#the circle goes into the square hole

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

transformers one where everything is the same except the circle does not go into the square hole

[apparltl0n]

Went to a food distribution center, and they gave us. A whole chicken. So i cooked it up, and i picked that shit as clean as i could (my favorite activity) and made chicken broth, but uh. We dont have a container for liquids, so uhmmm.

The chicken broth goes in the square container!

[wineaunt420]

Quick psa (Not to Americans after the 18th of Jan, sorry you'll just have to tweak alone), if you are ever crashing the fuck out alone in your uni accommodation late at night, just watch tik tok and let it turn your brain to mush.

[ratsinmy-room]

Tough day working at the factory.

[het-brunette]

Source: beth_thefirstyear on Instagram

I have four muffin tips for making bakery style muffins at home.

Tip number one:

Rest your batter for 15 minutes in your mixing bowl after you make it. This is gonna allow the starch molecules to swell and absorb, creating the thicker batter and the thicker batter is known for doming!

Tip number two:

Fill your muffin holes with at least six to eight tablespoons of batter. That’s like a heaping half cup okay. You want them super full so they’re gonna create that dome.

Tip number three:

Kinda goes along with tip number two. You’re only gonna fill every other hole in your muffin pan. And why we do that - that’s so the muffins that are baking can spread and dome without running into their neighbors. Because when they run into their neighbors they get like square edges but we want perfect dome circles.

Tip number four:

You’re to bake your muffins at a high temperature initially. That’s gonna be 425*F for the first seven minutes. And then keep them in the oven and lower the temperature to 350*F for the remaining bake time. Starting the muffins off at a high temperature initially allows the muffins to rise rapidly and it sets the outer surface of the muffin, producing a dome shape.

There you have it. My four muffin tips for creating bakery style muffins.

[sleepydrabbles]

I’m learning to be the kind of person who buys a pound of beef for a friends’ food exchange night because my silly college survival recipe is also allowed at the table with their traditional food. I’m learning to be the kind of person who has measurements of string taped up to make friendship bracelets for the people in my unit because I asked their favorite colors and got an idea. I’m learning to pull out my smaller notebook and jot down figure sketches and doodles. I’m learning to pack a full water bottle and a snack when I leave the house, to double check what’s in my wallet, to stop huffing out a laugh over the little double-tap I do on my room key to make sure it’s there. I’m choosing to keep my eyes on my work, to take social media breaks. I got a new pair of pants and confirmed they were worth the three-thousand yen they cost by wearing them two days in a row. I’m learning to leave the room first, to backtrack and say I’m going home early. I’m learning to take it easy on the homework, asking myself “why don’t we?” Instead of demanding it be done all at once. I’m learning to add spices to my food. I’m learning to put on the necklace I used to hang on my window as a decoration. I’m learning to look myself in the mirror and see past the eyebags. I’m learning to breathe through hormonal breakouts and surges of panic, to stay present when I want to hide. I’m learning to message first without counting whether the other person messages me first at another time. I’m learning to sit with myself, to be honest without being cruel. I’m learning to accept compliments and move on. I’m learning to give with the confidence it will come back, even if I don’t want it from a specific area. I’m learning.

[percival-wheeler]

etho on being hip. this is the video he's talking about in case you haven't seen it

transcript below cut

[ transcript:

gem, with a raspy voice: hi etho–

etho: hey!

gem: be very careful of the square hole, 'kay?

etho: what goes in the square hole?

gem: not ethos, hopefully.

pearl: the etho hole?

etho, referencing a tiktok: the circle? the circle goes in the square hole?

pearl: sure.

etho, continuing: and the rectangle goes in the square hole. and the triangle goes in the square hole.

gem, overlapping: oh, you're doing shape jokes.

etho: mhm. did you ever see that one? that's a, that's a classic.

gem: whuh?? oh, yeah, the like, tiktok?

etho: yeah!

gem: i have seen it, it's really good.

etho, quietly: i'm pretty hip. i know these things.

gem & pearl together: you're pretty hip??

etho: yup, i'm pretty hip.

gem: bro, can you never say that again?

(pearl talking but it's unintelligible due to overlap)

etho, incredulously: BRO? OH, YOU PULLED A BRO ON ME, WHAT YEAR WERE YOU BORN, MISSY?

gem: missy??

etho: uh huh.

gem: you're pulling out the canadian, what the heck!

etho: that's like– that's like, late nineties slang, c'mon bro.

gem: well, i was born in the late nineties.

etho: true, ok, ok, you can get away with it.

gem: i think so!

transcript end. ]

etho, overlapping: 'cause you're old. (clears his throat) anyways!

gem, getting cut off: 'cause we're both very old–

[machinemonstrosity]

more chance and reader...please...I crave..

RESPITE FOR THE DAMNED | chance x reader

WARNINGS - NONE , fluff , established relationship , he/they used interchangeably for chance , i know nothing about sewing so this may be inaccurate

Chance teaches you how to sew during an intermission.

w/c - 1.6k

a/n - I FINALLY GOT SOMETHING OUT!! i am so sorry for so many of the requests having sat dormant for so long! i have been dealing with so much as of recently — you would not believe the amount of unfinished works sitting in my documents right now. to try and compensate, i may reopen my inbox sometime soon. for now, enjoy more chance, and thank you anon for the request!! :]

The cabin is quiet today.

Groups of two or three are sprinkled around the main room, lounging on the furniture or huddling in circles against a wall. Some simply chatted, indulging in fond memories and sharing anecdotes about their past lives. Others jab and tease over a salvaged board game from the lake, arguing over a hardly legible rulebook and damaged player pieces.

It's a fleeting moment of peace — a delicacy in the midst of chaos. An offer this realm's prisoners will gladly take.

Including you.

Your jaw finally goes slack, your hands no longer the trembling messes you often found them in whenever you looked down. The concept of time felt mostly obsolete here, but you could tell it had been much too long since you've last allowed yourself to relax. Who would have guessed the throbbing pain in your legs due to running for your life hurt more when you stopped?

To be fair, you never accounted for being tossed into a looping murder game.

Flopping onto the couch with a creaky bounce, you sprawl out like a starfish. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, staring blankly at the wooden rafters as a deep exhale deflates your chest. You knew there were a handful of activities at your disposal, and more than enough company to distract you until the end of the intermission. All options you'd likely consider if you weren't too tired to move.

Every part of your body screamed at you. Your eyelids burned from staying open for too long, tears pricking the corner of your eyes as you blinked. Not many of your teammates dwelled on trying to sleep, given how brutally short these grace periods were. But you can't help yourself. You'd be satisfied with five minutes of shut-eye, for God's sake.

Slumping one arm carelessly over the armrest, you supported your head with the other, legs shifting below to adjust for comfort.

It was only when you were about to drift off that you heard a familiar voice.

“Scoot over, sugar.”

Your head immediately shot up.

There stood Chance, suit in hand, needle and thread dangling between their lips. Having no one to inevitably win against on the slot machines must've finally bored him, not to mention catching the sight of his partner draped across the downstairs couch alone.

Limbs scrambling, you contort and flail, rushing to sit up properly.

“Don't get your hopes up. I gotta fix my suit first.” The suggestive joke barely flies over your head as they move to claim the recently freed seat. Still somewhat drowsy, your own voice stumbles out of you in a slurred mumble:

“Huuuuuh? ”

What the hell, sure. Whatever you tried to spit out totally counts as a response.

You hear a poorly stifled snicker from Chance while he reiterates, “Gotta sew my suit back together. Lady Luck's been a real bummer as of late.”

Ah. You’re able to connect the dots now. And you're awake.

Plucking the threaded needle from his mouth, the garment now lies across Chance's lap, spilling onto the adjacent cushion. Multiple slashes have ripped the sleek linen, a mixture of what looked to be either claw or sword marks, partnered with a barrage of bullet holes. Their new position reveals a neat pile of squared fabric patches, stacked from biggest to smallest. This thing has seen better days.

They roll back the sleeves of their white dress shirt, deft fingers beginning to sift through the pile. Grabbing a piece to measure next to the nearest tear, a sudden pause in their calculated movements alerts you out of your silent observing.

“Somethin’ the matter, babe?”

Your face burns in embarrassment. Damn those shades for hiding their eyes so well.

Although, come to think of it, you did have a question.

“You can sew?” It's a bit more blunt than you intended, but honest nonetheless. Chance didn't really strike you as the kind of person to sew, let alone know how to.

Chance flashes you a grin, now turning to fully face you as if they had expected your confusion. Giving a loose shrug of the shoulders, they hum. “Sure I can! Never had much use for it, though.”

“How often does your suit get wrecked?”

“Enough to make me sew. Wanna help out?”

Raising a brow, you shoot him a playfully accusatory glare. “You're only saying that because you don't want to do everything yourself, aren't you?”

Chance leans back, feigning an offended gasp. Their free hand raises to their forehead like a sickly damsel on the verge of collapse, pitching their voice to match the cheesy theatrics.

“You wound me! Why would I ever suggest such a cruel, heartless thing? Perhaps I should leave, so you may continue your couch beauty rest in peace…”

An elbow to the ribs thankfully puts an end to their teasing.

“Ow—! Hey!”

Eventually catching his breath after erupting into a short fit of wheezy coughing and choked laughter, you're given the needle and half of the pile of fabric. Seems like you'd be splitting the work to keep it fair.

Which would have been fine.

If you didn't fail to mention that you have absolutely zero idea how to sew.

You’re already fumbling with the tool the moment it's put in your hand, clumsily maneuvering it from finger to finger and poking your palm with the sharp tip. Hunching your back, your other hand enters the equation, face scrunching as the needle continues to prick you. Not enough to draw blood, but more than enough to drain you of your dignity.

A few aggravated grumbles is all Chance needs to hear.

“You dunno know how to sew, do you?”

His statement puts a momentary halt to your frustrated attempts. Taking advantage of the opportunity, his hands move to blanket yours, gently prying the needle from your white-knuckled grasp.

“Here,” he says, “lemme show ya.”

Your heart skips a beat as their arms slither around you, pulling you in close. They don't stop until your back is flush against their chest, head tucked snugly beneath their chin. Guiding you back to the needle, it's carefully slid back in your hand — now with Chance bending and positioning your fingers to hold it correctly. You felt like one of those poseable mannequin dolls in an art classroom.

Insistent on your comfort, they kept asking for your approval whenever they moved. You probably heard the same question at least a dozen times, the phrases “are you okay?” or, “is this uncomfortable?” tightroping on endearing and annoying a little too well.

The needle finally disappears into the clashing shades of gray once you both settle.

“Hey, there you go! Not so hard now, is it? Now we just…”

Trailing off as he gives the thread a small tug, he leads you to loop the needle back up. Another secure tug, and the first stitch is complete.

The process repeats.

In and out. In and out.

By the first few stitches, you're already growing accustomed to the loop. It's repetitive — consistent. Hypnotic, almost. Minus the needle still poking you every once in a while, of course.

Chance punctuated each jolt and sharp suck of air through your teeth with a soothing hand rub, and each successful stitch with a steady stream of mumbled praise.

Your partner was an odd case, you've noticed. Despite having been in a relationship for a bit now, you still couldn't quite describe his character. He was a charming gambler, yes, but very rarely did he seem to branch outside of that. There definitely was more to him, it was just a matter of how much of himself he allowed to show. Or when he was willing to open up.

Something told you his poker face was a little more genuine than he'd like to admit when he was with you, though.

Before you knew it, you found yourself asking for the needle again.

“Knock yourself out. Someone needs to be my sewing successor.”

“Damn right. And I'll be better at it, too.” You puff out your chest, straightening your back in triumph. Your hands rest on your hips in false heroism.

Chance quirks a brow, scoffing. “Prove it.”

Oh, it's on.

You practically stabbed their suit, deciding to make a show out of your newfound skill. Flicking your wrist in a mockingly graceful gesture, you swoop the needle like a tiny metallic bird taking flight, the thread following close behind. It breaches the other side of the garment with a flourish.

“See? I'm awesome at this. Maybe you should be the one learning instead.”

Just as you're about to do it again, a loud BEEP interrupts you.

An eerie quiet washes over the cabin, freezing in place as multiple pairs of eyes lock onto the door. It's shut and locked, yet does nothing to combat the abrasive alarm blaring from the intercom outside.

Another round is starting.

Looks like your sewing lessons would have to be cut short.

A flurry of goosebumps ripples your skin. An all too familiar knot begins to twist and flip your stomach, the hairs on your arm and the nape of your neck standing up on end. Nothing ever prepared you adequately enough to quell the sickening drop of your heart or the lump in your throat.

Regardless, you have a murder game to participate in. And so does Chance.

Their grip on you tightens reflexively, keeping you in place as a warm palm comes to rest on your cheek.

“Chance? What're you do—!”

Forcing your head to tilt behind your shoulder, an abrupt kiss muffles any complaints you planned to make, melting into a soft sigh.

As they pull away, a breathless chuckle ghosts your parted lips.

“Who's better now, sucker?”

He was totally going to hold this over your head later, wasn't he?

[jjwolves]

What do you think ena or her coworkers would think of a reader being really strong? like, theyve defeated bosses or boss like entitys before?

TEST YOUR MIGHT ════ ⋆★⋆ ═════

What: 5 Headcanons of The Hub Coworkers & A Very Strong Reader

Who: ENA the Worker, Froggy, Coral Glasses and Dratula from ENA Dream BBQ

How Much: ~900 Words, ~4 Mins

Credits: Image Banner -> JoelG, Divider -> @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Warnings: None

You’re a bit of a powerhouse. You can do incredible things that others usually aren’t capable of—tying blood rivers into knots, sidestepping acid rain before you get burned and chopping through titanium gumball machines with your hands. During your interview, Froggy briefs you on your work target: the Boss. It seems the goal of today is to aim for the gut. You say OK, no problem. Point the way and pay me. Froggy seems taken aback. “Well, you’re definitely confident! But it’s no easy task. Listen, listen, it’s good to be eager, but the Boss is really strong!” You shrug. The Boss sounds about as strong as an Archon or Hypervisor. Different names, same things. Froggy is baffled, before relenting and saying that he “needs to make a phone call”. He walks in circles and pretends to deliberate before hiring you on the spot.

It’s not long before your other coworkers pick up on your abilities, even if you try to keep them on the down-low. At one point, you and ENA were sent out on a mission to retrieve coordinates, wandering through a gloomy city made out of churches leaking black water into the streets. ENA attempts to flick an ancient lever which should open the old steel gates you need to pass. They don’t budge. “Stupid lever, work already! I’ll eat your cogs, under-manufactured trash!” You nudge ENA inside and punch a hole through the gate, tearing it open into an improvised entrance. “Oh my! You’re quite the economic superpower. Thank you for the assistance, brave beast!” ENA seems a little wiry standing next to you, but later on, when she unsheathes her fan and slices a clock spirit into ribbons, you see a warrior. Like you.

You hadn’t known that Dratula was on your side as an informant. The pointy ears and claws made him seem monstrous—maybe he was sent by the Boss! You kicked into action when you saw him tell Coral Glasses something pretty incriminating: “I AM DRATULA! I AM THE BOSS!” Immediately, you were on him, grabbing his ears so you could fold him into a square like laundry. “NO! I AM DRATULA! UNHAND ME! YOU’RE GOINK TO HURT MY SECRETS!” There wasn’t much the supposed vampire could do besides use his face to note down an expression of surprise. Coral Glasses shied away from the bloody spectacle which was about to unfold in order to shake Froggy’s arm and hope that he would do something. Froggy stared on before remembering that he needed his sole source of intel alive. “Hey, hey, wait up! Leave him alone for now. We can get back to this once we find the Boss!”

Coral Glasses takes diligent notes of all of the ways you could help defeat the boss. She asks, you answer—it’s like a second interview. A few forms are printed out of her head and she begins diligently recording your answers in the spaces. “Could you aim for the gut with a cannon, perhaps?” Yes, you could do that. “How good are you in foot to mouth combat?” You were decent at it. Fortunately. Or unfortunately. Finally, she nervously peeks out over the top of the forms for her final question. “Would you win?” You hesitate before answering. Probably. She gives a neutral hum and goes to sort the paperwork somewhere. ENA spins over to you in a swivel chair, doing her best ‘color tornado’ impression. “How about terminating the boss by throwing paperclips at him? We have a surplus.” They’d have to be pretty sharp paperclips. “Maybe we could use a deluxe one!” What, like a giant one? Seems impractical to you. “Well then YOU come up with an office weapon, smartass!” You already did. You hand her two letter openers chained together like nunchucks and she’s already appraising them like you just handed her a bargain. You call it a chain letter. “I like the way you think! Positively barbaric! You’re hired!” You were already hired, but you graciously accept.

One night (or however time worked here) you and your coworkers all went out for drinks. And by drinks, of course, they meant bottles full of artifacting snowflakes bouncing around the inside like TV screensavers. It wasn’t long before ENA was drunkenly alternating between slurring buzzwords and yelling at the bartender, who kept a straight face (which wasn’t very difficult, as he was a faceless egg who had yet to hatch). Coral Glasses was breathless, laughing at everything like she had heard the joke that clowns hear from angels upon achieving holy initiation. You were still drinking and yet to be affected. The Receptionist was complaining that the cheap swill was freezing up her beautiful joints. Froggy was feeling the effects a bit, it seemed, but he was holding up OK, all things considered. “To the muscle of the group,” he said, to which monochrome sleeves, red mitten-hands and costumed arms raised unsteady winter glasses to the new hire. Everyone took another swig. A little later, Froggy scooched over to you and admitted something. “Hey. I just wanted to thank you. Everyone’s seemed a little grave looking towards our main mission. But I feel like they’ve been a lot more at ease with you around. Me included. So, thanks for all the help.” You patted him on the back. Your work was never done, but you were glad to help in the end. These people were worth it.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

When your Character Wears a Scarf

Scarf - an article of clothing worn around the neck for warmth and style.

Types of Scarves

There are several different kinds of scarves you can play with when assembling your scarf outfits. Consider the following materials and styles:

Cotton scarf: Perhaps the most popular and versatile type of scarf, the cotton scarf goes with jeans, leggings, chinos, and more. Cotton scarves breathe well, making them a good choice for warmer weather.

Wool scarf: This is the scarf you’ll put on when you need to bundle up and keep your neck extra warm. Wool scarves often feature fringe at the end of the scarf.

Cashmere scarf: Cashmere is a luxurious material made from the fiber of cashmere goats. It’s very lightweight but can be extremely warm if you wrap it around your neck a few times. Cashmere��scarves tend to be rather plain with subdued patterns—the focus is on its elegance and soft, silky material.

Chiffon scarf: Chiffon scarves are typically worn loose to create a flowy look. Chiffon material is almost see-through and can go well with a summer outfit in white jeans or high-waisted pants of finer material.

Pashmina scarf: Pashmina scarves are soft and cozy, and less chunky than knit scarves. The thin but warming quality affords these scarves a stylish grace, making them a fun addition to winter evening wear.

Infinity scarf: A circular scarf you may need to wrap twice around your neck. There are many ways to sport this scarf, and wearers can customize how many wraps around the neck they perform and how tight each circle should be. A cowl is a type of infinity scarf with a tight loop worn close to the neck.

Blanket scarf: A blanket scarf is a wide, long scarf large enough to use as a blanket. You can bundle a blanket to make a neck wrap or drape it over your shoulders to wear as a warm shawl.

Ways to Wear a Scarf

There are multiple ways to wear your favorite scarf—go for a DIY creation to construct your own look, or try out one of the popular ones below:

Make a loose knot. This scarf knot works well with breezier outfits on warmer days so your scarf is not hugging and overheating your throat. Fold the scarf in half lengthwise, drape it over your neck, and take the loose ends of the scarf and thread them through the open loop, tugging at the loose ends ever so slightly to create a knot.

Drape it over your neck. Drape the scarf over the back of your neck and let the two ends hang down as long sides to frame your body. You can simply style your scarf over a t-shirt to showcase the scarf and its length.

Try a square scarf. Fold the square scarf in half along the center and place it in front of your chest. Grab each end and wrap it around your neck. This simple style of scarf tying works well with a blazer or button-down shirt.

Stay warm with the double knot. The double-knotted scarf looks great under a peacoat and resembles challah dough. Hold the center of your scarf at your chest and take the left end and place it around your neck and over your right shoulder, and take the right end and wrap it around your left shoulder. This will make a “U” shape out of the center of the scarf at your chest; twist the “U” so it becomes a figure eight, and then thread the left side through one hole and the right through the other. Tighten to your level of comfort and tuck into your coat before going out.

Create a low-hanging knot. Larger scarves invite lots of room for play—find your favorite way to wear a large scarf by experimenting with unique looks. You can hang it around your neck and then make a low-hanging knot out of the longer ends.

Drape one side over your shoulder. You might drape a longer scarf over your neck and toss one of the two sides over your opposite shoulder.

Style it like a shawl. You can drape a wide, long blanket scarf over your shoulders and secure it with a belt around your waist. The belt will create sleeves, and the scarf will resemble a shawl.

When to Wear Scarves

Scarves can be worn in any season—the type of material and colors will help dictate which scarf is for what time of year.

In the warmer months, you may wear a shorter, lightweight scarf such as a pashmina or silk scarf. These warm-season scarves tend to be colorful or feature floral patterns.

Chunkier scarves made of merino wool, alpaca wool, or synthetic fibers can keep you warm. These colder-month accessories tend to be longer, typically the length of your arm span. The extra fabric allows the wearer to wrap the scarf around their neck multiple times for more insulation and comfort.

Neck scarves can complement an outfit or be a statement piece unto themselves.

Less formal and looser than ascots and longer and more fashionable than bandanas, scarves may be made out of cotton, silk, wool, cashmere, or other materials.

A winter scarf is normally made out of thicker fabrics, while thinner, colorful scarves can be worn as an outfit accessory in warmer weather.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[schrodingers-hoarding-problem]

tell me how etho can reference circle goes in the square hole but he doesn’t know what studio ghibli is

truly a specimen of a person. what planet does he live on? i need to study him like a bug

[ivys-garden]

Martyn Littlewood. He comes to us once again. We have seen this before, but a new card must be drawn all the same.

So Martyn won, huh? I don't think it would be harsh to say this isn't a result anyone expected or particularly wanted. (Not to say the win wasnt deserved Martyn was a badass this session and surviving after giung red so early in the season.is really impressive) though that might be my bias speaking because it would have been SO EASY to come up with a Tarot Card Symbol for Gem or Jimmy. Gem's whole thing was being evil? The Devil. Easy. And Jimmy is already reserved to relieve The Fool. (PS Holy shit Jimmy was a badass. If he goes all in on his trap game next season he will absolutely fucking win I'm not kidding)

But instead of that, I have to figure out a new Tarot card for Martyn because I stupidly decided back with Scott in simple life that I would give repeat winners new cards. But why was finding a new card for Martyn so difficult? Because he never changes his playstyle! He plays this game the exact same way he played Limited Life, Impulsive and combative. Apart from not betraying everyone in the final fight martyn doesn't do anything unexpected this season that I can easy tie back into a tarot cards symbolism. That meant I had to get a bit vaguer in the similarities between the player and the card this time, but in the end I belive I found a card that fits martyn pretty well.

Martyn Littlewood is:

The World

The main thing The World symbolises is cycles, this can make reference too how Past Life makes reference to Evo, where the watcher Lore started, essential coming full circle and completing the cycle. This works for Martyn specifically as he is the one writing the watcher Lore

Going through every Minecraft update can also be seen as going through Minecraft's entire life cycle.

This also works with Martyns relationship with the Watchers. Ever since Limited Life we've seen the watchers slowly loose control over Martyn as he moves further towards the Listeners, essentially completely what he started back in Evo. Past Life seems to be the conclusion of this Arc, or the end of this cycle.

This cycle idea could also work with the final two being Grian and Martyn, the first kill this season was Grian killing Martyn, the last was Martyn killing Grian. You could also argue this is Martyn finally getting what he wanted in 3rd life but that's more of a stretch.

You can also argue there's some parallels between this season and limited life, but that's mostly martyn not betraying anyone in the final fight and that cycle of change is already represented by Martyn braking free of the Watchers control.

There's also a few smaller repeat parallels you can argue. Martyn dies in the same way that Grian does, the whole idea of a repeat winner could be seen as a cycle, this was the first battle royal final fight since last life (which I belive Martyn suggested), Martyn doesn't betray his teammate which could be seen as character growth (though tbf he's only ever been disloyal in Last Life and Limited Life so this might not be that impressive),

Each tarot card represents a planet/celestial body, The World represents the planet Saturn, the roman God of time. Martyn has only won seasons with a time related gimmick.

Another name for The World card is "The Universe", which could be seen as the void that Martyn is sent too whenever he dies.

The card visual shows someone falling while surrounded by a circular wreath with 4 angelic figures in each corner. This could easily be altered to show martyn falling into the square hole with Scott, Jimmy, Gem and Grian being the angels.

So, Our tarot set in order is:

3rd Life - Grian - The Sun

Last Life - Scott - The Star

Double Life - Pearl - The Moon

Limited Life - Martyn - The Tower

Secret Life - Scar - Wheel Of Fortune

Real Life - Cleo - Strength

Wild Life - Joel - The Chariot

Simple Life - Scott - Temperance

Past Life - Martyn - The World

9/22 cards found. 13 remain.

[alwaysacoyote]

the flat circle (chapter 1)

Find me on AO3

König x f!pararescue!reader | no use of y/n

Synopsis: You and König are partners. In this world and at the end of it. Your mission: you just need to obtain a case for KorTac, but nothing ever goes according to plan. Word count: 3.3k Tags: Horror romance, mutual pining, slow burn Warnings: body horror a/n: inspired by True Detective S1! wanted to take a break from my own original project and bang out something for the fandom I have lovingly stalked from afar for an embarrassingly long time. please god forgive me for my mistakes, I am new to posting works on tumblr. reader has a backstory but is otherwise vague.

You would pronounce it if you had a good watch: the contact is fucking late.

As it is, you turn your wrist over on muscle memory and blink at your watch, forgetting for just a second that it’s good for fuck-all. Nothing moves as it should. The hour hand spins around the face and the second and the minute hands labor to keep up. Whole days have gone by, in the eyes of the watch, you and König in an abandoned hotel room that stinks like mildew and stale cigarette smoke. You will have sat here for days, slumped on the edge of the bed, leg bouncing as you curl over your rifle and pinch the bridge of your nose.

And König– König will have paced endless circuits, day in and day out. 

He’s in tune with you as you are with him. Working each other up and up till he’s redlining his fucking engines and the only thing he can do about it is wear a hole in shitty matted carpet. Drills himself like a boot, eleven steps in his long and lolling stride get him from the window to the door, then about-face, then eleven steps back.

He steps into and out of the red light slanting in through the gaps in the curtains, painting him in bleeding stripes, turning him into something flayed. 

“Sailor’s delight,” you mumble into the muggy air, half to yourself. You tap one-one-thousand, one-one-thousand, one-one-thousand out on the magwell of your MK18. Not keeping any particular kind of count. Just reminding yourself how seconds should go.

He halts, feet square, and only then does he let whatever facade he’d put on in his head drop. Hip swings, gait slinging base wide and casual. Does a lot of talking with his eyes and posture out of necessity of always having his face covered by something, that head tilt and hand on the hip where he wears his sidearm. Unimpressed, for damn good reason. Everything is red. Your skin, your hair, the food you eat, the clothes you wear, and all your mornings, noons, and nights. What you wouldn’t give for color.

“I still think he’s dead,” he contributes, reviving the debate from Hour 1. Feels like a lifetime ago, like the watch might be right, that you've been waiting on nothing for days.

But it hasn’t been days.

It’s been hours. You should know this.

“Don’t speak that into existence,” you groan before he’s even got the words all the way out, “because knowing our luck, it’ll come true.”

He laughs, a whooping bark of a hyena-cackle, that says that’s just the most delightful thing he’s heard all day. “Got to start thinking of all the possibilities, haven't we?” he answers, tapping his helmet. “Can't be disappointed if we're always expecting the worst.”

He gets drunk sometimes and he’ll always fall back on telling the story of how the Bundesheer deemed him too fucking big to be a sniper, like it’s not one you could recite yourself start to finish without error. Maybe more than one thing can be true about his past life. Maybe König couldn't sit and wait worth shit. It wears you down but it whittles him spearpoint-sharp. 

You've been around for his failed relationships, on-off alcoholism, and sometimes questionable use of medical req pain pills. Maybe– when he is denied something, he wants it all the more. Doesn't matter if he would've fucking hated it. It's his Shangri-La, the things he can't have. Enough head trauma and doorkicking have given him the personal philosophy that any problem is made of a builder-grade particleboard core, and if he places the appropriate amount of force into his heel right near the lock, he can finally have what he needs to satiate him. 

“Any ideas?” he prompts, misinterpreting your silence. 

“I'm thinking how we'd track that case down if he's bought the farm,” you lie, pushing your knuckles into the meat of your thigh to stop your leg from bouncing. It doesn't help. And he's right. At some point here, you're going to have to cut your losses, and there's no more than thirty minutes tops before the two of you are going to be playing inner city cadaver dogs, looking for the contact's miserable corpse. 

“Idiom.” No explanation. When both of you say shit about tapdancing bears and pleading the Fifth, there has to be quick cross-cultural exchanges. 

“Died. Keep up, I've said that one before.” 

He starts to kick up another bout of zoochotic pacing– that's a thinking-stride if you've ever seen one, the way he marches and pivots like he's got some place to be– and he completes another about-face when the air conditioning unit kicks on. 

It puts him with his back right to it. He can't see it, and he certainly can't turn to look at it now. In the scarlet light, his scleras are bloodshot-red ringing his irises, and they bore into yours. 

Your gut plummets and your heart leaps into your throat. Between the two extremes it's a miracle you don't just vomit into your lap, but instead, you straighten. Inch by painful inch, spinning hour hand telling you you've wasted hours staring at the control panel, till you can get a good look at it. You check. Double check. Triple check.

The LED on the panel is off. 

You sag and let out a sigh from the depths of your soul. Cheap aircon unit in a cheap hotel that's busting apart at the seams– maybe it's just his weight and proximity that eked a brief, tinny shudder out of it–

He mule-kicks the fucking thing. Over. And over. And over. Each clang is so loud it sounds like the goddamn apocalypse is happening in this hotel room. You sprawl, scuttling up the bed as if to run from the report of his boot caving in the metal housing, and then he’s done and he stands, huffing. 

“Wh- dude.” You push yourself back up, blinking dumbly. You're not surprised, not chastising, either. Hell, part of you is pretty impressed by the absolute ruination he caused in just a few seconds. It's certainly making noise now, painful metal-on-metal squeaks as parts settle in their new configuration with a massive dent on the face. “Just in case I forget you're not domesticated or something?”

Shit like this is why he was an insertion specialist in the Bundesheer. He's decisive and efficient— and the property damage helped too. Shit like this is why he's with KorTac now.

He doesn't even seem sure why he did it at your prompting. His stomach rises and falls and his mask billows as he sucks air hard. On some level you think it was just his instinct to react to an embarrassment, no matter how temporary, with outright violence. 

Then the knock.

Open palm slapping on the door, fast and urgent, and your brain clicks the pieces together. The sound of the aircon, this. You've fucked up, you've given yourselves away. Both of you snap your heads towards it. 

The deadbolt wiggles alarmingly. For that moment when pure fear lances through your system, you forget all about the guy you're here to meet: there is nothing good on the other side of that door. 

König and you move as one practiced unit without the need for words. He lifts his AUG and nestles the butt into the meat of his shoulder, while you rise from the bed and tuck into the space between the wall and the bed in the corner, taking a knee to conceal yourself. Water soaks into your pants, but you prop your rifle and wait.

If it comes through that door and it's not the contact, it'll have a few rounds in center mass before it can even figure out who's all in the room. If it comes through that door and it dives for König, it's getting gutshot.

He leans on the door, steadying it, muzzle of his rifle trained at the water-stained drop ceiling. He peers through the peephole and gives you a quick chin-jerk. Your finger eases up off the trigger. 

His throat clicks dry when he swallows. “Spindle.” 

The reply is muffled. “Come on, just let me the hell in–”

“Spindle.” 

“Fuck– uh, Jesus. I've got the fuckin’ Pelican case,” the man outside snaps. “That good enough? You sure it's me now?”

You and König stare at each other. Neither one of you wants to be the one to make the mistake first, and your eyebrows lift into your balaclava, asking a silent question.  A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. You wipe it away in frantic pawing when it feels like something crawling on your skin.

“I'll throw this thing out the fucking window and you two can go fetch it, swear to God,” the man continues. 

Both of you nod. He unlatches the deadbolt. 

Terry is the kind of man you'd be wary of, working so tight with KorTac. Old man in a profession where they die young and all that. 

He falls into the hotel room while König shuts the door and locks it again behind him, huffing indignantly so you both know he's pissed about the treatment. His silvering hair had been tied up in a manbun at some point, but flyaway strands frizz out from it, and he's wearing a fucking Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and Adidas sneakers. Reads as a snowbird to the untrained eye, but to you, he screams spook. 

You stand, letting your rifle lower till it's just hung on the sling. Most important of what's on his person is what he's got in his hands. The black Pelican case. You don't know what's in it, why it's important, or all the assuredly rancid shit that had to be done to bring it to you now, but you don't care. All you're here for is to ferry it from Point A to Point B. If you needed to know, you would know. 

Terry's scoped you out in that first minute. Not just you-- your rifle, the window, the half-inch gap beneath the closed bathroom door like he expects to see a shadow moving under it. The red light casts a beam across his heaving chest and he steps out of it, feet squelching on the moldering carpet. 

“What was all that shit about a fuckin' password?” he starts in on you. 

“It was shoehorn,” König reminds him of his piece, moving away from the door. 

Terry's on a roll, though, spitting mad at the both of you. He rounds on König because he was the guy at the door, and therefore the most culpable for making him wait. He jabs a finger at your partner's plate carrier-covered chest. Color-changed in the light as they are, his eyes are clear and clever as he gazes down at the older man, head cocked. “Day I've fuckin' had, see if you remember fuckin’ shoehorn-”

“Case.” Usually König isn't quite so economical with his words. He goes from his shoulder-rolled posture to something you recognize well from working in proximity with the man for as long as you have. All his little nervous tics cease, and he sights in like a scope. 

He is, without any close runner-ups, the biggest motherfucker you've ever seen in your life. He's just shy of seven feet in his boots and all told when he's geared up, he's got to be close to 350 pounds. 

There is still one thing in the world that makes sense, and he's slavering at the bit to remind himself of that. 

Terry has also probably worked with enough operator-types like König to recognize someone's civil mask slipping. Creeps in around the edges of the eyes, corrosive like acid. “Jesus.” He blinks first away from it, and then he all but throws the case on the bed near you like the handle was burning his palm. “Albatross ‘round your necks, now.” 

It pings as an odd thing to say on your radar. Either it's odd to König too, or there's no one-to-one German equivalent for that particular idiom, because he glances at you over the spook's head. There’s the silent transfer of responsibility, tagging you in, but neither of you take the case.

“What’s that mean, Terry? And where were you? We gotta be outta here before sunset,” you chime in. You're better with people, marginally, than König. Maybe you were supposed to wheedle some good information out of him, but your nerves are too frayed to not get in a dig where you can. It’s all for nothing. Terry isn’t even looking at you. “Terry.”

He stares at something beside you. The window, the aircon. At the mention of his name, he shakes his head, snaps out of his trance. “What?”

“What do you mean, about the case-”

“You checked this place?” he interrupts urgently, swinging between you and König.

That nasty streak König had let slide is gone. Back to his edgy fidgeting, rocking his weight back and forth, left to right. Arms crossed, he cradles his rifle now up to his chest. “KorTac-approved, cleared ourselves.” He continues without needing to, voice dropping, “Abandoned, anyway.”

Terry hisses through his teeth, ssst, like correcting a pair of bad dogs. And he goes still. König gives a full body jerk, spine snapping ramrod straight, and right next to you, the LED light on the aircon unit clicks on.

It wheezes to life, a tortured rattle. You're the first to feel the break from the heat and humidity, cool air on your thighs. There's no relief in it. 

The lamp at the bedside flickers, casting a wan white glow. 

König turns his trigger finger. It's as small a motion as he can muster, hooking it at you. The meaning is obvious. 

Come. 

Slowly. 

When the rattle of the aircon dies, the lamp brightens, holds steady. Its glare backlights you, throws your shadow across König's front, but you see in color again. black, gray, khaki, yellow, the faded bleach tears streaking down his sniper hood from the eyeholes— and his wide blue eyes, unblinking. 

The outlet at your side crackles, an over-surge of power coming alive in its terminals. Smells like burning dust. No more than a foot from you now. You’d managed half a shuffle step but you plant your feet, suck in a breath, and stop the very air in your lungs. Would that you could stop your heart, too, beating frantically against your ribs like a flopping, dying bird. And you realize at last just how long it takes for seconds to go by. 

Pressure clamps down. 

It settles in your chest and you only have room to breathe out but not back in. An iron band hitches tighter by fractions of inches around your ribcage when a stilted, tiny burst of air leaves your nose. Your cartilage pop-pop-pops down the line of your sternum, floating rib tightens on your liver. You gag on a grunt.

It feels like you're underwater. Your ears stop up and darkness pulses at the corners of your vision. Lets you keep your eyesight, so you can watch König search your face, fingers twitching, head jerking with miniscule movements. 

It twists around your heart and your lungs in the wet blackness of your bone and muscle and tissue. If it wanted to, it could split you open as fast and easy as blinking, and the fact you aren't staring at a pile of your own steaming entrails means it doesn't want to— yet. 

König is considering something stupid; you see that familiar look in his eyes. You mouth, Don't. 

It skitters back up your aorta, out of the pit of your gut it'd crawled into. 

And then it drops you. Your knees crack on bare subfloor. 

The outlet bursts in red sparks. The television on the dresser flashes a grinning weathercaster frozen in time before it cuts to black once more, and the LED clicks on and off and the lamp goes dark. Maybe the woosh you hear like the bone-rattling passing of a freight train isn't the sound of blood finding its way back through your veins, because Terry and König both duck and cringe from nothing as it seems to pass right by them. Over them. Through them. 

Your partner recovers faster.

“Heilige Scheiße, you fucking lived!” König rushes forward, kneeling before you and crowding you. 

A monstrous headache blooms in your temples. You're gasping air without any relief from a feeling, a fucking feeling, that it has touched you, and maybe, maybe something bad will still happen to you because of it. 

“Fuckin’ carry her, we need to get the fuck out,” Terry says. His voice is indistinct in the background of your still-ringing ears, and König right in front of you, still trying to get you to stand on her own two feet instead of sitting on the floor like a fresh, limp kill. 

And then it ends. Whine and static, like shutting off a radio. You surface. Everything is too sharp. Too loud. 

“Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße,” König mutters, defaulting back into German. His black-red eyes stare deep into yours. Has to get close enough for you to feel a faint warmth that spreads through his hood and your balaclava to see whatever it is he's looking for in the low light. Probably pupils, you figure. Might suspect head trauma of some kind, with how you're slack and apathetic. 

You pull back. Your voice is strange and shaky in your ears when you mumble, “‘m fine. I'm fine.” If you say it enough, you'll convince yourself. 

“You can walk?” 

Behind him, an ember thinks about becoming a fire on the damp peeling wallpaper by the outlet where it'd sparked, smoking and glowing. 

You stand to make sure you still can. Good enough. He hovers with his hands spread near your waist but doesn't touch yet. He'd heft you and your gear and your rifle without batting an eye, if needed, yoke you over his shoulders and packmule you through hell and back. But you won't ask him to. 

You think of the firefighters' boots in Chernobyl. Stacked high, boots without feet in the basement because no one knew what else to do with them. Blood-cursed with something beyond sight, beyond perception, only a taste of metal in the mouth promising what's to come, ruination down to the cells. You are the monument of leather in the dark, and he doesn't know what will happen to him if he touches you. 

He shakes your shivering shoulder. “Come on. Can almost taste a good shower, now, ja? We'll get you to the safehouse.” 

You can only smile, weak and watery. “Ja,” you echo.

“That's a girl,” he tries to repeat that phrase you'd taught him. Atta girl. Doesn't quite get it right, but it's the thought that counts. You let out a tiny, misery-soaked laugh, while he packs up to breakout. 

Terry's at the window, facing away.

The column of red light through the gap in the curtains swells around his silhouette, opaque like a dense mist, and it bleeds in the gaps where his arms hang limp at his sides. König doesn't notice, passing you the case so he can have the deadbolt and his rifle ready, but you do. 

“Terry,” you prompt. You slur it, tongue like cotton against your palate, but you're sure you said it loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't move. “Comin’?” 

He shakes his head, whips away from the window. “Yeah,” he insists, mutters it. “Yeah. Coming.” 

You hum in your throat, and you scrutinize him. He's all frenetic, jumpy energy now. The way everyone first is when they enter the Zone. Big cosmic questions no one can answer, so the ones that last keep their heads down, and they do not look up. 

Terry shuts the curtains, and the red light is shuttered out. And you look away. 

[machveil]

new thing I keep saying!! “The square goes in the square hole. The circle goes in the square hole. The [outlandish object or person] goes in the square hole.”

[linkbetweenlinksau]

Hey Smiles!

Its me again... sorry if I yap a lot or ask too many questions or get too annoying (tell me if I do)

BUT my real question is:

I don't really know how to do the side-of-the-face portrait whats-it-called (if that made sense), so I'm wondering, since yours are always good, (and our styles are kinda alike)

How do you do the side portraits? I can never get the hair, the nose, or the mouth right!

- @link-to-the-random

You’re good! And aww thanks! I’m glad my side profiles are good, they’re actually fun to draw for me but are for sure difficult to get down 😅 so here’s some notes here:

I always start with a simple sketch here. It doesn’t have to be perfect and I usually make it messy. I go in later to chisel the features so the sketch is usually quick and simple! And important note is that the circle, which represents the cranial bones, is a long oval

That’s kinda how our heads are shaped, and it’s very important for how the neck will be placed! Many people say to not use a circle to draw because it leads to perfectionism, but I’ve been doing it for so long and it gets the shape down so if it works it works 😅 those are some important notes on the general head. Another important thing to keep in mind is the neck

It’s best to avoid straight lines that are loosely placed on the head. You can do this, but if you’re going for a realistic or semi realistic look, it’s best to add some curves and lines that lead to skull naturally

It makes the neck look more natural, and it makes sense in terms of the skill. The spine goes to the back of the neck as you can see in the picture (I didn’t trace over it accurately but my point still stands lol), so making sure that the back of the neck leads into the back of the skull is very important. But there’s usually a little bump from the occipital bone so it’s not straight. I hope that makes sense 😅 but yeah, those are some notes on the neck!

Then you start chiseling in the features and adding placeholders. I add the ears in the middle of the head but it doesn’t super matter, as long as it’s not too high or too low. And our eyes usually aline with our ears so i out a line to find where I’ll place the eyes which is usually in the middle of the ears. Now ear sizes usually go from the eyebrows to the bottom of the nose on most faces, but I don’t really focus on that.

This part will change depending on facial features. On a more feminine, softer European face, the side profile may look like this, but some people don’t have hard brow ridges, small noses, and small/ big lips, so this will change from person to person! Chins as well! Some chins are pointy, square, or round, but generally the face will have a shape kinda like this. But where there’s no bumps there’s probably very small and subtle curves. I know this especially changes for different races and I am a white woman so I’m mostly speaking from white people standards 😅 but yeah it changes for everyone so there’s no right or wrong way to do the nose, lips, brows, and chin. The best part is that if you’re too stressed to do different brow ridges, jaws, and lips, you can always just focus on distinct noses which do WONDERS for character designs. I don’t typically play with jaws very much cuz it’s a lot to focus on but I do try to keep them in mind

I quickly did this but eyes have this odd triangle shape from the side as you can see, and the pupils are holes so they’re up against the edge of the iris. I don’t do the triangle shape for eyes very much but they do a good job at showing cheeks there and the depth of the eyes! And I try to keep the mouth at the edge of the eye, cuz mouths don’t typically go that far (but some mouths do!)

Some examples here:

Wars has a softer brow ridge and a straight, smooth nose. It curves slightly and he has softer features. As you can see, his mouth doesn’t go past his eye.

Leon has a similar nose but it’s slightly more pointy at the end, and he has a square chin so I try to make it more distinct. Admittedly it’s probably not anatomically correct but it’s how I do it.

Louis has a bumpy nose and a strong brow line (he’s also frowning which would make it more obvious.)

And me! I don’t have a strong brow line and my nose is kinda hooked (not really but it’s curved)

As you can see, I try to keep the eye from getting too far and too close to the nose. On real faces, it changes and eyes can look super close to the nose, but I still try to avoid it with my art. But you can still do that! I’m not completely accurate with my art haha. But I usually keep like… an eye or half an eye’s length away from the nose. And yeah! This is how I do the side profiles but I’m sure it’s different from others. I didn’t talk about hair but that definitely requires a lot of practice, but I hope this at least gets you started in the right direction!

[muddy-water-1997]

𝖣𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖠𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖪𝗂𝖽𝗌

"𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌; 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍." - 𝖯𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖡𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗍.

𝖫𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖪𝗂𝖽𝗌

𝖳𝖶: 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾

Bangchan: Building flatpack furniture

"I’m pretty sure that’s not where that goes.” You tilt your head toward Chris, confusion etched on your face as he tries to fit a square piece of wood into a circular hole.

“Tell that to Ikea!” he scoffs, trying a few more times before giving up and looking at the instructions.

“Babe,” you say with a sing-song tone, reaching over the pile of wood to take the instructions. “They’re upside down.” You laugh as you flip the paper and hand it back to him.

“Oh! Well, that makes a lot more sense.” Chris chuckles, searching for the correct piece. “So the circle goes into the circle…” he mumbles, finally matching the two pieces. You laugh, returning to your part of the flatpack puzzle.

“Why don’t we just do this later, babe? We could be doing something much more exciting right now,” Chris suggests with a mischievous grin.

“Christopher. No. You’re not distracting me from building furniture with sex again!” you say, firmly putting your foot down.

“Well, at least I know how to make sure we finish that job…” he replies with a wink. 

Lee Know: Dancing in the kitchen when cooking

Sure, it was cliché, but nothing could stop you from dancing around the kitchen while cooking breakfast for the man you loved. Knowing Minho had a long night at the studio, you had your headphones on in a feeble attempt to keep the volume low so he could sleep. While he was a dancer by trade, you were more of a dancer by passion—or, instead, someone passionate about dancing despite being terrible at it, moving with the grace of an elephant in ballerina shoes.

It wasn’t unlike you to listen to your boyfriend's music in secret; you’d never admit it to his face—the relentless teasing about being a fan while sleeping in his bed wouldn’t be worth it. So, it was mornings like these where you could happily sing along to "God’s Menu" while whisking away at the pancake batter.

“Cooking like a chef, I’m a five-star Michelin,” you sang, mimicking Felix’s voice as you whisked and spun around the room, mindful of your voice level so you could bring Minho his pancakes in bed. After one last spin, you locked eyes with him, leaning against the counter by the door, clapping slowly, his heart eyes almost popping out of his head.

“Minho!” you exclaimed, jumping in surprise. “I tried to stay so quiet! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You apologised, walking over to kiss him on the cheek.

“I don’t know what I’m more offended by: the fact you were going to let me miss this, or that you weren’t singing my part,” he teased with a playful grin.

Changbin: Repairing a broken appliance

"Binnie, baby, it’s a microwave. I think we should just call someone or maybe just buy a new one," you suggest, reaching for his toolkit to prevent the inevitable disaster of him putting something metal inside the machine.

“No, bunny, it’s fine! I know what I’m doing,” he insists, reclaiming the toolkit and placing it back on the counter.

“You’re in an idol group; you’re not exactly an electrician. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself… or me,” you say tentatively, cringing every time he picks up a tool.

“I’m in a studio with electrics all the time. Trust me, it’s fine,” he reassures you, though his expression is puzzled as he examines the back of the microwave. He picks up a screwdriver, placing it against the panel to unscrew it.

“Wait!” you quickly interject. He turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “It’s still plugged in,” you whisper, teeth clenched at the near-disaster. He puts down his tools and grabs you in his arms, sitting you on the kitchen island planting a kiss to your lips.

“Maybe we should just call someone,” Changbin laughs in defeat, finally relenting.

Hyunjin: Changing the bedsheets

“We were so close!” Hyunjin exclaimed, bursting into laughter as another corner of the bedsheet popped off the mattress and landed in the middle of the bed.

“Are you sure this is the right size?” you asked, gasping for air between laughs. This had happened at least three times, and you were starting to suspect he was doing it intentionally just to make you smile.

“It’s the same sheet! It’s just been washed,” he insisted, trying to secure the corner back in place and struggling yet again.

“I’ll work on the sheet; you focus on the duvet,” you insisted. “Watching you do this over and over is going to give me a hernia.” You playfully swatted him toward the pile of duvets and covers. He relented, letting you take charge of the bottom sheet. You quickly pushed the corner into place.

“See, that wasn’t too—oh, shit.” As soon as you went to admire your work, another corner sprang free, sending you both into another fit of laughter.

“If we’re lucky, we might get into bed before the sun rises,” Hyunjin teased.

Han: Leaving notes around the home

Han had been away on tour for three agonising months. It was always the same when he left; nothing ever felt right. The apartment was too quiet, too clean; it didn’t feel like home. After his first long trip and realising how much it affected you, he started leaving little notes around the house in unexpected places. Even three months later, you were still finding new ones.

You both love this tea; you save it for special occasions—family, guests, and moments like these when you’re missing him more than usual. As the kettle boils, you rummage through the back of the cupboard and find the little metal tin you keep it in. Opening the lid, the sweet aroma fills the air, instantly reminding you of him. Reaching inside, you pull out another note. Reading it brings tears to your eyes, and you quickly grab your phone to tell him you found another one.

“Missing me so much that you got the tea out? I guess you must have hit the three-month mark. I miss you too, angel. - Hannie.”

Felix: Playing a competitive video game

“No fair! You cheated!” Felix exclaimed, his eyes glued to the screen in front of you both in shock. The tea on the table had gone cold, forgotten over the shouting and screaming from the two of you going head to head. Any on-looker wouldn’t believe you were madly in love with each other if they happened to pass by.

“Beginner's luck, what can I say?” you replied, leaning back into the sofa with your arms up, basking in your victory.

“It’s Mario Kart beautiful, there’s no beginner's luck!” He laughed, leaning over to kiss you as a reward.

“You know, baby, if you weren’t such a passenger princess—” you began, only to be cut off.

“Not you, too! I get enough of this from Channie-hyung. When do I have time to learn to drive?” he protested playfully, putting his remote down and moving closer to you.

“Well, Seungmin managed it…” you teased as he moved closer, trapping you beneath him with a roll of his eyes.

“One more round,” he pleaded, his lips brushing against yours. “Loser has to make dinner?” he suggested.

“Bet,” you whispered back, kissing him softly.

Seungmin: Deciding on what takeout to eat

You loved Seungmin wholeheartedly, but decisiveness wasn’t one of his strong suits. He sat at the table, surrounded by at least five different menus from local takeout spots, trying to decide what to order for dinner.

“At least three of these places serve ramen; just pick one!” you insisted, knowing you would end up ordering ramen anyway.

“But do you want ramen?” he asked, his eyes focused on the menus you hadn’t taken.

“Maybe after we’ve eaten…” you laughed at the innuendo, but Seungmin was too engrossed in the menus for the joke to register. “Minnie, love, it’s just food. I really don’t mind! Whatever you want,” you reiterated. He picked up a menu for a Chinese restaurant. Maybe he was going to stray out of his comfort zone. Then he put it back down and reached for one you had taken from him.

“Okay, okay. We’ll order from here. Their ramen is always good; can’t really go wrong,” he stated.

“You’re so predictable.” You laughed, standing up from the table to grab your phone to place the order.

“Hey! I just got the ramen joke!” he called after you, laughing.

IN: Binging trashy reality TV

“Come on! One more!” IN pleaded from the other side of the sofa. You were wrapped up in a long blanket, your legs intertwined with his, a bundle of snacks between you.

“Innie, I’m so tired!” you protested, eyes half-closed as he hit the 'Next Episode' button on the screen. You glanced at your phone; it was 11 pm. You’d been watching the same show for the past six hours, only taking breaks for meals and bathroom visits.

“Oh baby, but they’re just about to confront the cheater, and I don’t want to watch it without you…” His eyes were wide, pleading. How could you say no to him?

“Fine, one more,” you conceded easily. “But you’re bringing me breakfast in bed in the morning.” You joked, knowing he would move heaven and earth to make you happy. Truthfully, you were eager to see the cheater confronted by his three ex-mistresses.

“Deal!” he agreed, his face lighting up with excitement as the episode started.

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾? 𝖳𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾! 𝖬𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌!

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖣𝖬!