how old is this movie anyways

iamtheloriosa  asked:

Omg! I love your ART XD I want a Plushie of pennywise based on your art! Btw, ever since IT (2017) came out, I been getting comments on how 1990s IT wasn’t that scary and found the new one better than the old. I personally love both films :) What are your thoughts about people who compare these two movies?

well, tbh I’m originally fan of mini series and novel. so at first I was very disappointed to that reboot was coming out. (I don’t like reboot movies or series) but anyway I’m the fan of IT so I watched movie at theater, and it was not that bad cuz actors are really, really good (but, story and direction? well.. not my type) and now here I am. 😂

p.s I already criticized new IT movie on my twitter (many, many time..😤) and my main critic was “WTH did director do to Michael?” oh my precious mike

What has been your worst "nice guy" experience?

So, possibly one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. I mean you know how you hear the “women want him, men want to *be* him” stuff in old movies? Well I’m a man and by *god* I wanted to be this guy. Anyway!

I’m having dinner with my girlfriend at the time, and behind us are a couple on a date. It is.. not going well. Guy was being rather creepy and making some pretty inappropriate comments, the girl doesn’t look at all comfortable.

The girl finishes her appetiser really quickly, my guess is she wanted to get it over with. Guy proceeds to comment on it and says “well, least I know you can swallow right?”. Loudly.

Girl goes red and tells him that isn’t appropriate, he literally waves his hand in a “shoo” type motion and says “oh calm down I was going to find out in a few hours anyway”.

I missed her exact reply as she moved to a hushed tone, but it was fairly obvious what was being said - fuck no, fuck off, fuck this. He responded with “sweetheart I picked you up, I know where you live”. She lost the colour in her face and said nothing.

No. No. Fuck no. I’m one of those “get involved” type of people and there is no way I’m sitting here watching this go down. I get up. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m 23, fighting fit and happy to put that motherfucker through a wall. I may have had a slight temper in my youth. But anyway.

I was halfway out of my chair when a hand came down on my shoulder and I look up to this mid-50s but super fit guy who says “Easy.. I’ve got this one son”. Absolute, total confidence in his voice.. so seeing as my current plan amounted to “stab him in the neck” and I’m already thinking maybe that’s not the best idea, I sit down.

He walks over, grabs a nearby chair, flips it around and sits down with the couple. Then.. he pulls out his police ID and puts it on the table. Now the guy doesn’t have any colour in his face.

Cop: “So, I’m quietly celebrating my daughters birthday with my family when I distinctly hear you threaten this young lady, would you care to explain yourself?”

Guy: “I, ah, well, um, you see..”

Cop: “That’s what I thought. Now see, we take a *very* dim view of that kind of thing, so right now I’m deciding if I want to have some of my buddies come pick you up.”

Guy: “oh no well that…”

Cop: “But that would disrupt everyone’s dinner, so how about you hand me your ID, because I wouldn’t want you running off on me, then you go see one of the staff here and settle your bill.. the full bill now, this young lady shouldn’t go hungry on account of your poor behaviour. Or we can go with the first option, I’ll leave it up to you.”

Guy: “No no! That’s perfectly fine!” \*hands over ID, gets up and walks very quickly in the direction of the counter\*

Cop: \*while writing down the guys details\* “Sorry about that miss, I hope I’m not intruding it just seemed like you could use some help. Oh and don’t worry, if you want to pursue this further I’ll have some of the boys pick him up on his way home, we can definitely take this further.”

Girl: “No, thank you so much, I wanted to run out 30 minutes ago but he drove me here”.

Cop: \*shifts from hardarse cop to comforting father figure in about half a second\* “Well I’m here with my daughter, she’s about your age, perhaps you’d like to finish your meal with us? We can run you home afterwards if you’d like, unless you’d prefer to call someone else?”

Girl: “Oh.. that would be really nice.. thankyou so much!”

\*guy returns, so does the hardarse cop\*

Guy: “Uh so, I’ve paid the bill, if I could have my ID back..”.

Cop: “There you go.. now I have your details right here so I *highly* recommend you don’t go near or contact this young lady ever again.”

Guy: “Yes yes of course, I’m so sorry!”

The guy pretty much fled the restaurant, the girl went and sat with the cop and his family and by the time we left they were still sitting around talking and laughing about random crap.

It was hands down the best way I have ever seen anybody handle any situation, ever. That cop is my hero.

The 1 Thing Your Scenes MUST HAVE

Sully is a good representation of how I want people to react when enthralled by a story I’ve written:

But more often than not, I get a reaction more like this:

Or at least, I did. I couldn’t understand why my writing produced these less-than-stellar responses. I had meticulously worded every sentence. I’d made sure there were exciting parts. I had parceled out backstory, setting, and exposition so the reader could understand what the heck was going on. So why did eyes glaze over while reading my book? Why did MY eyes glaze over while reading my own work? 

The problem, I finally found out, was that my scenes didn’t turn. 

I was cramming all that exposition in right out of the gate, so the reader knew absolutely everything … which meant there wasn’t anything to find out. The scenes were just tiny chronicles where the main character set out to do something and accomplished it with flying colors. Nothing ever happened that surprised him. And consequently, nothing ever happened to surprise the reader.  

I wasn’t withholding information, and revealing it methodically. 

I wasn’t letting the story spin in new directions. It was always chugging along the straightforward track where I’d dropped my reader.

I wasn’t letting my scenes TURN.

To illustrate what I mean, here’s an example of a great scene with a great turn from a wonderful movie: Beauty and the Beast

*Opening music that makes me want to cry from how beautiful it is*

Beat 1:

“Once upon a time, in a faraway land a young prince lived in a shining castle…” (Action: Apparently the world takes action to make sure this prince lives a cushy existence.)

“Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind.” (Reaction: And he acts like a brat anyway.)

Beat 2:

“But then, one winter’s night, and old beggar woman came to the castle and offered a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold.” (Action)

“Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift, and turned the old woman away.” (Reaction)

Beat 3:

“But she warned him, not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within.” (Action)

“And when he dismissed her again …” (Reaction)

Beat 4:

“The old woman’s ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.” (Action)

“The prince tried to apologize …” (Reaction) 


Beat 5:

“But it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart. And as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle, and all who lived there.” (Action)

“Ashamed of his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself inside his castle, with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.” (Reaction)

Beat 6:

“The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, that would bloom until his 21st year. If he could learn to love another, and earn their love in return, by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time.” (Action)

“As the years passed, he fell into despair, and lost all hope.”  (Reaction)

“For who could ever learn to love a beast?”

Turn: The 6th beat is the turn. The story has spun in a new direction, the direction the WHOLE STORY will motor towards. 

Revelation: There’s the big one of the scene turn, but I love how every action and reaction in this prologue feels like a revelation. Each one feels like it could be a scene on it’s own, but it’s told in a just few words, with beautiful imagery. There’s no fluff in this, nothing unnecessary, everything is perfectly needed. (Sorry, I just really love this opening. I can remember sitting in my little wicker rocking chair when I was four watching this in awe. This movie is one of the reasons I’m story obsessed.)

NOW let’s remove all curiosity and surprise from this scene. 

We’ll take away the atmosphere of “all is not as it seems”, the “seeking and learning significant information” feeling, the sense that we’re climbing to something significant. Instead of withholding and revealing snippets of information, after gradual beat-by-beat escalation of curiosity, we’ll dump all information right away. We’ll take this beautiful scene, and make it distinctly not a scene by removing all traces of a turn.

So! The purpose of this “section” of story is to communicate necessary information. What info? The guy used to be a terrible prince. Someone cursed him to be a beast. His castle and the people who live there are also cursed. He’s got a rose that will bloom until he’s 21. He’s supposed to fall in love with someone and get that person to love him back.  Or he’s going to be a beast forevermore. So, let’s give it a whirl.

Let’s say it opens up on Lumiere and the Beast. They’re just hanging out in the West Wing, the Beast watching the rose sparkle, Lumiere extinguishing and reigniting his left candle/hand for something to do.

LUMIERE: “So Master, it’s been years since you were turned into a beast and the castle staff was turned into objects.”

BEAST: “Yup.”

L: “I wish you hadn’t have upset that enchantress, and been a bit kinder.”

B: “Me too. Don’t know how.”

L: “Now our only hope to return to our human forms, is if you fall in love and get that person to fall in love with you.”

B: *Noncommittal grunt*

L: “Better happen soon, before that last petal on the magical rose falls. When you turn 21, it’s going to fall. And if you haven’t learned to love by then, well, we’re stuck.”

B: “I’m aware." 

L: "Yup.”

B: “Yup.”

Well, that was extraordinarily awful. 

So what about these scenes is different? (Besides one being a work of art and the other being agony in text form.) 

– One withholds information and reveals it slowly, turning the story at the end. 

– One is just an info dump. 

So how can a turn be accomplished?  There are four types of turns: 

– Surprise

– Amplified Curiosity 

– New Insight

– Spin in New Direction

A SURPRISE turn is the difference between what the character expects and what actually happens, surprising them, surprising the reader/audience that is enthralled by your story. A CURIOSITY turn is when a new mystery is presented to the reader, increasing their drive to find out what happens next. An INSIGHT one is when a scene ends by solving a mystery, answering a question that the audience has been wondering about. And a SPIN is just that, a turn that jolts the story into a new unexpected direction.

And how do they work in a scene? 

The turn happens at the end. It’s the point of the scene. Everything’s leading to it. Think of it as the period punctuation mark on the end of the sentence that is your scene. But really your reader is anticipating that turn throughout the scene.
It’s this anticipation and “gradual illumination” that’s crucial to a story turn. This is the wonderful curious feeling that keeps us turning pages. That sense that “all is not as it seems, and if I keep reading I’ll find out the truth.” which is so intoxicating. And this is accomplished with beats, the exchanges of action and reaction, each acting like a escalation on a roller coaster, each increasing anticipation for the drop. 

Turns and revelation anticipation are rather magical when you think about it. They really are (as Robert McKee says) the substance of story. (Or they’re magical to me. I said I was obsessed. Blame this movie!) 

Now I’m going to go watch Beauty and the Beast again.

Imagine being friends with Deadpool

> He found you in an alley being bullied by some jerks on your way home after school.

  • Years ago you had a very bad kitchen accident that left you with a burn scar on your left forearm, he felt empathy.
  • He scared them off and walked you home, he bought you an ice cream on the way.
  • They never dared to mess with you again.

> He likes to hang around with you, you laugh at all of his jokes.

> Your relationship is entirely platonic, he’s too old for you anyway.

> You swear a lot, so he doesn’t hold back when you’re around.

  • He still finds you adorable tho.

> You’ve never seen him without the mask, but at least he told you his real name. You are ok with that.

> He taught you how to use a gun, but hopes he will be there the day you encounter true danger.

> Whenever it’s not school night, he’ll climb your window and play videogames or watch any Sharknado movie.

  • Ok maybe on school night too, but the guy forgets about it! Please forgive him.

> When you’re really stressed or anxious (about school, family, friends, etc.) he’ll let you shoot him.

  • You weren’t sure at first, but he encouraged you to, according to him apparently it was something really fun because people kept doing it quite often.
  • You laugh your ass off if you shoot one of his extremities and it grossly has to grow back.

> He teaches you how to drink, he knows he can’t stop you so at least he teaches you how to do it responsibly.

  • Smoking and drugs are a no-no.

> He’s openly pansexual so he’s the perfect partner when you fangirl about a celebrity or a fictional character. He’s there even when you need advice about a crush.

  • The two of you fangirl about Spidey, like A LOT.

> When nobody invited you to prom he took you himself and even dragged Spiderman along. It was the best night of your life.

  • The original plan was to stay at your place and order a pizza, but he knew that in reality you were upset about it.
  • You rented the tuxedo and dress on your way there.
  • In a single phone call he convinced Spidey to go.
  • The three of you were the center of attention.
  • Peter had a lot of fun too, he missed his own prom so this was his second chance.

> On your birthday he took you shopping and then to Disneyland (don’t ask where he got the money from, just enjoy it).

> “Call me onii-chan, (f/n)!” “no, Wade! what does that even mean??” “CALL ME ONII-CHAN!!!”.

(DISCLAIMER: We know in light of recent events the Deadpool fandom is grieving but to cheer things up a little we wrote this headcanon list. R.I.P. SJ Harris. ~Mod Pumpkin & Mod Demon)

Why the Types Will Die Alone

ISTJ: You were somehow roped into a relationship once but ended that nonsense right quick once you realized they wanted to talk about their feelings. You live a lonesome, tranquil life by the river now, whittling calculators and stock portfolios from driftwood. They are your only friends. 

ESTJ: You had a great life, perfect partner, and tons of friends for many years. Then everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked. Jk, your best friend and the rest of the Senate stabbed you repeatedly in the back and you bled out alone on the floor. “Et tu, Brute?” were your final woe-begotten words you tyrannical dictator, you. 

ENFJ: Your partner got sick of trying to decrypt your real feelings about everything every other second. It’s okay though, you still had a pretty fulfilling life never saying no to any person’s request. You eventually died when your body spontaneously combusted from the stress of trying to make everybody happy. 

INFJ: You tried to act ethereal and distant for so long that nobody wanted to put in the effort to get to know you, Star Man. Except for Linda. But once she saw that all of your “deep, mystical” thoughts were actually just crippling anxiety about people’s approval of you, she jumped that ship pretty quickly. 

ESTP: You took all of your friends skydiving and pushed all their scared, pansy asses out of the plane as a practical joke. You turned around and saw the parachutes they were supposed to be wearing still hanging on the wall, but you didn’t think much of it. Anyways, you convinced the pilot to do a sick flip between some buildings and died in a fiery explosion, just like that old, Romanian woman said you would. 

ISTP: You were too busy being the douchey frat boy bully trope in every teen movie that you forgot to make friends. As you lay dying in a pile of cigarettes and empty liquor bottles, you smile, believing wholeheartedly that Fonzie would have been proud of you. He wouldn’t. 

ISFJ: You were baking a casserole but got distracted by youtube tutorials on how to make friends and burned your house down with you in it. You could’ve escaped, but…there’s people outside…so like, screw that, y'know? 

ESFJ: Your son got so tired of you telling him how to live his life and inserting yourself into his romantic life that he snapped at the “Please Date My Son” mixer you threw for him and came at you with that expensive bottle of Chardonnay you got for yourself while you scrutinized all of the potential daughter-in-laws. None of the girls came to your rescue, as they had recently learned that you’d been gossiping about every single one of them since you’d met them. Let’s be real though, you always knew patricide was the only way you’d go out. 

INFP: You drowned your first partner in the bathtub that you filled with your own tears because they had a weird inflection in the way they said hi to you that one time in August 2011 and you never really got over that. All of your friends got so exhausted trying to console you that when you got trapped in ISFJ’s burning house while helping them make the casserole, they all just assumed your bitter passive-aggressive inferences to the fire’s failure to be a good friend would save you. They did not. 

ENFP: You couldn’t stand the idea of being normal, so you moved to eastern Europe to be different and start a charity or something, you’ll figure out the details later it’s whatever, but you forgot to mention it to, like, all of your friends. Also, you forgot your passport. And your keys. Also, you left the stove on. 

ISFP: Everybody got tired of you staring languidly at the rain so they left you. Like, we get it, you’re deep and thoughtful. Also, they couldn’t stand that you were still into SuperWhoLock, like, that stopped being popular 6 years ago, please move on. Anyways, your pet horse gets so tired of you talking to him about your feelings that he kicks you in the chest, killing you instantly. 

ESFP: You told all your friends you were too busy for them and couldn’t commit to the friendship and floated to some neon rave party and thought trying ecstasy would be a fun experience. You tried proving you were a badass to the bouncer and took like seven and pretty much died on the spot ‘cause your pansy ass would barely have been able to handle one. 

ENTP: You pitted all of your friends against each other to see what would happen for like, the twelfth time, so they all turned on you and forced you to work an isolated office job. They watched through a two-way mirror as you went insane and chewed off your own fingers. They felt that justice was thoroughly served and so do I. 

INTP: You emerged from your garage after weeks of isolation to find that everybody is gone, as they went to the Florida Keys for vacation, but didn’t invite you because they thought you were too busy working on your project that has no real world value. Instead, you assume it’s the zombie apocalypse and retreat back into your garage indefinitely. You die when the roof collapses on you while you’re eating Flaming Hot Cheetos. 

ENTJ: Your coup fails because none of your friends liked the way you kept bossing them around and the government publicly executes you for high treason. In your last moments, you feel a strange sense of camaraderie with ESTJ’s fate, but it doesn’t last long because you could have done waaaaay better than them if you were in that situation. 

INTJ: You’re too proud to admit that you feel things on occasion and shove them all down until the emotions rot away your insides and you eventually have an ulcer, a stroke, and a heart attack all at once in a GameStop parking lot and die, wishing you could have told just one more person why they were wrong about something.

Maxpres Roommate AU Headcannons that are 100% real:

-They split costs for a tin-box 1 bedroom apartment. They usually sleep in the same bed, but Max sometimes sleeps on the couch.

-Max is the only reason the apartment isn’t constantly in shambles. Sure, he’ll leave shirts lying around and whatnot, but his messes are no match for Preston’s when Preston’s in a writing mood. (And guess who has to pick up the carpet of crumpled-up papers? Yep, you guessed it.)

-Preston likes to put on show tunes and sing to them around the house when doing chores. The poor boy sings like a dying cat, but Max tolerates it anyways.

-They really can’t afford to go out much on their part-time salaries, so Redbox movie nights with instant popcorn is how they spend a lot of evenings. 

-Max works at a retail chain and will bring home any of the newly expired groceries that his store can’t sell.

-Every now and again, Preston will bring over one of his friends from his acting class or whatnot, and Max will get so salty. 

-Preston drags Max to outlet stores like Old Tyme Pottery to buy decorations and incense. Max swears that Preston is secretly a PTA mom in disguise because no sane human should be getting that excited over wicker baskets. 

-They have really conflicting schedules and sometimes go entire days without seeing the other person awake, so they talk through post-it notes. Max has become an expert at transcribing Preston’s illegible dyslexic handwriting.

-Preston prefers to cook between them because then he can impose his fake-healthy nonsense over Max, but he’s actually awful at cooking.

-Max is lowkey addicted to Hamburger Helper and it’s his saving grace whenever Preston inevitably fucks up dinner.

-They’re both super conscientious of not waking the other up. Max out of the begrudging fact that he cares. Preston out of fear.

-They’ve been living together for years, but Max still gets tricked out by the fact that he can say, “I’m home” and have someone instantly ask about his day.

-Along with being a 1 bedroom, their apartment is also a 1 bathroom. If they both leave in the mornings, Max will make sure to wake up early to use it because Preston takes 45+ minutes to get ready in there.

anonymous asked:

What are some non verbal indications that someone is good with guns (any and all)? Like, how someone holds a gun, their stance, where their holster is, etc.

In most cases it’s easier to know when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing. With that, there are enough that I wouldn’t pretend to be able to create an exhaustive list. The big ones that will send anyone with firearms training up the wall are trigger discipline and barrel control.

Trigger discipline is about keeping your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire. It’s a really simple thing, and something everyone handling a gun should practice. Hollywood hates it. Or at least, some directors in Hollywood (apparently) think their actors should have their fingers on the trigger at all times, “because it looks more dangerous.” Which, you know, it actually is. Stupidly dangerous.

Most people who know what they’re doing will rest their index finger along the frame over the trigger. This isn’t the only way, some will simply have their finger sticking out at an awkward angle (and a lot of people will do that during reloads).

Barrel control is keeping the firearm pointed in a safe direction at all times. “Safe,” is a bit of a loaded term here, since, if your goal is to use the gun on someone, you’re going to be pointing it at them. Again, this is basic safety. This is a little more involved, because no matter what you do, the gun will be pointed somewhere. The important part is remembering that, and not pointing the gun at someone’s thigh when you’re not using it.

As with trigger discipline, this is an incredibly basic element of gun safety, that a lot of people who don’t know what they’re doing will easily miss.

There are a lot of other potential tells, someone who drops their magazines rather than retaining them, probably doesn’t know what they’re doing. (This is the practice of discarding a partial or empty magazine when reloading, instead of keeping it.) TV and film love presenting people dropping mags, probably because it looks more dramatic, but it is a pretty good sign that someone’s only education came from mass media.

Concealment isn’t cover. This is one of the few that does tend to separate trained shooters from untrained ones. In a shock to no one, bullets pass through objects in their environment. Taking cover means far more than hiding behind a car door or couch.

So, concealment means you cannot see your opponent. Cover means they’re hiding behind something that will take a bullet. Most of the time, just because you can’t see someone, doesn’t mean you can’t shoot them. Someone hides behind a wall in a home or office? Yeah, you can shoot straight through that. Drywall, almost all furniture, most parts of a vehicle, most garage doors… none of that will stop a pistol round. When you start dealing with rifle rounds, even things like exterior walls start getting iffy. Trained shooters will fire through concealment. Amateurs who learned how to shoot from Call of Duty and reruns of old Arnold movies will try to take cover behind a couch.

Firing until you run dry. This is a little trickier because trained shooters will do this on the range. No one’s shooting back, and you’re going to immediately repack the mag anyway. In the field though, emptying your magazine is a seriously dangerous situation. Reload partials when you have the opportunity to, don’t wait for it to run empty, and have a non-functional gun when you need it.

The problem with all of this information is; it doesn’t really answer your question. It tells you things to look for with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Not how to identify someone who really does. This is because it’s far easier to identify things that an incompetent shooter will do, rather than tells that are exclusive to someone who really knows what they’re doing in contrast to someone who has a basic understanding of gun use.

Some of these also aren’t easy to operationalize. For example, with stance, There’s Weaver, Chapman, Center Axis Relock,  Modern Isosceles, and many more. There isn’t a, “correct,” or, “elite,” way to do choose one of these, and many experienced shooters will tailor their stance to match the situation they’re in on the fly. The exact way they do that, or if they choose something that isn’t a functional stance, like Gangster Style (holding a handgun horizontally at arm’s length), can tell you about their training and how comfortable they are with a gun, but it’s not something you can easily explain in abstract. (At least not without going into all of the pros and cons of the various stances, and spending a lot of time going through all of the debate on the subject.) There’s also a lot of blending between some of these stances, and “adapted,” “reverse,” or “modern” variants of them.

It’s easy to distinguish someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing from someone who’s had some basic training, but distinguishing between someone who knows what they’re doing, and someone who is actually good with the weapons can be tricky.

I am sorry if that doesn’t really answer your question.

-Starke

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Edgy Fluff Hcs

A promise is a promise and i am a onion of my words;

  • Dark tends to have a lot of muscular problems due to how stressed and overwhelmed he is in a constant daily basis, he often suffers a lot of spine/back pain and headaches due to this. 
    Anti is totally aware of this and that is why when Dark is laying down ( when he ever lays down) Anti sits on him so he doesn’t move and starts doing massages on his upper back. 
    You can hear the cracking Dark’s back while he does so, those were very needed.
  • Then Dark stretches like a grumpy cat and is tbh so pleased but won’t thank him cause that would mean being nice.
  • Anti says ‘you’re welcome’ anyways. 
  • Dark is fan of romantic movies with sad endings, Anti prefers action movies or horror with gore. 
    Even though its not what he prefers Anti sits through Dark’s old-timey novellas without complaining.
    He says he can hear Dark’s faint heart beat faster while he watches them though he is showing no emotion.
  • When dark is-uh- preparing the meat for a dinner he often invites Anti to do it because he knows how much he enjoys the gore of it. 
    Anti looks like a 5 year old with a new toy every single time. 
  • As i already said before, Dark washes Anti’s hoodies cause the virus is just lazy. But he does not stop there, poor man ends up doing the full laundry very often. 
  • Anti knows how soul wrecking (from his point of view) is to wash clothes so in a exchange he ends up cleaning Dark’s room. When it ever needs some sort of cleaning. 
  • Dark has a tendency of scratching the back of Anti’s ears when he does a good job on something. Anti loves it. 
  • Even though it is rare, when Dark has his downer moments Anti is the one to drag him out of his room or even medicate him accordingly. In these Dark is almost unresponsive so that takes a lot of effort. 
  • In the other hand when Anti has his psychotic episodes it always ends up with Dark hugging Anti tight and locking him on place so he does not create any more havoc on their home. Anti does the impossible to break free, from mutilating the back of Dark with his claws of chewing his neck out, still does not work because Dark is determined in not moving, no matter how much it hurts. It takes at least a week for Dark to recover from the bad ones, which is why under his neat suit sometimes he is wrapped in bandages.
  • Even though these two are constantly colliding due to how different they are, they managed to have a working and healthy (in their sense) living environment. These took years to generate. You can say they finally learned to appreciate the differences they have.
  • Dark has a collection of ties, Anti tries to help by stealing getting him new ones, even though he is not aware, Anti has a terrible fashion sense and the ties end up being awful in patterns.
  • Dark still uses these ugly af ties his fav one is the one with the ugly flamingos on it. 
  • The main reason Dark got into cooking ( and is now a amazing chef) and hunting is because in the early days Anti would simply not eat at all.
    This would end up in him being a sack of bones for days which Dark found both disturbing and worrying. 
  • “What type of food you like?”
    “A type i cannot get locked up in here.”
    “Try me”
  • Oh and let me mention of cheesy Anti gets when he tries to calm down a furious Dark.
  • “NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO ME, IT IS ALWAYS MARK, MARK, MARK”
    “No it is not, i would sell Mark to Satan for a corn chip and you know that. I’m here and I listen, please calm down, it’s okay, tell me what is bothering you.”
  • Anti wears Dark’s suits when he is out of clean clothes, these often are too big for him so they look hilarious on him, except the pants, the pants are always too short for Anti.

I have more so ya’ll let me know if you want me to write more.

anonymous asked:

Hi, i love your damijon fic, its everything! Can I ask for damijon where damian is shy of public affection but do it anyway bc jon want it

Thank you so much anon! I’m not sure this is what you had in mind, but.

Read on AO3


“Have you really never seen Pinocchio?”, Jon asks, looking up at him from his lap.

Damian doesn’t know how and when he managed to put his head there. It must’ve happened while he was busy arguing with Dick on why fourteen years old trained assassins should not be forced to watch Disney movies by their self appointed older brothers, or with Tim on who should be the one holding the popcorn bowl, or with Jason and his sideways jokes about becoming a real boy - which Damian didn’t really understood but offended him on a principle. (Movie nights always offers a wide variety of arguments).

“Have you really never seen a pillow?”, Damian mocks, looking down at him. “It doesn’t look like me, in case you were wondering.”

“Was not”, Jon answers with a smile.

Damian growls at him but doesn’t push him on the floor, and his lack of reaction earns him a curious glance from Tim, who’s currently sitting on the couch next to them, the bowl of popcorn in his hands and one of Kon’s long arm wrapped around his shoulders. Damian can feel the tips of his ears reddening under his brother’s stare, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the television screen while he waits for the teasing he knows is coming.

Surprisingly enough, Tim scrunches up the corners of his mouth in what could be described as a knowingly smile, but he doesn’t comment at all - which is kind of a first in Damian’s book, but he’s not going to question his fortune or Tim’s indisputable ulterior motives right now.

He settles back against the couch cushions and pretends to watch the animated nonsense along with Jon and their brothers, while in reality his attention keeps shifting on the solid weight of Jon’s head against his stomach and - a couple of minutes later, after Jon decides Damian’s definitely more comfortable than the couch itself - on the warm touch of Jon’s hands on his thighs.

Overall it’s not a displeasing feeling, and it’s not a totally improper contact either, but the unfamiliarity of the situation makes Damian too self-conscious about it.

Though, thinking about it, he shouldn’t be so surprised about Jon’s confidentiality. He learned long before tonight - and at his own expense - that Jon’s a very physical person with little to no regard altogether for such a basic concept as interpersonal distances.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Betty and Jughead fall asleep in the blue & gold office while working their butts off trying to finish some articles. Betty's mom freaks out when she doesn't come home and thinks that Betty and Jughead were doing more than just napping together. She then locks Betty in her room and Jughead sneaks her out and they go on the adventure of your choice.

Sure thing! I hope you like it.


The Adventure


“Juggie, I’ve just got to finish this paragraph.” Betty promised.

Jughead yawned again and nodded.
“You can head home, Jug, I know you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Jughead shook his head this time and looked squarely at Betty. “No way, I’m going to walk you home.” Jughead smirked. “That’s what people like us do.”

“Okay, I’m almost done.” Betty smiled, clicking away on the computer keys.

Jughead yawned again and strolled over to the tiny couch in the corner of the office. Why there was a tiny couch in this room - or the lounge downstairs - he didn’t know. But at this moment, it was deeply appreciated.

Jughead propped his hands behind his head and stretched his legs out before him, resting them on a table.

He closed his eyes for just a second, listening to Betty’s beating of keys across the room.

He was comfortable but too warm, he decided. He shrugged out of his coat, then his flannel, leaving him in a tshirt and jeans.

He rested his head back against the top of the couch as Betty shuffled over to him.

“Ready, Jug?”

“Betty,” He started, cracking one eye open to look at her. “You wouldn’t believe how comfortable this old couch is.”

Betty smiled. “Oh yeah?”

Jughead reached out for her hand. “Sit with me.”

Betty did, cozying up to Jughead’s side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closely.

Jughead let out a deep breath, content.

Betty nuzzeled her head into Jughead’s chest and closed her eyes. He was right - this was comfortable.


Betty’s eyes opened as Jughead rearranged his hold on her - it was dark outside. Really, really dark. It was dark in here. Betty jumped up, looking for her phone. Shit, where was it? She was dead.

“Jughead, wake up! We fell asleep!” The panic was rising in her.

Betty could feel her usually taut ponytail slumping to one side of her head, pieces of hair falling over her face.

Jughead’s shirt was half way up his stomach, looking worse for wear. He was still asleep, a half smile crossing his face.

“Jughead!” Betty whispered again, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes cracked open this time, and the smile widened on his face. “‘Morning, Gorgeous.”

Betty couldn’t help but smile back. “It’s not morning,  Juggie, we fell asleep at school. My  mom is going to kill me when-”

They heard clicking down the school hall.

“Shit,” Betty whispered, throwing Jughead’s flannel at him. Where was her phone!?

The clicking of the shoes got louder and as Betty reached her desk - finally, there was her phone - The Blue and Gold office door flew open, Alice Cooper standing in the doorway.

“Elizabeth, do you have any idea what time it is?!” Alice roared into the room, looking prestine as always.

“No,” Betty said lamely.
“It’s after midnight. What were you-?” Alice zeroed in on Betty’s unruly hair, then scanned the room.

Jughead was fighting to get his flannel on.

“What the hell were the two of you doing in here?”

Betty looked over to Jughead trying to get his clothes on, the hat that had slumped to the back of his head. His tshirt was still slightly wrinkled and sat just above his bellybutton. She smoothed her hair down, knowing she looked guilty doing it.

“Nothing,” Betty said, head high. She knew what happened - and what didn’t. “We were just working on the paper, Mom.”

“I won’t have you acting like Polly did, Elizabeth.”

“We were working on the paper.” Betty said again.

Alice grabbed for Betty’s arm, steering her towards the door.

Jughead shrugged on his coat, following behind the Cooper women. He knew better than to say anything, but he still wanted to keep an eye on them.

It was a silent car ride back to the Coopers - Jughead squeezed Betty’s hand as she got in the car, but kept walking. He wasn’t crazy enough to ask Alice for a ride.

Alice had yelled at Betty for five minutes when they got home - she already had one pregnant daughter, she didn’t need to - despite Betty’s protests that she had the wrong idea of what had happened at school.

Alice had ended up locking Betty in her room, saying she would unlock the door in the morning.

“What if I have to pee?!” Betty called, rolling her eyes. Her mother was so dramatic.

Betty changed out of what she had worn to school and into leggings and a large sweater.

She sat down at the edge of her bed, head in her hands. If only Alice hadn’t walked in when she had - Betty barely had time to reflect on how much she had enjoyed her time with Jughead. The best sleep of her life, packed into just a few hours.

She smiled, and suddenly there was a quiet tap on her window.

Betty looked over at her window, a bigger smile spreading across her face as she saw Jughead. She slid open the window.

“You on house arrest?” Jughead smiled.

“She locked me in here!” Betty hissed.

“I guess she forgot you have two windows.”

Betty smiled and rolled her eyes.

“You up for an adventure?”

“What kind of adventure?”

“Do you trust me?” Jughead murmured.

“Of course I do.” Betty smiled. “Hold on.” She went to her bed, fluffing up her blankets and arranging the pillow just so, just in case. She knew her mother wouldn’t check on her - she would never expect her to climb out the window.

Betty walked back to the window, looking out to see Jughead already at the bottom, holding the ladder for her.

She quickly made her way to the bottom, taking Jughead’s hand as she stepped on the grass. “Where to?”

“I’ll show you.” Jughead smiled at Betty in the dark. They strolled down the sidewalks, passed Archie’s house, around a corner, until they came to a stop.

Betty recognized this house - it was Jughead’s old house.

“What are we doing here?” Betty whispered.

Jughead kept walking into the back yard, pulling Betty along with him. They stopped in front of an old treehouse.

“The treehouse!” Betty said excitedly. “I forgot about this thing!” Betty started climbing up the old wooden boards.

She ducked her head inside, Jughead following her quickly.

It looked exactly how she remembered it. There were drawings marked into the wood with crayon, a trunk full of comic books, a notebook full of doodles and ‘secret code’. There was a skipping rope, as well as a pack of gum and a tennis ball in the corner.

“The people that bought your house never checked in here?” Betty murmured as she sat in front of the comic book trunk.

“They’re elderly, they didn’t have any children. I heard that they were thinking of knocking it down, but it hasn’t happened yet.”  

Betty passed Jughead a comic book.

“I tried sleeping in here, once, after my dad started drinking again. It was pretty risky though - if anyone saw me, they’d call the cops and I’d be right back with him. Plus, it’s pretty uncomfortable.”

Betty looked at Jughead sadly. She had just recently learned about Jughead’s situation. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

They spent the next hour flipping through comic books, trying to decyfer the code in their notebook.

Jughead intertwined his fingers with Betty’s. “Ready for the next stop?” Jughead asked.

“There’s more?” Betty said excitedly.

The climbed out of the treehouse carefully, tiptoeing through the back yard, away from the house.

The night wasn’t too cold - there were stars shining above them, noises coming from different parts of the city around them.

They walked quickly, both of them excited. They gripped each other’s hands.

Eventually, they found the closed Drive-In.

Betty turned her head to look at Jughead, but he just smiled.

She followed him to the projection office.

He slipped a key out of his pocket, unlocking the door.

“They haven’t torn it down yet, obviously, and I just wanted you to see inside. I love it here.”

Betty followed him inside, looking around as she did so. “Jug, there’s so much stuff in here. Are you sure you don’t want any of it?”

She looked around, seperating her hand from his. She looked at the shelves, fingering the different rolls of film.

She looked at the different titles, noticing some of Jughead’s favorites.

Jughead was sitting on the small bed that fit into the room, playing with the pillow.

“Can you put one on?” Betty murmured.

“I can’t project it outside, in case someone sees. But I can play one for just us.” Jughead smiled, walking to the machine.

Jughead looked through the different titles, picking one and putting it on. The projector was loud.

“What’s this?” Betty asked, nodding her head to the movie.

“The Killing from 1956. It’s a Stanley Kubrick. It’s one of my favorite lesser-knowns.” Jughead murmured as the movie started.

Betty sat next to Jughead on the small bed, realizing why the Drive-In had meant so much to him. Not only did he love his job, it was his home.

Betty traced little patterns over Jughead’s skin absent-mindedly, both of them enjoying the movie.

Jughead leaned back, and Betty leaned back with him. She rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the movie but enjoying his company more.

More than halfway through the movie, Jughead turned his head the best he could, trying to see Betty’s beautiful face.

“Betty?” He murmured.

She leaned forward, away from his chest, to look at him. “What?”

He grazed his lips slowly against hers before locking her lips between his. He had wanted to do that since they woke up at school.

They stayed like that, gently kissing in the dark, the light from the movie alighting their faces.

The movie reached the end of the roll, bringing Jughead back to reality.

“Okay,” He said, taking a deep breath. “One more surprise.”

Betty smiled and took his hand to get up off the makeshift bed.

“Jughead?” Betty said, stopping him before he had the chance to open the door. “Are you sure you don’t want any of these old movies?”

Jughead shook his head. How would be play them, anyway?

Betty nodded, grazing the shelf that held the film cannisters. It was dusty. She found the one she was looking for and slipped it in her sweater pocket.

“Ready?” Jughead smiled.

Betty nodded and took his hand, leaving the booth behind them.

She was surprised at how light the sky looked above them. Sure, they’d been out for hours. But Betty expected darkness - they left the house in darkness, after all.

They strolled through the grass, the dampness from the dew touching their ankles.

She knew better than to ask Jughead where they were going - he was a sucker for surprises. He wouldn’t ruin them.

They didn’t go far, just passed the Drive-In, there was a park that was hardly ever used.

They walked between the dense trees, spotting a play-structure for children, rows of swings and a teeter-totter.

Betty walked directly to the swings, sitting down in one. She expected Jughead to sit beside her, but he didn’t. He walked behind her, gently pushing on her back so that she would swing back and forth.

A smile spread across her face. She hadn’t been pushed on the swings since she was a toddler.

“Hey, what movie did you swipe from back there?” He laughed.

“A Rebel Without A Cause.” Betty admitted. “I feel like it’s our movie.” She blushed. “I wanted it, even if I don’t have anything to play it on. It’s ours.” She said.

Jughead was terrified - he hadn’t planned this night, it wasn’t elaborate. He had thought of it at the last minute, walking home by himself, thinking of the best sleep of his life that he had just awoken from.

Why not show all the places he loved most to the girl he loved most?

And then, he realized, that he had just come clean to himself. He loved Betty. He loved Betty?

He loved Betty and he was going to tell her.

He looked upwards towards the sky, then stopped pushing against her back. She swung gently a few times around him before coming to a stop.

“It’s almost time,” He said, a shy smile on his face. He walked around the front of her, extending a hand so she could jump down.

“Time for what?” She smiled.

They walked over to the grass, keeping each other’s hand in their grasp.

Jughead pulled her down onto the dew-soaked grass, then layed down. Betty did the same.

The sky changed from the dark, intense blue to a lighter blue, stars disappearing.

Eventually they saw whisps of clouds appear, dotting the sky. There were purples and pinks decorating the sky above them.

Jughead turned his head to look at Betty - she was smiling, in awe.

“I’ve never watched a sunrise before,” Betty murmured.

“Betty, I love you.” He rushed out. There. There was no taking it back, no pretending it didn’t happen.

She was the first person beside his father, sister or mom that he had said that too.

Betty rolled onto her elbows, propped up to look at him.

“You love me?” She whispered.

Jughead nodded slightly. “I love you.” He whispered back.

“I love you, Jughead.” She smiled. “This was the best night of my life.” She murmured, dipping her head lower to kiss him.

Jughead kissed her back, tears pricking his eyes. The girl he loved, loved him too. He blinked them away, breaking the kiss.

“You’re missing the sunrise.” He murmured.

“You’re better than the sunrise.” She smiled, kissing him once more.

They stayed like that until the sky was light. They stood up, clothing wet, hand in hand.

“We better get you home before your mom realizes. I don’t want her to castrate me.” Jughead said lightly.

Betty shook her head. “Me neither. I wouldn’t let her touch you, though. Nobody touches the person I love.” She smiled, bumping her hip against him.

“That’s my girl.” He laughed.

liaroflesbos  asked:

I was curious about how you felt about the end of Dunkirk, the choice to end the movie with a Churchill speech about heroism? To me it clashed a little with the sense of randomness that determines life and death for the rest of the film. Like I understand how both the civilian boats coming for the soldiers and the pilot who kept going until he fell were unmistakeably heroes, but it just felt a little... reductive and sentimental for the rest of the film? Thoughts?

here’s the thing though: “we shall fight on the beaches” isn’t about heroism. it’s about, in Churchill’s own words, Britain’s ability to defend our island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. and then there’s the very English coda to that sentiment: at any rate, that is what we are going to try to do

Churchill made that speech on June 4th, ten days before the German army marched into Paris. He was preparing the empire to watch France fall out of the war. He was preparing the seat of that empire for the specter of its own invasion and occupation. We shall fight on the beaches isn’t where that famous litany ends. Listen to how it collapses, telescoping inwards towards the possibility of disaster: brutal battle first on the shores of England as the Germans route the British navy. Then the landing grounds, once Britain is overcome in the air. Then the fields and the streets as the army moves across the landscape, into villages and pastures and cities and homes. And finally the hills, as places of last resort, where citizens will shelter and gather and bear down and fight to the final man. Never surrender isn’t victory. Never surrender is survival, and how the brutal machine of modern war doesn’t even pause to clean the flesh and gristle caught in its gears. Push back anyway, even desperate, even scared. Dunkirk has moments of self-sacrifice, which is heroism in its own way, but anonymous, and a thing unto itself. Bite down and do what your conscience dictates, this movie says. And the biting down is every bit as important as doing what’s right. Or maybe that is part of what’s right. 

“All we did is survive,” Harry Styles’ character says. The old man who’s speaking to him gives him a blanket and replies, “that’s enough.” 

The speech doesn’t conflict with the cold, passionless cruelty we see in the rest of the film, it presents that cruelty as the circumstance in which defeat and invasion must be fought. Survival is unlikely, subjugation is a possibility, and suffering a certainty. But even so: never surrender. Until a new world is bought enough breathing room to take up the battle and rescue the old. 

5

How to Write a Literary Analysis Research Paper

 Part One: Notes

Part Two

Notes are a daunting part of reading a book for school, and, whenever the teacher doesn’t require it, most skip out on taking them. They’re annoying and mostly seem pointless until you are left scrounging for pieces of evidence the night before the paper is due. However, most people don’t know how to take notes. That’s why I’m here. 

1. Literary Devices

First, whenever you notice a literary device being used, such as foreshadowing or symbolism or the like, mark it with a tiny flag. Then, when you’re doing your notecards you can find what you need easily. My friend Emily was calling me her savior when she was using my notes to find last minute quotes for her note cards because they were so organized. They’re so easy to take and so helpful. It would be lazier to not take them in all honesty. I used flags like these.

2. Questions

The next thing to do is ask yourself questions while you’re reading. You ask these in your head easy enough, now just write them down. They will jog your memory later when you need to remember what was going on in that part. And they’ll help you come up with a topic of discussion for your paper. You can write these on your flags or your regular old run-of-the-mill post-its. You can even use questions from movies and other books. My essay was titled ‘Who is the Monster and who is the Man,’ which came from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It kept running through my head as I was reading the book so I smacked it down onto a sticky note, and then it was the center of my paper. 

3. Thoughts

I had to take notes like this anyways, but sometimes it’s nice to just put what exactly you’re thinking onto paper, no matter how ridiculous the ideas are. They make for an interesting read when you go back through for quotes, and they can even help you to understand what exactly is going on. I had several sticky notes about his poor brother Ernest, and he wasn’t even important. I would summarize the plot on some, I would yell at Victor on others. I would write down whatever I really wanted to and then some. These are the notes most teachers want, and they’re not that hard to take. 

Notes may seem daunting, but there’s nothing to them. Don’t let them scare you, and don’t let them seem like too much work. They’re so useful when it comes to writing your paper.

So go out there, and take some good notes!

*spoilers for Logan ahead*

seriously, major spoilers, like for the actual very end

..

..

So, amusing as it is to go “he’s gonna wake up in a few weeks and be really pissed off about being underground,” that man is dead. Just. Dead as a doornail. He’s old, he’s sick, his healing factor isn’t strong enough to get rid of a paper cut. BUT. 

But.

Do you guys remember back in like the second x-men movie when Logan got shot in the head in front of the ice kid’s house? Remember how he got up a little later? Remember again in Origins or something when he got shot in the head so much it caused permanent memory damage? Remember how he got up anyway, angry as ever, as evidenced by the fact that he’s still around and punching people in the first x-men movie?

Do you see where I’m going with this?

There is a very angry, genetically identical Wolverine lying in the woods with a hole through his head. It’s a pretty big hole. However, Wolvie 2.0 gets regular doses of the superpower-enhancing drug, probably never eats the superpower-suppressing food that the Evil British Doctor™ was rambling about, and is like two weeks old, which for Comic Book Science reasons probably means he still has stem cells swimming around his bloodstream or something, making themselves useful.

So he gets up. It’s a pretty big hole in his brain, it’ll take a while, maybe he still has shards of adamantium all over his brain - but he gets up. And all his brain cells are brand spankin new, so he looks around at the trees and the road and all the dead people and has no idea what’s going on, or where he is, or who he is. He looks over at the Evil British Doctor™ and feels… something. Something painful, so he turns away and lurches off into the forest and subsists on rage and tree bark for a while. (Technically a healing factor should mean you don’t need food, at least for a while longer than most people.) At some point he comes out of the forest, or people go into it, hikers or really lost tourists or something, and maybe he remembers language or maybe he relearns it. (Or maybe he just kills everyone. That… probably happens a few times. Baby steps. He’ll get there.)

These strangers share their food or something, try to get him to go back to civilization with them, try to hide from him how freaked out they are by the deranged angry forest man. And eventually…. well, eventually one of them recognizes him. Maybe it’s a kid who still believes in heroes. Maybe it’s a forty-something truck driver from Iowa who still believes in lost causes. But they call him Wolverine, they call him Logan, they tell him, “You were strong. You were kind. You helped people. You don’t remember? You were a hero.”

And he believes them. Why wouldn’t he? He believes them, and he leaves the forest, and he tries to be a hero. And no one ever questions it, not really. After all, everyone knows the Wolverine can live forever.

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS - POMEGRANATE ZINES - DEADLINE JUNE 30TH 2017

I am creating a submission based zine specifically for Jews to share their experiences, thoughts, and artwork. If you are Jewish and have something to say - submit your work! Your experiences and your viewpoints are valuable!

When finished this zine will be available for free online and available in print (black and white) at low cost. (Printed copies will be made censoring all instances of the word “G-d” upon request.)

FAQ

What sort of things can be submitted?
Content should be somewhat related to the Jewish experience, but it doesn’t need to be specifically about Judaism as a religion. Content can include, but is not limited to, non-fiction, prose, poetry, 2D art, photos of 3D art, comics, recipes, tutorials/how-tos/DIY, reviews of books/movies/shows, essays, journal entries, general musings, opinion pieces, open letters, rants, and short fiction. Be creative! If you are in doubt about it being relevant or “good enough,” send it anyway! I’m nice!

What “vibe” are you looking for?
Anything from pissed-the-fuck-off to touching and sweet, and anything in between or beyond that. I want this project to be flexible. The zine itself will have a cut-and-paste / DIY aesthetic.

Who is a Jew?
This project will operate on an inclusive answer to this age old question. People from all movements, all levels of observance, culturally isolated Jews, secular Jews, and folks who are working with a rabbi in the process of conversion are in this project are encouraged to submit.
Messianic “Jews” / “Jews for Jesus” are Christian and should not submit.

Jews of color, LGBTQIA+ Jews, working class Jews, disabled and/or mentally ill Jews, and any other Jews who are marginalized by Jewish communities or our society as a whole are STRONGLY encouraged to submit their work.

Send all submissions to
pomegranatezines@gmail.com

Include title of work, type of work, name, and any other identifying information you want included (email or other contact info, movement, personal or professional url, etc.). Submissions can be anonymous by request and all creators will retain the rights to their own work.

Thank you!!

Mine Alone ✷ Oh Sehun

Genre: Smut

Warning: graphic sex, overstimulation, stalker/idol

⁜⁜⁜

During interviews and shows, your manager had ordered you to answer all date-related questions with «I would date anyone, really, even my fans» yet your real life was padded with instances of him steering male stars away from you. To keep your innocent reputation, to make you desirable and available in the eyes of your fan base. And you’d complied, in the rise of your career, when the path you walked felt narrow and dangerous, vulnerable to paparazzi and other privacy-infringing media workers of that ilk.

So why, now that you knew the finest strings of the industry and had climbed at its top, why in all the heavens, why were you bent over the couch, permitting a stalker to dick you down into the cushions?

Your first stalker shared classes with you and had loved you before you’d starred in a movie. He offered you heart-shaped chocolates and roses all year long, but past graduation he pursued his studies in law and forgot about you. The next few sasaengs jumbled around your mind like spikes, painful yet bearable, gifting you camera-infested teddy bears and their phone numbers for you to call. Then a letter came along in the mailbox before your house, blue ink on yellow paper, a stain of coffee in the corner.

«Thank you for working so hard for us fans. I hope you become Korea’s number 1. Please don’t forget to take care of yourself. Fighting! ᴏsн»

Your fists crinkled the message in shock. Someone knew where you lived, and that someone was a fan — God knows how crazy. The next day, a bouquet of roses and violets rested on the threshold. You examined it for any bug, natural or otherwise, and found another paper attached to a flower’s stem.

«You looked awesome in this episode of Boyfriend For Rent. Your eyes are very tired though, please get some sleep. Fighting! ᴏsн»

That stalker grew on you like ivy. You stopped scrutinising his gifts and displayed them on each surface, wearing the jewellery he sent you and wondering what ᴏsн referred to. He evolved to a daily encounter, as certain as the sunrise in your schedule, something you couldn’t bear to see disappear. The media had a different eye on it. They saw opportunities, scandals in the making, so you’d crash and burn and fill their plates with your shattered fame.

You hauled yourself in your house after a thirty-two-hour day of nonstop working, filming this, attending that, shooting pictures for whatever magazine. The usual flowers weren’t wilting on your doorstep, and for the first time in months you decided to wait for ᴏsн, staring through the peephole for his arrival. You needed a distraction from your job, to break your chains and live a little — meet that fan, talk to him. Make a friend. Who could know?

A young man walked up with unbalanced steps and wary glances, fingers tapping on a bouquet as he put it down. Your door flew open, and he gaped in panic. His cheeks ruddied up with the sudden shame of getting caught red-handed, blabbering out excuses you cut off with a gesture of your hand.

“Calm down and just come in. I’m not calling the cops, little sasaeng.”

You glanced back to admire his features as he observed the interior design someone else had picked out from a catalogue. Cute enough to be a fellow star, you pouted, pity he settled to stanning you. You would’ve killed to shoot a drama with him, his kissably plush lips glistening under the halogen bulbs that hung low from the ceiling. He rested the lilies beside a vase of camellias, a smile at the consideration you gave his presents.

You wiped a script and a modelling contract off from the table spot you wanted to sit on, dangling your legs childishly before beckoning the boy towards you. He blinked, petrified for a second, then gladly obliged, his hands automatically resting on either side of you. He pulled them away as soon as he realised how close he’d gotten, which got a giggle out of you.

“So, O.S.H, are you happy to be here?”

He bit on his lower lip, an offense against your untainted soul, stammering. “Oh, well, uh, yes, of course, I mean — how could I not? I just didn’t think… I assumed… I shouldn’t be here…”

You interrupted his rambling with a wave of your hand, leaving him gazing at you like a puppy in training that didn’t understand what the orders meant. In spite of his godly looks, he lacked the confidence to entertain you after your boring day. A smirk grew on your face with the idea in your mind, worrying the poor boy.

“If you give me answers I like, I’ll do something nice for you. Deal?” Tone sultry and eyes hooded, you hooked your ankles behind his knees, inching him closer, to hint at what your something nice was.

His breath stopped then sped up to shallow intakes, mimicking his racing heart. He nodded tentatively, his arms propping him up around you to keep him from falling. You grinned.

“All right.” Your voice dripped like poison, chilling him. “What does OSH stand for?”

“Oh — Oh Sehun, it’s my name.” He gulped down the lump in his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

You shook your head in consideration, lips pursed, then cupped his face between delicate fingers and kissed the corner of his lips. As you pulled away, he tried to follow your movement and prolong the touch, but your hand on his chest held him back.

“Now, how do you know where I live?”

His cheeks turned a gleaming red as he averted his gaze, fumbling for a sentence before explaining: “I just live a block further and saw you walking home… I didn’t stalk you, I swear.”

He locked his eyes on yours, sincere and anticipating your reaction — whether you would approve of him or kick him out. You almost laughed at his innocence; he had no idea that as of now, there was no chance of you chasing him away before you had released all your pent-up stress.

“Good, good.” Your lips grazed his skin as you said it, trailing down his jaw to his neck with soft tickles, breath quickening when he dug his fingers in the bare flesh of your waist, creases under his forceful nails.

“What, turned on already?” You smacked his hands off, resuming your questions. “Anyway, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” He groaned out in frustration, trying to grab you again only to have his effort slapped away. Your lips rose as you let your jacket fall, baring your collar bones and shoulders, Sehun’s tongue darting out at the sight.

“What made you like me?”

He shut his eyes, the urge to touch you evident in his twitching fingers, thinking long enough to make you cock your head in curiosity.

“I’d say… Since your second movie. The first made me want to keep an eye out for you, and the second sealed the deal. Even as a young teen, you were wonderful on screen.”

You smiled, guilty for using him as an outlet for tensions when he genuinely liked you so much. “Thank you, Oh Sehun. It means a lot.”

You kissed him, and he kissed back with a passion you never received from other actors — he pulled you closer and deepened the contact as you gasped at the new sensation, his tongue lapping over yours. You mingled together and sucked on his lower lip as you left it with a pop. The glisten of saliva dripping down his chin taunted you to trap yourself in him again.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, securing him against you. His skin boiled yours, dark eyes staring into an abyss, touch too much to calm down.

“Sehun… How do you think of me?”

His hands slid under your crop top, thumbing the gaps between your ribs from forced diets to remain attractive, making you moan as he ground against you.

“I want you, Y/N, I want to have you for myself. I want to see you be mine and mine alone.”

You tangled your fingers in his black hair, craning his head to meet your mouth once again.

“Then show me. Show me everything you want to do to me so I’ll be yours and no one else’s.”

And that brought you to the sofa in your living room, a floor-to-ceiling window exposing the luminous city night life, the black TV screen reflecting your bent form and Sehun behind you. Your shorts pooled around your right ankle, your top pushed up by his hands on your breasts.

You moaned out noises you’d never heard from your chest as he kneaded the nervous flesh, sensitive to every push, your body thrashing in pleasure as he pinched your nipples. He ground against your naked ass, and you moved back with him, frustrated by the fabric of his clothes in your way.

“Yah, why don’t you — ah! — take off your clot—” The end of the word drowned in mewls when Sehun trailed a hand from your breast to your core.

He circled your clit, teased it with gentle pushes then rough rubs. Your hips bucked instinctively against his touch, seeking more friction as you groaned disjointed orders to touch you. His hand slid further down, his palm pressing your nerves as his fingers wandered your wet folds. His foot curved around yours to spread your legs wider, dipping into your shape.

He moulded you against him, his touch deepening into your core. You gasped as he thrusted his fingers in and out, forcing your walls to open up under their scissoring pression. The heat twisted in your guts, moans blurting out against your will.

And suddenly his warmth was gone.

You cried out for him to return, answered by the shuffling of fabric and a metallic rattle on the floor. His image in the television offered you the sight of his nude body, hands pinning your hips in place and member throbbing to be in you.

“This might hurt.” He warned, and you nodded, grinding up against him to show agreement.

The first thrust shot pain throughout your being, fists balling on a cushion, a groan seeping between your teeth. He eased your tense muscles with soft squeezes, from your ass to your neck. The blood stopped circulating and for a second you couldn’t feel the pain, just a fleeting bliss as your mouth fell open to free a mewl.

Sehun rammed in and out, in and out, transforming your moans in screams, his name shouted at deafening decibels, mixed in with begs to either spare you or finish you.

Your idol life had never allowed you to indulge in this sort of pleasure, and now it hit you like a meteor, like a divine punishment, paradisiac and ecstatic. You couldn’t let it go anymore. Sehun’s hips clacked against your butt as he kept thrusting harshly, nails scraping your sides. Your manager wouldn’t be happy — but screw your manager, you wanted Sehun to fuck you senseless.

And he did that perfectly.

The flames licking within your core ignited to a incendiary disaster, destroying you from the inside out. It burned tighter as Sehun hit deeper, and soon you found yourself unable to bear it.

“Se — Sehun, I — ah, Sehun, I’m —” you mouthed words you didn’t know, ignorant as to what exactly could be happening now. The pleasure shattered up your mind.

“Shh, sweetie, it’s for you. Enjoy it.”

Your lungs ached from the screaming, yet as Sehun thrusted into you again, you couldn’t help the tear breaking from you. It boomed in the house, maybe even heard by the neighbours, and died as soon as it existed, agonising in whimpers and wails.

Sehun didn’t stop. The wetness rivered down your legs and cheeks, and he didn’t stop. You bit the linen cushions until you bled, hands haphazardly reaching for him. He entwined his fingers with yours, soothing the inside of the wrist, murmuring.

“You deserve more than I can give you, but this is just a start, okay?”

He crammed you to the brim, shoving your comfort away for raw pleasure. You could feel your career falling apart at the same time as your physical satisfaction grew to touch the heavens. Sehun’s thrust picked up into a series of quick lurches, making you gasp out as your high crashed down on you again.

“Oh — fuck, Sehun, ah…”

A brisk gust chilled your boiling body when he pulled away, his half-hard cock settling down. His hands trailed along your spine, aiding you to sit and wrap a quilt over yourself. He cinched his pants back on, a sad glint in his eyes and drooping brows, and headed towards the door. Although dizzy from his grandiose treatment, you extended a grabby hand and called out for him.

“Yah! Oh Sehun, where are you going?”

He barely slowed down, not turning to face you, which made you frown in a mix of worry and disappointment.

“You just wanted a goof fuck, right? I’m going home.” He ruffled his hair like it was before, grumbling. “I shouldn’t have given in so — fuck.”

“Nonsense.” You whined for his presence. “Come back here, I want you with me. I’m convinced, please stay at least until tomorrow. Then we can talk.”

“Really?” His hopeful whisper brought a smile to your face. You stood to face him.

“Yes, really. Now let’s go to my room and sleep properly.”

anonymous asked:

smutty headcanon about wincest?

There was a time when Sam was smaller than Dean. Sam was a good three inches shorter until he hit his last growth spurt, pretty much right on his eighteenth birthday. Since they’d been sleeping together for almost a year before that, Dean had enjoyed eight months of a small Sam to touch and kiss.

The first time Sam fell asleep with Dean still inside him, they were on the couch in some shitty rental house. Dean was too relaxed from just having come in his little brother’s tight hole to move him, and Sam had slept in his lap, Dean’s dick in his ass, for about an hour. There was a movie playing on the television and Dean sleepily watched the end of it, Sam’s scrawny little arms wrapped tight around his neck, his warm little body pressed right up against Dean’s.

It felt like heaven.

Sam’s too big to do that now. But he does anyway.

Every now and then, Sam, larger than life Sam, will ride Dean until he passes out on top of him, curled around him like he’s that seventeen year old boy again. Dean will sit there and watch television while Sam warms his cock, snoring lightly in his ear.

No matter how big Sam gets, he will never be the big brother.

anyway i love sophie hatter’s impulsive ass. i havent seen the movie in a little while but my literal favorite thing about the book is how she’s Meek Mouse Anxiety Central as a young woman and then the second – literally WITHIN MAYBE THREE PAGES? – of when she hits 90 she’s just like I Do What I Want and absolutely stops giving one single damn which leads to a lot of catastrophic decisions and she keeps messing up and being like “oh no that was mean… but im old so who cares!”

im in the dwj Question And Answer thing at the end of the book and she talks about magic:

Magic is not easy, although it seems it should be. You have to think through carefully what you need your magic to do, otherwise some tiny spell might have disastrous consequences. For instance, if you were to make two and two add up to three instead of four you would change the way the whole universe works and it is quite possible that everyone would die of it. So you have to make your magic very precise. Howl knows this, and so does Calcifer, but Sophie is not always so careful.

like shit! damn! sophie hatter, POSSIBLE DESTROYER OF WORLDS! just an ordinary eldest daughter of a milliner’s from market chipping!

Owned - pt 5

Originally posted by hopeatuuli

“Yes.” You answered.

“Good.” He said pulling your chin up and kissing your lips once, then again.

This was definitely something you wanted to get used to. Just his kiss could make you feel all warm inside.

A part of you felt relieved that he was just as attached to you. In a way, he was all you had right now, all you thought about.

“I’ll see you later then.” He said, running his thumb over your cheek.

You smiled and nodded before he turned to leave, both of you knowing you didn’t want to be apart right now.

Keep reading

“fiction doesn’t affect reality grow up"i do think some growing up needs to happen but definitely not on my side.

do y'all remember the movie Jaws? and how that created a mass panic and hate for sharks that’s still intense today and being fought against? that’s an example of fiction affecting reality. in the movie, sharks were the monster of a gory horror film and depicted as savage, human-eating beasts when in reality they have poor eyesight and confuse surf board fins with those of a seal. if they do take a bite, they realize we’re not their meal and swim away. that movie convinced a lot of people they want to eat us anyway, so fiction affected reality there.

when we watch a scary movie, we get scared. when we watch a sad movie, sometimes it affects us and we cry. watching funny movies make us laugh. those works of fiction affect us.

the book, Lolita, is about a middle aged man who lusts after a 12 year old girl and when he becomes her stepfather, r*pes her. how frequently do we see “lolita” as a subgenre of fiction, where childishness and youth is sexualized for the sake of a fetish? where that fetish exploits children and grooms people into thinking a minor and an adult being together is ok. it’s not a fetish, it’s pedophilia. fiction affected reality in thinking shit like that is ok to normalize.

whether you like it or not, the media we consume or the fiction we indulge ourselves in has an affect on us. we must stop condoning fiction that romanticizes r*pe, abuse, homophobia/transphobia, and pedophilia or more minors will be coerced into thinking it’s okay. it’s not okay. grow up and do something about it.

tldr: fiction Does affect reality, Jaws and Lolita being a few of my examples. stop being gross and supporting creators of toxic media, as that media affects us in many negative ways