#<- incomprehensible fucking sentence. whatever

[nerdyqueerr]

Good news ive just formulated my first concrete thought about disney+ willow

Either Jade or Kit should've had a shield

[homunculus-argument]

The best thing about Tumblr is that your dash is a mixed bag, your feed is just whatever the people whom you trust to have good taste have decided to talk about. I love seeing fandom content about things I've never seen, watched, or even heard of, with absolutely zero context. Seeing someone post a sentence like "hey have you ever thought about how since Elain was created just before the second Undoing, she technically speaking doesn't have a soul like the other constructs of the North-East system, but she was still the one who likes music and the first one to cast a vote against cannibalising Georg."

And all the comments are like "oh my god she enjoyed music ;___;" and "now I can't ever watch the piano scene again without crying", "fuck you op, why did you notice that", and several sobbing gifs, and I'm here like "hmm. Incomprehensible. But I'm glad that you're all having fun."

[monzamash]

off the record — lando norris

"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist

The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.

And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.

“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.

“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”

“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.

“Yeah?”

“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.

You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”

“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.

“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.

“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.

“So high expectations going into quali then?”

It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.

“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.

“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.

Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.

“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.

“But it has to stop.”

“Oh you want me to stop right now?”

“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”

“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for. 

“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”

Well he fucking had you there.

Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.

“I can’t live without this.”

The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.

“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”

And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.

It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.

“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.

“You don’t really though.”

“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”

The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.

“Kiss me before you go.”

And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.

“See you tomorrow?”

“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.

In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.

“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”

Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.

“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.

“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”

“Is that right…”

Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.

Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.

But god he looked good.

He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?

“Good morning.”

“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”

He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.

“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”

A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”

You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.

“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.

“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.

“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”

“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”

That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.

Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”

“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.

You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.

He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.

masterlist | askbox

[randommmthoughts]

MY FIRST MICROFIC?!

James ran through the halls to the dorms. How could he have forgotten that Regulus was coming today? He had promised Sirius to be there when his brother arrived. Bloody Frank who had to distract him with his tactics. James sped around the corner, not looking where he was going.

Before he knew it, he bumped into someone, who dropped whatever he was holding. “Merde” he murmured. At the same time he heard something like “Regardoùtuva, imbécile”. When James looked up, he swore he was dreaming. Why was there such a beautiful man before him, and why did he think he recognised him, and- oh. The man was speaking French to him. James shook himself awake. “Excuse moi.” The man before him frowned, probably because of his poor accent. “Peux tu- uh could you repeat that?”

“Would you rather I speak english?” James blinked. Shit, that accent was hot. The way his sentence waved up and down like a melody. How he said ‘engleesh’. Perfectly able to use posh English apparently.

“No, no. Je comprends français si c’est facile pour toi.” So maybe James would like to hear him speak French again. Nothing wrong with that, right? 

The Frenchman mumbled something incomprehensible. “Tu connais Sirius Black?” James grinned. “Oui!” He took the paper and the key the man dropped from the ground and shoved it back into the man's while walking in the direction he was going anyway. “Il est mon meilleur ami.” Sirius also knew French, from his childhood. “Mon chéri.” Was Sirius in trouble? Was that why this man was here? “Mon frère.”

At that, the man freezed and looked at him with a frighteningly empty face. “Je suis son frère.” James was stunned. What did he mean, he was his brother? Sirius had only one brother, who lived in France, who came here toda- Shit. How could he have fucked up so badly? Goodbye great first impression.

“I’m so sorry.” James blurted out. He knew exactly how unstable the bond between the brothers was. “Please hate me.” The man, Regulus, the man was Regulus, raised an eyebrow. “Hate me, and not him. I know what a hassle it was to come here. Don’t let my stupid mouth ruin that, please.”

Regulus looked slightly amused. “I take it you’re James Potter?” James Potter. Jahmes Pahttair. Gods, James was dying.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Heard me screaming while on the line with Sirius, didn’t you?” Regulus kept silent.

James had totally fucked it up.

[starstruckodysseys]

things i forgot abt in nsbu ep2: and that’s whirred up

“nothing i could do could ever make you mad”

liv just. immediately attempting to punch one of kingskin’s henchmen the second she realizes she has full autonomy here

wendell doesn’t even have his license??

g13’s “you had it in you all along, kid” (which is CRAZY after ep6)

wendell was the first one dang thought of in the movie :’)

“russell and dang are probably fine, they’re strong” “paula can handle her own” … “usha might be dead”

“yeah, we met at the trailer biennial”

st jude has a jetpack??

“but i stopped ‘cause im catholic” in response to paula making out with her reflection as jack manhattan. aka sentences i didnt expect to type out today

paula CANNOT get this appletini

following that: “one apple” “tini” “i don’t want that. one apple”

this is less “things i forgot” (bc. it’s me so how could i) but how many of the patrons of kingskin’s bar + his henchmen do you think assumed kingskin and vic ethanol were A Thing after liv + wendell felt each others muscles or whatever. like do you think that was hot goss around the place. (more sentences i did not expect to type today)

doug meat pat down also?? i KNOW everyone in there was having a field day with whatever the fuck those three were doing

kingskin was supposed to straight up decapitate jack manhattan. also neither liv nor wendell were concerned about this. absolutely iconic

russell is. massaging paula like old times. i have got to study their relationship under a microscope

usha just casually cutting up an apple in the middle of this hotel bar

“okay, who touched themselves?” (aka top ten things to ask ur coworkers after finally meeting up after getting sucked into a vhs tape. izzy roland ur roleplaying choices are forever incredible)

and ofc bc this is my incomprehensible list i have to give a shoutout to “you’ve been waiting for that for so long!”

[total-drama-brainrot]

Total Drama Psycho Noah AU, before Alejandro knew the truth, Noah would sometimes cuddle to the charmer while sleeping... Alejandro was amused and fond by this... But when Alejandro learns about Noah's true crazy colors and the sleeping Noah cuddles into Alejandro again, Alejandro is trying NOT to freak out! 😴

Wait no you're so right. Noah's sleep cuddling habit would've been seen as innocuous throughout the whole series, especially in World Tour when their sleeping arrangements were so cramped. Of course he'd always end up practically gluing himself to the nearest person in his sleep- who would usually ended up being Owen or sometimes Alejandro, as they were the two people Noah tolerated enough to spend most of his time with.

But as soon as everyone on the jet becomes aware that he's not nearly as harmless as he's portrayed himself to be? When he intentionally shows himself to be a threat to their safety/wellbeings?

Well, suddenly his "cute little quirk" has turned into a very volatile situation.

-

What is Alejandro supposed to do when he wakes up in the Economy cabin, not even twenty four hours after the London challenge, and finds everyone's fearful eyes trained on him. How is he supposed to react when he feels the familiar weight of the dangerous, downright vicious person they'd all watched snap someone's arms like uncooked spaghetti, draped over him like a blanket?

Especially when they all know that a Noah who's woken up before he's ready is cranky. And that was the Noah from before, who was apparently keeping a tight leash on his wilder instincts- now that he's given up on holding himself back, who knows how he'd respond to being woken up?

Oh wait. They all know how he'd respond- and it involves a lot of bloodshed.

He's trapped; waking up Noah is a guaranteed death sentence, and any movement could be enough to stir the other from his precarious slumber.

And the others know it too. Tyler and Duncan watch him like a hawk, their faces palid with pity and terror, though they thankfully remain just as muted as Alejandro himself. It's unnerving, being held under the terror-shrunk gazes of the two, but not nearly as unnerving as the soft steady breathing of the deranged bookworm sleeping on top of him.

For a moment, there's a tentative silence that hovers between the three of them like a sheet of ice over a frozen lake.

So of course, Owen's boisterous entrance to the cabin shatters it.

"Hey guys, Chef's serving breakfast in the-! Oh, did I interrupt something?"

Noah stirs from his sleep, and Alejandro's breath becomes an inmate in the prison of his lungs. He'd doomed.

"Wuzza'? Is it ch'llenge time?" The bookworm slurs, one hand wiping at his sleep-crusted eyes as the other finds purchase against Alejandro's shoulder. Noah pulls himself into a sitting position, his body subconsciously curling itself towards the nearest heat source- which just so happens to be Alejandro's terror stilled form- and the Spaniard in question internally prays to whatever God is listening that he'll somehow evade the psycho's inevitable ire when he realises that Alejandro is, in fact, not a pillow.

After a trepid second of inaction, Noah hums inquisitively against the warm mass beneath him, and blinks tired eyes up towards Alejandro's ashen face. A moment of incomprehension passes. Then another. And then realisation flickers over the bookworm's features like a dying ember.

Alejandro is so fucked.

Noah's face solidifies into something blank and unreadable- the complete lack of discernible emotion in is expression is almost eldritch in its uncanniness- and the latino doesn't know if its more or less unnerving than the unhinged, crooked smile he's graced the cast with yesterday. But then, unexpectedly, Noah wordlessly slides himself off of Alejandro's lap.

No broken arms. No stab wounds. Not even a threat against his person.

...What?

"Uh. Sorry for sleeping on you, I guess." The cynic says off-handedly, in his customary sardonic drawl, before he steps over to Owen and calmly asks what the blonde oaf was so excited about.

What?!

"It... is no problem, mi amigo." Alejandro chokes out, displacing the stationary air in his lungs.

Where is the vicious psychopath from last night? Why is Noah acting so... normal? Was his display of instability a fever dream or something?

No, both Tyler and Duncan shoot Alejandro matching looks of bewilderment from their seat on the adjacent bench. What happened last night was real, regardless of Noah's current docility.

Owen and Noah's conversation filters off into nothing, and the Archvillain spares a glance towards the pair. Only to find the both of them staring back at him, grinning; Owen's face scrunching up into his usual friendly smile, and Noah's smug smirk rapidly morphing into that same too-wide snarl he'd adorned on the bus- are those fucking fangs?!

"You make a pretty good pillow, Al."

[osokasstuff]

have you considered the idea that people who use "i'm autistic and don't understand" as an excuse for bigoted/offensive behavior and successfully escape responsibility for their behavior actually escape it not because of being autistic but because of being incredibly privileged? /non-aggressive

i'm kinda done with all this "your disability is not an excuse to be a bigot!" discourse. like. it's true. nothing is an excuse to be a bigot, and using a disability as a cover (if said person does it on purpose) is a shitty move. but. like. do you know that extremely privileged assholes are able to avoid accountability because of their extremely privileged position and not presumed disability? "they're autistic" is just a superficial excuse. if they weren't autistic, it would be "they were raised like that"/"they just don't know better"/"it's just a joke"/"we have a freedom of speech, after all"/"maybe you're exaggerating"/whatever popular excuse.

no one holds autistics (or other disabled people) to lower standards. moreso, even in cases of non-malicious mistakes that can easily be a result of the disability (or definitely are the result of the disability), people are ready to interpret it as a malicious act.

example: i often misspeak things. "often" means like one third of sentences contain misspoken parts. sometimes it's obvious, like wrong grammar or obviously wrong words. sometimes it's wrong words that aren't obvious (sentence sounds ok, but i meant to say something different). sometimes it's poor worded idea. sometimes it's poor worded to a degree when meaning changes drastically. anyways, it's very noticeable, especially for people who communicate with me daily for years.

and still sometimes we have accidents when i say something that sounds malicious/rude, it's worded poorly (in grammar sense), and people assume i meant what i said. people ask for clarification extremely rarely, and usually, when what i said was incomprehensible (in grammar/word meanings sense). in most cases, people assume malicious intentions and get offended. they know for sure that i'm autistic and have problems with words. they see the evidence of it every fucking day dozens of times. but they still almost never consider my words being misspoken before getting offended.

my known for sure communication disability never gives me a free pass. it drags me in shitty situations and leaves to explain myself under the stress and pressure. by my poor words. yes.

(and literal misspeaking is only one part of it. there are the whole bunch of problems under the "social deficits" umbrella that can cause me saying something that wasn't intended as malicious but sounded not nice).

i'm not going to discuss nuances like "social deficits, cognitive symptoms, and other autistic stuff can make it difficult to understand why something is problematic and harm someone, and it's unfair to brush it off as "a lame excuse" and something that never can happen ever (tm)" and "why society are so happy to use any opportunity to hold vulnerable groups to the higher standards instead of raising standards for extremely privileged people," at least not today. let's just consider that extremely privileged bigots avoid taking accountability constantly, and their usage of autism / other disability as an excuse is just a shitty move and neither an actual responsibility of autistic/disabled community, nor a social trend.

(they have it easy because they're extremely privileged, not because someone are ready to get easy on autistic / otherwise disabled people).

[ahoymistah3arty]

Locker rooms (drabble)

Featuring: Shidou Ryusei x reader

Warnings: suggestive/fluff, pda, swearing, lowkey crack, Shidou, stupid.

Notes - I LOVEEEE HIMMM, I love them unfiltered and unhinged. (Haven’t written in ages on my main but hopefully you enjoy this!)

“Ryusei, are you sure thats it’s okay for me to go in there?” You asked hesitant, although you still let him string you forwards by your interwoven hands.

“Trust me ‘s more than okay sweetcheeks.” He told you ushering you into the untouched locker room with such impeccable speed. You were practically tripping over yourself due to the forcefulness of his almost magnetic pull but Ryusei had been to excited to notice. “Besides who fuckin’ cares anyway.”

“I do and are you sure this is your bench I’m pretty sure that says it-.”

Ryusei sat down, spreading his legs apart till he was comfortable as a cheshire grin overcame his face unintentionally leading him to bare his fangs. “Yeah yeah whatever,” he waves you off, “stop using that pretty head of yours and come here.”

He reaches for your hand and pulls you closer towards him till you stand in between his legs, then he slowly slides his hand out of yours and places them on your hips instead, pulling you to sit down on his lap.

You sigh but make yourself comfortable on his lap, “I’m being serious Ryu, I know what you’re like- are you even listening to me?” You ask, although your sentence was slightly incomprehensible at the end as Shidou decided to squish your cheeks so your lips were in that kissable plump pout he likes.

He understood it anyway having done this so often. “Nah, but keep scolding me, makes me fee-!”

“Oh my gosh shut up.” Impulsively you clamped your hand on his mouth fearing what atrocity would come out of his mouth next however you found yourself instantly regretting that decision when you felt teeth lightly nip the flesh of your hand.

You removed your hand muttering, “you have a biting problem.”

He lifted your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the side, “you know you like it.” He told you smugly.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

Shidou scoffed and looked at you in disbelief about your attitude, “y’know you call me immature but you are actually so fuckin Immatu- do not no take backs.”

He felt your hand connect with the back of his head before he saw it, tipping it forward.

You saw his tongue roll in his cheek as his lips formed a half smirk, “don’t start something you can’t handle baby.” He chuckled.

Knowing how he’d take things ten times further you decided to just apologise since you couldn’t be bothered to deal with his antics, but being a nuisance he emphasised how that wouldn’t suffice.

“Hmm, gimmie a kiss ‘nd I’ll forgive you.”

“Are you being for real?”

“Yeah I am so pucker up.”

You rolled your eyes and pressed your lips to his yet the cheeky bastard took it a step further and bit your lip forcing you to open your mouth so he could slip his tongue inside.

He groaned dramatically as he kissed you, pulling you further into him till you were meshed against him as his hand trailed it’s way downwards from your waist to thumb at the ends of your shirt, wanting more than promised.

Unfortunately for him, he had ran out of luck.

“…”

“Get off of my fucking bench you freak.”

Ah, of course some wetwipe (rin) had to ruin it.

[eldritch-spouse]

Say hello to your Valentine Cero!

TW: Noncon; Kidnapping; Manipulation.

[Fem reader.]

It's hopeless. The more time you spend in this room, the less resistance you have to offer.

" Sign it. "

You shake your head, not trusting your voice.

There's a thunderous slam, the demonlord's hands clawing at the regal marble table and making a horrible, squealing noise. It rings in your ears, grating, shredding the gray mass of your already muddled brain.

" Tsk. "

He fiddles with a remote control outside your line of sight, and suddenly, you're arching against silken binds, shuddering hard enough to make the very chair you sit on tremble while the potent vibrator tortures your poor, overstimulated clitoris.

The noise that erupted out of you was something between a wounded animal's dying bleat and a wheeze. Ugly. Yet apparently very pleasing to the pride demon, whose scowl twitches into a grin for a second.

" Why must you insist on making this so much harder than it has to be? "

A long, flowing purple cape is flicked into place as he gets up, pacing.

" Do you not realize how good of a deal this is? " He's genuinely exasperated, sharp eyes looking at you as if you're showing clear signs of sustained head injury. " Must I spell it out? You can read, can't you? "

To be fair, even if you could when this bizarre encounter began, you've long since lost the coherence to read or interpret most of anything. The letters on the contract in front of you are nothing but squiggly black smudges twisting and floating on a fancy page, incomprehensible. They might as well be hieroglyphs by now. You recall what it is perfectly however.

A marriage contract.

A very weird, dodgy, skeevy one.

You don't even remember what put you here to begin with. You only know you bumped against an inordinately tall demon outside yesterday. In a rush, you were focused on a receipt and didn't look where you were going, knocking into him only to fall like a buffoon. The embarrassment was so intense that you didn't even look up, ushering out a string of apologies before collecting your belongings and dashing away with burning cheeks. It must have been him. It could only have been the Icon of Pride that you bumped into yesterday. That horrendous misfortune is the only incident you can think of to justify where you are right now.

In a stupidly opulent dining room, bound to a padded chair, lower half bare and currently being tortured.

Granted, this humiliating treatment only started when you refused to sign. You're not sure how much time has passed since then, with orgasm after draining orgasm being forced out of your sweaty body, while the unempathetic demon sat opposite of you, waiting, taunting, demanding you sign it.

Of course you didn't.

Although the calligraphy in it was nothing short of exuberant, it read like the whole thing was drafted in a rushed stupor. Like whoever made it, Di Cero, the demon in front of you presumably, was trying to meet a particularly stressful deadline. Sentence structuring is eloquent but impatient sounding, certain features which should be clearly explained are glossed over, and the number of concerning clauses detailing your level of autonomy as his supposed spouse are worrying. Not to mention the "scheduled worship sessions", whatever the fuck that implies. You could swear there was a mention of your soul somewhere… Buried in disgustingly self-flattering paragraphs of pure nonsense. It's as if he doesn't know what a partner is.

You were initially flattered, in a very unhealthy way. Scared and flattered, to be honest. Now you're just horrified. He wants you to sign a contract wherein you become his wife, Queen of Pride, as well as a strange sort of personal worshiper. What a fucking trip to wake up to.

The enigmatic paper in front of you is swiped away before saliva could reach it.

“ Ugh, you’re drooling on it. “ Cero sneers, and although you miss it entirely, a hint of deep satisfaction shines in his eyes from having you in this state.

He examines his own work briefly, this smarmy smirk on his face, as if he’s never read a finer legal agreement in his entire life. “ Really, I made it as clear as day, the terms are perfect, I’m even letting you use my personal pen. “ Something in his expression conveys that it's supposed to be a huge honor. 

You glare at the thing, trying to distract yourself from the awful zings of stimulation, the loud buzzing echoing through the room and your own ragged breathing. Cero crowds you, exerting further pressure. The pen he mentioned is a touch too big for you, though that’s only natural, he’s quite the large demon, and you’re only a human. You’ve yet to touch it at all, but it looks heavy, a sleek black design you’re sure must be made of some well-known Hell mineral, featuring intricate curls of gold along the surface. The end of it has a strange form, like its… Oh. It’s a makeshift lancet. For the blood print part of the signature.

The demonlord rolls his eyes in a much too exaggerated manner, waving. “ Go ahead, I'll untie you, you can use it, really. “

Yeah, as if bashfulness is what’s keeping you from legally fucking yourself over. Handing your life to this tyrant in written form.

“ N- No. “

You’re not sure what the point of this is anyway. He could just place a blade to your neck and force you to sign, point a gun to your temple, even a slap from this creature could be dreadful enough to break something at full force. This must be extremely amusing to him.

A pause follows, almost lulling you back into an animal trance.

" No?! "

His booming snarl is the most frightening thing you've ever head, instincts begging you to shut the fuck up and sign already. Nothing's on your side here, it seems.

Your chin is suddenly pinched between two sharp needles, forced to face the fuming demon. " You ingrate! Brainless thing! Do you still not realize what I'm offering you?! " There's no response save for gasping and rapid blinking. " I'm feeling extra generous today, so I'll spell it out for you. Look at me and listen good- "

The vibrator working diligently inside you is all but yanked out. Thankfully, you're a wet mess by now, so it merely slides off with a disgustingly lewd noise. Instead of being ashamed however, you're sighing and slumping like a sack of potatoes, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Finally. Finally, some semblance of sweet, sweet mercy. Limbs tingling and half-numb, your body begs for the rest it's being denied by the alarm bells in your head.

Cero turns the white device off, and for a moment, the look on his face softens. As if he's truly lost track of what he was going to do with it. Much to your surprise, a very pale pink muscle peeks out between rows of gnarly teeth. You can only blink and watch as the Icon of Pride slides the shaft of the thing into his own mouth and licks it clean with a vigor shameless enough to set your cheeks even more aflame. You can see a very clear imprint of his excitement jumping in his odd skin-tight pants... What the fuck is his damage? It's only after a couple moments of this disgusting display that he appears to wise up, quickly releasing the toy, crushing it in his grasp, and tossing it behind him. There's a noticeable flush to his mostly chalk-white face, the demonlord looking genuinely angry at himself for a moment.

While the recovery was anything but smooth, Cero's grip on your chin tightens, painfully, and his stern demeanor surfaces once more.

" I've taken you from your sad excuse of a life to be a woman of value, of purpose- At my side, you shall be worshiped until the end of Pride itself, you will hold the admiration and respect of all demons under me, and you will know nothing but the very best life has to offer. Do you understand? "

Staring into those acidic rose pools, you realize he's being utterly serious, no room for mockery or nonsense in them. You have no idea why he's laying this much power at your feet, why he wants you of all people to fulfill this role. He could have anyone, he could have better, so much better. What sets you apart for him? What makes him think this is the type of thing you want from life? Well, that's easy to answer, of course the Icon of Pride isn't thinking about how you feel.

" Do you understand? " Is repeated through grit teeth.

" Y- Yes. "

" Good. "

Di Cero squats to be more at your level, an act that might mean nothing to you now but will be recognized in the future most likely, the pads of his fingers rubbing over your overstimulated mess of a pussy. You quiver and yelp like a corralled animal, though the Icon is too focused in the way your cum glistens on his digits. He finds your sloppy entrance and slides a digit in, moving it ever so slightly, enough to torture you. Your walls flutter and you start crying, fat desperate tears cascading down your tired face as you resign yourself to more unrequited pleasure.

Cero scoffs at the sight, observing sullen droplets hit the spotless floor while his gaze grows foggy. You're not sure what's going through his mind, nor are you lucid enough to care.

" I'm giving you so much pleasure, so much attention- You'll have me for entire days and nights, I'll make sure even that huge pink harlot envies you. " Although Cero's tone transmits desperation, his words are scathing and unconvincing. You have no idea how to interpret what he says, so all you do is look fearfully upon the caped tyrant, wincing at every twitch of his fingers that play with your wetness.

" Hm, no manners. " There's a drawn-out hum, facetiously pensive. " Yes… Maybe that's the problem, isn't it? I'm being too nice to you. Too sweet. You must think I'm a weakling. Bah, nonsense! I would not be King if I failed to adapt. "

You don't like the grin the demon now dons. It's different from his confident, toothy displays. Thinner. Strained. Warning. When his face rests mere inches from yours, your eyes close instinctively and you tremble hard enough that it feels as if you'll shake yourself into a pile of bones. Is he going to bite you? Plunge something into your flesh? Just yell? The uncertainty drags all breath from you.

Seconds pass.

Something warm slides up your face. Your cheek, more specifically. From chin to eye, it trails a wet path, collecting the rivers of fear tainting your expression. He's licking you. Cleaning your tears, perhaps savoring them. The same is done to the other side of your face, you don't dare open your eyes, fearing the type of sick emotion you'd find in his own.

The demonlord pulls away, his slicked fingers slipping out of you, but not before flicking a thoroughly abused button hard enough to make you squeal out in pain. It stings, black dots momentarily swallowing your vision.

" I understand, it’s a lot at the same time isn’t it? You need time to think about how you’re going to thank me for this. “

He’s gone in seconds. And the worst part is, you can’t even tell if Cero was being genuine, or purely mocking.

Hours must have passed.

You can’t really tell, it’s not as if he generously left a watch in the room. It feels like hours, so you assume that’s the case.

Your legs are sore, your ass, your still bound arms, even your back is screeching at you to shift position. Yet, no matter how much you grunt and shimmy around on the chair, it’s never enough to make the pains fade. You’re hungry, thirsty, still covered in your own fluids and utterly miserable, staring at that stupid. Fucking. Contract.

God help you. There isn’t a god here, but who else will you plead to?

You’d do anything to get out of this hellish chair right now. And part of you feels weak for admitting it. Maybe it’s exposure to movies that spawned this idea in you, but you’ve always thought it would take more violent methods to get you near begging for mercy. And sure, sexually you’ve just been through a lot, but being isolated in this chair is honestly doing worse right now.

You know what it is, at its core. Mind games. The demon humiliated you in an unforgivable way, and now he’s left you to your vices, to sit in shame, dirty. You’re livid, depressed that it’s working, that you’d rather just be done with this already.

As if something had heard your inner monologue, the door to this darkened hell pit parts, and in strolls none other than the very same bastard, looking as sharp as he’s been since the first second of this madness. The salty, dry tracks on your cheeks are silently renewed, the first reaction to his reappearance it seems.

Cero spares you a suspiciously calm glance before taking a seat on the chair opposite to yours, a fair distance away. His legs cross and he speaks out loud, as if to no one in particular. “ Dinner has just finished… “ A pause. “ If you sign now, you might be in time to eat with me. “

Food sounds amazing right now. You bet they serve well here, he’s a ruler after all.

In spite of your rage at his nonchalant audacity, you don’t say anything. Your judgment wavers in the face of discomfort and hunger, not allowing you to outright deny his offer.

Di Cero notices this, eyes sharpening when he finally deigns to glance at you, and preys on that weakness near instantly.

“ You do know you’re not losing anything of value, right? “ There’s a chuckle, as if he thinks your concerns are the silliest thing. “ It’s fascinating how afraid of change you are. Isn’t it pathetic? You live such a miserable existence that, when I hand you something much better, you immediately flinch away. “ A single finger waves, tutting you. “ Unlearn that, it’s unflattering. “

You swear to anything that’s out there, you’re about to pop a vein just from hearing this fucker speak. Another stretch of silence takes over, though not for long.

“ I’ve organized this down to the last minute. Every single detail. “ Some manner of contentment shines through his tone. “ Agree to our terms tonight, and our union will take place on Valentine’s Day. Isn’t that romantic? “

More like ironic. A demon getting married on a saint’s day. This has to be riveting for him. He must think he’s sooo clever and funny. Him and his little brigade of yes men most likely, because Cero strikes you as the type of monster that would want that.

“ Isn’t that perfect, beau? “

You wish you had the strength, and courage, to roll your eyes.

Unlike the previous encounter, your consistent lack of response isn’t dragging much of a reaction from the Icon. Instead, he just looks at the painted ceiling, eerily calm, waiting with steepled fingers. Cero appears to zone out completely, leaving you just as isolated as you were before.

Somehow, that makes you angrier. Yet also incredibly defeated.

This is it. You're just stuck here until you agree, he's made that much clear. And you're not a strong woman. You're not going to bear this for much longer. It's not fair and it's not worth it. He can have what he wants anyway, you've never been in any position to defy the demon, this is just some sick exercise to break you in.

A small eternity passes before you clear your throat, gathering a wink of composure and a brief side-glance from the tyrant.

" … I-... I'll sign. "

His eyes widen, chest expanding, you catch the exact moment where he realizes he's getting too excited and schools his expression, opting to be patient for a second more.

" I said I'll sign! " You near yell, voice broken, exasperated. " I just want to get out of here, I wanna take a bath, I just want to rest please- "

For a moment, Cero's stillness makes you wonder if he's lost interest, if your words were unconvincing or he thinks he can find someone better, someone less "pathetic", as he so politely put it. But then, in a blink, he bolts up, standing ever tall and tense. The demon erupts into elegant, manic laughter- Cackling really- As he claps joyfully and kicks his seat away in victory.

Although it probably wasn't meant to be intimidating, the way that admittedly heavy chair flies jarringly through the air and slams against the wall, breaking into pieces, is horrifying. A kick like that would just fucking flatten you, no doubt.

" Oh ho, I'm so very glad you've come to your senses! " The Icon's chortling fit settles ever so slightly, he waves. " I was starting to think you had some sort of damage. "

Oh. Oh, that's just lovely.

Cero's behind your seated frame in no time, untying your dominant hand, watching you pick up his pen. The demonlord's hands are planted on either side of you, pointy, cruel-looking things that they are. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, hot, heavy, there's a wolfish grin on his face- You don't need to look back to know it's there.

" Now sign. You've kept me waiting long enough. "

Said flat words spread on your skin like apathetic ice cubes, forcing you to quickly roll your sore wrist, and finally, write your name on that blasted signature blank. You know what you're getting yourself into with every shaky curl of ink, not wanting to think too hard about the consequences of your actions as you solemnly observe your name on this trap, this unsubtle death warrant sugarcoated with frivolous legal terminology. Drivel, a drivel-based, cynical ownership deal.

Cero hums from behind you, a much too sweet-sounding vocalization given the circumstances. Your hair is pet tenderly, the gesture so out of sorts that you start sobbing, scared, confused, full of instant regret.

" There we go, my lovely little prize. " He murmurs against your scalp, still smiling. " Very good. That wasn't so hard, was it? We're almost done. Almost. "

The pen falls from your trembling hands as you try to conceal humiliating noises, feeling vulnerable in a way you've never experienced before. Cero scoops it up and wipes your tears with the other, unfazed by the way you lean back hard enough to bonk your head on the chair's backrest.

" I hope those tears are of joy, dear. " He starts, grabbing your palm. " Now stand still, if you behave for the next part, we can put an end to this. " Next part…?

He clicks something on the pen's side and quickly adjusts your index, bringing the sleek black object closer. Ah, the blood print. Maybe you're sensitive, or maybe he does it on purpose, but the lancet hurts more than it should when it pierces into your pad of your finger. Your wince makes him snort. Blood beads there quite fast, Di Cero effortlessly angles your digit and creates an admittedly clean-looking droplet next to your signature.

A much smaller but still disturbing bout of tittering erupts from the demonlord, who slips your bleeding finger into his mouth, messily and lewdly sucking at it, before pulling away and swiping the finished contract away from the table. He gazes at it with a softness you fail to understand, as if it's all that matters in that moment, religiously re-reading the last paragraphs and moaning at the sight of your written agreement.

Fucking freak.

Di Cero places the apparently invaluable paper back on the ornamented table, deliberately far away from you, like he's afraid you'll try to destroy the thing. A tempting thought.

He's back on you like a hawk, taking your poor arm and showering it in chaste kisses, nipping at your wrist. " Precious, darling inamorata- See? All you needed was a little space. " The demon coos, placing a harder kiss to your forehead before stealing a taste of your lips. It's all teeth and impatience, rabid excitement. Disgusting. " I knew I picked excellently. You're full of potential, I just have to chip at you a little, which is normal, naturally- Given your uhm… Lackluster species. "

So he's racist to humans too. Of course. Why wouldn't he be? Why did you expect anything from this greasy fucker…

Those wandering feelers flutter this way and that across your body, and much to your dismay, they circle at your inner thighs, sliding to settle between your legs again. You groan, the touch entirely unrequited. You've orgasmed enough times to be sick. Although speaking is hard for you right now, you still try to halt him. " Cero… "

" Hush, I'm rewarding you. "

Funny how it feels like just more torment in spite of that.

You remain placid, resigned to letting the demon play with your poor womanhood. He appears to love the feeling, making clipped moans and growls behind you. In turn, you can only gasp and quiver, having long-since lost the ability to scream.

" C- Can you please untie me now? "

Di Cero shakes his head. " Soon. After we eat, yes? " Your responding sigh is pitiful. " Speaking of- "

" SERVANTS! "

Your heart jumps around your ribcage like a pinball machine, you almost feel light-headed for a second, goosebumps covering you from head to tone at the massively imposing, demonic tone that just left the Icon.

The doors part once more and small imps race forward, effectively setting the table. It's a small commotion, but enough to make you die in shame as they work diligently, while their master fingers you stupid. To their credit, not a single one looks your way. It's as if you don't exist at all. You still try to squirm away from Cero's ministrations, earning a disapproving snarl. Lord, this is so degrading.

Your dignity just keeps taking blow after devastating blow ever since you landed here.

In an impressively span of time, the two of you are left alone again, the table entirely set. Candles and everything, a bottle of champagne so expensive you can't recognize the brand, and the juiciest steak you've ever seen on a plate, almost seeming to teasingly wink at you.

Cero plucks a forkful of it with a free hand and aims it your way, a look of complete lovestruck mania on his pale complexion. " Eat now. You'll need your rest. " It parks at your lips, insistent, until you begrudgingly accept the food, frustrated further by how good it is. Just as you expected.

" Because tomorrow, my perfect Valentine, we'll be official. "

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Hi Cal!! 💕💕💕💕💕

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

-❤️🪐

HI SATURN!

162 sentences or 1k words - whatever I reach first!

---

“Fine,” Buck mutters. “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Are we okay?” Tommy asks. 

Seriously? That’s his concern right now?

“We’re fine,” Buck lies. Mostly because, now, he actually does want Tommy to leave. 

They exchange a stiff sort of goodbye, and Buck exhales heavily when the door shuts behind Tommy. His body is crawling with a sort of discomfort he doesn’t fully know how to process, on top of everything else. 

Once again, he texts Eddie. Who…. Still hasn’t opened his previous message. 

Are you maybe able to come here?

Guess I could come to you…

He really doesn’t feel up for driving but he’ll take what he can get. 

When twenty more minutes pass without Eddie so much as reading his texts, Buck begins to get frustrated. Frustrated with Tommy for not offering the sort of comfort Buck needed. Frustrated with Eddie, for being unresponsive. He feels a cold sort of loneliness. Like there is a very basic need he has that can’t be met. 

He should just call Maddie. Bobby. Hen. Anyone.  He doesn’t want to be alone with this. But… But everyone’s got their shit, and… And he’s not necessarily looking for pragmatic advice. So he leaves it. He lets himself stew. 

He showers. Turns the heat up high. Tries to blast hot water on the cold in him. His skin is red and sensitive by the end of it, but he’s not sure it worked. He changes into something comfortable. Sweats and a hoodie. He tries to eat, but finds his stomach a little too uneasy. He picks absentmindedly at some trail mix and fiddles with the alarm settings on his phone. Finds a new tone that is deep enough for him to hear more clearly. 

It’s in the middle of setting this new tone, that Buck finally gets a response from Eddie. A response that makes his blood run cold again, any warmth from the shower entirely evaporated. 

Smething is hppaning to me

Hlep 

Buck stares at it for a second, gobsmacked. Eddie isn’t the sort of person to send texts riddled with errors. He’s sort of curt. To the point in his messaging. Proper. This is… This is wrong. Buck thinks of the night Christopher called him, crying because Eddie was locked in his room, taking a bat to his walls. Christopher isn’t here to call Buck now. Maybe this is all Eddie can do, in the midst of another breakdown.

Buck’s heart seizes. His own needs are swiftly forgotten. 

He calls Eddie. 

It’s an instinctive response to a concerning text. Not something he’s necessarily thinking through. The trouble with it comes after three rings, the moment Eddie answers the call. As the calls connects, Buck is met with a torrent of dissonant sound. Sort of like wind hitting the speaker. If Eddie says anything, but can’t distinguish it amongst the crackling, muffled din.

“Eddie?” He asks, turning up the speaker. “Eddie, are you there?”

He thinks he hears something resembling Eddie’s voice. But to tell the truth, even if Buck wasn’t experiencing hearing loss, he’s not sure that would have been coherent. It didn’t sound like words or a speech pattern. 

“Eddie, you have to speak a bit clearer. And, uh, louder. Okay? I can’t really hear you.”

Eddie’s response is another muffled string of noises. Buck thinks they sound more like words, but still incomprehensible to him. 

Okay. Fuck this.

“I’m just going to come over, okay?” Buck says. “You just hang tight, and I’ll be there soon.”

He doesn’t make out what Eddie says in response. He can only hope Eddie is okay when he arrives. 

🍂

Buck feels like this always happens to him.

Which maybe isn’t a fair assessment and maybe just comes with their line of work. But… In his personal life, too. He’s always experiencing these moments where he has to hold his breath. Where he doesn’t know if someone he loves is going to be okay or not. He’s sure they’ve all felt that way about him from time to time. He knows he’s not been without his frightening moments. But… Well, okay. Obviously Buck would never prefer pain on the people he loves, so this is harder. Harder to worry, while driving to Eddie, about what he might find. 

Especially since it’s not the first time. 

Buck wonders how much worry a human heart can take. 

Buck is a good driver. He always has been. It’s a skill that came very naturally to him, even as a teenager. Which had felt really good at the time, because it didn’t feel like a whole lot did. Maybe because it was more kinetic. His brain and his body working in tandem, instead of trying to isolate one from the other. 

He thinks of that now, because as he drives towards Eddie’s, he worries he suddenly shouldn’t trust himself behind the wheel. Maybe it’s just everything that’s happened today. Maybe it’s what Tommy implied. He feels a wash of self doubt. He suddenly feels like everything he thinks he’s capable of has a question mark in front of it. He’ll miss an important sound or siren and cause an accident. He’ll not make it to Eddie on time. It’s all unrealistic anxiety. 

Can you even save Eddie anymore, when it comes down to it? 

‘

Buck hates that little voice of doubt inside his head now. It sounds like his parents. It sounds like Gerrard. For some disturbing reason, it sounds like Tommy a little bit, too. 

That last part fucks him up a bit.

Buck swallows down his apprehension. He’s a bit hypervigilant on the road. Keeps the stereo off. Dr. Isaacs had no concerns about him driving, and yet here he is. Concerned. His eyes flick to the side mirrors so often they start to strain. 

He makes it to Eddie’s in one piece, though. Of course he does. 

You are fine. You’re healthy. You’re capable.

He parks behind Eddie’s truck and practically runs up Eddie’s front stoop. He doesn’t bother knocking. Goes right for his own set of keys. 

[lovemelikerealpeopledo]

Lucius Spriggs is a nobleman HC

my personal hc which i love with all my heart and soul and which seems so real to me is that he is from a noble family. my judgments are based on the behavior of the character in certain situations, and i hope that there are those who also think so.

first of all, let's remember that Lucius knows how to write, can read, and draw beautifully (whatever his drawings are). as far as I know, not everyone could get an education at the beginning of the 18th century (when the series takes place). the ordinary working class had no access to education, and the ordinary family never had books, and no one exchanged letters. even clerical work was available only to those who had money or connections (most often family). for example, in the Russian empire (I am from Ukraine and studied its history), only the children of wealthy citizens or nobles could become clerical officials and any other workers that were in any way connected with writing and papers. to get such an education, one had to either hire personal teachers or attend boarding schools (lyceums), where education costs a lot of money.

the working class never had access to education and even those who lived in the cities rarely knew how to read. such luxury was available only to wealthy merchants, family business owners or doctors, who also did not come from ordinary families. education needs money. much money. and so it has always been.

even if we assume that Lucius learned to write, read, and draw on his own, it still seems unlikely. how? tell me how many of you learned this on your own. to start reading, you must at least learn how letters are read. if his parents are ordinary workers, then they most likely could not even write their own name (they would not need to). and Lucius was able and very legible.

second, his behavior. Lucius is squeamish about blood, does not like to work, and most likely simply does not even know how to do any difficult work. looking at him, I see a man who has never worked and never did anything himself. even household chores seem to him incomprehensible labor. it seems that he will not survive on the street for a week if suddenly he does not have a penny in his pocket. it’s just that a boy from a working-class district cannot be such a kid glove, because in those days children were attracted to real work from the age of 10 (sometimes even earlier). if so, then a Lucius who is at least 17 should be able to do a lot of menial work, and not shirk even the simplest task.

i would also like to remember that Lucius is not inclined to communicate only in obscenities and simple sentences. he can speak in hints, express his thoughts, and formulate sentences. he understands people well, and even with his free attitude to love and sex, he fucks anyone just for the sake of sex. this and much more speaks volumes about his level of education.

also, let's remember how back in the first episodes he was able to tell where to go based on his knowledge of the weather. believe me, a cat man has never been to school and has not been to the sea, he will not know this. to understand such things one needs knowledge in geography, biology, and astronomy. such knowledge is given only in lyceums or colleges.

Lucius, I think, left the house after learning that he was engaged to some noble lady or that his wedding was already planned. such marriages without the consent of the newlyweds themselves were not uncommon in those days among noble families who thought only about purity of blood, status, and wealth. for him, his own freedom is clearly higher than material wealth, therefore this is a completely expected step for him.

call me weird or challenge my headcanon but I can't shake the idea that Lucius Spriggs is a runaway aristocrat from an unwanted marriage.

[lostinvasileios]

Fears.

Yeah, that's nice. But, why do you fear so much? No, I'm - serious, why?

A lot of the times, as sad as it is, I've encountered people who often lower their own power by fearing all the possible outcomes. Key word, love: possible.

Take it from me, for the first year or so of me practicing and getting close with deities, no matter how obviously real things were, I always had a lingering thought of "what if I'm just making it up?" or "they'd never say that to me."

While being able to differentiate your own thoughts and your own projection while interacting with deities or magic(k) at all is important, you don't need to fear it. If you mess up, you mess up. Nobody's angry or disappointed at you because the universe, your deities, they understand. You're only human. And you're trying. That's what matters. Trying.

Your failures are not measured, they aren't keeping score of all the times you accidentally fucked up something small like interpreting their exact wording or actions like if they waved their hands at a specific point in their sentence or not. You know??

Here's something that helped me: if it makes you happy, then fuck all else. Everything can technically be perception, anyways. If something's fake, you'll find out eventually. You'll be able to tell at certain points.

Lady Hekate once told me, "things are only as real as you want them to be."

Of course, grounding and else other are also important factors, but if the only thing that's realistically stopping you here is the fear of them being figments of imagination, fear of "failing" to reach out to them, ect... You don't need to worry about that, dove.

Most of the time, it's just brain fog. It's just the fear of the unknown, rejection, and other things of those categories. And that's all valid.

Most of the time, at least for me, it was the fact that I was in the presence of such magnificent beauty that made it difficult to believe I was actually experiencing what I was. It was the amount of incomprehensible, out of this world love that the entities I connected with had for me. It was - them, in general at times.

I suffered from psychosis for years when I was younger before starting my journey, and despite how I've gotten drastically better over the years, I still contain some certain... Tendencies you could say.

I constantly questioned if things were real, and, yes asking questions is alright. It's great to do, actually. But don't drive yourself into a sorrow pit over them. You know? Don't bring yourself down more by believing those overthinking fears you can have at times.

I was under such immense fear of making things up that I failed to realize that the only reason I was having such a hard time was because I doubted myself way too much. I was way too hard on myself on multiple cases, and still can be at times unfortunately.

Have more faith in yourself, have more patience with yourself. No matter how experienced someone is, there's always something new to learn, and learning is difficult for everyone at times. Everyone's gone through the same thing in their own variation before, and most likely will a thousand times again. The more you learn to trust yourself, the more you can overcome that battle - which might be one of the hardest, to tell you the truth - the smoother this will get for you. But it takes time, it takes breaks, it takes tears and effort, it takes a lot. It takes you.

One of the points of magic and deities or whatever the hell else is to simply learn to enjoy life more. To live. To experience. You can't do that if you're too caught up in your fears to see how far you've gotten, to see at all.

You know the truth, deep down. Just shh, and listen. It may take a long time, but eventually, you'll find your answer to the reality of things. To the emotions of things. Don't pressure yourself, don't suffocate yourself with doubts and fears.

Everything that's yours is yours, everyone creates their own realities and fates. Just be you. Just grow. Just feel. Just... Live your journey. Everything's gonna be fine, bee.

[randomly--accessed--memories]

Spending my working hours cooking on Niffty and Vox friendship. They unintentionally enable each other to become their least comprehendible and most unhinged selves if left alone together for too long.

They can have a completely normal seeming conversation one minute and then just devolve into absolute nonsense bordering on word salad under the right conditions. One time Angel wonders out loud what the fuck those two are talking about and Charlie suggests maybe it's 50s slang? It would fit them. But Husk immediately shoots that down. He was around in the 50s that ain't what it sounded like. Niffty immediately switches back to regular talk if you interrupt her but Vox takes a couple sentences to make sense again (if he makes sense that day at all)

It's like a secret language only they know. Alastor wants to study them under a microscope.

Vox definitely has the potential to make Niffty less coherent, but I'd like to think that she can also have the opposite effect on him. Sometimes they're just completely stream-of-consciousness rambling to each other and anyone else unfortunate enough to be pulled into the "conversation," but other times Niffty takes the lead and can actually get Vox to calm down enough not to devolve into utter incomprehensibility. He can be pretty willful at times, but Niffty and Alastor are always capable of convincing him to slow down and listen instead of immediately acting on whatever impulse he's experiencing at the moment– it's just a question of whether either of them will want to do that at any given time.

[auramgold]

"Homestuck is essentially my religion, and I do not take derisive or frivolous remarks about it lightly at all. The good news is, if you have ever read a substantial portion of Homestuck, that means it is your religion as well, and you likely feel the exact same way."

i think about this Andrew Hussie quote a lot in the context of how many psychotic trans women i know to whom Homestuck effectively is a part of their religion, for whom that tightly-woven knot of dense narrative symbolism and mythological weight imprinted upon them so much that it, to some part, is a part of how they view the world

and how that story is also a bunch of dick jokes and incomprehensible references strung together to mock you for taking it seriously that aged exactly as well as you'd expect something written by an edgelord clown from 2009 would

even this sentence in the interview is almost impossible to tell whether it's a genuine sentiment or yet another Strider-tier ironic joke making fun of the idea of taking anything seriously at all

but the thing is, it's both, it's always both.

homestuck is both weighty and serious enough that i know multiple girls whose classpect is a core part of their identity, and is also a massive fucking meme that makes fun of you for taking it seriously

homestuck is a serious commentary on the nature of storytelling as a whole, and also a bunch of injokes and references pretending to be a story

homestuck is a dense knot of identity i've met dozens of fictives of where vriska or dave or terezi or whatever defines a core piece of who they are, and it's also a cringey broken mess that's an embarrassment to be associated with

and i look at everything Hussie says and it's clear they completely know this, they're always in superposition about it, whether it's serious or not, whether it's even good or not.

so when i look at that quote and wonder whether it's genuine or not, the clear answer is that it's both. homestuck is both worthy of being a religion and massively fucking funny that you'd ever think it was that serious. these are not mutually exclusive opinions to hold.

and i think that's fucking beautiful.

[terrainofheartfelt]

Serenate + 50

Serenate + 50 …out of love.

A vaguely 5b au

Having Nate as a roommate just…works.

They have similar rhythms, similar tastes, and since they moved into their midtown two bedroom, it’s been easy.

Sure, there are some hiccups—neither of them has lived without some sort of housekeeping service before, but Serena kind of loves doing everything for herself. Except washing dishes. She hates that. It’s lucky she and Nate could spring for a unit with a dishwasher.

Blair had raised her eyebrows at the whole situation, from Serena’s housekeeping to her choice in roommate, but she didn’t fight it. Serena knows her best friend was just as relieved that they would be getting space from each other. With Dan coming around all the time, it was the right thing.

Living with Nate is easier than it ever was with Blair. Definitely easier living with her mother.

Sure, they spend a lot of their free time looking up how-to videos on YouTube to keep everything clean and functional, but their system works, and Serena likes the accomplishment she feels from a freshly scrubbed bathroom or an edible home-cooked meal.

So, she and Nate fall into a routine. They have their own mish-mashed schedules of classes, a weekly grocery list, a dry-erase wall calendar in the entryway. They fall asleep on each other on the couch every other night, and it’s easy.

Of course Serena thinks about having more, in the way that she’s always thought about Nate. At the back of her mind, just out of her reach, if she stretched her hand out too far, he would disappear.

But it isn’t anything. It can’t be. She already fumbled her shot with Nate more times than she cares to tally up, and she’s only just getting over — whatever happened between her and Dan at the start of the year.

So what if it’s easy. So what if Nate makes her laugh more in two months than she remembers in the previous six. So what if their cramped and over-pillowed two bedroom is the first crash pad she’s had in her entire life that feels like home.

It’s home. Even when she does something so incomprehensibly wrong.

“What the…” she trails off as she rummages through the basket of newly dried laundry she just set on the coffee table to fold. She lifts a hand towel, formerly white, now bright pink—“fuck?”

She digs through the rest of the load. Every single towel, sheet, pillowcase. Egyptian cotton, the highest thread count her mother could find on short notice for a last minute housewarming, all white when she put them in the wash, and now they were all pink.

“Shit, shit, shit.” She wonders if there’s a way to fix it. She could call Dan. Or Dorota. Or maybe Rufus?

Except now she can’t find her phone.

She digs through the basket again, dumping the ruined linens on the couch next to her, hoping to find her phone buried in the wreckage.

It’s at that point that Nate gets back from class. Serena’s heart jumps into her throat at the sound of his key turning in the lock.

She looks up, frozen by a little bit of fear and a whole lot of embarrassment, and sees Nate gaping at the scene of her sartorial disaster.

“I have no idea what happened,” she blurts out, launching to her feet.

Nate bites down on his lower lip, inscrutable.

“I swear, it was an accident.”

He nods listlessly as he slowly walks towards her, eyes on their newly pinked linens.

“But –” she swallows, “good news: I’m really good at shopping. So we can just…You’re mad. Please don’t be mad. I’ll –”

Serena doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Nate is kissing her. Nate is kissing her. Nate is kissing her.

She pulls back, but only slightly, keeping her face cupped between his hands. “What’s that for?”

His shoulders lift in a shrug in her blurred out periphery—she can’t look away from his eyes. “I love you.”

Serena hauls him back in, pressing her smile to his, the two of them meeting in an approximation of a kiss.

She kisses his lips again, and again, then moves to his cheek, to the side of his neck. The most at home she’s ever felt.

“I love you too.”

[vixensofsorrow]

Demolition Lovers - Ⅱ what we know starts to waste

DISCLAIMER: This fic is a long slowburn with multiple chapters, still being updated. also on AO3 my masterlist (all the chapters are linked there) PAIRING: young!Carol Denning/fem!reader OVERALL SUMMARY: An exploration of your and Carol's relationship through the years. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Family drama and showing Carol around the lesser known parts of the school. CHAPTER TAGS: fluff, friendship, complicated feelings, reader plays soccer, high school, developing relationship, family argument, exploration of family dynamics A/N: no clue how to add footnotes on tumblr so. 2 - Edson Arantes do Nascimento, considered one of the best soccer players of the XXth century next chapter will have more carol nd reader action so stay tuned

You were caught off guard. When the fuck did she get here? You swore you closed your eyes for 5 seconds. What were you even supposed to say to that? How did she walk up to you so casually? It was almost like all the time you were apart wasn’t actually real, and the last time you spoke was actually on the phone yesterday, complaining about how your teammate sucked at practice, wondering how she’s even allowed on the team, and Carol talking about whatever she was into now. You’d like to talk with her about that, to be honest. You’d like to tell her how much you missed her and how your life changed, and you’d want to hear about how hers changed, too. 

After giving it some thought, though, you’d especially like to talk about how irrelevant she made you feel. You knew it wasn’t her fault that she had to move out, but it was her fault that she stopped calling you. It was almost like she just threw you away like you were a broken toy that got replaced by something more shiny and pretty.

What if she did care, though? “Maybe wait until she comes up to you… And then you’ll know that she also wants to talk or something…” You recalled Veronica’s words. 

Fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen? You have dwelled on this for too long already. 

You dropped your duffle bag and pulled Carol into an underarm hug, brushing past the big glasses that almost hit you in the face. She clasped you so tightly, it was almost like you were one person now. It had changed from what you could remember; her arms were more defined now, which made the hug a little rougher but still comforting and pleasant. She also had a new scent: an unexpected mix of burned tobacco, fresh cherry laundry, and hints of artificial candy. 

You could feel people staring at you as they passed by, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t think that you longed for this feeling so much, as you squeezed Carol even tighter in a primal-like manner, like she was about to go off on a long hunt. Your arms were tired, your faces red from being out of breath, and your bodies warm, which slowly wore off as you reluctantly let go of the hug from exhaustion. You were still speechless, only in awe of the moment being real. 

“I missed you.” She broke the silence, looking you right in the eye.

“I did too, Carol, a lot. I’m just shocked, like, you just showed up here, out of nowhere an-” You cut your sentence short before you could say too much and possibly start an argument. This was the first time you had seen her in years, and yet your mind was pushing you into confronting her right now. 

“That’s a story for another day. I’m gl-” A car’s honking interrupted Carol, and her sister was incomprehensibly shouting at her. “I’ll see you!” She ran towards the car, turning her head to wave at you, before cursing something at Barb. Before the car sped off, you managed to yell out, “Maybe I could show you around?” 

“I’ll hold you to that!” She flashed her dimples, but as soon as her sister hit the gas pedal, Carol’s face turned into a blur, just like she looked in your memories.

That was a long, fucking day. You threw your bag on the floor of your bedroom and sat down at your desk in an attempt to get some homework done. You knew you were just lying to yourself and that you’d have to bullshit about it to your teachers too, which usually worked—one of the perks of being an athlete. You’d just have to say something like, “We have so much practice right now, with the State Championships and all.” and they would let it go, most of the time. 

Still, you rummaged through the papers on your desk—an unfinished essay on The Great Depression, geometry exercises, and a stoichiometry assignment. You tossed it all to the side and checked the clock, which read 4:50 PM. 

You’d typically be at practice by now, but coach had an odd change of heart and decided to cancel today, probably because of the pep rally. Kind of irresponsible on his part. I mean, you should be training hard to win in the States, right? If he didn’t care about it, though, why should you? 

You got pulled out of your thoughts by your mother announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the kitchen, took a serving of your mom's cooking, and were ready to walk back to your room. Dana peeked out of the small dining room and stopped you in your tracks. “Folks said they wanted a family dinner tonight.” She tilted her head in their direction and sat back down as you were walking in. 

You sighed and also took a seat, facing your mother. Family dinners were always either awkward and silent or unnecessarily loud—sometimes good, sometimes bad. You had a feeling that today was going to be the latter, although you were hoping for the first. Your headache was bad enough already.

“So, how was the pep rally?” Your father broke the silence.

“Y’know, the usual.” You said, hoping that this would be a satisfying enough answer, but your dad gave you a look signaling that it wasn’t. “Yelling, chanting. School mascot grody, as usual.” That seemed to satisfy him.

“They still haven’t bought a new one? Jeez, gag me.” Your sister added in between bites. 

“Yeah, I know, right?”

“Did you share the good news yet?” Your mother turned to Dana with a smirk. Huh. Good news regarding your sister? 

Recently, she has become the family disappointment  — dropping out of college, fucking up the family car, and moving back in to live with you all. To be honest, however bad it sounded, you were kind of glad it wasn’t you this time, but it seemed like that was about to change. Your sister didn’t look pleased, though.

“Well… no.” She looked at your mother and tightened her jaw. You could see your mom's expression turning stern. You were sure she wasn’t about to let this topic go.

“What the hell, did you join a cult or something?” You teased your sister, and she just rolled her eyes. Your mother let out an irritated sigh and furrowed her eyebrows. Your dad was too busy with dinner, but he sneaked in a chuckle, and your mom glanced at him, just like she did at Dana a few seconds ago. 

“Dana, dear. This is the best time to tell everyone. You told me, you told your friends.” She tried to reason.

“No, mom, I didn’t tell you.” She began tapping her foot, looking down at her plate. 

This was something big.

“I would’ve found out one way or another. I deserved to know, and so does your father.” Your dad looked up as she said that, now his curiosity had peaked—and so did yours.

“What is this all about now?” He tried to ask but got interrupted by Dana.

“You snooped around my room! That’s how you found out!” Your sister dropped her fork, and the whole room was focused on her now, face all red and her eyes teary. 

“Would you rather I found out about it from one of your friends?! Or maybe your fiancée?!” She yelled, and your dad looked at the both of them in shock. 

Your mom had an expression that read, I fucked up. Your eyes widened, and Dana got up, storming out to the kitchen. Fiancée, well, that was unexpected. 

“Hold on, fiancée?” He directed the question at your mother, but she just clicked her tongue and flared her nostrils, stomping out of the room after your sister and yelling something at her, your father soon following.

Well, it’s unclear who’s the family disappointment now.

You changed into your pajamas and threw yourself on the bed. 

You were so fed up; all you wanted to do was watch TV and rot your brain with something dumb, but with Family Feud going on downstairs, you could say goodbye to that. 

That took your mind off of Carol up until, well, now. You weren’t as distressed as when she jump-scared you with that jock shit or whatever went down at the pep rally, but you knew you’d have to bring up the ugly feelings if you wanted to truly be friends with her again.

Surprisingly, the shitshow that went down at dinner helped you realize that you probably shouldn't hide the truth for too long because it’s going to come back to bite you in the ass three times as hard. Thanks, Dana.

You walked over to the beat-up boombox your sister passed onto you for your birthday and searched through the cassette tapes scattered next to it, ranging from ones you spent a pretty penny on, to the ones aspiring musicians would hand out at the mall as an advertisement technique. 

“Eenie meenie miney… moe. Led Zeppelin it is.” You inserted the cassette and turned up the volume to drown out both your thoughts and your family. 

You walked over to the closet, picked up the pack of cigarettes and lighter you hid in the pockets of your jacket, opened the window, and sat on the windowsill, lighting one up. 

You wondered what cigarettes Carol smoked — Newports? Marlboros? Lucky Strikes? Pall Malls? You should take a mental note of that; it could be a good conversation starter if things get awkward. It was weird to even think about the possibility of there being any awkwardness between the two of you, but it seemed more real than ever now. With each puff and drag, your eyes got heavier. 

Your alone time got interrupted by your sister storming in with a glass bottle in her hand. She immediately locked the door, then jumped on your bed and sat down. Dana knew you smoked, so you didn’t care about that; you did care that she interrupted your moment of peace. 

“Get out.” You groaned as you turned to her, and she took a swig of an already half-empty Absolut. She's probably been hoarding that in case of an emergency. 

“I’m here for the music, not you, dweeb.” You could tell Dana was lying.

“Why don’t you go to your room then? You have a fucking Walkman.” You flicked the ash.

“Oh, whatever.” She threw her arms up in resignation. “I dunno, we’re sisters; we talk about shit, right? You can help me take my mind off of this.” Your parents banged on the door, indistinctly shouting something that got muted by the music and chatter. “Fuck off!” Dana yelled out, and you just giggled. She showed off her proud smile and took another swig.

“So, what’s new in the high school world?”

“Oh, shut up, you only graduated two years ago. You’re acting like it’s been fifty years.” You bumped her arm, taking a drag of the cigarette.

“Yeah, but, you know, a lot can change in two years.”

“Yeah, like you getting married.” You teased her.

“Oh, shut up, Jeff and I aren’t even married yet.” She chugged down more of the vodka, laughing.

“Emphasis on yet.” You put out the ash and tossed it out of your window. There was a small pile of cigarette butts on the ground outside. 

You threw yourself on the bed next to your sister and sighed. Should you tell her about Carol? She was probably too tipsy to remember anything in the morning anyway.

“Do you remember Carol?” You lain down on the side, propped up on one elbow, your other hand supporting your head, looking directly at Dana.

“The one with the glasses? You’d always draw those comic strips with her.” Huh, she remembered pretty well, it seems. 

“Yup. The one with the glasses.” You jeered.

“What about her? I didn’t even know the two of you were still talking.” She scoffed in amusement, lying down on the bed.

“We weren’t. But, well, actually, there is something new in the high school world.” You hoped she would get the suggestion, but she just looked at you with a blank stare and an eyebrow raised. 

“The Dennings are back in town.” 

“Holy shit! That’s rad, oh my god! Are you excited?” Dana swiftly sat up and grabbed your knee, slightly shaking it. That was sweet; she was happy for you, even if it was the alcohol that induced it.

“It’s kind of weird.” You sighed. “I missed her so, so much. You don’t even get how much, but I’m still bitter.” You turned to lie down on your back. “I feel like such a bitch.” 

“You know, relationships are complicated, friendships are complicated, shit, everything is complicated. Don’t think about it too much. You lived without her for so long, you can do it again, and like, you have even more friends than you had when she left.” She slurred her words, and her stomach rumbled. Dana furrowed her brows, scrunched her nose, and burped. Before you could say anything, she covered her mouth with her hand, got up, unlocked the door, and sprinted to the bathroom. 

You could hear the vomiting as you closed the door and got back into bed, drifting off to sleep, with Led Zeppelin still on in the background.

You searched amongst your disorganized locker in hopes of finding your English textbook, yet all you found were notes you exchanged with Rachel during Chem, a beat-up copy of A Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which you were supposed to return to the library two months ago, an expired Cheez-Its bag, stickers raising awareness about AIDS, and your duffle bag. You must’ve given the book to someone you didn’t share the class period with, maybe Gina? It was too late to look for her anyway; you’d have to fall under the mercy of some good Samaritan for now. 

You glanced at the wall clock, shut the locker, and ran to the second floor of the building. 

You barely managed to get to class on time and took your usual seat on the slightly too small, hard wooden chair that made your ass hurt after sitting on it for too long; third row, right by the wall that was covered in profanity or cheesy quotes.

The rest of your classmates walked in, and to your surprise, the scent of burnt tobacco and a hint of cherry followed along with them. How many classes did you share with her? You pondered.

Your eyes followed Carol around the cramped room, and her face immediately lit up as she noticed, speeding up to take the seat next to you, her backpack hanging off one side of her shoulder. 

The teacher began the lesson, and the chatter slightly calmed down. The cheap, fluorescent headlight flickered now and then.

“Oh, my God. You saved my ass, dude.” She whispered through a laugh of relief as she shifted to face you, dropping the bag and pulling out a notebook, pen, and the dreaded textbook. All the essentials.

“You don’t even know how much you saved mine.” The two of you exchanged smiles, and you scooted your desk and chair, just close enough to be able to read the text, but far apart enough, so the teacher wouldn’t get on your ass.

“So, can anyone tell me what stylistic devices the author used in the fourth verse?” Ms. Cooper paced around by the blackboard, waiting for an answer. You sighed and pretended to write something, just so she wouldn’t call on you. In reality, you were just writing down the lyrics of whatever song was stuck in your head on the margins.

The bell rang, and the noise of closing notebooks, zipping up backpacks, chairs scratching, shuffling against the linoleum floor, and conversations made itself known again. You put the desk back into place, where it was at the beginning of the class, and walked out alongside Carol.

“You got lunch now?” You asked. Seriously? Small talk? Oh, my god. Was that all the two of you had to talk about now? She probably wouldn’t have even talked to you in English if you weren’t childhood friends. She was right; you were just a fuckin’ jock now, and she was a girl that was way too cool for you. 

Carol had this odd, mysterious appeal that you couldn’t exactly pinpoint. Was it the combination of cherry and tobacco? It was the type of allure that would make people polarized. She was like a 70s rock star in the body of an overlooked, underappreciated teenage girl who wasn’t aware of her potential. Definitely not the type to subscribe to social conventions, which possibly was the most charming thing about her.

“Probably hold on.” She started digging through the pockets of her flared, dark blue jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Uh, yeah. Lunch, sixth period.” You walked down the stairs and headed towards the cafeteria.

“So, are you going to show me around now?” You could still remember her teasing tone. Carol stuck her tongue out, and you ruffled her hair in response, just like you used to do way back when. 

You stopped walking and leaned on the lockers. “You want me to show you around or show you around?” You bit your lip and gave her a sly smirk.

“The latter.” The two of you chuckled, and you walked in the direction of your locker to take your coat. 

“Who’s that?” Carol pointed at one of the Polaroids that was on the inside of your locker door—this particular one of you and Veronica. It was from soccer camp, the summer between freshman and sophomore year, and the two of you had ugly, messy blue eyeshadow, smudged red lipstick, and huge puffy hair, all thanks to Kristen, who wanted someone to practice hairstyling on. Your face had that exhausted grin after a long, tiring day of kicking the ball around. It was similar to the feeling you’d get on vacation after walking around a brand-new city for eight hours straight, but still wanting more. You remember being so happy that your cheeks were in pain from smiling. You were sure Carol knew that it was someone from your team; she must’ve seen her yesterday during the pep rally, and she wanted to find out more about your new life.

“Oh yeah, her? That’s Vee, erm, ‘Ronica. Shit. Veronica. Veronica Vasquez.” You put your hand on your slightly red forehead, giggling, as Carol laughed loudly through your stuttering. You took a breath and continued, “We are, you know—Oh my god, you fucking saw it—we are on the soccer team together.” You put on your jacket and closed the locker, turning to the school exit.

Why were you so awkward around her? 

The harsh, late-October West Virginia air hit you in the face. You wanted a smoke and a one-on-one moment with Carol more than you cared about being cold, though. So far, she was the only one asking about you, what you were up to, and your friends. Shit, were you projecting how you felt during her time of absence onto her now? Nope, no way. As soon as you’re going to sit down, you’re going to ask her about everything.

“Where are you taking me, Pelé2?” Carol jeered as she put on her beanie.

“Wait, how the fuck do you even know who that is?” You took a step back, slightly raising your hands and waving them around, like you were telling her to stop whatever she was doing, and stared at Carol, your agape mouth turning slowly into a smile.

“Maybe I’m a jock now too, huh? Have you thought about that?” She pulled you by the sleeve of your jacket, and you continued your walk around the school grounds. You were leading the way towards the back of the gym wing.

“Well, are you?” You weren’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not.

“Fuck no!” She scoffed, imitating barfing. “Wait, Y/N. I didn’t mean like it’s a bad thing, but seriously, could you imagine me as an athlete?”

“Well, shit, how could I know? You said you were surprised to see that I’m a jock now, a lot has changed; you could be one too now, as far as I know.” 

“Now, you can be a hundred percent certain that I’m not.” She confirmed.

You reached your destination, and you took a seat on an old, empty beer crate, with Carol sitting down next to you. You pulled out the pack of cigarettes, flicked the lid open, handed it out to Denning, and she raised an eyebrow at you.

“Shit, you smoke now? Welcome to the club.” She took it and sparked one up.

"Yeah, you've got to keep a balance between strenuous working out and ruining your lungs.” You put the cigarette in your mouth, and Carol gave you her lighter, but no fire was coming out of it. You shook it around, but there was still nothing.

“Come ‘ere.” Carol got closer to you and put her hands around the cigarettes hanging out of your mouths to block the wind as she put her cig to yours, lighting it up.

“Thanks, Care.” To your surprise, she rolled her eyes at you and groaned.

“God, don’t call me that.” You gave her a confused look.

“Barb just fuckin’ ruined it for me. She tends to ruin a lot of good shit. Just like Debbie. God, fucking Debbie!” She kicked back the crate you were sitting on. 

Shit, Debbie. She was a full-on kid now; the last time you saw her, she was a few-month-old infant.

“What about Debbie?”

“Oh, don’t even get me fucking started.” Carol scoffed. “Basically, she’s the star of the family now, and mom and dad just go along with her fucking up my life.”

“Wait, fucking up your life? How?”

“I’m just going to say she’s the whole reason I’m back in this shithole. At least you’re still here.” She looked at you and sighed. “I’d probably off myself or her if I had to put all this effort into making new friends, making an idiot of myself, just to move out again in three months.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that.” You sat in silence, not knowing how to comfort her, only broken by footsteps in the distance now and then before an idea came into mind. “Hey, maybe you want to go to the party my team is throwing tonight?” You stomped your cigarette, putting your cold hands inside the pockets of your coat.

“A jock party? Stop fucking with me.” She slumped her shoulders, her head shaking.

“It’s going to be chill, I promise. We could just stick together, or I could introduce you to my friends if you want. Also, free booze.” Carol tilted her head, eyes darting around in contemplation, tapping her fingers on the crate. Unexpectedly, she swiftly laid a hand on your thigh, letting go just as fast. “Fuck it, why not?” She tossed the cigarette.

“Hell yeah! That’s the spirit, Denning.” Oh god, you sounded like a typical jock you were trying your hardest not to be. You winced at what you said, and Carol chuckled. 

You opened your backpack and took out a pen that was lying around at the bottom, grabbing her hand. “Here’s my address; swing by at like 7:30 PM.” You almost put the pen away but remembered to write down your phone number, and Carol did the same.

“Okay, let’s get out of here. You have to show me where the weed dealer hangs out.” 

“I had a feeling you’d be the stoner type.” You joked, and the two of you walked towards the soccer field.

“Hey, I can’t show up to that circle-jerk party of yours empty-handed.”  You will confront her about the whole feeling irrelevant thing some other day. It didn’t matter for now.