tirednamelessguy

[tirednamelessguy]

Currently rewatching Vinland Saga and recalled how in the middle of this very serious and hard-hitting episode, there's this random villager who looks way too good and he appears for like 1 second and never again, like??? The hell? Idk if this was the choice of the animators or if Makoto Yukimura himself drew him but like why? Why make him so hot if [SPOILERS] you wanna kill him off within the next minute??

[tirednamelessguy]

I found the most Tim Stoker fit ever while shopping

[tirednamelessguy]

My Kitya :)

One thing you should know about me i will always welcome pics of pets. always

[tirednamelessguy]

Finish? Girl, I need to start my book 😓

[tirednamelessguy]

I can't explain why but this genuinely brought tears to my eyes.

[tirednamelessguy]

GERRY KEAY, THE LOVE OF MY LIFE 😭😭

[tirednamelessguy]

I think we writers, despite being artists, don't talk about the concept of a muse enough. Sure, writing is not a visual medium so a 'muse' isn't incorporated in an obvious and direct way as it can be in visual mediums but at the same time... we use muses all the time without even realising it. I have written characters straight from my life multiple times without even considering a single of them my 'muse' even though they were an inspiration. I guess it depends on how you would personally define a writing muse but in general, it's a person who inspires you to write a character, a theme, a story etc. for one or more works. I never really thought about it until I found someone I could call a muse. And to celebrate that fact, I present to you, my muse:

THE Jeonghan Yoon!

This man is so beautiful, he doesn't just inspire a character for me, he inspires me to write in general, he inspires me to pace around in my room and come up with detailed, descriptive prose until I lose track of time and reality. I could spend hours on Pinterest collecting pictures of him for the aesthetic that suits my book and only stop when I personally throw in the towel because there is an endless supply of good, heck, ethereal-looking photos of this man because he serves looks every waking second of his life. I cannot say enough about him. Probably the most beautiful man I've seen in my life. 'Beautiful' doesn't even come close to describing his angelic grace but whatever. I don't even like him like that. I am a huge fan of Seventeen and of all the members but he is not my favourite yet I cannot deny the sight for sore eyes that is his face. I could go on but you get the point.

TLDR: Jeonghan is my muse and I could shut up about it.

[tirednamelessguy]

❥ quick lil fic for Spike Spiegel my beloved ❥ ft. dancing, a little drinking, a lot of flirting ❥ now playing: Messages from the Stars - The Rah Band

He moved with an easy grace, embodying the music in a way you wouldn’t have guessed from his lanky frame and rumpled suit. The flashing club lights gilded his dark curls and dripped down his sharp limbs. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. 

A sheen of sweat glued his dress shirt to his muscled chest, his eyes thankfully closed as you stared shamelessly. You had been nursing a drink for the last hour since your friends had gone home with conquests early on. It seemed that your patience had been worth it, though you wondered how you hadn’t noticed the gorgeous stranger sooner.

You slammed down the rest of your glass and hopped off the bar stool in a burst of courage, shouldering your way through the swaying mass of people out to forget about their problems with a little music and a lot of alcohol. You wove your way to the edge of the dance floor, claiming a spot just beside the tall man as you began to dance on your own. 

The DJ was better than usual, spinning something deep and synthy that rattled your spine. You let the rhythm sweep you up, swinging your hips and sliding your hands along your chest and waist as you tried to catch his eye. Up close, you could see the wrinkles in his dark blue suit, a wide collar narrowing into the too-thin tie around his neck. It fit tightly around his shoulders, straining a little in a way that made you anxious to see what he looked like beneath the sweaty yellow button-down. 

“Just planning on staring all night, or are ya gonna come talk to me?” The cocky voice came from the man beside you. He took a slow glance up and down your body, winking when his eyes landed back on your flushed face. 

“I wasn’t staring!” You protested lamely.

“Sure, sure. It’s my personal policy not to argue with a pretty lady,” he smirked, hands up in mock surrender. The gesture only made you realize how long his fingers were, the strength in his calloused hands... Fuck, you were staring again.

“My eyes are up here,” he teased. “And the name’s Spike.” 

“Funny name.”

He shrugged, still smiling. “I’m a funny guy.” 

“Is that right?” You tried to slip an edge into your voice but all that came out was a tease. And he seemed to like it, judging by the way he danced closer, all sharp angles and smooth smiles.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He didn’t crowd you, just grinned down behind that dark green halo of strobe-lit hair. “You here on your own?”

“My friends found distractions already.” You shrug, trying to match his nonchalance.

“My bad. I should’ve asked, are you seeing anyone?” He paused, laughed a little before correcting himself again. “Lemme be specific. Are you seeing anyone who’d try to kick my ass if I danced with ya?”

“Are you asking me to dance, Spiky?”

“Are you saying yes?” He closed the gap between your bodies and hovered his hands over your waist, bending to whisper against your ear. “And it’s Spike.”

“Okay, Spike,” you murmured back, a little dizzy from the closeness of him, the heat of his breath on your skin. “Let’s dance.”

His big hands settled on your waist, heavy and grounding. The song changed almost as if he’d cued it, and his grin widened as he twirled you out to arm’s length before spinning you back against his chest.

The hi-hat settled in his hips. Each beat hit somewhere in his body, passed down along his arms and legs in fluid motions. He pulled you along with him, swept up in the tide of his dancing.

“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” You asked, leaning close to be heard over the music. His laughter spilled like soda, bubbly and sticky-sweet. You felt it more than heard it, pouring down your spine.

“Everybody can dance, doll. But not everybody does.”

He had you then, even if he didn’t know it yet. You were caught up in the rhythm of him, the rumpled sexiness of his devil-may-care attitude, the sparks that lit up the dingy club when your bodies touched.

You were proud that you could keep up with him, the effort of it making your cheeks flush. You slunk around him, matching his moves with ones of your own that brought you ever-closer, your hand slipping down his chest, your ass pressed against his waist as you dropped to the floor and climbed back up.

Spike followed your lead, touching only where you had invited him to. His eyes flashed as you pressed up against him with a knowing smile. He smirked, made no effort to hide the effect you had on him, his hands eagerly mapping each new territory you opened on your body. By the time the dance ended you were entwined.

In a surge of confidence, endorphins and alcohol swirling in your gut, you curled your fingers around his lapels and tugged him in for a breathless kiss. He returned it instantly, his lips soft and yielding against yours. You felt him smile as you nipped at his bottom lip before breaking away.

He smiled crookedly, running a hand through his unruly hair. “You’re something.”

“Something good, I hope.” He nodded confidently.

“Very good. Hey, do you smoke?” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t, but I’d watch you do it.”

Spike laughed. “Cute answer.” He took your hand and led you off the floor and out a side door. You thought for one wild moment that you would’ve followed him anywhere.

The night was clear and cold. It sobered you a little, your ears still ringing with the aftermath of the music. He let you go and leaned against the wall to fish a crumpled box of cigarettes from his pocket. He began patting his chest and thighs for a lighter but came up empty.

You watched for a bit, entertained, then caved and pulled a lighter from your purse. “Use mine.”

“Thought ya didn’t smoke?”

“I don’t. But sometimes someone needs a light.”

He smiled slowly, then shook his head. “I’m glad I’m the one who gets it tonight.” He watched you from under his eyelashes as he tapped out a cig.

You clicked on the lighter but didn’t move closer. The smile seemed permanently stuck to his face as Spike leaned closer, forced to bend over your outstretched hand to catch the flame. He sucked in, the tip of his cigarette a flickering orange moth.

“How does it taste?” He gave it some thought, the span of a few more exhales into the dark.

“Terrible,” he said finally. “But it takes the edge off.”

“Do you have much of an edge?”

His lips curled like the smoke. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” His voice was harsher out here, raspy and low, but his eyes were softer. You let his words linger and dissipate under the stars.

“Can I have a taste?”

He wrinkled his nose and waved you off, tongue-in-cheek disapproving. “No way. Not if you’ve never done it before, don’t want ya blaming me when you get hooked. Kills the mood.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Hm? Mmphh…!” You don’t give him time to process your words before you’re kissing him again, pinning him back against the wall. His eyes go wide, his fingers flex, then both close tight as he melts into you. The cig falls forgotten to the concrete.

Spike curls into you, holding your icy cheeks in his warm palms as he kisses you back passionately. You taste the cigarette on his lips, but it’s drowned out by something deeper, then washed away entirely when he slips his tongue into your mouth. He swallows your moans, holds you up when your knees buckle at the way he teases you, pulling away to kiss the corners of your mouth before diving back in deep.

He’s stronger than you but pretends not to be, happy to let you hold him down on the wall, your fingers tangled in his hair. He spreads his legs, letting you move between them to press against his growing hardness.

Spike’s hands are restless, moving from your cheeks to your shoulders to the small of your back, molding you to his shape. He breaks first, breathing hard with his forehead pressed to yours. He crushes the smoldering cigarette under his heel.

The stars are even closer when you open your eyes, drawn in by the gravity between you and Spike. They gather like they want to hear a secret, and when his kiss-bitten lips find your ear, murmuring an invitation or a promise, they blush with you.

[tirednamelessguy]

Doodled this a while back cause I was excited about my fountain pen. (I'm not an artist so no judging)

[tirednamelessguy]

Curious how this popped up on my feed the day the touchpad on my laptop randomly stopped working so I have to operate it using only the keyboard like a DOS computer or whatever until I get a mouse

Laptops are always so much more Fucked than phones in my experience. A laptop is like a beautiful horse that wants nothing more than to break all of its legs. A decently solid android phone will act normal

[tirednamelessguy]

he just lost talking privilege

[tirednamelessguy]

How to get this song out of my head?

[tirednamelessguy]

Focus on the show man

[tirednamelessguy]

Just thinking about the fact that this man is about to be animated

[tirednamelessguy]

Just thinking about the fact that this man is about to be animated

[tirednamelessguy]

WHAT? EXCUSE ME WHAT?? WE'RE GETTING AN ANIME OF THIS ABSOLUTE GOAT OF A MANGA???

[tirednamelessguy]

Someday, I'm gonna get a big, black dog, maybe a wolf-dog, preferably male (but we're not sexist) and name it Alucard and I'll put on a Spanish Inquisition fit for Halloween and walk around Shibuya station with Lulu on leash (that will be his nickname) like a baller and everyone will envy the blood-soaked Protestant hell out of me