#hard rock nick

[undercooked-icicle]

Do you go to jail if you don't follow the laws of physics? Like if I start floating will I get arrested?

[wilson-is-a-whore]

Which one is your otp

[kitsuq]

charlie’s waffle house video, that’s cringe and danny and drew’s hard rock nick video will always be the peak of comedy to me. they were also my first rewatches of ‘23.

[guzmarat]

[musicalthought]

I look like a mix of these two

[klesek]

YOU SUCK DICK ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ (deg)

what is with you being fucking mean to me

[teethmouth]

me and my bsf as them part 2

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rock, Meet Hard Place 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss makes a deal that proves less than beneficial for you.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen

Author’s Note: This is what you asked for so don't even.

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

“Alright, sweet thing, you just make sure he knows I’m on his way, won’t you?” Hansen drawls over the phone. You roll your eyes. 

“Yes, I will definitely do my job, Hansen,” you click around the computer as you drone dully towards the speaker phone. 

“Always so obedient, baby face.” 

“Mm, sure. ETA?” You ask curtly. 

He chuckles, “you sure know how to sweet talk.” 

“I’ll say... about an hour? Is that correct?” You rebuff. 

“You’re good,” he praises. 

“I’ll let Fowler know.” 

You reach over and hang up before he can get his next quip out. You can see why your boss isn’t his biggest fan, though you can’t say Fowler isn't much better. He’s grating in a much different way. 

You stand up and check your watch. You cross the office and knock on the door to the left of your desk. Your boss grumbles from the other side. 

“One hour,” you call through. 

“In,” he demands. 

You sigh. You really don’t need any more of his griping. All morning he’s been stressing you about Hansen. He really has no right to be so whiny. He chose this. He said the contract was too good to pass up. Faced with consequence of his own greed, he makes sure he’s not the only one to suffer for it. 

No matter how many times you remind him that business is business and you need to just get it over with, he doesn’t let up. You open the door and step inside. 

“Fowler,” you cross your arms. “I wouldn’t recommend any more caffeine.” 

“How do you know—maybe I don’t want another coffee.” 

“You shouldn’t have one but I could make some decaf,” you suggest. 

“Do you always have to do that? You don’t know what’s in my mind.” 

“I know you have your knife is in your boot and I would suggest you leave it at your desk,” you shrug. 

“You don’t always know,” he snarls and rolls his chair back. He bends his ankle over his knee and unstraps the sheath. “There, happy.” 

“Happy is a relevant emotion. I’m content. One hour, Fowler.” 

“One hour,” he mocks. “If you weren't so damn efficient...” 

“I know, sir, I’d be working for some CEO in New York, living every young girl’s dream.” You turn to the door. “About fifteen years too late.” 

You leave him as he issues another grumble. You pace around the office and go to the window. You peer out at the green lawns and let your vision blur. You chose to never be a wife or mother, too much hassle, yet after everything, you’re still reining in children. Forty-year old manchildren. 

“New jacket,” Fowler comments as he emerges from his office. 

“It was new about five years ago,” you turn to face him and lean on the trim of the window. 

“Which one?” He holds up two hangers; a leather jacket and a blue blazer. You squint.  

“You joining a golf club or a biker club?” You snip. 

“Don’t be a smart ass,” he tosses the leather jacket into the cushioned chair against the wall and unhooks the blazer from the hanger. “I swear, I don’t need lip from the both of you.” 

“What do you mean? Hansen was absolutely delightful.” The dryness in your voice chafes in the air. He shakes his head. 

“Idiot,” he mutters, “but a deadly idiot.” 

He pops his collar before he pulls the jacket over his shoulders. He folds it back down and goes to the oval mirror hung to the right of the door. He fixes a shank of his short hair as it juts up from his crown. You watch, disinterested, from your perch against the window sill. 

“You couldn’t put a dress on for the special occasion,” he challenges as he faces you. 

You have to keep from flicking your eyes up. You go to your desk and sit, “I’ll wear one when you do.” 

“Wouldn’t you like a peek?” He scoffs. 

You don’t answer. He might despise Hansen for the same, but he can be cocky in his own right. Most men in this line of work, or just at that level, have an overinflated ego. Likely a bit of compensation for lacking elsewhere. 

“Come on, let’s get moving,” he snaps his fingers. “What do you think? Outside? The den? Dining room?” He asks. “I could sit at the end of the table, have him stand at the other end like a peasant in a medieval court?” 

“Oh, this is going to go well,” you stand again. 

“Ah, come on, Harpy, you’ll be there to keep us civil.” 

You give him a look. He tosses the nickname out when he wants to irk you but he’s yet to get the reaction he wants. You don’t let him have that much. He gets twelve hours of your day, sometimes more, and nothing else. 

“So maybe I should bring the knife,” you remark. 

“Mm, interesting. He definitely wouldn’t see it coming but I think those daggers in your eyes are sharp enough to keep him at bay,” he snickers.  

“If you really want my opinion,” you approach him, “meet him in the den. Have a drink. Keep his hands busy.” 

“Oh, are you worried about me? You think I can’t handle him?” 

“Not worried. I know the kind of man he is. And the kind you are,” you muse. “You should both keep your hands visible. I don’t like cleaning up blood.” 

He laughs again. 

“No coffee, but I can have whiskey? Guess that’s fair,” he turns on his heel and struts into the hall. You follow.  

You won’t say it, but you don’t see why you need to be there at all. It’s hardly the sort of meeting where you need to keep minutes. 

[metal-sludge]

MEGADETH (1983 - present) | METAL MANIA, January 1989.

[bayareabadboy]

Stevie Nicks

[millaren]

put too much effort into this to only post it in rpscord so here's a 3ds theme i made!

should be on theme plaza eventually ^^ After 2 months it's finally on there

and as a bonus here are the 2 uncompressed halves:

[questintheskies]

Jay was a savage!

[urfavsecretgirl]

arctic monkeys combinating solo of black sabbath's "war pigs" during "arabella" performance is my roman empire. (thank you dad for introducing me to black sabbath 🤍)

[f4rydie]

kellin quinn

[randgugotur-6]

[scandinaviandenim]