hole in dash


Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of Boogie Nights And Colombian White
Creative Content Contributors: @baebae-goodnight (providing an INCREDIBLE moodboard for this installment)
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic violence; drug use; explicit language
Word Count: 4,356
Special thanks to @kpopfanfictrash for letting me borrow her Baekhyun <3 and to @the-porcelain-doll-xo for a read through <3
Yixing - The Eyes

From great heights, it’s easy to see Miami the way it used to be. With the sea in view, somehow still iridescent and tantalizing in the dark, it’s easy to let time slip and drag him back. Back to the sixties, to before Yixing had even arrived, when South Beach was little more than something lazy, something pleasant, something almost hopeful. He can almost imagine it up here, chairs and chairs and chairs of geriatrics and maybe even some teenagers, stoned and old and killing time while they wait to die. Standing on the factory roof, he can see over the cranes and the high rises, the metal scaffolding stained and painted in equal parts blood and blow. Here, Miami becomes something little more than an idealized getaway, something little more than an empty plot of sand waiting to be paved. Something made of potential.

At this height, it’s easy to pretend he is flying. Standing on the ledge of the factory roof, Yixing looks down at his shoes as he balances and offers the stability of his knees complete trust. The weight of the recorder at his side could easily make him tip or stumble, would scare a younger, less trained man into stepping away. He simply stands, feeling like a gargoyle, feeling like this factory is his cathedral charge, and lets the pavement below test his will. Occasionally, like this, when the breeze picks up and threads through his hair, he thinks small fibers of his muscles are tempted to jump, fall, fly, or kiss the earth below. He thinks that would be easy, thinks that would be nice.

At this height, a lot of things are easy, but, at this height, it’s hard to be seen.

From where he stands, he looks out over the world and sees people. Lives pass by, insignificant and inconsequential, moving at slow paces and burned by ignorance. Lights in windows glow, people fucking over the city or fighting down below, and he can hear, see, smell them all. No one sees him, because no one expects to. No one sees him, because they are not looking, but he sees them.

Years of abandonment and neglect have taught him to observe, look for, and seek all the flaws in humanity that give him the upper hand. When eyes are not focused on him, he looks and looks and looks until every person is reduced to little more than cosmic waste, carbon and nitrogen soaked in nothing more than sin. He likes it this way, thinks it’s poetic - to be the prophecy all prophecies pass and ignore. The great undoing of everyone and everything, eventually even himself.

Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his lighter and juts his hip slightly to maintain balance. Pushing a cigarette between his lips, he relishes the sensation of his leather glove grazing his lips and lets the tobacco glide languidly into his chest and lungs. This moment could be soothing, he thinks, akin to a great wave of calm passing over his weary joints and mind. Could be.  

Would be, except for the entire length of his drag, someone is screaming.

Eight floors below, somewhere in the purgatory of the empty building, Minho is learning how to die.

Really, it’s his fault that he’s there, likely losing his ear and certainly losing his life - even if his heart is still beating. It was only a matter of time before the group found out he’d been poking holes in cocaine shipments, meeting the traffickers at the port and cutting slits in the bags to take kilo and after kilo to the Cubans. Yixing assumes that he was smart enough to know he’d be caught, though he probably never thought it would be a prostitute, still wet with come and sweat, who would give him away.

Minseok said his name like he was spitting acid from his mouth, disgusted with the mere idea of him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach into his back pocket for his knife. Itching to take his knife and cut off his thieving fingers but, well, Minseok has always had stellar self-control when he wasn’t tweaked or depressed.

Initially, they thought him the mole, connected him easily to every conspiracy they could imagine and fabricate, plot lines filling in like they’d been woven over years of planning and choosing. Logical. Made sense. Infuriating.

Jongin nearly punched a hole in his dash when Yixing told him not to kill the guy, instead to bring him in, back to Baekhyun who had some questions. Over a decade of working with and knowing Baekhyun had long ago taught him this didn’t mean a conversation, it meant he wanted blood, and, deep down, Yixing wanted it too. Minho got careless, reckless, and greedy - that’s what Jongin called it as he was guided through the streets, trying to talk himself down from the blind rage he found himself in. Yixing said nothing on the topic, oddly reserved for this time of night, barking out directions as he mulled over Jongin’s turn of phrase. Jongin was being kind, using gentle words, sympathetic words to describe this. Yixing called it disloyal, called it traitorous - that was his version of kindness.

Now, listening into the conversation, he’s satisfied with the words Baekhyun has selected. Their fearless leader, his childhood friend, ever the poet.

‘You know, I don’t like people.’ Baekhyun releases small grunts through his words, the effort of slicing through cartilage filtering through his speech. ‘People are cunts. Worthless pieces of come and pussy, self-servicing - fuck, I don’t even like Suho that much.’

‘It’s mutual.’ Junmyeon’s voice cuts through Baekhyun’s little sermon, sharp, pointed, and bored.

‘So what made you think that I liked you? That we were friends? Was it the money I was fronting you to push this shit? Did you think it was a fucking loan?’

Exhaling into the breeze, Yixing chuckles at Baekhyun’s nonchalant tone, almost cordial in its cadence. Any other man, he imagines, would use this opportunity to impose dominance or threat in their word choice. Treading carefully over their words, they would select the ones they find most sinister and brutal in the effort of exerting authority. For as long as Yixing has known him, Baekhyun has never felt the need to do this. He has never done this because he doesn’t need to, choosing instead to let his actions showcase his will. And his will, always and without fail, is lethal.

‘Answer me, I’m genuinely curious. I’d like to know.’

Soft whimpers permeate through the silence, intercut by howls of pain. Minho is losing his ear, and, in this case, he is lucky.

‘Oh, sorry, is my knife at your ear making it hard for you to speak? Let me make it easier for you.’

Minho screams, agony erupting out of his chest and sending Yixing back from the roof edge as he winces through the feedback in his earpiece. Laughter dances through, sounding splintered yet paradoxically gleeful, Baekhyun happily walking away with an ear.

‘There. Okay, tell me. What made you think we were friends?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Minho rasps, voice ragged and tilted with pain.

‘I don’t know,’ singsongs Baekhyun, boyishly weaving his way through the interrogation. ‘You started this whole Shakespearean shit. The Brutus to my Julius.’

‘Baekhyun, can we please hurry this up.’ Once more, Junmyeon bursts through, tired and irritated with the length of time this is taking. He’d rather go home. He’d rather have the body dump already arranged. Instead, he is playing rook to Baekhyun’s whim.

Yixing gets it, he truly does, but even he isn’t so forgiving, and so he decides to speak.

‘We’ve secured this building for two hours. There is plenty of time.’

‘Lay,’ Junmyeon says, feigning surprise. ‘I’d forgotten you joined us.’

Turning in a slow circle as he surveys the area, Yixing smirks. ‘Wish I could say the same.’

‘Shut up,’ interjects Baekhyun. ‘I think he wants to speak.’

Retching sounds become the soundtrack to a young couple fucking against an alley wall far below. Yixing smiles. Yixing watches.

‘What the fuck is that, is that tacos?’

Junmyeon sighs. ‘Looks like a burrito.’

Unable to help himself, Yixing laughs as he moves towards the opposite side of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Contrary to popular belief,’ Baekhyun announces, playfulness steadily disappearing from his voice, ‘my patience grows thin rather quickly. So, either you speak or I’m going to tell you what I think.’

With an intake of breath that sounds more like a hiss, Yixing braces himself for the oncoming storm. Now, it’s serious. Now, this kind of betrayal is a tangible reality and everyone is starting to feel it. Even Junmyeon, who is usually taciturn and stoic during all interrogations and meetings, releases a small, almost inaudible growl from his throat. Everyone wants some of Minho’s blood, and Baekhyun is sure to deliver.


Baekhyun’s tenor weaves its way around the room, sounding soft and beautiful, and absolutely deadly.

‘Okay, here’s what I think: I think you got comfortable. You made your first million and you thought you could use me to make more. Because we’re friends, right? Friends would understand.’

In the brief pause, Yixing grits his teeth in anticipation. There’s a rhythm to the way Baekhyun handles his interrogations, a pacing similar to a dance, and he knows where this one is headed. As if by clockwork, he hears the cock of Baekhyun’s SIG Sauer before the trigger is pulled. The sound is loud, erupting through both the mic, giving sharp feedback directly into his brain, and out into the city. No one will notice. No one will care.

‘Shit man, you’re a cripple now.’

This simple sentence tells him Minho now has a bullet in one knee cap, though by the end of the night he expects he will have more in other, more important places.

‘Do you know what happens to cocaine when it makes contact with salt water?’ Footsteps follow Baekhyun’s words, signalling his movement through the pace of his speech; Yixing can almost see him circling the chair, eyes impassive behind yellow sunglasses and mouth set in a straight line. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you, well, it does but mostly I just want to know if you know. You’re a smart guy. Community college. Some bullshit like that.’

‘He dropped out after a year,’ he provides, leaning over the roof to watch Jongin turn a corner, circling the perimeter without being obvious.

‘But he went!’ Baekhyun exclaims, feigning pride. ‘That’s gotta mean something, right college guy? So, tell me. What happens to cocaine in salt water?’

Minho spits. ‘Fuck you.’

‘My sex life is fucking incredible, thanks, but that’s not my question.’

Another gunshot rings out in his ear, unexpected and brash, making him bend down and open his mouth in a silent scream of shock.

‘Sorry, my hand slipped. But hey, at least you know you aren’t walking out of here, right? You can relax now.’

Tired of playing games, Baekhyun is moving forward at an unprecedented speed. Yixing can sense it, even the air that moves around the roof is saturated with his wrath, and, soon, he thinks the whole of Miami will be caught in its tides.

‘Here’s what happens,’ Baekhyun says, sounding almost too pleasant for the details he’s about to provide. ‘Coke in water? Shitty, but if you evaporate the water it’ll still be there and it’ll work. Won’t work well, but it’s enough to get you addicted. Coke in salt water? Whole other story. So, when you’ve been dropping my shit into the sea, did you think this would eventually come back to you?’

For a while, the only sound Yixing can hear is Minho’s whimpering. He hopes Minho is suffering. He hopes he never goes numb to the pain.

There’s a sudden fury of movement: the tearing of bags, the pushing of a chair, fabric thrusting and moving in nondescript motions. He can’t make sense of it, his brain trying to picture each action and rounding itself back into a fog. Speech dies on his tongue, choosing not to interrupt Baekhyun as he works and instead keeps all his complaints to himself.

‘I want you to try it.’

Now, he gets it. Now, he feels almost sympathetic towards Minho. Almost.

Look, I’m sorry I don’t have a nice mirror for you to snort this off, but I think your ear makes a fine dish don’t you?’

More movement occurs in vague patterns: thrusts and grunts, sounds of inhales blocked by powder in nasal passages. Minho coughs, loud and sputtering and gagged, and, soon, he’s reduced to little more than a mess of uncomfortable whining.

A small sigh, one of insincere platitudes falls from Baekhyun’s mouth. ‘Your nose is bleeding. Suho, do we have a tissue for his nose?’

‘No,’ Junmyeon says, plainly. ‘No, we don’t.’

‘Sorry man. But hey, now we know what happens when you snort impure blow. Fucking sucks, doesn’t it.’

Below, Jongin circles back around, appearing as a lost driver attempting to find the highway entrance. Below, the world is moving, dollar bills are circulating in the Florida economy that are laced with cocaine simply by passing through the fingers of Miami’s lawyer’s, doctors, car salesmen. Below, a woman walking home alone is crying.

Above, Yixing is watching. Above, Yixing is listening. Above, Yixing is waiting. He knows the bullet is coming, and so he takes his ear piece out and rests it calmly on his shoulder. Without Baekhyun in his ear, the world seems calm. Miami seems calm and quiet and soft. Without Baekhyun in his ear, Miami seems colourless. Without Baekhyun, Miami seems hollow.  

‘I’ve got one more question for you,’ Baekhyun says, voice in a loud whisper. Baekhyun is leaning over Minho now, close and low and breathing heavy into his wire mic. ‘What happens to dead bodies in salt water?’

‘I don’t know,’ weeps Minho, pathetic and sad and aware that these are likely his last words.

‘Me neither. Will you be sure to tell me?’

‘Wh -’

A third and final gunshot breaks through, and Yixing smiles. He smiles at the moon and the sea and the city, but it is neither content nor is it pleased, it’s simply relieved that one half of their problems has been eradicated. It’s simply relieved that he can go home and not sleep, just think without this weighing heavy on his mind.

Minho is dead and Yixing is now free, at least for the next six hours.

‘This was all well and good, but we still have a mole,’ Junmyeon says, wires moving and indicating he is about to disconnect and arrange disposal of the corpse.

‘His brains are on my shoes,’ whines Baekhyun, sounding childish. ‘These were a gift.’

‘I’m sure your pretty piece of pussy will be able to get you another pair.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Baekhyun states, voice stern. ‘And don’t call her that. I’ll put a bullet in your mouth if you do it again.’

‘You won’t.’

He likes it, this banter. It makes him feel as though he isn’t on his own or alone, operating like the satellite he is. It makes him feel distant from New York City, the mob and the cops and the lonely way he had to move through the night to steal a car or a kilo to make a quick buck. It makes him feel distant from the thing he was before.

He likes this banter but now, he is tired, and now, after thirty-six hours, he is going home.

‘I’m leaving,’ he announces, and all sounds on the other halt as he commands attention. ‘I’ll leave the tape with Kai. I-95 should be clear until four.’

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. There are three deadbolts and each is more imposing than the one that comes before. When he suggested this, you laughed and called him paranoid. He simply agreed. When he suggested this, you said it was a tell, a give away that something serious was happening inside. You said, we’ll either look crazy or criminal, and I don’t know which is worse. He simply agreed, but he said it would keep you safe. He didn’t include himself. He doesn’t really care, not really about anything, except you.

When he walks through the door, like usual, he is ambushed by you. Whole heartfuls of lust and sentiment flare up and outward from his chest, rising through his throat to linger on his tongue. When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, standing in the center of your living room.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, and you are pointing a gun at him.

It reminds him of the first time he met you, when you pointed a gun at him and called him a fed, called him a cunt, called him a lot of things that made him laugh until he pulled a wire out from a car and hot wired it for you. You called him a lot things that night, held the gun to his head as he drove you through Brooklyn, while he told you he didn’t care the AV equipment was government grade or that it was hot, just that he wanted in the on the money if you were going to make him drive. You held the gun to his head all night, only put it down when he fucked you on your bed, dad sleeping in the next room an arms reach from a rifle - the riskiest sex he ever had.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you. You are pointing a gun at him, and you are shaking.

Instantly, words rush forward and fall from his mouth, tearing through him before his mind can assess his surroundings. Something feels off, slightly amiss, but he doesn’t care. He cannot care, because you are there with wide eyes and looking at him as though the world is in a state of collapse.

‘Nocti,’ he breathes, hands flying up in defense. He knows you won’t shoot, you never shoot, but you’re severe and strong, and your hold on the gun was always better and more stable than his. ‘Nocti.’

Just hearing the nickname seems to make you relax, your shoulders drooping and defenses falling just enough for you to come back to him, to peek around your shell and let him know this fear and this rage is not directed at him. And seeing you soften, seeing that you are neither hurt nor fighting with him tonight, makes the atmosphere shift and the flesh of his arms tingle.

‘Someone’s been in the house.’

You say it together, at the same time, and he’s at you before you can even move to investigate. Running his hands over your face, your hair, your waist. He looks at you as though you are bleeding, hemorrhaging in his hands even though he knows you are whole and complete and vital.

‘I’m fine,’ you state, though you cling to him tighter than usual, and it makes his jaw clench with disdain that someone could have this kind of power over you and his home. One and the same, really. ‘I just got home. I felt it when I walked in.’

Furiously, he pulls away from you, sure and calculated in every moment of his limbs. He tears through the house, inspecting rooms with his knife clutched tightly in his hands while you, with your Harballer, point at the furniture as though it is preparing to devour you whole. The silence is deafening, both of you reverting to hand signals and instead listening for sounds of footsteps unfamiliar with various weak spots in the floorboards. Yixing is looking for shadows and he knows you are looking for flesh, tendons to tear and shoot, men to cripple. Yixing is looking for shadows, feeling much like the moon as he tries to draw them out of the dark and give shape to phantoms already long gone.

Eventually, you both discern that nothing has been taken nor moved, the only real difference being the weight of the air in the house. It’s sticky and damp, a swamp dripping down the walls - though, he cannot tell if it’s the Florida air finding a way in or if it’s the rapid beating of his heart making him feel as though the earth is trying to suffocate him. And while this should calm him, the fact that everything is the same and as it should be, he is only able to manage a further, excessive panic because someone got in to do just that: be inside.

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. With no obvious signs of force at any entry point, this means someone followed him, likely for weeks, and made keys. With no obvious signs of forced entry, this means someone has known about his home, his life, his space for a long time. With no obvious signs of entry, this means it was planned.

‘We have to leave,’ he says, walking into the living room to where you are holding your gun at your side, defeated. ‘We need to get the fuck out.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ you retort, putting the safety back on and tossing it to the couch. ‘Leaving means they win.’

Yixing releases a scoff at your indifference to this plight, taken aback by how firm you are in your stance. ‘Nocti, you stole a lot of shit for us. I’m not embroiling you -’

‘For you,’ you interrupt, scowling and pointing a finger into his chest. ‘I stole that shit for you, not your boss or the whores he collects. You.’

Always, you are stronger than him. Will of iron and teaching him to be fierce, unwavering, brave. ‘If they found us,’ he begins, pulling you to him, ‘they’re onto a hell of a lot more than a pimp and a club owner who might be involved with racketeering.’

‘If they find us, you can put a bullet in their brain and I’ll search their pockets for loose change.’

For a while, you both fall quiet. Still, even with the discovery that nothing was taken, the house feels awkward, the bubble of privacy and clarity wholly removed and replaced with something foreign, something he hasn’t felt since Queens and the night a dead cop turned up on his doorstep. He’s used to running, leaving shit behind until his trail goes cold. He’s used to observing, never being observed unless it was your eyes only, and he can’t help but feel as though this is the beginning of the end.

Eventually, your mouth finds his neck, kissing a calm sort of fire into his skin as you speak. ‘Besides, you have a deal in a few days to scout. We can’t leave before -’

And then he’s gone from you, pulling away from your hold and running down the hall to the back spare room. It’s mostly empty, filled with boxes of office supplies neither of you use but keep merely to give the appearance of planning, converting, using, living. He moves a box to the side and tears at the wallpaper, revealing a small panel with a lever. Tugging the metal rod, he listens to the latch release and watches the wall slide away to reveal the radio room.

This too is small, but is the single most important thing his first million ever made him. With only two tables, two chairs, and three short wave radios, the room looks like an unassuming broadcast radio station at best but it’s the eighty foot tower less than three miles from the house that makes this room lethal. This is where Baekhyun talks to Colombia, this is where traffic routes are detailed, this is where Yixing listens to all the ways they’ve learned to live and speak and survive, and no one has never heard him. Not even once.

Inspecting each radio with a careful, quizzical eye, Yixing finally finds the thing that’s changed. One small detail that any other man, a careless man, would miss.

On the second table, sitting small and green and wholly unassuming, the knobs of a shortwave transmitter have been turned, sitting now in different positions than when he left them.

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he rests his weary body in the chair and he looks. He simply looks and looks at the dials and knows that, now, everything has changed. The information of a mole is no longer a rumour, something to be treated as mere investigation, but something that needs to be handled as though a warrant for execution has been issued. The mole is no longer a rumour, and they are inside, crawling inside all of Yixing’s private spaces and making him feel young, out of control, and completely unlike himself.

Like this, he thinks he could be reckless. Like this, he thinks he could be dangerous, publically and vocally, and he never liked the idea of either.

It’s as these thoughts pass through his head that he notices the pad of paper, yellow and legal and long. Impressions, erratic, unfocused and illegible, remain in the center of the pad, and suddenly a great wave of relief washes over him. This is the relief he had been seeking from his last smoke, the kind he had been seeking the moment he stepped through his door and held you in his arms.

This is the relief of control.

Flipping the pages up, he tears the last sheet out and lays it over the top, grabbing a pencil and sketching whole dark lines over the top. He makes one large dark cloud, big, almost circular, and lets the indents be the only white lines in the center.

When he’s done, he’s left with coordinates.

When he’s done, he’s left with handwriting.

When he’s done, he’s left with the truth.


anonymous asked:

I was driving today, and I imagined Hunk was teaching me, even though I already know how to drive and I don't know, maybe you can write something in which the paladins are teaching their s/o or something how to drive?? Or maybe they're just being really annoying about it lmao

This is adorable. And I feel you. When I have to drive on a long trip by myself I imagine I’m on a road trip with my fave characters and we dance like idiots to my music. Or all scream when there’s snow on the ground and my car turns into a metal death trap. Fun stuff!

Shiro + His Expedition:

  • “You…you don’t know how to drive? Nono, you’re fine! Yeah, I can teach you!”
    • what a sweet man. but you ain’t getting in his baby without your driver’s permit so tough shit
  • “Ok, so that’s the brake, that’s the gas. Both are a little touchy so press gentle ok? She’s an old girl. And that’s the blinker, please use it…”
    • he goes on and on about where things are. even going to far as to show you the radio and the ac/heater system even though you’re not allowed to touch either when driving
  • “Two hands on the wheel at all times. Ten and 2 o’ clock are where your hands should always be.”
    • yes mom
  • Seems calm and collected all the way until the point where you turn the car on. Then he realizes that he is in fact in a very large car, that you don’t know how to drive, that’s not really beginner friendly.
    • “Slowly…slowly…slow-THIS ISN’T SLOWLY!”
    • “Shiro, I haven’t even touched the gas. We’re just rolling…”
    • “…Right! Good job! Let’s just uh, let’s test out those brakes! They are you’re best friend.” *awkward smile*
  • he’s pretty sure his white patch has grown by the time you finally drive home
    • “So, can I try again tomorrow?”
    • *sweats nervously* “Ye-ah, sure. Totally okay! No problemo! Excellente! Okie dokie, artichokie!”
    • “I wasn’t even that bad!”
    • “I know, I’m sorry!”
  • it takes a few times, but eventually he loosens up enough to let you have fun with Black and kinda enjoys not having to always be the one to drive

Hunk + His Truck, Butter:

  • “Awww, babe. Can you drive? I’m ti~ired….What do you mean you can’t drive? Huh, ok, can’t believe I didn’t notice. We’re changing that tomorrow, it’s like a…uhm, what the word here, a rite of passage!”
    • please be careful with Butter, she’s his baby and and a classic
  • “Ok, so this girl is a manual. There’s your clutch and here’s the shifter, don’t get the brake and gas confused with the clutch. Please.”
    • really chill about you driving his car, but not quite ready to have you leave the parking lot quite yet. might take you out of the city for a bit, maybe drive around on some dirt roads
  • “You’re doing awesome! Ok, so get a little loose now, you don’t need to keep both hands on the wheel and stick unless you’re in a tense situation. Keep relaxed, let Butter do the talking, you just listen to her.”
  • “Nice park job, but let’s try making it in one go this time.”
  • Might be a little nervous when you get out on the road though
    • “Ok, you’re a little close to the right line, let’s move a little ove–TOO FAR OH MY GOD!”
    • “Let’s try easing on the brakes ok? I’m getting nauseous.”
  • He stops at parallel parking
    • “STOP! Stopstopstop! You’re gonna hit that truck! Ok–whew, breathe Hunk, breathe.” His eyes are closed and he looks like he’s struggling to remain calm.
    • “Did-did I do bad?” You’re nervous but luckily there’s no traffic around to see you half out of your spot.
    • “Not…bad,” he opens one eye to peek at you, “just…we’ll practice more later. I can’t take much more. Let’s find a different spot.”
    • You feel your stomach drop, “Oh…yeah, sure.”
    • “Hey now,” he reaches over to squeeze your shoulder, “It’s alright. You’re still learning. Keep that cute chin up!”
  • still the main driver but some days, when he’s just too tired, he’s really glad that he taught you. Totally worth the week of indigestion.

Lance + His Camry:

  • is absolutely ecstatic when he finds out you can’t drive
    • bc 1. it’s adorable for some reason?
    • and 2. he gets to pass on his skillz
  • also he’s got a perfect training car. Camry’s are freaking tanks and never die Heroes never die
    • “Go ahead, start her!” He waits with a shit-eating grin because his car is a sensitive lady and usually doesn’t start for anyone but him and Hunk.
    • But she starts right away, even easier than she does for him.
    • he’s not jealous
    • nope
    • no way
    • ok fine, he’s a little jealous
  • “So before we put her in gear, what exactly do you know about driving? Because I don’t want to treat you like an idiot or something.”
    • Luckily the Camry is an automatic so Lance is pretty unconcerned with taking you immediately out into the road
    • he’s got so much trust in you
  • “Yeah, getting her into drive is a little tricky. You’ll miss it the first time and slip straight into second. Just give her a little bump back into drive. Perfect!”
    • high five!
  • might have forgotten to put his seatbelt on and when you first used the brakes he went flying into the dash
    • “That one is on me. Rule numero uno: seatbelt.” Satisfied he’s not bleeding he continues, “Let’s just be a little lighter on the breaks. You wanna lightly press down and continue pressing down slowly towards the floor until you stop. Just one lo~ong, slow, good push.”
    • “Was…was that a sex joke?”
    • “It was bad wasn’t it? Sorry.”
  • Makes you practice parking next to other bad park jobs, just so you get a feel for how the Camry handles
    • “I think I’m gonna hit that car.”
    • “Naw babe, you still have a couple of inches. Let it roll….ok, now stop. Back up a bit but turn the wheel all the way in the opposite direction. Stop. Now you can slide all the way in.” *eyebrow waggle*
    • “Please stop using those words.”
  • He’s really soft and excellent at explaining what you need to do and surprisingly, he doesn’t panic.
    • Only grabs the wheel once when you were coming off the highway and the turn ramp was turning harder than you were and he needed to stop you from running off the road
    • Afterwards explains that it was all good and that he is in no way disappointed or scared about your driving skills. Turns are scary sometimes.
  • Now he just tosses you the keys when he doesn’t want to drive. He likes being able to do that. Sometimes, a boy just wants to gaze forlornly out a rainy window while driving to Del Taco.

Keith + His Motorcycle:

  • “You…wanna learn to ride a bike? Uh yeah, I can-I can do that.”
    • He nervous. How does one teach a person to ride a motorcycle?
  • Decides the best way is to sit behind you so he can yell directions or quickly take over if necessary
    • also, now he gets to wrap his arms around you
  • “You can ride a bicycle right? I don’t have to worry about you falling over?”
  • Has you sit on it first with the kickstand down, pointing out the hand clutch, the throttle, the gear shifter by your left foot, the brake by your right
    • “Rule of thumb: the left side changes gears, the right changes speed. I know it’s weird, but we’ll get it!” 
    • He’s so sincere about teaching you but honestly? He thinks it’s really hot to see you on his bike.
  • Looks bored the whole time but he’s trying to remain as neutral as possible, so he doesn’t scare you or something with his over-eagerness
    • “Keith, I can’t tell if I’m doing okay or not.”
    • “You’re doing great. You’re a natural.”
    • “Can you say that with feeling???? I’m getting mixed messages here.”
  • getting balanced is the hardest part
    • He’s doing his best to let you catch the bike but he can’t resist long
    • keeps his feet just off the ground but still straight out so he’s the one keeping you from falling over
    • his excuse is that he has stronger legs, not that he thinks your gonna drop Red or anything (it’s his biggest fear rn)
  • Finds a nice parking lot to practice in 
    • doesn’t have you go fast at all, just kinda put-putting along, getting a feel for the shifter
    • realizes that he’s probably a hindrance on the back but he’s scared you’ll fall over or off or somehow zoom too fast and crash
    • he needs to be close enough to just turn it off
  • lets you control the turns, working as a counter weight
    • his heart is in his throat now because you both could very easily topple over
    • he doesn’t want you hurt or scared to be on his bike because of one tumble
    • also he doesn’t want to have to buff Red out, because he will
  • but he gets bored easily. The moment you are able to stop it in second and drop it down to neutral he’s taking you on the road
    • nothing major though, you take the back streets home
  • probably won’t offer to let you drive. Red is his girl. But if you ask nicely, he’ll let you take the reins.
    • low-key is keeping an eye out for cheaper bikes he can fix up for you

Pidge + Her Prius:

  • “Yeah, no, you’re not going another second without knowing how to drive. Strap in loser, you’re getting the crash course.”
    • Ok, so Prius’ are weird but that’s half the fun!
  • “Guess where you put the key?” She’s got a shit-eating grin too. This gremlin.
    • “Th-there’s no key? I don’t…Pidge what do I do?”
    • “Oh don’t pout, you know it’s my weakness. See that hole in the dash? Put the fob in it and press start.”
    • “Seriously. I press start? Am I playing Nintendo or something?”
    • She snorts, “It’s exactly like that! Ok ok, so now it’s on.”
    • “You sure? Because I didn’t feel it turn on.”
    • “You doubting me?”
  • She also laughs when you see the shifter. It’s a freaking knob on the dash. Also, you press the park button to get into park???
  • “Ok so, the windows are tiny as hell in here. You gotta twist around to see where other people are while you’re moving. We got a clear road, go ahead and practice checking your blind spot.”
    • Might get a little nauseous during this part. You keep over correcting and swerving back into your lane.
    • “Ok, let’s just…take it easy…we can just chill in the right lane all the way to Jamba Juice. I don’t care how much slower it is.”
  • Fucks with you just once
    • You’re at a four-way stop and it’s about your turn when she reaches over and presses the power button, causing it to immediately die
    • She’s cackling because you can’t get it to turn back on and the other car is waiting for you to go
    • eventually they do and you’re yelling at Pidge who thinks this is hilarious
    • “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist doing it at least once. Just put it back into park and then you can restart it.”
  • “Jokes aside babe, you’re doing great. I almost feel like I’m not about to die.”
    • doesn’t mind you driving now. but she does not like it when big trucks and semis get close while she’s a passenger. She so smol and so scared
    • she needs to be in control
    • she drives on freeways and highways. she can suffer in the city

Wittersweet: So, Starface, feel better now?
Sparkle Wit: You know what? I kinda do. That so-called hoverboard’s still sucky, though.
Firstwit: You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sparkle. But in this case, it’s overdue for a dental checkup.
[All laughing]
Witsend: [sighs] Yo, what should we do now?
Amble Wit: What else? Let’s eat lunch.
Hot Wit: Sparky, you coming?
Sparkle Wit: Maybe later. Hot Wit…whatever happened to the future?
Hot Wit: The future is always yet to come, Sparky. Didn’t you know that?
Sparkle Wit: I do, but that’s not what I meant. This future, it’s not the future I hoped for; it’s not the one science fiction promised me. What went wrong?
Hot Wit: Nothing went wrong, Sparky; you were just taken in by the magic of sci-fi, that’s all. The science in those fantastic stories is so believable that it seems possible. But, you know, that’s what makes good sci-fi so interesting. Sure, this present isn’t as space-age as you hoped it would be, but the future can be anything you want it to be, especially if it’s the future of your life.
Sparkle Wit: My life, huh?
Hot Wit: Your future is whatever you make it, so make it a good one. By the way, here’s your “hoverboard” back. I’m going for a quick bite. See ya.
Sparkle Wit: "Make it a good one"…

I need more blogs to follow!

So I’ve fallen into the destiel black hole again lately but my dash is mainly anime now..(which is still great but.. I need destiel)

Could you please reblog/like this post so I can follow you if you post (mainly) about:

- Destiel

- season 13

- meta!!! Gimme all the interesting theories

- Basically all the spn characters, I love them all

- the supernatural cast

- cockles

- supernatural conventions

Bonus of you make edits, gif sets etc, and also another bonus if you like to chat, I just love talking with people about the latest episodes, fanfics and stuff! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

Thank you!

(PS: don’t like/reblog this if you hate on any actor or ship or even any character, I don’t want these, only positivity please!)

superlepato  asked:

Hi again!, so this is the idea, Tom goes through something similar the mewberty but for demons, basically for a short period of time their features changes, they get bigger, sharper and devilish (claws, teeth, horns, etc). Tom gets self conscious about it and hides away from Marco (he couldn't bear the idea of Marco finding him hideous), for the other hand Marcos is worried about the abrupt change in Tom's behavior (making excuses, cancelling plans).

Here you go! Sorry this took longer than i said, but my wifi is broken, I’m posting this at work lol. requests are still closed!!! I’m just posting some ones from earlier that got submitted. Enjoy!

Marco dialed the phone for the fourth time and made a face when he got sent straight to voicemail. Star entered the room, chewing on her wand and looked confused. “Hey what’s going on?” She asked, at seeing Marco’s stressed face.

“Well… Tom hasn’t answered his phone on a while. At first I thought he was just busy, but now I’m starting to get worried.” Marco explained. Star rolled her eyes.

“Oh Marco, what’s a few hours?” Star asked, flopping down on the bed. Marco shook his head and sat down.

“Star, it’s been a few days.” Marco told her. This was concerning, making Star sit up. “I think something is wrong. He won’t talk to me, but a few days ago he texted me and said he couldn’t go on our date we had planned.” He told her. “I’m starting to get really worried about him, that something bad happened.” Marco expressed.

“Did you go to his house?” Star asked. “Maybe he’s just home.” She suggested. Marco ran his fingers through his hair and picked his phone back up, gripping it.

“You don’t think I’m overreacting?” Marco asked. Star shook her head.

“To has never been this elusive. Especially not towards you. Just go check up on him.” Star urged. Marco nodded and grabbed the dimensional scissors off the table. He cut a hole in the air and dashed through to find his demon.


Tom balled his hand up into fists, when he uncurled them he made a little whine when he saw his claws had grown longer and razor sharp. Tom put a hand over his mouth and felt the sharper teeth that were showing over his lip. He had teeth like an actual shark that were harder to hide than his normal ones. He tried to make his way to his feet but collapsed again when he felt the same pain in his back, two black and red, spiky wings were growing out and the feeling was incredibly painful.

Tom curled upon the floor like a cat and shut his eyes tightly, trying to block all of this out. It was becoming hard to see. And he was disoriented. Everything was sort of blurry and red, and every noise he heard set him off, wanting to attack or pounce. The last thing Tom wanted was to be some sort of demonic monster, so he tried to shut these urges out.

“Tom?” Tom’s head shot up at the noise and he growled, but when the figure stepped closer he gasped, trying to hold himself back. “Tom what happened to you!?” Marco cried, in fear. He tried to move closer to the demon but Tom hissed at him and backed away.

“Stay away Marco.” He growled through gritted teeth. Marco’s eyes widened.

“T-Tom? What’s wrong? Please let me help you.” Marco begged. Tom hissed again and retreated further into the dark corner. He didn’t want Marco to see him like this. He looked like a monster. He WAS a monster. To held his eyes shut and tried his best not to attack the human. He didn’t want to attack the human! But all these strange urges were forcing him to become more and more feral. His powers were stronger, and they were hard to control. Marco shouldn’t be around him now, he was dangerous.

“Leave. Now.” Tom hissed. “I don’t want you here.” He growled. Marco narrowed his eyes.

“That’s not true. You’re in pain, please let me help you. Tom, tell me what’s happening to you.” Marco took a step closer and Tom hissed at Marco, causing him to take a step back. Tom smiled sickly and growled.

“See, you’re afraid!” He hissed. “Go.” Tom commanded. Marco shook his head.

“No! I don’t want to go! I love you!” He insisted. Tom growled and ran forward on all fours, tackling Marco and seething, in an attempt to scare him away. Marco looked up and saw Tom had two extra eyes than normal, and his teeth were sharper, bigger and more jagged.

“HoW dO yOu LikE mE NOw?” Tom’s voice was disoriented and had some sort of echo. His eyes were lit up an angry red, but Marco didn’t buy it.

“I think  you’re just as scared as I am.” Marco spoke, his voice didn’t waver at all. Tom growled furiously and got up off the human. He stood to his feet and thrust his hand out, a force wrapped Marco up and he floated in the air upside down. Tom was surrounded by fire and had a large flame under Marco’s head.

“WhAt AboUT nOw?” Tom hissed, forcing a smile that made him look deranged. Marco smiled at the demon.

“I think we have a date to reschedule.” He beamed. Tom yelled and dropped Marco, setting the fire out so he wasn’t hurt. Marco smiled and looked up at the demon. “See? If you were a monster or something dangerous, you would have hurt me just now. But you put the fire out and let me down gently.”

“I DROPPED you!” Tom corrected.

“You tried to.” Marco added. “But you couldn’t really bring yourself to hurt me, could you?” He asked. Tom had more fire flare up around him and he raised a second set of arms that just appeared without notice. His giant evil looking wings spread and his eyes glowed up. Marco took a step closer. “I know you’re afraid, and you’re embarrassed about what’s happening to you.” He took a step forward and Tom seethed. “Let me help you, please Tommy.” Marco begged, tear welled up in his eyes.

At seeing this Tom gasped and his eyes dimmed. “Marco!” He cried. He landed in front of the human and gasped. “Please don’t cry! Marco please don’t cry!” He begged. Marco looked up and smiled through his tears.

“I knew you still cared about me.” He smiled. Tom stopped and took a step back. Marco smiled warmly and reached a hand out to him. “I know you still love me. Please let me help.” Marco begged this same plea again. Tom’s eyes watered and he dashed into the human’s arms, sobbing. Marco rubbed his back and smiled.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He blubbered. Marco held him closer and Tom hiccuped.

“It’s all going to be okay. I’m here for you.” Marco hushed. “I’ll help you figure this out, I’m not going anywhere.” He pledged.

“What if I hurt you too?” Tom asked, in fear.

“You won’t, I trust you.” Marco assured. Tom snuggled closer to Marco and his sobs became less.

“You-you still like me… even like this?” Tom asked, unsure. Marco grabbed the demon and pulled him down into a kiss.

“I still LOVE you.”


“I’m sorry…”

Happy belated birthday, @ka-zu-ya​! IMOUTO IS HELLA LATE BUT YEah ok I have no excuse

Based on this (x)


Voltron Legendary Defenders A Powerpoint

or What my dash taught me about the space gays

By Me: buckywithegoodhair a useless heathen with far too much time

Go WATCH THIS it’s on Netflix okay.

anonymous asked:

79, "Did I actually mean something to you, ever?" For the Thiam thing please

Three words : Angst. Is. Back. 

Sentence : 79. “Did I actually mean something to you, ever?”

One day, Theo leaves.

And Liam’s world does not stop turning.

He does not lose his breath, or his will to live, and he keeps smiling, and laughing.

He does not die, inside.

Still. He hates every second of it.

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