#i used to rip music but something about doing it with movies is a little intimidating

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!! #my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her) #hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet. #i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!! #i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art. #i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

[jinkiezzsstuff]

Hello!!! i’m not sure if your doing requests or not. but i was wondering if you could do an Alastor x reader and everyone is doing movie night and i wanted to know his reaction to the said chosen movie Bambi, I’m currently whatching bambi and thought about this😅

Hiya! I thought this was such a cute little dabble in could do, so i got it out pretty quick! I never explicitly stated i do request but i do! Perhaps i’ll make a formal request post but for now i will take the ones that do come as they do. I really hope this is what you imagined i haven’t watched bambi in years! Xx

Movie night

PT 2

Words: 830

Alastor x gn reader

Warnings: Nada really, just bambi’s momma died rip disney love killing parents also could be read platonically or romantically

“C’mon please.” Charlie begged you, hands clasped in front of her as she gently bounced on her heels. She was in the middle of begging you to talk Alastor into watching Bambi for tonight’s movie night. An exercise thought up by Charlie to have all of the patrons sit quietly and enjoy something together as a group, no fighting, no judgement, just relaxation as a unit.

But of course Alastor wasn’t a fan of said “picture shows” so Charlie enlisted you to do the sweet talking. After some more begging on Charlie’s part you gave in, knocking on Alastor’s door. You could already hear him humming happily to himself on the other side, sound increasing as he got closer. When he opened the door to you he visibly perked, seemingly pleased to see you. “Hello dear, what can i do for you?” Standing out of the way he outstretched his arm towards the inside of his bedroom. Smiling you gladly stepped in, feeling fairly comfortable around the demon and his presence at this point.

“Well, Charlie wants to have a movie night, everyone voted for Bambi, thoughts?”

“Ha, no.” Alastor cackled promptly shutting you down, it rolled off your back though, you expected this kind of response. “Y’know Al, the TV was a staple of 1936, and Bambi came out in 42, that’s ten years tops away from your time. It’s a musical too so up your alley, technocolour and it’s about deer. This is your movie man!” You exclaim excitedly, Alastor watched you theatrically explain with a fond look.

Once Alastor sighed dramatically you knew you were in. “Alright dear i’ll watch this silly moving picture with you.” Smiling, you stood tall linking your arms to his. “That’s why they call it a movie, it’s moving. See Al, not so bad you already know the lingo.” Alastor said nothing as you dragged him along amused by what he presumed was your nonsensical ramblings.

Once in the room with all the lights dimmed, a large tarp pulled over a fireplace, since Angel professed that “Projecta’s are just betta” as the excuse to not use a TV. Alastor snapped his fingers, changing both his and your clothes to loungewear of the 1930’s which you decided not to argue against due to him being so receptive of the whole movie thing. Once settled down, you mushed against the arm of the couch and Alastor, beside Alastor Husk, who kept a great inch from Al. And ontop of Husk, Angel, who wouldn’t leave no matter what Husk, or Al said.

Nifty sat in a little rocking chair, compliments of Alastor, Pentious was curled up with the egg bois, on the floor, and Vaggie shared a large bean bag with Charlie cuddled in together. At first things were fine, Alastor’s radio would hum along occasionally with the tunes, and you watched his ears occasionally flick at certain sounds in the movie.

It wasn’t until Bambi’s mother died that things went astray. Something in Alastor ticked, and suddenly he was pin straight unmoving and it was concerning. By this point everyone was zoned into the plot or sleeping- it seemed like only you noticed his change in demeanour. Softly placing your hand on his arm you asked for him to accompany you to the kitchen for some water, Alastor of course agreed being the gentleman that he is.

Once away from others ears you gave him a pointed look, one that told him he’d better tell the honest truth. “Is everything alright Al?” You asked, watching as he leaned forward on the island looking toward you who stood on the other side. It looked as if he was searching for an excuse, but you weren’t letting up so easy. Walking toward him you met his eyes. “I can keep a secret.” You promise in a whisper. Sighing static Alastor seemed a little peeved about your pestering but nonetheless didn’t blame you. “I suppose it reminded me of my mother, i’ll never see her again. I’m a lonely orphan deer, hahaha,” Alastor chuckled dryly, cocking his head side to side as he laughed.

“Not to mention those hunters are buffoons, most of the prize lies within a buck and their antlers. No sense in hunting doe really.” Alastor finished explaining, he felt weak humanly so, but he always did with you, it was like your very presence was truth serum and he couldn't help but sing out the truth whenever you’d ask him for it. With a gently hand against his shoulder you gave him a tight squeeze. “Maybe one day you’ll be able to see her again, I hope you can.”

Alastor hummed not paying much attention to the sentence, but he was at least happy he did have you, after all he told you many things, and you did manage to keep it to yourself. Composing himself again Alastor stood tall. “Well let’s go finish this movie dear! I can’t just walk out now!”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oneshots #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x you #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel fluff #alastor x reader fluff #hazbin hotel x you

[sturnioloscenarios]

The back of the car

Matt Sturniolo❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Summary: The triplets are filming a car video and all of the fans wants y/n to join. When you finish filming you and Matt takes things to the next level in the back of the car.❤️‍🔥

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Warnings⚠️: smut, praise, use of pet names as good girl and baby.

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Matt’s pov:

“Alright guys today we are going to be reacting to your biggest fears!” Nick yells from the backseat of the car. We are filming our weekly car video. “We put a question thingy on our instagram so you guys could tell us what your biggest fears are, so let’s goooo!” Chris says excitedly.

“Omg, everybody keeps saying that y/n should join a car video” Nick says looking at me with a slight smirk. “I know, they are going crazy. ‘Make y/n join, y/n should be in a car video” Chris reads.

“Well I mean she is in LA right now” I say quietly. “WHAT? She is? I didn’t know.” Nick exclaims. “Let’s ask her then!”

Y/n lives pretty far away. So sadly we don’t get to see her often. Which sucks cause I really like her. We are not dating but I think she might feel something for me too.

“Can you call and ask her Matt?” Chris asks. “Sure” I say trying not to sound too excited. I pull up my phone to call her and I put it on speaker. She answers the phone and her pretty voice says “Hi Matt, what’s up?”. “Hey y/n, we’re just filming a car video and everyone is suggesting that you should join. And you are in LA right?” I ask. “Yeah I’m just visiting a friend right now.” She replies. “Well if you want to it would be great if you would join us”. I say. She laughs cutely. “Uuhhmm. Sure that would be fun” she says hesitating. “Okay, can we pick you up in like 10 minutes?” “That sounds good” she says. “Great then I’ll see you then” I say. “See you Matt” she says and hangs up.

A little smile grows on my lips and Chris notices . “Uuuuuu Matt. What are you so excited for?” He asks. I punch him on his shoulder and he laughs.

“Omg that’s so awesome. Let’s go and pick her up!” Nick yells.

We arrive at y/n’s friend’s house and I text her that we’re here. “I’ll go up and get her” I say. “Go get her tiger” Chris says laughing. I don’t answer him.

I walk up to the door and out she comes. “Hi Matt, it’s so good to see you” she says. She looks at me with the biggest most beautiful eyes. I smile and say “Hey y/n it’s nice to see you too”. She gives me a hug and I feel my cheeks turning red. She smells so good and sweet. “You’re ready?” I ask. “Yep I just need to put my shoes on” she says and does so.

We walk over to the car and Chris and Nick gets out to greet her. “Y/N!!!” Chris yells running towards her. Both Chris and Nick gives her a big hug, and we all get into the car.

Y/n sits in the backseat with Nick. I like seeing her there. I start to think about what I would do to her back there if we were alone. How I would rip off her clothes and kiss her all over her body. How I would put my dick in her innocent little mouth. And how I would fuck her till the whole neighborhood knows our names.

“Matt? Helloooo?” Chris yells. “What’s you biggest fear?” I snap out of my dirty thoughts and look at Chris. “Uhm, idk maybe dying alone” I say. “Ketchup!” Y/n yells and everyone laughs.

We proceed to film the video and when we’re done Chris says “aahhhh that was a great video. Let’s get home and watch a movie. Wanna come y/n?”. “Sure that would be nice” y/n answers. I start the car and drive home.

As we enter our driveway Nick gasps. “Fuck, we forgot to buy snacks!” He yells. “It’s okay. I will go get some” I say. “I can go with you” y/n says with a smile. My cheeks turn red again. “Nice, let’s go then.” Nick and Chris leaves the car and

y/n moves to the front seat.

“That was fun” y/n says looking at me. “Yeah that was great. The fans are gonna love you.” I say. She smiles at me. The music in the car is still playing and suddenly Trust issues by Drake comes on.

“I’ve really missed you y/n” I gain enough confidence to say and I put my hand on her thigh. “I’ve missed you too” she says. We lock eyes and I start moving closer to her. Our lips collide and she grabs my head. The kiss starts off soft, but it quickly evolves and our tongues are now fighting for dominance.

I grab her by her ass and pull her up to sit on my lap without separating from the kiss. She starts grinding her hips on my lap and I feel my bulge growing in my pants. I guide her hips with my hands that are still placed on her ass and a little moan escapes her lips.

She separates from the kiss and reach for my shirt to pull it off. I do the same to her. She is wearing a pretty red bra. She comes in to kiss me again. She makes her way down i front of my seat and is now on her knees. She unbuttons my pants and reach down for my now fully hard throbbing cock. “Fuck y/n” I say in a low voice.

She licks her palm and grabs my dick. She gives it a few strokes before spitting on it. She gives the tip a kittylick and then put the whole tip in her mouth. Her mouth is warm and wet. I look Down on her and collect her hair in my hands.

She licks from the bottom of my dick to the tip and then puts me in her mouth and deepthroats. I moan loudly and say “fuck baby, you’re taking me so well”. She starts bouncing her head on my cock and I gently guide her with my hands.

“Fuck, fuck y/n I’m gonna cum”. She speeds up her pace and I throw back my head in pleasure. I start thrusting my hips up against her bruising her throat and small whimpers escapes her mouth.

My abs tightens and i feel release. My warm cum is shooting down her throat. I hear her swallowing. She pulls away from my dick and it comes out with a pop. I caress her cheeks and say “such a good girl for me”. She looks at me and smiles. I take her hand and pull her up to my lap again. I kiss her. I can taste myself in her.

I start making my way to the backseat and she follows. “I’m not done with you” I say as I roughly lay her down on her back in the backseat. I pull off her shorts along with her black g-string and her bra. She is now completely naked in the back of my car. I feel in control. I signal for her to spread her legs and i throw them over my shoulders on each side of my head.

I plant kisses on her inner thighs and slowly make my way down to her pretty pussy. She’s breathing heavy. I then place my flattened tongue on her throbbing clit and i I start eating her out. She grabs my hair and push me down against her. She try’s to hold back her moans but she can’t.

I feel her getting wetter and wetter. She pulls off my head, looks me in my eyes and says “Please fuck me Matt. I need you.” I feel myself getting hard again. I hover over her and give her a soft kiss. “I will fuck the shit out of you babe. I will have to carry you everywhere for the next 5 days.” I say.

I reach down for my hard cock, give it a few strokes and run it threw her wet folds. “Please don’t tease me Matt”. Without warning I slam my dick into her. Her mouth is now wide open. I give her no time to adjust and start to pound her so hard the air gets beat out her lungs. “So tight for me baby” I say. “Fuck Matt I can’t take it” she says between moans. “Yes you can baby. Just breathe”.

I proceed to thrust in and out of her in a fast pace and I feel my orgasm building. “Matt I can’t hold on much longer. I’m

g-gonna cum” she says stuttering.

I reach down for her clit and starts massaging it with circular motions. That brings her to her orgasm.

She closes her eyes shut and moans almost pornographic. That is enough to bring me over the edge as well and I come inside her. I keep slowly thrusting in her to ride out my high.

I pull out of her and see my come running out of her sore pussy. I reach down to push it back inside her with my fingers.

I lay down next to her trying to gain back my breath. She moves closer to me and puts her hand on my chest. “That was awesome” she say cutely. “You are so fucking hot y/n.” I say looking at her. She smiles at me and and lay her head on my shoulder.

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Hey guys. I hope you enjoyed this fanfic. I got a little long but I hope that’s okay. Tell me if you have any suggestions💖💖💖

#matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #smut #hot as fuck #cars #Spotify

[dduane]

In the TIL (Thematically Peripatetically) dep't

In the classic British war movie Ice Cold in Alex, one character who blames himself for a drinking problem that may have cost someone else their life declares he's not going to take another drink until he and the people fleeing across the African desert with him can sit down and have "an ice cold lager in Alex[andria]." This promise he keeps.

The interesting part lies in how the promise plays out on film.

A background issue (from the production standpoint) of what makes this scene so interesting is that it's always hard to get any scene right in just one take. There were apparently a fair number of takes on this shot.

The producers apparently tried hard to substitute something non-alcoholic for the beer, but this proved impossible, as there was no way to fake the head. So they used real beer.

John Mills, professional that he was, drank them one after another in multiple takes. As a result, co-star Sylvia Syms describes him as having been "a little heady" when they were done with that scene.

Another less problematic problem (as such things go...) was that the novel by Christopher Landon on which the film was based has the actors drinking a US beer called Rheingold... which the producers ruled out. They they felt there was no way the characters would willingly be drinking a German (or German-sounding) beer after being pursued across North Africa by the Afrika Korps. So Carlsberg was substituted.

...And it's at this point that things start to veer. @petermorwood was telling me about this, some of which I knew... but not about the Rheingold.

"Really?" I said. "You're kidding me!"

"Why?" he said.

At which point I did what any New Yorker of a certain age might very likely do under such circumstances: I burst into song. (And frankly, because you don't need to hear me doing that, here are the Golden Girls doing it.)

Rheingold was the best-selling beer in the New York metropolitan area, and apparently in New York state as well, at least partly due to numerous aggressive advertising campaigns on radio and then on TV. That jingle was known, in many permutations—including one in 6/8 time that appears in this stop-motion-animated commercial—by lots and lots of people.

Including me. So I sang it (at least some of it: I couldn't remember the final couple of stanzas) and Peter and I looked at each other in mild bemusement. "You think your mind's full of useless garbage," I said, "try mine sometime!" And we laughed and went back to whatever we'd been doing.

Out of curiosity, I then went over to YouTube to see (as I sometimes do) whether I was anywhere near the original key of the best-known version of the jingle while singing. Turns out I was pretty close. But along the line, I stumbled across the blog of a retired librarian who clued me in on something startling:

That jingle's music was ripped off, in whole cloth, from a French composer... whose authorship is apparently routinely obscured by the name of the music's (possibly better-known?) arranger.

Here it is, and apparently misattributed as above, in full classical glory: the Estudiantina Waltz. (Warning: the main chorus is a bit of an earworm, and you may not be able to get rid of it easily. I know I won't be, for the day anyway...)

...So that's the local installment of Today I Learned. May yours (if you have one) be way more useful and interesting. :)

#Youtube #Rheingold beer #Golden Girls #Paul Lacôme #Émile Waldteufel #Ice Cold in Alex #John Mills #tw: alcohol #tw: alcoholism

[redwiccanrobin]

Bob’s Burgers is one of my favorite shows ever. It’s one of my comfort shows. So often adult animations rely on being crude and offensive to be entertaining. Or they lean heavily on abusive family dynamics. After a time, it becomes tiresome. I’m someone who enjoys the kindness in others, not their cruelty. That’s not a revolutionary thing to say, I know. But a lot of adult animation and it’s fans want that offensive stuff, wants to see families rip each other apart whether that be emotionally or physically. But Bob’s Burgers is different.

For so long adult animation pertained to the bad dad trope. We had the Peter Griffins and the South Park dads, for example. But Bob Belcher is a breath of fresh air. It’s been stated that Bob did not have a good childhood. We do know some of the extent of why it was bad. Bad enough that he feels viscerally uncomfortable with his father’s presence. However, Bob didn’t pull a Hank Hill where he just shut down his emotions. He made the decision to be emotionally present.

Tina is awkward and deals with an ever-present loneliness. She feels like an outsider in the world. Constantly voicing her feelings and her frustrations that she doesn’t have true friends outside of her siblings. Rather than just brush her aside, Bob is constantly trying to build her confidence. Bob was an awkward kid who didn’t have true friends. He understands and empathizes with Tina. At one point, he tells her that he would have been lucky to have had her as a friend when he was her age. He shows her the kindness that he never got as a kid.

Gene is a colorful weirdo who dreams big. He’s this bubbly boy who expresses himself however he wants. His passion in life is his very odd and strange music. Bob doesn’t understand it, quite frankly. But rather than react in hostility due to his confusion, Bob looks at his son with wonder. And so many times he tries to reach out to Gene. It works, there are a lot of episodes where they spend time together. Bob, again, doesn’t really understand what Gene does or is interested in, but he tries to. He actively encourages his son’s creativity and loves how strange he is. He’s shows him the acceptance that he needed as a kid.

Louise is quite different from those around her. She’s not one to just run around and ask to be friends with others. Unlike Tina, she’s fine with this. But she still has insecurities that many of us have. She worries about how others view her. Her arc in the movie is all about that. But, with the help of Linda, Bob is able to reassure Louise. Louise takes Bob’s words to heart. He’s not only her dad, he’s her best friend. They joke and banter with the knowledge that they still love one another. He gave her the companionship that he needed as a kid.

The reason Bob’s Burgers and the Belchers stand out amongst the adult animation field is that it proves something. It proves that you don’t need to be cruel and vicious to succeed. You can have an emphasis on kindness. There were notes that the writers got that the Belchers quote “liked each other too much.” But that’s part of the enjoyment for many of us. It can get exhausting watching shows like American Dad and modern Family Guy where there’s little to no love between the families. Bob’s Burgers is the opposite of those shows. It’s a damn good show and a lot of that has to do with the fact that Bob is a damn good dad.

#bob’s burgers #bob’s burgers meta #bob belcher #tina belcher #gene belcher #louise belcher

[elli3luvs]

falling in love at a coffee shop pt. 3 [ELLIE W]

summary: watching movies with your favorite barista was never easier

genre: fluff/angst

wc: 1.9k

a/n: thank you guys for loving this! i don't feel as if im too good at telling stories but im glad you guys enjoy it hehe sorry if i missed anyone on the tags as well!!!!

part two

Who even knew video stores were still a thing? You surely didn't think they were — you were almost certain they died out in the late 2000s with the rise of streaming services. Every store around town seemed to be shuttered up. But Ellie, being the cool girl she is, somehow knows of a still operating movie store. You have to admit, putting in a DVD somehow feels cooler than pulling it up on Netflix. There was something about the sound of the DVD player that made you a little giddy. The giddiness was totally not because of the girl standing in front of you.

Totally not.

She raises her eyebrows when the tray slides back into her DVD player, "Super cool, huh? Feels... retro." She lets out a shaky breath while rubbing the back of her neck. She makes her way over to the couch — plopping down, making your body slide closer to her. Her scent fluttered over your nose. She smelled woody and like coffee.

On brand.

You still couldn't believe you were sitting in Ellie's living room. The room smelled similar to her minus the coffee smell. The room wasn't necessarily tidy but it wasn't overly dirty. There wasn't trash everywhere but random trinkets were scattered over the surfaces. There were hoodies thrown over the backs of chairs and a couple of empty water bottles on her coffee table. Lived in is what you would describe it as. There were a couple of picture frames on a mantel above her TV but the room was too dark to make out the figures. 

"I haven't watched anything on DVD in like, I don't know, years." You let out a small laugh as the home screen pulls up. It was a movie you have never heard of, but it looked similar to Star Wars. Grand music filled the room before she turned the sound down a bit. 

Ellie nods at your words, "I love it," You turn your head to look at her. There was a giddy look in her eyes you have never seen before, "Going to the video store is, like, my number one hobby."

You laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement, "What about making coffee?" 

Ellie clicks the 'Play Movie' option and a bright light flashes over her face as the commercials play before the movie. You forgot movies used to have commercials even on the home versions. 

She rolls her eyes playfully at your question, "Making coffee is my job. Even though I love it, I definitely don't want to think of it once I'm out of there."

"I get that." 

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you. It's hard not to stare at her through your peripheral. All you wanted to do was stare at her. You feel her legs pressed against yours, her legs spread a little more than yours. You take in a deep breath so you don't freak out at the contact. 

God, is this middle school? 

You shift your eyes slowly over to her figure, just wanting to take a tiny little peek. She was too pretty not to look at. It wasn't weird to look casually, right? When your eyes connect with hers, though, you rip them away while you blink rapidly. 

Shit, she was already looking? 

A pounding feeling against your chest makes it nearly impossible to focus on the now-playing movie. A spaceship rips through outer space as the main actor barks orders at his crew on the ship. Techno music plays in the background. You had no clue what was happening as a little vermin-looking creature started speaking in a made up language. 

Was she still looking? Surely she had to be focusing on the movie she chose. She looked so excited to start it. She definitely wasn't staring at you anymore.

You slowly move your eyes across the room and slightly turn your head to look at her. Your eyes connect with her green eyes once more but instead of looking away, you keep them there. You can feel your face flush under the intense gaze she has you under.

Ellie's eyes widen once she realizes you weren't going to look away. Another flash from the TV illuminates her features. You could tell that she was blushing. Neither of you looked away even as the tension built.

She was so cute.

"I can't," She starts, voice barely more than a whisper, "I can't focus on this."

You smile at her, "I definitely have no clue what is going on," Ellie smiles at your honesty, "Turn it off. We can just talk."

Ellie seems to like your suggestion as she reaches her hand out and presses the off button on the remote. She fully turns toward you. Your knees knock against each other with how close the proximity is.

Ellie rubs her hands together while a breathy laugh escapes her lips, "I guess I'll ask the question that's been burning me the most."

A laugh bubbled out of your throat, "What is this 21 questions?" Ellie joins your laughter at the realization of what she's doing, "Go ahead, I guess. I might have an answer for you."

"What's your major? And... why did you decide to come into my coffee shop that day?"

"Woah, these are... really hard-hitting questions." You sarcastically reply. Ellie pushes your shoulder lightly with a chuckle. She mutters, Shut up' before looking back at you with expectant eyes. There was a glint in her eyes.

You loved the way she looked at you.

"I'm a literature major, boring I know, and the reason I went in is that my friend dragged me there," Ellie acts fake offended at your response, "I actually hate coffee."

Ellie gawks at the last part, "You what?"

You throw up your hands in surrender, "Don't hate me. It is just so nasty to me."

"I feel as if you have just shot me. You always order something," Ellie's hand goes over her heart in a dramatic manner, "But if I'm being honest, I don't really like it either."

You shoot up from your position. Ellie may have been faking shock but this was true for you, "What do you mean? You own the coffee shop!"

Ellie copies your surrender motion, "I know. I know. The only reason I opened the shop, well became a barista in the first place, is because my dad really loves coffee," You can feel your heart melt at the kind words, "Gave us something to bond over."

"That's really cute, Ellie." You look at her with eyes gushing with love. You hoped she couldn't tell how infatuated you were becoming with her.

"I know, I'm adorable," She leans in closer as if she's about to reveal a huge secret to you, "You do realize we have other drinks than coffee, right?"

She laughs at the way your face pales and how your eyes widen, "Oh my god!"

Her laugh was perfect.

It was becoming impossible to ignore your feelings for much longer. Each moment was another reason to fall for her. She was extremely sentimental and super observant, remembering the tiny details. Ellie was the first to notice if you parted your hair a different way or did a new thing with your makeup. It made your heart soar with happiness when she remembered another tiny detail from you.

Throughout the rest of the night, you guys talked about random things on that stupid couch situated against the wall. You talked about her love of space and how she wishes she could see the stars up close at least once. You talked about your worries and fears, things you wanted to do when you grew up, and the things that make you happiest.

You got closer to her with each passing second, knocking knees turned into your legs thrown over hers. That turned into you scooting closer (almost sitting on her lap) and your head leaning against her shoulder.

You weren't sure when you fell asleep. All you knew was it was the most comfortable you felt in a while.

--

Burning light was what woke you up. It definitely wasn't how you wanted to wake up, much preferring the smell of food cooking. Damn those stupid curtains for being pulled back. You furrow your eyebrows at the blinding light, not yet used to the morning sun. Your hand shoots out to feel around where you were. Still on the couch but no Ellie. You blink the bleariness away from your eyes while wondering where Ellie went.

There's slight muttering coming from the kitchen, it's hushed but urgent. There she is but you can't make out what or who she is talking to. You sit up from your laying position, back aching from sleeping on the tiny couch. Your ears strain to hear the conversation.

"Wasn't really expecting... come home... random girl!" That definitely wasn't Ellie's voice. It was too high-pitched and sweet.

"...Quiet... still sleeping... been broken up... had no right." There was the voice you came to know. 

Curiosity filled your mind at the quiet talking in the kitchen. She never mentioned a roommate while talking to you last night. You fully push yourself off of the couch and creep your way to the area they were in. Ellie's back was turned from you so you got a glimpse of who she was talking to.

It was a shorter girl with black hair with an angry expression painted on her features. Her eyes landed on you and she scoffed. 

Oh shit. She was furious.

"Great," Her voice cut the tense silence, "Now she's walking around as if this is her house."

Ellie whipped around with a look that made your heart stutter. It looked as if she had been caught doing something wrong.

She gave you an apologetic look, "Cat, can you for once..." She cut herself off, reaching out to you, "Hey, listen-"

You decided to cut her off this time while stepping back, "You never told me you had a girlfriend. This changes a lot, Ellie." 

Cat scoffs again at your words. Her arms cross over her chest as she mutters, 'Good god, Ellie.' Ellie gives her a pointed look before turning back to you.

"I can fully explain this." Ellie's words are punctuated by the movement of her hands. They were shaking slightly. 

'She's just stunned that she was caught,' an evil voice in your head bounced around.

You shake your head, "No need to." You turn on your heels ready to get the hell out of the tense situation. Ellie calls your name but once you are out the front door she doesn't make any moves to run after you.

"Great," You roll your eyes trying to ignore the feeling of your heart shattering, "This is fucking great."

You couldn't wait to talk to Dina.

tags: @ellieismami, @minillie, @dankpunks, @elliesgff, @muthafuckingstargirl, @deafelliewilliams, @pinkazelma, @fairybr3ad, @me-and-your-husband, @intrnetdoll, @kyleeservopoulos

#ellie williams scenario #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fluff

[seasonsbloom]

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

part 2

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether. 

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back. 

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

+

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely. 

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…�� The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water. 

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.” 

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake. 

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop. 

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.  

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you. 

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this. 

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

+

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry. 

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat. 

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic. 

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

+

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

��With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would. 

It just hurts. 

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it. 

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him? 

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big. 

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster. 

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other. 

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw. 

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f:blph

[is-the-owl-video-cute]

Hazmat Hole 1: Overture

I went back and forth on whether to do the pilot or not, but ultimately decided not to. Pilots are meant to be an episode 0 that isn’t necessary to understanding the plot. I may go back to it after episode 8 if I’m not completely sick of this.

It starts off with a story book narration about how hell started because Lucifer was a rebel or something and just states very vaguely that he had big ideas heaven didn’t like. Also Adam was the first man, Lilith was the first woman but she didn’t like Adam and liked Lucifer better they fell in love or whatever and Lucifer gave Eve the apple and he and Lilith were banished to hell. I wish I could lie and say I was skipping over details but they used more words to explain that in about as much depth as I did there. Anyway. The important part is that Charlie is a princess of hell as the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith and the angels go down to hell annually to purge excess souls.

These two start off annoying and by god I do not see them getting any less so. Charlie is legitimately the most generic Disney Princess rip off I have ever seen in my life, complete with reading books aloud bursting into song. It’s genuinely jarring to hear her swear because you can tell the voice director basically just told her actor to pretend she’s auditioning for the little mermaid. Vaggie is annoying because she’s written like a middle schooler’s first “strong female character”. She’s the emo love interest in a B movie that was straight to video and made by people who don’t actually know what emo is.

Appropriation Deer is literally just here to make wise cracks and occasionally move in ways that make animators cry and deviantart users in 2010 scream in joy.

They could probably cut the budget in half by not having him in the show. Anyway no he is not here to do anything besides whine about how television sucks and emphasize that he’s only there at all because he’s into watching people fail and cry or whatever. He’s very flat as a character since he’s just there to be tumblr bait.

Angel is here and spends the entire episode being sexually aggressive to the point of making everyone there uncomfortable and that’s the entire joke. That’s it. He’s a gay man who says penis and wise cracks and sexually harasses the men in the hotel. Because that is how vivziepop writes her mlm characters.

We get a two for one easy joke with these two. Haha gay man is harassing a man who isn’t gay as well as haha asexual gets hit on but he says no way.

Angel is here because “crack is expensive” and they don’t charge him rent there.

Which he says while drinking a whole bottle of liquor to establish he’s an addict because vivziepop is as subtle as a bull in a China shop.

And thus we are taken to our first musical number. It’s very underwhelming.

Also Vaggie sings like she’s getting over a cold and plugging her nose and trying to do an impression of a duck.

The opening number also leaves me with a perplexing question. Can you die in hell? Do you go to super hell if you die in hell?

And we get our first real sexual harassment/assault joke from a giant slug flasher trying to make Charlie touch him in the middle of a musical number. I’m sure this bodes great for how angel’s abuse will be treated.

I hate that I know this but as someone who did shamefully hate watch sausage party twice I have to point out that Adam here is literally just a rip off of a sausage party character.

Everything down to the voice direction is literally just a rip off of the main antagonist of Sausage Party, the douche. This is probably somewhat intentional as vivziepop was a massive fan of that movie when it came out, but if you’re going to make an homage that borders on plagiarism (this is a joke I’m not accusing her of plagiarism here but it’s giving original character, donut steel), does it have to be from sausage party? Does it really? There’s other movies. Anyway he doesn’t say much, just establishes himself as a douche.

Back at the hotel they start filming a new commercial since Alastor intentionally made their first commercial bad because he wanted to make fun of them and hates TVs just that much. Nothing very interesting happens. Angel is hot horny. Husk doesn’t want to be there. Alastor makes a deal with Vaggie to help as long as she never makes him go on TV again.

We go back to Charlie begging Adam to stop coming to hell and killing demons by the hundreds every year and Adam says no in frankly one of the only songs that I like from this series. Sadly, it’s still terribly annoying and repetitive.

Viv posted meme please clap.

Isn’t this the homophobic character from the pilot? Didn’t realize she was given a male voice to imply she’s either a drag Queen or trans I guess. Great. I’m sure it’s a very artistic and respectful choice and not every other more likely reason this was the casting decision.

The episode ends with the discovery that an Angel was killed during the last extermination so they plan to come back in just six months to kill every demon in hell. I might care if any character established themselves as anything other than a vessel to spout boring exposition and sex jokes for twenty minutes.

And that’s episode one. It’s honestly just boring and all of the explicit language sounds extremely forced and awkward.

0/10, the one okay song wasn’t enough to save it. Too much exposition dumping.

#hazbin hotel #hazmat motel #hazmat hole #owlvid live-blogging

[multi-fandom-of-madness]

Sour Day

Pairings: Mountain X GN!Reader

Type: Fluff

Summary: It hadn’t been a good day for Mountain, luckily, his partner had the perfect surprise.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 526

Notes: Saw a head canon that Mountain doesn’t like sour candy, and I just had a thought and needed to act on it. If you don’t know what twin snakes are, they’re like gummy worms (but snakes) that are connected. There’s the sour side (orange, lemon, and blackcurrant) and the sweet side (cherry, apple, and blueberry). They’re paired together so you always have a sour and a sweet one, and I think that’s a great story to tell.

Read on AO3

~

It had been a long day for Mountain. Too many kids ran through the flower beds, some of his plants weren’t growing properly, someone bought the wrong soil, and so many other things. All he wanted to do was curl up with you and fall asleep to a movie, music, your voice, or even just utter silence. He didn’t care as long as the two of you were wrapped up in each other.

He walked through the halls of the Abbey before making it to the ghoul den, finding you seated on the couch in the lounge. “Hey, how was gard-” you were cut off by two arms picking you up, carrying you off to his room.

He closed the door, gently laying on the bed with you now next to him. “It’s been a day,” he mumbled into your neck, inhaling your scent.

Wrapping your arms around him, you just held him close. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Too much just didn’t want to go my way. Just wanted you.” He pulled you closer somehow and went quiet.

“I have a surprise for you,” you said. “Me and some other siblings went to the store today, and I found something I wanted to try.”

Mountain sat up a little, still holding onto you with one arm, propping himself up with the other. “What did you find?” He asked, raising a brow.

You shuffled out of his grasp and off the bed. Finding the bag from the store, you pulled out a green bag of gummies. “They’re called twin snakes,” you stated as you walked back over to the bed.

“Are they sour?” He made room for you to sit next to him. Examining the package, his face twisted a little. If there was anything someone should know about him, it’s his dislike for sour candies. He just didn’t understand how people liked them. You, however, loved them.

“Well yes and no,” you explained, opening the bag and pulling one out. “There are two sides, sweet and sour.” Ripping apart the yellow and green snakes, you handed him the green half as you bit into the yellow. “They come in pairs. Green and yellow, orange and purple, and blue and red. Green, purple, and blue are sweet, while the others are sour.”

He examined the green gummy before deciding to take a bite. The taste hit his tongue, and he let out a small hum of appreciation.

“Is it good?” You asked, ripping apart the blue and red set next, handing him the blue one.

He took it, taking a bite of that one. “Surprisingly,” he mumbled as he chewed on the candy.

“I thought you would like it. And it’s perfect for us considering I love sour things and you love sweet things.”

He pulled you closer to him, resting his head on yours as you continued pulling apart the snakes and feeding them to him. “Must be why I love you so much,” he mumbled as he kissed the top of your head. After such a sour day, he was happy to be able to come back to someone just so sweet.

#Mountain is a sucker for his partner #Soft Mountain makes me soft #the band ghost #the band ghost x reader #nameless ghouls #nameless ghouls x reader #mountain ghoul #earth ghoul #mountain ghoul x reader #earth ghoul x reader #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #the band ghost x you #mountain #mountain x reader #mountain x you #twin snakes #nameless ghouls being soft #Mountain hates sour gummies

[fortune-fool02]

First Meeting

Brahms Heelshire x female reader

Summary: [Name] knew there was something off about the Heelshire manor, all the odd noises at night and the doll. Though, she wasn’t quite expecting the source of it all. 

Warning: Stalking? 

Well, I caved because of this movie and here I am. This is my first time writing for him so please give feedback as it would be much appreciated! Please reblog and comment!

Thank you and please enjoy!

The soft tapping of rain against windows was the only sound at the moment though she knew that would soon change. The noises started a few days ago, creaking in the floor boards like a second pair of footsteps rather than just the house settling. [Name] had put the doll to bed, just like the instructions said, but couldn’t find sleep herself. 

It wasn’t the first time this has happened, there was just something about this place that put her on edge. This constant sense of alertness tugging at her as invisible eyes bore into her back. A predator laying in wait, ready to pounce. She hated it. Despite the pay, this place just felt off. Still, she straightened herself and swallowed the unease to get through the day-to-day routines. 

A hushed creak of wooden flooring caught her attention; the cold, burning of eyes in her back again. Something watching her, someone. Closing her eyes, she held her breath and counted in her mind, trying to keep herself at ease and focused. Another creak, and the door handle twitched. She listened carefully, trying to make it out that she was sleeping, as the door handle twisted more then clicked before pushing open with a soft creak. Her breathing remained slow and steady despite the slow tightening anxiety that coiled around her throat and stomach as the steps approached. 

Deep breathing grew closer, stopping beside her bed. She could feel the presence of someone there, looking down at her. Then, very softly; 

“[Name].” It was almost like a child’s voice whispering her name, hoarse from possible lack of use. A cold stone dropped in her stomach and she kept still, trying to fool whatever this thing was. There was a quiet click of pottery then a gentle tap on her shoulder.  Wisps of fear tightened around her veins more, a squeezing grip as her thoughts rushed. What should she do? Ignore this thing and hope it will leave? Open her eyes to face whatever it was? 

“[Name].” The voice was firmer, the child-likeness of it fading somewhat as the second tap was a little harder. With no alternative, she slowly opened her eyes and turned to look, bracing herself. A dirtied, but seemingly well-cared for, doll mask greeted her and she couldn’t stop the sudden yell that ripped from her, startling her observer. The lamp on the side of the bed was on, showing her the dark, curly hair and tattered clothing. 

“Who the Hell are you?” She shouted, fear clouding her as she scurried back, tumbling off the bed and dragging the sheets with her. The man moved around, keeping low down as if he was trying to soothe a scared animal. “Don’t come any closer!” [Name] tried to grab anything to use as a weapon to find nothing. 

“No, no. It’s okay.” He spoke, his eyes locked on her and her alone. There was this softness to them, a longing. While she stopped moving away, she was by no means calm. He inched closer to her, moving the cup of tea closer to her, then stopping. His crouched form shifted to a sitting position, watching her the entire time then glancing down at the cup. [Name] also glanced at it then back at him. He made her tea?

Her mind shifted, thoughts rolling all over the place before something made itself clear. This man. 

“Brahms?” He nodded his head, looking at her, waiting for her to speak or ask him something. This man was the real Brahms, not some porcelain doll. It all made sense now, like a thick fog had been cleared up. Why Mrs Heelshire insisted letting Brahms’ music play loud and speaking in a loud, clear voice. Her hand shook lightly as she reached out, carefully picking up the cup by the saucer and holding it properly. 

He watched her with an eager look, hoping that she would give some form of praise for the drink. Taking a little sip, she noted the tea was actually very well made. Just how she liked it. 

“Thank you, Brahms.” [Name]’s eyes shifted to him as she spoke. With a pleased hum, he shuffled closer to her, his eyes lighting up at the praise. He was happy to hear this, he had taken the time to watch her carefully, mentally recalling how she made her tea. Over the time she had been here, he did nothing but watch her, learning more and more about her each day. Such as the size of her clothing when he borrowed them and had yet to return them. Brahms couldn’t help himself. 

Though there was still a flicker of fear in her eyes, more like dying embers than a vibrant flame. His body stopped mere inches from her, leaning closer and tilting his head a little. [Name] only looked at him, the shaking had calmed mostly now. His hand moved up to her cheek, very gently brushing his fingers along her cheek. Such smooth skin, so pretty to him. [Hair colour] hair he could spend countless hours playing with, running his fingers through and nuzzling.

“Pretty. Pretty [Name].” She didn’t recoil from his touch. His finger tips were cold, though, and so she brought her hand up slowly. Taking his hand into hers, she used both hands to cover his, trying to muster some form of warmth for him. 

“Your fingers are cold, Brahms. You could get sick.” Motioning towards the bed, she guided Brahms off the floor and the two sat on the bed. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders and she took her spot beside him, trying to help keep him warm. 

“I’ll take care of you, Brahms.” 

#brahms #brahms heelshire #the boy 2016 #brahms x reader #brahms heelsire #brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms the doll #brahms the boy #slasher #slashers #slashers x reader

[scorpioracha]

Dating Bang Chan

Hey guys! I’ve decided to do a series, let me know who you want next. Please reblog/read comments, it helps me to keep creating this content.

Bang Chan 방찬

-I feel like your relationship progressed very naturally from platonic to romantic. Bang Chan gives me shy/reserved energy when it comes to romantic endeavors so I feel like he would need the security that comes with a deep friendship to even consider pursuing you romantically.

-the changes to your relationship was more subtle than anything—like he was testing the waters to see where your boundaries were. Resting his hand on top of yours, knocking your knee against his, tentatively moving your hair from your face. Basically using any excuse he can get to touch you while also gauging your reactions.

-he only gets bolder if you’re receptive. Although he is shy, he’s a lot more obvious than he thinks he is. Like an overgrown puppy who thinks he’s being sneaky when he’s not. It’s hard to not think somethings up when he’s making direct eye contact and tracing shapes on your hands with his finger tips.

-poor baby spends months agonizing over how he’s gonna confess when in reality your relationship has shifted without him really realizing. It’s only until you’re in his studio, straddling his lap, one hand on your hip tracing lyrics while he’s working that he has a 😳 moment.

-his brain kinda 404 errors and he rips his headphones off saying “y/n will you-I want you to-can you-gf?” His body had gone stock still underneath you and you’re half asleep like huh 🤨😒????

-which does not ease his anxiety at all. He takes a shaky breath and tilts your chin down so you’re at eye level with each other.

“Y/n, I want you to be my girlfriend”

You shake your head and run your hand through his messy hair.

“Channie, I thought I already was”

-from that moment on he is not shy not me ITZAYYYYY

-All the kisses. Forehead kisses, shoulder kisses, corner of the lip kisses, hand kisses, etc. If there is a kissable spot then Chan’s lips will be on it. He is the master kiss giver but gets shy and giggly whenever you return him.

-Big Hug™️. All the hugs from channie, all the time. He will scoop you up into his lap and coddle you over the smallest thing, no emotion is insignificant in this household and he will remind you however many times you need to hear it.

-Just like before he is always touching you, either rubbing your back or your ears or playing with your fingers—basically he needs to be touching you at all times. His love language is touch, it’s how he shows he loves you and it helps ground him.

-loves nothing more than to stay at home with you, curled up in some blankets binge watching a show or having a movie marathon. Chan is a bit of a cliché but something about it makes him all giggly and giddy when the lights are dimmed low and he’s got you in his arms. It feels like time stops and he can’t really process how full his heart is when he sees you.

-Always let’s you eat off of his plate at restaurants, another one of his love languages is sharing. Sharing food, sharing music, sharing clothes, etc. if it’s something that can be shared, Chan wants to share it with you. It scratches the itch of needing to provide as the eldest hyung of skz and the eldest brother in his family. Even if you’re older than him, he’s going to want to share all of his things with you.

-On that note, paying. You’re funny if you think Chan is letting you pay for anything🤡 you can’t hide anything you want from this man, somehow someway he always just knows??? If your eyes linger on a necklace for too long in a jewelry store, it’s yours. If you’re in a store touching the stuffies just to touch them? Congrats on your new child, name it well. He doesn’t even mean to flaunt his wealth and honestly feels really bad if it comes off that way, he just wants you have whatever you want. He doesn’t mind if you get a little spoiled, that’s what he was going for anyways.

-Late night convenient store runs in your pajamas. Chan usually comes back late or very early from the studio, he tells you not to wait up but if you do it anyways he’s only going to scold you a little bit. He’ll walk through the door, kiss your forehead, go through his nightly routine and put his shoes back on so you guys can go raid the 24/7 store. The snack options are limitless between 1am-4am. These convenient store runs are ALWAYS followed by a mandatory cuddle session on the living room.

-All the serenading. Chan will sing to you whenever you ask him to. if you’re a singer too? Even better, he’s immediately composing cute little duets. If you’re not a singer? He wants to hear you anyways, doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad he still looks at you with stars in his eyes.

-I hate to say it but he is a baby girl/baby boy/baby type of guy😩

-Besides the obvious he’s a fan of the classics. Sweetheart, prince(ss), Darling, etc. during extra soft moments when he’s feeling so squishy his heart can’t take it he calls you love or lovie—this is usually followed by cooing.

NSFW

-definitely the type to grab your jaw when he’s kissing you. It’s firm but gentle—almost as a reminder that he’s the one leading. He has no problem falling back sometimes too and letting you lead, this is just where his mind naturally goes. He’s a natural born care giver and this is one of the ways he thinks he’s taking care of you, making sure you don’t have to lift a finger. Your pleasure is his pleasure.

-Chan is versatile he’s a libra I feel like if he trusts his partner, he’s comfortable taking on any role. He is definitely adaptable. Basically our boy has no problem switching if it’s what you want. If he did have a preference or to put it in percentages it’s about 60% dom 40% sub, but if you want him to tap into that 40% he’s gonna tap into it. Chan is a pleasure dom first and foremost, he’s going to make you cum as many times as you think you can and then some. He gets this wild look in his eye every time you cum, biting his lip and looking just a little bit dazed as you squeeze around him.

-Secondly, I’m sorry for the hard dom Chan enthusiasts but this is a soft dom Chan account. I think he’s a soft dom with some hard dom tendencies—again he’s very accommodating to his partner and as long as it’s within his limits he’ll do it. He’s much more praise centered than degradation and likes to let his partner know they’re being good for him. He wants to have you sitting pretty for him between his legs while he guides your head up and down his cock cooing if it’s just a bit too much for you to take🥺 willing to go into more detail if prompted

-I don’t think he is necessarily a fan of brats. I think if he loved you and you just so happened to be a brat then it’s not a problem for him, but I don’t think he exclusively seeks them out? He doesn’t give brat tamer energy. He’s soft for you but he’s also no nonsense in a way. I feel like a lot of his leader tendencies bleed over into the bedroom and he just expects good behavior. Like, if you’re acting bratty it genuinely shocks him in a ‘what kind of audacity’ kind of way. I think for truly bratty behavior he either ignores it until you realize it’s not going to work or he shuts that shit down so quickly.

-that’s where the hard dom tendencies tend to kick in, because Chan does not tolerate blatant disrespect. He doesn’t like being pushed. He’s the type to do a complete 180 on you if you’re genuinely being a little shit just for the sake of doing it. Like, his smile drops and his whole demeanor changes. He’s the type to look you dead in your eyes and be like “does it look like I’m laughing?” This more often than not results in a punishment instead of a funishment(within your limits ofc)

-But this is a last resort kinda thing, he usually tries to coax you back into being good with praise and rewards rather than threatening a punishment. If that doesn’t work he starts lowkey psychoanalyzing you. Once again he leader tendencies bleeding into his personal life, he starts asking if somethings the matter, if anything’s bothering you etc which usually solves the problem. But if none of that works and you’re acting out simply to act out, he simply does not tolerate that kind of behavior. It’s not how he’s wired.

-If Chan is subbing for you, he’s gonna be a good boy. It’s a bit harder to get him into a submissive headspace as he’s always taking care of others and never lets his brain shut off—but when he does go down, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever saw.

-he doesn’t sub often not because he doesn’t want to, because he does. He really does. It’s just really hard for him to turn his brain off and relinquish control. Domming is safe to him, because being in control is safe. if he’s in control, no one can disappoint him. He’s always been afraid of being too much and if he doesn’t let anyone see this side of him then he doesn’t have to face his fears.

-then he meets you, and his world crumbled down around him.

-our boy comes off as a service sub, he of course wants to make you feel good but also wants you to praise him and play with his hair when he’s giving you head. It’s hard for him to voice his needs at first when he’s subbing since his main priority is please my you. But once you get him on his back and straddle his lap, it’s like his brain does a factory reset and he becomes a pillow prince who just wants to sit there and take it.

-begs so prettily for you and makes the cutest little hiccuping cries when he cums. Tear stricken cheeks and burying his head in the crook of your shoulder. He’s a sight to behold. Always says thank you after every orgasm because he’s a polite puppy. He basically gets tunnel vision and his entire world orbits around you.

#skz #skz headcanons #skz hard thoughts #skz smut #skz fluff #skz reactions #skz fiction #skz x y/n #skz bang chan #stray kids bang chan #stray kids reactions #stray kids headcanons

[crooked-wasteland]

Hazbin Hotel Live Blog: Overture

. While I am being kind to the show as it is, I cannot push out of my mind the fact that this is still Vivienne Medrano, and while this seems to be an interesting direction the series is considering to take the story, I am lacking any intrigue. Medrano has a knack for interesting ideas, but once executed are often trimmed down from all nuance and then played in the most straight forward and storybook fashion.

Evil existed before and separate from Lucifer

Eve is linked to the root of evil through the animation

Dichotomy of Lilith and Lucifer

Why does Heaven think Hell will rise up?

Charlie is reading the storybook to herself. Aloud. And the reason is because she’s like a child seeking comfort. Also Charlie’s delivery of “Pretty worked up” is just feeling off. Like isn’t this supposed to be a somber moment? Why is it delivered so chipper? The pilot had her crying and singing a lamentation. Downgrade.

Info dump dialogue

“This kingdom was something she really cared about.”

Vaggie’s voice is such a downgrade. She sounds so uninterested.

“Daddy issues by fixing you” So alastor knows about Charlie’s family situation already.

The lineart around Alastor is so distracting. It’s so bizarrely thick.

I wish there was no dialogue

Her dad calls her but she is supposed to have a strained relationship.

I feel like Medrano doesn’t know what Angel Dust is. As in the actual drug. PCP is not Cocaine.

That was the worst segue into a song I ever saw.

“If you dont mind the smell, it’s a happy day in hell.” I hate this line.

Vaggie just never sounds right, does she? Her singing is so nasal dominate it doesn’t sound like her throaty modal voice.

What was the contract? What did it say? Why even have Charlie sign anything if we have no concept of what that is? It is such a rip off from Ariel’s contract in the Little Mermaid that it feels more like an Easter egg than relevant to the story actively being told. You need to show why the actions happening are taking place, you cant just do things and expect us to pick up the pieces for you. Are you trying to get across that Heaven is full of bureaucracy and paperwork? There is no receptionist and no other person in the building until she signs ONE paper. You failed at portraying an overabundance of bureaucratic red tape and it is distracting and infuriating. All I see are the better DISNEY MOVIES that were clearly just plagiarized. Not an homage, not inspired. Plagiarized.

Lucifer calls Charlie to meet Adam. Adam says he knows. So this doesn’t feel like this is Charlie filling in, the way the dialogue is written is that it was specifically planned for Charlie to meet Adam.

Everything has a gradient.

I bet $15 that the Dickmaster portion of Adam’s dialogue was Alex Brightman’s improv. I was not impressed by his Kaiju Dick improv in Oops and this is just as flaccid. Pun intended.

There is a clear discccrepency in talent between Alex and Erika. He has such a smoother voice and range while Erika feels like a Disney understudy where every delivery is pretty much identical to the last. Like the songs themselves are not doing her any favors. They range from bad to mediocre, and even in the better songs, there is always one horrifically bad lyric that just ruins the entire experience.

I like Lute. She feels like Peridot.

RIP Katie Killjoy.

Nifty is cute. The joke for her had a lot of potential of being hilarious but didn’t meet my threshold of comedy due to lacking a feel for Nifty. Imagine if she was in every scene with Vaggie talking her head off and never shutting up. Then when Vaggie is like, “If anyone can sell this hotel, it’s Nifty.” And we had this foundation that Nifty is known for being a huge chatterbox only to then be dead silent when the camera is on her. It would have been hilarious. But we see her once and she has one singular line previous. So it just feels like a cheap visual gag.

As a musical, it is lackluster. I see that Evil is something separate from Lucifer and something he dislikes. Lucifer is said to see free will as a spring of creativity, but humans used it to suck and that killed Lucifer’s love of life. In the meantime, Lilith is empowered by Hell. Hell fuels her sense of freedom, which she spreads through her “songs”. Only for her to just vanish I guess. She just hopes out without a word, Charlie says she must be doing something important over the last 7 years, but no inclination on what important things Lilith would be doing. Additionally, Lilith is said to have loved Hell, like Charlie. So it sets up this idea that Lucifer dislikes Hell or even hates it, while Lilith revels in it. Alluding to their marriage falling apart from this dissonance. At the same time, Lucifer calls Charlie to meet with Heaven, despite the pilot being canon. So we get the impression that Charlie and Lucifer had a falling out (“Maybe dad was right.”) but she doesn’t have much more than surprise at her father calling. Then he just sets up this meeting for her to meet with Adam off screen entirely. It is unclear how this was conveyed, but Lucifer doesn’t believe in Charlie and her meeting Adam has nothing at all to do with her hotel.

But the way Adam talks about the meeting is unusual in that it gives the impression that it wasn’t about Charlie “filling in”, but that this whole meeting was specifically set for Charlie and Adam. This is compounded by how the ending reads like they didn’t know if the angel was dead until that moment. So the extermination being moved up has nothing to do with the angel’s death. Maybe I’m wrong, but this all feels really disjointed.

But Lute really is just Peridot. So much so that when asked what I liked about the episode, I literally said “Peridot”, not Lute. The one good aspect of this episode is another stolen concept from a better show with a more competent creator. But I also like Alex Brightman’s singing. He is very talented and he does elevate the material by really playing with his delivery, but it’s still at best Mid due to the weak lyrics,

3/10

#hazbin hotel liveblog #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel critique #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel #vivziepop critical #vivziepop #vivienne medrano #spindlehorse critical #vivziepop criticism #Hazbin Hotel episode 1

[operator-report]

do you have any ideas about the undersiders music tastes. your other posts are so beautiful and true

aaah i'm so glad you liked my silly music posts! after some thought this is what i've landed on for the undersiders: taylor: in my heart taylor's mom did this to her, which is why taylor has a better-than-average teen girl knowledge of blondie, neil young, and the police. i think taylor's taste is a mix of dad rock and alt-pop rock hits. she likes the strokes and arctic monkeys. maybe a little mgmt. after her mom dies she stops listening to music that reminds her of her mom, so much less 70s/80s rock, but i don't think she switches to sadder music or anything like that, i think her taste just skews more contemporary after that. after the bullying started she tried out heavy metal really early on because she figured angry music might help her vent but it wasn't her thing. taylor does not listen to radiohead but she's the undersider who would like it the best i think. karma police is a taylor song send tweet

brian: there's a post out there somewhere that talks about brian listening to imagine dragons and that is SO real to me. he listens to imagine dragons. he listens to "tough" guy music that sounds like it could be in car commercials. he also listens to dudes rock music he hears at the gym. brian and taylor both like to match their music to their workouts and they have an immensely geeky conversation about matching bpm at one point. taylor matches it to her running brian matches it to boxing they are in nerd-jock heaven

lisa: she's a tricky one, because the music industry is one that both values authenticity and yet is extremely manufactured. i think that means that lisa finds music in which rich musicians make music about how hard their life is immensely grating. i think sarah livsey's taste was influenced by her brother, and much like how taylor does not listen to music that reminds her of her mom, lisa does not listen to music that sarah used to like. another smugbug yuri of absence moment if you ask me. anyway all that means that lisa listens to three kinds of music: downtempo instrumental electronic, classical, and We Are Up Partying In The Club Tonight Ooh Girl Oh Yeah. i think she finds, e.g., pitbull and eurotrance endearing. if you ask lisa what her favorite kind of music is she'll say something obnoxious like IDM or some shit just to see what the reaction is

rachel: i looked up "do dogs listen to music" and google says they will listen to classical sometimes, so! there you go. if worm took place a little later i think taylor could have introduced limited doses of lofi hip hop study beats to rachel and she would be ok with that too but also like. why listen to music when she could be outside listening to her dogs

aisha: the undersider with the best taste! we know that early worm aisha is a bona fide scene teen, and i think she consequently likes blink-182, pierce the veil, 3oh!3, cobra starship, and maybe a little bring me the horizon. in later worm aisha's taste gets less pop, like deftones, odd future, etc. she's a supervillain who would actually listen to madvillainy. aisha is also probably the only undersider who actively seeks to cultivate her own music taste! a good chunk of the undersiders have trauma that separate them from their interests and/or feelings, but aisha is an undersider who i think is both self aware and also true to herself, as well as being genuinely interested in art!

alec: speaking of undersiders who have a difficult time developing a defined music taste due to being cut off from a strong sense of self. alec in early worm is too depressed/apathetic to seek out music for himself, he'd rather be playing video games or watching movies. which is a shame because disassociating to music is one of the depressed activities of all time! alas alec's vision of a person with Taste is like. cherie. rip. however, aisha completely turns his life around into a guy who likes...................... soulja boy

there you go! tried to keep this period typical and also didn't include bands we know for sure didn't exist on earth bet (such as mcr). however i am very sad aisha and alec didn't get to listen to 100 gecs together. can you imagine. i can imagine and that's why i have a beautiful aishalec amv set to doritos and fritos in my mind

#parahumans #the undersiders

[sylvies-chen]

okay I’ve refrained from posting my thoughts on the ted lasso finale until now in the interest of making sure they’re expressed properly so that people understand how correct my opinions actually are. but I’m here and I’m queer and LET’S DO IT FOLKS:

TED LASSO FINALE THOUGHTS

THE GOOD:

Nate!! Nate was a timid, sweet note in this episode. It was such a gentle little reintegration of his character back into the team and seeing him get a secure happy ending after all that time of insecurity was the part of the episode that provided the MOST payoff. Seeing Nick Mohammed’s post about Nate and his family life and understanding how much he put into that character was so beautiful to see too. I adore actors who very publicly (and in a nerdy way) love their craft!

His conversation with Ted also made me cry like I have never cried before.

COLIN KISSED HIS FELLA AFTER A WIN!! Ugh such a beautiful payoff and full circle moment for him, I was truly squealing with joy <3

The team’s rendition of So Long, Farewell had me GIGGLINGGG oh my god, I’m a die hard Sound of Music fan so I loved it! I would have maybe liked a little more emotion from Ted, I felt like his reaction was kind of… meh? meek? but other than that the song itself was FANTASTIC.

Obviously I love that they won the game, duh

They also had a lot of really amazing and thoughtful callbacks in this episode, like Keeley’s parallel to her entrance in the pilot was great, Ted’s bbq sauce mantra, Nate leaping into Ted’s arms, the ussie guy, the winning play being the play from season 1. All of those little moments showed a strong attention to detail I truly loved.

I love that Rupert made HIMSELF unlikeable in the end. Rebecca didn’t need to ruin his life; she stopped caring and soon saw he was doing a perfectly fine job of doing it himself. Karma truly is Rebecca Welton’s boyfriend!! Or is it?

Jake the motherfucking client seducer over here turning out to be a total dud like yesss!! I don’t want Ted and Michele back together by any means but fuck that guy lol, glad to see she and Henry were getting sick of him

BELIEVE. 😭

Which leads me to…

THE BAD:

I know you all know I ship Tedbecca, but this is truly not coming from a shipper standpoint when I say that that first scene of them was absolute BAIT. It was pretty disappointing because I know Ted Lasso’s been prone to red herrings and fakeouts every now and then but I didn’t take it as a show that would truly bait their fans with something like that??

I don’t care if I’m biased, I don’t care if the writers were trying to be avant-garde with their ending for rebecca, I’ll say what I’m about to say a million times: writing off 1 of your 2 most main characters into a happy ending with a man whose name the audience doesn’t even know is literally never a good writing decision. I think this should be obvious.

I have no hate to Boat Guy, Rebecca’s whole thing with him was basically the plot of Before Sunrise + Before Sunset (all hail Richard Lanklater) if someone watched those movies and then tried condensing them into fifteen accumulated minutes of television

Keeley, Roy, Jamie… they did you three so fucking dirty my babes. Keeley you especially. I’m beyond disappointed, bordering on genuinely hurt, by how much they screwed up Keeley and all of her adjacent storylines this season.

I loved RoyKeeley so much in seasons 1 and 2, they had such a sweetness and a magic to them. There were so many elements like that to season 1 and 2 that I feel the writers gave up on in the name of growth or… honestly, at this point, I don’t know why they did this. Roy was a little insecure in seasons 1 and 2, but I never felt like he was needy. It felt so cruel to have shown us RoyKeeley in all of these moments of such stability, such healthiness, and such genuine love for so long and then rip it away for some version of Roy Kent that felt hollow, twisted, and who just Did Not Get It. It makes me so sad.

It makes me sad for Jamie too. Him falling for Keeley again was like the last thing I needed to see from his character. There’s so much else they could have done with him, and instead they took that beautiful moment of him being accountable and respectful with Keeley and the tape, and they turned it into something ugly: they had him weaponize it as a bargaining chip against Roy.

I don’t understand why they thought having our favs engaged in this very sexist outdated convo with such possessive language in the name of comedy was a good idea. I get it was poking fun at them but it was the kind of fun that shouldn’t have to be poked at by now. They’re not these men, I don’t recognize this version of them. It’s such a regression.

speaking of weird and uncomfortable shit being played off for laughs… beard and jane got married! ted wasn’t even there! she shredded his passport to keep him in captivity! how creepy! (see the joke is that they’re crazy and do toxic things to each other. you’re supposed to laugh.)

#ted lasso #abby meta #roykeeley #roy kent #jamie tartt #keeley jones #tedbecca #rebecca welton

[yongislong]

intimate moments + 127

wc/genre: 2,010k... fluff, domestic, angsty?? suggestive? mayhaphs. established relationships with nonidol!127. not proofread oof

cw/note: no cws i dont think but lmk! ty for requesting anon! requests are always open btw hehe! but YUUPP yknow what time it is my first 127 headcannons muahaha so here we go :> mark and haechan are in the dreamies post. i used and and like a lot im SORRY LMFAO but tysm for the support :") i was surprised people liked my other stuff sm! im quite insecure about the way i wrote bc.. i write how i talk haha, its kind of a mess. i wish i could make my posts a lot cuter and stuff but school is tiring, i appreciate all of your love lately though, this was all for myself and first bc i was going through it but im glad people enjoy it! sorry this is so long i just wanted to let yall know a bit more abt me! :D

taeil… cooking: GOD im having taeil brainrot bc he was on that baby show, and him ripping that crab with his bare hands.... sickening. bc UGH he is such husband material. imagining you both in the kitchen cooking and he's genuinely such a menace and you cant hear the music you suggested to play, anymore bc his smooching noises are so LOUD and suddenly the homemade pho you were both attempting to make while wearing matching aprons is on the verge of being forgotten lol. you finally give in after much name calling from him and let him press your cheeks together to give you a wet, loud smooch on your forehead. theres something about cooking to taeil thats so personal and adult-y to him. like oh my god here you both are, sitting in your VERY cute shared apartment, sharing a very nice bowl of noodles as the roses he planted now lay in a small mint green vase on your tiny dining room table. its something about the domesticity of working on something together, enjoying yourselves while doing it AND getting to eat the end product of said hard work, that he finds incredibly fullfilling. sitting across the love of his life. another thing he likes to do is prop his feet next to your right thigh on your chair and you do the same. you guys have your legs resting on each others chairs under the table. sometimes he pulls on the skin of your calf and when you complain you haven't shaven he rolls his eyes and seems to swat your words out of the air in front of him. long story short he just watches you ramble on about your day at work, until he stares for too long and hasn't realized you're practically shaking the life out of him because he never answered your questions about whether or not he gave brina and brita their fish food

johnny... sharing a book: johnny pegs me as someone who's super patient! maybe he's not bc... parasocial relationships LOL but in his interactions with everyone else, like that one jcc where mark doesn't want frozen yogurt and he was so nice abt it! but similarly to renjun, its nice to share something in bed but also both be consuming the same content yknow? he also seems to me like the type of guy who, likes to finish something before moving on to the next big thing WHICH means.... you spending about 5 months going through the entire percy jackson series PFTT. but its SOO GOOD and you both get so into it and after you finish the first two books you immediately both skip lectures or work the next day just to watch the movies and you both lose your minds at how bad they are TT. but yes its such a nice time to unwind! he loves having you lay between his legs, head on his collarbone as his arms circle around your torso to lay the book on your hipbone. he always waits for you to finish before he turns the page ofc! he also bought a little reading light that can be clipped on the the binding of the outside of the book and illuminate the pages in case reading went on a lot longer than expected. the bookmark that holds your place in the story was a polaroid picture of you sleeping HOWEVER it got replaced to a picture of you looking thru a glass of wine and it makes your face look all warped and funny lol. johnny always smiles when he sees it so its a good way to begin reading time hehe. kinda obvious but his body heat + his room + the smell of his lingering cologne on his sheets is chefs kiss, extra points if the apartment still smells like coffee from this morning OR the bottle of red wine he opened that sits on the nightstand </3

taeyong... customizing clothes together: GODDDD ya'll would be the most well dressed couple ever dude. yong is so creative, and i sense that he would want his partner to share his same taste at least when it comes to clothes and art! this isn't something you both do often bc... life lol but it started when you were cleaning out your shared closet. both sprawled on the floor, as you begin complaining about how you've both found pieces of clothing that you felt guilty about throwing away. then! yong suggests going to the craft/vintage store to see if theres any way to up-cycle what you've found. so thats how you spend the summer weekend. sat on the plush fuchsia rug in your living room, surrounded by denim, fabric squares, 80s brooches, lace, ribbon, etc etc as you spend the humid and sticky afternoon binging nana while you both sit in creative/comfortable silence, gluing and pining and sewing things to various articles of clothing. its SO cozy, funk music plays from the mini speaker you guys co-own and at the end of the task, you give each other a private fashion show styling your new clothes! he adores watching you pretend to model and eggs you on sm "y/n you need to consider doing this for real, everything looks good on you its not fair," this day is something that you both remember for a while. there were shared childhood stories, insecurities, dreams and you both were so much more vulnerable because there was something to distract yourselves with. the night ends in an absolute destruction of your living room floor, but accompanied with a cuddle session in his bed, the sounds from the ceiling fan and his heart beat almost make you sleepy, almost missing his whispered compliments and soft neck kisses.

yuta... hair: ok i know this is super vague but as a fellow scorpio who loves doing things to their hair, theres nothing more i want in life than someone to be able to do those things with! like ugh late night hair salon time with yuta, yup. this goes along so well with trust as well. i mean he's letting you cut, dye and style his hair and vice versa. i feel like he'd be with someone who's more edgy and this would be such a raw moment for you as a couple LIKE you're changing each other's appearances and its a time of patience. listening is extremely important as well and whenever you go through a new hair phase, sitting down at the sink and soaking up what the other has to say and practically baring their souls out while the bleach is very much stinging the top of his scalp is really fascinating LMAO, needless to say you guys aren't the typical couple, but it works. the amount of understanding and empathy you've both adopted for one another is lovely! and not to mention is super cute when yuta crinkles his nose, his teeth peeking out just a bit from the opening of his lips, because he absolutely needed a blonde wolf cut and hair is very much getting all over his face. in moments like this he doesn't think he would trade your adorable and super hot according to him concentration face. ALSOOO angsy, hot, jrock inspired couple photos are a must and yes, everyone on campus is jealous.

doyoung... driving: CORNYY BOOO yes ik, but guys? him driving, in that domestic ass button up and black thick rimmed glasses. he needs to be in jail bc he absolutely would be that bf to throw rocks at your window even though, yes you live together and yes its an apartment complex but, he wants you to feel that super giddy like, puppy bunny love again and he almost brought a boombox to play to play head over heels by tears for fears but... too much according to jaehyun lol. so anyways he loves late night drives with you. or any drives really! his favorites are a combination of picking you up late night from work and getting to hear all the drama whilst you guys eay in-n-out in the parking lot. and listen, im not trying to push the doyoung medical student agenda but... i 100% am and his reasoning for these late nights is because he's soooo busy! he feels guilty he doesn't take you out to nicer places and you always have to reassure him that anywhere he goes with you, is automatically a win in your books. its moments like these where he really grasps how lucky he is. oh wow.... you really do love him and it FREAKS him out in the best way. every night always ends sappy bc he's so GROSS geez. he's such a romantic in a way you would never expect. he's not cheesy or arrogant about loving you, and he never considers it something he has to do either. he just fully, truly and honestly wants to worship the ground you walk on. DON'T even get me started on drive-in movies omg. basically his cherry red car is your safe space lol </3

jaehyun... record swapping: tha music man muahaha. my heart tells me you both met in a vintage record store AHH, he saw you and his heart physically ached like when you see a pretty person in public, yeah but x 100 like he got the wind knocked out of him and he fucking drops, the stack of chet baker records he had on hand and his ears look like red bell peppers and he wants to crawl away until you rush over not like run but brisk walking? lol as you help him pick up all the vinyls he dropped.you noticed in between the pile of 50s music he had a limited edition vinyl of on of your favorite bands and that had you whipping your head up and noticing how soft he looked all flushed and dimples peaking out from the thin line on his lips. definition of he fell first but you fell harder ESPECIALLY on ya'll's second/third date. he invited you over to his house and requested you to bring your best albums. AND GODDDD the date was... truly when you fell harder for him. you spent the night swapping albums aka baring your souls and sitting on his kitchen counter as he paces back and forth in front of you as he goes on a tangent about his favorite artist. its like the world slows down and you both leave that date with a new record from the other and a notion that you were definitely falling in love with each other

jungwoo... bubble baths: GAAHHH TT. tell me, that jungwoo wouldn't adore relaxing with a full on bubble bath with you. and i'm talking like bubblegum flavored soap, bath bombs, dried flowers, candles, mood lighting???? its too good. after the first couple of times you've done it, he learns your habits and favorite smells as well as the right way to position you in the tub bc he takes up sm of it LOL. and if you're both tall... you make it work! hehe. but DUDE once he learns how to juggle this intimate activity LMFAO he buys stuff specifically for your sunday reset bubble baths OMG, like that board that stands across the tub just so he can set his laptop on it. yes its just bc he wants to watch disney movies and real house wives while unwinding haha. he's so sweet though, being all pretty with his skin a little glowy because of the steam coming from the water, his eyebrows brush up from when he swiped water on his eyes and his eyes twinkling once he stacks a bunch of bubbles on your head in a makeshift crown. he likes to give u bubbly shoulder kisses BOOOOOOO yes im jealous bc he's perfect and OFC he picks out the perfect pjs and warms them up in the dryer and sits you on the bathroom counter just so he can do your skincare for you </3

#nct fluff #nct blurb #nct reactions #nct soft blurbs #nct icons #nct soft hours #nct college au #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 moodboard #nct dream headcanons #nct 127 soft hours #nct 127 headcanons #nct headcanons #nct johnny #jungwoo #taeil #nct taeyong #nct x reader #nct imagines #nct fic #jaehyun fluff #taeyong fluff #taeil fluff #doyoung fluff #yuta fluff #johnny fluff #nct 127 x y/n #nct 127 x reader

[calisources]

CW'S   SUPERNATURAL   SENTENCE   QUOTES.   all   sentences   have   been   taken   from   mostly   the   kripke   era   (season   1   to   season   5)   of   erik   kripke's   supernatural,   mainly   season   four   and   five.   change   names/pronouns/locations   as   you   see   fit.

SEASON FOUR .

If you're going to shoot, shoot! Don't talk!

Please. Dean, maybe angels can pull you out of Hell but no one can do that.

So, you guys are like Mulder and Scully or something, and the X-Files are real?

It was beauty that killed the beast.

Anna may have sent the angels to the outfield, but sooner or later, they're gonna be back.

I suppose some dumb bastard stood here, felt a jolt of his holy juice and thought 'I'm going to build me a nun factory.' Well, it was the right idea... wrong angel.

Tell me something. Where's God in all this?

I'm not sure if he's my brother any more. If he ever was.

Are you under the impression that family's supposed to make you feel good? Make you an apple pie, maybe? They're supposed to make you miserable! That's why they're family.

If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back.

You don't know me. You never did, and you never will.

Congrats, Sammy. You just bought yourself a benchwarmer seat to the Apocalypse.

I serve Heaven, I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you.

Forever. The demons will never stop. You can never be with your family. So, you either get as far away from them as possible. Or you put a bullet in your head, And that's how you keep your family safe.

You know I finally get why you and dad butted heads so much. You two are practically the same person. 

I mean I worshipped the guy, y'know: I dressed like him, I acted like him, I listened to the same music. But you are more like him than I will ever be. I see that now.

Okay, so basically you're saying that every movie monster, every nightmare that I've ever had, that's all real.

He's a Winchester. He's already cursed.

It was too preposterous. Not to mention arrogant! I mean, writing yourself into the story is one thing, but as a prophet? That's like M. Night level douchiness.

Uriel's the funniest angel in the garrison. Ask anyone.

 I'm not a hero, I'm not strong enough.

 I know our fate rests with you.

I couldn't break him, pulled out all the stops, but John, he was made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. 

You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap.

Tell me something, geniuses. Even if you do break into the Veil and you find the Reaper. how are you going to save it?

SEASON FIVE.

The only thing you're going to see out there is Michael killing your brother.

I'm gonna rip you apart from the inside out. Do you understand me?

No doubt - endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?

You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. 

Dean, even for you, this is a whole new mountain of stupid.

Sorry if it's a bit chilly. Most people think I burn hot. It's actually quite the opposite.

Well, I got to ask. How old are you?

As old as God. Maybe older. Neither of us can remember anymore. Life, death, chicken, egg. Regardless - at the end, I'll reap him, too.

That's the beauty about improv, Sammy. You never know what's gonna come out of your mouth.

You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be.

World's gonna end, seems silly to get all precious over one little soul.

Why? Because Crowley said so? Because we trust him now?

You think you own the planet? What gives you the right?!?

No one gives us the right. We take it.

You're not my father. And you ain't in my shoes. 

I mean, whatever happened to personal loyalty? How long have I worked for these guys. Five millennia? Six?

 It's funnier in Enochian.

 This creature has the power to take a human's form, read minds. 

And you think you know better than my father? The one unimportant little man. What makes you think you get to choose?

 It's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly. Free will's an illusion, Dean. That's why you're going to say yes.

Think of the million random choices that you make--and yet how each and everyone of them brings you closer to your destiny.

As it is in Heaven, so it must be on Earth. One brother has to kill the other.

Well, call it personal experience. Nobody gets that angry unless they're talking about their own family.

You know why God cast me down? Because I loved him. More than anything.

Now, tell me... does the punishment fit the crime? Especially when I was right? 

 Look at what six billion of you have done to this thing, and how many of you blame me for it?

Honestly, people don't need a reason to kill each other. I mean, you seen the Irish? They're all Irish.

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