#he literally looks like a saint in these...

[sincerelyneo]

life is a highway | n.jm

“i wanna ride it all night long”

💿now playing: life is a highway by rascal flatts

❯ summary: Being a nervous learner driver is hard enough, but throwing in your older brother’s hot, smug, patronising best friend to be your instructor? Yeah...definitely not making things easier.

❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: enemies to...fuck buddies? smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, arguing, hate sex, public sex, car sex, swearing, heavy petting, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, dirty talk, very tame degradation kink, literally them just arguing with each other for the entire 3k words.

an: this is very influenced by the british driving experience—hence the manual car propaganda.

Look, driving a manual is hard. There’s just too much stuff to remember all at once—gears, pedals, mirrors, observations. Honestly, you don’t understand why anyone who values their sanity would choose to drive a manual car. If it were up to you, you’d be driving around in an automatic. But it’s not up to you. Because your brother, Mark, is paying for your driving lessons.

And Mark, being the car-obsessed gearhead he is, insists that everyone should learn manual—“So you can drive any car, no limitations,” he preaches. Even when you dragged yourself through the front door on the Friday night of your third failed driving test, you thought maybe, just maybe, your stubborn older brother would show a little grace. Let you switch, take the easy route.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he did something worse.

He sent Jaemin.

Na Jaemin.

Mark’s old college roommate—who, according to your brother, is the best teacher in the world, a saint suited with endless patience and encouragement. But if those qualities exist, they’ve never made an appearance around you. Because, from the very first lesson (four torturous sessions ago), Jaemin’s been nothing but a snarky, patronising ass. 

You hate him. And he hates you—clearly.

Sure, you may have driven on the wrong side of the road once. And stalled on a hill. And very nearly veered the two of you into oncoming traffic. But those were all accidents—you’re a learner. It’s not your fault.

Honestly, it’s Mark’s fault. 

Because you’re already a nervous driver, and throwing in a hot, built guy who slouches into the passenger seat like he owns the car doesn’t exactly help. Not with his long legs spread wide, and that muscled arm draped casually along the window, long fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the doorframe.

It’s a distraction. He’s a distraction. A hot, smirking, condescending distraction with perfect teeth and zero empathy.

“The light is on green,” Jaemin says flatly.

You blink. “W-what?”

He doesn't even turn to look at you. Just gestures lazily toward the windscreen. “If you stopped checking me out, you’d see the traffic light has changed. That means go.”

Your jaw drops, and you finally peel your eyes off him, squinting at the green hue now glaring in your face. “I know, asshole.”

“Then go.”

You want to scream, but you don't. Instead, you slam the clutch, jam the car into first gear with more force than necessary, and the car jerks forward. You thank God, because you just narrowly avoidied stalling again, but Jaemin is never grateful. 

“You’re snapping the clutch up too fast,” he comments. “You have to find the bite, then add gas. Keep revving the engine like that and you’re gonna wreck the clutch.”

“I was not revving the engine,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. But of course, that doesn’t stop him.

“You were. Because you’re scared of stalling. But if you actually planned ahead and stopped rushing—”

“I won’t stall, yeah, yeah, I know.” You cut him off, gripping the wheel tighter. 

“Then apply it.”

You’re about to lose it. You hate the way he talks to you like you’re ten years younger than him—like you’re some clueless kid. It makes you want to punch him in that smug mouth of his. But that’d only prove his point that you’re immature and feed his ego. 

So, you grit your teeth, suck in a breath, and try to ignore the way your heart’s thudding against your ribcage and your palms go slick on the wheel. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. But he makes it impossible to concentrate.

“You can’t drive around in first gear, this is a thirty zone.”

“I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t—fuck—pull the car over!”

His voice slices through the air and your stomach flips violently. You yank the wheel toward the kerb, the tires bouncing as the car lurches to a halt. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaemin’s lip twitch (about to make some smartass comment about you mounting the pavement) but the fury in your expression makes him think twice.

The second the engine cuts, you explode.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, unbuckling your seatbelt and twisting in your seat to face him. “If you hate this so much, then don’t show up! Mark’s not forcing you to sit in this car with me, Jaemin. I could find someone else to help me.”

“Oh, totally. I’d love to make room for driving instructor number eleven,” he bites.

"Then do it," you sneer, slumping back into the driver’s seat with a shrug, arms folded tight across your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Seriously, Y/N, I’m trying to help you," he says. "But you don’t listen. You never listen—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you actually helped. All I’ve heard for the past four weeks is how shit I am at this.”

“Because you’re not even trying! You act like my help is beneath you. You refuse to take any criticism.”

“Beneath me?” You laugh, bitter and breathless. “I’ve failed my test three times, you absolute dick! I clearly am trying! I’m trying so fucking hard. And all you do is sit there and mock me, which just makes it worse.”

“You need tough love! This isn’t a joke—driving is serious. People's lives are on the line. Your life is on the line.”

That makes you swallow.

“If you’re talking about that time I almost hit that cyclist, that wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere!”

Jaemin scoffs, shakes his head and tongues the side of his cheek. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You’re so terrified of failing again, so you never give yourself a real chance to get it right. You can’t let go of your pride, so every little mistake makes you panic, and you do something stupid. And then you blame everyone else for it.”

Your jaw drops. Then a furious exhale leaves your lungs. “You are—unbelievable. You’re such a—”

“You’re not listening to me,” Jaemin growls, cutting you off. “Again. You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care. Fuck you—”

But before you can finish the very creative insult forming in your throat, his hand shoots out—fisting the front of your hoodie, yanking you toward him. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Brutal and angry and heated.

You freeze. For one heartbeat. Then another.

Your whole body goes still—except your lips, which betray you, parting instinctively for him. You sink into it before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it might steady the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. It doesn’t. 

Because he tastes like cinnamon and black coffee. So fucking predictable. So him. And, of course, unfairly good. Which just pisses you off more. He tastes good, and you like it. 

The kiss is harsh. Messy. Teeth knock, lips drag, because even now, the two of you are fighting for control. There’s no rhythm. No grace. Just lust and resentment colliding together in the ugliest way possible.

His hand grips your hoodie tighter, like he doesn’t trust you not to pull away. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him for kissing you. He didn’t expect you to gasp, to open your mouth and let him in. Let his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and so damn hungry.

You feel the press of his thumb against your sternum, the subtle tremble in his wrist, and it hits you—weeks of tension finally snapping loose.

It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s—what the hell are you thinking?

You pull away first, shaking his grip off your hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaemin blinks, looking just as stunned as you feel—pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I don’t know... you just—fuck, you drive me insane," he mutters. "I just wanted to shut you up."

“Oh, so your first thought was to kiss me?” you snap, swiping your sleeve across your mouth like you can erase the feel of him. A small part of you is glad it doesn’t. “That’s how you deal with people who annoy you? Because if so, you need a HR department!”

“No,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “You’re not just people. You’re—you’re impossible to be around.”

"Maybe you’re the one with the issue!” you hiss. “Plenty of people enjoy my company. You just don’t know how to be around me without being a smug, condescending prick!"

His expression twists "I’m trying to fucking help you," he says. "But, clearly, you don’t want help. You just want to fight, don’t you? You want to pick a fight because that’s all you know how to do."

“Because you infuriate me!” you shout. “You barge in here, all patronising and hot, acting like you know everything, acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’re better than me—”

You don’t get to finish.

He lunges across the console before either of you can think better of it, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Again. 

His seatbelt strains as he twists toward you. You meet him with equal force, kissing him back like you can knock some sense into him with your mouth.

He groans into it, deep and guttural, and then he’s hauling you closer, shoving his seatbelt over his head and dragging you half onto his lap. The centre console digs into your hip, but you don’t care. Your knees press against the door, your hand grips the headrest behind him. Every inch of the car feels too small for the way he’s kissing you. Too hot.

His hands are everywhere. One tangled in your hair, the other pressing flat against the small of your back like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You gasp when his mouth trails briefly to your jaw, your throat. “You’re such a jerk,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Shut up,” he mutters, before his lips crash into yours again.

And you do. You shut up (for once) letting him kiss you breathless while his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, calloused pads dragging over overheated skin. You shiver, nerves buzzing from the way your body is betraying you in all the worst ways. With the worst person,

“You're a nightmare,” he growls against your mouth. 

“So stop kissing me,” you bite back, fingers fisting his t-shirt.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Your back hits the glovebox as he shifts, pulling you fully into his lap. Your knees knock against the dash, thighs bracketing his hips, breath catching as you straddle him in the cramped passenger seat. Your head tips back, knuckles going white where they clutch his shoulders. 

“This is so stupid,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Say that again when you’re not grinding on me.”

You shove at his chest—but not hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”

His hands slide lower. Gripping. Pressing. Desperate. “Oh you’re going to.”

He rolls your hips against him, firm and rough, and you feel him—all of him. Hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The pressure sends a jolt through you, because if you’re really ‘going to’ fuck him, the size of him already has you intimidated.

You whimper despite yourself. It’s pathetic. Weak. And it turns him on so damn much. 

His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck—why can’t you make those sounds with me all the time,” he groans, voice hoarse, “instead of running that pretty little mouth?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just keep grinding down, breath catching with each pass over his straining cock. You’re soaked. Your jeans are too tight. Everything is too hot. Too much.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He huffs a laugh, then brushes your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear. Teeth grazing. “We’ve already established you’re going to,” he smirks. “But first—”

His hand slides between your bodies. 

“—you’re going to get yourself off on my thigh like the filthy girl I know you are.”

You’re about to repeat those two words again, but he captures them with a kiss—swallowing them down with a simple swipe of his tongue before he looks down to where you’re rutting against him.

You’re not sure when your jeans became the enemy, but they are now—tight, rough, in the way. Every twist of your hips adds to the unbearable friction, your breath catching in your throat with every grind. You’re not supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not with him.

But Jaemin’s thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—God, his hands—know exactly where to go, how to hold you steady and drive you crazy in the same breath.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he grits, fingers digging into your waist. “Can’t follow a single instruction when you’re behind the wheel, but now? Suddenly you’re fucking little miss obedient.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both.

“You think you’re funny?” you hiss, but your voice cracks as his thigh flexes, and your hips jolt in response. “You think you’re winning right now?”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek—just shy of a kiss. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, condescension dripping from every syllable, “I know I am.”

“You’re soaking,” he adds, palm skating down your front before slipping inside your jeans, into your panties.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable, smug bastard I’ve ever met,” you pant against his mouth. “And I hate you.”

“Good,” he breathes, before surging forward again.

His mouth trails downward—jaw, neck, collarbone. Tongue licking over one of the few marks he just made. Your hips jerk when he bites, just a little too hard—and he groans  like he felt it in his own skin.

“Can’t believe you’re this wet for me and still have the nerve to talk back.”

“I can multitask,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist as he reaches for your jeans. He pauses, looking up so his eyes meet yours—and for a moment, the lust between you stutters.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, low and serious.

You hate how long you hesitate. Hate how breathless you sound when you whisper, “No.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then your jeans are open, and his fingers slide into your underwear—hot, teasing, and maddeningly slow. You cry out, head dropping to his shoulder, clutching at the back of his neck as two of his fingers start to circle your clit. 

“God, you’re shaking,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna cum like this? From barely anything? What happened to all that attitude?”

“Shut up,” you whimper, grinding shamelessly into his hand. “Just shut the hell up—”

“Not a chance.”

His fingers dip lower, circling the wet entrance of your pussy before he presses in deeper, and your whole body tenses, that coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Come on, sweetheart. Prove me right. I love it when you do.”

You hate him. You really do. But your body doesn’t care. It burns and trembles and demands more. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he curls his fingers just right—and then you’re falling apart, hips jerking, a strangled cry ripped from your throat before you can stop it.

Jaemin doesn’t stop until you’re trembling in his lap, wrecked and slick with sweat. When you finally lift your head to look up at him, he’s watching you intensely. Quiet for once. Hell, if you knew letting him finger you would shut him up, you’d have let him a long time ago.

Then, slowly, patronisingly slowly, he pulls his hand from your jeans, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

You slap his shoulder. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins around his fingers. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, still breathless. You glance down. His hands are still on your hips. “Let go of me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans in, lazily sucking another finger. “I already did.”

Your hand moves before you think—gripping his chin, nails digging into his jaw. Not a slap. Not a kiss. Just heat. Just challenge.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” you whisper. “Keep pushing, and I might actually lose control and kill you!”

That look flashes in his eyes again—that dangerous glint that says he likes it when you fight. But instead of rising to the bait, he just smirks.

“I am pushing,” he says. “But you’re the one currently dripping down my thigh. So tell me, sweetheart…” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Who’s really in control?”

You don’t answer. Just stare. Flushed. Still trembling, still aching. Then, leisurely, you lean in—close enough that his breath stalls.

“I am,” you bite, nipping his bottom lip as you yank his hoodie up over his shoulders. “And I’m going to prove it.”

He grins—wild and eager. “Then fucking show me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hoodie, dragging it off with enough force to make his smirk falter, only slightly. His eyes are black now—blown wide with want, with need—and for the second time ever in his life, Jaemin is silent.

He just watches.

And you take.

Your mouth slams into his, teeth biting at his lip before you drag your mouth down to his neck, sucking onto the skin to return your own mark. His hands fumble with your jeans again, this time yanking them down your thighs enough to slip your panties to the side. 

You help shove his sweatpants down past his ass—just far enough to free his cock. And then he’s wrapping a hand around himself, fisting his length with slow, deliberate strokes—taunting, as you watch with parted lips. 

He’s so big and thick and pretty, your brain starts pounding like it’s bitten off more than it can handle. You hesitate for a moment, but then you remember—this is about proving you still have control. You want this. You want to prove him wrong.

So, you slide back into his lap, straddling him fully, your bare skin meeting his with a gasp that rips through both of you. His hand slides between your thighs again, not to guide—just to tease. Just to feel how ready you are.

“Scared?” he mocks in a we whisper.

You glare, reaching down to line him up with your pussy. “Shut up.”

Then you sink down—slow, agonising—and you both break at the same time.

“Fuck—” he grits, head falling back, eyes rolling. “You feel—holy shit.”

You can barely breathe. He’s thick, hot, stretching you just past the edge of pain—grounding you in something that feels too good to be allowed. It’s not fair that a guy like him gets to be this good at fucking. But here he is. Fingers digging into your hips, guiding you into a rhythm that’s filthy, desperate, and anything but slow.

You ride him like it’s a fight. Like you want to ruin him. And he meets you stroke for stroke, jaw clenched, sweat collecting at his temple as your bodies slap together—fast, ruthless. No pretense. No sweetness.

Just want.

Just need.

Just hate.

“I hate how good you feel,” you choke out.

He bites down on your shoulder. “Say it again.”

You moan, louder this time, not caring about the volume or the fact that you’re fucking your instructor at the side of the road. Not caring that it’s Jaemin. 

“I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate you, I hate you so much—”

His hand snakes up to curl around your throat. It’s not tight but barely there. A light pressure, just enough, to make your head spin.

“Then cum on my cock,” he growls. “One more time. Hate me for it.”

And you do.

You shatter around him, body convulsing and twitching as your mouth falls open in a broken sob that catches against his lips. He follows a heartbeat later with a ruined, throaty moan, driving into you one last time as he spills inside you—deep, hot, messy.

And then it’s quiet.

You stay there, slumped against his chest  for a moment. His hand drifts up your spine, strangely gentle now, thumb brushing the back of your neck. But then, a moment later, it does hit you. 

You scramble off his lap, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, panties already ruined as his cum starts to leak out of you. You refuse to meet his eyes.

“I still hate you,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, casual as ever, tugging up his sweatpants with a smirk. “I’m giving you another lesson tomorrow. Same time.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting in a car with you again.”

“You’ll show,” he says,” Because you want to pass your test, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” he chuckles, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Now that I know you can follow instructions, if you listen to me—I'll make you cum again. You seemed to really enjoy yourself.”

You hate him.

[nyardynn]

The 'Allegorical Blade' is a holy symbol and you're sleeping on the greatest thing about it

Ok, let us please talk about Ardyn’s healer sword, because I think you’re all sleeping on that absolutely delicious choice of a design. I’m talking about his sword as seen in Dissidia FF NT. It is called the ‘Allegorical Blade’ and released alongside his white healer attire called the ‘Devotee’s Raiment’.

You might have noticed the flashy design of this blade that has prompted some to assume it is supposed to be reminiscent of the citadel in Insomnia where the royal seat of Ardyn's family is located - a seat supposedly reserved for him in his healer times. 

Wrong.

Or, rather, not quite and not only.

The Allegorical blade is, in fact, designed as a monstrance, which is a vessel used in Roman Catholic, Old Catholic and some other faiths’ churches to display objects of piety and high religious importance at the altar, such as remains of saints or the sacramental bread, the host. I’ve attached a picture I took of one at the local cathedral.

FF15 is inspired by medieval European royalty where Catholicism was the prevalent and the only acceptable religion. Catholics believe that through consecration, items - most famously food items like bread, wine or the host - are transformed into the body and blood of Christ. They are not only spiritually transformed, they are believed to be substantially transformed and are divine from then on, although they retain their appearance as ordinary items. These items carry tremendous spiritual meaning and like the remains of saints, they are to be handled with care if they are to be shown to believers - they are put into a monstrance. The word ‘monstrance’ comes from latin ‘monstrare’ - to display or to show, which makes a monstrance a vessel to display the holiest objects. They are usually carried and lifted to believers during mess or in front of processions. They are often, but not always, designed to look like religiously important symbols or buildings like churches, the sun, and so on. The citadel being the place that holds the crystal and therefor being of the highest religious importance to Lucians, is exactly what a monstrance would be crafted to resemble.

The Allegorical Blade has a different name in Japanese where it is called the ‘kamikotoba no ken’. There are three kanji used: that for ‘god, divine, holy’, that for ‘word’ and the last one for ‘sword’. Basically it is called the ‘Sword of the Word of God’ or the ‘Sword of Divine Words’.

If his sword is a monstrance, then why doesn’t it hold and display any kind of holy object?

It does.

The thing it shows off is Ardyn himself.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum has been a devoted follower of Bahamut for all of his life. He considers his healing powers a gift from the gods, so he travels far and wide to cure the sick and ‘spread their mercy’ as he speaks about what he believes to be a divine calling. His altruism and faith are so great that he continues healing even though he knows the starscourge accumulates within his body and that it will kill him in time. He believes with a passion that the gods have a plan and will grant him mercy too, so that one day he will be able to heal all of Lucis as their king. He is, quite literally, Eos’ version of Jesus Christ only that his god turned out not benevolent at all.

The holy object his sword displays is himself as a representation of Bahamut’s word that holds true before and even after Ardyn’s fall from grace. Ardyn Lucis Caelum believed in his divine calling, but he misinterpreted it and instead of being the savior to heal the land, he turned out to be the sacrificial lamb to be slain at the alter. The role of Immortal Accursed, of the scapegoat, is not the role he ever wanted. It is one that holds only pain and suffering, one without reward or even recognition of all he sacrificed and one that will have him murder indiscriminately until his death, forcing him to undo all he’s achieved and all he wanted to be with his own hands. He is god’s judgment in the flesh, god’s will brought down on humanity and in terms of FF15, Bahamut's will is cruel and final.

There is an actual bible quote I want to cite here, bc it seems to me it could be an inspiration for his sword design:

“For the word of god is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints an marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” [Hebrews 4:12]

Bahamut issued his command to Ardyn in EPA in a cold and merciless manner that has to cause outrage and inspire hatred, but the truth is, Ardyn has carried that burden with him ever since his birth when his healing was gifted to him. What better way to show the double-edged sword of Bahamut’s favour than by giving it, quite literally, to Ardyn?

It’s called the ‘Allegorical blade’ because it is a symbol of the dichotomy of his fate - a healer and a killer - and position within the prophecy where he is both the sacrificial lamb needed to safe the world and the very thing that kills it.

[a-roguish-gambit]

Let me cook!

What if… instead of Rogue being a goth what if Kurt was a goth instead??

He already is gothic. by being a Catholic he is intrinsically Gothic. The Catholic Church literally invented the Gothic art movement and is obsessed with blood, sacrifice, angst, and death. Did you see the conclave cerimonial traditions? The paintings of tormented saints? The fact that priests are supposed to wear all black outside of mass vestments? The chanting and incense? Gothic and extra af. Hell just look at any canonically catholic character, particularly in marvel, and a lot of their character is centered on Moody lighting in dramatic moments with lots of angst and they usually have a darker color pallet. /jk

To be honest, I’m only half joking, theres a reason why catholic churches look the way they do and protestant churches look like convention centers and business retreat spots. There’s a little bit of Gothic culture kind of embedded in there that’s kinda just normalized for us that other sects find morbid and disturbing (a lot of Catholic specific traditions are often adapted into “satanic worship examples” in other christian media ex: gargoyles being evil devil things when they are literally just fancy gutter storm drainage made to match a cathedrals aestetic. Midnight celebrations with chanting, candle holding, and robes? Literally just easter vigil mass) and a lot of gothic art draws inspo from old catholic art from the original Gothic art movement.

That being said i feel like he’s the kind of goth who gets into it cause its all so cool looking and a new creative outlet for himself where he feels like he can just be himself rather than the moody, self isolating,angsty, Goth that rogue is. I mean, he still has some angst, but Goth for him is less about expressing how he’s feeling on the inside and more about embracing his nontraditional features and letting himself enjoy spooky stuff year round.

[adailytea]

Mayblade 2025 - Song, Dress-up

Spencer had added Tala and Bryan to a temporary group chat.

Spencer: Uhhh guys Emergency

Bryan: what now

Spencer: I just saw Ian at the BBA lobby with five rich-looking dudes Leather jackets. Chains. Expensive sunglasses. One of them had a toothpick. Like “we spend more on moisturizer than groceries”

Bryan: ok and

Spencer: They were laughing. Ian Laughing.

Bryan: nah fake news none of us have a soul

Tala: Ian doesn’t laugh. He smirks and occasionally exerts noise.

Bryan: r u sure it was him

Spencer: YES He called one of them “bro” What is happening?

Bryan: pics or never happened

Spencer: (sent 3 blurry photos) Here. Zoom in. The one doing a fist bump is Ian.

Bryan: lol yep looks like him

Spencer: Oh no He just signed something He SIGNED something, Tala There was paperwork. It was suspiciously laminated.

Bryan: LMAOOO

Tala: What kind of paperwork?

Spencer: How would I now? It was paper. Official-looking. Fancy pen

Tala: Did you see the name? Anything?

Spencer: Couldn’t get close. One of them had a lip ring and the aura of a social media influencer. I didn’t stand a chance.

Bryan: RIP  thats it boys, man down he is leaving the team we lost him to capitalism

Spencer: I heard that new team from Saint Petersburg were scouting for new blood And that guy from New York with the snakeskin coat said Ian had “potential”

Tala: ...

Bryan: no no he cant do this we just got a new team jacket design

Spencer: I don’t care about the design I care about our team falling apart I knew we shouldn’t have given him energy drink last week He’s been acting happy

Bryan: oh no not happiness call the cops

Tala: He didn’t tell me anything about this. And he tells me everything.

Bryan: im getting the knife the chloroform and the glitter meet me at the docks

Tala: Everyone calm down. He is loyal. He is shy. I’ll handle it.

📱 [Group Chat: Blitzkrieg Boys Official Chat ]

Members: Tala, Bryan, Spencer, Ian 📌 Tala changed the topic: “Official communication only. Training Schedule – No Excuses, No Exceptions” 📌 Tala pinned a message: “Next team drill is at 06:00. If you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. Bryan, that means you.”

Tala: @Ian You have 60 seconds to explain what the hell you're doing before I escalate.

Spencer Don’t act like you didn’t see our messages, man We saw you. You were telling dad jokes.

Bryanu signed something u got new friends now cooler friends. probably call u “ivy” or some shit im removing u from my emergency contacts

Ian ... Are you guys ok

Tala You’ve got one chance to tell us you’re not leaving. Before I start packing your locker into a trash bag.

Ian is typing… Ian is typing… Ian is still typing...

Spencer: He’s buffering

Bryan: hes gathering energy

Ian: I'm not leaving the team. Wtf, really I was gonna tell you tonight 😑

Tala: You will tell us now.

Ian: Those dudes are not beybladers They’re a band They needed a guitarist for the Cultural Expo this weekend We’re covering classic rock. Their guy broke his hand doing...  something dumb with a drone. They liked my riffs on a forum I met them last week lol The paper was just a formal agreement so I don’t sue them if I break a finger doing windmills

Bryan: ????

Spencer: Wait You play GUITAR?

Tala: Since WHEN.

Ian: Since we left the abbey Self taught Didn’t seem relevant till now I practice in the laundry room

Spencer You mean the one room none of us go into because it smells like wet socks and regret???

Ian Yup Excellent acoustics

Tala: … Guitar.

Bryan: lolololol no no u dont get to walk around silently for four years and then pull out a guitar gig like its NORMAL do you also sing

Ian: Backup vocals. Sometimes

Tala: You’ve literally been silent in every car ride we’ve ever taken.

Ian: I practice scales in my head.

Tala: You kept that from us.

Ian: You never asked Also it’s not relevant when I’m beybattling Unless I use the guitar to snap a ripcord 

Bryan: ur telling me the same guy who once answered “fine” when i asked if his leg was broken can also harmonize

Ian: Nah I just watch tutorials and scream until it works

Spencer: What else are you hiding? Do you tap dance? Do you make balloon animals at children’s parties?

Ian: no but I can do a backflip from the kitchen counter

Tala: You joined a band without telling us. You signed a contract in public. While laughing. With a band with synchronized piercings.

Ian: It was a Montblanc fountain pen bro I couldn’t say no

Spencer: 😂😂😂😂

Bryan: im actually impressed and deeply wounded we have almost been betrayed left in the emotional rain no umbrella just tears

Spencer: This is giving me migraine I thought you were defecting to Japan’s hipster beyblade elite

Ian: lol nah they offered I said no they didn’t let me wear spikes unacceptable

Tala: Just keep your commitments to the team. And don’t show up with eyeliner and a man bun unless it’s for disguise purposes.

Ian: Aye boss You guys coming to the show? I got free passes

Bryan: do they have snacks

Spencer: I’M BRINGING POSTERS WE’RE MAKING SIGNS WE’RE GONNA EMBARRASS YOU IN THE FRONT ROW

Tala: No. We stay in the back. Wearing sunglasses. Do not compromise our public image.

Ian: Cool Imma send the rehearsal vid later My solo melts faces

Bryan: cant wait to judge you silently

Spencer: We’re gonna be band groupies 😭💀

Tala: If this ruins your wrist before regionals, I’ll break your other one myself.

Ian: Aw you do care ❤️

Tala: I care about our win record. Don’t let them corrupt your already limited brain cells.

Ian: Rude Also you all owe me for underestimating my loyalty this hard I expect snacks after my set

Bryan: u’ll get a banana and u’ll like it

📱 [Group Chat: Blitzkrieg Boys Official Chat ]

Spencer updated the topic: “Support Ian’s Secret Guitar Career 🎸”

[pipiteer]

looking at such potent images of charles leclerc on getty images dot com right now...

[bugeyedfreaks]

Princess Morbucks and her disdain of the common folk.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

EVERYBODY BEHOLD THE CUTEST BOY E V E R OMG I SQUEALED, BABY MAN!!!!! NEW CYBIRD ART OF THE SILLY DROPPED THIS MORNING FOR HIS BIRTHDAY:

Link to the original post below!

[buriedinmyownfeelings]

I guess this is just a weekly thing now

Just when I think I couldn’t love them more something like this happens

[neoncityrain]

sorry to bring this up again but i really really really really really really really want to know what tropical hell people live in where they think saints worldstate is considered an "ice age"

[brunetterightsactivist]

whenever i'm talking about what celebrities are sexy with other girls and they start naming the most white bread basic celebrity men ever and i'm just there like soooo.....are you a lesbian or what.........because no way you just said ryan reynolds and jason momoa

[courfeyracs-swordcane]

Beremuntena the Brave—notable but generally unremembered Executioner of Saints—finally grasps the true meaning of People Die When They Are Killed 😔😟

[kelev9]

hi everyone i've been off tumblr for my own sanity but!!! i went to a dog show last week and i got to watch some scentwork trials (extremely fun) and even better yet i managed to make it in time to see the curly coated retrievers at meet the breeds AND my #1 choice of ccr breeder was there and i got to talk to her about all things ccrs and asked her outright about curlies as service dogs and she was so wonderful and kind and excited to talk about curlies with me i will absolutely be getting a ccr puppy from her at some point, service prospect or not

[kurara-black-blog]

Wait, people are actually surprised that Pure Vanilla Cookie is literally cookie Jesus Christ?

[cruesuffix]

Once again, getting home from work and seeing all your mick blogging on my dash is the highlight of my night <333 I loooove reading about my favourite old man and you always have so many good ideas for headcanons, lots of interesting real life lore sprinkled in, and your anons always have the best questions (most of which I probably would've never thought of myself) and it's so fun to read your answers <3

robinnnn omg!! thank you so much <3333 i always worry i’m taking up so much space in the mick mars tag tbh, but i’m glad you’re enjoying all my silly little rambles about peepaw!!! its amazing you’re saying i come up with great ideas for headcanons when i’ve loved every single one of yours!! (and also all of your motley drawings they’re all so good and AHHHHHH) i personally have to thank all the anons that come by to drop me good ideas and prompts to be very honest with you! like they all come up with the best little ideas and questions, i wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything on my own tbh! i’m happy these silly little hcs are one your little bits of entertainment when you get home!!

[lexalovesbooks]

Still laugh about when my dad brother and I went to Italy together and on the first day, after a flight that arrived at nine am italy-time and 2 am our time, my dad was watching the two of us stumble around Venice half conscious and incapable of mustering even an ounce of enthusiasm for anything because neither of us managed even a minute of sleep on the flights over, and what he took from this was ‘oh my god, my kids don’t even like Italy.’

[veunho]

I love love love drawing but I cannot draw poses in any circumstances