#manageable length

[musubiki]

I genuinely didn’t realize TCGW was an actual webtoon because (gestures) you draw such good art and I thought these were just you know, ocs you posted about. And I saw the anniversary posters and was like “oh you know, theyve must have had this tumblr for a while”. I searched it up on a whim- WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN GET MY FIX OF CONTENT FROM THE WEBTOON.

Anyways

hands and knees this is the rest of my day

AHA YEAH I LEAVE THE EXISTING EPISODES UP ON WEBTOON!!!!! unfortunately i dont make them anymore since they were too time consuming...i think i started it during covid when i had a lot of free time but now that im in grad school i cant make the commitment...,,

so now they are just ocs i post about :') and the posters are just me living delulu with the story in my head because i like making posters!! the anni posters are just celebrating the existence of my kids TT_TT

[lunerabo]

chef’s kiss

cw: sub!Uraume, dom!AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, fingering, name calling, pegging, anal, hair pulling, degrading praise, free use kink, Uraume’s genitalia isn’t described (but everybody got a bootyhole so 👀), sukume involved but it’s not serious, set in the Heian period, implied cannibalism

It is no small thing to gain the recognition of the lord Sukuna himself.

It would not have cost him much had he overlooked your predictive skills, but it pays to have a guess at the future. Your talent has failed him not once since being accepted into the fold, and you can see in him that since meeting you and listening to your advice, he’s decided that perhaps the rapidly changing social tide is something he should start paying more attention to.

To say it has granted you an important seat is an understatement—and it is from this very seat that you take notice of another lovely gem in your lord’s sparse collection of trusted characters.

Uraume, his own chef, whose work you would not be ashamed to admit you had stolen to taste for yourself once or thrice. Sukuna certainly seems to like keeping talented people around.

It was one blessed evening that they spoke to you at last, voice as smooth as butter and musical as birdsong, only to be wasted on the unsavory threat of including you in their next dish if your thievery continued. You know they would have, too. You know what’s being served on those platters.

But they would have followed through only if you hadn’t been patient—if you hadn’t played your cards just right—and, perhaps, if you hadn’t been so damn good at figuring out how to read them.

They failed to notice how you notice everything. How you notice how eager they are to follow orders from only one specific master, and that if that master handed the leash to someone else, they now belonged to them. They failed to recognize just how much influence you had over that master, and perhaps you did, too, for you had expected to take your lashings and be sent away when having experimentally asked him if he might lend you his chef for a time. You’d not missed how he had taken them to his own personal quarters some nights, so it wouldn’t be lost on him what exactly you were asking for. But, amazingly, he’d said yes, so long as they are returned able to do their job.

So, them having actually visited you in your own private room has you a bit stunned.

You’ve predicted downfalls and uprisings, then wars to conclude them, all of which you estimate will happen in your own lifetime. But you couldn’t have predicted this.

Your lord’s comely chef, yukata hung seductively loose about their pale neck and shoulders. Loaned to you, as a gift, in exchange for your services.

Uraume’s expression is unreadable, but there’s an almost pleased look tugging at the corners of their lips. A scent lingers in the air around them, some expensive perfume you would never have found made just anywhere. They’ve taken extensive measures to prepare.

“You bathed before coming. You used imported soaps, of—“ you give the air another quick whiff—“Dutch make. You also have not yet eaten this morning.”

“All of this is true,” they answer. “Yet you have not been present to see it.”

“I use the present to tell the past just as much as I use it to tell the future.”

Slender fingers glide across the front of their yukata, as if to take it off, but opting instead to tease you with the idea.

“It is much more impressive to tell the future, however. Such as, for example, what you will make of me now that I’m here.”

They’re closer now, and you’re not sure when that happened, but you’re not complaining.

“That depends entirely on what you are now.”

Their clothing seems to melt away as they undress, yet the kiss they press to the corner of your mouth is arctic.

“Whatever it is you wish me to be.”

They tug at your own clothes, bring the both of you to a kneel on your futon, where they slip their icy hands under the fabric and peel it down over your shoulders.

They sink to their knees gracefully, parting yours. Their icy lips drag across your skin, and they seem to take their time admiring you. They don’t rush; they’ve been instructed to make sure you enjoy it. And despite it being merely an order, the manner in which they perform it is anything but mechanical.

Their mouth is on you in an instant, and you had prepared to keep up the smug, composed, superior act to keep this scene rolling smoothly, but a lapse in judgement has you forgetting that Uraume is a pro. They are no stranger to having their mouth used, and the skill they’ve gained from that is evident.

The way they lap at you feels eager, but their expression doesn’t seem to line up with it. It’s a task, you remind yourself—this same focused, pensive expression is one you’ve seen when they’re cooking, when they’re writing, even in everyday conversation. Their hungry mouth betrays them, and their blank expression cannot hide how they enjoy your taste.

They’ve been eyeing you too; though this you’ve felt more than seen. Uraume may deny it but your penchant for mischief despite your status has earned you an unlikely pair of admiring eyes, and a brief glance between their legs tells you everything they’ve been thinking as they’ve watched.

“You’re excited to be here, aren’t you?” You ask, still and relaxed as they pick you apart.

“Any order of lord Sukuna’s is one I will execute with enthusiasm.”

An amused frown plays at your lips.

“Did you just lie to me?”

Uraume blinks, a bit caught off guard. They didn’t, not really. None of what they said was technically untrue. Yet the friendly and jovial tone you take with them as you say that feels like a sign of danger, like there’s no correct answer.

“If you’re going to spell mistruths to a soothsayer, I would suggest at least speaking of things they cannot see in front of them.”

Most of your predictions are bullshit. Educated guesses. You’re just good at noticing things, understanding cause and effect when the answers aren’t in front of you. But you don’t even need to employ this skill to be able to plainly see that Uraume fancies you, far beyond what their master orders.

They shed you of your clothing, and their body betrays them under your touch. Your hands are as sure as death, and they have the poor thing dripping all over your fingers as you work at them. Soft bangs and fine eyelashes tickle your bare shoulder as they rest their head there, perhaps too embarrassed to show anything past a neutral expression around someone new.

“A beautiful whore you are,” you remark. “Does Sukuna loan you out to others as well, or am I special?”

“You are.”

“How lucky am I, then! I must be important.”

Their breath trembles as you play with them, their thighs tensing every so often under your gentle touch.

“You are important. Think of how—ahn!—Lord Sukuna would have f-fared without your help.”

“I’m sorry,” you begin, voice dangerously friendly and sweet, “surely you aren’t implying our mighty and beloved master would have fared poorly if someone hadn’t aided him, are you?”

The switch in their tactics is easily spotted. Rather than keep composure, they collapse, bare chest to yours, arms slung loosely and affectionately around your shoulders. Uraume’s fawning, in the hopes that they might appeal to your sympathetic side, desperately trying to convince you that that is not what they meant. They’re just a little bit disoriented from your touches, they swear! It’s certainly not that they don’t think highly of their lord.

Unfortunately for them, sympathy isn’t a word in your vocabulary.

“Tsk tsk, and I was considering being sweet to you. How would he punish you for such a comment, I wonder?”

You pull hard at a fistful of their hair, practically peeling them off of you as their head tips back and their spine arches.

“You have thirty seconds to prepare.”

They scramble, tight lipped and wide eyed, as you turn away.

What you grab is, you recall absentmindedly, expensive. Well carved and polished ivory, soft yet strong leather pinned to the base of the unmistakably phallic shape it boasts.

It’s fantastic handiwork, you muse for perhaps the thousandth time, as you fasten it about your waist and thighs. But perhaps a bit of a novelty; things like this tend to be bought more for one to tell others about how much they paid for something so frivolous and strange, not to use them.

Uraume sighs, and the sight you turn to see has your pulse racing.

They work at themselves with nimble and well oiled fingers, their rear pointed sharply upward while their head rests on the futon, and they gaze directly at you through the gap between their leg and arm. But, you think, they aren’t working hard enough.

You pull their hand away, reaching around and taking the small vial of oil from them. You’re at their side, tucking your knees under them, before pouring copious amounts of the stuff down over their hole. Your fingers glide upward, gathering it on their tips, massaging over the pert, puckered opening as if to relax them.

But the pace you immediately set with those fingers is brutal, inhumanly rapid, as you show them just how you want them loosened for you. A long series of brief, shocked, rhythmic noises force themselves from Uraume’s lips as their breath hastens to something shallow and ragged. Something that could almost be laughter if it didn’t sound so much like crying.

You give them a break, or so they believe. They nearly thank you, preparing to take a moment to gather themselves, but you begin again before they get a chance. Your hand is so forceful, so powerful, and your fingers so deep. Have you always been so talented? So mean? Something in them hopes you’ll be mean the next time around, too.

“Oh, don’t hang your head, pet. You like it, don’t you? Quit acting so glum,” you giggle, grabbing them by the jaw and forcing their head back up.

“Mm, this is a position you’re well acquainted with, isn’t it? You take to it so naturally. You’re being such a pretty slut for me...”

You stop again, this time for good. They nearly sob, unsure if in relief or in wanting more. They glance up at you, and instantly know that they’re in for it. A deceptively kind, gentle smile crosses your face, eyes half lidded, a soft glint to them that almost gives away your true intentions. The kind of perfectly crafted mask to be expected from a professional bullshitter, but they know better than to speak their mind lest they dig themselves deeper in the hole.

They shudder almost violently just feeling the dip of your weight on the futon behind them. You’re not half as gentle as your expression suggests, but they’re quite loose, not to mention trained to take bigger; perhaps it’s not such a huge deal. Judging by how they collapse rather than begging you to wait or stop, it isn’t an issue at all.

“Now, how would he have taken what you said?”

You’ve never seen the polite, composed, clean-cut chef so fucking messy. Their hair, normally neatly framing their face, splayed out across the sheets and tangled in your fist. Their hands, always so sure and steady as a practiced chef’s should be, grab aimlessly at whatever they can, gripping and releasing again and again.

It’s hard, you remind yourself, that’s why they seem to struggle with it. Flesh gives under pressure; ivory doesn’t. You can never hope to fuck Uraume the way Sukuna does. After all, he has two of what you lack entirely. But this—this feeling is new to them, that much they make very clear.

So, as is the obvious response, you familiarize them with it hard and thoroughly.

They ball up their fists, bringing them in close to their chest as you force their face down, hunching over for a better, deeper angle at which to fuck into them.

They cry and wail, but it’s too muffled in the linens to tell if they’re actually saying anything.

“Go on, pet. Cum all over the fucking place. Nice and hard for me, yes? Give the launderers some work for when they come to collect these sheets.”

Uraume convulses at your command. How you wish you could feel them, sucking you in and tightening around you as you drill them. They tremble and twitch, and their gaping hole makes a sucking sound as you withdraw from it.

They’re a sweet little thing before you, reduced to something small and pathetic under your touch. Their hole clenches around nothing. It still feels good, poor thing.

You click your tongue.

“Awww, I didn’t think it’d wear you out so much. Poor fool. I’m surprised, considering you take much bigger and much rougher on an almost weekly basis. Am I really so good at it?”

They collapse, crying out upon realizing how sensitive they are as the bedding brushes between their legs. You click your tongue in mock sympathy.

“Oh, come here, sweet thing,” you coo, looping your arms around theirs and pulling them into your lap. Your fingers card through their thoroughly mussed hair, parting the knots, straightening it out. They breathe against you as you do, back pressed to your breast.

“Would you like me here more often?”

You grin wickedly at the offer.

[potatoes-tomatoes]

Instagram ask doodle— someone requested Lola as Barbie!

I think of the deleted exchange she had with lebron in SJ2, where she says “Looney is who [Bugs] is and what he does. I’m not like that.” and I mourn the executive meddling. It was supposed to be satirical, critical and maybe even a lil more cynical and all Looney… but too many mandated rewrites left a sour taste in my mouth, especially when it comes to Lola. She doesn’t really have a place in the world of LT outside of being Bugs’ arm candy and “Basketball”…..Sj2 coulda had that conversation. poor gal

[cha-melodius]

💜 + dealers choice on ship.

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss (hellooooo and thank you, I originally thought of branching out but then did firstprince anyway lmao. read all the kiss ficlets)

“And the Oscar goes to… Henry Fox!”

For a moment, Henry just sits there, stunned. This wasn’t supposed to be his year; yes, he’d gotten a lot of critical acclaim for his role, but he was going up against lots of huge names. Acting legends, people who had been in the industry for ages. Honestly, Henry hadn’t been able to convince himself this was anything more than a courtesy nomination. Then again, he always did feel the shadow of his father looming large during these times. Alex always used to call him out on it, used to help him see that he was more than just his father’s son—ironic, considering their first meeting. Maybe that was part of it, that Alex was the only one he trusted to be totally honest with him.

But Henry hasn’t had that for the past year. Hasn’t had Alex. Who is, as last year’s winner, the person that’s just said his name up on stage. Christ, he has to go up there now and say something coherent, when the only thing he can think of is how much he misses the man standing up there, smiling at him. How much he regrets what happened last year that tore them apart, and how he can’t stop wondering if there’s any way to repair the damage. Just now, Alex doesn’t look mad at him, but then again, he is an exceptional actor.

There are four other actors Henry has to shake hands with before he reaches Alex—and his Oscar. Honestly the little gold man has nothing on the golden god standing before him in a burgundy velvet tux. Henry sticks his hand out, unsure, but Alex hauls him into a crushing hug, his lips close to Henry’s ear as he whispers, “I’m so fucking proud of you, H.”

Maybe Alex is a great actor, but Henry knows him, to his bones. Knows what he sounds like when he’s trying to hold back real emotion. Knows that Alex could have sent him off with a handshake or a slap on the back and no one would be any wiser. And Henry knows, in that split second, that what he’s going to do will make history.

Henry pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes, and he can see the moment where Alex realizes what he intends to do. He relaxes his grip, but Alex doesn’t withdraw, so Henry does what he should have done a year ago, in front of the entire theater and millions of live viewers: he draws Alex into a kiss. As Alex kisses him back, grinning into like he’s the one who’s just won an award, Henry knows that, whatever else happens tonight, this will be the only moment that matters to him.

The cheers from the audience are deafening.

[adventures-in-moderating]

Padlock? Digital Time? Love Birds? WRONG! Flower that was in DHMIS 3 for half a second/my OC

[st4rstudent]

people seemed to like the last design so here's another drawing. this time featuring a surprise guest. haha wow whos that guy...

no dialogue ver

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Parentalbond Horror

*grinning* I am baaaaaaaack!! @spotaus get over here :D

So. I had the difficult choice on which drabble i wanted to write so For now I settled on this one because I haven't had the chance to write a drabble with Horror's pov since a while and that is a crime.

First Drabble here Prev Drabble here Next Drabble here

As always we go in unbeta'ed and unedited.

*-----------------*

Horror checks the windows again before turning back to the couch and seeing Nightmare just staring at him.

Horror tils his skull "sleep will be easier if you actually lay down...." And he looks pointedly at the couch.

Nightmare gains that stubborn glint in his sockets again as he huffs "I am fine. Not tired at all." he looks at the pile of bags in the corner of the room wishfully.

Horror has to keep his chuckling inside as he answers "Shame then that it is bedtime for young skeletons." And adult skeletons. Horror glances at the other three. All KO on the other couch, all still dressed in their normal clothes and none of them actually finished their meals.

Horror will have to pack up the leftovers. Make sure nothing goes to waste. But he will let them sleep for now and just make them eat a big breakfast. But all three had been running themselves ragged lately. Especially after the last encounter they had had with the Stars.

It meant they have been making more jumps and teleports and not going out as much to collect things to make it easier for them.

Horror walks over to them and puts one of the blankets in this apartment over them, he doesn't bother to try and pull them away from one another. The four of them always had the habit of sleeping in a pile and that habit only got worse once they started searching for Nightmare and reclaimed him.

Horror checks Ngihtmare's plate and smiles "You finished it all today." No wonder he is grumpier and more active than usual.

Nightmare pulls a face and crosses his arms. Horror walks over and nudges him at his shoudler "Sleep time." and he waits.

Nightmare grumbles more as he pushes the blankets and pillows around. Horror just crosses his arms as he waits. Nightmare huffs but lays his skull down on the pillow and glares at him.

Horror knows he is grinning but he is proud to say he doesn't actually snort or laugh at the grumpy face Nightmare is pulling. instead he moves closer slowly, the first week of watching Nightmare flinch at every movement and sound had been horrible, and puts the blanket over him as well.

Nightmare doesnt complain about it. Most likely becuase he just saw Horror do the same for the other three.

Horror nods and sits by him "Time to sleep." it is his turn to keep watch and he plans on taking ti seriously.

Nightmare huffs but just turns his face further into the pillow. Tiny body starting to relax with the simple comforts.

Horror tries to not be obvious as he keeps an eye on Nightmare.

Horror knows of course what is going on and he is trying to not give in. At least one of them should not give into the adopting.

Horror can admit he had been surprised that Dust was the first one to actually soul adopt Nightmare. Especially after only a week. It had been so fast and the transition between the before and after state had been so smoothly that Horror had honestly thought that Dust had done it on purpose and planned.

It would have made sense. Dust had been the one to find the book first and been the one to actually manage to get Nightmare back to them.

Only for it to become obvious that Dust had no idea what he had just done.

Soul adoption is a rather normal thing for monsters to do. Though in most universes they rarely happened as monsters don't tend to abandon children.

But well, Horror's AU had been one with starvation and a lot of fighting. People lost their lives in multiple ways. That meant quite a few orphans.

Soul adoption happened when an adult monster willingly took the role as caretaker for a younger monster who doesn't have a caretaker. There are a few more factors obviously but Horror doesn't know all of them of the top of his skull, especially not now with that hole in it.

What it comes down to? Nightmare is an orphan and has no one he could go to that could take care of them, and all of them know this. Dust found out first and surprisingly his soul was open enough to the idea to accept Nightmare as... well... his.

There are more hurdles in this situation of course. The fact that they Nightmare they knew was an adult, which is what Horror thinks is tripping up Cross. But Dust had been very quick with accepting that Nightmare is now a child and so immediantly treated him as one.

Killer took a bit longer but quickly fell into step as well. Calling Nightmare tiny boss and going from his right-hand-man to his babysitter, Killer's words not Horror's.

Horror is however a bit surprised that Killer also soul adopted Nightmare. In theory it shouldn't have happened as Nightmare at this time already had Dust as his caretaker and so technically didn't need one anymore.

Seems like Killer's soul didn't agree with that.

Horror can't say a lot about it though, seeing as he can feel it happening with himself as well. And he has no doubt that Cross is very close to giving into his own instincts and feelings concerning this as well.

The whole thing with their last interaction with the Stars is a very big give away. Even if Cross felt very embarresed by his own reaction.

At least Nightmare is no truly convinced that they won't harm him and will help him. Horror is happy they managed to get there and with it having only been a month since they took him with them. Horror can say they did a good job.

Nightmare has falled asleep.

Horror move slowly and silently and puts two fingers to the the side of his small belly and feels.

Horror may not have a lot of magic himself but his AU was left him with a very useful skill. Wiht how little food there was available and how little magic there was there came issues. One of the issues was that after a while the magic monsters had wasn't strong enough anymore to digest the food that the mosnters did manage to eat. meaning that even if the monster ate food they would not get any energy or new magic from it.

Meaing that even if they ate they would continue to starve.

Wiht how difficult it had been for Nightmare at first to eat or even remember to eat Horror had worried something simular may have happened. That being in the goop form had caused his own magic to grow too weak to be able to function fully.

But all Horror feels is the soft and quiet purr of NIghtmare's magic working hard to use the offered food to rebuild the babybones' small reserves.

Horror sighs a sigh or relieve and just watches Nightmare for a moment. Nightmare, having noticed the pressure on him, makes an unhappy sound and his socket flutters open to give him a sour look.

Horror chuckles as he whispers "I apologise." Horror is unsure how clear his answer is as Horror himself is purring like a loud law mower at this point.

Nightmare blinks at him, still looking like the tiniest little grumpy skeleton this multiverse has ever known, before closing his sockets again and turning on his side. surprisingly not away from the touch and light hold.

Horror watches the other. It is strange. They are all different yet Nightmare still has them all completely under his control. Yet it is in a completely different way and Ngihtmare now doesn't even seem to realise it.

Horror leans on the couch and watches their tiny charge just sleep. Horror had managed to keep the need to complete an adoption at bay by reminding himself that Nightmare already had a caretaker- well two and a half now, Horror is sure that all Cross still needs to complete the soul adoption is a tiny nudge. Horror thinks that Cross is jsut thinking too much about it and doubting his own instincts and feelings.

But that still leaves Horror, and what he wants to do. He figured that it would be better to at least keep one of them unbiased in this nature, just in case that Nightmare suddenly turns into an adult again. But the longer this went on the less likely it seemed to Horror.

Not to forget. Horror doesn't even think Nightmare wants to be an adult again. Not now that he is a child but doens't have to vigilent every moment of every day.

Does he technically already have caretakers? Yes. Does Horror still want to count himself as one? Yes.

So. He just picks for himself.

Horror moves slowly and quietly as he picks Nightmare up. Nightmare grumbles in his sleep at being moved but calms when his magic recognises Horror.

Horror gets comfortable on the couch and lays Nightmare on his sternum. He can still feel the tiny soul beat and pulse fast even through two shirts.

Horror pulls the blanket back over Nightmare and waits.

It doesn't take long as Horror can feel the slight pull on his magic and energy. Hardly noticable and Horror doubts that if he wasn't so paranoid about his own levels he would have noticed.

It is something tiny monsters do. To help stabalise and sharp their own magic they try to take tiny bits of their parents, or caretakers in this case, to help guide them. It all happens naturally.

Horror just holds the tiny babybones closer and feesl Ngihtmare's soul slowly start to match Horror's own soulbeat and he feels all the calmer.

Now it is pretty much done. Horror will have to probably deal with this decision one day but for now he is happy. Their tiny babybones is comfortable and everyone is resting. Tomorrow they will have to worry about getting supplies and where they can go and eventually where they will sleep that night.

But right now? Right now he doesn't have to worry about that. and all he ahs to worry about is that their babybones is comfortable and healing.

*-----------------*

First Drabble here Prev Drabble here Next Drabble here

[nyatbinary-81]

@vulpixisananimal sifstem art jumpscare!! more specifically i got bored and decided to mess around with sif and mal's outfits.

[solardrink]

3.5 spoiler !

I CANNOT stop laughing the fact that kaeya as a little kid SHIPPED himself back to where he thought khaenri’ah was because he read it in a book 😭😭😭he’s so SILLY imagine this tiny malnourished kid with fancy clothes on ur fuckin ship carrying goods across the sea with the most determined little face and then his adoptive dad goes ALL the way to sumeru to pick his ass up and drag him back to mond 😭 this was the route they had to take

[foggyfanfic]

Themes vs Realism

Saw an old debate about how isolated the Encanto is and it got me thinking about my own headcanons.

I watched the movie, saw the windows and wine glasses and thought “Oh! They must have trade, glass requires a specific sort of sand and while glass blowers would be relatively common, the odds they had somebody who knows how to make glass frit are pretty low”. And I can back up that argument with research and facts, buying glass is getting more expensive because we’re running low on sand with the right chemical composition, glass frit production would be more likely to happen in towns near silica rich beaches, where as Alma’s hometown looked like it was in the middle of the forest. Nowadays, not every country in the world has the right sand, when I worked with glass blowers they imported their frit from I think a family in Sweden(?) that are like one of the last few people making frit. So glass is actually a very big deal! I digress. Basically, realistically, the fact that they have glass means that they must have some trade.

But that’s completely irrelevant to the movie, isn’t it?

The movie is all about healing from generational trauma, Encanto being completely isolated is better for the movie’s themes. It’s like how we all love the deleted scene where Bruno argues with Alma and says “I wish I was dead” but the writers cut that scene because it gives Bruno confronting Alma on Mirabel’s behalf an extra bit of punch if he was never willing to do so before. Realistically, a deeply unhappy, almost forty adult who is as blunt as Bruno would have had that argument with Alma; thematically, Mirabel’s mysterious Tío couldn’t muster up the courage/passion to confront the movie’s antagonist until he was doing it for love. Realistically, it is actually necessary for Pepa to control her emotions because she can create hurricanes and that sorta disaster could wipe out the village; thematically, Pepa needs to be allowed to let her feelings flow through her without anyone snapping at her about it. Realistically they must have trade; thematically, they must be completely isolated.

There isn’t really a good way for canon to bridge this gap as far as I can tell, in story telling themes usually take precedence over realism, especially in a fantasy setting. But for a lot of people (like me) the funnest thing to do when writing fanfic is throw in a dash of realism and see what comes out of it. Obviously, the way you want to reconcile this is absolutely up to you. I personally care more about the movie sticking to themes than I do it being realistic or conforming to my background knowledge, I’m fully expecting to have most of my head canons disproven when they release more material. That said, for the sake of fic, I think asking questions like “Where are they getting the raw materials to build that” is a great launching pad.

I don’t know how to word my conclusion. That year I spent working with glass blowers is going to butt heads with my suspension of disbelief for the rest of my life? Realism is great for fanfic but not so much in short stories like movies? My head canons will never be canon and it’s better that way?

[tj-crochets]

So I went by Joanns to get some replacement rotary cutter blades, and I'm sort of growing my hair out for the first time in years*, and apparently slightly longer hair knocks a couple of years off my perceived age? The lady who worked at Joanns was super nice but also made sure to tell me to be super extra careful, because rotary cutter blades are very, very sharp. She also tried to redirect me from my replacement blades (the largest of the three sizes) to a pretty pastel purple rotary cutter that has the smallest blade size lol *for years my haircut has been super short, like between one and three inches depending on how long since I cut it, standing straight up on the top of my head. Now that I've finally let it grow long enough it can't stand straight up, it's almost trying to be curly?? Not succeeding especially well, but it's very messy and floofy and I am loving it lol

[vossn]

bg3 modern AU but its just the story told through a series of increasingly urgent e-mails

[aria0fgold]

Seared like a songbird flying to the sun

A belated birthday gift for @misty-wisp ! Tried to combine references for both Swan Lake and Cendrillon >:3 (Linked the English cover I took the lyrics from for the title!)

[visualtaehyun]

Pronoun changes, my beloved!

Apologies in advance for how chaotic and lengthy this will be but this is my jam lmao For ease of understanding, I'll color-code all words referring to Mork and Day like this!

Disclaimer: not a native Thai speaker, still learning 🙏

Last episode, Mork called himself พี่ /phi/ once so I'd been waiting that entire episode for either of them to initiate a switch in pronouns!!

เดย์ พี่เอง /Day, phi ehng/

It just makes sense tbh, considering all of Day's friends defaulted to calling Mork พี่ /phi/ and Porjai also just calls herself พี่ /phi/ while calling Day น้อง /nong/, น้องเดย์ /nong Day/ or just เดย์ /Day/.

Real quick- พี่ /phi/ = lit. older sibling; respectful yet familiar form of address for someone older (2nd or 3rd person pronoun); can be used to refer to oneself in reference to someone younger (1st person pronoun) น้อง /nong/ = lit. younger sibling; mostly used to refer to someone younger (2nd or 3rd person pronoun) but can be used to refer to oneself in reference to someone older (1st person pronoun)

So, episode 5!

Day accidentally calls Mork พี่ /phi/ and another boundary's crossed 👀 Of course our flustered Day tries to backpaddle immediately to Mork's delight (Day is so teasable, I completely understand Mork haha):

อะไรของคุณ /a rai kaawng khun/

ไอ้น้องเดย์ /ai nong Day/ -> Nong Day? Sweet, affectionate. Ai nong Day? Teasing, trying to annoy Day 😂 พี่ยืมเสื้อตัวนึงนะ /phi yeuum seuua dtuua neung na/ -> The tone of his voice 🫠 This is when Mork starts calling himself พี่ /phi/!

Mork has officially abandoned the polite formal คุณ /khun/ that both him and Day previously used to call each other and he now mostly calls him by his name, เดย์ /Day/, but sometimes he doesn't~

เราเองอ่ะ ก็โพสต์อะไรบ้างดิ /rao ehng a, gaaw post a rai baang di/

เรา /rao/ as a 2nd person pronoun is used by older people for calling someone younger or in general by someone more senior for calling juniors (though I've also heard it between age mates or even by younger people when scolding someone older they're close to lol it sounds a bit condescending or patronizing though). It's not formal or polite, it has a degree of familiarity though!

Quick intermission for the photo caption (though the subs provide a very good alternative pun!)

ข้าวเช้าแบบปัง ปัง /khaao chaao baeb bpang bpang/

ปัง /bpang/ = bread, hence the pun, but it's also an onomatopoeic expression for a loud noise (like Bang!) and, in the same vein, slang for 'popular'. I guess it's comparable to saying sth. or sb. is 'the bomb' in English or like- A bangin' breakfast lol You'd obviously lose the bread pun though.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming!

Mork calls him น้องเดย์ /nong Day/ and himself พี่หมอก /phi Mork/ but he also phrases his question with a คับ /khap/ at the end (that's a polite male ending particle) - it's halfway between sweet and teasing but Day's reaction tells us that he's accepting it at face value. :)

Place your bets now as to how everyone will react once they hear the changed speaking habits of these two lmao Personally, I wanna see Night's reaction the most

Gee is up first!

Last night, Day did still call him คุณ /khun/ HMMM 😏 (Gee's also referencing the love song Mork sang for Day in ep. 4)

I wanna highlight the little banter about the hotpot restaurant here too because it's something I hear irl a bunch but rarely in (BL) series!!

Day: มึงดูตากูด้วยค่ะ /mueng duu dtaa guu duay kha/ Gee: มึงก็ให้พี่มึงป้อนซิคะ /mueng gaaw hai phi mueng bpaawn si kha/

These two (as well as most of Day's friends) use กู/มึง /guu mueng/ with each other which- nothing new there, close friends often use these rude pronouns with each other BUT what's interesting to me is the particle they both use at the end: ค่ะ/คะ /kha/! They're polite feminine ending particles so usually used by women, when speaking politely. But in this case, they're both using them to sass each other! :D

I've exhausted my time for this evening so the rest of the episode will have to wait until later, sadly. And this post only covers part 1/4 hahaaahh... 🥴

[deardarlingdevil]

Another day of scouring the internet for content about Mr. Wincott like a starved Victorian child savoring every last drop of soup

[zmediaoutlet]

“I’m starving. You think they’ll let me sell your ass for a Slim Jim?”

“You made that joke last time we were arrested.”

“What, you think a good bit is only good once? I get no respect, no respect.” The last part not much of an impression because Sam presses harder on the bullet wound with the wad of toilet paper and Dean’s voice goes thin and crackly. A clean-ish hole, in through the meaty part of his shoulder and out by his armpit. Could’ve got his heart or a lung but it doesn’t even feel like it cracked the collarbone. Apparently demons are terrible shots. Lucky, Dean had said, swallowing hard and making his voice harder after. Sam didn’t dignify it with a response.

Dean’s trying to get blood off his hand with more TP. It’s thin, awful stuff, shreds against the tacky stain. The chain between the bracelets clinking. “In those Norwegian prisons I bet they get wet wipes, huh?” he says. Sam takes a deep breath through his nose. “Pampered, or whatever. Could go for some pampering.”

“I’m not killing you,” Sam says, “does that count,” and Dean laughs breathy and weird. It must really hurt. He’d be throwing Sam off already, otherwise.

They dragged the body of Henriksen’s old boss out into the main part of the jail. There’s been shouting. A boom that shook the building but no one has told them what it was, exactly. They aren’t currently top priority, despite being such world-class criminals. A break but not much of one, with Dean still bleeding over Sam’s hands. With what’s coming.

“Demons, huh,” Dean says. On the same train of thought when blood’s on the line, as always. He shifts on the shitty jailhouse mattress, gets his bootheels square on the ground. Sam shifts along with him, keeping the slack easy between their manacled ankles. “Better or worse than cops?”

Henriksen’s vicious little grin, telling them they’d never see each other again. Not quite yellow eyes but Sam’s stomach flips. Dean’s fingers slide over his, in the enveloping shadow of Dean’s jacket. Sam’s let his grip go slack.

“Can’t exorcise a cop,” Dean says, answering his own question because Sam feels like he’s going to puke. Taking point, as always. “Gotta be a point in the demons’ favor.”

“How are we gonna get him to believe us,” Sam says.

It’s all he can think. There are demons and there’s this asshole, do-gooder cop, who thinks he’s saving the day from monsters when he doesn’t know what monsters really are. If they had iron and salt and silver and a chance they might make it out. Maybe. Not like this.

“He thinks we’re psycho graverobbing murdering cannibals, Sammy, I’m not sure we’re in the circle of trust,” Dean says. He jostles his shoulder against Sam’s chest, even though that must hurt. “But hey, at least he didn’t guess about—”

“Jesus,” Sam says. Dean grins white in the emergency lights. No, Henriksen didn’t say that, did he. Although he did—about Dad—

“You think if we start making out in here, they’d open the door?” Dean’s fingers slip against his, pressing both their hands harder against his shoulder. He flinches. Still grinning. “Just to pull us apart, anyway. Worth a shot.”

“Shut up,” Sam says. Dean bites his lip, turning his face away. His chin trembles and Sam wants to—lay full length over him, take the next bullet if it comes. Go back in time and exorcise the demon before it could pull its gun, get Henriksen against the bars and get his hands around Henriksen’s neck and force him to hear the truth. That the dark was swarming up around them and if Henriksen didn’t let them go then it was going to take everyone in this station and, worse, it was going to take Dean and there was no chance, not one in the fucking world, that Sam was going to let his brother go without a fight. That it was impossible for that to happen again. Everything in him was solid on that part. That just—there’s no way that was going to happen.

Dean’s knee sags and presses against Sam’s. “Okay, so,” Dean says, chin tipping down. “We’ll take out the demons, save the day. Guess even cops beat demons. And save the making out part for later, huh? Though I could go for some of that surf and turf.”

Sam breathes out. He puts his forehead down to Dean’s shoulder for two seconds, and then sits up straight. There’s more shouting, somewhere past the hall to the holding cells. Sam squeezes his wrist, lets him drop his hand, presses the compress hard and solid against the wound. Dean’s looking straight ahead, steady. A well, somewhere in him, that always seems to have one last drop of relief.