#they give me sitcom vibes

[hadinowman]

I don't trust women who hate the She-Hulk show.

[minamotosousuke]

this satou&mitsuba besties au is so normal… my most normal one yet

[navajja]

I love how you draw, like I love your interpretation of Erasermic with my whole heart but even looking at your non mha stuff your art is so pretty!!

Thanks you so much anon i wann keep drawing a lot of erasermic

[uguu]

2days song

[akashicpoint]

Hey, do you think Travis was/is a good Dad? Me and a friend are arguing about it (i think he's a pretty good one, probably the kinda dad that'll throw his kids a bbq party in the backyard with one of those kiddy pools. He's not the best but he's def not the WORST. Meanwhile, my friend thinks he'd leave his kids at school and only remembers bc he sees someone else's kids out of school.)

I think Travis tries to be a good dad from what we have seen in the games. He's by no means the best of course, but he really does try. At worst, he is an absent father, but with good reason of course (like we saw in TSA). He reminds me of Jotaro in regard to how he protects his family, by distancing himself from them I mean. Even his small interactions with Jeane in TSA show that even though he can't be there all the time, she (and Hunter too I assume) still loves him. NMH3 he's constantly asking about the kids as well. So, I definitely believe that he would try to have a BBQ party for his kids, and then also bring them to local wrestling shows for more family bonding.

[saturdaynightspecialpresentation]

Poor Things

First of all, Emma Stone’s performance is as good as everybody is saying. Stone takes a very difficult role that easily could have gone very, very wrong and makes it look like the most effortless thing in the world.

I have been looking at the reviews, good and bad, and I think that the minority of people who didn’t vibe with this movie had slightly skewed expectations.

Poor Things starts out at Tetsuo The Iron Man levels of fucked up, but by the end it has dropped to Edward Scissor hands levels of fucked up. This is probably plenty of weirdness for the average movie-goer, but true connoisseurs of mondo cinema should calibrate their expectations.

Second, apparently this is being talked up as a sort of feminist coming of age fable chronicling an everywoman’s sexual awakening and liberation, and it really isn’t that, and I think if you are hoping for that you’ll come away disappointed.

Better, I think, to look at it as an autistic coming of age fable and power fantasy, which I think it does a tremendous job at.

Very minor spoilers under the cut; really, this is more an essay about what I thought the film was about than a review, my review would be that it's somehow simultaneously a feel-good crowd-pleaser AND a movie where an adult woman with the brain of a toddler stabs the eyes out of a corpse with a scalpel and then plays with its penis (I wasn't kidding with the Tetsuo comparison)

Honestly now that I've actually written that out I have maybe underestimated how impressive it is that Yorgos Lanthimos made a movie where that happens on screen but somehow basically everybody loves the movie.

In terms of sex, we do watch Bella discover sex, but she very quickly comes to a conclusion about her relationship with it which never once changes throughout the rest of the movie:

She likes it, she likes it more with an attractive partner, she is utterly lacking in any kind of sexual jealousy, and she doesn't attach too much more to it than that.

This is an odd comparison, but Bella treats sex the way Joey did on Friends. A man acting this way is a sitcom cliche, but a woman acting the same way…

This is a film that is really, really not interested in the real-world consequences of this kind of sex; in fact, given that a pregnancy is the inciting incident of the film, it came off a little weird to me that the possibility of a pregnancy or STD was never really addressed (unless there was a line or two that I missed while I was in the bathroom).

For the most part, though, I was able to get past it by just thinking of it as a heightened world. The sets and settings are extremely artificial, and ultimately I figured, “Hey, if I can buy this kind of thing as harmless and fun in a sitcom, I can buy it in this other kind of heightened reality.

I will say, I don't think Bella is meant to be an every-woman, and that there's textual support for this in the film itself.

All of the women Bella deals with in some way question her approach to sex, making it clear, sometimes through explicit dialog, other times more reading between the lines, that her approach to sex is not for them.

If there’s any particularly feminist message in the film, it’s that when confronted with Bella’s bizarre approach to the world, none of the women get angry at her, and most of the men she meets do.

But Bella’s relationships with other women aren’t really the meat of the film, that’s more about her relationship with men, and particularly the way that they feel, deep in their bones, that they should have control over any woman that they have sex with.

Duncan Wedderburn, when he first discovers Bella and convinces her to go away with him, thinks he is tricking and seducing a beautiful naif who he can use and then discard when he tires of her. Their relationship disintegrates as it becomes clear that Bella hasn’t been tricked at all; she wanted exactly what he was able to give, a chance to sow her wild oats by having some no strings attached sex with an attractive, likable person in an exciting foreign city.

This makes Wedderburn increasingly unhappy and unhinged (He says at one point that he has become what he hates, a “grasping succubus”) much to Bella’s growing consternation. She has no idea why he can’t simply be happy having sex with her and otherwise letting her do what she wants, and he is so committed to a certain vision of gender roles that he can’t even begin to explain it, he can only lash out in frustration.

And that I think is the meatier part of the film; Bella doesn’t so much flout social expectations as she is simply totally unaware that they exist. 

Honestly I think the character isn’t so much coded as autistic as she just is autistic. Bella is a woman who is basically totally unaware of social expectations and constantly taken aback to discover that they exist.

More than that, she has to figure out a way to work around the fact that many of the people who become most enraged by her are also so totally lacking in self-reflection, and view their social situation as so normal, so self-evidently obvious that they cannot explain to her why it is she has made them angry. They suddenly fly into rages that clearly perplex Bella and which they themselves don’t even bother to explain, because they regard their own ideas as self-evident.

Bella is an idealized autistic hero; personally as outlandish as she is I don’t really think the film expects us to take the side of anybody else, and I think there are some fairly subtle and accurate bits of autistic behavior on her part.

She responds to life as a kind of social experiment, attempting to parse out a set of logical rules and, especially in the latter parts of the movie, she often justifies her actions with a perfectly sensible internal logic that the emotional men in her life can’t parse out. Late in the film, when she and Wedderburn are destitute, she prostitutes herself for 30 francs, and with implacable logic, explains the two reasons that Wedderburn ought to be quite happy she has done so: First, her john was much worse at sex than Wedderburn, which ought to satisfy his ego, and second, they now have 30 francs and the potential to earn more.

Wedderburn does not appreciate her logical approach.

Another thing that strikes me as very true is that Bella has a very odd theory of mind for other people. There’s a scene where, traumatized by the unspeakable poverty and suffering she sees in Alexandria, she puts all of Wedderburn’s money in a box and rushes out to give it to the poor. Unfortunately the ship is leaving, but two port attendants tell her that they will be staying on the island, and would be happy to deliver a package. She tells them that she has a big box filled with money and they should give it to the island’s poor, and they agree to do so. Now, the film never tells us one way or another whether they keep their word; but Bella herself retains an iron certainty that they did exactly what she asked them to. Now, we know Bella understands what lying and deceit are, because we’ve seen her trick people before, like when she chloroforms McCandles to run away with Wedderburn. But it never once occurs to her that these sailors might do something similar. Call it paradoxical, but that kind of thinking is common in autistic people.

There’s also the scene where the self-professed cynic Harry Astley shows her the suffering in Alexandria; he admits, when he sees how terribly it has affected her, that he didn’t tell her simply because he thought it was the truth of the world, but that her attitude made him angry, and he wanted to hurt her. A very common part of the autistic coming of age is the slow realization that not everything people tell you is part of a dispassionate, scientific search for the truth.

There’s also a scene in a whorehouse in which Bella argues that it would make more sense to have the women decide who is to sleep with the johns, so that then the john could be more confident that the girl was attracted to him, which he must doubt if he chooses. You can tell I’m autistic because I immediately had the thought, “Well, but the johns would probably be worried that nobody would choose them.”

One of Bella’s fellow working girls instead tells her, “Some of them like the fact that we don’t have a choice”.

[effortandmore]

isn't this more beautiful | knj x f!reader

summary: you meet namjoon by accident. you fall for him without noticing. he slips in and out of your life at will, and you let him. but as you get closer, you start to wonder if he’ll always feel lonely, even with you by his side. or, a small story told out of order about time, loneliness, and knowing (or not) what we deserve

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, angst, a lil fluff/hopeful ending

au: this is idolverse

warnings/tags: this is told asynchronously, so please know these little vignettes are not in chronological order. namjoon is a mess, but so is reader. she's an artist so there's one cliche on board already. they probably should talk more about important things but neither of them like feelings. smoking, drinking, smut, including unprotected sex, oral sex, exhibitionism, maybe like… mention of belly bulge kink, cumplay (kind of)

word count: ~6700

a/n: this is for the bts x beatles across the btuniverse collab hosted by my dearest @ugh-yoongi who also checked this for vibes. so did @the-boy-meets-evil in its early stages - thank you both!! banner + borders from @hobeemin (thank you so much!!!!). my member was namjoon (obv) and my song was eleanor rigby. idk how it really shows up in here except through vibes lol

you can find everything i write on ao3

Namjoon talks in unanswerable questions. He calls you at hours the owls don’t even see, talks quietly even though you’re not sure who he’s afraid of disturbing.

“Do you remember Bageundae?”

“Of course I do.”

“If you pressed your body against one side of the rock, and I pressed mine to the other, could you feel me?”

What you want to say: go to sleep, Namjoonie.

What you say instead: “I can always feel you.”

“Always is a funny word,” he replies. “Maybe worse than never.”

“Maybe?”

“You never know,” he says, and you can hear the sad smile he wears even from your desk across the ocean. 

Sometimes, when people give the retelling of how they meet their “person,” it’s all sparks and fireworks and floods and worlds being turned upside down. 

That’s not how you met Namjoon. 

You met him softly.

You met him in a lazy river current and not a waterfall.

You met him like Sunday morning sunshine sneaking through cracks in defeated curtains.

You met him and the woodwind orchestra blew a quiet processional before the brass joined in much later.

You met him with a whisper. Literally. 

“This is one of my favorites,” he said, a stranger whispering beside you. He wasn’t even talking to you—you remember being pretty sure about that. Just announcing it as an affirmation to himself and you happened to be there to be the unintentional recipient. 

Now, you know it’s probably a foreshadowing of your whole relationship. 

Then, you said, “It’s a misconception that you have to whisper in a museum. It’s not a library.” 

Namjoon didn’t even give you the sitcom satisfaction of arguing with you about it. Just gave you an affronted side eye and huffed under his breath. Crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself further into the floor, staring at the Chung Sang Hwa in front of you. 

To yourself, you rolled your eyes. It was almost like he was determined to outwait you, that there would be some satisfaction in it for him if you left for the next work on the wall before he did. 

He didn’t know (yet) that you were as or more stubborn than he was. So, you both waited. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, just that neither of you wanted to lose. 

(And now look at you.)

It was near closing time on a weekday, and all of the special exhibits were crowded earlier, but the permanent collections were easy to be alone in. You were almost wishing someone else would walk in. Minutes passed, neither of you moved. In your periphery, you saw Namjoon stealing glances at you when he (presumably) thought you wouldn’t notice. 

Finally, “This isn’t going to be some naver post later, is it?” 

You were annoyed, not blind. You knew exactly who he was (or did you, you wonder now)—everyone in this country knew, his picture plastered over billboards and bus stops. 

“Which story? BTS RM, weirdly stubborn art jerk, won’t walk away from painting first? Or, BTS RM casually checked me out at a gallery when he thought I wasn’t looking?” You didn’t look over at him, just raised your eyebrow in a challenge. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“So, you prefer the ‘jerk’ narrative?”

“I prefer to be left alone.” 

And you still don’t know why you said what you said after that, as you turned to face him for the first time since he walked up next to you. “You probably don’t get that very often. Alone time.”

Namjoon looked back at you then, and it still wasn’t butterflies or choruses of angels. Instead, he just looked surprised and a little sad. “I don’t.” 

“I’m sorry,” you replied. And you found that you meant it.

“Do you ever wonder,” Namjoon said, and again, you didn’t know if it was to you or to himself, “how it is you can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly lonely?”

You hadn’t. But you still thought you understood what he meant. “No, but it makes sense that you would.”

Namjoon laughed then, maybe a little bitter, maybe just nervous. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” he said. 

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he agreed with a small nod. 

The two of you were quiet again then, but not in a stand-off anymore. Behind you, you knew his manager was fidgeting, worrying that something was off. That you’d reveal yourself to be some sort of wild stalker or obsessed fan. 

“It’s not personal,” Namjoon offered, like he could already read your mind. 

“I know,” you conceded. 

You started to walk away, ready to see a different painting, ready to not feel like you were doing something wrong by incidentally being in the same room as someone famous, when Namjoon stopped you. “He wanted to paint heartbeats, to give them a language, to let people see what all the emotions that fuel our hearts would look like,” he said. “Do you think it worked?”

Next to this person that you didn’t know but somehow you thought you might understand anyway, you nodded.

Next to Namjoon in a room so quiet you were sure you could hear the steady thrum of your heartbeat (or his, or both beating at the same time), you nodded.

Next to him, who you didn’t yet know would become Him, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said gracelessly. 

“Can you see it?” Namjoon asked. 

“Which one?” you countered.

He shrugged, not breaking eye contact. “Aren’t love and hate and pain and pleasure all the same at the end of the day?”

Eventually, he will teach you that they are.

It starts with phone calls.

(Sometimes it seems it might end with one, too.)

Namjoon speaks like the shallow pools of blended color on a painter’s well-loved palate. There is no certainty. He uses gray words like “sometimes,” and purple ones like “maybe,” and the soft peach “don’t you think?” 

“Morning, Namjoon-ssi,” you hum into the air, hoping you’re close enough to the microphone that you don’t have to shout. 

“What if we were in Florence?” he asks in return. 

“Then I would still be asleep, or you would be getting smothered with a pillow for waking me up.”

He laughs, not the bright one you know he saves for when there’s an audience, but a small one that bubbles up from his chest with a deep timbre. “So, in Florence, you and I are in bed together?” 

You sigh into your (not Italian) pillow. 

“Good morning,” he adds. “Can we speak informally?”

Your sigh turns into a smile you hadn’t asked for. “Yeah.”

“Good.” 

You’ve been speaking for weeks. Namjoon is busy, you are not (at least, not in the same way, not to the same magnitude). You make a space for him in your life with much less consideration than you usually use with others. Or, maybe he just takes it. 

“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asks. 

“Same thing as all the other weekends.” 

“Can I watch this time?” 

“It’s boring.” 

Namjoon pauses. “Does it bore you?” 

“No, it’s what I love.” 

“Then,” he says, in what you think is probably his typical fashion (at least with you, it is), “I think I might find it easy to love, too.” 

“Oh, Namjoonie,” you tease, “I’m starting to think you find everything easy to love.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. This is a thing you’ve noticed about him. He’s serious in a flash. He’s jokes and teasing and talking to you about what ifs and what nots until suddenly he is very determined that he should say something meaningful. Or very convinced that you have. 

“I want to,” he says. “I want my heart to be more full than my mind. It’s hard.” 

“I know,” you say, even though for you, it’s not. 

“I’m glad you don’t,” he says earnestly.

“Come see me on Saturday,” you say, deflecting. You can do this for him, you think. You haven’t seen him since the museum, but you’ve seen the pastel splashes of his words, the geometric lines of his heart, the post-modern dilemma he thinks he carries down deep. You’ve seen the important things, so you know you can give him the distraction he doesn’t know he needs. 

“I think I will.” 

You hang up in black and white. 

Namjoon fucks like a surrealist. Shifts your body until you’re still recognizable in the mirror, but fundamentally different, too. 

Pulls your hips up too high: Ernst. 

Makes butterflies soar out of your mouth, gusty with your labored breath: Magritte. 

Fucks you cross-eyed, spit dripping hourglass slow from your lips: Dali. 

You thought he would be a talker, like he is on the phone. Thought he’d try and work through the freightliner of thoughts steaming through his brain. But Namjoon is all breath and whispers and sighs and moans and fragments of the pretty words he used to get you like this: bent over your worktable, chest smeared into cadmium red and titanium white. He talks, but it's oil paint instead of watercolor this time: thick and precise. 

“Fuck, you look perfect like this,” he says, voice a little dreamy, slapping another pink-paint handprint onto your ass. You’re never going to get it scrubbed off your skin.

It makes you laugh, breathy and high. 

You came first (and second) on his tongue. Told you to keep painting while he got underneath you, pretty on his knees, honest and plain telling you he wanted you.

“Want to see what art tastes like,” he said, cotton soft breath on your thigh. 

“Silly,” you replied. “Does anyone fall for lines like that?”

“Doesn’t matter, don’t want you to fall. I told you to keep standing.” He’s smug when he licks across your core, startling you. 

It went like that until your hand was shaking and the thick outlines around nameless figures on the canvas shook with you. 

“Pretty painter, taste as good as you look,” he paused to say. You moaned when he fucked his tongue into you, clenched around it, wanted to be greedy, wanted more, wanted everything. “Sound even better,” he added, chin slick, eyes sparkling. 

After you came, he didn’t stop. When your paintbrush fell to the ground, he doubled his efforts, two fingers sliding inside of you while he sucked your sensitive clit between his lips. “Come on, baby,” he said, “I know you have another one for me.” 

Your hand gripped his hair instead of your brush, you chased the overstimulation instead of wriggling away. It felt right, somehow, to just take what you want, and Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. Moaned into your cunt when you fucked his face, holding him in place while your hips moved. A muffled, “fuck, please baby,” into your skin when you pulled his hair just to see what it would feel like. Lips curved into a grin when you rocked against him through your second orgasm. 

And now, he reaps the benefits of his efforts. You’re pliant beneath him, fucked out and pleased, easy and eager as he slides his thick cock in and out. You watch him carefully in the mirror, you see his focus on where he thrusts inside of you, his awe when you clench around him and pull him just a little farther in. You see him grin when he slaps you, telling you he knows you’re watching, asking if you want more. “A greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Think you want more? Think you want me to fuck you harder, want my cock in you so deep you can feel it in your stomach?”

You feel stupid with it, nodding in agreement, mouth open and drooling onto your worktable while he fucks you to a third orgasm. 

“You fuck me so good. Such a big dick, gonna feel you all week, Namjoonah.” 

“You should paint this,” he says, slowing his thrusts. “No one’s ever looked as good as you do taking my cock.” 

“No one?” you ask, suddenly a little desperate for the praise.

Namjoon bends to kiss the back of your neck, lets his lips mark a pathway down your spine that his fingertips follow. He’s so deep inside of you, hips grinding slow against your skin. When he reaches your waist, he grips and pulls you into him even closer. 

The space between you (barely there to begin with) bends to his will: Carrington. 

“Nobody, baby,” he whispers his first certainty to you, fingertips teasing between your thighs now, careful where you’re still too sensitive, but wordlessly asking you to give in, to give more. 

“I’ll give you anything,” you say in response to a question you don’t think he’ll ask as he starts to circle your clit, pulls almost all the way out of you and fucks back in harder than before.

“You’ll take even more,” he says, and he comes inside of you, hips stuttering unsure, a bassline under the clear melody of his words. 

Lazy, you lie face up together on discarded canvas, forgotten starting points of ideas you hadn’t intended to complete. Unabashed, you have a knee up so your thighs don’t tack together with the mess you’ve made. Namjoon talks about nothing, blows smoke in halos above your heads and offers you the cigarette careful between his long fingers. You don’t smoke, but you hold it anyway, watching him, carding the fingers of your free hand through his hair as he stares at his cum leaking out of you, catches it on the tender part of your thigh and wipes swirls and squares onto the canvas around you. 

He finishes the thoughts you began before you even knew him.

“Tell me a story,” you whisper roughly into the air, hoping he can hear you through your shitty phone microphone. 

It’s early, that sacred pre-dawn you save for yourself (and now, somehow, for him)  and you’ve woken up from a shitty sleep and a worse dream and couldn’t stop yourself from calling him back when you saw you’d already missed a call from him. 

“It’s late, baby.” 

You let out a puff of breath, Namjoon laughs almost silently at you. 

“Please?”

“You don’t like books,” he says, almost a tease. It’s true. You like them conceptually, but you told him you don’t feel like you have the patience sometimes. That you want to give them energy you don’t have.

“But I like stories.” 

“FIne.” Even his sigh is fond. You like him like this so much—easy, willing, teasing but still giving in eventually. 

You fall asleep fast, the first words you hear are the last. “Once upon a time…” When you wake up, you have messages from him. A whole lot of them, a whole story written out in your Katalk chat. A love story, sort of, one where they’re star-crossed and destined but always just a little too far apart. It ends with a “maybe” instead of a “happily ever after.” You don’t even let yourself think about that too much—it’s perfectly him—a little drama for the sake of it, a little sadness to make the joy feel better.

Your world is tiny. A firefly in a sky full of bold, bright stars. It is you, in your studio, alone. It is you with your friends, it is you getting a cat so you have someone to talk to when your friends aren’t around. 

For Namjoon, it expands. A firefly to a star to a burning red giant. 

Still, it feels small when you’re inside of it. It’s you with your friends, it’s you with Namjoon in your studio, it’s Namjoon gently stroking your cat’s fur while he talks to himself and you paint. 

It’s difficult to describe, but when you’re with him, you either have his full attention to the extent it’s overwhelming, or he seemingly pays no attention to you or what you’re doing. Just works on whatever he’s working on while you paint, speaking to you because he knows you won’t answer. 

On one of the nights when you’re together (but not at all), you finally ask. He’d let himself in around two in the morning and kissed the top of your head before he put headphones in and stuck his face into his notebook on the other side of the room. He likes to sit by the window so he can crack it open and blow his smoke out of it instead of into the room. 

“Why’d you come tonight?” 

“I wanted to be near you.” 

“I don’t think you’ve even looked at me.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation. You like that Namjoon will know the difference, you like that he’s hard to offend, and doesn't mind when you speak plainly. Gives you plain answers in return (usually). You stick the small paint brush you’ve been using sideways in your mouth and grab a larger one.

“Baby, you’re all I can see lately,” he says, staring at the trails of smoke curling around the outside of the window pane. 

You laugh around the red-tipped paint brush you’re biting down on, a pause for the cadmium to add a little white to the edges. Namjoon looks over then, snaps a picture of you with your eyes crinkled and your head thrown back, red oil threatening to drip like blood. 

“Beautiful,” he says, looking at the picture before he goes back to writing.

There are more phone calls every time he travels for work. It’s the same routine. He texts you a photo of something he’s seen that he liked, and when you respond, whether it’s five minutes later or five hours, he asks if he can call you. 

Sometimes they’re quiet, simple recountings of the things that have happened in his day or are about to happen in the next (timezone dependent), sometimes they’re ranting about the industry and the pressure and how he never thought about time until he realized he was running out of it. Sometimes he’s worked up in a different way, wants to see your face in pixelated halos while he comes on his own stomach, alone in a hotel room far away. 

All of this, you let him take. It’s not completely sacrificial, by any means. You like to hear him talk, better than any podcast you’ve ever heard. You like to know what he sees—he’s touched parts of the globe you could only dream about seeing. You like that he never makes it complicated. 

Never promises to take you there one day, never says he wishes you were with him.

You’ve been fucking in secret for a while when Namjoon wants you to meet his friends. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“Because I want you to see me, too,” he says. Simple and complicated at the same time. You’re afraid to ask why again, not sure if you want to know the answer. This is sex. It’s incredible sex that happens far more often than you thought he’d be able to make time for. 

He shows up at your studio at odd hours of the morning (or is it still night?) and talks to you about all the frivolous things while you take each other apart. Rambles about Murakami while he fucks you, tells you about a Youngkuk he saw while you swallow his dick. Naked and sprawled amongst your paint and mess and half-done work leaning against the walls, he tells you a little about his work, too. Asks you about a painting he’d seen you working on—diligently adding splashes of blue, tells you about a song he wants to do the same thing to somehow. Asks you uselessly if color and sound are the same thing if you think about them too hard.

They are. It’s a thing you both know that you don’t think many others do. It’s one thing he’s sure about. You think he only likes you because you’re sure about it, too. 

It’s incredible sex and pretty good conversations that happen at what most people probably think are strange times, but it’s not more than that. You can’t afford to get your heart confused, and he can’t afford to give you anything other than exactly what he’s giving. 

(He can’t afford to give you what he does, but he tells you there’s no reward without risk. 

“Am I the reward, then?” you tease. 

Namjoon never answers you.)

But you don’t tell him no. You think this is a bargain you can make with your heart, you can ask it for temperance while you do this thing he wants, you can meet the people who are truly important to him without convincing yourself you’re counted amongst them. You can try, anyway.

So, on a rooftop in Hannam-dong, you sip whisky with a photographer friend of Namjoon’s while he stands behind you, an arm wrapped around your waist, and alternates between sucking bruises into your neck and smoke into his lungs. 

“How’d you meet?” the photographer asks. 

“Hoam,” Namjoon replies into your skin. “She picked a fight.”

You laugh, he laughs, the photographer laughs. It’s carefree and light—your laugh, your thoughts, your skin under Namjoon’s wandering lips. Your heart is holding up its end of the deal, you don’t feel anything but pleased to be there, pleased to have his attention again (still). 

“Our Namjoonie likes a challenge,” his friend says. 

“Our Namjoonie is a challenge,” you tease.

Namjoon nips at the thin skin between your neck and shoulder in retaliation (or to prove your point, you’re not sure). You yelp, turn in his arms, see him smirking before he goes to take another drag. Swiftly, you pluck the cigarette out from between his lips, stamping it out on the cement. 

“Baby,” he whines, looking down where the cigarette is brown and white dust under your sneaker. 

“Better things to do with your mouth,” you retort, pressing up onto your tiptoes and pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. 

His mouth is ashy and yours tastes like peet, you’re sure. It’s filthy and a little cheap even though the cigarettes and the whisky and the lip balm he always wears were all expensive. Namjoon kisses like he does everything else: completely single-minded, treating the soft curves where your mouths meet as if they’re the edges of the world. 

You walk him a step back until he’s flush against the wall and lean into him again, pressing your bodies together hard and your lips together plush. He’s hard in his joggers and it’s every last piece of self-control you have to not sneak your hand under his waistband and tease him until he’s leaking and begging to get inside you. 

It wouldn’t take much. 

Takes a lot out of you to not drop to your knees and choke on his cock where everyone can see, where everyone would know for sure for sure for certain that he’s chosen you for this for now for some reason. To not make him moan around your name while he comes down your throat, a different kind of concert. 

Your hands stay in appropriate places while your lips beg for more. 

He was right, something he said the first time you hooked up: you are greedy for him. But he’s just as bad for you, begging in your ear for you to let him take you home, for you to let him fuck you right here so everyone knows you’re his (right now, in only this way, for some reason that neither of you are willing to speak into existence). 

You give in, no cares about who sees, it’s safe here with friends who would never betray him. You feel ever weightless against his body, whispering, “Yes, come on Joonie,” you say. “Need your cock. Need you.” 

(Briefly, it occurs to you that those sentences mean two completely different things, that they’re both true, and that either it’s Namjoon choosing to ignore the odd, heavy weight of the second one or you both are.)

You’re halfway out the door before you remember you were in the middle of a conversation. 

You don’t notice his friends whispering. 

You don’t notice his manager rolling his eyes. 

You don’t notice the way Namjoon looks at you when he knows you’re not looking back.

And you surely don’t let yourself notice that both of you want more than you’re willing to give in return.

“Can you come over?” he asks, but it doesn’t quite come out like a question. 

“I’m working, maybe a different time?” 

It’s abundantly clear he hadn’t expected you to say no. He’s silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he lets out an aborted sigh. 

“You can work whenever you want.”

Before you realize he’s serious, you laugh. “Yeah, and now is when I want to. You know how it is to get inspired.” 

Namjoon huffs. “I’d still make time for you.” 

It’s almost more absurd than the sentence before it. First, you know from firsthand experience that he wouldn’t, not really. Your “relationship”—or whatever you’re (not) calling it—revolves almost entirely around his schedule. And that’s fine with you, usually. It was expected, anyway. You don’t exactly drop everything to see him, but you haven’t been the best at keeping plans with the other people in your life, either. You don’t blame him for it, it’s just how things are, and it’s your own fault (at least partially) for bailing on your friends to “chase dick” as they so delicately put it. The second point is that you wouldn’t ask him to. If you don’t ask him to change for you, if you don’t need him to bend, then you never have to stop to ask yourself what the two of you are even doing. 

As the static of the connection is drawn out like a fermata with neither of you willing to break it, you wonder if this is your panoply, the armor you don, one of the ways you’ve been protecting your own heart without realizing it. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you say, repeating it to yourself, admitting it to him. 

“I know,” Namjoon agrees, but he sounds disappointed instead of conciliatory. 

“I have to go.” 

“Sure,” he says quietly before he ends the call. “Let me know when you have time.”

Namjoon is obsessed with time. 

How much is left. 

How much has passed. 

How much until the next thing. 

How much he’s wasted. 

You think this is because he puts a deadline to his regret, says things like, “It’s been a year, I can’t worry about it anymore.” 

It’s hard not to wonder what schedule he’s given whatever this thing is between you. Are you still regrettable? Is there a space between regrettable and forgettable you can build shelter in? 

It makes him fill his time. He’s always doing something, likes to feel productive. Holds himself to an unspoken standard that you’re not even sure he could articulate if he needed to. He gets antsy when he has to relax, twitches and fidgets and fills the space with words. 

Sometimes, after sex when you’re quiet and lax and content to just sit with him, he uses the time to write. He sits tall up in your bed and holds his notebook above your head where it rests in his lap. He says you help him organize his thoughts, says having you to bounce things off of gives him clarity, says you think of words like colors like he does and you know how he likes to paint. Says he gets his best work done in this time in between pleasure and sleep. 

He hums to himself while he writes—you don’t even know if he knows he does it. Sometimes, it wakes you up from where you didn’t know you’d fallen asleep on top of him. 

“Is it morning yet?” you slur, still mostly asleep. 

“Relax, baby,” he whispers when you stir. “We’ve got time.” 

You don’t break up, because there’s nothing tangible to break. It’s a quiet thing, without dramatics, but oh how you grieve. 

It’s not linear. You’re not in a predictable pattern of feeling. One morning he doesn’t call, and you don’t even notice, but another makes you sob quietly in the corner of your studio, curled up under the window where he used to sit, like you can fuse yourself with the ghost of him. 

There are days when it’s easier, days when it’s difficult. When you mourn the way the curve of his bicep felt under your fingertips or the future you never considered until it wasn’t an option anymore. 

(You still don’t know if it ever was an option, but that’s the tricky thing—you can grieve for the things you had and also for those you didn’t. No one can stop you, Namjoon’s not there to pull you back to reality. He was never very good at that anyway.)

Some days, you wonder if he grieves, too. It would be easy to read interviews and read into things, it would be easy to assume every word, look, gesture is a window into his mind, but you try not to do that to yourself, try not to do it to him. 

At four in the morning on a Saturday, when days without him have long turned into weeks, you mindlessly scroll through your phone, idly wondering what he might be doing at this time when he used to be with you.

“The quiet hours are all for us,” he would whisper into your skin, no distractions, no demands. 

Those hours are infinitely louder in your mind without him there. So, you distract yourself, you look at every app and you get lost in reels and tiktoks and tweets and then you go back to instagram to see his story is updated. And you think twice before you do it, but you still click on it, curious and heartbroken and a little bit hoping he’s not already found someone new to spend daybreak with. 

It’s just a song, an old one, a sad one. Text he added in small font across the bottom: 

“Grief is love persevering,” he says.

In your corner, under the window, you cry over the silly quote for the both of you.

“Do you know about alpine sunflowers?” 

You laugh as you put your phone on speaker and set it down next to you. You’re not laughing at him, and he knows it—you’re full of a particular fondness you only feel for him, one you especially feel when he’s thousands of miles away, busier than busy and running on no sleep, but still calling you to bullshit. 

“No, tell me about them.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice pitched up, a little excited, like he’s sitting up straighter and getting ready to tell you something wonderful. “So, they only grow high up in the alpine tundra. The Swiss Alps, the Rockies, you know what I mean?” 

“What about the French Alps?” you tease.

Namjoon huffs. “There too, jagiya, but you’re missing the point.” 

“Okay, make me see it, then.” 

“I will if you’ll stop teasing.” 

You do stop, not because he’s making an impeccable argument, but because he’s always going somewhere with things like this, and without realizing it, you’ve stumbled into a reality where you’d follow him anywhere. 

“They grow slowly. ‘Cause of the snow and the subzero temperatures and the fact that there’s just not much up there for them. They take their time, you see?”

You’re starting to, your paintbrush dipping into a dusty yellow to test in a small corner of your canvas. You nod, forgetting he’s not there in the room with you, that you should speak if you actually want to answer him. He doesn’t care if you do or not, you know, not until he gets to the punchline, and sometimes not even then. 

On the other end of the line, you hear him suck in a breath before he continues. “They save up everything: the sunlight and the water and they hoard it all. They're selfish little things, baby. Just these spindly stalks of nothing sucking up everything good out of the Earth.”

“Hmm,” you murmur so he knows you’re with him. 

“But then, and this is the best part, then one day, after ten fucking years if you can believe that—after ten years do you know what happens?”

“Climate change?”

Namjoon ignores you now in favor of finishing his story. It’s fair enough, you suppose. “They bloom. Big and beautiful, brighter than all the other sunflowers like an explosion of little suns across the mountains.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you reply. 

And you know what Namjoon is thinking. That their beauty comes at a cost, that he hasn’t quite untangled yet whether he loves those stupid flowers for taking what they need and becoming something incredible or if he despises them for waiting so long to do it, for keeping something so lovely to themselves. It’s not what he says, though. As you paint something that might be tangling green vines of selfish sunflowers across gesso, he surprises you. 

“I wonder if in all relationships, someone is the sunflower and someone is the mountain.”

You can’t help but pause, because he might be right. One of you might take something from the other to become more beautiful, one of you might give up everything to be made more whole by the other, if even for a moment. 

“Maybe they are,” you agree. 

“You know what happens after the alpine sunflower blooms?” he asks, voice softer now, more tired as night turns into morning where he is. 

“What happens, Joon-ah?”

Namjoon sighs into the phone, the mood has changed since he called you—and this isn’t unusual. He can be ebullient and he’s gorgeous when he’s happy and carefree, but it changes quickly sometimes depending on the circumstances, depending on how much he’s let himself think, how much time he’s spent alone. 

“They die. They do all of that and they work hard for so long, and then they’re gone.” 

Carefully, you ask, “You want to be the mountain, then?” 

In the background, you can hear the rustle of sheets and the careful clacking of his glasses hitting the bedside table. He yawns, and you can picture the way he’s rubbing his palms over his face, pulling his shirt off before he dives all the way under the duvet, probably taking advantage of being alone to take up all the space he possibly can in the big hotel bed. He sounds half-asleep and sad when he finally answers you. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Why not?” You put your brush down, stare at the small mess you’ve made. 

“The mountain has it worse, she can only watch them go.”

He is everywhere, even when he’s not. 

There are the obvious things: the ads with his face, the gum and coffee and candy with his picture on them, the music, his lyrics, playing in cafes and bars and pages and pages of his songs in every noraebang. 

There are the private things, too. The reminders that are just for you.

You see him in the way the leaves change: reliable but not predictable. 

You smell him after it rains, when you pass by cafes and smoking rooms and when you take the train to Yeosu just to remember the way the saltwater can make the air sting. You hear him every time you hear the train sail into the station at Yongsan and when you hear the river gently shove against its banks. 

It’s a couple months after you meet him, and along that river, you walk a less-loved path. With all the words you know, you explain all that to a friend, one you’ve known a long time, who doesn’t know who you’re talking about as you try to describe the person who’s taken up all of your time and attention lately. 

Because you can’t tell her anything about him, you tell her these things instead and you hope it’s enough for her to understand. 

And maybe she does, maybe better than you do. 

“Does that make sense?” you ask. “It’s hard to explain how much he is.” 

“To you,” she says. “He’s that much to you.” 

You hadn’t even considered that he wasn’t all of those things to everyone. It never even crossed your mind. It’s probably apparent that you’re mulling it over, trying to true it up with how you feel. 

She shrugs with one shoulder and smiles, brings a finger up to smooth the wrinkle in your brow.  “Don’t think about it too hard, yeah? Love is supposed to be simple.” 

Those two words had always each seemed so big to you, to carry so much power on their own. It’s the first time you let yourself consider putting the words Namjoon and Love in the same sentence. 

And in that moment, you know that if Namjoon is the changing leaf, you are the one that falls.

“Do you love me?” you ask—afraid to know the answer, more afraid of never knowing. You stare at unfinished bunches of sunflowers and handprints of pink and white borders that never got filled in. All of it undone, all of it paused. Abstracts in stop-motion waiting for… him to come back? You to get your shit together? Inspiration? What’s the difference, anyway, you think while you wait for him to speak. 

He doesn’t answer right away, hums a little, clicks his tongue, things you can sense more than you can hear. It’s a rude way to start a phone call, especially when you haven’t spoken in a long time, especially when you’re not each other's to love. 

Not anymore. 

Not that you know if you ever were. 

You need to know, you think. Questioning whether all of it even mattered is making you worse off than thinking it didn’t. Listening to him tell foreign interviewers he’s had a rough year, lost something great, was finding it hard to trust—himself, others—you, your brain supplies… it’s making you feel a little wild, a little reckless. 

One drink past good decisions, you call, and when he answers unexpectedly, you forgo “hello” for “do you love me?” 

You wait, expecting exasperation, complication, maybe a long and drawn out description of how maybe people can never know if they’re in love, if they have the capacity to love completely. 

And then he surprises you. 

“Of course I do,” he says, sounding soft and a little scared and more definitive than you’ve ever heard him. “You know that.” 

“I didn’t,” you reply. Not to be argumentative, but because it’s true. Because you love him and you want him to be happy and you know he’ll never get it right if he thinks what he gave you was enough. 

“I don’t think I knew then, either,” he concedes. “But I wish I had. I do now.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I know. But you did then, too.” 

The laugh you let out is wry and wet with your tears, the ones you’re shedding for the you that did miss him even then, even when he was by your side, even when he was buried inside of you. “I’m lonely,” is what you say, too honest. 

“I know. I am, too.” 

There’s nothing to say to that, you think. Maybe this is where it really ends, a torn-open wound for both of you—you’ll paint it all in vivid acrylics, probably never finish it just to be ironic. And then Namjoon adds, “Can I come over?”

You reply quickly, a taste of his own medicine. “Maybe,” you say. 

You should have never left, you mean. 

He laughs then, watercolor yellow and orange joy dripping over the phone line. It’s bright and hopeful—you listen to him shrugging on a jacket and swearing out a curse when he runs into his dresser, rushing to get to you, scrambling for time—and it makes you decide that for once, with him by your side, you might finish the picture.

[jiminieeangel]

I have the funniest AU, okay so

Tim realizes he’s stuck in a cheesy 80s sitcom like Full house. Every single person in his family is acting weird. When he tries to convince the other members in the family they straight up ignore him or will be like “what are you talking about Tim” and carry on with their conversation. The only person who Tim can convince is Duke. Duke is the only person that believes Tim after Tim uses Back to the Future as his reference.

Jason is the bad boy/ kind of like uncle Jessie vibe. That rides a motorcycle.

Steph is madly in love with Tim and Tim is like wtf get off me and spends all his time trying to avoid her.

Every time someone says something corny an audience will applaud. Especially when Tim does something that is unintentionally funny and his loud outburst would just make the crowd laugh.

Acid denim wash and funky jumpers and Dick’s horrid mullet.

Bruce’s character freaks Tim out because he’s the dad that gives advice and also hugs at the end of every life lesson/ speech.

Cass, Alfred, and Damian are obviously there as well but I can’t think of anything so feel free to add. I just think this AU is hilarious. Honestly Tim is too tired to be dealing with this.

[evanchantingpeters]

T(h)rust in me, I’m not over you... (Fanfic - Alex from Adult World)

Pairings ─ Alex (from Adult World) x Y/N (fem reader)

Genre ─ Smut/fluff

Summary ─ Y/N and Alex (aka Evan Peters in Adult World) are exes who haven’t quite let go. A friend’s birthday party turns into a comedy of errors when a black-out drunk Y/N accidentally enters Alex’s postcode as her own for a cab ride home. As Alex finds her at his doorstep and takes her in his place, old feelings resurface and steamy times go down in his bathroom.

Warnings ─ Swearing, smut, unprotected sex p in v, drinking, oral (m receiving), rough sex, nipple teasing, hangover sex, doggy, pretty smutty guys you’re being warned :)

Word count ─ 3.7K

18+ > If you’re a minor, DO NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

The birthday cake of your friend, Beatrice, stands proudly in the centre of her living room, decked out in colourful frosting and flickering candles.

You and the rest of the guests belt out the overdone ‘Happy Birthday’ song in what you think is perfect harmony. But here comes Jerry, Beatrice’s younger brother, who starts hollering the lyrics off-key, stealing the show. 

Snorting, the birthday girl nudges her brother away, leaning over the cake to blow out the candles. Just as she’s mouthing her wish, Jerry, wearing a wicked grin, swoops in and dips his sister’s face right into the cake. 

The room erupts in uproarious laughter as Beatrice’s expression goes from shocked to amused. She taps her cake-covered eyes to remove some chocolate. Then, she turns to Jerry with a look that’s half playful, half ‘I’m plotting revenge.’ 

“You’re in for it now, Jerry!” she barks. And just like that, an all-out frosting war breaks out, turning the room into a sugar-fuelled battlefield. Cake crumbs are flying in every direction, but you manage to dodge most of it with only a few cake-bulleted stains along the hem of your black dress.

You retreat to a corner of the room, sipping your Prosecco like you’re watching sitcom chaos unfold from afar. Suddenly, you notice a stranger in a fancy tux sauntering over, a sly grin playing on his plump lips. 

“Well, looks like you’ve stayed mostly unscathed… or shall I say un-caked?” he chirps, his voice deep and throaty as he nods toward the cake war raging on. 

You just shrug, tossing him a faint, uninterested smile, “Good reflexes, I guess,” you quip, giving him a quick once-over before turning back to the cake madness. You feel his dark green eyes scanning you as if you’re going through airport security. 

He chuckles, and leans in. “If you need someone to scrub the marks off your dress, I’m your guy,” he whoops, playfully thumping his chest. He extends his hand with an inviting smile. “Tony.” 

“Y/N,” you reply bluntly, your energy matching that of a deflated balloon. 

Unfazed by your meh vibes, Tony decides to turn up the heat on the handshake, taking you aback as he begins to stroke your wrist. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” he purrs, his eyes never leaving yours.

In a bold move, he lightly kisses the back of your hand, his stubble scratching your skin. 

You instinctively pull away, trying to force a polite smile, but a nervous twitch is all you manage. Your intrusive thoughts kick in, lecturing you (as usual), ‘Give the guy a chance, Y/N. Seriously, after Alex, all you think about is eye-gouging dudes with a spoon? Get a grip and move on!’

“Enjoying the party, Y/N?” he asks, snapping you out of your mental mess.  

“It’s not too bad. I’m here for Beatrice,” you retort, fetching a glass of wine from the buffet. Your eyes drift to the birthday girl, now caked from head to toe and giggling hysterically. You can’t help but crack a smile.

“Sorry, gotta go. Trice’s calling me,” you blurt out and lunge toward your friend, catching a muffled, “No, she didn’t” from behind as you’re practically escaping.

As the night barrels on, your party spirit is like the Energizer Bunny on steroids. You’re all in, downing shots and cocktails like they’re on a liquid clearance sale.

Yet, the question looms in the air: Are you drinking for the sheer fun of it or just drowning sorrows in that cocktail shaker? Alex heartache mode on. 

Before you know it, you’re totally sloshed, messily sprawled on a plush couch, using Tanya’s (another friend of yours) knees as your personal pillow. “Iiiiii reeeeally like your boooody, bodyyy, yeah. I reaaaaally wanna get naughtyyyyy I think you’re such a hottieeeee,” you croak out each word of the pop track with a slur, laughing uncontrollably. Your eyes are shut, lost in your boozy world.  

As you ramble on, Tony, who’s been lurking around, seizes the moment and leaps out from behind the couch. He casually nudges Tanya’s arm, yelling, “You heard that, Tansy?” with theatrical flair. “She thinks I’m a hottie!” His grin spreads wider than a rubber band as he arrogantly points at himself, acting like he’s the main character of your drunken karaoke.

Tanya clicks her tongue in mild annoyance and cuts in with a hiss, “Tony! Behave, man!” She softly kisses the top of your head in a futile attempt to soothe your booze-induced storm. 

“I offered to clean up her dress…” Tony goes on, hovering over the couch. “But, not gonna lie, I’d rather have it crunched up on my bedroom floor as she moans my name,” he murmurs, emphatically banging his fist on the couch before doubling up with laughter. 

“Oh, hush it, Tony,” Tanya roars and waves him away, turning back to you and your delirium, which has hit the roof. “I need to get you home, girl, and none of us is fit to drive…”

Tony, not one to give up easily, chimes in once more. “I volunteer! I’d give her a lift all day, all night.”

“No, we’re all catching a cab,” she declares with a tone that brooks no argument. She lightly pokes your shoulder. “Y/N, my love?” 

Your tipsy babbling starts to fade into a murmur that seems to be lulling you to sleep. “Y/N,” Tanya repeats. “What’s your postcode, sweetie?” 

Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to register this simple question. “P-postcode? P-o-s-t-d, no. P-p,” you stutter.

“Yes, darling. Confirm your postcode for me, would you? I don’t have it saved,” Tanya says calmly, holding her phone in front of your face. 

With a grunt, you manage to sit up, but the world continues to dance spinning salsa around you. With an unsteady hand, you reach for the device, and your fingers fumble as you try to type out the letters and digits. 

Deep in your drunken haze, you unconsciously punch in a code that matches anything else but your address.

“To the hottieeeeee,” you shout, throwing your fist in the air before dropping yourself back onto your friend’s knees. 

“Ma,am, we’re here,” the taxi driver announces to Tanya that’s sat next to him, his hoarse voice slicing through the quiet of the car. 

Tanya swivels around to face the backseats, where you’re laid down, totally passed out. “Y/N,” she calls softly, giving your leg a gentle rub, but you don’t stir. 

She hops off the car and speed-walks to your side. With great care, she helps you out by wrapping her hands around you. Your arm is looped around her shoulder for stability. “Biyatchhhh, I saiddd whooo I saeee… who da biyaatch? Am da biyatchh,” you hoot, swaying and leaning heavily on your friend as you pinch her cheek with a goofy smile. 

“Y/N, just a sec,” Tanya huffs out as she shoves herself back in to retrieve your purse and coat from the car floor. 

You both stumble your way through the labyrinthine apartment complex. “You got your house key?” she asks, catching her breath. 

It takes a hot minute for the information to hit as you stare at your friend like a deer in headlights. With an unexpected burst of energy, you break free from Tanya’s hold, almost tripping a few steps away. “My Tanoushka, I'm sho happy you haar!” You cry out and lurch back toward her, showering her with enthusiastic smooches on her cheeks.

Then, in a theatrical whirl, you pop open the purse and jangle your keys in her face. “Jiggly, jiggly. Okiee, goooo, go, go!” you cheer in a wobbly dance, urging Tanya to get back into the car.

With an anxious look on her face, Tanya stands by the open car door. “Alright, phone me once you’re indoors,” she insists, her worried eyes laser-focused on you.

You shoo her away absentmindedly as you stagger toward the complex’s main door. You wrestle with the key, wriggling and twisting it into the lock, but miserably fail to get in the building. “Bad key,” you playfully scold, wagging a finger at the stubborn piece of metal before giving it a light slap. 

Soon after, your fingers impulsively begin to clumsily hit the buttons on the intercom, creating a cacophony of buzzing sounds that echo through the entryway. “O-o-o-pen uuup,” your slurred shouting rings through the intercom. “Shtupidd thaang,” you whine, practically bashing the device.

Out of the chorus of tenant voices that crackle through the speaker almost simultaneously, Alex’s familiar voice stands out.

“Y/N? Y/N is that you?” Hearing the shaky and uncertain voice, Alex doesn’t waste a second. He dashes down the stairwell and swings the entrance door wide open, facing a dishevelled Mia, rocking around about to collapse. 

“Y/N,” he gasps and sprints to you. “What happened? Why are you here?” His brows furrow in confusion as he observes your smudged makeup and dress that’s askew.

You look up at him with a lopsided smile, your eyes all bloodshot and half-lidded. “Alex, my hottieee. I mishhhsed you so muschh!” you exclaim, your sentences meandering as you lounge at him for a sloppy hug.

“Shit, you’re hammered,” he mutters, worry spurs him into action. With superhero speed, he scoops you up, your butt facing upwards, hands hanging loosely off his back. 

Your giggles echo as Alex carries you onto his shoulder with ease, making his way to the lift that leads to his place. In a soft, reassuring whisper, he says, “Don’t worry, baby,” and plants a kiss on your thigh that’s now resting on his chest. “I’ll take care of you,” he adds, giving you a playful spank on the ass. 

Once inside, Alex makes a pitstop in the kitchen for a water bottle while you dangle off his shoulder like a ragdoll, humming nonsense. He heads to the bedroom and gently lays you on the bed, making sure your landing is as comfy as a cloud. 

Kneeling beside you, he begins to delicately take off your high heels, rubbing your legs along the way. “Who needs a napkin when your dress can double as a tissue, right?” he chuckles softly, tracing the dry cake marks on your outfit, unaware of the sugary fight earlier. “You’ve officially introduced ‘cake couture’ to the fashion world,” he teases, trying to bundle you in a blanket like a burrito.

You slowly lift your head from the pillow, your neck muscles tightening with the effort as you stare at him with bleary yet intent eyes. “I want shyour cakey,” you mewl, wriggling under the blanket on a mission to liberate your hands.

You tug on his hoodie, pulling him closer until he loses his balance and topples onto you. Your bodies press together, and your voice comes out in a pleading whine. “Alex?” 

“Yes?” he rasps out, his dark brown eyes flicking down to your lips and then up into your eyes. 

“Kiss me,” you mumble and perk up, slowly grazing your lips against his, eyes shut. 

The strong scent of alcohol wafts from you, but, in that moment, Alex seems beyond minding. His heart races too erratically to care, and his breaths are too jagged and wild to bother. The room seems to shrink for both of you, and he swallows hard.

“No, Y/N,” he snaps, his voice firm and resolute as he jumps up. “I’d never let this happen... not right now... not with you being like this.” He snatches the water bottle from the bedside table, unscrewing it with a sense of urgency.

Slightly dazed, you touch your lips. “Tickles, tickles, ticklish,” you squeak, breaking into soft giggles. In a sudden and wobbly move, you shift position, popping up on your knees on the bed. “Huggies,” you whoop facing him, arms wide open for an embrace.

But, just as quickly, your mood takes a detour, and now you’re wincing, yanking at the fabric of your outfit in frustration, “This dresshh is prison, tightiee,” you grunt, hiking your dress up only to reveal your red panties.

His eyes can’t help but stare down there as he rubs the back of his neck almost compulsively, his breath hitching in his throat. At the sight of you half-naked, the dilemma of whether to give in or resist intensifies, swirling in his mind on end.

“Hold up, I don’t want you catching a cold or something. I’ve got a top you can slip into,” he says, puffing out his words while pacing toward his wardrobe to avoid looking at her.

“Heeey,” you yell with an unexpectedly stern tone that catches him off guard. But, just as swiftly, your face softens into a sweet, almost kiddish smile that instantly cools things off.

You wave Alex over, beckoning him to approach. “Come, come, comeyyy,” you coo. 

You perch next to him again, still rocking that mischievous smile. “It’s a secret, tiny winnie one,” you whisper-shout, pinching your index finger and thumb near your face, closing one eye for added drama. “Just between you and me,” you poke as you emphasise ‘me.’ 

Alex nods as his grin stretches from ear to ear. “Okay…” he chuckles, officially joining your light-hearted moment.

“Shhhhh,” you dramatically hush, squishing your index finger against your lips like you’re sharing classified intel. “Secret-t-t-t.”

Alex snorts. His rolls his lips into his mouth as he lowers his head to hold back a laugh. “My bad, my bad. Go on,” he whispers with exaggerated enthusiasm. He’s clearly having a blast with your goofy antics.

“Don’t tell Alex… Neva eva!” 

“I won’t, I won’t,” he assures you, theatrically raising his finger for a pinky promise. 

You take an unusually long moment to process his gesture and what it represents. A sober person would never… Eventually, you sloth-slowly glance back at him, nonchalantly deciding to give up on the symbolism behind the lifted pinky finger. “He’s the kindestsht… and p-p-prettiest boy I’ve eeeeever met,” you exclaim. Your fingers—guided by intoxicated conviction—clumsily roam over his face, stretching his nostril and trailing down to his bottom lip. 

Your drunken self radiates an innocent sincerity that makes Alex’s heart throb like a hammer. Flattered and charmed by your confession, he gazes at you bashfully.

His warm smile broadens as he keeps on staring and admiring you.

“He’s shhhuper,” you squeal, forming a heart shape with your fingers, peeking at him through it. “Do youse… hic… I should gimme… no… not me… him, give HIM head to say thank yew for treatin' spoooooon good?”

Alex can’t help but crack up, though his cheeks turn rosy—a testament to his shy nature. He cups his chin and narrows his eyes mischievously, like he’s in deep thought. “Hmm, if we’re talking about Alex, your ex...I think you should give him head, BUT,” he exclaims, throwing a finger into the air. 

You gasp, playfully covering your mouth like you’ve heard the most shocking news. Your eyes bulge with feigned surprise. “Beyond all,” he argues, “I think you should totally get back together. He thinks you broke up for something very silly, and he’s dying to be with you.”

You abruptly jerk away from him, gagging as if you’re about to throw up. You feel the blood draining from your face as a wave of distress washes over you.

Alex’s eyes widen with concern as he instinctively rises from the bed, “Off we go to the bathroom,” he insists, rushing to follow you.  

Your nausea takes a sudden turn, and you can’t hold back any longer. Barely making it to the toilet in time, you let it all out. Your body heaves with each retch, and you feel miserable.

Alex, the unsung hero, drops to his knees and chucks the water bottle on the floor. He gently pulls your hair back, creating a makeshift puke-proof barrier. All the while, he rubs your back to make the whole ordeal less horrible.

Then, he’s quick on his feet, grabbing some toilet paper for the post-barf clean-up. As you dab your lips, he hands you the bottle to rinse. “I’m disgustiiing, don’t look,” you grumble, shooing him away as you spit water in the toilet before flushing.

“You’re still a wonder to my eyes,” he whispers, running a hand through your loose hair. “And the timing—you puke just as I suggest we get back together, Y/N” he mocks, adding a sprinkle of humour to the less-than-glamorous moment.

You groan and let your head flop onto the toilet seat. “Ahhh, my moussth feels weird… bruushh,” you mumble, rubbing your lips. 

Alex lifts you up, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “Not brushing yet, baby. We’re swishing with some hydrogen peroxide and water to protect the enamel,” he instructs you, preparing the said concoction in a small measuring cup next to you. “Here you go, wash off.”

“Shhh, you’re a niiieeerd,” you whine after spitting the liquid, feeling it sting your tongue. Giggling, you yank at Alex’s hoodie and playfully sway him back and forth, your minty breath fanning his face.

Then, you suddenly stop and fix him right in the eye. “Aleeex?” you whimper, lips pouting.

“Yes, Y/N,” he asks calmly, sweeping a few strands of hair off your face as a half smirk curls up his lips. He enjoys the banter that weaves through your drunken fog.

“Fuck me,” you plead, fiddling with the buckle of his belt. 

Alex’s pulse quickened for a second, held in an irregular rhythm. All the while, your fingertips caress his lower stomach, trying to slip through his trousers and onto his boxers. 

You let go when he clears his throat loudly, a deliberate attempt to regain composure. Breathing heavily, he manages a tight-lipped as he strokes your head, tenderly placing it on his shoulder.

“Ohhh, I knoooow,” your exclaim and sit up, your index finger playfully pressing against your mouth. “I willshh brush me an’ you fuck me.” 

Forty minutes later, you’re done with her hardcore toothbrushing session, complete with a few rounds of gargling mouthwash. Alex hands you a towel with a warm smile. You’re still wobbly but muster a grateful grin.

“Thaaank, yew rock,” you slur, clumsily patting your face dry. 

Alex chuckles, “Better?”

You hum, nodding, but your bleary eyes suddenly light up mischievously. Out of impulse, you slide into the tub, turning the water knob. You start splashing around, water welling up everywhere as you laugh uncontrollably. Alex, caught in the aquatic crossfire, shields himself with his hands.

“What’s the goal? Turning this into a water park?” he jokes, still trying to dodge the watery onslaught. But you’re having none of it. You grip his arm and drag him into the splash party.

Soon, you’re both a wet, tangled mess, laughing like loons, lost in the bliss of the moment. As water skims through the contours of your bodies, there’s a switch in the atmosphere. Amidst the fun chaos, your eyes meet inches away from each other, and the laughter mellows into a shared silence.

Before you realise it, your lips crash in a spontaneous kiss. You spread your legs, letting him wade through and tower over you. Soft moans escape him, and the vibrations against your mouth send delightful shivers down your backbone. You know that’s not just a collision of flesh; it transcends into a harmonious blend of passion and connection.

“I want you, Alex,” you sigh with newfound clarity, miraculously not stumbling over your words in an intoxicating joy for the first time tonight. You push the back of his head to deepen the kiss, your tongues now twisting and twirling in a sensual waltz.

He hungrily gropes handfuls of your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses across the crook of your neck.

“Y/N.. no... stop it,” he protests when your hand ventures down his trousers, rubbing along his growing bulge. Your quivering breaths mingle as he breaks the kiss. Skillfully, he turns off the water as he steps out of the tub. “It’s the alcohol talking now, not you.” 

You frown, clutching on the edges of the tub for balance. “The alcohol has shut up; I speak now,” you groan as you stand on your feet. Your drenched dress clings to your body, outlining your figure. Feeling the weight of the soaked fabric, you decide to free yourself from it. 

You strip down to your panties, and your soft, pink nipples rise like rosebuds in bloom, betraying a quiet anticipation. Alex sucks in a sharp breath as he watches your every move all mesmerised, eyes widening, lips parted.

“Ever seen someone redefine the art of walking a tightrope?” you chirp, water dripping down your half-naked body. Sinking to your knees, you get on all fours and slowly begin to crawl to him.

You sway your hips in a sensuous, almost hypnotic rhythm, eyes fixed on Alex. All the while, you trace a perfectly straight line to him, proving your recovered sobriety. 

Arriving at his pelvic level, you gracefully sit back on your heels with a coy smile, maintaining eye contact. “See?” you whisper, tilting your head as your eyes travel down at his erection. You don’t dare to touch; you just marvel at his full length (realistically speaking).

Staring down at you with a knowing, crooked smirk, he runs his fingers through your damp hair, tenderly petting your head. 

“Someone’s suffering here. Let’s free this big boy, shall we?” you purr, brushing your fingers along his hard rock crotch, feeling it twitch upon touch. 

He quickly nods in despair as if he’s unable to utter a single syllable. You slowly roll down his trousers and boxers. He gasps as you finally take hold of his large shaft.

You push his tip in your mouth, flattening your tongue, and swipe down the underside ridge of his stiff dick, humming in delight. He groans louder than you expected as you slowly work his cock in and out, grazing your fingers over the ridges of his abs under his t-shirt.

You pull him back out of your mouth just to slide all the way back down. He’s practically growling at this point, clasping onto the corners of the sink—his vein-y arms make your sex twice as moist.

You regain your slow, teasing pace just to gauge his reaction. Letting out a whine like he can’t take it anymore, he grips your hair tighter, pushing you all the way down his dick. His head is now building on pressure as it strikes the back of your throat, bringing tears to your eyes. His hair grip loosens as his breaths start escaping him in choked, punchy gasps. 

You’re sucking him whole, from his taint down to his balls, dripping your saliva all over him the harder you draw him into your mouth. Your swollen pussy is tingling for him as you feel him hardening in your mouth, forcing loud moans out of you.

Knowing that your next move will finish him, you slow down again and grab him by the waist, gazing up at him. That’s when you begin to take him in faster and rougher, feeling his hips thrust harder each time. 

And… proven! With the change in speed, he lets out a series of choppy moans only to shoot his hot cum in your mouth right after. He stares down at you breathless, mouth agape, as you gulp down his sweet taste with rapid, eager swallows, savouring his taste with a giggle. 

“My girl,” he rasps out as he picks you up from the floor effortlessly yet almost in a trance, his dick still throbbing in your hands. He peels his t-shirt off, turning you around so you both face the large bathroom mirror.

Positioned behind you, he holds you close and smacks your ass hard, making you squeal with surprise. The squeal soon turns into a moan as the pain fades into pleasure. 

You smile slyly as you observe his muscular hands travelling from your hips all the way up to your waistline and tits. You gasp softly when you feel his erection on your back as his mouth nibbles the flushed skin of your neck, leaving soft love bites in his wake.

“I want you to cum inside me, Alex” you blurt out and take hold of his shaft from behind, slowly sliding the head though your tight moist slit in short thrusts. 

“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, biting his bottom lip as he feels your wet lips wrap around him. He instantly fills his hands with your hard nipples, squeezing and rubbing them as he looks at your reflection. “Anything for you, Y/N,” he mutters against your ear in a low, husky voice before knocking himself deep inside you, balls deep, making you scream. His hands roughly grip your thighs to keep you steady and close to him.

Small sobs leave you as you instinctively grab the ends of the sink, bending over to cope with taking him deeper. “Just there,” you yelp, panting, as he starts pounding harder, your hair twisted around his hand. With each thrust, his sack slaps against your clit, making you lose your shit.

Every time your pussy gets to the base of his cock, you pump into him with an intense tempo and move your hips around, making his cock swirl inside your body.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you cry out with shallow, jagged puffs, rising and resting your head on his shoulder.

He pinches your nipples between his knuckles with one hand while with the other, he starts massaging your clit with circular motions. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper in pure ecstasy as a hot flush courses through you, your cunt aching and begging to release.

“You take in me so well, baby. Give it to me,” he groans, his voice a throaty sensual rasp that makes you shudder.

“Yeees,” you scream, writhing and grinding against him until you feel warm liquid dripping down your legs. 

He keeps riding your orgasm out with you, fucking the liquids in back until he hits his own high. And then it happens—his cum gushing inside you, stuffing you up.

Out of breath, Alex pulls himself out of you, watching his cum leak out. He lazily grins at you, his curls sticking to his head, and you tuck them all back with trembling hands, giggling. 

“This pussy and her owner over here will be the death of me,” he chuckles, gasping for air as he pulls you in for a sloppy, heated kiss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[ohisms]

↪ ᵀᴴᴱ 𝑀𝐼𝐶𝐾 , ꮲꭲ 2 . (  a  series  of  sentence  starters  from  season  1  of fox's sitcom ,  “ the mick ” adjust phrasing as necessary . )

damn , [ name ] , how many cars can one person crash ?

i can't help it — when i'm behind the wheel , i'm a slave to the power of the machine .

other people worked very hard to buy those cars , and now they're mine .

why you gotta put me in a cage ?

i'm not a rat , okay ?

shut up , you don't know what you're talking about .

i am NOT joking , i don't wanna do this .

guys , we don't snitch . that's it , end of story .

will you listen to yourself ?? "jUsT tElL tHe tRuTh"

[ name ] , you snitch you die !

pretty sure that was already there when i walked up .

how is this good news ?

everyone's gonna call me a traitor , like you .

don't worry about it , it was worth it .

what are you doing tomorrow night ?

just say the words , and it can be yours .

oh , it's like that , huh ? fine .

what was that ? i can't hear you ... you can't breathe ?

you better figure something out , 'cause if you don't — i'll have to go public with this .

that's called extortion , stupid !

those guys are just covering their own asses , they don't even like you .

as easily as i can save you in this world , i can destroy you .

if anybody messes with you , let us know - okay ?

with a dong like that , you'd think he'd be happier .

do i look like i'm playing , [ last name ] ?

oh , your breath reeks of booze .

i hope you have a plan .

i was up all night watching prep school movies in preparation .

there are some real evil illuminati-type vibes in here , right ?

there was a time i could see , and i have seen .

oh , i'm just getting warmed up .

we are but food for worms , gentlemen .

whose burrito did i just step in ?

get out of here , the tv's mine .

what did you do to my shirt ??

how would you feel if i ran around stealing your clothes ?

we had to kill him cause he wasn't a team player .

no more special treatment for you .

i grew up in squalor , i am perfectly comfortable in it .

[ name ] , don't you dare !

didn't know you were gonna be so weird about it .

if you decide that you don't want me around , just tell me and i will go .

you're not the only game in town , buddy , okay ?

you don't know who i hang out with .

jealousy is the reason people hate us .

you don't have to worry about labels , just like who you like .

i hope this is some sort of emergency .

you kept me waiting , so i'm gonna get right to it .

don't make this your thing , this is [ name's ] thing .

suing is how rich white people solve their problems .

i wanted to sing and show you there's nothing to be afraid of .

i'm so nervous for you ... i want to throw up and run away .

you could have me escorted out , but you have no security .

ooh , dark scary room ! you know what they call that in prison ? they call that a blind spot . great place to catch a shiv .

what kind of operation are you running here ?

you didn't do anything wrong . i was the problem , not you .

where i'm from , the guest gets the good seat .

i drink , smoke , lie , steal ... i'm drunk right now .

i will ruin him . please don't let me do that .

i'm not the one doing whatever you guys are doing ... what are you doing ?

i'm not judging , at least he's a hot mess .

it's the wolf's job to eat the sheep , so y'know ... this was bound to happen .

i will RUIN you when we get home .

i'll give it back to you in a minute , you're gonna get it back .

the suit you destroyed cost a grand !

come on , [ name ] . i'll help you get settled .

he can't know it was my idea .

she made her mean bed and she can sleep in those scratchy sheets .

woah , tough day at the office ?

what the hell did you just say to me ?

you are right ... no matter what you say about anything .

we do this all the time , but usually there's some art to it .

this is not nearly as fun as i thought it was gonna be .

you're letting a bunch of nerds pick on you with their computers ?

why don't you just systematically destroy her ?

i can see where this is headed , so i'm just gonna hit the road .

she ripped me open , stuffed me full of devastation and then sewed me back up again .

leave me alone , this is all your fault .

why are they yelling ? are they angry cause they're bad musicians ?

i will never understand your generation .

let me have it . how bad is it ?

do you have any idea what i saw in there ?

you should come and check out what's going on outside , cause i think you'll be pleasantly surprised .

i just want us to be friends again .

it would be such a silly waste of time for someone like me to be mad at someone as insignificant as you .

the truth is , i pity you .

when the universe gives you a sign , it's not up to you to ignore it .

[ name ] gave it to me . it means i'm in charge .

i'm not comfortable with the whole arrangement . where's [ name ] ?

this is outrageous ! i'm getting passed over again ?

i don't have a problem , i'm just blowing off some steam .

you wanna get in on this ?

you deserve to take a time out as much as anybody else .

sorry , i didn't realize you were the fun police .

having money has reaaally changed you .

i've lost control ?! oh no , you dumb , dumb idiot . YOU'VE lost control .

that's a gross overreaction .

i will show myself the door in a ... graceful and classy manner .

thanks for sticking around .

look , i realize i did some questionable things in there .

i just felt like the universe was giving me a sign .

i'm the only one worthy of its power !

keep it in your pants and follow my lead .

it's no offense , i just don't know you very well .

let's go over this one more time , just so we're clear .

we've already been over the terms .

what's in it for you ?

i like the element of surprise .

wasn't expecting that . are you okay ?

i saw a burglar , i didn't know what to do ... so i SMOKED his ass !

you SHOT me ! what the hell's the matter with you ?

that gunpowder's like a hundred years old , it probably just broke the skin .

what about the police ? they're expecting a gunshot victim .

guys , we've gotta move this along , okay ?

you got it , i'll get you a pillow .

you're lucky no one was killed .

here's the thing about the bordeaux ... i drank it .

i'm so sorry that you had to keep our mansion warm .

how do you think the police found them ?

if you're done criticizing me , i think i'll head on up to bed .

you want me to do the jobs no one else wants ?

can we pick this up tomorrow ? i was shot , so ... i'm very tired .

it has nothing to do with that . okay ? now please leave .

i wanted to thank you for having my back earlier .

that had nothing to do with you . i was just trying to hurt them .

it's chloroform . i found a recipe online .

[ name ] , don't come at me with that .

i was gonna do whatever it takes . i'm not a quitter.

i wanna tell you , i really do . but first there's something i need .

oh my god , you're bailing again .

innocent people don't sneak in and out of their own home .

'cause i don't like you , that's why .

i'd rather get mowed down in a hellfire of bullets than listen to you screech .

you don't have to lie . i heard you guys .

how was i supposed to know you were gonna hug me ? i didn't even know you knew how to hug .

[goqmir]

im realizing that it feels very nice to turn my thoughts into 4 way conversations (where each person in the conversation is me, responding to myself) while i think about things to myself. it makes me feel better about decisions because it makes me believe a peer review process has occured. plus i already have 4 names that each give a different vibe so its fun attaching little bits of my inner monologue to different names and having them speak to each other in my head. its like im watching a sitcom in here

[burningvelvet]

I finished Moby Dick. So, to continue my former post(s) documenting my thoughts, here we are (spoilers ahead):

captain ahab: i am once again asking hast thou seen the white whale

Narrator, for the 5 millionth time describing captain ahab: "MONOMANIACAL. MONOMANIAC. MONOMANIA."

I was thinking "the homosexual themes everyone talks about are really exaggerated apparently…" and then I got to the chapter about sperm squeezing

Stubb meeting with the French in chap 91 had the exact vibe of a filler episode on a comedy sitcom

there are a lot of moments that reminded me of The Office ngl like i could just imagine stubb in the little interview chair just talking. so much meme material. he's seriously just doing his own thing. the little random characters like the blacksmith and carpenter just talking shit and side-eyeing ahab in the background lmaoooo

Saint George didn't kill a dragon, it was a whale #THETRUTHREVEALED #WHALETRUTHERS

It would have been hilarious if the British people told Ahab that they already killed Moby Dick already before he could get to it. I was so hoping that would happen. Bonus points if it was the Rachel after he'd turned them away.

Ahab discusses the topic of madness a lot. It's almost like he's… mad...

I vote Ahab for the most Byronic hero to ever Byronic… Heathcliff and Rochester have nothing on him… The origin of the Byronic hero, Byron's titular character from the narrative poem Childe Harold, is literally mentioned by name in the novel and had to be a blatant inspiration - it could not be more obvious! (I have yet to encounter the famed Byronic heroes of Russian literature, most notably Eugene Onegin, a work where Byron is also blatantly name-dropped).

Everyone thinking Queequeg was dying and having a coffin made to his measurements and filled with grave goods at his direction and then him literally climbing into the coffin to test it out and then waiting silently to die…. then all of a sudden getting better and saying he chose to recover bc he remembered he had something on his to-do list….. iconic

Ishmael referring to Queequeg as "my Queequeg…" omg. Queerqueg

Queequeg drawing figures like the ones on his tattoos omg… au story where Queequeg is an artist/tattoo artist when???

I was literally saying "AWWWWW" out loud when Ahab and Pip were having their little moments

The irony of Ahab abandoning the Rachel then it coming back for Ishmael… the coffin lifeboat… etc… good stuff…

okay ahab is my man but yeah he was an asshole to the captain of rachel.

also feel bad for tashtego. he wanted that gold doubloon so bad and ahab was like SIKE, MOTHERFUCKER! umm tashtego did not get cut out of a whale by queequeg to deal with ur shit ahab!

Once again wanting a Black Sails/Moby Dick AU… I found this essay about the similarities between Flint/Ahab https://ijms.nmdl.org/article/view/22389/14361

They only have like 2-3 little moments together but like… Starbuck/Ahab kind of outdoing Ishmael/Queequeg there for a moment… chaps 132/134… oh my godddddddddddddd whyyyyyyy

Captain Ahab's moments in chapters 36/37 AAAAAHHHHH you will see me being normal about this

I noted some of my favorite Ahab moments/chapters and they are 36/37/41/70/99/108/109/113/115/116/119/125/129/132/134/135. Like I may seriously just re-read those chapters (no offense to Melville's whale facts, Stubb's jokes, & Pip's insanity)

the end is kind of similar to the great gatsby in the sense that you finally realize the entire novel was actually written for him to cope with his grief-related trauma & then suddenly it all makes sense. the lingering, the sentimentality regarding seemingly insignificant details or people, the meandering/digressing/procrastinating getting to the end, etc.

there are actually several moments -- i don't know if he actually referred to ahab or the others in past-tense specifically, but there were several moments where i felt like i kind of thought he was giving away the end before he did (it wasn't a shock to me bc i read about the end prior, but still)

[emomeishibot]

First of all, I’m a proshipper; secondly, this post has no ships in it.

I drew kuro characters as a 2000s Chinese drama costume sitcom 武林外传 My Own Swordsman (no idea why is it translate to this name, the direct translation should be Wulin Anecdotes) Why I did this crossover: it’s just hilarious for me!! To help you understand my casting read further. I was like I want to send these sketches for tumblr but you can’t get this crossover so I might as well introduce it to you. I mean you might be intrigued by the referenced show, who knows? 🤭

Let me give you an analogy if you are not familiar with Chinese Kong fu themes novels: this show is a comedy kong fu drama, and a western narrative analogy for it could be if you have a team of DND characters but they never leave the tavern but instead they are the staff trying to make the tavern successful and solve all the crazy problems in this chaotic world and become family members(I hope this works)

The male lead character is a former Robin-hood-like legend burglar but now settled down working as the waiter; the female lead is an unmarried widow who came all the way to her fiancé only to find him dead and left her his mischievous little sister to look after, so she wiped off her tears and decided to buy the inn and start her business as the landlady right there and then. As for the little niece, rumors are that she’d grow up to be a murderous fiend…! But they don’t know yet…

So I drew Sebastian, Madame Red and Ciel as these roles🤲

y’all couldn’t have known how adorable it is for me without growing up with the show… btw the show goes for a relationship for the waiter and landlady eventually in the show but I drew them as work partners and friends^^Regarding how Madame Red teased Sebastian canonically makes me laugh remembering those early kuro shenanigans 😂I always hoped Madame stayed longer with us in canon, she so lovely. Imagine her running a tavern is such fun, the vibe of this show is crazy… just look at them

There’s a reckless, chivalrous former swordswoman as waitress, another former constable girl who is amiable but has no dating luck as waitress as well. I casted Jane and Mey-Rin (I really want to see Jane join the Phantomhive manor(if possible after the Breton arc)??she slays and I want to see her working with Sebastian! Also Mey-Rin is both clumsier and deadlier than her character)

And more: a fusty, nerdy moderate scholar who sold the family inn to the now landlady and now working for her as an accountant, for which I casted Grelle (her butler persona when she’s undercover is really close to how this character usually is lol but she would definitely hate how nerdy this character is, as she is working for Madame Red again in this crossover)

For the hot-headed, ambitious yet bad cook who was a constable, I cast Bard (I might redo him because I wanted to fit Finny in but I run out of the inn staff; Bard and him could be the constable master and apprentice duo from the show; Diedrich could step up as chef)

The setting is a fictional ancient China so the kong fu element is very overdramatic; also, there's a lot of modern references to the 2000s. If you watch the show's op you'll get it) And it’s a nationally beloved show of my generation^^ I hope my explanation got you interested instead of confused😳but I love this crossover and hope my kuro ppl on tumblr enjoy it😌Such long explanations for them little sketches; Thank you for coming to my ted talk???

[starberry-cupcake]

I have made the most 2008 goth forum-like banner I could create to put my liveblogging posts of tlt under because those are the vibes I find appropriate and it gives me nostalgia. If this was 2008 blogspot, you'd be hearing something like HIM's Wings of a Butterfly, or something like that, please picture that.

previously, in gideon the ninth:

this happened

were we are now:

I forced myself to stop reading for the day so I could update a sensible amount and not a thesis length post nobody will read

it wasn't easy to force myself to stop reading

you know how it is

so, turns out that protozoa was dead all along (ish)

people here die and live and kinda live-die and die-live, you know

dulcinea del toboso soraya montenegro septimus was hiding that fact

she has also not mentioned exactly how he died (she said an accident??? harrow said he was stabbed?? what, he fell on a sword heart first????)

I am still not done with her

I still don't trust her

she's gonna die and I'm gonna still think she's scheming

ANYWAY

gideon DID suspect harrow

she had a bit of a crisis over it in front of palmolive's salad

palmolive reacts by taking off and putting on his glasses 25 times

and harrow had my exact thought process of "she's gonna go to dulcinea instead of me if she finds out"

I am very unnerved at how much my thought process and harrow's have aligned so far

very concerned for my mental state

ANYWAY (vol. 2)

palmolive says what I said, that it's not harrowcita's style to kill so sloppily

gideon tells palmolive her past trauma and how all the kids in the ninth except her and harrowbeth died and how she blames herself because harrow kinda had the childhood of asuka langley soryuu in evangelion but worse

palmolive does this

camilla, the moon to my stars, the woman of the year, my qp wife, brings in harrow with a handcuff

so, let me set the scene

there's a guy's head in a box, gideon has told palmolive her life story, and in comes camilla with harrow on a kid harness like she's a scary parent at disneyland

this is a sitcom

anyway, they all go to dulcinea's lair and have a talk with the group

I still kinda stan yandere twin ianthe (sp??), I'm not gonna lie you folks

she's ooky kooky spooky in a fun way

like, deranged (affectionate)

so, as usual, nobody agrees on anything and everyone fights and dulcinea coughs up a hairball

now, harrow and gideon go to the pool

which is salty now, much like gideon

my first thought was "gideon can't swim, she's gonna drown like sonic!!"

but they could stand in the pool apparently so it's fine

I mean, physically it's fine, EMOTIONALLY not so much

it's time to come clean, share trauma and also maybe flirt in the pool, if that's what's going on here

I think it's what's going on

it's hard to tell with them, but there's tension, proximity and hugs and stuff

basically, if I understand correctly, the ninth put all the kids in an infomercial blender and harrowbean was powered into life

but gideon is baby hercules and survived

which explains why she was turned into a blood sprinkler and the next day she was doing push ups like a maniac

I mean, it explains why she could physically do that, not why she thought that's the safe thing to do

so the ninth was like ?????? and feared gideon

and proceded to treat her like konoha treated naruto uzumaki

no adult person in the ninth was making sound decisions, it's what I'm getting at

case in point: ortus and his mom were blown to bits

also, very important

if I understood right, there's a frozen girl in the ninth's fridge tomb

a frozen girl like dr victor fries's wife nora in batman, or hyoga's mom in saint seiya, or han solo

ice cube frozen girl with a sword and chains and the vibe of this specific barbie doll from the haunted beauty collection

it's like if snow white was the apocalypse

you're gonna hate all my references by the end of this

I'm so sorry

there's a threat in a girl, in the ice, in the tomb, in the ninth house, that's the gist of it

and harrow has existential trauma because pretty much every person below the age of 18 died for her to live, so she wants to make it count

and gideon is hercules who comes from elsewhere and has the genes of a demigod or a kryptonian

but all of that doesn't matter, what matters is that harrow says the most metal phrase ever and goes: "I am a war crime"

?????? HELLO?????

and here's the thing (I have told you this @lady-harrowhark ), this is the book @ me every time I discover some truth and I look at my ebook's progress bar

if you're not completely annoyed, I'll be back tomorrow with more reactions to reveals

[koostarcandy]

Hiii I would like to request #40 from hands with #26, 28 from Kisses and #42 from touching. Thank you 😊

favourite

pairing: idol!jungkook x reader

summary: jungkook spends a long night with his favourite person.

genre: mentions of alcohol intake, fluff :D

wc: 1.1k

summary: dw anonie i got your ask saying you wanted this with koo 😊 the prompts are "giggling while kissing" and "neck kisses" and "braiding the other’s hair" and "letting go when there is an obstacle in their way and immediately grabbing each other’s hand again when they pass it" pls follow the guidelines if you're requesting ^^ i spiraled idk what this is, my bad. pretty is said too many times, tell me another adjective for koo pls >.<

"shhh, you'll wake bamie!"

"bamie is at my mummy's!"

you both laugh at the sudden realisation, intertwined fingers swinging back and forth.

"need to lock the door, koo."

jungkook whines from the loss of contact and hugs you from the back, sniffing your neck and praising you about your choice of perfume for the night. your hands are almost immediately back together, helping each other out of your coats and shoes.

giddy from the alcohol and the vibes of the young night, jungkook reminsces of the perfectly grilled meat he had a few hours back.

"let's invest in a home grill, bro. we can have chicken galbi everyday and also get our protein in."

"sure thing, bro." you have absolutely no intentions of getting your protein intake but you'll take anything your pretty boyfriend makes. he's one of the best cooks you know, after all.

your hazy mind somehow remembers the small note you made in the taxi while coming back home, getting yourselves a tall glass of chill water.

jungkook's sat on his new couch (the mattress has gone into a spare room, much to the chagrin of you), spaced out and doe eyes focusing on a random spot on the wall.

"i want ramen, baby," he mumbles and his eyes are immediately on you, like he knew you were next to him, "hello, you!"

you shake your head, upset you can't fulfill one of his midnight cravings. "hello, you! you can't have gluten anything, remember what the doc said?" he pulls you closer to him, silently grateful to you keeping him check always.

"thank," peck "you," peck "for, hey let me finish!"

you start giggling at his sudden numerous kisses, cheeks turning a dusty pink. "hehe," you laugh gleefully and squish his cheeks, "thank you for everything, roundie" you say sincerely, glass of water long abandoned on the teak side table. (don't ask, jungkook 3.0 gives you whiplash every 5 seconds)

"roundie? that's new. what happened to koo? i liked koo, baby."

"you're koo and roundie and baby and boba ball and so much more, i love you."

"i love you more and no, i love you mostest."

you scrunch your nose at his wrong superlative, letting it slide for once. he considers you his strict english teacher, mentally shaking his head at the memory of you trying to teach the difference between your and you're to him and taehyung.

"oooh, water. let's have water!" you giggle at his americanized accent while pronouncing water, courtesy of the countless sitcoms and pass him the cold glass. he chugs half the glass, urging you to have the rest.

jungkook buries his face in your neck while you choose a random show to watch, to simply serve as background noise.

"how about how i met your mother?"

"my brain too slow now, choose something simpler,"

"friends?"

"i can't break my head over rachel and ross now, gimme something else!"

"brooklyn nine-nine? the office?"

"i finished both last week, hehe."

you glance at jungkook, slight glare directed his way. it melts when you meet his crescent eyes and you comply when he says, "let's watch something to do with cake!" you put on a show with an over-enthusiastic host, both of you wincing at the increase in volume.

you snuggle into your human heater, arms wrapped tightly around him. you can feel his slow and content breaths on your neck, absentmindedly giving you tiny pecks. you twist and squirm at the ticklish feeling, alas, the strong arms around you would never let you go.

"there we go, all clean!"

jungkook throws the cotton pad which he had put toner on, patting your cheeks.

"aigoo, so cute."

"i want to sleep, roundie."

"sleep with a side of cuddles, coming right up but we forget something."

you looks at him, sleepy eyes blinking at him, what could you have possibly forgotten now? you brushed your teeth, drank another glass of water and removed your makeup.

"i can't have you complaining about knots in your hair tomorrow baby, let's tie that up!"

you nod, agreeing with him, "pass me a scrunchie, the black one matches with pjs," long, tattooed fingers reach for the silky scrunchie but he hesitates to give it to you.

"what's wrong? did it tear again?" you ask, lips turning downwards at another fallen soldier. he shakes his head, "i want to do it, teach me?"

"of course!" you turn around and part your in 3 bunches, carefully explaining to plait it neatly. "honestly, it doesn't matter if it's neat or messy. i just want-" "your bangs out of your face, got it."

you smile up at him, which prompts him to sneak a small spiderman kiss, smiling at your adorable, sleepy self. "here we go," jungkook mumbles to himself, deft fingers plaiting your hair and humming a random melody.

"all done," he turns you around and fixes your hair, kneeling infront of you to be face-to-face. you swear you can see your reflection in his ever sparkly eyes. "you look pretty," jungkook cups your face, pecking your lips in the most adorable way ever.

"you look prettier, koo," you assure him, long strands slipping through your fingers when you comb through his hair.

"did you put serum?"

"on our faces? yes. on our hair? no..." jungkook pouts, slightly bummed at missing a step in your night routine.

"its okay, my love, let's get to the sleeping part, now please?" jungkook effortlessly carries you to your side of the bed, leaning over you to switch off the yellow light which had been adorning your faces.

the moonlight does justice to your lover, decorating his tan skin, making him seem more ethereal than ever. he settles on your chest, sighing in content at the sound of your beating heart.

"your hair's long enough to make a dutch braid," you mumble, fingers combing through his silky hair. "what was that, my love?" jungkook asks, fingers under your t-shirt and tracing lovesick patterns into your skin.

"a dutch braid, for your hair koo."

"do it then, squishy," his tattooed hand reaches out for your cheeks, squishing them and leaning up to kiss your pouting lips. you push his head back on your chest and play around with his hair, suddenly concentrated to make the prettiest braid for the prettiest boy you know.

"koo, look, i-" you're cut off by a sudden snore, his large hands still on your waist. you don't mind the dead weight, akin to a weighted blanket except it's your own boyfriend.

you let go of the braid, trusting your roundie would demand to see one in the morning. you take this as a cue to follow his footsteps, slowly slipping to dreamland.

pt time: @armys-dna ; @joondiary ; @soobhyun ; @shatzkrinslinzki ; @highly-functioning-mitochondria ; @taegisms ; @cherishoshi

[morganski-19]

I cannot stop myself from thinking of more fic ideas or making more wips. But, I had an idea for a bunch of short little ficlets that would all be in the same universe, and could be compiled into longer chapters to post on ao3, but probably won't.

I just need someone to tell me that it's worth it or it's stupid so I won't do it.

So here's the idea.:

Friends-style apartment shenanigans with the spicy six.

Like Steve and Robin as Joey and Chandler, best friends who's apartment is pure chaos.

Eddie and Nancy would be estranged high school friends (aka Monica and Rachel) who now live with each other across the way.

And of course, Steddie and Ronance would spawn from that.

Jonathan and Argyle are best friends who live with each other across the street. It's always a question of whether or not they are dating yet because they sure act like it and already live together. (They aren't but that's not the point (they will be eventually)).

Argyle gives Pheobe vibes, so he fits that part perfectly. Jonathan would be Ross because I ran out of people but be significantly better of a person than Ross. (Ignore that Ross slander, I hate that man)

But anyway, it would just be a bunch of weird situations that they all get into just living in the city, so real story arc or anything other than the couples getting together in the end. But it could be something like, Steve buys something weird and they talk about it for a while, or one of them gets a promotion and the celebrate. The last person Steve slept with (cause he's the Joey in this situation if that wasn't clear) had a weird belly button.

Just weird shit that doesn't really have a point for a whole fic but is fun to read/write. Like a sitcom.

Would anyone read this?