#those idiots

[eldrych42]

I really have to share this

found it on pinterest - credits are in the pic

but -

six of crows

[eddith]

when you are about to read another zosan fic and there is the tag “zoro and sanji are both deeply flawed individuals” you know this shit is going to be GOOD

[mikeru-funzies]

how the boys felt when discussing the beast

[mystieris]

Sibling Dynamics

Zeus: You think I could fit fifteen marshmallows in my mouth? Hades: ... You're a hazard to society... Poseidon: Also a coward, DO TWENTY!

[artale07]

uhm.. thanks? damn, why is the cake sPiCy?

[my-drama-heart2406]

This year's met Gala was so funny.

(And I'm sure this has already been talked about)

Like, given what is happening in the world right now it SHOULD have been cancelled.

But it wasn't.

But, like I said, given what is happening in the world, Andrew Bolton and Anna Wintour probably predicted the backlash they were going to receive, as they rightfully are.

So they chose the theme sooooooo carefully.

It's "Garden of Time".

But not just garden of time.

It's J. G. Ballard's Garden of Time.

They made sure to mention that the theme was influenced by the Short Story "the Garden of Time" by J. G. Ballard.

A new, and overpriced, edition with J. G. Ballard's short stories was published, also including "The Garden of Time" mentioning it as the "inspiration for the 2024 Met Gala". And it's available on Amazon!

And then no one, none of the designers, none of the celebrities, not even the people criticising the celebrities, literally no one(except maybe a handful, hardly) understood the theme. Everyonr saw "Garden of Time", and was like, "Yes, this is the most easiest theme ever!"

It literally went like...

The people of the Met: So... This year's dress code is "Garden of Time".

Every person attending the Met: Ahhh! Garden of Time?!?!?! So it's about ethereal beauty.

The people of the Met: What? No no. It's inspired by the story by J. G. Ballard. Ethereal beauty is NOT the theme...

Every person attending the Met: It's about the invariability of art! It's about the timelessness of fashion! It's about f**king FLOWERS!!!

The people of the Met: No. NO. It's not. It's about J. G. Ballard's story. The story is about hopelessness and the inevitability of war and death and destruction. Read the story and base your outfit on that.

Every person attending the Met: Ugh. That's so boring. I'm supposed to read? J. G. Ballard? Who even is that? I'm just going to wear what I want to.

The people of the Met: This is a very carefully thought out theme. It's very important to us to us that you understand the concepts of the story. Please remember, it's Garden of Time by J. G. Ballard.

Every person attending the Met:(still thinking it's about flowers) Yes, yes. Got it. "Garden of Time". Don't worry.

I don't know a lot about the fashion industry but this has to be the most gigantic failure in the history of the Met Gala.

[grab-my-digits-dude]

The struggle of not having time to draw Tyka and needing Tyka content...

[whosyourcreepyunclenow]

alright, for some reason this exists. not quite aware about your boundaries, so I'm obligated to warn: this content may not be suitable for some readers

warnings: smut, ust, non-conish dub-con(?), toxic crap, sad silly nonsense, probably weird english

was written to a nice song though

(it's pov Michael but I can only write in second person, so imagine yourself a depressed middle-aged man and go ahead)

It’s supposed to be a fucking jinx, doesn’t it? Just how you missed the old times few crazy weeks ago, so much you hate ‘em now. And of course, hate yourself for missing ‘em, like it somehow brought back that wild crap right into your present day. What a joke.

Memories should remain memories. To indulge yourself in a good old shitty nostalgia, to dive headlong into that abyss again and get off scot-free. Your personal paradise of fun where the heart trembles, the night's still young, and the bullet in your shoulder doesn’t bother like a real one. No bruises from recoil, no shortness of breath. You’re the sharpest shooter, Mikey, the clearest mind, you always make the right decisions.

Such a calming little lie to fool yourself you could be better than this. Not just a drunk old loser, feeling sorry for himself, but a drunk old loser with history, which you wisely choose to left behind and move forward. You were a terrible person, you still are. However even a terrible person needs something to be proud of.

And there must be no way for that special something to become more than just a back door to escape reality. No fucking way.

The old days taste like nauseating warm beer and smell like piss. Stained with blood, sweat and cum, sound like annoyingly loud swearing and crunch of broken glass. It was a lot easier to forget their true colors, so you gladly forgot, leaving the only ones suitable for a proper melancholic reminiscence. You know, ain’t nothing wrong with romanticizing the past. The trouble begins when you're starting regret things. Oh man, you should never trust your memories, they’re such fabulists…

Another bottle became a pile of trash for Patricia to clean up. Not sure how obvious but you kinda hate her for no reason, just along for the ride. She could tidy up this rubbish dump for days, it’ll never get clean. She could call him good, kind, mature or whatever, he’ll never stop being himself. And neither will you.

Trying to steady the swaying room, you stabilize its dirty walls with your hands, occasionally grabbing a poster girl’s ass, she doesn’t get offended. The next one even deserved a slight slap, as if you weren’t already horny enough – to even feel the seductive warmth of skin through the faded paper and sincerely enjoy that little illusion of touch. Same 'bout an illusion of privacy behind the flimsy folding door you keep closed anyway.

At least he doesn’t mind. Being asleep and completely wasted, the only thing his doped body’s still capable of is snoring. Lying on his back, with his arms and legs spread out, in that smelly stretched briefs, he’s utterly disgusting and sexy at the same time.

Well, in the old days you wouldn’t think twice. But it ain’t the old days.

So you just carelessly shoved him aside and fell down with your face in the pillow, warm and wet from his oily hair. Took a deep breath. Fucking awful as always. He murmured something unintelligible, then turned on his stomach too, but faced to the other side. You don’t look at him either.

“Forget any idea ‘bout molesting me, pork chop. Or I’ll get sober and shove a grenade into your butt, you hear me?”

Feels like you’d blow up his butt right now, without any other tools except your own. Why the hell.

“You really flatter yourself, T. Like… greatly.”

Still somehow managed to keep your voice smooth, though the stupid nervous smirk makes it a bit softer. You swallowed hard, throwing the fuck out of your mind that nostalgic bullshit ‘bout using your saliva in a more efficient way. There was times when your fingers woulda been doing their job already, now they simply clenched into a fist, crumpling a checkered blanket. Those times have passed long ago.

“We both know you ain’t too picky.”

Is he taunting or just mocking you? Any mistake could be unreasonably costly in a lot of senses.

“Yeah, maybe.”

The catch is you ain’t even confident about yourself anymore, face it. Desire is enormous, the foretaste drives you crazy – hey, when was the last time you felt so aroused by someone? Or just aroused without any fucking reason, like in your twenties, but still aroused as fuck? Though it doesn’t mean that need can be satisfied, since any little bullshit’s enough to ruin the feeling and turn you off like a broken switch. So you hate yourself again and hate your body, hate your deceptive mind, hate your everything.

Guess getting old is a great excuse for losing interest, yeah? At least it works for Amanda and your other whores who demand from you much more than you're capable of. But the truth is you haven’t ever lost interest, you’ve just become more… picky? Or egoistic. Or less randomly horny for pretty things or simply tired from imitating it – that’s what they usually call sexual problems.

Resumed snoring let you know that T’s asleep again. So alright, you can continue feeling pity for yourself until the morning. The only thing you can do as long as you want.

Or there’s another option. Weirdly compromise, still crazy. Hence exciting.

You cautiously turned on your back and glanced at him to check, as if the obvious sound was not enough. Part of you treacherously want him to wake up at the worst moment possible, but clearly not yet. Man, what the fuck are you doing…

Quietly unbuckled your belt and unzipped your pants, suddenly worrying. Years ago it was his thing to masturbate on you sleeping, what always felt confusing when you caught him doing that. As if you were jealous of him to himself and somehow got offended, what a dumbass. Didn’t realize that every opportunity to touch someone you wanna touch is a treasure.

And now you’re casually squeezing your cock, remembering his. You jerked him half-ass mechanically, roughly, without giving a single fuck about his pleasure, the only one that really mattered was your own. Of course you tried to make it less obvious, but it was obvious – you were awful. And he loved you awful. More than anyone.

“Fuck, Trevor…”

Can’t help but whispering, not expecting to be heard. Your handjob is a lot better when you’re staring at his sweaty back, fighting the urge to remove these shitty briefs. Ain’t no even need to screw, you may climax just from looking at his naked ass.

It's almost perfect time for him to wake up and punch you. Almost.

Luckily, he doesn’t. Even when you’ve finally lost your damn mind and pull off his underwear, then predicably realized you need more than looking. And holy fuck… this was your last meaningful conclusion.

Quite unable to mess around, you got to the point, eagerly lubing up your cock with saliva and pushing apart his buttocks, barely maintaining a sense of reality… With all these toys he regularly shoves in himself, you thought it would be easier, but his hole just doesn’t let you in. So you spat on your fingers once more and smeared on his tight entrance, then tried again. He’s already disturbed enough to start moaning and lazily fidget, but not fully awake yet.

“Hey, T… You wanted the old me? You’ll get him.”

Finally, he howled when you pushed yourself inside, probably too fast. Ain’t exactly how things should be done, you was merely trying to avoid that awkward pause between “I wanna fuck you” and “I’m actually fucking you” stages. Just can’t deal with that clarifying relationships shit, not fucking now…

“FUCK!”

Alright, he woke up. And he’s trying to shove you out, if only you hadn’t held his bottom like a fucking lifeline.

“Am I shitting? Feels like a big turd’s stuck in my butt… Not so big, actually.”

“Hi to you too, Trevor.”

It’s so tense here like he’s trying to bit off your manhood with his anus and chew it. And maybe a little dry, yet not enough for him to lament.

“Remember what I said ‘bout molesting me, sugar?”

You spread out his cheeks slightly, conciliatory massaging them to appease, but he keeps struggling. It’s easier to lay down and put your weight upon him, bury yourself even deeper, softly mutter into his neck.

“C'mon, T, let me love you…”

He smells attractively horrible, alluring your lips to fondle his skin with short kisses. He tastes salty.

“It’s not fucking LOVE, you dick! It’s taking advantage!”

“Call it whatever you like.”

You thrust in him slowly, knead his hips with all tender affection you can muster, what the fuck else does he want? Alright, it ain’t really convenient now but lift him a bit to play with his boy too, and this time do it right… Oh please, just make sure to do it right.

God, he’s hard. He’s hard and hot like hell, goddammit…

“No! Just, NO I said! And pull your junk outta me!”

So this moron just slapped your hand, shoved it away and wriggled out from under your body, making you both highly unpleasant. Fucking great!

He got up, swaying and shaking, put up his briefs back on and somehow fixed his boner. Still doesn’t look at your face, though he’s not the only who hesitates. After all, you have no damn idea what went wrong or what he wanted you to do. From your perspective it felt as good as it could be, unspeakably good.

“Oh seriously, what’s the problem?”

Crap, he clearly didn’t like the question.

“What’s the problem?! WHAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM you asking?!”

“Yes, what’s the fucking problem!”

Fuck it. He finally turned and faced you, with so much desperate hate in his eyes that you went numb. Like everything what happened was so terribly wrong he could never forgive. Like you hurt him in ways you can’t even imagine.

“Listen… Right now, I’m making incredible efforts to not kill you, Michael,” his voice got menacingly quiet, yet notes of deeply rising anger strive to break through. “If that ain’t A PROBLEM to you, guess what I’d be doing with your corpse!”

Shit, he’s so fucking fine when he’s mad. Scary to realize, you’d probably rape him, if only he wasn’t a lot stronger, even with a such hangover. Or perhaps what you’ve already done can be as well considered as a sexual violence – of course, how else. So you’re a rapist now. Congratulations, pal.

“A-right, I got it,” but you’re still a human, who has his goddamn feelings too. “Go fuck yourself then.”

That treacherous, suicidal part of you expected him to react – in any way. He could punch you, slam you against the wall, chock you, shove a fucking grenade into your ass, rape you in revenge. You want him to do fucking anything, you just want him. Desperately.

Hastily zipping up your pants, slide open the door and leave. Patricia’s asleep on the coach or pretending being asleep. Who cares.

When harrowing horniness finally let you go, thirst hit. So bad you’d dry up the Alamo Sea despite its saltiness and ask for more. You bursted into a bathroom, opened the tap at full and drunk greedily from your palms until you felt sick, but couldn’t bring yourself to vomit. The water was muddy, rusty and smelled like sewer, lovely taste of a childhood. Lastly, you washed your face and turned to the broken mirror.

Of course, you’re miserable. Fat old fool with shadows under his eyes, saggy skin and smoky teeth. So what goddamn hopes you had for yourself? He might like that perfect old you, young and handsome, everyone’s blue-eyed boy. Oh, you were hot back in the day, admit it.

You were something to jerk on. Now you ain’t even someone to drunkenly fuck.

So go outside, get in the car. Find yourself the ugliest, the dopest hooker and blow your load into her stretched ass to chill out. Kill some strangers, if doesn’t help, trash someone’s car, rob a store. No other entertainment in this fucking nowhere.

[travellingwiththedead]

Most murderous queer triple date:

[deathbypufferfish]

if i had to go through the second-hand embarrassment of Oscar’s dad randomly walking in on THIS MOMENT, y’all do too...

[thehumongouskargomice]

the cinematography of buck starting to date again ONLY bc eddie starts dating ana. if i was better with words i'd write an essay on it. but nevertheless if that decision was made consciously or unconsciously in the writers room im gobbling it up.

[viktasha]

not fia banning bikes at track walks

[firthbetterorfirthworse]

Camille

[demaparbat-hp]

That infamous prison escape.

[witchcraftandgeekness]

[nikossasaki]

#old married couple