#cw: mentions of alcohol

[riverflowsanywherebuthere]

I’m drunk as hell rn and feeling very very giddy about the fact that we’re marrying Asher like dhdjsjsjncbcsjssjsAsjsj mated AND married AHHHHHDHDJD

[jfleamont]

Could you do some hcs on the Marauders+ Lily's drinking habits? Like who's the lightweight of the group? Who has the highest alcohol tolerance? Who apparates everyone home? Also love ur recent headcanons by the way❤❤

Thank you!

I haven't really thought about this honestly, but I have a few ideas already lol

Let's start with Lily: she isn't technically a lightweight unless she hasn't drunk in a long time. She likes red wine and pale (amber) ale and isn't into hard liquors unless they're in a fruity cocktail where she can't taste them. She's a happy drunk and cracks jokes all the time. Technically she can apparate home, but I wouldn't trust her with apparating other people. She's a social drinker. She hugs James a lot.

James likes cocktails (his favourite is Moscow mule) but doesn't like wine. Beers are fine, but he'd rather have something else. He's not a lightweight: when he's drunk it's because he chooses to. As I said in my previous post, he's very talkative and overshares a bit. Like Lily, he's a social drinker, but drinks more often than her. He's less fidgety, more calm and can sit still for longer than five minutes. If you're on a night out with the lads, he's your safest option for side-apparition.

Remus enjoys drinking and occasionally does it alone, but he's not an alcoholic. He likes whiskey and tequila the most, and gets tipsy really easily, but knows when to stop. He's very affectionate when drunk, albeit a bit sleepy. He doesn't like apparating (whether he has alcohol in his system or not) so he'd rather take muggle transportation, walk, or use the floo network.

Peter drinks almost exclusively beer, but can make some great cocktails. He doesn't know how to handle his liquor, though, which is why he decides to stay sober sometimes (in that case, he'll apparate everyone else).

Sirius is a bit of a lightweight and gets very argumentative when drunk: he doesn't get angry, though, just easily offended. He likes expensive wine (the posh twat) and isn't a fan of fruity cocktails unless Peter makes them, in which case he happily sips one during the night. Even when he's very tipsy, he can apparate and he'll get you home safely if you ask him. He prefers drinking with his friends, so he doesn't drink much in front of strangers.

I'm not sure people will agree with me but these headcanons aren't really fixed for me so I'd like to know what you guys think!

[pjunicornart]

Back at it again with more PJ's Daycare shit! WOOOO! This time with more of a focus on PJ and... Hudson~

OKAY. So. First image here... more focused on PJ. With Hudson's very early concept design. I threw in some of the other daycare employees (Melon and Cali) as little cameos, and I even did a scene of them reenacting that one funny video of the kid because I was watching a meme comp. and I thought it would be funny. Plus, let's be honest... PJ's new addiction to coffee definitely has... side effects.

Yes, I believe PJ has an "addictive personality". Which basically means it's really easy for him to get addicted to things. Well, hey... at least coffee is better than alcohol.

Plus, PJ's sudden bisexual awakening!

Second image, more focused on Hudson and PJ. I tweaked his design a bit, but I still wasn't quite happy with it. You'll see that later. But here I established these things: - PJ has a son with his previous partner, Omni. Unfortunately, shit happened, Omni was fed up, and they got a divorce. His son's name is Monochrome, and due to current circumstances, PJ cannot see him until he is cleared by the program he is in. In order to get a sense of how PJ might feel about this, I would listen to "My Little Love" by Adele. - Both Hudson and PJ are tall. But Hudson is only slightly taller than PJ. - Hudson has a daughter named Elaine, and he drops her off at the daycare PJ is assigned to do community service in. Hudson probably works a very demanding day job, hence the nachos. I'm thinking this day job is something within the medical field. - Hudson having a daughter means he also has a previous partner. His previous partner, in Hudson's words: "He was very controlling. Had to have everything a certain way, including me." They got a divorce two years ago. - Hudson's daughter is biological to both him and his ex. This is because Seedling (his species) anatomy is VASTLY different compared to other species, making this possible. I would delve into it, but that's a bit NSFW for this post. - PJ is head over heels for Hudson. But due to past and current trauma, he is having trouble letting Hudson inside. I mean that he's afraid to let Hudson in on his... whole world, so to speak. - PJ probably has a fear of abandonment, as well as issues with intimacy. (Again, caused by his past trauma.) - Hudson, on the other hand, is very chill. He goes to therapy and is actively trying to better himself. He also works out. It's part of his self love campaign. - They probably have one night stands a lot, but because PJ is not fully healed, he's afraid to make it something more. Hudson probably wants to be more, but PJ isn't ready/scared to.

Third and final image! Woo! And here we see Hudson's final, official design! Isn't he cute? Yeah...

So I mentioned that he's a Seedling, yeah? Well, to be more specific - he's a type of Seedling called a "Clover Seedling". No duh, right? Now, all Seedlings are characterized by having skin like soil, moss on their bodies in areas, hair like grass, and three to five "tails" or "sprouts" coming from their tail bones. Different Seedling types have different flora growing from their person naturally. Clover Seedlings have clovers, Apple Seedlings have apples, Buttercup Seedlings have buttercups... you get the gist.

Seedlings are a plant based Monster. Meaning... long walks in the rain or Sun are Hudson's cup of tea! Hudson can even make clovers grow around him by touching the earth. Isn't that cool? Also... no. The blue tipped clover on his chest is not a layering mistake. That's because Seedlings have a sprout on their chest that senses the moods of others. When Hudson is around PJ, it's either an intense pink (passion, lust, love) or varying shades of blue (sadness, depression). Sometimes, it will be purple (fear, anxiety, uncertainty).

Anyways... this image basically solidifies that PJ is holding back a lot with Hudson. Almost like he's not allowing himself to be happy.

WOW THAT WAS A LOT OF INFORMATION. But I hope you enjoyed it somewhat. At this point I might as well just start a Rebooted PJ's Daycare comic.

Hm... we'll see. If I get enough people yelling at me then I guess I'll do it...

(Just an FYI, Seedlings are a closed species of mine.)

[bamsara]

Local chaos god gets humbled, creates chaos over it. His aim still needs some work though

I really need to stop drawing Drunken Gods chapter stuff and actually finish the damn chapter lmao

[felsicveins]

The road to forgiveness is paved with miles of bullying

[jayevrd]

hes gettin a little silly

[indigo-art]

Narrator had wine once (1) now that he has a physical form and immediately became a wine mom cougar. Stanley is @mr-parable's cute man who Arthur is obsessed with.

[daily-crabbys]

This Friday's meme is: you always do this

[superblysubpar]

<- part two | part four -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: You don’t like Steve Harrington.

the song: Hypotheticals by Lake Street Drive

also for your listening pleasure: Alone by Heart

3,349 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / alcohol consumption & mentions / thunderstorm mentions / wearing steve’s clothing, but size isn’t mentioned | my blog is 18+

AN: sorry for the delay, and for another “cliff-hanger” type ending, but I promise this next chapter, chapter four is meaty, and long, and I hope makes up for it. Also, I’ll probably post two chapters this next Monday, since I was late with this one. Thanks for your continued support, comments, messages, reblogs. I had this story locked away since December and really doubted it, and I really can’t express how much finally sharing it and you all reading it means! Thanks for being here 💛

A house on Cornwallis Street - Monday

  Steve shifts against the leather seat, wet denim making a squeaking sound that’s loud enough to be heard over the rain pelting the windows and the faint piano intro that has you reaching towards the radio on impulse. 

  As the turn signal clicks rhythmically with the wipers, your hand stalls halfway to the dial when Steve looks over at you. 

  He nods his head towards the radio, relaxed as he makes the turn onto his street, though his fingers hold the steering wheel at a responsible ten and two. 

  “You can turn it up, doesn’t bother me. S’good song.”

  You hum some sort of agreement, nudging the dial a touch louder, so Heart’s ballad can be fully heard. 

  His head tilts, thumb tapping the leather of the steering wheel in perfect time with the beat of the song. 

  The lyrics aren’t lost on you, and instead of wondering if Steve also knows all the words, you turn to look out the window. 

  Right at the wrong moment. 

  The flinch of your shoulders is involuntary, and so is how the jerk of your head to face forward again makes the wrap of his fingers around the wheel tighter. Passing the house makes his stomach churn more than yours, especially when your whisper is almost lost to the wailing lead vocals of the chorus. 

  “Forgot you lived on the same street.”

  “Yeah.” 

  Steve bites his cheek, unsure of what else to say. Should he say he’s sorry, all these years later? Will that just make it worse? Should he make a joke? But would you think that means he doesn’t care?

  You’re lost in memories of a car not unlike this one. Of a humiliating night at a house on this street. Of a beer thrown in a face and a pair of heels left in a yard. 

  So when your name is spoken softly, quieter than he usually is, you’re shocked to see the car is in park in a driveway of a large house, off, and Steve’s lips are parting under eyes that are looking at you with the same pity he had that night.

  You quickly unsnap the seatbelt, and practically fling yourself out of the passenger door, squinting under the heavy drops of rain smacking your face as you run up the pavement towards a front door you never thought you’d be entering. 

  Steve is right behind you, breathing heavily as he shakes his hair out like a wet dog, rubbing a large palm down his face as he shoves a key in the lock. 

  Stepping inside the foyer of Steve Harrington’s house is surreal. 

  Not only because you’re standing in the home of the man you’ve sworn you hate, but it’s picture perfect. It’s one of those houses that feels like it belongs in a magazine or one of those books your parents used to keep on the coffee table. There’s sparse wall decorations and furniture, though all of it high end - rich woods and soft neutrals, abstract art. There’s a ton of natural lighting that you can see is casting his home in a soft blue glow even through the storm. 

  Steve flicks on the entryway lamp, warm light illuminating where he hangs his family video vest on a hook. He kicks off his Nike’s that squish and squelch as the toe knocks against the heel then the floor. 

  He starts to step out of the foyer, calling over his shoulder, “I don’t care, but my mom will most likely murder you if you leave your shoes on.”

  You’re not sure if he means he doesn’t care if you leave them on and it’s your choice whether to risk the wrath of Mrs. Harrington, or if he doesn’t care if she kills you.

  The thought of leaving your feet trapped inside wet leather boots for who knows how long makes you shudder, so you’re quick to unlace them and leave them next to Steve’s muddied sneakers. 

  Your vest is removed next, hung next to his with a frown as you watch it drip onto the hardwoods. When you glance up to ask if you should move them to somewhere less prone to water damage, Steve is gone. 

  “Harrington?” you call out, arms wrapping around yourself as you risk a step further into the house. 

  “In here!” he yells, past the staircase and around a corner.

  Venturing deeper, wet socks leave darker marks on cream carpet in a small den. A cozy and large green armchair and desk, and dark wood bookcases that sit mostly empty frame a wide set of sliding glass doors that look out at a pool. The bright and normally calm turquoise surface interrupted with the rain, ripples running across it to tiled edges. 

  Opening and closing of wood doors from behind you pulls you from your trance in front of the pool, spinning to see Steve standing in a kitchen that’s just as nice as this room. White tiled floors contrast with a green walls and warm wood cabinets. He’s pulling a bag of pretzels from a cupboard, a jar of peanut butter, and Oreos. He drops the snacks in a heap on the large center island before he looks up at you. 

  “Figured we might need some snacks while we wait it out. Want something to drink too?”

  Before you can respond, he’s already spinning towards the other end of the room, speaking with his hands about how peanut butter always makes him thirsty. 

  You drip on the tiles of the Harrington’s kitchen, shivering as Steve speaks into the fridge.

  “Do you want…shit, um, I have beer? Or water? A thing that I think is a tomato? Which isn’t really a drink so I don’t know why I’m still talking about it…”

  His shoulders flex under the damp light blue cotton of his shirt, his hand runs through his hair before he reaches in to grab something. 

  When you remain silent, he looks over his shoulder, and you’re sure he’s caught you staring at the sliver of his stomach that became revealed when he stretched for the beers now in his hands. 

  But then he quickly stands up straight, fridge door swinging shut behind him as he carelessly lets the two cans slide onto the counter top. 

  “Shit, I didn’t even…I’m freezing so you must…and I’m sorry, I-“

  A crack of thunder that seems to come from inside the house makes you both jump, bringing forth two sudden realizations to your mind. 

  The first, found out from the way Steve’s hands shake again, and the way his gaze darts out the windows showing inky clouds against an eerie, almost green tinted sky. 

  Steve Harrington is nervous. 

  The second realization comes from your step towards him. Maybe you were on your way to comfort him, maybe it was to punch his shoulder and taunt him. Either way, the step reminds you that you’re dripping water and making a nice puddle all over Mrs. Harrington’s pristine tiles. 

  Which just so happen to be the same lovely shade as your shirt.

  And maybe both the white cotton and the pink lace that sits beneath it leave little to the imagination when frigid AC and damp clothing combine against sensitive skin. 

  Your arms slowly cross over your chest, hugging yourself as you finally manage to let out a breathy exhale and the words, “I love beer.”

  Steve’s lips twitch, lifting on the left in a lopsided smile, a far away look as he stares at you from the other side of the kitchen and quietly asks, “Yeah?”

  Despite what your nipples would like to convey, his stare heats you from the inside out, convincing you that lightening has struck the house and you’re on fire. So you don’t really think you’re lying when you say, “And I’m not cold.”

  Steve’s cheeks are pink as he gestures to the counter top, “Okay, sure. Well I’m hard,” he squeezes his eyes shut and quickly corrects, “Cold! I’m cold, and I’m, um, if you wanna carry that stuff, I’m gonna grab clothes and we can go down to the basement.” 

  He quickly shuffles around the island, making sure he leaves the three feet of counter between you till he slips out of the room with cheeks darkening to the color of your bra. He goes so fast he misses the way you bite your lip and hide a smile. 

  But as his feet pound on the stairs, you stand up straighter and slap your hands to your cheeks. 

  No.

  Nope.

  Not. Happening. 

  You don’t like him. 

  Settling the beers and snacks against your chest and in your arms, you head back the way you came, slowing as you see photos on the shelves.

The typical posed family portrait, hands on his shoulders, Steve stiff in a white button down shirt and tie at various ages. But there’s one that catches your eye - tucked behind a larger frame. It rests behind the dusty glass off center, at an angle, edges worn. 

  A much younger Steve faces the camera, one eye squinted shut, holding up an ice cream cone proudly, with chocolate smeared across his lips and cheeks. And then you see the building behind him, the little girl leaving the frame, the back of her hand just visible - showing off a painted and sparkly tiger that matched her green nail polish. 

  You don’t like him. 

  “Hey,” he calls from the hallway, pulling you away from spiraling thoughts. Steve stands in the doorway, holding clothes in his arms, his eyes look at the picture, then back at you. He nods his head towards the door behind him and swallows, “It’s getting pretty dark and spooky out there, think we should get down to the basement?”

  Without the thoughts of a hot summer night and a cute boy who offered to share his ice cream with you, and that same boy who ruined everything that same night clouding your vision, you now see the sky has gone almost black, the pool water calm and undisturbed. 

  You can’t look away, wanting to sit and watch the storm continue to roll in, to see what it destroys. Like an accident, you can’t help it. Thunder rumbles, lightening flashes, and Steve says your name softly, pleading, and it snaps you out of it. 

  His arms that hold the clothes flex, blue cotton tightening on his shoulders as they hunch when the crack of the thunder makes you jump and him clear his throat. 

  He opens a door opposite the room, flicking on the light before turning to make sure you’re following him. Once you close the door behind you, you continue down the creaky stairs, until Steve stops abruptly and spins, his face level with your chest as he looks up at you with a winced, “Before you yell at me, there’s something you should know.”

  “What,” you laugh, shifting awkwardly on the dimly lit staircase, “The thunderstorm isn’t real, all lab created and fake movie effects done by the little twerps that follow you around because you promised them free rides for life if you helped seal this bet’s fate?”

  Steve groans, hanging his head backwards before he faces you again with a smile. “Shit. Why did I not think of that?”

  “Because you’re an idiot,” you whisper, ignoring the way your hand itches to touch the three freckles that crinkle next to his eye when he smiles. 

  “Right,” Steve nods, “As we established during fake-tits-gate. But no,” he laughs, turning back around, “I have a bunch of stolen rentals down here that Keith and you have been asking about for like two months.”

  You don’t know if you want to smack him for saying the word tits, or laugh and sort of turn into a gooey puddle because of it, or yell at him for the clear work violation. 

  So you settle on none of it, only admitting a small sigh and then mumbling, “What am I gonna do with you?”

  “Fuck me? Sure would help me out with this whole bet thing.” He spins with a grin and you narrow your eyes. But he persists, raising a right hand, “I swear, it’ll be great for you. I’ll do all the work. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a boy scout,” you accuse, ignoring the way your heartbeat seems to sound a little louder down here. How it’s definitely colder and that’s why your nipples are hard again. 

  Steve hums, dropping the pile of clothes on a worn coffee table. His fingers flip through the stack, glancing up at you as he asks, “Oh? And how do you know? Keeping tabs on me, babe?”

  When you don’t respond, he looks up again, finding you frowning with shoulders hunched. 

  “Shit,” he whispers, “I was doing so good too. You really don’t like me calling you that, huh?”

  You roll your eyes, blinking profusely as you busy yourself with setting the snacks and beer on the coffee table. He almost misses it when you murmur, “It’s just cause he called me that. Before…Brendan…” 

  Not caring to finish the sentence attached to the memories swirling around inside your head, you move towards the opposite wall where a small box TV and stack of tapes sit. “So, what terrible taste in movies do I have to endure?”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s fine, Harrington, real-“

  He says your name, interrupting you and when you look up at him, he knows this is his chance to say what he should have said a long time ago.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Steve says the words with so much sincerity, a wrinkle between his brows making something inside your stomach tug, like your body has a visceral reaction of needing to go over and smooth it away. He stands across the room from you, next to a ratty brown couch, holding sweats, dripping water as he shakes his head, looking the most genuine he ever has. 

  “I’ll never call you that again, I promise.”

  This time, you’re absolutely sure you are on fire. Warmth flows from the top of your head down to your socks and all you can do is mumble a measly, “Okay.”

  It feels like an entire hour and no time at all passes while you stare at each other, opposite sides of the room, but for once, there’s a common ground between you, an unspoken wave of flags, a line drawn in the sand being kicked and smoothed out. Neither of you knowing what’s supposed to come next. 

  So naturally, Steve ruins the moment. 

  “So, like,” he blows out his breath, tilting his head, “Honey, baby, sweetie okay? I just wanna make sure. You know, for when we’re having sex.”

  His smile tells you that he’s kidding, he’s making a joke to lighten whatever mood you’ve both trapped yourselves in. So you avoid his gaze and push a tape into the player, not even reading the name as you wave a dismissive hand. “Go change already, you smell like a wet dog.”

  Steve backs away, towards a small bathroom and hums, “Seems like you’re just trying to get me out of my clothes faster.” He nods towards the coffee table as you approach it, “Oh, and I did bring some clothes down for you too, if you want them. I know you said you weren’t cold but…”

He flips the light on in the bathroom, facing you, the glow behind him creating a halo on top of his caramel highlights as he grins in a way that’s the opposite of angelic. 

  “Your boobs have been telling a very different story.”

  The throw pillow you chuck at the door with a scoff misses him, smacking the wood that manages to close just in time, not doing much to hide his pleased laughter. 

  “I hate you!” you call out, arms crossing over your chest as you look at the clothes. 

  “Really?” he calls, “Cause your boobs have been-“

  “No! No more! Or I steal your car and drive home!” you can’t help but laugh around the threat, so you know he knows you’re not serious, but he remains quiet. 

  Despite it being easy for you to become irritated with him, you’d much rather this Steve than the quiet or nervous Steve. Or now, sincere, Steve, who you have no idea how to act around. This is all normal territory, the water you both know how to tread. This is able to be navigated. 

  Or so you thought. 

  You hate to give him the satisfaction of being right, but you are cold. So you grumble to yourself about taking your clothes off in Steve Harrington’s basement. Your jeans stick to your legs as you kick them off, making a pile with your white shirt. A laugh huffs out of your nose as you slip on plaid pajama bottoms, wondering how to make some sort of joke about them, when you’re halfway through pulling a sweatshirt on.  Your arms and head pause inside the gray material, and you inhale. 

  Your knees are replaced with jello. 

  You’re in the woods, mint toothpaste, cotton laundry, and something so undeniably Steve Harrington, you can’t help but take another large inhale. 

  In your scent frenzy that’s not unlike a cat with catnip, you don’t hear the bathroom door open or Steve’s sharp breath in. 

  He swallows, seeing you standing in his clothes, arms raised and halfway through his sweatshirt, your bare lower back, pink lace band of your bra shown off. 

  His knees are replaced with jello. 

  Steve clears his throat, and you quickly pull the sweatshirt down, neither of you admitting your moment of indulgence, and neither of you daring to ask if the other caught it. 

  You sit next to each other on the couch, Steve hands you a beer, and neither of you speak.  All you can think about is how to actively stop yourself from ducking your nose into the collar of the sweatshirt and taking another large inhale, and all he can think of is a curious thought that tugs and tugs and begs to know if your underwear matches your bra. 

  It isn’t until the lights flicker, and thunder growls that either of you moves or says anything. 

  Steve flinches, wiping a palm on his thigh that sits too close to yours and you go for a joke, trying to return once more to already mapped out communication points. 

  “I had no idea the king of Hawkins was afraid of a little rain.”

  When you pop open the beer and Steve only grimaces, flinching again when thunder claps overhead, you’re brought back to another night, sitting next to the same boy, with the roles reversed. 

  Sweaty fingers had smudged your tiger, but it was worth it, to have someone to hold while your heart rate returned to normal. So you look at Steve now, who’s eyes watch the TV screen but aren’t really seeing it, who’s shoulders tense, who’s been far quieter and genuine tonight than you’d yet to see from him ever, and make a decision. 

  “Wanna squeeze my hand till it’s over?” 

  Steve exhales, lacing his fingers with yours as he laughs nervously, “Jesus christ, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Sorry,” you murmur, adjusting your arm against his and shifting into the couch deeper, ignoring the way his thumb swipes once over yours and what it does to your stomach. “Thought you were nervous because of me. You know,” you laugh, taking a sip of your beer before continuing, “Seeing nipples for the first time is a lot for a guy. You did good.”

  “Ha-ha,” he says dryly, squeezing your hand on the next rumble. “Seriously, don’t tell anyone?”

  “That you haven’t seen a woman’s nipples before? Because I will absolutely be telling anyone who will listen.”

  Steve doesn’t say anything, just turns his head, cheek resting against the scratchy brown couch, taking in your smiling profile. 

  You don’t dare to look at him as you sigh, squeezing his hand back. 

  “Secret’s safe with me, Harrington.”

  You don’t like him. 

Tag List - thank you for your continued support and patience! 💛

@ash5monster01 @madaboutjoe @foreverinwanderlust @the-fairy-anon @scarletwitchgf

@curlsincriminology @siriuslysmoking @redbarn1995 @starry--sarah @starksbabie

@taccobelle @angst-lasagna @blckburd @crownofdecit @torntaltos

@sanniegirl1214 @yourmommilf

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König Getting Tipsy

tw alcohol use

König is a big drinker, as is only natural for a big man. He'll usually have a lager in the afternoons when watching the news, and on weekends he'll have a beer with his lunch. He feels uncomfortable if he doesn't have a glass of wine to pair with his dinner. It's not to the point that it's out of hand by any means, but he does like to drink in his free time. If you're uncomfortable, he'll stop drinking in the home, but he will choose to drink when he goes out.

It takes a lot to make him start to slur his words. He mostly sticks to his beloved beers and ciders, but he's not one to turn down a shot of rum if he's offered one. He prefers drinking neat, complaining that mixed drinks ruin the flavour. He's a bit of a drink snob. Horangi will sniff and tell you that König doesn't know how to have fun, and Roze will tell you that König is just rather particular about who's mixing his drinks. Apparently, Horangi has been banned. König's a hardy man, but after one sip of what Horangi was slinging, he had thrown up in a water fountain. König is deeply ashamed by this incident.

When he does go out to drink, he just gets a bit more assertive. He already is so quietly self-assured, but now he's saying it in a voice that carries a bit too easily over the room.

König is a surprisingly pleasant drunk though, all things considered. He doesn't make messes, he mostly stays in one place and keeps his hands to himself (or on his phone as he plays Tetris. He's scarily good at playing Tetris, especially when drunk). He will compliment you if he thinks you've earned it, or tear you to shreds if he thinks it's in your best interest to hear it.

He's vocal about his opinions in a way he'd never be when he's sober. He'll tell you exactly what he thinks about you. He told Roze that she bitches about the MREs too much and she needs to take more laxatives, and he told Horangi that all his tiger motifs were corny and he needed to get a new bit. All the awful truths come pouring out of him in an unstoppable torrent.

Fundamentally, König just loosens up enough to say all the things he thinks but is too scared to say. He's confident in himself, and if you get him talking about himself he'll go on about how successful and wonderful he is. He's not wrong about anything he's saying, but it's a major surprise to see him talk so openly about being proud of himself. He's always been a bit cocky, but his pride shines when his tongue is loosened.

Things change when he looks at you.

He turns to you after having had a sixth shot at the bar and his face falls slack. You brace yourself, but no barrage of brutality comes forth. Instead, his voice softens and he clasps his big hands around your face.

"I have found happiness at last," he tells you as he presses his lips to your forehead.

He slumps over onto you like a sack of flour. He presses you close in a bone-crushing hug that never seems to end. The entire time, he's thanking you over and over again. For what? Only König really knows.

All the other KorTac agents are green with envy when they watch how König turns into a puddle of love for you. He showers you in compliments and thanks for things you'd long since forgotten about. He is so incredibly sweet when he's like this.

When he's sober, he's more reserved with his affections. He'll hold you close in private, but he doesn't speak all too often. His love language is mostly through touch and gifting. When he's drunk, all the words that pile up in his head come tumbling out.

Sometimes, going out with König can be nice.

[carbonmonoxide-detector]

I'm gonna need something heavy to drink for this presidential debate tonight. The nausea is already rising

[bamsara]

Doodles for the Drunken Gods chapter in TROD

'sorry about accidentally reviving some memories and causing you to have a bit of a mental breakdown. do you wanna eat some pomegrante about it?'

[sugurouge]

— i sin too much to pray for you : togame jo x f!reader

alternatively: you asked for my heart, but i didn't know where to start

summary: on another lonely saturday night, an unexpected visitor shows up at your doorstep. amidst alcohol and regret, unresolved feelings cause for a turbulent mix of passion and heartbreak. facing the ghosts of a relationship that never fully ended

wordcount: 2.6k

content warnings! angst, smut, heartbreak, toxic relationship, praise, petnames, mentions of alcohol

a/n: never thought i would return to writing angsty filth. i also never thought i'd write it for togame, but i loved every minute of it. the weeknd's nothing compares played on repeat

Saturday. Saturdays are always such a drag. An entire day all to yourself, with barely anything to do. You already finished your assignments and chores during your loathsome Friday night. There’s hardly anyone texting or inviting you out, so what’s the point in having a day off without anything or anyone to keep you company.

You exhale a deep breath as you stare at the ceiling, the projector casting a movie to keep you occupied, while the cocktails in your bloodstream taint your vision and mind.

Reaching out to your phone, you see a message on the screen. It’s the same guy as always. He’s nice, sweet, and caring, but just… just not him.

“Hey, what are you up to tonight?” is the question blinding your eyes from the brightness of the screen. It elicits a hum from your lips as your brows furrow. What exactly are you up to?

“just watching a movie. you?” Sounds good enough to you.

Another message pops up shortly after, causing the ends of your lips to curl into a small smile. “Can I come over?” At least your night might be a bit more exciting.

It doesn’t take long before you hear the doorbell ring, indicating that your expected visitor has arrived.

You get up and fix your loose shirt, barely caring about the tease you are as your shape pushes against the fabric. Not like you'd let that bore in for anything other than a quick distraction. Your feet carry you over to the door, and you actually feel a sick sort of excitement. At least you’ll feel something again and a little bit of warmth will spread through your stoic body. 

Yet, you’re met with those charming, intensely green eyes. It’s almost like it used to be.

Togame looks up as soon as he hears the door unlock. One arm keeps him leaning against the frame while his eyes greet yours immediately. He’s confident in his memory of your height. If he knows one thing, it’s your body after all.

He’s clearly as intoxicated as you are; it shows in the way he holds eye contact instead of fleeing to his smartphone. It’s the soft smile teasing his lips and his undivided attention all directed towards you.

Yet the silence between the two of you is exactly like it used to be.

Your fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, fiddling with the loose fabric as you press your soft lips into a line, your shy gaze never leaving his curious eyes.

Jo exhales a deep breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he steps over the threshold of your apartment. Deft fingers carefully glide over your arms, along your neck, before he tilts your chin up to look at him once more.

He always holds your face a little stronger than necessary, squishing your cheeks to give you the most adorable pout while he leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against yours.

It’s a teasing game of catch, the way he breathes against your lips without closing the distance between entirely. Togame leaves a ghost of a kiss on the corner of your mouth and feels your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

It rewards you with a lazy smirk.

𓍯𓂃

The two of you broke up a little while ago. At some point, it just stopped working out. Old, domestic habits became a bother, rituals were abandoned, and conversations left unspoken. Something simply fell apart without further explanation why. Your friends assured you that, with time, things would be fine. Your heart would feel lighter again, and your smile would be brighter than it used to be during your relationship.

But somehow you never made it to that stage. And neither did Togame.

The emptiness inside your bodies left you growing bitter and petty. Both of you went as far as refusing to acknowledge your ex-partner if you ever met on the streets, fixing your gaze on the asphalt instead of at least greeting one another. You both forced yourself to move on to flirting with new people, going on dates—pretending to be perfectly fine. Yet sadly you could never fool yourselves.

Not when you continued to moan his name whenever another guy brought you to your orgasm. Or when Togame refused to acknowledge the girl he was balls-deep inside, instead opting to hide his face in the curve of her neck, a scowl plastered on his features and eyes squeezed shut as he imagined it to be you.

Then, how did you end up here? 

𓍯𓂃

One lonely night you called him, alcohol-confidence bringing out that little fighter in you. Apparently, your intoxicated self knew better as you slurred words of hatred towards Jo. How tired you were of his behaviour, how childish he was treating the girl he pretended to love, how he failed you. The rant was nearly endless, he listened to it all while hurried steps brought him over to your apartment. Only the repetitive knocking on your door and his order to open forced you to stop.

And once he was finally standing in front of you, there was no fire left inside your body. Instead, water took over, tears you held back for weeks running free once he embraced you. Hugs turned into kisses, and kisses turned into demanding touches. Clothes were ripped off along the way to your bedroom, marks of his love painted on your skin. It became a habit. A toxic habit to call his name like he was still yours, but resume to ignoring each other in broad daylight.

𓍯𓂃

Tired of his teasing, you stand on your toes, your eyes staring into his challenging gaze before your lips finally meet his.

Togame kisses you like a man starved, hovering above you like he wants to squish you, his own chest pressed against yours as if he didn’t tease you before. He knows his way around the apartment, knows how to guide your body while continuing to push his tongue between your lips. Past the hallway and your roomie’s door, the living room, until you finally arrive at your own little haven.

You’re pushed against the closed door, a warm hand resting on the back of your neck while the other teases your outer thigh, effectively stealing a soft whimper between your shared kisses. Your smaller hands clutch onto his broad shoulders, desperate to keep him as close as possible. Togame withdraws his touch as he feels your need increase and immediately twists the door knob, causing your bodies to almost tumble inside your room.

He’s swift to rid himself of his shirt, jacket long abandoned in the hallway, to bless your hungry eyes with his broad built. Don’t stare at him too long or you’ll drool. 

At this point it becomes muscle memory: The moment Togame approaches you, your arms wrap around his neck like they always did as he picks you up to carry you over to your bed. He lays you down right next to the plushie he got you—the stupid bunny he won for you during a summer festival.

His lips attach to your neck, leaving trails along your throat and collarbone before he tugs off your shirt and exposes your full figure to his advances. It’s his favourite body in the entire world—only covered by panties now. Those awfully cute pink panties. He bites his inner cheek as he hungrily eyes your curves, a different warmth now heating up your figure as big hands roam delicately along your body. Following the shape of your chest, rib cage, and waist, and digging into your hips to pull you closer to his growing erection.

The feeling of your body against his makes his breath hitch slightly, yet he never stops planting wet kisses along your breasts. His moans are drowned by your soft skin before his hot tongue plays with your nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive area until you become a mess of whimpers, nimble fingers tugging at his roots like you always did when he gave you too much.

Togame’s kisses lead further down, one love mark after another running from your collarbone down to your sternum. You arch against him, your hips gently moving to feel his growing cock, cheekily applying further pressure on your pulsing slit until you can’t keep up with this teasing any longer. “Jo, please no more teasing, I need you in me,” you whimper beautifully against his dark hair.

You were always the one to say what was going on in his mind whenever he struggled to voice his thoughts. Just like now. How could he not oblige.

Togame refocuses his attention to your face, breathing you in with an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue easily winning dominance over yours while your nails run over his back, tickling his sides and exploring his abdomen to finally unbutton his trousers.

Yet you can’t shrug off the feeling of the unusual atmosphere that night. Togame doesn’t let you push him back, doesn’t let you take control but opts to undress you and him entirely. The familiar, playful game your intimacy once was is completely replaced by providing you with pure bliss.

Deep thrusts inside your fluttering walls reward Togame with praises to his name, your hands resting on his back with your delicate fingers digging crescent shapes into his muscles as he continues to pound into you without ever breaking eye contact. Your bodies have rarely been so much in sync as they are in this very moment. It’s frightening how he leans into your touches, how your moans complete each other’s shaky exhale and his eyes fill with a pained expression.

Togame’s brows furrow deeply as he dips down and lays his lips atop yours, swallowing the waves of your orgasm as he paints your walls white and grips tightly onto your bedsheets.

Nothing compares to the emptiness you both share.

He holds your body close, arms wrapped around your exhausted figure tightly as he whispers sweet nothings into the crown of your hair. The sounds of your soft breathing turn his heart mellow. His teeth bite into the inside of his lips, dragging along the flesh and digging deep as he refuses to accept he is about to cry. He guards your sleeping figure, soaks in the affection you show him while dreaming about sweeter things. Your calm expression makes you almost appear angelic, and how cute you are once you nuzzle closer against his body as he teases you with a cool blow of air.

Only a kiss to your forehead takes the soft smile off his lips a moment before he unwillingly exits your apartment. Attempting to finally make you let go of him, to have you move on and to move on himself as the unsettling feeling of the dead ‘us’ spreads inside his body.

Leaving you to wake up alone again. His cologne still lingers on your bed sheets, causing your half-asleep body to further hide beneath your pillows and blankets—drowning your sorrows and thoughts in the final remains of his comfort as you try to drift off to sleep like you did so many mornings when you let him back in.

𓍯𓂃

Your meetups ended after that night. Neither of you contacted the other person again. Your chat got pushed down by conversations with other people, and you never touched a drink ever again. Instead, you faced your dull life, going from your daily obligations to the library, a café or bookstore until you eventually bumped into one guy one too many times, you couldn’t help but accept his advances.

Which brings you to sharing a piece of cake with him in your favourite café. The hot tea warmths you with its deep aroma while you finally enjoy the way this new promise of love enriches your life.

Until the little bell of the doorway chimes. It tears your attention away from the man in front over to the tall guy entering the shop. His eyes meet yours in an instant, as if he is searching for you. Well, Togame is always looking for you wherever he goes, but doesn’t really expect to find you.

Yet here you are, in all your glory, sharing a table with that literature guy he saw around the streets more often than he likes to admit. It’s a macabre joke how fate only allows him to meet you once you’re on a date. Togame curses the universe as he tries to appear nonchalant, approaching the counter to order himself a hot tea to fight the cold autumn winds.

The repetitive chants of his inner voice try to remind him of his motives for coming to the café, grab a drink, head back out. Yet they are drowned by the view of your hand coming up to rest on another man’s arm. He can almost hear your sweet laugh ringing through his ears as his lips press into a thin line. But this is what he wanted.

Yes, he brought so much struggle into your life, he can’t allow himself to be jealous. Not now. He hurt you more often than he made you happy. And by now he can admit that you stopped being his priority. But gods, does it hurt to see you with someone else.

The voice of the barista falls on deaf ears. Togame struggles to breathe calmly as the air gets stuck in his constricting throat. He’s suffocating on his feelings, his eyes burning in their sockets. The repressed emotions he held inside threaten to spill in public, in front of twenty other people in the café—in front of you and your date.

“Excuse me!” The stern voice of the barista jolts his attention forward.

He mumbles apologies and hurriedly places the money on the counter, grabbing his order and fleeing out of the shop. His signature glasses a desperate measure to hide his faltering facade, eyes locked on the grey asphalt of the cold streets.

Moving on was exactly what he wished for you, wasn’t it? That’s why he said goodbye to you in the most comforting way he could come up with. He’s not the guy destined to make you happy. Not the best version of a human to pretend to have a claim on you. But it’s the mellow ring of his name falling from the lips he misses most that causes the tears to spill from his eyes.

When has Togame ever shown emotions like this? Crying like a little kid? Laughing from the top of his lungs? Yeah, that’s not really his style. It catches him off guard, making him feel pathetic, lost, and overwhelmed.

Nobody cares like you do. The expression you’re met with as soon as you catch up to him mirrors the pain inside your heart. Your face softens as you see the tears roll down his cheeks, his alluring eyes glazed with a layer of pain.

“Jo…” you whisper, afraid your own voice might fail you if you were to raise it.

You stand on your toes—like you always have when he struggled to close the distance between your bodies. Your arms snake around his neck to draw him further in and allow yourself to hide in the familiar shape of his neck. The rapid speed of his heart pulses against yours while he tries, again and again, to swallow the lump in his throat before his arms engulf you tightly, surrendering himself to you and his emotions as his fingers dig into your coat.

Togame decides at that very moment that he won’t ever let go of you again.

Until your little voice tears his heart right out of his chest. “I’m sorry, Jo, but… I’ve got to let you go. I just wanted to say thank you—” Your sniffs force you to stop talking for a moment, and he wishes he heard wrong. “Thank you for trying to love me.” This is your last farewell to the first man in your life.

A soft peck on his cheek seals his fate before he watches your retreating figure walk off with another man.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[stay-pos-cos]

I think that the Supernatural fandom doesn't give Dean Winchester enough credit or hold John Winchester accountable nearly enough. I would argue that John's abuse (mental, emotional and physical) and its constant effect in both boys lives is constantly downplayed by a majority of the fanbase.

The parentification of an elder sibling has been proven to cause lasting issues and we see this throughout the show; when Dean is overly protective of Sam, treats Sam's life as more valuable than his own, can't picture a life where he's not needed, and his dismissal of Sam as a valuable contributor in an equal partnership. Dean is often criticized both in canon and by fans for being overbearing and codependent on Sam. This is a direct result of John Winchester's inability to parent.

Dean's emotional repression is shown to be caused by his father's militant behaviors and approach to parenting. Dean doesn't see his feelings as valid or important and thus turns to repression or unhealthy coping mechanisms as illustrated throughout the show. His alcoholism, violent outbursts, and unhealthy relationship with sex are all coping mechanisms he uses not to feel.

Through flashbacks (and some dialog) the viewer is show that Sam is more resentful towards John than Dean, and that he even holds resentment towards Dean for being the "perfect little soldier".

That's part of the reason Castiel is such a great foil for Dean, both are loyal to absent fathers' but while Dean was born with free will he follows his father's orders unwaveringly until sometime after his death, Cass a being created without free will breaks free of the command of his father and from his father's mission, becoming for all intents and purposes a Prodigal son like Sam.

Dean's adherence to his father's word is, much like Sam's rebellion a response to continued and repeated abuse, neither brother is perfect. And their father was the furthest thing from it.

[xianyoon]

@ the bar alhaitham x gn!reader. mdni with this post. no explicit sex but suggestive themes.

thinking of . . . modern!au alhaitham who brings you to the rooftop bar, straight in the heart of the city, after work.

imagine the indirect kisses shared over sneaky tastes of each other's drinks and lipstick stains on his glass of negroni – you can certainly feel him placing his broad hand on your thigh as he scopes out the other people in the room. it's a subtle acknowledgement that he's there not only as your companion, but as your guardian too.

think of the kisses that happen as you both lean over the railing, gazing down at the hustle and bustle of the city's nightlife happening on the ground. people start looking like ants ; nothing quite makes you feel as powerful as casting your gaze upon the city below.

you can see how alhaitham changes after a few drinks. he looks dazed – to most, he's the same alhaitham as ever – but he looks slightly off to you. drunk, tipsy, a reddened blush dusting his cheeks as he fans himself, lest he gets too hungry for a certain someone sitting across from him. calm him down, sweetheart ; you're the only ice pack that works. perch yourself sweetly on his lap and lean against his chest, and he'd hold you a little tighter in return.

alhaitham's tie soon comes off, pulled and stretched between his hands as he tenderly wraps it around his bandaged fists, putting it back in his work bag for laundry when he got home. his shirt's topmost button seems to find its way out of its hole – leaving a peek, a glimpse of his chest out for you. place a gentle hand on his chest, drag your finger down the middle lovingly, send a message to others that he's yours.

he stares down anyone else who tries to sneak a glimpse of you at your table. at first glance, alhaitham seems cold – calculative, unchanging – until he brings you into his embrace holding the back of your neck, pressing kisses all over and waiting for yours to make its mark on his cheek – marking him as yours. and you as his.

[chaoticretwtau]