Time Isn't Real And Everything Is Happening And Has Already Happened All At Once. So Basically You Have

　𝓶𝔂 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ this isn’t a self-help guide. i’m not your guru and this isn’t a powerpoint on gratitude. this is just me. sitting on the floor. i’m not here to raise your vibration. i’m here to ask why you think you need raising in the first place. i'm here because i’ve been hoarding revelations like they're concert wristbands. i'm here because reality is porous and i’ve got the straws. no, literally, i’ve sucked on time’s milkshake and found it lukewarm. we can do better.

you will not find steps here. there is no staircase. i burned it. we fly now.

　"how to"s . .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀how to manifest.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀how to get what you want without affirmations.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀where is the stuff i manifested?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀i have it, i have it, i have it, so where is it?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀become the laziest manifestor.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀manifest anything in hours, minutes, and even seconds.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀banish resistance.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀how to stop looking at the 3d for results.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀how to manifest the future.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀manifesting faq.

　thesis's & concepts . .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀energy and matter cannot be destroyed or created.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀barbie doll theory of self-concept.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀do less than nothing , get more than everything.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀i said what i said (and then it happened)

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀think it, know it, live it.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀hoping or remembering?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀manifestation and the eroticism of longing.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀what's meant for me will find me.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀screw trying.

　doubts & negatives . .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀adrift on a sea of self-inflicted delays.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀it didn't work before, why would it now?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀the hardest pill to swallow.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀" there is no new information on tumblr "

　interactives . .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀the manifesting seance club.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ﹐⠀pick a card and find out about your manifesting journey.

we used to have more pt. 3 | oscar piastri, pato o’ward

part 1 part 2

pairing: oscar piastri x reader, hints at pato o’ward x reader

summary: while working at indycar, you found yourself growing closer to a certain mclaren driver, but those plans get interrupted when you have to get back home and oscar drops a bomb on you

fc: different girls from pinterest

warnings: some more inaccurate work dynamics, this is mainly text messages <3 sorry <3 i got carried away

a/n: work and school have been keeping me very busy this past few days, but i hope you’ll enjoy this part! tysm for all the support, i really really appreciate it ❤️‍🩹

—

liked by elbaoward, declanmurray and others

yourusername ain’t no love in (texas) 🤠🐎🧡

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username i’m being delusional and taking this as a sign that she’ll go to the grand prix in austin and all the f1 races after that

username we’re different because i’m taking this as a sign that she’s dating pato and she’s staying at indy

username girl is that freaking norbi? 😭

username she really thought she was slick

username not to be THAT person but everything about this post screams patricio o’ward

username ahhh i love casa rio!

milesbaldwin they say you don’t go to san antonio if you don’t go to casa rio 😋

miguelsossa great mexican food! absolutely recommend

username omg they all went TOGETHER?

username not me thinking it was just y/n and pato …

username not but honestly when is y/n not with any of them

elbaoward beautiful! 💗

yourusername elbaaa💘

username nahhh this is all the confirmation i need

liked by gfusername, landonorris and others

oscarpiastri i ❤️ split

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username ignoring that second slide

username i love that he’s in croatia!! 🥰

username so boyfriend coded

username UGH oscar give me a chance i swear we’re not gonna fall into a toxic cycle of breaking up and getting back together

username you might not be his type in that case! sorry!

username you know what you might be right 😔

username my brain can’t stop comparing this to y/n’s post ….

username no they’re both in completely different parts of the world with the wrong people!!

username they HAVE GOT to get together at some point

username no really they’re just delaying the inevitable

gfusername ❤️ (liked by oscarpiastri)

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: 🎀] [caption 2: 🍝]

liked by patriciooward, oscarpiastri and others

yourusername it’s incredibly sad to say goodbye to this place that has become my absolute favorite in the entire world. i had some of the best days of my life in these race tracks and i met the most amazing people during my time here ❤️‍🩹 i loved everything about this experience and i can’t wait to come back (hopefully very soon)🏎

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lissiemackintosh i’m gonna cry 😭

yourusername my honest reaction

davidmalukas so sad y’all are leaving 😔

yourusername we’re gonna miss you!

declanmurray specially lissiemackintosh

davidmalukas good ☺️

lissiemackintosh you’re dead declanmurray

milesbaldwin what if we just stayed? :(

miguelsossa we stayed like four more months

yourusername rebecca would fire me actually

fernandoalo_official happy to have you back soon y/n 👍🏽

yourusername i’m happy to go back! 🤍

username SHE’S COMING BACK LET’S GOOOO

username im dyingggg she’s mourning her lasts days in america and everyone in the comments is celebrating 😭

username is not everyday the people princess returns where she belongs 😩

—

taglist; @heavy-vettel @a-beaverhausen @astroniii @chunkpiboli @theonottsbxtch @eclecticcreatorweaselsalad @charli123456789 @stopeatread @coriyaps @nina-or-anna-or-nora @ninasw0rld @loveelylani @marauders-wife @dramallama9 @mxdi0 @piastrigate @ladyoflynx @prudyhoo @idkwtdwml123 @southernbaguette @ellelabelle @emryb @fastfactory @comicalivy @seasonswinter @no-144444 @lunamelona @saachiep81 @nataliambc @patis643 @softtina @chemiru @obxstiles @eiaaasamantha @youre-on-your-ownkid @wcnorris @hwalllllllelujah @soleilgrec

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘𖧞 once a year, your family visits your holiday home for christmas break, which also happens to be the one time you see your childhood enemy, Oscar. (Ongoing)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𖧞 16+ (suggestive), fluff, first-time-writing-on-here-so-beware, female reader, i think that’s all. Use of Y/N (as little as possible), swearing

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𖧞 oscar piastri x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𖧞 (scene 1) 1.1k 𖧞 planning on a couple posts so a lot upcoming.

𝐀/𝐍𖧞 this IS my first fic and post on here, so if the writing is mediocre that’s why. Hate comments will not be tolerated (obv). Also, I’m planning on this being a multi-post fic so word count will grow. Enjoy!

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐬 𖧞 scene i 𖧞 (𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫)

“Hairless Hugh Jackman or Skinny Henry Cavill?”

My head rested against the cold window of the car, my eyes closed. I was tired and bored, but the game of ‘this or that’ being played next to me, kept my mind awake. I wouldn’t admit it but my siblings' answers and conversations could actually be entertaining. Now being a prime example.

I considered the question more deeply than I probably should have. “Hairless Hugh takes away everything good about him, so obviously Henry.” I answered with my eyes still closed and head against the window.

“Ew, no,” My sister replied. “Henry’s body in the Superman movies are, like, all that I live for. I couldn’t care less about Hugh Jackman.” She laughed and scrunched her nose like she was picturing both options. I just smiled, acknowledging her answer before opening my eyes to stare at the passing trees out of the window.

My forehead was cold from the temperature outside but I was too awestruck by the view: white covered trees and mountains stretched for miles. The winter season cloaked the entire outdoors and snow sparked in the little sunlight. I couldn’t wait until we reached the cabin.

My sister and brother, twins, were only a year younger than me, so their experiences with Christmas break are similar to mine.

Every year, my family travels to Canada and stays in our winter cabin over Christmas Break. Safe to say, I have been waiting for Christmas break to start since July. It’s the only time of year I feel at peace without the commotion of work and stress.

And I guess the view’s nice too.

We had been driving for hours in a tightly packed minivan, and past a group of trees, I spotted a small town, meaning we were close to our destination. Next to me, I felt my sister shift and basically lie on top of me to get a look out of the window. I grumbled and tried to push her off since her elbow was digging in my side but she was unrelenting.

“Wow, look at this!” She spoke to my brother who was sitting two seats away from me. He had his own window and looked just as mesmerized as I was. No matter how many times we visit, the scenery would never be anything but gorgeous.

The tires of the minivan crunched as we pulled onto the gravel driveway of the cabin. Immediately, my family began piling out and grabbing everything we packed, which was a lot. I walked through the large door of the cabin with very little visibility because of the mound of blankets and bags I was carrying. I started heading straight towards my bedroom before I knocked into someone without looking and everything fell from my arms. I gasped and started muttering about how they should have moved out of the way, fully expecting the person I bumped into to be one of my siblings but as I looked up I saw who I actually bumped into and immediately shut up.

“Oh, it’s just you.” I deadpanned. I stood up straight and quit trying to pick up my stuff, resting a hand on my hip at the person in front of me.

Oscar Piastri. As in the son of the family that stayed in the cabin with us every summer.

Nicole and Chris Piastri, his parents, were my parents’ best friends since highschool. But, when we moved to America and they stayed in Australia, the only time we ever see the Piastri family is over Christmas Break.

Earlier, when I was talking about how much I adore the cabin, I forgot about this information. I take back what I said. Christmas Break is not a break of peace. Instead, its weeks of torture and stress as i barely survive around Mr. Annoying, himself: Oscar Piastri.

What’s annoying about him isn’t that he’s loud or obnoxious- it’s the very opposite.

Ever since we were little, when our families lived a block away from each other, Oscar barely reacted to anything. Most adults or kids our age loved his calm exterior and how ‘mature he was for his age,’ meanwhile I was constantly regarded as a ‘trouble child.’

I was jealous. Of Course I was jealous. Oscar got praised for years and I was pushed away and given a sucker to stay away.

What was the worst, however, was how Oscar acted around me. To others he was a saint, but around me, he made sure to agonize me any chance he got. He would push me off of the swing and then when adults would ask what happened he would pretend like I fell and he was helping me up.

Asshole.

Anyways, now I only have to see him once a year, but those few weeks in December make me want to rip my hair out and run away with a hairless Hugh Jackman.

When I saw who it was, I bumped into my excited smile and was replaced with what felt like a snarl. Oscar, stood in front of me, a stupid sirk on his lips, probably having ran into me on purpose.

“Y/n. Didn’t see you there.” He said, a sly smirk still present. He was wearing an orange hoodie, no doubt merch of his. because , did i mention, Perfect-Piastri also happens to be a Formula-fucking-One Mclaren Racing driver.

Yeah…

So, another thing he holds above me.

“Yeah sure you didn’t” I mutter while moving to shove everything back into my arms. But as I picked up one thing, another fell and instead of noticing my struggle and helping, Oscar just stood there. However, once my parents barreled through the door, arms just as full as mine was, Oscar bent down to help carry the heaviest bag.

“Oh! Oscar,” my mom noticed him. “We had no idea you guys had arrived yet.” She had a warm smile on her lips, genuinely happy to see him. “We were hoping to get here first and start cooking dinner.”

She motioned towards my dad why held the bags of groceries we got before heading here. In the bags were cans of yams and frozen veggies, indicating their plans.

“Oh, no worries.” Oscar replies, with a matching smile. “My mom started cooking already. We would definitely be happy to enjoy your cooking tomorrow, though. I really am a sucker for your candied yams.”

I watched the scene unfold and rolled my eyes.

Oscar turned back towards me with an amused look and started walking away towards my room, my bag in hand. I shut my eyes tightly, and looked up, praying that I wouldn't go insane this month before following him up the stairs.

(SCENE ii) click here

pinterest-piece 𖧞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜

Israel's ongoing attacks on Gaza have killed over 34,000 Palestinians, with millions trapped in Rafah as Tel Aviv remains determined to storm the city - "with or without a truce."

This isn't the first time Israel has committed war crimes against Palestinians.

Credits - TRTWORLD

okay next, i js wanna laugh. okay so, were at a charity event or something, and im volunteering, helping hand out juice boxes, signing people in, keeping children from using cones as swords, that typa stuff. until FRANCO COLAPINATA shows up, he's js being annoying really, until shes had enough and YEET the juice box at his head, and then he's all nonchalant and shit like "UH HUH I DESERVED THATTT AHAHA" .... and then you can tell the juice box turned him on bc you can like tell he wants her, and thennn WEEKS pass, and he DM's her. "saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?” MUWUAHAHSNA

❦ - manzanas contigo.

warnings:: none, maybe cussing..?

writers notes:: pls send more franco/f1 reqs bc i loved writing this sm and hes so fun to write for!

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you don’t even want to be here.

the email had said volunteers needed, and your overly kind soul had said sure, why not, and now you’re seven hours deep into wrangling children hopped up on fruit snacks and sun. the charity event is cute in theory, music, booths, a little track set up for games, and a bounce house, but in practice? it’s a battlefield.

you’re stationed at the welcome tent, handing out wristbands and juice boxes and fake smiles.

your feet hurt. your shirt is sticking to your back. a toddler is crying because he dropped his balloon into a bush. and some guy just tried to cut the line because he ‘swears his cousin is already inside.’

you’re not proud of how close you came to smacking him with the clipboard.

but then, because life has a sense of humor, he appears.

franco colapinto.

and you know it’s him, because who else shows up to a local charity event in an alpine cap, looking like he walked out of a sports magazine and directly into your personal hell?

you glance up at the exact moment he’s brushing a curl out of his eyes, all casual and oops i’m hot and didn’t mean to beenergy.

he scans the crowd, sunglasses pushed up on his head, mouth curled like he already knows he’s being stared at. and of course he is. a group of teenage volunteers behind you are whispering, one of them literally smacks the other on the arm and goes that’s him. that’s that guy. the car one.

sigh.

maybe if you stay perfectly still, he won’t notice you.

but of course, you are not blessed with that kind of luck.

his eyes land on you. direct. intentional.

and he starts walking over.

great.

you busy yourself with the juice boxes, shuffling them around pointlessly as if they need organizing, as if you’re not seconds away from face to face contact with a walking headache.

‘so,’ he says, leaning against the table like this is his full time job. ‘what does a guy gotta do to get one of those?’

you glance up. ‘a wristband?’

‘nah. a juice box.’

you stare.

he smiles.

you hold one up. ‘take it and leave.’

‘whoa. feisty. is this how you treat all guests, or am i special?’

you blink. ‘i’ve been here since 6am. i have zero patience and less charm left.’

‘good thing i’ve got enough charm for both of us.’

you raise a brow. ‘that supposed to work on me?’

he shrugs, peeling the wrapper off a straw. ‘worth a shot.’

he doesn’t leave.

he just stands there, sipping slowly, watching you like he’s never seen anyone pass out juice before. his gaze trails across your face, not in a creepy way, just annoyingly observant. like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person signs up for this kind of chaos and doesn’t run away screaming.

you try to ignore him. you really do.

but then he starts helping. like… physically taking wristbands from your hand to hand them to kids, leaning way too close to read names off the sign in list, nodding solemnly at the parents like he belongs here.

and the worst part? people believe it.

‘you two are adorable,’ one lady says as she signs in her daughter.

you nearly choke. ‘we’re not—‘

‘thank you,’ franco cuts in, smiling like he just won an oscar. ‘we try.’

you give him a look. he winks. kill me, you think.

it gets worse when a small child asks for apple juice and franco picks one up, does a dramatic gasp, and goes, ‘apple! the superior juice. i like your taste, kid.’

you break.

you don’t mean to. you truly don’t. but something inside you snaps, and the next thing you know, you’re yeeting a juice box straight at him.

it arcs through the air with surprising grace, smacks him right in the shoulder, and bounces off harmlessly onto the grass.

a moment of silence.

he blinks.

then he laughs. hard.

‘okay,’ he says, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘i deserved that. i fully, absolutely, one hundred percent deserved that.’

you cross your arms. ‘you think?’

he’s still grinning as he bends to pick it up. ‘apple again. symbolic.’

‘you’re ridiculous.’

‘you like me though.’

you scoff. ‘i like peace and quiet.’

‘you’re blushing.’

‘i’m hot. it’s eighty degrees.’

‘you threw a juice box at me.’

‘you were annoying.’

he tilts his head. ‘admit it. it was kinda satisfying.’

you bite back a smile. ‘maybe a little.’

he grins, stepping back finally. ‘i’ll leave you to your cone wrangling duties. but don’t be surprised if you see me again.’

‘god help me,’ you mutter.

he strolls away, sipping the slightly dented juice like it’s champagne.

and yeah. maybe your heart is doing something dumb.

maybe you do glance up once or twice, wondering if he’s still watching you.

maybe he is.

you don’t expect to see him again.

honestly, you’d hoped the juice box incident would be enough to scare him off. but two saturdays later, at a completely different event, you’re there, collecting raffle tickets and babysitting the world’s most chaotic face paint station, and there he is.

franco colapinto.

wearing a hoodie this time. hood up. trying and failing to blend in, as if his stupidly nice smile and the way he walks like the world was made for him don’t give him away instantly.

you see him from across the lot.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. just lifts his hand in a little wave and starts walking straight toward you like this is a planned reunion and not a complete surprise.

you look around. as if there’s someone else he could be greeting. spoiler: there isn’t.

‘you again,’ you say when he reaches you.

‘me again,’ he grins, pulling down his hood like he’s revealing a secret identity.

you sigh. ‘are you following me?’

‘you wish.’

‘so this is a coincidence?’

he shrugs. ‘or fate.’

you deadpan. ‘you’re insufferable.’

‘you say that every time.’

‘i mean it every time.’

he gestures around, like he’s settling in. ‘need help again? or do i have to earn my juice box rights this time?’

you narrow your eyes. ‘don’t you have a job?’

‘i do. it’s off-season. i’m thriving.’

‘this is how you spend your free time? crashing fundraisers?’

‘not crashing,’ he says, very seriously. ‘contributing. i donated five bucks to the bouncy castle. i’m basically a hero.’

you don’t laugh. you don’t.

okay, maybe a little.

he’s already rolling up his sleeves and jumping into whatever task you’re doing, like last time, and suddenly you’re stuck with him for three hours again.

he helps a little girl glue pom poms onto a paper crown.

he nearly gets paint on his nose and doesn’t notice.

he lets a five year old draw a blue lightning bolt across his cheek and calls it his new racing stripe.

and every now and then, he looks over at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world, even when you’re just frowning at a clipboard or trying to untangle a balloon string from a folding chair.

you pretend not to care.

you pretend really hard.

the third time is the worst.

mostly because… you kind of expect him now.

you’ve made the mistake of mentioning your volunteer schedule to a friend on your story. and it’s fine. really. except now, when you show up to the saturday pet adoption drive with a clipboard and a tight ponytail, you scan the crowd. like an idiot.

he’s not there.

you tell yourself you’re relieved. that you don’t need another afternoon of his smug little comments and stupidly good hair.

but you still keep checking.

twenty minutes pass.

an hour.

two.

he doesn’t come.

you keep busy. hand out flyers. try not to cry when a little dog named charlie gets adopted. organize leashes by size.

and you don’t look at the time more than seven times. promise.

at some point, you’re wiping your hands with a napkin behind the tent when your phone buzzes.

it’s a dm.

from franco.

you blink.

sorry i couldn’t be there today. doing actual job things. tragic.

you stare at it.

then another:

but saw apple juice earlier. still flinched.

and another:

still want to hang out sometime. even if you hit me with stuff. maybe especially because you hit me with stuff.

you can’t help it. your lips twitch.

you don’t reply right away.

you finish your shift. take the long way home. drink half a juice box you saved from the cooler, even though it’s lukewarm now.

and when you’re lying on your bed, staring at the message, you finally type:

you’re impossible.

three dots.

impossible but charming?

you:

debatable.

him:

you didn’t say no though.

you stare at your screen for a second too long.

then:

one coffee. you pay. no weird pickup lines.

his response is immediate.

deal. i’ll try to behave. no promises.

you tell yourself it’s just a coffee.

one coffee. thirty minutes, max. maybe forty five if he says something dumb and you need time to drag him for it.

it’s not a big deal.

except it is. because you spend too long picking an outfit. change your shirt twice. then change it again. then panic change it back to the first one and tell yourself to get a grip.

you meet at some small place he picked, half hipster café, half bookstore. it smells like cinnamon and old paperbacks. you hate how nice it is.

franco’s already there.

and of course he looks… stupidly good. hoodie, again. curls poking out. one hand lazily spinning his coffee cup. and that grin, that stupid boyish grin, when he spots you.

‘you came,’ he says, standing.

‘don’t sound so surprised.’

he does a little half bow. ‘welcome to the least boring hour of your life.’

you roll your eyes and sit across from him. ‘don’t flatter yourself.’

‘not flattering. manifesting.’

you try to look annoyed, but the truth is, you’re already smiling. just a little. traitorous.

you talk.

not about anything huge at first. just… dumb things. favorite drinks. worst airport experiences. why he thinks pineapple on pizza should be illegal (you argue passionately against this).

he tells you about crashing a go kart once when he was twelve because he was ‘trying to wave like a champion’ and forgot to steer.

you tell him about the time you accidentally walked into the wrong class and sat through fifteen minutes of astrophysics before realising.

he laughs with his whole chest.

and it’s easy. too easy. every time your fingers brush reaching for the sugar, it feels like something electric. every time he leans in a little, like he’s really listening, your heart stutters.

you should not be this into him. and yet.

you’re both halfway through your drinks when he goes quiet for a second, then says, ‘i almost didn’t message you.’

you blink. ‘why not?’

he shrugs, looks down, spins the empty cup between his hands. ‘i dunno. didn’t want to be annoying.’

‘you already are.’

he grins, but it’s softer now. ‘yeah, but like… in a cute way.’

you shake your head, but your cheeks are warm. ‘you’re such a menace.’

‘you threw juice at me.’

‘because you were asking for it.’

he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes on yours. ‘maybe i was.’

your breath catches. just a little. just enough.

you clear your throat. ‘you’re not smooth, you know.’

‘i don’t need to be. i just need to make you smile.’

you hate him.

you really, really don’t.

you leave the café two hours later.

two.

neither of you wants to say goodbye yet, so you walk. just… around. your shoulder brushes his once. then again. then a third time, and this time, it stays there. just for a second longer than it should.

he doesn’t let go first.

eventually, you end up back where you started.

he looks at you like he wants to say something. then looks away. then back.

‘can i see you again?’ he asks, soft.

you nod. and for once, don’t try to be clever.

‘yeah. i’d like that.’

the second date happens faster than either of you expect.

you’d planned to wait. play it cool. but then franco sends you a picture of a strawberry smoothie and says ‘looked gross. thought of u,’ and you end up laughing so hard in the middle of your kitchen that you just… cave.

you text him:
you free tonight?

he replies in literal seconds:
always. pick the time. i’ll teleport.

you meet again at the same café. but this time, he’s not already sitting.

he’s waiting outside. leaning on the wall. hoodie again, he really only owns five of them, he tells you later, and his curls are just barely damp from the light rain that’s started falling.

he sees you and that grin hits his face like clockwork. like he’d been saving it just for you.

‘you came,’ he says.

‘you say that every time.’

‘yeah, but like… every time you do, it messes me up a little.’

you pretend you don’t hear that part.

it’s darker inside. quieter. the same table’s free, but this time, you sit next to each other.

close.

too close.

he smells good. not in an obvious, cologne drenched way. it’s something warmer. shampoo and sugar and the kind of scent that lingers even after he leaves.

your knees touch under the table.

neither of you moves.

you talk again.

about bigger things this time. pressure. travel. burnout. he admits he sometimes feels like everything’s moving too fast, and he’s scared he won’t be able to hold on.

you nod. you tell him about how you fake confidence half the time. how sometimes you feel invisible until someone needs something.

he listens. really listens.

then says, ‘you’re not invisible.’

you blink. ‘okay?’

‘just saying. i notice you. always have.’

you laugh a little. ‘that’s creepy.’

‘yeah,’ he says, smiling into his drink. ‘but like… romantic creepy.’

you don’t mean to stay late. but time’s slippery around him.

by the time you realize it’s almost midnight, you’re both sitting outside the café, sharing a leftover pastry and watching the rain slide down the windows.

you don’t want to go.

he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

so he walks you home.

he stops outside your door.

you both kind of hover there. like two idiots waiting for someone to do something. say something.

‘this was nice,’ you say quietly.

‘yeah,’ he says, and then, softer, ‘i wanna kiss you.’

your breath catches.

he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t touch you. he just stands there, all warm eyes and soft voice.

you whisper, ‘then why don’t you?’

he grins. all teeth and nerves and too much hope.

‘cause the minute i kiss you, i’m not gonna stop thinking about it. and i want you to wanna kiss me back. like really want to.’

you stare at him.

he shrugs. ‘just being honest.’

you nod. heart in your throat.

then say, ‘next time.’

he smirks, already backing away.

‘i’ll hold you to that.’

you tell yourself you’re not waiting.

not waiting for a text. not waiting for a call. not waiting for the memory of him saying i wanna kiss you to stop looping in your head like some kind of cursed romantic ringtone.

but when his name flashes on your screen two days later, your whole face warms.

what if we didn’t do coffee this time?

you stare.

what do you wanna do then?

he replies instantly.

drive. music. idfk. i’ll bring snacks. you bring the vibe.

you:
so i’m the vibe?

him:
always.

he picks you up at 7:03.

he’s in a black hoodie this time, and his car smells like mint gum and the ghost of bad fast food. there’s a half eaten bag of crisps on the passenger seat, which he tosses in the back when you open the door.

‘you’re late,’ you say.

‘you’re early. time’s fake. get in.’

he drives like he thinks he’s in a movie.

one hand on the wheel. other messing with the aux. windows down. hair wind-blown and wild. he sings under his breath to every second song. raps to the third one badly. you don’t stop laughing the entire first hour.

you don’t know where he’s going, but you don’t care.

being next to him feels like its own kind of destination.

eventually, he parks by the water.

some random lookout. the city’s lights glitter below, far enough to feel small. the kind of view that feels too beautiful to deserve.

you sit on the hood of his car. shoulder to shoulder. knee to knee. the air’s cold, but not too cold. and everything’s soft. quiet.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

and then, gently, he says, ‘i think about kissing you a lot.’

you blink.

he keeps staring ahead, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. ‘not in a creepy way.’

you laugh. ‘do you always think you’re being creepy?’

‘only when i like someone too much.’

the words settle in your chest like warmth. like lightning.

‘franco,’ you say.

he turns.

‘kiss me.’

his eyes go wide. like for a second, he’s not sure if he heard you right.

then, slowly, he leans in.

he kisses you like he’s afraid to mess it up. like he’s been waiting exactly this long, and not a second less. soft, steady, sure.

and when he pulls back, he just rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you speaks for a minute.

you break the silence. ‘not bad.’

he huffs a laugh. ‘that’s it? not bad?’

‘seven out of ten. you’ll need practice.’

‘cool. guess i better keep showing up.’

you’re not sure when it shifted.

when the maybe turned into definitely. when the texting turned into facetime turned into mornings with your feet tangled under his on the couch. when the almost turned into always.

but now, here you are, franco at your door with a half-melted milkshake and a stupid grin, like he’s been thinking about this all day.

‘you’re late,’ you tease, taking the drink.

‘you’re still hot,’ he says, walking in like he lives here.

(he kind of does.)

you’ve been soft ever since the drive.

he kisses you now like he needs to. like he missed you, even if it’s only been a few hours. like kissing you is just a normal part of his day, something between brushing his teeth and ruining your kitchen by cooking you breakfast at 2 a.m.

sometimes, you wake up to his hand resting on your waist, his face buried in your shoulder. like his body forgets how to be without you.

you don’t say it. not yet. but you feel it.

you think he does too.

it’s been weeks.

weeks since franco colapinto got beaned in the forehead with apple juice and decided that was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him.

weeks since he dm’d you with that dumb message:
saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?

weeks since you said yes.

and now here you are, propped up on his couch, socks mismatched, face lit by the glow of a documentary you’re not watching, because franco’s lying with his head in your lap and he keeps dragging his fingers along your leg like he can’t believe you’re real.

‘what,’ you murmur.

‘nothing,’ he says. then, quietly: ‘just thinking about the juicebox.’

you snort. ‘again?’

he nods, sleepy and fond. ‘you threw that thing with intention. it was beautiful.’

‘you’re so weird.’

‘you’re the one who assaulted me with a children’s drink.’

‘you flirted with me for two hours while i was working.’

‘you looked hot with a clipboard. sue me.’

you roll your eyes. he reaches up, brushes your hair behind your ear.

‘you know i really did think about you every time i saw juice after that?’

‘you said that already.’

‘i mean it. i’d be in a store and be like… damn. i miss her aim.’

you swat him. he laughs. kisses your wrist.

later, when you’re brushing your teeth in his oversized hoodie, he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head.

‘should we save the juicebox?’ he asks, voice muffled in your hair.

‘what, like… frame it?’

‘yeah. put it above the bed. shrine to our origin story.’

‘you’re so dumb.’

‘dumb for you.’

you groan. he grins.

he still gets teased by his friends about the Incident.

he still buys apple juice ‘for the bit’ and lines the fridge with it like a threat.

but when he kisses you goodbye before his next race, all soft and slow like he’s imprinting it in his memory, he says:

‘thanks for hitting me.’

and you say,
‘thanks for being annoying enough to deserve it.’

and maybe, maybe, that’s just your love language now.

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#🫒🫒🫒

how it feels the first time you realise your favourite driver is probably a terrible person:

⋆· ༘* GOT THE SUN IN MY MF-ING POCKET !

pairing ★ jock!luke castellan x drum major!reader

synopsis ★ the one where you lock in for your fall final project. you and luke spill your guts and then hatch a plan. (3.9k)

content ★ no pronouns used for reader, luke pov!!, bad teenager humor, very vague smau, read psa at the end pls

notes ★ luke literally cannot catch a break here, read his mind and all u hear is incoherent screaming and bawling like olivia in all-american bitch

series masterlist

TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT: DAILY BULLETIN FOR DECEMBER XX, 20XX

PACE: […] And here are the upcoming events. Football - come to the media center to celebrate the end of the season, say goodbye to departing seniors, and welcome new team members. Although we didn’t get far in regionals, Coach Ares would like to give kudos to Luke Castellan for making the most touchdowns this season.

MIYAZAWA: Seniors - the counseling office is holding their last session to revise regular decision college applications in the Career Center. Please RSVP by Wednesday with the QR code provided by your English teacher. [pause] Speaking of school, ASB will also be hosting tri-weekly study halls starting next Monday in preparation for finals. Good luck on your tests!

PACE: And now it’s time for our joke of the day. Hey, Alice, what do you call an edible farmer that takes care of chickens?

MIYAZAWA: I don’t know, Malcolm, what do you call an edible farmer that takes care of chickens?

PACE: [flatly] A chicken tender.

PACE and MIYAZAWA: [exceeding fake laughter]

PACE: That’s all for today, Centaurs. I’m Malcolm.

MIYAZAWA: And I’m Alice!

PACE and MIYAZAWA: Bye!

Dr. Medes is a sweet old man. He’s on the stout side, hair and beard gone completely white, arms freckled with liver spots and eyes starting to get that watery blue line around the irises.

He gives extra credit often, grades forgivingly, loves talking about circles, and throws Dum-Dum lollipops at volunteers even if they get the answer wrong. Stats is a shitty class but Dr. Medes makes it a bit better.

Except, when Luke walks in on an unassuming Monday, there’s a crowd of kids pushing around at the back board. Some look happy when they walk away but most…. Well, they aren’t too pleased.

He jostles his way through his classmates. The fight to see what’s on the board is all sharp elbows and yelps from stubbed toes. Luke’s pretty sure that there’ll be a bruise blooming on his side by the end of it.

It’s a spreadsheet. Big black letters line the top, all bold and all capitalized:

AP STATS FALL FINAL PROJECT PARTNERS

Fuck. Luke’s eyes scroll down the sheet, scanning the bars for his name. He finds it, sweep his eyes to the adjacent box. Double fuck.

Your name in black, 12px, Arial font grins back at him tauntingly.

Luke curses Dr. Medes and the randomizer from Google that he always uses. Triple fuck, because there’s a warmth at his back and you slide into the edge of his periphery.

You notice him, head turning in slow-motion, mouth coming down to solidify into the grimace of the year. He wants to run away but the frown lines arrowing in your skin keep him captive.

“Hi partner.” The boy manages a little wave, a sharp grin. It’s as genuine as he can get without encountering the nervous fear of you punching him.

Tire-flat, “Castellan.”

“So,” he draws out the vowel and juts his thumb at a pair of desks the corner, “let’s talk about it.”

He knows he has a steady voice. He controls his breaths well, speaks carefully, slowly, with purpose. Luke thinks you’re about to fall asleep by the time he’s asking if you have time after school to iron out the details. The question snaps you out of your reverie.

“Er,” you blink a few times, groggy. “I’m free until I have to show up for drills.”

He hums, nods. “So from after sixth period to five, right?”

“Yea.”

( Why did he remember your practice time? Now he feels weird. )

He types a reminder into his phone and shuts it off, sliding the device into his pocket casually.

The words come out without thinking, “How do you feel about my house?”

What the fuck was that. Luke’s panicking; you’re barely cordial with each other—hell, you hate him and he’s pretty sure that he feels the same—and he just invited you to the most intimate place of his life.

“Excuse me?”

Luke tries the best he can to salvage this. “I mean—like, for work. It’s just a block away, and I have the stuff we need to make the presentation.”

Please say no, please say no, please say no.

“Oh, yea, just—” your eyes go out of focus as you think “—well, I guess I could.”

Very strained, molars practically dust, “Great. I’ll text my mom and let her know.”

The voice in his skull is banging at his bones and shrieking FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY. He pulls out his phone again to shoot a frenzied text to his mom as soon as you turn away to work on something else.

TO: mom

(11:26) mom plz i swear ill do all the dishes n put them away scrub the toilet find u hmart coupons n drive u there ANYTHING U ASK just PLZ can u get poster board and markers b4 i come home 🙏🙏

(11:26) for stats its a project. my partners coming over too

FROM: mom

(11:30) Ok. You better keep the HMart promise lol 🤣

“All good?” you question, zipping up your backpack. There’s a gleam of curiosity hiding under the hood of your eyelids; the sight of it makes something cold slither down his spine. Like you want to slice him open and eat his secrets alive.

The bell rings.

“Yea. Just fine.”

( It’s really not. He goes to the restroom straight after, splashes his face, and zones out in front of the mirror as the water dries. )

TO: silena 🎀

(11:32) what would u do if u accidentally invited the person who reciprocates ur hate for them to ur house for a project that u had to sell ur soul to ur mom to get the supplies for

FROM: silena 🎀

(11:40) LMFAOOO R U TWEAKING 😝 (11:41) oh wait is it the drum major… (11:41) ask whether if beckendorfs taken for me pls 😘

TO: silena 🎀

(11:43) WHAT THE HELL BRU 😭😭😭

FROM: silena 🎀

(11:44) what can i say, im an opportunist at heart 🩷

TO: silena 🎀

(11:46) boooooooo 🗣️🗣️

Luke flies by the seat of his pants. It’s a good quality, especially when plans don’t work out on the field. But because his quality of being impetuous benefits him in one way, it must be unbeneficial in an another scenario. There must be balance in life, and now is no exception, to much of his chagrin. Exhibit one: his mom has now whisked you away onto the couch and—good lord, she’s pulling out his baby album from under the coffee table.

He suppresses his shriek of mortification to a pathetic squeak as you turn a page and see a grainy photo of little him—cheeks flushed, hair long, curls loose, a pair of garish upside-down sunglasses with gold frames sliding down his nose.

“He loved swimming when he was little,” is what his mom is telling you. “We used to go to the beach almost twice a month.”

“How cute.”

Your eyes are shining with mirth and something evil. Luke wonders if he could walk right back outside and scream at the sky.

“Mom,” he ekes out, strained. “We need to work on our project.”

May Castellan does a little thing with her eyebrows, mouth pressing into a thin line and eyes scrutinizing.

“Okay,” she says after a moment of thought. Her voice sounds small but Luke knows that his mother is anything but with that devious glimmer in her eyes. “Make sure to leave your door open.”

Luke thinks that you almost choke. He feels a prickling sensation burn all the way up his back, face warming up. “Mom….”

The woman hums absently, looks straight into his eyes with an innocuous lift of her brows.

“What?”

You ease off the couch and excuse yourself to the bathroom, wandering down the hallway. Luke immediately erupts into a furiously hushed whisper.

“Mom, we’re not like that.”

“But I think your partner is a good kid. Very sweet.” His mother put extra stress on ‘partner’, even throwing in a very obvious wink that she tries to play off as an unbalanced blink. Oh, if only Luke could stop getting embarrassed by the people in his life.

“Bro….”

“Who? I am your mother, I gave birth and raised you, bro.”

Luke bows his head like a kicked puppy. “Sorry, mom.”

She bobs her head side to side, skeptical. “Mhm, be a good host and show your guest to the bathroom.”

Luke pads away, floorboards squeaking under his socks. He finds you leaning straight-faced against the door to his bedroom, the Sesame Street-themed sign with his name on it pinned into the wood behind your shoulder.

“Not a word,” he hisses, stepping forward to reach for the knob. Like always, he regretfully acts before he thinks, subsequently caging you between the wall and himself.

You make a face, half-bewildered and all-disgusted. “Yea, like everyone wants to know about your ugly baby photos.”

The parts of Luke’s neck hidden under his hoodie flush. You’re so close that he can feel your words rattling in his nerves, as if you’re speaking right into his skin. He twists the knob quickly and skitters into his room.

You step in without another word, scanning his things. Luke kisses his teeth; he should’ve asked his mom to hide everything in the closet too because there’s a grin creeping into your mouth the longer you look around.

“Didn’t know you were a nerd, Castellan.”

He represses the urge to sweep the toy race cars off the topmost shelf and rip the blueprint posters off the wall. Burn the baby blue duvet on his bed with the Ferrari logo stitched in the corner, he doesn’t care—anything to save himself from the embarrassment.

You pick up a mini Mercedes from the shelf, turn it in your fingers, and set it back down wordlessly. Luke wants to kiss the feet of whoever controls his luck that you don’t insult him further.

“I, uh,” he manages, strained, “I’m gonna get the materials.”

You hum noncommittally and turn to read the white text on his Blueprint of an F1 Car poster. Luke skitters away, grabbing the poster board and marker box at lightning speed.

His mom gives him a weird look—brows raised and mouth pinched—as he sprints back.

Luke decides along the way that you aren’t so bad, because—well, you let him choose the topic of the project to be motorsports.

FROM: silena 🎀

(16:28) did u ask abt beckendorf 🩷

TO: silena 🎀

(16:30) girl bffr how can i do that if i cant be social w haters

FROM: silena 🎀

(16:30) www.wikihow.com/how2talk2urcrush (16:31) hope this helps 😊😘

TO: silena 🎀

(16:31) WHAT THE FUKC

Luke forgot one crucial thing in his panic: you’re in Heralds under his father. He’s lettering the topic of your presentation on the board when he hears the front door snick. His marker nearly slips.

“Uh—” you snap your gaze up as Luke’s mouth begins to open and close like a fish, fumbling for the words “—don’t you have to go to practice?”

You regard him momentarily before squinting at the screen of your school-issued laptop. “In half an hour.”

Luke thinks, just rip off the band aid.

“I’m gonna try to say this really nicely, but my dad just got home and I need you out of my house before it gets awkward.”

You don’t take offence, shutting the computer and squeezing your hunched shoulders back. “Thank fucking god, I’m free.”

“Luke!” His mom’s voice is faint, somewhere far-off in another part of his house. “Does your friend want a snack? Maybe dinner before practice?”

And then, “Luke brought someone over?”

He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry at the sound of his father’s voice, but he definitely wants to die when his mom mentions you by name.

Luke watches the light leave your eyes when you listen closely to the footsteps padding along the floorboards.

“Sergeant, I didn’t know you were in the same class as Luke.”

You notably do not correct sergeant to major.

“Sir, hi,” you say, visibly cringing at the sight of his father standing awkwardly in the doorframe. “I’m actually just leaving.”

“Nonsense!” His dad smiles at you easily, envy digging between the rungs of Luke’s ribs. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

Luke jumps in, “Band practice.” And he really doesn’t mean for it to come out as disrespectful as it did, but when the man he’s wanted the most approval from gives it readily to you, the person who hates him most…well.

“Oh. How was your day, Luke?”

“Fine,” he grits, standing up quickly despite the way it makes his head spin. You get up too, patting at the imaginary dust on your pants.

His dad smiles at you again with his eyes twinkling, and when you walk past the doorway, he pats your shoulder fondly.

“Luke can walk you back.”

The both of you look at the older man, bewildered.

“What the hell?”

“Sir, that’s alright, I really don’t need an escort.”

May Castellan calls from that far-off place in the house. “Luke? Please walk your friend back, it’ll get dark soon.”

Luke uses his sweetest, mommy’s-dearest-boy voice while looking his dad dead in the eye. “Okay. You need anything else?”

“Just come back safe, baby.”

“Okay, love you.”

You look out of place, fingers wrapped around the straps of your backpack, tongue poking at your cheek. Luke cautiously puts his hand between your shoulders and steers you towards the door.

The both of you skitter out before anything else goes downhill, sharing a sigh of relief.

“So,” Luke starts once you’re halfway down the street. The toes of his sneakers catch in the concrete gaps, cushioned by the weeds growing from them. “Is Beckendorf single?”

You whip your head around, a small part to your mouth and eyes narrowing.

“Asking for a friend,” he adds quickly. “My girlfriend, actually. I mean, not my girlfriend, just my best friend who happens to be a girl.”

“He’s single, alright,” you admit after a moment of pause, hands hanging heavy in your pockets. “But he’s got his eyes set on someone already. Who’s your friend?”

Luke’s mouth twists. Should he really tell you? From what he knows, band kids are vicious with gossip. What if Silena’s senior year got ruined because of him?

You speak again, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are you dating Silena, by the way?”

He’s quick to answer. “No, she’s my best friend.”

“Mhm.” You nod, deep in thought. “So she likes Charles.”

Fucking hell, Luke’s stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid. Now you know Silena’s biggest secret because he’s got a big fucking mouth and acts before his brain can fucking think and—

“You wanna get them together?”

He blinks, nearly tripping over an uplifted slab of sidewalk. “Huh?”

“They probably both think that the other is dating one of us…so.”

Luke never learns from his mistakes. “So, what? We pretend to kiss so they can get over themselves and do the same?”

Loose fucking cannon, you, goes the voice trapped in his skull, can’t ever keep your damn mouth shut when you need it to be.

“I mean,” you mutter, eyes cast onto the ground, sheepish with the way you begin to palm at your neck. He wonders if parts of you also itch and flush when you’re with him. “Never mind, that’s stupid. We’re just setting them up, there’s no need to do all that extra shit.”

Luke laughs, embarrassment creeping in hot. “Yea, sorry. That’s just insane, like—”

“—something out of a movie, I know.” You’re laughing with him too, mouth stretching wide and smile lines digging into your skin. He kind of gets why you’re his dad’s favorite now—you’re both similar in humor and expression.

He quells the thing in his stomach that continues to grow the longer he stares at your smile lines. “Okay, so obviously just pushing them towards each other, and it’ll happen naturally.”

You nod. “And after we’ll just go back to hating each other, yea? There’s no need to pretend.”

“But why do you hate me?” Luke loathes how involuntary his speech has become. People don’t just ask why others hate them. For the nth time that day, he wishes to crawl into a hole and—

“It’s not really you, I just have a vendetta against the football team in general. And I guess I felt pressured to hate you specifically ‘cause that’s what everyone expects, y’know?”

Oh, okay.

He starts—voluntarily, this time, because you deserve to know the same, “I don’t like you because of my dad.”

( Well, it was what he wanted to say, but not exactly how he wanted to say it. )

“You’re like, his perfect successor,” Luke continues, pushes on like he always does with every unfortunate mishap that befalls him. “I thought I could make him happy by doing my own thing. He wanted a track star for his team and I became football captain. And to really rub it in, I used his camera and got into yearbook instead of Heralds. Did you know he has beef with Ares and Clio?”

You shake your head, incredulous. The both of you have stopped moving, feet coming to a standstill on the broken sidewalk.

“That’s a dick move.”

He shrugs, a small smile gracing his face. “I know, it’s kinda too much, even if I was pissed. But looking back, I guess I’m happy with where I’m at.”

“I think that matters a lot more than your dad’s approval,” you tell him sagely.

“Yea,” Luke agrees, the toe of his sneakers leaving an indent in the gravel. “So we’re good, right? Friends?”

Your face pinches, mouth going sour and a little tender. “I wouldn’t go that far. I still hate grossly overrated sports.”

“Yea, and I hate writing in Associated Press.”

Your mouth tilts in an almost-smile, backlit pink by the horizon. It’s far enough into the year that the sun starts setting at five, and it’s chilly too, breaths starts to wisp.

You nod you head awkwardly in the direction of the school—he didn’t even realize that you’ve walked this far already.

“See you around, Castellan.”

[ VIDEO: a clip of someone’s living room decked out in festive lights. A group of rowdy teens are clumped together on the floor, a few older kids on the couches. The film is shaky and so is the audio, but the teens are clearly rapping—badly—along to Hamilton, which is playing on the TV.

The camera briefly zooms in on you and Charles sitting next to each other on the couch, you closing your eyes, knees slung over his thighs while he belts along to the singing portions of the song. The view then flips over to show Travis as the cameraman, tears in his eyes, a sugar-rush flush to his face before the video ends. ]

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travstole gna miss my favorite seniors 😞

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majmajmaj what happens at the semester end party STAYS AT THE SEMESTER END PARTY

perciusjakcsn GTFO THIS IS ACTUALLY WATERGATE FOR BAND 😭👎

conmanstole if i can prove that i never touched my balls 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️

↳ travstole can u promise not to tell another soul whatchu saw 🫵😩😰

“I need your number,” you tell him on the last day of finals, to a backdrop of students rushing out of class. He doesn’t know how you found him right after fifth period, but he doesn’t dare question. “I forgot to get it when we were working on the project.”

Luke only has the pen he used to fill out his physics exam, so he takes your hand gently and scrawls the digits onto your palm. It’s a little hard to read, kind of—very—smudged, but it works.

“See you after break?” he offers, clipping the pen onto the collar of his soft sweatshirt. Luke fidgets the longer you look at him, scratching at the stubble he missed during his morning shave, readjusting his computer glasses.

“Obviously,” you tell him after a lifetime—really just a split second—of deliberation. “Don’t forget.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

You raise your brows just slightly, a little furrow forming in your skin. There’s a small tilt to your mouth, almost disbelieving, skeptical.

“Congrats on MVP, by the way,” you tell him just as he’s about to awkwardly step away. “That was a better season than I expected.”

“Really?” He grins; his face nearly hurts from the force of it.

“Football’s still ass.” You shrug and step back, thumbs looped in the straps of your backpack. “Don’t go too far. I’m expecting an assignment on volleyball soon.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Luke feels so stupid when you give him a sardonic little grin in return, head beginning to pound at a hundred kilometers an hour.

( And then he remembers that he’s American and doesn’t actually know what the fuck a kilometer is outside of physics. See? He’s decidedly bam-fucking-boozled. )

The bell for the sixth period final rings, and he’s snapped out of it, realizing that he’s standing dumbly in the courtyard. He’s in sports—he doesn’t have a sixth because that’s the period reserved for practice, which he doesn’t have.

When he comes home to kickstart winter break, Luke actually—albeit curtly—greets his dad.

[ IMAGE: a screenshot of a DM. On the left side of the chat, two messages that read:

wild guess but maybe luke likes the band kid that everyone calls sarge or smth i saw them walking together after school and they met up when finals was over

anon pls

The right side of the chat has a message with one shocked emoji and a thumbs up. ]

Liked by luvvbeaus and 1,153 others

centaurs.confess movie plot ahh rumor 💀

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drewtanka ONG?? 😦😦

naka.ethan bruh i’m reporting this for misinformation on behalf of marching band as a whole #CASTELLANSUCKSASS

↳ damienwit #CASTELLANSUCKSASS ↳ travstole thats my cousin ur talking abt do it again #CASTELLANSUCKSASS

FROM: silena 🎀

(18:52) so i find out thru insta huh. ur so fake lucas castellan 🖕

TO: silena 🎀

(18:53) woahh those r some wild accusations silena beauregard (18:53) and thats not even the name on my birth certificate. its just luke.

FROM: silena 🎀

(18:54) how does it feel to be the most hated man at school #CASTELLANSUCKSASS 🎙️

TO: silena 🎀

(19:00) in a student body full of neanderthals thats a fucking badge of honor

FROM: silena 🎀

(19:01) what about the rumors abt ur crush on ur dads fav editor in chief 🎙️

TO: silena 🎀

(19:01) STFUU WHO SAID THAT EW 😨 (19:01) we legit hate each other idk what ur talking about. anything else u heard is misinformation bruh it was just a project

FROM: silena 🎀

(19:02) yall hear smth?? (20:00) SMH LEFT ON READ. BESTIE PRIVILEGES RE FUCKING VOKED.

p.s. ★ on the topic of #CASTELLANSUCKSASS - this is purely a work of fiction, and although this is based on real things that teenagers do, it is never funny to cyberbully people. if u are being cyberbullied, report, block, and tell someone who can help, like a counselor or trusted adult (also dont forget to have screenshots as evidence), and if u are someone who cyberbullies others, gtfo of my blog bc ur not welcome.

sharing is caring, so pls rb and also lmk ur thoughts ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩

luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @arsonnaire @ma1dita @m00ng4z3r @saltair-and-palemoonlight @witch-lemon @ahh-chickens @spiderbeam @jennapancake @traumatrios @omg--bluexx @dangelnleif @lukecastellandefender @apolloscastellan

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mama we are following the rule of not believing anything you feel after 9pm. goodnight