#and drink my beer lol

[aerodaltonimperial]

Fam, Katy got her groove back!! 🎉

[kennysdeadbody]

alone at a party

[endlesspaint]

"I'll take my whiskey neat~

My coffee black and my bed at three

You're too sweet for me~

You're too sweet for me~"

'Too Sweet' by Hozier

My notes under the cut

Decided to combine the song that has been stuck in my head with my favorite character, and this was born. Literally had the song playing on loop while making this, idk if it matches the vibes but I like it. Also-- I really like the swirly blush thingy, just something I wanted to share lol

I know nothing about alcohol so don't come at me if the drawing looks nothing like whiskey LMAO.

[mobius-m-mobius]

DAVID TENNANT as CROWLEY in GOOD OMENS S2 (2023)

[lividowly]

Blossom's depression over the way the Powerpuff Girls franchise has been treated up until recently

Drawn early August 2023

(See coloured outline and OG ver below this drawing)

Coloured outline ver

Original ver by @lune-redd

[possibilistfanfiction]

wherever you want to go with this but i trust you -- prompt: blood

[uh @unicyclehippo & i are writing joan of arc themed lil fics bc … hello ava 👀 & mine is undoubtedly the more deranged of the two but ... here u go lol]

//

ava comes back gentle; ava comes back covered in blood. 

‘i came back,’ she says, in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep, after she’d stood in the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing red from her skin, in the middle of a beautiful valley in france that has crumbling wine caves and a slow river, covered in reeds, currents that remember its history, the rot and death and face-down bodies. 

‘i came back,’ she prays into your skin, her fingers tracing the curve of your ribcage like she’s remembering a church she worshipped at centuries ago, an organ and its pipes; your heart and ventricles and your own blood, faithful. ava touches you like she’s lived a thousand years; maybe she has. her eyes are the same brown as they were when you met, when she’d only been resurrected once, when she had cried at the marvel of the ocean and her own hands, and sometimes you wonder if you’re worthy of a strength like this — worthy of sacredness and consecration and your mother’s voice — i’d rather you take your own life than be gay — and maybe for so long you had taken your own life and shoved it down into the hollow of your throat, into the spaces between the bones of your wrists; you had discarded your want and offered up your slow-beating heart in its place.

ava kneels before you and scrapes her teeth along the inside of your thigh, the skin there pale and soft. it’s dark until she brings her mouth to your center and moans, and then the room glows: gold and blue — ava, ava, ava: life; some kind of god, some kind of — i am begging you to touch me; oh, i’m on fire, oh, i’m on fire; history and elegy are akin; you are my sweetest downfall, i loved you first. the holiness in ava is not of this earth — the metal, the burn — but she is, dirt under her fingernails when she came through the portal, blood coming out of her ears, covering her face. ava’s tongue is soft and she holds your body in the palms of her hands and the room is blue and gold, a room where you get what you want: crosses held before you while you die and eternal salvation and her name like a goddamn hymn and fuck, fuck, baby and your hips grinding down on her mouth and your hands tangled in her hair — hair that you had cut when you had wished for a home amidst the mountains and the tender press of her spine in the morning blue and hair that you had cut again a few days ago, trembling hands both times because she was beautiful, a blade at her neck and curls floating to the floor. she had asked you to, and now she asks you to do something for her again — to come, to come, to come. you hold your breath when you do, consecration.

the holy and the horror — the light comes in the name of the voice — and ava comes back ready to dance with you and laugh and ava comes back with enough power to detonate bombs with her hands. you kiss her and she tucks a flower behind your ear, waiting for your next battle at a convent in the countryside. ava eats without apology, whatever she wants, and drinks wine that stains her lips red, and kisses you in front of everyone; she is hot when you touch her, when her walls flutter and curl around your fingers and you touch her. sometimes you don’t know what to say so you just tell her what you know: primeval forests are so remote that humans don’t belong there, that people die when they go there, that there are wolves and moss and weather so cold humans can’t feel their hands. ‘what do you think our past lives were like?’ she asks, one day as you spar, divine powers aside, and you wonder: were you always her protector? have you always been by her side? have you watched her die, every time? ‘one,’ you say, like you remember it in your hands, ‘we were happy; we lived on a farm and we were poor, but we had milk and eggs and bread you knew how to make. i’d go out in the morning with the dog and you spun wool and it was quiet, and green.’ she sits against you, the halo and the divinium in her back against your front, enough to kill you, and her, many times over. ‘verde, que te quiero verde,’ she says, ‘we grew old. who died first?’

‘does it matter?’

‘no.’ she’s quiet; a ship slowly goes by. ‘we’d wake early, for breakfast and you rested your head in my lap when you were tired.’ 

‘i have loved you a long time.’

she traces a pattern along the lines of your hand, a scar straight across the passes right through them. 

the days move on and ava heals and ava bandages your cuts and bruises and a broken wrist when you don’t, when you are human and frail and strong; ava falls asleep, too wild and small and lonely and beautiful, her spine curled against your chest. she wakes you with coffee and once, after a particularly bad battle, where you can’t move the next morning, a blow to your head too hard, she stays with you all day in bed, reading and running her fingers through your hair. she wears a soft sweater and socks with little dogs on them and says you’re a miracle, you’re such a miracle, i would destroy the world before i lose you and it’s true; it’s scripture it’s sacred it’s heresy it’s a blessing. a promise from a god, while you feel woozy and nauseous and your neck aches — a promise from a god, weighty and beautiful and sighed into your skin in the afternoon rain.

ava comes back in love with you; ava comes back —

there’s an explosion inside the sepulchre and everything is on fire; you have not been scared for so long — forgive us, we lived happily during the war; but on the wild nights who can you call home? only the one who knows your name — and you wonder if ava died staring at a cross; you wonder if you will grieve in this life, as you had before. you wonder if ava knew, if ava has always known, if ava was tired. 

but then ava comes back — again, again — sooty and with torn armor and a gash across her face that hasn’t healed, blood streaming down. she walks through fire, unburnt, a smirk, even, on her face. ava comes back and kisses you and you taste blood and ash and dust to dust and the strawberry chapstick she had put on in the van before the battle, tucked in into her pocket with a wink. you have seen many miracles but this is one of an order you will never understand, one that will stop people from killing each other, one that is catastrophe and heaven.

‘let’s go home, bea,’ ava says, and you search her mouth for a sacrament and find it in the press of her tongue on the backs of your teeth. ‘let’s go home.’

and you do — the ocean, and in bed weeks later, the cut across her face red and shiny and healed, the edges pulled together taught, the burn on the palm of your hand a webbed scar right in the middle —

‘did you know,’ she says, in the moon and the quiet, ‘that joan of arc was put to death for wearing men’s clothing? she was so theologically clever that they could only order an execution if she relapsed into heresy; the guards at the prison she was at only gave her men’s clothes, which they eventually used to convict her.’

you kiss ava’s temple; her skin smells like lavender. she presses her lips to your pulse point. 

‘being a girl,’ she says, her brow furrowed, your bodies stretched and tangled under the sheets. ‘she burned at the stake for being a girl.’

‘do you — do you remember?’

she turns toward you, different than you remember but still the same, still exuberant about the sea and ice cream and books she loves, texting and movie theaters and petting every dog you pass on the street; ‘sometimes.’

‘okay.’

’there are days —‘ she laces your fingers together — ‘that i feel a call backward, in my palms, in my knees, in the back of my skull. to understand, to see. there are days when all i know of this life is to love you.’ she presses a kiss to the divinium tattoo on your forearm that glows blue in the dark when she’s near. ‘this is how i know you. you are what i know.’

‘i will never watch you die again.’

‘i’m not sure i can.’

‘well then i’ll join you, wherever we go next.’

‘yeah,’ she says, so sure, prophetic, ‘you will.’

ava comes back for you —

what did the voice tell you when you returned to your room? it told me that i should answer you bravely.

[krustybob]

My Name is Earl S1E4: Faked My Own Death

[amygdalae]

I have a social coworker get together secret Santa gift exchange after work but I really just wanna go home and game lol. But I'll be social because I do like my epic friends and coworkers or whatever

[ask-nyc-boroughs]

ok gang I just need to know, what beer do you think Alfred drinks regularly?

I’m arguing PBR just cause it’s so iconically American imo more so than Coors, or Budweiser. But also maybe this is cause the version of Alfred that lives in my head rent free is has the vibes of a male manipulator who listens to dad rock and country with a sprinkling of toxic masculinity (Ik I have cursed thoughts). However I think in regards to favorite beers, Alfred is a Masshole to me so he’s gotta represent so he’s partial to a Sam Adams larger.

Also while I’m here spewing my cursed ideas, what beer do you guys think Matt drinks regularly? I think Matt’s go-to would be a Molson just cause it’s like the Canadian beer. However in terms of favorites, I think Matt is an IPA type of guy cause in my head he’s lowkey a bit of a male manipulator but in this outdoorsy Toronto hipster ass way so I think I he likes a good Amsterdam Boneshaker.

Also if you’re not a beer person, like what alcoholic drinks do you think they drink and why?

[incorrectquotesideas-deactivated]

Person A: Do you want a beer? I’m paying.

Person B, going through the restaurant’s menu: No. Ugh, where’s the good stuff?

Person A, half jokingly: I thought you were an alcoholic.

Person B: Exactly. I’d need at least, like, four beers — without food — to get slightly buzzed, and my stomach can’t fit over 2 beers in it. I’m small. I’ll have a rum, neat.

[minibunz]

Yesterday’s concert fit/look was really cute tho

(He/Him)

[lesbegays]

sometimes i remember the time that a professor told me my essay was the most interesting and insightful in the class and then i started skipping that class and couldn’t bring myself to turn in any more essays to her and i’m like damn i should go back to therapy and deal with that

[bigmeansweatydyke]

hey guys is part of being in your mid-20s coming to the realization that alcohol kinda sucks

[yugiohz]

i went hiking one time with some ppl in the winter and it was the most unenjoyable experience of my life.....leave it to sadomasochistic rich ppl to turn this into a hobby i have to feel bad about not liking

noooo, why was it unenjoyable? :( i think hiking is one of those things you can't do on a whim or unprepared, you need the right people the right weather the right gear the right track, otherwise yeah it is not fun,

[appalachy]

[hanzajesthanza]

honestly iconic that i dressed up as geralt last night for my office’s halloween party, and the very next day, the VERY next day, the morning i wake up… h*nry cav*ll has quit his job and has stopped being geralt.

obviously, the result of my immense power. and the power of books geralt’s headband and silver spikes