I see a lot of people saying things along the lines of “Logan shows the DCEU how to do darkness right,” but I think it should be pointed out how Logan does comedy better than any of the MCU movies have so far.
Not that Marvel is bad with its comedy, but seeing Logan really made me realize how, I don’t know, Family Guy-ish the MCU can be with its jokes and pop culture references. The “Beyonce” running gag from Doctor Strange is a good example of a how all of the “quips” that these movies have can sometimes seem shoehorned in ways that otherwise don’t fit with the characterization or what the tone the film’s world should be. Again, sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn’t, but there’s a general sense that these jokes are an absolutely necessary constant throughout the lexicon of Marvel Screenwriting, and they’re going to be in the movie whether they should be or not.
In Logan the jokes just felt more organic. They were always inspired by the characters’ personalities always made sense in their context. Even the pop culture references, like Caliban’s little joke about living like Nosferatu, made sense in their scenes and were placed well enough in the dramatic context that they didn’t derail the mood for the sake of chasing a quota for comedy.
Prof. Xavier’s presence in the movie is probably the best example. Hearing the grandfatherly, gentle figure that we’ve known for 17 years say “fuck” and compare Logan’s treatment of him to a “box of avocados” is genuinely funny, but in a way that feels logical in the context and doesn’t betray the more dramatic underlying emotions of the scene.
It’s an approach to superhero comedy that, honestly, both Marvel Studios and DC/WB could learn from.
Okay, I’m hoping for some big battle against the Court of Owls at the end of the season that everyone gets involved in
And it’ll mean Eddie and Ozzie calling a temporary truce to their personal antagonism in order to survive the onslaught of Court assassins being sent after them (or whatever)
Then, during an ‘eye of the storm’ moment when they are hiding and unsure of their survival, they should take the time for a bit of emotional honesty. Which will be all serious and stuff - Eddie confessing he is glad Oswald survived and he is sorry he tried to kill him and Ozzie was right about them needing each other and stuff. And Ozzie would confess he still loves Ed and all that jazz
But MOST IMPORTANTLY it would include something like -
OSWALD [soft, genuine]: I’m sorry I killed Isabella.
Can I just say that Mob wanting to work hard and get muscles even though he sucks at working out because he wants to change himself is so inspiring and literally inspires me to work out in order to manage my chronic illness.
I'm curious, what is it you like about Invader Zim that makes you love it so much?
Honestly it’s been a really long time since I’ve watched the show and I should get back to it, though I’ve recently picked up the first 10 issues of the new comic in its 5-issue-per-volume form. And I have to say the following things:
The animation really grosses me out. I mean, it really disgusts me. The images in Dark Harvest especially will. Never. Leave. When the movie comes out I will be sure to not eat anything while watching it, and I would advise anyone else the same.
The humor of the show appeals to me. I find randomness to be funny, and Invader Zim plays its running gags pretty well without beating them to death. You can always count on Dib to be paranoid, you can always count on Zim to overcompensate, you can always count on GIR to… well… be GIR. And the characters all play off each other really well, even characters that don’t get AS much play like Gaz are given their due and their set behaviors that play off certain foibles of the other characters.
My absolute favorite thing about the show, frankly, was the potential in the characters. Why is Zim as crazy as he is? Does Dib have a breaking point (of NO return)? If X, Y, or Z happened and the characters were allowed to evolve past the roles they keep themselves trapped in, what would the outcome be? There is so much potential in these characters if they could be allowed to “grow” like real people. I get it, they’re in a cartoon that relies on a certain amount of predictability, and there isn’t really an overarching story arc (like, say, Steven Universe or Gravity Falls), this isn’t that kind of cartoon. But if is WAS… these are some fascinating characters to study, let me tell you.
This is the continuation of my slave Khloe story. This is inspired by @khloekink on Twitter. This is the fifth installment.
After the slave did her three hours on the treadmill, we took here to the punishment bench. The slave is bound in a doggie style position securing its wrists, ankles, just under its knees and elbows and has 2 straps running across its back. We gagged and blindfolded it. I took a cane. I made it wait for a few minutes as waiting is the worst torture as they’re anticipating its punishment. Then on about 3 occasions I would start to make like I was going to give it a hard stroke but then stopped short just before I connected and gave it a harmless stroke. Even though it was blindfolded, the slave could still sense it coming and flinched. Then finally I gave it a stroke, enough to cause maximum pain without leaving permanent marks, after all, we wanted to make sure the slave was still marketable. But still the slave screamed under gag in agony.
Then Bruce took over for a bit used the flogger on the slave whipping it all over its body. Then Rick took a riding crop and concentrated on its pussy. Then I came back with the cane and concentrated on its feet giving it bastinado.
Then it was time for it to show its oral. Skills. We removed its gag(which was covered with drool) I went first forcing it to swallow. In the meantime, Mistress Sydney was fucking the slave up the ass with a strap on. It was without lubricant and probably as big as something ever in its ass. The slave felt like its ass was being ripped apart. Then each of us fucked the slave up the ass while Sydney was forcing the slave to eat pussy(practically smothering the slave).
Next we had the slave machine fucked up the ass while also being forced to suck on a dildo. We left it that position for an hour. The last few minutes we put the machine on full power and again the slave felt like its ass was being ripped apart.
We next moved the slave to the stocks. We would secure her neck and wrists to it while its ankles where each secured to each end. Then we attached a hitachi wand to its clit and like the night before had wand on a timer to go on and off. This way the slave wouldn’t be able to go to sleep or orgasm. We left her like that for 3 hours. By the end of 3 hours, the slave was begging for an orgasm. One of the first sign that we were breaking it.
We then let the slave have some water(no food because the slave was only 24 hours into a 72 hour food deprivation). It would have to drink from a dog bowl with its hands cuffed behind its back so it would have to eat using its mouth.
Next was we would lock the slave in a metal bondage chair. For about 3 hours the slave would watch on a television set subliminal messages while hearing the whore’s mantra which reminds slaves they are not human and are lower than an animal. They’re just tits and 3 fuck holes meant to be used and and abused for another’s pleasure.
After that was done. We retired the slave for the night. We put the slave on a metal tray on its back with its wrists and ankles secured and bent at the back. Its was gagged, blindfolded and had ear buds with white noise rotating with the slave’s mantra. Nipple clamps were attached to its nips, a butt plug up its ass and a metal device resembling an electric toothbrush massaging its clit going on and off to edge. It was Day 2 of sleep deprivation.
The slave formerly known as Khloe was now a slave for just about 24 hours.
Summary: Fast-forward six years. What even happened to you?
Warnings: Cursing, as always. Also very mild blood.
Word Count: 3,942 (MAKE ME STOP RAMBLING.)
A/N: HA, LOOK, THERE’S A SECOND PART. I couldn’t leave it just like that, dudes. I’m not that mean. Also, MY FAVORITE HUMAN BEING BECCA is a fantastic human and I honestly have her to thank for getting me back into this and tbh, I don’t know why I have all of you followers out there (like I’m shook???? where did you all come from????? I’m literally trash what the heck) but i am so grateful for every single one of you and you are all such beautiful wonderful lovely people and my love for all of you is eternal.
“Are you coming home yet?”
“Soon, buddy,” you cooed to your nephew over the phone. “I’ll be home soon. Could you put Grandpa back on the phone, please?”
“You promise you’re coming home soon?” He asked you once again, still unsure of your response.
Of course, you couldn’t blame him for his uncertainty. You were in the process of “going back home” for the past six years, and each time you intended to follow through with it, you just couldn’t find the courage and simply chose to stay put, much to your family’s dismay.
With a sigh, you paused for a moment before replying. “I promise I’m coming home soon, Eli. Ten more days, kiddo.”
You’d made this promise to several other family members, but every time you did, it turned out to be just as empty as the last one.
“Good,” he said, the tone of his voice seemingly pleased with your answer. “I’m gonna give the phone back to Grandpa, okay? I love you! See you soon!”
A laugh fell from your lips and for a beat, you froze in fear. This time, you really meant it. You were really coming home this time around.
“Should I believe you this time?” Your father’s voice on the other line snapped you out of it, and you sat there nodding despite the fact he couldn’t see you.
“Yeah, Dad,” you answered softly. “I’m really coming home.”
After exchanging words with your father for a few minutes, you ended the call, your hands visibly trembling and your eyes welling up.
It was a long time coming, your journey back home. Your intention was to stay in London for two years, allowing yourself time to figure out what to do, to find yourself, to put yourself back together. But lo and behold, six years later, you were still all the way across the pond.
No, this time, it was the truth. This time, you were really going home. You needed to be back in loving arms. It wasn’t like London’s West End hasn’t treated you well, but London wasn’t home, and well, to be honest, you were homesick. Sure, you’ve made family out of the friends you’ve made, but it wasn’t the same. God, you’ve made up so many excuses not to return.
This time though, you were going home.
Your final curtain call for the show was quickly approaching, giving you a week and a half to mentally prepare yourself for your homecoming. Despite agony gnawing at you, the thought of going home granted you some piece of mind, knowing that regardless of how many years have gone by, you still had a loving family to return to. They haven’t physically seen you since Christmas of ‘05, and it’s been four years since they’ve held you in their arms.
It was six years ago that he’d left you.
Four shows and two Olivier awards later, you were still hurting.
Of course you were. How could you forget about the high school sweetheart that promised you forever only to leave you at the altar? How could you forget the letter he hastily wrote to you before he walked out? How could you forget the coldness in your bones the first time you slept in bed without him?
There was no such thing as forgetting.
Last you heard, Lin had found success in his art. Some show about something with other people, winning him a Tony. Maybe a few. You didn’t really care.
No, that’s a lie. You did care, but denying yourself any opportunity to dwell on him for longer than a millisecond was the only way to keep you away from the vices you had lurking in the shadows. Especially now that you’ve reached a plateau, no longer completely drowning in the depths of your sorrows. You’ve managed to stay afloat for the most part. It got easier to tune out conversations that praised him, to let their words fall on your deaf ears, but the effort you put into doing so never faltered. (Have you heard of Lin-Manuel Miranda? He’s a genius! – Yeah, yeah, sure he was, yep, whoop-dee-fucking-doo.)
But Christ, you were the biggest mess in the universe for the longest time. Well, you had every reason to be, especially after losing not just one, but two things that meant the world to you. And because all logic and reason had escaped you, for several months, you spent the entirety of your days in your dark childhood bedroom with nothing but a bottle by your side, clutching it as you slept. It didn’t matter the poison because nothing intoxicated you more than the thought that you were not enough for the love of your life. You slammed back anything that would keep you distracted from your very own personal hell.
The mere thought of him, even in fragments, elicited such excruciating pain, wracking your body with violent sobs, causing your head to throb, making your insides twist and churn. Memories of him surprising you with flowers, memories of him teasing you, memories of him chasing you around the apartment, they were strangling you. The sound of his name, the memory of his face, everything about him made you want nothing to do with home anymore.
Because he was your home.
But you were evicted at the very last moment, left abandoned and without shelter for no valid reason at all. At least, the reason wasn’t valid for you.
So you left.
You picked yourself up, gathered your things, journeyed across the pond, and somehow found new footing, making ripples in the stagnant waters of your life, recreating movement, reintroducing life. You skipped a stitch and left a tiny hole, praying for something to come fill it.
And now here you were, success knocked at your door, roses fell at your feet, admiration beamed at you from every possible angle.
Life had made a complete one-eighty, spinning you in the opposite direction, sending you down the right path because now, you were a sellout, and a damn good one at that.
This path, though, was bringing you right back home.
Back to the sidewalks you used to travel, back to the sounds you used to hear, back to the place where your story began… and ended.
It was time to start anew.
On Tuesday morning following a drunk night out with your closest friends to say your last goodbyes, you shipped yourself across the pond to be reunited with the city you’d loved since day one, reunited with the people who’ve supported you your entire life, reunited with the people that never dared to abandon you.
Your brother greeted you with open arms, scooping you up into his arms and holding onto you like he’d never let you go.
“Sam, I’m not going anywhere anymore,” you told him, trying to break free of his asphyxiating grip. “I’m home.”
The last two words almost felt foreign to you, considering you’d been displaced and didn’t exactly know what home felt like anymore. It shook you to your core as it dawned on you that you were existing in the very same space of the person who’d left you behind. Sure, Lin was most likely miles away from you at the time, but still, the thought of potentially encountering him somewhere in the city increased your level of anxiety.
“Yeah, dude,” your sister quipped, giving your brother a hard smack on the back in order to get him to release you. “Let the girl breathe.”
Finally back on the ground, your family crowded around you, each of them taking turns to hug you (each of them also refusing to let you go).
The excitement of your homecoming had finally died down once you’d gotten settled back at your childhood home, and you were given a moment of peace, allowing you the time to remember how it felt like to be… okay. Your bedroom had been left untouched, everything from figurines to stuffed animals to your old keyboard and posters were all in the same place. Nostalgia washed over you, submerging you in memories that your mind had tucked away.
In your closet, there was a treasure box sitting on the top shelf, nearly completely hidden behind a stack of old sweaters. Curious, you tiptoed up to grab it and brought it back to your bed, making yourself comfortable before examining its contents.
No, you thought as the tempo of your heart began to pick up.
Old pictures and crumpled notes and movie stubs and wrinkled amusement park wristbands filled the box to its brim.
The treasure box was one long running gag, something the two of you did whenever something happened. If it elicited any type of positive reaction, the two of you would throw a part of the memory into each other’s boxes. Why you did, you never knew, but now you were regretting it.
Regret suffocated you as you picked up a colorful greeting card, toying around with it in your fingers while you weighed the options of hurting yourself even more or being the adult you were and putting it away.
You were weak.
‘Happy one year, mi amor! I love you. Irrevocably so. Here’s to us and here’s to many more years!
“Goddamn it,” you whispered, willing yourself not to cry but failing in the process.
As much as you wanted to stop torturing yourself, your heart had the complete opposite desire, urging you to continue breaking yourself apart.
There was a picture of both of you from high school graduation, clad in royal blue cap and gowns, your arms around each other, his lips pressed tenderly against your cheek as you grinned cheesily at the camera. You were so young, so innocent, so full of zeal.
‘WE DID IT!!! I’m so proud of you. And me too, but mostly you. Here’s to us and here’s to being college kids!’
Behind that picture was another one of the two of you in your first apartment. Eighteen years old with no fears of the future, no anxieties about what was to come, no clue as to where life would take you, both of you happily cheesing at the camera as he held out the key to your brand new home to present to all the world. On the back of the picture was an inscription from none other than the bastard himself.
‘It’s not a house, but we’ll get there someday… Here’s to us and our first home, and here’s to what the future holds, babe!’
Tears were distorting your vision, but you didn’t need to look at the picture anymore. The image of you and him in that very moment was already burned in your mind.
There was little gift tag in the midst of it all, the little note scribbled on it told you it was from your 21st birthday.
‘Happy Birthday, cariña! I have never seen a cuter drunk than you. Here’s to you and many more drunk nights with you dancing like no one’s watching!
P.S. I was watching you all night. It was the best.
Tucked underneath a movie stub (Fantasia 2000, of all movies) was the corner of a… wrapper? It was secured on a notecard with packaging tape.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself, snickering softly through your tears as you held it in your hands.
‘I don’t care how tacky and embarrassing this is. It’s a MILESTONE, baby!! Here’s to us and here’s to doing waaaay more of this. ;)’
Yep, it was just as sloppy as anyone else’s first time. He was just so focused, so intent on doing it right, finding the right position, making you comfortable. Looking back, he was so serious, so focused on you enjoying it. It wasn’t until you told him he was perfect that he finally relaxed.
Funny how he could still bring a smile to your face despite him walking out on you.
An hour had gone by and you’d sifted through almost everything in the treasure box. You took one last peek into it and saw the damn thing glaring right back at you.
That fucking letter.
You knew you’d regret keeping it, but it was the last thing he’d given you, the last words he’d written you, the last memory you had of him. Of course, you decided that you hadn’t endured enough hell, so you opened it up, just as gingerly as you did on that fateful morning. The tears on your face joined the stains you’d left on the note from the first time around, and no matter how hard you tried to stop reading, you couldn’t help but continue down to the very last letter of his name.
Right. Lin had no idea what ‘always’ meant. If he knew the definition of the word, you wouldn’t have been crying yourself to oblivion this entire time. But there you sat, wallowing in the pain you tried to forget for the past six years.
Without a word, you stuffed everything back in the box and shoved it back in your closet, debating between burning everything or keeping it just in case you wanted to remember how heartbroken you still were after all this time. You padded softly down the hallway with your purse on your shoulder and walked down the stairs, grabbing your coat from the closet before heading out.
“Where are you going?” your mother asked you, the look on her face expressing the worry she’s seemed a pick up since that day.
“I just need to breathe,” you replied shakily, bleary-eyed and broken. “I’ll be back later.”
You followed the sidewalk down Sixth Avenue, unsure of where you were headed. All you knew was that you needed air, you needed a distraction, you needed to be alone. After walking aimlessly, you found yourself getting on the A-train heading somewhere, probably north– it didn’t matter. You found a seat near the back of the car and you leaned against the window, trying to collect yourself, desperately telling yourself not to cry because for God’s sake, you were in a public place and it wasn’t the right time to have another one of your breakdowns.
Every time your journey came to a halt, you made an effort not to look at the people getting off and on, fearing that someone would see the state you were in and mock you about it. But just one time, the doors slid open and caught your attention, causing you to look up out of sheer curiosity.
God fucking damn it.
There he stood, his hair, a little longer than you remembered, was covered with a dark blue beanie and he was wearing that dumb gray pullover that he loved so much.
You tried to turn away to face the other direction when he started approaching your immediate vicinity, but the sudden movement of the subway cars made your head jerk backwards, slamming it on the window behind you, and loud thud echoed throughout the space.
“Whoa, are you okay?”
You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, unable to speak and unable to run (sprint, actually, because you wanted to sprint out of there).
In your periphery, you saw him reach for your arm and you instinctively jerked it away.
“Don’t touch me,” you spat in reply, your body turned completely away from him, eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“Ah, I’m sorry, I just wanna know if you’re okay,” he said quickly, lifting his hands up as if in surrender as he shuffled over to face you.. “Holy shit…”
“Y/N, fuck, oh my God.” He was fumbling for words, his eyes doubling in size as he placed his hands on top of yours. “I thought you were in London…”
All you could do was glare at him, your emotions already getting to the best of you as you felt one single tear roll down your cheek.
Lin brought a hand up to your face and he wiped away the tear with his thumb. “Look, I’m– I’m so sorry, you don’t even know–”
“Please, just stop,” you cut him off, your quivering whisper barely audible over the sounds of the subway. “I don’t wanna–”
“No, please, can I just…” He gazed deeply into your eyes, and you saw the redness in his face, familiar with the look only after having worn the same expression for the longest time. “Can we just talk? Please? Y/N, can you just give me the chance to apologize?”
Absolutely fucking not, you thought to yourself.
With a shake of your head, you bit your lip and let out a long, trembling sigh. “You just apologized right now.”
“But you deserve an explanation,” he added, his voice pleading and helpless.
“I got the explanation loud and clear in the letter, Lin. I don’t need the live version of it because trust me, your words were clear and concise.”
“You don’t understand–”
“No, Lin! You don’t get a chance to make up more excuses for that day, alright? You don’t get the opportunity to elaborate on why you did it. I already know why you did it, you don’t have to remind me because I have lived every day for the past six years just playing that Goddamn memory in my head over and over again. You–”
“I did it for you, Y/N!”
Everyone in the car all looked up at both of you, but at this point, you didn’t care. You wanted the entire world to know that this successful ‘Broadway star’ was, in all actuality, the most selfish bastard to exist.
“I-I did it for you,” Lin repeated, this time softer than before. “Because you deserved better. And now look at you… I’ve heard so many good things about you and how incredibly you’re doing, well, how incredibly you did in West End, and I’m sure your success is gonna follow you out here–”
You couldn’t it bear it any longer. He was talking to you like what he did was merely a favor, trying to prove to you that he was the catalyst to your success, convincing you that it was his nudge that sent the dominos toppling down.
The only thing he caused was a spiral into chaos, misery, and heartache.
Like clockwork, the subway car announced it was coming to a stop and you decided it was your chance to leave.
As you wiped your tears away, you got up from your seat and grabbed ahold of a pole to steady yourself as the subway screeched to a halt. You wrapped your arms around yourself, walking past the crowd of people and stepped down onto the concrete.
“Baby, wait!” He grabbed you by the arm, suddenly spinning you around. “Please, I just wanna talk…” His eyes were round and pleading, the expression on his face seemingly distraught and torn.
You managed to break free of his grasp as you turned on your heel, dodging through several people. Hot streams of tears falling down your cheeks, you could hardly see anything. It didn’t matter though. You just wanted to get out of there.
But he was persistent. He followed you up the stairs and out of the station, still calling after you, his unrelenting pleas for you to just stop and talk to him penetrating your ears despite the loud traffic of Manhattan.
With an outstretched arm, you stood there, waiting for a cab, wanting nothing more than to just go home.
“Please,” he begged you as he reached for your hand, taking it in his. “Can we just talk?”
You pulled away without a word and got into the backseat of the taxi, giving your home address to the driver.
The car door suddenly swung open and Lin got into the backseat with you, slamming the door shut.
“I’m not letting you leave without giving you a proper explanation, Y/N.”
“Why not, Lin?” You cried in response. “You had no problem leaving me the first time around, so the fucking least you could do is let me do the same thing to you!”
Lin slid the window divider and closed it, giving both of you some privacy. (Except, because of your raised voice, the driver still heard every word.)
“I left because I loved you so much, I knew you deserved time for yourself to… to grow and explore and-and then you left for London and–”
You’d had enough of his patronizing words, tired of him trying to justify his actions by showing you everything you’d accomplished since that day.
“I left because I had nothing else keeping me here in New York! I left because I lost you and I lost my sanity and I lost my strength and I lost the baby and I couldn’t live in a place that reminded me of the fact that I lost everything I had.”
Lin didn’t say a word. He sat next to you, wide-eyed and speechless.
Six weeks after the day he left you at the altar, you woke up one morning with a hangover to go puke your guts out in the bathroom, only to find blood dripping down your leg. The sight of your own blood was enough to sober you up to the point where you could comprehend the gravity of what was happening, and you immediately called out to your mother. She immediately rushed you to the Emergency Room and the bomb was dropped upon your arrival.
You were nine weeks along.
For those past six weeks, you chalked up your nausea and fatigue to your newly acquired drinking habit, assuming your ability to only keep down saltine crackers and soup was because of your lack of an appetite, crediting your late period to the fact that you were just so stressed and your body couldn’t cope.
It didn’t occur to you that you were pregnant.
But the verb was the operative word. It was all in the past tense. Just like your sanity, just like your love life, just like Lin.
“Y-you were pregnant?” His breathing got shallow and his mouth was agape, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He took your hand and squeezed it. “I didn't… I didn’t know–”
“How could you have known, Lin?” You spat out angrily, yanking your hand away. “You left, remember? How could you have possibly known if you weren’t there?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jesus Christ, how dense was he?
“I didn’t know! I was too focused on the fact that you left me and I…” Your voice grew small as you wept quietly to yourself, longing for simpler times, yearning for a chance to go back, mourning for the life you’d lost due to your own irresponsibility and lack of judgment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in reply, his voice quivering. “Baby, I’m so sorry…”
The taxi approached your place and you opened up the divider, handing him money to cover the fare, tipping him graciously as an apology for the chaos he had to endure.
Lin got out first, standing by the car door as he waited for you to follow suit, and you caught a glimpse of a stray tear slowly trickling down his face. He shut the door when you joined him on the sidewalk and you both stood there as the cab sped off into the night.
“So what now?” He asked softly.
“Goodbye, Lin,” you replied, unable to make eye contact.
And with that, you went inside your building, leaving him all alone out there, just like he did to you all those years ago.
i love the idea that my courier is just profoundly unkillable for no real reason to the point where its like a running gag. shot in the head? hes fine. locked in a room with 4 of bennys hitmen with nothing to fight but a holdout straight razor? hes fine. walks into caesar’s camp with his dog and 1 friend and decides to start shit? hes fine. hes totally good.
Head cannon that nursey likes theater and when he tells dex, dex just responds "Oh FUCKINg course you do" and then its a running gag when nursey recognizes lesser known actors in movies dex will just repond "what, did you see them live on broadway?"
oh my god but does Nursey get Pissed at this sometimes (not that he ever shows it because chill, dex) because that boy is New Yorker and let me tell you, us new yorkers really do not love the broadway hype. Off-broadway is wonderful, and deserves so much credit. Broadway is fun and great but I hc that Nursey prefers the more Chill atmosphere of off-broadway, which are often great.
On the topic of kihyun. monsta x need to stop making fun of him and his height. yes it's a joke but its something he's insecure with i think. its not funny
guys its.. lord lmfao its really not that deep i’m yelling. listen its literally a running gag in monsta x to roast and make fun of each other. fucking hell they make fun of wonho bawling all the time and freaking hyungwon and his lips but at the end of the day it’s not malicious and its not deep skfjsldk stop this
its a well known fact in the shady house that guzma loves tapu cocoa but hates roserade tea while the opposite is true for plumeria
everyone in team skull picks a side between tapu cocoa or roserade tea and its a running gag to express your appreciation/disdain for the respective drinks
like you’ll get two grunts having a conversation that spirals into grunt a: “i love my golbat. almost as much as i love roserade tea” grunt b: “hoW DARE YOU MENTION THAT DISGUSTING LEAF DRINK IN FRONT OF ME I WILL POUR THOUSANDS OF GALLONS OF TAPU COCOA ONTO YOU FROM ABOVE” grunt a: “sorry what was that i couldnt hear you over me sipping my lovely and delicious roserade tea. enjoy ur filthy mud drink u commoner”
why did i write this??? the answer has been lost to the void this is literally the dumbest post ive ever made and im sorry lmao