#like I'll have long conversations with very sexist guys to try and open their minds just a tiny bit.

[reds-revenge]

My main issue with the conversations we have about media and how moral it is is that there's actual, tangible suffering and death in real life we can work on instead. I don't really care if I'm watching a horror movie that's not giving the women agency because it's not real, but I care very much about women not being assaulted in real life. I only have so much energy, though, so if I focus all of that on how to tell the One Perfect Horror Story, I'm not focusing it on getting women access to healthcare, which is the thing that will really help.

[whatyourfathersays]

Senorita → Brad Simpson (Part One)

A/N: hello! this is gonna be a very mini series based off of the music vide ‘Señorita’ by Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello. Feel free to watch the music video first to get a general gist of what is going to happen.

Words: 4.5k, I got carried away

-

Brad runs a hand through his dark curls, pushing them off of his forehead as he walks into the small café on the corner street of Long Valley. A white vest top clung to his torso with ease, broadcasting his muscles perfectly. His trousers were black, contrasting his vest top well. Only he could look that good in such a simple outfit. Everyone in the café that noticed his presence instantly looked away from the towering, intimidating man.

It was a hot day in Long Valley, everyone out with their hats, sunscreen lathered on their skin to protect them from the heat, shorts on everyone's legs and minimal shirts on their body. It was a bold statement for someone to be wearing jeans, but Brad Simpson loved being that bold statement, always. From his retro motorcycle he'd bought five years ago when he turned eighteen to his leather jackets, skinny jeans, broad shoulders. There was always at least one reason to look at Brad Simpson, even if it was just for the pleasure of looking at such an attractive person.

He sits down on one of the booth chairs in the retro café. The floor was tiled with white laminate tiles, the walls tiled up too with a strip of red as a pop of colour. The faux leather on the booths' benches and stool tops were the same burgundy red, matching the marble counter that drinks were currently being served on as people craved the cold, refreshing drinks.

The only reason Brad had found himself at the café at the day's peak was because he had some friends to meet up with who were passing through town. They were usually moving from city to city, placing bets, getting with girls, doing drugs, drinking alcohol. Brad would much rather do that in the comfort of his own town, where he knew everyone had links to get whatever he wanted far as cheap and as soon as possible. But with their unexpected arrival in town, Brad had agreed to meet them after their absence in his life.

He looks over his shoulder as a girl in a pink uniform-dress walks out of the door separating the café's bar from the kitchen. Orders were usually taken at the tables if people were planning on staying to eat, while quick drinks were ordered at the bar. So, expectantly, the girl ghosts her eyes over the café before landing on Brad, the only table that she knew hadn't been served yet.

Brad was well enough known in Long Valley—whether for his reputation with girls or his reputation with his bold statements, he was known, and not for the greatest reasons. Everyone seemed to know Brad, or at least know of him. He was a brooding boy, a constant stoic and unreadable expression glued onto his perfectly porcelain features: he was pretty difficult to miss.

However, the waitress walked over with such confidence—head held high, shoulders up, back arched—that Brad couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at her, a smirk hinting on his lips. She had dark hair, it fell to her hips, complimenting the curves Brad could see from her uniform-dress. A name tag with her name on was actually hidden from his view by her long hair, which made him want to push her hair behind her ear—not only a way of flirting, but a way of knowing what her name was. He didn't though, for she opened her mouth to begin talking before he had the chance.

"Welcome to Retro Bites," she says, her voice confidence unlike other waiters and waitresses who have cowered under his intimidating gaze. He was impressed she was keeping her cool, and he wondered if she was even aware of who he is. "Are you ready for me to take your order or would you like a few more moments to decide?"

"You on the menu?" He drawls, his eyes looking her over again. There was no evidence of blush, no evidence of swooning, and he knew it was a first.

"I'll give you a few moments to look at the menu," she says, rolling her eyes discreetly but Brad noticed. He chose not to say anything to her.

"Who said I wasn't ready to order?" He asks, his voice slow as he smirks up at her. He was in no rush for her to leave or for this conversation to be over.

"You thought I was on the menu," she says bluntly. "So I'm assuming you've not looked through it. If you had have looked through, you'd know I'm not on the menu."

He raises his eyebrows, surprised. He wasn't used to people talking to him, never mind back chatting. Yet she continued.

"And your sexist, unwanted comments are also not on the menu, last time I checked," she says. "So, as I said, I'll give you a few moments to look over the menu and then I'll come back to take your order."

She gives him a final smile, a smile that anyone who had dared to look over and see the minor dispute that had just occurred would've thought meant she was apologetic, or sweet. They'd definitely not think it was a sarcastic smile as she intended, and Brad received.

"What's your name?" He asks her, giving her no chance to turn around and leave. Instead, she brushed her hair off of her name tag for him to look at, since she didn't want to verbally engage with him. "Well, (Y/N), you've got quite a mouth on you, haven't you?"

She rolls her eyes in response.

"The cold shoulder already? We've only just met," he teases her, getting under skin successfully. He wanted to see how long she would last before she snaps and shouts at him; she seems like a feisty one. "Pass me the menu?"

The menu was nearer to him than her, but he was just trying to be difficult. He wanted to see if she'd be a good employee, telling the customer they're always right, doing as the customer wants.

She grabs the menu she had stuffed in her uniform pocket, throwing it down to the table for him to read. It wasn't laminated like the one on his table. In fact, it was crumpled up and creased from its lack of use yet constant position in her pocket, and he was far from impressed by its poor state.

"I said—,"

"Get it yourself," she says dryly. "You're right next to it."

He pushes the menu she had given him back to her before grabbing the menu. She takes the chance to leave the table and go to serve a couple of elderly that had walked in. They were regulars, she knew their order off by heart.

(Y/N) was fully aware of Brad Simpson's antiques—in fact, she knew someone first hand that had experienced his bad attitude. Her best friend, Taylor, had been walking home one night after a shift at his own workplace. It was only ten in the evening, maybe even earlier, and Taylor was wearing his own earphones as he walked down the street minding his own business. That was until two motorcycles pulled up to the side of the road and beat him to a pulp and stole all the money he'd earned.

It wasn't a surprise when Taylor came home and told her that it was Brad, he knew from the light on the lampposts that reflected onto the motorcycle. From that day onwards, (Y/N) hated every inch of Brad Simpson, even if she'd never had the displeasure of meeting him.

That was, until today.

By the time he's read through the menu and actually decided what he wants, his two friends from out of town are sat with him, laughing about some story from when they were high in a city up in Scotland. The three of them were loud in the quiet café, drowning out the sound of the eighties music that (Y/N)'s boss had put on in the background.

She walks out backwards from the door separating the kitchen and bar once more, this time holding a tray of two cups of coffee and some fries for the elderly couple. She serves them quickly and smiles before leaving and scanning over the café.

She inhales deeply, hoping her co-worker would take Brad's table instead, but of course her co-worker was too engrossed on the level of Candy Crush that they were adamant on beating, despite the game being years old by now, and totally out of trend.

Sighing, she grabs her notebook and pencil from her waistband, walking over to Brad's table with a false smile. His two friends weren't overly attractive, both sporting a black leather jacket, black trousers and a black shirt, ink exposed on their neck as a toothpick was in their mouths.

"Hello, welcome to Retro Bites," (Y/N) sounded like a broken record, repeating the same mantra for the billionth time that day. "Are you ready to order?"

"Ready to order some'a that ass!" The guy the nearest to her grins, taking his toothpick out and looking her up and down.

"I'll have a tray of fries and a coke," Brad says, glancing up at (Y/N) who looked evidently uncomfortable. In the time he had watched her walking around, he had time to admire her body but also understand why she was so sassy with him. "These will have a beer each."

She nods slowly, writing down their orders on the notepad. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Brad replies, glancing at his two friends who were surprised Brad wasn't making an offensive comment about the waitress. He sighs, trying not to ruin his reputation too much. "So you can go now."

Don't need to tell me twice, she thought before turning around and taking the order to the kitchen.

Brad felt bad for his comment that he made the first time she'd taken his order—she was just doing her job, not there to be perved on by customers. Maybe the fact that she had the balls to stand up to him made him feel bad, realising it's probably not the best thing to do to someone. He'd never say that to her though, she seems like the kind of person to gloat over him apologising to her.

Once their order was ready, she took a tray full of their drinks and went back into the café, making a beeline for their table before handing the drinks out for them and placing the fries in the middle. Brad slaps a ten pound note onto the table, paying for the food and drinks.

"Keep the change. It's your tip."

Surprised she got a tip from him, she takes it anyway with a curt nod, saying her usual scripted monologue about how they should enjoy their food and always feel free to call her for assistance.

She puts the ten pound note into the cash register by the bar, grabbing the change and putting it in the charity box rather than her own pocket. It was only fifty pence, so she didn't see why she should've kept it when someone else, a charity, could have it instead.

Not long after, Brad and his friends had finished drinking, eating, and talking really loudly and were ready to go. Brad got up first, sliding out of the booth and glancing around the café for (Y/N). She was serving another group of boys, however they were much more respectful than him and his friends as she smiles and laughed along with their innocent jokes. Brad's eyes lingered on her a little longer before he moves his head to face his friends who were complaining about the heat as they walked through the door.

That wasn't the last time Brad went to Retro Bites.

-

Brad walked into Retro Bites seven days later, all on his own. It had been a quiet day at the small diner, with only a few people littering around on the seats—a man sat at the bar, crying to the barman about his cheating wife, a lovestruck teenage couple smiling in the back corner, a group of young adults all laughing loudly. And then there was Brad, dressed in a white button up and his infamous black trousers.

He could see no sign of the waitress he'd arrived at the diner to see, though he thought he'd sit down and have a drink while he was here. The food and drink was nice enough, pretty standard, but the waitress he wanted to see was what really made him come back here.

He gets served by a woman with blonde hair and a kind smile as she takes his order quickly, her eyes never meeting Brad's out of fear. His name had been littered around town too many times for anyone to have the balls to look him in the eyes anymore.

Except, of course, (Y/N).

As the blonde waitress hands him his drink, he catches a glimpse of (Y/N)'s hair as she pulled up into a messy bun before taking the tray of food she needed to deliver to a the teenage couple. Brad made eye contact with her as she walked by, his fingers ghosting the ring of his latte.

"Anything else?" The waitress asks, pulling his attention from (Y/N).

"I'll have some fries," Brad says, digging out some money and handing it to her. "Keep the change."

She nods, moving away and keeping the change for herself as she gets his order of fries ready to be cooked.

"Brad Simpson wants some fries," the blonde waitress had said to the chef once she was in the kitchen and out of hearing range. "Get them done fast, yeah?"

"Yes, ma'am," the chef says, nodding and getting the fries done within only a few minutes. People knew better than to leave Brad Simpson waiting for too long.

She takes the box of fries into the diner, putting them down in front of him but his eyes were fixated on (Y/N) again as she set down some drinks for an elderly couple. As the blonde leans down to put the fries on the table, Brad's moved to the side so that he could still see (Y/N), catching her attention for a few seconds before the blonde speaks again.

"Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Brad nods, glancing at the blonde before trying to find (Y/N) again but she was walking back into the kitchen once more. He curses silently to himself, taking a sip of his latte before preying his eyes on the door in hope to grab (Y/N)'s attention again.

"Brad Simpson was looking at you," the blonde waitress had said. "Be careful, (Y/N, you know what he's like."

"I know what he's like better than anyone," she says. Most people that had confrontations with Brad Simpson never spoke about them, except her friend, Taylor. "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

Her concerned friend and co-worker nods with a smile before tending to a table that had just been sat at. (Y/N) sighs before going out of the kitchen, too, where she sorts out the money in the cash register. She could feel eyes burning into her but she shook off the feeling as she takes money from her uniform that she got from customers and puts it into the cash register, putting her tips in to the charity pot.

They money was all stuffed in her pocket from when the diner had met rush hour and she didn't have time to put the money in the cash register. Now, it had quietened down significantly as it reached closing time.

"Hey."

(Y/N) looks up, startled. It was sudden, it was confident, and it was the voice of Brad Simpson. He sits down at the bar next to the cash register, looking at her as he puts down his plastic tray of fries.

"Want one?" He offers, his eyes showing no signs of malice. She shakes her head, though, looking back down at the money in her hands as she continues to sort out the register. "You sure? I don't offer my food that often."

"I'm sure, I'm not allowed to eat on the job," she replies, her voice soft and gentle, unlike the first time Brad met her. He liked the sound of her voice.

"I won't tell if you don't," he winks, shoving the fries towards her. "Besides, you look famished. You should get some food in your system."

She glances from the fries, to Brad, to the clock, before back to Brad as she pushes the fries back to him. "I finish in thirty minutes, I can wait until then to get my own food. But thanks."

"If you say so," he says, taking a fry and eating it. "How long you worked here?"

Long enough to know the intentions of assholes like you, she thought before shrugging. "Not sure exactly. Couple years, maybe."

"And I've never seen you before last week," he drawls, glancing over her once over. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing?"

"Pretending I'm busy so you don't ask me to hang out with you," she says bluntly, putting the cash away and closing the draw of the cash register.

He chuckles. "You've always got a witty comeback, hm? It's quite entertaining to listen." She stares at him blankly, not biting back with a comment because she does want to give him that satisfaction. "A friend of a friend of mine is having a party tonight. You should come."

Brad Simpson didn't request people's presence, he demands it. Most people would agree, comply, no questions asked, except (Y/N).

"I already told you, I'm busy."

"I'll keep you company, (Y/N)."

She felt weird at the sound of her name rolling off of her tongue, but she shoves the feeling deep, deep down to the pit of her stomach. "You're just giving more of a reason not to go."

"Wear something nice," he says, grabbing the receipt the blonde waitress had given him when he was being served. He turns it over, scribbling some words onto it. "Here's the address, it starts at nine. I'll be disappointed if you don't come."

He downs the rest of his lukewarm latte, putting the glass on the marble bar before winking at her, leaning the diner swiftly.

She picks up the receipt with the address written onto it, glancing once over it. She shook her head, digging it into the depth of her pocket.

-

(Y/N) hated the party as soon as she walked in. She knew no one other than Brad, who she hadn't even spotted yet. People were drinking and dancing and talking and taking lines on the windowsill, and she felt uncomfortable. It wasn't her scene, she knew that before she even arrived, yet she still came without a real explanation as to why.

She wore a black dress, one that flowed from the waist yet still showed off her entire figure perfectly. Her hair was curled as it sat by her breasts, she wore a bracelet on her wrist and a ring on her middle finger, and she wore hooped earrings. She felt stunning, she looked stunning.

"Hello, beautiful," a voice says in her ear and she turns around, hand raised in defence and surprise, thankful its only Brad. Her shoulders relaxed. "Knew you'd end up coming. Can I get you a drink?"

She looked over his outfit for a moment, taking in his appearance. He wore black jeans that were cuffed up at the bottom, a brown plaited belt to keep them up while a white shirt was tucked into his jeans. He looked good, she couldn't deny that, but she knew it wasn't enough to make him get what he wanted from her. She wasn't as shallow to go for someone over their looks.

"No. I don't drink."

He nods slowly, his arm going over his shoulder because he knew people were looking at him. More specifically, the guys who wanted to catch (Y/N)'s attention and the girls who wanted to catch his attention. Brad was making a statement, claiming her as his for the night, proving to make sure that no one tried it on with her.

They walk through the lounge of the party, more people bustled around as they dance and laugh and gossip and drink. He had ditched his red solo cup somewhere else a while ago, which made it easier to spin her around and hold her hands at arms' length.

"Dance?" He says loudly over the music and she nods, letting him pull her close.

Her arms were slung loosely over his neck, his hands on her waist as they swayed to the beat of the slow song that he had told the DJ to put on 'once he was dancing with the prettiest girl in the room'.

"Surprised you came tonight," he starts a conversation, his head looking downwards as he makes eye contact with her.

"Me too," she says. "Don't know why I did come, actually. I don't like it here very much."

They both knew why she came, but neither of them wanted to say it to one another. She would just deny it and he would rub it in her face.

He spins her around as the beat drops in the song. She only turns one hundred and eighty degrees, causing Brad to pull her back flush again his chest. His lips dipped down to her ear, brushing over and sending a tingling sensation over her entire body.

"You look very pretty tonight," he says in her ear quietly. "The dress suits you, it's nice seeing you out of your uniform."

He spins her again, she turns a few times before he pulls her back to his chest, this time so they're facing each other.

"If the only reason you invited me here tonight was to offer me compliments so I'll end up sleeping with you, then I'll be leaving," she says, pushing herself away from his chest.

He was surprised, never being rejected before. Nonetheless, he begins to play it off cool. "Who said anything about sleeping together?"

"I'm not stupid, I think I know your intentions," she shakes her head. "You forget that you're known around town a lot, I've heard the rumours about you."

Rumours. Rumours, rumours, rumours. He hated that word, he hated every letter of it. There were too many untrue rumours about him, that the word started to settle wrong in his bones. There was nothing he hated more than falsities.

"They're rumours for a reason," he says but she shakes her head. "But believe what you want."

She takes a few steps back. "I'm going to go home, this isn't my scene." He doesn't react, he just watches her move away from him before she turns and walks out of the house, glad that the visit was short.

-

(Y/N) walks out of her work, just finishing her final shift of the week. She was ready to go home, relax, take some time to herself. After the failed party the night before, she was still exhausted from getting ready to go out.

She walks through the door, pulling her jacket tight over her body. It was cold as the darkness began to settle over the blue skies, turning it navy and the clouds gray.

"Y/N)," Brad's voice startled here, always seeming to be welcomed by surprise. She turns to her left to see him leaning against his motorbike with his arms folded. "I came to apologise."

"For what?"

"Misleading my intentions," he says, pushing himself off of the bike as he walks over to her. She sighs, not wanting to engage in a silly conversation with him. It wasn't that serious, she had hoped he'd get the hint and would leave her alone though.

"I'm not bothered, Brad. You didn't have to drive all this way to apologise."

"I know, but it felt like it an apology was due," he says, lifting up sunglasses she didn't even notice he was wearing. "For my comments the first time we met, for pushing you to go to the party, for misleading you with my intentions."

"Apology accepted," she says, beginning to move forward but Brad steps in front of her. "What are you doing? I have a bus to catch?"

"What's your address? I'll take you home," he offers and she opens her mouth to object but he beats her to it. "Consider it a part of my apology."

She sighs, nodding only because it would be quicker for her to get home. She's compliant, following him to his bike before he hands her his helmet, causing her to frown.

"You're not wearing one?"

"I've been riding this bike for years," he says with a chuckle. "Don't need one, really. Besides, you should wear it so you feel safer."

She nods slowly, putting it on her head before clipping it together. She gets on the bike, sat behind him as he grips the bike handles, ready to leave.

"Hold on tight, (Y/N)," he says as he turns it on. "Don't want you falling off."

She sighs, holding on to his torso as she jokes. "I'm starting to think that this was your way of getting me to hold you."

He chuckles before getting her address and setting off, the roar of the engine loud in her sensitive ears as they drive through the streets of Long Valley. It was dark, street lights blocking out the shadows as they lit up people's faces. Barely anyone was walking on the sidewalks anyway, most people resorting to driving at this time of night. The few shops that were open were dimly lit and mostly empty, giving the town a barren feeling.

When they arrive at her address, Brad turns off the engine of his motorcycle and helps her off as she's a bit dizzy. He only knew he way to her house because he's known every inch of Long Valley since he was a little kid.

"Thank you," she says honestly once she's off of the bike and has her balance back.

"My pleasure," he says. "Maybe I'll see you around, (Y/N)."