#i might just be an idiot but who knows for sure

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

Something of note about Lilia's tarot spread is that—it's hers. The cards she pulls aren't precisely who the characters are to themselves, but who they are and what they represent to Lilia. As her coven, in her life.

Like, I don't really know my tarot that well—I'm just pulling themes from within the episode and my general understanding.

But when she was reading for Billy, he was fittingly represented by the Magician. But for Lilia, he was the “windfall.” He was the tower, reversed. Miraculous transformation. Because she, having put the sigil on him, saved him from the destruction and lead to his miraculous transformation. And to her, he was the windfall, because without him, she wouldn't be here, with her coven. She wouldn't have found herself.

Alice's is very straight forward—“full of fire, fights bravely.” It's how Lilia saw her, what Lilia had once again predicted for her. 'Wound suffered, lessons learned.' Specifically, Lilia wasn't able to warn Alice, but she learned her lesson. So, this time, she makes sure to warn Agatha. “When she calls you a coward, hit the deck.”

And why does she warn Agatha? Agatha represents her 'obstacles,' after all. Maybe so—Lilia's literal obstacle at this stage ends up being the Salem Seven, who merely want Agatha. Yet she chooses to stay behind to save a woman who probably wouldn't do the same for her. And the reason is—for her, Agatha is the Three of Swords. She looks at her and sees Heartbreak, (Rio) Sorrow, (Evanora) Grief (Nicholas). And Lilia is willing to forgive her—to sacrifice herself for her—even if the universe itself doesn't think she deserves it. This is different from how Agatha views herself, or even how Billy views her, since he initially pulls out the Chariot. One might say it's a random choice, but the Chariot is described as representing “determination, success, and control.” It's about overcoming challenges and gaining victory through maintaining control of your surroundings—which, I argue, embodies Agatha pretty well. So The Three of Swords is who Agatha is to Lilia. She doesn't hate her, or see her as a force to be reckoned with. She pities her. After all, the Queen of Cups is defined by her empathy.

Then, of course, Jen. Jen is Lilia's path ahead. Not only because she has a brilliant future of her own ahead of her in the mcu, now with her powers unbound. Because Lilia senses all the trapped light and bound power that Jen carries—“The High Priestess: Immense spiritual power, unable or unwilling to use it--” but also because Jen, the survivor, is the one who will carry on Lilia's memory. All those centuries, Lilia had been alone—there was no 'path ahead.' Everything was a jumbled mess, her “path” was non-linear and twisty. And Jen, after centuries of solitude, was her light in the dark, guiding her through the dark tunnels, as her mind wandered through her timeline searching for answers. Jen was the only person in centuries who bothered to see her as something more, to acknowledge her strength, and to help her fill in the gaps as best as she could. And so Lilia sees so much hope in Jennifer—who won't stop becoming better and better. Because for Jen, the Queen of Cups is her path behind. Wound suffered, lessons learned. “I couldn't save Lilia, I didn't even try to save Alice, I'll be damned if I let you two idiots die.”

Finally, Death, Rio. Well—it's obvious. In tarot, death isn't literal. It's mist often symbolic. Transformation, end of a cycle, new beginnings. Which is why we never see Lilia's corpse, and we never see Rio collect her. Because unlike Alice, Lilia went into the afterlife willingly. And for her, it was a beautiful release. After years of running out of time—she got to start anew—knowing that this time, she managed to save her coven. (I'd also like to think that the reason we don't see Rio collect Sharon is because it was a peaceful death—joining Mr. Davis instead of suffering further. Whereas Alice finally had something to live for, but I digress. I've already made my posts about Alice.)

I think that this is all relatively obvious—but I genuinely can't stop thinking about Lilia and her dynamics with the rest of the coven.

[yanmuffins]

asks.

there are quite a few asks on my ask box so i'm reply to some of them collectively on this post!

unfortunately he's alone in that. jon could have been his stacy but he's got a crush on reader and has too much fun with their invetions. damian thinks he's a traitor.

@megasweetbones

"perry and alfred used to be secret agents of the british royal family"

now that's a very old platypus.

i like the idea of tim being the most unsettled by the platypus out of everyone. tripping him might or might not have been on purpose. we'll never know! but after a while, tim is just conviced the platypus' got some weird business about it. typical wayne paranoia, sure, but he swears there's something about that weird little amalgamation of animals he can't really pinpoint. he swears he's looking at him weird. and he swears he's scaring him on purpose, appearing out of nowhere.

"calm your tits, tim. it's just a platypus." jason says, "they don't do much."

but tim really can't help glaring at perry the very normal regular domesticated platypus whenever he's seen in reader's arms.

@randomlyappearingartist

alfred absolutely knows about the invetions. no he will not tell bruce about them. he sees bruce and the others barely noticing reader exists, how dismissive they are, and he's like "i'll tell them to ask their father for permission first. if master bruce doesn't notice the legally binding papers or the outlandish gadgets around the manor then that's his problem, honestly."

the most he does is very cryptically allude to it, in hopes the family will take notice of reader. as expected, it doesn't work. he just lets reader do whatever they want as long as they consult their father firts and promise to be careful.

the thing about phineas! reader is that they are a regular teenager (if you take away the gifted genius who can build rocketships to the moon in a single day part) who's just in it for the fun. creating all those crazy gadgets and invetions, letting their creativity flow, having fun with their friends, spending every summer day like it's the last one before they go back to school.

if perry got them a job at the justice league, i think reader would deny it. they're not particularly interested in vigilantism or heroism for that matter. they might consider it after high school is over, but for now? all they want to do is be a teenager. not a very conventional teenager, but a teenager nonetheless.

and tbh it's more of a psychological thing, not being able to build. it's like all of those ideas are bottling up inside their head, going to waste, with them being unable to do anything about it.

well, it's not like they can't do anything about it, but having the batfam limiting what they can and cannot do, watching over their shoulder, isn't exactly providing them the enrichment they need.

but since damian and jon are determined to help, reader doesn't have to worry about that for long!

reader is actually a citizen of metropolis! or was, since they're now in gotham. a big adjustment.

the meeting between jon and reader happens thanks to damian. he's fully expecting jon to be an ally in busting his new sibling. he's complained about them countless times before, to the point jon's tired of hearing about them.

but he actually meets them and, hey, they're super cute and super cool! it's kind of amazing they come up with their inventions so fast. so he goes from reluctantly humoring damian to actively helping reader. maybe even with his own powers. damian can do nothing but shake his head and sigh wearily. jon is an idiot.

the scene in question anon is referencing, at 0:16.

the concept is so funny, anon, but hm... i wonder if jon wouldn't just straight up tell reader about it. he wants to be included, so i don't think it'd be long before he's using his powers to help reader with their inventions.

it is at times like these the batfam has to thank the universe reader is chaotic good and would never turn to villainy. because then damian can enjoy having a super awesome sibling who gives him all sorts of elaborate weapons for him to practice with!

nevermind that he's asking for these just so he can bring the weapons you built to bruce and prove once and for all you're not the harmless kid they think you are, but that's before he realizes the weapons are kinda good. and he kinda wants to keep them, which wouldn't be possible if he handed them over to bruce.

so he'll keep these a secret. just these.

[ronearoundblindly]

a kiss out of envy + ari 🤭

As promised, love, I give you...

frat boy!Ari Levinson x reader, one of my Valentine's Fics of 2024 (yes, you read that correctly, and no, I don't want to talk about it. 🥲 It's been a rough year lol.)

Summary: You and Ari want each other for all the wrong reasons.

Warnings (regarding both parts of the story) for drinking and partying, language, shitty behavior from...yeah everyone is a bit of a mess in this ngl (it's college), vaguely taboo mutual pining, and not-really cheating/implied cheating (applies to multiple people). This is an angsty weird fluffy sorta romance with an ambiguous ending because no one can communicate to save their f**king lives...BUT HEY! KISSES. MINORS DNI. There's plenty for younger readers on my Light Masterlist, but not here! WC 3.9k

A/N: This is the first half from Reader's perspective.

College is…predictable.

You spent the first weeks of your freshman year faking self-assurance you didn’t actually feel because confidence is sexy—or whatever the saying is,—and if you had to start from scratch, you might as well start from a place you’re proud of.

You made friends. You went out with your roommate. You stayed out late with lots of people you don’t know, and you smiled. Holy shit, did you smile…

The attempt to ‘get out there’ brought constant stress; you wanted to define your social life right off the bat, but good people are hard to find.

You officially decided you were looking in the wrong place for any good people while at the Lawn Party three-quarters of the way through your first semester.

Finally, you’d tried. You pulled out all the stops. You wore the nicer, trendier clothes that you splurged on for events just like this. You put on extra makeup, brought some with you in your little purse to touch it up, and when you smiled in the mirror seconds before running out of the dorm with your roomie, you really were self-assured. You felt sexy.

Though the party was outdoors, you stuck with just the one layer of a light-colored, flowy top, something whimsical and fun, something less useful and more useless, but that’s the idea of fashion, you suppose.

When the breeze caught the fabric, you imagined you were in a movie, one of those scenes where the heroine is about to get noticed by the man of her dreams.

That is exactly the opposite of what happened.

You’d been there all of half an hour, your roommate off to get drinks (after you whined and waited and stalled, hoping to strike up some conversation without partaking in the shared, bad decisions of the swath of 18-22 year olds meandering across a grass field behind the sports complex), when you heard a really loud, shrill laugh behind you and turned.

A red Solo cup crumpled against your boob and beer exploded across your chest, drenching your shirt and dripping grossly down your stomach.

“Wooooah,” the big guy still gripping shredded plastic drawled, eyes glued to your see-through blouse as it clung to your front. “Sorry.”

The girl who laughed with him put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh. My god.” Yet she just laughed more.

That was it. That was the sum total acknowledgment of your destroyed outfit and evaporated dignity.

“Ari,” someone called, startling your assailant to look away with his unresponsive, blown pupils.

You noticed a few drops of beer on his letterman jacket, so, sure, in comparison to your entire front half being soaked, that seemed a fair-and-equal trade for your embarrassment.

Then he was gone, the laughing girl following the asshole, Ari, and his idiot friends as they recapped the football game from…whenever.

You left the party once the waistband of your jeans felt soggy.

You spent longer washing your beer-sponge bra in the dorm sink than you did on the lawn.

Now you know college is a fucking joke. That party became a defining moment in your social life. You realized men—no, boys—like Ari will never care about you as you really are, and finally, you’ve accepted that you don’t want them to.

They don’t deserve to know you.

Sophomore year. Women’s Studies. Of all the fucking classes…

On day one Ari plopped down in the desk next to you.

He plopped because his whole left leg was strapped into a thick brace that kept it straight and jutted out, unable to fit in the tiny seat. He’s so tall his thonged foot tapped at yours beneath your own chair.

In your utter frustration and irritation (since the professor had already started talking), you automatically muttered an apology—to Ari, like some pushover—and moved your legs.

“Not your fault,” the footballer softly chuckled, taking another long moment to settle his crutches on the floor.

Were there no other seats?

You sighed and knew, you just knew down in your bones, that this would be a long damn semester. You also had every faith, however, that this fuck-boy classmate would do just about anything to stay in the course dedicated to his favorite pastime: women.

Though that was an assumption, Ari proved you right, and it sucked.

It took all your innate kindness and compassion not to spit on him. Honestly, the guy is just…dumb. When your eyes wandered every so often, you always found him looking confused, but he wouldn’t ask questions. Several times you caught him sneaking peeks at your notes. You just couldn’t take it.

He fell asleep in one class!

With the course final mere weeks away, the OCD part of your brain kicked in and shoved several sheets of important points you’d written down into his lap before he fully woke up.

His brace was off by then, but Ari still moved slowly.

Again, he looked so confused.

“I expect them back on Wednesday,” you said with a tight jaw, barely restraining the choice names you’d wanted to call him.

You’d been conditioned so heavily to be nice that you smiled at him. A small smile, yeah, but you smiled at the coddled asshole who did not deserve to pass the class. You should have let him fail. You should have let him lean harder on that damn scholarship.

Football held his dead-weight up this long; what’s a few more years?

Nearly the end of your Senior year. Off-campus. You’ve tried.

Socializing is a hit-and-miss game, and you’re learning that sometimes the miss happens slowly, without failed plays, with all the effort you could muster.

“Look, if we’re not doing anything here, then I’m going to the party. You coming? The house is two blocks away.”

Your boyfriend, Billy, stands with his apartment door open and his roommates calling to him from down the hall. He’s frustrated, you know that, but his frustration doesn’t negate the uneasy twist in your gut you get whenever he tries to take things further than making out.

Billy is perfect on paper. He studies hard, has a job already lined up for summer, is driven to achieve…and desperately wants to get laid.

He’s cute, totally adequate in that department, yet still, you can’t force yourself to let him touch you any more than absolutely necessary. You two have excellent conversations, multiple shared interests, and you have no words to describe your lack of…want. It eats you up right along with that twisting aversion to fuck him—because it is specific to him.

You don’t lack for interest in men, even if these are still boys around you. You’re attracted. Kinda. You thought attraction could grow from affection, too, but it hasn’t in months with Billy. It doesn’t make you think he lacks in some way; you feel lacking.

Maybe you lack sympathy. Maybe you lack understanding. Maybe you are just as superficial as those slutty girls you hate, the ones sure to be at this party. Maybe Billy thinks those girls will rub off on you if you’re surrounded.

There’s no one thing, no quantifiable logic; he just doesn’t do it for you. That won’t change.

Your relationship has an expiration date, and you feel it approaching.

Unsurprisingly, you can’t bring yourself to be mean and tell him an outright ‘no.’ It’s rude to say ‘I’m not attracted to you,’ right? You’re a nice person, and it’s not nice to hurt someone who hasn’t done anything wrong.

The heavy pain in your belly grows dense, but still, nothing changes.

The compulsion to be kind and quiet continues as you follow him out, tucking your hands under your arms so Billy won’t try to touch you, but it doesn’t matter. He walks a few feet ahead to keep up with his friends on the walk down the road to the Kappa house.

The two-story, plantation-style home is packed to the gills, making it hard to maneuver past the front door, and of course, the first person you recognize is a brother of the fraternity living there.

Ari Levinson stands halfway up the staircase overlooking the crowd like a king surveying his domain, hair grown long and a beard worthy of his fifth-year undergrad status. He’s wearing a button-up linen shirt as if he just walked in from the beach, perpetually sun-kissed skin glowing, the carefree blue fabric matching his eyes.

Asshole.

He probably showed up to his own damn house, cocked his head, and smirked.

“Y’all having a party?” he probably asked, chill as fuck.

Idiot…probably. You don’t know what happened to him after Women’s Studies, but you can’t imagine he got better. Nothing changes.

His queen-for-the-day leans into his ear, her chest covered only by a red bandana and not much below that hidden by a miniskirt.

What sluts. Both of them. They deserve each other.

He’s so sexy though.

His smile is bright while he doesn’t spill the contents of his red Solo cup on anyone beneath him on the stairs. Seems his drunk coordination has improved at the very least.

“Babe,” you hear yelled close to your ear, “take it!”

Billy shoves one of two cups he’s carrying into your hands and shouts to follow him. He wants to play beer pong in one of back rooms downstairs, a room with no space to stand and watch. There are no chairs, but Billy asks if want to play with him. In no reality would he think you’d answer ‘yes’ in this chaos, but then again, he hasn’t noticed you won’t take a sip of the drink you didn’t see poured either. That’s not even a trusting him problem; for all you someone else made the drinks for Billy, and then you absolutely don’t trust it.

If he can’t manage to notice your reticence, why should Billy care if you’re comfortable?

You yell back that you’re going to find a seat somewhere. Billy gets whisked away for the next partnered game, and relief washes over you.

The only open spot that isn’t a squeeze beside couples going at it in public is a bench underneath the cutout of the staircase. You take a detour to dump your cup in the crowded kitchen’s sink and sit alone for a while, people-watching, wondering vaguely about the king and queen above you on the steps.

Parties…are not all that fun when you don’t feel safe, welcome, or seen. College is predictable this way.

You’re not sure how much time passes before a light blue linen shirt invades your view.

Looking to your right, you don’t see anyone paying attention, and looking to your left you see a sloped wall.

He’s looking directly at you.

“Thirsty?” Ari asks casually, offering the only cup he carries.

You wave it off with a polite ‘no, thank you,’ even though that should be sketchier than your boyfriend getting you a drink.

Ari takes a huge gulp and shuffles his broad body onto the too-short edge of the bench beside you. He seems careful not to touch you or invade your space, the barest graze of a short-sleeve cuff brushing the skin of your upper arm.

Again, Ari tilts the cup toward you. “Jack and Coke,” he shrugs, lifting his eyebrows, “mostly Coke though. I’ve been here a while. You’re basically late.”

You can’t help but blurt, “you live here.”

“That is an astute observation, smartie pants,” he adds with a proud smile. Those, you imagine, might be the biggest words the guy knows.

You also imagine he wouldn’t drug himself with anything,, and worst case, Ari’s already much drunker than you.

You pluck the half-full Solo from his hand, your pinky running the length of his forefinger in the process, knuckles hard beneath callused skin, and take a small sip. He’s right about one thing; you can’t smell or taste any alcohol.

His smile softens. Your pinky tingles even after you return his drink.

“Where’s whats-his-face?” Ari scans the hall. “Probably getting you something better, huh?”

You can’t help but frown and sigh as he takes another swig of soda, pink lips nearly hidden beneath the hair of his beard, but you remember they are quite plump. He only had stubble in class two years ago. You shouldn’t be thinking about what those lips might feel like. Hell, you shouldn’t be sharing a drink with anyone because that’s more intimate than anything you’ve enjoyed doing with Billy recently.

Billy is pushy and inexperienced. Every time he goes to touch you, it reminds you that he’s desperate for it, but…not in a flattering way. It’s difficult to describe.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” you throw out loudly, keeping your guess silent. Perhaps hugging the toilet bowl?

Though a simple question, Ari looks somewhere between giddy and chided while contemplating his answer. He’s so dumb, poor thing. “Flying with the pigs,” he settles on.

“What?”

He repeats himself, and then, seeing your confusion, he leans closer to clarify, “she doesn’t exist. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Ow, rough gig bandana girl. That’s a little harsh: being fobbed off mid-party. Although, you aren’t exactly replacing her. Ari is just talking to you. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s sitting beside you, only a little closer than Women’s Studies, sharing a sip of soda. That’s all.

“So, genius—”Ari elbows you gently, taking advantage to stay arm-to-arm this time “—how you been?”

You notice you’ve been shrinking against the wall and straighten as best you can without looking as if you’re pushing your boobs out.

“Fine. Just…busy with school work.”

Internally, you groan, hating to sound so boring and feeding into this idea you are nothing but a bookworm.

Ari swallows the last of his drink, and you watch as his adam’s apple bobs lewdly—at least, it should be considered lewd with how the motion leads your eye down to the matching dark chest hair peeking behind the shirt collar. He scrunches his nose when the bubbles hit the back of his palate.

“Good. You always seemed happy. Bet you’re top of our class.” He emphasizes the year because he should have graduated already. Originally, he was a year ahead, but then he took a red-shirt year while injured. Ari doesn’t appear to mind that’s something else you share.

You bite your lip and wonder if he’s baiting you. If there’s one thing you’ve heard consistently in your whole young adult life, it’s that you ‘look angry’ and could ‘benefit’ from smiling more.

“I’m…somewhere up there, yeah,” you allow.

He points over his other shoulder and shimmies the empty cup in front of him. “You want one? What’s your favorite?”

For the first time all night, what you want has been considered. Not only if you want a drink, but which one do you want. Such a small thing, and yet the twist in your stomach unfurls a little. The drink itself doesn’t matter; the thought does. That, and being comfortable near him.

“Whatever you’re having.”

Ari flashes that megawatt smile of his and says he’ll be back in a jiffy.

The true value of a beautiful idiot is you don’t have to be on edge. Your basic knowledge of any subject (save sports) would read as genius to a guy like him…which is also why it feels so unbelievable Ari’s choosing to hang in this corner with you. He’s friends with everyone. He could get anything from anybody here. It’s nice to be wanted, not needed.

He returns with two cups, one with a couple shots worth of Jack Daniels, the other full of CocaCola. He looks at you for approval, hesitating in case you want just plain soda, and then makes a huge show of his ‘mixing’ skills.

Absolute moron did not consider the carbonation exploding with every pour back and forth.

It’s a horrible mess of foam and splashing liquid. Both his hands are dripping and sticky, but you laugh freely by the end. You never thought you’d see the day Ari Levinson spilling a drink wouldn’t be triggering.

Not even a fleeting image of that ruined blouse crosses your mind while you weakly clinkthe plastic cups together. It’s the epitome of the college experience in your eyes. For once, you aren’t upset by that fact.

You keep smiling, wrinkling your nose at the fizz bursting on the back of your tongue. You can’t help it.

Ari is a happy drunk, and he starts talking, joking with you, tucked away in your own little bubble.

It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak.

He’s self-deprecating about the same, drunken party behavior that you have watched him participate in for years, and yet you dismiss that as nothing, normal even, and unconsciously nudge closer to Ari, your side flush with his as you bend to see the person he’s bad-mouthing now.

He seems to like the irony in that and chuckles as he says someone over there is getting sloppy, lifting his Solo to his mouth with a dainty pinky raised in defiance. He’s a goofball. You haven’t been so relaxed with someone in…months.

Both drinks are finished quickly, and Ari offers to grab more.

The warm buzz humming beneath your skin tells you ‘yes,’ but your higher brain function steadfastly puts a foot down.

“I shouldn’t,” you mutter, sounding undecided.

He shrugs. For whatever reason, you appreciate that Ari isn’t pushing for anything from you, but that’s exactly what makes you want more from him. He stacks the empty cups and mentions walking you home. He could use some fresh air, he says.

“I should find Billy…”

Ari rolls his shoulders and thinks, his eyes follow suit, scraping his peripheral vision for an alternative that never presents. He stands up, arms akimbo, dramatically squinting to ‘think’ harder.

“He was wearing that red ball cap, right?”

“What?” You’ve never seen your boyfriend don a hat once but suddenly remember the pong partner who pulled him over. “No, that’s Leo,” you scream over the noise now that Ari is standing a few paces away. “Billy’s in, like, a neutral t-shirt.”

Ari smirks, scanning. “One beige Billy, coming up!”

Off he darts into the crowd, much faster than you’ve ever seen a drunk man move, and you skitter behind, realizing Ari stops at the kitchen only when you slam into his back.

He throws the empty cups into the trash and turns to the sink, washing his hands with dish soap, drying them on his shirt, leaving darker streaks of blue.

“Okay, not sticky,” Ari beams, “so now we go.”

Easily, naturally, his hand scoops up yours, and Ari leads you deftly through the throng.

He’s holding your hand. It’s damp and rough and cool and warm all at once. And you grasp it. You’re holding his hand back.

Though tall enough to see over most heads, Ari takes a good long while to notice everyone because they keep moving about. 

Pointing with your still-joined hands, you shout to check the beer pong room, but no Billy.

You two amble through the entire lower floor, stopped several times by people greeting Ari, and he introduces you automatically. You hope none of these other drunk frat boys remembers seeing you hold his hand while asking where your damn boyfriend is.

Without fail, each friend asks if you two are together, and to his credit, Ari quickly changes to “have you seen a guy…” and describes Billy.

“Dunno, man. Check upstairs?”

Ari thanks them and glances at you, a look of defeat creasing his forehead.

He drums his free fingers on the banister. He hesitates.

“Wait here?” he offers but drops your hand and doesn’t pause for your reply.

Using a football drill tactic, Ari bolts expertly up the stairs while you get waylaid by some girls holding up a selfie-stick to make a video. They bitch at the angle, ignoring you, and have to reshoot. You can’t get past.

Yelling.

Suddenly, there’s lots of yelling coming from the packed second floor and a door slams. Half the people in the stairway and hall look up.

More crashing and thudding noises ring out.

With everyone frozen, you shove your way through.

“What the fuck,” you hear just as some guy backs away, almost knocking you down. “Who the hell do you think you are, man?”

Your legs take you inside though your heart lodges in your throat.

Ari’s got Billy pinned over a wrecked desk on the other side of the room while the girl with the bandana top stands by a bed, pulling down her mini skirt. She snaps for Ari to mind his own business, and Ari immediately shoots a glare at her over his shoulder, keeping Billy pinned beneath him.

“Beks, for fuck’s sake,” Ari starts, but quickly, the guy who pushed you in the hall cusses her out louder than anyone else.

“Serves you right for getting back with Erin,” Bandana Girl snaps.

“Eat shit, Rebekah. You don’t actually care!”

What…is going on? These people are nuts.

At least four more bodies squeeze through the door, all looking blazing-mad while you get pushed farther into the suffocating room. You’re bewildered and overwhelmed.

Blocker Guy lunges forward and shoves Ari off of Billy.

Your hands are up, claiming space to breathe, but there’s way too much going on. No one—not even you—can hear your voice crying to be let out.

Funny thing is, you aren’t crying for Billy to help you. Only after you yell for Ari does your brain process that your boyfriend’s fly is down, his jeans unbuttoned, too.

A large, rough hand grabs your wrist and yanks you to the door, barreling you both through the crowd to another room down the hall. It’s surreal to see the group descend on the fight like moths to a flame, drawn to watch what horrible thing these students will do next.

Ari man-handles you inside without hitting a light switch. It’s pitch black, but the closed door at your back muffles only a fraction of the commotion.

From the other side, you hear Billy calling your name, but Ari’s soft, panting breath steals your focus as it gusts across your neck.

His lips shift close to your ear.

“Don’t do it, smartie,” he whispers. “Leave him.”

The stale smell of beer wafts forward when you lean farther into that letterman jacket Ari keeps prominently hung. You feel the ribs of the cuffs against your bare arms until, suddenly, it’s the ridges of Ari’s rough fingers ghosting over your skin.

If Billy’s still screaming, you can’t tell. Your heart thunders in your chest as the hot breath rolling over you moves up your neck and over your jaw.

He’s right there.

He’s right there. He’s drunk. He’s stupid. He doesn’t matter. You don’t matter to him. It’ll never work and it doesn’t have to. This could be so simple.

You envy how easy this is for him, always another girl around the corner, in the next room, who will want him, but you can’t bring yourself to feel bad about wanting to use him. He’s right there, willingly, single or not, sober or not, and so you grip the soft linen of his shirt collar and tug him straight to you.

It doesn’t matter how sloppy you are, how shy or how forceful you get, because you live like him in this moment.

Ari doesn’t care about anything. Self-assured. Confident. Sexy. Popular. He doesn’t have to care.

Now, neither do you.

[Next Part]

⬅️ Steve Rogers and a kiss where it hurts

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[jiraigoddess]

guys this might be a dumb question but i genuinely wonder...

since misinformation about jirai kei has been spread all of over the other social media (except for tumblr), where do actual jirais hide within these spaces?

discord, tiktok, insta, twitter, reddit and even youtube have been "taken over" by fashion jirais. and in these spaces, from my experience, it's really hard to come across someone who claims to be jirai and is actually educated on what the term means.

did we all just gather up on tumblr and gave up on other socials?

the only explanation i could think of is that, maybe japanese jirais just avoid discussing this topic with the english speaking side of the community because, let's be real, majority of us think it's a fashion style. so i guess our spaces are technically separated, even though they're both jirai spaces?

honestly it's sad how so many people blindly believe everything that western influencers say about a japanese subculture, and not actually spend a proper amount of time doing their own research. i'm like 99% sure that all of the fashion jirais have "educated" themselves through tiktok videos and twitter threads.

but like, it would be nice if we could be ourselves on other social media without having our braincells killed by these people.

i'm just genuinely frustrated how majority of the internet is just a bunch of know-it-alls. they will either aggressively try and force their opinions onto you, or straight up mock you when you attempt to politely educate them on things. i honestly hate what internet has become.

yeah idk what i'm saying anymore...sorry about this idiotic yap...i lowkey just woke up and my brain decided to think too much and say silly stuff

[homocidalpotat]

Okay, I think we need to talk about the stigma or even just lack of education around being gluten-free.

I am coeliac. I have been coeliac since I was 7 years old. Coeliac disease is an immune disease which means I can't eat anything with gluten in it. If I do, I risk diarrhea, throwing up (for hours), being ill for over a week, intense cramps and lots more. My symptoms can last between a day and a month, and I don't even have it bad. If I don't throw up the gluten before it has got to my intestines, the gluten destroys the villi in my intestines, meaning I can't properly digest a lot of food until it heals. Before being diagnosed, I spent about a year experiencing intense fatigue- I would eat anything just so I wasn't in pain or starving (including fabric, books and all sorts of inedible things). If I didn't get that diagnosis, I don't even know if I would still be alive. And any form of gluten can trigger this- I accidentally inhaled a bit of flour and had to be off school. You get it, it's a really serious issue.

For those of you that don't know, gluten is a protein found in wheat, barley, and rye. This is found in flour (therefore bread, cakes, etc), and other things. Companies will even put barley into foods that don't need it. It is really common, and helps dough to stay together, for the most part.

There are many forms of being gluten-free. Allergies, intolerances/immune disorders, and choice. This is where a lot of the stigma comes from- people will intentionally go on a gluten-free diet even though it is bad for them. Being on a gluten-free diet is only healthy if you have a reaction to gluten. Gluten-free food is also less common, more expensive, and usually less delicious. The variety in gluten-free food is miniscule in most places. I haven't had a churro since before being diagnosed, and I don't even know what doughnuts actually taste like any more.

Because going on an unnecessary gluten-free diet is SO foolish, a lot of stigma arises. The majority of gluten-free people these days are gluten-free as a choice. Being a petite, young, white female, a lot of people assume that I also chose to. People make this assumption a lot. If I ask for a gluten-free option at a café, I get judged and glared at all over. "Oh look, another one of those idiots. She must think it's so cool to do that. It's not even healthy?". I have had my needs ignored or abused by caterers, party hosts and even my food-tech teacher.

Sure, people that choose to go gluten-free don't deserve that stigma. Maybe someone chose to be gluten-free to support their loved ones, maybe they are scared they could touch their loved one and make them ill. Maybe there are more gluten-free people in their household than not, so it makes sense to only make a gluten-free version of a meal, rather than making one. There are good reasons a person might go gluten-free other than medical reasons. Obviously, there are influencers (and influenced people) who think gluten-free diets are just another way to be trendy and lose weight (when they are denying their body something they need), and that is stupid, but it's not worth being hated on. Sure, as a coeliac person, I feel mocked and hurt by those people, but if someone asks for their food to be made specifically or whatever, just do it? Don't ask questions, you don't need to know.

On another note, so many people don't know what it is. A shocking amount. I once stayed at the hospital overnight and in the morning asked a nurse for a gluten-free breakfast and she said she didn't know what that was. I have been invited to so many parties just to be told "Oh, sorry, I didn't get anything gluten-free for you because I didn't know what it was". Representation matters!!! With representation, the world becomes safer for gluten-free people. With representation, more companies will increase and improve their gluten-free options!!! I'm tired of going to a bakery and the only gluten-free option is a brownie (I'm not joking. About 75% of all bakeries I've been to have said their only gluten-free option was a brownie, and I don't really like brownie.)

Please reblog this, especially if you aren't gluten-free. You don't know how many people you are saving from being ill or miserable. Let me know if I missed out on anything in this post, and feel free to add your own opinions and facts! This is a post about being gluten free and having food restrictions, don't derail.

[or-not-er]

btw my social media presences (I also have a twitter just replace my username's hyphens with underscores) are sort of in a hibernation due to my gaming escapades

eventually I'll start playing video games that are interesting to talk about because rn I'm playing Fallout: New Vegas and that's mostly walking around in the wastes and getting shot to death

[sacchiri]

Hellsing 2002 calendar illustration.

Ein wunderliche und erschröckliche Hystori von einem großen Wüttrich genant Dracole wayda Der do so ganz unkristenliche marrter hat angelegt die mensche, als mit spissen als auch die leut zu Tod geslyffen

A wondrous and frightening story about a great berserk called Dracula the voivode who inflicted such unchristian tortures such as with stakes and also dragged people to death

[concrete-3ater]

if I had a nickel for every time I was in a fandom and a child character had a breakdown and did something that accidentally hurt another character, and then the fandom all turned on the character and vilified them because they [the fandom] can’t understand that sometimes 14 year olds make mistakes when they’re going through something traumatic, I would have 2 nickels

not a lot but it really is weird it happened twice

[liquidstar]

honestly does anyone else think that the what:if routes are perhaps telling us that some sort of collision between subaru and reinhard is just inevitable in nearly every route

[ljesaw]

it’s with depression that i fear i have to say, i think for a long time (too long really), zuko doesn’t reach out to his uncle during his retirement in ba sing se, not even for the much needed guidance he could use, because he considers it part of the exhaustive list of reparations the fire nation (and he himself) owes

[tidalpools]

having a crush makes me feel like such a freak this has to stop...

[princessmyriad]

.

[fingertipsmp3]

Ughhhhhhh I hate writing and I hate not writing and I hate myself

[chaos-has-theories]

Absolutely devastated to learn that I was misremembering a specific detail from HtN.

She was glad to see that someone—maybe his mother, the mawkish Sister Glaurica—had painted his face as his father had once painted his own, with a solid black jaw to represent the Mouthless Skull. This was not because she had any especial love for the Mouthless Skull, as paint sacrament went. It was merely because any jawéd skull he affected became a wide white skull with depression.

For some reason I was convinced that Ortus exclusively wears the Mouthless Skull. I thought I remembered a discussion - or at least an implication - that he does it deliberately. He knows what happened to his father. He never speaks of it until he starts suspecting that he's dead, and may well die a second time. It would not be too surprising, if he'd at least suspected the truth about the creche flu. I thought -

I thought it was a deliberate act of rebellion. Something like civil disobedience. Look at me, it seemed to say. I am silent. I am silenced.

But no. He wears the Skull of the Anchorite Dying (whatever that means) at the arrival to Canaan House.

Oh well.

[starbuck]

lord give me the strength to not be a massive cunt at work today

[mcalhenwrites]

Seriously, I wish I knew what I was doing wrong with my writing, tho, bc if I want to be a career author, why can't I get anyone to engage with what I share for free? Isn't that a sign of being EXTEMELY BAD AT THIS?! (And yeah, lots of my followers aren't active, some might be bots that slipped through, and people miss things on their dashes, but most of the time, I get notifs for reblogging other people's writing from the couple of hundred who must still be active out of nearly 1k. Whatever I post? Not wanted.) And please don't "write for yourself" at me if you see this, bc I've been writing for over 30 years and couldn't name anyone else I am doing it for. Even with gift fics, I don't write anything I don't want to. Edit: Also like... it's hard to express these feelings and not go, "ugh, shut up shut up" to myself, but... I can't really keep going on like this (with the nonstop only-ever-experience-failure* part), I just can't. *Some people never do anything but fail, we try and try and try and maybe maybe maybe it'd help to be believed that when we can't swim on our own, we drown Another edit: I just... I want to be good enough, and I want to be happy, and I want time and spoons to write, and I want to stop waking up scared bc things keep getting worse and I can't save myself.