#that or he's got a good sense of humor about it

[iamthatonefangirl]

whiplash - nsfw winter soldier

disclaimer: uhh lowkey free use i'm ngl... so fully consensual although not explicitly stated. pre-established relationship. dark themes. read at your own discretion.

in my stories, the winter soldier is like an independent contractor and doesn't work for hydra ok. and his only name is james. plz humor me ok plz

~~~

the speed at which he grabbed you was sure to give you whiplash.

one second, you're sitting on the couch staring at your phone. the next, he's got you shoved against the wall, gripping your arms tightly behind you. you barely maintain your balance as he kicks your feet apart.

"rough day, huh?" you grit, although your voice is rough from the breathlessness of being grabbed and pushed so suddenly.

"shut up," he bites.

you turn your face to the side, letting your cheek press against the coldness of the drywall. you don't say anything else, but his demeanor says it all. clearly, something bad happened. not that he would ever tell you about it.

he presses his face close to yours where you're slightly turned towards him, resting his forehead against your temple. it's the only sense of closeness you think you're gonna get this round.

he breathes heavily into your ear as he smooths your hair over your opposite shoulder with his metal arm, then continuing to rest his elbow against the wall while seemingly petting your hair.

you can feel him grinding himself up against your lower back. damn him for being so tall, you think, but in situations like these where he has you caged where he wants you?

fuck, you love feeling him tower over you, reminding you of his power, his strength, all of it.

"fuck, James-"

"no," he growls into your ear. he pulls his head back briefly to look down at where he's got your arms pinned behind your back, before leaning into your ear again.

"here's how this is gonna go," he begins. "you're gonna stay right there, and you're gonna let me have my fun, you got that?"

you nod as best you can with your face pressed into the wall.

"what was that?" he questions.

"yes, sir," you correct yourself.

"good," he bites, before pulling both of his hands away to unbuckle his belt. you're pretty sure he's still got all of his gear on, not having taken off even his boots. which means he's still got all his guns and knives on him.

fuck, that's hot, you think.

he takes the belt and maneuvers it around your wrists, trapping them in place. you can feel the slight burn where the edges of the leather prick your skin, but you're absolutely not complaining.

your body moves easily with every movement he makes, adjusting without hesitation as he places both hands on your hips to pull them back, jutting your ass out while your head and shoulders stay pressed up against the wall.

he proceeds to push both your pants and underwear down and off so he can keep you spread to his satisfaction.

and when his fingers press themselves inside you, you're shocked at how wet you already are from practically nothing.

"that's right, that's a good girl," he murmurs into your ear, clearly reading your mind.

you know he can't actually read your mind, it's not an advantage that comes with being enhanced. but sometimes, you really get to wondering how he knows how to get you so riled up and how he makes you feel like you're on ecstasy.

he fucks you on two, then three of his fingers for what feels like no time at all before he's pulling back to rid himself of his own pants.

"stay," he reminds you. as if you would do anything to piss him off further right now. he pauses.

you nod your head again, giving him the go ahead.

he brings both hands to your hips once more before pushing himself in to the hilt. it always takes your breath away with how fucking deep he can get, you're not sure how your body can even manage-

you lose track of your thoughts as you let yourself just feel the way he takes you so roughly up against the wall, taking what he needs from you. you're happy to let him take out his frustrations on you anytime.

you don't hold back, letting out every moan and whine that comes to your lips, begging him, fuck, don't stop, don't stop...

he would live here, if he could, between your legs. fucking die for your pussy. kill any motherfucker who tried to come between you and him.

you can feel him getting sloppy, hear his grunts turn into soft whines. you begin to fidget, trying to encourage him to just move his hand, rub your clit, make you come-

he doesn't like that.

"told you... to take it," he heaves. "means you're gonna wait." you let out a soft cry, to which he responds by biting down on your neck.

you can feel the bruise from the bite forming as he finishes inside you.

you begin to whine as he pulls out of you and you feel his release dripping down the inside of your thighs.

his hands come back to your hair, pulling it behind your back, then grabbing hold of your bound hands by the leather of the belt around them.

“think I should leave you like this. bound and dripping.”

you whine at hearing that. he can’t, please no-

he chuckles low and deep in his chest.

“don’t worry, baby. got a lot more plans for you yet.”

~~~

ok sorry i thought of this while taking a quiz but i hope u liked it

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tagged:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan

[p1astr81]

friend is just a word

In which: you’re drunk off your ass and accidentally mistake formula one driver for a friend.

Pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

warnings: excessive alcohol consumption, not proofread😵‍💫

an: TYSM FOR 600 FOLLOWERS🥳🥳🥳

The music was blasting, light flares obstructing your vision while you tried to stumble back to your friends on weakening legs. The drink in your hand kissed the rim off the glass every now and then, but you hadn’t spilt any of it.

Your shoulder bumped into another, and you went to apologize, but your thoughts were thrown off by his familiar face.

If his face was familiar, he had to be a friend. Right?

A hand of yours gripped onto his shoulder for stability. He eyed the hand with a raised brow, but neglected to verbally question it.

It felt like your brain was trying to communicate with you, but it couldn’t penetrate the fog caused by the alcohol. “I didn’t know you were here!” His brown hair flopped when he flinched away from you, your voice far too loud for his ears to bare. “How have you been?! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Uh, good. I guess?” You didn’t catch his nervous glances.

“That’s amazing! You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I got that call back about the job with sky sports.”

He raised his brows in interest. “Oh really? What for?” His head cocked to the side.

“A second interview! I didn’t even know they did second interviews. I thought it was just one and done!” You laughed, an irregular high-pitched sound.

By now, Oscar was quite sure you weren’t aware of who he really was. Just that you thought you knew him. “Probably so they know you won’t bother the drivers.”

You feigned offense. “What! I would never do such a thing!”

Ironic, Oscar thought, you’re kind of doing it right now. But he didn’t really care. He actually found it kind of amusing.

He chuckled. “No, I’m sure you’d never bother them.”

You folded over in laughter. He didn’t even know he said anything funny. “Oh, you are too funny, Oscar!” You pretended to wipe a tear.

Strangely, that action might’ve brought you to your senses.

“Piastri.” Was the only word you spoke. It sat on the fringes of inaudible.

The panic that washed over your features was too humorous. He couldn’t not grin.

And then you went white. “I’m so sorry. I thought- oh, god.” You hid your face behind your hand. “I did not mean to bother you. I thought you were one of my friends.”

Oscar only chuckled. “I figured. No worries. It was pretty funny to watch.”

Maybe, just maybe, a part of him was glad it was him and not some other random guy in the bar.

“I’m gonna- yeah I’m gonna go back to my actually friends now.” You rambled. “Sorry!” A squeak.

The conversation didn’t end when you left, because then he had to return to his own party. Lando made fun of him for it.

“Awe! Osco finally found a girlfriend!” He teased, earning a head shake from Oscar.

“She was just drunk.” He waved off.

But lando wouldn’t let up. The whole night, he made off handed comments. He pointed her out anytime he saw her. And at one point,

“I’m gonna go talk to her. Be a wingman.” He flashed Oscar a toothy, mischievous grin and winked at him. Before Oscar could object, he was off.

You were laughing your ass off at something one of your friends said when a slightly slurred, British voice interjected. “Hey girls!” He greeted the group, a bright smile, before turning his gaze to you. “Hi.” He repeated, trying not to laugh at your overly shocked expression. “You see that guy in the blue shirt? Yeah, he wants your number but is too much of a pussy to ask for it himself, so here I am.” He explained with copious amounts of amusement.

Your brain took a minute to catch up with him. “Uh, uhm- yeah. Sure. I guess. Uh.” You scrambled to find something to write on and write with. “I have no paper.”

“Right.” Lando handed you his phone, open to the notes app. He couldn’t stop grinning as your fingers fumbled to type in your number, and when he said his goodbyes, and when he returned to Oscar.

“Got it. You can thank me by making me your best man.” He shrugged, too cocky for how easy the situation was.

“Yeah, whatever.” Oscar dismissed, but he took the number and saved it in his phone anyway.

He made a mental note to call you tomorrow, after your inevitable hangovers faded away.

[holylulusworld]

I’m your man (alpha)

Summary: Dean has had enough of watching you search for the perfect man.

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x Omega!Reader

Warnings: a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics, fluff, cocky Dean

A/N: Inspired by Wham’s “I’m your man.”

‘Am I a good man? Maybe I’m bad. I don’t know, to be honest—but I hope that I’m a good one. If so, why doesn’t she choose me?’ Dean thinks to himself.

He is watching some random alpha flirt with you from the other side of the bar. He had to fend off two needy omegas wanting his attention to focus on you tonight.

You fake a giggle, playfully slapping the alpha’s chest. You’re flirting, but it’s nothing serious. Dean knows you won’t go home with the douchebag nor let him claim you.

“I could make you happy, sweetheart,” he mumbles. It’s true. Deep down inside, Dean knows he’s the perfect alpha and mate for you. He just doesn’t want to risk ruining your friendship.

“Dean, you are staring at Y/N again,” Sam teases his brother. He smirks as Dean glares at him but doesn’t talk back. “Go over there and tell her you want her.”

“It’s not that easy,” Dean bites back. “What shall I tell her? Hey baby, why don’t you try with me 'cause I’m your man?”

Sam shrugs. “Why not? Simple and true. If you don’t admit your feelings soon, she’ll find someone.”

Dean’s features darken for a moment. The last thing he wants to happen is for you to find a mate in someone else. “I should talk to her.”

“Yes, you should,” Sam exasperatedly says. “She’s been looking your way all night. I don’t think Y/N is enjoying herself around that guy.”

“You think so?” Dean says, his brows furrowed. “Maybe I should go talk to her right now then. I can’t let her suffer.”

“Suffer. Right,” Sam is just done watching you and his brother pine for each other. He shakes his head before turning his attention toward the pretty bartender. Maybe she’s only a faded memory soon, but he’d be damned if he doesn’t take the chance on her tonight.

While his brother flirts with the bartender from afar, Dean slowly steps toward you and the guy is not leaving your side. He puffs his chest and narrows his eyes before calling your name.

“Y/N,” Dean only says your name and has your full attention. He holds out his hand to guide you away from the guy chatting you up. Dean almost feels sorry for the guy. He tried his best to impress you, but the alpha won’t let anyone get in between you and him.

Dean slings one arm around your shoulders, possessively holding you close to his body. “Uh, thank you for saving me. The guy wasn’t subtle at all,” you say, and lean your head against Dean’s shoulder. “Why does every single alpha I meet try to get me in their bed?”

“I’d only try to get you in my car.” He purrs in your ear. “The backseat is rather spacious.

“Asshole,” you grumble and elbow Dean’s side. “I mean it, Dean. I want a nice guy who’s not too bad to look at and has a good sense of humor. Maybe he’s good in bed too.”

“Check. Check. And check.” Dean pecks your cheek. “Why don’t you take a chance on me, sweetheart? I’m good-looking. Have a damn good sense of humor and…” He whispers the last part in your ear. “I’m good in bed and in my car and on any surface.”

“Dean, that’s not funny,” you grumble.

“Sweetheart, I’m not joking.” Dean sounds serious when he says, “I’m your man. If you’re going to do it, do it right. Do it with me.”

You stop walking and shake his arm off. “Dean, I told you this isn’t funny. That guy wasn’t for me, but this doesn’t mean you can come along and make fun of me.”

“Why do you keep wasting your time on other guys when I’m right here?” He throws his hands up. “I told you, I’m not joking, sweetheart.”

You search his face, trying to find any trace of humor. “You’re not joking…”

“I’m not joking,” he says and cups your face. “I’m your man, your alpha, if you want me to.”

“About damn time, Winchester!” You fist his jacket to bring him closer to your body. “Now, bed or your car?”

“Uh—maybe we should start with courting. I’ve got all the nice gifts to give you…”

[theotherchaospixel]

She had no ill will towards them. Truthfully, she never did. They were creatures of habit, after all. They just never got close enough to a monster to know what it really looked like.

Yolanda had been working on her precision & accuracy in a cave - the same one she had well understood the insides of for some time - training her eyes, her aim, and her night vision, when her father walked in. Her father - the Undying, the Great Beast from the Peaks Beyond, the Mountain Who Broke the Heavens, Lazarus - was a tall dragon covered in sharp, vibrant, rusted-copper-turquoise scales, and, walking in on his four paws, he watched his adopted daughter with a trained gaze. Bullseye after bullseye, in the pitch-black darkness of this cave they had come to call home, from easily 50 feet away, but still she pushed herself. Lazarus hoped the day when she would have to use these skills would never come, but he had overheard words from the village, and they were not good news.

Yolanda backed up 10 paces, took aim again, and spoke. "Hey, dad." Another bullseye.

Lazarus hung his head low, the weight of what he was about to say pulling his head down and his eyelids shut.

She stopped, for the briefest of moments, her arm & flintlock slowly falling, sensing something was wrong. Lazarus usually spoke mightily, with a broad, puffed chest, as if what he had to say was the most epic & glorious thing ever to be spoken, but never at the expense of the occasional bit of humor, never without a prankster's smirk tugging at his face. Today was different, and without taking her eyes off the target, she could feel it. "What's wrong?"

Lazarus choked on his words, struggling to eke out even the simplest ones. He swallowed, and spoke, with a heavy breath: "The day has come."

Yolanda almost dropped her gun at the thought. Things raced through her mind, crackling like a bonfire. Today was the day she had been working for, training for, her entire life. She could hit the center of a target in the still of the night from easily 100 yards away. Today was the day the prophecies spoke of. She could blend into a crowd, and as quickly as she could show up, she could disappear, like a raindrop in a puddle. Once every 40 or 50 years, the skies would turn green, the waters would run red, and the One Before Time would rear his ugly mug. She was abandoned by local village as a child; they didn't know better, even though they really should have. Her father had spoken of the One Before Time once before- a boogeyman, a devil, if there ever was one. The village was scared, they thought the end had finally come, again, and they were willing to sacrifice a child, or children, to continue their way of life. Imagine the skies turning green, then a great, dark, thundering, firey cloud blotting out the sun, like a flood blots out a candle. She didn't take it personally, even though she really should have, and she knew it. Imagine you've seen the future, and you knew that one simple, small act from one simple, small person could change it forever. Imagine rains that melt your skin, a light from behind the dark thundering cloud that blinds your eyes, sears your brain, cuts your tongue, burns your hands. A match is nothing, but it could light a candle; one candle is nothing, but a candle can light a bonfire; a bonfire is something, and a bonfire could start a forest fire, and who knew the things a forest fire could do?

But how would the One Before Time show up? He had taken human form many a time before, always shouting the same rhetoric of mindless consumption & destruction, violence & grasping & gnashing, tearing, anger & spite & hatred - a vicious bonfire that called for more burning, that entranced hearts & minds with promises of being kings of a garbage heap, the last lion in a desert. And to this, Lazarus spoke.

"He goes by Julius Beagle. He's running for mayor of the village. He's proving quite popular. You'll find him giving a speech tonight."

On hearing this, switches flipped in Yolanda's brain, her previously chipper demeanor steeling & solidifying into an iron will. She holstered her flintlock, holding back a grip that could shatter rock. She licked her lips, her soft, shimmering red eyes shifting into a viper's gaze. She turned, with robotic, supernatural efficiency, and began to walk away.

Lazarus spoke, again choking on his words, struggling to utter a simple phrase. "I love you. Please come back safe & unharmed."

Yolanda stopped. She turned her head to look behind her, back at the thing she called her father. For the briefest of moments, her soft red eyes returned, holding back tears, as she whispered loudly, under her breath, "I love you too." Then, after a moment, and only the briefest of moments which last forever, she turned back & walked out of the cave.

The bonfire had better watch out; The Flood was coming.

The adopted daughter of the local monster finds out she was left behind for sacrifice as an infant. Most would understand any anger at the village people, but she's spent her life learning from the monster how best to protect the village from the real threats.

[1982grapejuiceblues]

Change Of Plans

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 1

Summary: Y/N just got dumped. By text. Her boyfriend left her for Claire—her coworker, her friend, and the girl who helped plan their summer group trip. Now Claire and Ben are sharing a car to the lake house. Y/N? She’s stuck riding with Harry—Claire’s freshly dumped, emotionally unavailable ex. They’ve barely spoken. They don’t even like each other. And they’re about to spend twelve hours trapped in a car together. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. But then again… nothing ever does.

A/N: I just came up with this (in my opinion) very cute story idea because its finally SPRING (although it feels so much more like summer) and I was really feeling those end of school, summer vibes. So here is my second story, Stranger Lanes! I'll be alternating between posting for this story and The Wrong Pitch (my other series) each day. I hope you guys love teacher!Harry because thats who we're getting today. He's grumpy, quiet, broody, and everything we could ever dream of. Hope you guys love him as much as I do!

Warnings: Off-page infidelity / betrayal (Y/N’s partner cheats with a friend) | Breakup fallout and emotional processing | Anxiety, emotional withdrawal, and dissociation | References to emotional repression (in others and self) | Passive-aggressive group dynamics | Alcohol use (coping, casual context) | One (1) sarcastic mention of wanting to “die in Indiana” | Dry humor layered over grief

Word Count: 1.7K

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It started with a text.

Not a fight.

Not a conversation.

Not even a slowly decaying vibe.

Just a text. Dry. Colorless. Utterly insufficient.

Hey. I think it’s only fair I’m honest with you. Claire and I are seeing each other. We didn’t plan it.

Y/N read it once. Then again. Then a third time, more slowly—like it might morph into something less ridiculous if she squinted hard enough.

It didn’t.

She stood in the middle of her kitchen, one hand gripping the fridge door like it was holding her upright. The glow of the fridge light spilled across her feet and the tile in soft gold, humming like it was trying to fill the silence. It didn’t.

She hadn’t even taken her shoes off yet.

Ben.

Ben had sent that.

Ben, her boyfriend of three years.

Ben, who alphabetized their spice rack.

Ben, who had built her a bookshelf for her birthday and painted it teal because it “felt like a happy color.”

Ben, who had Claire saved in his phone as “Claire 🌱” because, apparently, she was “good with plants.”

Y/N closed the fridge door slowly and let her phone slide facedown onto the counter.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything.

She didn’t cry. That would’ve made sense.

Instead, she opened the freezer, took out the pint of overpriced salted caramel gelato she’d been saving for “a bad day,” and stared at it like it had betrayed her too.

Claire.

She leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. Uncrossed them.

Claire.

As in Harry’s girlfriend Claire.

As in district golden girl, perennial staff lounge contributor, fake-humble about her sourdough starter Claire.

Claire who had cried on Y/N’s shoulder at the end-of-year cookout two weeks ago because Harry was “distant” and “always reading alone when she just wanted to connect.”

Claire who had helped plan the lake trip. Who made the group spreadsheets. Who told Y/N—literally, word for word—that she “was lucky to have someone like Ben. He’s so emotionally available.”

Y/N laughed. Once. Short and dry, like a cough in a church pew.

She put the gelato back in the freezer.

-

She didn’t text back. She didn’t call.

She sat on the edge of her bed, in the tank top she’d taught summer school in, and stared at her laundry pile like it might have answers.

Her phone buzzed again.

I’m sorry

That was it. No period. No elaboration. Just two words that sounded more like a receipt than a confession.

She powered her phone off. Not because she was angry. But because she couldn’t bear to watch the read receipts play chicken with her rage.

-

The next morning, she packed a bag.

Not dramatically. Not even thoughtfully. She just started folding things—loose sleep shorts, that one bra that still held its shape, the tank top with the bleach stain she usually saved for movie nights—and shoved them into a weekender tote like she was running from a hurricane. Which, in a way, she was.

She left Ben’s keys on the counter. Took her spare set. Didn’t lock the door behind her.

-

Her sister opened the door in a charcoal gray face mask and one of those oversized sweatshirts that read PROPERTY OF NO ONE across the chest.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “It happened?”

Y/N nodded.

“Claire?” Her sister had heard about Claire. Or more specifically, “Claire 🌱”.

Y/N nodded again.

Her sister stepped aside like a bouncer. “Come in. Do you want wine or revenge?”

Y/N dropped her bag in the hallway. “What kind of wine?”

-

She stayed for three nights. Then five. Then seven.

She didn’t go back to their apartment—not once. Ben texted a few times, but the messages were all logistical. Do you want the basil plant? Are the insurance papers in the drawer? Should I grab your blender too?

She didn’t answer. He Venmo’d her $300 without a note. She transferred it to savings and blocked his number.

Her sister didn’t ask questions. She made breakfast-for-dinner three times and gave her the better half of the couch, and only once did she gently ask if Y/N wanted to talk about it.

“I think I will,” Y/N said. “Later.”

It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t soon.

-

She spent most of her days scrolling—TikTok, Pinterest, Zillow like she could manifest a life somewhere coastal. She read three chapters of a novel before putting it down and flipping to something trashier. She started a letter to Ben and then deleted it. She started a letter to Claire and imagined reading it aloud into a hairbrush like she was Nikki Minaj mic’d at the VMAs.

None of it helped. But it filled the time.

-

The summer trip loomed.

The group chat still pinged daily—mostly Claire, ironically. She sent weather updates and playlists and matching merch links (“Isn’t this cute for a group pic??”) like she hadn’t detonated the entire social dynamic of the group with her soft little garden-gloved hands.

Y/N didn’t mute the chat. She just watched.

Every so often, someone—usually Ali—would DM her privately and say something like “you’re still coming, right?” or “we can totally make it chill, like totally separate spaces, no drama.”

She didn’t respond. Not because she was ghosting. Just because there wasn’t an answer that didn’t sound like she was lying to herself.

-

On day nine, her sister brought in the mail and tossed a catalog onto the couch.

It landed next to Y/N with a heavy thwap. A furniture store ad. The front read:

CHANGE STARTS HERE.

Y/N stared at it for a full minute.

Then she said, “Ali’s gonna call, isn’t she?”

-

It happened at 9:17 p.m., which already felt like a hostile time for unsolicited optimism.

Y/N was on the couch again, wearing the same sweatshirt she’d claimed from her sister’s closet five days ago and scrolling through Instagram like she was watching someone else’s life. Weddings. Beach trips. Dogs on paddle boards.

Her legs were half-asleep under a blanket she didn’t remember pulling over herself. Her phone was warm in her palm. She had just watched an entire video of someone organizing a pantry with acrylic bins and was about to rewatch it when her screen lit up with a name she both loved and feared:

Ali 🌙

Y/N stared at it.

Her thumb hovered.

Then she accepted the call and held the phone to her ear with the energy of someone walking into a trap.

“Please tell me you’re not calling to ask if I’ve forgiven them.”

“No,” Ali said immediately. “God, no. I’m not insane.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Then what.”

“I have an idea.”

“Ali.”

“A solution.”

“Ali.”

“You have to hear it.”

“I truly do not.”

“You do,” she insisted. “Because it’s genius. It’s fate. It’s actually so perfect, I think the universe is throwing you a bone.”

“Is it a bone or is it a grenade?”

“Okay, so—”

Y/N groaned and dropped her head back against the couch. “Start over. From the top. Slowly.”

Ali exhaled dramatically. “Fine. You know how you were supposed to drive up to the lake house with Ben.”

Y/N stayed silent.

“And now you are, obviously, not doing that because Ben is… dead to us.”

Still silent.

“Well, Harry was supposed to drive up with Claire.”

Ah. There it was.

“And now he’s not. Because Claire is, you know, Ben’s rebound wife.”

“I’m going to vomit,” Y/N muttered.

Ali ignored her. “So now Harry has a car. You need a ride. He needs a co-pilot. You don’t want to drive alone. See where I’m going with this?”

Y/N was silent for a long time.

Then: “I’ve spoken to him twice.”

“Three times.”

“Ali.”

“I think he said you had a nice voice once.”

“He asked if I had a pen.”

Ali was undeterred. “He’s quiet. But he’s not mean. And he said he’s still going.”

“You already asked him?”

“Maybe.”

“Ali.”

“I mean. Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I swear he didn’t even sound annoyed! He was just like, ‘sure, whatever.’ That’s practically a love letter from Harry.”

Y/N groaned again and pulled the blanket over her face.

“Just—think about it,” Ali added. “It’s a long drive. You can listen to audiobooks. Or just put in your headphones and ignore him. It doesn’t have to be bonding. It can be… logistical.”

“Like co-parenting a twelve-hour road trip.”

“Exactly.”

Y/N peeked out from under the blanket. “He said yes?”

“Yes. Kind of. I think. I texted and he replied ‘fine.’”

“Wow. I feel so cherished.”

Ali snorted. “He’s just… not a words guy.”

“What is he then?”

“A scowl guy. A hoodie guy. A tragic poetry guy.”

“Oh god.”

“You’re gonna have a great time.”

“I’m going to die in Indiana.”

Ali paused. “Okay but if you do, at least make it look like an accident. Don’t ruin the vibe of the trip.”

-

The worst part wasn’t that she was considering it. The worst part was that it made sense.

She didn’t want to rent a car. She didn’t want to fly and pretend she wasn’t terrified of turbulence. She didn’t want to miss the trip entirely, because Claire and Ben didn’t get to take that from her too.

And Harry, despite being barely more than a moody silhouette in the hallway during staff meetings, wasn’t a serial killer. As far as she knew.

She pulled up his contact in her phone. She’d never texted him before. His name was just Harry Styles, no emoji, no notes. A blank profile image. He was, in every way, a placeholder.

She stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then typed:

Ali says you’re okay with driving together. Is that real or was she hallucinating from heat exhaustion?

The dots appeared almost immediately.

It’s real.

Y/N squinted at the screen.

I can pick you up Saturday at 7?

Seven. In the morning. On a Saturday. Before she had coffee.

Was he trying to make her hate him?

Seven AM???

It’s a twelve-hour drive.

I’m aware of the concept of distance, Harry.

Good. I’ll bring coffee.

She paused.

That was… civil. Almost human.

What kind of coffee?

Black.

Are you trying to make this as miserable as possible?

Do you take yours with glitter and oat milk?

Y/N smirked.

I take it with hope and joy, actually.

Cool. I’ll bring despair and an aux cord.

She let out a sound that surprised her—a laugh, small and sharp, like she hadn’t remembered what it felt like to make one.

Then she replied:

Fine. But no true crime podcasts unless I pick them.

Deal.

[somerandomcockroach]

What’s your favorite thing about Rung?

Either design wise or character wise.

I think he’s delightful and very interesting and you are who got me into the character

Oh I need to slowly get back in shape, using Rung as a slow door lever ahah There are several types of characters that I like and Rung's type holds a special soft place in my heart, took some time for him to beat his way through to there Design-wise I actually prefer many other characters, Rung is very pleasant to draw but something in his design still seems strange and off to me, but orange color in him is what I would never change I am yapping under the cut, which I do very rarely and almost always I read characters wrong, so don't look at me and don't bite me XDD

Character wise ~ I have a clear pattern of choosing my one favourite character who gives me a peace of mind: "loser" who gets beaten up by life but they still love their life and little things in it and keep pushing for us to find out how many traumatic layers under their smile is. They act passive in this life and try to not get in problems but problems find them and they have to finally act to deal with it because it is on the way of their calm life or events go against their world view. (Counts on fingers favs: Rosemaine from Ascendance of a Bookworm, Xie Lian from Heaven's official blessing, Shen Qingqiu from the SVSSS, Charlie from comic "Humor me", Kim Dokja from Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint, Prince Myshkin from "The Idiot" by F.M. Dostoevsky, now Rung got added which I didn't expect XDD)

I've been scrolling some plots that are made with Rung, usually they orient around Rung's depression episode because he kept too much in himself, angst rotated around him getting forgotten which is very much yes. But he canonicaly is scared non the less and even more to forget someone. This is the most scariest thing for him - to forget someone like people always forget you. He never changed his look while others kept adding new kibbles and so on because he is fascinated by the nature of their creation. He can't appreciate enough how they were born with iridescent metal and moving gears that made them alive, with the spark beating where their heart is. I honestly can imagine him as a highly altruistic person once he went online who likes to create memorable things that he personally encountered with his hands. Not shutting up about that particular piece of the pillar and what a gorgeous angle it has, telling compliments every random transformer passing him by. He might have been a handicraft master before he got interested in psychiatry to make sense of himself. He had a patient he was very close with but he died and he kept the negligence a secret because otherwise he couldn't be a psychiatrist anymore. He loves people, he loves to help them, he grew up through many events we never saw for him to be able to forgive anything. Transformers are highly social beings and being left alone is almost identical to being dead. Rung is still alive because he found a place where he won't be left alone for plenty of time, just like Swerve dealt with his problem but Rung has a stronger character when it comes to this. *sigh* Rung has so many things in him that could be rotated more interestingly outside "forgotten" angst. He likes to pretend that he is a good character reader, beside the fact that he is a psychiatrist he could be tangled in some manipulation machinations. He could be a mysterious undercover revolutionary in the Functionists Universe if he wasn't trapped that time. He knows 70-80% of the Cybertronians and they don't even know he exists, most of them were his patients, imagine if he wasn't a good character, something happened, well congrats he can get half of the Cybertron into a trauma shutdown with his data, and he would have enough tools, he was making controlled flying prototypes of arcs, he clearly could do more advanced accurate little things. I don't even talk about his "advanced quirks" like immortality. If he could control it even if he is clumsy and losing a limb damn much hurts, he could get out of so many situations. Imagine escaping out of somewhere by relocating your body parts, or only the head to get out.

I dearly love him as a sweet and calm character, I need such characters more in my life when I need to calm down, at the same time I love when such characters do something that can lead to their death out of stupid (but important for them) purposes XDD

[broidobe]

𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔠𝔥

requested!

☾being in a relationship with all four members of mayhem is… an experience, to say the least. between pelle's unsettling habits, euronymous’ ego, hellhammer’s weird sense of humor, and necrobutcher just trying to keep some sanity in the house, you’ve got your hands full☽

☾warnings: dark humor, mentions of blood/gore (it’s mayhem, come on), slight possessiveness, chaotic poly dynamics, and some surprisingly soft moments☽

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝜗𝜚 𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷

⁎⁺˳✧༚black metal masterlist

living with mayhem is like existing in a never-ending fever dream. there is no normal here—only varying degrees of what the fuck.

euronymous likes to act like he’s in charge, walking around the apartment like he’s some kind of black metal warlord, but the second you sit on his lap or kiss his cheek, his whole act crumbles.

“hmpf,” he grumbles, trying (and failing) to keep up the cold exterior. “you’re distracting me.”

you lean in closer, lips grazing his ear. “good.”

his face burns. he refuses to acknowledge it.

but oh, he loves when you praise him. tell him he’s the most brilliant guitarist in norway? suddenly, you’ve got a smug, insufferable euronymous hanging all over you for the rest of the day, hand possessively on your waist.

“of course i am,” he mutters, but the way he melts under your touch says otherwise.

then there’s dead. sweet, unsettling dead.

he’s a little too fascinated with death, but that’s not exactly a surprise. you’ve woken up more than once to find him staring at you like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

“…do you ever think about being buried alive?” he asks, completely serious.

you blink. “no, pelle. i really don’t.”

he nods like he respects your choice, but he definitely does. he’s oddly soft with you, though, despite all the disturbing things he says. he loves when you play with his hair, sighing quietly as he lays his head in your lap.

sometimes, after a show, he comes home covered in blood—his blood, or sometimes something more questionable. you just sigh and grab a towel.

“this is the last time i’m cleaning blood off you,” you lie.

he only smiles. you both know you’ll do it again.

hellhammer? absolute menace. no shame, no filter. the things that come out of his mouth make euronymous cringe sometimes.

he thinks it’s hilarious to tease you.

“so, what’s it like dating norway’s most dangerous band?” he grins, stretching out on the couch like a cat.

you roll your eyes. “more like babysitting norway’s most dysfunctional band.”

he actually cackles. “fair enough.”

despite his attitude, he’s surprisingly affectionate. always slinging an arm around you, pulling you into his lap just to annoy euronymous. he loves roughhousing, too—he’ll playfully wrestle you just for an excuse to pin you down.

and necrobutcher? the only semi-responsible one. he’s the closest thing to a voice of reason, but even he has his limits.

“are you seriously burning more church photos in the living room?” he groans, rubbing his temples.

euronymous just shrugs. “it’s for the aesthetic.”

necrobutcher turns to you. “you’re the sane one. please, talk some sense into them.”

but at this point? you’ve just accepted the madness. you give him a helpless shrug.

“…you know what? fine. fuck it.” he throws his hands up. “i give up.”

out of all of them, necrobutcher is the one who actually makes sure you eat, drink water, and don’t lose your mind in all the chaos. he’ll throw a jacket over your shoulders if you’re cold, mumbling something about you catching a cold.

he acts like he’s above all the nonsense, but if you grab his face and kiss him, he’s gone. absolutely weak for you.

“you’re terrible,” he mutters, but his ears are pink, and he’s holding onto your waist like he never wants to let go.

dating all four of them means there’s never a dull moment. nights spent tangled together after shows, late-night debates over who’s the most true black metal, and an endless supply of chaos.

and somehow? you wouldn’t change a thing.

[starry-bi-sky]

*points at bruce and danny in 'late at night when the nightingale sings'* THESE TWO MFERS MEAN SO MUCH TO MEEEE

no thoughts head empty just these two socially inept fools finding family in one another. like yes you go you funky little death omens stole that one from a comment on the fic, so if you see this you know who you are, discover that family isn't only tied in blood.

bUT onto less mushy stuff: these two being shenaniganizers; tomfools. Bruce realized that Danny didn't actually know he was Bruce Wayne and instead of going "oh actually im bruce wayne" he went; "hrm... how long can i keep this going until he realizes...."

like. i think they deserve to be the sillies. just utter goobers the both of them. like, danny makes the wittiest side comments, dry quips, under his breath towards Bruce while they're out in public (Danny covering his face with a face mask) and Bruce is trying not to laugh. Meanwhile if Bruce makes one sly comment about someone to Danny, Danny's gonna collapse with laughter.

Bruce plays straightman in most of their bits, he has the best fucking poker face. But also I firmly believe he does actually enjoy Danny's puns. Look me in the eyes- look me in the eyes. Try and tell me that a man that willingly agrees to call a car "the batmobile" even after his eight year old ward grows up (thus negating the need to go along with his antics) doesn't enjoy a good, well-placed pun. Look me in the eyes and try to tell me that. That's right you can't.

He's gonna spit out a well-placed pun in the driest, most boring Batman Voice Ever one day while he's getting ready for patrol, and Danny's gonna fucking die of laughter. He's gonna lose his mind. Bruce is going to have a half-dead sickly teenager laughing his lungs out in the chair. That's a new core memory right there, every time Danny thinks about that he's gonna start giggling.

just!!! these two making each other laugh! That's so important to me. So so much. I nEED Danny to get Bruce to smile and laugh and I need Bruce to make Danny do the same. Danny's all snark and sass and Bruce is all deadpan and dry quips. Do you all see my vision.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[ringosmistress]

[skunkes]

OMG you like moral orel?? who is your favorite character :]c *Blinking and fluttering my eyelashes beautifully*

i watched the whole thing in a few days, ended yesterday. My faves are nurse bendy and joe (together and as a unit), stephanie (individually and then as a unit with the reverend but i dont like him individually), + danielle, of course

[a-a-a-anon]

if i had a nickel for every time a male british comedian i like said that on a childhood birthday a patriarch in their family said they were too old to hug and kiss them bc it's girly/gay i would have two nickels???? which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice....

(ade edmondson:)

(jon richardson:)

I went to kiss my granddad once-I would have only been about 7 or 8, but I'd had clearly what my grandad viewed as a landmark birthday. I went to say goodbye, and I kissed my Nana Gwen and went to kiss my Grandad Ron, and Grandad Ron said, "You're a man now. You don't kiss other men anymore." (- meet the richardsons 2.08)

[invinciblerodent]

Going through my old Ray tag to remind myself of JUST who he is, is.... honestly an experience.

Man, I used to be so funny. And charming, and creative.

What the FUCK happened.

[jackass-jones]

Idk man I just need to hold hands with Kai Satou and I’ll be good

[oh-three]

Old woman with dog: enters the store

Old man with dog: passing her leaving the store

His dog: gets interested in hers

Her: tells him to get it away because her dog is a service animal

Him: starts argument

Her: calls him a faggot, I kid you not

Assistant manager, younger than them, walking by: "Stop right now. Grow up."

[lizardho]

Before I knew I was bisexual I was just insanely dramatic and weird around guys I liked. I had a crush on this guy in my ward - he was older than me, he played bagpipes and had a cheerful dog and an old Volkswagen bus that he worked on all the time. He also had nice scruff and unnaturally attractive hands and a good sense of humor, so I was like FULLY smitten.

I talked about him a lot and about how he was just so dang COOL, dang it, because he was so frickin’ cool. And I really liked him. I thought he was funny and smart and interesting and cool and fascinating and a bunch of other weird feelings I barely had the attention span to think about (I think my ADHD may have prevented me from coming out for a while tbh).

One day, I’m like 14-15, his dad is called to be my Sunday School teacher. His dad is this ex-military hardass with a chip on his shoulder for absolutely no reason and unattainable standards for his children. He spent most of Sunday School talking shit about his eldest boy and how he was rebellious and didn’t listen to him and how that was going to make him a bad adult and a bad son forever. How his son was too lazy and unmotivated to be successful because he didn’t listen to his advice on how to read the scriptures. He complained about how our generation was too weak to do things right and that our generation would surely be the one that brought the world’s downfall because of our laziness and sin.

And like, first of all, that guy can already go fuck himself for that. To clarify, that’s already stupid. BUT. He was talking about the man I had uncomfortable dreams about at least once a month. I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so mad I’d go home shaking sometimes because how fucking DARE he insult his hardworking stunning son by calling him lazy? For not reading the Bible the way his dad wants? When he’s already spending his time learning bagpipes? And fixing cars? And being cool? And cute? Who the fuck even cares if he uses the footnotes in the Book of Mormon? Who gives a rotten rat’s ass if he doesn’t use the scripture study manual his dad uses? He’s so cool he doesn’t even need it? So fuck off?

And eventually I got fucking Sick Of It and decided to mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean skip class. I’d just not go. And after a bit, adults started noticing and bugging me about it. At first, this was put off by small talk and excuses, but as my absence from Sunday School became more well-known, my excuses began to be rejected.

“Oh, Lizard, why aren’t you in class?” Uhm idk because my Sunday School teacher is mean to his kid and that makes me so mad wtf do you want from me? 🫠🤔

“Where’s your class, I’ll go with you!” Oh no ty I’d rather peel my own eyes than have my taste in men critiqued tyty 🩷

“Lizard, you should go to class, I’m sure they miss you!” And I miss the innocent days where my stomach didn’t hurt when a cool boy I knew was being belittled but unfortunately for us both those days are LONG gone and all that’s left is a budding psychosexual clusterfuck that will render me almost fully incapable of functioning for the better part of a decade so Bye Bye, sister Smith 🙂‍↕️

It had gotten to the point that ward leadership was involved. I was being approached by members of the Young Men’s presidency and the Bishopric to try and make me to back to class. They were telling me God had told them to find me and instruct me on my rebelliousness. This is where I implemented my secret weapon - women. Mormons are weird as hell about a lot of things, but especially about women. And I was GREAT with women. So to combat the leadership’s attention, I started helping women.

Our ward had a lot of new moms with babies who were, as babies tend to be, fussy. But for Mormon women the church is often their only social outlet, so they try to power through as long as they can even if it means enduring the exhausting ordeal of taking care of a fussy baby at church.

For what it’s worth, I have a lot of sway with babies. I got baby street cred. Me and babies have a rapport. I have always known this. I have always loved this. And in this crucial gay time in my faggot life my baby mind powers came in clutch - Every time I saw a member of the bishopric getting close, or a young men’s leader giving me side-eye, I’d start walking slowly towards class, passing by relief society. I’d wait until a mom’s baby had gotten too fussy and needed to leave the room, and I’d swoop in like a knight. “Oh, don’t you worry sister, I’ll bounce him a bit. You go back and hang out with your friends in class. You deserve a break.”

If it was a diaper change or something they’d tell me no. But if it was just some good old-fashioned baby fusses, I mean, they’d be moved almost to tears. They just got their social time back AND a free babysitter who is renowned as the Baby Whisperer. And because I was holding a baby as a favor for someone else, I of course could not reasonably be bothered to return to class.

So just like that, I was out of everyone’s sights. This went on for about a month before the straw that broke the camel’s back, which was that without my class participation the classes were quiet and awkward. I’d often take the brunt of Sunday school lectures by answering questions impulsively and over explaining myself enough that the clock could run out without anyone needing to do or say much. My absence meant everyone else was getting hit with the full unpleasantness of this guy’s bullshit. And so slowly, one-by-one, I had a group of about 8 kids on baby-holding duty. These new moms were so overjoyed, they and their husbands were both so actively in our corner that now chastising us was untenable. Now we had bargaining power. So the Bishopric approached us, confused beyond confused and uncomfortable beyond uncomfortable, and said,

“What’s it gonna take to get you back to class?”

The POWER I possessed in that moment was addictive. By being kind to the women of the ward and ignoring the Mormon de facto Rule of Law of following rules en-masse so the rule breakers feel left out, there were now so many people breaking ranks that we had effectively enacted a church boy labor strike. And they crumbled so fast it was almost like we had swayed God himself to our cause.

“I want brother assholedad gone. He sucks at teaching.”

I didn’t even have to say it. One of my rebels said it for me. I just nodded sagely and said “Yes, his class is not edifying. It’s better to not go and hold babies.”

And just like that, with a snap of my limp-wristed, Christ-wounding, bottom-brained fingers my faggot will was enacted. God’s revelation that brother shitdad was his chosen Sunday school teacher flipped on a dime. Suddenly brother shitdad was asked to be an usher and the fun dad of another one of my crushes was called in to teach us. I still stayed to hold babies a lot, but the rest of the class returned and all was well again.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I think that was a formative moment for me in a lot of ways. I learned that being really persistently annoying will get me what I want from authority eventually. I learned that God’s will can be swayed by going in strike. I learned that ignoring men’s made up authority forces them to level with you as a person. I learned that caring for women, especially vulnerable women, can make a whole world happier. I learned that letting women rest can help them feel more love for the things that matter in their life. I learned that social bonds make everyone stronger and happier. And I learned that loving others in a gay way can change the world.

Be gayer. Read Terry Pratchett. I love y’all 💕