clrkingrm-undrgrnd

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

bluejamiemoon‌:

@clrkingrm​

Is this his best idea, or his worst? Jamie isn’t entirely sure but oddly enough, he’s feeling… optimistic? Is that crazy of him to think? Possibly, considering he’s banking on Clark to listen to him. But, he’s choosing to believe that his friend’s penchant for annoying people will finally be directed towards someone else and not him.

He parks his car on the street outside of his father’s house, taking a quick look around before figuring out he’s the first to arrive. Fine by him, it gives him a minute to mentally prepare himself for yet another dinner with his dad…. plus Clark Ingram. A knot forms in his stomach at the thought.

Fuck. Maybe this is a bad idea.

Jamie shakes his head, trying to think that everything will go terribly, but the kind of terrible that he’s hoping for. Hopefully. He pulls his phone out and fires off a couple of messages to Clark.

( sms — trashboy ) please tell me you didn’t shower

( sms — trashboy ) i’m outside of my dad’s, i’ll wait for you out here

He shoves his phone in his bag and gets out of his car, slamming his door shut with his hip. Shit, it’s cold but, luckily, he has the perfect remedy for that. Kind of. Jamie fumbles through the contents of his bag before pulling out his most recent purchase in a brown, paper sack - four mini bottles of tequila bought at Dingle’s finest liquor store. Uncapping one, he gulps down the contents in one go, scrunching up his face at the taste. Terrible, but he’s gonna need to be at least a little buzzed to deal with whatever the night will throw at him. The paper bag crinkles loudly as he sets it on the top of his car, him pulling out a cigarette and a lighter from his coat pocket.

Jamie’s halfway through his cigarette when he sees lights coming down the street, perking up at the hopes of it being Clark. He squints at the car and waves awkwardly with his free hand - Yes, he probably looks stupid, but he’s hoping he at least looks stupid to a friend instead of one of his old neighbors.

truthfully, jamie’s proposal was almost reasonable enough for him to consider taking it seriously. a shitty dad, a forced & uncomfortable dinner, and an innate desire to be annoying as hell. really, to his core, he understands it. he vibes with it. not to mention he actually considers jamie a good friend, and it would be the friendly thing to do to go along with this dastardly plan. 

but the keyword here is almost. 

( sms — gutterman ) oh

( sms — gutterman ) was i not supposed to? (:

he rolls up a few minutes later in his mom’s shiny bmw — there was intense groveling involved in getting to borrow it, but the moped and the wet brain ice cream truck were not going to cut it here — and his shit-eating smile is already beaming like the sun as he throws up a funky lil wave and slowly pulls into park behind jamie. (very slowly, mind you. his mother would have his head on a stick otherwise.) 

his first steps out of the vehicle are worked like he’s on the runway. typically greasy mop of hair is freshly washed and combed, the fancy jacket for his mother’s company occasions is freshly ironed, and his singular pair of good shoes are freshly shined. he’d even managed to eliminate the weed stench that surrounds him like a perpetual cloud, by something of a miracle.

(the miracle that is a few days full of nothing but edibles, and a delicate spritz of some sample cologne from target.) 

he abruptly stops in his tracks as he struts his way up the sidewalk, mocking an awestruck gasp. “jamie... you look.....” he places a hand over his heart, softly shaking his head. “wow. you look beautiful.” 

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

text // @jamie

jamie: you do realize that flakes from your body is worse than being covered in crumbs right?

jamie: please tell me you know that

jamie: NO but you could be having an incredibly productive day of smoking weed with connor

jamie: but you're coming with me somewhere since you're free

clark: i dont understand what you mean

clark: do you not want my delicious flakes jamie? 🤔

clark: ....somewhere?

clark: i love when ur vague as fuck. super sexy. really gets me rock hard

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

text // @jamie

jamie: i know you ate that !!

jamie: you were covered in buttery crumbs ! you ain't SLICK

jamie: but anyway

jamie: are you free on sunday

clark: those werent buttery crumbs. they were the natural delicious flakes that fall from my body

clark: uh... yeah?

clark: what you think im goin to CHURCH or something

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

text // @jamie

jamie: hey shithead

jamie: i have something to ask you

clark: if this is about your croissant from has beans i didnt eat it i swear

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

conye-west‌:

fully wack was one way to describe it. there were a lot of fully wack things in connor’s life that he weirdly felt guilty for– why’d he dig himself into this hole of laziness? why was being funny more important than being real? why was he asking himself why he felt so much better with clark’s arm around him when he already knew? he’d lived through grief, heartbreak, a couple of near-death experiences– none were as terrifying as getting his shit together, or even worse: admitting feelings that could potentially ruin everything. but the fact that clark was sitting there talking about living in a cardboard box on the streets with him as if it were some sort of fairytale adventure was making his lil’ heart sing. 

“we’re not gonna be rats, dude,” he finally insisted. “this is gonna sound dumb but, like, i really think the universe is gonna look out for us if we actually put the effort in. y’know?”

“aren’t we already rats?” he replied with a wide and toothy grin, idle fingers burying themselves into connor’s bushy hair. “... but for real, though, i get you.” there was a firm nod. “we gotta get some kinda reward for actually fuckin’ trying, yeah? god is totally sick of my shit. i’m sure he’d be mad happy if i started, like... puttin’ in the work.”

this belief in pleasing some disgruntled god to reap rewards was a boldfaced lie, but he’d found an ease with weaving together stupid goofs to hide real fears, to assure others of an entirely faked confidence. effort doesn’t always guarantee success, and he had learned that through trial and error. his fears of failure had held him back at many junctures in his adult life; the idea of genuinely investing emotion into anything, only to witness it crushed to ruin. 

that’s why he would never dare to do something if not for the knowledge that there would be someone steadfast by his side, ready to catch him from the inevitable fall with no judgement. (not just someone — connor, specifically — though that was much harder to admit to himself, for whatever reason.)

“.... anyway, it’ll all work out, dude.” he sighed, and there was a beat of silence before — “...the fuck are you watching, anyway?”

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

conye-west‌:

it was times like these when connor was kind of suckerpunched with the realization that clark was his ride-or-die. mere minutes ago he was neck-deep in his feelings that he’d so fervently decided he wasn’t going to expose to any of his friends for their sake, but sometimes one just needs to get mildly lit and cry about getting one year closer to death with very little progress. however, connor was actually smiling with relief at the other’s words, silently cursing his own anxiety for riling him up so bad. clark was right– speak it into existence, and all that shit.

“i know. it’s just hard,” he let out another sigh. “it sounds so impossible right now and i can’t stop psyching myself out about it. i have no idea where to even start.” but, y’know… we got each other echoed in his mind again; he was immensely comforted by those words specifically. clark was one of the only people that made connor feel like not as much of an idiot, and maybe it was because they were both idiots, but if there was one thing he knew for sure it was that they’d probably follow each other into hell if they needed to, so nyc couldn’t be that scary. he was just unsure if he’d ever be confident enough to say fuck it and go. “you’re right, though, dude. i’m just freaked out. i’onno.”

it felt odd to be the one attempting to give a pep-talk about life and dreams and goals, as someone who had literally been in juvie at one point, and who’s primary goals were guided entirely by temporary whims. 

but he was willing to wax poetic about believing, if it made connor feel better. if it brought forth that relieved smile. 

“well, yeah. it’s fuckin’ freaky, bro. life is fully wack.” a good way to sum up the weight of this deep dread, the thoughts that kept him up until 4 AM, the weird nostalgic feelings that rammed into him full force around this time of year: fully wack. at least, a good way to make it sound a lot less serious than it is. “but we gotta start somewhere.” he shrugged a shoulder. “and if everything goes to absolute shit, i’ll happily share a fuckin’ box with you in some crusty new york alley. we can live off of garbage. become one with the rats.” 

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

conye-west‌:

slowly grasping for the remote to mute the tv, connor let out a semi-dramatic sigh, unsure of where to start. he’d been spiraling down a pit of anxiety regarding the future– mostly how he felt like he was wasting his time in dingle and should’ve just stopped being lazy by now and moved somewhere actually cool and gotten a real job, and how wet brain probably needed to shape up and get that cash for any of that to even be a possibility. but there was no way he’d be able to state things that eloquently.

“i feel like a total tool,” he grumbled, zoning out on the image of a jellyfish before leaning his head on clark’s shoulder; he didn’t really want to talk about it, but maybe he needed to. “like, what am i even doing right now? i’m so tired of doing the same shit over and over.” he was almost nervous to say more, holding his breath as he tried to think clearly. “i’m scared of 2019, dude.”

man, if that wasn’t the fattest feel. the past few years had felt like some wacky groundhog day time loop - wake up, work, smoke, practice, sleep, rise and repeat. he’d been having his own existential thoughts of despair, but being who he was, those were bottled up neatly and traded out for blatant avoidance. besides, the monotony of life was made bearable by the fact that he kept the best possible company. 

which is why connor’s pains felt like his own, he supposed. 

he wrapped an arm around connor in a real gesture of caring, heaving out a sigh. “yeah, i get you, bro. shit is fuckin’ terrifying.” comforting others had really never been clark’s forte, but damn if he wouldn’t try his best to offer his sad sack of a best buddy some eggs in these trying times. “but, y’know... we got each other, and 2019 is gonna be our year, right? speak it into existence, and all that shit.” 

he flashed a soft grin, rubbing connor’s shoulder. “...y’know, i’ve been stashin’ away the earnings of my hard fuckin’ labor for, like, a year now. we’ll be able to haul ass outta dingle in no time.” clark clearly had no concept of how expensive new york is, but it’s the thought that counts. 

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

rinwannabe‌:

@clrkingrm No. No. Not that one. Not those. No. Fuck. No. No.

No!

Ringed fingers slam the top drawer of her dresser shut, the burst of irritation swatting down wobbling bottles of lotion and perfume. This had to be the fifteenth time she checked that drawer, why did she keep checking that fucking drawer? If they weren’t there the first time, the second, the fourth, the tenth, why the fuck would they have magically appeared now? What, they’d just decide to forfeit their little game of hide-n-seek, take pity on her and sashay their way back into the drawer?

God, and now her body oil was leaking into the carpet. 

La Merde’s dress code was simple: dark makeup, black skirts, not a lot of skin. Broody joint calls for a broody uniform, y’know? And Rin could respect that, of course. Didn’t mean she had to like it. Didn’t mean she had to abide by it all the time. Except for the fact that this would’ve been her third outfit strike within a month and the one pair of tights she had void of rips, bows or netting had conveniently decided today to be the day to become a real set of legs and walk the fuck out of her apartment.

Her head knocks back into the wall behind her as darkly shadowed eyes flick up towards the wall clock, the scowl on her face deepening as she realises, once again, how utterly fucked she was going to be if she wasn’t out the door in ten minutes. She couldn’t be late again– They’d stick her in the back with Jeremy the Jabber. But she couldn’t have another outfit strike, either– They’d stick her upstairs with Carol the Crier.

God only knew what would happen if she walked in late and out of uniform.

Lord have mercy.

Sliding down the wall to flop to the ground, Rin lets her head rest in her hands as she struggles to recall what the fuck she did with her tights, her only tights, her most boring tight, why didn’t she listen to Max when he told her to get more than one fuckin’ pair–

Alright, Rin. Focus. Focus. When was the last time she wore those tights, anyway? Her last shift was Friday. Friday, Friday, what the fuck did she do on Friday? She almost never does shit after a shift, anyway, why was Friday so different? God, she needed to stop drinking behind the counter, man. Shit shouldn’t have to be as fuzzy as it was. Okay, she’s there. She’s behind her counter, she’s drinking. She’s drinking and yelling at one of her co-workers, shocker. She’s being told to go wash her face off in the bathroom by her manager, who she subsequently told to go fuck himself. Okay, she’s in the bathroom, she’s on her phone, she’s calling someone, she’s telling them she was going to come ove—

Her head snaps up as the realisation creeps over her like a vulture over a corpse, creeping up along her back, up over her head, watching her with relish as her world falls the fuck apart. Oh, God, Max was going to kill her.

She wants to bite off each one of her fingers as she reluctantly punches in a number she knows by heart, her expression twitching into something between irritation and hesitation as that stupid face fills her screen. God, please let it be his voicemail, please let it be his voicemail, please let it be his voicemail, please let it–

“Hey, it’s me. I left my tights at yours. Leave’em out for me, I’m late for work.”

it is 7 PM, the sun has set, and he’s fast asleep. 

the rest of his ragtag crew are off being productive members of society (read: stealing the trio’s limited supply of candy while pretending to be doing real work), and the pink house had been established as his solo castle for the evening. wandering around fully naked, watching re-runs of classic spongebob, eating cold chow mein with crappy splintered wooden chopsticks (which rin had taught him how to use, though he’s still utterly abysmal at it). 

truly, living the life of crown royalty. 

and with a belly full of leftover chinese and body full of too much weed, he’d knocked out like a brick the second his body flopped down onto crusty sheets. days off were invented with the sole purpose of lazing around like an idle fool, right? 

he’s only brought forth from this coma by the ringtone blaring from his phone — some random tune from a one-off bizarro game he had played on stream; he’d ripped the mp3 after she went on and on about how neat she found it — and he blinks awake, startled, dried drool streaked across a stubbled cheek. through bleary eyes he scopes the contact photo — her, smile shining like the sun, his jacket around her shoulders, snugly nestled into the coveted corner booth at rosie’s. 

he’s never had the heart to change it. 

(though, really, he’s just never wanted to. that smile doesn’t visit him anymore.) 

the decision to answer is made on the final ring. perks (?) of a slightly stoned and sleep clouded brain: irrationality and awful decision making. 

“oh... uh... yeah, sure, rin,” his voice is groggy, unsure, as he slowly sits up in bed, “what, uh... what do they... look like?” he runs a hand through absolutely unruly bedhead before heaving bare legs out of the comfort of warm blankets, pulling himself up onto freezing cold hardwood. “...tor and riv leave their shit layin’ around everywhere, and i don’t think they’ll like it much if i pawn off their tights.” 

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: yeah sure

isa: i've always wanted an adam

isa: does this mean you're going to try and kill me?

isa: isn't that what adam does to the doctor?

clark: damn

clark: does he really?

clark: adam is a cold blooded jabroni. i like that in a man

clark: guess that means im cold blooded now too... you better watch your motherfuckin back

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: my excuse is i didn't want to go

isa: i'm impressed

isa: 👏

isa: you get one clap

isa: adam does sound sexy but it also sounds like he's got a thing for the doctor

isa: 'thy adam' sounds pretty incriminating

clark: ONE CLAP FROM ISA?

clark: i can retire from bein a scholar now that is all i needed thank you

clark: which leads me to the big question...

clark: miss isa sosa.....

clark: can i be thy adam?

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

conye-west‌:

@clrkingrm

connor couldn’t bother to lift his head up when he heard the creaking of the front door, encapsulated in a blanket on the couch. his eyes were dry and rimmed red from pot and birthday depression tears, hyperfocused on the deep sea documentary currently blaring from the tv. learning about electric eels was enough of a distraction from the mess sprawled out on the table: an open bottle of wine that was a quarter of the way gone, a sad amount of candy, and a halfway eaten big mac that was perched against a bong. as the footsteps approached the living room, he tentatively moved the blanket away from his face, peeking out from underneath. “…don’t look at me. i’m dying.”

clark burst through the front door of the pink house, toting a takeout box full of what he liked to call leftover casserole — a hodge-podge of whatever the cooks had left at their stations come closing — and exclaiming ‘honey, i’m home!’ in the most sing-songy 1950′s working husband voice he could muster through post-dishwashing exhaustion. 

this temporary elation was halted upon seeing connor, eyes red-rimmed and fast food discarded, and was swiftly replaced with an infrequently felt emotion, typically saved only for his best friend — worry. 

“...you’re tellin’ me, bro,” he gingerly placed the takeout box on the table, before plopping gently into the free spot on the couch. “i never see you leave a big mac unfinished.” he offers up a gentle nudge on connor’s leg with a loose fist, something intended to mimic a gesture of caring. “...what’s got you down, man?”

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

conye-west‌:

“silverware beats are the best beats,” he said in all sincerity, giving the other a smile. perhaps connor might throw out some of his riskier lyrics– not really risky, but real– in hopes that clark might decide to join in. (or maybe even tori, even though she was non-arguably the best lyricist out of the three of them and nearly always had something to throw in.) however, a song about cold leftover fries was currently brewing in that baked brain of his. “oh, dude– i just got The Sickest idea,” he said, pressing his hands together in excitement. “gimme pizza remake. can we do it? can we do it? can we do it?”

this true sincerity was not lost on clark, and he offered an equally sincere grin in return. silverware beats were decidedly not the best beats, but he appreciated the pure support radiating from connor. 

this true excitement was also not lost on clark, and he mirrored it completely, eyes lighting up with the suggestion. “bro, yes,” he nodded fervently, leaning forward in the booth. “we can recreate the vid and everything, ‘cause i’ll be real, i always wanted to try that fuckin’ pizza. has the same allure as the candy spaghetti from elf, you feel? forbidden fruit, or whatever.”

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

rivertowson‌:

If beach-wind was different than the wind everywhere else, that was only because the ocean was full of ghosts. Not, like, real ghosts – River didn’t believe in those, not really – but echoes, like fingerprints of everyone who’d ever swam in the water. Essences. It was hard to feel disconnected from the world when you were standing right up against the biggest communal bathtub on the planet, smelling the same salt as everyone else. If she put her arms out like this, and closed her eyes, River was pretty sure she could feel the rush of it all. 

It was also freezing, though. One of these days, she was gonna get a real winter jacket, ‘cause the zip-up sweatshirt wasn’t much protection against goosebumps. River dropped her hands down to her pockets, where a lighter and a joint were waiting for her. Sweet surprise. She pulled them out to spark up, but there was someone there, all of a sudden, hard to see in the dark. It was – oh, not a cop. Someone good. “Hey!” River made her voice loud, to carry on the wind. “Hey, c’mere! Check this out!” 

clark was certainly not the type to think that intensely about the essence of the ocean — rather, he was the sort who tended to constantly remind the poor souls stuck with him that millions of fish are constantly peeing in the water. which is poetic, in it’s own right. humans will spend thousands to travel to fancy white sand beaches to dip their toes in the warm saltwater, but in the end, they are all just bathing in gallons of fish piss. 

if anything, it made him like the ocean even more, though it would be stupid not to like it when he lives right beside it. 

this particular night, he’d figured it best to make use of this fortunate proximity. he galloped up to river at full speed, arms outstretched to loop around her back, wind billowing through his greasy hair. “stick your arms out, yo! we can be the hotter versions of leo and kate.” 

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: a deformed sheep then

isa: gotta be honest i'm a bit disappointed

isa: here i was hoping he would shoot lasers from his dick

isa: i skipped english for most of tenth grade

isa: come on clark

isa: you're my only hoe

isa: *hope

clark: i was in JUVIE for half of tenth grade so id love to hear your excuse

clark: Mary Shelley's original novel never ascribes an actual name to the monster; although when speaking to his creator, Victor Frankenstein, the monster does say "I ought to be thy Adam" (in reference to the first man created in the Bible).

clark: see? i'm a motherfucking scholar baby

clark: adam..... he sounds sexy

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: true

isa: i think it's a sheep

isa: a smiling sheep with hands instead of hoves

isa: otherwise known as dickcats new nemesis

isa: i did not know that but okay

isa: if frankenstein is the doctor then what is the monster called

clark: a SHEEP?

clark: then its gotta be that fucker they cloned cause that fool does NOT look right

clark: dickcat could take it down with nothing but a stare trust in his motherfucking power

clark: uhhhhh..... frankensteins..... monster?

clark: man i dont know that was 10th grade

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: oh i don't care about the emoticon

isa: gender is just a sham

isa: ଘ꒰ ๑ ˃̶ ᴗ ᵒ̴̶̷๑꒱و ̑̑

clark: man look who youre talking to

clark: also who the fuck is that abomination

clark: out here making frankensteins monster

clark: yeah that's right. i know frankenstein is the dr not the monster. dont fuck with me

[clrkingrm-undrgrnd]

isa: then my job here is done

isa: i can die happy

isa: bury me with the crying face. it's a life achievement

isa: how do you know it's a him

clark: wow. you are cold.

clark: acting like you care about the emoticon u just insulted...