#half-arsed background

[pink-key]

POV: You make eyecontact with the ticcing weirdo in your class. For real, 15 year old Tobs was death sentence to teenage me I am weak for black turtleneck clothes, gosh darn that's illegal.

[goodmode]

hey.

[tastytofusoup]

The FF8 ‘remaster’ looks dogshit btw.

“Let’s just stretch the original pre-rendered art so it looks like blurry garbage, then add really high res new character models! They won’t look horribly out of place at all!”

I don’t even upscale the PlayStation Final Fantasies very much on an emulator, because even then then 3D models end up contrasting too much with the scenery.

The games absolutely look better if it’s all a similar level of pixely resolution, otherwise everyone looks like they’re running over the 2D image that they are, rather than actually being part of the world.

Just emulate it with DuckStation and (under Enhancements in the settings) set the internal resolution scale to 3x (or even 2x), and texture filtering to ‘nearest-neighbor’ to preserve the pixelation of the backgrounds. If you want to add a light blur to the backgrounds so they’re not as pixely, set Downsampling to Adaptive. It then looks like this:

Higher res than PlayStation native, but the characters convincingly match the world.

Without the downsampling, 2x really makes the models fit the background well, but 3x helps to bring out facial features better. So it’s a subtle, personal preference toss-up, but seriously don’t go higher than that. With the downsampling, they basically both look the same. The choice between downsampling or not is just whether you want the whole game to look more crisp, or a smoother, original PS look, like the above images. The other texture filter options give the game more of a smudged look, the blur looks better if a smoother look’s what you’d prefer.

The backgrounds are fairly tiny, static images for a PlayStation game from 1999, if you want to actually remaster it and add new character models, either redraw every single background from scratch in high resolution, or don’t bother at all. I don’t know how they thought slapping high res, modern models in there in such a half-arsed way would be a good idea. They did the same with FF9, which also looks bad. Likewise, don’t pay for that either, just emulate it with the same settings and it looks nice.

[ugotcooneycrossed]

let you break my heart again • alessia russo

part 2 of 'keep pretending pretty girl'

w/c: ~1.5k

a/n: sorry this took longer than planned my pookies but i hope its worth it🫶

------------------------------------------------------------

you make some half-arsed excuse to leave the table- an ‘emergency’ of sorts that you have to see to.

an excuse that has the girl sitting across from you rolling her eyes, and huffing out a breath- she stands to leave and you grimace at her retreating form.

apologise to lotte later you tell yourself.

each step towards the toilets your resolve disappears a little more- your dignity all but vanishes, and the ever-nagging thought that this is a bad, very bad idea fades into an afterthought.

your heart beats a little faster; nerves, excitement- or the sheer embarrassment of never being able to deny alessia what she wants, you aren’t exactly sure.

you’re the first to arrive- the walk from your table since her text, an embarrassingly short amount of time. ducking down to check each stall, making sure no one else would be there to witness.

the door swings open loudly- and your head shoots to the newcomer, your heart pumping impossibly faster- but a stranger walks through instead, shooting you a strange look at your dishevelled appearance and heaving chest.  

clearing your throat you avert your eyes- pretending to occupy yourself with washing your hands. and when the stranger leaves, you check your phone- five minutes have definitely passed, yet no sign of her.

it’s embarrassing how much you wish she would walk through that door right now. you huff out a frustrated breath- the tight feeling in your chest, coiling down into your stomach, and sitting heavily in your heart once again.

you turn to leave- barely making it out the door before a hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back in.

a familiar voice questions you.

“where are you going?”

alessia.

“home?”

you reply- and alessia rolls her eyes at you- trapping you in between the sinks and herself.

“who was that?”

she questions you again- moving her head to catch your eyes when you avert them.

“no one less.”

her eyes narrow- moving impossibly closer to you- and your breath hitches in your throat, alessia opens her mouth to speak- but loud voices from just outside the door interrupt. instead, she grabs your hand- pulling you into a stall with her, just as a horde of women pile into the room.  

you’re pressed up against each other in the small space- alessia’s breath fanning your neck, her perfume thick and enveloping all your senses.

the chatter from outside the stall fades into the background- muffled voices talking about something that you can’t quite comprehend at the moment.

not when alessia is looking down at you with those eyes, and her hands are resting on your hips- squeezing ever so slightly.

she’s got a gentle smile on her face now- one that has your heart melting a little, one that makes you crumble all over again, one that makes you think she finally will tell you she wants you.

the toilets empty finally- and you take the opportunity to shove the door open, practically tumbling out of the cramped space- desperate to get away from the blonde girl.

“(y/n) wait!”

you turn to look at her- waiting for her to say something, anything.

and yet, she doesn’t.

typical.

“shouldn’t you get back to your boyfriend less?”

she doesn’t respond to that- cringing and taking a step away from you instead.

“i don’t want you to see her again.”

she whispers it- and if you weren’t so in tune with her you would’ve missed it.

“sorry?”

“i don’t want you to see her again- i don’t want you to see anyone again.”

“but you right? ‘cause you just want me all to yourself? but it’s only when you want to see me- only when your boyfriend starts to bore you- only when you’re so pissed drunk you can’t even see straight- literally. and you want to know something alessia- you want to know the saddest, most pathetic part of it all? i’d let you break my heart over, and over again.”

you don’t know what’s come over you- you don’t know where this sudden rage is coming from, but when you see alessia shrink back- you can’t stand to be in the same room any more. cause you know the moment she speaks- the moment she reaches out, and holds your hand softly, the moment she whispers that she loves you; you’ll crumble and forgive her all over again.

-

you ignore her for days after that night- not that she has the nerve to say anything to you anyway, and you avoid her at training, going as far as to complain about a non-existent tweak in your knee to be allowed to skip training and stay in the gym.

leah shoots you strange looks over laura’s head- the girl too bust talking your ear off about how cute myle is to notice anything else.

kyra questions your sudden disappearance- poking you at lunch relentlessly, until you throw a chocolate bar in another direction, the younger girl chasing after it.

lotte catches you at lunch a few days later- grabbing your elbow and yanking you into an empty conference room.

“what happened?”

her tone is gentle but her hands holding you in place, not letting you escape- tell another story.

“nothing.”

lotte’s eyebrows raise- gripping your arm tighter when you try to leave.

“i talked to alessia.”

you hum at that- shrugging your shoulders.

“what’d she say?”

“just that you were upset with her- and well grace told me and I quote ‘some jealous blonde crashed our date and your friend basically malfunctioned on the spot.’”

“yeah- that’s some way to put it. she was there, even came up to out table. we talked. that’s all.”

-

the arsenal christmas party serves a great place to get drunk- a couple weeks after ‘the great disaster’- the new name of your date gone wrong.

lotte gives you a disapproving look at the amount of vodka you’ve poured and you send her a thumbs up and a cheeky smile.

you’re a little warm- buzzing from the alcohol, and the stupid sweater katie wrangled over your head when you stepped through the door- some obscure christmas reference you don’t know.

there’s a sea of people to navigate through- most you know, friends and family of your teammates that you’ve known for years now.

the crown from the bon bon you won against kyra slips a little- the small tear in the back, a result of kyra’s displeasure at losing- your poor green, paper crown a casualty in her mission to steal the stupid knickknacks inside. momentarily blinding you, you push it up, coming face-to-face with alessia’s ugly mug of a boyfriend.

“hey, you seen less?’

you hold in your grimace at his annoying voice, swallowing down and shrugging your shoulders.

“dunno man- sorry.”

he rolls his eyes at you.

shoving past more people to look for the blonde- and with his back turned, you flip him off, mocking him, and pulling faces.

with the last bit of your drink gone- and the sudden need to pee the only thing on your mind. you wonder over to the toilets.

you stand in front of the mirror for a while after- putting your cold hands on your flushed cheeks to cool them down.

and finally, fully satisfied with your full proof method to cool down- you open the door to leave- alessia appearing right on the other side.

“(y/n)! i’ve been looking for you! i missed you sooo much!”

you don’t know whether the alcohol is coming from her, or yourself- regardless the blonde crashes into you- and you melt at her familiar hold.

“i missed you too less.”

“please, please- just one kiss, i missed my girl.”

she puckers her lips expectantly- her strong arms still wrapped around you, and the fight in your head to not kiss her, doesn’t last more than a second, before you connect your lips.

you try to pull away after a second, but alessia grabs you tighter, chasing after your lips.

you separate- heaving chests, and matching slightly swollen lips.  

“i love you so much (y/n)- i don’t ever want to go back to not talking.”

“i love you too lessi, i just-“

“there you are less!”

alessia’s boyfriend interrupts before you can say anything else- he pulls her away from you and you roll your eyes as they kiss.

he pulls away- sparing you one glance and trying to get alessia’s attention.  

“head home now?”

he questions.

“mmh you can- might crash at (y/n)’s.”

alessia is only looking at you- waving off her boyfriend. and he leaves without another thought.

“what we’re you saying?”

“nothing- don’t worry about it less.”

“tell me- please.”

“don’t leave if you do come back- stay, please.”

-

you wake to the sound of your front door closing- shooting up in bed.

the beds empty- because of course it is, and you fall back into the sheets with a sigh.

there’s no training anymore with christmas break- no need to ignore you and fuss over the phone with her boyfriend. no texts, no calls- she doesn’t even like your instagram photos.

not that you’ve been hanging out for a notification from her or anything.

then a few days before you’re set to start training- you get a notification.

lessi  to ‘you’

-> i miss you, i'm sorry for leaving- can we talk?

[ashlynniis-bracketeers]

Y'know, I find it really interesting (and hilarious) that somebody can Corrode into something that looks even freakier (or at least weirder) than the E.G.O's source Abnormality. I have to wonder if they could freak/weird-out their matching Abnormalities lmao.

Putting a bunch of text under the cut.

Using the E.G.Os/Abnos in the images as examples:

The Rose Hunter is at least arsed to look vaguely like a normal dude 90% of the time (discounting his thorny stem/root lower half as seen in the E.G.O splash art background for Hong Lu's version of Lasso). Corroded Lasso Faust is similar. Corroded Lasso Hong Lu, however, is basically a rose with two long stems tied into lassos and his "lower body" connected directly to the horse, with only part of his ponytail left. Not even getting into the fact that both his "torso" and the horse's abdomen are "bleeding" rose petals and the fact that the horse's rein is tied around Hong Lu's neck akin to a noose. He actually reminds me a bit of a Nuckelavee with the really long arms and being directly connected to the horse.

The Heavenly Executioner's Scribe is a pretty simple statue-looking thing. Meur's Corrosion is a bit funky with the little hands on his wings, his floating hands, and funky mask... But his Corrosion is nothing compared to whatever the hell Corroded Pursuance Rodion has going on lmao. She's got chains and she seems to have eyes on her eyes. Eyes for days.

Der Fluchschütze is a variant of Der Freischütz but red, basically. Pretty simple design, nothing fancy. Both of the Fell Bullet Corrosions are pretty goddamn weird compared to Der Fluchschütze's design, with Heathcliff's version turning him into a giant heart filled with guns while Yi Sang's version turns him into a sentient reflection stuck in a jury-rigged mirror+gun setup, but Yi Sang's version of Fell Bullet isn't in the game yet, so we do not have the sprite, so I just put Heathcliff's Fell Bullet Corrosion there. To be fair, it deserves to be here. Der Fluchschütze would definitely be confused as to how it could cause... that.

The Dreaming Electric Sheep is... Well, it's a sheep alright. With really long, clawed legs and a bunch of spikes sticking out of its wool, but it's a sheep alright. Meur Corrodes into this E.G.O hard. Compared to Don's Corrosion, he goes full Sheep. Which just makes me wonder why he's got that weird Demogorgon-looking meat-flower-flap face in his attack, while the Dreaming Electric Sheep's version of the "Electric Screaming" attack does not have that. Sheep Meur, y u have weird meat flower face. His head is also inside the wool 90% of the time for some reason...

[slytherinslut0]

Mattheo Riddle with reader doing a striptease?

ok this one is fun 🤭 18+?

perhaps it’s late at night, perhaps you’ve been drinking with the boys and pansy, everyone equally as sloshed as the other. the lot of you start playing truth or dare, and inevitably you get hit with a dare to do a striptease.

now, you were given the option to keep your top or bottoms on, should you feel more comfortable that way, but with the liquor coursing through your system and your newfound motivation, you couldn’t really give two fucks.

you and mattheo had been in this tension filled back and forth for quite some time, everyone knows the two of you have been messing around, though the stubborn arse doesn’t seem to wanna’ put aside his goddamn pride and admit that he wants you, exclusively.

you knew this was your perfect chance.

accepting the dare you stand up, somehow managing to swallow your laughter as you lock eyes with mattheo, his brooding browns glued to you with a clear challenge as he’s thinking to himself there’s no goddamn way she’s going to actually do this. strip in front of all your friends? no way.

oh, mattheo. you foolish fuck.

you know damn well that mattheo is the possessive type, but strangely enough he isn’t protesting this. he’s just simply watching you. you know this is just as much a dare from him as it is from the group. a dare to test him. a dare to play with fire. to fuck around and find out.

unfortunately for you, you’ve never been one to back down from a dare.

you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, holding his stare and start by reaching behind your head to slowly let your hair out of your ponytail, allowing its length to sway as it falls and cascades around your face. you notice mattheo’s eye twitch, almost imperceptibly, before he begins adjusting his seated stance slightly, manspreading his legs just a little bit wider.

you choke back a giggle. though you know he noticed.

for a brief second you let your eyes traverse the room, glimpsing enzo and theo and blaise, all hawk eyes and parted lips, not wanting to miss a goddamn thing. you don’t feel too much about this as you know they’ve all seen you dozens of times in a bikini while swimming or tanning--underwear and bra really wasn’t much different. was it?

regathering your focus you shake off the thoughts of potential implications as your hands move to the base of your jumper, fingertips tracing the edge before slowly peeling it up your torso, the draft of the cool room igniting goosebumps on your skin. you pull it up further, spinning around to show them your backside as you tug it up and over your head, tossing it to the floor at your feet.

pansy whistles, giggling and urging you on as you sway your hips slightly to the faint hum of music playing in the background, undeniably lost in the fun of it all as the other boys cheer you on, too, clapping and howling in an absurd way to pump you up. at this point, you’re in damn near hysteria from laughing so hard.

collecting yourself, you tease the band of your leggings while bending at the hips, peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of mattheo’s expressions as you begin to slowly peel them down your thighs, your ass in clear view.

mattheo looks like a fucking trainwreck, his hair tousled like his hand had plowed through it, his knuckles pale from gripping his cup so hard you were almost certain it was about to shatter within his palm. his jaw was clenched, so tight it almost looked painful, his eyes the hypnotizing depth of a black hole. you couldn’t tell if he was enjoying this, or utterly fucking hating it.

and as though he could read your mind, it was but a mere few seconds later before he gave you the answer.

you got your leggings about half way down your thighs when he stood up abruptly, interrupting the show and standing behind you to block your ass from the view of the other guys. when they all started grumbling and asking him wtf he was doing, he’d simply tell them to shut up and pick their jaws off the floor before they catch flies.

he’d yank your leggings back up, his lips pressed to your ear as he’d growl. “you win, you little fucking brat.”

you’d shrug, pretending you have no damn idea what he’s on about, and he’d reply with a calm, “yeah whatever you say princess, now let’s go back to my dorm so you can do this again for me in private.”

[the-goddess-of-mischief-writing]

Random Soap MacTavish headcanons {2}

sfw and nsfw

pairing: sgt. Soap MacTavish x reader (cod mw)

tags/tw: domestic stuff, fem!reader, smut, creampie, oral kink, groping, fingering, twt links (straight up porn)

a/n: if I have not seen the scene when Soap floats to he Scottish Highlands, it haven't happened. yes I'm in denial and will re-watch the mw2 campaign religiously, while living in my bubble, I shall feed all of those who wants to join me

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish MASTERLIST

sfw

-god this man chews gum a.fucking.lot, Soap always have a pack of gum in his pocket or bag

-sometimes you send him a look when he starts chewing with the front of his teeth and the sound gets just a tad bit too obnoxious, he always notices but there's two ways he reacts

-either he gives you a bashful smile and shrug before going back to whatever he's doing, mindful to not disturb you again

-or, he simply meets your gaze with arched brows, white gum on full display between his teeth as he offers you a boyish smile, that reaction always precedes his playful mood of teasing you with his chewing, a sharp pop sounding every now and then as he somehow manages to create little bubbles with a simple

-although Soap may be the shortest out of 141, this man is far from small, just put him in a setting where everyone isn't Ghost and he towers over most and it just so happens that you get reminded of it while almost every time you catch him working out

-you just throw him a glance and get kinda stunned when seeing the way your hulking powerhouse of a boyfriend beats the punching bag or throw around weights as if they weight absolutely nothing

-he loves swimming and water

-like, this man wants to go to any body of water at least once on his leave, sometimes just to sit and watch the wave crash against the beach, or the soft clucking of a lake

-sometimes he even takes a quick dip despite being in Scotland and the water impossibly is above 11

-you just watch him in disbelief as he strip and wades into the water until it reaches the middle of his thighs and he submerges himself, you blame it on the military for frying his cold-receptors, but he argues he's been likes this since being a wee lad

nsfw under the cut

-this mf is nasty, Soap loves to see his cum drip out of you and if you’ll let him, he’ll never want to prove his pull-out game is as strong as he boasts about

-sometimes, he is so in his head that he can’t rid himself of his boner until he can shoot his load inside you, jerks himself off with his tip resting just inside your pretty cunt

-ohmygod I just imagined Soap having an oral kink, but more so watching your lips wrap round things, your tongue running over whatever is sealed within your mouth

-of course he loves when you give him oral, having you sink to your knees before him with a football game in the background after a stressful day, he can see heaven the way his head cranes backwards

-but, it doesn't even need to be anything sexual, you can be licking an ice cream, a lollipop, Jesus Christ your fucking fingers from the sauce when you cook, he can't take his eyes off of you

-Soap is sweat in the bedroom, adores making you feel good and reach your high enough times until you push his hands away and lay there with a drunk smile, limbs slack, eyes half-lidded as they meet his adoringly

-however, sometimes he touches you because he wants to play

-you can be laying in bed, short tank top and panties on as he relaxes in joggers, and his fingers just starts running up and down your scantily clad bottom half

-it starts with Soap just running his hands over your arse, lower spine, until they dip again and he toys with your underwear, fingers occasionally slipping over your clothed pussy, pressing into the seam of your cunt before going back to groping your cheeks

-then he pushes it further, dipping his fingers beneath your panties to toy with your cunt, only to take your panties off altogether to lazily finger you

-he plays for a long time, feeling how you grew wetter and squirm all the more, in the end breathing a desperate pleading 'Johnny' and he knows it'll come because he never stops until it does, just wanting to see for how long you'll let him run his hands over you before getting to needy

[unashamedly-enthusiastic]

pls give adhd tips that have worked for you 🤲

Oh I do not think we can say that ANY of the way I live this life is recommended, but:

✨ Attitude ✨

I blamed myself a lot for not 'bucking up' or "buckling down" or "just doing it"

It never improved anything and it makes me sad. I stopped doing that and I achieve the same about of shit but I'm happier

�� Boring tasks 💩

It is simply not a choice between "get it done properly right now" and "get it done half arsed at a weird time while wearing a silly little hat, singing a silly little song and rewarding yourself with a silly little sticker"

Its either half arsed or it's not done, so I'm half arsing it. My apologies that your task is boring as shit, I did what I could to make it bearable and you'll be thankful that I did that (me to me about the dishes)

🔊 Sound 🔊

I have a bell in my keys so when I think 'do I have my keys tho' for the 50th time I can just shoggle my jacket and know they're in there

I set a 30min audiobook timer, I can tidy because I can't watch anything because someone's talking, when it ends I can guilt free stop or I can ego boost keep going, but doing it often enough means sometimes I finish BEFORE THE TIMER (unmatched smugness)

I sing the "got my (something) got my (that thing) got my (thiiiing)" song while pating important things like dog lead poop bags headphones before I leave the house

Work video conferencing filters out background music, you can just play tunes all day and it makes 'tell me when you can see my screen" silences bearable

🦄 One little thing 🦄

Every work day I set myself one task I WILL do today, it needs to be no more than 20mins with no pre work

No matter what happens that day I can take 15 and achieve one actual small useful thing and if I do I put a little "good job" sticker on my to do list notepad.

I am both the struggling student and the teacher cheering her on. I have the power to buy £1 unicorn rainbow motivational stickers and by God I will use that power to email Ken from statistics

[toomuchracket]

stress relief (sweetheart!george x reader fluff)

first george fic, who cheered?! day 8 of promptober. a weird little (well, long) fluffy end of high school moment about exam stress, and hitting things and smoking weed and kissing your new boyfriend to make you feel better. i've absolutely not a clue what came over me while i wrote this. but i think it's fun. and i hope you lot do too! <3

you're stomping down the street towards your house when your phone rings. digging it out of your bag, your grumpiness ebbs slightly when you see it's george on the other end of the line. "hiya."

"hi, baby," comes the gravelly reply. george's voice is enough to send you into a fit of enamoured giggles anyway, but hearing him address you with the pet name - a recent development, a free add-on that came with the "girlfriend" title during the summer - has you practically skipping down the street. "how'd it go?"

the reminder of the horrible mock exam almost threatens to block out the enjoyment of talking to george, a black cloud over the sun. "fucking awful."

"doubt that," george replies. there's a shuffling sound in the background on his end; you know, even without seeing him, that he's moved to lean his elbow on something so he can adjust the phone and listen to you better. "but tell me all about it."

"it was just… bad. the questions were all worded so weirdly. felt so fucking thick trying to read them, g," you sigh, kicking at a stone on the pavement. "so obviously i've no idea if i answered anything correctly, because i couldn't fucking understand what they were actually asking, and if i don't pass this then i don't get to sit the actual exam, and then i've got no bloody chance of getting into uni."

your voice breaks on the final word, and so does the invisible dam keeping your tears in. despite doing your best to keep any sobs at bay, george immediately clocks that you're crying and goes into reassurance mode. "baby…"

"it's fine, i'm fine," you sniffle. "sorry, i know i'm being silly. how are you?"

"worried about you, angel. i don't like how stressed out this exam's made you feel, recently," george admits. "and i'm not letting you dwell on it from this point on, alright?"

"babe…"

"you answered every question, i take it?"

you frown. "i mean, yeah, but-"

"no buts, baby," george's voice is firm; it does something weird to your brain. that's new. "you answered every question in the paper to the best of your ability. don't try and argue with me on that one, angel. i know you did, because you never half-arse anything, and it's one of the things i lo-like most about you. and there's nothing more you can do about the exam, so there's no point dwelling on it, even if it was as shit as you say. yeah?"

you sigh. "yeah. you're right."

"i know i am," george's voice is smug, but it softens as he continues. "wish i was there to give you a hug right now, though, make you feel better."

"me too," you say wistfully, unlocking your front door and shrugging off your jacket before heading upstairs. "but i'll get one off you at the party tonight. or several. actually, i might not even let go of you the whole time."

you flop onto your bed, rolling onto your stomach and kicking your legs in the air as george laughs and says "i'm not gonna complain about that, babe. speaking of the party, what d'you want? matty's picking up in a bit."

"are you smoking?"

"was gonna, yeah. want some?"

"please."

"sweet. he says he's already got wine if you want it, too, but he'll get you vodka if you'd rather have that."

"no, wine's good," you say. "thank him for me, please, and tell him i'll pay him back later."

george laughs. "i've got you covered, babe."

you facepalm. "george."

"what? you've had a hard day. let me treat you."

there’s silence for a brief moment, as you ponder and then decide against debating with your boyfriend (even thinking about calling george that makes you smile); as stubborn as you are, george is ten times worse. if this was an in-person debate, a strategically-timed pout would give you the upper hand, but you'll never wear him down via phone.

"fine," you sigh dramatically. "thank you, babe. but you have to accept petrol money from me tonight."

"not a fucking chance. i have to drive past your house to get to matty's, anyway. he should be the one paying me."

you laugh. "if you're sure, babe. i'll get you back sometime, though."

"actually, there is something you could do for me tonight, if you wouldn't mind," george says slowly, voice deepening even more than usual. it sends goosebumps down your arms, and any and all sanity out of your head. "you could wear that top you bought at the weekend."

"the black one?"

"yeah," george's voice changes again; you can hear him blushing. "you looked really beautiful in it."

(his reaction when you'd opened the fitting room door last week had made you aware of that thought of his, but it's far nicer hearing him say it.)

"consider it done," you smile. "what time should i be ready for?"

"six? then we have time to get a maccies on the way."

"you do know the way to a girl's heart, george daniel."

george laughs. your heart flutters. "alright, baby. i'll see you in a couple of hours."

"looking forward to it," you smile, clicking your phone off. the goodbye feels unfinished, you think; the three other words you're too nervous to say to george seem to linger expectantly in your throat every time you talk to him, just waiting to be released from your lips to his ears. it's only been three months since you started labelling the relationship, but there were three of "dating" beforehand (following a two-sided drunken confession at matty's eighteenth), and another eight of crushing and pining preceding that - you know exactly how you feel about him. you just don't know when to tell him.

you nearly do, though, when he picks you up for the party later that night. after chucking your overnight bag in the backseat, you climb into the passenger seat and are immediately pulled into an absolute head-melter of a kiss.

george smiles as he pulls back from you. "hi, baby. you wore the top, i see."

"course i did," you grin in response. "have to keep up with you, don't i, gorgeous?"

"oh, shush," george shakes his head, cheeks pink. "right, let's get you some nuggets."

you clap, and your boyfriend laughs, a sound that continues from both of you as you make your way through the drive-thru and then to matty's. in between giggles and singalongs to the blink-182 album in the cd player, you feed george chips and chicken nuggets, the friday evening traffic stopping the two of you from being able to park and eat your dinner and still make it to the party on time. the vibe is in total contrast to your frustrated tears from earlier; now, doing shitty tom delonge impressions with your favourite boy in the world, you're ridiculously happy.

after parking outside matty's house, george turns to you before either of you can get out of the car. "listen, baby," he says softly, bringing a hand up to stroke your hair. "i know it's been a bit of a day for you, and i just want you to be alright - if you wanna go home at any point, tell me, yeah?"

your heart swells a little at his tenderness. you nod, pouting your lips slightly. "kiss?"

"gladly," george grins, lips on yours within seconds. like earlier, this kiss makes your head spin. 

unlike earlier, however, it isn't ended by either you or george pulling away; the two of you are so distracted by each other that you don't hear adam walking across the gravel towards the car. it isn't until he opens the passenger door that you pull away from george in fright, and then he speaks. "matty says no snogging in the driveway."

"tell him i'll do it in his fucking bedroom and see what he says then," george snaps. he kisses your hand. "sorry, baby."

"s'fine. hi, adam," you say, turning to your friend. "how are you?"

"betrayed, actually - you got a maccies and didn't ask if i wanted anything?"

"leave her alone, hann," george says, walking round to grab your bag and usher you out of the car. "she's had a stressful day."

"well, you're in luck, mate - oh, cheers," adam pulls you into a half hug as you pass him your final chicken nugget, and the boys lead you into the house. "matty found an unused piñata in the garage, so you can beat the shit out of that if it'll make you feel better."

"he just… found a piñata? just happened across it?" you ask, mildly bewildered (it's matty, after all), at the exact same time george ponders "what's he put in it?"

"he just found it, yeah. i don't know either," adam shrugs. "and he's literally put joints in it. no sweets. just weed."

interesting.

george nearly pisses himself laughing, while you, as is your wont, ask a sensible question. "won't the force of the hits knock the joints apart, though? like, genius idea to put them there in theory, but will it work?"

"only one way to find out, i s'pose, baby" george says. "here, let me put your bag upstairs. i'll meet you in the garden in a minute, yeah?"

your boyfriend kisses you quickly and hurries upstairs, while you follow adam out to the garden, stopping briefly to hug some of your friends hello. only ross and matty are outside, the former reaching up to attach a unicorn piñata to a tree branch while the latter shouts orders at him. "fucksake, ross, that's far too high!"

"he's right, unfortunately, ross," you chip in, wandering over towards them and slinging an arm round matty's shoulders. "do you really want either of us jumping with a potential weapon in our hands?"

"he already is a potential weapon," comes the grumbling from under the branch.

"taking that as a compliment, actually," matty shouts, steering you away from the tree and hugging you. "hi, darling. where's g?"

"stashing my handbag for me."

"ok, good, because i have news and you're the only person i can tell," matty spins to face you, inhaling deeply and clasping his hands together. "i think i'm in love."

"ok?" you put your hands on your hips, underwhelmed. "you've already told me this, remember? last month?"

"different person. that wasn't real, this is."

"right. and you're only telling me because…?"

"well, it's someone like you i think i'm in love with."

"a girl?" you smirk. "i guessed as much, mate."

"smartarse," matty huffs. "no. i mean, like, she's proper smart. and serious about it. she wants to study law at uni. i'm totally intimidated by her, but i fancy her so much."

he stares at you expectantly. you stare just as blankly back. "and?"

"and i need your help," matty all but wails. "how do i make her like me?"

bless him. you smile. "well, you're in a band. that helps."

"really? even for pulling geniuses like you and her?"

"not to be dramatic, but that day i walked into the music room to tell you lot to shut up and saw george drumming to brianstorm? life-changing," you blush. matty smiles, genuinely. "but also, just don't be a gobshite, yeah? you actually being quite sensitive is unexpected, and it's nice. really."

"ok. thanks, mate," matty pulls you into a quick hug. "i wish she was coming tonight. be a lot more fun."

"we literally have a weed-filled piñata. we're peaking with fun."

he laughs. "true. and i did only meet her today."

you raise your eyebrows. "wait - on the set of your mum's show? have you told denise?"

"do i look like an idiot? actually," matty shakes his head. "don't answer that. no need to tell me."

"tell you what?" george wanders over to the pair of you, hugging matty and pecking you on the lips. "what are you two gossiping about?"

"what we're buying you for christmas," you say smoothly. "and how amazing a gift i'm now obligated to get you, because you won't let me pay for my own bloody weed."

the boys laugh, and george kisses you on the head. "speaking of, ross thinks he's perfected the piñata height. fancy a bit of stress relief?"

"ew, george, not in my house," matty faux-retches, then grins. "kidding. come on, lovebirds, let's beat the shit out of a unicorn and get stoned."

"and other normal sentences he's said today," george murmurs in your ear, making you giggle as you follow your friend towards the tree.

as you near it, ross holds a cricket bat out to you. "heard you were feeling stressed. have at it, mate."

"thanks, ross," you take the wooden stick, turning it over in your hands before turning to look at the host incredulously. "who the fuck in your family plays cricket?"

"how should i know?" comes matty’s equally-incredulous reply. "just hit the horse, please, i need a fucking zoot."

"fine. here goes," you say. "actually, shouldn't we put something on the ground to catch the joints?"

"good point. here," george pulls off his hoodie and throws it on the grass; you're momentarily distracted by his biceps through his long-sleeved t-shirt. "give it hell, baby."

you smirk, closing your eyes and thinking of the awful exam paper from earlier. all the frustration and stress hits your nervous system like a tidal wave; practically vibrating with rage, you swing the bat and hit the papier-mache before you with a satisfying thwack, denting it. the boys cheer, and it spurs you on even more - within minutes, you've beaten the unicorn to a pulp, its contraband insides (mostly) intact on your boyfriend's hoodie, and your insides the most stress-free they've been in a long time.

breathless, you hand the bat back to a wide-eyed ross, who claps you on the back. "impressive, actually."

"thank you," you bow, the boys laughing as they scramble to pick up the joints. george grabs two for each of you and your hand simultaneously, leading you towards the cushioned loungers near the kitchen window.

he sits first, settling you gently on his lap before pulling a lighter from his pocket. you're suddenly extremely aware of the chilly october evening air, and shuffle around so you can half-lean against george's hard chest; you gaze up at him, all sharp jaw and heavy eyes with the joint between his lips. "is this ok?"

"s'perfect, baby," george smiles, hand tracing patterns against the outside of your thigh. he lifts it, though, to take the joint out of his mouth. "you wanna go first?"

you shake your head. george smoking is an incredibly sexy sight; you want a clear head the first time you see it tonight. the flickering flame sharpens his cheekbones in the most beautiful way as he lights the joint, and the way he draws them in as he inhales it is nothing short of stunning. but nothing compares to the way he exhales the smoke, head thrown back in pleasure and faint moans escaping his lips - your thighs clench ever so slightly as he does, which isn't helped by the way he looks at you as he passes you the weed.

he doesn't seem to fare any better while you smoke, though; your eyes close in contentment when the inhale hits your airways (and a little groan of satisfaction involuntarily leaves you), but you open them to find george biting his lip while he watches yours.

it gives you an idea. passing the joint back, you ask a favour of your boyfriend. "will you shotgun me, please?"

george hums happily. "absolutely, baby."

you shuffle so you're sitting directly on his lap, facing him. whether it's the crispness of the night or the weed or just george himself, you don't know, but you're more aware of this particular bodily position than ever before. there's an energy you can't quite describe crackling in the night air - anticipation, maybe.

whatever it is, you like it.

"ready?" george asks, joint halfway to his lips. you nod, loosely clasping your hands at the nape of his neck and leaning forward. he inhales, your mouth opens, he exhales, and you do your best to take in as much of the smoke as you can. 

even though you've been smoking properly for a little while now, the best highs are always the ones you share with george; he seems to intoxicate you more than the drug does. given how much longer he's been smoking, you'd be forgiven for thinking that he doesn't feel the same way, but the speed with which he quickly lays the joint in a nearby ashtray (thank fuck the healys are a family of smokers, by the way) and crashes his lips to yours suggests otherwise. the crackling in the air ceases, but seems to find a new home in your body; sparks seem to fly from your lips to your brain, overloading the organ until all you can think is george, george, george.

yeah, you love him all right.

[hannahssimblr]

“You know what I could be doing instead of this?” Joe says. “Lying out on the grass with a can of cold cider and a big, fat blunt.”

“Yeah? On the other hand, you could be getting the shit kicked out of you.”

“By who?”

I shove a sudsy plate into his hands, and he scrubs it half-heartedly with a damp towel. “By me. If you don't cooperate.”

He snickers, “I could take you, Turner.”

“Why does everyone say that to me?” I wonder, dunking another mug into the kitchen sink and scrubbing the crust off the bottom. “Lads always yap on to me about how they’d beat me in a fight.”

“It’s wishful thinking.” Shane pipes up, slapping a mop about the floor, and thrusting it under the furniture with about as much enthusiasm as a drive through worker. “Because of your size. Everyone wants to be the lad who took down the big guy.”

“Well, I’m a peaceful person.”

“Right.” 

“What’s all this for anyway?” Joe grumbles. “We were fine with the house the way it was. Like, cleaning is such a waste of time. A waste of summer.” 

“Get over yourself,” I advise him. “Wrong cupboard, by the way. The glasses go in the one on the end.”

“Oh, sorry Hitler.”

“It is for the girl,” Kasper says. He is tying up yet another bag of rubbish. It jangles with aluminium cans. “Butt shorts.”

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Butt shorts?”

“Yeah, man, that’s what we call your friend Evie,” says Joe. “It’s ‘cause she’s always got those shorts on, and you can kinda see the crease of her arse cheeks in them.”

“Bit of a fucked up way to refer to a girl, do you not think?” I take another mug from the precarious pile. 

“No. Why? It’s just facts.”

“Mm?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like the shorts, man. I think any girl who has a pair of legs like that ought to wear them. More girls should, as long as they have the body for it, you know?”

I fling the mug at him and he examines it. “You missed a bit there at the bottom.” I snatch it back. 

“Are you ridin’ her?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Evie, like. Are you ridin’ her?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Do you think you will ride her? Like, at some stage in the future?”

I’m aware of Shane’s judgemental mopping in the background. “Like I said, it’s not like that. I’m not interested.”

“Right!” I pass Joe the mug and he polishes it thoughtfully. “Do you think she’d like me, then? Will you ask her?”

“No.”

“Aw, what? I thought if you didn’t fancy her, you’d at least set me up with her.”

“She wouldn’t like you.”

“She would! Girls love me, sure. Back in school they couldn’t get enough of my sexy bod.” He rolls his sleeve over his sunburned bicep and flexes it while Kasper wolf-whistles. Joe swings his hips in a circle while spinning the towel above his head to his friend's rapturous applause. I roll my eyes.

“You tell Evie that I know how to take care of a woman. She’d be a lucky girl to get a chance with Joe Roche.”

“Look, Joe–”

“A girl like that is wasted on someone like you. You think you can be picky, but you’re too picky for your own good. Well, I’ll tell you what I’d do to her…” 

He launches into a monologue, outlining things too vulgar to be said out loud around normal and respectable folk, but are somehow perfectly acceptable to say to me. He goes into specific detail about her legs, her lovely long legs, and the positions he’d like to put them while I scrub at a plate so hard that my hand starts cramping. 

“Jesus Christ, Joe.” I whirl on him, and the plate, still in my hands, slips, and shatters on the floor, sending shards of porcelain and blobs of soap flying in all directions. I falter, startled by the violence of it. He shuts up. The mop stops. The bin bags stop rustling. 

“Fuck sake, what is wrong with you? Why do you think everyone wants to hear your weird, perverted thoughts all of the time?”

He cowers against the draining board. “I thought you said you were a peaceful person.”

“Do you want to fight me?”

He makes a tiny sound, and I stomp further into his space. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Alright, then learn to shut the fuck up.” 

“Sorry.” 

“And don’t say that type of shit in front of me again.”

I spin back to the sink and scrub the cutlery at the bottom, hands trembling and shoes crunching on the shattered porcelain, while everyone completes their chores in complete silence. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[inkformyblood]

guess (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 14)

Canon Era, Soap x Ghost x Price x Gaz, (Poly141). Sex toys. Lime.

“Package for you, Cap. And one for you, Lieutenant.” Gaz’s arms are loaded high with the recent mail delivery; backlogged for three months with their recent spate of missions and Soap can barely remember half the items he’d ordered while he’d been on leave. Some fresh paints possibly, a new sketchbook given that he was starting to run out of space in his current one and layering fresh drawings over old. 

Gaz drops a handful of parcels onto the table in front of Soap, a few letters mixed in, and Soap grabs for them before Gaz’s words could register.

Between the five of them, Gaz receives the most mail — a combination of a larger family and a minor addiction to the late night shopping channels — then Soap — his own family fairly well-spread, if disorganised, and his artistic hobbies lending themselves to infrequent purchases — but Price almost never receives mail, same as Ghost.

“What did you get?” Soap leans forwards, his own mail abandoned and tips Ghost’s package towards himself, peering at the shipping label. He only gets a glimpse, simplistic text on a plain background, nothing more than a company name, before it’s pulled away, Ghost snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

Gaz nudges Soap back into his seat, dropping onto his lap with a sigh. He’s a solid weight, Soap’s arms falling to his hips then wrapping around Gaz’s belly and squeezing him tight as he presses his forehead to the back of Gaz’s neck. The other man smells like the cheap toiletries in the communal showers, a lingering hit of rich smoke from Price’s cigars, and Soap lifts his face to bite at Gaz’s shoulder, just for something else to do as his mind races. 

Gaz sinks further down, tips his head back to allow Soap better access to his skin. “Same parcel that Price has got,” he murmurs, his gaze darting between the other two men. There’s something brewing between them, the parcels opened just enough to slide the invoices free and they have swapped them, dragging their fingers over the small text. Price is holding his far enough away that it could be grabbed easily…

“Don’t even think about it, lad.”

Fair enough. 

Ghost glances over his invoice, his eyes dark, and a shiver rolls up Soap’s spine, his teeth tight in the fabric of Gaz’s shirt. “Might as well test them out now.” Ghost tears his parcel open without another thought and crooks his fingers at them both. “Doors locked so bend over the desk and you’ll see what we’ve got.”

There’s a strange thrill to being any degree of naked in the main areas of the base, Soap and Gaz folded over the meeting room table and their trousers drawn down to the ankles. 

“Opening scene to a porno ain’t we, Gaz.”

Gaz catches his eye, grins wide. “Have we been naughty boys, sirs?”

A broad hand smacks against Soap’s arse first, low enough to catch the meat of his thigh, and he yelps, jerking forward on the table. Gaz groans into the second impact, burying his face into his hands and raising his hips up. Something rests against Soap’s spine, cool but not metal, a slightly tacky sensation as he shivers and it moves. 

“Eyes front,” Price barks. “Got a surprise for you, lads. Couple of toys for you to test out, but.”

“But, sir?” Gaz asks, chewing over his lower lip, slightly shifting against Soap as he sways his arse, raised high in the air once more. 

“You’re going to guess the size of the toy we are fucking you with. At stake are bragging rights and you can pick the movie tonight.”

[literallytoogaytofunction]

"I don't think that's how you use the slider-"

✨ Wolfstar as that one photo of Bowie and Ronson ✨

✧₊⁺

(close-ups and full ((half-arsed)) background under cut)

[delta-pavonis]

more doctor/curator pleeeaaaase? xo @hardly-an-escape

Far be it from me to deny anyone of more of these two sweet little whores... (I really really like them and will be back to their unhinged shenanigans after the Bang). More under the cut in the middle because NSFW.

Hob is shocked they make it past the entryway after the door to his flat closes behind them. 

But, let's be clear, the only reason they do is because Dream sees the tapestry that hangs in the library that opens to the left of the foyer.

The room has no windows, bookshelves from floor to high ceilings on all vertical surfaces except for the rectangle of glass that encases the textile art in a climate-controlled space. 

“My God, Hob,” Dream is walking towards it like he is being pulled in by a tractor beam on some spaceship, floating and not of his own volition. “Is this real?”

He comes up behind Dream and wraps his arms around the curator. “Aye,” he rests his chin on a black-clad shoulder, “family heirloom, late 14th century. The story is that one of my ancestors learned tapestry weaving in Paris and brought it back to Kent, taught her children, and their children. Gadling-made work supposedly hung in most castles in southern Britain by the mid-15th century. But this one was kept by the family. Why this particular tapestry over others is lost to time.”

A giant white horse rears up across the silken surface, narrowly avoiding the wolves that attack and weave around its legs. In the forest other beasts watch: owls, foxes, deer, squirrels, songbirds. It is very clearly not a unicorn, which is fascinating because it loses the religious symbolism typical of the period. The sun is setting in the background, making the leaves glow with a burnished copper color. 

“It is exquisite,” Dream whispers, leaning back into Hob. “And explains your preference for the Middle Ages.”

“Got it in one,” Hob chuckles. He pushes his hands up the front of Dream's shirt, presses his palms to the flat of his abdomen and digs his fingertips into the trail of dark hair that runs down the center.

Dream sways into it, going pliant in Hob's embrace. “So what's your desired order of operations, doctor? Far be it from me to choose a schedule that might endanger the lives of others by leaving you short on sleep.” He grabs one of Hob's hands and slides it down into his pants, where his cock is sticky and half-hard already. “Also, I think I have a Christmas present I might request of you.” He presses his arse into Hob's groin with a rolling motion, arching his back and moaning obscenely loud when Hob's fingers find the frenum piercing.

Fucking hell this man is such a perfect whore.

“Oh?” Hob murmurs, far more focused on cataloging every little sound and twitch that different tugs and twists of the piercing bring about. Dream is rock hard again within seconds, practically writhing against him, yet he is also the one stringing sentences together.

“Oh yes,” he rocks forward into Hob's hand then back into his crotch. “I want to ride your face until I come with your tongue buried in my arse, then turn around and ride your cock until I come again.”

Hob shivers and groans and uses his free hand to open Dream's fly so he has the space to fondle his bollocks. “You want that before or after I put on my leathers and ride you?” 

Dream cries out again, a generous spurt of precum ending up on Hob's hand when he tugs and twists the piercing; apparently a touch of pain isn't bad for this little dove. “Oh, after. Then I'll be on your face longer, waiting for my dick to get back into the game.”

“Mmm, then you'll be riding me even longer after that, just like you want, you insatiable slut.” Hob sucks on the side of his neck, digs his teeth in to bring a bruise to bloom. Dream moans and bucks with the hardest presses of teeth. “Like some pain with your pleasure, dove?”

“Only in small doses.” His long arms swing up and behind Hob's head, tugging his mouth back to his neck. “You?”

Hob gets distracted by expanding the hickey so it flows down to the top of Dream's shoulder. “Not my jam, but I am more than happy to do just about anything that turns my partner on.”

Dream laughs, breathless and happy-sounding, “No wonder you get typecast as a service top.”

Frustrated with the obstacle, Hob pulls Dream's shirt off, flings it somewhere to the side, then continues to paint the skin of his shoulder red and purple with his teeth. “And does everyone assume you're the twinky bottom?” He strokes Dream's cock slowly and grinds his own arousal into that pert little arse.

A gasp interrupts Dream's continued laughing as he grinds back, so much harder than before. “I love surprising people. Upending their expectations. Watching them lose their minds as I expertly take them apart, piece by piece.”

“Expertly?” He can't help but ask.

“What do they say, ten thousand hours to master a skill?” Dream sounds like such a smug little shit and Hob is beyond feral about it.

He moves one hand up to play with the hair on Dream’s chest, to tweak a nipple and hear that lovely little gasp again. “And how much practice have you had, sweet thing?”

“You sure you want the honest answer to that?” He can hear Dream's raised eyebrow.

“Go ahead. Shock me.”

“I stopped counting at one hundred seventy nine different partners.” 

Hob freezes, a whine oozing out through his teeth. Bloody fuck. 

“Hob?”

“Yeah, give me a sec. If I don't dissociate for a minute I am gonna come in my pants because Christ that is hot. Also explains a lot. My God, how many of those were multiples at once?”

Dream's laugh this time is a deep, sensuous rumble. “Not as many as you might think. And I’ve only been gang banged once.” He turns in Hob's arms, dislodging Hob's hand from his prick and leaning in to speak against Hob's lips, “But that was a long time ago. Now I am more interested in exploring how many different sensations I can have with one partner.”

“Oh, so you plan on going full fluid bond with me, do you?”

The blush on Dream’s face is a gorgeous, deep rose red. “I…” he looks down and away for only a moment and then holds his chin up high, proud and perfect, “yes.”

[suzie-shooter]

Detroit Indycar GP :  James Blair race commentary highlights

“Dare I say - strap yourselves in, 'cause this could be a long one. This could be lengthy.”

(James at this point blissfully unaware he's about to spend the next two and a half hours in exquisite agony unable to look at his phone while knowing it's blowing up) 

They reckon the track's a little bit of a pig of a thing from chatting to a couple of the guys over there. Some have said, and I won't name names, that it's the worst track they've ever been to in their life.  

Indy500 last week, I didn't unfortunately catch it. (it's ok James we know you were getting steamed on a superyacht at the time)

A lot of discussion around a couple of things. First of which was who's the hottest Indycar driver? [...] For me though I think I have to go into the Newgarden camp, as far as just raw hotness. He also has piqued an interest in the role of the financial services sector which is attractive to me. It's a trait I look for in all my lovers.

(sticking the rest under a read more because it gets LONG)

We're going to get a replay here of Pato O'Ward making a total penis of himself at turn three in Indianapolis.

Getting replays of Newgarden with lipstick on his face and pouring milk on his head - without context that could sound like a real night out.

Fuck me, what a waste of time that monologue was. Jesus Christ.

I've already labelled [Newgarden] the hottest in the paddock. [...] What a stallion. What a total stallion. Backbone even.

There's a shot of Marcus in the background there, getting his kit off.

Little bit of insurance chat for you there.

The Canadian national anthem. Well this is a strange turn of events.

There's Marcus and Lissie. Guess it's out now. Pffft.

Ohh there's so many messages coming in *wheezes* (never has a man managed to simultaneously look so pleased with himself and so absolutely horrified 😆)

Sorry. What for? Nothing.

And then it's Marcus Armstrong P11, car number 11. Fuck he loves a P11. Fuck me he loves a P11.

Few opinions flying around. [...] I'm not saying anything sir. [...] I'm just going to get the live timing open. And we're not going to talk about that.

I can't wait to speak to [Clem]. Tough day for him.

We can ride on board Kyle Kirkwood's camera, so I can keep an eye on the arse of Marcus Armstrong. Business as usual here at Screaming Meals.

"Has he started showering because of her?" I don't believe so.

I want [the winner] to be Armstrong, he's got rapid pace, I don't know how he managed to shit the bed in Q2 yesterday the way he did.

You know that meme, right? Of Carlos Sainz - being like - shall I do the accent? Yeah, fuck it I'll do the accent - "I seriously don't know how to react right now." That's how I feel.

Pull yourself together Blair. It's going to be a long couple of hours.

Sack Monaco off. The only reason I went this year is 'cause Marcus wasn't racing at the 500. But dare I say if he is racing next year you won't catch me anywhere near Sass Cafe on Sunday night. I will be up it in Indianapolis.

Hahahaha ohhhh you will not believe who's just text me....it ain't Clem.

Flava Flav was there on Friday which was pretty cool. Flava Flav...second biggest celebrity in Detroit right now.

This is record numbers for a commentary.

Where's Armstrong? Fucking around as per usual.

Next pod - hopefully in the next couple of days.  Marcus is flying back I think tomorrow. Don't know who the guest's going to be on the next pod. We haven't really got around to arranging that yet. Sort of flying by the seat of our pants so to speak.

F for Ilott [...] he'll have an excuse, sure as death and taxes, Callum Ilott will have a reason for what happened and why it wasn't his fault. From where I'm sitting that does look like a bit of a fuck up, I hate to throw him under the bus.

Callum Ilott's car looking like it was taking a fancy to the back end of Kyle Kirkwood's car, to get little a bit National Geographic on it.

Anyone got any questions? That you think I'll actually answer? "Tell us about Monaco," I'll tell you about Monaco. "Where's Clem?" Clem is in Barcelona, drinking a lot of sangria. 

"When are you and Clem announcing together?" Pretty sure me and Clem were already pretty public, so, um, I don't know how much more social media attention that particular relationship needs.

Dream podcast guest? I'd like to get on like some real psychopath and just give them a hard time.

That's going to make things a little bit more straightforward, and I needed that this evening, because something tells me that by the time I've finished this Twitch stream, things might not be so straightforward.

[Marcus is] getting absolutely fondled verbally by the commentators here and I'm loving every second of it.

I reckon next lap he's going to be all over him, like sauce.

I'm going to be bald at the end of this race. Balder than Marcus Armstrong.

Callum looks angry. Okay, he did say it's his bad, so I'm not going to get an absolute tongue lashing from Ilott which sounds filthier than I meant it to, for saying that that one might be his fault.

Nobility and humility exemplified as per usual from Callum 'Pilot' Ilott there.

There's actually a few things in the works, with a couple of different organisations and people which should mean that the days of the lengthy gaps between Screaming Meals episodes could be numbered. And that's all I'm legally allowed to say.

Marcus is back to P11 somehow.

We'd quite like to get some Formula E guys, we'd quite like to get some more industry people. Such as, you know, for example, you know, maybe Lissie Mackintosh, she was a good industry person that we had on. Marcus really liked her actually.

Power's on fire. Not literally.

Grosjean's just taken a different piece of tarmac and he's gonna go straight to the pitlane, I'm not even sure if that's for a pitstop, I think that could just be to avoid embarrassment.

There's a lot of people watching me all of a sudden and everyone keeps talking about Max Fewtrell so I can only imagine that this is his fault, but I'm streaming off my phone so I can't actually phone him to figure out whether or not this is his fault. Okay, so Max sent all of his viewers here. Thank you Max, appreciate the gesture.

So. Yeah. I found out the week leading up to Long Beach. And Clem was with me at the time, and we were in Malibu actually, and he'd been winding me up all week about like celebrities that he'd seen and I didn't see [...] and the phone rings and we get this piece of news and I just kicked off, I said right, I've had enough of both of you trying to wind me up with these stupid false celebrity stories, just - shut up, like - talk about something else -  good try but you're not getting me that easy. And then the longer the silence went on, the longer I - the worse I thought the joke was getting. And then it went on further and I realised it wasn't a joke. And - all - all is well in the world of Screaming Meals. It's all good, it's all good. But it has been a funny few months. That's all you're getting. Watch the viewer number plummet.

Gearbox issue [for Pato] by the looks of it. Oh no! Anyway.

Armstrong's done Malukas, good job [...] so Armstrong to P12. Right in between his two favourite positions. I'm staying way away from that one.

An open diff which again sounds quite dirty.

He'll be saying get the fuck out of the way inside his lid. No, he probably won't be, he's pretty chilled behind the wheel actually, Marcus. Before and after the race he's an absolute misery to be around, but during the race he's usually actually pretty calm.

The two Marcuses of Chip Ganassi Racing, or Marci as they should be known in correct Latin [...] I think that can be a thing, Marci? The two Marci? Does sound a little bit like some sort of disease though, no? You decide in the chat, is Marci is the plural of Marcus? I mean they've got to come up with some sort of solution at Chip Ganassi Racing. I guess they probably call them like normal Marcus and like Marcus Armstrong. Or maybe shower-Marcus and non-shower-Marcus. Or underwear-Marcus and non-underwear-Marcus, I mean the options are limitless.

Pato O'Ward searching around the car for somebody else to blame.

What does twitter look like? Is it a complete nightmare or is it somewhat civilised? I don't even know why I asked [...] 'twitter is mad' - oh no! [...] 'all good - for Lissie' - oh god [...] hey look I need to know how my Monday looks tomorrow people. Jeepers creepers.

Armstrong got drilled by Newgarden.

Here's O'Ward - whose fault was it this time?

Apparently tumblr's lost it [...] it's been a long time since I've had a tumblr account.

Somebody's just said I have full permission to pick their next tattoo. Um. Here's what I was thinking of getting - and I don't have any tattoos and I don't want any tattoos - but I was thinking if I did get one I'd get one like here [his forearm] to try and be a fake Love Islander. And I'd either get something that is really important to me or something that is completely stupid like for example, 'I'll have the tuna carpaccio'...would be something that's really meaningful to me.

So we're an hour and forty into this stream and I've not had the opportunity to check my phone - let's keep this in mind - once since it started. I feel like a plane that was also in the air in 9/11 and you've just got no idea the horrors that await you when you land.

Screaming Meals merch - it's imminent but it's not this week, put it that way.

It looks like Herta's going to have a tough time with that front wing going forward, it's already flapping around like nobody's business, like a big dick in a locker room.

Little bit of rubbing - bit rude [...] just a little bit of a love rub from Rossi up the inside of Rosenqvist.

If [Grosjean] does get a penalty it's another spot for Armstrong so if you ask me he's guilty as sin, but I'm not exactly sure what the crime was.

'We' being Marcus Armstrong, if you hadn't pieced that one together, because it's a collective, it's a team effort, and I like to take credit that I'm probably not entitled to.

Ilott's bull really did try to mount his cow there.

Come on Armstrong, pull your finger out of your arse.

Marcus apparently taking some credit for some things that I said. Situation normal.

[RLL] were actually looking like one of our options at one point last year. But we got Ganassi...and we're very happy, we love Ganassi here at Screaming Meals.

Graham Rahal's going to want to just go back to his hotel room, order a Pizza Hut and just about all of the hotel room porn that the TV has to offer.

Marcus has done fucking well to avoid that one, because he's swung round the corner at full tit and he's had to really stick the arse out a bit and get it round him.

Dixon says he's got speed, apparently. Sounds like a good night out.

Matt...somebody very popular called Matt has just joined the...oh Matt! G'day Matt Gallagher, how you going mate?

Come on Armstrong, just get on the button [...] and he's been caught napping a bit on the restart, you useless prick.

666 viewers...

Armstrong or Dixon - don't you make me answer that question. Nah, not answering that one. I don't know if I can. I couldn't answer it if I wanted to.

Does Kirkwood still have to pit or is he good? I don't know. James are you okay? I don't know.

And now we're having to fend off Ericsson - just put him in the wall Marcus, we can't afford to give up P7 now.

And it's going to be Armstrong with a best equal result of P8 in the NTT Data Indycar series and um - yeah. I wonder what the rest of his day's going to look like...

[lenreli]

Day 20 - "Do I have to say it again?"

[AO3]

Hob is drinking a fresh cup of tea when Dream ― enters his flat, phasing through the door suddenly, like he’s on a mission and Hob chokes on the mouthful of tea. “Hello,” he wheezes once the tea has gone down with minimal choking. 

“I would like for you to,” at this, Dream tilts his head, looming in front of Hob on the sofa, “to spank me.”

Hob, for one, is glad he didn’t drink more tea, otherwise he would’ve done a spit-take over Dream’s coat. “I. What.” He frowns, looking around his flat as he wonders if he ended up in another universe somehow. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dream gives him an unimpressed look, “do I have to say it again? Because I will not,” Dream intones. 

“No, no, I heard you. Um,” Hob frowns, gaping as he tries to string words together. Fails. Gulps down about half of his tea as he thinks about what he heard. “Can I at least get why?” 

“Many people are thinking about it this month, and I’d like to see what the appeal is,” Dream offers from next to him, sitting down while Hob was gulping down hot tea. 

“Ah. Right. Of course. And you want to―not the one doing the spanking?” He sips at his tea, watching as Dream’s lip twitch down, nose scrunching minutely, and Hob refuses to think the word adorable.

“I do not take pleasure in hurting someone, much as I sometimes need to as my function requires.” 

“Fair enough,” Hob sighs, clutching the almost-empty mug as a life-line. “Two things: do you want to do it, ah,” Hob tugs at his earlobe, “well. Sexually?” 

“If it turns out that way,” Dream says with a tilt of his head, blinking at him, “which is why I came to you.” Hob pointedly doesn’t think about what that means, recognising that this is a time when it’s best to see where things take you. “The second thing?”

Hob grimaces, “well. If you do want to do this, and if you don’t like it. A word you can say to stop it,” of course, if this happens and Dream vanishes in sand, it’d be easy to see why, but considering how often Hob’s thought of 1889… 

Dream blinks again, head tilting as he thinks, pink lips purse minutely, “Dreaming. Why a word when I can simply vanish somewhere else?”

“My peace of mind?” He offers, sighing in relief as Dream inclines his head. “Um. You may have to take off your coat,” he says, unsure what’s happening with his life as Dream’s coat just ― vanishes, revealing a plain black shirt and black jeans, the black boots also vanishing as Dream blinks at him. “Uh. Any preferences. For the. Um,” for fuck’s sake, he thinks to himself as he takes a deep breath and finishes the last of his tea, putting it on the coffee table in front of him. “Any preferences for positions?” 

Dream tilts his head, and Hob tries not to think about the pale skin revealed to him, looking very soft and ― Hob squeaks, eyes widening as Dream suddenly leans over, chest pressing against Hob’s thighs, a solid weight and Hob’s thoughts trip over as a strip of white is revealed in between Dream’s pants and shirt. Dream lets out a considering sound, head in his hand as Dream turns his head around to look at him. 

“Ah. Sure. Um,” Hob takes another deep breath, dragging his thoughts away from ― everything, trying his best to not. In general. “Can I?” He asks, hands hovering over Dream’s back and thighs, and Dream only blinks at him in reply, blue eyes dark as Hob pulls Dream’s arse up. Hob is glad that he put on the TV, the background noise a comfort as Hob gathers scraps of determination to even start. “Hard slaps? Or soft? Um,” he says, voice gravel as he licks his lips. 

“Whichever you think,” Dream says, voice deep and Hob swallows, feeling it resonate throughout Dream’s form as he nods. “We can stop if you don’t―”

“It’s not that!” He interrupts, “just. Wasn’t expecting this for today,” he smiles, hopefully not too manic as Dream frowns. Hob sighs and rubs his face, then his eyes as he takes a deep breath, then another. And another. “You won’t smite for this will you?” He says, and Dream shakes his head, still frowning. “Just making sure.” 

One, he thinks, body following through as he slaps Dream’s arse, hard, making Dream gasp, arms collapsing underneath his head as Hob takes a breath. Two, he thinks, hitting Dream softly this time. And Dream lets out a tiny sound, like a complaint, blue eyes quickly becoming watery as he stares at Hob. Three, he thinks as he slaps Dream hard. 

“Good?” He asks, voice rough as he tries to keep down his cock, feeling it twitch with Dream’s little sounds, with the way Dream nods and wriggles on top of him, which also isn’t helping. “That’s, uh, good,” he stumbles, somehow forgetting the number he was at. One, he starts again, a softer slap this time, and there’s a ― feeling, a wetness against his thigh, like it’s from Dream’s crotch, and pointedly doesn’t think about it. 

“Perhaps,” Hob shivers at Dream’s tone, dark and velvet, and Hob bites down a whimper as Dream turns around, arse pressing into his rapidly interested cock. Dream’s crotch has gotten darker, and Hob feels like he’s going to faint as Dream undoes his pants, revealing a thatch of dark hair around a leaking pussy. And pale thighs and legs as the black jeans are taken off. “Also this.”

“If you want,” he says ― or at least, he thinks he does, distracted by the pale thighs as he touches them, soft under his hand, trailing up to soft black pubic hair, and Dream twitches, thighs pressing into his arm. One, he thinks as he slaps Dream’s cunt ― and Dream whines, arching close to his hand. He’s taken from his appreciation of Dream’s reddening cunt as a hand tugs his hair, and he melts into the kiss, grabbing onto Dream’s thigh as they share an intense kiss. 

Then Hob slaps Dream’s inner thighs, left then right and Hob can feel Dream gasp and whine into his mouth, Dream’s hand in his hair tugging tightly.

[multifandomimagin3s]

The Mercenary

A/N: So I received a lot of requests for a fic based on my Mercenary!Reader headcanons post, it's a bit short and sweet but I hope you guys like it ~

Warnings: Violence and strong language - am I making the reader basically a female deadpool? probably.

The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Price struggled to contain his anger as he peered at the screen in front of him, seeing Laswell was in a similar state herself. General Shepard continued, undeterred by their visible annoyance;

"I have hired someone who I know will help to get the job done," He drawled," They're efficient and while they may come from a questionable background, I can't afford for any more failures, Captain."

Price could feel his blood begin to boil - it was practically a direct insult to him, and to his taskforce. Since when did his team need any help to get a job done, and done right? It was practically a slap in the face.

"Sir, I understand your concerns - but is contracting a mercenary really the best solution for this?" Laswell interjected, " The last mission gave us valuable intel, we have leads on a few of Hassan's associates, I don't understand why we need to hire them when 141 have shown that they're more than capable of handling things as a unit."

"Granted that is true - but I'm not taking any chances here," Shepard gruffly retorted. For whatever reason, he really was dead set on contracting this Mercenary. Naturally, it made Price more than suspicious as to what his motives were.

"Captain," Price bit the inside of his cheek, as his eyes all but burned through the webcam at his Superior," The Mercenary will be touching down on base tomorrow, with an ETA of 12 hundred hours - see to it that they're debriefed on the mission before extraction."

----------------------------

"There's no picture here," Laswell flipped through the pages in the manilla file," Wait - there's one... but all the faces are blurred out..."

"Hm," Price folded his arms over his chest," Must mean that whoever Shepard hired must be considered dangerous enough to warrant that kind of secrecy..."

"There's 10 people in this photo - he could have hired any of them," Laswell separated the pages, spreading them across the table top," All we have is their callsign, not much else to go on..."

Price hummed. It wasn't unlike Shepard to only give out information he deemed "necessary" - whatever he chose to not disclose at the time usually came as a surprise after the fact, and typically it wasn't pleasant.

"I haven't seen this symbol before," Laswell turned the paper to face Price; there were two logos printed in stark black and white - one being the signature wolf emblem seen on KorTac operatives, and the other appearing to be some species of snake, gaping mouth open with sharp fangs prepared to strike.

"Serpentes," Price clicked his tongue," They're a subsidiary of KorTac, haven't seen any of their operatives in the field in nearly a decade."

"Why would Shepard hire from KorTac?" It was basically a rhetorical question and the both of them knew that. Shepard kept his cards close to his chest - his half-arsed excuse didn't sit well with either of them but the more they pushed the General, the further away they would get from finding out the actual truth.

"Haven't the foggiest," Price sighed, scratching his chin," But whoever he's hired, they better not be a fuckin' nutter."

-----------------------------------------------

You didn't expect to be 'best of buds' with the Task Force upon your first interaction with them - with everything you've heard about 141 from Shepard, and from your team-mates, you weren't anticipating the warmest of welcomes either. But it didn't put you off any - you'd been hired to work with them, so if you were to kill each other before you even got out onto the field, then what good would that be?

As soon as the hatch door of the helicopter opened, you were greeted by the sight of a bearded man dressed in the standard khaki army uniform - if you excluded the bucket hat on his head. You had to admit he was quite handsome - but you weren't so stupid as to let that drop your guard, especially when in a foreign area.

You swung your duffel bag over your shoulder, descending down the ramp towards him. His eyes flickered across the mask adorning your face, as if trying to burn through the material and see the face beneath. It was a natural response, you thought - even though you were dressed in what would equate to 'skivvys,' the fact he didn't know what you looked like and definitely didn't know your name was probably setting off alarm bells in his head.

"Captain Price," He grunted with a tight-lipped smile, holding his hand out for you to shake as if it pained him," And you must be the Mercenary."

"Yep," You replied, in a tone that was just a bit too chipper for his liking," Call me 'Copperhead."

"Like the snake? Very fitting."

"Yeah, well - we tried 'Black Mamba' and 'Australian Brown Snake' but the first sounded a like a sex toy, and the latter was too long."

Price almost choked on his own spit. It was kind of amusing to watch the man splutter to find the right words - if you were in his ranks you probably would have been scolded a bit for that, but you weren't.

"Right, well," He was quick to recompose himself but didn't meet your eyes," Follow me - the team are awaiting your arrival for a debrief on the mission."

-----------------------------------------

As soon as you stepped into the meeting room, three pairs of eyes locked onto you. You stuck out a bit like a sore thumb in comparison to the rest - the casual uniform for your regiment was a deep burgundy top, not unlike the military's, but paired with burgundy cargos with gold trims on the pockets.

"Boys, this is 'Copperhead," Price nodded to the group whilst keeping a slight distance between you both. You felt like rolling your eyes but restrained yourself - as if you'd kill him in his own territory when on payroll," Copperhead - Sergeant Gaz Garrick; Sergeant Soap MacTavish; Lieutenant Ghost."

Garrick and Soap seemed to practically lounge in their chairs, giving you a brief nod in recognition as their names were called. Their eyes were trained on you the entire time, showing that despite how relaxed they appeared, they absolutely hadn't let their guard down.

Ghost shifted slightly in his chair, dark eyes burning through the eyeholes of his mask. His posture was practically poker-straight, arms folded across his chest - he was clearly sizing you up.

"Copperhead? What's the craic there?" Soap enquired - he too had an unusual call sign, as he'd been told many times over the years.

"Hey, I got lucky - some poor fucker ended up with milk snake," You replied, dumping your duffel next to the door," Was a choice between Copperhead or Diamond Back for a while - both were a good fit but Copperhead stuck."

"Diamond back?" Gaz enquired with a confused expression.

"Because I have an amazing arse." Soap and Gaz snorted a laugh. Ghost, however, appeared to be unamused - well, it was hard to tell what he was actually feeling considering you couldn't see his face. But the gruff "fuckin' 'ell" told you what you needed to know. You smirked under your mask - he was going to be the most fun to wind up.

"Alright - enough of the pleasantries," Price interjected, coming to stand at the end of the room," Let's get to what we're all here for - the mission."

-----------------------------------------------

"So, the uniform," Soap enquired, leaning back slightly in his chair as he gestured to your clothing," Is that to go with the name or is that just standard issue for you lot?"

It was quite strange as to how quickly he started to try and make idle chat with you - while his comrade Gaz seemed to similarly be relatively relaxed in your presence, he still aired on the side of caution.

"Bit of both," You shrugged," Different uniforms for different missions - the red and gold is pretty much standard, goes with that old saying that people use to identify potentially dangerous snakes."

He looked at you perplexed. Ghost's deep voice piped up, and you noted how he rolled his eyes - whether that was directed at you or his comrades, you weren't entirely certain: "Red touches yellow - kill a fellow."

"Makes sense, you know," You half-hazardly gestured to the snake emblem plastered to your outer bicep," It;s kind of poetic, right? Although, it does also kind of give McDonalds vibes - good thing the tactical suits are less ugly."

"You're out on the field to kill - it's not a bloody fashion show," Came Ghost's blunt reply.

You smiled widely, eyes crinkling at the corners," Just 'cause I'm splattering people's brains across the wall doesn't mean I can't look sexy doing it - and trust me, I do."

"I couldn't give less of a fuck if you looked like Margot fuckin' Robbie under that mask," You could tell his blood pressure was rising by the second and it made you want to kick your feet in glee," You're a Mercenary and quite frankly it doesn't matter how good you are, if you get in the way or try and betray us, I'll take you out myself."

There was a beat of silence. Now, any other soldier would have probably curl up into a ball after having been gutted out by the Lieutenant - any normal person would have practically pissed themselves at the sheer sight of him. Soap and Gaz's eyes flitted between their comrade and you, as if torn between being engrossed in the dynamic between you both and preparing for Ghost to actually strangle you.

"Wow - have only known you for five minutes and you're already talking dirty to me," You cooed in a slightly mocking tone," You work fast, Ghost."

"Shut the fuck up, you tit -"

"When you said you'd take me out - did you mean with a sniper or like on a date? Because hey, we can see how the mission goes, I'm game for either -"

"I swear to fucking god-!!"

"Mission debrief is over!" Price boomed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb," Soap - take Copperhead to their room, and all of you get the fuck out of here, now."

The room fell into complete silence, as Soap got up to escort you off to wherever on the base they'd decided would be fit for you. You sent a wink to Ghost's agitated form, chuckling as you picked up your duffel," Look forward to working with you, Dream Team."

Soap shook his head, fighting the smile about to crawl onto his face. He could feel the eyes of both his superiors burning into the back of his skull. He was no fool, and he knew that despite how jovial you seemed, you were a trained killer. So he wouldn't be letting you get too close to him.

Gaz left shortly after you and Soap made your swift departure. Ghost stared at the door, as if trying to shoot lasers through it and down the corridor to where you were.

"Lieutenant - a word?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"I want you to keep a close eye on that one," Price spoke lowly, as if you could hear through walls.

Ghost gritted his teeth at the prospect of having to work alongside you. As far as he was concerned, you were a massive pain in the arse and the fact that you couldn't be trusted just gave him all the more reason to dislike you.

"I've already read through their file - not much information, Laswell's working on it, but what's there is more than enough to make you watch your six."

"Affirmative, sir."

"As you know, pick-up is at 0600 tomorrow - until we know more about the Mercenary, we can't take any chances," Price shook his head in thought," God knows why Shepard hired them... if they're as dangerous as their file says, then we have our work cut out for us."

Thank you guys for reading! ~