#god the brainrot is consuming me

[viscerax]

It's gonna take a lot to keep me away from you

The glistening Colorado summer sun brought a lot of unwanted heat to Vance's shitty Datsun 620. It was passed on from his dad, and barely functioned as a car. But fuck it, it got Vance around without him having to walk to and from school in the heat, and it made a good hangout spot when he needed to get away from home.

It also didn't help that the air conditioning wasn't in the best shape. By now, Vance had shed the jean vest he had on, which didn't exactly make much of a difference, leaving him in his wife beater and jeans.

Bruce sat in the passenger seat, his seat fully reclined and a shared joint pinched between his fingers. He was staring at the ceiling of the car, which had a hole in the fabric, probably from Vance's rampant road rage.

"This town is shit." Bruce mumbled as he passed the joint back to the blonde. Vance was almost surprised at the language, he rarely heard Bruce swear. In fact, he was surprised the first time when Bruce asked if he could smoke with Vance. He never took Bruce for a smoker in any sense. But Vance was happy to oblige, if it meant he got to spend more time with the pretty base ball player.

"Yeah... it is. But what can you do? Life's a bitch and then you die. Just how shit works out for us you know. We can't help the cards we were dealt." Vance shrugged, reclining his seat a bit as well so that he and Bruce were at the same level.

Bruce gasped. "No. Screw that! I'm getting out of here. I've got senior year and then I'm gone. I don't know where I'm going to go... I have a few colleges reaching out to me. I'll probably take up a scholarship, and just... get out of here." Bruce let out an exasperated sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he relaxed his face. "Sorry to get all serious."

Vance didnt know Bruce hated it so much. He was fully convinced Bruce was comfortable with all the praise, all the ogling over him because he was just the perfect boy. Straight A's, athletic, friends, dozens of girls swooning for him. What more could Bruce possibly want?

Vance found himself staring at the boy adjacent to him, and thanked the heat for the natural redness it brought to his face, so that no one could tell the difference.

"What about you?" Bruce turned to Vance, and the blonde was brought out of his spaced out thoughts.

"What about me?" Vance reflected the question, quirking an eyebrow as Bruce nodded.

"Yeah. What are you gonna do when you graduate?"

Vance paused. In all honesty, he didn't know what he would do. "Well... I suppose I'll just keep working at the mechanic until I can raise enough to move out. Then maybe I'll go to community College, work some more, and die. Like everyone else in this sorry town. You have potential, Bruce. Don't let that go."

The bleak outlook surprised Bruce. Although, he wasn't sure what much else he had expected. So, he chuckled. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all, that they were just stuck here. That they were destined to fail. "You've been spending your whole life being told that you're going to fail that you really believe it. Vance, there's so much more out there. Maybe I'll take you with me to college. I can pack you up in my suitcase and you can live in my dorm. And then you can go to college." Bruce chuckled at the thought, reaching out a hand to brush Vance's hair out of his face.

Perhaps it was the heat, or the weed, but Bruce swore Vance's eyes flickered to Bruce's lips, just for a brief moment.

"That would be nice. Then you could sneak me out to all the parties, and I get all of the college experience except for all the boring shit like classes and stuff." Vance cracked a smile, and God Bruce loved his smile. Bruce loved everything about him.

"You're beautiful, Vance." Fuck. Bruce. He seriously just said that. He wanted to blame it on his cloudy brain, but he had never been more clear-headed in his life.

Vance stared at Bruce for a moment. "What?" Vance's tone came of brash at first, but his face gave him away. His eyes were wide and his entire face seemed to be flushed with heat. Bruce worried for a moment that he had fucked up and ruined it all. But he couldn't back down now. He's gone to far.

"Vance Hopper, you are the most beautiful thing in the world." The soft hum of the radio played in the background, a familiar song to Bruce, and it comforted him in a way. Despite his rapidly beating heart, he could clearly articulate his thoughts.

Vance simply stared, dumbfounded. He was... completely clueless if he was honest to Bruce's feelings. He knew he liked Bruce. He knew Bruce was beautiful and attractive and a sweet boy, everything Vance wasn't.

Bruce's hand rated against Vance's cheek. His hands were warm, mildly uncomfortable, but he didn't protest. He wanted Bruce to hold him. The two boys simply stared at eachother, Vance's mouth agape slightly.

"Just kiss me already, pretty boy." Vance murmured, and Bruce didn't need to be told twice.

Bruce propped himself up, pulling Vance closer to him, clashing their lips together. Kissing Vance was like nothing he had ever imagined. It was warm and comforting, but it was cool like a refreshing breeze on a hot day. Vance tasted of cigarettes and mint. Bruce didn't expect anything more. He pressed himself as close as possible to Vance, their noses bumping into each other.

Vance did the same, propping himself up. God, he couldn't count how long he had waited for this. He had wanted to kiss Bruce for so long, and he finally did. Vance's head clouded with bliss as hands found place on Bruce's waist.

Their kiss was interrupted as the sound of the trucks engine sputtering caused Vance to pull away.

"Shit!" He muttered, sitting up and turning the keys a few times. Bruce sat up a few seconds afterwards, brows furrowed.

Vance let out a frustrated sigh, trying his best to not start punching shit like he usually did when the car broke down. Bruce noticed the obvious distress Vance was in, and he placed a hand on Vance's forearm. Vance relaxed under the touch, letting out another sigh, his tense shoulders relaxing.

Bruce gave Vance a gentle smile, and Vance cracked a half-smile back. Gently, Bruce pulled Vance closer to him, holding his face im his hands again. "We can worry about the truck in a minute, it'll be fine." Bruce hummed, tucking some of Vance's hair behind his ear.

Vance nodded and leaned closer again, falling back into the rthym of their kiss. When the two finally pulled away, Vance was smiling. It was the first genuine smile he had in awhile. Bruce loved the look of it. He loved everything about Vance, but he had to say that his smile was at the top of his list.

"I really like you, Bruce." The confession fell from Vances mouth with a cautious undertone, as if they hadn't just kissed.

Bruce chuckled, his cheeks reddening even more if that were even possible. "I like you too, pretty boy."

[gaypeople]

GOD'S OWN COUNTRY 2017 | dir. Francis Lee

[kusanagihaku]

help me hold on to you.

⭢ alan x mc, 2.2k

It is a dance of wants and haves, of budgets and portion sizes, of learning to think for two. It feels like you could do this forever. How easy it is, to be with Alan. How easy he is to love.  or: supermarket date! supermarket date! soft and fluffy domestic alan!!! i love him!!!!! ( º ᴖ º ) // also on ao3

You frown. How is it that whoever runs the campus store can bring in three different types of almond milk, but only one brand of oat milk? 

You weigh both cartons in your hands. Maybe you should just get the almond milk. It isn’t even the good type of oat milk too–

“Y/N?” 

You glance up, only to be met with sea green eyes and arms full of flour and sugar bags. “Kaito!” 

Kaito beams back, golden hair washed a pale yellow under the harsh cold of the store lights. He looks slightly different dressed down, almost like he could be a college student elsewhere in a ratty old hoodie and sweatpants. “I’ve tried that brand of almond milk, it freakin’ sucks. Get the blue carton.” 

You can’t help but laugh. With the strange stocking style of the campus store, you can only ever trust comments of the other students and hope not to step on any culinary landmines. You reach to put both cartons you were holding back when Kaito clears his throat. 

“Why are you wearing a Vagastrom hoodie?” 

Ah. 

You flush, biting your lip. It was colder than you expected this morning when Alan left the bed for his morning run, uncurling himself from around you gently in an effort not to wake you up. But you awoke anyway, body leaning towards his residual warmth like it has every day you’ve woken up in his bed, eyes blurring open to Alan’s fond smile. 

I’ll be back soon, he promised, voice low. Go back to sleep. The sleep-rough of his voice left butterflies at the bottom of your stomach, a small dance of adoration and contentment that lasted long after he shut the door. 

But the cold was sharp, and as Alan’s warmth faded from the blankets you found yourself sitting up and leaning off the edge of his bed until your fingers snagged the yellow hoodie draped across the back of his chair. It smelled vaguely of engine grease, as does everything in Vagastrom, but as you pulled it over your head you were surrounded by sandalwood and summer, by sunlight and sea salt, by Alan. 

The brush of comfort was enough to turn your eyelids heavy and your dreams sweet, until you were awakened again by Alan’s touch on the crown of your head. 

“Y/N?” Kaito peers at you, and you jolt a little. 

“Um,” you say, intelligently. “Ah.” 

It’s not as if you were hiding the fact that you were dating Alan per se, but it… had never really come up in conversation? After all, it is a fairly recent development, and Alan isn’t the type to broadcast news about himself to others. The interactions you’ve had with most of the other ghouls involve mostly you running small errands for them anyway, and less so idle chit-chat. Other than the Vagastrom ghouls (Leo had scoffed the first time he walked in on Alan’s thumb brushing your cheekbone and walked back out, while Sho just smirked and hollered something in Leo’s direction about a bet), you don’t think any of the other students know anything about your relationship with the Vagastrom captain. 

But this is Kaito, one of the first people to befriend you in Darkwick, and now that you’re faced with the opportunity and his guileless eyes, you feel kind of ashamed you’ve never told him about it…

“Did you find it?” A gentle weight rests on the top of your head. A warmth blooms at the base of your throat, sweet and golden, and you briefly forget about Kaito as you lean backwards to smile up at Alan. 

“They don’t have the brand I usually get. Should we get almond instead?” 

Alan nods at you to place the carton in his basket. “Sure.” 

“Sho said he wanted us to pick up some bell peppers too–“ 

“Sorry, what the fuck?!” Kaito’s yelp is startling, and you reflexively jerk backwards into the solid harbour of Alan’s arm. “Since WHEN?!” 

You flush. A sheepish apology balances on the tip of your tongue, but Alan beats you to it. The gruff in his voice is evident as he says, “Your business, Frostheim?” 

Kaito’s eyes grow round. A million little emotions (mostly some frantic type of fear, but tinged with betrayal, you note somewhat despondently) flash across his face before your apology tumbles out. “Sorry, Kaito, I meant to tell you and Luca, but I’ve been so busy-“ 

“It’s okay,” Kaito squeaks, and before you can say anything else he disappears up the aisle, bags of flour dropping in his wake. 

Alan frowns. He pulls you slightly closer, fingers resting lightly on the waist of his hoodie, and there is something so unexpectedly tender in the action it makes your heart feel three times too big. Always soft, always warm. Always gentle, with you. 

You half-expect him to say something about Kaito, but he just sighs. 

“Bell peppers are up front,” he says, instead, and you laugh. 

You end up picking more bell peppers than Sho asked for, if only so you can add the extras to the dinners you cook for the week. Alan picks out spring onions and a new box of white miso; you trade it for a box of red (he has an unopened box of white miso hidden behind his giant tub of protein powder; you unearthed it while searching for his black pepper last week) and toss in an extra yellow onion. 

You spend the most time in the meat section, of course �� Alan’s meals consist mainly of grilled meat on rice whenever you’re not around. You watch as he frowns his way through cuts of meat, bending over to trade pork shoulder for jowl, and you resist the urge to smooth out the crease between his brows as he looks between both price tags. 

It is a dance of wants and haves, of budgets and portion sizes, of learning to think for two. It feels like you could do this forever. 

How easy it is, to be with him. How easy he is to love. 

He doesn’t believe it, you know. Where you see caution and care in wrinkles of his palms he sees nothing but bloodstains and bruises, like there is nothing in him that deserves to be held. But oh, the way you’re trying to show him–

It is a whole downpour by the time Alan walks you back from Vagastrom. You are both soaked to the bone, your bangs sticking to your forehead and his yellow vest a dark ochre. 

You invite him in to dry off, of course. He can’t possibly make his way back to Vagastrom like this. 

(You also don’t think he can find his way back in the pouring rain, but you don’t say that part out loud.) 

“I’ve got towels upstairs,” you say, instead, and lead him up the stairs to your room. You pray hard that all your laundry is in its basket and you haven’t left anything stupid out. 

You haven’t, much to your relief, and you invite Alan inside after a cursory glance. You shrug off the wet sop of your jacket and dump it on your desk, heading straight to your closet to where you remember sticking the towels after your last laundry run. 

“You can leave your vest on the desk, I’ll hang it above the radiator to dry,” you tell him, and immediately regret it. Stupid. Stupid of you to think your heart can handle the visual of Alan removing any piece of clothing in your vicinity. 

You are weighing how stupid it would sound to retract your statement, when Alan clears his throat. “Your, um. Your toy is on the floor.” 

You twist around to see your white stuffed rabbit lying on the floor next to your bed. Huh. He must have fallen out when you clambered out of bed this morning, rushing to make your 9am class. 

“Oh, you can just set him back on the bed,” you say, before turning to rummage through your closet for towels. You easily locate your spare one with a triumphant ha!, and turn back to hand it to Alan so he can dry off. 

…only to see him kneeling next to your rabbit, fingers outstretched as if to pick him up, but hesitant all the same. You blink. 

Alan senses your stare, and looks up at you, almost embarrassed. “My hands are dirty.” 

You know what he’s talking about – you’ve spent countless hours staring at his fingers as they fill out your forms, watching his hands twist spanners around bolts, dreaming of what his hands would feel like on the bare of your skin. They’re mostly clean (or as clean as he can get with wiping them on spare rags and rinsing them in the sink), but there is always a line of engine grease lingering under his fingernails he can’t quite get out. 

You understand what he’s talking about too – he looked up at you one afternoon, seated on the worn leather sofa in the Vagastrom garage as he tinkered with the hood of a car. You were balancing a calculator on one knee and a form on the other, trying to figure out why the budget request for Leo’s next mission was so high and trying to look like you weren’t staring too much at the muscles in Alan’s forearms. 

Honour student, he sighed. He set down the wrench. Don’t get involved with me.

You looked up, slightly flustered and alarmed at having been caught, but a protest on the tip of your tongue all the same. He caught the look on your face and shook his head. You don’t want to get mixed up in my life.

You didn’t say anything back then, choosing instead to duck your head to hide the burn in your cheeks, but oh, how you wish you did. 

You want him to know how you’ve noticed that his hands and eyes linger longer on you than most, that he takes extra care to clean up whenever you’re around. You want him to know you’ve seen the sidelong glances he’s thrown at you, too, across the garage, and that you’ve seen the red on the tips of his ears after he leans in a bit too close for a bit too long, the peeks he takes whenever he thinks you’re busy fixing something on his phone. 

You want to show him how his fierce has always been used for protecting, how his heart has always been built to lead. How his hands have always been meant to build and fix and hold and never to hurt. 

You want to tell him that you don’t know what pushed him to make the choices he did all those years ago, but you know that he is more than the product of those choices, more than what those circumstances have made him become. That he’s more than the strength behind his knuckles and the decisions that he’s made, how he’s someone an entire house will rally behind and defend to the death. That he deserves to give himself a chance to go for what he wants, for once. 

You shake your head. You hope he understands, this time. “I don’t mind.” 

When he still doesn’t move, you move to kneel next to him, towel wrung between your hands. The wet green of his hair hangs over his eyes, but you can see him watching you all the same, almost as if you are the hunter and he is the prey. 

“I don’t mind,” you say, again. It comes out as a whisper this time, bullets careening into a moment glass-thin. 

His eyes dart up to meet yours, narrowing and wary, but your hands move before he can speak. The brush of your thumb over the rough of his cheek is feather-light, and you will him to understand what you mean when you lean forward to murmur, “That way, I can fall asleep thinking of you.” 

You feel Alan’s breath catch as you brush your lips against the edge of his mouth, and you can almost hear the cogs in his head turning, slowly, as you pull away. Please understand.

And when he turns to you, when he gives in to himself, finally, when he presses his lips against yours in a controlled kind of recklessness and the thirst of a man who hasn’t felt the cool of water for days and doesn’t quite believe that he can, it feels like he does. 

“Do I have breadcrumbs?” Alan turns to you. You blink, pulled back by the anchor of his voice.

“Mm,” you manage, “I don’t think so, but I do. We can swing by the cathedral to pick it up before heading back to yours?” 

Alan hums in agreement, and bends over to retrieve a tray of pork chops from the freezer display. You can’t help it – you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek as he straightens, and laugh when he turns to you, confused and slightly startled, smile tugging on his lips and blush climbing up his ears. 

“Thanks,” you say. For everything. 

Alan looks at you, eyes moss-soft, haloed in the artificial bright of supermarket aisle, then places the tray into his basket. He shifts the basket to his other side so he can grab your hand in his free one. “Let’s go home.” 

Yes, you think, tangling your fingers into his. Let’s. 

[wellwatersurprise]

dean gets pranked 4k no censors

based on that trend which crawled out of the dreaded clock app that wouldn’t leave my head

[as per the usual, click for better quality]

here’s the unseparated version of the first page. if that interests you.

[gods-perfect-idiots]

damn this hyperfixation got HANDS (and claws and fangs to boot)

[daily-crowley]

Crowley Of The Day: gorgeous 😍

(I used up all my hashtags that I couldn’t do my usual GO tags that I always do lol I don’t care)

[watermelon-jooce]

it was an urge

[salt-n-salt]

TRYING TO DECIDE HOW TO DRAW @ryliith ‘s YUMMY TASTIC FARMER ATLAS so it’s atlas dump time. sorry not sorry !

[royalelo]

Taking a break from making animation for the au = making an animation for the same ship but now its a shit post so its different

[n30nkn1ght]

i'm sorry i can already imagine the magnus protocol fics in the future. somehow time travel happens and the new crew meets jon & martin. you're kidding. imagine how they'd lose their minds finding out their silly little text-to-speech programs are in love. imagine how sad alice would be discovering their names aren't actually norris and chester. imagine jon and martin taking one look at gwen bouchard and noping outta there. god. i just know the time travel fics are gonna be so silly. and i just know i'm gonna eat them UP. martin would be so unimpressed by their statement classifications but i think jon would love them. he's the typa guy who would happily complicate that stuff

[raillue]

IM BACK ON MY DESTINY WINGS BRAINROT AGAIN PLEASE SEND HELP

I’ve had the idea of yw gaining wings after the events of tfs for a while now and i FINALLY drew out the design of how i think they’d look (feat. my own oc)

They’d definitely be a mix of both light and dark elements (the white feathers have an almost pearl like sheen)

I got this idea after all of the cutscenes with the Traveller being depicted as a bird

Also the reason I added ear wings was because ✨Ghost hugs✨

[your-fave-is-forklift-certified]

Astarion Ancunin from Baldur's Gate 3 is Forklift Certified!

[meii-jasmine]

A leisurely sketch of Firion! 🌹

[high-in-the-tower]

GUYS you literally don't understand......Aemond literally has a medical condition where if he doesn't kill a member of his kin at least once a week he'll DIE.....YES there's no cure......and YES it is critical-

[landedinpayne]

noticed something new on my 370000th rewatch today, in the devlin house episode the first line charles says once he gets stuck in the loop is “mate don’t slag her off just because it turns out you aren’t the all knowing expert on all things” versus the line he actually said before getting stuck being “edwin don’t slag her off just because it turns out you aren’t the all knowing expert on everything”

this is not interesting and literally does not mean anything but i just found it funny that they didn’t catch that little discontinuity (unless it was supposed to be like that and my brain just isn’t big enough to figure out why)

[vinnyandthephenomena]

god i love tim wright so much i wanna put him in a blender and bite him . but give him a hug. and maybe a kiss too