#but talking with my friend possessed me to do this

[rhetoricandlogic]

Chicxulub

By T. Coraghessan Boyle

February 22, 2004

My daughter is walking along the roadside late at night—too late, really, for a seventeen-year-old to be out alone, even in a town as safe as this—and it is raining, the first rain of the season, the streets slick with a fine immiscible glaze of water and petrochemicals, so that even a driver in full possession of her faculties, a driver who hadn’t consumed two apple Martinis and three glasses of Hitching Post pinot noir before she got behind the wheel of her car, would have trouble keeping the thing out of the gutters and the shrubbery, off the sidewalk and the highway median, for Christ’s sake. . . . But that’s not really what I want to talk about, or not yet, anyway.

Have you heard of Tunguska? In Russia?

This was the site of the last known large-body impact on the Earth’s surface, nearly a hundred years ago. Or that’s not strictly accurate—the meteor, which was an estimated sixty yards across, never actually touched down. The force of its entry—the compression and superheating of the air beneath it—caused it to explode some twenty-five thousand feet above the ground, but then the term “explode” hardly does justice to the event. There was a detonation—a flash, a thunderclap—with the combustive power of eight hundred Hiroshima bombs. Thirty miles away, reindeer in their loping herds were struck dead by the blast wave, and the clothes of a hunter another thirty miles beyond that burst into flame even as he was poleaxed to the ground. Seven hundred square miles of Siberian forest were levelled in an instant. If the meteor had struck just five hours later, it would have exploded over St. Petersburg and annihilated every living thing in that glorious, baroque city. And this was only a rock. And it was only sixty yards across.

My point? You’d better get down on your knees and pray to your gods, because each year this big spinning globe we ride intersects the orbits of some twenty million asteroids, at least a thousand of which are more than half a mile in diameter.

But my daughter. She’s out there in the dark and the rain, walking home. Maureen and I bought her a car, a Honda Civic, the safest thing on four wheels, but the car was used—pre-owned, in dealerspeak—and as it happens it’s in the shop with transmission problems and, because she just had to see her friends and gossip and giggle and balance slick multicolored clumps of raw fish and pickled ginger on conjoined chopsticks at the mall, Kimberly picked her up and Kimberly will bring her home. Maddy has a cell phone and theoretically she could have called us, but she didn’t—or that’s how it appears. And so she’s walking. In the rain. And Alice K. Petermann, of 16 Briar Lane, white, divorced, a Realtor with Hyperion, who has picked at a salad and left her glasses on the bar, loses control of her vehicle.

It is just past midnight. I am in bed with a book, naked, and hardly able to focus on the clustered words and rigid descending paragraphs, because Maureen is in the bathroom slipping into the sheer black negligee I bought her at Victoria’s Secret for her birthday, and her every sound—the creak of the medicine cabinet on its hinges, the tap running, the susurrus of the brush at her teeth—electrifies me. I’ve lit a candle and am waiting for Maureen to step into the room so that I can flick off the light. We had cocktails earlier, and a bottle of wine with dinner, and we sat close on the couch and shared a joint in front of the fire, because our daughter was out and we could do that with no one the wiser. I listen to the little sounds from the bathroom, seductive sounds, maddening. I am ready. More than ready. “Hey,” I call, pitching my voice low, “are you coming or not? You don’t expect me to wait all night, do you?”

Her face appears in the doorway, the pale lobes of her breasts and the dark nipples visible through the clinging black silk. “Oh, are you waiting for me?” she says, making a game of it. She hovers at the door, and I can see the smile creep across her lips, the pleasure of the moment, drawing it out. “Because I thought I might go down and work in the garden for a while—it won’t take long, a couple hours, maybe. You know, spread a little manure, bank up some of the mulch on the roses. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

Then the phone rings.

We stare blankly at each other through the first two rings and then Maureen says, “I’d better get it,” and I say, “No, no, forget it—it’s nothing. It’s nobody.”

But she’s already moving.

“Forget it!” I shout, and her voice drifts back to me—“What if it’s Maddy?”—then I watch her put her lips to the receiver and whisper, “Hello?”

The night of the Tunguska explosion the skies were unnaturally bright across Europe—as far away as London people strolled in the parks past midnight and read novels out of doors while the sheep kept right on grazing and the birds stirred uneasily in the trees. There were no stars visible, no moon—just a pale, quivering light, as if all the color had been bleached out of the sky. But, of course, that midnight glow and the fate of those unhappy Siberian reindeer were nothing at all compared to what would have happened if a larger object had invaded the Earth’s atmosphere. On average, objects greater than a hundred yards in diameter strike the planet once every five thousand years, and asteroids half a mile across thunder down at intervals of three hundred thousand years. Three hundred thousand years is a long time in anybody’s book. But if—when—such a collision occurs, the explosion will be in the million-megaton range and will cloak the atmosphere in dust, thrusting the entire planet into a deep freeze and effectively stifling all plant growth for a period of a year or more. There will be no crops. No forage. No sun.

There has been an accident, that is what the voice on the other end of the line is telling my wife, and the victim is Madeline Biehn, of 1337 Laurel Drive, according to the I.D. the paramedics found in her purse. (The purse, with a silver clasp that has been driven half an inch into the flesh under her arm by the force of the impact, is a little thing, no bigger than a hardcover book, with a ribbon-thin strap, the same purse all the girls carry, as if it were part of a uniform.) Is this her parent or guardian speaking?

I hear my wife say, “This is her mother.” And then, the bottom dropping out of her voice, “Is she—?”

Is she? They don’t answer such questions, don’t volunteer information, not over the phone. The next ten seconds are thunderous, cataclysmic, my wife standing there numbly with the phone in her hand as if it were some unidentifiable object she’d found in the street while I fumble out of bed to search for my pants—and my shoes, where are my shoes? The car keys? My wallet? This is the true panic, the loss of faith and control, the punch to the heart, and the struggle for breath. I say the only thing I can think to say, just to hear my own voice, just to get things straight: “She was in an accident. Is that what they said?”

“She was hit by a car. She’s—they don’t know. In surgery.”

“What hospital? Did they say what hospital?”

My wife is in motion now, too, the negligee ridiculous, unequal to the task, and she jerks it over her head and flings it to the floor even as she snatches up a blouse, shorts, flip-flops—anything, anything to cover her nakedness and get her out the door. The dog is whining in the kitchen. There is the sound of rain on the roof, intensifying, hammering at the gutters. I don’t bother with shoes—there are no shoes, shoes do not exist—and my shirt hangs limply from my shoulders, misbuttoned, sagging, tails hanging loose, and we’re in the car now and the driver’s-side wiper is beating out of synch and the night closing on us like a fist.

And then there’s Chicxulub. Sixty-five million years ago, an asteroid (or perhaps a comet—no one is quite certain) collided with the Earth on what is now the Yucatán Peninsula. Judging from the impact crater, which is a hundred and twenty miles wide, the object—this big flaming ball—was some six miles across. When it came down, day became night and that night extended so far into the future that at least seventy-five per cent of all known species were extinguished, including the dinosaurs in nearly all their forms and array and some ninety per cent of the oceans’ plankton, which in turn devastated the pelagic food chain. How fast was it travelling? The nearest estimates put it at fifty-four thousand miles an hour, more than sixty times the speed of a bullet. Astrophysicists call such objects “civilization enders,” and calculate the chances that a disaster of this magnitude will occur during any individual’s lifetime at roughly one in ten thousand, the same odds as dying in an auto accident in the next six months—or, more tellingly, living to be a hundred in the company of your spouse.

All I see is windows, an endless grid of lit windows climbing one above the other into the night, as the car shoots into the Emergency Vehicles Only lane and slides in hard against the curb. Both doors fling open simultaneously. Maureen is already out on the sidewalk, already slamming the door behind her and breaking into a trot, and I’m right on her heels, the keys still in the ignition and the lights stabbing at the pale underbelly of a diagonally parked ambulance—and they can have the car, anybody can have it and keep it forever, if they’ll just tell me that my daughter is all right. “Just tell me,” I mutter, out of breath, “just tell me and it’s yours,” and this is a prayer, the first in a long discontinuous string, addressed to whoever or whatever may be listening. Overhead, the sky is having a seizure, black above, quicksilver below, the rain coming down in windblown arcs, and I wouldn’t even notice but for the fact that we are suddenly—instantly—wet, our hair knotted and clinging and our clothes stuck like flypaper to the slick tegument of our skin.

In we come, side by side, through the doors that jolt back from us in alarm, and all I can think is that the hospital is a death factory and that we have come to it like the walking dead, haggard, sallow, shoeless. “My daughter,” I say to the nurse at the admittance desk, “she’s—they called. You called. She’s been in an accident.”

Maureen is at my side, tugging at the fingers of one hand as if she were trying to remove an invisible glove. “A car. A car accident.”

“Name?” the nurse asks. About this nurse: she’s young, Filipina, with opaque eyes and the bone structure of a cadaver; every day she sees death and it blinds her. She doesn’t see us. She sees a computer screen; she sees the TV monitor mounted in the corner and the shadows that pass there; she sees the walls, the floor, the naked light of the fluorescent tube. But not us. Not us.

For one resounding moment that thumps in my ears and then thumps again, I can’t remember my daughter’s name—I can picture her leaning into the mound of textbooks spread out on the dining-room table, the glow of the overhead light making a nimbus of her hair as she glances up at me with a glum look and half a rueful smile, as if to say, It’s all in a day’s work for a teen-ager, Dad, and you’re lucky you’re not in high school anymore, but her name is gone.

“Maddy,” my wife says. “Madeline Biehn.”

I watch, mesmerized, as the nurse’s fleshless fingers maneuver the mouse, her eyes locked on the screen before her. A click. Another click. The eyes lift to take us in, even as they dodge away again. “She’s still in surgery,” she says.

“Where is it?” I demand. “What room? Where do we go?”

Maureen’s voice cuts in then, elemental, chilling, and it’s not a question she’s posing, not a statement or demand, but a plea: “What’s wrong with her?”

Another click, but this one is just for show, and the eyes never move from the screen. “There was an accident,” the nurse says. “She was brought in by the paramedics. That’s all I can tell you.”

It is then that I become aware that we are not alone, that there are others milling around the room—other zombies like us, hurriedly dressed and streaming water till the beige carpet is black with it—and why, I wonder, do I despise this nurse more than any human being I’ve ever encountered, this young woman not much older than my daughter, with her hair pulled back in a bun and a white cap like a party favor perched atop it, who is just doing her job? Why do I want to reach across the counter that separates us and awaken her to a swift, sure knowledge of hate and fear and pain? Why?

“Ted,” Maureen says, and I feel her grip at my elbow, and then we’re moving again—hurrying, sweeping, practically running—out of this place, down a corridor under the glare of the lights that are a kind of death in themselves, and into a worse place, a far worse place.

The thing that disturbs me about Chicxulub, aside from the fact that it erased the dinosaurs and wrought catastrophic and irreversible change, is the deeper implication that we, and all our works and worries and attachments, are so utterly inconsequential. Death cancels our individuality, we know that, yes, but ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, and the kind goes on, human life and culture succeed us. That, in the absence of God, is what allows us to accept the death of the individual. But when you throw Chicxulub into the mix—or the next Chicxulub, the Chicxulub that could come howling down to obliterate all and everything even as your eyes skim the lines of this page—where does that leave us?

“You’re the parents?” We are in another room, gone deeper now, the loudspeakers murmuring their eternal incantations—Dr. Chandrasoma to Emergency, Dr. Bell, Paging Dr. Bell—and here is another nurse, grimmer, older, with lines like the strings of a tobacco pouch pulled tight around her lips. She’s addressing us, me and my wife, but I have nothing to say, either in denial or affirmation. If I claim Maddy as my own—and I’m making deals again—then I’m sure to jinx her, because those powers that might or might not be, those gods of the infinite and the minute, will see how desperately I love her and they’ll take her away just to spite me for refusing to believe in them. Voodoo, Hoodoo, Santería, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I hear Maureen’s voice, emerging from a locked vault, the single whispered monosyllable, and then: “Is she going to be all right?”

“I don’t have that information,” the nurse says, and her voice is neutral, robotic even. This is not her daughter. Her daughter’s at home, asleep in a pile of Teddy bears, pink sheets, fluffy pillows, the night-light glowing like the all-seeing eye of a sentinel.

I can’t help myself. It’s that neutrality, that maddening clinical neutrality, and can’t anybody take any responsibility for anything? “What information do you have?” I say, and maybe I’m too loud, maybe I am. “Isn’t that your job, for Christ’s sake—to know what’s going on here? You call us up in the middle of the night—our daughter’s hurt, she’s been in an accident, and you tell me you don’t have any fucking information?”

People turn their heads, eyes burn into us. They’re slouched in orange plastic chairs, stretched out on the floor, praying, pacing, their lips moving in silence. They want information, too. We all want information. We want news, good news: it was all a mistake, minor cuts and bruises—contusions, that’s the word—and your daughter, son, husband, grandmother, first cousin twice removed will be walking through that door over there any minute. . . .

The nurse drills me with a look, and then she’s coming out from behind the desk, a short woman, dumpy—almost a dwarf—and striding briskly to a door, which swings open on another room, deeper yet. “If you’ll just follow me, please,” she says.

Suddenly sheepish, I duck my head and comply, two steps behind Maureen. This room is smaller, an examining room, with a set of scales and charts on the walls and its slab of a table covered with a sheet of antiseptic paper. “Wait here,” the nurse tells us, already shifting her weight to make her escape. “The doctor will be in in a minute.”

“What doctor?” I want to know. “What for? What does he want?”

But the door has already drawn closed.

I turn to Maureen. She’s standing there in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything or to sit down or even to move for fear of breaking the spell. She’s listening for footsteps, her eyes fixed on the door. I hear myself murmur her name, and then she’s in my arms, sobbing, and I know I should hold her, know that we both need it, the human contact, the love and support, but all I feel is the burden of her—there is nothing and no one that can make this better, can’t she see that? I don’t want to console or be consoled. I don’t want to be touched. I just want my daughter back.

Maureen’s voice comes from so deep in her throat I can barely make out what she’s saying. It takes a second to register, even as she pulls away from me, her face crumpled and red, and this is her prayer, whispered aloud: “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“Sure,” I say, “sure she is. She’ll be fine. She’ll have some bruises, that’s for sure, maybe a couple broken bones even . . . ” and I trail off, trying to picture it, the crutches, the cast, the Band-Aids, the gauze: our daughter returned to us in a halo of shimmering light.

“Maybe she broke her arm—she could break her arm. That would— Or her leg, even her leg. But why would she be in surgery? Why would she be in surgery so long? Why? Why would that be?”

I don’t have an answer to that. I don’t want to have an answer.

“It was a car,” Maureen says. “A car, Ted. A car hit her.”

The room seems to tick and buzz with the fading energy of the larger edifice, and I can’t help thinking of the congeries of wires strung inside the walls, the cables bringing power to the X-ray lab, the EKG and EEG machines, the life-support systems, and of the myriad pipes and the fluids that they drain.

A car. Three thousand pounds of steel, chrome, glass, iron.

“What was she even doing walking like that? She knows better than that.”

My wife nods, the wet ropes of her hair beating at her shoulders like the flails of the penitents. “She probably had a fight with Kimberly—I’ll bet that’s it. I’ll bet anything.”

“Where is the son of a bitch?” I snarl. “This doctor—where is he?”

We are in that room, in that purgatory of a room, for a good hour or more. Twice I thrust my head out the door to give the nurse an annihilating look, but there is no news, no doctor, nothing. And then, at quarter past two, the inner door swings open, and there he is, a man too young to be a doctor, an infant with a smooth bland face and hair that rides a wave up off his brow, and he doesn’t have to say a thing, not a word, because I can see what he’s bringing us and my heart seizes with the shock of it. He looks to Maureen, looks to me, then drops his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says.

When it comes, the meteor will punch through the atmosphere and strike the Earth in the space of a single second, vaporizing on impact and creating a fireball that will in that moment achieve temperatures of sixty thousand degrees Kelvin, or ten times the surface reading of the sun. If it is Chicxulub-size and it hits one of our landmasses, some two hundred thousand cubic kilometres of the Earth’s surface will be thrust up into the atmosphere, even as the thermal radiation of the blast sets fire to the Earth’s cities and forests. This will be succeeded by seismic and volcanic activity on a scale unknown in human history, and then the dark night of cosmic winter. If it should land in the sea, as the Chicxulub meteor did, it would spew superheated water into the atmosphere, instead, extinguishing the light of the sun and triggering the same scenario of seismic catastrophe and eternal winter, while simultaneously sending out a rippling ring of water three miles high to rock the continents as if they were saucers in a dishpan.

So what does it matter? What does anything matter? We are powerless. We are bereft. And the gods—all the gods of all the ages combined—are nothing but a rumor.

The gurney is the focal point in a room of gurneys, people laid out as if there’d been a war, the beaked noses of the victims poking up out of the maze of sheets like a series of topographic blips on a glaciated plain. These people are alive still, fluids dripping into their veins, machines monitoring their vital signs, nurses hovering over them like ghouls, but they’ll be dead soon, all of them. That much is clear. But the gurney, the one against the back wall with the sheet pulled up over the impossibly small and reduced form—this is all that matters. The doctor leads us across the room, speaking in a low voice of internal injuries, a ruptured spleen, trauma, the brain stem, and I can barely control my feet.

Can I tell you how hard it is to lift this sheet? Thin percale, and it might as well be made of lead, iron, iridium, might as well be the repository of all the dark matter in the universe. The doctor steps back, hands folded before him. The entire room or triage ward or whatever it is holds its breath. Maureen moves in beside me till our shoulders are touching, till I can feel the flesh and the heat of her pressing into me, and I think of this child we made together, this thing under the sheet, and the hand clenches at the end of my arm, the fingers there, prehensile, taking hold. The sheet draws back millimetre by millimetre, the slow striptease of death—and I can’t do this, I can’t—until Maureen lunges forward and jerks the thing off in a single violent motion.

It takes us a moment—the shock of the bloated and discolored flesh, the crusted mat of blood at the temple and the rag of the hair, this obscene violation of everything we know and expect and love—before the surge of joy hits us. Maddy is a redhead, like her mother, and though she’s seventeen, she’s as rangy and thin as a child, with oversized hands and feet, and she never did pierce that smooth sweet run of flesh beneath her lower lip. I can’t speak. I’m rushing still with the euphoria of this new mainline drug I’ve discovered, soaring over the room, the hospital, the whole planet. Maureen says it for me: “This is not our daughter.”

Our daughter is not in the hospital. Our daughter is asleep in her room beneath the benevolent gaze of the posters on the wall—Britney and Brad and Justin—her things scattered around her as if laid out for a rummage sale. Our daughter has in fact gone to Hana Sushi at the mall, as planned, and Kimberly has driven her home. Our daughter has, unbeknownst to us or anyone else, fudged the rules a bit—the smallest thing in the world, nothing really, the sort of thing every teen-ager does without thinking twice. She has loaned her I.D. to her second-best friend, Kristi Cherwin, because Kristi is sixteen and Kristi wants to see—is dying to see—the movie at the Cineplex with Brad Pitt in it, the one rated NC-17. Our daughter doesn’t know that we’ve been to the hospital, doesn’t know about Alice K. Petermann and the pinot noir and the glasses left on the bar, doesn’t know that even now the phone is ringing at the Cherwins’.

I am sitting on the couch with a drink, staring into the ashes of the fire. Maureen is in the kitchen with a mug of Ovaltine, gazing vacantly out the window where the first streaks of light have begun to limn the trunks of the trees. I try to picture the Cherwins—they’ve been to the house a few times, Ed and Lucinda—and I draw a blank until a backlit scene from the past presents itself, a cookout at their place, the adults gathered around the grill with gin-and-tonics, the radio playing some forgotten song, the children, our daughters, riding their bikes up and down the cobbled drive, making a game of it, spinning, dodging, lifting the front wheels from the ground even as their hair fans out behind them and the sun crashes through the trees. Flip a coin ten times and it could turn up heads ten times in a row—or not once. The rock is coming, the new Chicxulub, hurtling through the dark and the cold to remake our fate. But not tonight. Not for me.

For the Cherwins, it’s already here. ♦Published in the print edition of the March 1, 2004, issue, with the headline “Chicxulub.”

an observation from r/severance

[wbbpls]

My Girl

Hi! I’m totally new to this, so I’m sorry if this is all over the place. lmk if you guys like it!

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After a tough win, the team gathered in Paige’s room since she is hosting the party. Paige is talking to Ice and KK in the kitchen when Azzi walked in. Azzi is her best friend, who might also be the love of her life. Not that Azzi needs to know that. Of course she’s stunning, even in a crop top and jean shorts. The past few months they’ve been crossing the appropriate lines for friendship with lingering touches and flirty banter.

Across the room, some guy was standing way too close to Azzi. Her Azzi. Paige knows Azzi isn’t hers, but it kills her to think of Azzi with anyone else. That guy keeps leaningt in closer and closer to Azzi. Paige tried to look anywhere else, but her eyes had a mind of their own, and Azzi felt those piercing blue eyes burning into her. When Azzi looked over at Paige, she saw something in her eyes she’d never seen before.

When he put his arm on her waist, Azzi stepped backward uncomfortably. Something took over Paige’s body, and suddenly, she was next to Azzi. Her long arms slid around Azzi’s waist, pulling her in and away from that guy. “Hey Az, sorry I took so long. Here’s your drink.”

Azzi leaned into Paige’s soft yet possessive touch. “That’s okay, I was just talking to, uh, Jake, right?”

Barely acknowledging Paige, he responds, “Yeah, so how about that dance?” Is this Jake guy serious? Paige literally has her arm wrapped around Azzi and she wasn’t even sure of his name. Azzi’s whole body stiffened as she leaned further into Paige. “I’m just gonna hang out with my team, but thanks.” He didn’t seem to care. “Aw c’mon Azzi, I’ll show you a good time.”

“She’s good.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to talk to security first. If you didn’t notice, I was talking to Azzi.”

Paige stepped in front of Azzi, making sure he couldn’t touch her. “If you didn’t notice, Azzi said no. So back the fuck off my girl and get out of my apartment.” It just slipped out, but god, Paige wishes she could call Azzi her girl every day.

“Her girl? You for real, Azzi?”

“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend, so maybe give it up and leave us alone.” Speechless, Jake left quickly to avoid further embarrassment.

“Your girl, huh?” Azzi says as her hands rub up Paige’s biceps.

Paige wrapped her arms entirely around Azzi’s waist as if she’d done it every day of her life. Thankfully, the lights are low, hopefully blocking her blush. “Well, hopefully not his girl.”

“Yeah, definitely not looking to be his girl.”

“You lookin to be someone’s girl?” Paige’s eyes drifted down to Azzi’s lips, moving her hand to rest on her lower back. Azzi bites her lip, “Hm, no longer looking, just waiting for her to get it together.” Paige suddenly couldn’t breathe. Does that mean what she thinks it means? They always avoid these conversations, but the liquid courage is pushing boundaries. Paige can’t say that she’s in love with her. She can’t ruin their friendship and everything they’ve built, but she can’t stop touching Azzi either. “Uh, do you want to go dance?”

“Yeah, P, let’s go dance.” Azzi drops her hands down to Paige’s, and Paige starts to think maybe Azzi doesn’t want to stop touching either. The music feels like an excuse to be way closer than friends should, but it all happens so naturally. When Azzi starts to move her hips into Paige slowly, her breath hitches, and she grabs Azzi even tighter. Paige knows there’s no way they can use being best friends as an excuse anymore. She knows their teammates will tease her about this tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter because she has Azzi in her arms. As the beat speeds up, so do their hips as they grind into each other. A soft whimper leaves Azzi's mouth and Paige can’t help herself, “Fuck Az you’re so hot”

They are now face to face, their lips just an inch apart, and Azzi’s hands are in blonde strands. With a mischievous smirk, Azzi says “Yeah? You think so?”

“You have no idea.”

“Then show me.” Paige has never moved so fast in her life. She drags Azzi through the crowd and to her room. Slamming the door shut, Paige shoves Azzi against the wall with one hand on her waist and the other leaning above her head. “Say it again.”

Looking up at Paige with hooded eyes, Azzi practically whispers to Paige, “Show me.”

Paige leans in, their lips brushing, but not fully touching. “You sure, Az?” There’s no going back after this and Paige is praying they never have to.

“Paige, please. I want to be yours.” Something broke inside Paige, and she kissed her like her life depended on it. She’s dreamed of kissing her a million times over, but this kiss is better than she could have ever imagined. Azzi slightly opened her lips, inviting Paige’s tongue. Their kiss progressively got more passionate. Paige began to kiss down Azzi’s cheek to her neck, sucking and biting just to get Azzi to whimper.

“You wanna be mine, huh?” Paige chuckles and says possesivley as she leaves marks down her neck. Letting out a moan at the words, Azzi grips at the hair on the back of Paige’s neck, “Yes, fuck, P, you feel so good.” Paige slips one of her legs between Azzi’s and moves her hand just under Azzi’s breast. “Tell me what you want.”

Pulling Paige’s head back up to her face, Azzi breathes heavily, “I want to be yours, Paige.” Staring into her eyes, Paige finally says it. “You’re mine, Azzi.” Paige pulls at the back of Azzi’s legs, hinting for her to jump into Paige’s arms. Paige picks Azzi up and shoves her hard against the wall, kissing her even harder. Azzi leans her head back, “Mmh, I want you so bad.” Paige takes this as an opportunity to suck at her neck and grind into her hard. The moan that they both release is borderline embarrassing. Their lips reconnect, and Paige walks them over to her bed. “Fuck Az, you look so good,” she says as she straddles Azzi.

They both start pulling off each other’s clothes and grinding into each other. Paige’s hands are hovering dangerously above Azzi’s jean shorts. “Can I?” Azzi nods her head and pushes Paige’s hand down further. Paige fumbles with the button to her jeans as she kisses down her chest. She slips a finger down to rub at her clit. “Fuck, baby please.”

Paige isn’t sure if it’s the term of endearment or the begging, but she knows she’ll do anything Azzi wants. “Tell me who you belong to.” Paige slips two fingers deep into Azzi.

Azzi is a whimpering mess, with her eyes shut, gripping onto the sheets. Paige loves that she can’t speak, but she needs to hear Azzi say it. “Tell me, mama. Who do you belong to?”

“Yours, I’m yours, Paige, fuck!” Azzi yells out as Paige thrusts deeper into her.

“You’re so fuckin sexy, ma. You’re all mine.” Paige can feel Azzi getting tighter. “Your pussy that wet for me, baby?”

Azzi’s eyes are rolling into the back of her head as she grips onto Paige’s shoulder like her life depends on it. “I’m so close, don’t stop.”

Paige laughs at the idea, like she’d ever stop. “C’mon Az, when have I ever done you like that.“

“Paige I love you but shut up and fuck me” Azzi says breathlessly. Did she mean that or was it just in the moment of a fucked out haze? Paige slowed for a moment but knew she couldn’t stop now. She started to rub Azzi’s clit until her legs were shaking. Azzi came screaming her name as Paige continued to finger her guiding her off her high. Out of breathe, Azzi pushed Paige’s fingers away and pulled her up. Paige is trying to act normal about all of this, but Azzi just said she loved her.

Azzi must have noticed Paige’s hesitation, “What’s wrong, P?”

“You love me?” Even to Paige’s ears she could hear the insecurity. Azzi’s face softened as she rubbed across Paige’s jaw. “Of course I love you. I always have. I just have been too scared to push things and risk losing you.”

Paige starts laughing leaving Azzi confused. “Uh, what’s so funny about that?”

“Baby, I’m so fuckin in love with you and we are so dumb.” Azzi smiles, showing those beautiful dimples. “I guess we deserve each other, hm? Maybe now I can return the favor and show you how much I love you.”

Paige can’t believe this is real. Azzi is her girl.

[arxiwon]

Crimson Desire | yjw

(Jungwon x Reader | Vampire AU | Smut | Jealousy | Possessive | Bloodplay)

The air in the dimly lit room felt thick, charged with something almost dangerous. You could feel it in the way Jungwon stood just a few feet away, watching you, his golden eyes glowing with an unreadable intensity. His expression was unreadable, but his body language said everything—tense shoulders, jaw clenched just enough to make the muscle twitch.

He was jealous.

You had been talking about an old friend earlier, mentioning him in passing, but something about the way you had laughed—so carefree, so comfortable—had clearly set Jungwon off. He hadn’t said a word at first, just nodded along, but now, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, his gaze locked on you like a predator about to pounce, you knew better than to think he was unaffected.

The silence stretched between you, suffocating, heavy.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"You smell like him."

His voice was deep, smooth, but laced with something darker. A warning.

Your lips parted slightly, breath hitching at the accusation laced in his tone. “Jungwon, I—”

Before you could finish, he was in front of you in an instant, moving with that inhuman speed that always left you breathless. His cold fingers gripped your chin, tilting your head back as he stared down at you.

"You smell like him," he repeated, slower this time, like he was daring you to deny it. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, but his grip on your jaw was firm—possessive.

The warmth of his breath fanned against your cheek, but what made you shiver was the way his eyes flickered, pupils dilating as he inhaled deeply, drinking in your scent.

“Did he touch you?” he murmured, his fingers sliding down your throat, pressing just lightly enough to make your pulse race beneath his touch. “Did his hands linger on you the way mine do?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding against your ribs. “No,” you whispered. “Only you.”

Jungwon let out a slow exhale through his nose, his lips twitching at your answer. But that wasn’t enough. No, he wanted more.

"You need to be reminded," he mused, voice dropping an octave, his other hand sliding down your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. "Maybe I should leave my mark on you—"inside you."

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Before you could react, he yanked you flush against him, his body cold yet burning at the same time. His mouth was on yours instantly, teeth clashing, tongue sliding past your lips in a kiss so possessive it made your knees weak.

His fangs scraped against your bottom lip, not quite biting, but teasing—threatening. His fingers dug into your hips as he pressed you back against the wall, pinning you between the cold surface and his hard body.

"You’re already shaking," he murmured against your lips, his voice dripping with amusement. His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers pressing over your panties—over the damp fabric already clinging to your heat.

He let out a dark chuckle. "So wet for me already?"

The way he said it made you burn.

His fingers dragged slowly over the soaked fabric, pressing down just enough to make your breath stutter. "You like this, don’t you?" he teased, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive you insane. "The thought of me losing control over you—owning you."

You moaned softly, head tilting back against the wall as your fingers clutched at his shoulders. “Jungwon…”

He hummed, enjoying the way his name spilled from your lips so easily. But he wasn’t satisfied yet.

Without warning, he tore your panties down in one swift motion, letting them pool around your ankles. His fingers dipped between your folds, spreading the wetness, teasing your entrance but never quite giving you what you needed.

“So fucking wet,” he murmured, voice husky, his thumb flicking over your clit just enough to make you jolt. His other hand gripped your thigh, hitching your leg up against his hip to keep you open for him. “And all for me.”

He slid one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching as your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping you at the sensation. His eyes darkened.

"You're so tight," he groaned, pumping his finger in and out with agonizing slowness. "You take me so well, baby."

He added a second finger, curling them deep, hitting that spot that made you whimper and claw at his shirt. His thumb never stopped rubbing lazy circles against your clit, coaxing more slickness out of you.

"That's it," he praised, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

Your walls clenched around his fingers, the pressure building, but just when you were teetering on the edge, Jungwon pulled away.

You whined at the loss, your body trembling, but he just smirked. "Not yet," he whispered. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

With a blur of movement, he lifted you off the ground, carrying you to the bed before pinning you beneath him. His clothes disappeared in an instant, and when his bare skin pressed against yours, the contrast of his cool body against your warmth made you shudder.

His cock pressed against your entrance, teasing, the tip dragging through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. He let out a low groan, his grip on your thighs tightening.

"You’re gonna take all of me," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Every inch."

And then—he pushed in.

A sharp gasp left your lips as he stretched you open, inch by inch, filling you completely. His head dropped to your shoulder, a deep groan escaping him as your walls fluttered around him, adjusting to his size.

"Fuck," he muttered against your skin. "You feel so fucking good."

He didn’t move at first, savoring the way you clenched around him, but then—slowly, torturously—he started thrusting. Deep, slow strokes that left you gasping, nails digging into his back.

Then he snapped his hips forward, hard enough to make you cry out.

"Say it," he growled, his fangs grazing your shoulder. "Say you're mine."

"Jungwon—"

He thrust harder, knocking the air from your lungs. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you choked out, pleasure surging through you. "Only yours."

A wicked smirk curled his lips. "Good girl."

His hand found your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. His other hand slipped between your bodies, rubbing your clit in quick, precise circles.

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice raw with need.

And you did. Your orgasm crashed over you, your walls pulsing around him, milking him as his own release followed—his groan muffled as he bit down on your shoulder, fangs sinking into your flesh just as he spilled inside you.

The pleasure was overwhelming—pain and pleasure blending into something utterly intoxicating.

As you both came down, breathless and tangled together, Jungwon smirked against your skin.

"I should get jealous more often," he mused, licking the fresh bite mark he'd left.

You let out a shaky laugh, still dazed. "Maybe," you murmured. "But next time… warn me first."

Jungwon chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. "No promises, sweetheart."

[xxxicddbr88]

Puppy love

❕️ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE❕️

In where Jiyong can't help but to fall in love with you, his bestfriend, and is not sure how to handle it..

warning(s): fluff and Jiyong being hopelessly in love! The reader is said to be a woman, use of Y/N

Jiyong had caught himself staring at her more than he'd want to admit..He's in love with her laugh, smile, eyes and even the way she speaks, some people might call him a freak for paying so much attention to someone that's not even his girlfriend but he thought he was being romantic, would she think so too?

He stared at her during classes, during breaks, during lunch...he pretty much stared at her everytime he could and his friends teased him for it, he couldn't really hide his frustration everytime he had heard her laugh at something her friend had said..it may sound possessive but he only wanted her laugh to be for his ears only..

He glanced behind him and stared at the back of her head as she stood on the other end of the class before turning around again "What do I do?" he whispered to his friend, Youngbae "Do what?" he asked, clearly confused and Jiyong rolled his eyes and shook his shoulders "Were you even listening to what I was saying? I was ranting to you about what am I supposed to do to get her to go out with me" he grumbled "..just..ask her out" he snickered "You two are great friends and neighbours, I'm sure she likes you at least a bit" when Youngbae saw that Jiyong was about to protest he spoke up again "Do you at least know what she likes?" He asked and raised an eyebrow at which Ji nodded "She likes Tulips..letters and chocolate" he listed off and Youngbae stared at him before sighing "Thats not a lot...but it'll do" he said and after a short while he spoke up again "She's free on Friday right? no afterschool classes or anything" he asked and Ji nodded his head "Perfect" he grinned and they both started talking about their plan.

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

(Y/N) was by her locker changing out of her school shoes, her bag slung over her shoulder. She heard footsteps approach so she looked to her right and smiled when he saw Jiyong "Ji!" she said with a friendly voice and he tensed up, thankfully she didn't see, he collected himself and started speaking "Are you..uhh..free this Friday?" he asked, his palms were sweaty in the cofines of his pockets "Friday? Yeah I think I am" she said after a while of thinking about any possible plans she could've had "Great!" he said loudly, louder than he intended..even she got surprised "Do you.. want to hang out...after school?" he asked with reluctance, something that wasn't really like him, she nodded and a soft smile plastered her face "Yeah, why not.." she started and spoke up once again, cutting him off "are you okay? you look nervous" she mused and he nodded "I'm fine! perfectly fine!" she giggled at his words and tilted her head "I'll be waiting then" she hummed and adjusted her school bag "see you on Friday!" she said happily, closed her locker and left the school building, he stood there for a while before letting out a sigh "You didn't do anything" Younbae snickered and Ji rewarded his words with a glare at which the other boy just chuckled.

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Her and Jiyong were walking through the park, she was rambling about something she liked, he didn't know if it was a movie, book or a game..all he was focused on was the way the setting sun framed her face, the way her eyes sparkled as it did..he was mesmerised by her to say at least.

"Ji" she snapped her fingers "Ji are you listening?" she asked and tilted her head with a frown at which he quickly nodded "I..I am" he stuttered out and she just smiled "I can see" she snickered and they went back to walking, that didn't last for long as he suddenly stopped, she turned around with concern etched onto her face "Hey..you okay?" she asked "You've been acting weird all week" she continued and he cursed under his breath with a smile before speaking up again "I'm fine" he murmured and looked at her "there's something I was meaning to ask you though" he continued, his gaze intense, she didn't answer..waiting for him to continue.

"wait here" he said quickly and ran off, she stared at him in confusion but didn't protest, she waited.

After around 10 minutes she started to grow anxious did he just leave? she asked herself, as the doubt increased she suddenly heard hurried steps and turned around, she smiled in relief "I thought you left" she said with a sheepish laugh at which he chuckled with embarrassment before straightening out and staring straight into her eyes "(Y/N)" he started "We've been friends for a long time and..I've grown to like you, more than just a friend" he took a breath as he saw her eyes widen "if you don't feel the same it's fine..I..just..couldn't do it anymore" he continued and held up the Tulips, a letter and a box of chocolates "I like you" he repeated "I like you more than I'd like to admit.." he bit the inside of his cheek "Say something.." he urged when he saw her look, she stayed silent before smiling and accepting the gift "Finally" she chuckled "I was waiting till you tough up and ask me out" a playful grin appeared on her face and he smiled "I like you too, Ji" she said words that Jiyong was just waiting to hear, words he wanted to hear.."You remembered my favourite flowers" she murmured, more to herself as she adjusted her hold on them and they stared at eachother before Jiyong smiled widely "I love you" he said and she replied with just as excited "I love you too".

Love?

That was new, for both of them..two teens, two different people.. yet they always have felt a connection between eachother, one they didn't want to admit or were to scared to but now? Now it seemed like that feeling was always between them.

He held her cheeks as they exchanged a soft kiss..their first kiss, something that will be dear for them both as the time goes on.

"Can I be your boyfriend?" He asked her quietly as his forehead rested against hers, she giggled softly "Of course.." she whispered and they both shared another kiss..

୨୧┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈୨

My first ever fanfic on this platform! I'm not sure if I didn't rush the ending but I'm half asleep as I write it, please do tell if anything needs correction and if you liked it dont forget to show your support❤️! Requests are open!

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

I love love love ALL of your fics, you have no idea the intensity of my joy when I clicked on your profile and knew all of your fandoms.

If you're still doing the fic ask game, could you do Pez Dispenser Debris? It's my favorite mha fic ever bc you nailed the characterizations but it's also objectively like the funniest thing ever? and I feel like the background world is so rich even if it's not the primary focus of the fic.

Mirio is meant to be to Izuku what Izuku is to everyone else.

Everyone who talks about Izuku is like “he is unrealistically perfect. You can’t even be mad at him for it. He is all that is noble and pure and good. I’ve spent the last three years consoling myself with the fact that my classmate is the greatest person to ever live so it’s okay that he’s totally lapping me” and then you get to Izuku’s perspective and he’s just like a horrible mess of anxiety and crisis.

Izuku is ON THE RECORD that he thinks Mirio is the greatest man to ever live. He is #blessed to breathe the same air. God actually made him as a model for rest of humanity to follow and Izuku’s just here to be thankful.

And then you get to Mirio’s perspective. And he’s also kind of a mess.

I think Mirio excels at keeping the appearance of cheer up. Maybe a little too well. He defaults to it as a mask. So you end up with him wanting to cry at the idea of all might trying to fill in for nighteye and never telling anyone.

I also really liked the idea of him being slightly possessive over Izuku.

It’s not in a toxic way. He’s not trying to isolate Izuku or anything. But like. Mirio Does Not want to admit that he deserves anything resembling a second billing in Izuku’s life. They got incredibly close while he was prepping for his final licensure exam. He’s the one that’s starting an agency with Izuku. So every time Aizawa tries to get information out of him or send him away he’s like No I’m Sorry As Izuku’s Best Friend And Older Brother I Have Primacy Here.

He hides it from Izuku, because he doesn’t want Izuku to be pressured to stay by his side. There was this sort of golden moment before Mirio graduated where they were both completely unknown to the public and happy that way. They made a lot of plans about being heroes together before anyone had so much as made Izuku an offer.

A lot’s happened since then, and Mirio doesn’t want to lose what they are together. He doesn’t want Izuku to go where he can’t follow. But he also doesn’t want to hold him back. He’s been secretly very bothered by the idea that Izuku’s just staying by his side out of obligation and that he’s ruining Izuku’s hero career the way everyone says he was.

The text messages he sent were a rare moment of letting the mask slip, because he realized that he needed to tell Izuku how badly he wanted to still be heroes together before it was too late. He’s been trying to give Izuku an easy out, but he doesn’t actually want Izuku to take it.

He wants to be heroes with his brother, the way they promised they would.

[turntech-fuckedinthehead]

The daverose demons possessed me at 10pm

Hope you guys enjoy

[rubber-glovs]

Oooohhh the urge to yap about my ocs and the world they live in......

[rv3rblog]

what was i made for?

writing smth for ftm!reader bc i am in fact.. ftm (and gay ! and poly yeehaw)

kyle “gaz” garrick x ftm!reader

warnings: maybe ooc, angst/comfort (more angst than comfort), transphobic remarks (not really shown), internalized transphobia, internalized homophobia

word count: 942

(this is lowkey a vent writing piece so.. uhh yeah!)

IT WAS ALWAYS HARD TRYING TO EXPLAIN TO YOUR FAMILY YOUR IDENTITY; they didn’t seem to care enough to take you seriously and it hurt.

It was tiring to explain that you weren’t a girl, that you were never one. That you were a man and you liked them too.

They either didn’t care or didn’t understand. They kept misgendering you, dead named you sometimes too.

Yet, throughout that pain, you didn’t cut them off. You couldn’t find it in yourself to let your family go. Although you should, that’s what your therapist told you.

It was odd. You found it odd to have found a boyfriend who loved you. Someone who saw you like you saw yourself. Someone who came up to you and asked you out shyly because he found you attractive and had heard your giggle and he was smitten.

But.

There was always a but.

Your brain couldn’t comprehend that Kyle truly loved you. That he saw you as a man because surely he’ll leave you as soon as he gets the chance to.

You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Your therapist told you that it wasn’t healthy of you to hold your insecurities so deep within yourself and not share them with him. You tried explaining yourself but it felt as if your therapist wasn’t hearing you.

Because how do you explain that you don’t feel like you belong? How do you explain that in your mind, in your head, you never felt like you belonged in a gay relationship.

That you felt like a fraud some days.

Maybe you needed to get a new therapist.

No, that wasn’t the issue.

You stayed in bed, curled up. Only getting up to use the bathroom. You didn’t contact anyone all day either.

Your brain was eating you alive.

You felt wrong.

It felt like you didn’t belong. It was an odd thing. Always a mess when you were in your head. You knew Kyle was probably worried, concerned for you.

You didn’t hear the front door opening. You didn’t hear your bedroom door opening either.

You didn’t see Kyle looking at you with sadness in his eyes. Just by your position alone he knew.

You felt the bed shift behind you. His arm hovering over you.

“Darlin?” he whispered. “Can I touch you.”

You nodded weakly and he pulled you against his chest. You started to sob. Your body shaking as you let go of your emotions after being bottled up for so long.

You didn’t belong.

You weren’t a girl. Sure, you understood the pain of misogyny and sisterhood was something special to you but, you weren’t a girl.

Sometimes, you barely felt like a man either. Sure, toxic masculinity was something you saw pre transition and experienced during transitioning but, what made a man a man?

Even when voicing your concerns to your therapist they didn’t seem to understand.

No one understood you, not really.

So when Kyle told you it’s okay. It’s okay darling.

You snapped. You pushed him away and got off the bed. Your eyes were puffy and your nose was runny. You shook your head, constantly repeating it isn't. It isn’t.

Because to you, it wasn’t okay. It would never truly be okay.

Kyle got up to hold you again but you shook your head, raising your hand to stop you. He stood in front of you, frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

You also didn’t know what to do.

For how do you explain to your boyfriend the demons in your head were eating you up? That they were destroying any sense of security you had.

The answer is, you couldn’t but, you tried.

You saw the way his eyes widened slightly when you started rambling. Your therapist's words ringing in your head.

Open up. Let him in. He loves you, let him help you. Let him in.

He shook his head, grabbing your hands and holding them. He whispered soft words of praise, understanding. He let you shake your head. He let you yell that he didn’t understand and that he never would, not truly.

He was trying and that was all that mattered to you at the moment.

You whispered softly that you didn’t feel like you belonged, not in a gay relationship and not anywhere really.

He nodded, encouraging you to talk.

You continued, letting him know that it was okay, if he were to leave you for a real man.

He shut you down there. He told you that he loved you. That to him, you were a real man. You just shrugged at his response, not truly believing him.

He wasn’t upset at you nor was he growing frustrated.

It always startled you, how calm Kyle was in moments your self doubt was loud.

He told you that you were a man. That you always were.

He pulled you into his arms again, his head resting on top of yours and you started to cry again.

Kyle may not understand, not fully but he’s trying. He whispers to you that he will always be there for you. That he loves you so much. How he’s so proud of you for continuing even though you’re struggling.

You let the words sink in. You know that some days are worse than others and today was bad. You melt against him, your hands gripping onto the back of his shirt.

Your body shakes as you sob. He lets your hair and whispers soothing words.

“You’re enough.”

“I’m so proud of you darling.”

For now, for a while, for next time, his words are enough.

[hoperaypegasus]

I thought up random stuff for Beyblade... again

Bladers call their beys by nicknames or shortened names instead of their actually names outside of battles (like Storm Aquario might be called Storm or Hades Kerbecs might be called Kerbie).

Bladers who travel on their own a lot often train their beys so that the avatar can accompany them. This technique is also more common in performer spheres as it does drain energy and wouldn’t be smart for a battle blader to constantly be doing.

Beys tend to listen to people who are close with their blader as well (for example Toby and Zeo can command each others beys if they want) and generally all beys being willing to listen to a mechanic if they’ve been to them numerous times before and trust them.

Some beys can alter their avatar if what they are based on has multiple forms (like Horuseus can be a falcon as well, or Aquario can take on the form of a wave and a water spirit).

When bladers get to a really high level of strength and control, they can temporarily embody the power of their bey (as seen by Pluto at the battle of Nemesis and Ryuga’s teleportation). This power varies in form from bey to bey and can be built up over time (Kenta with teleportation and a bow, Gingka with wings, Kyoya with creating wind currents, nile with shields etc).

Even if they stop battling later in life, former bladers often still carry their beys with them, often hiding bey boxes in professional settings in increasingly creative ways.

Tag team partners who battle together a lot typically end up mimicking each other subconsciously and usually have some form of matching item in their appearances (tattoo, jewelry, etc).

DJs often got into fights about "blader custody" during the world championships, aka who got announce for them since they were DJing for them the longest. And it wasn't just National DJs with each other, regional ones jumped in too. It was chaos.

Different types of bladers value and aim for different things in their beys, so comparisons between different groups by each other tend to fall short as they hold them to their standards. Because of this, there are sheets on the WBBA websites of what is common goals of each groups for reporters who might not be fluent in these.

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[remoncatto]

Various doodles from twitter

[leporinelou]

still kinda obsessed w the fact that like five years ago i thought i was legitimately experiencing a haunting and or possession along w some other people but it just turned out i was actually just severely mentally ill and having an episode of some sort

[britneyshakespeare]

You know. Sorry for another sporadic unprompted post about that friend who has caused me so much trauma in the past year. But I remember this one time his old high school friend I met once, he's really nice I liked him a lot. Cool guy. But he lives far away so they don't meet up a lot but they text. One time he sent this friend some pictures of us that were taken at a cooking class that he'd been bothering me into going to despite that it was all the way in Boston, there was a lot of walking to get to it, etc. And I was like constantly feeling sick and run down and exhausted from having Covid recently. He texted his friends those pictures of the two of us and his friend asked "Are you and Diana dating lol" like pretty innocently but honestly curious.

And he just replied "Are you fucking high" and he showed me and told me about it. Like. Like it was uncomfortable for HIM to be asked that.

Like his response isn't SUPER INSULTING TO ME.

[ilikeyoshi]

fascinated by the number of replies on that poll that are just "no bc it's none of my business" like. ok???? extremely weird point to make. would it also be none of your business if that friend like. mugged somebody. hit their partner. tf does "it's not my business" have to do with anything they have displayed blatant disregard for the trust and love of others. it's GONNA be your business when they do some heinous shit behind your back.

[indigodawns]

.

[becaexists]

My DM refuses tell me anything about my character's future love interest other than he exists so I've been making passive comments like "oh wow this animatic of Caleb from Critical Role looks just like the type of guy Apate [my character] is into wow isn't that cool" and "wow aren't Arwen and Aragorn so cute in this edit I'd love to play out a dynamic like that" and she can't do shit about it because oh no I can't know anything about him!