#<- incomprehensible fucking sentence. whatever

[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

[fenharel-is-so-swell]

A Cold Welcome Home

Zayne x You(MC) x Caleb

-----a/n: okay y'all, this is essentially one of my first ever fics. I wrote a few DA fics when I was 17 or so, but nothinnnn since. This is very unedited and I'm very rusty. It was all written at 4:00am last night lmao so, yk, blame it on the sleep deprivation. All the "I'm sorrys" in the word to my moots that have never seen me do the seggs stuff on main. Idk how to format writing at all on here, so hopefully that gets better for if I post the actual full smuteroony.

This is also my first time writing second person so, apologies if the tenses get funky as I figure it out. I will hear nothing about my liberal use of pipsqueak, in a country full of Neanderthals I wear that shit with a fucking badge of honor.

-----Draft intro word count: 1.3K (what I have written beyond this totals 3.1k)

-----warnings for this draft: mdni, smut, jealousy, soft-ish non con?(I mean, there are assumptions of interest), blow job, grief mention, spoilers, cursing, defo some angst here, many incomplete and run on sentences bc i love themmmm

-----about: You don't know how you would have gotten through the year without Zayne, the loss of Caleb and Josephine nearly undid you. Though, if there is a silver lining to be found it's that it pushed you two closer. So close, in fact, you have some apologies to make after you "mistakenly" get him drunk with liquor filled chocolate. Unfortunately for you both, Caleb is back and (?)better(?) than ever.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You knew one thing for certain—Zayne was going to combust. Well, in reality, Zayne was going to do whatever the opposite of combustion was once he finally noticed the figure darkening his doorway.

A shaky breath slipped from between your parted lips. Caleb was at the hospital. Caleb was in Zayne’s office. Your mind reeled, tumbling through curses at Y’vonne. You glanced at the wall clock that read 2:25 in the morning. You realized that the old security guard that manned the desk at this hour likely had no clue who Caleb was. Had no clue he was dead -- that you had grieved him. The old baton wielding fucker absolutely didn’t realize you were busy apologizing to Zayne for the stunt you pulled with the chocolate. Lavishing the bulge in his snug slacks with your tongue, savoring the raspy moans that slipped from the slackened O of his mouth. Desperate, pleading, pitiful, gentle sounds you’d worked so hard to get him to produce. He was so very guarded and always in control. He was just beginning to soften up, to believe you wouldn’t despise him for not being perfectly poised, that one mistake wouldn’t hurt you or make you hate him.

You begged Caleb not to let Zayne know he was back. To let you deliver the news. You just wanted one more night of unguarded eyes, sloppy, needy fucking, and gentle dreamless sleep wrapped in Zayne’s cool embrace.

But the love triangle that never was still infused its bitter jealousy into everything. You felt it in the possessive streak knotted through Caleb’s every action upon his return. It was whispered in the slurred drunken fear of failure, of loss, in Zayne’s more vulnerable moments. You placed your hands on Zayne’s thighs, staring up at him, your guilt and apology laid bare in your gaze. The soft adoration in his expression maimed your soul, the raw reverence was humbling as much as it was heartbreaking. Hazy with desire his eyes flitted over to the open door to his office.

You felt his world shift. Like those videos you’d seen online of incomprehensibly large glaciers cracking. Giant chunks falling from the larger mass so slowly it almost looked gentle. Crashing into the waters below with strangely soft bellowing splashes. Zayne’s heart cracked. The warmth in his gaze hardened over. His brows twitched between surprise and outrage. Nothing could ever be the same. You shifted back on your knees. Letting your bum rest against your heels, your gaze turned towards Caleb.

Your lips were dry, your face a sticky mess from the saliva drenching Zayne’s pants. Your tongue flicked out, wetting your whisper “You promised.”

Caleb chuckled; the sound was cruel. You’d noticed it when he first…resurrected. A strange edge existed within him now, something that sat discordant with the warm memories you had of the boy you grew up with. A round face with too big front teeth, his peach fuzzed mouth smeared in chocolate ‘stolen’ from the free sample tray at the convenience store down the street, the gangly teen who held your hand in that haunted house and only laughed a little when you screamed, the man who was a dutiful pilot and only slightly unreliable surrogate grandson to Josephine. He wasn’t that Caleb, not entirely at least. It wasn’t the same.

“Oh come on pipsqueak, you know it only counts if it’s a pinky promise.”

Zayne finally reacted with something other than shock. His gently voice just reaching your ears. “Stand up, darling.”

You sighed. “I can’t.” Your ankles had started screaming from the angle, but Caleb’s evol didn’t let up. You had felt it fall over you the moment he entered the room, its gentle oppression a sweet agony. It was so familiar; you had missed him so much.

The way he used his evol was yet another change you had noticed. His evol used to soften the blow if you slipped out of a tree you were climbing, or to lighten your backpacks on the way to school. Now he used both aspects of his control in equal measure. Lessening gravity’s grounding force to make it even easier to trap you in the pretty cage of his arms, toss you around, keep you at his mercy. He liked to make the pressure punishing and indomitable when he wanted you to just sit still, when he wanted you restrained. Though, in all of your memories of that year where it was the three of you, you recalled that he never once softened Zayne’s fall. He never lessened the weight of his books or kept him upright as he balanced when you three would tip toe along the guardrails. That kindness was seemingly reserved for you. You felt stupid for assuming he’d afford any such saccharine sweetness to Zayne now.

Zayne stood, placing himself in front of you. You noticed his evol creeping up his hand, his back pin straight as he struggled to maintain control.

“You let her grieve.” Zayne’s soft tone was a condemnation.

“And you were more than willing to be her shoulder to cry on.” Came Caleb’s sharp retort.

You sighed weakly. “Can we please not do this?” Your fingers twitched, itching to reach for Zayne’s hand, to resonate and soothe his evol.

“Oh, I have a lovely idea instead pipsqueak.” Caleb’s lips spread into a wicked, playful smile. He pulled the lone rolling stool in Zayne’s office from the corner of the room. Scooting it towards you both.

Caleb had a feeling he’d find you two like this. While catching up you had mentioned Zayne a few too many times. He dug around a bit and identified the nature of your relationship. It made something sick burst to life in his gut. While he was dead and gone you were sidled up to Josephine’s second favorite, the only person she told to look after you. It made him want to claim you, to own you, to possess you, to fuck the memory of anyone else in the world out of you. You were his, you were always his. You would always be his; you pinky promised.

Zayne shifted his stance, ice spread from under his shiny black dress shoes. it bit into your knees as it reached you. The pain was a familiar distraction.

Caleb waved a dismissive hand. His grin was still plastered on his face. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Zayne scoffed, but something grotesque twisted deliciously in your gut.

With panty liquefying horror you realized you wanted to punish him; you wanted to punish Caleb. You wanted him to hurt as much as losing him had hurt you. The way he waltzed back into your life as if everything were okay, as though your life and desires should cow to the threads of a deeper love, of a darker attraction, that were building before he ‘died’. It infuriated you. You had to pick up the pieces. Zayne helped you pick up the pieces. He made sure you weren’t being overly reckless on missions, that you still had someone to come home to, that you could find out the deeper cause of all of this pain. He soothed the ache, and from his quiet constant love your own blossomed.

Caleb chuckled again beckoning Zayne to look at you. Finally, finally, those cool green eyes met your own and widened a bit in shock. Whatever he saw in your gaze made him break his unrequited stalemate with Caleb. He dropped to his knees before you, gathering your face into his hands he schooled his features into a blank canvas. His eyes bore into your soul.

“You want this.” He stated.

It wasn’t a question as it was obvious that your desire, no matter how twisted, was written all over you. Your slightly huffed breaths, your pulse thrumming visibly in your neck.

With a small nod, Zayne stood. He leveled a look at Caleb and spoke as he slowly undid his belt. You nearly wept at the sight. The way his hands always calmly, methodically, tortuously took their time disrobing both of you.

“Though my lectures are normally booked months in advance. I suppose I have time to teach a bit of human anatomy.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

[winniefrezcomics]

I got reminded of these when I saw a repost

A mini comic you drew a while ago shows Iris in jail with Perry talking to him through glass. Perry has a smile and is guessing what they charged him on in a joking manner, also based on the wording of Perry and Iris conversation it isn't the first time he has been arrested.

So I was wondering if there was a pacific event that did lead him to getting arrested and i'm so curious what Perry's reaction was to seeing or being told his boyfriend was arrested.

Sorrry this is so long I just love your AU! And character designs 💙💜 (*´ ˘ `*)

AWH TYSM!! 🥺💕❤️ dw i love long questions dbdbddhjd, ranting incomprehensibly abt my AU satiates the hyperfocus demons 😂😂

Tbh for a second I got confused bc I thought u were talking abt a doodle comic I never finished or posted, but then I remembered this magma doodle exists 😂😂

Dug that comic out to finish it for this ask too tho bc I lowkey forgot I was almost done w it ☠️☠️ ty for the reminder mwah mwah 😚

SO UH- I feel like in a human AU, it would only make sense for Irep to have an EXTENSIVE criminal record, starting even back in elementary school 😂😂

Infodump under cut- (Cw for incarceration, false imprisonment, and a VERY brief mention of child abuse at the end- spoiler: Iris rocks an abusers shit HARD and goes to prison for it but jokes on them bc Perry and Iris then adopt his daughter and give her the loving parents she deserves 💙💜)

Kid Iris probably got sent to Juvie a few times but never stayed long because his rich daddy would either bail him out or prevent him from being emitted entirely- same story for his teen years- as far as WHAT lands him in juvie/jail in his youth, the general answer is “doing whatever the fuck he wants and having no concern over the consequences” wheeze

Vandalism, fist-fights, petty theft, grand theft auto, trespassing, breaking and entering- that sort of thing- his parents will always forgive him, so Iris has VERY little forethought when it comes to what actions may lead to getting him in legal trouble ☠️

HOWEVER, once Iris turned 18 and was legally an adult, his dad had more trouble bailing him out every time, so he had to serve a few short sentences here and there, but just sort of got used to the pattern of “do whatever the fuck I want, serve jail time if the cops catch me, go back to doing whatever the fuck I want” 😂😂

Perry is never PLEASED to hear that Iris has been arrested again, but he’s also never surprised. usually Perry will either just sigh and reschedule thier upcoming dates, or if Iris has pissed him off recently, break up w him for the hundredth time only to inevitably take him back once Iris is released and stands outside his window w a boombox in the pouring rain or some other equally dramatic romantic gesture 😂

(Sidenote: I think another reason (anti) Cosmo starts to have trouble keeping Iris out of the hands of the law is that HE HIMSELF starts to get into hot water for stuff like tax fraud and embezzlement wheeze)

Unfortunately my friend you have activated my ANGST TRAP CARD w this one- check out below the cut for a huge infodump abt Iris’ Jailtime; specifically the worst ‘breakup’ he and Perry EVER had, that took them years to reconcile from! 🥰

His LONGEST sentence (the one where Perry LOST TRACK of him for multiple years) happened after Iris and Perry had a fight about Perry being “too boring” and “always trying to smooth down his edges” so they kind of sort of decide to go on a break, and Iris is too mad to even give his boyfriend a kiss goodbye (a decision he would come to regret for his ENTIRE LIFE).

Iris drags Sammy Sweetsparkle on an INSANE party binge in Tijuana or something- at some point losing track of Sammy, but deciding he’s having too much fun to stop now…. Only to end up taking the fall for a stranger in a HUGE drug bust of some kind, and getting thrown into a prison in MEXICO with NO SPANISH FLUENCY and no way to contact his friends and family back home ☠️☠️

Perry spends YEARS trying to find his boyfriend, losing weight, barley sleeping, and just generally making himself SICK with worry to the point that Timmy and his parents had to BEG HIM to just move on with his life, bc they couldn’t stand to see him wither away like that.

Despite having been dating thier son for multiple years, Perry actually didn’t have a very close relationship with Iris’s parents at the time, so even though at first he was constantly calling them for updates, by the time AC and AW actually FOUND thier son years later, they’re weren’t sure if Perry’s number was correct anymore, so when Wanda called Perry to excitedly tell him that they had FINALLY found Iris, unfortunately it’s TIMMY that happens to answer the phone.

Perry is staying with his brother for a short time to get back on his feet after finally giving up on finding his boyfriend and starting to apply for teaching jobs (something he got a college degree for but took a few years to pursue bc dating mid-20s Iris was a full time fuckin job tbh). Timmy is so glad that his brother is finally doing better, and, though secretly relived to hear Iris isn’t DEAD like Perry had been assuming, Timmy makes a hard (maaaaybe wrong as hell of him) decision… he tells Wanda she has the wrong number, and to never call again. 🙃

Lemme know if yall wanna hear about thier eventual reunion! Trust me, this peice makes it look WAY less traumatic and messy than it was 😬☠️ Iris basically does EVERYTHING WRONG HE POSSIBLY COULD HAVE to delay thier eventual reconciliation 😔

Iris serves one more long sentence AFTER he and Perry make up and start dating again, but the reason is actually a noble one this time, and iris turns himself in willingly to prove to Perry that he’s not a killer, and he IS trying to be better (Iris found out one of Perry’s students had a horrifically abusive father and beat him within an inch of his life 💙 they later adopted said student)

which I mention here only so that I can ALSO post this art of thier SECOND post-jail reunion, which is MUCH more joyful and sappy than the first sobs- thier daughter is definitely present for this, just so itty bitty she’s off-screen lmao

Ty for the question! I actually dug most of this infodump out of a discord server, but I’m glad to have it archived here now too uwu

[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.

[tenderhooked]

some sentences sunday!

tagged by @lord-owlsnake and @cartwrong and @disappearinginq all at various times over the last... month...... WHOOPS slkjdsfjk

anyway here's a bit from camcorder!! which i AM still working on i prommy

“Look at me, River,” is what Payne says instead of doing any of that, and River forces a bleary, blurry eye to half-mast. Those steel-tipped boots are directly in his line of sight. He remembers the biting connection of them to his stomach, his ribs, and a shudder works its way through his unresponsive limbs unbidden. “I said look.” River twists his head with effort. From down here, Payne is monstrous, hulking. The pale stretch of his face has the same ghastly appearance of those deep-sea creatures, the ones that emerge from the depths having clearly never seen the light, the ones that know nothing more than to seek whatever blood they can smell. His smile is a scythe that carves straight through River’s chest.  “Good,” he croons. “You’re learning. That’s good, River.” Disgust roils in River’s stomach. He’s learning? No he’s fucking not. To demonstrate his objection, he inhales and then spits at those stupid steel-tipped boots and the arsehole attached to them. It comes up strained with crimson. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, and is pleased that it’s not entirely incomprehensible.  That satisfaction vanishes almost immediately. 

no pressure tagging @jamiesfootball and @altschmerzes and anyone else who wants to play mwah mwah

[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."

[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!”

[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.

[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. 

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[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.