaeya mischievously put Diluc and a man in one room together to do an arm wrestling challenge.

At the time, you were worried, because his opponent was twice Diluc’s size. The man looked like he could crush a watermelon with only his fists.

As the crowd gathered around to spectate the competition between the former cavalry captain and the giant, you watched with bated breath as the countdown went down. You mulled over interrupting their business, there were a lot of grown men cheering and yelling making bets on who would be the victor, you decided not to, because there was also a part of you that was curious on what would happen.

When someone hollered for them to begin, everyone expected some kind of struggle. But there was only a curt and loud thud.

Diluc, in one swift motion, easily overpowered the bigger man’s arm by pining it firmly on the surface.

You underestimated him. Diluc really took his training seriously, and it would be more evident ( in his physical growth ) as he got older.

So now, in the present, your sober self will probably regret this proposition you just made with him once you wake up tomorrow.

“We don’t really have to do this, my love,” Diluc says, a worried frown plastered on his handsome face. “You’re not in the right state of mind – you ought to go to bed.”

Archons only know where you gained your confidence. After two pints of beer in his tavern ( in which he vehemently disapproved of but allowed you to indulged only this once ), you were immediately red and intoxicated.

( Thankfully, it was closing time when you started sputtering out unintelligible comments and murmurs. Diluc wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he enjoyed the way home to the manor because you kept on spoiling him with small kisses on the cheeks, and how he was so “strong” and “so great.” It was going to be a secret between the two of you.

Now that you both were finally inside your shared bedroom, Diluc’s plan was simple: to give your affections back tenfold by relishing on your adorable self’s clinginess and cuddling you before succumbing to slumber. But apparently, after changing into comfortable sleepwear, you had other plans. )

“Am not drunk!” you exclaim, before clumsily pulling him closer. Diluc assists you by easing himself right into your embrace. “How dare you say that, you—“

“I did not even say that you were inebriated,” Diluc retorts, and you catch the small smirk on his kissable lips. Wow. You really want to wipe the smugness in his face by kissing him. Or you want him to kiss you. Eh, both is good. “You are staring. Do you need anything? Maybe we should rest now and—“

“Nuh–uh.” You shake your head stubbornly. You tighten your hold around your beefy husband who looks down at you with obvious softness in his scarlet eyes. “Arm wrestle with me. Please?”

Diluc caresses your cheek with his thumb. “I do not think that is a good idea.”

You grin, “But that’s what you think. I, however think that it is a good idea!” Unaware, you start to roam your hands under his silky shirt. Diluc visibly stiffens, when you reach certain spots in his defined muscles. “Pleaaaasee?”

You wonder if Diluc has caught on, with the way he begins to blush from your insinuations. For a moment, he sighs in defeat, and then presses his lips on your forehead. He whispers, “Alright.”

You celebrate when he takes you to the dresser. He gently lets you sit on the plush stool, while he takes another chair to be beside you. You excitedly swing your arm, waiting for his own, and you cackle in delight when his warm fingers intertwines with yours.

“Don’ flirt with me. ‘s not a good a strategy,” you claim, and Diluc surprises you by kissing you promptly on the cheek. “Diluuuuc. . .”

“I cannot help it,” He confesses, looking a little timid and apologetic. But you know that he may do it again. “But if that is what you wish, then—“

“Later,” you pout. It’s not like you don’t like his kisses. There’s a more important thing to do here! “e’re gonna compete first.”

As you explain the rules of arm wrestling to him despite the basics already ingrained in your brains, you fail to notice how Diluc keeps on gazing at you with such fondness.

“Also, just because you do lifts and I don’t doesn’t mean you’ll go easy on me,” you boldly say. Diluc has as advantage, sure, but you believe that you can find a way in breaking his victory streak. You just can feel it in your bones. Trust.

But as always, Diluc keeps on defeating you. But the good thing about it is that your husband continues to dote on you even more, even if you grumble at him.

With the loving ( and supportive ) glances he sends you while you attempt to beat him and random kisses he gives you every time he wins “my reward” he says—you repeatedly tell him not to flirt with you, and he, in turn, answers again with “I just couldn’t help it.”

hey. don’t cry. crush three cloves of garlic into a pot with a dollop of olive oil and stir until golden then add one can of crushed tomatoes a bit of balsamic vinegar half a tablespoon of brown sugar half a cup of grated parmesan cheese and stir for a few minutes adding a handful of fresh spinach until wilted and mix in pasta of your choice ok?

since y’all didn’t respond to my well thought out post. have some memes calling y’all out, as well as a link to my other well thought out and written post. i’m tired of seeing people complain about their dash being dead, when they only like shit. reblog or shut up - LINK

for reference -

FLUSTERED.

you can’t believe how easy it is for him to fluster you (you’re just gonna blame it on the fact it’s your first meeting with him).

pairing: ayato/gender neutral reader

category/warnings: arranged marriage, first meeting, fluff ig, ayato is hot, ayato has long hair, ayato is taller than the reader, ayato kisses the reader on their hand and the reader is nervous throughout the whole fic ure welcome

note: anyways please wish me luck on my history test today i really dont want to retake it bro

nervous. that’s the word that best describes the state that you’re in right now. nervous and a little bit excited.

you’ve heard stories about kamisato ayato — a lot of them, to be precise. who didn’t? the head of the kamisato clan, the yashiro commissioner, the leader of the shuumatsuban; yes, you’ve heard stories of him but never met him in person. and that is precisely why you’re nervous — because you’re supposed to soon marry someone you didn’t meet before. and now that you’re waiting for him, you start wondering how have you never meet him yet considering you’re so close with ayaka?

“don’t worry,” she tries to make you less nervous. admittedly, she fails but you don’t have the heart to tell her that. “oh, you see? there he is!” she whispers in your ear and gestures in front of you.

and there he is indeed. walking in your direction, with his head held up high and a confident walk.

you get more and more nervous with every step he takes and so when he finally stands in front of you, you forget how you’re supposed to act.

“hello, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he says and his voice is smooth and rich; it reminds you of honey. he has a curious glint in his eye. “hello, sister,” he adds while smiling at ayaka, to which she nods at him.

you three stand in silence for a good minute, with your friend’s brother’s eyes never leaving your figure. the girl is the one to break the silence first.

“i’m going to leave you to it,” she says and quickly bids the two of you goodbye.

it’s going to go great!, she mouths while backing away.

now that you’re left alone, you look at the man in front of you more closely. he’s attractive. oh archons, he’s extremely attractive. and he’s tall, overwhelmingly so; his figure seems to loom over yours and you feel oh so small. his hair is tied up in a high ponytail with two strands adorning his face from both sides — he’s a handsome man. he’s a very handsome man and he’s looking at you so intensely you want to disappear.

“hello,” you answer. your voice is visibly nervous and you curse yourself for it.

“may i?” he asks while gesturing to take your hand. you allow him, lifting it in his direction yourself. he delicately takes it in his own and brings it up to his lips — and you suddenly feel like you can’t breathe and you feel your cheeks heat up. he kisses your knuckles while never breaking the eye contact and you’re so caught up in the act of what is happening that you forget how close and how intimate the position you are in is.

“i have a feeling we’re going to get along quite well,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, not letting your hand out of his hold. his eyes are piercing and you have to look away. you try to calm down your beating heart — damn it, why were you so easy to fluster?

kamisato ayato is gonna be the end of you.

the op of jjk season 2 is rife with symbolism. there's one particular motif, however, that foreshadows the trajectory (and tragedy) of gojo and geto's love story.

almost immediately, we see geto running through the rain. the stylistic choice to portray him holding his bag over his head is deliberate, because it emphasizes what he conspicuously doesn’t have but so clearly needs: an umbrella.

gojo, on the other hand, is not operating with the same sense of urgency, seen through him taking his time looking at a cat. gojo has what geto needs, but he's not rushing. their behaviour is incongruous; geto is hurrying to get out of the rain, and gojo remains still, because he’s absolutely not hurrying at all.

the sense of urgency is compounding, seen through geto bouncing his leg. he’s waiting impatiently in the rain, and he's not using his bag to cover up his head anymore. geto knows gojo is coming; that's why he's impatient— because he's waiting for someone who has what he needs that hasn’t shown up yet.

geto needs him, yet gojo doesn’t pick up the pace. this is despite the fact that he needs to because it’s raining and geto doesn’t have an umbrella. we, as the audience, feel geto's impatience and we're urging gojo on, yet he still doesn't go any faster.

sharing an umbrella is an established trope in japan. it’s widely recognized and practiced enough to have its own designated terminology.

gojo is bringing an umbrella for them to share. that's why it’s repeatedly reinforced to the audience that geto doesn't have one. that’s also why the shots cut between them; it highlights what gojo has that geto doesn’t, and in doing so, ties the narrative together through the umbrella.

by the time gojo finally shows up, the sun has come out. gojo lowers the umbrella and smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. contrarily, geto almost seems resigned, like he’s accepted the fact that gojo took too long. they can’t share the umbrella anymore because they missed their chance to use it.

we can see that geto is saying something to gojo when he finally shows up with the umbrella. you know what i would bet actual money it probably was?

“you’re late, satoru.”