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maweallgotohell · 5 months

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Heyyy ik you’re working on something rn, but if you still want to do requests I’d request something fluffy with Jerome… like cuddling or being touchy or whatever. I’m a hoe for fluffy soft stuff, personally :)

Hey hun <3

Thank u sm for your request.

And sorry I’m so late with this 🥲

I literally have 27 story drafts for the Cam character stuff and 3 stories I started to write, and somehow I’m working on all of them from time to time but somehow I need so fuckin‘ long to finish 'em.

But requests are something to distract myself from those if I’m having kind of a writers block on them so here we fuckin‘ go, baby!

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Fluffy Jerome would include:

• him being touchy. Literally all the time.

I’m sorry, but I can’t see this guy ever letting go of you, honey, nah ah.

He is always touching you, in whatever way. It doesn’t have to be holding hands all the time, even tho he loves that. How your small and soft hand fits in his large and rough ones so perfectly - It’s just chef’s kiss honestly.

When you two watch TV and sit on the couch together, cuddled up in a warm and cozy blanket, that’s big enough for the two of you, you mostly lean against him. First with just your shoulder and then with your head.

He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt the comfortable silence while watching some nostalgic disney movie,

but he nearly always puts an arm around your shoulder, laying his hand onto the top of your head, pulling you closer in the motion. Then he just softly caresses your hair with his thumb while smiling to himself when you cuddle yourself up into his side even more. It’s just so cute tbh.

He also can’t stop smiling when you two are literally anywhere and you intertwine your pinky fingers. It’s just so fuckin‘ cute to him. Like a lost puppy. And he does that sometimes too. Jerome holding physical contact>>>>

• yeah, as I already mentioned, I’m hardly convinced he loves watching Disney movies

And I believe that his inner child is obsessed with the Disney princesses. Those movies are his favorite.

When you watch those, he always criticizes if the prince, or whoever “saves“ the princess, does something stupid while trying to save her. He then explains to you, how he would save you in such a situation, which would obv be a way sm better than theirs, because u are his princess and his plan to save you would be bulletproof.

Even tho it’s a joke, he makes up those plans kinda seriously, because he wouldn’t ever risk losing you. Ever.

He‘d also appear randomly and sing Disney songs. I’m fuckin serious darling.

You’re in the kitchen, making pancakes?

Not without musical accompaniment, babe.

The kitchen door swings open and your bf storms in, blasting ‚Be our guest‘ from Beauty and the Beast on full volume while dancing gracefully around the kitchen, acting like Lumière and knowing literally every. single. word and phrase.

He should’ve gone to broadway instead of becoming a serial killer.

First, you always break out in laughter, obv. But then you join in. How couldn’t u, really?

Couple goals, if u ask me.

• okay here comes another thing I literally ALWAYS imagine happening when yourein a relationship with him.

Like, you obv think he’s pretty. Super incredibly pretty. And most of the time he isn’t really insecure about anything but he has his moments where he feels like not being enough for you. Which obv isn’t true.

You then always take a moment to really tell him how much he means to you.

You also have these random moments where you just realize over and over again how much you love him. Like, obv you know that, but I think we all know these moments where we look at a person we know and suddenly this wave of admiration washes over us? This can’t be only me guys.

Like imagine you two preparing dinner or something and you take a quick glance at him slicing tomatoes but you’re not able to take your eyes off of him.

Eventually he notices and looks back at you questioningly but amused.

„ Yn, you good? Do I have something on my face?“

You shake your head. Then you take a step forward and put a hand on his cheek, tracing his scars with your thumb.

„ What is it then?“

You follow your thumb with your eyes, admiring every single inch of his face.

„Nothing…“, you say, still not looking him in the eyes.

„You’re just so pretty.“

GIRL WHEN I TELL YOU HIS HEART MELTS?

IT‘S DRIPPING ON THE FLOOR.

He loves these moments just as much as you do. Sometimes he still can’t get his head around the fact that somebody, and then even such a cute, loving and beautiful person like you, really genuinely loves him so much.

Sometimes he even shed a tear but psst-

Don’t tell the rest of the league ;)

Jk he wouldn’t really give a fuck if anyone saw him crying. His masculinity isn’t that fragile and those are tears of joy at that so yeah

Our baby is a slaying queen-

Anyone making fun of him could end up with a bullet right between the eyes so there isn’t really a risk of that as well

But he mostly just doesn’t cry. After the abusive time with his mom, he somehow just stopped crying. He shed so many tears through that time, that there kinda weren’t any left.

And if he cries, he just does it in your presence, because you’re his comfort person and he knows he’s safe with you.

It’s so cute-

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Hope u like it. I‘ll edit this later if you don’t mind-

And I’ll probably post more of this kinda stuff bcs tf this is cute so yeah.

If anything you had in mind wasn’t in here, feel free to let me know <3

#spotify #wattpad #fanfiction #jerome valeska #fanfic #gotham #jerome valeska x reader #gotham jerome #jerome x fem reader #jerome oneshot #jerome valeska fanfiction #jerome valeska imagine #jerome gotham #jerome x reader #jerome imagine #cameron monaghan gotham #gotham x reader #gotham fanfiction

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period-dramallama · 4 months

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Tagged by @theladyelizabeth gratias tibi agoooooo

1. How many works do you have on AO3?: Under my main pseud, 48. My darkfic pseud, 9.

3. What fandoms do you write for? A scattering of fandoms. I specialise in worldbuilding and rarepairs. My main pseud is for Tudor fiction. My other pseud is for darkfic or more explicit fic.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? For main pseud:

C'est la (petite) vie c'est la (petite) mort

Love is a stranger who'll beckon you on

So you can sleep

love hid behind the shadows

The Pelican

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? i SHOULD. I don't always. I just feel... shy? awkward? i feel like a kid discussing their powerpoint. I reply if i have something to say. but i do thank people who leave comments on rarepair fics because i'm just so happy to meet another fellow shipper. And also heartfelt comments like people who survived horrible things and see themselves in the characters, I reply to those.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

So you can sleep. Reader-Y/N is left heartbroken and watchers of the movies know the man is on his way to becoming a serial killer. My other fics i would say are either bittersweet, or have a glimmer of hope, for the characters or their world.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Love is a stranger ends on a happy note, but with troubled times ahead (the death of Edward VI, the re-catholicisation of England, the illness of Don Carlos). C'est la petite vie has a depressing beginning but bounces its way chaotically to a happy ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I don't write for popular ships, so i guess i don't get enough hits to find haters. Like if you read a rarepair, 99% chance you searched for that ship. And i'm a zealous tagger of dark content! The bookmark of 2/5 tho... I'd have preferred a comment saying what they liked and didn't like (because i still got a kudos and a bookmark so what gives????)

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I dooooooooooo. My darkfic pseud for E, my main pseud doesn't go higher than M. I find smut a challenge to write, so I use it as an inciting incident or to explore a state of mind or a need. (Grief, guilt, power, anger, love).

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? I have as a teenager on FFN.net. But I'm not a big crossover person. But i wrote a song Do You Wanna Be My Ally? To the tune of Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? There's no incentive to steal rarepair fic. It'll only get you attention from like... 4 people. and those 4 people have probably read the original ANYWAY.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Alas, no.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? I'd be down for it, but I've never been asked.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship? My first OTP was Lupin/Tonks. They're how i discovered the existence of fanfic. But my all-time OTP is Jane/Rochester. Other ships wax and wane, but my enthusiasm for those two is constant.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I have unfinished WIPs on my teenage FFN.net account, because i didn't know what ending i wanted. But i usually write oneshots. I have a WIP for a gothic novel that has been on the backburner for like 6 years. But one day I hope it'll reveal itself to me.

16. What are your writing strengths? I've been told I write fear and panic well. Which is good. Also comedy. Almost always a little bit of that in there. Also readers enjoy the characters, so that too.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Let's ask the reader who gave me 2 stars transitional scenes. starting and ending the scene. setting the scene. I'm not big on description and location. I'm a dialogue-heavy writer, so if the dialogue isn't working for you.... Godspeed, reader.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? Nah, i just say what language the characters are speaking in. But some of my chapter titles are in different languages.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Harry Potter because i was a spotty kid with braces.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written? Usually the fic I'm writing at the time is my favourite. My longer fics like C'est la petite vie and Love is a stranger have a special place in my heart.

But I suppose the ultimate fanfic crown must go to Turn your back on the Hanging Tree, because it was a dusty old 80k word clumsy fanfic from my teen years that I cared about enough to rewrite as a 17k word oneshot. Murder, desire, women, scheming, BLOOD- all my favourite things.

Tagging @jurijurijurious @caesarflickermans @plvtarch @thefudge @natequarter @coryo @katniiss @astridbecks... i can't recall who else i know who writes fic.

#thanks for the tag!

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raymondebidochonlifechoices · 2 years

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To summarise:

6x14 or “Nothing has been scientific since the explosion”

This is an episode about the epic highs and lows of adult superpowers.

After dedicating one whole episode to Archie, the World’s Mostest Invinciblest Man, it’s time to learn about the downside of having superpowers. Yeap, you guessed it: it’s Betty and Veronica’s time to shine.

Cheryl debates over the possibility of calling Heather. Nana Rose, who knows firsthand what being a secondary character in Riverdale is like, says no. Cheryl, on the other hand, who is core four adjacent, and knows Heather won’t be having any scenes without her, says yes.

It’s whatever o’clock, which means Archie has some free time away from RHS to visit his good friend Jughead, who also has some free time away from RHS, and whine about Percival. Is Betty at work? Is the Diner still open? Who knows? Who cares?

Nothing has been scientific since the explosion, says Archie, i.e. the Riverdale writers are breaking the 4th wall.

There was only one prison doctor: Dr Curdle Jr, coroner, pediatrician, almost obstetrician, now toxicologist-at-a-mortuary-nearby-you, diagnoses Veronica with high toxicity. All the toxic encounters with daddykins had to lead somewhere, I guess.

Veronica embraces her black-widowesque nature by dressing like a black widow, i.e. like a widow. Who wears black. As Reggie puts it: “You look insane”. (But also hot).

Archie tries to build up immunity to palladium by exposing himself to it. Cheryl warns him that he’s playing with forces beyond his understanding. To be fair, this is Archie, so everything is beyond his understanding. Anyway.

Cheryl asks Nana Rose for her book on Rasputin for some esoteric info that could help Archie. I believe she’s looking for the part that goes: Ra ra Rasputin / Lover of the (ex) Serpent Queen / They put some palladium into his wine / Ra ra Rasputin / Riverdale’s greatest love machine / He drank it all and said, "I feel fine". There is truly nothing scientific after the explosion. Also, adult stories.

“I can’t be weak in the face of Percival” says Archie while implementing a regiment that will ensure he becomes even weaker.

Betty asks Archie is he’s ok. He initially lies but then comes clean and asks her to open a can for him. Archie thanks Betty and proceeds to ask her how she is. Nah. Kidding.

Betty asks Jughead to read her subconscious mind and unlock her repressed memories, because, yes, you guessed it, there is more misery for Betty.

She organises her memories into Betty Cooper’s Comic Spectacular, a series of comic books for Jughead to read in his mind’s eye. Bughead hold hands and they’re immediately transported to their first kiss and discussion about babies. We now know why they haven’t shared any one-on-one scenes: too hot.

Veronica is furious that Reggie is in cahoots with charlatan Percival with whom she’s also in cahoots (since she has accepted his triple rent and allowed him to live at the Babylonium).

She could have poisoned Percival but, no, she gives Reggie a nosebleed instead.

Chris O’Shea has made Percival’s amusement at the core four shenanigans into a character trait and can now smile and laugh at their lines without breaking character. Respect.

Dr Curdle Jr thinks Ronnie is going to die by all the toxins. He’s a man of science, therefore, he doesn’t understand her venomous superpower: Veronica is cursed with the snot of doom the kiss of death. The lick of murder. The nibble of demise.

Heather is a(n almost) completely new character, so, in lieu of backstory, she’s mentioned thrice during the episode to make the transition smoother. Right.

Betty has another appointment with Jug, so she dons her green blazer, the one that goes with Jug’s sofa and that makes her eyes pop. For science.

It turns out Alice had been lying about not having the serial killer jeans (only acceptable spelling). Also, Hal tried to groom Betty into a serial killer when she was little but, like, only once. (Suspiciously, the same once involving the late Caramel that we already knew about). Canon rewrite or clue that this universe -much like the Vale- is collapsing?

Beronica are about to have a girls night at the Wyrm! Will they pass the Bechdel test this time?

The answer is no, because Betty invited Archie as well.

As he becomes less dense, Archie finally realizes what was established 7 episodes ago: palladium makes him weak. Archie stops microdosing with Cheryl’s palladium soup (actual words) because the palladium in it made him lose strength. Will he forget again once he becomes denser? Only time will tell.

Cheryl is about to forge Archie through the power of metal transmutation. I mean, it’s not as if the writers haven’t warned us about the nons(i)ense. Betty wants to know if there are any drawbacks. Cheryl admits that Archie might die during the process but she didn’t consider it important. Betty’s furious but I’m with Cheryl. Surprisingly, so is Archie.

Faced with the possibility of death, Archie asks for one more night of sex. The level of b*rchie romance is killing me. Faster than palladium kills Archie, I might add.

After sex with Archie, another traumatic experience: Betty discovers what’s under the floorboards under the dining table. It’s proof that Alice Cooper - the same one who goaded Hal for not being able to kill anybody back in s2- knew about Hal’s extracurricular activities - and was afraid of him. Again, canon rewrite or clue?

Bummer: Archie didn’t die.

Archie’s SAT Greek is as good as his SAT English, the words ‘power’ and ‘combination’ are, nevertheless, pronounced and are, apparently, enough to turn his biceps into iron and his brain into tin. Archie can now officially shit steel and burp filings. Breathing might turn out to be a problem, what with all that oxygen … His hair remain red but it’s now due to rust.

Another Lodge bites the snack!

Another Lodge bites the snack!

And another Lodge bites and another Lodge bites-

Another Lodge bites the snack!

Betty finds an opportunity to get rid of Archie without him realising and gets on with it: she tells him to make out with Veronica, so that she can get her mojo back.

Fortified by Archie’s kiss, Ronnie dedicates Britney Spears’ Toxic to B*rchie and the Casino’s shareholders.

Meanwhile, after having touched Betty’s hands twice, Jughead gets rapid-fire flashbacks of Bughead kisses. RIP Tabitha’s shoulder.

Heather arrives at Thornhill but that is a story for the next episode.

Toffee had to run to the mall to get some anticorrosive spray and metal shiner to polish Archie’s abs. The sooner Veronica gets a glimpse of them, the sooner, Toffee can steer Betty in the right direction.

#Riverdale season 6 spoilers #Riverdale season 6 #s6 recaps #anti-b*rchie

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year

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Ok so have you ever heard the trope that’s serial killer x murder mystery writer? Do you think you could write something like that?

I'm not a big fan of writing serial killers... It makes me uncomfy. Particularly in a romantic context.

Mostly because I spent a period of time OBSESSED with them in like a true crime kinda way and hearing about Danny Rolling and the woman who KNEW WHAT HE DID and fell in love with him anyway kinda made me sick. And the book they write together was just... something else.

Also. Paul Bernardo the serial Rapist and Karla Homolka... nah. I'm good. I'll take a big old pass on that one.

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ambelle · 2 years

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I feel so odd as far as liking Loki goes because I like him as a villain so I don’t fit with his fans who collectively woobify him. No he was definitely a bad guy.

This is just me yelling into the void about shit I used to care about- more under the cut

Do I think Loki made up for killing a bunch of people by admitting he loved his brother? Nah! Is possible for villains to change their point of view? Yes! Loki couldn't redeem himself for the things he did in Avengers I think he just changed his mind on who he wanted to be.

Loki isn’t even the first bad guy to rethink his choices it’s pretty common. I wouldn’t classify him as a hero or a anti-hero though. IDK what to call him really. More like he just went “oh yeah that was wild LOL let me not do that anymore.” That’s honestly fine. I think it’s a unique and unintentionally funny character arc.

Taika deciding to humiliate the character to boost up Thor’s popularity was unnecessary IMO. Loki just has a character archetype people gravitate towards. Emo, violent, daddy issues, no friends, whoa is me, (black hair? LOL?)

They will always get people trying to make excuses for them it is what it is. And I do think these characters do add to the story even if I think fandoms babying them is lame and weird.

I feel like what Aang and T'challa have over Stefan and Thor is their writing. I feel like Stefan wasn't different enough from Damon to earn his " good brother" label and it felt like gaslighting every time it was pushed by the narrative. He was a whole serial killer??? With Thor it always felt like the writers weren't that interested in trying to flesh him out. His personality changes depending on what movie he's in. It's unfortunate because Chris is really charming and Thor has plenty of fans. I blame the messy inconsistency.

Marvel leaned into how funny Chris is but couldn’t decide if Thor was a joke or not. They couldn't find the balance and I think that hurt his character, not Loki.

Loki isn’t doing great character-wise now anyway. He was a side character on his show and no longer feels powerful enough to really do anything that matters. They are both down bad IMO.

Wow I haven’t rambled about anything to do with Marvel in years. Just feel like the ball was dropped with every character in Thor’s story. You find yourself needing to ruin one character to prop another one up then you're a bad writer. All your characters should be good.

#anti taika waititi #anti marvel #anti tom taylor #yeah I included Tom since he's ruining Nightwing to prop up batfam #but belle that's off topic #so what fuck Tom Taylor

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androgynousblackbox · 8 months

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You know, the more I read horror and stuff, I just wanna ask who the actual fuck still thinks that killing, raping and torturing women is transgressive in any way, shape or form? Like, I live in a country where I hear about women dying, sometimes in incredibly sadistic and horrible ways, almost every day. Not even kidding. I personally knew a person whose family member died in an ritualistic sacrifice. I won't tell you how many women I know who have been raped, abused, stalked and told disgusting things by complete strangers because, frankly, too fucking many. Some of that abuse was even done by other women, family members, while they were young and more vulnerable. What I mean to say... all those violents fantasies with women. Mid. Mid, mid, fucking mid. That is normalized shit already. It's not nice, and doesn't mean other people who aren't women aren't being treated like shit right now, but it's so painfully common that when I see it written in another "extreme horror" book is like... Again? Really? We don't have anything else? This is the only thing? Nothing else? This all the fucking peak of what is horror we have come to know? I swear to god, I read this horror anthology that was made by all different kind of writers and at least three, or maybe even four, were all about "isn't awful that this serial killers has abused, raped and killed all these women and has never been caught, isn't that a terrifying concept, isn't it sadistic and cruel how much he killed women" and you wouldn't convince me that they weren't directly copypasted from each other, even if I could clearly see they came from different authors. I don't say don't do that ever again or you could never write a good story in which that happens. I am just saying that if that is your biggest point, if you pretend to tell me how "shocking" misogyny is... then I don't know what to tell you, my guy, because nah. Like, literally in what kind of bubble you live. It's not even offensive, I am not disgusted, I am not angry. I am just so fucking bored. Do something else, I am begging you.

#andro is talking #rape mention #misogyny mention

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fictionalreads · 2 years

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911 Season 5 Episode 17

Bathena

Awe Bathena went with Mat to the funeral. We love supportive families.

NO MAY ITS NOT YOUR FAULT

Athena checking in with Bobby too like “you ain’t off the hook.”

He’s after the attention and glory Athena, not the deaths.

BOBBY!!😂 HE TOLD Y’ALL HE WASN’T LETTING HIS FAMILY GET HURT AND NOT DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT

No Bobby! Don’t blame yourself.

Hen

Honestly, in my family we keep them. Like. People look back at the

Chimney knew something was up.

Detective Hen in action.

He moved around to avoid suspicion.

Chim can’t act cool, Hen.

Everybody has an origin story.

Chim said he felt himself when he passed an English test 😂

LMAO CHIMNEY Finally getting it.

Buck is trying to give the man the benefit of the doubt but they’re like nah he suspicious.

He’s not a serial killer, he wants glory. The death is just an accidental side effect sometimes. Well. Maybe he is a serial killer. But like by proxy not by intent.

Yes. Be careful Hen.

GET HOME HEN wait no. GET TO CHIMNEY

Nooooo HEN

WAKE UP HEN

This man is psycho.

MADDIE YOU CAN FIGURE THIS OUT I BELIEVE IN TOY

Is she tied to the chair? Cause she’s moving a lot but not getting up.

CHIMNEY TO THE RESCUE!

KNOCKED HIS ASS RIGHT OUT

All in ride or die! I love this friendship and I’m glad we’re seeing more of them this season.

Eddie

LMAO Eddie looked at Buck like “come on they’re my parents” and Buck immediately correcting himself.

Eddie said not my whole family, just my dad.

“Hotel is 20 minutes away, Chris will love the pool.” WHICH ONE OF Y’ALL IS IN THE WRITER’S ROOM?

ABUELA MOVED BACK TO TEXAS?! I don’t like this.

LMAO THOSE THREE JOKING ABOUT HIS MOM NOT BEING ABLE TO COOK SO THEY HOPED ABUELA WOULD BE HELPING

Why does it seem like his dad is competing with Eddie?

Where are his sisters? I was hoping to meet them this episode.

Oh it’s confirmed he’s older than his sisters. At least Adriana.

It’s a cute story when his mom told it cause for her it was about her son trying to help her.

Awe shit Eddie to the rescue.

Eddie’s dad and heart references!

EDIIE READING HIS DAD IS EVERYTHING FOR ME TONIGHT

HEALING

Miscellaneous

This kid lowkey reminds me of Buck. He went to help the driver. Yeah he’s definitely a Buck type. Wait. He said pay phone. This is a flash back. OH THIS IS MONDAY (or is it Tuesday?)

HOLY SHIT A HEART REFERENCE

This episode seems packed. I love it.

RAVI and his spot on deductions about the station.

BUCK FINDING OUT WHAT TAYLOR IS PLANNING TO DO that promise was too easily made. I don’t believe her.

Awe fuck Buck is pissed. I lowkey wanna see it. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t seen truly angry Buck. We’ve seen hurt Buck (when he yelled at his parents I saw that as him lashing out cause he’s hurt), sad Buck, confused Buck, but like. Straight up angry? Nah.

WAIT I WANTED TO SEE ANGRY BUCK!

Damn. It’s over already? I was really into it this episode.

#911 on fox #9 1 1 on fox #season 5 episode 17 #season 5 #episode 17 #I’m so ready for this episode #hen wilson #howard chimney han #eddie diaz #evan ‘buck’ buckley #bobby nash #athena grant nash #bathena #Isabel #taylor kelly #maddie buckley #all in ride or die #karen wilson

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shembl · 1 year

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Moby Dick FNP Chapter 3 - In the Inn

Hello again, it’s time for what turned out to be a really long chapter compared to the last few eh? this took us two or three sittings on stream to get through on stream a year or so ago. Anyway, for those new; this is where My friend Andy (A proper writer!) and I (A fool) read through Moby Dick very slowly and attempt to make it a bit easier to read while probably massively misinterpreting things. This Chapter’s TL;DR is

-Ishmael stares at a painting and gets really annoyed about it -Everything around the painting is a nightmare hellbutcher dungeon kind of aesthetic -The guy who runs the place is a manic prankster called Peter Coffin -The best character in the book turns up, he’s called Bulkington and everyone loves him. He is also probably a ghost and I think he dies offscreen later on? -Ishmael’s room gets double-booked and he spends about 15 minutes hiding in the bed staring at his bedmate who doesn’t know he’s there, and then acts like it was his bedmate who was the problem. -Ishmael’s bedmate is Queequeg, who is the best actual character in the book even if there’s some weird racists shit surrounding him.

Anyway, enjoy or don’t, your call.

Chapter 3: In the Inn

So, you walk into this inn, right, and it looks like shit, like an old fucked up boat they dragged onto land and forced into being a house. And at the other end of it there’s this painting. No matter which way you look at it, it’s shit, incomprehensible, nightmarish, like something from the Age of Hags, a gross splat of bad imagery in a frame. You look at it from every angle, stand all over the place, ask the people nearby, they don’t know what’s up either, but maybe, you more you look at it and calm down a bit and you think ‘nah it’s not that bad actually’ and then your senses come back and you’re like ‘no it is bad.’

That’s my review of the painting.

It was shit, but there’s a lot of things you can say about shit. To me it looks like a lot of things, heaths, elemental conflicts, midnight gales, some awful time-smashing cataclysm, seas; which you know I’m a big fan of, but mostly I think it looked like a massive fish.

Maybe it’s just that I had fish on my mind, but my mind was telling me there was a fish on that painting.

That’s how art is sometimes I guess.

Then it clicked though, it was actually a ship all fucked up and crashed with a whale doing a sweet jump over it, but sweet turned to sour for this aquatic lad, as he’s only gone and speared himself on all of three of the ship’s masts.

Total lunacy.

I wouldn’t paint it.

What kind of mad bastard would hang a painting like that?

Probably the same kind of mad bastard who would hang up a load of monster-mode clubs and other weapons. You’ve got your clubs with teeth in them, you’ve got clubs with hair in them, you’ve got spears and harpoons and lances and every other form of pointed stick that’s ever been used to cause harm.

There was even a sickle which had a shape to it which I can only describe as being like a long-armed lawn mower. Make of that what you will, for I dare not to dwell on it.

There was also this absolutely legendary harpoon that was all jacked up by the ravages of time, sea and whale, so that it now looked more like a corkscrew. People said it had once been used by a really cool and handsome whale slayer, he chucked it so hard at a whale's arse that even though the whale got away it came out through the whale's head years later.

Moving further in, you begin to figure out what this place is about. It’s a theme bar, and the theme is death. Death and whales.

It’s all covered in dusty, cracked and fucked up bottles and other glasswares, and at one end there’s a massive whale jaw so big you could use it as the foundation for a 6-person tent if you were a serial killer.

But this was no tent, not right now any way, this was a nest for a tiny man, dangerous eyes in his face, and a look about him that suggested he wanted to either get you drunk or kill you.

I could tell from looking at him, this was the kind of barkeeper who was a prick about measures. Always ripping you off and under serving like a villain.

I walked past some sailors who were having a nice time looking at some fish bones and went on up to the landlord and asked about a room. He looked me up and down, and said

“We ain’t got no rooms, but I reckon you’re a whale guy, so go share a bed with another whale guy. It’s just what whale guys do. You ARE a whale guy, ain’t ye?”

I said back to him, “It’s not so much about whether he’s a whale guy or not, I’ll share a bed with anyone, well, not just anyone, it really depends on the person, rather than their occupation, you know? Besides, it’s cold outside.”

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I took a seat on one of those picnic table type tables and took a look around, one guy sat near me was fumbling around between his legs, his eyes were crossed and his tongue was poking out... I looked away after a while.

We went in for dinner, into the coldest room you could imagine, colder than Iceland I would say.

“A fire would be a good idea here.” I said.

“A fire’s too expensive.” said the landlord.

So we sat, shivered, buttoned up our monkey coats, which were just a name for a type of coat, and not actually made out of monkeys, and burnt our lips with hot tea, which we held with half-frozen fingers, which really is pretty confusing if you think about it. What temperature am I supposed to be right now, you know?

The food was nice though, you’ve not just got meat, and not just potatoes, you’ve got both! And not just both! Dumplings as well! Good heavens! dumplings for supper!

One guy was going absolutely bananas over these dumplings (not me)

The landlord said “Me lad, you keep crammin’ down dumplings in such a manner, ye’re likely to have dumpling related nightmares!”

“Landord,” I whispered. “That’s not the guy I’m sharing a bed with is it?”

I was concerned that I might be sharing a bed with someone having nightmares in such a place with so many instruments of cruelty up on the walls as this.

The landlord laughed darkly, in that way people do when they are holding back some info in a way that is very funny from a certain perspective. “Oooooooh no me lad, your bunk-chum don’t bother with no dumplings, he only eats meat.” He laughed again. “Rare meat, the rarest of meats, ye might say.”

“Holy shit.” I said, not picking up on the giggles or anything. “Where is he then?”

“Oh he’ll be here soon.” The innkeeper smirked, laughed, waggled his eyebrows and then refused to make eye contact.

Something in my bones told me that there was something up with this other whale guy, and that if we were going to share a bed, I’d make sure to inspect his naked body before I got in with him. Safety first and all that.

Anyway, food was over and we trickled back to the bar. I didn’t have anything to do so I just kind of sat around looking at people.

All of a sudden there was a massive loud noise, sounded like a riot. Barely had the noise reached my ears when the landlord leapt up onto the table. “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

He must have really liked news from the Feegees.

They all came in, they were a rowdy bunch, especially for a bunch of sailors who looked like shit. Frozen beards and bad patch jobs on all their clothes. They swarmed the bar and started complaining about headaches to the innkeeper, who gave them booze.

Once they were drunk, they got more noisy, so the headache cure (booze) must have worked.

Rowdy as they were, there was one among them who was not so rowdy. He was huge, jacked, handsome, chest broader than a dam and he had nice twinkly eyes that seemed sad, and nice twinkly teeth that would look nice in a smile if only he weren’t so clearly struggling with some inner demons. He tried to hide to hide it though so he didn’t throw off the vibe his pals were enjoying. After a while he left and that’s when I first heard his name. “BULKINGTON!” shouted all of the sailors as they scuttled about the place as one unit, like a man-berg, looking for him. “BULKINGTOOOOON!” It was a great name for such a big lad. I hoped I was sharing a bed with Ol’ bulky. My future shipmate, if not in an actual ship, then perhaps in a little ship called a bed.

Anyway, everyone had gone. It was about 9pm and I had a good plan in my head, a plan that was in my head before all these sailors turned up actually.

Kinda weird that the innkeeper wants me to share a bed with a guy, especially the part about sailors sharing beds, I’ve been on boats and let me tell you, you don’t share a hammock, how can you? They’re all droopy. No, you get your own bed with your own blanket and your own skin to keep all your wet bits in.

Nobody likes to share a bed, it’s a private time. As the innkeeper continued to drill holes in the back of my head with his eyes, I began to have suspicions.

The more I thought about it, the worse this deal was looking, and besides, I was getting tired and wanted to sleep. But if I go to bed in another guy’s bed, which would probably have shitty linens on it because whale guys are gross, then what if I’m asleep and he comes back and he’s like “Who’s this guy in my bed?” that’d be pretty weird for him, but what if he gets the wrong idea and he’s drunk or a serial killer or something and then he just gets naked and gets into bed with me, who knows what he’d do. I didn’t like it.

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

I slapped the bench and winced at all the new splinters that had entered my hand.

The innkeeper looked sad for a moment before some manic energy overtook his face “Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a very uncomfortable bench!”

He hopped over the bar, lathe in hand.

“But wait! Me little Skrimshander, I’ve a lathe, and I’ll have ye snug enough shortly.”

He scuttled over and wiped down the bench with his handkerchief, and then went to town on the bench with his lathe. I thought about moving out of the way, but was paralysed by the ferocity in the man’s approach. He wasn’t looking down at his work, his eyes were fixed on mine and he was grinning like an ape. Over and over the lathe bounced off some indestructible knot in the wood. He was sweating, his arms were shaking and after a while, the strength left his wrists so that he was just sort of daubing away at the wood. His breathing was ragged.

“For god’s sake man!” I plead over and over again. “Stop! It was fine enough before, you don’t need to do this!” and yet still, huffing and puffing he scraped away at his own furniture.

After some time had passed, and I can’t tell you how much time, because I didn’t have a clock, he stopped, winked at me, and scooped up all the shavings, which took a few minutes.

Then he winked again scuttled over to the fire, and threw in all the shavings, a thrifty approach to the fuel crisis he had previously complained about.

Meanwhile, I was covered in sawdust. I was itchy.

I had a test-lay on the bench and it was too short for me, being big and tall, but I also had a big brain, so I figured I could fix that by popping a chair at the end to rest my legs on. The bigger problem was that the bench was a foot too narrow for my big muscly back, being what benches are, and the innkeeper had gone so mental with the lathe that my bed-bench was four inches lower than the other benches, and I didn’t want to ask the guy to lathe this one up because he would probably die, looking at him.

Also it was drafty.

This fucking harpoon guy! What a fucking disaster he was causing for me, the prick. I thought about heading up to his room, stealing his bed and locking the door, force him to knock me awake, that sort of thing, but then what if that pissed him off? He’d probably just punch me. I reconsidered.

I had another look around at this shitty sleeping arrangement I had made for myself and thought, maybe this harpooner isn’t so bad. Maybe sharing a bed with him could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Optimistic I know, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.

Other sailors came in, laughing, being friends and all that, going up to share beds and have a good time, but my harpoon guy, he was nowhere to be seen, and it was already midnight. I’d been waiting for three hours since the last time I looked at the clock. Who knows how long the innkeeper had spent of this time staring me in the face and planing the bench beneath me.

“Landlord!” I said, “what sort of a chap is this guy? Is he always back this late?” I was sleepy, but also annoyed.

“Uhuuhuuhuuhuu” chuckled the innkeeper, darkly, as if he had just heard some mean joke about me. “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches all the worms. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

I had no idea why he said the word ‘early’ like that, but this guy clearly had more pressing problems, and so did I.

“What do you mean ‘Can’t sell his head?” I made air-quotes to show that this was an insane thing to say to a guy. I was fucking pissed, livid. “Are you trying to tell me that this guy is out there on a saturday night, or now technically a sunday morning since it’s so fucking late, trying to sell his head around town”

“That’s precisely it,” said the innkeeper, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.” He waggled his eyebrows.

I was getting really, really angry about all of this, I needed to get on a boat. “With what?” I shouted.

The innkeeper grabbed his own head by the ears. “With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“Stop fucking about, Innkeeper. What are you going on about?” I’d calmed down a little bit. “Calm down with this weird chat, I’m not green.” Green is what you call people in Sailor language when they’re a bit new or daft.

“May be not,” He took out a stick, and in an instant, whittled it into a toothpick with his lathe. “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ‘ere harpooneer hears you a’slanderin’ his head.”

I lost my shit. “I’ll break his fucking head then if that’s what it comes to!” Really needed to get on a boat.

“It’s broke a’ready,” The Innkeeper said

“Broke?” I said “how do you mean, broke?”

“It’s broke! and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as a big mountain in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, you keep going on and telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories which frankly, invoke upon me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connection, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree.”

I had once or twice in the past dabbled with the legal profession, and thought that this might have been a good opportunity to scare an old man with courtroom talk.

“I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to retract that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no intention of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

I folded my arms and snorted in that way I always assumed lawyers would do after making a good case.

“Wheeeeeeell,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

My case was lost, the landlord was making total sense. He wasn’t trying to trick me into anything, all that weird laughter must have just been his normal laugh, and he was thinking of something funny, like clowns or a puppet show he might have seen earlier on.

Still, a literal head salesman sounded like a pretty sketchy prospect to me, and I wasn’t super keen on sharing a bed with a guy who does weird cannibal shit.

“This guy sounds fucking nuts” I said. “You’d better be careful around guys like that, Innkeeper.”

“He pays reg’lar,” The Innkeeper said “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lit a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

He was really keen on me coming, and that seemed reasonable enough since he was taking me to my bed, so I followed him, all good.

We got to the room and the bed was massive. Enormous, you could fit four harpooneers in it, even if they were massive like that Bulkington guy. A four Bulkington bed, what a thought!

“There,” said the innkeeper, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table, thrifty!; “there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” after a while I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

I took a closer look at the bed, it wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t too bad, and it was still enormous. Besides the crazy chest there wasn’t much else in terms of furniture, just a few shelves and a big drawing of a guy hitting a while and a bunch of harpooneer paraphernalia including a big harpoon and a hammock.

Hammocks, famously, are for sleeping on. I thought it seemed insane that we had come to this; planing down a bench, sharing a bed with a head salesman, and yet no fucking mention had ever been made that there was a spare hammock going. Insanity. There even loads of hooks just strung about the place, it wouldn’t be hard to set up.

There was an object on the chest, being naturally inquisitive, I grabbed it, sniffed it, licked it, looked at it, sniffed it again, held it far away and looked at it again. It looked like a doormat, but it had holes in it like clothes.

What kind of monster human would wear something so deranged?

I put it on out of interest, it was itchy and damp. I imagined this harpooneer must have been using it like some kind of raincoat.

I found a big shard of glass and looked at my reflection in it.

It looked like shit. I ripped it off my body so furiously and hastily that I pulled a muscle in my neck.

I thought about this Harpooneer and his doormat, and slowly started to undress. First my coat, what’s the deal with selling heads? Guy must be crazy. Then my smaller coat that I wear underneath the other one. Who wears a doormat? I sat there thinking a bit longer, figuring out how naked I could get without tempting fate and having this maniac burst into my room to punch me.

I made a calculated decision, got naked, and bunkered down under the sheets.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about for ages, couldn’t get to sleep. At last I slid off into a light doze, and was nearly there into a proper sleep, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

I held my breath as he entered the room, his little candle didn’t reach me as I shivered under the covers. He put the candle down in the corner and started going through his bag. I couldn’t see his face, until he turned around and then I could. His face was a monster mash hodgepodge of all sorts of colours and shapes. Oh bloody hell he’s been out fighting and his face is covered in cuts and bruises and plasters, I thought, He’d be a horrible guy to share a bed with! But then I remembered hearing stories about people going to New Zealand and getting face tattoos, maybe that’s what had happened to this guy.

He pulled out some weird items from his bag, including an axe and a hairy wallet, then he crammed this weird shrunken head down into the bottom of the bag and then the weirdest part came. He took off his hat and he was mostly bald except for a weird topknot thing on his forehead, awful! Let me tell you, I nearly fucking legged it, faster than I’d have ever eaten a dumpling.

I know it was my ignorance stoking my fear of this guy, but I’d never seen a guy like this before, and my fear, brought on as it was by ignorance was enough to stop me asking what his deal was, so it was like a little vicious cycle with just me in the middle of it, being afraid and thinking about jumping out of the window, but I’d come up a lot of steps to get here, and I didn’t fancy skipping them down to street level. Not naked anyway.

Speaking of naked, he was getting his clothes off now. His chest and arms were covered in the same sort of tattoos as his face. It looked like he’d been in a war for thirty years or so, and now wore the customary thirty-year war checkered plaster shirt. Maybe he was just really into chess, I didn’t know and I didn’t ask.

Then came the naked legs, these pins were tattooed as well, with frog footprints. I assume they were tattoos, it could be that he’d just been climbed on by some sort of exotic lizard which does tattoos as it goes. It’s a big world out there, you can’t ever say you know everything about it. Either way, this guy was a lunatic and I was pretty sure that these heads of his were the heads of his murder victims who were probably his own brothers, because look at him, what a monster! I only hoped that he hated my head so he wouldn’t think to take it with him later on. Heavens! Look at that tomahawk!

He still hadn’t seen me though, fixed as he was on the bag. He fished out some little black figurine, which he seemed to be very reverent about. He popped it in the fireplace and I was confused but thought it looked kinda cool in a way.

The fireplace placement started to make sense when the fella pulled out a bunch of wood shavings (what is it with this town and woodshavings???) and put them around the figure, before lighting them on fire and throwing a ship’s biscuit (or normal biscuit, to sailors like me) on top of it.

He then started making weird noises and then burned his hands quite badly trying to get the biscuit out of the fire. He offered it to the little figure, but it wasn’t interested, so he ate it.

Then he stuffed the figure back into his bag with all the un-ceremony of my shopkeeper bagging my bread.

I couldn’t think of much else he could be getting up to before getting into bed, and frankly, even if there was something I probably didn’t want to see it, so I thought it was about time to make myself known, or else he’d probably find me with his hands shortly.

But the moment I spent deliberating what to say was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he squinted at it, holding it up to the light, stuck his mouth on the handle, and puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke (wow!). The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I yelped, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

I windmilled my entire body away from him, slamming up against the wall, I babbled various apologies and fumbled to get a candle or lantern going so I could explain why I’d been in his bed for so long, just watching him in the darkness without saying anything. I think he got the wrong impression.

“WHO ARE YOU? I’LL KILL YE!” He shouted at me, swishing that flaming pipe-axe around at me, scattering hot ashes around so that they nearly set the bedsheets on fire.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” I shouted, bravely. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak! Tell me who ye be, or damn me, I’ll kill ye!” He continued to spin the axe around.

The innkeeper arrived with a light and a grin, I ran over and clutched at his shirt.

“Don’t be afraid now,” he said, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop grinning!” I squealed, assertively. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a bloody cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”

I did not sabbee, I had not idea what this meant.

“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed. Instantly calm.

“Come, Get yerself abed, stranger.” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

#moby dick #ishmael #queequeg #whale weekly #peter coffin #pranks

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wanderingrestlessly · 2 years

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what was that one book with the premise of like. serial killer and writer are dating, writer comes up with these kills and are like ‘is this realistic do u think’ and serial killer (writer doesnt know theyre a serial killer, or maybe they do? idk) goes out and kills someone in that way and comes back like ‘yeah thats good’ or ‘nah it’d be more like this...’

but also it might’ve been a tumblr post and not a book. i know for sure as shit i didn’t come up w it, but fsr i woke up this morning and my first thought was that book/post lmao

#jay speaks #listen sunday mornings are for reading (generally) and i woke up and was like 'i specifically wanna read that'

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roachclit · 2 years

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nah its cool i can resend lol. i agree, its annoying bc korekiyo is a prime example of chapter 3 syndrome, where the writing goes to shit and the killer is distorted heavily as things are revealed (him being a serial killer). hes more remembered for quirky oneliners and being kinky than his backstory, i adoooreee his talent, personality and design too.

its a shame because this weird relationship with his sister is abuse, his older sister actually abused him and his psychotic personality is the result of it, probably thinking that this is love and he doesn't even realize it. (probably explains his "humanity is beautiful, even the ugly parts!" Thing)

danganronpa is so bad at representing survivors of abuse. constantly antagonizing them.

yessss finally another korekiyo was the victim truther!! I remember my friends thinking he was super gross cos they assumed he was the one who initiated the incestuous relationship but like… all signs point to him being groomed and abused. Between his free time events and his conversations with his “tulpa” it’s made abundantly clear that his sister controlled every aspect of his life when she was alive. His entire identity is a result of her influence- his talent, his interests, his clothing, all of it. When he talks to his “sister” during the trial we see that it’s a coping mechanism more than anything - he can barely make decisions for himself without consulting “her” for her opinion. His sister persona is authoritative and harsh and he submits to her immediately.

Maybe this is diving more into headcanon territory than actual canon but I think Korekiyo’s sister was bitter and jealous that he actually had a shot at a normal life while she was sickly and bedridden, and she essentially molded him into her ideal self so she could live vicariously through him. With their identities becoming more and more blurred together, it’s not that much of a stretch that when driven to psychosis he would perceive her as a literal part of himself. And I imagine his sister initiated their incestuous relationship because she never got to experience romance or sex due to her illness, and since their sibling relationship was already so codependent to begin with it made Kiyo an easy target for her to manipulate.

It’s honestly a shame that he’s largely only remembered for the incest subplot and “lol seesaw” when there’s so much more to his character. He’s my favorite character design in v3 hands down, like from the moment I first saw him he intrigued me and I wanted to learn more about him. I love that he’s just unapologetically weird about his niche interests and the other characters find him strange and offputting. As much as I dislike the actual trial of chapter 3, I really enjoyed its folk horror atmosphere and Kiyo’s interactions with the other characters leading up to the seance. His outlook on death was especially interesting, and only became more poignant when we started learning more about his backstory. I could go on but I think you get the idea. As much as I love him as he is, I wish the writers didn’t just toss him aside like they did.

And yeah, what is with the chapter 3 killers having their character butchered by terrible writing in every game iteration?? Celeste was one of my favorite characters in thh up to the point where she falsely accused Taka of sexually assaulting her, which was super gross and came out of nowhere. I never really cared for Mikan but she was at least tolerable up until she was revealed as the killer, at which point she just became insufferable. At least Celeste’s execution was cool so she still managed to go out with a bang. Whereas Mikan…. not so much, rip 😔

#WHEW this got long but. man I just have a lot of feelings about Kiyo and I don’t get to talk about him very often #I’ve actually been working on a fic about this in an effort to make him more sympathetic #could be rly triggering for obvious reasons so idk if you’d be interested but #idk I just want him to have some dignity and be characterized as the tragic victim that he was #ask

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b0mblover · 4 months

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Snowflakes and drugs dont mix (that) well

By: J

(im not even kidding while writing this i got such bad eye pain, i stg lopt is just tormenting me anytime i do anything related to jirou without him in it)

(also this is prob extremely ooc bc im basically describing/romantasiing my own life :,) yes my life sucks dont remind me)

(again, im very muchly not a writer, i was bored and decied to make the probably first jirocrown fic of life 🙂 im genuinely sorry to anyone who reads this shit)

(anon on twt, gfys, and no this isnt supposed to be taken that damn seriously, ik theres an asston of mistakes, but its almost 3 am and i need to sleep!! alr alr u can read it now chill)

-5° (c 23°f) -5° it was cold out, extremely cold. Jirou was walking on a backroad, he didnt know what it was called, even though he had been down it hundreds of times. Around 1 (am) Crown said hed pay him for a drug run, which was rather normal, go on a drug run, hang out with crown, sleep, go home. The only issue was that it took around 30 minutes or so to get there, also normally okay, in the summer. Where he lived, got extremely cold in the winter months, in a “im going to call off of work today because ill get frostbite if i try to go outside” way. This wouldnt be an issue if there was public transport, but of course, the world apparently hated jirou. Jirou was half way there, hands almost shaking because of the temperature, he dealt with the cold ironically well, the reason it didnt bother him as much as normal people was unimportant to him. (reason is because he used to sit on the porch to not hear his parents fight, though it never really worked that well) Maybe it was a fragile ego, maybe he was just broke, but hed never wear gloves, even with the possibility of frostbite taking his hands. He knocked on Crowns door, though he had a key, he felt like he could barely move any joints in his hand to grab them. After a 3 rough minutes, Crown answered the door letting him in. “Ah th thanks, ‘preciate ya getting the shit” Crown handed him about ¥14000 “This is too much crown” “nah its freezing out plus ive been meaning to pay ya back anyways” “I, if you say so” he was hesitant to take it, but ultimately decided that, crown, a literal serial killer, wouldnt decide to screw him over, at least not like that.

As normal, they both walked over to the (admittedly dirty) couch, crown, in a pose that was slightly… provocative, jirou sitting normally (as normal as a gay man can). Crown sat a powder on to the table, “uh you gotta card or somethin dude?” jirou handed him a razor blade, “uh vaguely concerned as to why you carry that but thanks either way, uh youre not gonna like use that now though right?” “nnah, dumbass i know what youre doing im staring right at you, why would i hand you something that i was gonna use” “i mean look, you made paintings out of your own blood, for no real reason either! youre not as predictable as you think” “whatever ya say just hurry up” “damn why you say impatient huh?” crown brought his face down to the table after making the powder into a mostly straight line. “Cause i want my share already and you take too long” Crown tossed him the razor blade, jirou aligned the powder into a straighter line than crowns, and snorted it as well. “Yeayea whatever man, the hell should we do any ways, too cold to go out, any ideas?” “sure i have several but the last time we did any of my ideas someone had to be killed cause they were a witness” “ah right, well uh, wanna play uno?” “gonna be real with ya c, the joints in my fingers feel like the are fucking screwed shut at the moment so I’m gonna have to pass” “your joints where what” “*sighs* (bc how do u write a sigh phonetically) fingers too cold, fingers barely move because cold” “oh, what nah lemme feel bro” “fine fine whatever” crown moved his hands onto Jirous, and, of course, they were extremely cold. “Damn dude what the hell, how long where you outside for?” “uh i mean i was smoking when you texted so at least like i dunno 15 minutes more than normal?” “man the hell, cmere” crown had gotten closer and brought Jirou into a hug, granted it didn’t do much, the heating and cooling had been busted for months, crown was surviving on 15 blankets, but it felt nice. Jirou was aware that hugging someone, at least in the position they were in, wouldn’t do much, but he let crown anyways, for a drug addicted serial killer, he always felt at home with Crown, wanted. “Ugh alright alright c i get it okay? i love you too chill” “if i were to chill at the moment id freeze to death jirou” “yea yea i get it kay? I’m gonna go lay down” “right behind ya” Crown followed Jirou into the one bedroom that was there, it was noticeably colder than other rooms such as the living room, but it was much more “lively” or “lived in” plus the mattress on the ground that they insisted on calling a bed with 15 blankets kinda made up for it too. Jirou fell onto the mattress, groaning out a tiny bit before going quite again. Crown sat himself down on the opposite side, pulling two of the blankets off where they were stacked before getting under the one that was already on the bed. Jirou did the same after taking his socks off, he recalled how when this first started, how crown and him would fight about if he should take his jacket off before laying down. back then he’d say it was because he was cold, maybe it was slightly true, or the fact he didn’t want him to see his cuts and scars. After a particularly awful trip Jirou experienced after taking way too much of god knows what and almost having to go to the er, crown was, for lack of a better term in his eyes, well aware, of Jirous life, he broke down to him. After that he was careful with what he said before Jirou called him out for walking on eggshells around him, annoyed that crown was essentially “babying him”, granted unknown if it was on purpose or not. Jirou after laying down, staring at the ceiling, got closer to crown, almost suffocating him with his (fucking gigantic) oversized jacket. Crown moved what he assumed was the hood of the jacket so he could breath and brought Jirou into a tight hug. Jirou accepted, pushing into it instead of pulling away like usual. Crown could feel how cold his skin was, and how warm he felt inwardly.

#j writes badly #im so sorry to everyone who reads this #no beta we die like jirou

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