the burly man

anonymous asked:

Imagine svt '95 + '96 line as characters in DDADDS (97-99 line are the kids)

now, I haven’t seen much of Dream Daddy or played it before but I do know the basis and this gave me the thought to do a little headcanon of what kind of “dream daddy” the 95 and 96 liners would be

Seungcheol: the sports dad. he has always been into sports, but especially in his own childhood - he has always said that playing soccer (and football, and basketball, and volleyball) was the highlight of his childhood, and helped him grow up as a better person. so when he had kids of his own (3 girls - ages 4 months, 3 years, and 9 and 2 boys, 4 and 6), as well as being a burly man, holding each one of them in the hospital and bawling his eyes out (and always just getting more baby hungry as time went along), he wanted his kids to participate in sports. he got the big van and played volunteer coach to a lot of the teams, could almost always be found with a whistle around his neck, running his household like a tight and high functioning sports team

Jeonghan: the suburban dad. he is the exact stereotype of what you see when you think of a suburban white mom - he drives a sensible car, always wears something presentable and neat, always feeds his 3 girls (ages 2, 4, and 7) organic, healthy food with absolutely no flexing on sugar or junk food of any kind, shows up to every school event with his camera, cheering proudly, goes to all the ‘Mommy & Baby’ classes and participates without fail, and even his girls are always dressed to impress with their hair so neatly done (”how does he do that? they’re so hard to get dressed at that age!”). he attends every PTA meeting and heads up all the events, and at the end of the way, he just wants the best for his family, no matter what others think of him

Joshua: the soft dad. always reading up on the newest psychological studies about children, and trying to integrate those techniques with his 8 month old boy and his twin 6 year old girls. he wants to cushion his children from the harshness of the world, constantly pre-screening any shows or movies they want to watch, (including ones that are supposed to be for children), always trying to feed them very healthy organic foods, but occasionally will give in a give them junk food because it makes them happy, has his house baby-proofed beyond belief, with every corner and edge padded in some way so that his kids don’t hurt themselves. he just wants to see them grow up strong without hurting in any way, emotionally or physically 

Jun: the “fun” dad. he goes out of his way to be liked by his kids - boys, 10, 12, and 13, and sometimes forgets that he’s actually supposed to be a parent. his house is always full of toys and games (including a game room that is stocked full with the latest and greatest consoles, a foosball table, and even some old arcade machines he got online); he’s never afraid to spoil his kids, because he believes childhood should be all about having fun, and because they are worth it. he often neglects the idea of homework (because you shouldn’t let grades define you) and tries his best to get the boys to listen to him, but always bends and ends up giving them what they want. his house is the hub for all their friends, with other kids constantly coming over after school and having sleepovers (and many other parents disapproving of his lax parenting style)

Hoshi: the relaxed dad. he doesn’t care much for things being perfect, he understands that parenting is a marathon, not a sprint. so most days it’s just easier to let the little things go. he let’s his kids (2 girls, 7 and 12) eat whatever is quickest when carting them around to their activities - things that they have chosen, dance and piano and violin (she’ll get better at it… just be patient…), and he always lets them dress how they please, even if it means explaining the bumblebee costume to the teacher. he doesn’t push them or argue with them, and for the most part it works, and they never find any reason to argue with him

Wonwoo: the black coffee dad. believes in ferberizing (cause they should learn to soothe themselves!); has two boys - a toddler and a 5 year old and can’t start the day without his coffee. always toting around a huge portable coffee cup, and hates to go out in he sun even though the babies need the vitamin D. hates the PTA dads and rolls his eyes when the words ‘bake sale’ or ‘fund raiser’ are mentioned

Woozi: the career dad. he loves his baby so very much (a boy, just a year old now) but often finds himself more involved with his career than his baby. he feels bad that he’s overworked and has to spend so many late nights at the office as well as early mornings, and is always trying to carve out time to be a dad as well as giving his boy a bright future.


Take Your Gatekeeping and Shove It.

So, this past weekend, I took my 11-year-old daughter to SuperCon to meet her favorite actor (and favorite Doctor), Peter Capaldi.

She wore a little blue TARDIS-decorated dress and some Doctor Who pins, and she nearly cried with joy when Capaldi greeted her for the photo op. He was a consummate gentleman and such a sweet and enthusiastic person.

An hour or so after the wonderful photo op experience, she and I were sitting at a table in the food court area.

A burly, older man plopped down nearby.  He looked at my little girl’s outfit, smiled, and said, “Do you even KNOW anything about Doctor Who?”

WTF, dude?

I was too stunned for a second to even respond, so he started right in with the ‘quizzing.’

“Who are the Doctor’s biggest enemies, and what planet does he come from?” this stranger asked.

Now I had moved past shocked and right into indignant/angry/protective mode.

“I don’t want her to be quizzed on something she loves, because I don’t want her thinking she has to prove ANYthing in order to be a fan,“ I told him.

Looking at my daughter, I said “You don’t owe strangers explanations or information, ok?“  She said OK and looked relieved.

Still he pressed on, patronizing grin and all: “Oh, I just want to be sure parents are raising their kids right.” Then he turned to my daughter again and asked “Who was the first Doctor, then?”

I cut him off right there. “No. I don’t want her quizzed. At all.”

Dude blinked in disbelief, sighed, and left about a minute later.

“Thanks,” my daughter said. “He was making me feel awkward.”

I held her hand and looked into her eyes. “Some men think they can have power over you by making you prove yourself. You never have to do it. They’re just insecure and pitiful, so they want to make you feel like it, too.  It’s not only about fan stuff, and it’s not always just men, but be careful not to fall into that trap, ok?”

That crap isn’t harmless fun. It sets up a pattern of approval-seeking, self-justification, self-doubt, and fear of exclusion that is very dangerous for children (particularly girls).

Fuck that.

TL;DR:  Do NOT come at me, my little girl, or anyone in my vicinity with your condescending, gatekeeping bullshit.

The next time, I won’t make the mistake of even TRYING to be polite.

Originally posted by tum-binha

Concept: the old “protagonist must help painfully innocent and probably amnesiac science experiment with terrifying secret powers escape her tormentors” plot, except instead of being a waifish teenage girl, the victim is a burly middle-aged man with a magnificent beard. Nothing else about their characterisation or story role changes.

between the devil & the deep blue sea (m)


Words: 28,455. (rip)

Genre: Pirate Jimin au + smut, fluff, angst.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader.

Summary: “No matter the endeavour you were on, no matter the storms you encountered on rocky seas, or the possible threat of encountering blood-thirsty pirates, no one intrigued you or intimidated you more than the thought of him, of Park Jimin, the most notorious of pirates, the most brutal of men, the devil incarnate.”

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Only Way To Live - Stiles Stilinski

Author: @mf-despair-queen

Characters: Stiles Stilinski/Reader

Word Count: 4818

Warnings: Kinky Filth, NSFW, 18+, Oral (Female Receiving)

Notes: Honestly, I’m kinda mixed about this entire thing? I don’t think it’s as good as some of the other stuff I’ve written. The idea was so good for this too! I got the idea from an episode of Attack of Titan while I was in my slump. So, please, any feedback ya’ll have would be appreciated.

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It starts with a bar of soap.

For God’s sake, Kent thinks to himself in the “personal care” section of the grocery store. Why does Dove think I’m allergic to purple just because I’m a guy?

He picks up the lavender-scented bar soap and inhales. It smells heavenly. Next he tries the sandalwood-scented from the men’s section. It comes in a gray box and costs fifty cents less. It smells good but it reminds him of floor polish.

I’m a grown-ass man, Kent thinks, and buys the lavender soap.

The next time he’s out of body wash, he spends thirty minutes trying to decide on one of the many “manly” smells before caving to “Cocoa Cabana” in the women’s aisle because it smells like Valentines Day in a bottle. 

After that it’s his deodorant body spray, trading in “Bold” (whatever the fuck boldness smells like) for “Fresh Cotton.” 

The first time Jeff catches a whiff of it on him, he asks, “New fabric softener? It smells awesome.”

“Nah, switched deodorants.”

“Huh.” Jeff nods in approval. “Well, you smell like fresh blankets out of the dryer. I have a physical urge to hug you.”

Kent laughs. Jeff hugs him and he laughs more. It’s nice.

After five months, nearly every toiletry Kent owns has been switched over from an endless variety of blacks, grays, and occasional dark greens and blues to white, purple, soft brown, yellow, and pink. Showers have transformed from a perfunctory necessity to something luxurious. Women’s products are so indulgent. They make Kent feel and smell like he’s been at a spa. He does have to learn to juggle the fragrances appropriately or risk smelling like a perfume store vomited on him. But it’s worth it, for how good he feels after. He feels pampered. His skin is softer, his hair shines, and even his pits and crotch look and feel cleaner. He doesn’t know if it’s the products or because he really cares about the maintenance, now, since he’s got all these specialty items to try. It doesn’t matter. He feels great.

Kent now has honest-to-God bubble baths and detox-salt-soaks. He’s got body butters and face masks and a lip balm in almost every flavor. The ladies at the Lush at the mall know him by name.

Kent’s still single. He’s got his cat for company, though, and the guys, who drop by or come over for movie and game nights and get drunk and eat all his food and pretend to chirp him for the specialty lemongrass-scented hand soap in his bathroom. Sometimes, on roadies, Swoops will plop down next to him on a bus or a plane and say loudly, “Damn, who’s got chocolate and isn’t sharing? Oh, it’s just Parser. Fuck you for getting my hopes up,” and then he’ll noogie Kent or grab his fingers and gnaw on them.

(The coaches have had to break them up before and it’s very unbecoming of two adult men.)

More than once, one of the guys has fallen asleep next to Kent and ended up face-first in Kent’s shoulder. They’ll wake up blearily, rubbing their eyes and saying, “Whoops, sorry man, didn’t mean to drool on you.” Kent was confused at first but he’s realizing that it’s because they gravitate towards the scent of him in their sleep. He smells like comforting things: honey and chocolate and cotton and Shea. He smells like warmth and safety. It’s why he likes all the things he buys, so it makes sense the guys would like that, too.

Nobody rags on him for it. They chirp him, but that’s different. Chirping, light-hearted and giggly, means acceptance. Soon his teammates start coming up to him in the locker room or nudging him on a bus and saying, “Parser, can I borrow some of your stuff?” and leaving with key-lime lips or cocoa-butter hands.

But it’s when he catches Sunny—big, burly, greatly-bearded d-man Sunny—pulling a bright orange tube of passion fruit lip balm out of his bag and slicking it on in front of everyone that he knows for sure that it’s okay.

Of Sunsets and Tattoos

Originally posted by garisanee

Character(s): Reader X Changkyun

Genre: smut, pwp

Warning(s): praise!kink, pierced!chankgyun (is that a warning?), tatted!changkyun, breathplay, semipubluc sex

Length: 7k

Summary: In which you go to get a piercing and find that it isn’t so scary when you’re piercer is a cute boy with lots of tattoos

Friends are useless. 

You understand the truth behind these words when Minhyuk and Kihyun corner you after work an unsuspecting Tuesday afternoon, smiles much too wide to mean anything good.

“So,” Kihyun begins, inspecting his fingernails with a smirk, “Remember last Thursday when you said I’d be too much of a wimp to ever get a piercing?”

You roll your eyes, pushing him back a little bit with a shove. “That’s because you are a wim–”

“False!” Minhyuk interrupts, eyes glinting. “He is no longer Yoo Kihyun, wimp extraordinaire–”

“I resent that!” Kihyun interrupts, voice indignant.

“–but rather, Yoo Kihyun, hardcore, punk rocker with an ear piercing.”

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Quirky Third Grade Teacher

One time my third grade teacher came dressed as a woman. He’s this big burly man, he didn’t even shave his face. He kept telling us he was his sister. He also told us he couldn’t say “For” and had to say “Fork” instead, but could say “Four”. Also he convinced us third graders that dixon ticonderoga pencils with a black stripe on the bottom were extremely rare, then proceeded to show us boxes full of them. I’m pretty sure he regretted that after we continually begged him for them. Sometimes he would dye his hair a wacky color for a day then the next it would be normal again. 

“So what are you?”

The question which plagued my childhood in suburban Kansas; the ponderance of which led me towards years of agonizing identity searching; the answer to which I still hesitate to deliver.

“So what are you?”

It is an innocent question; one I know I am not alone in hearing the echoes of. But what do I say? “I’m mixed” is the short answer, but it always leads to the question of “With what” so do I say “My mom is white and my dad is brown” but brown isn’t usually specific enough so do I say “my mom is white and my dad’s Pakistani” but that doesn’t flow right because white is a race and Pakistani is a nationality so do I say “my mom’s American and my dad’s Pakistani” but that isn’t true because my dad was born in Canada and he’s lived here his whole life and American sure as hell doesn’t mean white I mean my dad IS American so do I say “My mom’s a white American and my Dad’s Pakistani American” but that just sounds like I’m trying too hard so that’s out of the question and so do I just drop it and leave it at “none of your business” but that’s rude and it’s really such a simple question so what in the hell do I freaking say?

“So what are you?”

It’s a good question, really… why don’t you tell me? I am the alienation that I feel when my mom’s family talks about how dangerous those Muslim immigrants are over dinner and I am the strange sinking feeling in my stomach which occurs when my cousins tell me that whatever I’ve just done is haraam. I am the frustration which clouds me when people around me doubt that I am what the hell I say I am. I am the product of the millisecond long stares of confusion people give me when I tell them the pale as china blonde lady I’m with is my mother and the looks of disgust I get when I, the young, doll eyed light skinned girl, go out to dinner late at night with a big burly middle aged brown man, aka my father. I am the three and a half years it took me to decide what to call the pigmentation of my skin.

I am the sadness which clouds me when one of my Aunties asserts how lucky I am to be so fair skinned. I am the anger I feel each and every time I think about the people who called my full and plump Desi lips fat as a kid and now use copious amounts of lip liner to accentuate their tiny mouths on Snapchat. I am the hours of hoping and praying during and after shootings that it wasn’t a Muslim. I am the incredible lengths I go to, the precise and complex knowledge I feel I must have of my roots in order to truly claim my heritage. I am neither and I am both and I hate it.

“So what are you?”

I can’t stand here and tell you that it is all bad. That would be I lie, for I am also the cool, smooth feeling of the bronze crucifix which sits on one side of my bedroom wall and the sentiment of the words “Allah most merciful” written in beautiful Arabic script on the other. I am my large French hazel eyes and my thick and wavy South Asian hair, my favorite of my features.

I am the pride I feel as I trace my thumb over the intricate embroidery on one of my anarkalis and the anticipation I feel for Christmas as I help line my grandmother’s fireplace with garland. I am the rhythmic clanking of my bangles as I dance to bhangra music at a cousin’s wedding and the clicking of tongues by a sizzling grill as my grandpa flips our burgers during a Sunday night barbeque. I am the flavorful and savory taste of pulao my father makes and the creamy texture of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. I am the Maybelline mascara I coat my eyelashes with and the kajal I used to line the edges of my eyes. I am the flavorant meeting of two cultures melting in an incredible country in which such a thing is even possible.

“So what are you?”

God, but what am I thinking? I’m Jackie. I am the impending messiness that is my bedroom. I am my inability to fall the hell asleep before eleven o’clock at night. I am my love for all things fashion and glamour. I am my obnoxiously large collection of makeup. I am my hideous shedding of tears each and every time Spock dies in the Wrath of Khan.

I am my intense love for horror movies and my struggle to move in the dark for two days after watching them. I am my passion for music and Michael J. Fox and Kanye West and my unrequited love for Zayn Malik. I am my collection of records and of 32 scarves which I never wear, my brown riding boots, my belting of Christmas carols in the middle of July, my irrational hatred of algebra, my inability to sleep without my phone being on its charger, the Toll House cookie dough I eat straight from the bag and the four Beatles posters I have hanging in my room.

I am the scent of Aussie conditioner and my clumsy, spacy nature; my obsession with the Kennedys, my adamant love for Diet Dr Pepper, losing myself in my daydreams, my extreme extroversion and procrastination of literally everything, my weakness for Reese’s peanut butter cups, my A to Z knowledge about Mick Jagger, my ever changing mind. I am my dreams and I am my fears and and I am my tenacity and I am my mistakes and my courage and my insecurities and my abilities and my hope … I am so much and yet I am so little. I am me. I am unapologetically and beautifully me.

“So what are you?”

I am Jacqueline Renee and I am what I am and no answer that I give you to this question will make what I am any different.

She’s Magic part 2

Loki x Witch!reader

A/n: Woah! I was not expecting so much feedback and so many responses to part 1! I’m super excited to be posting part 2 and I already have plans for a part 3. :) Thank you guys so much! <3

Summary: Loki and the witch go on their first date.

Part 1

Originally posted by ohloki

“So you guys,” Tony started entering the Avengers’ common room area, where the group had gathered. “I have a few concerns about tonight.”

“What about?” Steve asked with genuine concern.

“Should we be this ok with letting Loki go on a date with a witch?”

Everyone groaned and dismissed Tony, going back to whatever they were doing before his intrusion.

“Think about it,” Tony burst forward. “What if this is just the beginning? And the God of mischief and Sabrina the ‘Kickass’ witch have giant frost witch babies?”

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it always confuses me when superman gets drawn burlier than batman. i mean we dance around it but superman is basically super strong due to space magic. he could be a weedy lil string bean and he’d still be able to lift a bus. i’m not saying the muscles don’t help, or that he doesn’t probably have magic space muscles. i’m just saying, all of batman’s strength is muscle-dependant. he has no space magics. in my head he is the more burly of the two just out of necessity. i know he’s kind of got the gymnast thing going on but like. i imagine bruce wayne as more barrel-y and clark kent as more dorito-y. i don’t know why i’m telling you this except that i’m dealing with the realization that this is not the standard assumption.

anonymous asked:

can you recommend some soulmates au fics ?

Well, you should definitely start with our SOULMATES tag! After tag, check all these new recs we have for you (there are so many of them)!


An Unpredictable Amount of Turtles by skoosiepants

Stiles says, “I have a five year plan. A five year plan to popularity that will tank the minute I meet this guy.”

“I feel like you’re exaggerating,” Scott says, but Scott has a katana-wielding badass waiting for him at the other end of the rainbow, and Stiles has terrariums.


A soulmate au with turtles and angst.

Honey, Can’t you See (The Bloodstains on my Teeth) by Loup_Aigre, TroubleIWant

“Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”

Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it.

The thing is, magic isn’t like the fairy tales. It’s blood and risk and sacrifice. Nothing comes without a price, and anyone who tries to say different is baiting a hook to gut you on. Stiles knows that, has known it since he was a kid and his mother started training him for the inevitable day when he’d need to fight for his life.

That day had come four years ago when she died, and it hasn’t stopped yet.

Of Soulmates, Pseudonyms and Misunderstandings by halcyon1993

Ever since he asked his mother one evening why she had his dad’s name tattooed on the inside of her left wrist, Derek has dreamed of finding his soulmate. There’s only one problem—the name that appears on his wrist on his eighteenth birthday is something he can’t even read.

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Series Masterpost

Characters: Dean, Reader, Sam, Jo and Garth (For now.)

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence and harassment.

Summary: The Reader is an Omega, working for her Aunt Ellen. She’s no stranger to things that go bump in the night, maybe because she is a something too. Suddenly, a group of very strange and rough around the edges people make their way to the town and she finds herself drawn to one in particular. She has reservations so can he tear her walls down??

A/N: I’m back at it. However, this is my first a/b/o fic so be kind. Constructive criticism and feedback will be highly appreciated.

Originally posted by deanjackles

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