#Flip Flop

[catfindr]

[new-chapter-new-beginings]

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Why do I hate this flip so much? These are clearly knotty pine cabinets that were painted, but they didn't want to buy new hardware, b/c it would be expensive.

[hale-nathan]

Trump Weird News - Trump Project 2025 Flip-Flopper-In-Chief

They gave him what he wanted and now he finds it too hot to handle!

[droumack]

↻ FLIP FLOP - Ohhhhh girl please I am begging for the stretching scene in Haunting Me Like a Shadow from Christian's perspective. He knows what Nate's doing, Nate knows what Nate's doing (sweet oblivious Jo knows nothing), and Christian seems like he's trying very hard not to overreact in this moment, but Nate is so BRAZEN about it and any overreaction would've actually been a colossal underreaction with Jo on the line, it makes me screeeeam.

A weird ask though so no worries at all if it doesn't spark interest!! Absolute love forever to you for that fic, it is an all time fave.

I LOVE this idea.

----

“Fuck,” Jo groans. “Oh, fuck. You can do more, fuck, that feels good.” 

Christian lets the door thud shut behind him, dread unspooling in his stomach at the sound of Jo’s voice floating down the hall. 

Jo wouldn’t cheat on him—Christian knows this, he does. Jo is good, and sweet, and painfully earnest in a way that still makes Christian’s heart feel like it’s crawling into his throat. 

But those words—that tone of voice—Christian knows that sound. It’s what Jo sounds like when he’s getting fucked, or when Christian gets a hand on Jo’s cock just right; deep, satisfied, a rumble that makes shivers run up his spine despite the dread unfurling in his stomach. 

He rounds the corner and blinks at the sight that greets him. Jo isn’t cheating on him, but judging by the way the sight of MacKinnon with his hands all over Jo makes Christian feel, he might as well be. 

Jo’s face scrunched up in a mix of pleasure-pain as MacKinnon, settled between his thighs like a lover, pushes him deeper into the stretch. He’s sprawled on a yoga mat on the floor of his and Christian’s place, Nate looming over him. 

Nate slides his hands down so he can dig his thumbs back into the knot of muscle, and Jo whines.

Honest to god, he whines. 

Christian watches MacKinnon shut his eyes for a long, drawn-out second like he’s trying to find his composure. Then he begins kneading again, working out the tension, as Jo sucks in little aborted breaths through clenched teeth. 

“Like that?” Nate asks, and he sounds like he’s gargled gravel. 

Christian knows what MacKinnon is thinking, can see every blatant thought and desire written out on his face like a teleprompter. He wants to drag MacKinnon off, break that crooked nose a few more times, but the thing with challenging MacKinnon to a fight—

Christian doesn’t know if he’d win. 

Instead, he interrupts: “The fuck are you guys doing?” 

Both of their heads turn. Jo, guileless and guilt-free, just gives him a “welcome-home” smile. MacKinnon’s eyes sharpen, and the small grin that slides onto his lips makes Christian’s stomach churn. 

“Hey, babe,” Jo offers, voice strained. “Just stretching, I’m wound tighter than a watch.” 

“Don’t you have trainers for this?” Christian asks, taking a few steps closer. Coincidentally, MacKinnon’s hands slide a few inches higher, until MacKinnon is thumbing at the crease of Jo’s glute and his thigh, rubbing his hands over the generous curve of his ass. 

Christian’s eyes zero in on the motion before they flick back to MacKinnon’s. 

MacKinnon holds his gaze and grins. 

It’s childish on MacKinnon’s part; a clear show of ‘look what I can get away with,’ like a kid who’s not technically doing anything wrong. Christian’s self-preservation is starting to fall by the wayside; he’s thinking of taking a swing and seeing what happens, consequences be damned. 

Jo, cheerfully oblivious on the ground, lets his eyes flutter back shut when MacKinnon shifts forward a bit, gets his leg up even further. “Trainers were full-up today, would’ve been a couple of hours to wait. Besides, Nate knows what he’s doing.” 

They’re almost crotch-to-crotch now, the difference a scant few inches, and Christian doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the bulge in MacKinnon’s shorts. Maybe he’s not hard, but he’s packing, and looks like he’s one more little whine away from saying ‘fuck it’ and rutting again Christian’s boyfriend. 

“I can take over,” Christian volunteers. He needs MacKinnon’s hands off of Jo like he needs air. 

Jo shakes his head and says, “Sorry, hon, but you don’t have ten years of stretching your teammates under your belt.”

The look Christian gives MacKinnon is all venom, and MacKinnon doesn’t look like he gives a fuck. He just continues to grope Jo under the pretense of a stretch between buddies, leaving brands that Christian is going to devote hours to wiping away later that evening. 

Maybe MacKinnon has this, but Christian gets Jo in all the other ways that count.

[stripedstarsblueflags]

↻ FLIP FLOP: send me a scene from one of my fics and I’ll describe or write it from another character’s POV!

Mark’s pov please from 5 Things You Can See, I need angsty Mark as much as sad Seb

anon i left this ask in my inbox and dithered with different plot ideas in my head for AGES and then tonight i sat down and wrote the entire thing in one angst-ridden frenzy so apparently i really needed this prompt!!! thanks for being one of the very few things in this world that have somehow managed to get me to finished a wip xxx

anyone. asked, delivered:

“Not bad for a number 2 driver.”

As if winning 2010 Silverstone wasn’t enough of a bite, Mark just had to sink his teeth that little bit deeper. On the broadcast. To the whole team.

“Keep running your mouth and you’re gonna regret it,” Christian had seethed to him off-mic, his plastic smile doing nothing to hide the venom in his eyes. “You’re not a victim, you’re not a hero, you’re just another body behind the wheel. You’ll answer to your owners just like everybody else.”

Owner. Not boss, not team principal. Owner.

He did come to regret his words. Would’ve eaten every one of them if he could, swallowed them down like razor blades and let them slice him up from the inside out, but not because of any sort of reprimand.

Seb doesn’t know he’s the reason Mark regrets that quip. Mark certainly never told him.

They weren’t staying in the same hotel for the Silverstone weekend, so he was waiting in his car a few streets away from Seb’s. He’d gotten a call earlier in the night– maybe a summons would’ve been a better way to describe it. They didn’t even have a full conversation: Seb had simply told him the floor and room number in a voice so void of emotion it sounded automated. Then he’d hung up, and any attempts Mark made to call him back went straight to voicemail.

Seb was sulking, then. Figured. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d reached out to Mark in a fit of angst, pale eyes bloodshot, trembling with pent-up desire and grasping onto Mark like a drowning victim searching for land.

It was good to be with him like that. Good to hold him down, pinning his wrists to the bed, pressing burning kisses to his jaw until the hitching, staccato breaths turned to moans. Good to feel him start to come apart, to come down, under Mark’s hands.

Even the thought of it was making heat coil in Mark’s stomach– that and the high of the victory, still unfading even hours later. He was just climbing out of the car when his phone rang again.

“Turn around,” Seb said before Mark could get a chance to speak.

“What?” Mark turned one way and then the other, breath condensing into warm clouds in the English night air, before he saw the forlorn figure at the end of the street. If it weren’t for the flickering streetlight above him, he would’ve been too far to see.

Mark squinted at the figure, making out a hunched form leaning against what he now recognized as Seb’s rental car for the weekend. Listening to his voice inches away from his ear while straining to even see him was discerning.

“What–“ Mark started, uncharacteristically flustered. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Come here.” Seb hung up the phone and Mark watched him put it away, ending any further conversation.

“What the hell are you playing at,” Mark growled to the empty air. He shrugged his jacket up and crossed the street, feeling each dingy street lamp overhead like an exposing spotlight.

Seb was looking down when Mark finally reached him, shadows eclipsing his eye sockets. Mark kept his own head down, aware that they were completely exposed to in view of anyone driving by. He spoke with his teeth gritted: “Seb, what are y–“

Seb grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a kiss that was all teeth and hunger, crushing them together so violently that Mark lost his footing. He had to struggle to get away, battling against Seb’s steely grip until he could finally catch enough breath to speak. “The fuck’s gotten into you!”

Seb twined his fingers in Mark’s hair and pulled, catching his lower lip between his teeth again. Forget about playing with fire, Seb was burning them alive– anyone could see them– but the danger was threading itself along with the arousal through Mark’s veins and his resistance was falling to pieces.

Seb leaned back just enough to pant, “Get in the car,” finally releasing his death grip on Mark to yank the door open.

Mark reached around and cradled the back of Seb’s head just in time to stop Seb from banging it on the car roof as he tried to scramble into the backseat. Seb’s movements were unsteady, practically frenzied; Mark gave up on trying to support his head and pushed Seb down onto the backseat, pinning his hands beside his head just to get him to slow down. The door swung half-shut behind them.

In the instant it took Mark to reach back with one hand and pull it all the way closed, Seb was up again. He was shaking all over, palms sweating, too slick to find purchase on Mark’s shoulder. He twisted his other wrist, trying to free himself, and managed to scrabble at the bottom of Mark’s shirt.

“Sebastian.” Mark put all the force he could behind the name. It came out gritty, a barely restrained roar disguised as a command.

Seb stilled beneath him, one hand flailing limply over his chest, but his eyes were still wide and manic, his breathing broken up into spasmodic pants.

”Seb,” Mark began, but Seb lifted up his knee and ground it between Mark’s thighs. Mark bit his lip, choking on the rest of his sentence, and a familiar bitter arrogance seeped into Seb’s gaze like hot oil.

Mark grimaced and clenched his teeth, but couldn’t resist lowering his hips to grind against Seb, who let out a drawn-out, gasping moan.

”Why did you–“ Mark tried again, but Seb dipped his head and recaptured Mark’s lips, jaw nearly slack. Seb kissed him like he was dying of thirst, weakened with the force of his own need but still trying to drink his fill. He reached for Mark’s jacket, finally gaining enough control to start pushing it down his shoulders until Mark took the time to straighten up and shuck it off, shirt soon following.

Seb glided his hands down the smooth planes of Mark’s chest and closed his eyes, licking almost delicately into the corner of his mouth.

There was something deeply wrong about this, Mark knew. The way Seb would sometimes seem to be on the verge of a breakdown, frenzied and out of control on adrenalized desperation, but fall soft and still under Mark’s touch. The way he almost couldn’t breathe until Mark kissed him, the way he gasped air from Mark’s lips as if he’d never known any other atmosphere.

That was wrong in and of itself, Mark knew, but worse still was how much Mark liked it. How he reveled in it, holding Seb’s moments of weakness in his memories like a wolf with a rabbit between its jaws.

“You came back to me,” Seb moaned, lifting his hips as Mark undid his belt.

Mark didn’t say anything, willing his own arousal to smother the doubt those words wanted to stir, even as Seb kept talking. “I knew you would.”

Mark shifted back against the opposite door to yank Seb’s jeans and pants down to his knees. Seb inhaled sharply, back arching.

”You always do,” Seb slurred as Mark kissed a path up his inner thigh. “You can’t get away from me, no matter how hard you try. I’ll always be the one you can’t stand to lose.”

Then Mark took Seb into his mouth, and those were the last words that would be spoken for a long time.

What a horrible thing to be remembering now.

Horrible, but apt. Because what did Mark do as soon as he saw the text?

You always do.

Mark had been doing so well. Letting all the calls go to voicemail, all the messages left unread on his home screen. He’d let Seb’s pitiful cries for him echo out into an undeceiving chasm. Let him break. Let him fall apart. Let him realize he doesn’t need me.

They’d even been in the same room (well, if the presentation hall the award ceremony took place in could be called a room) and Mark hadn’t even looked for him.

please

i’m sorry

i need you

In his pathetic, pleading messages, Seb hadn’t even had the consideration to capitalize his sentences.

Mark’s hands are beginning to shake as he replays the voicemail. He flexes his wrists and thinks about getting a drink. Then he thinks about driving.

A notification lights up the top of his screen, then another in rapid succession.

room 5

key on the windowsill

Fucking hell. Key on the windowsill of a shitty, sketchy motel in the shittiest, sketchiest slums of the city?

Mark thinks of the twenty three year old he used to know. His upstart teammate who fought him on the track and kissed him on the street with the same blistering ferocity. He thinks of all the bruises and broken promises between them, of Seb’s words that night that, all these years later, still ring with cold and lethal truth.

I’ll always be the one you can’t stand to lose.

Keys on the windowsill, fuck. He calls Seb.

His voice is even more shattered than Mark thought it would be. He sounds small like this. Small and scared.

Mark talks him down, phone in one hand and car keys in the other.

He probably drives too fast.

When swipes the key from under the broken window and lets himself into the room, he hears Seb before he sees him. The pained groan comes from behind the bed, where Seb must be tucked away.

”Sebastian?” Mark calls, quietly shutting the door behind him. It’s the dead of night, but he feels an awkward urge to keep his voice down. The room is about as wrecked as Mark predicted. There’s a cluster of empty bottles on the nightstand and a few half-smoked cigarettes on the bed, seemingly having been put out on the mattress. It’s a miracle he hasn’t started a fire.

Mark places the room key on a shelf and waits for a minute before crossing the room.

“Sebastian,” he says and waits, because there’s still time for Seb to stand up. For him to pick up his own pieces, literally stand on his own two feet, and face Mark with clarity in his eyes. For anything to be different.

The silence trails on.

Mark could keep waiting, but he knows it wouldn’t matter.

Some things never change, he thinks. It’s a resentful thought, but he can’t muster the bitterness to back it up. Seb may have called him in a moment of weakness, but Mark has a weakness of his own.

From the other side of the bed: “You came.”

A weakness that Sebastian has always known how to exploit.

“I shouldn’t have.”

It would be simpler, if any of that anger was real. If Mark could find some solid ground to stand on.

”You didn’t have to,” Seb says quietly, like a confession. Like he’s ashamed.

It hurts. Hurts in Mark’s chest, his throat, the pit of his stomach.

“I know.” Mark starts moving.

I’ll always be the one–

He turns the corner and sees Seb.

Jaw slack, eyes glassy. His face is the color of sleepless nights. He’s lost weight, the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks seeming that much darker. He doesn’t even turn to look at Mark; his head lolls slightly, not a spark of presence in his expression. He looks more than drunk; he looks beaten. Like if Mark pulls up his shirt he’ll find bruises, broken bones.

–you can’t stand to lose.

He drops to Seb’s level and watches his pupils dilate when they come face to face. Warm relief floods the pallor of his face, an intoxicated grin smearing over his mouth, and then he slumps forward.

”Whoa, whoa, hey. Uh-uh.” Mark’s body reacts a split second ahead of his mind, still registering the panic by the time he’s grabbed Seb by the shoulders. Seb’s eyes are still dangerously unfocused.

Mark holds Seb’s jaw firmly, forcing his head still. “Head up. Look at me.”

He watches Seb struggle to focus, eyelids fluttering. His lower lip glistens with spit. Some of it spills down his chin.

Mark holds him firmly. “Look at me, Seb.”

The panic eases its death grip on Mark’s heart as Seb comes back to him, struggling to hold his head up. Mark doesn’t let go; Seb’s face is cold and sweaty under his palm. “Fuck,” Mark whispers. “Did you take something?”

Seb’s lips slide around emptiness before he can get the words together. “Didn’t,” he mumbles. “I just needed to hear your voice…”

Of course.

Mark lets out a sigh that wants to be a scream. Why does he keep lying to himself? Why does he always go into this as if Seb is a pile of broken pieces Mark can just put back together, instead of a disease that can only poison Mark as well?

Weakness. That’s what’s at the heart of it, plain and simple.

For a second he hates Seb for it. Hates him with every fiber of his being, every pounding heartbeat and heavy breath. He hates Seb for making his own weakness their weakness, for spreading the pathetic instability like a virus, for wrapping a chain around Mark’s neck just by making him care.

He hates Sebastian for a second, but it’s a fire lit in outer space: combustion evaporating in an instant.

They both know Seb isn’t making Mark do anything.

Mark eases his grip on Seb’s face, fitting his palm to the curve of Seb’s jaw. He never used to touch Seb this gently. Gentleness wasn’t… them.

Now Seb turns his face into Mark’s hand and brushes his lips over Mark’s fingertips. His eyes are too wide and too dark, flashing out at Mark with the vulnerability of an open wound.

Unable to help himself, Mark runs his fingers through Seb’s hair.

“Please don’t go,” Seb whispers.

As if Mark doesn’t feel bound to him. As if their hearts aren’t tied together, chamber by chamber.

Mark takes a deep breath. “Can you stand?”

Seb can’t, so Mark half-guides and half-carries him onto the bed. Seb doesn’t move as Mark lays him down, eyes drooping closed, and Mark thinks he’s already fallen asleep by the time he climbs into bed beside him.

Then Seb shifts closer, curling his arms in and tucking his face into Mark’s chest. “Just for tonight,” he murmurs.

Mark wants to hate Seb for that.

Instead he wraps an arm around Seb’s thin shoulders and draws him closer. “Just for tonight.”

His own voice betrays him. The vulnerability in his voice betrays him.

Seb buries his face deeper, his hair tickling Mark’s neck. Seb can’t see Mark’s eyes, squeezing tight against a sting he refuses to cave to.

“No one’s ever cared about me like you.”

A knife to the chest would hurt less. A punch in the stomach would be more merciful.

Mark draws in a breath and wills the emotion out of his voice like he’s willing back the weight of the ocean. “You can’t say that to me, Sebastian.”

But Seb is already asleep.

[yoursghouly]

Source: The Meta Picture

[cantevenbeachhere]

"Why are you pouting and staring at the beach, Ken?" (I literally made up a charrie for you, so here have 'Super Independent Barbie with a soft spot for Ken'.)

//you’re an angel and Ken’s first rp friend thank you!

Ken looks over and sees Independent Barbie, and he waves at her. “Hi, Barbie. I’m pouting because I tried to do a flip again and totally like…not flipped. More like flopped.”

He huffs and crosses his arms. “Cool Ken laughed too, and that totally didn’t help.”

[dumb-teambucciarati-headcanons]

Hi! How good is each member of Team Bucciarati at doing backflips?

Hey anon! I wonder who you are!

Giorno: has never tried to backflip but would be very good at it if he ever decided to do one.

Bruno: only good if zippers are involved, this man has tried to do a backflip without using his zipper ability and landed flat on his back like a pancake

Abbacchio: would probably break his back if he tried.

Mista: he says he can do them, but he actually can only do them on a trampoline. Gets super nervous before starting. But he can definitely do them.

Narancia: the best backflipper, does backflips everyday! The backflip master. Learned to do backflips by listening to snoop dog, his music caused Narancia to be able to backflip instantly.

Fugo: he really wants to be able to do one but can’t quite get it right, hits his head every time.

Trish: can do one but doesn’t want to mess up her hair.

[feetballguys]

[catfindr]

[new-chapter-new-beginings]

Anytime I’m in a dark place, I feel defeated, that I can’t go another step I remember this passage from LOTR, and it gives me hope.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Flipper follies.

[hale-nathan]

Trump Weird News - Trump Flip-Flopper-In-Chief Again - Haiti

Trump 2016 - Haitians "I Will Be Your Greatest Champion"

Trump 2024 - Falsely claiming you're "eating stolen cats & dogs"

[droumack]

happy american thanksgiving, bruinss!!

↻FLIP FLOP: I would LOVE to see a Nate POV of when he met again with Jo in "into the wild blue" and realised that Jo was a sex worker. excitement? nerves? was he thinking at all?

HAPPY AMERICAN THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!! alright lemme give this a go

-----

Nate isn’t expecting much of anything when he heads into the brothel in the early afternoon, road-weary and exhausted, looking just as much for a place to lay his head as he is for decent company. 

He doesn’t know why his eyes catch on a neatly-dressed man sitting at the bar, nor why he allows his eyes to linger in a way he normally doesn’t, not with another man. 

But there’s something—familiar, maybe, or at the very least, welcoming. 

And then he turns his face so Nate can observe him in profile, and even after years, Nate thinks he’d know that crooked smile from anywhere. 

He’s crossing the room before he can think better of it, long legs eating up the space between them. 

“Jonathan Drouin?”  he asks. 

Jo’s head jerks up, eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. He just stares for a few seconds, and Nate takes the opportunity to return the favor. Jo looks healthy, if not a little skinny, the way everyone is in these parts. But his face is just as warm, his eyes just as bright as they were when they were kids. 

From what Nate remembers of the boy he used to know, it’s out of character for Jo to be in a place like this. 

But maybe Jo has changed. God knows Nate has. 

“Who’s asking?” Jo asks. 

Nate smiles. “You are Jo Drouin, right?” He pulls off his hat and sets it next to him. 

Jo’s eyes have nearly doubled in size, his disbelief visible. 

“Nate?” he asks, lurching to his feet. 

Nate smiles even wider, and Jo half-embraces him, half-falls into him. They pat each other heartily on the back, Nate laughing as Jo demands,

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Could ask you the same thing,” Nate replies. Jo had plans to stay in Cole Harbour until he died; it must have been something drastic, to drive Jo away from the familiarity of his family and the coast. 

“Town got sick,” Jo says, his smile dipping slightly. “Figured I’d try my luck out here, seeing as it ran dry back home.” He sits back down on his stool and gestures for Nate to join him. 

 “Well, I wouldn’t say there’s much luck around these parts,” Nate says, sliding into the seat Jo had offered. “But there’s a helluva lotta trouble.” He grins. “And gold.” 

Jo snorts, smile twisting into something wry, as thought Nate is telling him something he already knows. 

“You here to indulge?” Nate asks, gesturing for the barkeep’s attention and holding up one finger. 

Jo’s smile falls, and Nate has a horrible moment of wondering if he’s misstepped. Normally, this is where bullets start flying with the type Nate tends to deal with. He doesn’t think Jo will draw on him, but that’s worse somehow, that Nate has caused Jo’s smile to slip and Jo won’t do a damn thing about it. 

“I work here,” Jo says. 

Nate’s eyebrows quirk, and he glances around, whistling softly. “What, like you own the place?” Jo has always been ambitious; Nate shouldn’t be surprised, but Jo also doesn’t seem the type to get into…this kind of business. 

When Jo doesn’t answer, Nate glances back in his direction. Jo just purses his lips and shakes his head ‘no.’

Nate’s lips part slightly. “You mean you—”

He forces himself to reassess Jo’s posture, his dress. Jo actually does look at home, like he’s lounging in the kitchen of his own house, comfortable and at peace, despite the rigid set of his posture. 

Jo works here. Jo works here. 

Jo spreads his legs, opens his mouth, for any man willing to shell out enough money. Lets them run their hands through those curls, yank his head back to expose his neck. Maybe they get to bite him, mark him up, leave little bruises of ownership on that pale, pale skin. 

Nate hadn’t known that was an option, when he’d known Jo. 

But it was. 

It is. 

The satchel of gold at his side suddenly feels much heavier, and Nate knows, without a doubt, that it’ll be that much lighter by the time the sun sets on this day. 

[littlekingpress]