#and it is very much annoying me

[catmask]

its true that romance amd friendship will not solve everything but. objectively speaking its very hard to get sad when you can say 'lets go get cake tomorrow okay' and someone will go get cake with you. like there is some good at least. you know

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

aroace sonic: *says the most flirty shit ever* also aroace sonic seconds later: *does a backflip of the couch and almost lands on his face* literally anyone: wtf.

He’s got the range

(Aroace Sonic compliments pt 4)

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 82-85)

THAT LAZYBONES!!

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[yourheartasmymark]

tenna building a model of spamtons head and screaming hysterically at susie to kill him is such an underrated over the top moment like sure he misses spamton but he would also kill that fucker no hesitation.

[sodapopbuoy]

THIS IS SO STUPID

(SKETCH UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I THINK IT'S EQUALLY FUNNY)

[technically-human]

Welcome to the reverse verse! This is part 1 of 2 of a commission for @i-am-as-normal-as-you-are and I can't wait to tell you all about it, because I'm incapable of being normal and chill about these concepts, so I ran with it.

Charles Rowland was born in 1900, his mum was from India and moved to the UK after marrying Charles' dad, a soldier who was not... very loving. Charles' heritage gave him some problems, but none as bad as that one time in 1916 when he was sacrificed to a demon and spent the next 7 decades in Hell. He doesn't like to talk about it, except when it can get him what he wants. He was always an angry boy, or so he thought, but after his time spent in Hell, it became so much worse. He's explosive and unpredictable, and so he mostly avoids conflict. He doesn't need to fight anyone, as his charming personality and sweet smile (plus a few smart calculations) always seem to be enough to convince people to give him what he asks for. And when the fight is inevitable... well, he has Edwin for that!

Edwin Payne grew up very sheltered, in a deeply religious home, and he is proud of that. Don't try to argue with him, because he surely has a Bible verse that will help him win (and if not, he is not above using his croquet mallet now that he has someone to keep safe). Unfortunately for him, he realized at a quite young age that he felt attraction towards other boys. Even worse, somehow other people could tell as well, including those peers that ended up killing him for it (the rumour spread throughout school was that he had died due to AIDS, and most people just accepted it). He never acted on those unnatural urges of his, but when he met this ghost who had just escaped Hell... he decided not to risk eternal damnation, and to stay here with Charles, instead. Edwin has no interest in the supernatural or in magic, and sort of looks down on them, but luckily his friend's got that covered.

[suntails]

small world

[vaguely-concerned]

that part in sea of blood where the game is soft tutorializing you on the sunder mechanic as the elite rogue venatori enemy shows up for the first time and lucanis' reaction is sooooo..... 'mierda. these guys'. see this is why he's the funniest and also most endearing character ever made. he really does sound softly, tiredly mildly exasperated in a way so wildly out of proportion with the situation at hand. a knife dude from the secret society slash cult that's been horrifically torturing him for a year just popped out of the woodwork, and the tone of lucanis' voice in response is reminiscent of nothing so much as a man who's just realized the office printer is out of ink again and whose resigned little sigh in response conveys with perfect good-natured clarity to everyone else working late alongside him that he is a bit annoyed but like not at any of them. 'we're in this together' his tone seems to say. fuckass printer and all. I'll go fetch some new cartridges. I'm getting coffee along the way does anyone else want anything while I'm there. he has the most companionable effortlessly comforting and innately hilarious presence of anyone who's ever lived even running through the failing forcefield personal trauma horror prison of all time at the bottom of the ocean. his day job is murder. he met rook and co literally half an hour ago and already these are the vibes, starting as they mean to go on.

the je ne sais quoi factor of this man. unparalleled

[sammygender]

girlcoded sam readings are like. his arcs are so tied up with control and bodily autonomy and sexual assault and otherness and cleanness and a desire for freedom and rebellion against oppressive masculine forces to the point where an examination of his show-long arcs looks like a thesis on The Female Gothic. he’s never afforded the respect or the power of characters like john and dean and is in fact narratively punished whenever he isn’t subservient to them. both the show itself and the fandom surrounding it treat him like dean’s bitch wife. he is textually compared to female characters multiple times, by the narrative and by dean.

and then meanwhile girlcoded dean readings are like. Eldest daughter core! (his father handed down ultimate control over every aspect of sam’s life once he died like a family heirloom)(he is THE patriarch). Yes he does the cooking yes he does the cleaning (which he doesn’t even…. and even if he solely did all the housework how does that make him Girl Coded unless it’s being delegated exclusively to him like its his role and he’s punished for not conforming to it… which is not happening…).

like girlcoded dean readings rely on stereotypes about women in real life. girlcoded sam readings rely on noticing how much the narrative constructed around sam falls into tropes used in fiction almost always about women. even things like his psychic powers! the way people are always swarming around trying to ‘corrupt’ him! the fixation on his purity and innocence! the two readings are very different things

[boobilby]

I tried to draw lbh and sqq but then I realised that I didn’t want to, so I didnt, you’re welcome

[lucydacusgirl]

you are my pack a day you are my favourite place you were my best friend before you were my best guess at the future

This embroidery is a collection of my and my partner’s jewellery <33 (and a guitar pick and a paper crane) inspo photo under the cut

[somegrumpynerd]

Ah yes, very mature indeed

I love these two getting far enough into their truce to annoy each other playfully, Dream is great at it immediately but it's good to see Nightmare starting to take part too

And don't worry, Dream did get revenge

[moonshynecybin]

bez trying not to smile about marc 🥴 it's all I want to think about

god i know !!!!!! sorry okay i wrote some fic about them in the spirit of motogp summer camp bc i want my new pairing badge lmao. and can i say thank you so much for organizing that bc it’s been such a fun and galvanizing force for the community like trulyyyy so fresh and lovely. yayyy okay here’s 2k marcbez omegaverse that still kinda ends up being about vale but i tried okay !!!

Marquez smells good.

And Marquez usually smells okay. Bez doesn’t get too close to him often, but when he does it creeps in on the edges of things: bright, a little bitter, a little chemical. Gas, rubber, tarmac. Like when you uncap a permanent marker and the smell punches you in the gut, goes to your head and makes you dizzy. Makes you blink hard.

He doesn’t smell it often— and when he does, it’s faint. Just a whiff like its coming from the next room. He always thought Marquez just might not have a scent that travels. Some people don’t really project like that. He also thought— yeah, he thought Marc might be a beta like his brother, the burning scent complimenting the peppery citrus wash of Alex that Bez can smell when his leathers are down.

He was probably wrong about that, though, because today it’s everywhere. Strong, heavy, crawling over the paddock like a dense, drugging fog, and Bez doesn’t know exactly why—but he has a few guesses.

Someone props open a door and it floats in with the breeze. Pecco wrinkles his nose. Bez takes in a big lungful—feels it drip, trickle down through his spine and buzz at the edge of his nerve endings like a shot of coffee. If before it was a gut-punch, now it’s a bullet— sharper and definitely more dangerous. Not something he can just go and walk off.

“Jesus— who is that?” Pecco asks.

Bez counts down the unmated alphas in the paddock— Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale. None of them really people Marc would go to, probably. Franky and Vale— definitely not, and a mechanic would be too weird.

“Marquez.” He answers Pecco after a thick second, slower than he should, his tongue heavy and clumsy in his mouth. He tries to breathe through his nose and escape the pressure of the smell pushing down on him. Instead— he can taste it.

He reaches down and adjusts his dick in his shorts. Marc in leathers. Marc pushing him on track. Bez’s last podium, a win, when Marc pushed at his shoulder, eyes sparking at the kid he trains with crossing over the finish line on the shitty conference room TV. Gas, diesel, rubber. No one in front of him but tarmac. Bez likes riding alone, does Marc? He’s alone right now, and he smells like that, and Bez doesn’t think anyone is doing anything about it.

When he was 16, Bez visited the paddock— he met Marc for the first time on the heels of that insane 2014 season. Bez had looked at the way he threw the bike into corners and around other riders, the sheer aggressive force of it, and thought, that’s the kind of competitor I want to be.

Now— he needs to figure out the time attack. Maybe Marc knows how to fix the Aprilia that Bez has been saddled with, all alone. Maybe he should go ask him. He exhales. Blinks hard.

But Bez doesn’t want to be friends with Marquez, so he makes a point not to think about stuff like that. And he wouldn’t be thinking about it, except—

“Alex?” Pecco wonders, back to the topic of the owner of the smell.

“What? No, it’s Marc. You’ve never smelt Marc before? You spend half your life in the box with him.”

Pecco’s also an omega— Marc’s an omega. Two of them on one team, that’s never happened before, as far as he knows. Omega noses— they’re usually not so good with each other, so Pecco wouldn’t have noticed the dulled version of his smell if Marc was on scent blockers. Which means that Marc must be off his scent blockers for some reason— an emergency heat, maybe? Bez can’t think of why.

He scrapes blunt nails over the side of his neck. Focuses on where all ten of his toes meet the floor, staples himself hard to the Earth so he doesn’t bolt. Jesus.

“He’s gotta be in heat.” He continues. He has to be alone, fucking himself on some toy and wishing it had a knot.

“The Marquezes smell the same to me.” Pecco rejoins, which is an insane thing to say that Bez ignores. Pecco raises one eyebrow and leans back, a little prim. He looks over Bez and then says, slowly, like he’s really thinking it over, “If his blockers failed— He should take care of that soon, that’s dangerous.”

“With who, though?” Bez asks. Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Did Vale ever laugh at Marc’s jokes, after all that mess? Should Bez, now? Bez should ask him, he’s in the paddock today. He should ask him about Marc, or about what it means when an omega goes into heat like this, when they don’t mean to be. Because there’s a race tomorrow, and there’s no way Marc means to be. Vale would know, if something needed to be done.

Franky would just smile at him, slow, and tell him that he should be able to figure it out.

Bez isn’t going to ask any mechanics.

Big breath in. Gasoline. Rubber. Two race weekends ago— a smile he couldn’t stop from coming to his own face. Marc tapping his leg, eyes black like polished stones. That dumb sunscreen ad that came up on his instagram explore page— Marquez in shorts, dick big and folded soft in the fabric of his swim trunks. Scars shiny in the sun like lighting over skin.

Bez decides not to ask Vale anything.

He stands up, thrumming. Balls his hoodie up in front of the crotch of his pants, embarrassed. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Him.

“Do you know where Mig is?”

Pecco looks up from his data sheet. Scans Bez with his steady eyes and says, “I haven’t seen him, why?”

“I have to ask him something,” Bez mumbles, an excuse neither of them believe, and pushes himself over the doorframe, led by his hard cock and his nose and the memory of meeting Marc when he was 16 and he doesn’t know what. A smile, maybe. His or Marc’s, he doesn’t know.

He staggers over to where the riders are staying. He always liked the smell of rubber.

XXXXX

The line of motorhomes doesn’t smell like rubber— it smells like it’s on fire.

Bez throbs, sweaty and achey. Feels filthy as he makes his way over to knock on the navy and red door. He doesn’t know if this is even going to work.

“Marc— do you need help?” He calls, and no one answers. He curses out loud when he remembers he said it in Italian. He tries, searching— clumsy Spanish.

There’s silence, then shuffling. A bang.

After a moment, Marc opens the door, shirtless and steaming, wisps of water evaporating off of him with the heat of his skin. He must have just gotten out of the shower. Dark hair curls just behind his ears. He’s holding his towel out awkwardly around his waist, like he’s hard and sensitive. Bez can see it poking against the fabric anyway. Another gut punch, another bullet.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see— do you need help?” Marc blinks and Bez shuffles. “Just, you know. There aren’t many alphas in the paddock. And you—”

He gestures at him with one hand. Regrets it kind of immediately.

Marc’s eyes, black with how wide his pupils have been blown to, drop to the bundle of his hoodie held over his cock. It twitches and Bez hunches forwards. “I mean, of course. Only if you want—“

Marc licks his lips. Sniffs at the air and probably tries to catch some of Bez on the wind.

“Is this a joke? Did anyone send you?”

“What?” Bez blinks. He cannot think right now, with this much skin in front of him, and he decides to talk instead. “No, the whole paddock can smell you. I mean fuck, Pecco noticed. I thought, I guess. You know.”

He trails off, then swallows. Comes down to the heart of it. “If you want to use me. I’m here.”

Marc looks around, weighing his options. He looks like he’s expecting something to to pop out behind Bez, eyes all flighty and all over the place. A reporter, maybe.

“Pecco noticed?”

Bez nods and Marc curses. He chews on his lip, then considers Bez. Looks him up and down like he’s a horse to be sold. “And what, you would—?”

“Yes, yes— really. No, no problem.” He throws him a weak smile, then tilts his head to the side so Marc can see some of his neck.

Marc snorts, then stares around another second. He pinches his brow. Bez notices— his hands are shaking a little. He must be pretty deep in.

He makes a decision.

“Fuck— alright, fine.”

He hauls Bez in and shuts the door.

There’s a second’s hesitation, and then Marc just drops the hand holding up his towel, and he’s naked and so fucking hot in front of him. He fits their mouths together, desperate just like Bez is, and Bez’s hips move like they’re on a string, pushing forwards and grinding against him before he can think.

Bez gasps, and Marc presses his advantage.

It’s quick, a blur, and then his clothes are tangling down around his ankles and he’s spread out on the couch. The feeling hits him hard, dizzying, like he can’t breathe and doesn’t want to, and then Marc is holding his dick in his big hand and sitting down on him, ass hot and soft and wet enough to drip, getting Bez’s balls slick. He swallows hard, thumbing hard at the bony hollow of Marc’s hip.

Marc’s bright eyes watch him.

“Okay,” He says, trying to keep it together— and his throat betrays him, makes a dry sort of aborted whine. It’s fine though, because Marc flashes him the hint of a smile, throat a deep warm gold, and Bez feels fucking stupid and doesn’t care, lets his head loll back against the ridge of the couch, mindless with the places Marc is touching him.

There’s a second— an adjustment, and then it’s slick and easy with his heat, and Marc starts to ride him fast and hard. He braces himself against Bez’s shoulders, pushes him down and keeps him there— and Bez had offered, but Marc has clearly listened, and he puts him where he wants him, his cock hard enough that it hurts, knot about ready to fucking pop just from the way this looks, Marc’s dick bobbing up and down as he works himself, his hands scorching hot as they dig into Bez’s collarbones. Silent concentration on the sharp planes of his face.

The world degrades into Marc, and into sensation: his tight ass dragging on Bez’s cock, his knees on the outside of Bez’s thighs, two devastating points of contact. The sound of them coming together. The punched out noises Marc is making. He closes his eyes, twitching, then opens them again, dazed, chasing the image.

The smell is everywhere. He feels like he’s been struck over the head. Bez is gonna come.

“Wait,” Marc pants a command, voice hard and cracking even as he bears down, a hot squeeze on Bez’s dick. Bez didn’t realize he spoke out loud, or maybe Marc can just tell from the way his breath has gone harsh and fast, bellowing like a horse. “Wait, not yet,”

Fuck, alright. He palms Marc’s waist, feels the way his hips flex as he rocks up and down. Bites down hard on his lip and tastes salty iron blood. His hips rabbit up once, twice. His knot pops.

“Shit,” He comes sticky hot up in him, panting like a kid who ran too hard and too long, damp against Marc’s neck. It burns through him, gas on wood, hot and fast. Face blotchy and breath wet.

“Goddamn it,” Marc says, broken and horrible.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bez cries, and tries to keep fucking him, but his knot has caught— he can’t.

“Stay fucking still,” Marc pants, and grabs himself, hand working over his stupid big dick, hips fucking back in tiny jerks on Bez’s knot. “Fuck, just don’t move,”

So Bez lays there, head digging into the edge of Marc’s couch, and stares at the shine on Marc’s forehead, his top lip, his abs. Tries to be still for him, shaking with the effort. Sun hits his skin through the gap in the curtains and lights him up— another scar for Bez to stare at, or think about touching. He groans, humiliated. The back of his neck burns. Marc needs more, and Bez can— he can try.

There’s another knock at the door— more sounds. A voice Bez recognizes. Italian. He freezes, ice shot through his veins. Marc’s hand speeds up, his mouth open and pretty and shocked.

“Marc!” Vale pounds on the door. “Open up! Fuck! Let me in, everyone can smell you from here to Jerez. Are you off your blockers?”

At the sound— Marc wails, and he locks up. Comes messily up on his chest in wet, dragging pulses.

The voice outside falls silent. He heard them.

Bez trembles.

He remembers his list.

Him. Some mechanics. Franky.

Vale.

When his knot goes down— Marc climbs off of him with shaky knees, and doesn’t say a word.

[konoharfts]

*beacons you to a dark corner* psssst hey, you 🫵 do you want a sneak peek for the new AU I’m working on?

Hehehe of course you do >;)

Cyborg!Anko for my Bulletproof Hearts AU!! There’s a lot of context needed to make this make sense (and I’ll get into it once I’m done *at least* Genma and Kakashi’s character sheets as well) but uhhh the AU is mainly based on the MCR Killjoys universe, but I take inspiration from Cyberpunk, Fallout, Mad Max, Trigun… so think retro-futuristic post-apocalyptic Japanese -American fusion :) The tokujo squad run a gas station out in the middle of the wastes which they also use as Anko’s mechanic shop, Genma’s radio station, and the base of operations for the rebellion against the fascist government of Neo-Konoha! So if that sounds interesting stay tuned because I’ve got lots where that’s coming from!!!

[edettethegreat]

cordelia could be so interesting if y'all would stop playing her as self-righteous

[funsizedshark]

this point has been made before but santos and langdon are 100% written as mirrors to each other and if santos had been a man there would have been 15000000 meta posts about his snark and impulsivity being a cover for deep-seated emotional issues and his childhood but since santos is a woman she's a huge bitch who needs to get humbled. which by the way has already happened multiple times over the course of the past 10 episodes but i guess to appease the masses foaming at the mouth to see a woman crucified we need a full scene of idk robby yelling at her that shes a fuckup in front of the entire ER