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Nico, Timo and Jonas taking part in Fiala’s Friends 8/8

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do you use your irl name on tumblr? ie, either your government name or the name you go as in real life. if you use a different name that's not related to you irl here on tumblr then vote no

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don’t you just hate it when 🚙

um. sorry wait a minute [grabs mic]

can the owner of the blue honda civic move their car please. it’s blocking my post.

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SUPERMAN (2025)

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Don't forget to sleep on your neck at a weird angle tonight. I love you

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tonight i swore a blood oath to the minimum wage workers at my local subway

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If ANY of yall EVER do this shit to me, im deleting every single fic out of spite.

If I ever catch one of yall doing this to another author and I know youre a follower of my work I will block you personally on every platform

None of yall are the fic police. I DESPISE genai. I think its an insult to art, humanity, and the planet itself. But aint not a single fucking person here qualified to pick apart a strangers fic looking for a gotcha moment to make yourselves feel superior. If you think something is ai you can ask the author (most are proud of the ai use and will just tell you straight up) if they say yes you have your answer and can warn people. If they say no and you dont believe them you block and quietly keep it between you and maybe a close group of friends. Spreading misinformation is DANGEROUS. And NONE of you doing this shit are anywhere near qualified to do it.

THIS GOES DOUBLY FOR ARTISTS.

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one of the guys in the kitchen at work got called irritating and replied “I am not irritating. You just find me irritating. There are many people who love me.” I think we should all adopt his attitude

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how your email finds me

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tiny nothing ficlet to celebrate no longer being shadowbanned. for @catofthecanals289, thank you for standing by your cancelled queen (me lol)

From where he’s lying underneath a string of fairy lights, Jack’s body tingles.

Focusing in on the sticky wads of blue tack that hold them to the ceiling makes breathing easier in the too big room. The pillow beneath his head is hurting his neck, something he’ll enjoy bitching about tomorrow, he thinks. Quinn really should have done a better job at picking out his bedding.

They’re millionaires now- Why the fuck is he sleeping on this scratchy Ikea shit?

Distantly, Jack can hear the remains of their party, dying down like the fading embers of their bonfire. A warm glow where earlier there was the roar of noise and music.

“Shut the fuck up,” comes Trevor’s characteristically loud voice, cutting through the buzzing in Jack’s brain, “Yorkie, you’re a fucking liar, you-“

There’s the hiss of someone attempting to quieten him, the gritted reminder that it’s past three in the morning. Then, softer splutters of laugher. The noise of someone stumbling over their own feet as they slide open the patio door to step out into the night, the methodical click of the lighter as they spark up.

Except, Jack can’t hear that from all the way upstairs in Quinn’s bedroom. He must be imagining it, his mind filling in the blank spaces.

He can’t remember how long he’s been here, alone.

The smoke of his own joint is still clouding the air, and that’s got to be one of the perks of owning your own summer lake house- you can kick your friends out into the cold to get high and light your own up from the comfort of your brother's bed. Less good is how easy it is now to push it past a previously untested limit, no parents around to behave in front of at the end of the night.

His arms are heavy. His mouth is dry. He needs water, but when he last tried to stand up, he was so dizzy that his feet refused to move in the right direction. Instead, they sent him sprawling onto the sheets on his back.

Almost like-

I think your brain is too quick for your skates sometimes, Jacky.

The haze of the memory eats away at the edges of his oblivion. The flash of dimples, the crinkled corners of two eyes to let Jack know it was meant to tease, but not to be unkind. Words breathed against his ear after a check to the boards, done just to leave Jack dazed.

Pulling pigtails, his mom had said once, when a younger Jack had asked why the boys in his class were so mean to the prettiest girls.

Jack reaches for his phone, and when he unlocks it, the message thread he wants is right there. So are the last five of his unanswered texts, the delivered not yet switched over to seen.

It’s hard to feel the tug at his scalp from six hours and one ocean away.

He scrolls past his wall of blue backgrounded text until he reaches the last chunk of messages not sent by him.

pretty cool, right? 😎

Dorky emoji and all, followed by a picture of a body of water- a river, maybe- an inflatable boat, and a crate of Swiss beers. Then, a text that had Jack’s breath catch in his lungs, and then burn his throat like smoke when it finally escaped.

come next summer, i’ll show you a good time jacky 🤙

Please, Jack had thought before he could catch himself, and then, no, stop. You’re not supposed to be able to make me feel like this.

It’s true, he’s pretty sure.

Only hockey is meant to make Jack feel like this.

lol, maybe, had been his lame reply, the only message of his that Nico has read in the last twelve hours.

It had taken an hour for Jack to cave and send another, friendlier follow up. Two for his stomach to drop when, checking Instagram he saw Nico had uploaded a close friends story, but not replied to him. Three for him to decide the only answer to the dilemma of driving away the crush you weren’t supposed to have is to get faded beyond belief.

Playing pool and sparking up with his boys had stopped him from doing something stupid, like sending Nico a shakily taken photo of his own- his face, cheeks flushed, lips bitten -or worse, asking if the offer would still stand if Nico knew how badly Jack wanted to get him in his bed.

There’s no point opening the doors you bolted shut for good reasons in exchange for the answers you already know. And Jack knows, because-

Jacky.

He’s always liked the way Nico says his name. How he needed to make it into two syllables, like he wanted to keep it in his mouth for just a moment longer.

Jacky.

Soft, warm. Never the taunt it could have been. Long hair and pretty face, is this the NHL or a beauty pageant, Jacky.

Jacky.

“Jack?”

Jack doesn’t know how long Quinn has been standing in the doorway of his bedroom. His face is twisted, eyebrows scrunched together in the centre of his face. There’s no crinkles at the corners of his eyes, no dimple carved into his cheeks. Just worry.

“Are you doing okay?” He asks, taking a step closer and into the room.

In his hand there’s a half empty water glass, something he’d clearly gotten for himself but doesn’t hesitate to hold out in offering to Jack.

Jack shakes his head, and Quinn's face softens.

“Wanna’ tell me what’s got you so fucked up?” he asks gently, taking a seat at the edge of his own bed tentatively. Another thing he’s seemingly easily given up for Jack.

That’s what big brothers do, Jack supposes. Give you shit, give you their shit, and listen to your problems. And fuck, Jack has a problem. Jack is-

“I think I’m in love, Quinny,” he hiccups.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

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your unreliable narrator fucking bit me

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Cooking at a friend or relative’s house is very fun first you have to get out not that cabinet not that cabinet not that cabinet not that cabinet not that cabinet not that cabinet a bowl and second

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the weed dispensaries should ask if you would like to round up your purchase to donate to PBS. and if you say yes you get to scan a QR code that gives you 30-day free access to the full run of antiques roadshow. this is how drugs can win the war on drugs again.

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i think abt this 4 sec clip to much