VIOLENT DELIGHTS

magda maria nabokov you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry. only the sun has come this close, only the sun.

[recentgooglesearches]

HOW TO LEAVE RED LOBSTER

[ypoos]

by @unif http://ift.tt/1Nuu2aW

[magdamaria]

leofcwlers​:

With the bar so crowded, and so many drinks in his system blurring his vision and judgment, Leo struggles to push his way to the front of whatever crowd has flocked together, “God, seriously? Beep beep, people! Some of us are tryna get fucked up here,” The second his gaze is landing on Magda - ironically, the reason a crowd had started - the frown dissipates, mood lifting to match the grin on his face. Leo’s never in a particularly bad mood, no matter how he frames it, but one would have thought he’d just won the lottery with how quickly his expression brightens, “Magda!” When Leo calls back to her, it’s loud and prolonged, drawing out her name that sounds sweet on his tongue, accent almost setting the scene enough that her made up fairytale about them could be true, “Magda, you don’t know the lengths I’ve gone to to be here. By your side, or whatever - but I’m a romantic. Anything for my wife,” The second she produces a bottle of champagne, Leo’s raising his hands in the air, a victory cheer erupting out of him. It’s easy for him to miss the fact that the cup, full of nothing at that point by foam and dregs of beer, splattered onto whoever was stood beside him, letting out a scoff of protest. Instead, Leo’s focused on reaching for Magda’s hand, pressing a kiss to it while setting the now empty glass onto the bar counter beside her, “Here, lemme,” he insists, taking the bottle out of her grasp and beginning to yank wildly at the cork once the wrapping is barbarically ripped off. A few people have the sense to duck at least, while Leo grunts with exertion, flashing Magda a bewildered look, “Holy - fucking Jesus, this thing is, like, really plugged in tight. All jammed up - someone get this man a plumber -,” With a start, Leo gasps when the pressure from the bottle is relieved, in the most unfortunate way. The cork all but shoots across the room, crashing into the dead center of the mirror positioned against the wall behind the bar top, crack in Leo’s shocked reflection evidence as champagne bubbles up and out of the bottle, “Oh… my god? Erm… The Hulk whomst?” Despite the teasing tone he takes on, Leo tugs at Magda’s hand to hint at her to jump down from the countertop, gaze switching from her, the cracked mirror, to the bartender glancing around stunned attempting to figure out what just happened, “I think we should, like, go, take our winnings someplace out of sight. They just lifted my ban from this place.”

If there’s one thing Magda loves, it’s ridiculousness. And that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it? Elaborate wartime role play, a crowd flocking around her like she’s a star (which, let’s face it, she definitely is), and a loose cork making half the room jump. As everyone else looks on in horror and/or confusion, there is a huge grin on her face. “BINGO!” she yells, for no real reason at all except that she loves when the attention is back on her. But before anyone’s eyes can turn towards her again, Leo is leading her out of the bar, and there’s a pout beginning to form on her face. “Oh, but what’s the fun in leaving after something’s been broken, my dear?” There’s still a vague transatlantic accent playing on her tongue—she’s very committed to her whole. “See?” And then, suddenly, as he leads her through the crowd, she grabs a glass from some poor fool’s hand and drops it on the floor with a crash. “BINGO! God, there’s such a...rush... in breaking things. I always think maybe I should’ve been born Greek if only for the fucking plate smashing. OPA! You know? It seems like a grand ol’ time, don’t ya think? My Big Fat Greek Wedding always was one of my favorite movies.  But— really, c’mon— we should staaaay—” All her whining and rambling does no good, though, and soon enough they are out the door. The crisp autumn air whips her hair against her face, and some gets in her mouth. She coughs much louder than she should, tries to spit it out. “God, Rapunzel much? Maybe I should cut it like she does at the end of Tangled, you know? It was kind of hot.” Outside, she remembers just how cold it is in Vermont, and she is suddenly mad at herself for thinking she didn’t need a jacket. “It’s fucking freezing. What is it that Cardi B said? A hoe never gets cold? Well she fucking lied. I’m disappointed.” Magda kicks at the gravel below her, walking around aimlessly. The area outside of the bar is almost deserted, a stark contrast to the bunched up bodies inside. “So where we headed? Got any plans for us, sunshine? Any more mirrors we can break? The one in there was already 7 years bad luck. I say we go for 21 more.”

[magdamaria]

jamiecostello​:

Head lolled back to the side, Jamie had fallen asleep mid-conversation with a perky brunette with some sort of J name. Or was it a G? He would have had to have been conscious to answer that question. The girl in front of him was so wrapped up in her own story about fixing her cracked phone screen that she had noticed him start to nod off. Only when the drink in his hand tumbled out of his grip and onto her lap did she finally look at his face, shrieking and jumping back in alarm. “What the fuck!” She whined out, Jamie waking with a startle, whipping his head around until he realized what had happened. A shame, really. He had thought maybe she would come up to his room with him. “Wh- wait! Sorry, Jessie. No, fuck, Jessica,” he corrected himself, although she was already stomping off, probably in search of a towel. Jamie straightened up from where he had been sitting, approaching someone else. “Uh, on a scale of one to ten how bad was that? Like if I go apologize right now do you think she’d still sleep with me?” He questioned, flashing his most winning smile afterwards, mostly joking. “And think there’s any coffee in the kitchen if I looked?” @yatesstarters​

her dress was yellow but now it is blue. kincaid parties are magda’s favorite because she can run up to her room every other hour and switch into a new outfit. this is fun, because most people are too drunk to realize, or so high that they think she is someone else. and regardless, she just likes playing dress up. right now she’s dancing against some guy with an aggressively obnoxious name, like thad or chet, tendrils of her hair sticking with sweat to her collarbone. thad or chet (or chad?) is whispering something in her ear that she can’t hear over the bass thumping through the speakers. restless, and kind of bored with the way he keeps gripping her waist too tight, she pulls away. “listen, pumpkin, if you’re still feeling this grabby later, you know where my room is, alright? i’m gonna get some-- dude, stop whispering i can’t even-- bye, bye!” once she frees herself from mr. grabby hands, she heads to a less crowded area, only to run into her favorite neighbor, just in time to see him commit a small act of terror. “mr. jamie! i cooka da meatball!” magda’s put on a horrible italian accent, her hands in the air, gesticulating like a true italian would. both straps of her dress start to slide down her shoulders with the dramatic gestures, but she doesn’t really care. “well my little tortellini, first of all, her name is jane. second of all, that drink-- what was that? jungle juice? rum and coke?-- well whatever it was, it’s going to leave a stain. so i mean, congrats, you don’t even have to fuck her ‘cause you screwed yourself. double screwed. screwed squared!” as she speaks she grabs his forearm and leads him into the kitchen, only to let him go and hop onto the counter once they get there. it is sticky and kind of gross. “i dunno if we have coffee but while you’re looking you should definitely make me a grilled cheese.”

[andrivete]

Yves Olade, When Rome Falls

[givemearmstopraywith]

me after sitting in the sun for ten minutes: love is real

[bob-belcher]

[butterflypeaflowertea]

when you wear a sundress and one of the straps is loose so it slips off your shoulder and u feel… how shall i put this… harlotrous

[magdamaria]

miriamkaufmann​:

She’d retired early, tired from traveling to California to visit her aunt. It was early for her, but navigating the airport never failed to exhaust her. It had taken what felt like hours for her to fall asleep as she thought of everything she was missing out on by choosing to go to bed early. Tossing and turning, she was disturbed by the banging against her door. After stretching her arms, she threw the covers back and hurried to the door as she recognized Magda’s voice. She flung it open and pulled her friend in and into a hug, all but swinging her around in a circle. She walked to the small fridge she had in the corner of her room and pulled the water bottle out. Taking the cap off, she smelled it and her face scrunched up. She passed it to Magda. “It’s vodka. Like you said, pemdas. A hangover is more of a Monday morning problem, so you might as well push it off as long as you can, but I can get you some water if you want it.” Using her thumb, Miriam wiped at the smudged makeup under Magda’s eyes. “How was your night? What’d you get up to?” 

 the grin on her face is almost blinding at the moment. being in miriam’s care kind of feels like being under the watch of an older sister (not that she’d know what that’s like, her only siblings are 3 petulant little boys). namely, magda feels both comforted and enabled into inciting more chaos. this feeling fills her with warmth. the vodka is held snug to her chest like it’s a teddy bear, and it takes her less than two minutes to unscrew the cap and take her first three sips. she presses a messy kiss to her friends forehead before catapulting backwards into miriam’s bed, fingers still tight around the neck of the bottle. “oh... where to begin... where to begin...well, first of all, there’s this frat boy, riley, who i fucked once under a tree somewhere when i was on shrooms and now every time i go to a party he like... always finds me. anywhere i am. and it’s like, dude, just social media stalk me like a normal fucking person, you know? but anyway i was at the bar, or maybe i was in a frat house, or maybe both? i don’t know, i just know he was following me around all night and then-- oh, i definitely was in a frat house at one point because i led him into a closet to make him think we were gonna fuck... and then just locked him in there. and then i drank a lot more, and then i was in your hallway, and that’s all i remember.” after this monologue she takes a very long breath and a very long gulp of vodka. “what about you, pumpkin? lock any creepy guys in closets?”

[magdamaria]

felixlcsser​:

Felix is sitting in Alderidge, eyes glazed over at a computer screen. It may have been a mistake to smoke before getting to work on his philosophy paper. The scent of weed is practically rolling off him in waves, so much so that the girl he sat down next to has now chosen a seat much further away. He’s squinting at the screen, trying to make out words, the task of printing the article he was looking at now feeling Herculean. Moving his mouse towards the corner of the screen, Felix feels like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill as Magda distracts him, eyes snapping up to attention, looking like he had just been about to doze off. “I’m busy that day,” he jokes, not even knowing the date, flashing her a loopy grin. “Depends. Do I have to wear a tux? And the penis stickers are a requirement of my attendance,” he tells her, nodding his head emphatically, getting a few bizarre looks their way every time they say “penis”. He stretches out in his seat, leaning his chair back, arms behind his head, before he tips over onto the ground, yelling out “Ack!” Narrowly missing bonking his head, he scrambles to his knees, the crash drawing attention towards them. “And uh, can I go in a wheelchair?”

felix is definitely stupider than magda is, and this fills her with a particular thrill. she breathes in the smell of weed like it is fresh apple pie, the scent crawling into the fibers of her clothes and the tendrils of her hair. she loves it. “no, you don’t have to wear a tux. what kind of animal are you? if you don’t come in a hawaiian shirt i don’t want you as my date. duh. a--” before she can finish speaking, though, the boy in front of her is seemingly flying out of his seat, and she is overcome by a series of giggles and snorts. “god, do i make you that nervous? i know i’m sexy but please. contain yourself, man, for christ’s sake!” she crouches down and leans forward to pet his head like he is a sad stray puppy. “jesus fuckin christ, the bump on your head right now is surreal,” let the record show that there is not, in fact, a bump on felix’s head. magda just enjoys the drama. “are you okay? do you feel like you’re dying? do i need to call an ambulance? this feels like it could cause severe mental trauma. or like, amnesia.” she suddenly grabs his face in her hands, forcing him to look directly at her. “do you remember who i am? who is the president of the united states? actually, ew, no. that’s gross. ummmm. who is the husband of beyonce knowles?” the look on her face is everything but serious, and she cannot contain the snorts of laughter that still escape her lips. “honestly, good thing you didn’t have any brain cells to spare. cause that would’ve been bad.”

[magdamaria]

lanajvmeson​:

Lana perched on a countertop with a queen of hearts clipped to preserve her hair’s wave in the same way models tended to backstage before prowling the runway, a stolen souvenir from a nameless ape’s deck. She swung her legs like a child on an old swing set, gearing up to kick holes in the sky. Every so often, the heel of a red cowboy boot thumped against counter. Rhythmic. Reliable as the way her eyes wandered. “I fucked some guy at the party. I came as a mobster’s mistress, right? Super sexy. Standing ovations all around. Anyways, we were on this sink, I was all, like, ugh, this tap’s about to enter my actual asshole any second, like, can’t even cope, but whatever, you know? I’m rolling with it. It’s a story. He does this insane thrust. Like he’s Donkey Kong, or something. No, he’s King Kong. The faucet bursts off. My back’s getting sprayed like I’m a poodle at the groomer’s getting it’s frizz shampooed until it’s bald. I’m, like… laughing, at this point, ‘cause right? Wow.” Pulling her bottle of Merlot to her lips, she swigged, staining an already red mouth another shade darker. “Anyways,” came with a roll of her eyes, laughter peeking the horizon of her voice like the first few rays of sun. “It’s whatever, we finish. I’m fixing my lipstick in the mirror. And I hear this, like… mewl. Like a cat. So I turn around and guess what?” Wine somehow benched, Lana leaned in within the space of a blink, clapping in front of Magda’s face for dramatic emphasis. “Bam. He’s wearing my dress. He makes a run for it. It’s so short on him I swear his balls are about to pop out. He’s like that weird little goblin from Ring Lords that wears a loin cloth. Just, like, letting it swing free, I guess. And honestly, as shocking as it was, I kinda supported it. I mean, that’s bold. Like, literally rock out with your cock out, sir. Go off, king. I couldn’t even be mad.” Leaning back, she settled her weight on her palms, offering a shrug like this was entirely commonplace, just another day in the life of Lana Jameson. “So, yeah. That’s the story of how I had to walk home naked in a trench coat. And that’s why we’re here,” came with a vague gesture out at the party’s kitchen, glitter of her nails catching the light. “We’re robbing the rat back. See?” Slipped from her jacket pocket, she slid on Men in Black style sunglasses, giving a nod like she was signalling a far off agent. “I even brought my crime glasses.” @magdamaria​

she is not one for questioning authority, especially lana’s. she’s a dictator in her own right, as every woman rightfully should be, and magda respects it. and it’s not like she’s gonna no to a party, right?  so that’s how she’s pulled to this party, chugging vodka, watching her friend flail around a bottle of wine and talk about donkey kong and poodles. almost in a trance, she stands wobbling like the leaning tower of pisa, directly facing lana on the counter. she alternates between nodding and taking swigs of vodka, entranced by the tale being told. to be fair, she’s not quite sure how accurate it could possibly be, it sounds ridiculous, but magda loves ridiculous things and she’s naive to her core, so she accepts it as unfettered truth. at its tumultuous conclusion, she jumps back in glee, taking one more long gulp of vodka before setting the bottle down on the counter. “why didn’t you tell me this before? i have a whole totally spies outfit ensemble from last year’s halloween party. how am i supposed to do crime dressed like a, uh,” she looks down, mouth open in a perfect oval, at her bright yellow outfit. “like a cabbage patch kid! totally not a crime outfit, lana. totally.” a deep dramatic sigh flies from her lips, and suddenly she needs much more vodka. she decides, though, that if she can’t look like a criminal, she needs to at least be able to think like one. “okay, whatever. i’ll help you anyway because firstly, i love crime. and, secondly, of course, i love you. also i hate guys who steal things. i don’t think men should be allowed to do crimes, personally.” she grabs lana’s hand and pulls her down from the countertop she is perched on, leads her towards the chaos of the party. weaving through throngs of large frat guys isn’t particularly easy when you’re a little more than 5 feet off the ground, but magda is very good at pushing. “move it or lose it, people! the woman needs her dress! hustle, hustle--i know you can move quicker than that, riley, i’ve seen you in bed. c’mon--” she pushes and pushes until they are climbing up the stairs and to the bedrooms. “which room belongs to the rat?”

[magdamaria]

she is curled up into a ball-- half asleep, glitter in her hair, raccoon eyes-- in one of calloway’s long corridors. there is a possibility that she is somewhere near miriam’s room, but she can’t be sure. all she knows is that she came crying and drunk into calloway looking for her friend and ended up passed out on the wooden floor that she now finds herself on. magda wonders how no one has woken her up (she’s fickle in all manners, even sleeping) and also what time it is. she pulls herself up to her knees and sort of drags herself down the hall and to miriam’s door. instead of knocking with her hand, like a human being should, she bangs her head against the wood, and immediately regrets it. the hangover headache is now a hangover migraine. “miriam, babygirl, i’m going to need you to open this door and give me a gallon of water and some advil. or more vodka. getting drunk again cancels out a hangover, right? pemdas or some shit.” @miriamkaufmann​

[magdamaria]

“so a chicken walks into a bar... or it crosses the road? i don’t know but there’s definitely a chicken. and so...” one hand is gesturing wildly around her as she attempts to tell a story, or a joke, or something. magda is sat on top of the bar’s countertop in the brass monkey, baby blue slip dress simultaneously riding halfway up her thigh while it’s straps slide down her arms. it’s autumn, and it’s cold, but it’s really warm in the crowded bar, so she’s instead inclined to believe that the goosebumps on her skin are a result of the cocktail of drugs in her stomach. there is a nice little group of people standing around her as she swings her legs and talks, and she feels a little like jesus or one of those greek thinkers that made their living talking shit to crowds of people. before she can finish with her chicken tale, she sees leo, and now both of her arms are waving in the air. “oh my dear leo! i thought i would never see you again! i would stand by my window, wondering, when will my dear husband return from war?” please note that magda has no idea why she has suddenly become a character in a world war ii movie but she doesn’t usually question the mechanics of her brain. “drinks on me!” she yells to her supposed husband, angling her body backwards to reach behind the bar for a champagne bottle. “this occasion calls for champagne! not every day that a soldier graces our presence after returning from the trenches of europe. USA! USA! USA!” @leofcwlers​

[rosyish]

When in doubt. Wear a slip dress out

[magdamaria]

the penis sticker on her cheek is a stolen relic from the night before, when she had been bar hopping and somehow ended up joining a stranger’s bachelorette party. magda might also, technically, be a bridesmaid for this wedding, but she doesn’t remember saving anyone’s number. she hopes that if she did rsvp she picked the steak option, fish makes her a little queasy on account that she is a pisces and she’s convinced that this makes it technically cannibalism. nobody stops to ask about the sticker, they just kind of look at her with pointed eyes like they are trying to figure out if it is really a penis or some sort of wart. she walks confidently from her room in kincaid all the way to front steps of alderidge, penis on her face, until she sees felix and stands squarely in front of him. “hey, so like, totally random, but if i needed a date to a wedding where i may or may not be a bridesmaid, would you be down? we may even be able to steal more penis stickers.” @felixlcsser​

[the-book-diaries]

I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. Probably not even real.

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves (via weltenwellen)

[magdamaria]

(iris law, cis female)  -  have you seen magdalene maria nabokov?  magda is in her junior year.  the art history major is 20 years old & is a pisces.  people say she is idealistic, creative, impractical, and sensitive.  rumors say she’s a member of kincaid. i heard from the gossip blog that she broke up a professor’s marriage. 

the results of olive bullying me! insert knife emoji here

(THINK: DANCING BAREFOOT; BLUES AND YELLOWS; A WARM SUMMER BREEZE; THE SMELL OF INCENSE; SMUDGED LIPSTICK AND CHASTE KISSES)

she kissed all the boys on the playground and never dealt with the repercussions. at parent teacher conferences she’d had to translate to her russian parents, who had no idea that their daughter’s second grade teacher was effectively calling their babygirl a slut, and instead bought her a vanilla soft serve ice cream later that day (magda told them the teacher was congratulating her painting skills which were, objectively, much more advanced than that of her peers). she kept kissing boys on the playground until one boy made a face and told her that her lips tasted like pierogi and she cried so much that no one wanted to go near her. then the third grade came and the cycle started again. up until high school, her parents never found out she was kissing all the boys, and they kept buying her soft serve and new painting supplies on her birthday, and she kept eventually scaring away all the boys with her tears.

high school was better and worse. better because she learned how to cry in the bathroom where no one could see her except her friends, who huddled around the stall with worried faces. and when she came to class flushed pink, all the boys thought she was sunkissed and all the girls thought she bought new blush, and no one knew she carried more kleenex than textbooks in her kanken. worse because after so many years in america, her parents learned enough english to know when their daughter was flunking algebra and skipping biology and they stopped buying her ice cream and told her that art would never get her anywhere in life. she started stealing supplies from the art room and fucking the art teacher and he must have written her a really good letter of recommendation because suddenly she was at yates. 

her parents support her art now only because they are immigrants and seeing their daughter at a fancy american college makes them happy. and she wouldn’t admit it, but it makes her happy too. when her three younger brothers, triplets, facetime her every friday and she misses queens a little more than usual, she thinks of the cramped little apartment they are gathered in, and how her parents sleep on a pullout in the living room, and suddenly she is filled with a new determination to live life as loudly as she can at yates. and she does. she lives and fucks as much as she can and this was only a problem (1) time-- when it was a professor and he had a wife and a kid and both of them saw. she still cries a lot but only in her room and on public transportation (who doesn’t love to cry on a bus?) and she still likes to kiss boys (and anyone of any gender) and fuck them but never sleep with them (there is a difference). 

TLDR: she is a sweet, chaotic and emotional pisces bimbo that loves art and fucking around!!!  

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