#the prop dispensary

[1d1195]

Love and Dryer Sheets I

I haven't figured out how long this will be just yet but I anticipate at least three parts. This is where I'll keep the rest of it: Love and Dryer Sheets

~3.6k words (I know it's shorter. I just want to post and get some more ideas flowing)

Warnings: Harry is VERY grumpy/angry, right person, wrong place.

“I never miss the opportunity to say I told you so,” she giggled.

Harry snorted as he chuckled. “Your boyfriend mus’ love that,” he mumbled.

“Very smooth, Harry.”

The door slapped open and hit against the wall loudly so that she had no choice but to look up. The sound was followed by a tall man entering the room with a scowl on his face. He looked like he was having an internal argument with someone that wasn’t even privy to the conversation. She glanced away from the page she was reading briefly at the noise but turned right back to the book to give the grumpy person their own space. But it didn’t stop her from discreetly peeking up from the novel to catch sight of how pretty the man was. The first thing she noticed was his height and his scowl. But his hair was the color of chocolate twisting around his head in the softest, gentlest curls she had ever seen on a man. His skin was tanned, and he looked like he should be a model for sweatpants. Below the scowl, she could just make out that his eyes were green, but she was too far away to make out much more.

Except that he was very beautiful.

So beautiful that not even his crankiness could take her mind away from the idea of him. It seemed wrong that he was so angry. Someone as attractive as he was shouldn’t have been that upset. Especially about laundry. The anger had to be misplaced.

Stop analyzing a stranger just because he’s hot. Her brain yelled at her.

“Can’t even...” he grumbled. “Fucking laundry,” he slammed the washer lid shut and continued his angry mumbles.

She pretended not to hear and stopped stealing glances. It seemed he only just realized he was doing laundry because he muttered something unintelligible about detergent as he made his way over to the little dispensary machine containing fabric softener and the like. He dropped five quarters in it, grumbling the entire time, and twisted the knob. But unfortunately, there was nothing. No detergent fell from the space the way it was supposed to. She had only watched this man for all of a minute, but she already knew the inconvenience was going to be bad for his already crummy mood.

He slammed the side of his fist into the machine causing a loud metallic clang to echo through the room. Loud enough to be heard over the sound of the washers and dryers running throughout the room. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He ran a hand over his face. She wondered what his next move was going to be but without her really realizing, she started to speak.

“Hey, I have detergent if you need some,” she offered kindly. Smooth. Her internal voice rolled its eyes. Interact with the maybe psychopath yelling at laundry. Honestly, she did it more as a favor to herself than to the stranger. Conflict was one of her least favorite things. Even if he was having conflict with an inanimate object. Growing up in a household where her parents displayed argument after argument as if it were normal for two people who “loved” each other to constantly talk in terms of passive aggressive remarks and angry tones for hours of her childhood did a number on her. As it was with the laundry debacle here, it felt like it was her responsibility to mediate the argument. Reduce the tension. Find a solution.

He only just seemed to realize he wasn’t alone in the communal laundry room. It was a bit naïve on his part to forget it, even. The laundry room was often one of the busiest spaces in the apartment building. Moreover, there were about five or six washers and dryers going at any one time—like right now. Usually, people just left their stuff but here was this girl sitting on top of the washer, one leg propped up so she could lean her book against it while the other dangled over the front of the machine and rested on the top of her overturned tall basket.

The angry air left him in a heavy sigh. He turned more directly toward her. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he sounded a bit shy. Embarrassed by his outburst it seemed. She slid off the washer and lifted her basket right side up to reveal the jug of detergent and a bag with folders and papers in it. Briefly he wondered what they were, but it was none of his business and it was weird he wanted to know. He hadn’t even learned her name yet.

“S’okay. Laundry can be intense, I get it,” she joked.

He smirked, feeling the annoyance leave him the longer he looked at her. She was so pretty. He shouldn’t have thought that way. Not at all. But it was impossible not to notice. Her hair was in a ponytail and pieces were falling around her face like she meant for it to frame her features. It was like the little strands were pointing directly at her with the intention of drawing his eyes across her kind face. The slope of her lips, the way her cheeks bloomed as she smiled gently at him, how the corners of her eyes crinkled and her lashes brushed against her cheeks when she blinked.

Stop. It. His brain hissed at him.

“Thanks,” he said taking the jug from her and moved over to his washer. He felt all the anger that was rattling his body disappear as he undid the cap, poured the liquid into it, and started the washer. He returned the detergent back to her. “Sorry, ‘bout m’slamming around,” he said sheepishly. “S’jus’...been a day,” he rubbed a hand on the back of his head awkwardly, feeling bad that he looked like an idiot. She shrugged.

“S’okay, doesn’t bother me,” she reached out and grabbed his hand effortlessly. She turned it over as if she randomly grabbed strangers’ hands all the time. “Thought you might have hurt yourself,” she murmured and then dropped his hand. He wished she didn’t, though. Her gentle touch felt like heaven.

He cleared his throat because he absolutely could not find himself losing his mind over a girl he had met for thirty seconds. “M’Harry,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” she smiled introducing herself. “I just moved in... third floor, just a little under a week ago.”

Harry nodded. “Welcome,” it sounded a little sarcastic, but not in a mean way. “M’on the fifth floor,” he said. Tell her. Tell her right now. His conscience shouted at him. She hopped back into her position on top of the washer and resumed her reading position. “You don’t have t’stay with your clothes,” he told her as he checked the dials on the machine he was using.

“Hold over from college. My last apartment building was also not very good about it,” she shrugged. “I don’t trust it, but I don’t mind. I have a good book.”

Harry glanced at the title, committing it to memory so he could go purchase his own. No. Don’t. Stop it. You can’t do that. His conscience was screaming but he simply ignored it. It was the first time he didn’t feel angry in hours. She was just this bright little spot in the basement of the apartment building. It was a rainy Saturday and the only light coming in was from the egress windows. It wasn’t very light at all; merely the sun trying to force it’s way through the clouds above but getting trapped among the rain drops. Harry was feeling angry and the weather wasn’t helping.

But there was this...kind and lovely angel just sitting on a washing machine. Inspecting his hand for injury. Pure, gentle, perfect sunlight.

“Gotcha,” he murmured. “Well...m’doing other chores and things...I’ll be back down later.”

“Okay, nice meeting you, Harry,” she smiled. “I hope your day gets better,” her words were warm with kindness. It made him feel off kilter. He had been so angry all day that he nearly forgot what it was like to feel...happy.

He managed to smile at her, give a little wave, and left without another word.

Shortly after he left, she found herself a little flustered by the interaction. She was surprised she inspected his hand like that. It was totally out of character to be so forward—offering detergent and help, checking for injury. But really, taking his hand allowed her to admire the tattoos that lined his wrist and forearm and how the veins in his hand looked like the prettiest spiderweb she’d ever seen. Part of her hoped she would run into Harry again while doing laundry. Smiling, she returned her attention to her book and thought she really wouldn’t mind being around Harry for a longer time period.

*

Harry’s anger was renewed as he headed back to the laundry room. His chest was achy with the feeling of anxiety and a pressure forming from the annoyance he felt in his life. Part of him thought he should have just stayed in the laundry room with the girl that reminded him of sunshine.

That’s a stupid idea, and you know it.

He was really beginning to hate his conscience.

But his anger skyrocketed further as he entered the laundry room to see piles of laundry on top of washers. First, he was irritated because he was going to be livid if someone touched his clothing. This hadn’t happened in the year and a half he had lived there. But of course, it was going to happen on a day that he was simmering in anger over everything. Maybe more importantly, he thought he had given poor advice to Sunshine, and he was not happy that he did that.

Did you seriously just call her SUNSHINE? His brain was having independent thoughts, but Harry ignored it.

He was practically shaking with anger as he marched over to the washer that he had used earlier in the day. Other washers had piles of wet, crumpled clothing items on top of them waiting for the person to find them and be just as bitter and annoyed as Harry was. But instead, Harry found the washer he was using and none of his clothes had been moved. He felt his face pinch in confusion. That didn’t seem right.

But in place of a lump of wet clothes, was a piece of paper. He felt the confusion deepen. At the very least it made him forget how angry he was. At least for a few minutes. Scrawled across the paper read:

Out of Order. Do NOT use. -Management

Harry felt a new wave of anger wash over him almost instantly. If his clothes were damaged or stuck or something he might lose his mind. But he opened the washer and found his clothes were perfectly spun out. Smelled like the air after it had just rained. The confusion he felt continued as he pulled the items out of the washer and dropped them into the basket so he could throw them in a dryer next. He reread the note on the lid trying to figure out why the apartment management would say the washer was broken when it very obviously wasn’t.

He pulled the paper off the washer allowing someone else to use it now. As he did, he caught sight of writing on the back.

Told you so :) -304

Harry felt the urge to run out of the laundry room, wet basket of clothes and all, and knock on the door labeled 304 until she answered. He wanted to read beside her. Ask to use one of her dryer sheets or whatever it was that made her laundry smell so good. Her little knowing “told you so” didn’t even bother his already fragile, grumpy state. In fact, it only made him like her more.

STOP IT. His brain shouted. Shaking his head, Harry rid himself of his thoughts of Sunshine. What else am I supposed to call her? He asked rhetorically to his conscience. Instead, he tried not to think about her. He had only chatted with her for all of four minutes and that couldn’t have been nearly enough time to think he was already falling for her...right?

*

Today she was laying across two washers, a book above her head. She didn’t notice when people filtered in or out and no one paid any mind to her either.

Until Harry showed up.

“More laundry?” He asked.

She smiled, folding the corner of her page down and sitting up so she looked less crazy. Harry had a basket at his hip, and she noted there was a jug of detergent on top of the pile of laundry inside. “I love laundry,” she shrugged.

He wrinkled his nose at her in distaste. “M’least favorite,” he murmured.

“Aw, that’s too bad,” she frowned.

“Thanks for saving m’washer the other day,” he said dumping the items into the washer along the back wall—opposite of where she was seated.

She smiled down at the book in her lap and then looked up at the back of his head. “I never miss the opportunity to say I told you so,” she giggled.

Harry snorted as he chuckled. “Your boyfriend mus’ love that,” he mumbled.

“Very smooth, Harry. Unlike my ex-boyfriend, my imaginary one thinks that my perfectionism and tendency to be right is admirable. He clings to my every thought and word,” she fluttered her eyelashes cutely. If she were magic, she would have made a halo appear above her head.

He rolled his eyes at her and nodded. Tell her! His conscience yelled. RIGHT now. He ignored it as he had been since the last time he saw her. “A new book?” He asked instead.

She nodded, flipping the book over in her hands inspecting the front and back cover carefully. “Yeah...I try to read three books a month. The last one was a little dense but this one is a quick read. Entertaining, ya know?” She smirked. “It’s a little cheesy but it’s cute. It makes me happy,” she shrugged.

Harry thought that was sweet. He wanted her to be happy.

Stop. It.

She watched Harry throw everything in the washer in one load. “You should separate the light and dark stuff.”

“I’ve never had a problem with it before,” he shrugged. “S’this you trying t’be right again?”

She laughed and looked at her lap. The heat rose to her cheeks. “No, actually. Told you, just really like laundry. I notice a difference in my own stuff. But if you don’t obviously it’ll be fine,” she shrugged back. “I just really like laundry,” she repeated.

Part of him wanted to do exactly as she said. But even Harry, not just his conscience, thought it would be too much. She watched as he poured in the detergent, closed the lid, and then he hopped on top of his washer just like her. They were facing one another. She could see how green his eyes were now, a little bloodshot around the iris, she wondered if he had a late night and what from. His smile was sweet, a deep dimple dented the middle of his cheek depending on which side of his lips lifted when he smirked. But right now, he was smiling completely, making him look so innocent and boyish. It made her stomach flutter.

“So...are you in school still? Or do you have a job?” She asked.

“M’gainfully employed. Work in the financial district.”

“A corporate sellout,” she remarked neutrally.

Harry smiled again shaking his head at her banter. “Oh? And you, Sunshine? Y’work for the Lollipop League?”

“It’s the Lollipop Guild, and Lullaby League, actually. But no,” she snorted. “I work in the hospital as a counselor,” she said. “I can see how you would think it’s like being on the set of The Wizard of Oz.”

Harry tapped his fingers against the washing machine and pursed his lips at her. “Mus’ be a tough job,” he murmured.

She nodded. “It’s rewarding though. Gives me a cathartic cry about once a week,” she opened her book back up to where she stopped. She felt Harry watching her though and she realized she probably shouldn’t have admitted to an almost stranger that she cried so often.

Harry hated the idea of her sadness. She was the embodiment of sunshine. Tears shouldn’t have been allowed in her eyes nor on her face. His conscience was angry and loud. Harry Styles stop it.

She let the silence wash over them and Harry didn’t seem to mind. They both went to their books and read silently for a while. She giggled cutely every so often and Harry thought it was an adorable sound. He wished he could ask what she had read. He wanted to recite things to her that made him think of her.

Harry was properly and crazily losing his mind.

The words on the pages of her book blended together. She thought Harry was meant to just be looked at for hours upon hours. He was so insanely beautiful it made her mind turn to mush.

He had to be her soulmate, surely. He mentioned her favorite movie and book completely unprompted. She wanted to ask if he had ever read the book or if he liked the movie. If he would ever want to watch it with her in her apartment cozied up on the couch with apple cider. Growing up, her dad read the twenty-four chapters in a loop over the course of months and years. She found Oz completely magical. It was unbelievable that a total stranger would bring it up.

It had to be fate, right?

She could probably recite the book from memory. When she found out about the movie, she watched it on VHS and then DVD and now streamed it at least once a month or played it in the background when she did chores. It was something she had little ones watch at the hospital and she dressed up as a different character every Halloween to pass out candy to the little ones when trapped in their hospital rooms.

Fortunately, her washer buzzed, alerting her she was done, and Harry glanced up briefly and gave another cute little smirk that she was beginning to think was simply meant to keep her up at night—and maybe looking for things to wash.

“So...s’jus’ you in apartment 304?” He asked.

She smiled to herself. If this was his way of flirting it was lame. “Yeah, just me.”

“Awful lot of laundry you’re doing,” he muttered.

She threw her stuff into a dryer, tossing in the scented beads that made her clothes smell good along with a dryer sheet. “I told you I do laundry the right way.”

He chuckled and she thought that his laugh might have been her new favorite sound. “S’fair, I suppose,” he remarked. Slipping off his washer, he inspected her new book and the back cover. He mentally wrote the title down once more. “Do y’have a favorite book?” He asked.

She nodded. “S’kind of silly. It’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. My dad used to read it to me before bed. And I like history and there’s theories on the symbolism for the populist movement—I don’t know. It just makes me think of my childhood and of course the movie was just—” She stopped suddenly, and Harry was completely riveted by the beginning of her explanation.

“What, Sunshine?” He asked so gently. It felt like he was wrapping her in his arms and whispering in her ear. It was like he was trying to reach into her chest and hold her heart in his hands himself. It was sweet and she hated how nice it felt after they had spoken in total for maybe seven minutes since meeting.

She didn’t turn around to look at him. But she could feel his gaze warming her as he watched her fiddle with the dryer. “Just...don’t want to bore you about The Wizard of Oz.”

He ignored what his conscience was shouting at him once more. “I don’t think y’could bore me,” he murmured.

She turned then, looked at him with these beautiful round eyes that he swore were little suns and brightened the whole room as she met his gaze. “Guess the only way we’ll find out is if we keep chatting. Tell me about your book,” she suggested gently. It was an invitation and Harry didn’t really know what to say because the book hardly made any sense over the last few minutes. He was intently focused on her when he was supposed to be reading. He managed to make up something about how it wasn’t much of a page-turner yet but liked it well enough and thought it would get better.

Eventually, Harry’s washer signaled it was time to switch to the dryer and he worried their time was truly limited because before he knew it, her dryer was done. She stayed to fold her stuff, and they continued reading and chatting casually.

She was falling hard for Harry. It seemed it was inevitable. Between the gentleness he showed her in such a short time, the mention of her favorite story, and simply being there during her favorite chore, it was like Harry was meant to meet her. Meant to find her in the laundry room and befriend her so quickly.

There was no use denying she hoped it would escalate to something more.

Harry’s conscience continued to tell him what a terrible idea it was to keep up this...pretense with her. But his heart was saying that he needed warmth, needed the kindness she showed in just the little bit of time he had been around her.

Sunshine was his cure.

--

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[goodluckclove]

I'm still not allowed to write because of doctors and also my wife will be upset but I DID spend twenty minutes arranging my skeleton outside and designing a prop blunt for him to smoke.

It is embarrassing how long the fake blunt took. I kept trying to design it in a way that would allow someone to potentially smoke it if it had weed in it before I was like what am I doing this is a prop filled with dirt from the backyard. I think it turned out pretty good! Feel like it'll definitely read from the street.

I don't smoke weed anymore but you go anywhere in Portland and you're in the vicinity of like three dispensaries so it'd be a shame not to let Skeleton Guy take advantage of that.

[revelisms]

Excerpt: What You Needed

After years, Jinx and Vi are reunited—and starting to make amends.

From ‘heron blue,’ an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and political schemings. CW: Abandonment issues, dissociation, psychosis, dysfunctional family dynamics Full story on AO3

Her painted fingers clink out a red-capped glass bottle, and hold it stiffly across from her. "You...still like the cherry ones, right?"

Vi takes it from her, slowly, criss-crossed on the blankets across from her. "You bet," she says softly. Her mouth makes a strange twist: not quite a smile. She turns the bottle in her hand. "Still like blueberry?"

Jinx screws off the cap of her own, a glittering spin off the stones. "Uh, yeah—best of the bestest."

The lights hum around them, a pleasant, blitzy static. Jinx draws up her knees, curls her arms around them, and sips. For a long, horrible moment, there's nothing for them to say. Nothing she can get out: the questions stuck in her stomach, in her heart, like lead on her tongue.

Why did you leave me—?

"When...when did you build this?" Vi's looking at the decorations all around them, the paint and the color and glow, with a quiet awe.

Jinx wonders, for a moment, if she means the alcove or the club itself. They'd kept the bones, but rebuilt it all, straight from the ground up. No more smelly storeroom—too many ghosts; all boarded up now. They'd cleaned and sanded and revarnished the floors; painted the rooms, retiled the bathrooms; brought in that beautiful imported glass to bubble around the walls, a new addition to the spaces wholly their own on the third floor, with the same old staff kitchen and storage closets and divots in the walls. 

Jinx shrugs, bobbing her knee. "Oh, I dunno—years ago."

Vi's smiling, now. She looks down at the bottle in her hands: twists off the cap. "I...I missed this, y'know. All your creations."

It lights up something in Jinx's heart, like a little lamp tuned to life. "I—I never stopped, really," she says, a flash of her teeth. "Painted up my room all pretty—oh—I just got this new color in from that big guy in the third district." She props closer, with a brightening grin. "It's, like, the prettiest blue—gonna put it on Whambo. He's gonna be a nail bomb. And I might use it for some details, on Fritz—he's a smoke flare, mostly, but he can double as a firecracker launcher—cool, right? I've been trying to get the combustion ratio right, for ages, but the thing keeps fizzlin' out too early—that old doc's tried to give me equations, but ugh—anyway. Work in progress, Fritz."

And then she's telling her about Jabberwock the ray gun, that she'd engraved with the emblem of a little seahorse—and about the Zing-Dusters she'd built: the respirators they used in the air dispensaries, that she was making a new model of—and the water filtration systems they were going to pilot in the rotted hovels of the Sump, once they got the right treated metals in.

She tells her about Tullo the mechanic, a giant of a man, with hair to his knees and tattoos gaudy as a pirate's, who she gets her imports from. Tullo, who Sevika got in a fight with the other day, after he'd called her arm just for show—and Sevika was a big old ogre, just as awful as ever: she ate blood sausage and grits for breakfast—yeuch!

She's rambling, on and on: the words pouring out of her: a runoff of shaky-laughed, tense-shouldered babbling.

There's so much she doesn't say.

She doesn't tell her about Little Man. She doesn't tell her about the voices in her head, or Mylo or Claggor, or her stuffed rabbit nailed to the wall, or how she spent years and years trying to carve herself in the chasm she'd left behind, not knowing why she wasn't enough, good enough, worth enough to bring her back; or how Silco would find her beating her hands bloody in the old arcade, or how he never laughed, not really, and never, ever cried, except when he talked about Vander, and then he nearly did both; or how, sometimes, when Sevika laid her arm around her, it almost, almost felt like hers—and she does not tell her about how Powder is dead and gone and drowned, drowned in a well, drowned by Jinx's own hands, and Jinx—Jinx is strong, now.

The voices ring through her ears: a pitching, endless drone.

It's too quiet, again.

Jinx swallows, fidgeting. She lifts her eyes from the roof. Vi is just looking at her, looking and frowning, with that burning sort of sadness Jinx hates. She's looking at her, and not saying a word—and for all Jinx doesn't tell her any of that, she is terrified that in some small, terrible way, she��knows it, all the same.

"You're quiet," Jinx mumbles. She rips her eyes down, again.

Vi reaches over, wraps her hand beneath her own. "I know—I know. I'm sorry, I'm just..." She huffs out a breath, turning away, staring at the bustle of the streets. "I'm just thinking." She's nervous: her hands heavy and fiddling, so warm over Jinx's own. "It's—it's just..." Vi clears her throat. "It's been so long, I've been—I've been so worried about you."

Jinx scrapes her nail over her thumb. Those words hit something unpleasant inside her—worried about you—plunge a sickly chill in her stomach: a blazing knot of self-disgust, of rage; of sharp, splintered old hurt.

The words trapped in her throat bubble out, before she can stop them. "Why..." They stick like grease on her teeth. "Why did you leave me?"

She knows they cut at her sister. She knows they sting.

Part of her wants them to.

Vi looks down. She weathers her thumb over Jinx's own. "I—I tried to get back to you, I promise." The same as she'd said, before. "I did—but I—"

"You left me." It sounds so pitiful coming out of Jinx's mouth, and she despises herself for it. She yanks her hand out from Vi's own: tucks it under her knee. "I didn't—I didn't understand—"

"I know," Vi hushes. "I know, I—there hasn't been a day I haven't regretted it. Not a single one, from every damned night I was in that cell—but I—I just—" Her shoulders sink. She's looking away, forcing air through her teeth. "I needed time." 

Something blitzes up Jinx's neck: leaves her head twitching.

You're not ready!

She scowls slow at the tiles. "Away from me."

"That's not—"

I told you to stay away!

Jinx scrapes her nails against the stones. "Things changed, when you left." Air shudders against her teeth. She fights the heat broiling in her throat: blinks it quick out of her eyes. "I—I changed," she whispers.

Vi's hands fist between her knees. Something in her turns venomous: like it did in Silco, when someone said something that got under his skin; when he let his words turn harsh and biting, looming over his constituents, a shadow of a monster with red-tipped wings.

"If I'd known you were here," Vi is saying, a low firmness in the words—and Jinx knows where they're going, before she even speaks them; feels her shoulders draw firm as stone. "If I could have—I would have done anything to find you; I would have got you out of here, as soon as I—"

A numbness washes through Jinx's veins.

"Got me out," she repeats.

She feels so far away from herself. Floating. 

She's seeing Little Man, with his hair still short and his arms still gangly: his hand shackled around her wrist, hard enough to crush her, pleading to a girl who didn't exist—Powder, come with me, please—we've found a place in the sewers, away from all of this, where you'll be safe—whatever he's done, I'll make sure he never gets to you, again—

"I don't need you to save me," Jinx bites out. Tension gnaws through her fingers: turns them white-knuckled on her knee. 

Mylo's wrong, Powder. You're stronger than you think.

You're strong, now—just like you were always meant to be. 

She wrenches her head from the words, the memories: Vi's fist colliding with her cheek, Silco's thumb sweeping against it. "I never needed you to save me, I—I needed—"

Because you're a jinx! Mylo was right!

Jinx is perfect.

"Someone else," Vi mutters. Jinx falters, ice in her lungs. Stares wide-eyed at her. Vi is frowning at the green glow beyond them, rasping her thumb against the wrapping over her knuckles. She takes in a hard, gritty breath, and eases it out. "I know," she continues. "I left you, and he—" The look in her eyes turns so strange: bitter, scathing. "He showed up." It's like the words are pulling out her teeth. Her thumb presses hard into her knuckles. "And maybe, that's—that's what you needed."

Jinx tries to swallow. Heat burns and burns in her throat. "You want me to hate him," she tests, prickling with spite. "You don't want me to be here." Flashes of color outside the edges of her vision: eyes and faces and howling words. "You don't like him—you don't like any of them—well, none of you all liked me, either—"

"That's not true—"

Ghosts are picking at her ears and clawing at her arms and too loud.

"—because I—I was just some—some loose screw, screw-up, always screwing things up—shut up!" She wrenches her head into her hands, squeezes it tight, tight between her nails, to keep her skull from splitting open. "Shut up, shut up!"

Vi's looking at her like she's broken, a wind-up toy with all the cogs gone: like something she doesn't know how to fix. Carefully, her bandaged hand lays over her knee. "That's not true, and you know it," she says gravely. The words crack. "We loved you, Powder. Vander, and Mylo, and Claggor—"

"Don't." Jinx seethes it out, feral: wrenches herself away from Vi's burning hand. "Stop." She breathes long, cavernous, heaving. "Stop, don't—I don't want to think about them—I don't want to think about them, I don't—"

Vi closes her eyes, clenches her jaw. "Okay."

"I don't," Jinx hisses again. There's too much color in her eyes, too much noise in her head. 

Vi's holding her. She doesn't remember when she started holding her.

[stenka-razin]

You voted right? If you did, here's something not Election Day related to preoccupy your brain with. Billy Corgan is making a stink about not being on those Best Guitarists Ever listicles. Now I've read a few of these and the rankings are all bull, but that said?? I think King Clown WPC has a point! Anyone who has suffered through a Smashing Pumpkins reissue bonus disc knows the dude is a dispensary for riffs. Half of these bonus discs are sick ass riffs he never bothered making into a full song. Even his new stuff which, let's be honest, IS BAD, has lot's of good parts to it. And he has range! Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (dumb title btw) has some beautiful melodic passages (Tonight Tonight) walls of atmosphere (Porcelina) sludge ugliness (X.Y.U.) and even the almighty rockety rocking riff (Bullet). And they all sound like Corgan through and through. And not to underplay Iha (who is also great, and wrote Blew Away god damn it) but the fact that these elements are preserved on later, Ihaless albums does make me willing to give it to Corgo as a guitarist if nothing else. It's also telling that, when Iha did come back they didn't get good again so hmmm I dunno, discussion for another post. But yes, I will give Billy Corgan props as a guitar dude.

[jimothysomebody]

I am halfway, give or take, through this stupid THC detox. Jaysus what a saga of shenanigans this fuckery has been. My brain chemistry is way too delicate for this shit. Props to people who can handle it cuz it's not for me.

I liked how I used before... occasional vaping here and there, idk if it was just amping up my use of the cheap delta 8 stuff, or sometimes being able to vape the proper real deal cannabis carts fresh from the dispensary (medical and recreational is legal here in Ohio)... or just my overall inconsistent use of either/both, but this has been so taxing on me.

In the worst of my highly anxious (read paranoid or even fkn cannabis withdrawal induced psychosis) episodes feared everything from brain cancer to POTS to stroke to aneurysm to diabetes to hypoglycemia to vitamin toxicity to hypoxia to blood pressure issues... but ultimately, so far, everything... *EVERYTHING* has fit the timeline and symptoms of withdrawal and detoxing. Sleep disturbances, changes to mood & anxiety, changes to appetite, headaches, stomach issues, chills & sweating, short lived episodes of lightheadedness & confusion/loss of focus out of nowhere have been the scariest for me... to top it off, I think being anorexic from February 'til April exacerbated it, too...

The dizzy/woozy spells began late March, and have been a regular (but not daily) occurrence since. Some days I've had no symptoms for long stretches of time or when I did they were very minor, some days I've had none at all. Prior to quitting cold turkey on the 12th symptoms seem to have correlated to my pattern of vaping. I'd vape, feel better for a day or so, and then go right back to being miserable.

Eventually I saw the pattern and decided to test the theory that, just maybe, my own sporadic and inconsistent habits were keeping me in a near constant state of withdrawal. For the most part I was a light weekend user in the evenings, but... I'd vape with my bf when he came over with the good stuff, or when we hung out with friends who also had better stuff than I do. I also just did more some days than others, weekdays & weekends both... but the days I had the good stuff I'd feel better... until I didn't.

I *almost* wish I was a daily or heavier user... just to not feel this way anymore... it's not a constant horrible feeling but when I feel it it's not great and it's kinda scary. I like getting a little bit high, relaxed or silly, I also love what it can do for my anxiety and mood, it's also been a great help for occasional aches and pains... and it can be very nice to do socially, but I don't really feel compelled to get high that regularly or that much, and don't really need or even want to, *especially* if I know that lurking around the corner is this absolute nightmare of withdrawal that I've been dealing with since like March 18th if I don't keep up with that kind of use.

Today was day 10... 10 days without any thc from anything. I still expect withdrawal symptoms for another week or so, but if the last 10 days symptoms lining up with the detox timeline of symtpoms and when they most commonly start to occur have been any indicator, it absolutely *has* been withdrawal I've been struggling with, and I can't fuckin' wait until I'm through this. God what a nightmare. I've had withdrawal from caffeine, from antidepressants like Pristiq & Effexor, from sugar (which nearly put me in a psych ward, 2 of the most depressed and anxious weeks of my life, jaysus never again), but this... this fucking experience is in a league of it's own, it's single handedly been the worst... and I'm so glad to be (or at least, I'm convinced) half way through this.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

for the writer asks: BTS for dont hurt yourself

BTS: Write a dvd commentary about a passage from the fic (I cannot pic a fav so I'm just gonna give any old passage, I chose this one because it is weed day and they are smoking weed)(Full disclosure I own dvds but its been so long since I watched dvd commentary that I don't really remember what it's like so I'll just talk about the passage and how I made the decisions I did and how it came about, you know, the making of the passage.)

Don't Hurt Yourself

You know what, lets do something festive for 420. CW: Having sex while very very high on this passage

The world started skipping like a scratched CD, time becoming completely disjointed. Ed's consciousness kept skipping back and forth between watching Izzy sink onto Jack's cock for the first time that night and then forward again to making out almost violently with Izzy, all lips and tongue and teeth. He found it hard to climax when he wasn't quite sure which sensations he was feeling and when.

Skip, he was no longer on Jack's face but instead straddling his chest as Jack smoked and Izzy rode his cock, Ed still had his tongue down Izzy's throat. "Are you sure you don't scissor?" Jack asked.

He vaguely remembered getting into the position, laying down on the ground as Izzy lounged back against a chair, propping Ed's ankle up on his shoulder and pressing their cunts together. Then he seemed to skip forward a bit and Jack's balls were in his mouth as he and Izzy rutted against each other.

Another skip and Izzy was cumming as loud as Ed had ever heard him. The last time he'd allowed himself to be that loud they had been on mushrooms, Ed was grasping impotently at Jack's cock as he drooled over his balls.

So I had heard of the "World Skips like a CD when I'm on edibles" phenomenon on tumblr but I didn't experience it myself until I bought edibles from my local dispensary and took twice as much as the package said I should take at a time. I've heard a lot of people find it scary but I actually think it's kind of fun to experience time weird.

Basically what happened when I did it is I was giggling uncontrollably and my roommate asked me what was going on and I told her I was going to go buy gummy worms and she said "Oh you're high" and then I went out to walk to the cvs and the whole way to CVS my perception of reality kept jumping back into my living room. Like how when a cd skips and you're on a different part of the song suddenly, except for I was skipping between being in the living room with my roommate and walking to CVS. And the whole time I could like see where I was walking and stuff so I wasn't in danger or anything but something went loopy in the part of my brain that processes time and memory. I managed to successfully obtain gummy worms while experiencing this because I'm the king of substances and soooo functional on drugs. That was my experience with it.

Then a few weeks later I was like "well I've gotta make the Jack/Ed/Izzy three way happen while Izzy and Ed are broken up for real this time, so I may as well coax them along by giving them drugs. I'll start out soft with some pot"

90% of writing drugs is trying to figure out what drug effects are narrative conducive or fun to write and what drug effects get in your way. For example Jack getting the munchies and stopping everything to go raid Ed's snack cupboard might be realistic but it's definitely not gonna get these three fucking any faster. But the skipping thing, well it makes it easier for me to write smut that flows because it being disjointed becomes an on purpose thing that I'm doing. So if I want them to switch positions but I don't want to describe the in between part, bam, I throw weed at the problem and we don't have to get into the actual mechanics of sex. And frankly it's a fun exercise in trying to describe something I only sort of remember because of how high I was at the time.

I also wanted to further Izzy's characterization of being very very repressed, and a good way to do that is to show him being louder when he doesn't have the faculties to suppress his moaning is a good way to do that.

The Ask Meme, ask me more it's fun.

[brightlotusmoon]

8 superb queer-owned cannabis brands of Pride 2023 | Leafly

For decades, the cannabis and LGBTQ+ communities have organized, protested, educated, and advocated for their rights to exist and thrive. And often, their goals overlapped. Lest we forget: Dennis Peron opened the first medical cannabis dispensary in San Francisco, the Cannabis Buyers Club, to help service queer people coping with AIDS and other medical conditions. Brownie Mary Rathbun’s main clientele were AIDS patients. If not for the combined activism of these two communities, Prop 215 might not have existed, and set off the nation’s slow and ongoing journey towards safe and legal access to cannabis.

[virtualdispensary]

SK8 Virtual Dispensary

The evolution of Virtual Dispensary in Second Life kicks off with an exciting nod to skate culture!

Virtual Dispensary sECOND lIFE sKATE The evolution of Virtual Dispensary in Second Life kicks off with an exciting nod to skate culture! Virtual Dispensary loading truck boasts a dynamic collection of skate decor and props. Transform your environment with skate ramps, boxes, and bars, designed for seamless skate park landscaping. Each piece comes with low land impact and high-resolution details,…

[time4hemp]

Sister Somayah Kambui - Cannabis Pioneer

She doubled her life expectancy using cannabis oil.

Sister Somayah Kambui organized the first in Los Angeles Global Marijuana March in 1999.

Written by Casper Leitch

Sister Somayah Kambui organized the first in Los Angeles Global Marijuana March in 1999 and continued to organize the LA-GMM event until her death in 2008. She provided Cannabis Oil for free to her south central Los Angeles community and she pioneered the work and research for treating Sickle Cell with Medical Cannabis.

An amazing leader, Sister Somayah Kambui was a pioneer researcher regarding cannabis oil as a treatment for sickle cell. Somayah produced the first Los Angeles Million Marijuana March (now Global) in 1999 plus all subsequent ones until her death in 2008. She gave away collectively tons of cannabis and its healing oil over the decades while fighting tirelessly to end the drug war. Sister Somayah frequently said she was born to help free the weed, bring hemp’s and love’s benefits to people in need. Many close to her believe she died of a broken heart based on lack of financial support. All those dispensaries in Los Angeles and not one would help her save her home from foreclosure.

Sister Somayah doubled her life expectancy using cannabis oil.

A sickle cell survivor, Somayah doubled her life expectancy plus 8 years with her precious ‘Nigritian Keif cannabis oil’ that she credited with her longevity. She spoke of when she was a child her father ignored the law and heroically gave his daughter the oil. Though in the olden days it was done on a stove. Somayah’s way to make the oil was to put buds and leaves in a crock pot and cover them with Everclear alcohol. First bring the mixture to a boil with the pot on high, then set it to low. Let the mixture stay like that for a day or two, skimming the oil off the top periodically.

Somayah brilliantly explained how cannabis helps sickle cell. ‘Normal cells are round and plump. During a sickle cell crisis, instead of round, the cells bend, part collapses to take the shape of a garden sickle. Cannabis helps the cells relax, inflating them back to a normal, healthy cell shape, relieving the severe pain a sickle cell crisis brings.

Sister Somayah spent time in jail.

Sister Somayah, was an "activists activist". She served in the USA Air Force as a radar technician. She was a legendary Black Panther known as Peaches. She worked with many other great men and noted here women in the marijuana movement: Jeri Rose who donated a hemp seed oil pressing machine, Lynette Shaw, Jack Herer and countless other California activists to pass the historic Prop. 215 which opened the doors wide for our current state by state legalization strategy.

Because of her activism, garden and freely giving cannabis oil to neighbors in need, she spent many times in jail under harsh conditions. It was an abomination how during the many times she was jailed for growing plants. She was denied her medicine while in prison by the LAPD and had to suffer unaided.

Sister Somayah was an amazing farmer.

She was a master farmer who could get 4 crops a year out of her back yard garden. Her trick was to start the seedlings indoors then transplant outside when the last crop was harvested. She use to be able to predict when the LAPD would come and destroy her home again, casting her off to prison for growing the best crops of the year. “Ever notice how the police always come at harvest time?” Like clockwork, they always showed up at harvest time.

We suspect from heaven Somayah is laughing as recreational marijuana is legal in California, with the multi-billion dollar surplus to prove the prospering power of pot. She’d still be fighting if she were here though. The taxes are too damn high.

The legalization movement received a lot of empowerment through the work of Sister Somayah Kambui. We all owe her a debt of gratitude. She taught us all how to stand strong in the face of adversity as we fight for what we believe in.

Below is a FREE TO DOWNLOAD marijuana music MP3 by The BreezeWay.

POTfest.

[glitterdustcyclops]

speaking of "bunch of queer misfits find family and belonging with one another" i was re-reading one of my many (many many) WIPS last night and i have poured both my heart and soul and literal years of faffing about with this particular story, and going back to it last night i surprisingly didn't hate most of it

it's about a girl named Cat, perpetual ADHD/Anxiety Ridden Disaster Machine, and how she just-friends her way into falling head-over-heels in love with the cool, mysterious Punk Baker she literally runs into, Quinn

they're both ridiculous and i love them with all my heart

anyway, here's the first chapter, in an effort to put more of my writing on tumblr

I always thought the moment my entire life changed would be more significant. That there would be some kind of ominous portent or some sign from the Universe. Even just some suitably dramatic background music at the very least. You’d think Fate would have the decency to give a girl a head’s up.

But no.

It started like any other morning. Running late, sleep deprived, and in desperate need of caffeine. That was my excuse. I mean, I was barely a functioning human being at 9 in the morning, how could I have been expected to do something ridiculous like pay attention to my surroundings? To notice the black-and-white person-shape strolling out of the propped-open door of Haven—my absolute favorite coffee dispensary—at the same time I was barreling in, my headphones firmly on and blasting Queen.

I swear, time actually slowed down as we collided. She practically skidded to a stop, her mouth dropping open on a gasp I couldn’t hear while I probably squakwed like a damn parrot, a gloriously dramatic cascade of hot latte raining down on us both while the empy paper cup thudded to the concrete.

“The fuck—” I yanked down my headphones, so very ready to take this already shitty morning out on someone else when—

Oh fuck, she’s cute.

Of course that’s what my brain decided to notice first. She was taller than me, especially in her stompy black punk boots, and her hair was almost silvery-white, her eyes like unfairly blue. She had a cute sort of pixie-ish face, tan skin and a silver eyebrow ring glinting at the corner of her neatly manicured black brows.

And she stood in the doorway with her very crisp, very tight white v-neck absolutely ruined by a giant coffee stain running right down the middle.

“Oh jesus I’m so sorry!” I basically shouted at her, like a completely normal functioning person would, flapping a hand awkwardly at her torso. “Your shirt!”

Oh yeah, good plan self. Let’s just go ahead and draw attention to the fact that we were staring resolutely at her chest, where the thin material of her shirt had gone very transparent, clinging to her skin and letting the pale blue lacy material of her bra peek through.

“Hmm?” She glanced down as I averted my eyes in just the smoothest way. “Ah, well, I guess we’re even then.”

I looked down at myself. My favorite faded blue Doctor Who shirt was a bit sticky, but since I was the one who had knocked myself into her, I’d mostly managed to get my arm, a light sprinkle on the thighs of my jeans.

And of course I found the soft little chuckle she gave me then utterly adorable too. There was just this smoky hint of an accent in her slightly-raspy voice and it sent a weird tingle down my spine. Because I was fucking hopeless.

“No no no, my bad, sorry! I wasn’t looking, God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Hey, relax. It’s just coffee.” She gave me a very casual shrug of her bony shoulder, and there was a wry sort of quirk to the corners of her lips.

“Here, uh, l-let me, uh, let me buy you a new one? To make up for it?”

“You don’t have to.”

“N-no, no I don’t mind, please. Shit I am so so sorry I wasn’t paying attention, I never pay attention, I can’t believe—” Great. Now I was spiraling.

“Really dude, it’s fine,” she said, sounding, well, at least not annoyed with me. Not yet. “I’m Quinn by the way.”

“Oh uh, uh Cat. I’m Cat.” I waved at myself like a complete moron.

“Pleasure to meet you, Cat.” There was another quirk of her lips that edged more towards a smirk, a glimmer of something slightly wicked in her blue eyes. I kind of liked it.

“You…too?”

“Leat’s go inside, yeah? Get cleaned up at least.”

So I followed her into the café, just barely managing to stop myself from compulsively apologizing again as I did. The interior of Haven Coffee was mostly quiet, somehwere in that weird bubble after the morning rush but before the lunch one. Always one of my favorite times here. There was this dreamy sort of quality that settled over the floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves and the stark black-and-white check tile floor. The sound of some vintage record drifted across the empty interior, the large stone hearth in the corner and the matching set of forest green velvet armchairs arranged invitingly in front of it, a cozy little nook blessedly unoccoupied, like it was waiting for me.

Haven lived up to its name, a safe little pocket dimension of warmth and old books and records and really damn good coffee. And it just so happened to be the employer of my two very best friends in the whole wide world who were also my roommates, Ginger and Greg.

“Oh, g’morning Kit Kat!” Ginger said brightly, only half paying attention as she rearranged something on the counter, before she finally looked up and then saw the strangest thing she’d probably ever seen me do (which was saying a lot, really): walk into Haven with a stranger, both of us lightly doused with coffee.

At least Greg wasn’t out here this morning so I didn’t have to deal with him judging all of my life choices with a single look the way Ginger so very obviously was.

“Oh jeez, what happened.”

Audrey “Ginger” Parker had been assigned into my life by the whims of the Greendale University Student Housing Department, and I was ever thankful for it. She was basically if a pumpkin spice latte was a person, with her wild Merida mane of ginger curls and a constellation of freckles dusted liberally across her skin like cinnamon sprinkles. She could be obnoxious and pushy sometimes but she was also a total goofball and one of the least judgemental people I’d ever met. Which was a good thing for her, surrounded as she was by a bunch of dramatic artsy queers.

She was my token Straight Best Friend, and I loved her dearly. Usually.

Right now, standing next to a hot punk rock chick I’d practically assaulted and Ginger staring at me all wide-eyed and concerned I was questioning a lot of things.

“Oh, just a small accident,” Quinn was explaining with that stupid edge of a smirk to her mouth. Why is that attractive?

“Oh no! I’ll get someone to clean that up, and I can get you another vanilla latte of course,” Ginj replied, all warm smiles and Customer Service Voice.

“Yes please, and whatever she wants.”

Ginger glanced between the two of us with a raised eyebrow. I shrugged back in my customary twitchy manner—and hey, wasn’t I supposed to be buying her coffee? But of course, I wasn’t nearly socially adept enough to say anything about it, consumed as I was with wishing that my too too solid flesh would melt right through the polished tile floor.

“Alright!” Ginger said in an almost gratingly perky voice. “One large vanilla latte and one Kitty-Cat special, comin’ right up! That’ll be $4.35 please.”

I shambled over to the other side of the counter to wait for our drinks while Quinn finished paying, Ginger and her making casual small talk in that way I could never quite grasp. Instead I grabbed a handful of napkins and started dabbing ineffectively at my jeans. It was an excuse to look down at my feet and not make eye contact with anyone else, and I took those where I could get hem.

“Come here often?” Quinn asked me with slightly more than a hint of a smirk as she came over to join me, grabbing her own handful of napkins and making a valiant attempt to blot the stain from her shirt.

“Uh, somethin’ like that. I, er, Ginj is my roommate. We live thataways.” I gestured randomly with my other hand without looking up, deeply aware that it probably made me come off as even more of a twitchy weirdo but utterly unable to stop myself.

“Convenient.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

And just like that our feeble attempt at conversation bled out and died on the checkerboard floor below us. I was about to start praying for a god to smite me out of pity when Ginj finally finished our drinks, handing over the cups with a cheeky little wink as I glared daggers back at her.

She was so getting a bunch of trash shoved into her bed later.

“So, stay and chat?” Quinn indicated the cozy little nook with the fireplace and chairs in the corner—my spot, my favorite spot, and how the fuck did she know that anyway—and for a brief second the fantasy flashed before my eyes. The two of us, sitting there together, talking and laughing, getting to know each other.

But of course this was me we were talking about so it would mostly be like: awkward silence while avoiding eye contact and then eventually slinking away, trying to apologize for my general failure at existing without having to actually say anything.

And more importantly, after seeing what a stunning conversationalist I was for like the two minutes it took to order our drinks why would anyone I didn’t already live with voluntarily subject themselves to more of me. It just didn’t add up.

And oh fuck, she was still standing there looking at me expectantly and I hadn’t replied. Because of course this was my life, God, why didn’t I say anything? Say something you idiot, oh God this is it, this was somehow the most awkward situation I had ever been in, pack it up boys we’ve done it—and then suddenly I remembered I had an out, and I’d never been so grateful to already be late for a 9 AM opening shift in my entire life.

“C-cant, sorry! I uh, late for work. Butthanksforthecoffeebye!”

And with that eloquent little display I turned and swiftly walked out the door, another flappy wave to Ginj as I went. Once I was safely deposited onto the concrete outside I fucking ran for it, straight booking it out of there like I was being actively chased by dinosaurs.

Briefly I contemplated Forest Gumping my way past all of my problems and not stopping until I ended up on a different coast. But I quickly got winded—it wasn’t like I was renowned for my athleticism or anything—and I needed to pay my rent. Ginj would find me somehow, if I skipped town, and then she would be forced to kill me. And I couldn’t do that to my best friend.

I slowed down to somewhat of an amble, trying very hard not to barrel into any more cute tattooed hipsters as I did. Suddenly I realized I was still holding my drink (the Kit Kat Special is basically hot chocolate with a double shot of espresso doused liberally in caramel sauce and then topped with a mound of whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, because I liked to consume my coffee like a five year old would) and it made me feel weirdly guilty so I quickly tossed the whole thing in a nearby trash can as I walked down the street to my job.

The Dragon’s Keep happened to both be my absolute favorite retail establishment and also my employer. Situated rather conveniently a four buildings down from Haven, it specialized in board games and board game accessories; a local institution for nearly a decade.

You know when you find a place and it just feels like you’re coming home? Like you walk in and something about it, something in the air just makes you feel like you belong there? That was the Keep for me. Greg—who’d been my very bestest friend since the 7th grade and still somehow decided to live with me anyway—and I had wandered in one day when we were Freshmen in college. He’d heard about it from a guy in one of his English classes; apparently if we were interested in tabletop RPGS it was the best place to go, and we were, so one weekend we made the trek together and then we basically never left.

Eventually Paulie—Chief Nerd and intrepid proprietor of The Dragon’s Keep—decided that if I was gonna be there all the time anyway he might as well pay me for it, so now I got to sell board games and such for a living. It was a pretty sweet gig even on its worst days. My dysfunctional little nerd family away from home, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I wrenched open the door to the familiar chimes tinkling away above my head and the sounds of a Warhammer model painting tutorial playing on the TV, mixed with the dulcet tones of a raging nerd debate going on right in the middle of the store. Ah, home.

Paulie stood behind the register with his bushy braided Viking beard and his way-too-muscular-for-a-middle-aged-nerd-arms, covered in tattoos and crossed across his broad expanse of chest, all stoically imposing even in cargo shorts and a Star Wars t-shirt. Meanwhile Steven was over by the roleplaying bookshelves half-heartedly dusting, and the two of them were shouting about what sounded like the merits of various Barbarian builds. Because of course they were.

“You’re late,” Paulie interrupted Steven’s rant with his normal booming voice; he sounded angry, but the trick was that Paulie always sounded angry. I knew him far too well to believe it. He had that ever-present twinkle in his blue-gray eyes, so I couldn’t really be in trouble.

And anyway, if he was going to fire me for my appalling lack of time management skills he would’ve done it a long long time ago.

“Guys I’m gonna die alone,” I said instead as I trudged insde to lean against the opposite side of the counter across from Paulie.

“Uh-oh.” He shot Steve a look.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know, just ran into this super cute girl at Haven. Literally.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” I took a twisted sort of pleasure in confessing my crimes, like I could purge the embarrassment from my stomach by talking about it. “I knocked her coffee into her, fucking latte raining down from the heavens on us both, and then I perved on her chest, and then she bought me coffee while I forgot how human conversation works, and then I finally ran outta there like my hair was on fire.”

“Oh no, Cat,” Steven repeated in a delightful mixture of horror and amusement, and I could practiaclly hear Paulie’s wince.

“It was literally the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of forever and I want to actually die!”

“Yeesh kid.” That was Paulie’s attempt at sympathy. But at least he tried.

I just moaned in misery, burrying my head into my arms crossed on the counter while Paulie offered me a half-hearted shoulder pat.

“We have got to get you like a wingman or something dude,” Steven said.

“It wouldn’t help,” I muttered at the counter. I was definitely gettling like, face prints all over the glass. Someone was gonna have to wipe that down later. “I’m utterly hopeless, a 100% Certified Lesbian Disaster doomed to die alone in an apartment with like, eighty cats. I’m gonna be that lady. No one will find my body for weeks because all the stupid cats will have eaten me.”

“Morbid Cat!” Paulie gave me a horrified laugh.

“But you gotta admit,” Steve replied, “pretty ironic.”

I couldn’t see his face but I just knew he was giving me one of his stupid little goofy grins he liked to use when he knew he’d made a particularly horrible joke, because Steven was a bad person and I hated him.

“Oh shut up!” I pretended to snap at him in offence.

“Hey, you know what’ll really take your mind off of your romantic failures kiddo?” Paulie asked then, his voice entirely too cheery for the present situation.

“What boss?” I replied reluctantly, looking up and resting my chin on my hand.

“Selling board games of course!” He laughed his stupid bellowing Viking laugh and I rolled my eyes.

“Ugh. Can’t I take a personal day on account a’ all my trauma?”

“Nope, there’s orders to be filled in the back! Go, go.”

And then I was unceremoniously ushered away to the back office, whining the entire short trip around the counter and through the doorway there. I couldn’t help but smile just a bit, once I was out of sight. Paulie tried to project this air of a Gruff No-Nonsense Army Guy, but he was totally just a big ol’ softie under all those layers of nerdy t-shirt and muscle. He cared, about everyone, deeply, and he always had, had cared about me right from the first day I started working here.

The other boys did too; Steven, Walt, Ryan, even Jake, our newest minion. I kind of loved them, even if I would never admit that fact, even on pain of death. Working at The Keep was like working with a bunch of annoying older brothers. Comforting in its familiarity, that way.

I think, as far as first jobs went, I had gotten pretty lucky. It had its days, as all jobs did, but if I had to sell my soul to the institution of Capitalism I was glad to do it in a place that let me wear jeans and curse while I gently bullied a group of hopeless straight boys.

The rest of my workday passed as they often did. There were stretches of tedious nonsense (receiving and logging new inventory should’ve been listed in the Geneva Conventions as literal war crime, as far as I was concerned) mixed with moments of goofy nonsense and nerdy conversations and amusing interactions with our deeply weird customer base, all of it orchestrated to the background noise of board game demos and other related YouTube content playing on our video feed. Sure, it wasn’t exactly life-changing work, but I got to introduce a cute young couple to a few of my favorite two-player games and one of our regulars brought us cupcakes, and that’s a good day in my books.

I got home aorund 5-ish to Greg cooking dinner and Ginj drawing on her iPad at the kitchen table, anime playing on the TV. Whatever Greg was making smelled deliciously garlicky and my stomach rumbled in response. God I loved that he cooked. I mean, the fact that his favorite hobby was looking up fancy recipes from the internet and then trying to make them wasn’t neccessarily the entire basis of our friendship—I had known and loved him far too long for that—but it was definitely a perk.

Greg was, at this point, basically my Platonic Life Partner. We’d been friends since we were literal children, 12 years old, and somehow, despite all rational expectations, he hadn’t managed to get sick of me yet. At this point he wouldn’t be able to get rid of me even if he tried. I wouldn’t let him.

But I did love him, truly. He’d been there for some of the absolute worst moments of my life, and I’d been there for him in return. We had the sacred Lesbian-Gay Boy bond, and when his parents got a little Weird after he came out officially, it was my mom who became his support system. He fought with my brothers as if they were his own, and he had become an honorary member of the Stern clan in his own right.

You wouldn’t think he was the kind of guy who would be my ride-or-die bestie just by looking at him. Greg was kind of an enigma, a walking mess of contradictions. He was all Captain American Corn-Fed American Boy Realness on the outside, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes and a chin that could cut glass, but if you’d talked to him longer than five seconds you would realize that at the end of the day, he was just a really confident, unapologetically gay weirdo, obsessed with Lord of the Rings and deeply obscure anime as much as he was with football and classic rock.

But in a way, I loved him all the more for it.

“Hey Cat,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders, that merry little twinkle in his eyes as he flexed his chopping skills on an eggplant.

“Hello Housewife,” I replied with a mad giggle, stealing a slice of carrot from his chopping board and ducking out of range when he tried to elbow me back.

Ginj laughed at us and my heart felt so full, all of a sudden. That warm glowy-homey feeling that I got sometimes at moments like this, struck with the reminder that somehow, against all odds, I had found a place to belong. There was a long stretch of time there where I wasn’t even sure I was gonna make it out alive, that it nearly knocked me over to realize that I had. Where would I be in the world without these two, honestly?

At that point I’d practically forgotten all about The Coffee Girl Incident. There was too much good stuff going on. Everything in that moment was safe and right and good, and I was starting to believe it always would be, which was a rather novel experience to my still clincially-depressed and anxiety-riddled ass.

Until Ginger had to go and ruin it by making a stupid joke about coffee at dinner.

So I pulled her hair and she hit me and Greg threatened to send us to our rooms without dessert. Just a normal weekday dinner, really. And then I was far too busy eating a delicious home-cooked meal with two of my favorite people on Earth to care about silly stuff like spilled lattes and pretty blue-eyed girls.

I mean, I would probably be obsessing about the whole embarrasing incident for the rest of my life, especially when I was trying to sleep, but for now I focused on better things. I wouldn’t let it bother me. And such was the magic of Greg’s cooking, that just for a moment, I almost believed it too.

But of course, Fate wasn’t done with me just yet.

[maslows-pyramid-scheme]

I work in the legal cannabis industry in the US (IL specifically because the laws vary from state to state) but all weed sold in a dispensary from anywhere in the US is grown in the US in whatever state it's being sold in. It's illegal to transport cannabis from one state to the next and the red tape is VERY strict for companies. There isn't any brick weed being sold from the mid/south America in Chicago dispensaries that isn't even feasible.

No corporate entity would ever break the law.

(I'm assuming you mean my critique of all the legal cannabis farms that propped up ready to sell immediately after legalisation? And not the comment about my ex who used to trade cannabis for 'sexual favours' with other women?)

[jieninhobbok]

How to get a medical marijuana card in California

California Wellbeing and Security Code 11362.5 is also called Prop. 215, the California Sympathetic Use Act ("CUA"). The CUA was passed into regulation by elector endorsement in 1996.1 It permits you to legitimately have, develop or move marijuana in California if:

The marijuana is utilised to treat a serious clinical condition

It is for individual clinical utilise as it were

You have the suggestion or endorsement of a California-authorised physician

The demonstration additionally absolves essential guardians who have, transport or develop marijuana for the patient's very own clinical use.

In November of 2016, California citizens passed Suggestion 64. Prop 64. This legitimised the utilisation of sporting marijuana for individuals north of 21 in California as of January 1, 2018. It additionally approved Californians to sell sporting marijuana under state-gave licences.

After some time, clinical marijuana clients in California might find it easier to meet their clinical marijuana needs through the lawful sporting marijuana market. In any case, there are as yet a few benefits for patients in utilising clinical as opposed to sporting marijuana, including:

Individuals with a clinical marijuana ID card ("MMIC") are excluded from deals charges on the acquisition of clinical marijuana;

Not at all like sporting weed, clinical marijuana is accessible with a specialist's suggestion to individuals under 21 (and subject further to parental assent for individuals under 18); and

High CBD/low-THC kinds of marijuana might be all the more promptly accessible at a clinical marijuana dispensary.

Do I really want a California clinical marijuana card?

You needn't bother with a clinical marijuana distinguishing proof card ("MMIC") to acquire the advantages of Prop.

Nonetheless, a California clinical marijuana card offers security against capture to patients and their guardians.

How does the California clinical marijuana program work?

At the point when you get a MMIC, your remarkable ID number is placed into an online vault.

Policing and others can utilise your number exclusively to confirm the legitimacy of a certified patient or essential parental figure's MMIC. The vault doesn't give them any private data.

How would I get a clinical marijuana card in California?

You should apply for a MMIC face to face at the wellbeing division of the province in which you live.6 As of July 20014, they are accessible in each californium district with the exception of Sutter and Colusa.

The district workplaces have various days and active times. Most require an arrangement. It is suggested that you call or actually look at the site for your particular province's program. Click here for the telephone numbers and addresses of California district clinical marijuana program workplaces.

What records do I have to submit alongside my MMIC application?

You should carry with you the accompanying documentation:

A duplicate of your PCP's proposal

A legitimate officially sanctioned picture ID (California Driver's Permit, California State ID Card, US Visa, or Veteran's Organization ID Card)

A photograph taken at the region's program office

Confirmation of residency in the region. The report should show your name and actual location (not a PO box). Coming up next are by and large acknowledged:

Lease or home loan understanding

Utility or cell bill

California DMV engine vehicle enrollment

California citizen enlistment

Bank explanation

Vehicle, property, life or medical coverage archives

Check with the workplace in your country to affirm what reports they acknowledge as evidence of residency.

The California Branch of General Wellbeing's (CDPH) Clinical Marijuana ID Card Program (MMICP) was laid out to make a state-approved clinical marijuana distinguishing proof card (MMIC), alongside a vault data set for confirmation of qualified patients and their essential parental figures. Support by patients and essential guardians in this MMICP is deliberate.

The Los Angeles Area Natural Wellbeing Division helps qualified patients and their essential parental figures with handling applications inside the Province of Los Angeles.

Qualified patients are excluded from state deals in the event that they present a substantial Clinical Marijuana ID Card given by CDPH at the hour of retail clinical weed items buy.

On the off chance that you live in California, you might contemplate whether it merits going through the most common way of getting cleared to develop, have, or purchase clinical marijuana in a state where sporting use is legitimate. There are basically several valid justifications on the off chance that you have one of the passing circumstances to turn into a clinical patient in the Brilliant State.

Clinical utilisation of marijuana has been lawful since the 1996 section of Recommendation 215, the Sympathetic Use Act. After Recommendation 64 of every 2016 sanctioned grown-up use marijuana, the council passed the Clinical and Grown-up Use Weed Guideline and Wellbeing Act (MAUCRSA), making a joint administrative framework for both clinical and sporting marijuana.

While grown-ups can purchase marijuana pretty much anyplace in the state, patients with a specialist's suggestion can develop or have bigger amounts of marijuana than sporting clients. MAUCRSA empowers grown-ups 21 and more established to have up to 1 ounce, or 28.5 grams of blossom, as much as 8 grams of concentrate and up to six living weed plants in their confidential home. A certified patient or essential guardian might have up to 8 ounces, or 227 grams, of dried marijuana per qualified patient, and may keep up with up to six developed or 12 juvenile marijuana plants.

A specialist's proposal is expected for those more youthful than 21 to buy marijuana, and a region giving clinical marijuana ID cards gives purchasers an expense exception on buys. Most clinical marijuana specialists can be viewed as on the web.

The most effective method to get a clinical card in California.

1. Register online with Leafwell

You can address a specialist and fit the bill for a California clinical marijuana card on the web. The expense of the internet based conference is $49 for a CA doctor's restorative pot suggestion letter. For $59, we'll likewise send you a doctor's Leafwell ID card. You are possibly charged whenever endorsed.

2 Talk about Clinical Marijuana with your PCP

During your arrangement, a Leafwell doctor will ask you inquiries in light of your clinical history and give you exhortation and direction on whether clinical marijuana is a decent decision for you.

3. Accept your testament from Leafwell

We'll promptly email your testament after your effective arrangement. Your testament is legitimate for one year and incorporates an ID number that permits you to visit dispensaries in California and safeguards you under the state's clinical marijuana regulations.

We'll likewise send you a printed copy via the post office.

4. Apply for a Card with the Territory of California (discretionary)

However you needn't bother with a MMJ card in California, you can likewise apply for a state-given clinical marijuana ID card. You will require a state-gave MMIC to profit from correspondence and tax breaks. A doctor gave a card and the suggestion isn't sufficient.

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

keep my vices on rotation

by wishingonalightningbolt

The MILF in the power suit makes them all look twice. Jack can tell—Ed and Izzy both watch the way the blonde walks up and down the aisles of product, milling around the edibles for a little longer. Neither of them are working the floor right now though, so Jack is the one who gets to approach her, tablet propped on their hip, and ask, “How’s it going today?”

-0-

All of Jack's dreams come true when Stede Bonnet comes into the dispensary.

Lesbian Stackedhands stoner porn.

Words: 7103, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, Multi, Other

Characters: Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet, Israel Hands, "Calico" Jack Rackham

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet/Israel Hands/"Calico" Jack Rackham

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Trans Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Trans "Calico" Jack Rackham, Nonbinary "Calico" Jack Rackham, Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, degradation kink, Praise Kink, Mommy Kink, Vaginal Fisting, Face-Sitting, Age Difference, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Squirting

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/43606822

[contaiinedarmageddon2]

damn y0ur head didn't get any bigger at all? i mean props t0 keeping it humble i suppose, didn't figure there was n0 scaling at all. pure adipose then eh? s0 can you see much with0ut powers 0r is your head kind 0f buried in the flab?

i'll write those 0n a list and see what i can find at the local c0rner store and knife alley dispensary

@contaiinedarmageddon2

Salutations, and thank you for the follow and promotion- Your choice to volunteer as patient zero and the prime vector for me inflicting my presence on this website is noted and appreciated.

How does the day find you?

[binsofchaos]

The Prop Dispensary

A curated collection of contemporary, modern, designer & vintage props. Melbourne based prop hire for Photo shoots, editorial & advertising. Tv commercials, packaging & small events.

We love modern, contemporary props also, crockery that is individual & stands apart from the crowd. Artisan handmade pieces, with an earthy, organic and rustic feel i am constantly on the hunt for new pottery & ceramics. Trend driven we are constantly adding new pieces to our ever expanding prop collection.

A wide & varied selection of props. From Surfaces & backgrounds, crockery, glass ware, beautiful linens, cutlery, and loads of vintage & metal props. Including designer, modern & contemporary items.

This website only shows a small snippet of what's available for hire. To view the full range, make an appointment to come see for yourself.

[lovelytsunoda]

night changes // lance stroll

summary: an overview of moments in lance and y/n’s relationship

pairing: lance stroll x fem!reader

warnings: a brief mention of sex and pregnancy

authors note: literally my first time writing anything on here so for the love of god please be gentle 🤞🏼 positive feedback and reblogs would be appreciated.

—————————-

manchester, england. august 2022

the couple lay tangled in an embrace, tan comforter tangled around their bodies as they slept.

lance woke up first, a hazy smile on his face the half light. on the table next to him, his sliver wedding ring lay next to his airpods and their charger. across the room, the window was propped open against the summer heat, an IKEA crib settled against the wall underneath.

the aston martin driver smiled to himself as he remembered the drunken boys night with sebastian, esteban, alexander and checo where they had all tried to put the baby furniture together, the two drivers who actually had kids choosing not to help and instead watching the youngsters struggle over open bottles of guinness.

he turned his head away from the crib, looking over at the woman sleeping next to him, messy hair sprawled on the pillows and bags under her eyes from all the sleep she had lost from nights where their daughter simply would not stop crying. lance knew he didnt look any better, and lord knows seb reminded him of that every day.

but y/n stroll was the love of his life, and she looked perfect anyways.

—————————-

toronto, canada. june 2019

there were a few days to spare before the canadian grand prix in montreal and a couple of the drivers had decided to go to toronto to catch a jays game before the race. there were three hours until first pitch, and in an attempt to find a greek restaurant, the youngest of the drivers had gotten hopelessly lost.

“how the fuck are we lost!” lando norris  was the first to complain, leaning shop window for one of the many marijuana dispensaries popping up in the toronto area. ”according to google maps, greektown is literally only two streets!”

“why the hell is it called greek ‘town’, then?” charles leclerc pitched in

“i have no idea.” pierre gasly groaned. “ask lance, he’s the one who grew up here.”

lance rolled his eyes. “i grew up in quebec, jackass. not ontario. i’m as lost as you are.”

“why don’t we just ask for directions?” charles asked, looking down at the map on his phone. “it’s not that hard.”

“yeah, lando, it’s not that hard.” pierre whined, hungry and annoyed. “we’ll miss the game at this rate. are you sure that we didn't just get off at the wrong subway stop or something?”

“jesus christ.” lance mumbled under his breath, heading up the street in an attempt just to find some peace and quiet.

for a formula one driver, lance isn’t always the most aware of his surroundings. mid you, she wasn’t either.

he was walking past an indie bookstore, just a few doors down from where the other young drivers were still arguing about the merits of asking for directions when lance crashed head on into the young woman leaving the bookstore. the paper bag she was holding ripped, sending four paperback mystery novels falling to the sidewalk.

“holy shit, i am so, so sorry.” lance gushed, kneeling down to help her pick up the books. “are you okay?”

she looked up, and lance was instantly taken in by her eyes. her magnificent eyes, like seas of color and emotion that he could get lost in.

“i’m okay.” her voice was like honey, the sweetest sound that the racing point driver could ever imagine.

“i’m sorry about your books.” he said as they both got back to their feet.

she shook her head. “it’s okay. no harm done.”

lance passed her the two books he was holding, as well as holding out his palm for a handshake before realizing that her hands were all full. “I’m lance.” he said awkwardly

she smiled, and it lit up her whole face. “y/n.”

at that point, lando, pierre and charles had stopped arguing with each other and were watching lance and y/n very closely, cheeky smiles on their faces as they watched the two exchange phone numbers and promise to keep in touch.

lance would talk to her almost every single day after that, and endless sea of chaotic text messages and facetime calls. after the third or so call, he came clean about being a race car driver with racing point f1.

y/n had laughed at him, and told him that he wasn’t european enough to be an f1 driver, and that he didn’t have a hot enough accent.

she meant it as a joke, but really, she didn’t believe he was telling the truth.

until he told her what team he was on, and she googled “lance, racing point f1″.

“i stand corrected, mr strulovitch.” she grinned on the other end of the facetime call. “so what fancy city are you in right now?”

he smiled before standing up and going to the hotel room window to show y/n the view. “baku, in azerbaijan.”

—————————-

monza, italy. 2020

y/n came to her first race in 2020, the strangest of all the seasons amidst the ongoing pandemic. lance told her that she didn’t have to, that he’d make a stopover in toronto next time he had a chance, but y/n was insistent. she needed a break from school, and had always wanted to go to italy anyways.

monza lacked the energy that most of the races usually had. because of the pandemic, the stands were empty, and the track was quiet. lance didn’t like it, the silence depressed him.

but he felt better because she was there.

he and checo were preparing for the race while the mechanics messed with the last few things on the car. y/n was with the engineers, and they were walking her through some of the more finer technical points of the sport.

lance was starstruck, wondering how on earth he was dating her, the most beautiful, brilliant and incredible human being on the planet. he stood next to his bright pink car, race suit hanging low around his hips, and just watched. 

checo came up next to the boy, nudging him in the side. “so that’s why you’ve been in such a good mood lately. the neverending stream of facetime calls and text messages that make you giggle like a little girl.”

lance blushed, pale features turning pink. “shut up, man. i think i love her.”

y/n looked over at her boyfriend from the pit wall, a chunky pair of headphones on her head so that she could listen in to the race while she watched, a huge smile on her face as she flashed him a thumbs up

checo clapped him on the shoulders. “let’s give her a good race, kid.”

and a good race it was.

lance came in second, the entire racing point team rushing to the finish line to cheer him on as the chequered flag waved. y/n was glowing against the overcast sky as lance started his cool-down lap, nothing but pride in her chest as she watched the little pink car follow the leading alphatauri around the track another time, an orange mclaren not far behind.

as soon as lance got out of the car, he threw his helmet into the arms of a waiting mechanic and ran straight for y/n, sweeping her off her feet and spinning her around, before kissing her madly as the team went wild, and there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that the skysports cameras that had been covering the victory for the two smaller teams were also covering the kiss.

after the two broke away from their magical moment for some air, lance pulled her close, draping his sweaty body over hers as he attempted to slow his breathing.

“i love you so fucking much.”

that night was the first time either of them had said it, returning to the hotel to spend every second of the italian night wrapped up in each other, clothes strewn over the backs of chairs, a bra hanging from the bathroom doorknob, sheets a tangled mess around them as she moaned his name, both of them truly in love with the other.

—————————-

manchester, england. fall of 2020

packing up her life and moving to manchester with lance should have been the hardest thing that y/n ever did. but it wasn’t. she had family there, family she had hardly even ever met. showing up to her uncle’s house in stockport in an aston martin with a formula one driver on her arm was certainly one way to make an impression on her extended family.

lance was in abu dhabi for most of the move, and his heart ached at the idea of not being able to share such an important milestone in their relationship at home, with y/n at his side. he took solace in knowing that abu dhabi was the last race of the season, and that he’d be home to his lover very soon.

y/n promised she would wait up for him. her uncle promised to pick lance up from the airport, an arrangement she wasn't sure she completely trusted, and she was nervous as hell about waiting for him to come home. she had watched every second of the race, and knew it wasn't one of lance’s better results. she wanted nothing more than to wrap him up in her arms and never let him go.

she was lying in bed when he came home, duvet pulled tight around her body as she lay on her side, e-reader plugged into the wall with a cord that wasn't long enough to make it to the bed. all of her books were still in boxes. very few boxes had been unpacked, just enough that lance wasn’t going to come home to an empty house.

the bedroom door creaked open, and lance slipped inside, overwhelmed with love when he saw y/n lying in bed, face scrunched up in that adorably sexy way she got whenever she read a book she was super into.

she was so engrossed in her book, that she didn’t even notice that he had come home. lance smiled to himself, slipping out of his jeans and sliding in between the cotton sheets to wrap his arms around y/n.

“hey, my love.”

she smiled as lance nuzzled his nose into her neck, giggling as he tried to slip a hand up the oversized concert shirt she’d worn to bed, his finger caressing the hemline of her underwear.

“hey, lance.” she awkwardly turned her head to give him a quick kiss before turning back to her book. “one more chapter, and then i’m yours.”

lance laughed, a hearty sound that y/n never got tired of hearing. “that’s what you always say. i bet we’ll both be asleep before then.”

“how domestic of us.”

he gently kissed her neck. “i love you.” 

“i love you too.”

—————————-

mykonos, greece. summer 2021

there were exactly five weeks in between silverstone and whatever the fuck came after, but lance didn’t care. as soon as silverstone was wrapped up, he grabbed y/n and the two of them ran like hell from the track, breaking more british traffic laws than they could count on the way to the airport.

once they were on the plane, lance turned off his phone. he didn’t want to hear anything from the team while he was in greece. nothing was going to spoil his vacation, because he was about to do something he couldn’t take back.

he was going to ask y/n to marry him.

right now, the girl in question was asleep against his shoulder, and all the aston martin driver could think about was how ungodly lucky he was to even have met y/n in the first place.

thank god that lando norris was so bad with directions.

it was their fifth day in mykonos before lance finally decided to make a move. 

they were at the beach together: lance attempting to keep up with his fitness regime, lest his trainer get pissed off when he returned to england, and y/n was curled up on a beach towel with a hardcover book in hand.

after finishing his workout set, lance returned to the beach towel, sitting directly behind y/n and pulling her flush against his chest. he kissed her hair gently before asking her to put the book down.

“there’s something i want to show you.”

“can it wait until i finish the chapter?”

lance smiled, internally rolling his eyes. “how many pages are left in the chapter?”

she pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, counting the pages left in that chapter before turning to her lover. “like eight? i only just started the chapter, babe.”

“then it can wait.” lance chuckled, pressing a bookmark in between the pages before shutting the hardcover an prying it from his girlfriend’s hand before helping her to her feet.

“lance, where are we even going?”

“just wait, you’ll see!”

they were at the edge of a cliff overlooking the whole island.

y/n smiled widely, looking over the edge of the cliff. “lance, this is bloody incredible.”

lance grinned, getting down on one knee, a crushed velvet box in his hand. y/n stared at him, clapping one hand over her mouth. “lance...”

“y/n y/l/n, will you do me the absolute honor of marrying me?”

“yes!”

it was a quiet wedding, exactly six months later, on the same greek island. his family, her family, and at their own bloody insistence, every driver on the grid. sebastian was lance’s best man, and nobody had ever seen the driver look that proud.

—————————-

manchester, england. march 2022.

since becoming y/n stroll, she had rarely ever missed a race, taking time off work more often than her bosses would have liked and working remotely from a hotel room.

so to miss lance’s season opener was a punch in the gut.

it was the day before they were due to leave for bahrain, and y/n had spent the entire morning throwing up. the smell of the candle in the couple’s living room made her nauseous, even though the citrus scent had never done that before. and she was tired all the time, 

“sweetheart, i don’t love the idea of leaving you here.” lance’s voice was full of concern as he lay on the couch with his wife, their bodies a tangle of limbs as he cradled her body close, inhaling her hair.

“lance, i’ll be fine. there’s already a chance that sebastian is going to miss qualifying, i don’t want you to leave your team without both drivers.”

“promise me that you’ll call if you need anything?”

“i promise. i love you, lance.”

when lance came back home five days later, y/n already looked better. her skin was glowing, and she had a bright grin on her face as her husband stepped through the front doorway.

“welcome home, my love.” she cooed, wrapping her arms around lance’s neck before pressing up on her toes to give him a kiss. “I have a surprise for you.”

lance raised an eyebrow. “a surprise?”

“yes, silly. a surprise.” she took lances hand and lead him through the small house and up the stairs to the master bedroom. the only bedroom, since both spare rooms had been turned into other things: a simulator room for lance and home office/library for y/n.

when they got to the master bedroom, lance looked really confused. “it’s a box from IKEA.”

y/n smiled. “look a little closer, honey.”

lance knelt down next to the cardboard box to look at the drawing on the side while his wife slipped into the ensuite bathroom.

“babe, why do we have an IKEA crib?”

y/n came out of the ensuite bathroom, a stuffed elephant in her hands and a wide grin on her face as she passed lance the stuffed animal before reaching into the waistband of her jeans for the little plastic test. she pressed the test into lance’s hand, and his eyes went wide, a grin on his face.

“you’re pregnant?”

y/n nodded, unable to say anything before lance swept her into his arms, attacking her face with kisses.

“we’re going to be parents, y/n this is incredible!”

“i love you so much.”

—————————-

lance was snapped out of his reverie by movement in the bed next to him.

“do you always stare at me while i’m sleeping?” y/n’s voice was groggy, a stupid grin on her face as she attempted to snuggle closer to her husband, leaning up to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

“only if i wake up first.” lance smiled calmly, pulling y/n closer.

as lance was about to comment on how quiet and peaceful their house finally was, he could hear soft cries coming from the crib in the corner. when y/n moved to get up, he insisted that his wife lay back down.

“i’ve got it, my love. you carried her for nine months, this is the least that I can do.”

she smiled, squeezing his hand.

“i love you, lance stroll.”