that moment when you’re watching a show and you’re not like rooting for the other love interest but he’s cute and a bit stupid until your best friend is like “he reminds me of your ex” and you’re like “oh…,,, recognizing patterns now” and then like 30 seconds later you’re like “oh you’re right this guy SUCKS” and then you hope he falls off a cliff
Today's Needtobreathe thought is that, of all their albums, I think The Reckoning is the most cinematic. Listening to that album is like watching a really beautiful dramatic film and I can't get enough.
"average person writes 3 songs a year" factoid actualy just statistical error. average person writes 0 songs per year. Bear "Songs Georg" Rinehart, who writes 10,000 songs each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
i got these knockoff boots online and instead of the brand name on the tag they have the name of an apparently nonexistent martin scorsese movie??? what the fuck
this post led to a series of events that had martin scorsese himself reacting to his alleged movie goncharov and it has less than 400k notes almost 3 years later?
Can I just say that I greatly appreciate how all the Christians of Tumblr have coagulated into one big group (despite being vastly outnumbered on the site) and at this point even have enough cohesion to achieve relative notoriety and nobody else on the site knows what to do with us
I didn’t even mean to find Christian tumblr (honestly, I was surprised there was a Christian tumblr, with what I knew about it). I just stumbled upon it and went “My people!!!”
I was endlessly confused the first time I wound up on catholic tumblr (my background is evangelical protestant, i think i know less than 5 Catholics in real life) until I finally realized that Catholic Tumblr ™️ and Protestant Christian Tumblr ™️ are one in the same
I didn’t know fondue was a thing outside USA—stupid but i thought it was like, fake cheese that we would melt to dip tiny weenies in. Looked it up and found out it’s Swiss—so probably more people than I realized enjoy it! I would love to try a fondue of local cheese, but that’s not easy to come by where i live. Enjoy yours!
I'm sorry but I am so morally disoriented by the concept of 'fake cheese' that I have trouble focusing on any other aspect of your message. What is fake cheese?? You say that like it's a perfectly understandable and emotionally neutral combination of words. I feel like I've just been handed a koan.
Then you add the phrase “tiny weenies" like it's the logical next step rather than a new psychological event. From my (very French) perspective the sentence "fake cheese to dip tiny weenies in" sounds like such a unique cultural artefact in itself, like a linguistic diorama to be displayed in a vitrine. This is not meant as a negative judgment of you or your country! just my earnest ethnographic confusion as I try to grapple with the concept of "tiny weenies" from a place of "fake cheese" trauma...
I had no idea fondue was seen this way in the US—I thought we (as a species) had a collective working definition of it, a sort of global consensus like the commutative property of addition, so the idea that in some corners of the world "fondue" means “fake cheese to dip tiny weenies in” has made me remember that you can just flay language off reality like skin. There's also a non-zero chance for this phrase to have activated a sleeper agent in Lausanne and authorised targeted elimination under the Académie Française’s emergency powers.
The concept of fondue now feels violently theoretical but I wish you many delicious ones in the future though :) You have politely disintegrated a couple of foundational concepts I'd never realised I relied on, which is always enriching. I won't recover, but thank you for sending this!
just me, in all of my plain jane glory (Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle)
Stuck on the train home, it's just Lucy and Lockwood left overtired and awake. [3.6k]
Contains: hurt/comfort, pre-relationship locklyle, imposter syndrome, body image issues, very brief suicidal thoughts but in a jokey Lucy way, overtired agent babies, train journey, lucy stealing lockwood's hoodie
every time I start struggling with confidence at work I write a locklyle fic. also I’m sorry if this is too political but #ReNationaliseTheRailways
It was customary for Lockwood and Co. to economise on travel wherever possible – as much as Lucy could tell it embarrassed Lockwood and his posh sensibilities. She’d never minded much, the back of a private car or a first class carriage would only make her feel uncomfortable. Trains, then, became a staple part of their larger mansion-clearing jobs.
By now, there was a pattern to the way they travelled. Bustle onto the train with bags reeking of lavender and metal, dump everything on a table surrounded by four seats facing inwards. Letting George sprawl out across two seats guaranteed that no other passenger would dare to join them. With rapiers at their sides and the clink of chains as the train rolled along, being recognised as agents tended to keep the seats around them empty. Lucy liked the window seat, resting her head against the window and watching scenery rush past her. Lockwood liked being between Lucy and the aisle. George could sleep anywhere – and he did. Often slumped over the kit bags. Overall, catching trains was one of the more well-oiled parts of their operation.
They could always rely on strangers to stay away from them. On George getting a kip ten minutes after they’d left the station. On Lockwood buying them a round of tea and biscuits from the trolley. The trains themselves, though, were less predictable.
Lucy had never thought of the Peak District as particularly far north, but returning from clearing a particularly aggressive Phantasm from Haddon Hall was proving the longest journey she could recall them taking. Through driving rain, their bus to the station had never materialised, so Lockwood had furiously called a taxi, who insisted on extra pay to transport three soggy, sweaty agents. No one had slept the night before, because the job had taken so long, and they’d only made their train because it was late. A blessing, until a technical fault left them stationary at sunset between Derby and Leicester.
A barely-comprehensible voice over the Tannoy told them that an engineer wouldn’t make it out until curfew lifted. Lockwood had found the conductor, offered to escort the engineer himself, and returned rejected and sulking to their empty carriage.
The three of them had played rummy for a bit to cheer him up, cards splayed across the table as night fell outside the window. It was getting cold. Noises and movement outside were enough to make Lucy jump. After twenty minutes their game of cards had fizzled out, and Lockwood hadn’t found anything particularly interesting to read aloud on his second perusal of The Times. After the conductor wandered through with the paltry remains of the first-class catering (and another thanks to Lockwood for his offer), Geroge had fallen dead asleep. Lucy watched him with envy, contemplating opening a fourth shortbread biscuit. The night was so absolute that she couldn’t make out the bushes outside anymore.
Lockwood slumped backwards, toeing his shoes off and resting pink-sock-clad feet on the seat beside George. He sighed, and rubbed a thumb between his eyes.
“I need to fucking learn to drive,” he sighed.
“We live in Central London,” Lucy pointed out.
He shrugged.
“Well we work in the middle of nowhere. What kind of outfit are we, if we need picking up at the station?”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“You only turned 17 last month.”
Lockwood said nothing, which was as close as he ever got to ceding an argument. They’d spoken for a while longer, first about how they’d get home. Then about how much they wanted showers, and about how jealous they were that George could sleep anywhere. Then, they’d fallen silent for a while, though Lucy knew he was still awake.
“Can you see if my coat is still wet?” she murmured.
It was no surprise, when Lockwood reached over to feel the material, that it was.
“Sorry Luce. I’d give you mine, only…”
The thing wasn’t waterproof in the first place, and still dripped into the luggage rack.
“Of course. Thank you, though.”
“’S okay.”
He watched her for a while, and it only made Lucy feel colder as she tried not to shiver.
“I have a spare hoodie. It’s been worn, but…”
“That’s okay.”
He rummaged around for the hoodie, and made a show of straightening out and folding it just so she could clumsily pull it over her head. Wearing two jumpers, Lucy was sure she looked ridiculous and bulky, but she didn’t care. Copying Lockwood, she shucked off her trainers. Lucy pulled her feet up, jamming her legs between her chest and the table, and finally stopped shivering.
His sleeves were too long, and she pulled them down over her hands, feeling like a kid again, stealing her big sisters’ clothes. Though she could never remember noticing the smell of another person as much as she noticed that Lockwood’s hoodie smelled of him. She tucked her chin into the neckline, feeling the fabric over her chin and her lips.
Because she was cold.
No other reason.
When Lucy looked up Lockwood was watching her, his face not quite reaching amusement. His eyes were too wide. The frown lines had disappeared from his forehead.
“Sorry, I’m stretching it.”
“No!” He insisted, moving his hands but not reaching for her, “No, sorry. Keep it. I’m just tired.”
“Right…”
She settled back in the seat, pulled the hood up, tried to rest against the window before changing her mind. She’d fallen last night, and not had a chance to examine the huge bruise on her hip except for under the fluorescent light of the train toilet. It ached as she shifted her legs.
“I really am so jealous of how he sleeps like that.”
“It’s like a superpower,” Lockwood agreed.
Neither of them slept well. Lucy knew that. She often heard him creeping down the stairs, or turning over and over in bed in the late night silence of the house.
“Maybe he’s drunk or something.”
It was a stupid comment, and Lockwood didn’t pretend to laugh.
“That would explain it,” he murmured.
She liked having the hood up. Liked being in Lockwood’s clothes. Liked that he was there, with her, sharing time with her that George didn’t get. She also knew those were dangerous thoughts.
“There’s one thing I’ve never understood about you, Lucy,” Lockwood said suddenly.
He was nervous to ask the question, and it made her stomach swoop.
“One thing?” she mumbled, aware of how little she wanted George to wake up and interrupt.
It was the exact type of comment George would make.
“Well. More than one thing. Though I do hope I understand you a bit, I mean, we are…”
He trailed off, and Lucy wondered what he’d been about to say. Colleagues, probably. Or something dafter. Housemates.
“Are you going to ask me, then?”
He wasn’t sure how to find the words. Lockwood leant out from his seat, one long arm bracing himself against the seat opposite as he took another sweep of the train, checking it was empty.
“I know you don’t like me talking about you to the press.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, and groaned just to make him laugh.
“I know! I know,” he insisted, “but you’re so powerful. Types 3s, your listening… This could all be easy for you. And you’re spending an evening trapped on a broken-down Off-Peak train without dinner.”
“We didn’t get lunch, either,” she pointed out, and regretted it when that line reappeared between his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just teasing, don’t be so soft.”
She was ignoring his question. Thinking about it. Or, rather, about why he’d asked it.
“I know,” he said again.
For a while longer, Lucy looked at the Caledonian Sleeper advert on the wall opposite. Scotland looked nice. She’d never been.
“I just don’t want to see myself in the paper,” she told him.
“I literally do not understand that.”
She knew he was joking, but she’d always suspected Lockwood really didn’t understand.
“Just… I already hate seeing photos of myself with the level of press we do get. And my mum… she’ll see it at the corner shop and buy a copy just so she can tell all her friends I’ve only got here by sleeping around or lying or something –”
Lucy stopped herself. Checked if George was awake. Looked straight ahead at the picture of a castle on the Caledonian Sleeper advert. Lockwood wasn’t saying anything, and she thought maybe if she kept speaking he’d never say anything.
“She always reckoned Mary was the prettiest of us, anyway. No idea why they’d waste ink on that one.”
“Luce –”
“No, it’s fine. I know I shouldn’t care what she’d say. I mean, I might be wrong, even –”
Lockwood’s hand found her arm. Lucy’s head ached. She realised that if she breathed wrong, she’d start crying.
“Sorry,” she murmured, “I think I’m overtired.”
“You can’t be serious?” he asked, and she had no idea which part he meant, so she didn’t say anything. “Lucy…”
“No, it’s fine. Sorry, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”
“No, I’m glad you brought it up. I just… no, sorry. I really can’t understand it. Your mum wouldn’t say that.”
When Lucy laughed, it was wet, and she brought her sleeved hand to her nose.
“No offense, Lockwood, but she very much would.”
“Can I hug you?”
She leant into him, and focussed everything she had on not crying at Lockwood’s arm wrapping around her shoulder. George’s curls were splayed out on the kit bag, his face indented from one of the buckles pressed into his forehead. Lucy was careful not to jostle the table. This was mortifying enough. If George woke up now, she’d have to throw herself onto the tracks.
Lockwood was bonier than Norrie, but not by much. He was warm. They were at a different angle, but even sitting side by side and through a hoodie, she recognised the curve of his cheekbone resting against her forehead. She couldn’t see his face at all when he spoke.
“I’m sorry you think that.”
“I don’t think that, Lockwood. It’s dead true.”
“Well then, I’m very glad you’re here with us. And I hope I’ll never have the displeasure of meeting her.”
“You’d beat her in a duel.”
Lucy tried to joke, but the words fell flat. Her lungs ached for air, but a gasp would be the start of sobs. And she was hoping the hoodie might be maintaining some of her dignity.
“I think I forget, sometimes, because of my parents…” he trailed off. He was heavy against her, “I always imagine anyone with parents is really lucky.”
He meant so well, she hardly had it in her to tease. Stitches were breaking, and Lockwood was offering her an open wound.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe, because I was so young… but I don’t think they’d have ever said anything like that. No one’s parent should.”
Lucy didn’t say anything, she wasn’t sure what she could say. Lockwood was talking more candidly now.
“I wonder if we’d have ever fallen out.”
“I bet fourteen-year-old Lockwood would have gotten into some good screaming matches with them, about sleeping in and cleaning your room” she teased, before backtracking, “but they sound like they’d have always forgiven you.”
“Jess said she’d never heard either of them raise their voices.”
Lucy swallowed something thick and uncomfortable in her throat.
“They sounded really special.”
He nodded, silently, and moved away from her for a moment to clear his throat. In the reflection of the train window, she could see his eyes swimming.
“I hope you don’t believe a word of it, Luce. I’ve never seen a picture where you don’t look beautiful.”
“Yeah, why do you think we never take photos,” she snorted.
“We should take more.”
Lucy inhaled, frustrated, but let Lockwood indulge in his fantasy. It would soon be forgotten. She thought George might have a camera – but fortunately film was strictly saved for taking photos of illegal sources that Flo stole. And maybe the odd photo of Flo.
“You don’t believe I will,” he said.
“I just hate it when the press takes photos. I don’t want to have to see my mug on some paper on a train,” she gestured at Lockwood’s copy of The Times, folded and discarded. “And then they’ll just make up gossip, to try and get a scoop… I saw what happened to Marissa, and she was like some… model.”
Lockwood mock-gasped, though she could still hear the thickness of tears in her throat.
“Lucy Carlyle, reducing a woman to her looks – you of all people, Luce –”
She shoved against him, and then let her shoulder stay pressed to his. Lockwood didn’t flinch.
“Shut up, you know what I mean. Besides, I’ve seen the poster in your old wardrobe…”
“I’d rather have a Lucy Carlyle poster.”
“Ew.”
Even as she let her voice fall flat, Lucy could feel the blush threatening her cheeks.
“Not like that!” He was insisting, “I had a Tom Rotwell poster too. Agents I admired.”
“I’m not judging, Lockwood… whichever way you swing.”
It was Lockwood’s turn to squirm, even though they both knew she didn’t mean anything by it. Lucy used her secret window-reflection trick to watch his mouth fall open and closed again. He moved away from her to throw his head back against the train seat.
“I’m trying to be sincere, and you’re being mean,” he complained, voice sotto as midnight approached.
When his head lolled towards her, all soft eyes and long lashes with dark smudges settled beneath them, Lucy couldn’t stand to keep eye contact.
“We should get posters made. Best looking agency in London, I reckon,” he drawled.
Now Lockwood was being mean. Or delusional, maybe. He had the capacity for either.
“We absolutely shouldn’t.”
“I think they’d do them as a Sunday special in The Spectral Scene.”
He was smiling now, all sharp white teeth, and Lucy hated how he could control her moods so quickly.
“A whole new generation of teenage Anthony Lockwoods could have us on their walls,” he teased, head lolling against her shoulder in exhaustion.
“We absolutely should not do that. Besides, I don’t exactly look like an agent. I’m not sure anyone would want me on their wall.”
Lockwood’s mood shifted again, and brought hers with it, right into the realm of deadly serious.
“What the hell does that mean? You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”
“You know what I mean,” she waved him away.
“No, I don’t. You don’t really mean what you said about your mum? About photos? Jesus, Lucy.”
“I know it’s not all about looks, but I guess… I’m not Marissa.”
Lockwood was about to interrupt, but Lucy spoke over him.
“I know, but you’re the only person who thinks of me like that.”
“And George.”
“Well yeah, George. But that’s because of you.”
“It absolutely isn’t, Luce. He’s worked with you as much as I have, he knows how good you are.”
“I’m not… I don’t know. Sometimes I just wonder if I’ve gotten lucky, over and over again… I make mistakes literally every day. You said that yourself – that I’m volatile and insubordinate and overly-emotional –”
“I don’t remember ever saying that! Ever! And even if I had, you bloody well shouldn’t believe it. You saved Lockwood and Co., we’d… we’d be nothing without you.”
Poorer, that voice in her head reminded her, they’d be financially poorer without you, Lucy. He’s worried you’ll leave again, and that then people won’t book Lockwood and Co. for their big spooky houses. No wonder he wants you in the newspapers.
She often wondered if Skull had left his jar and moved into her brain. But no, that was all her. All the weakness that lived up there. Kat wasn’t like this. Flo wasn’t. Or George. Or…
“If I was really as good as Marrisa, I wouldn’t find this all so… hard,” she snapped.
“Maybe you find it hard because you beat yourself up over every little mistake!”
Lucy didn’t speak. Not for a while. She felt like Lockwood had physically stuck a hand through her ribcage and into her heart. The tears were back, after she’d tried so hard to keep them at bay. She looked at the Caledonian Sleeper poster. Thought about running away on it. Things had worked out, the last time she bought a train ticket and didn’t look back. She’d had less to lose, then.
Or maybe not. Lockwood knew now. That she wasn’t as good as she projected. The girl who lied about her Grade 4 and was the most powerful listener since stupid bloody Marissa Fittes, and goaded a ghost in a jar all day. She’d never earned this. Wasn’t anything special. If she was put in the newspaper, they’d all know. The whole of London would see right through her, and they’d find out about the Mill, and about her family, and every single time she’d not been good enough.
Lockwood was overtired and exasperated. So was she. Her heart ached where he’d stabbed at it with his fingernails.
“Goodnight, Lockwood.”
She turned away from him and tried to settle in against the seat. She wished they’d turn the emergency lights off. Her stupid face was looking back in the window reflection. Plain. Puffy with tears. Stupid.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured finally, and one hand resting on her bicep. In the reflection, he was looking right at her, “I only mean that I hate it when you’re so hard on yourself.”
Yeah, well. I don’t need you being hard on me too.
Lucy couldn’t say anything out loud. She was too busy trying to level out her breathing, sobs coming with heaves of air that made her lungs ache as she tried restrain herself from making a sound.
“God, Lucy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, for all of it…”
“It’s not your fault,” she choked out.
This was all her fault, and now she was making it his problem. She tried so hard to be easygoing. To pick her battles. Keep all of this away from him. Away from Geroge. From everyone. This deserved to be locked up in her attic room, or her grimy little Zone 3 bedsit. Lockwood was starting to cry.
“Tell me how to make it better,” he begged, but Lucy shook her head.
She glanced at George, checking he was still asleep. This was mortifying.
“I just want to go home.”
“Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry,” he paused, “do you mean… London?”
They both froze. Lucy felt her stomach plummet. She didn’t have anywhere else. Wasn’t Portland Row her home? Lockwood’s hands were shaking. She didn’t know why.
“If that’s… if that’s okay,” she choked out, and Lockwood relaxed visibly.
“Of course! Of course it’s okay. More than… Portland Row is your home as long as you want it. Of course.”
“Oh. Good.”
He didn’t ask his time. Didn’t move slowly to avoid the table. Lockwood threw himself around her and dragged her closer and held her so tight Lucy finally believed she was never going anywhere.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I’m so emotional.”
“God Luce I thought you were leaving again. Please, I don’t… I don’t care about the press. I was just asking.”
“I don’t know why I’m like this, Lockwood, I’m sorry. I just can’t see myself…”
“It’s fine. I don’t care about the papers. Ignore me, I never should have brought it up. Besides, I like seeing my face enough for the both of us, I think.”
When Lucy laughed it was wet and snotty and the best thing Lockwood had ever heard. He was no stranger to fear and relief, each time they captured a source both emotions chased each other through his veins. But this was potent. Something he’d never replicated anywhere other than Lucy. She was the scariest thing in the world.
He saw George’s eyes crack open, and slip closed again with an understanding nod. Surprisingly tactful.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, high on adrenaline and entirely delirious, “I’d buy a poster of you. I’ll put it on my bedroom wall now.”
“Lockwood,” she whined, “shut up.”
“I’m buying a polaroid camera.”
“Don’t be gross.”
She was joking. He knew she was. His chest clutched with fear anyway.
“No, I mean… like the photos you have with Norrie. I love those. You look so beautiful in them. Happy and real, laughing.”
When Lucy agreed, she didn’t mean it. But Lockwood had her pulled to his chest and she was wrapped in his hoodie and he had told her (in a rather indirect way) that he thought she was beautiful, so she let it slide.
“Do you think you can sleep like this?” she asked.
“Yeah, probably. Why?”
“Good. I’m really comfy. Is that weird?”
“No! Not at all. Definitely sleep, if you can.”
He didn’t care if he slept. She was still here. They’d fought, and he still wasn’t sure why, but she was still here. Her eyes were slipping closed, and selfishly, he didn’t want her to go yet.
“Luce?”
“Hm?”
“You’ll have to give me your family’s address – I need to have a stern word with your mother.”
Lucy snorted. He didn’t need the address, it was on her Grades One through Three certificates. She liked the idea of it though, showing up in his suit with all his posh charm and repressed anger. Lucy had never needed saving, but she’d love Lockwood to give her mum a bollocking. The fantasy followed her all the way into her dreams, and she wondered if Lockwood could tell somehow, with her head against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her on a stationary train.
My personal experience with being asked this question and then given that line, is that the neurotypical person expected you to feel shame.
I have some slightly less anecdotal evidence to back up this anecdotal experience. I took substitute teacher training once, and we were told that the best thing to do with middle schoolers "acting up," was to shame them, to figure out how to draw attention to them and this negative attention in front of their peers would shame them into good behaviour, or at least silence. I raised my hand, having already distinguished myself as the "weirdo" of the group, and said, "Is this the reason I spent a lot of time in the principal's office for truthfully, loudly, and clearly answering questions like, 'would you care to share your thoughts with the class?'" And was told yes, that was a perfect example, but I was the rare case where it backfires.
Since then, I have responded to that type of question with, "Do you want an explanation, or was your intent simply to indicate that I need to feel inferior, right now?" and it does tend to turn the tables a little bit.
Look, as someone who has been working with kids for 15 years now, I'm so sorry that your trainer gave you bullshit advice about how to get kids to stop a behaviour.
I have never once used shame as a classroom tool because that's fucked up. I might use silence and the teacher stare (and make it awkward as hell for the kid) but there's a difference between feeling awkward for a minute and correcting themselves without having everyone's attention drawn to them and feeling shamed.
Especially when pride and safety works so much better.
Thanking the kid doing the right thing makes the kid doing the wrong thing want to be thanked, too. Thanking the kid who normally is chatty and distracted when they're not being chatty and distracted gives them such a glow and they want to focus more to get thanked again.
Joking with the jokester for a minute and then bringing them back on task? Works so much faster and better than shouting them into submission. Letting the kid take the shot at the rubbish bin with their balled up paper but joking "I'll judge you if you miss" gets them feeling safe and supported, and because you let them take the shot, they're happy to get up and throw the rubbish away if they miss. Gently touching the back of a student's chair while talking is a subtle reminder to them and only them that they need to settle and pay attention.
And my favourite underused tool of teaching is just... finding out what kids are interested in and chatting with them about it. When I worked with littles this was learning shit like the names of the Paw Patrol dogs, but these days with the bigs it's more just chatting to them about their lives outside of school, their jobs, which movie they're going to on the weekend - y'know, shit that's not really important to me but matters to them that I asked.
And the thing is, kids that you respect, they're kids that like and respect you and want to do the right thing by you. And it's so much easier to manage their behaviours than if you just try to shout them into submission.
