poppy! @poppyrodrigues - Tumblr Blog

johnnieward‌:

Johnnie furrowed his brows at the paper when he got it back. He wasn’t the best at reading but he was pretty sure it was asking for pictures and Johnnie wasn’t exactly a sexter. He was impatient and horny and enjoyed the instant validation of having someone in front of him and one belt buckle away from having their mouth on his dick. There wasn’t a need for photos and incriminating evidence for someone to find later scrolling through all the vanity shots on his phone. Call him old fashioned but he didn’t have the privacy for personal porn growing up in a little trailer.

‘Y PICS? IM RIGHT HERE. WHAT ARE U DOING AFTER?’, he wrote. ‘COME HANG.’

He drew a little party hat at the end of it before folding it back up and leaning over the desks to tuck it into the back of Poppy’s uniform.

Poppy jumped in her seat, smiling at the supervisor when his attention turned on her and pretending to scratch an itch. Immediately after she retrieved the note, Poppy twisted around to give Johnnie an exaggerated eye roll. Obviously, he was right there -- she didn’t want to see his turnip dick in person, she wanted photographic evidence so she could send it to her friends and bully it.

“Excuse me,” she raised her hand. “I’m going to go change my tampon.”

Without waiting for the supervisor’s response, she gathered her bag on her shoulder and stood up from her seat, chair screeching across the linoleum floor. Poppy didn’t actually plan on coming back here, but men were stupid, and so nobody said anything as she made like Roadrunner and got the fuck out of that room. A note appeared on Johnnie’s desk.

u suck, it said.

And at the bottom, there was one simple instruction: figure something out.

#johnnie.#int.

johnnieward‌:

Johnnie might’ve been more disappointed in the response if he’d given it his best effort but a cut-and-dry note in the middle of detention wasn’t even half-hearted at best. It was a mediocre attempt at finding a distraction. Maybe he was a little disappointed that not even Poppy Rodrigues could give him something interesting to engage in.

He tapped his pencil on the desk, deliberating a response as he looked at the note. A part of him loathed the cycle his days had become at school, recognizing his own exhaustion for the first time in seventeen years as he raked his brain for something to reply with that wasn’t resignation. Johnnie didn’t give up on anything. He wasn’t like his brother.

Johnnie tossed back the note with:

U LIKE TURNIPS?

He meant ‘turning up’, but Johnnie wasn’t the wordsmith in the family either.

Poppy squinted at the paper, trying to make sense of the question. Turnips? What, was he implying that his dick was short and bulbous? Weird flex, but it did pique her curiosity. She wondered if she could cajole him into showing it to her, so she could take pictures of it and laugh at it and thank her lucky stars God had blessed her with a vag and not a turnip dong.

What? Poppy was getting bored in here.

She flipped the note over and hastily scribbled out a reply, craning her neck to make sure the supervisor wasn’t looking before passing it back to him. It read:

send pics xox ###-###-####

#johnnie.#int.

johnnieward‌:

There were a lot of reasons Johnnie should’ve been in detention but getting wasted on campus wasn’t one of them. It just happened that he was odd and despondent all morning, wearing puffy eyes and a sullen face that wound him getting chastised for not learning his lesson from the party and getting detention that afternoon.

Johnnie couldn’t climb over his pride to admit what was going on so he took the L without much complaint, but it was a wake up call. He had to get back on track fast before anyone else noticed his fraying edges for the sake of his place in school and also his reputation.

Surveying the classroom like a lion looking for its prey, Johnnie found the selection scarce. Kids were staying out of trouble those days and the usual suspects were missing from the crew. There were a couple seniors he knew and some juniors he didn’t. Nobody looked particularly appetizing but Johnnie didn’t think about whether that was because he wasn’t all that hungry.

Noticing Poppy Rodrigues a few seats in front of him, he took that as a sign from God that he in his corner so Johnnie pulled a sheet from his notebook, jotted down a message and balled it up before tossing it over her shoulder.

@poppyrodrigues

Poppy’s reason for being stuck in detention was much simpler -- she told Mr. Knapp his bald head looked like a shaved ballsack with genital herpes. And she would have been sorry for it, if it weren’t the truth.

Everyone at this school, no matter differences in age, sex, race, or religion, had one thing in common: they all got on her last effing nerve. Not a day passed her by where someone wasn’t doing the absolute most to annoy her, and today, that someone happened to be her American History teacher. Whoever said that teenage girls were sensitive had clearly never met 60-year-old white men named Angus, because when Poppy told him exactly how she felt about him, he’d gone so purple she thought he was dying of a heart attack.

She was kind of disappointed he wasn’t.

The wadded up ball of paper hit her desk as she was checking her nails. Poppy opened it, glanced over her shoulder for the message’s sender, and pressed her lips to the paper. When Johnnie got it back, he’d find her cherry lipstick smeared around the box for no, along with a scribbled note in pencil that read: sry allergic 2 baby carrots lol.

This was detention, after all, not a penitentiary.

#ignore the bathtub skbdslkdj #johnnie.#int.

nessa007

#musings.

sebastian-sergeant‌:

He scrunched up his face, as much to say ‘what the fuck’ without actually vocalizing it, “I don’t know any of what you’re talking about right now- like I know who Meryl Streep is but- whatever,” he actually didn’t really care. He certainly didn’t care enough to encourage Poppy to give him more information about Julia Child and some movie she was in, so he stopped himself there before she thought he was open to a conversation on the matter.

Sebastian stood to full height over Poppy’s shoulder as she shrugged him off, a small smirk tugging at his lips over the fact that the gesture had caused her just the smallest inconvenience for a moment or two. He was only playing, he didn’t really mean to piss her off but he liked the silly banter between them, she always had the best comebacks, giving Drea Pearson a serious run for her money.

“Which ones the pot?” he asked, being purposely obtuse, “This one? With the handle?” he asked, drumming his fingertips along the side of it, obnoxiously reaching over Poppy and invading her personal space to do so, “I’d write it down but I don’t know how to spell pot, I’ll just have to remember it,” he continued.

He folded his arms across his chest for a moment and then decided to move, hopping up to sit on the countertop beside the stove, “Just fill it up with water and use your mind powers until it bubbles, right?”

Have you ever seen one of those old Tom and Jerry cartoons where one of them gets smacked in the face with a firm object and their features flatten like a pancake? That was what Poppy imagined doing to Sebastian with this pot. She imagined it hard, as though she could somehow manifest it into reality by the sheer will of an angry bitch.

“Yeah, because I’m a total fucking genie,” she replied, mimicking the obnoxious way his gums flapped when he talked. Poppy filled the pot two-thirds of the way with water and placed it over the burner, putting it on maximum heat. It was honestly kind of a miracle the school allowed them within the general vicinity of fire like this -- especially students like Sergeant.

She grabbed the box of macaroni and skimmed the ingredients. “You know what, this shit is actually kind of disgusting. Like, what even is ‘cheese sauce product’?” Poppy was more talking out loud to herself than to Sebastian; it didn’t particularly matter to her whether he liked boxed meals or not. “Fuck it, we’re doing this my way. Get me some hot sauce from the cupboard.”

#sebastian.#int.

scottydonovans‌:

Awesome. Sink access. Scotty shuffled over and got to washing his hands as planned. A pump of soap, rubbing his hands together, remembering to clean between the fingers, get the nails and–

Are you a virgin?

Scotty lifted his head, looking like a deer caught in headlights as he met Poppy’s gaze in the mirror.

“Uhhhh.” He looked back down at his soapy hands for a moment, unsure of what to do. This felt like a surreal situation. Because you only had to take one look at Scotty and you’d know he was a virgin. At least that’s what everyone at his old high school did. But hey, maybe now he was like, earning those cool points because he tried out for the field hockey team and was buddies with Charlie North. That was pretty exciting.

“That’s a good question,” he started, turning on the tap to rinse his hands clean of soap suds. He twisted the tap shut when he was done. “You ask super good questions.” He walked over to the tissue dispenser and pulled out a sheet, drying his hands with it. Then by some miracle, he crumpled it up and tossed it all basketball player-like into the closest bin and it went in. WHAT?!

Oh, he felt so cool. He turned around all smooth and looked at Poppy, now leaning against the sink she once leaned on.

“What do you think?”

Famous last words, Scott.

Truthfully? Poppy still thought he was clutching tightly to his v-card the same way she held onto her childhood blanket until the ripe age of thirteen. Balling up a paper towel and throwing it into the trash with all the finesse of Bugs Bunny had fuck all to do with whether or not he’d actually ever gotten his dick sucked -- or even touched by anyone besides himself.

She ran her tongue over her gums, looking him up and down. He wasn’t a twig and he wasn’t a trunk. Still had some baby fat in his face. If Poppy had to guess, she’d place him at four inches erect. Maybe five. That was about the length of her pinky finger, if she started from her wrist. Poppy had pretty long fingers.

A visual assessment of his clothed form, however, wasn’t enough. The silence didn’t carry for long before Poppy was grabbing onto the hem of her shirt and pulling it up over her head, her bra on full display. Well known secret: all women-loving-men salivated like Pavlovian dogs at the sight of breasts. Whether lumpy, uneven, small, or big, there was something about a pair of sandbags full of fatty tissue that really did it for the male variety. That being said, Poppy knew the reactions of men who seldom saw them from those who often did.

Gays had gaydar. She had v-dar.

“Don’t know,” she shrugged. “What do you think?”

#scotty.#int.

sebastian-sergeant‌:

“Did I stutter?” he asked her in response, raising his eyebrows. He didn’t care whether she was corresponding with the President or texting her dumbass friends about what a dickhead he was, she couldn’t possibly be too busy to entertain Sebastian when he was bored and hungry, a nightmarish combination for any other student within range. “Only if I don’t have to get up and bend over,” he mused, remaining in his leisurely position, occupying as much space as humanly possible as he made himself quite at home.

He ran his tongue across his bottom lips as they parted to say something clever in response to her claim but decided it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut for now, while the ball was in his court. Instead of biting, despite the opportunity he pulled his phone out to check his Snapchat notifications, only a few Snaps deep by the time Poppy started talking again, “Let me know when you decide,” he responded absently, half-listening to her once he realized she was just insulting him as she was wont to do.

He looked over his shoulder when she beckoned him and tucked his phone back into his pocket with a hefty sigh, making a performance out of getting up as he slid his feet off of the table and planted them on the ground with a heavy thud and sprang to full height. “Who the fuck is Julia Child?” he asked, tucking his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and leaning down to rest his chin on her shoulder, “Happy now?” he asked, having fulfilled her request pretty astutely, he thought.

“I don’t fucking know, she’s the fucking cooking lady!” Poppy said, exasperated. “Meryl Streep played her in that movie with the woman who had to fuck Hawkeye.” Fuck and fuck and fuck. One of these days, Poppy was going to land herself with a larger punishment than detention for swearing so much.

Shaking him off her shoulder like he was little more than a piece of lint, Poppy reached into one of the cupboards for a pot. “This is a pot,” she told Sebastian. “In case you didn’t know.” And it seemed very likely that he didn’t. A lot of students who went to Broadripple grew up with personal chefs or, at the very least, helicopter parents who never let them so much as breathe near a stove. Not everyone had to cook for their younger siblings like Poppy did. In some ways, it could be considered a blessing, but in most, it was a fucking curse.

She read the directions off the side of the box. “Step one, boil water. I don’t have to take you step-by-step through that, do I? It’s boiling water. You can’t possibly fuck it up.”

#sebastian.#int.

scottydonovans‌:

Whoa! Where’s the fire? Scotty let himself get dragged along and shoved into the bathroom, confused expression on his face all the while. Okay, okay… They could’ve have always just walked to the bathroom but maybe Poppy really needed to go or something. He opened his mouth, totally ready to tell her she could go first if she had to use the facilities that badly because he really only needed to wash his hands. The words out of Poppy’s mouth however, absolutely shocked him.

“Uhhhhhhh.” He looked down at his jeans. “Drop my pants? I don’t need to pee…” He explained before lifting his gaze and getting totally freaked by the way Poppy was looking at him. Like she wanted his lunch money or something.

What situation was he in right now? Scotty was super confused.

“Can I get to the sink? Or? I just– I need to wash my hands.”

In record-breaking time, Poppy’s expression fell from mildly annoyed to extremely confused. Was this like, a cold feet scenario? Virgin cold feet? Or was Scott just stalling? At the very least, she should probably appreciate that he gave enough fucks to make sure he was clean before taking his dick out of his tighty-whities. It was the absolute bare minimum, and yet -- men were basically puppies. Sometimes you had to reward them for not shitting inside so they’d develop a habit of doing their business outside.

She gave a little shrug and stepped away from the sink, motioning for him to go right ahead. In the meantime, she’d take her place against the adjacent wall, watching his reflection in the mirror. “So...” Poppy drawled. “Are you a virgin?”

#scotty.#int.

sebastian-sergeant‌:

“Occasionally,” he knew he was poking the bear when it came to Poppy but he was confident that her skin was as thick as her tongue was razor-sharp; she could take what she could give. She smirked to himself at the thought as he folded his arms behind his head, stretching out in a leisurely manner as his legs forced things out of their way atop the coffee table in front of him. He didn’t care whose shit he was messing with or who was going to protest it if they dared, he just wanted to be comfortable after an afternoon of crouching by graffitied walls until his patellas felt as if they could eject at any moment and his fingers pruned in the soapy water.

“Can you show me?” he asked, making absolutely no effort to get up or look as if he was about to, “From here? Like, I’ll sit here and you can show me,” he suggested, a bowl of hot mac n cheese sounded like a treat, in fact but getting up and actually making it sounded fucking annoying. “-and then I can teach you something later to even things out,” he offered, though the bargaining wasn’t quite as sincere as it seemed at that point, “-like how to be nice for like five minutes,” the smile returned with the conclusion of his punchline and as usual, it seemed that Sebastian Sergeant was perfectly pleased with himself.

“Seriously?” In case he didn’t realize, Poppy was very clearly busy. She had to go through all her potential matches before she’d swiped left on so many guys she ran out of options entirely. “What, do you want me to wipe your ass while I’m at it?”

Poppy didn’t wait for him to answer; knowing him, it wasn’t something she wanted to hear. With an exaggerated eye roll and groan, she rolled off the couch, tossing her phone onto the table. “I’m not your bitch,” she told Sebastian as she strolled past him. “You’re just lucky I’m fucking hungry, too.”

Cabinets were yanked open and slammed shut on Poppy’s quest for the box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese she knew was hiding in one of them. “I don’t know what’s worse,” said Poppy, “you being too lazy to make your own fucking food or being too hopeless to know how to make pasta from a box.” She found the Kraft and tossed it on the counter, turning around to face him.

“If you want me to play Julia Child for you, you’d better at least get over here.”

#sebastian.#int.

sebastian-sergeant‌:

Sebastian returned to the common room tired, sore and with a distinct stripe of diluted paint across his cheek, unintentionally making sure that everybody knew he’d spent the afternoon scrubbing walls. His back felt like his spine was bent at into the shape of a question mark and maybe trying to pop out of his skin as he fell into the couch cushions with a hefty sigh, regardless of whether it was interrupting the television or any nearby studies or really anything anybody else was doing at the time.

“This is so fucked,” he announced to anybody within earshot. “Hey, you know how to make anything to eat in here?” he asked a moment later. He was fucking starving and he couldn’t wait until dinner, nor could he stuff his face with packets of jerky and Smartfood before their next shared meal, it simply wouldn’t suffice.

Poppy had a strategy for browsing Tinder. She went through profiles like a deck of cards, swiping left by default unless something caught her eye. Occasionally she would pause, tilt her head and thumb through a couple photos, before beginning the process all over again. Chad, Brad, Jake, Blake, every guy in Nighmore looked the fucking same. At least New York had its fair share of aspiring rappers and quirky art guys.

“Do I look like Gordon Ramsey?” She asked, raising her voice to match Sebastian’s volume even though she was literally sitting across from him. God, he was so hot. Shame about the personality. “Have some fucking mac and cheese, Sergeant. Literally the only thing you have to do is add water.”

#sebastian.#int.

maximlicn‌:

“Skinny penis?” He scoffed, chuckling as he did so, creative, real creative. “I mean, don’t knock it until you try it, unless you wanted to compare, then by all means,” he retorted laying the offer on the figurative table. “The floor is yours brother.” Women, they always had to go for the penis length jokes, ouch. If his ego wasn’t bigger than the state of Texas it might’ve got to him, just might’ve.

He listened nevertheless, rather intuitively. Hearing the student body and their opinion was valuable after all right? He was the president of the Broadripple Boys Club, he had to give the boring catholic school children (much like himself, at a point in time) a memorable high school experience that didn’t have their head tucked in a bible for most of their time there.

“Well, it sounds like someone didn’t have a good time huh? Were the pretzels not salted enough? I made pledges haul their ass into that creep-fest Nighmore for those,” he stated, rather proudly too, they’d gotten sticks and the classic kind. “But, alas, we simply can’t please everyone,” broad and bare shoulders shrugging as a response, there was so little he could do. “Enlighten me though, what can make it better next time so you grace us with your… presence, I guess, and so you’re not stuck in your dorm that night in a shower nozzle masturbation session, that’s for after you get shitfaced with us of course.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. She had, on more than one occasion, seriously considered starting a black market for her nudes with how often she had boys at this school sharing their sexual fantasies about her, to her. Like an unsolicited dick pic, they were always a letdown: sad, disappointing, and not up to her meticulous standards.

“First of all,” she said, “running out of mixers halfway through the evening shows poor planning. You should never expect your guests to default to Coors Lights -- like what is this, a fucking tailgate? Unless you’re a psychopath or Russian, nobody is drinking vodka straight from the bottle.” Poppy paused, in case he needed a moment to take notes. “Second pointer, you need a DJ. I don’t care if it’s your weird cousin with a Soundcloud and a Macbook, the last thing I want to hear is your Spotify playlist. The last thing anyone wants to hear is your Spotify playlist. You have the money to pay someone who knows what the fuck people dance to, so use it.”

The Broadripple Boys Club had rare advantages most high school students didn’t. They didn’t live at home, they were hella loaded, and had an empty barn to do literally whatever the fuck they wanted with. Not going all out for every party was never an option. “You’ll never last a day past initiation in a real fraternity if that’s what you think a banger is. It’s time to make like Steve Carell and get smart before you crash and burn at seventeen.”

#max.#int.

scottydonovans‌:

The thrift shop really wasn’t so bad. Or maybe Scotty was just used to desolate places and old things that looked and smelled weird. It’s just something that happened when you hung around as many old people as he did growing up.

“J– jizz?” Scotty looked at the shirt between his hands right then, quickly scanning it for any hardened areas or stains before turning and looking at Poppy once more. “They’re allowed to give us clothes with that kind of stuff?”

It was that moment that he really regretted scratching away at some discolored part of a shirt earlier. He thought it was like, dried glue or like a bleach gone wrong type situation.

“I think I need to go bathroom and wash my hands…” He announced, when he reeeally shouldn’t have.

“Do you wanna take a break with me or something?”

Scotothan Donovan was the last person in this school Poppy expected to be a closet freak...except like, the whole point of being a closet freak was to not look like it on the surface, so nix that. When he made an excuse to use the restroom, she was fully prepared to write him off as a germaphobe virgin who wasn’t worth her time. It was the following invitation, however, that gave her pause.

She arched a brow at him. “Right now?” Poppy whispered. “For real?”

Let’s stop here for a second. Poppy may have been a whore, but she was a whore with standards. She didn’t just go around sleeping with anything on two legs. There was a list of requirements a guy had to have to get in bed with her, which included things like basic hygiene and grooming standards. They also couldn’t give off serial killer vibes or have tobacco breath.

So maybe Scott wasn’t the sexiest behemoth of man. But he wasn’t, like, tragically ugly, either. And he didn’t seem like the type to have a secret collection of furry porn.

After glancing at the shift supervisor to make sure she wasn’t paying attention, Poppy grabbed him by the wrist and all but hauled him into the single-stall bathroom around the corner. She then leaned back against the sink and gave him an expectant look.

“Well? Are you gonna drop your pants or should I undress you like your mom?”

#scotty.#int.

griffingriffout‌:

Griffin raised his eyebrows at this little social experiment of Poppy’s. A floozy? He didn’t think he came off as the type to use that word against someone. He wasn’t in the Chastity Club, and how else would Poppy make that conclusion? He liked to think his writing didn’t come off frigid or uptight… Did it? Sure, maybe he didn’t have sex so it was missing a certain sensuality but that didn’t mean that –

Ugh. This was too much introspection for a conversation with Poppy Rodrigues.

“No argument there. I told her I wasn’t worth the lockjaw,” he said sarcastically before shoving a chip into his mouth. He closed his book, realizing Poppy wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. “I’m not a teapot, though. The most interesting gossip you’re going to get from me is more like room temperature milk.

“I was broadening my horizons, is all. Like there might be something to learn in the creative moxie it took to come up with a combination of cheap domestic beer and a shitty Spotify playlist.”

There was that smile again: too big and too sweet for someone with a mouth like Poppy’s. “Lucky for you, I don’t have a dairy allergy.”

If there was one thing they could agree on, it was the poor quality of the BBC’s general...everything. Taste in beer, taste in music -- she’d say taste in girls, but since she’d hooked up with a couple of them, she really had no room to talk. This was the Griffin she enjoyed being around: the bitchy Griffin who hated the same things she did.

“So you were going to collect dirt for your writing,” she said. “If you write something for the magazine, can you put a quote from me in it? Something iconic like ‘let them eat cake’ or ‘I did not have sexual relations with the Broadripple Boy’s Club.’“

#griffin.#int.

maximlicn‌:

Retreating from the party, the very successful party earlier on in the night before the lovely staff crashed it, all in a successful attempt to save his own ass, if he could’ve been there to watch their faces at that exact moment, it would’ve literally quite possibly have been the funniest shit he’d ever witnessed, and he’d seen, while also doing plenty.

“So, how was the party fuckwad?” He quizzed, sarcastically at that, the childish giggles barely being contained as they both knew of the outcome. Which was nothing desirable. The decision to even have that party at the pool was reckless, not thought out well enough, and just downright stupid, which is why he attended gleefully, but removed himself from the equation when he knew how’d it end. However, it was one for the books and would be spoken about for some time.

“Did you get stuck picking up trash, à la inmate below some highway, or giving the janitors a break cleaning the dining hall? I am all ears.” He explained throwing the last of his folded clothes into a small laundry basket. “As long as you didn’t have to read that ole’ book to a bunch of little bastards in training you’ve got nothin’ to complain about as far as I’m concerned.”

“It was shit, skinny penis,” said Poppy, unfurling a lacy black thong and chucking it in the wash with the rest of her delicates. Seriously, if people didn’t stop talking about the pool party any time soon, she’d have to shank someone. You knew you went to fucking Catholic school when the only thing on anyone’s mind was a flop party where not even one person got sent to the hospital by the end of the night. At her old school in upstate New York, someone got so drunk at a party they fucking died in the ambulance on the way to the ER and were brought back to life in the same night.

And Broadripple claimed to be the Jesus Academy.

Poppy held up a large men’s t-shirt that had the letters YALE printed across the front. Definitely wasn’t hers. She threw it in, anyway. “So, yeah. Thanks to that snoozer, I have to sort donations at the local effing Goodwill or whatever. You know how many people don’t wash their clothes before donating them? Hundreds. Literally hundreds.” Revolting. “But I guess anything is better than having to eat Doheny’s ass twenty-four hours a day, so I’ll take it.”

#max.#int.

griffingriffout‌:

Griffin had been dense to show up to the pool party. He didn’t disagree with Poppy on that sentiment and so he simply splayed his hands out before him in acquiescence. Yes, I am pathetic, the motion said. Maybe she’d even seen him get a Coors Light shower.

“Birth control isn’t 100% effective,” Griffin informed Poppy, not because the topic interested him but moreso simply to unsettle her more than she’d unsettled him by referring to his v-card. “It’s almost like they keep that rate of point zero something percent of failures as a means to give Karma some leeway.”

He gave Poppy a look, like teen motherhood might be her punishment not for having an active sex life but simply for deciding to bother him about his. “Ella asked me,” he finally answered, digging his hand into his bag of chips. “She’s persuasive.” He left it at that, allowing Poppy to ponder whatever that meant.

“Why is it so interesting to you?” he asked her honestly. “I didn’t think you’d deign to realize I was there.”

“Like you would know.” She was being facetious, Griffin. Everyone knows you don’t have sex.

“As for why I care...” The librarian shot her a look for speaking at a normal volume and she shot one right back, shaking her head a bit as if to say, what, you dumb old bitch, can’t you see I’m trying to have a conversation? Beady eyes eventually found something else to gawk at, and Poppy continued. “I don’t. Not really, anyway. I kind of just wanted to make fun of you for being a virgin and see whether you’d call me a floozy or something pompous like that.”

She paused to pick a piece of lint off her jacket. “I’m also a nosy bitch who just cleared three hours off her schedule, so. Who’s Ella? Did she promise you a blowjob in the locker room if you crawled out of your cave for long enough to come to the pool? I’ve been there. It’s not worth it.”

#i'm rly sorry #griffin.#int.

casey-ro‌:

“I don’t need to see it to know that he’s not a twink,” God forbid Casey’s crush was gay. Like, sure, being artsy and non-predatory were things that she liked about gay guys and Ezra but that didn’t mean anything. Right? She looked over at Ezra again, her eyes lingering on him for a moment too long before she returned her attention to Poppy, “So is my brother- and he’s not a twink either,” a horrible cross for the LGBTQ+ community to have to bear if Conny Roberts was indeed a part of it, however. Either way, the thought of Conny being gay didn’t mean an iota of what the thought of Ezra being gay meant to Casey.

“What?- no- holy shit,” she was shocked by the suggestion, “Of course I didn’,” she spoke a little too bluntly, she realized a moment too late, “-not that- like, I’m not saying it’s bad if I did- no shade to girls that are like that or whatever,” girls like the one she was talking to for example. “-like do what you want but no I- yeah- no, I didn’t,” she insisted, digesting her own words for a moment instead of spitting them out like word vomit. She pressed her lips together, “You don’t really think he’s going to tell people that, do you? Why would he want people to think that?” it wasn’t as if she was worth much on the Broadripple social exchange, she could barely even get any internet clout and her Instagram captions were fucking hilarious if you asked her.

“Is your name Shia LaBeouf? Because you’re digging yourself into a serious hole right now.” The lady doth protest too much, thought Poppy. Whether she did or did sleep with some rando senior didn’t really matter to her, but she was nosy as fuck and reveled in the discomfort of others. As evidenced by the way she smirked at Casey’s babbling, crossing her arms and leaning her hip into the plastic fold-out table they were forced to sort donations on. If the supervisor asked why she wasn’t working, she’d use the lawyerly knowledge she picked up from Legally Blonde to bullshit her way through demanding a break.

“Look, men operate in a primordial state,” Poppy said. “The ones who rise to the top are those with the best pull game, because they’re the ones most likely to continue their lineage. Therefore, a man’s life is basically one gigantic dick-measuring contest. It doesn’t matter if you’re ugly or weird or God forbid, Mormon, they will jump at any chance to let their rivals know they tapped that.”

#casey.#int.

02.08.20

#bahq:talk #social.#about.

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