a slender thread

Tease

A NIGHT AT HOME | HOSEOK VERSION

WORD COUNT: 3,440

warnings: graphic smut, dirty talk, spanking, oral sex, masturbation, sub!hoseok + dom!reader, dom!hoseok + sub!reader

Originally posted by morekpopmore

masterlist | ask | song


Sitting on the brilliant white fabric sofa in the sexiest, most shameless silky robe and matching lingerie you possessed you waited impatiently for your boyfriend Hoseok. The two of you had been together for almost three years, your relationship was absolutely perfect but you couldn’t deny how much you missed him each time he worked away for promotions. Hoseok was the lead dancer of the famous Kpop group BTS, and ever since you laid eyes on him in an overcrowded humid nightclub in Hongdae, you knew he was the one.

It was the way his body moved rhythmically to the music as he danced, thankfully alcohol provided him with enough courage to steal you away from your friends and show you a good time. Your bodies were hot, sweaty and fuelled entirely by an unquenchable thirst for each other; you didn’t remember much else about that night, mostly just the feel of Hoseok’s glistening back muscles beneath your desperate fingernails. Who knew that wouldn’t be the last time your bodies were lost beneath his bed sheets. 
Three years later here you were, the same desire for him circuiting your body.

He would be home soon.

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I Had This Dream, That in Another World, I Was Someone Else, Someone Not Me.

Part of my hospital chaplaincy duties is to write a reflection on how it’s going. Identities may be altered for privacy. All the writings are here.

The patient, Jerome, had a trapezoid-shaped hole in his head, and he told me it was from his son.

Jerome’s son had waited in his father’s home until he came back from work, and then he robbed him. Jerome fought back. In the struggle, his son had picked up one of those bright and shiny geode rocks the size of a torso, lifted it to the sky, and wham, in a sick, slicing arc, brought it down into his father’s head. The son was still at large. The father, after six months in physical therapy, still could not get the blood stain out of the carpet in his house. Jerome had lost his job at the oil rig; his wife had left him; his other son took two jobs to pay off the hospital bills, but one evening after dropping off his dad for PT, had been struck by a sixteen-wheeler and died on impact. 

“Chaplain, I had this dream,” Jerome said, scratching his old wound, “that in another world, I was someone else, I was someone better, that I have two sons who love me, my wife never left, I was still at the rig with the boys … I had a dream that I was someone not me. It was extraordinary. It was wo—”

He fell asleep, which he told me would happen. His brain needed to shut down when it overworked itself. A few seconds later, he woke up and apologized.

“I had this dream, chaplain. Do you ever dream that you are someone in another world, a different you?”


I visited another patient, Donnie, who weighed about 1400 pounds. His legs had been amputated and he was nearly blind. He had a neurological deficiency in which he couldn’t stop eating; he had become diabetic and was recovering from Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or as it’s also known, broken heart syndrome.

“Chaplain, I just think,” he said, eating his third plate of pasta, “I was meant to do … something, anything. Anything. Not this. Everyone tells you that your life is meant to help people, but how the hell can I do that here? Look at me.”

In our chaplain training, we call this intrapsychic grief, the pain of losing what could’ve been and will never be. It is the loss of future, the theft of invested time. It’s not a tangible, physical loss, but an internal shipwreck, the imperceptible emotional shriek in our chest when the picture of life we had planned for so long simply dies.

Donnie, the blind, obese, bedridden man with no legs, ordered pizza for the whole floor. That was, he felt, the best he could do. I told him it was even better than that.

Another patient, Lorenzo, had been in a car accident a few days before, and he suffered anterograde amnesia. He was having trouble remembering the words he had just spoken. 

“Chap—you the chap, right?” He rocked back and forth in his bed, nearly clapping his hands in frustration. “My girlfriend is real worried about me, man, she real worried. I think I’ll be fine though, but my girlfriend, she real worried about me. I’m not worried, I think I’ll be fine, chap. You the chap, right?”

He repeated himself, perhaps, to find security in the canvas of his own assurances. His brain had resorted to a safe mode, to grip onto the word-balloons which were floating away, by constantly making new ones.


I was astounded and bewildered by how much a mass of gray pulp between our ears can determine the course of a life, and inside the soul-box of our neurology is the possibility of a hundred lifetimes, and I was angry that the tiniest neuron could so effectively demolish an entire world.

What separated me from someone else not me, except by the tiniest shred of a neuron, one misfired synapse, one slender thread of chance? 

Another patient, Tony, was telling me that he had gotten weaker and weaker in his legs until one day, on the way home, he had collapsed at the ATM and there were floating heads around him asking what was wrong, but they looked like demon faces, and he tried to kick them off but he couldn’t move anymore. Tony had some sort of encephalopathy that had caused brain lesions and he was seeing things that weren’t there.

“But you know, chap,” he said, breaking into tears, “I got this long-lost brother up in Boston, he’s my half-brother but he loves me like a full one, Mikey, this guy’s made of money and he offered me a room at his place, his house is on this fifty acre property, it’s a mansion. Can you believe it?”

I spoke with Tony’s sister, who told me that no such brother existed, and there was no room, no mansion, no fifty acres. It was a story that Tony had been telling himself for months now, when his legs began failing him. It’s all he wanted to talk about, this promised land. 

Oliver Sacks, in his book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, writes about disturbed patients who “confabulate,” who spin tales all day long in a constant stream of chatter. They cannot help but conjure completely made-up yarns about meeting celebrities or devising inventions or discovering something remarkable, as if the widening chasms in their brain need a desperate momentum to thrive. Or, worse, such activity drowns out the long fall of personality into the abyss, into the unrecoverable ether. One story after another tumbles over the cliff; I may be the last one to hear them. 

It is my role to honor the burial of what can never be done. It is my role to remember what will never become. It’s not just my role; you and I need this more than we think. At every turn, every choice, we die a million deaths each day. How can we stand such a thing, except to tell those stories that never had a shot?

I had this dream … 

Suddenly, Jerome, the man with the trapezoid hole in his head, nodded off again, but his eyes fluttered, like someone was still home.

… that in another world …

He spoke, but a voice that sounded thicker, more weight, more verve. He sat up taller, his eyes closed but working. I took a small step back.

… I was someone else …

Jerome’s eyes quivered and he said, “I am the man from the other world.” He smiled, just for a second. “I am a hundred lifetimes, I am one of many. I am not who I could be.”

… someone not me.

“I am a life never had. I am the man in the dream. The dream wishes he could be the man in the other. We all wish to be awake in someone else. There is no perfect dre—”

And he woke up. Jerome blinked, saw me, and he apologized for sleeping again. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him about the other voice. 

He said to me, “Chaplain, thank you.” He held my hands, his eyes alive and fiery, wet and fierce. “Thank you for listening. I have to believe my son didn’t mean it. He did the best he could with who he was. I still love my son, in this world or the next.”

I left the room shaking. I questioned if I had really seen what I thought I saw. I repeated his words in my head, I replayed the eerie twitch of his eyes, the way his body slipped into another skin, another dimension.

I wondered if I had glimpsed, even for a second, a keyhole into other possibilities, like dipping a toe into the stream of the infinite, where a son did not ruin his father, where a man missed a car by inches, where a promised land of endless acres was waiting at the other end.

I thought about how we’re always dreaming of being someone else, and the others are dreaming of each other, wishing for a world they couldn’t have.

We survive the nightmare, I think, by dreaming. To dream is to cope. It is the brain’s essential defense against itself. We create new dreams all the time, a new canvas of assurances, to wake against the intolerable. It feels like a lie: but what is hope, really, except a story we tell ourselves in the dark to light the way? If it works, who is to say otherwise? The world continues to be cruel and unfair, but we do the best we can with who we are, to dream amidst the wreckage of what no longer is, to bend with the merciless wind. To even share pizza with the whole floor.

J.S.

Hot Chocolate - Mark

Requested: Can I have a Mark fluff please??
Requested: Ermm how about a kiss/make out (not too much u know) one with mark?

A/N: This is Mark Lee not Mark Tuan- but enjoy^^
Very first Mark scenario omg [pls don’t ask for Mark smut…]

Word Count: 388

Originally posted by ryuu



Frantically, Mark brought your hands to his lips.

“You’re too cold” he fretted, his warm breath making your frozen fingertips tingle.

You giggled childishly, poking his nose gently.
He wore a frown, pressing his lips to the smooth plane of your hand.

“I told you to bring gloves” he began, scolding you softly.

You ignored him, withdrawing your hands. You trembled as you made your way to the exit of the rink. A holler sounding before Mark tugged you aside, making way for the eccentric skater. Clumsily, you stumbled into Mark, gripping his soft coat ineptly. He smiled gently, glancing down at you.

“Let’s get hot chocolate” he suggested, intertwining his fingers with your own.

“My feet hurt” you whined.

He sat down in the booth, sliding a steaming cup of hot chocolate before you. He quickly removed the lid of his own before snatching the other, instead pushing the one with small marshmallows before you. You smiled at his thoughtfulness, scooting closer.

“I’ll give you a massage later then” he grinned.

Gingerly, he took a sip of the scalding drink, immediately hissing.

“It’s too hot, don’t drink it yet” he advised, frowning deeply.

“I love you.”

A light blush dusted his cheeks as his flustered expression morphed into a smile.

“I love you too.”

You leant in, melding your lips with his own, a sudden warmth flowing through your cold figure from the intimate contact. Your mind fluttered as his lips followed your own, a flurry of butterflies unleashed within your throbbing heart.

“No one can see us back here” he mused, glancing over his shoulder.

You suddenly became aware of the Christmas music, the chatter of the employees, the gentle clicks of the espresso machine.

You grew shy, shrinking away.

“Let’s go home” you murmured, tugging on his sleeve gently.

A muffled gasp left you as he leant in, capturing your lips. His agile hands drew you closer, his slender fingers threading through your hair. You whined quietly, unable to resist his spontaneous yet affectionate behavior.
His lips tasted of sweet chocolate, their enticing warmth making you melt.

“I want to watch a movie” he murmured, drawing back.

“At home.”

He smiled to himself, taking a sip of his drink; the thought of snuggling together on the sofa making him eager to head home.

“Alright.”

FIC REC!

a slender thread of hope around your heart by @ladytharen

She meets his gaze in anticipation, his hands settling at her hips, and briefly wonders whether this is absolutely necessary for the mission.

A moment later, with the sweet brush of his lips against her own, she decides she doesn’t care.

Or Cassian and Jyn have to pose undercover as husband and wife and share a bed and why have you not read this yet?

Read it on AO3

A Slender Thread (part 1)

You stay at your uncle’s ludus in for the summer, where you meet James, your uncle’s champion gladiator.


author: buckysbackpackbuckle
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
word count: 2132
warnings: gladiator au, smut, violence, character death

x amazing picture by @264jana x

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anonymous asked:

au where stars are watching humans

 observer effect

i. stars get it wrong, of course–they assume too much phosphorus and not enough fear of death, pulsar instead of pulse. They leave out uncertainty, not knowing what it was above the subatomic level; the softer shades of melancholy and the gentler warmths. But they get the shape right, the brighthot of blood. They get that right too.

ii. all their metaphors are for burning, and they ascribe to soft tongues a taste for sulfur, fingers at the ends of spiral arms. They drink liquid helium from a cracked Dewar flask and wonder aloud if humanity is looking up, looking back.

(how cold they must be, the stars’ carbon cousins–wet and cold, and can humanity do arithmetic in parallax, do you think, counting parsecs between two stars in inexorable collision?

it’s called a kiss, cygnus X-1 says quietly. they call it a kiss.)

iii. they say when you feel your child’s protoplanetary disc first differentiate, you will cry tears of methane.

iv. it’s called the Kindling, when the faint sheen of protostellar mass catches alight, and burns with all the brightness of adulthood. Protostars of thirteen stand around bathroom mirrors, examining their helium layer for bright spots, looking for stray molecular clouds in their nail beds. All of them are in love with the astrophysics teacher, whose stellar wind sends flickers of light across the meteor fields.

late at night (but what is night to a star?) they trace the spiral arms of their evolving galaxies, and dream dry dreams of neutron star collisions hotter than blue hypergiants.

v. we are made of starstuff, says a man, craning his thread-slender neck, looking up into the abyss of wind and fire of the universe.

oh, breathes a star, squinting down at the infinitesimal speck of rock, turning and turning in the vastness of space. oh. 

we didn’t have a name for us, before.

forever (is a long time)

pairing: jikook

genre: fluff, so MUCH FLUFF

a/n: for jikook fluff week! domestic sundays :) title from ‘i wouldn’t mind’ by ‘he is we’ sorry if it’s not domestic i tried, i rlly did

ao3

summary: jeongguk wants to give jimin ‘forever’, maybe more.

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A Slim Sleepover

It had been a few days since Sasha underwent a magical procedure that made his body thinner and taller. He was still ‘testing’ the look out to see whether or not he would keep his new body type. A short while back, he’d allegedly agreed to babysit someone while her father attended to other matters.

While Sasha worked on stuff in the kitchen, a more long-term guest of his was dry-mopping in the living room. Jamie, a teenage Native American girl who fell down Mt. Ebott around the same time as Sasha, was staying with the Kozlovs for the time until she could locate family of her own. She felt helping the family giving her shelter maintain said shelter was the least she could do. And she expected a quiet day…

@kenzithessblue

The soul that is attached to anything however much good there may be in it, will not arrive at the liberty of divine union.  For whether it be a strong wire rope or a slender and delicate thread that holds the bird, it matters not, if it really holds it fast; for, until the cord be broken the bird cannot fly.
—  St. John of the Cross
UPDATED! The 100% Definitive, Empirical, Ruthlessly Objective, I-Will-Brook-No-Dissent Ranking of Every Song from “CRAZY EX-GIRLFRIEND” Season One

Clip and save for your records.

Note: For the purpose of this rigorous scientific analysis, no reprises are included. “Reprises make the data noisy,” as my old Musical Theater Epidemiology Professor used to say. 

Note, the Second: In several cases, both broadcast and explicit versions of these songs exist. You owe it to yourself to get the explicit versions, always.

37. “Women Gotta Stick Together”

Here’s the thing: It’s fine. All these songs are fine. And the fact that they’re all being written, orchestrated, rehearsed, performed and broadcast over the course of a matter of weeks is astonishing. But what hurls a particular song higher up this chart is if it goes somewhere, musically or lyrically, we didn’t expect when it began. That’s the key – a song starts, we recognize its premise, or its style, and we think, “Oh. A Billy Joel bit. Got it. Ok.” If it nails the pastiche, great. But if DOES something with that pastiche, if it includes something that stands out, that feels specific to this show, it flings itself up the rankings. Can be a gem of a line like “NEWSFLASH, FUCKWADS: I’M A GOOD PERSON” or something in the performance, like the perfect trill puts on “It’s a practical proposal!” From verse to verse, it’s gotta MOVE.This song is fine, but every verse iterates what the first verse lays out. We get it.

36. “Having a Few People Over”

Here’s a good place to point out that I’m ranking these as stand-alone songs. As such, this is a dutiful EDM sendup, but it’s the visuals that really sell this thing. Gardner kills it. 

35. “Textmergency/Where is the Rock”

Here’s a song that takes a genre – in this case, metal-as-envisioned-by-kids-who-spent-their-summers-at-theater-camp – and nails the parody, but doesn’t do much else. The performers are charming, but the central joke (fighting over the proper terminology) doesn’t have enough muscle to put the gag over. 

33. “Gettin’ Bi”

Give it this much: it sounds like the Huey Lewis song that would be playing in the scene set in an 80s bar when the producers couldn’t get the rights to “Power of Love.” But that’s just not enough to move it higher up this list.

32. “One Indescribable Instant”

Does what it’s asked to, namely to sound like the Disney love song you half-remember from childhood. But that’s all it does, and as such it lacks the earworm potential so many of this show’s songs possess.

31. “I Could if I Wanted To”

This song couldn’t get more 90s if tied a flannel shirt around its waist and hung out in a 7-11 parking lot laughing at every joke that kid Eric from Civics class made, occasionally catching itself staring longingly at his meaty, vascular forearms. (… Um. That … that may be just a me thing.) Fontana sells, it, there’s just not that much to sell.

30. “Dear Joshua Felix Chan”

It’s sweet, it’s well-performed, it makes its case, it doesn’t move.

29. “Sexy French Depression”

You get where this is going in the first verse, but it’s got some balls: “My bed smells like a tampon/I’m in a sexy French depression” is a rhyme they don’t teach you in wherever you go to study making musicals. You know. That FAME high school? That.

28. “Flooded with Justice”

A dutiful Les Miserables take that suffers in comparison to everything around it. It’s funny enough, sure, but there’s nothing here that the Capitol Steps couldn’t do, and this show is so much better than that – more specific, more idiosyncratic. Weirder. 

27. “What’ll it Be”

A great performance, some good lines. (Hands ARE sort of gross.) But maybe because it’s explicitly about a guy wallowing in self-pity, it never permits itself to break out, to leave its starting position.

26. “I Have Friends”

Bouncy, infectious, Up-With-People/Disney-Channel pep. Plus, handclaps. All songs with handclaps are good songs; that’s just science. And listen to the way that dude says “HAY-ULF an EYE-lid!” Genius. But in the end, it’s just too slight to inch any higher up this chart. 

25. “His Status is Preferred”

Champlin nails this torch song, and it’s ability to fit so many disparate references to VIP perks into each line is nothing less than a feat of lyrical Tetris. It does what it does very well, but it does only the one thing.

24. “Oh My God I Think I Like You”

Sweet, adult, and matter-of-factly sexy. There are a lot of other songs like it, and it’s smart enough to know that when that’s the case, one of the tasks before it is to comment on those other songs, to achieve a kind of lyrical sentience – a musical singularity, in a sense. 

23. “I Gave You a UTI”

A slender thread on which to hang a song, perhaps, but it works, because Fontana sells the song’s intricate mix of emotions - the desperation, the self-mocking self-awareness, the pride, the neediness.

22. “Put Yourself First”

As this list makes clear, I’m a sucker for songs that discover what they’re about as they’re being sung, and this is a particularly sharp (and catchy as all hell) example of same. 

21. “Good at Yoga”

As Linda said on the show, this is Bollywood by way of Hollywood. (If she were taking kung fu, would this song feature gongs and “Chopsticks”?) But we are in Rachel’s head, after all, and she doesn’t strike me as someone who’d have a particularly profound knowledge of East Asian history and culture. A catchy song, but low-hanging fruit. (Here’s an example where the explicit version is 10x better.)

20. “Settle for Me”

I know, I know. You love this song. It should be higher! Top five, easy! Look: it’s great. The performance is wonderful. And as I mention above, Bloom’s “It’s a practical proposal!” comes in at JUST the right time, with JUST the right English on it. But once we get the setup, the execution is deft, but on rails.

19. “Cold Showers”

Oh, it’s fun. Sure, it’s fun. But everything about it maps so completely (and deliberately) over the Music Man’s “Trouble” that it has a hard time distinguishing itself. It never manages to step out of that show’s long shadow to let us see it on its own; it’s drafting on the energy of Meredith Wilson’s song, not adding its own. I do like the clever way it occasionally undercuts itself (”I don’t live here”), which re-centers us on Rachel.

18. “I Love My Daughter”

See now, this MOVES. We get it’s gonna be a country pastiche, and Gardner sells it well enough, but then the song permits him some self-awareness. We can HEAR him realizing how skeevy what he’s singing sounds, and doing something about it. 

17. “Boy Band Made Up Of Four Joshes”

When I brought this list into the studio, this song ranked at number 10. But one of the songs from this week’s episode kicked it out. (Ooo! Foreshadowing! Suspense!) Which is a shame, as this song NAILS its Boy-Bandishness. The production is spot-on, the performance is perfect. And this song is pretty goddamn great at capturing where Rachel at this moment – her younger self pines for a boy band, her unconscious adult self for mental health – so we slowly realize, along with her, that her mind has created the perfect fusion of the two.

16. “Heavy Boobs”

Originally slid into this list at number 20. “They each have their own memoir” moved it up 4 slots. Such is the power of “they each have their own memoir.’ Also: if a song’s got one joke, it needs to keep interpolating it, and “Heavy Boobs” does that nicely with the spoken-word break, and its specificity and weirdness (”Paperback copy of Arabian Nights”).

15. “I Give Good Parent”

Cultural appropriation + covered dish reference = genius.

14. “The Villain in my Own Story”

I’ve said above that if a song is simply a parody or pastiche of a particular genre, its not enough for a high ranking on this list. This is an exception: it nails the “Disney villain song” genre – a genre against which, admittedly, I am helpless – but it goes somewhere. It’s another example of a song discovering what it’s about as it’s being sung. Plus, the specificity of “I’m the bitch in the corner of the poster” – and the visual gag that accompanies it (the slicked back hair!) – is hugely smart. 

13 “West Covina”

A perfect encapsulation of the show, and its protagonist’s willfully skewed sense of the world – or at least, of one particular exurb. Celebrates the place by making fun of it. Makes fun of the place by sincerely celebrating it. It’s a tough tone to get right, but this very very does. (This song ranked higher earlier in the season, but we’ve got a hell of a lot more songs now, and the sheer novelty of this one has begun to wear.) (NOTE: I’m not ranking the show’s Theme Song, but if I did, it’d probably share this slot.)

12. “I’m a Good Person”

Well this song just makes your whole damn day better, is what. (Again, get the explicit version. Trust me. Thank me later.) It’s so exuberant, it’s infectious – the Zika of showtunes! Does it move from its starting position? No. Shut up. I’m gonna go listen to it again. 

11. “Dream Ghost”

“You know the trope/In storytelling it’s the norm…”

Ok, it’s a very faithful (possibly legally actionable) Dreamgirls bit, and what have I said about pastiches? 

But. 

Well.

I mean, I’m me, so any song that busts out the word “trope” in its opening verse has got my damn number. The fact that it goes on to be very much about narrative cliches, and their structural function – sign me the hell up. 

Always bugged me that Amber Riley and Ricki Lake got such hype about their appearance as background singers. I mean, sure, it’s a cute stunt, but it’s Michael Hyatt doing the heavy lifting here, and she’s fantastic.

(Also? Not for nothing? “We’re other dream ghosts helping people on this plane” …. OF EXISTENCE GET IT RIGHT I JUST BROKE YOUR BRAIN DIDN’T I)

10. “California Christmastime”

If it did nothing else, the fact that this show gave the world this tune – a Christmas song that invokes melanoma, gonorrhea, porn and the great scourge that is white reggae – is enough to win it the Nobel goddamn Prize. THIS I BELIEVE! (One tiny lyrical nit to pick: “Well there is no easy answer/For our high rates of skin cancer”? Uuuummmm yes there is it’s called SPF look into it.)

9. “Sex With a Stranger”

“Most people don’t know about the window” is when I laughed, aloud, alone in the apartment. Also, the “balls” rap break. (Specifically, the “hou-AWHS/show-AH” bit.) Also, “Thank god, it’s just your penis.” Also, “Don’t steal!” Also, its a sharp and knowing and ruthlessly funny distillation of some dark, dark shit.

8. “Group Hang”

I know, I know. You’re surprised to see it ranked so highly. It’s so slight! It’s just a Shakira bit – half the joke’s the damn braid! I understand. Here’s why you’re wrong.

The song’s driving dilemma gets introduced in the first line (”Cali-Mex Italian, I don’t really know what this food is”) and proceeds to get iterated again (“Salsa burritos taquitos guacamole pizza”) and again (”Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish Espanol”) and again (”Pickle taco”) and again (”Is it just me? Maybe it’s just me!”), always adding to it, building on it, twisting it. 

Plus, we get to see White Josh, and his arms, sing and … well, “dance.” And we know that dude can sing. And he can DANCE. (Check him out as a hot chorus boy on Broadway!)  More White Josh in Season 2, say I. Dude needs a song. A shirtless song.

7. “The Sexy Gettin’ Ready Song”

Plants itself squarely inside the style its parodying and then – doesn’t merely parody it. Goes somewhere. Says something. Expresses the show’s specific point of view even as its crawling inside your ear to set up housekeeping.

6. “Feelin’ Kinda Naughty”

That baby-voice thing Bloom does at the beginning. The slow build to “wear your skin like a dress” and “baby teeth”. This song should be taught in schools. You know, like that one from Fame.

5. “Face Your Fears”

Champlin: good lord. The melisma. The self-importance. You can hear the “I am about to impart some Whitney-esque wisdom” in the fullness of that voice. Plus, this song is just SUCH A GOOD IDEA. An advice song filled with specific, earnestly proffered but howlingly terrible advice. 

4. “JAP Battle”

A great idea, executed flawlessly. And WOW do you need to hear the explicit version immediately. (That was rhetorical. You do.)

3. “You Stupid Bitch”

Raw and real and funny and kind of terrifying all at once. Plus a key change. I’m not made of stone here, people.

2.  “After Everything I’ve Done for You (That You Didn’t Ask For)”

I say again, Champlin: good LORD. The thing about “Rose’s Turn” (LOOK IT UP YOU GODDAMN INFANTS) is that it’s about a breakdown, so it keeps changing mood and melody something like six times. So does this. In fact it clings so closely to the bones of “Rose’s Turn” that it threatens to disappear under it, the way “Cold Showers” never quite escapes “Trouble.” 

The reason it doesn’t? The reason it’s lodged itself here so near the top of this unbelievably impressive list of songs? Champlin’s performance is its own, singular thing. She elevates this above pastiche and makes this her story, her song, the baring of Paula’s soul. It’s a song that’s not so much delivered as unleashed.

1. “Where’s the Bathroom?”

The Earworm of Earworms. Bow down before it. There is no escape. Y’all about to get klezmerized. The performance just could not be more on point, and the way it builds to that mid-point turn, where the theme from JAWS kicks in so seamlessly: yowza. I love this song so much I’ma boycott cheddar cheese in solidarity.

There you have it. Ranked. Filed. Sealed. Your opinion on some or all of these rankings may differ. Your opinion is wrong.

» MUSE ! — Elaine
» TRIGGER ! — none. 
» WHO ! — pre-established, only females !!


» FRACTURED ! — Disbelief spread over her feline features and perhaps a little bit of embarrassment because she felt caught. Slender fingers threaded through thick curls of a lilac dark colour, one streak tugged behind her ear. If it would be possible her pale complexion would probably be dipped in a shade of red at this point. “No, no. I don’t like women in that way. I mean…–” Her words trailed off just like the gaze of her almost pitch-black orbs that flickered to the floor. The tip of her tongue licked over her dried lips swiftly before it disappeared again between her full brims. “I guess… I was too drunk, and–…” This was a lie. She wasn’t drunk. She could remember the kiss. A kiss that was a bit too much for someone you would call a friend. Albeit, the young vampiress was born in a time where it wasn’t a thought to fall for someone of the same gender. And somehow, some of this still stuck deep in her bones. She was ashamed for something no one should be. Perhaps afraid. Who knew. “Don’t tell anyone about it. Okay? I just… Don’t…–” Her slender shoulders moved for a light shrug. She was stuttering, had no idea how she should get out of this situation. And did she really wanted to get out of this situation?

A Familiar Nightmare

“AAAUREY!”

A young boy walked around all over the known parts of the Underground; he had been calling out the same name for a while now. He feared not capture, despite being in a ‘Pre-Pacifist Timeline’, as the local Undyne had already deemed his soul redundant to the goal of breaking the Barrier.

“Aurey, where are you?” He had his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. “I wanna talk to you about a few things!”

“Art is an ascending or descending scale, the spirit of its joy reaches us in unexpected ways. It travels on slender threads but it is within the grasp of all who care enough to want to see and understand.” —our founder Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, who was born today in 1875.

[Robert Henri (1865–1929), Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, 1916. Oil on canvas, 50 × 72 in. (127 × 182.9 cm). Whitney Museum of American Art, New York; gift of Flora Whitney Miller 86.70.3 © Estate of Robert Henri]

Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice
Pairing: Viktuuri
Summary: in which yuuri isn’t the only one with fears and insecurities
A/N: I can’t believe it took me this long to write for them. the travesty! haha. for @aoicanvas​ as a peace offering until I can get cracking on her longer bday fic. viktuuri with slightly angsty fluff yayy ♡ happy born day, pic. love you!


“Tell me something you’re scared of.”

Viktor stills, fingers like slender threads halting their absentminded gesture before he resumes weaving through strands of Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri shifts in his lap, cheek pressed against Viktor’s thigh, and hums quietly. An encouragement. 

It’s usually Yuuri that is scared, Yuuri that has fears and anxieties he often keeps to himself until Viktor chips away at the barrier that holds it all in, shatters the fragile bubble Yuuri often retreats into.

He mulls over the idea for a long minute, turns over words and phrases on the tip of his tongue while he tries to find something that doesn’t sound like rejected dialogue from an outdated B-movie. 

“I’m scared of losing you.”

No, no. I can’t say that… too cliche–

“I’m scared of not doing a good job.”

–not that either… too vague–

“I’m scared that there are no more surprises left.”

–not honest enough… maybe I should have asked Yakov for some pointers on conversations like these–

“–that I would have shown you everything you needed to know.”

This time, it’s Yuuri that stills. Frozen in place with his head on Viktor’s lap, gaze stretched out toward the darkened horizon like they were trying to grasp the stars.

“Why would that scare you?” Yuuri asks, clearly confused.

Viktor exhales a sigh through a subtle shrug. The action lifts some of the burden of what he’s confessed, makes his shoulders feel lighter, more able to carry the fear without being afraid just like Yuuri has done by asking the question so simply, so bluntly. 

“There would be no more surprises left. From me, that is. But you - you would continue to surprise them all.”

“I thought you’d be proud of that moment, not scared,” Yuuri murmurs over a yawn. He blinks up at Viktor, lips parted in a fond smile, and reaches up to teasingly press a finger against the tip of Viktor’s nose. “Since I was a kid, you’ve always surprised me. Without fail. Without trying. I’m only trying to keep up.”

Viktor chuckles, returns the affection with the same gesture and earns a wrinkle of Yuuri’s nose in response. “You’ll surpass me, my little pork cutlet. And then there will be no need for me,” he says, softer than he’d meant to. Sadder, like admitting it out loud would somehow make the inevitable come sooner rather than later.

“Come here,” Yuuri whispers, finger hooking on the collar of Viktor’s shirt before he tugs Viktor down at half mast. “I have a secret to tell you.”

“Hm? Is it a good secret?” Viktor asks, frustrated with himself that he can’t seem to shake the sullen mood snaking around one of his only insecurities. “I could use a good secret, darling Yuur–.”

Before he can finish, Yuuri lifts up just enough to meet Viktor halfway and presses their lips together. Tentative, fearful almost, if Viktor were to guess by the tremble of Yuuri’s hand clenched around the collar of his shirt. 

Viktor reciprocates, cradles the back of Yuuri’s head and takes it slow. A nudge forward, a flicker back. Like a fragile dance, a tango routine he has yet to master but more than anything wants to understand.

When they pull away enough to breathe - a little flushed, a little terrified - Yuuri smiles, anchors their foreheads together with sigh, and mumbles in broken Russian, “ty nuzhen mnye…

“I need you…”

Viktor hears it even through Yuuri’s shaky pronunciation, the bundle of nerves. Loud and clear, singing in his veins like some cheesy, romantic one-liner from a rejected script of some outdated B-movie. But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t bother trying to hide the giddy happiness from bubbling in his chest until it’s enough to overwhelm, to take his breath away.

So he does the only thing he can… and laughs. Laughs until his cheeks hurt, until tears sting his eyes, until Yuuri joins in and works kisses in between. 

“A confession and a first kiss. I need to step up if I want to surprise you more than you’ve already surprised me,” Viktor says between chuckles and stolen kisses. 

Yuuri smiles then; genuine and unabashed, eyes crinkled at the corners as he gazes at Viktor. Vulnerable. Trusting. 

And Viktor realizes that the secret isn’t that Yuuri needed him–

–it’s that deep down, he’s always known he’s needed Yuuri, too. 

A little bit about the two surviving children of Thomas Jefferson’s six...

Martha “Patsy” Jefferson was only ten years old when her mother died and recalled that her father took long horseback rides to ease his grief. Patsy would fulfill role as companion throughout her father’s life; as a teenage girl she accompanied him to Paris while he served as minister plenipotentiary to France, and as an adult she served as his hostess at the President’s House in Washington, DC. Following her father’s retirement to Monticello, she and her husband lived with him there, and she took on the responsibility of supervising the domestic activities of the plantation. Jefferson later called her “the cherished companion of my early life, and nurse of my age.”

Maria Jefferson, called Polly as a child, was sent to stay with her aunt, Elizabeth Wayles Eppes, following her mother’s death. Polly became very attached to the family at Eppington, and when Jefferson arranged for the eight-year-old to join him and Martha in Paris, she wrote, “I don’t want to go to France, I had rather stay with Aunt Eppes.” Upon her arrival in England, Polly lived briefly with Abigail and John Adams, who were so charmed by the little girl that Mrs. Adams wrote to Jefferson that “she was the favorite of everyone in the house." Maria married her cousin, John Wayles Eppes, and returned to live at Eppington. Like her mother, Maria suffered from poor health; she died at the age of twenty-five. After her death, the grieving Jefferson wrote his friend John Page that "I…have lost even the half of what I had. My evening prospects now hang on the slender thread of a single life. Perhaps I may be destined to see even this last chord of parental affection broken!”

&& @thepillboxrevolver || continued

Little bit of teasing, don’t ‘cha?

             Harley laughed softly, the sound innocent as a church bell, as she walked into the room and up to where the Joker was standing. She reached up her hand, her slender fingers threading through his green, silky soft hair before she tugged at the strands at the back of his head “What is it to me?” The blonde asked quietly “I just want a nice, clean carpet, sweetie.” Harley added before grinning as she stood on her tippy-toes and kissed him roughly.