#ignore joe and rob

[zubin-staresat-yourfave]

Can u make him staring at the muscular system? Like those creepy diagrams 😭

Zubin Sedghi is staring at the Muscular System

[electricalcheese]

i drew joe with the bromine brush at first and then decided "hey why not do the other members too!"

all of them put together under the cut

(boooo i had to made joe's 1837 x 2000 why did i add those extra pixels he doesn't fit perfectly) (my canvas size is usally 1837 x 1837)

[amazinglystrange]

what even are these (tally hall x shorts wars? i guess?)

or: i redrew t.h.i.s. as shorts wars and vice versa

“it was danno’s dying wish.”

and

“ross, as a professional lawyer, i suggest you hide the evidence!”

is there even any crossover for these fandoms. oh well.

[swordbird7]

Y’ALL!! Please reblog or share this link so we can get this to 10,000 votes. Send it your friends! Send it to your mom, I don’t really care. This set is not a want for me, it’s a NEED.

[lakevalorr]

Hello, hello, people of Tumblr. Remember when I made that one post with my Pokémon x Tally Hall artwork? Well, I have something even newer (and even cringier) then ever before! I present to you all:

Super Cat Tallies!!

I am very aware that I am mega cringe, but I don't care, lmao. This was really fun (even if very exhausting) to do. Their abilities will be explained in detail under the cut (they'd all have the ability to hit enemies, save for spiked ones, and they're in order of when you'd recieve them in-game.)

Rob: Standard Beginner SCT Ability (Climbing up Walls up to eight blocks high), climbs faster than other cats + better grip on walls

Zubin: The ability to swim through stronger currents and swim faster than other cats

Joe: Able to hit enemies in the air in order to gain a double jump, jumps further and has more control in air when jumping or falling

Andrew: The ability to bust through 2x2 stone walls

Ross: The ability to squeeze through tight spaces to reach secret areas, faster than other cats

Bora: The ability to bust through 2×2 walls, bamboo barriers, and larger stones by bumping into them twice, more stamina

Casey: The ability to walk and climb on ice without slipping, better gripping support

Ryan: (Possibly?) The ability to skip through levels or get to secret areas via hopping into mailboxes (like a teleportation thing)

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[chelseeebe]

happy coincidences

18+. smut. mdni. modern au.

day four of spooky week back with steve who meets reader at robin’s halloween party, only, you may have more than just costumes in common

a/n: in honour of joe saying he thinks that modern steve would have a swiftie girlfriend.. i had to make r a swiftie

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Louise had called it off. 

Again. 

“I think you just need to get the fuck over it and get the fuck over someone else,” Robin states plainly, continuing to decorate her scarily bright orange pumpkin cookies. 

“Rob,” he sighs, dipping his finger into the leftover batter, “it doesn’t work like that.” 

“But it does,” ignoring his pleas of despair, “I’ve seen you break up with hundreds of women and not once have you been so pathetic about it,” snatching the bowl from his reach, “we’re going to get you laid and if you’re still sad about it after then I’ll take pity on you.” 

Steve frowns, a deep set crease between his thick brows. Sex would’ve normally cheered him up, no doubt. But Louise was different. 

They’d been on-again, off-again for almost a year now, too far gone for some meaningless pussy to fix. 

-

“No fucking way,” Robin exclaims, grabbing his hand and tugging him off towards the other side of the kitchen, “this is perfect! Perfect!” muttering along to herself as Steve's heels dig into the floor in protest. 

“What’re you doing?” he spits, almost knocking her over when she stops abruptly in front of him.

A group of girls sit equally as confused on the couch, smiling up at Robin with a shared baffled look in their eye. 

That’s when he sees the hat, pink and sparkly, slowly trailing down to the matching costume. So that’s why she’d dragged him over here. You were unintentionally matching with him. The perfect Barbie and Ken duo, a fitting part in Robin’s master plan to get him over Louise. 

“Can you believe you’re matching?” she fusses, fingering the details of your jean jacket, “I don’t think you two have met before? How crazy is that?” pinching Steve's arm, nudging him to say something.. anything really. 

You hum, smiling up at him from underneath the brim of your cowboy hat, “you look great,” eyeing the tassels around his pecks, the vest that now felt a touch too much. 

He felt stupid before but now, he felt utterly idiotic. Realising quite how extravagant and completely unnecessary the costume was. 

“Thanks,” he nods, receiving another sharp pinch from his best friend, forcing him to cough up a real reply, “yeah.. you do too.”

Your eyes fall back to Robin as she backs slowly away, “I’ll let you two get to know each other, okay? i’ve gotta check on my.. cookies! Yeah! My cookies!” 

A bare-faced lie. Those fucking cookies had been out of the over for hours at this point. Steve had taxed a few for the inconvenience of her pestering him all night. 

You flash him a thin-lipped smile, clearly as interested in this as he was. “Your girlfriend make you dress up as Ken, huh?” your own friends shuffling to the other side of the couch, away from the awkward conversation. 

“Oh! No.. no, Rob made me,” unsure of whether you were implying the massive lesbian that had forced him over here was his girlfriend or if there was another lady in his life. 

Neither would be true.  

Robin hollers from across the room, “he’s a liar! He wanted to be Ken all on his own!” before disappearing into the kitchen to check on her cookies. 

Your smile grows, “hey.. I don’t judge,” taking a slow sip from your glass, totally undeserving of having Robin force Steve onto your night. 

God he needs a drink. Or five. 

Maybe after a couple beers he’d have the confidence to talk to you properly. 

“I really liked the movie, okay? it was fun,” deciding to lean into it, slowly but surely. “And you know, Barbie’s hot.” 

Oh. 

He doesn’t just mean Margot Robbie either. 

Your cleavage spills out of your shirt, only really visible from this angle he was leering from. 

“She is,” you laugh, “I’m sorry- what was your name again?”

“Steve,” offering his hand for you to shake. Why did he do that? You aren’t agreeing on a new marketing strategy for fuck sake. 

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” rabbiting your name as if his brain would do anything other than call you Barbie all night. “You look like you need a drink.” 

He nods, chuckling under his breath, “I do.” 

“Well,” you stand, unexpectedly a lot closer than probably intended, “let’s get you a drink, Steve.” 

-

The party thumps on, you and Steve still reluctantly circle around one another, both too awkward or maybe just unwilling to take it further. 

Robin makes it known that Steve would be a colossal fucking idiot for not immediately trying to win you over, making it very obvious as she sidles up next to him at the makeshift beer-pong table. 

“What is your problem?” she hisses, shoving a cup of liquid courage into his chest, “make a move before someone else does, idiot.”

“I dunno,” exhaling pathetically, “I just don’t think I’m ready yet,” eyeing you from across the table, too engrossed in the game of beer-pong to care about his whining. 

Robin’s sharp elbow connects with his ribcage, “don’t be so fucking stupid,” snarling loud enough for him to hear over the music, “I think you should go for it. God knows I’m sick of hearing you cry over Louise.” 

He truly wants to be offended, even opening his mouth to offer a rebuttal, though nothing comes out. 

Regrettably, Robin was right. 

Louise had made it clear that she no longer wanted him, so why was he still so hung up over her? It was exhausting. Not only for Robin, but him too. 

The ping pong ball lands in Steve’s drink with a loud plunk, pulling him out of his head to find you already smiling back at him. 

“I think that means I win,” rocking on your heels, a syrupy sweet smile sticks to your lips. You deserved far better than the lacklustre night he was giving you, that’s for sure. 

Steve nods, downing the rest of his drink and attempting to hide his grimace as the liquid burns his throat. Robin had slipped him pure ethanol or something, her grin made her ill intentions very clear. 

You continue to beat his ass for a while, Steve was better at basketball than beer-pong that’s for certain. He didn’t care anyway, the new-found haze in his head was welcomed, sidling closer and closer to your side as his chest warms up. 

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” he whispers, lips practically touching your ear, this was the bravest he’d gotten all night, perhaps he wasn’t such a lost cause after all. 

He stumbles into the bathroom, finding his balance against the cold wall when his phone buzzes against his thigh. 

what r u doing tonight? 

The message reads, sending a sinking feeling through his chest. 

Louise, making sure than even though they’re not together anymore, he can’t move on. 

Why does she even care? 

Why does he care enough to respond? 

He stews on it, using the bathroom to buy himself some time to figure out what he should do. Slinking off into the hallway after a moment of consideration, finger hovering over the call button for an embarrassingly long amount of time until he just does it. 

It rings. And rings. And rings. 

“Hello?” Louise’s voice echoes into his ear. 

“Hey.” 

There’s an empty sigh down the line, “I didn’t mean.. that text wasn’t meant for you.” 

“Oh.” 

Another dagger to his chest, piercing through his thumping heart. The confirmation he needed that not only did she not care about him but that she had moved on. 

“Steve I’m-“ 

The tone beeps, not allowing her to take up any more of his time. She didn’t care, he shouldn’t care. That was the end of it.

He slinks down onto the stairs, eyeing the door. He could be out of here before you even remembered he existed, sulking in his room like he’d wanted to in the first place. 

The music gets louder, light creeping in as the door creaks open, your face soft as your eyes meet his hunched over frame, like a pathetic little weasel. 

“I thought I should find my Ken again,” chuckling awkwardly. 

Your Ken? That was a little presumptuous of you. 

He’s immediately sorry. 

Soured by the conversation with Louise. An unnecessary hindrance to his entire night. 

“You okay?” you pry, no doubt noticing his glum demeanour, coming to sit on the cramped step next to him.

Steve sighs, looking at the blank phone screen in front of him, deciding whether to impede all of his misery onto you or to not ruin this entire night. 

Remembering Robin’s, albeit harsh, words. 

He goes for the latter. 

“Yeah.. I’m good,” knee knocking into yours, “are you?” 

You nod, smiling softly, “I’m gonna head home now, I just wanted to let you know that it was really nice to meet you, Steve,” standing from the staircase, leaving a sudden, cold ache to his side, “I hope your.. girl problems get better soon.”

they would, almost immediately, get better if he just stopped acting like a pussy. 

You weren’t exactly being inconspicuous with your flirting either. This was on him and him alone. 

He’s not shocked Robin had divulged to you all about his lingering annoyance of a relationship, no doubt trying to sell him to you at the same time too. 

So Steve does something he never does. He thinks on his feet. 

“Let me walk you back,” jumping up, “it’s dark and i can’t let you walk home alone,” a contained smile, the previously empty confidence now coming back.

You pucker your lips, tilting your head to the side, all the while Steve prays to God that you’ll give him one last chance. 

“Sure,” shrugging coyly, as if you weren’t banking on him volunteering anyway. 

“Alright,” he grins, enthusiastically nodding his head, “I’ll just say goodbye to Rob and then we can.. go,” faltering now that he’d made the leap into uncharted territory. 

Steve had been a master at one night stands, only that was two years ago and Louise had served a harsh knock to his confidence. Besides all that, you were worth more than just one night. 

“I’m gonna walk this one home and then head home myself,” announcing your departure to the dwindling room, heads spinning to watch the door. 

Robin contains her grin, only just. Sipping on her drink to keep her blathering mouth occupied, she’d put in the work to even get him here in the first place, now all he needed to do was not fuck it up. 

A chorus of goodbyes ring out behind you, stepping into the cool October air, he suddenly wishes he was wearing a little more than just his rhinestone shirt. 

“This one?” you tease once out onto the street, wrapping 

your arms around yourself. 

Steve inhales, staring at the star filled sky, fully embracing his cringe, “don’t.. don’t talk about it.” 

“Why?” you laugh, stumbling into him as you traipse down the road, “you don’t remember my name, do you?” 

“Of course I do,” blowing the air out of his cheeks with full confidence, “your name… is Barbie,” so certain that that’d work on you. 

You scoff, stopping dead in your tracks, “you fucking forgot,” in complete disbelief that he’d even attempt to bullshit his answer, “you’re unbelievable Steve,” really making your point, only slightly pissed off. 

“Don’t do that,” unable to hold the smile from his face any longer, “I can’t help that you’re the best Barbie I’ve ever seen, you know?” 

Your eyes roll back, striding past him but not without reiterating your name again, perfectly clear and right into his ear. You’re not really annoyed, at least he doesn’t think so. Steve’s sure he’ll remember your name forever after tonight, one way or another. 

He expertly changes the conversation for the rest of the duration of the walk back, asking about your job and not-so-discreetly slipping your name into every other sentence. 

“Well, this is me,” you smile, stopping just before the house with the extravagantly decorated door, a plethora of pumpkins litter the steps all as badly carved as the other. 

He marvels at the display, the dedication to the holiday, Eddie would laugh in his face if he ever suggested carving pumpkins for their house. “Alright.. it was really nice to meet you tonight,” standing with his arms tucked neatly behind his back, “I’ve had a really nice time with you.” 

You nod, slowly ascending the steps to the door, “you too, Steve. Are you.. close to here or..?” weighing up whether inviting him inside was a sane idea. 

“Oh no,” shaking his head, once perfected hair now falling into his warm face, “I live like.. two miles that way,” pointing in the direction you’d walked from. 

“And you decided to walk me home? Why didn’t you say something?” falling into a fit of laughter. He didn’t blame you, really, it would be crazy to anyone else. 

“Because I’m a gentleman,” smiling sweetly, “it’s not a big deal,” he shrugs, though he really doesn’t anticipate having to actually walk home. 

“Well thanks a lot,” unsure of the sarcasm twinge to your tone, “I didn’t realise Ken was such a gentleman.” 

“Of course I am,” bowing down to tip his imaginary hat, a total performance all just to earn a sweet giggle from your mouth. 

You turn, just before opening the door, your eyes low and dark,  “you wouldn’t wanna.. come in, would you?” shivering under the moonlight. 

“Do you? Want me to come in, I mean,” Steve can’t really think straight at all, he’s been so preoccupied with Louise to even think about the possibility of anything more happening between you two. 

But now he’s here, he can’t stop his dick from twitching in his pants. You are pretty, gorgeous really. He’d be an idiot to say no. 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to,” scoffing quietly. 

“Well I wouldn’t want to upset you now,” cocking his grin to the side as he makes his way up the steps. 

You shake your head, unmoving when he reaches the top, your bodies inches apart. The tension thick, as it had been all night. only now he was able to really feel it. Had you been looking at him like this all night? With your features pinched and your chest heaving.

Steve doesn’t think so, but then, he was so oblivious that it wouldn’t surprise him at all. 

Excitement and slight intoxication courses through his veins, an excitement he hadn’t felt in months. Louise was never this happy or eager to have sex with him, it felt something like a chore most times. 

You spin, breaking the tension abruptly, unlocking the door to your dark house and ushering him inside. 

“You live alone?” he asks, wondering if any nosy roommates would be interfering tonight. 

“Nope,” flicking the light on, “they’re all still at the party,” it’s obvious now, in the light. Pairs of shoes strewn across the floor and pictures of grinning girls line the walls, his gaze is drawn to the one of you in the summer, beaming from ear to ear as the sun beats down on your face. 

Not to mention the cherry red bikini peeking out of the bottom of the picture. 

“That’s.. good,” twisting his lips into a shrouded smirk. 

“Oh yeah?” kicking your shoes off, the tense atmosphere made slightly softer by your nonchalance, “why’s that?” you level with him, the space between you shrinking with every step.  

“I just meant.. it’s good that you don’t live all on.. your own,” struggling to make sense of his rambling with your eyes staring up at him like that, glittering while ever-so-slightly judging. 

You laugh, loud and sudden, “I think you should just stop talking and kiss me,” teetering on your tiptoes as you wet your lips, an entire night of dancing around one another had led to you barking instructions at him. 

He needed it, to be honest, completely fumbling around, his nerve shot and depleted. 

Soft skin meets his cheek, making the first move while he stands buffering, only snapping out of his trance when your thumb grazes his lip, pressing his lips to yours in a haste. Steve had wasted too much time overthinking every move, decidedly trying not to fuck this up all night. 

He can feel your smile grow against his lips, taking the control over the kiss back by finding your waist with his cold hands. Opening up an entirely new world, the metaphorical sparks fly from your skin, a passion unfelt for far too long. 

You pull back only just, still brushing against his lips with your eyes pressed shut, “should we go upstairs?” 

Steve thinks the answer is obvious, his grip on your waist gave that much away for sure. He nods anyway, for good measure, letting you take his hand to lead him up the cluttered stairway, almost sprinting as the urge to get you out of your clothes explodes. 

“Ignore the mess,” you warn but he’s not paying any attention to anything other than you, drinking in your hips and the way they sway. 

He knocks the hat from your head, hands finding solace on your back as he pulls you in again, this kiss more fiery than the last, grabby and hungry making you hum in shock. Eager to satisfy the ache in his cock, even if it were just by making out. 

Your fingers work at the buttons on his shirt, brushing against his chest as his tongue moves between your lips, a fervent battle with your own. There had been no this with Louise, that was certain, a vanilla love affair that often ended in disappointment for the both of them. 

The cloth leaves his shoulders, hitting the ground with a soft thump to welcome your hands around his neck, clammy as they grasp his skin. He’s a novice now, once filled with an overbearing confidence to now, a fumbling mess. 

His hands feel around for your bed, laying you back across the mattress tumbling on top clumsily. Unbuttoning your waistcoat with a trembling hand, you take the reins even from underneath, sliding your legs up against his waist, further closing the distance. 

Your lips unlock, allowing him time to take in a much needed breath. You’re braless underneath your costume, shimmying the fabric off and tossing it to the ground all the while actively ignoring Steve’s gawping. 

“It’s rude to stare,” you jest, though you don’t attempt to hide at all. 

Steve’s gaze flickers, once to your eyes and back down again, eyes wide and adoring, “I’m not sorry,” he quips back before resuming the kiss, focused on getting your pants down. 

Your panties already soaked, legs opening to welcome him inside perfectly, he sits up on his knees, mouth slack as he admires the view laid before him. There hadn’t been any thought in his mind that this was how you’d end up tonight, but he’s sure glad he’s here. 

His hands glide up the soft skin of your thighs, squeezing gently for good measure, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, taking his time to slide them down your legs. The tight feel of his pants suddenly becoming too much, his leaking tip pressed against the shoddy costume fabric. 

“I haven’t.. it’s been a while,” he warns, a subconscious effort to turn you off as if you weren’t glistening before his eyes, pupils blown and aching for him. 

“I don’t care,” you huff in response, tightening your calves around his waist. 

Steve swallows the lump in his throat, in awe of your vigour, struggling to get his own pants off with the newfound tent in his crotch. Clambering back over to hover above, his dick straining against his boxers. 

Your hands come to find his shoulders as his boxers come down, “you’re.. Jesus Christ,” you remark, looking down at the space between your bodies. 

It was no secret that his dick was on the bigger side, that was made clear very early on in his life.

“I’m not.. not quite,” laughing to himself, the pressure easing only the tiniest bit as he fists his cock, guiding his fat tip to your weeping hole, sliding between your slick folds before easing himself inside. 

Your breathing stutters in synchronicity, digging your fingernails into the sweaty skin of his neck. “Fucking.. shit,” Steve splutters, fisting the pillowcase with an almighty need to not cum right then and there. 

Quickly finding his rhythm, kept in time by your in heady moans and the slight rut of your hips against his. You were an entirely new experience, your pussy drinking him in immediately and with every stroke he loses brain cells. 

You whine, needily bucking your hips to meet his, sending shivers up his spine when your fingertips graze his scalp alongside the gentle tugging of his hair. 

He’s grateful you’re alone as the mattress creaks inconspicuously in time with his hips, one night stands had been his forte a few years ago and he’d been caught out by rusty bed springs more times than he’d like to admit. 

Your eyes struggle to stay open, jaw slack, allowing your sweet wails to escape. “Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?” Steve gushes, a bumbling mess transfixed by your warmth. 

You breathe airly, cracking a smile at his blown out eyes and furrowed brow, “not while they were inside of me no,” sliding your calf up his side, allowing him deeper. 

“They should’ve,” he pants, unsure of where this was even coming from. He feels giddy, like this was always meant to happen. 

You brush back the loose strands of hair from in front of his eyes, clung to his sweaty forehead, “thank you, but I kinda need you to move,” his cock stilled while he babbles on. 

“Yeah.. yeah,” Steve nods, leaning down to lazily connect your lips, drawing a dulcet whimper from your throat when he sinks back into your cunt. 

Warmth arises from his stomach to his chest and almost back out of his mouth, his head turning to complete fuzz. You taste like sweet wine and peppermint, your tongue dancing between his lips to battle with his. If your plan was to make him fall in love, you might’ve just succeeded. 

“Shitshitshit,” you mumble, leaving the kiss to press your lips to the stubble on his jaw instead, vibrating the skin with every desperate curse and plea. 

His fingers grip the space around your head, moving over to gently stroke your cheek, slowly losing his stature as the knot tightens in his stomach. “I’m gonna.. shit, I’m gonna cum,” rushing the words out before they lose all meaning in his noisy brain. 

“Yeah?” lips twitching upward, “just.. just not inside,” making sure to get your very important point across before the line was blurred forever. 

Pulling out of your pussy in record time before he shudders, hot ropes of his seed paint your stomach, Steve’s brain collapses in on itself before he has time to move himself. Sputtering a half-assed apology before collapsing onto the mattress next to you, breathless as he reels. 

“Holy shit,” panting softly, reaching over for some discarded item of clothing to clean yourself up, letting him recover with his face pressed into your pillow, his deep, heaving breaths eventually slowing. 

“Sorry for uh.. that,” glancing downward, hoping you wouldn’t now make him walk home in his costume and acres of shame. 

Instead, you throw the blanket over him before snuggling in closer, a particular shine in your eye before delving into your barrage of thoughts about the night. 

-

The sun beats through your blinds, forcing him awake far too early. 

You don’t stir, still peacefully asleep on the pillow next to him. Steve couldn’t even remember falling asleep, one minute asking about your major to waking up with your legs intertwined. 

The sound of his phone vibrating against the bedside table shocks him fully awake. Robin probably thought he was dead. Five missed calls and the barrage of texts definitely solidified that. 

are you alive??? 

steve 

this is serious now can you reply to me before i call the cops

He reaches down, swooping the pink bejeweled hat off of the ground and lazily placing it on his own head. sticking his tongue out at his phone before snapping a quick picture, his thumb immediately sending the picture to his, no doubt, curious best friend. 

She replies almost immediately, making sure to heart react to the image before going on her tangent. 

i fucking knew it! 

i knew ot!!!!!!

how was it? 

do u like her?? 

His phone vibrates in his hand, afraid he’d wake you with the incessant sound. 

great

and 

yes 

Steve replies, leaving everything to her wild imagination. 

you bastard tell me more 

i knew you’d like her!

why don’t u ever trust me

He sighs, knowing that once again Robin was right.

shut up 

dinner later? 

She pings back instantaneously.

yes. 

He clicks his phone shut, placing it back on the nightstand, the bright pink hat still perched on his head. He wanted to wake you, hoping you’d still like him the same now that you were sober. 

Black streaks of your mascara are smeared across your under eye and cheeks, hell, Steve was definitely wearing it too. There’s glitter everywhere, scattered across your bedsheets and his tan skin and almost certainly his hair. His eyes slide around your cluttered room, the pictures and Taylor Swift posters that adorned the walls, piles of unfinished books on your desk. He’s particularly interested in the shelf of vinyl records, though he could fathom a guess as to what they probably were. 

You rouse from your slumber next to him, sighing softly as you awaken, “nice hat,” mumble from the pillow, squinting at the sight before you, he probably looked a mess. Sure as shit felt like one. 

“Oh shit,” Steve laughs, forgetting he even still had it on, “Robin was just making sure you weren’t a murderer,” tossing the hat back to the floor, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet red. 

“Not a murderer,” you chuckle, “but I might murder you for an aspirin and some fries though.”

“I think I could make that happen without you having to kill me,” he smiles, volunteering to venture into the depths of your scary house for an aspirin. 

“Please do, and quickly,” grumbling from your perch on the pillow, suffering worse than he was. 

“You just wait here and I’ll be back in no time,” he’s just about to clamber from the bed when the door swings open, hurriedly grabbing the blanket to keep his dignity intact as some girl he quickly identifies as your roommate bursts in. 

“Oh woah,” she exclaims, pretending to cover her eyes while she peeks through the middle two, “so that’s where you went! We weren’t sure if you were dead or not,” not so unfamiliar with his snooping friends. 

You groan, shuffling around your cocoon to face her, “I feel like I’m dying,” your voice gruff in comparison to the angelic tones ringing in his ears last night. He still absolutely loved it either way. 

“That’s a shame,” the girl sarcastically pouts, “I was just about to ask if you and your friend would like to join us at Flannery’s tonight but if you’re dying…”

Your head perks up ever so slightly, “oh really? I think I could get myself together enough to come..” turning back to ask Steve, “what about you?”

He nods in a rather overzealous manner, “yeah, yeah I’ll be there.” 

“You should invite your friend Robin I think, I mean- it’d be cool if she was there too,” shrugging her obvious pining off before flouncing out of the room in a cloud of curls and sickly perfume. 

He looks over to you, your eyes already staring back, glinting with a withheld laugh, “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.. I’m sure you and Robin have something way better to do.”

“No!” far too enthusiastic a response for an invite to some college town bar, “I mean, I’m sure we could show our faces.. if we really had to,” Steve wasn’t blasé about anything ever, much less confirmation that you just might like him too. 

You beam, taking your bottom lip between your teeth, “okay.. good, because..  I’d really like you to be there.” 

[julic-art]

Tally hall page for a zine I’m making

The zine is about my top artists/songs :D

.

Pls ignore the fact that I made rob and joe left handed lol

[amagi2000]

A Tale of Trump Derangement Syndrome

I still see posts from friends who are livid over what Trump is doing , I need you to consider the following.

When millions of illegals were ushered in through the southern border, you said nothing!

When they abandoned billions of dollars worth of military equipment in Afghanistan, you said nothing!

When they flaunted a two tier justice system, one for them and one for everyone else, you said nothing!

When they covered up the Hunter Biden laptop, you said nothing!

When they passed a trillion dollar infrastructure bill that failed miserably, you said nothing!

When they forced Americans to take an untested vaccine, you said nothing!

When inflation crushed the middle class, you said nothing!

When they sent billions to Ukraine, you said nothing!

When chemicals polluted the water in East Palestine, Ohio and they ignored it, you said nothing!

When Americans were raped, robbed and murdered by illegals, you said nothing!

When they implanted Kamala as the presidential nominee without getting a single vote, you said nothing!

When billionaire and anti American George Soros funded dozens of state Attorney General elections, you said nothing!

When they turned our classrooms into liberal indoctrination camps, you said nothing!

When they spent our tax dollars on inmates gender transition surgeries, you said nothing!

When they gave the citizens of Hawaii only $700 after losing their entire city, you said nothing!

When they gave free money, food and 5 star hotel lodging to illegals, you said nothing!

When they came for our free speech, you said nothing!

When DEI weakened the military and put our national security at risk, you said nothing!

When they colluded with the media to push false reports, you said nothing!

When it was open season on law enforcement and criminals reigned, you said nothing!

When they weaponized the justice system to take down their political opponents, you said nothing!

When the bureaucrats took over the White House and ran the government, you said nothing!

When they covered up Biden's rapidly declining mental state, you said nothing!

When they groomed our kids in school and hid it from the parents, you said nothing!

When the drug epidemic exploded and 1000s died annually, you said nothing!

When they accosted the jews on their campuses, you said nothing!

When they weaponized the intelligence agencies against Americans, you said nothing!

When they spent $45 million dollars on "Diversity and Inclusion" scholarships in Burma, you said nothing!

When they let men play women's sports, you said nothing!

When they chanted "Death to America" and burned our flag, you said nothing!

When they shutdown our energy production, and emboldened Russia, you said nothing!

When the crime rates in American cities increased, you said nothing!

While thousands of veterans were left to sleep out on the streets, you said nothing!

When 300,000 migrant children went missing and no one had a clue, you said nothing!

When Joe Biden pardoned his friends and family, you said nothing!

When they sent billions to Iran and inadvertently funded Hamas, you said nothing!

When men were celebrated for pretending to be women, you said nothing!

When they let a Chinese Spy Ballon sail across America, you said nothing!

When 50 intelligence agents all lied to bury the Hunter Biden laptop as Russian disinformation, you said nothing!

When American citizens were taken hostage and held for a year in Gaza, you said nothing!

When Facebook admitted, they conspired with the Biden administration to censor the truth, you said nothing!

When they cleaned the streets of San Francisco for the communist Chinese President Xi Jinping, you said nothing!

When Fauci and the WHO peddled covid 19 virus lies and covered up the origins, you said nothing!

When they sealed the January 6th commission files or "lost them", you said nothing!

You saw the corruption, the lies, the bad policy, the anti American agenda and said nothing, so please spare us your crocodile tears and all your fake hysteria now. For 4 years you watched this country get run into the ground on all fronts and you said nothing!”

Now it's our turn.

[zubin-staresat-yourfave]

Zubin stares… at Chonny jash??

Zubin Sedghi stares at Chonny Jash

[electricalcheese]

MMMM Thang I meant to post yesterday but forgor

[panelshowsource]

nothing frustrates me more on bfq than when the production doesn't pair the guests up right! i will now be ranking the worst offenders of this because i know better than the channel 4 executives

please understand i am ignoring the episodes including r*ssell br*nd because this is just an unserious post for the lulz 🙏

top 5 offenders

5. big fat quiz 2005 — actually a perfectly decent episode overall but david mitchell/denise van outen had zero chemistry and gordon ramsay was too quiet poor fella. my best suggestion is jonathan ross/denise (jonathan had a lot of successful pairings with other entertainment ladies like cat deeley and lily allen), david/rob brydon (frends), sharon osbourne/gordon (she is wild and didn't take the game seriously so this pairing would have made gordon HAVE to step up even just to write down their answers and therefore be a more active participant in the quiz). ultimately, this entry is not because we had a flop episode that needs fixing but because i can imagine this having been a potentially top tier episode with better pairings

4. big fat quiz 2023 — this one just...makes me mad. i know katherine ryan and rosie jones were doing out of order together around this time, so maybe this was sideways promo for that? but i'm splitting them up in big part because i cannot stand that the production paired up kevin bridges and mo gilligan. what even is that!!! a team of GUYS BEING BROS? UGH who wants to see that!! without a doubt this should have been mel giedroyc/kevin (closest we could have had to mel/romesh once again? 🥲), katherine/mo, richard ayoade/rosie

3. big fat quiz 2018 — another noel/richard pairing. fine. whatever. but david mitchell and michelle wolf? what is that? CLAUDIA WINKLEMAN AND MO GILLIGAN? what is THAT? throwing shit at a wall atp. the best thing we can do for this episode is switch these two teams so it's david/claudia and michelle/mo. david and claudia are friends irl and have been a cutie team before, so that's fine, and mo, being quite blunt and sassy, would have bantered with michelle's american schtick. like, he would have taken the piss out her a little and she would have let him. instead we got two teams that were just BLAH for no reason. if you're going to cast more than one person who are asking a lot of your audience's patience, you gotta be smarter than this

2. big fat quiz 2022 — in theory, stephen merchant/richard ayoade makes sense. two sitcom dorks. in reality, it ended up being exceptionally mild. meanwhile, hyperfeminine power mom katherine ryan has no business having to fake chemistry with lesbian-passing ALOTO alumni maisie adam. like, what even is that. you might be thinking 'but katherine did a whole series with joe wilkinson, and they're totally different to each other!' okay but joe is a freak. putting a non-freak next to a freak is always a hit in its own way. katherine/maisie made no sense. then, they've got poor rose matafeo stuck with jonathan ross. if you're going to stick a woman with an overbearing, attention-seeking man, at least make that person katherine, who is literally the roastmaster queen of dealing with that sort of thing, or maisie, who likes to think of herself as one of the guys. ROSE? why did they do that to her? and us? so, what would i have done to fix this episode? sadly this one is on the casting. stephen/richard, jonathan/katherine, rose/maisie seems like the best fix we've got, but, like i said before, stephen/richard was more of a flop than you would have thought, so i guess we're stuck with stephen/jonathan, richard/maisie, katherine/rose. and i don't even like that very much. sorry but 1 or 2 of these people gotta go for a re-casting, just take your pick

1. big fat quiz of everything 2019 — saddling katherine with big narstie twice is. like. do they have something against her? who is her enemy at channel 4? he didn't even try to play and literally FELL ASLEEP during the show. it's funny for a bit for a whole 1.5hr show and 5hr record? 'but katherine took it in stride and made it funny' blah blah. this isn't about her. she made (what she could of) it funny cuz she's a funny lady and knows how to keep her cool. love that. but ultimately his behaviour was not funny it's actually frustrating af to think a proper comedian with material and showmanship lost a place on a major programme (call it washed up all you want but the ratings don't lie) to someone who was booked by network executives because he was trending. unfixable, uncool to katherine, must be re-cast

honourable mentions

big fat quiz 2012 — i know jack whitehall/james corden got shit on when this aired, but upon rewatch they weren't really as obnoxious as the articles would lead you to believe. also the first time someone brought proper food on, which was a big lulz at the time. that said, as much as i love gabby logan, she and richard were literally playing individually (with a split screen down their answers board) despite being on the same team, which is not fun or funny. actually, it's one of my biggest pet peeves. to remedy this, i would suggest russell howard/james, jonathan/gabby, richard/jack — jack's hyperactivity vs. richard's monotone could have rly worked

big fat quiz of the 80s (2013) — i strongly believe david mitchell/phill jupitus was the wrong choice. the two smarties who also take the game seriously gotta be split for more even playing as well as for more funnies. phill/jason donovan, david/sarah greene, jack dee/alan (again! hehe) seems the reasonable solution

big fat quiz 2016 — we all love mel giedroyc/romesh but it should have been sarah millican/rob delaney and david/richard instead of the other way around, because rob/richard had no chemistry

big fat quiz 2020 — i have thought about this so much over the years. how to fix it. can it be fixed? why is maya jama on again? regardless, stacey solomon/james acaster ended up working out well enough because stacey is good at playing along w jokes. good for her. but the other two teams? meh. i would have been interested to see, perhaps, the divas maya/joe lycett and the anti-divas david/richard instead

big fat quiz of sport 2023 — dane is the dud in this lineup and as much as i don't want to split up kerry godliman/tom allen i think kerry would have had the best chemistry with him... that leaves us with, i guess, dane/kerry, tom/judi love, roisin conaty/joel dommet, but i will say the idea of a tom/joel team intrigues me and i hope to see it one day

big fat quiz of telly 2024 — on paper this works but it wasn't as strong as it could have been because judi love and daisy may cooper didn't become a chaotic unit like you'd have imagined. that's a funny thing about daisy—she's not as predictable as other comedians are in the characters and energy they bring to a show. like, watch daisy on this vs. daisy on buzzcocks vs. daisy on taskmaster. different stuff. i'd probably put judi with babátúndé and russell howard with daisy in a team swap, but in all honestly it'd be best if at least one person was re-cast for better chemistry

a final note

if you read ALL OF THIS waiting for me to mention mel b... you gotta keep waiting. the teams on that ep were as they should have been 😌

[urlocalbone]

Ray Bradbury was thinking of naming his famous novel “Fahrenheit 270”. His friends opted for “Fahrenheit 205” instead. After a fruitless sequence of telephone calls by Bradbury to several university physics and chemistry departments, a single call to the Los Angeles Fire Department revealed the book-paper combustion point to 451 degrees Fahrenheit.

Welcome to “Yapping about Fahrenheit 451 by Shukanya Prachi”. As a fairly novice reader to English classics, I will try to draw links and analyse my vantage point towards this short but compelling novel.

I might be tempted to brand Bradbury’s literature as “Orwellian” and “dystopian”. It is true that Eric Blair’s (better known as George Orwell) 1949 book “Nineteen Eighty-Four” had influenced a generation of writers and continues to do so. As John Rodden concludes in his book “Becoming George Orwell” – “Orwell is every intellectual’s Big Brother”. It is remarkable that Orwell’s entire fame depended solely on the last two years of his life. He died six months after the publication of his pivotal novel.

He had produced a set of “classical” novels in his early days of penmanship, such as “Burmese Days”, “A Clergyman’s Daughter”, “Keep the Aspidistra Flying” and “Coming Up for Air”. Although strongly original and witty, these novels failed to encapsulate the “Orwell” as we know today. Here he was Eric Blair, a former police officer posted at Burma (present Myanmar) who got sick of the British Imperial Service and decided to become a writer. “ I want to be a FAMOUS writer,” he wrote to a childhood sweetheart. In his famous essay “Why I write”, he also confesses that his literary venture is based on “sheer egoism, the desire to be remembered after death.”

He was a leftist, yet he was slammed away both ways- he did not believe in the Stalinist agenda of absolute dictatorship. He was living in the pre-cold war age when America was still in love with “Uncle Joe” (Joseph Stalin) and our “little Soviet siblings”. Orwell liked to go on adventures and he was a BBC employee- so he was heavily involved and infuriated by the politics of his day. Interestingly, his image of a “Democratic Socialist” led him to be revered by Catholic journals such as “Commonweal”. They advertised him to be a “man of Christian principles”- ignoring the fact Orwell hated the idea of collective religion with all his might.

“Animal Farm” and “Nineteen Eighty-Four” came out right when America’s cordial bonds with the USSR was starting to wear away. The timing could not be better. Previously in 1945, when “Animal Farm” (subtitled as A fairy story to keep the tone down) was published, it did not appeal to the general public save intellectual circles in the Western world. At best it was nominated for “Book of the year” by clubs around America. However, the 1954 BBC adaptation of “1984” sent Orwell’s posthumous fame catapulting towards the sky. Suddenly he became a household name, his last two novels were intensely studied and became high-school English textbooks. But above all, he became America’s siege against Soviet Union. If Eric Blair was alive, he would have protested against the blithe usage of his ideas, but as the saying goes “A dead man can’t say anything”.

Now, what are the common grounds we have between Orwell and Bradbury’s novels? Both “Nineteen Eighty-Four” and “Fahrenheit 451” explore societies in the distant future which suppress freedom of speech and thought. Except the heroes of the two men- Winston Smith and Guy Montag, the rest of the society seems to have made a pact with living a life robbed of willpower.

Ray Bradbury transformed his novella “The Fireman” into “Fahrenheit 451”. The firemen are the agents of a regime designed to destroy intelligence in the human species, although it is unclear why so. Their task is simple, “Raise the alarm, Burn ‘em out, Come back”. Of course, their target is books and their owners.

Guy Montag was just another fireman until he encounters a pale girl named Clarisse McCellan. She introduces herself under the moonlight as “seventeen and weird, my uncle always told me to say so”.  She opens his eyes with her innocently penetrating questions and remarks about people.

“Is it true that long ago firemen put out fires instead of going out to start them?…..Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames.”

For the first night of his life, Montag actually questions if he is happy. When he goes to burn a house after this meeting, he encounters a woman who would rather cling to her books and die on spot rather than leaving them alone. Her fiery determination is intimidating to him and even to the captain of the firemen squad.

He guiltily steals a book from this mission and adds it to his secret stash of literature hidden behind a ventilator. What is in a book that makes a woman burn with them? He poses the question to his wife Millie once he gets home, but she is too engrossed in her “seashell radio” and imaginary “the Family” TV shows that the state curated to keep people indulged in foolishness. She overdoses on pills that night, completely oblivious of what happened the next morning.

The opening scene can also be paralleled with Winston Smith’s first act of defiance against Big Brother, when the hero of “Nineteen Eighty-Four” purchases a real, leather bound diary from the black market. He is also guilty when “In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, 1984”. But it is the guilt that sets him out on a dangerous journey to search for the truth.

 Guy Montag feels completely alone on his quest to find out why books are important, and why we must save them. Montag’s loneliness becomes a key part of his character development. Mildred’s apathy and her shallow distractions are in stark contrast to his hunger for truth. His fear of Captain Beatty represents his growing sense of danger in his adventure, as he starts to see the regime’s power more clearly. Beatty himself is a well-read man and he is capable of psychologically manipulating Montag into the system again, using quotes from books to his advantage.

With Clarisse supposedly dead, Montag seeks out Faber, an old man he met in a park ages ago. He seeks help from the retired English professor to infiltrate the regime by planting books in other firemen’s houses. This will raise the alarm and there will be no one else left to enforce the laws. The far-fetched and vague idea soon proves to be fateful when Montag’s own wife hands him in and his house is burnt to ashes. He is on the run.

Thankfully, he escapes to the other side of the city by swimming across the river. He is taken up by the “outcasts”, other men and women who work to recreate the free world again. He realises although the books themselves are lost, their blueprints remain in human memories. They watch as the city he has left behind detonates itself in a fake attempt to prove war, and sets out towards an unknown future.

The language Ray Bradbury uses is poetic, bordering the edge of vague. He mentions technologies and mechanisms only briefly, focusing on their symbolic not direct meaning in the novel. The state’s entertainment systems, namely the wall-sized televisions, white clowns, beetle-sized radios and driving fast cars are only mentioned briefly. This lack of detail helps keep the focus on social and human critique. The fleeting thoughts of his hero is an important aspect, as it depicts the unsettling setting of the city of the firemen. He shares metaphors with Orwell while has his own original stack. For example, Montag’s personal fear is the “Hound”, a metallic spider-like automation designed to hunt down its target to anywhere. Towards the end of the novel, his almost-demise is designed with the Hound itself. Winston Smith’s mention of his fear of rats leads him to the same torture in room 101. It illustrates the manipulation of human fears by totalitarian regimes.

Bradbury’s choice of fire as a metaphor is also interesting. For fire is the symbol of destruction and also the light of knowledge. Before meeting Clarisse, Montag was ignorant of the system and how it manipulated his life, and he starts hating his job as a fireman. Again, he uses fire to burn out traces of his presence from Faber’s house before his escape, which takes on a meaning of liberation rather than oppression.

George Orwell’s style, in contrast, is bleak and direct. He is one of the rare writers of English literature who can command the reader’s absolute attention with a highly serious tone usage. In “Nineteen Eighty-Four”, the “Telescreen” is depicted as the main instrument of surveillance in Big Brother’s rule, and plays a deciding role in the outcome of Winston and his lover Julia. Although in a seemingly advanced time period, not many other machines are described in the year 1984. Which poses the question- if the residents of Oceania had no access to quality lifestyle, how did the state afford to install expensive telescreens in every house? Orwell skirts from this question by providing an explanation of underground cable networks. This dilemma is further explored in Peter Huber’s “Orwell’s Revenge: The 1984 Palimpsest”.

Therefore, we can come to deduce that both writers esteem technological details to be non-cohesive to the storyline, and put their focus elsewhere. It is the reason why none of the novels can be labelled as “science fiction”, although they share a lot of characteristics with prominent writers of the genre, especially H.G. Wells.

Orwell’s telescreens are more than just surveillance tools—they represent the constant invasion of privacy and the erasure of personal autonomy. Bradbury’s fire is not just destructive, but also a purifying force, illustrating knowledge’s potential to spark both danger and enlightenment. 

However, Orwell and Bradbury’s models of “dystopia” are a bit different from each other. The sheer volume of “Nineteen Eighty-Four” allows the author to explore more dimensions of power in its pages. “Fahrenheit 451” is comparatively much of a rough sketch of ideas.

Guy Montag and Winston Smith both gather comrades to fuel their journey, but their relationships are much more nuanced in the latter. The meeting of Winston and Julia is quite like Romeo and Juliet, destined to be “Star-crossed Lovers”. The relationship between Montag and Millie is not clearly defined. As he reaches over to the river, Montag remarks “I wouldn’t cry even if she died” then proceeds to feel concerned for her when the city detonates itself in the distance. Did he still care for her despite his constant apathy? Did he care about the sudden fact that they met in Chicago a “long time ago”? As Bradbury explored humane themes in his novel, this is something he could expand on.

Orwell poignantly uses the theme of betrayal in his characters. Winston trusted O’Brien, who played a game of fake trust with him. “We shall meet where there is no darkness”- it is under the blinding white lights of room 101 where Winston finally understands what he meant. Although he believed he had loved Julia more than anything, the sight of uncaged rats in the torture cell makes him scream “Do it to Julia, not me! Do it to Julia!”

Or take the scene after both of them are released from the ministry.

“I betrayed you,” she said baldly.

“I betrayed you,” he said.

Through the usage of simple words, the author illustrates how the regime breaks a person to the point of failing the only person they thought they would not. The reader feels disturbed by the strong imagery and is able to grasp Orwell’s thought process.

Bradbury’s characters are much more open-ended, and can be attributed to differing conclusions about their personalities. It is possible he decidedly left gaps for the reader to construct their own meaning. Again, his dystopian city directly discourages meaningful personal relationships. Bradbury’s system exalts control not through surveillance but through indulgence. “Fahrenheit 451” is more of a warning bell towards the dependence on technology- whereas “Nineteen Eighty-Four“ is a direct critique of limiting personal freedom.

Montag’s helping mates stay true to him up until the end. They are willing to risk their lives for a bigger cause. The novel ends with an almost hopeful tone, and Montag is optimistic now that he had found a place where he finally belongs to. He does not have a clear plan yet, but we can judge the process of rebuilding the society might take anywhere from a couple to a hundred years by the outcasts. Now the job is to make the “drugged” people aware of the fact that their lives are being controlled by the state, wielding the destructive fire to Montag’s advantage and turn it to the flame of knowledge.

Although Orwell ends his novel with a bleak future where Winston “Loves Big Brother”, there is still hope to the reader that the rebellion may rise to overthrow the (hopefully) temporary state of absolute totalitarianism.

To conclude, “Fahrenheit 451” holds genuine merit and provokes any person with thought to assess the current state of their world. It is endlessly quoted in times of unrest, and alongside “Nineteen Eighty-four” they remain as crown jewels of English dystopian literature. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the book, which has compelled me to analyse the significance of freedom once again.

[mikaylathenerd5]

Masterlist on pause until further notice

To my mutuals, readers, and fellow writers in the fanfiction space,

This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to write — not because I don’t know what to say, but because the pain and disappointment are so deep, it almost took my voice.

I am an Afro-Latina, I am neurodivergent, and my family came here from Panama. Everything I am — every part of my identity — is something I carry with pride. But it’s also something that’s made life harder in a world that constantly tries to erase, minimize, or target us. That’s why I’ve always stood firm in my beliefs: love, liberation, justice, and truth.

So when I saw Joe Anoa’i — someone I’ve admired since I was in middle school, someone I genuinely looked up to — publicly supporting Donald Trump, it broke something in me.

This isn’t just about politics. This is about humanity. This is about what it means to stand with or against communities like mine.

Trump’s legacy is built on racism, misogyny, ableism, anti-immigrant hate, queerphobia, and so much more — all of which directly harm people like me. So to see Joe endorse that… it felt like betrayal. It felt like being told I don’t matter.

And to be blunt —

Joe can fuck all the way off. Let karma handle the weight of his words and the damage they support.

I’ve spent years writing fanfiction. (Just now got the courage to post them on here) Writing has always been my escape — it has been my lifeline through childhood trauma, through depression, through the loneliest, darkest moments of my life. These stories I’ve created? These characters I’ve built?

They saved me.

And yes, I’ve written about Joe in the past. Stories like Open Arms and Joe/Imani were born from a place of hope, imagination, and healing. But from here on out —

I will only be writing Roman, the fictional character.

Because the man behind the role? He’s no longer someone I can respect.

And Roman, as we write him, is not Joe.

He never was.

Every one of us as writers has our own unique version of Roman. The one I write is layered, vulnerable, powerful, and kind. He’s a character I shape with my heart and my lived experiences. That’s who I’m choosing to hold onto — not the real person who made it clear who he stands with.

To those saying we shouldn’t write about Roman anymore: I hear you, I really do. But I’m not about to throw away stories I’ve spent countless hours, late nights, and emotional energy building. These drafts hold pieces of me — not him. I’m not going to let his ignorance rob me of something I’ve worked too damn hard for.

My stories matter. My voice matters. And my healing matters more than his politics.

I won’t be arguing online about this. I won’t be dragged into a back-and-forth about what I should do with my creativity. That kind of discourse?

It’s a shit show, and I refuse to lose myself in it.

If you want to unfollow me, go ahead. If you want to block me, that’s fine too. But if you’ve ever been a person who found comfort in my work — or if you’re a writer trying to figure out what comes next — know this:

Whatever you choose, I support you. If you keep writing Roman, rework your fics, step away for a while, or reimagine your universe — I’m in your corner. This is your space, your art, your healing.

At the end of the day, we all deserve to write what brings us peace. To my fellow Roman Reigns writers: we’re allowed to grieve. We’re allowed to be angry. But we’re also allowed to continue — on our terms.

Thank you for reading this. Thank you for seeing me. And thank you for letting me be honest — even when it hurts.

With all the love and rage in my heart, Mikayla (mikaylathenerd5) 🖤

[fersauce47]

People still like Joe Hawley?!

So I was watching a Project Y.B.T.F.C. video on how Zubin, Rob, and Bora showed up at one of Andrew's opening shows and they played a few songs together, a nice little reunion. Apparently Ross couldn't make it for some reason, but is supposed to be at the Seattle show.

In the video she said Tally Hall wouldn't be Tally Hall without Joe Hawley. That's true. Joe did make all of the popular songs and brought good energy to the band... back then. She said it was a shame he couldn't make it. What? No? Leave his ass out of it permanently, did everyone forget about the doc?

I don't know everything there is to know about the doc. If it was proven false, then I'm sorry for constantly referring to Joe Hawley as the antichrist. But if the situation points to the doc being true, and all the allegations actually being real, then why THE HELL do people still like him?!

The man is a fucking pedophile? Are we gonna ignore that? I don't understand why seemingly every other Tally Hall fan wants to ignore the doc and act like Joe isn't a fucking horrible human being.

What am I missing? Why do people still think he deserves human rights? All pedophiles and rapists should rot in hell, and if you are a Tally Hall fan who agrees with that, then what is your deal with liking Hawley so much? Please tell me what I'm missing.

You can separate art from artist, and I myself do that, but I don't go around moping about Joe not winning in life. Hell, I hope he goes broke and starves. I hope that Zubin (bc Zubin is my favorite :3) covers all of Joe's songs and replaces the originals with his versions so that we don't have to give any credit to Joe for anything.

Bring Casey Shea back as Joe's permanent replacement. I like Casey Shea.

[screamingfrenchfries]

hi ignore this crazy meaningless ramblings of an insane person here

somethin i noticed about the video rob posted playing the greener riff is it loops Before joe's part......... like i can't say anything but like if he really is Practicing for.. Something then why the hell not practice that part as well.... WHAT is he practicing for because it Cannot be a Live Show can it ? iis someone else going to play joe's part??? or will a backing track just be used????? MY MIND IS RUNNING 5,000 MPH AND I CANNOT KEEP UP W IT SOMEONE SEDATE ME OLEASDDRDEHJRGHFDADFHJKGB