Realistic or Modern &nbsp; Auburn Springs

º º code by ditto º º

ditto · Nov 18, 2021

IAN HANSEN

Ian had been working so hard for this game. Duh, obviously, ‘cuz it was the biggest game of the year, so yeah, he was working really hard. Like, really, really hard. Like, protein shakes with everything, eating all of the leftovers at the table when people were done eating, carrying these five pound weights and some extra powder around with him at school in this little duffle bag that he said held a secret (‘cuz he wasn’t going to reveal his secret plan to becoming the best on the team to anyone, ever) until the principal pulled him out because he thought it was drugs and Ian had to be all like no principal dude it’s for me to get swole and the principal still thought it was drugs and then he opened the bag and saw the weights and the protein powder and, like, the monogrammed sweatbands that Ian had stolen from Linda and just looked at Ian like he was dumb because he didn’t want to admit that it was the most genius idea that he’d ever heard.

And then he got put in detention because they were the school weights that he’d been carrying, and so he couldn’t really carry them around the rest of the week ‘cuz he didn’t want to be in detention again. Plus his shoulder was sore from carrying it.

Er, n-not ‘cuz it was too heavy, though — no, like, uh, just ‘cuz, uhhh…

Anyway, Ian had been working really, really hard for this game, ‘cuz he knew that this game would finally be his time to shine. For the first time since the second game of the season, Coach would let him go out on the field for more than the whole handshaking part.

They’d done their practices and stuff, and Ian was thinking, Dang, bro, I’m doing really, really, really good. ‘Cuz he was, man! He really was! Like, sure, he bruised basically his whole upper arm because he rammed himself too hard into the dummies, but, ya know, like, he was doing freaking great!

And then they started talking about strategies for the game in front of it, and the big bossy guy in charge who wasn’t Mason started saying all kinds of things to Coach, and one thing led to another, and then Coach came over and put a hand on Ian's shoulder, and Ian looked up at him, and ya know, he gave him his winning grin.

And Coach just went, “Keep the bench warm for us out there tonight.”

And so, the sweaty young boy was benched. Again. In spite of all of his effort.

Such was the life of Ian Miles Hansen.

He was a good player, bro! A great player, even! And, like, like, sure, he was a little bit smaller than the other guys, but he — he was frickin’ better than all of them — combined, yeah, yeah. Yeah, he would go so far as to say that, ‘cuz…’cuz it was the truth. Yeah! See, Ian didn’t say nothing but the truth, so obviously it was. Yeah. Mmmhm. You could take it from the baddest boy himself. Trust him. He knew.

See, Coach didn’t get it. Big grrr guy was just so focused on all of the big, buff, actually good during practice guys who could take down the dummies and stuff that he overlooked, like…Ian, you know? The diamond in the rough, ya know? Like, the main character of the movie, you know?

“Man, why the heck did he even let me on the bullcrap team if he isn’t gonna let me play?” he whined beneath his breath as he dropped the Gatorade-drained Dixie cup on the ground and wiped the back of his hand against his sweaty forehead. “He still makes me practice and warm up and stuff and I’m just basically a frickin’…” His brows furrowed as he struggled for a good description. “…hot…sexy garden gnome who’s sitting on the bench and shiz…”

It was BS. Straight up bullcrap.

He’d told Rory and Stella and even Salem that he was gonna be on the field tonight. SALEM. You know, that hot girl that was totally into Ian — or, well…who was gonna totally be into Ian soon, you know?

It was bullcrap! Serious frickin’ bullcrap.

The game started, they did all of that jazz of the national anthem and stuff, but Ian was more focused on the issue at hand: the fact that they were depriving him of his field time. No, no, no, more than that, the — the fact that they were depriving the team of his talent!

Dejectedly kicking off his cleats (‘cuz being sock-footed was just better than wearing shoes ’n stuff), Ian plopped down cross-legged in the middle of one of the sidelines. He threw his cleats down in the little gap between his heels and his crotch. Pouting, he pensively picked at hunks of grass and dirt caught in the grips of his cleats, his eyes narrowed and focused on the scoreboard in the corner.

If he could play this game, he would make his team’s score so high that there wouldn’t be enough room to hold all the numbers, and then everyone would be like woah look at that hot guy out there, isn’t he hot and amazing and tall and sexy and woah, Salem, you’re confessing your love to him right now? and then he would take off his helmet, and he would shake out his curly, sweaty hair, and he would hold his helmet up high and scream at the top of his lungs while his team held him up and chanted, “I-an, I-an, I-an —”

“…I-an, I-an,” he continued beneath his breath, not even realizing what he was doing until he was pulled out of doing it by a figure passing right in front of his field of vision.

Ian blinked a few times, looking around confusedly, his brows knitting in offense until he found the boy who’d walked in front of him.

He tensed his jaw when he laid eyes on him. “Duck Baby,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes further as he watched Drake move toward —

Oh hey! It was Stella!

Ian’s face lit up when he realized who he was going to. He watched Drake and her for a couple of seconds, and then he pushed off of the ground, shaking his head.

He’d come over and spare her from having to talk to that, psh, baby.

“Stella!” he yelled, running toward the fence as Drake had. Jumping, he put his hand on top of the fence, and —

“Oof!”

Somehow, he wound up flopping over, landing on the top part of his shoulders while the other half of his body lay splayed up against the chain links.

Grimacing and letting out a groan of pain, Ian reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. He opened his eyes, and his gaze met Drake’s and Stella’s.

Putting on a grin, he said, “Hi.”

The sock-footed boy took a moment to roll over and pop up, and then he proudly put his hands on his hips, panting. “I meant to do that,” he lied.

His eyes finally registered the sign that Stella was holding, and he gasped aloud. “Oh, dude, you made me a sign, right?” he asked, grinning excitedly. His eyes were alight with joy, the sorrow from only moments before completely gone from his mind. “Can I see it, can I see it?”

He squinted his eyes at one of the signs she was holding: #12 is sexy. ‘course, #12 was all fancy-looking, and is sexy was scrawled sloppily beneath the number in dried-out Sharpie. “Ahaha,” Ian laughed, rubbing his chin, “I’m not #12 — I think you got the number wrong, Stella, ahaha.”

mood
: D

location
the football game

outfit
the football fit

playing...
baby (ft. ludacris)

by justin bieber

mentions
rory & salem

interactions
drake & stella

tags

º º code by ditto º º

ditto · Nov 19, 2021

Chelsea Kader Freud

Homecoming night.

The sun was setting in the distance behind the packed stands full of eager attendees of Auburn Springs High School’s 100th homecoming, but the serene, nostalgic feeling that the scene evoked was lost on the boy who had only a few weeks ago been living an entirely rabble-free life who was now left to deal with pieces of shit like the one he was having to deal with now. From the anger in his sweat-drenched face to the clenchedness of his gloved fingers, Chelsea Kader Freud was anything but calm. He was, however, collected. Reserved. Cool, level-headed.

He was all of those things, and also indescribably, hardly-controllably furious.

Auburn Springs’ homecoming, hailed at the school and in the town as a cultural staple, was something that every student at AS needed to respect, especially the fucking sportsmen, yet fleas like the fucking Bridgers had the fucking gall to trample all over this time-honored tradition as though it was nothing more than a fucking peewee game. To them, it was just some stupid fucking event with some stupid fucking dress up days before, apparently, and playoffs weren’t riding on this fucking game, and they weren’t making a fucking mockery of AS and everything it stood for. They were fucking uncultured, and disgusting, and they all smelled like and looked like and acted like shit, so he couldn’t say that he was surprised, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t pissed that this was happening right now.

After all, when you made a fucking commitment to be the co-leader of a fucking team who is all better than you anyway like you’re some hot shit but refused to show up on time, you deserved worse than hell.

(You deserved the wrath of CK Freud and all of his unaddressed mommy and daddy issues.)

Clenching his fist tighter at his side and looking tensely to the countdown on the scoreboard as he crushed his Dixie cup with his other hand, Freud dug his heel further into grass. Tick, tick, tick. Time was fucking wasting.

Was the fucking rat bastard ever going to show up?

Chelsea grit his teeth, his eyes moving to scan the crowd as the timer continued to count down how many minutes Rivera had left to live. Rivera, where the fuck are you?

How fucking disrespectful to the school, to the team, to the coach, to the players of Rivera to just go fuck off and stop and smell the fucking roses or whatever the shit he thought he was doing that was more important than the biggest game of the year instead of showing up on time like he’d already fucking committed to. It hadn’t been “that long”, but it had been too fucking lost that he had kept them all waiting.

“That asshole,” CK muttered. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Dead. Rivera was fucking dead. CK was already fucking seeing red.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chelsea spotted an approaching figure, and he registered who it was almost immediately.

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Rivera,” Chelsea barked as the boy approached.

His immediate instinct was to rush him right there, but his eyes shifted over to the crowd in the stands. As much as he wanted to make a big fucking scene of this — and as much as Rivera deserved it — it was the biggest game of the year. People were already in the stands watching, and he knew that many of those eyes were focused on CK.

He was, after all, Chelsea Kader Freud. He would have to settle for handling this bastard on the downlow right now. It was more than what Rivera was worth to lose face over a shithead like him. Later, he would slaughter him; right now, there were too many fucking witnesses.

His hazel eyes laser-focused on his target, the sweat-drenched, angry-faced Auburn Springs football captain marched toward the rat-faced sleaze. Fury swelled in his chest, evident in the heftiness of his footsteps, and when he came to a stop in front of Rivera, he gave him an aggressive shove in the chest, then gripped his shoulder. Yanking Rivera close and pressing his right shoulder to the left side of Rivera’s chest, Chelsea’s furious eyes fixated on a nondescript spot in the crowd.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he said at a low volume, his voice short and angry but surprisingly tame. “You want to be fucking co-captain but you can’t even fucking show up to the biggest game of the season on time?” He gave him another aggressive shove, this one with his shoulder. “You’re disgracing our fucking name, Rivera.”

He took a step back, setting his angry eyes on Rivera’s. “I know you’re a piece of shit, deadbeat member of this team, but you also happen to be a piece of shit, deadbeat co-captain who everyone in that fucking crowd is associating with Auburn Springs right now, asshat.” His lip curling in disgust as though Rivera were a rat on more than just a spiritual level, CK turned his head away. “You’re not even fucking dressed. Do you want to fucking die?”

mood
pissed

location
the football game

outfit
whatever football players wear

playing...
this fire (franz ferdinand cover)

by bullet

mentions
n/a

interactions
rivera

tags

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 19, 2021

Jessica Finch

As cheers rang out around her, Jess found herself bringing her hands up to press against her ears to try and drown out the sounds of everyone as they stood up. Screaming out nonsense as the team scored a goal or whatever the hell it was (she didn't know football, alright), and she tried desperately to focus on the book in front of her. On the words that the more she stared down at, felt like they were floating off the page.

She'd literally read this paragraph at least half a dozen times, and she still didn't know what it'd said. Her mouth was forming the words, her voice quietly repeating them back to herself so she could feel the vibrations of her voice against her hands, and kind of hear her words over her peers.

Everyone settled back down for the moment, and Jess' tense body relaxed a bit. She'd scooted far away from the girl that sat next to her until she was practically teetering on the edge of the bleacher. Now, with the bleachers having quieted down a bit, Jess' hands fell away from her ears and she calmed down.

Until there was something else, and the people around her erupted once more. The girl sitting beside her jostled Jess as she rose up, screaming, and Jess nearly lost her balance, but managed to remain sitting on the bleacher -- except that her book toppled from her lap and skidded across the bleacher in front of her.

She glared over her shoulder.

"Oh my god, Jess, I'm so sorry," the girl said.

"Yeah, Whitney, you fucking should be," Jess snapped back with more spite than she intended, but she didn't bother apologizing -- after all, Whitney wasn't even paying attention. She'd turned her attention back to the buffoons on the football field in front of them, and she was screaming once more.

Jess rolled her eyes.

She stood up as she turned around to grab her book, but then her eyes widened in panic when she realized that her book wasn't on the fucking bleacher. There was momentary panic as she stepped away from the bleachers where she'd been sitting to start looking for it, when the book was held out for her.

"Who brings a book to a football game?" the book savior asked.

"Me," Jess snapped back as she took her book back, checking it for bent pages, before she finally lifted her dark gaze up to see the identity of who had--

Oh shit.

She was silent, her mouth kind of growing dry as she realized that it was Dani. You know, as in Ryan's best friend. Not that Jess really worried too much or whatever about speaking to Ryan's friends or being seen as uhh... like, she didn't care what they thought of her, because she didn't like Ryan.

Right? Right.

That made sense.

"I..." she started, her voice dying off. "Oh, uhhh... I'm ahh... sorry...? I just..." she tapped the front of her book. "Don't really... grr angry bois aren't, you know... fun to watch, so I..." she tapped the book again, pursing her lips into a tight-lipped smile. "Why are you here? Football doesn't really seem like, umm... like your thing."

mood
annoyed

location
the band section of the bleachers

outfit
nerdddyyyy band uniform

playing...
Bite My Tongue

by Relient K

mentions
N/A

interactions
Dani

tags

jasmyn

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 19, 2021

Rory Hansen

God, there was no part of Rory Hansen that enjoyed football games. They were dumb. She hated watching the boys fucking fighting it out on the field while the girls fucking wiggled their asses in skirts that were way too fucking short, and then there were the people on the fucking bleachers. The teenagers that were just looking for an excuse to fucking get close underneath blankets, the stupid giggling, god, she fucking hated it.

The only reason she was here was because Ian was on the fucking team, although he was clearly just a benchwarmer. Part of her wanted to march down there and get in the coach's face and make him put her little brother on the field, but she was biting her tongue for once -- because she knew that wouldn't solve anything, and that would just piss Ian off or embarrass him or some shit (as if he didn't already embarrass himself enough).

Oh, and she guessed because Conan was on the team. That probably should've been a big reason on why the fuck Rory was actually here. She was... dating him? Kind of? Not officially or anything of the sort, because literally fuck that, but they were ah... going to the fucking Homecoming dance together, so she guessed there was that, and no, Rory had no fucking idea on why she'd agreed and--

The longer she sat on that cold ass bench, her gaze glued to her little brother pulling at grass clumps, the more her mind swarmed with thinking about the dance later, the angrier she grew, until she couldn't take it anymore.

"C'mon," she snapped and Rory moved to her feet. She didn't look to see if Grover was actually following her, because if he wasn't, then simply fuck him -- but she knew he would be trailing after her. And she also knew that Grover had weed on him, because he always fucking did, so...

Yeah, she was going to turn this fucking night around.

Her footsteps carried her quickly down the stairs to the side, and Rory easily pushed a few people out of her way that wouldn't fucking move. A couple of them started to speak, but Rory was already several steps away and not stopping before they could say shit or stop her -- which was probably for the best for them.

It was only after she was off the bleachers that she bothered to slow down and turn to face Grover. Her hand reached out, smacking him in the chest. "Take a break and smoke before the dance?" She asked, walking as they spoke, although while she was walking... someone caught her eye.

Her dark lips pulled back into a grin.

"C'mon, this'll be fun," she said, giving a slight tilt of her head before she walked towards the girl running the concession stand. There was a smile on Rory's face as she brushed her way past a couple people that were standing back, casually discussing their options.

"Hey, Petra," Rory purred as she gave a warm smile (although coming from Rory, the proper term was probably more wolfish, predatory -- you get the point) as she leaned forward, resting her arms on the counter as she leaned towards the girl. "Surprised to see you here, although..."

She sighed, straightening back up before she leaned against the counter. "Guess not too surprised, this is kind of your thing, yeah?" Reaching out, she picked up a Push Pop from the little cardboard rack sitting beside the cash register. She popped off the cap and pushed it up, casually licking the candy as her icy blue eyes moved to look at Petra. "It's a shame, really, we were just about to head out for a few, and it would just... I don't know, it would just be so much fucking better if you were out there to join us, right?"

Rory gave a shrug as if she didn't really care one way or another (and to be fair, she didn't), before she pushed away from the counter, Push Pop still in her mouth.

"Oh well, maybe next time," she said with a breathy sigh. Her lips curled back into another smile, and then Rory stepped away from the concession stand and started walking away from it (with Grover in tow, duh).

"Wait a minute," Rory said, her steps slowing to a stop a few feet away from the concession stand. "She'll come out."

mood
fuck this

location
the concession stand

outfit
gemmy is truly the best

playing...
You Don't Know Me

by Liz Gillies

mentions
Ian, Conan

interactions
Grover, Petra

tags

natsukashii

º º code by ditto º º

qunqun · Nov 19, 2021

MOOD: Sad day

OUTFIT:mmm comfy

LOCATION: Football Game
basics

MENTIONS:
N/A

INT:
Xander Winona
tags

TL;DR Talkin with the homie.
tl;dr

Rayden

Now, Rayden wasn’t really the brightest bulb in the… shed. But, he did know what he wanted to do in the future: No regrets baby. Aw yeah. That meant: clean cut, not doing drugs, not drinking underage, being a good guy with 0 consequences to deal with when he grew into an actual adult at some point.

That being said, he was walking to a football game. Usually not really his scene: he really liked practicing over hours for lacrosse with some of his buddies. Failing that, you could find him at the gym, or walking through the woods. Or, helping out on the good ol’ family farm… Having staring contests with cows. Or doing anything, really, but going to a football game. But his friend had invited him out, and while it wasn’t really his scene, he was a supportive friend.

So he’d agreed to go.

Anyways, he was waiting outside for his friend Xander. Xander was the slender short. Kinda thin. Could do with lifting weights. He’d offered to train him once. Become big strong man. Buff.

Rayden waved at his friend as he approached. “Yooooooo what’s upppp!!!!” Rayden offered Xander the Guy Handshake™ “How ya doin.”

The artsy sort, not the type that you’d expect a guy like Rayden to be friends with. But hey. He wasn’t too judgmental. And variety was the spice of life n all that. He liked people! And Xander seemed the nice sort. He liked Xander, even if he didn’t quite understand everything that Xander wanted to do every now and then.

As Rayden listened to Xander’s lil status update (wow look at him interacting with a NEW FRIEND he was so excited. A whole school of new friends had opened up to him and he was going to milk it for all it was worth).

Suddenly Rayden saw something white moving out of the corner of his eye and stopped Friend Xander mid sentence (he’d apologize later for interrupting. That was rather rude of him).

“ERMAGAHD IS THAT A CAT????” No, Rayden. It was not a cat. But he scurried away from Friend Xander to go see the cat.

“Hulllooooooooooo~~~” He peered around the corner to see the fluffy goodness.

“Oh no, it’s a plastic bag.” Sad day for Rayden. Saddest day. He shuffled back and blinked a couple of times.

“Wait, what were we doing again?” The stare of a cow as the lacrosse player was resetting his mind to pre-cat times.

code by valen t.

Winona · Nov 20, 2021

Emmett Gray

He brought a hand up to run through his light brown hair. His hand fell back to his side, and he slipped it back into the pocket of his thin jacket as he walked along with Syd, his shoulders slouched down per usual for the rather ahh... well, for the rather angry, typically upset boy.

In his pocket, his hand grazed against the box of cigarettes, and all Emmett really wanted to do was leave and smoke. Sure, he could break one out here, but there were teachers and adults and shit all over the place, so he was pretty sure that would be the fastest way to getting in trouble and, well, believe it or not, but right now? Right now, Emmett didn't really want that kind of attention to be focused on him.

Why was he even at the game, you may ask?

... Yeah, Emmett didn't really have an answer to that.

He was going to the Homecoming dance, though, and he was dragging fucking Sydney with him, and he did have a reason for that -- a reason that he really wasn't all too good at hiding.

Kass was going.

Em got a little bit paranoid thinking she might be going with someone else.

Not that he cared at all about Kass or who she might be dating.

Nope, he was so fucking over her.

He brought a hand out again to rub at the back of his neck. He was getting kind of twitchy, kind of antsy, kind of feeling just... just really fucking out of it or some shit.

"Hey Syd," he asked, reaching over to smack his hand into Syd's shoulder, and then hand went back into his pocket. "Wanna get outta here or some shit? We could ahh... you know, get some beers and drink or something before the dance..." his words trailed off as, through the crowd, he saw--

Oh fuck.

"Shitshitshit," Emmett hissed out through gritted teeth, and he reached out, grabbing Syd's arm and quickly turned his best friend around so their backs were now to Darcy and fucking Kass. "Fucking walk and don't look back, I want my balls where they're fucking at," he hissed under his breath, as if they'd somehow hear him from so far away.

Yeah, so going to the dance to keep an eye on Kass and see if she was going with anyone else was clearly going to go oh so fucking well when he couldn't even be in her vicinity without her fucking guard dog jumping down his throat (because yeah, he guaranteed Darcy would've).

mood
fuckfuckfuck

location
game

outfit
clothes

playing...
Without Me

by With Confidence

mentions
N/A

interactions
Syd, Kass, Darcy

tags

jasmyn

geminiy

º º code by ditto º º

mogy · Nov 20, 2021

Noah Stewart

It was homecoming night. The tensions were higher than ever, and, well, there was a game to be played. Adrenaline rushed in both boys and girls, more the boys, but the girls’ adrenaline levels were also at an acceptable rate, cheering for their men, or for each other, or for whatever is was that made girls cheer these days. Hell, it could’ve even been the new Taylor Swift album for all Noah Stewart knew. He wasn’t a swifter, but what could you do? Not everybody was perfect.

Anyway, enough about Taylor Swift and her amazing new version of Red.

Noah, of course, decided to drive to the homecoming game, as any responsible driver would, to practice his driving, of course. Obviously. What’s life without a little adventure, right? And besides, he needed something to lift him up and get him ready to cheer from the stands after he took one of those 15-minute naps that turned out to be a 3-hour one instead. He was actually pretty proud to say that he didn’t hit a single pedestrian in the 10-minute drive, and he wasn’t even lying! Well, to an extent, but a racoon doesn’t count as a pedestrian, now does it?

He got out of his pretty red car that was only just a little bit redder than it was when he entered it and put his keys in his pocket before slowly making his way to the stadium. Was he ready to watch hot guys running after a weirdly shaped ball all sweaty and whatever else for two or more hours? Definitely, it was Noah. What else would you expect?

But then again, he never was the type of guy to really…how would one put this? Watch from the sidelines, I guess? He definitely liked to get into the action more, get his hands dirty and get some experience because watching got pretty boring pretty quickly. I think all the horny cheerleaders could understand where he was coming from.

Now, don’t worry, this didn’t mean he suddenly decided to become a football player or something dumb and straight like that, no. What he wanted was a hot sweaty dude in his midst, and since Mason was unavailable ☹, and then Caleb was unavailable ☹, he guessed he had to find somebody else suitable for the role of hot football guy #2 in his own ‘coming’-of-age movie. (Don’t ask what happened to hot football guy #1, that was a whole thing.)

Luckily, the gay Jesus of high school football appeared in flesh, to save Noah and fill the role, of course, what else would he be there for?

Who am I referring to, you may ask? Well, Donahue Calvin Camus, of course! He is often described as a ghost, or so I’ve heard, and the only way Jesus would show himself to Noah was in the form of ghost boy DC.

“You should follow me.” He leaned in to whisper to DC before going straight for the locker rooms, not even looking back to see if the boy had been following him. They’ve been doing this for a while now, and every time the seductive whispering pretty much did the trick. Breath on cold skin was usually a superpower over guys. Hell, if somebody did it to Noah he wouldn’t mind.

From that point on, I think you can pretty much imagine what happened next. Needless to say, home wasn’t the only thing coming. (A big thanks to Ditto for donating that joke.)

“Well, that was…pretty good, actually.” Noah said, putting on his shirt. It smelled like sweat, but the uncomfortable one, you know, the everlasting locker room smell that no amount of deodorant would help. Why he was surprised by the whole experience being good, well, he didn't know, but he did know that locker room sex definitely wasn't on the same level as a hotel room hookup would be.

mood
Filled with spirit!

location
Locker room

playing..."
Low (slowed and reverb)

by: Flo Rida

mentions
mentions

interactions
DC

tags

º º code by ditto º º

ditto · Nov 20, 2021

SYDNEY DUVANT

“You’re gonna freeze your balls off, dude. You better wear a coat or something, not a thin ass jacket like that.”

“Oh, no, no, no, shorts and flip-flops are always in season, Ollie.”

“And wifebeaters?”

“And wifebeaters.'

“Dude…"

“Trust me.”

Why the hell did he trust me? Syd thought, his teeth chattering as he tugged his thin jacket tighter around himself. This was now officially his cousin’s fault, because his cousin let him go out in this. Yeaaaaaaaaah, fuck you, Ollie.

Sigh. Tonight was going to be a long night.

His fingers were already itching for a cig. He patted the pocket of his shorts to feel the indentation of the pack. He rubbed his lips together, his eyes searching for the perfect spot for smoking. Sure, it was a school event, but hey, listen, what was the point of living life if you didn’t live it out on the edge, yeah?

But he slowly dismissed that thought and moved his hand from his shorts to shove it back into his jacket pocket because, uh…yeah, come to think of it, having to reveal his smoking habit to his aunt and uncle and having to deal with either detention or suspension sounded like a whole lotta effort, and Syd wasn’t about that kind of life, ya know?

“Hey Syd.” Emmett’s hand hit Syd’s shoulder.

Syd looked over at him, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

"Wanna get outta here or some shit?” Em asked.

Syd cocked his head, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears and shivering. “Outta here as in?” he asked through chattering teeth.

Em was looking out at the people. “We could ahh…you know, get some beers and drink or something before the dance…”

“Beers?” Syd looked away from Em and over to the scoreboard. He whistled at the score — AS was already ahead, damn — and then he tried to remember what they’d been talking about. When he did, he let his shoulders fall back down. “Oh. Uh, I mean —“

“Shitshitshit,” Em started suddenly, and Syd looked over at him, his brows knitting in confusion.

“Huh?” he asked as his best friend grabbed his arm and spun him around. He blinked a couple of times. “What’s going —“

“Fucking walk and don't look back, I want my balls where they're fucking at,” Em hissed.

Syd, of course, did start walking — but he also had to sneak a peek back.

He wasn’t very good at following instructions.

Confusedly, he blinked back at the crowd, then looked back at Em, and then looked back at the people. Was he, uh…was he missing someth —

And then saw them: Darcy and Kass.

And it clicked.

He gasped, “Oh!” And then he looked over at Em with a knowing, “Oh…”

He could be a bit slow to things.

He ducked his head, but he kept his head still a little bit turned so he could keep glancing back at the two.

It was the first time that he’d seen Darcy in person since she’d come back, after all. His heart was excitedly pattering along in his chest. I mean, kinda excitedly, kinda nervously, if he was being honest. It wasn’t exactly like they’d had the most pleasant interactions since her return, either, but he did really miss her.

How much do you think Em would hate you if you went over there to see her? he asked himself, but he immediately answered, Enough.

And, well, when you were ~~highkey~~ lowkey simping for your best friend, enough hatred from Em was anything above nothing at all.

He sighed inwardly.

They wound up behind the bleachers before Syd finally stopped. “You know, I think we’re good now,” he said with a slight grin. He looked over at Em. “Outta sight, outta mind, yeah? Er, outta sight plus thirty-five plus feet, outta mind. That’s how the saying goes, yeah.”

He kinda wanted to ask, You still haven’t made up with Darcy yet? And yeah, no, he didn’t have any self-preservation skills, but he did have enough sense to know that that wasn’t a good idea — and, uh, what was more important, enough discernment to decide that that was a bad idea. Again, getting his best friend to hate him? Yeah, awful idea. Hard pass.

Syd sighed, leaning his head back against one of the poles coming down from the bleachers. “Shit,” he said, reaching for his pack of cigarettes, “it’s always worse when you can’t have one.”

You know…the underside of the bleachers was hidden enough, right? Like, no teachers were going to come down here, yeah?

He glanced around, looking over his shoulders, and he immediately made a melodramatic gagging noise, covering his mouth and turning back to Em. “Shit, forgot we’re beneath the bleachers at a highly-monitored football game.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to gesture to the freshman couple making out a bit over.

He crossed his arms, grinning slightly. “You know those shows where it’s like…I dunno.” He wracked his brain for some kinda genius idea. Something like a tv pitch that matched what he was thinking. “I dunno, Hollywood…Hollywood Arts: Where Dreams Are Made or Stars Are Born somethin’ that’s all, like, oooooooh, all sparkles and dreams coming true and stuff? Well, they should call this place…” He held his hands up now, and as he continued, he held moved them from left to right as though spelling out the words on an invisible sign. “The Underside of the AS Bleachers: Where Babies Are Made.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at the couple, and then he gagged again. He didn’t know what exactly he was expecting to see, but it was obviously the same thing as before: an acne-ridden couple shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. He looked back at Em with a disgusted look on his face, but his lips slid into a sly grin. He chuckled. “Hey, Egg, whaddoya say — steamy makeout sess ‘neath the asses of the ASsholes?” he joked, making a kissing noise, biting his lip, and doing the fuckboy face. He held his expression for couple of seconds then gave a wink, and then, naturally, he lost it, laughter shaking his whole body to the point that he had to throw his head back.

He calmed down after a moment, then waved a hand dismissively. “If we’re not gonna smoke or make out beneath the bleachers,” he said, moving out from their hiding spot, grabbing the railing, and wiggling his butt, “maybe we should just — huck.”

That odd noise just so happened to be the sound of the wind being knocked out of him as his chest hit the railing.

Yeah, he’d midjudge how much it would take to clear it and make it onto the stairs, but in his defense, mathematics had never been his strong suit.

He dropped back to his feet, clutching his chest. For a few moments, he struggled for air with wide eyes, and then he let out a loud grown. “Shhhhhht, that hurt,” he whined, his face pained.

There totally weren’t tears in his eyes that he was blinking away, either. He just, uh…he got something in his eyes.

Breathing out another sigh, he placed a hand on his stomach, which chose that moment to let out a loud growl. Oh right, he hadn’t eaten lunch or supper or anything today.

Yeah, and, uh, a family-sized bag of Great Value potato chips wasn’t exactly filling.

“Actually, I’m kinda hungry, not even gonna lie,” Syd said, looking toward the concessions and then to Em with a bounce of his eyebrows. With a catlike grin, he reached into his pocket and whipped out his wallet. He wiggled it in front of his face. “Good old Uncle Dad’s money’s burning a hole in my pocket.”

With that, he dropped his hand back by his side and started toward the concessions, expecting Em to follow. He looked over at his best friend, a wide grin on his face. “Double order of nachos? Oh shit, and we can get a couple of pretzels, too. Maybe some candy. Man, really hope they got more M&Ms. Peanut kind, obviously. We could grab a gatorade or two or something.” He came to a stop at the back of the line. “Actually, we might as well just buy out the whole place — you think they take card?”

mood
hungry

location
the football game

outfit
a wifebeater, shorts, flip-flops, and a thin jacket

playing...
chasing cars

by snow patrol

mentions
kass & darcy

interactions
em

tags

º º code by ditto º º

natsukashii · Nov 20, 2021

Jeremy Grover

Was Jeremy Grover a football fan? Not particularly. Was Jeremy Grover a fan of seeing guys hit each other for no reason other than to satiate the primal desire that human beings have to see others get potentially physically injured? Agian, that would be a no.

But Ian was on the football team. Grover made a habit out of being there for those who truly mattered to him. If Ian hadn’t been on the team, well then maybe he might’ve just stuck to the concessions stand or hung elsewhere until the dance started. But he was, so as much as it pained him to have those foreboding thoughts that he often did whenever he watched anything that contained excessive violence (artistic violence is another story and one not appropriate here), Grover was here in support of Ian.

As he came to the conclusion that the younger boy who he saw as his own brother was put on the bench, Grover felt a temporary melancholic feeling pass through him. He understood Ian’s desire to play and impress. He admired that about him and often tried to encourage him as much as he could. He knew Ian would get his chance to show what he had no doubt he put all of his hard work into.

So Grover just clapped in a show of support.

And then Rory wanted to take a break.

Ah, Rory, his ever-impatient best friend (or at least that’s how he viewed their friendship). There were no lengths he wouldn’t go to for her and that included stretching their legs. He smiled and walked with her, his footsteps coming only a few seconds after hers. In her usual way, however, she pushed some people to the side. There were a few that were chill about it, but the ones who were going to say something, Grover flashed them a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” he told them. Grover’s mellow personality often allowed him to calm down people who might’ve been angered or frustrated by his more aggressive friends.

Grover, in addition to his usual jacket that had almost become a trademark for him, had his backpack with him. This wasn’t peculiar or anything because it was also pretty trademark for him. Most who just give him a first glance wouldn’t know it, but inside his normal backpack which he always had on one shoulder (that’s his style), was Grover’s mobile stash of weed. About two dozen of individuals, ziplock baggies full of his homegrown cannabis was in it. He had some pre-rolled into joints for his own personal enjoyment or in the event that Rory wanted to get high.

(He knew her so he had pre-rolled them before she picked him up today).

As they finally got off the bleachers, Grover wasn’t paying attention because he didn’t see Rory’s hand, but he sure felt it push against his chest. Grover was fit but he wasn’t built like a rock like most of the football players were. So when a hand unexpectedly is pushed into your chest, like Grover did, you’d grunt ever-so-slightly and the wind would be taken out of your sail for a fraction of a second.

"Take a break and smoke before the dance?"

Had it been just anyone else, they might’ve taken that as a question. Thankfully, Grover wasn’t just anyone. It was a thought they both had and something Grover himself had prepared for. “You had me at hand in my chest,” Grover joked as he swung his backpack around, looping the other sleeve into his arm as he had it on him like it was a baby or something, which wasn’t inaccurate considering he often treated his weed like he was a proud father.

He went to dig out a joint, and he had looked down for a few seconds. When he brought his gaze back up, Rory was already walking away towards the concession stand after claiming “this’ll be fun”

What will be fun? There was a familiar feeling that Grover thought he had left in the past of last week’s scheme. He thought he might get a full week without being the bystander in Rory’s “fun”. It wasn’t that he disapproved or anything. Most of what she did was harmless. It was teasing at the least and a little mean at most, but at its core, Grover always perceived it as something to pass the time.

Still didn’t make him feel any better.

This week’s victim? The girl at the concession stand. Grover recognized her. He couldn’t recall her name, or at least he couldn’t remember until Rory addressed her.

Oh, right Petra was it. Sometimes he didn’t excel at remembering people’s names. He remembered faces, though.

His stomach tightened up when Rory pushed a push pop into her mouth.

Was this going too far? He wouldn’t say.

He didn’t think so.

No, it definitely wasn’t.

And as quick as it came, Rory walked away and Grover felt a slight moment of hesitation. He lingered for half a second and followed, looking back at Petra with an apologetic expression on his face. He didn’t say anything because, really, what could he say.

Then, as they walked away, on Rory’s almost-psychic assumption that Petra would follow, Grover looked back to find that she had. The sense of urgency on her face made Grover position himself behind Rory. It was an old habit that he did shake.

For as many times he had been there for her and Ian, Rory matched it, teaching him how to fight and defend himself. She protected him. He was a pacifist and didn’t like to fight or didn’t even like aggression. It wasn’t that he saw Petra as a threat to him, but it was the look in her eyes that made him apprehensive. He didn’t feel the need to guard himself completely since Rory was all the protection he ever needed.

He didn’t say anything. He wanted to but he didn’t. He just found himself, once again, as a bystander with Rory and Petra, hoping to the spiritual end of the God he acknowledges that this doesn’t end in tragedy.

mood
Trying to maintain the chill

location
Bleachers → Concession STand

outfit
Unique fit + The Grover Jacket

playing...
The Prayer

by kid cudi

mentions
Ian, Rory, Petra

interactions
Rory, Petra

tags

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 21, 2021

Xander Harris

Oh hell yeah, it was the Homecoming game. Now Xander didn't really have a huge love of sports, especially football, but he was a huge fan of anything fun and cool and there was nothing funner or cooler than hanging out the football game with his friends and stuff. It was something he'd never really gotten to do back when he was going to the private school with Darcy, so now that he was here? Oh yeah, he was definitely living it up.

Anyway, so Xander was out here hanging with his good buddy Rayden. Ray the man or... something like that. He was cool and everything and Xan thought he was really neat, even if the guy ahh... well... and Xander said this with all the love in his heart, but he really seemed like he'd sniffed one too many paint cans, if you knew what he meant.

(Dude wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.)

But there was some part of Xander that quite enjoyed the idea of being the smartest person in a group -- maybe because being Darcy's little brother meant that he never was the smartest. Ya know, like ever, because Darcy was actually really smart when she wasn't getting into big fights and stuff.

Xander really did love his sister.

Rayden took off yelling about some cat, and Xander followed after him, backpack that the boy always carried bouncing on his back as he did so. All he could really think of was damn, there's a cat here? with a heavy dose of wonder if it's white so I can paint it? because you know, Xander always carried some animal safe paints.

(Sorry to anyone whose dog had come back home painted. The boy liked unusual canvases.)

(And no, he'd never painted dicks on animals. He wasn't a savage.)

Unfortunately as they got closer, it turned out to just be a plastic bag, and Xander's steps slowed as he watched the bag drift away in the wind. There was a frown on his lips as he looked away from the littered bag back up to his taller friend, a bright, beaming smile crossing his face.

"We're at a football game," he corrected his buddy who really only ever seemed to have lacrosse on his mind. Xander came to stand beside Rayden and, due to his friend being quite a bit taller, he had to rise up on his tiptoes to wrap an arm around Ray's shoulders. With his free hand, he gestured out towards the field. "You see, it's the great American sport or something where everyone's all 'come get this ball from me!' and they all wear really tight pants, but I gotta say, the uniforms are a little bit better than the wrestling ones."

He released Rayden's shoulders and fell back to the flats of his feet as he stepped back, bringing his hands up to rest on the straps of his backpack.

"What do you wanna do?" He asked with a grin. "We can hang here, or ya know, I always got fun stuff in my backpack."

By fun stuff, he of course meant graffiti.

mood
lolol let's get wild

location
Homecoming game

outfit
flannels only for win characters

playing...
Lost Boys

by Ocean Park Standoff

mentions
Darcy

interactions
Rayden

tags

qunqun

º º code by ditto º º

geminiy · Nov 22, 2021

Darcy Harris

@D-Rated has set her status to:
raise hell? nah, I am hell

@D-Rated has set her outfit to:
ngl I'm probably cooler than u

@D-Rated has set her location to:
the food stand

@D-Rated has mentioned:
n/a

@D-Rated has interacted with:
Emmett, Syd, Kass

@D-Rated has tagged:
Winona ditto jasmyn

Football was ridiculously fucking stupid. There were very few upsides to watching a bunch of sweaty dudes manhandling each other and ye ol’ pigskin from several yards away in the middle of fucking October. It was cold and there were too many damn people and too many damn food wrappers everywhere and too many plumes of smoke from people thinking they’re being slick by smoking under the bleachers as if smoke doesn’t fucking rise in the air.

Darcy scoffed as a whiff of tobacco flew across her nose. Fucking amatures.

There were only like three half decent things about this stupid football game:

1) The players? Hot as hell and after almost two years entirely disconnected from hot guy reality, Darcy was taking her sweet time analyzing each number and ranking them in her head of most to least kissable;
2) That really gross plastic cheese they served with the cheap nacho chips at these games that came with enough sodium to entirely clog every artery in her body;
3) Kass.

“You know,” Darcy started as she took another long sip of slushie from her straw, one of those Coca Cola ones from the gas station, “life would just be so much easier if those football idiots actually put all that anger to good use. Like they’re almost hot but there’s something so funny about watching them lovingly grope each other. Kinda like wrestling.” Darcy reached beside her to grab the nacho container beside her, holding it out to Kass. “You want s-” She paused, looking down at the empty container. “Oh.”

Darcy hopped up and grabbed Kass’s hand, dragging her along behind her as she marched through the crowd of students on the bleachers, not bothering to mutter a ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ as she pushed her way through the swarms.

“Come on, we gotta go get more. If I don’t have heart disease and a date by the end of today, I’m gonna riot.” Darcy laughed as she chucked the empty container into a trash bin, her other hand still loosely clasping Kass’s. “Anyways, as I was sayin’, those football dudes are cute and all but they’re all so angry. Like it really isn’t a good look and that’s coming from me. I guess they’re cute if you squint but they also all feel like they cry after sex, ya know?”

Darcy and Kass made their way around the football field towards the food stand, the smell of hotdogs and salt (yeah, just salt) lingering in the air. The line was long, way too fucking long, and there was a moment that Darcy considered just cutting in line. But there, riiiiight at the end of the line, was Syd. And right beside him, the King of the Egg Carton.

“Dude,” she chirped as a smirk pulled up one side of her mouth, “look who it is, come on!”

Immediately dropping Kass’s hand, Darcy lowered herself slightly and began running towards the two, hidden neatly by the crowd of significantly taller people on all sides of her. Slowing down right as she was behind Emmett, one hand slipped into his pocket and fished out a lighter before she pushed between the two boys. Flicking the lighter alive, Darcy reached into her own pocket and pulled out a cigarette, gently placing it between her lips and setting the tip aflame.

“Heyyyy, Sydney! Long time no fuckin’ see, my man.” Darcy greeted with a wide grin, bumping her hip into Syd as she gave him a quick one armed hug, the other flicking ash from the tip of the cig. She then turned to Emmett. He still hadn’t apologized for his bullshit attitude. No, he didn’t deserve her energy or politeness so instead, Darcy looked him over with a rather disgusted look on his face.

Darcy took a puff of the cigarette before tilting her chin gracefully upwards towards the overcast sky, a thin plume of smoke curling from her lips.

“So, what’ve you been up to, Mr Duvant?” Darcy asked, cigarette dangling softly between her lips and bobbing as she talked while her other two hands found her way into the pocket of her jacket. “Sorry I didn’t catch up with you sooner. It’s been busy as hell since I got back. Oh, speakin’ of which.” Darcy gave a wild wave over to her blonde friend. “Hey Kass, get over here!”

Was that going to cause a war? Probably.

Did Darcy care? Absolutely fucking not.

Flipping the lighter over in her hand a few times, she held it out to Emmett. “Thanks for the light.” She said politely, glaring up at him through hooded lashes.

º º code by ditto º º

qunqun · Nov 22, 2021

MOOD: OwO what's this?

OUTFIT:mmm comfy

LOCATION: Football Game
basics

MENTIONS:
N/A

INT:
Xander Winona
tags

TL;DR Talkin with the homie.
tl;dr

Rayden

Now Rayden generally was the easily excitable sort. He just really liked doing things that made him feel nice - and luckily for everyone around him, generally those impulses and the things that made him feel nice were generally considered “nice” things.

Simply put, he wasn’t quite bright enough to understand concepts like “being talked down to” or “thinly veiled insults” or the idea that anyone would insult anyone at all. Because that would be Mean. And being Mean did not make him feel good - and clearly he was the end all be all of how things made people feel. Therefore, nobody was ever mean to him ever.

The logic was 100% sound, try not to think about it too much.

The one little brain cell rattling around in the soup that occupied the rest of his brain seemed to work overdrive as he figured out what exactly they’d been doing. Right. Going to a football game (boo football) with his scrawny buddy Xander (yay Xander).

He nodded along to the description of football. Yes, that’s what football was. He was so smart. Soaking in all this information in... like a sponge. Totally going to remember this.

He did not remember how Xander explained football but hey! He could probably figure it out right? Weird shaped ball - the big puffy men wanted. One color for one team, the other color for the other. And then they fought for the ball. Grr. Strong men. Raa.

Rather boring if you asked him, he liked being in the action far more than watching it. Yawn.

“What’s fun?” He asked, visibly perking up from the slow slump he’d gone into trying to match Xander’s height just a little bit. “I like fun!”

No, Rayden did not like this type of fun. But hey, Xander probably could persuade him to do something stupid. And he liked supporting his friends anyways.

He wasn’t necessarily the artistic type, but he had a lot of spirit. Zest for life. Something along those lines anyways. If it was something Xander wanted to do (he seemed the artsy type anyways) then he’d be pretty willing to do something fancy. After all, when people got excited, Rayden tended to get excited. Second hand zeal and excitement for fun stuff.

Supportive friend as always.

code by valen t.

ditto · Nov 23, 2021

DONAHUE CALVIN CAMUS

It was Homecoming again, as though that really meant anything to Donahue Camus. People around him tended to act as though this facet of high school culture was truly something that life depended on. For a week, everyone ate, sleep, and breathed Homecoming. Phenomena of the meathead-programmed self-righteousness that Chelsea made his entire personality seemed to possess all of the student body.

It would be sacrilege to say this to any of the die-hard Auburn Springs Homecoming sheep, but the fact of the matter was that Donna woke up today just the same as he did every other insufferable day of the insufferable year, and the same damn thing happened today as it did every other insufferable day of the insufferable year. He still woke up at his alarm, which was set five minutes before school started. He still dragged himself out of his bedroom and to the bathroom to piss and lazily brush his teeth for thirty seconds, still drug himself back to his room to throw on whatever sweatshirt and pair of jeans he found first on the floor, still sat himself down at his desk and dosed himself up enough to be tolerable, still smoked a cigarette on his way out of the door with a Pop-Tart in his other hand, still sped to school, still parked crooked, still ditched first and second and third periods, still force-fed himself lunch, still ran into his brother in the same exact place that he always did, still got a shove into a wall, still felt eyes follow him throughout the hall. It was just all underneath the overhanging cloud of “Homecoming Spirit” or whatever the fuck the assholes who thought inciting such a revolting social phenomenon wanted to call it.

The people at school were, at the very least, more interesting to observe today. It was like the electrodes prodding their brains were powered up even higher than they had been all week.

(Donna was also high as hell, but that was nothing different.)

He hadn’t wanted to go to the game, much the same as he never really wanted to do anything relating to football, but he still made himself. It wasn’t because he expected anything to come of it really. He would do nothing except for sit on the bench all of the game. He was well aware of the fact that he was, in his brother’s words, “a pussy bitch”, a “weakass", a “fucking disappointment”. He sucked at everything, so football was no different. He was well aware of the fact that the football coach only kept him around because he was a Camus and insert the rest of the bullshit about a legacy that the coach spewed on occasion when he needed a punching bag that wouldn’t fight back — Donna zoned out in that lecture after about the fifth time he heard it. He was well aware that his place on the bench was permanent, and the only way he would ever get out on that field except to walk to the side of the team as everyone else lied through gritted teeth as they shook hands with the other team and told them how good of a game it was would be if the idiot kid water boy had enough and poisoned their Gatorades.

That would be nothing short of a miracle, though, and miracles didn’t happen.

He wasn’t going to this game because he even really felt any duty to do it, either. He wasn’t like his asshole brother, pretending to have some moral compass or some moral obligation that pulled him to doing this thing or that thing. There would be no consequences if he didn’t go — at least, none that he cared about. If he didn’t go, he’d get another lecture from his dad, another lecture from the coach, another threat to take him out of football or out of the school or some other shit that they didn’t mean, because at the end of the night, everyone would have concluded that it was “fine, so long as you don’t do it again”, even though it would be fine if he did it again, anyway.

He was just going because he was going. There was no real desire or real reason for why. He was just dragging himself along.

When he got to the school, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it up behind the field house. He smoked down a few cigarettes, threw the butts on the dry grass hoping that it would light on fire, then moved to the locker room to change.

Then ensued the football bullshit, and then, he was smoking behind the field house again.

His eyes spotted someone coming his direction, and he recognized who it was after a few moments — Noah. He leaned in, whispered, “You should follow me,” and he headed off toward the locker room.

Donna knew what he wanted — and he wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity, especially not with a guy as hot as Noah was.

Then, it was over, and then Noah was putting on his shirt. “Well, that was…pretty good, actually.”

Donna glanced around, his lips parted as he drew in and out deep breaths. He shifted his jersey, stole a glance down at the number that meant nothing to him. 82. It was a locker room fuck. He didn’t know if you would call that good. It got him off, at least.

He dropped to a bench to shove his feet back into his cleats. “It echos too much,” he said dully. And it smells too much like the testosterone of the men my dad wants me to be in here. “Good is an overstatement. Maybe it was good for you.”

He ran a hand through his now damp curly mop as he stood. Turning back to Noah, DC met his eyes with his dead gaze. He gave him another once-over, and then turned away.

With that, he walked out of the locker room, reeking of sweat and sex.

He wasn’t much of a talker.

And then, as you would have it, the game started, and Donna was on the bench.

He had nothing else to do now except wish that he was in his truck, doing drugs.

mood
sex

location
the football game

outfit
clothes

playing...
the walls

by chase atlantic

mentions
chelsea, i guess

interactions
noah, no one (he's open : ) )

tags

mogy

º º code by ditto º º

mogy · Nov 24, 2021

Noah Stewart

You know, Noah preferred not looking somebody in the eyes, especially and specifically while having sex, and that could’ve gone with its fair share of exceptions, but definitely not when he happened to be having sex with Donna.

Listen, Donna was a good guy, all things considered. He had his issues, but who the hell didn’t have issues, and then again, Noah also had many issues of his own he probably needed to work on, but the point was, when one would look into Noah’s eyes, they wouldn’t be able to see directly into his soul. He didn’t allow that, he didn’t want people to care about him that way, and, with enough practice, even one’s quick gaze could’ve been fooled. It appeared Donna simply didn’t have that, because, when Noah turned around, having now put on his shirt and zipped up his pants, he was met with nothing. Like an empty shell of a person was staring at him, and he knew that certainly hadn’t been the case, but when did either of the two give the other a chance to actually get to them?

Now imagine staring at that emptiness while you’re doing something intimate. Noah liked to think something like that would destroy him, so he sheered away from it in order to protect himself. And he was right to do that, because, without even a goodbye, the other boy left the locker room. That was always the worst part of hookups. But it was also time for him to leave the locker room himself, and leave whatever happened in the locker room there. And no, I don’t mean residue or whatever, no. I mean the emotional baggage that always happened to pile up. So he did, with a deep breath that he regretted immediately as the smell genuinely burned his nostrils.

And, it seemed somebody else also started their walk of shame from the locker room. Quite ironic, how different Noah and Mason were in many regards, but when it came down to it, they were so similar.

As they both left the locker rooms, each their own respected locker room, everything was clear with a single glance at the scene with both of them in it. And to them, it was even clearer, at least to Noah it had been. With a simple nod, they confirmed just how obvious the situation had been to the other, and then Mason continued his path to the football field, and Noah his own path to the bleachers. They would probably talk about it when the pride kicked in.

Now all the black-haired boy wanted was to talk to someone, about literally anything, and the shame would kick away. Maybe. It usually worked that way.

So, as he walked, he thought about who exactly he knew that was at the game, and who was somebody that he could actually vibe with. At the top of his head, he named names with each step taken, but out of the names, there really wasn’t anybody who could soothe him the way he needed at the moment.

Except—

"There's my favorite future brother-in law,"…

Artie plowed into Noah, making him stumble back. He never would get used to that, would he?

Somehow, every time Noah needed them, Artie appeared there to take the boy’s mind off of whatever it was he needed a distraction from. And that’s why he loved Artie.

Of course, their friendship always was a bit on the weirder side, but it was still a friendship nonetheless, and however manipulative that previous sentence might have sounded, I assure you, Noah would never manipulate Artie. Playing with feelings was a tough game to play, with consequences assured.

All he could do was roll his eyes at Artie’s plan to somehow seduce his step-sister. He simply didn’t get the obsession, and he also knew somebody would get hurt in the end. It was the same as playing with feelings, or maybe, it was playing with feelings.

“Oh, Artie, Artie, Artie…” He chuckeled. “Come on! You could do so much better than Jade! Like no offence to you or Jade, but since when would a sane person want to be with someone that’s even vaguely related to Noah Stewart. It’s just sick. Just imagine Thanksgiving and the awkwardness.” He joked as the two walked, their arm over Noah’s shoulder.

“And stringing another person into it all, come on, you don’t need to do all of that.” He smiled at Artie. “You can just, you know, find another person to have a deeply unhealthy crush on.”

Just as he said that sentence, he noticed a girl sitting on the bleachers, not at all far from where Artie and himself were, so he took the opportunity as the amazing wingman he was.

“For example, this nice fine lady over here.” He walked a few steps forward, over to her, leaving Artie behind him.

“Hello, you.” He dashed that beautiful Noah Stewart smile at the girl before speaking again. “I am Noah, this is Artie, and Artie happens to be looking for a girlfriend. How’re you doing?”

Oh, how he loved putting people into sticky situations. It was lovely.

mood
Filled with spirit!

location
Locker room and later, bleachers

playing..."
Low (slowed and reverb)

by: Flo Rida

mentions
DC, Mason

interactions
Artie, Iggy

tags

ditto ,

Winona ,

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 24, 2021

Rory Hansen

The words told you were mouthed in Grover's direction with a sly smile as she turned back to face Petra who had come running over to, naturally, try and get her money back for the candy. But please, really? Surely she knew that there was no way in hell that Rory was planning on paying that.

Well, surely she knew that, but perhaps she just needed to be informed again.

Rory let out a small chuckle, her dark lips pulling back into a smile as she placed the push pop (I think that's what the fuck it was but I'm too lazy to double check) back in her mouth. She sucked on it for a moment, pretending to consider paying before she started walking away again, but this time her steps were more leisurely.

Petra would follow -- Rory was certain -- and by time Rory stopped, she'd pulled far enough away that the majority of the crowd wouldn't hear what they were saying.

"You're taking a break now, right?" Rory asked, popping the candy out of her mouth. She tossed the candy -- barely even gone at this point -- in the nearby trash can, and then she folded her arms across her chest. Again, there was that smile, and she leaned closer to Petra. "Why don't you relax a little? Come hang out with Grover and I and maybe if you do that..." her teeth bit into her bottom lip for a moment. "I'll pay you back."

Rory straightened up and stepped back, her elbow coming up to rest on Grover's shoulder. She smiled over at her friend. "Isn't that right, Jer? We'd just love to have the company."

And no, she had no intention of paying Grover for any weed that he might supply her tonight. Or... probably ever. What? Really, he fucking owed her for all the shit she put up with when it came to him.

mood
fuck this

location
the concession stand

outfit
gemmy is truly the best

playing...
You Don't Know Me

by Liz Gillies

mentions
N/A

interactions
Grover, Petra

tags

natsukashii

º º code by ditto º º

ditto · Nov 25, 2021

Chelsea Kader Freud

“I have my shit, you fucking dumbass.” Rivera held up his shit with an expression of pissed smugness.

“It’s not fucking on you, you fucking dumbass,” CK hissed back as Rivera dropped his helmet and jersey to the ground and began to adjust his shoulder pads. “Are you back in fucking fifth grade? I knew your education was shit, but I figured that if you made it to fucking captain, you had to at least know something.” Chelsea kicked at the jersey on the ground, his lip curling up in disgust before he looked back to the sitting boy’s face. “I’ll fucking spell it out for you, then.” He sweetened his voice, like a preschool teacher explaining how to potty. “You show up to the game on fucking time, in fucking uniform, ready to fucking play the second you walk out onto the grass.”

The sweetness dropped from his voice as the tall boy turned away from Rivera to look out at the scoreboard. The fury burned in his throat. CK had dealt with some real fucking dumbasses in his time being the captain of the football team. He really fucking had. Donna, for one. That kid Brad last year. But he’d never met any with the audacity and fucking ego of the rat-faced motherfucker in front of him. “Why are you fucking late, huh?”

“I had something to fucking deal with, dickhead,” Rivera said. “But I’m here fucking now and you guys didn’t even fucking need me for the first play.”

Chelsea scoffed, unable to hold back an eyeroll. “Something to fucking deal with, Rivera?” The words sounded so much more fucking laughable the second time. “Like what, huh? Unless your bathroom fuckup lost a fucking limb, you made a commitment to the team, jerkoff.” Leaning down and grabbing a Dixie cup, CK casually delivered his next lines through grit teeth, his eyes focused on the nozzle as he filled up his cup. “You say we didn’t even fucking need you, Rivera, but you act like we oh so fucking desperately need you every goddamn time we try to do anything. Your presence isn’t a fucking gift, and you don’t get to decide when you get to show up, ‘kay?” He lifted his cup to his lips and drained it, then, with a flick of his wrist, threw it at Rivera’s head. “You insisted on being the co-captain of this team, so at least pretend like you give a shit.”

Rivera picked up his jersey and pulled it on, glaring at Chelsea like a fucking toddler. “And fuck you,” he hissed. “Your name is fucking fine. Go pull the stick out of your ass.” He picked his helmet up and started toward the benches, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll fucking take it from here, fucking Princess Tightass.”

It was all Chelsea could do not to knock the asshole out cold.

Chelsea followed after the fucking stuck up prick. “Listen here, asshole,” he growled, “you think you can call the shots after you showed up late to the game that all of our shit’s riding on? You’re fucking deluded.”

He stopped at the benches, standing right behind Rivera. “Fucking turn around and look me in the eyes,” he demanded, moving to Rivera’s front. “Look at me, fucking asshole. I’m trying to fucking talk to you.”

Chelsea took a step forward. “Rivera, I’ve got my whole fucking life set. Daddy’s money, all of that shit. This game flops, the most we’ve fucking lost is our winning streak. The most I’ve lost is a shred of my dignity and five bucks I’ve got riding on this. You on the other hand?” CK’s lips began to curl into a sick almost-smile, and he lowered his voice, looking Rivera square in the eyes. “You’ve already shown up late. You continue with your half-assing stuck-up sullen bitch shit? Ha.”

He held eye contact for a moment, then, with a scoff, he stepped back, looking almost dreamily toward the sky. “I’d get to watch you die in a ditch sooner rather than later, so I would say, ‘Go for it, Bridger scum. Get out there and fuck up the lives of all of your mutts, then go get fucked in your trailer park and stare at the walls until you shit your pants and die. Fuck if I care.’” The amusement disappeared from his face, and he looked back at Rivera, his face set in determination. “But this is my fucking team, Rivera. Not fucking ours — mine.” With each emphatic word, he tapped his forefinger on his chest. “You’re in my fucking school. You’re on my fucking team. You’re on my fucking territory. You don’t play on your fucking terms anymore, fuckhead — you play on mine.”

He dropped his hand. “I don’t care if you want to fucking accept it. I don’t care if you think it’s so fucking unfair. You don’t get to say shit. Don’t act like you can fucking call the shots when for all I know you were doing back shots in the fucking locker room instead of what you already fucking committed to doing.”

mood
pissed

location
the football game

outfit
whatever football players wear

playing...
this fire (franz ferdinand cover)

by bullet

mentions
n/a

interactions
rivera

tags

º º code by ditto º º

ditto · Nov 25, 2021

iggy ellis

Iggy had staked her claim on the same spot at the football game as always: the very top left corner of the bleachers, with her legs shoved through the gap in the very back that was probably some kind of liability if you were a toddler or something.

You think a toddler ever fell through that? You think their parents sued?

Do you think she could sue if she fell through that?

Ha, sike. Like she would do that.

But what if?

Ha, got you again.

God, she was having a lot more fun talking to you than she was right now out here.

Her dark, bored eyes set on the heads of people who walked around like ants behind the bleachers, the beflanneled brunette heaved a deep sigh and shifted her arms, which lay folded beneath her cheek atop the railing of the back of the bleachers. Her lips formed an O as she tried futilely to whistle for the umpteenth time tonight. She kicked her ankles, and it kind of looked like her Sharpie-scribbled Converses were walking atop the little heads of the passersby.

Further down on the bleachers, where more people were, she heard some loud cheering, so she lifted a hand from beneath her cheek to raise it in the air as a fist and gave a single, loud, “WOO!” before replacing the hand and going back to her whistling attempts.

She really wanted to whistle, man. How fucking cool would that be? Just to be able to walk up to people, put your lips together, and whistle? Then, you could whistle along to that one Flo Rida song that totally wasn’t about whistles that the PE coach still played in PE regardless. And that? Well, that brought you one step closer to ruling the world, you know?

After another O formed with nothing but the sound of breath coming through it, she blowed a raspberry, frowning in frustration, then heaved another deep sigh. She really wasn’t getting anywhere.

It was time for a change of plans.

She lifted her head up, reaching into the pocket of her flannel, and she retrieved — oh yep — a grape Dum-Dum Pop. Unwrapping it and dramatically throwing the wrapper to the wind, Iggy popped the sucker into her mouth.

Ah, yes. The soothing artificial grape flavor of an artificially flavored Dum-Dum Pop that she stole from the desk drawer of Cindy the office lady. There was nothing that soothed quite like that.

Contentedly, the girl laid her head back down on her arms and looked back down at the people below.

“Hello, you,” said a voice behind her, kinda out of nowhere.

Her brows knit in confusion, and she tiled her leg, turned her body, and looked up at see a random guy looking down at her and smiling.

There were a lotta thoughts that ran through her mind in that moment. Why the hell’s this guy talking to me? You think he wants to pay me for a job or something? Is he about to hit on me? He’s smiling like it. Why’s his chin like that?

“I am Noah,” said the guy, and then he gestured back to a person behind him, “this is Artie, and Artie happens to be looking for a girlfriend. How’re you doing?”

Sucking on her sucker for another couple of moments with a deeply confused expression on her face, Iggy looked between the two people. When she finally spoke, she just repeated, “Lookin’ for a girlfriend, huh?” With a slight incline of her head and a quirk of her lips, Iggy picked up one hand from the railing of the bleachers to pull the sucker from her mouth and gesture to the person behind the smiling guy. “Good ol’…who again? Wait, no, don’t tell me…” She pressed the forefinger of the sucker-holding hand to her forehead, looking toward the sky with squinted eyes, before she suddenly pointed to the person again, concluding, “Bartie, right, Bartie.” She nodded her head slightly. “Bartie, you an’ me’s both looking for the same thing.” She popped the sucker back into her mouth. “Depressingly, it’s kinda hard to find any good ones.”

Pulling her sucker back out and frowning at it, she amended her previous statement. “Fun ones, I mean. Everyone here, they’re all just so boring.” She looked up at gool ol’ Bartie. “Like, sure, a lotta ‘em are hot, but as soon as you say, ‘Let’s burn down a building together,’ or something even super basic like that, they all just fuckin’…” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Chicken out, they do, an’ it’s all like, c’mon guys, live a little. You know what I’m sayin’?” She pointed between herself and Bartie with the sucker, and then glanced at Noah.

Oh right. She’d forgotten an introduction. She did that a lot. Easy to forget, ya know.

Iggy popped the sucker back in her mouth and lifted her other hand from the railing, dusting it off against her other one with loud claps. She then placed that hand back on the railing, holding out her lefthand for a handshake. “Ig. Iggs. Iggy. Ingrid. Ingrid Ellis. Ellen. Elly. Griddy. Chicken and Grits, Country Fried Chicken, so on, so forth, whatever ya wanna call me,” she said, and then she gasped suddenly. “Oh, oh, oh, Psycho Janitor’s Closet Girl — that was a fun one I heard the other day.” She gave a grin for a moment, then she shrugged. “But yeah, really, Iggy or Iggs or Ig’s just fine.” Glancing between the two’s faces, she said, “Pleasure to make your acquaintances, Noah and Barticus.”

mood
hello hi

location
the game

outfit
a flannel, ripped jeans, and the good ol' sharpied converse

playing...
tom's diner

by suzanne vega

mentions
n/a

interactions
noah & artie

tags

mogy

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 25, 2021

Mason Rivera

TW: Listen he talks about blood a lot.

He.

Was.

Going.

To.

Fucking.

Die.

There was red the instant that fucking cup hit Mason in the face, and his hands were curling into balls at his sides. He was just thinking about how nice it would be if he could send his fist straight into Chelsea's smug fucking face, and if he could just keep hitting him. Just... keep on going.

Just keep punching, until his knuckles were bloody from Chelsea's destroyed face, and his own blood from his knuckles splitting open on Chelsea's fucking cracked bones.

He could see it now.

Former Ambridge Football Captain Imprisoned for Life, Murdered Promising Auburn Springs Football Captain.

The little fucking quote from him would be "I regret nothing and I'd drown his fucking head in the water cooler again if you let me," and the article would talk about how he was troubled but promising, and it would come with flimsy reasons as to why Mason had gone off the fucking rails.

Of course the only reason that he didn't take to ripping Chelsea's throat out with his bare hands was because, well... he kind of had a daughter and a fucking brother and he couldn't fucking leave them.

Didn't mean he couldn't still get in Chelsea's face.

Chelsea was talking, but there was a roaring in Mason's ears that made the majority of his words just kind of fucking... fall on deaf ears. Mostly. There were little bits that he was picking up through the rage -- "this is my place, my team, blah blah blah" -- not really shit that Mason cared too much to actually bother listening to, anyway.

Mason bent down, picking up the paper cup. He crumpled it up into a tighter ball in his hand and then he stepped forward, slamming his hand with the cup into Chelsea's chest with way too much force. You know -- it was aggressive, it was basically a punch without there being an actual fucking fist, or actual fucking blood.

(Although he really wished there was actual fucking blood.)

"Don't," he hissed, his face close to Chelsea's as he leaned in closer to the fucking dickwad. "Say shit you're not willing to back," his voice was low, cold. "Half those fucking boys are mine, and the only fucking reason you have a fucking chance to take your privileged ass to playoffs. Keep talking shit and we walk, bitch breath."

He stepped back, dropping his hand and letting the crumpled cup fall to the grass between them.

"And pick up your fucking trash before I shove it down your fucking throat." He snapped as he took a couple steps back.

No, he wasn't going to turn his fucking back on Chelsea fucking Freud.

And no, he wasn't going to throw the first punch, even though it was really, really, really, really fucking tempting.

mood
fuck

location
football field

outfit
football uniform

playing...
Superman

by Boyce Avenue

mentions
Noah, Jade

interactions
Fucking Freud

tags

º º code by ditto º º

Winona · Nov 25, 2021

Drake Martin

Ugh. There was a total roll of Drake's pale eyes as the little runt Ian tried to be all cool like him and pull himself over the fence all cool like, only to fall on his back. Drake didn't say anything about it -- he wasn't about to piss Stella off, after all -- but there was a goofy grin on his face.

He was definitely going to tease him about that later.

"Yeah," Drake stated proudly. He draped an arm around Stella's shoulders, and then he proudly used his other hand to reach up to the sign, his finger tapping under every word as he spoke it allowed. "#12 is sexy. That's me." In case Ian forgot what me meant, Drake pointed at himself with that same finger, and then his hand dropped to his side. There was a little puffing of his chest. "Ya know, the sexiest on the team, right, Stella?" He gave a little squeeze of his arm around her shoulders, a small laugh coming out of his mouth before he released his hold on her.

He stepped back so he was beside Ian, nodding his head as Stella held up the other sign -- the benchwarmer sign, the one that was clearly Ian's. He placed his hands on his hips, giving another couple nods of his head.

"See that one's real accurate, real up your alley, but don't worry, kid," Drake reached out with a hand, grabbing Ian's shoulder and giving him a little shake like Mason did to him on occasion. "You'll get there one day. Just... just don't give up." His serious expression fell away with a snort of laughter.

"I still can't believe you convinced me to go. I've never been to a school dance," Stella said. "Have you ever seen me in a dress, Martin?"

Drake grinned, leaning forward so that he was at about Stella's shorter level, and he placed his arms behind his back. "Noooope," he said, giving a shake of his head, his pale eyes focused on her. "But don't ya worry about it, you'll look hella hot, and I'll look hella hot, and we'll take the whole dance by storm. And you couldn't say no to me. That's the Drake charm I got goin' on."

He straightened up once again, and he returned to Stella's side, his arm going instinctively around her shoulders again as he tugged her closer to his side.

"What'd'ya say, Ian?" He asked, giving his best beaming grin, and using his free hand to gesture between himself and Stella. "Hottest couple there, yeah? Think we'll win king and queen?" Drake asked eagerly, giving a little wiggle of his dark eyebrows as if that might make some kinda difference.

mood
wooooooooo

location
the football game

outfit
sexy football outfit bois

playing...
Small Talk

by Call Security

mentions
N/A

interactions
Stella, Ian

tags