hi everyone, i’m oliver!! i’m a 17 year old trans boy and i’m from minnesota. i saw ptx live on october 26th and they were amazing!! i can be cool sometimes and i love making friends so you should probably talk to me!!
You laugh. Everyone else stops laughing. Someone’s hand shakes, and a wine glass shatters.
“I’m such a realistic person,” your Te assesses. Your Ni nods affirmatively, and goes back to making weird shit up.
You’ve been elected student council president. They won’t let you streamline the class period system or fire any of the teachers. You silently curse Kill la Kill for giving you unrealistic expectations.
“You’re so unfriendly and you hate parties. How are you an extrovert? You must be an INTJ,” your friend says. She’s right; ENTJs are just INTJs on meth.
Why do all of your friends think that processing means hugs and validation? You just want advice. Your therapist won’t even give you advice without “listening empathetically” first. Why are your parents paying $80 an hour for this?
You’ve been elected student council president again. “Do I have to do this?” you mutter. You don’t remember running this year. “You’re an ENTJ; you want to, right?” the principal says. You don’t want to; you won’t able to make any real changes in policy. You’re just a symbol. The principal tells you it will look good on your college application and offers you a cookie.
You decide not to major in poly-sci.
You are officially an adult. You have been ready for this moment since preschool. Your friends say they still don’t feel like adults, which sounds terrifying and is probably the reason they are still dependent upon your friendship.
“Time management! Attention! Priorities!” you snarl for the fourth time this morning. Your coworkers spend the next hour brainstorming ways to get you fired.
“You’re an ENTJ? Can you help me make a five-year plan?” they ask. “Of course,” you reply. You give them control of your crumbing ponzi scheme, and they spend the next five years in jail.
Everything is closed on Sunday. Don’t they realize you have things to do before the week starts? You drive and drive and drive, looking for a city that never sleeps. The sky darkens; your car melts into the pavement. You are the city. You never sleep.
Someone thinks you’d be a power bottom. At least you aren’t a needy top like all five of your ENFJ friends. You delete three of them from your contacts while you’re thinking of it.
Your job involves expensive suits, firing people, creepy motivational posters on the walls of your office, and a formal title that your friends and family don’t understand. They ask what you do at work. “Extroverted thinking,” you tell them, and they nod politely and ask, “But what does your company make?” “Money,” you say. “But how do you earn the money?” “Introverted intuition,” you tell them. They nod again. It’s a very ambiguous function.
Your ISTJ coworker pipes in. “We trade stocks.” This is technically insider trading because Ni is psychic, but no one says anything.
You care about someone; this is not part of the plan. You race around doing errands in your black Camaro, swearing profusely at people who drive the speed limit.
It’s time to make some major life changes. Everything is boring and the days are starting to blur together. You engage your Se.
We don’t talk about what happens next.
The scientists have discovered a way to see inside your brain. They find out it’s just a game of Tetris. “Perhaps we can program the perfect leader somehow,” one of them says. You slide an I-block into place and exhale, contented. The brain scans turn blue.
You move to the coast, work in a little coffee shop and play your saxophone in a pub band by night. You date ISFPs who read you their poetry. No one is afraid of you anymore. You are peaceful and connected. Your therapist said this would make you happy.
that feel when your incorporeal Dark Lord cbf coming up with a Cool Villain Name for his least fav follower X)
based on this post, and because I can’t get over learning that Asmodean literally means “Musician” in the official Wheel of Time companion book, I’m still flipping out poor Asmo, this is why I love you
so this is a little something that was pretty much inspired by @2k15luke‘s post about irl luke. idk if this is any good but i’m posting it anyway. also it got a little too long for me to post without a cut so.
Luke’s never been a fan of the cold weather that inevitably finds them while they’re on tour, but he’s especially not a fan of it when you’re not around for him to cling to while outside; whether it be the warmth of your hand engulfed in his or your arms wrapped around his waist under his jacket, with your torsos pressed so firmly together you’re not sure where you begin and he ends.
So when he flies you out to visit in the middle of the press tour for their next album and you suggest you do a little sight seeing he isn’t very excited- you’re in New York in the middle of winter and he definitely didn’t pack for the occasion (you’re not even sure he owns anything that could pass as a winter coat), but he agrees anyway, layering on a couple of shirts and the thickest hoodie he can find with one of his beanies before you head out. It’s a couple hours later and you’re walking off the ice rink in Rockefeller Center when Luke practically tackles you, his ice skates long forgotten after he fell one too many times, and you have to grab the railing to hold both of you up as he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your neck, the ice cold tip of his nose making you yelp when he manages to find the one warm spot to nuzzle against.
“I tried…we’ve been trying for years, Ichigo, to fix what happened. We could watch you, but we couldn’t communicate, couldn’t manifest,” she takes a deep breath, “I am…sorry. I am sorry that it took so long.”
There’s a brush of another familiar reiatsu, and Rukia looks behind him, waving a hand in greeting, “Ichigo. Look.”
He does, and it’s Isshin, face grim but no older. With a start, Ichigo realizes that one day, he might surpass his father in age.
When he looks back, she’s already gone.
“Son.” Isshin stares down at the boy in the grass, still seventeen to him even though he’d watched him grow up from afar. Ichigo’s shoulders are hunched, drawn inwards and away from him. There’s a flash of naked hurt, and then the vulnerability disappears as Ichigo straightens and stands, looking his father in the eye.
Look, Masaki, he finally caught up.
Son, Isshin had called him, but the older shinigami knows that blood means little when it comes to family. He doesn’t look for forgiveness, but he hopes Ichigo will one day understand.
“Let’s go, Urahara is back at the shoten. We’ll explain everything there.”
Ichigo hesitates, and Isshin thinks that he might refuse after all. “Rukia-chan will be there.”
When Isshin turns to leave, his wayward son follows.