#anyway I'll shut up now I promise

[snarkspawn]

Ok, So I adore your KenBig art even though I have absolutely zero idea of what the fandom is about haha, would love to hear more about them because I can tell you're so passionate.

Thank you so much! 

I am !! Very Passionate about them yes adhjfkshjks let me try to break them down for you without making it a 3 hour TED talk lmao (no promises)

So they're two minor side characters from the Thai bl series KinnPorsche, also known as The Gay Mafia Show. At the beginning of the series Big is the head bodyguard for Kinn, who he is secretly (and quite hopelessly) in love with and who is the heir to the family's mafia empire. He is Loyal with a capital L, fiercely protective of Kinn, a little (a lot) pathetic in his devotion and quite frankly a bit of a dick. Ken is just Ken his best friend, also a bodyguard for the Main Family and also a bit of a dick. He's from Australia originally and brings us delightful iconic phrases like "nice one, loser" and "are you fucking dumb, bro". Also, pineapple boxer briefs. You mostly see the two of them together and when they show up it's usually to be a bitch and/or to bully Porsche, who is the other main character and love interest for Kinn (hence the name of the show).

They're terrible people is what I'm saying. But then again so is almost everyone else on the show lmao it's the mafia ok!!

It's never explicitly stated in the show but we see other bodyguards room together (namely Porsche and Pete) so the widely accepted headcanon is that Ken and Big are roommates (oh my god they were roommates etc etc) and just because I live for this kind of thing I have convinced myself (and others, apparently! through the power of art) that while Big is hopelessly in love with Kinn (canon), Ken is hopelessly in love with Big (canon in my heart). It's about the pining and the tragedy and a secret third thing (jealousy) for me

Well. I don't want to spoil too much in case you're ever planning on watching it but it's kind of important for them, so ... towards the end of the show Big ends up sacrificing himself for Porsche (or rather, for Kinn's happiness) and dies not knowing that Ken is the mole they've been searching for and is actually working for the Minor Family (so, for Kinn's cousin and uncle who are the main villains in the series). But Ken is killed as well, at roughly the same time just at a different place and at the hand of his actual employer Gun, so they both end up dead.

Which, you know, I personally think is unacceptable because I love them and don't want it to end there, so most (but not all) of my art is set in an AU that I brainstormed with my partner @pharawee in which they both survive and then have to deal with the consequences of their actions (which is absolutely delicious to me because man!! You have Big who is so desperately loyal but has been kind of struggling to find his place now that Porsche is there, and Ken who betrayed everything Big held dear but !! Is also his best friend!!! But is he really? Has he ever really been his friend at all?? And if Ken is a traitor what does that make him who has been sharing everything with him?? Bonus points since Ken is in love with him and never wanted to betray Big personally. So much potential for angst I am telling you, it's a feast), and then eventually they find comfort in each other and carve out their own path. If you're interested you can read the beginning on ao3.

In other headcanons there's been a Thing going on between them all along and sometimes they still die. Or they don't but everything is still fucked up. Either way it's all good and I'm here for all of it hehe

So this is shaping up to turn into that 3 hour TED talk after all which is why I'll stop here, but if you have literally any other questions or are interested in hearing more I would be prepared to go on for hours lmao sorry (but not really).

[eddiethebrave]

secret admirer part twenty-six

679 words

one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five

Steve studies Eddie’s sketches with a frown. They’re thumbnails of people in different positions, and Steve can’t help but compare them to his own. Perhaps he simply has to come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be a good artist. He thought he was improving, given all the time and effort he’s putting into the portraits, especially Eddie’s, but no. He still sucks.

The point of the assignment wasn’t to make the drawings good - only to provide a quick recap on anatomy. Still, though, Eddie’s are good. And Steve’s… Well, at least Steve isn’t going to get a poor grade (because that’s frowned upon when the student tries their best).

The figures on his paper are unproportionate and vaguely unsettling, like his art tends to be.

“They can’t be that bad, Steve,” Eddie says, naively.

Steve had unthinkingly shielded his paper from the other teen - a habit he’d picked up from the project, and when Steve had asked, Eddie had handed his own over passively because he’s a fucking art prodigy, apparently.

Steve slumps in his seat and places his paper in front of Eddie. He hadn’t even pushed to see it. Not once. Now, he picks it up and studies the sketches for a solid minute, brows furrowed in concentration. 

Steve’s frown deepens considerably. He’s beginning to regret handing it over for judgment. Eventually, though, Eddie sets the paper on the table and looks up to make sure he has Steve’s attention before he issues his verdict. As if Steve’s attention is ever directed elsewhere.

Once assured Steve’s eyes are on him, Eddie picks up his pencil and hovers over the paper with the eraser aimed at it. “May I?” he questions. 

Steve huffs. "Sure. ‘S not like they can get any worse," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Eddie erases things here and there. Steve thinks he's about to begin fixing the drawings, but he simply straightens and slides the paper over to Steve. He leans in close and points to one of the places he had erased. "Okay, so...” 

He continues to suggest ways Steve could make them look more like the references. 

At the end of class, Steve actually feels better footed - ready to finish up his portraits. He's almost done with his own, actually, and he only needs a few more things until he'll be satisfied with Eddie's. 

The bell rings and Steve turns to make plans with Eddie only to find the teen already looking at him expectantly. "Uh, my place?" Steve suggests. It's only fair after Eddie had hosted on Monday. 

Eddie nods in acknowledgement. "Sounds good, Stevie."

Steve clears his throat, trying not to let it show that he’s aware his face has begun to flame with the arrival of the nickname. 

Stevie. 

It's not like it's unprecedented, people have called him Stevie here and there for as long as he can remember.

It feels different coming from Eddie, though. Makes him feel special.

"You wanna follow my car, then?" Steve asks, standing from his seat finally. 

Eddie levels him with a look that's hard to interpret. "Bold of you to assume the entire school doesn't know where your castle is, Mr. Keg King." 

Right, he'd forgotten about the parties. 

Steve scratches his check. "Huh, right. Meet you there?”

Eddie agrees and Steve finally takes his leave. 

Hours later, when dismissal has rolled around, Steve is trying to remember what state he'd left the house in that morning.

He doesn’t go to his locker even though Eddie’s library book - which he’d picked up yesterday - is in his locker and he’d wanted to grab it for tonight. He's trying to avoid Tommy. He knows his friend will just act like nothing ever happened. And to him, nothing did. He's probably forgotten already, honestly. 

Steve doesn't forget - he never does.

He goes straight to his bimmer and unlocks and opens the door, but as he’s about to descend into his seat, a hand claps him on the back and he straightens again. 

So, Tommy's found him anyway. Great.

tag list (closed)

@sofadofax @noodle-shenaniganery @queenie-ofthe-void @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @devondespresso

@dreamingtheimpossibe @plutoshelm @jaywhohasthegay @scarlet-malfoy @hotluncheddie

@dreamy-jeans137 @justdrugsformethanks @estrellami-1 @travelingtwentysomething @sleepy-steve

@wheneverfeasible @bisexual-and-broke @lil-gremlin-things @n0-1-important @xxbottlecapx

@tinyplanet95 @dannys-guilt-ridden-cockroach @theohohmoment @corvus-perplexus @hippieg1rl420

@blurryjoji @bookbinderbitch @arthurianace @dragonmama76 @thesuninyaface

@tillystealeaves @p0lybl4nkk @sageclipse @mugloversonly @chameleonhair

@thedragonsaunt @yesdangerpls @sanctumdemunson @slv-333 @loguine-linguine

@resident-gay-bitch @anaibis @moomkin77 @thrashbatx @salchica

@flustratedcas @ajeff855 @nerdyglassescheeseychick @pearynice @imaginary-maggie-waggie

[buglaur]

i've been playing the game in my own time but i gotta share this lil angel cus she's the cutest toddler my sims have ever had

[lizardkingeliot]

whyyyy do i feel like i would be ~cheating~ on quentin and eliot if i decided i wanted to write fic for another pairing from another fandom... someone plsssss tell my brain to stop being so silly 💀

[caramelmochacrow]

days 5 and 6 for scrunkly week!! shioriko is rlly cute and rupa's hair is growing out (:

[bluberimufim]

It's literally 1AM but I just discovered the aria "Come away, death" by Thomas Arne and????? Most Dora-coded song I've ever heard??????????

[thestalwartheart]

the spaceship

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: James Bond/Q Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Domestic, Developing Relationship, Q's cats, Happy Ending Summary:

Owner calls the nest I am sitting in The Spaceship. --- The best view in Q's house is from the cat tree.

[Read on AO3]

[von-eldritch]

"Starting the shitty exes club. No we were never actually together, shut up."

[60inchyugiohheadcanons]

On Jōnouchi's ADHD (1.39k words)

This headcanon is probably the longest on this blog; it's some compiled thoughts on how growing up with (undiagnosed) ADHD has affected Jōnouchi. It's halfway between headcanon and fanfiction piece, and was requested by @bloodyscott, whom I kept waiting for too long for a response. I apologise sincerely for the delay.

This headcanon begins below the cut, as it's obscenely long. You may find it more comfortable to read this from the blog page, or on Archive of Our Own (NOTE: tumblr is acting strange. To access the page, copy the link and manually remove the href.li portion and the second https), rather than on your dashboard/search, in terms of formatting and such.

From infancy, Jōnouchi wailed his way out of his crib, out of his room, out of his house—as a baby, he thrashed towards whatever freedom he could find. He loathed the four walls of the crib; he'd scarce room to move. A skin infection brought him, aged 4, to hospital, and the very sight of overrun grey plastic seats and skinny cubicles exhausted him more than his illness had ever threatened to.

In primary school, others’ desks would blend together in a whir. Here he was, stuck, dizzyingly sedentary—the longer he sat, the foggier the world seemed to grow. When he kicked and whined at other children throughout electric lunch breaks, and they shrank from his vitality, he learned to eat alone. As his peers trudged from class in packs, watching the pavement, he sat, sullen, as his father drove him home. Somehow, Katsuhiro had never trusted him not to lose himself in chasing his surrounds. The fabric of the car seat would bite into his shorts, and he’d squirm for the window, squealing towards the noise outside: Birds that cawed; scraps of paper that fluttered and choked on smog. That was a fragile era, when his mother still waited, with dry hands and chipped nails, at home. When his father already stank of beer, but still spoke loudly, deeply, boisterously. Again and again, Jōnouchi’s mother would sit her son down, and write his name, stroke by agonising stroke. She’d recite each mora in time with each character. Yet sound would cluster through his head, and his own name would dissolve amid his mother’s instructions, amid the blaze of sunlight trapped on the windowsill behind her. He would write, and the strokes would come out rushed, mis-ordered, lopsided. 

Iro wa nioedo 

chirinuru wo.

At 10, his father grew quiet, and his mother yet quieter. Silence took up like a plague in Jōnouchi’s head, and swarmed in shapeless formation throughout parched mathematics lessons. Times tables hurled themselves headlong into a skull full of fog, and burst on contact. Are you listening? a teacher asked. How could he listen with a head full of noise, of unspoken words billowing back and forth? He gripped his seat, and glared back. Why should I care, anyway?

When his mother left, his father stopped caring to chaperone him. It had taken Jōnouchi a decade to earn the right to shed his infancy. He resented that it had been this long, so tried to join the huddle of middle schoolers. He told odd stories, and took off, queasy, in front of them. They withdrew their smiles when he approached on the second day. He growled his plaint, and resentment drove him to take the opposite route. He explored back alleys, wallflower convenience stores and dilapidated cinemas; the faster he walked, the more clearly he could see each brick, and the brighter each fleck in the pavement glinted. At speed, he delayed the journey home, and set his eyes on a gorgeous early winter sunset. The colours bellowed, too bold for winter, ungainly and vain. They were glorious.

Jōnouchi came home late. His father glared; fog crashed back down on his shoulders. 

Wa ga yo tare zo 

tsune naran?

A week before she cleared out too few of Katsuhiro’s belongings and packed too few suitcases, Jōnouchi’s mother drove both children two miles to the optometrist. My son, she explained, reads slowly, yet resents reading; it seems he can’t see very well. My daughter’s sight seems clearer, yet she complains of pain. The optometrist forced Jōnouchi to read down a chart of letters; he fidgeted, and, consumed in memories of a lonely lunch break the day prior, passed with flying colours. When the optometrist flashed a light to photograph his eyes, whatever hideous miracle that was, Jōnouchi screamed.

Katsuya Jōnouchi, the optometrist surmised, had perfect acuity of sight. He sought attention, stimulation. Meanwhile, Shizuka Jōnouchi, who had sat entirely still throughout her examination, had more ragged, derelict peripheral vision than her family had anticipated. Untreated, both your children will get much worse.

And in the months after Shizuka Jōnouchi became Shizuka Kawai and Mrs. Jōnouchi became That Bitch Who Never Cared, Katsuya Jōnouchi became horribly aware of how little time he had to be lethargic. He had to survive this schism; yet as he was, he barely felt capable of thinking. He walked, fidgeted, paced to prove to himself that he was a moving, breathing organism. Yet his father’s frustration would brook no exuberance. Long before Katsuhiro fully committed to flinging glass and spurning his son’s misery, Jōnouchi began learning to move silently, slowly, around his father. He memorised which mats snapped and snagged, which bits of fabric hissed when stepped on. He noted which windows opened most quietly. And yet he never managed a perfect, quiet exit. He couldn’t help but be conspicuous; he could only hope to get out too quickly for his father to react. And, to lift the torpor that followed escape, he would run to school, and, after, run back. Never did the sun shine brighter than when he was moving.

Uwi no okuyama

kyou koete.

When he met Hirutani, did he become more violent? No; every punch he threw during his delinquency had waited, kinetic and desperate, for days, months, years. In classrooms, his sole responses to being ordered around had been sullen deference, with sullenness being his sole demonstration of rebellion. Now, threatened with the obsolescence of his ego, of his perceived freedom, he chained himself to violence, over and over. The first time he punched a man in the gut, he found himself shaking. And rather than sink into sallow, domestic remorse, he slathered himself in white rage. And he went back and he went back and he went back, helpless to his own instincts, trying to dredge the noise in his skull out through his fists. No matter how many punches he threw, and no matter how many he received, he could not stop his head from blazing anew the moment he walked away.

Did Duel Monsters afford him any peace? He would be no man’s losing dog; nor would he be confined to dull celebrity. To play as a strategist consigned him to sitting still, committing himself to gambits he could never entirely trust, to moves that demanded a clear head. To play too whimsically would doom him to inferiority. Thus, he gave half his heart to diligence, and half to sheer fortune. Nobody could idolise his kind of folly, nor devalue his kind of skill. This was Jōnouchi’s will—to eschew having to wait in the mire of expectation; to escape the fog of obligation to anyone’s morals but his own. Honour suited him, so long as it was on his meticulous terms. In games of Duel Monsters, he became a knight-errant of sorts: predictably unpredictable, unexpectedly canny, blindly faithful. With this relationship to his own fate laid out so, he could finally draw cards without fearing those next to come. And thus, hyperkinetic, he found a peace in the game. So he played and played until he forgot how long he’d been playing, and Duel Monsters became as second nature.

Asaki yume miji

ei mo suzu.

Two weeks before Jōnouchi’s graduation, Shizuka invited him to her place to dine. Their father was not to join them. Jōnouchi protested, and his desperation died in a pinprick throat. Wisteria spilled itself over the footpath. Each step threatened to plunge, vertiginous, to the ground. 

When Jōnouchi saw his mother, his throat turned to sandpaper. She looked so old.

You cried so much as a baby, she told him. Kicked and screamed to see the world. You weren’t comfortable waiting in your crib—I’d end up coming to you at 4AM, walking you around the perimeter of the house till my heels burned. And you seemed so afraid of all the noises of the night—groaning engines, singing birds. Now, look at you—you’ve grown up so terribly fast.

Could he afford to tell her how even now, he bit down the urge to kick and scream, to launch himself, all fists and sparks, onto his tormentors? No; so, all night, he gripped his glass as tight as he could. The cold lingered and itched on his palms for days. Holding onto things, it seemed, was not so difficult as he’d once believed.

[yxstxrdrxxm-a]

AND THATS A WRAP !

Hello, hello! It's me, the local dumbass that went "lol lets run this silly event" since January. I'd like to say thank you so much for participating!

I never thought that so many would look @ my blog event and go ":D lets go get matched w/ yans!" LIKE?? HELP WE GOT A LOT OF SUBMISSIONS SINCE DAY 1, IT MADE ME GO "oh shit" BAHAHAHAHA

But fr, I want to say thank you so much. To those who came in to join the matchup, to those who participated as anons to the story that was unfolding, and to those that were theorizing and even lurking:

Thank you so much for giving me a chance. You guys have no idea how much it means to me to celebrate this milestone with all of you.

I would love to mention everyone of y'all that joined to leave my special thanks, but this post will be lengthy if I did that and I... Am NOT about to make it too sappy LMAOOOO

Now! On the update + future plans:

The rest of the fics will be posted but slowly and will be saved as special dlc fics of One Last Call. This covers additional lore of the worldbuilding behind OLC, but there are some that won't be written (Freminet and Aether are unfortunately those I can't write as yanderes) to lessen the load. Also, some will be shorter/snippet wise, but we shall see.

I will be making a "story explained" post for OLC and the characters behind it. This goes into the possible "what ifs", the original draft of the story (storyboard lol), what each character would've been in my plans, and everything in between! (Also, there may or may not be drawn sketches for each of them. Maybe kek).

The next event will be happening on March. I won't elaborate what it'll be, but it will be indulgent and maybe a little funny (for me). It'll also last for a week at most so I don't end up burning myself out LMAOO

Finally, I will be hosting small event for Cupid, Eros, and Boss. They won't be big, but they will have their spots when I planned out what'll happen to them. (Hint: you guys are going to see them often on your feed if you know where to look ;>)

For now though, I will be finishing up the drabbles and pray I get them queued to finally archive this event. Also, I will be responding to asks + cleaning up my inbox again when I'm done :)

Once again, thank you everyone. I genuinely thought that running One Last Call will not work out back then (I told a few friends I was scared that it won't take off as it did), but I pushed through it anyway since I thought it'd be fun anyway. And to see everyone enjoy it is the best feeling I've had since opening this blog.

I hope all of you enjoy chilling as I try to write + post the drabbles for OLC before concluding its tale... And hopefully writer's block does not slam its gavel on my ass BAHAHAHAHAHA

[murobrown]

.

[phantom-alpha]

today i don't even bring fanart. i just drew one of my ocs and decided to post it

so uh meet Raylu i guess? she's one of my Arc-V fan characters

[amsterdamlouie]

i forgot grey's anatomy had an autistic character in season 5.. but i truly hate the way richard lowkey disparages dixon for being autistic. i promise u.. her being autistic doesn't reflect her job as a surgeon. it may influence her bedside manner and how she interacts with others, but nothing about her work. i love richard but he can be a real 🤡 sometimes...

[cosmicloved]

people can make PSA posts saying the exact sort of things i say and get a bunch of notes but somehow i always get told to shut up ASDFGHG like what is it about me !! what unique aura am i giving off that ppl need to keep telling me i'm wrong abt commonly held opinions !!

[altruistic-meme]

ok i was going to put this in the tags but the more i thought about it, the more i wanted to say so i'm just going to add it as a reblog <3

op you are soooo right with this, and some more: he does the same thing (or something very similar, at least) with Gabriel!

in episode 5 when Crowley brings him hot chocolate, Gabriel - as Jim, who doesn't have any memories of Heaven or it's teachings - says "Thank you. You're really nice." to which Crowley replies "Don't thank me. And I'm not. Oh, nobody would believe you anyway."

he denies it, and unlike with Mrs. Sandwich he doesn't say thank you or anything, but it's said very softly. denying it is more like habit than a negative reaction. he doesn't like Gabriel, and i have no doubt that he would've been much more reactive had it been The Supreme Archangel Gabriel saying it to him, but he knows that that Gabriel is far from who he is talking to. "Jim" is much more human than angel right now, and his ideas of morality and good/bad are very basic but still more nuanced than Heaven's.

Crowley knows that Gabriel-as-Jim calling him nice is not the same as Archangel-Gabriel saying it, and he doesn't really mind it as much.

crowley visibly cringes and rejects aziraphale when aziraphale calls him good, calls him nice. he doesn’t want to be considered good or nice by (what he thinks is) aziraphale’s (heaven’s) definition of good or nice. not just bc he’s scared of hell’s retribution, but because he knows heaven’s definition of good and nice is wrong, is black and white.

when mrs sandwich calls him good, he doesn’t cringe. his rejection of “i’m not, actually,” is half-assed and cheeky at best, is his automatic response.

but then he says “thank you.”

crowley appreciates being called good by a human. he knows that humanity’s definition of good is nuanced and complicated. when a human calls him good, he sees it for what it is–a genuine compliment to his character and his actions, but not a divine declaration about his being as a whole. he reveres the morals of humanity more than he’s ever revered the morals of heaven and hell.

[whysamwhy123]

You ever have those periods where you're struggling to write much, and you're really questioning why you even bother with this in the first place, and you look at your main WIP and you're just like what is the point? Nobody wants to read this anyway so why are you wasting your time with this nonsense when you could be doing literally anything else?

And then, out of nowhere, you get a comment on said fic, despite it being months after it was posted, despite it being a ridiculously rare-rarepair, despite one half of the pairing not being on TV anymore, and it's a self-indulgent AU that you figured wouldn't appeal to most folks in the slightest, and then you realise that it's gotten a few more hits lately too and the comment is really nice and actually, this fic has more comments on it than a lot of your other stuff, and all of sudden, it's like...shit, maybe you should keep doing this?? Maybe you should just write the damn thing (when you can) and just have fun with it and who cares about the rest?