so we all know that kandreil make it to the olympics right? well i had a thought..
neil josten vs usain bolt
- ever since their team arrives at the olympics, neil’s phone has been blowing up with notifications. he’s gotten thousands of twitter messages, text messages from the foxes, even comments on instagram are going wild.
- before he knows it, there’s a hashtag #NeilvsBolt, and even the news have started reporting on it
- it’s ridiculous, honestly. but kevin and andrew find it hilarious (though andrew won’t admit it- and well, neither will kevin)
- he clicks on an article. the headline is “the fastest exy player against the fastest man in the world” and he has to admit that that’s some pretty great clickbait
- they win the olympics, of course, but it’s not over yet
- the team is out celebrating- some random bar in the city they’re staying in- and everyone (besides neil and andrew) are shitfaced. kevin’s off doing god knows what and the rest of the team are making a fool of themselves, but then again they just won gold in the olympics so who cares?
- neil is barely paying attention to whatever the bartender is talking about, too busy looking at andrew when andrew looks behind neil’s shoulder and tilts his head, signaling neil to turn around
- he does, of course, and he finds usain bolt right behind him, smile wide on his face (bolt won gold as well, though there was no doubt about it). he brings up the trends, all the news articles, and how both their fanbases were begging for it, so why not? they should have a race for fun
- neil doesn’t know what to say at first. he didn’t particularly care for what everyone had to say, and he didn’t care for racing. he loved running, but he never saw it as a sport or something to compete with. it was just his escape, his solution.
- so he turns to andrew, and andrew doesn’t look away. there’s a steady grip on his waist that doesn’t let go and golden brown eyes staring into icy blue. andrew raises one eyebrow, the only expression on a stone cold face, it’s a challenge, neil knows it. andrew finds it amusing and doesn’t think neil would do it, but he wants him to.
- neil turns back to usain and tells him yes
- they post the race on youtube and it goes viral, nicky’s called neil a hundred times leaving voicemail after voicemail asking why neil didn’t tell him before it happened, and how is he still alive after facing the fastest man, and holy shit everyone is talking about you and you’ve literally gained millions of followers (cue nicky complaining about the fact that neil still, and always will, have more followers than nicky)
- neil mostly ignores him. but he does text dan and matt back, they told him how proud they are of him and how he’s a total badass. and he also texts allison knowing she’d kill him if he didn’t. she wont stop going on about how he’s more famous than her right now and how they’re celebrating when neil gets back. neil just says thanks and that he’s sorry for taking all her followers away from her. she send him back a pic of her giving him the finger
- neil wont say it. he won’t. he doesn’t give a shit about the media attention or the followers. but his veins are still buzzing with adrenaline and he hasn’t come off the high yet. his skin is still tingling with the thrill of it.
- he walks into the bedroom where andrew is sitting by an open window so he can smoke. he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep tonight.
- andrew only looks at him and says “junkie”
- neil can’t bite back the smile that makes its way to his face. “you like it.”
Happy Birthday @bullysquadess !
Thanks to you I’ve been sucked into this fandom and achieved minor internet
infamy. Please enjoy this finely roasted Ladynoir in honor of your name day.
Disclaimer: This is a work of parody aimed at overall fandom
trends and not at any one author or story. None of this is meant as a personal
attack on anyone; just a sporking of common Ladynoir fandom tropes.
The cerulean skies above Paris’ venerable and antediluvian streets
gave way into a rich mauve tinged with the auburn hues of a dying day. On the
streets below, Parisians came and went, unaware that the most romantic act in
the history of the cosmos was being prepared not three stories above them.
“And we all say
“Oh, well I never, was there ever
A cat so clever as magical
Humming a jaunty cat-like song to himself (AN: get it? It’s
because he’s a cat), Chat Noir went about lighting each of the two thousand one
hundred and sixty two candles strewn about the rooftop; one for every hour he
knew and loved the most wonderful, sublime, perfect, flawless, radiant,
resplendent, exalted, magnificent, regal, truncular, and ethereal girl in all
Nay, all the world!
Such was his love that he converted the rooftop retreat where they
were to meet for their Nightly Evening Patrol into a lush, romantic scene out of
Kenneth Branagh’s wettest Shakespearean dream. Laurels and ivy hung from every
corner of the confused tenant’s roof. A record player played a suave Edith
Pilaf song (AN: because they’re French) as celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck
prepared a delightful evening meal for Paris’ greatest heroes- prime roasted
rib, herbed potatoes, and garden salad for the Lady, and half-cup of Friskies
“Friend-Zone” mix for the gent.
Chat may have spent upwards of eighteen thousand euro on his
little surprise, but it was money well spent. After all, it was the three-week
anniversary of the first time Ladybug accidentally spat on him when trying to
dislodge a fabulous booger from her perfect nostrils! Such an occasion demanded
splendor the likes of which Paris had never seen before. The rooftop scene
before him made Versailles look like a dilapidated crack den full of sentient
cockroaches, but still it wasn’t enough for his Lady, his partner, his love,
his star, his treasure, his catnip (AN: get it? it’s because he’s like…a cat
and stuff) his everything, his-
“Whats up ass clown?” Ladybug greeted, swinging onto the rooftop
and shattering the intricate four thousand euro Ladybug ice sculpture
centerpiece like it was Chat’s heart.
Hublot, 45mm Big Bang Unico Yellow Gold Usain Bolt,
The Big Bang Unico Sapphire Usain Bolt is specifically created for Only Watch, a biennial charity auction of unique timepieces created by the finest brands united for research on Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy.
The genetic disorder is characterised by progressive muscle degeneration and weakness.
The sound of a cock crowing pulled Claire from her restless slumber. The babe had been kicking furiously all night, keeping her just on the edge of sleep. Pushing herself out of bed, Claire reached for her robe as she walked morosely towards the kitchen.
The house was strangely silent as she meandered through, peeking her head around various doors as if expecting Minnie to just appear, suitcases packed and ready to go.
Two kitchen maids looked on in shock as Claire rounded the corner, hands rubbing delicately along her extended stomach.
“Mistress,” they both mumbled, curtseying as they continued on with their daily duties.
Something wasn’t right, Claire realised.
Finding the breakfast room set only for one, she held her breath, her brows drawing together as she glanced around the empty room.
One steaming mug of tea sat carefully on the ornate mats.
With the sun only just on the rise, Minnie had told Claire to be ready for the off as soon as dawn approached, but with her friend nowhere in sight, an unsettling feeling began to rise beneath Claire’s skin.
Sitting at the table, she poked at the feast in front of her, rolling the meat around her plate as if reorganising it might shed some clarity on the situation.
Something at the back of her mind told her that she was alone here now.
Scraping her chair back against the wooden floor, Claire left the breakfast virtually untouched as she went in search of her shoes.
Rushing out towards the stables, she hoped to find some signs of life somewhere, something to indicate where her partner in crime had scampered off to.
The horses brayed and whinnied as she walked the length of the stalls, poking her head into every box as she searched high and low without much luck. The stable towards the very end of the row, the largest –and the one that *had* housed Minnie’s horse when they had arrived– was empty.
Claire stood for a moment, mouth open and eyes wide, as she glanced into the vacant space.
The straw had been disturbed, vague hoof prints scattered the rough bedding here and there as if the mare had been rushed from her temporary lodgings.
Burying her hands in her skirts, Claire turned and briskly walked from the stables, the bottom of her dress swishing noisily against the ground as she rushed back towards the house.
Minnie was gone.
The servants, at a loss, simply milled around the entrance as Claire stomped back into the property. The head butler wrung his hands nervously as he waited for Claire to say something –but she found she was unable to speak.
“Mistress?” One of the younger girls piped up, her voice tinkling and light as she tried to get Claire’s attention.
With the door now closed behind them, Claire look back and forth between the solid oak frame and the cluster of household staff who had gathered, glancing nervously between their temporary –and heavily pregnant– mistress and back at one another.
“Can we get you something, tea –a bath perhaps?”
Claire shook her head, the shock of her abandonment beginning to wear off.
Just as she was about to answer a loud knock echoed through the noiseless halls, reverberating off the walls and causing the paintings on the closest walls to shake.
“Minnie!” Claire exclaimed, rushing towards the door, her heart picking up pace as she struggled with the doorknob.
Gripping the cool metal, she twisted, the knocking becoming more impassioned with every passing moment.
“Minnie wha-” Claire gasped, the door flying open, its hinges creaking as she took a step back. Watching, Claire viewed the figure with some trepidation as a shadow emerged from the doorway.
Light flickered across the floor, sending rare bolts of gold and illuminating the corridor as the caller revealed themselves, an angry and disappointed look crossing his otherwise soft face.
“Why, Claire?” He asked, a hint of malice in his tone and a glint of betrayal in his eyes, “why did ye do it?” –
Sighing, Jamie nuzzled against Claire, wrapping his bare leg against hers as he pulled her as close as he could get her.
“Ye always ken, lass…” he whispered, his voice fading as he rocked his hips against her arse, “how to make me feel good after a hard week.”
He hadn’t seen her for *two* weeks, but she didn’t mention his long absence, choosing instead to slide her hand along the expanse of the back of his thigh, stopping only to grip his bottom –a lustful grab that held him against her as she twisted her head so she could just about see his sleepy face out of the corner of her eye.
He felt so good, his heat coating her in a cloak of warmth. Basking in the afterglow of their intimate reunion, Claire tried not to think about the line she was skirting. All but forgotten, her mission still niggled at the back of her mind, floating to the forefront only during these quiet moments when she really wished it wouldn’t.
Neither her or Minnie had spoken in any great depth about either of their conquests. In fact it seemed that they were both actively avoiding one another.
Since her first meeting with Jamie, Claire had mostly moved into the brothel, striking a deal with the madam who owned the place and the inn below. Jamie had, unknowingly, struck up a similar deal, paying Madame Baudelaire for the privilege of full time access to Claire.
During this time the pair had grown besotted with one another.
Claire had chosen the path of least resistance. She asked nothing of Jamie other than the company of him in her bed. If he chose to share anything, then she would sit and listen –in silence.
It was unusual, though, for him to open himself up to her.
Today, however, she felt a shift in him. Whether it was the subtle, unconscious change in their relationship –a shift in trust that saw an emotional connection building through their physical one. Instead of the calm that usually surrounded them in the wee hours, Claire sensed a nervous energy in Jamie as he debated internally with himself.
“Murtagh doesna think this wise,” he mumbled, to himself more than to Claire, “maybe I’m foolish…but I dinna care.”
Silence encased them once more as Claire waited for him to pluck up the courage. Acting as though she hadn’t heard his monologue, she slipped her foot between his calves and massaged his skin with her toes. Feeling the prickly hairs that lined his ankles, Claire smiled as she felt his heart pick up pace, the steady beat of it vibrating through her back where his chest lay softly against her.
“I thought dealing wi’ royalty would be hard, aye…” he began, not fully explaining himself before continuing, not waiting for Claire to ask for clarity, “but it’s truly testing my patience.”
Cursing in Gaelic, he took a deep breath and pulled himself from the small cot. Pacing in front of her, he ruffled his hair, turning away so that his hunched back faced Claire.
Pulling the sheet up, Claire covered her breasts and pushed herself up on her elbow.
“I’m a man of my word, ken. But Charles is skirting a line I dinna ken if I can cross.”
“Come back to bed, Jamie.” Claire pleaded, half hoping that he would ignore her request and continue. Finally he was opening himself up to her, giving the information that she was *supposed* to be collecting.
“He’s a fool, Claire. And he’s making a fool o’ us.”
“I’m sae sorry, yer right.” he sighed, his shoulders drooping as he turned back, his mouth downcast. “I dinna know what I was thinking, talking to a hoor…”
Claire’s heart plummeted. Her cheeks flooding with colour as his words hit her square in the chest. Tearing herself from the bed, she pulled her robe from the chair and curled herself into the small seat, holding her knees to her chest as she desperately tried to hold back her tears.
That’s what she was to him. That was *all* she was, she realised.
“Claire,” Jamie began, his anguished haze fading as he noticed the moisture flooding Claire’s eyes. He watched as she closed herself off from him, folding herself inwards as she tried to shrink away. “I shouldna–”
“No,” she interjected, her tone harsh, “you’re right. You shouldn’t tell me anything, Mr Fraser. This is a business arrangement after all, and I *am* a prostitute.”
Twisting her head away, Claire moved so that she could no longer see Jamie, her ribs cracking –metaphorically– under the pressure of the truth he’d so callously leveled at her. In her head she knew that she wasn’t a whore, but the vocalisation of the position which she’d put herself in suddenly made her feel incredibly filthy. The dirt clung to her skin, making Claire feel as though she hadn’t washed in weeks.
Jamie, his mind in just as many pieces as Claire’s, moved silently behind her. Reaching his fingers out to twist in a loose lock of her hair as he tried to bridge the gap he’d forced between them.
“Mo nighean donn…” he whispered, his voice wavering as he caught a glimpse of Claire’s damp cheeks.
“W-what does that mean?” Claire returned, sadness lacing her tone as she tried to hold herself together.
“My brown haired lass.”
His translation soothed her aching wounds, extinguishing the flames that licked at her battered soul. “Brown? A dull colour, I’ve always thought.”
“Nah,” Jamie replied, spurred on by her responsiveness. Growing more confident, he moved his fingers down her neck, sweeping them gently over her skin. “No’ dull at all. It’s like the water in a burn, the way it ruffles down the rocks…”
“You don’t need to sweet-talk me, Jamie,” Claire breathed, the air catching in her throat as she turned to face him once more, “we both know what this is. What it is between you and I.”
“Nay, Claire. I shouldna have disrespected you so.”
Gathering her clothes from the floor, Jamie turned the chair around, using all of his strength to get her to face him.
Her eyes were rimmed pink, her nose tinted red from where she’d been crying. His heart shattered as he carefully dressed her.
Claire sat and let him do as he pleased, her chest hollow as she focused on his large hands against her. He was so gentle with her, his fingers brushed so finely against her as he tied the laces of her corset.
She didn’t even question him as he slid his hands under her knees and cradled her against his chest.
They left the brothel in silence, Claire’s head laid against Jamie’s collarbone. For now she just wanted to lose herself in him, so much so that she didn’t even ask where he was taking her –she simply let him take her.
It was only as the carriage he’d placed her in took a particularly hard corner, her head bobbing harshly against the velvet headrest, that she came round enough to realise that they were no longer in her quarters.
“Where are you taking me?” She finally asked, her tone showing only a slight interest.
“To my home, Claire.” Jamie replied, his lips twitching into an almost smile as the horse came to a stop outside a particularly elegant property in one of the nicer areas of Paris.
“Do you like it?” Jamie perked up, seeing a look of wonder cross Claire’s face.
“It’s very –regal, Jamie.” She replied, energy coursing through her veins once more. “Are you sure you want me here?”
Scoffing, Jamie took her by the hand, leading her carefully from the small carriage and escorting her to the ornate front door. “Dinna be soft, Claire. O’ course I want ye here. You dinna ken how much I’ve wanted to see you in my home…in my bed.” He whispered the last one into her ear as he nipped at her lobe.
Wrapping his arm around her waist, Jamie led her through the long dining room and up the spiral staircase, pointing out rooms as they went.
“Do ye like it?” He asked, a coy smiling gracing his face as his eyes twinkled.
He genuinely cared what she thought. It tugged at her, nudging the small voice that was warning her not to get too close to him.
Too late, a larger part of her sighed, internally. Far too late.
“It’s beautiful, Jamie.”
Opening the door at the top of the stairs, Jamie pushed his way inside, standing almost on his tiptoes as he watched Claire’s eye widen.
His bed was huge.
A four-poster with such finely carved details and neatly hung lace.
“Oh…my…” Claire whispered, her jaw hanging open as Jamie slid himself closer, his hands exploring the exposed skin of her chest as he fingered the laces he’d tied only minutes before.
“Ye belong here, Claire. Wi’ me.” He said, his voice high as he tried to control his raging emotions.
Flattening his palm over the arch of her bosom, Jamie rolling his hand down her chest, along her belly and down until it rested just over her pelvis.
Cupping his hand over the ruffles in her skirts he ran his nose through her hair line until his lips came to rest against her ear.
“I’ve tried to reason wi’ yer mistress, Claire,” he began, an air of wishful thinking flowing through the air as he spoke, “but she isna having any of it. Ye ken, now, that I would do anything –pay any price– to have ye wi’ me always. I dinna care about Charlie or the rebellion, no’ anymore. But she willna budge.”
Claire stayed quiet, nerves fluttering in her tummy, knowing full well that his mission to acquire her freedom was a fool’s errand.
Scrunching up the material of her skirt, Jamie closed his eyes and sighed.
“…If I get ye wi’ child, Claire…” he continued, his heart racing in time with hers, “she’ll have no choice but to let ye come to me.”
Claire’s breathing almost stopped as the words swilled around her head. Counting backwards, she tried to recall her last courses. Her last meal sat heavy in her stomach, the feel of it suddenly unwelcome as the realisation dawned on her.
She was *never* late. She never missed a month in all the time she’d been a woman. But now, it must have been one –if not two months with no monthly courses.
“Dinna fash, Claire,” Jamie sighed, falsely assuming Claire’s tense mood was in relation to a confrontation with Mistress Baudelaire over ownership rights, “I’ll make sure yer safe, I promise ye.”
Swallowing back the bile that had made its way along her aesophogos, Claire allowed Jamie to lay her against the soft sheets, her eyes glassy and her knees shaking as he steadily undressed her once more, baring every inch of her pale skin to him as he placed one hand either side of her head and lay over her.
Nose to nose, he reached down to undo his kilt, pulling it over their heads to shield them from the bright candlelight of the master bedroom.
“Ye will be mine, Claire. I’m certain of it…” he whispered, sheathing himself inside her in one smooth movement, bringing to life Claire’s once numb body as their hips met.
Hers, flat –for now– shuddered as she felt the familiar pulse of lust as it emanated from the centre of her outwards. She barely remained lucid as the undercurrent of their connection held her staunchly to the earth as –for the first time– he made love to her.
The delicate sweep of his hips lulled her into a sort of hazy, passionate slumber as she closed her eyes and let the feelings of desire and longing course through her body. Set ablaze by Jamie’s body, Claire cried out as an immense tingling sensation took root. The muscles of her thighs clenched and loosened, her heart stuttering in her chest as her hands –balled into fists at his back– held him so close to her chest.
Jamie panted through it, dazed and confused as similar sensations shot through him. Lying together, he collected Claire against him as he fell onto his side, clasping his hand into the loose damp curls at the nape of her neck.
Letting her guard down for the moment, Claire fell into an easy slumber, the soft rise and fall of Jamie’s chest rocking her to sleep.
Maneuvering his hand, Jamie laid his full palm over the incline of Claire’s arse, cupping her lightly as he joined her in unconsciousness. His soft puffs of breath fluttered against her cheek, making her lips twitching into a smile as she slept, comforted –unconsciously– by his physical presence.
“I love ye, Claire,” Jamie sighed, his heart full as he whispered into the darkness, “I canna tell ye whilst ye wake –our situation being as it is– but I do, sae much.”
As the last candle fluttered and burnt out, completely encasing the lovers in darkness, Claire twitched, her toes curling as she burrowed closer to Jamie.
Unbeknownst to him, she had heard every word.
“I love ye so much, Claire. So much I can barely breathe….”
She waited until the wee hours to make her move, slipping free of his arms as she gathered her clothes and dressed silently.
Holding her cloak tightly around her shoulders, her fingers shaking with the pressure that had built up across her chest, she turned to look at him one last time.
Tears stained her cheeks as she bit her lip, anguish coating her tongue as she whispered almost inaudibly into the large room.
Shut Up: The Power of Understanding what Introversion Actually is in a World of People Who Won’t Stop Using it as an Excuse
Since I’ve started tagging some posts as “shitty introverts” I decided to make this post to serve as a reference without being quite as sarcastic and salty as I have been, though I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed with that title. Will I change any minds? It’s doubtful, but if you ever want to know why I’m tearing into that introvertunites/introvert, dear post, you can look at this.
First, a brief definition of introversion in two different systems.
In MBTI: Introverts are people who have a dominant introverted function. Extroverts are people who have a dominant extroverted function. Ambiversion does not exist in the MBTI system - more on that later.
Outside of MBTI: Introverts are people who are energized more by time alone than by time spent with others. Extroverts are people who are energized more by time spent with other people than by time spent alone. Ambiverts are people who fall close to the middle.
In reality, everyone is somewhere along a spectrum (ie, we all need some alone time and some time with people), so arguably we’re all ambiverts, but it’s commonly used for people who find themselves needing a pretty even balance of the two.
Now, ambiversion still doesn’t exist within the MBTI system. If you want to call yourself an ANFP* or whatever, then you are making things up and that is not an MBTI type - it is a personal adaptation that uses some concepts from MBTI. Does this mean that MBTI doesn’t acknowledge that some people are non-MBTI ambiverts? No! It just means that MBTI theory uses the introvert and extrovert terms in a particular way, and doesn’t fully explain what social situations energize you, just like it doesn’t explain fully your favorite ice cream flavor or whether you like sports. It’s perfectly fine to say “I’m an ENFP, and I’m pretty ambiverted.”
Okay now that that’s out of the way, what does introversion, outside of MBTI, not mean?
It does not necessarily mean shyness, awkwardness, or lack of social skills. There’s probably a correlation, because people who prefer to spend most of their time alone have less of a vested interest in getting over shyness, awkwardness, or developing social skills, but there are awkward extroverts and socially adept introverts everywhere.
It does not mean misanthropy/hating people in general. I personally think hating people is not a particularly great way to be, as it means you’re closing yourself off to a whole lot of great experiences, and it definitely is going to be more common in introverts as it makes extroversion really hard, but if that’s your deal, fine. Just know that it’s not at all synonymous with introversion. Introversion means needing a good deal of alone time. It doesn’t mean that you hate the time spent with others, just that it’s going to require more energy.
It does not automatically make you smarter, kinder, more creative, or ‘deeper.’ Whatever psych studies may say, they’re going to be based on a subset, so even if introverts are, on average, smarter, it doesn’t mean you, arbitrary introvert, are smarter than an individual arbitrary extrovert. Another way to put it: more Americans have Olympic gold medals than Jamaicans, but I don’t have more gold medals than Usain Bolt. Use your alleged intelligence to learn and understand basic statistics.
Introversion, or for that matter shyness, awkwardness, or whatever do not excuse rudeness or flakiness, and nothing excuses expecting people to understand you without any explanation.
Look. I get that if you’re depressed, or have social anxiety**, you may say yes to a party invite only to find that when the party actually comes, you can’t bring yourself to make it or even to call. That’s okay. But it’s also okay for the host to be upset that you didn’t show up or let them know that you couldn’t come, and it falls to you, when you are up to the task, to explain why.
Is that hard as fuck to do? Yes. Is expecting other people to read your mind and know all the details of your life and mental health and accept all of your actions completely unfair to them? Also yes. Because here’s the thing: you can’t control other people’s reactions, and it’s ridiculous to think you can.
Which brings us to the shitty introvert. The shitty introvert does the following:
Assumes they are in some way better than extroverts - smarter, more creative, better listeners - and may believe that because they let so few people into their lives, including someone is an honor in itself.
Assumes that having emotional responses is unique to them - that no one else dislikes public humiliation or unpleasant surprises.
Either complains that they’re getting dragged to parties, or complains that they’re no longer getting invitations to the parties that they repeatedly turned down, as if the host has nothing better to do than send you an invite they know you’ll refuse***.
Is rude to others and blames it on being introverted instead of considering that other people also have feelings and either putting in enough effort to maintain civility, or apologizing and taking full responsibility of their actions.
Expects to be understood and accommodated automatically without any explanation, and generally does not put in effort to understand or accommodate others.
Sees introversion as an excuse to never try to improve or challenge themselves. If something is hard for them, they will just give up or avoid it.
In summary, they insist they are more considerate, feeling, and creative while being rude, selfish, and stagnant.
Don’t be a shitty introvert.
*For some reason the example fake MBTI type with Ambiverted is always ANFP. I suspect it’s because Ne both is associated with being towards the middle of the itnrovert/extrovert spectrum and with being like “what if we didn’t follow the rules,” and Fi is associated with “your labels cannot contain me” but that is another post for another day.
**Social anxiety and depression are mental illnesses, and I’m not going to go into them or other mental health issues in this post in more depth, but please note that they are not tied to introversion. Will they often make people withdraw from social situations? Yes. That is a symptom of the illness, not an indicator of extroversion or introversion.
***”I want to be invited, I just don’t want to go!” shitty introverts cry, as if the hosts of the parties are not also human beings with needs and emotions. “Oh, yeah, sorry” the hosts are apparently supposed to tell the person they actually want to invite who would show up and bring a decent bottle of wine, “I’d love to invite you but I have a tiny apartment, so I can’t invite any more than 15 people, and I need to reserve a spot for my friend who not RSVP, ignore my calls, and will most likely either text me with some lame excuse an hour after the party started, or just completely flake. But you see their desires are more important than yours or mine.” Honestly what the host should do is just queue up a few automated invites to nonexistent parties, and on the off chance the shitty introvert does indeed show up without RSVP-ing to one of them, the host should just be like “Oh sorry, I know I said I’d have a party but I’m just not feeling it tonight.” GOLDEN RULE IN ACTION MOTHERFUCKERS.
“How stupid do you have to be to jump into a pool of water on an ice planet? Seriously, Andor, are you mental?” Jyn peels at the clothes stuck to Cassian by a thin sheet of ice. He’s shaking too badly to answer, teeth chattering as he tries to curl himself into a ball to preserve what little heat he has left. “You could have died out there and then what would that leave? Me to take care of K2? We’d kill each other within an hour. He’s going to be worried sick about you. Who knew a droid could be such a worry wart?”
She doesn’t know what she’s talking about anymore. She’s just saying whatever comes to her mind, anything to distract them from the blue tinge of Cassian’s lips and the state of his undress. Sure, Kay really probably is worrying, but it’s nothing she hasn’t seen the gold bucket of bolts do.
Jyn yanks her own jacket off and throws it over Cassian’s shoulders and uses it to pull him closer until she can wrap her arms around his torso.
She snorts, looking up. His skin is still cold to the touch, but the shaking is slowly abating, he’s unclenching enough to actually grab her back. He’s pulling her closer, not pushing her away, despite the question.
“Sharing body heat, you bantha for brains!”
A rattle escapes him that is probably supposed to be a laugh. “I got-t-t th-th-that-t.”
There’s more, a teasing hint to his voice even as he stutters, but Jyn pushes it aside. “Come on, we got to get you wrapped up in your sleeping bag.”
If you think about it, Eto is faster than Usain Bolt whom is the fast runner in world
Anger down at the track today as local eccentric and novelist Takatsuki Sen jumps the barrier during the men’s 200 meter, reportedly outrunning all of the Olympians in a maxi skirt and heels. When asked to comment, 8-time gold medalist Osain Bolt stated: “holy shit!”