Sure, bruh. I’m gonna stalk you and your videos for months and endlessly harass you on Twitter, bruh. We’re gonna have nearly six hour Skype sessions and always flirt shamelessly on social media, bruh. We’re gonna meet in your home city when your parents are away and continue flirting and grow even closer, bruh. I’m gonna go to uni in said home city so I can be closer to you and I’ll still spend most of my time at your apartment, bruh. I’m gonna break down because of stress from uni but you’re gonna hold me and look after me and encourage me to do what I want to do in life and we’ll eventually move in together, bruh. We’re gonna hit some obstacles and I’m gonna be a complete dick to you but you’re gonna stand by me anyway because you’re my bruh. We’re gonna move to another city on a whim with no money but a whole lotta trust, bruh. Eventually we’ll host a national radio show together despite “not being a double-act” and in the meantime I’ll stop being a dick and we’ll continue to grow closer, bruh. We’ll host important events and meet loads of celebrities together, bruh. We’ll go on holidays together and meet each other’s families repeatedly, bruh. Once our fanbases grow quite big we’ll write two books, organise a stag show and tour, make two movies and a game that wasn’t even mine together, and set up a collaborative gaming channel together, permanently dropping the anti-double-act brand that I had forced on us unfairly, bruh. After six to seven years of being bruhs and living together for four or five we’ll start to be very touchy and flirty again, bruh. Our fans will notice it and it will eventually peak shortly after our seventhbruh-nniversary, bruh. We’ll look at each other like we mean the world to each other, bruh. We’ll hibernate together after long holidays and share every waking moment together and somehow not get sick of each other, bruh. For your thirtieth birthday you will have a party with friends and later go to visit your close family and I’ll be with you for every step, bruh. We’ll go on long romantic walks by the seaside and take lots of cute/disgustingly lovey pictures of each other, bruh. Every year we’ll get each other really cute presents and have many cute moments, and every year it gets better cus you’re my bruh.
The notion of “borrowing from the boys” in the world is fashion is nothing new: a straight-legged jean here; a collared shirt there. But for fall, designers went beyond adding a perceived masculine touch to otherwise traditional womenswear items, and instead have fully embraced the notion of gender fluidity when it comes to dressing. In place of precious frocks in flowing fabrics and amorphous silhouettes are strong, fiercely structured and wholly solid pieces made for the modern woman—and man. It’s an aesthetic that instantly gives an air of vigor and invincibility to its wearer, as seen in W’s September issue’s portfolio styled by Jacob K and photographed by the artist Collier Schorr. Take, for example, Raf Simons’s debut for Calvin Klein, where the designer presented a series of instantly coveted trenches and suit jackets, encasing the fabrics in transparent plastic for an added layer of armor, or Balenciaga, where Demna Gvasalia presented asymmetrical tweed jackets with shoulders so sharp they could double as weaponry. Elsewhere, brands like Gucci and Tibi made plaid no longer a print best left for Catholic school uniforms, but rather a look of modernity. And the ultimate topper? None other than the traditional neck-tie, the perfect punctation to a truly statement-making ensemble. For Fall, there is no more his or hers. There is only ours.
Percy never intends to start sleeping with an undergrad.
He’s twenty-three years old. He scored a 174 on his LSAT, and he interned for the same firm that the Legally Blonde producers used for script consults, and he’s roughly four and a half semesters away from fulfilling a childhood dream that had seemed so impenetrably, infuriatingly impossible for so, so long. He doesn’t have room in his life for mistakes.
Pansy Parkinson is most certainly an accident–and not even a particularly good one, as far as Percy’s concerned. She’s vapid and clingy and manipulative and all he remembers about the night they first met is her passing him two double shots of off-brand cherry vodka and then explicitly outlining her ten-year plan to be the first contestant to ever win two consecutive seasons of The Bachelor. But she kisses like she doesn’t do everything else, softly, tentatively–almost sweetly, honestly, and Percy suspects that duality is why he continues inviting her over. He’s always had a weakness for the unexpected, for the jump-scares, even if he’d rather gouge his own eyes out with the nib of his fountain pen than admit to it.
He doesn’t like her, though.
And then she disappears.
Not literally, of course. She’s still on campus, still around, still taking up too much table space in the lower library and giggling too loudly with her friends in the cavernous lobby of Percy’s building, but–she’s screening his calls and ignoring his texts and quite obviously avoiding his gaze when he catches himself staring at her on his way in and out of the elevator. Any elevator. He doesn’t realize he’s angry about it until four weeks have gone by, and she’s knocking on his door again.
“What?” he snaps, a little too viciously.
Pansy winces, and then swallows, and then licks her lips, and then–she looks young, suddenly. “Um.”
“What?” he repeats, in a drastically different tone of voice.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurts out, and Percy kind of can’t believe he doesn’t faint.
[ send me a fic title, and i’ll tell you what i’d write for it! no more please ]
Oooh! I got another one! Dean x Reader: "Ice cream and tattoos? Last time you mentioned that combo, somebody almost died!" (it's suppose to be funny idk made me laugh lol)
“Pleaseeeeee.” You pouted.
“No.” He grumbled, not looking up from his tablet.
“Come on, Dean. You loved it and you know it.”
“Ice cream and tattoos?” He looked up and you nodded with an innocent smile. “Last time you mentioned that combo, somebody almost died!”
“Well this time, I won’t let you have 5 spiked pumpkin pie flavors, or let you add your own extra ‘topping’“ You used hand quotes and shot him a glare.
He sat back in the chair, losing interest. “No.” You gave him a pout, and your best puppy dog eyes. “Ain’t gonna work, sweetheart. I grew up with him, remember.” He motioned to Sam across the table, nose in a book. “He invented that look.”
“I’ll let you choose my tattoo…” You sing songed, and his interest was peaked again.
“Anything I want?”
You nodded. “No complaints, and no covering it up. You can even blindfold me and pick where it goes.”
He mulled it over for a minute, but you knew you had him. “Done.”
“Fuck..” He mumbled, slumping into the chair again.
“I get to chose yours.” He shot you a look. “Hey, have I ever gotten a bad tattoo?” You motioned to yourself.
“No.” He sighed. “Alright, get your damn shoes on.”