#this is like the dollar store version of what i had in my head but in my defense i was out all day. woopsiedoodle

[dailyloopdeloop]

DAY 7: i miss my wife bonbon

[lovebugism]

Im a very indecisive person but I guess I'll go with “Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” with Eddie, if you have any inspiration for this prompt 💕

ty for requesting!! — you get mean when you like someone, so eddie thinks you hate him (grump!reader, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, shameless succession reference, 1.9k)

“Please, tell me you’re joking,” you mumble through the melting vanilla shake on your tongue.

Robin grins at you across the table and shakes her head. “Nope,” she says, popping the p. “You are officially looking at Vicki Carmichael’s latest odyssey.”

You and Eddie look over your shoulder at Steve. He stands at the front counter and fumbles with the straw dispenser — hitting the lever repeatedly, with an increasingly rougher touch when nothing comes out. He flounders when they all spill out at once. 

He’s lucky he’s so pretty.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Eddie announces from beside you after stealing a sip of your milkshake. He squints and fights off a brain freeze. “Why didn’t he just tell us? He’s screwing the hottest girl in town— it feels like something he’d brag about.”

“I’m sitting right here,” you scoff, mostly kidding.

“‘Cause he knew you guys would totally ream him for it,” Robin answers and pinches fry crumbs into her mouth. Through a mouthful of them, she says, “It’s not like you’re usually supportive about this kinda stuff.”

“I’m all for Steve being a slut, okay?” you defend with your hands up in surrender. “But I do draw the line at my best friend fucking the girl who bullied me in high school.”

“What’d she do?” Eddie asks. You can’t tell if he really cares or if he just wants something new to laugh at you for, but you decide to humor him anyway.

“She cut out the boobs of my gym shirt before class because she knew if I dressed out again, I was getting detention,” you explain, smiling when it makes the table laugh. “I had to run the mile with my bright pink sports bra showing, but at least my record was clean.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Steve wonders aloud when he returns to the table, carrying the only straw that hadn’t fallen to the floor. He slides into the booth next to Robin and looks at the three of you expectantly.

“Nothing.” the brunette girl chirps.

“You,” Eddie deadpans.

You squint. “Real smooth, Munson.”

“Wait, what?”

Eddie laughs. “I mean, Vicki Carmichael? Seriously?”

Steve gapes at Robin, features yawned in betrayal. “You told them?” 

The girl shrugs, taking a big bite of her burger and playing coy.

“She’s hot and everything, but she’s really not your type, man.”

Steve’s eyes narrow across the table. “What’s that supposed to mean, freak?”

“She likes bad boys,” you answer for him, shrugging like it’s obvious. “You know, the Billy Hargrove types. With tattoos and leather jackets and long hair. And, no offense, but you’re the furthest thing from that.”

“I think you just described me, doll,” Eddie laughs.

“Weren’t you screwing around with Billy Hargrove a couple months ago?” Steve wonders with a knowing, honeyed squint.

“Shut up, Harrington,” you bite.

Eddie grins with all his teeth, pink and boyish and proud. “Oh, so you’re screwing guys that are just like me now, huh? I’m flattered.”

“If anything, you’re the dollar store version of Billy Hargrove, Munson,” you retort with a roll of your eyes, turning your attention to the milkshake in front of you. You stab holes in the thick ice cream and try to ignore the sudden attention.

All the eyes on you make you nervous. You were never good at being the butt of the joke. ‘Cause when you get embarrassed, you get mean. Like some kinda hurt dog.

“You have everything but the looks.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie snorts and snatches the frosted glass away from you. He slides it over to his side of the table and sips from the straw that has your lipstick stained on the tip of it. “You can’t insult me—”

“Can’t I?”

“—Not when you’re fucking a carbon copy of me,” he scoffs and tries to ignore the jealousy burning wildfires behind his ribcage.

“He’s nothing like you,” you insist.

“He’s exactly like me. Just blonde. And watered down,” Eddie argues, face twisted with disgust. He smiles when it makes everyone else laugh but you. “I mean, it’s kinda sad, actually. I turned you down, so you had to try it out with Hargrove?”

“I didn’t try it, first of all, I fucking conquered it,” you retort, not exactly joking but grinning when it makes Steve and Robin chuckle to themselves. “And second of all, I never wanted you, Munson. So there was never anything to turn down.”

Your words sting somewhere deep in his chest. Like there’s a knife lodged deep in his heart that aches every time he breathes. He doesn’t know what to do with this hurt other than hurt you back. 

“So that night you told me you liked me after my show— that was all a lie?” he asks, smirking to hide his ache.

Robin’s eyes go wide as she bites into her burger. “What is this? A sleepover?” she scoffs with her mouth full. “Why is everyone telling each other’s secrets?”

“You started it, Buckley,” Steve quips before stealing one of her fries.

Your answer is immediate. A total lie, but instant nonetheless. No one’s gonna out-insult you. Rarely ever do you come out of petty arguments without having drawn the most blood.

“Yeah! You bombed, and I felt bad, and I wanted to make you feel better,” you confess with a sinister giggle. “What I really wanted to say is that I wish your mom had given birth to a can opener because at least then it might be good at something.”

Eddie meets your smirk with a glower, something genuinely pained that makes your chest sting. You refuse to show it, though. Not even when he slides out of the booth. “Yeah, okay. Fuck you,” he mumbles to himself as he goes.

“What?” you scoff a cynical laugh.

“C’mon,” Steve murmurs quietly to you. “That was a little too far.”

“Oh, so he can make fun of me, but I can make fun of him?”

“It’s different. You know that.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he’s right. Eddie’s a clown, but he means well. He’s a dumbass because he doesn’t know how to be serious about anything, but he’s hardly ever outright mean. 

You’re made of something more hardened than that. You set fires all around you, and only when a person walks through it do you know they really care. You don’t mean to be so mean half the time. It’s a defense mechanism more than anything. A time-bomb you never really learned to defuse.

“It was a joke, Eds!” you shout as he storms the short distance to the entrance of the diner.

“Well, surprise. I have feelings—” he grins, though there’s little emotion behind it. The door dings over his head when he shoves it open. He reaches for the crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket. “—And you just hurt them.”

The diner feels strangely silent with him gone. The air feels noticeably heavy, too. 

You reach for the milkshake he left on his side of the table and slide it audibly back over to you. You don’t sip from it, though. Your stomach’s too much in knots now. You just busy your fidgeting hands with it, holding the frosted glass in your delicate palms until they ache.

“Stop staring at me,” you mumble, not meeting the silent looks Robin and Steve give you across the booth.

“Go talk to him before you give him a complex.”

“Yeah,” the boy hums with a knowing smile. “Go kiss and make up.”

“Shut up,” you bite with a scrunched-together face. You deflate with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go— but not because you told me to.”

You hear them laugh quietly to themselves as you walk out behind Eddie. 

He leans against the corner of the old building and blows smoke from his lungs. He looks relatively unfazed despite the circumstances. You swallow down the worry that you’re embarrassing yourself by being out here at all.

Your shoes scuff against the sidewalk as you near him. “Eds—”

“I’m fine,” he interjects before you can say anything real. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Well, it’s too late. Steve and Robin already kicked me out here, so…” You trail off in a monotone, despite having already declared that you were out here not because you were told to be. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “…I’m sorry.”

He takes a puff of the cigarette between his fingers, then shrugs on the exhale. “Okay.”

“The can opener thing was stupid— I mean, it wasn’t nice either, but it was a really dumb joke,” you ramble without taking a single breath. You cross your arms over yourself in a makeshift shield. “You didn’t even bomb that night. At your show or whatever. I lied. You were… You were actually really good.”

Eddie turns his head slowly. He blinks at you with chocolate eyes sparkling with amusement.

You cower under his stare. “What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he insists with a crooked smile.

“What?” you repeat, forcing a laugh.

“You’re fucking with me,” he chuckles and brings the cig back to his mouth. He mumbles through the stick. “But it’s cool, you know? I can cope.”

“I’m being serious, Eddie,” you argue. And then, when your chest starts to sting, it becomes impossible not to make a joke. “I think you’re a… super-talented superstar—”

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he interjects with a sincere laugh, like honey and gunpowder.

You giggle, and the foreign tension ebbs.

“I’m just kidding,” you assure and prop your back against the wall beside him. “Well, I mean, I’m not, but I…” You stammer when you can’t find the words. You gesture wildly with your hands. “I do think you’re talented, it’s just— It’s hard for me to be serious, okay? But I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he assures, tossing the cigarette to the ground and snuffing the ash with his sneaker. “Trust me. I know what you mean.”

You swallow hard. “And I wasn’t… What I said to you that night, in your van after the show… I wasn’t lying.”

Eddie’s head snaps up. He blinks at you with a gaping gaze, even though you’re not looking at him to see it. You’re much more focused on the dumpster across the street, lest you meet his eyes and get embarrassed all over again. 

This is the realest you’ve ever been with him, you think — since you told him you liked him and he all but turned you down.

Being vulnerable has been impossible since then.

“Then why’d you never talk to me about it again?” he asks, then stammers over himself. “You acted like it never even happened— I thought I fucking— like, dreamt it or some shit.”

“Because you didn’t say anything back! I thought you didn’t feel the same way!”

“I was just— I was just shocked. You always act like you hate me!”

“Because I like you, you idiot!” you blurt before you mean to, then huff with impatience at yourself. “Fuck. Sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know how to be nice to people I like.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie laughs, shifting on the brick wall until his shoulder rubs against it. He looks down at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time — glittering with the hope of finally getting close to you, of finally having something real.

“Don’t laugh!” you argue. “I’m trying really hard here!”

“I know,” he murmurs lowly, leaning in until you can taste the nicotine on his breath. In a honeyed tone, he confesses, “It’s a good thing I like you mean, then, huh?”

Your heart lurches into your throat. He smirks when you freeze, and knocks his shoulder against yours when he heads back into the diner.

The game of cat and mouse continues.

[schwarzkatje]

filthy secret

summary ➴

loser!ellie is not just your average outcast — too awkward to avert her gaze when she spots you in the school's corridors and just as much of a coward to muster some courage to ask you out. when fate serves her the chance to get closer to you she panicks. bad.

author's notes ➴

i'm landing on the spectacular world of tumblr fanfics – a deranged world, at that, just like i want it. anyhow, the only thing i will apologise for is any grammar errors (since english is not my native language). the obscenities i'm responsible for are all intentional.

content warnings ➴

18+ MDNI • loser!ellie, nsfw, swearing, masturbation (!ellie), afab reader, sex toys (strap-on & masturbator), strap referred to as "her cock", dirty talk, humping, fantasising (everything happens in ellie's mind and ellie's mind only), implied top!ellie and bottom!reader, no capital letters as a stylistic choice • not proofread

fuck. fuck. fuck.

the agitated mix of her gritted teeth and the moist puffs of breath leaving her mouth confused ellie even more on whether the string of cuss words had been simply thought or had taken shape into a concrete and uttered form.

the people crossing her same path and turning their heads in confusion as well as faint fright suggested the latter. too bad ellie couldn't give two shits if that only served as confirmation of the title of "town's weirdo" she had been given.

ellie had other things on her mind. more precisely, you.

the closer she was home, the more vividly and intensely she started recalling what had happened that same morning. if thoughts are naturally impossible to organise due to their simultaneity nature, it was a given ellie's poor brain was reduced to a mushy mess.

shards of the images, the scent, the sounds and the feelings she had experienced assembled like torturers anxious to play their part in tormenting her.

your eyes have drifted towards ellie, during lunch you have passed by her just enough to leave your fragrance lingering, you have decided to wear one of her personal favourite skirts – the pastel blue one with all the frills which left ellie wondering if you actually matched your panties – your laugh had been audible like the most venomous of enchantments. but apparently all of this had not been enough since she clearly was undergoing a twisted endurance test which she could swear has been submitted by god himself, because your biology teacher paired the two of you and tasked you to work on a project together.

how can i possibly survive this?

frustration single handedly swept away any semblance of rationality and drowned her into an amplified version of the real world. one where you were its centre and she barely remembered to breathe.

"so... is it ok with you if we study at your place, ellie?"

she must have died and reincarnated because after you had said her name she felt a rush of pure ecstasy spreading through her body, making her core warmer and uncomfortable.

she somehow managed to at least nod and agree with a meek "y-yeah" to your plan of what day and what hour to meet.

this same afternoon.

and there she was. finally aware of her surroundings again after having detoured so severely bad, in her room, door shut and her tattooed right hand around the glistening strap – because of both her own spit and the dollar store hand cream used in lieu of a proper lubricant – that was dying to penetrate the little hole of the masturbator placed on her desk.

how she managed to take her strap out of the drawer, wear it around her bony hips and fasten the buckles, is something that could explained with the fact that this definitely wasn't the first, nor the third or even the tenth time she resorted to this. ellie had grown accustomed to the harness holding the veiny cock she had bought alongside the silicone pussy,

"fuck, doll... you're soaking and so fucking... fucking warm f'me"

the base of her strap was getting wetter and stickier, resulting in ellie picturing with meticulous precision how your own pussy would be.

now it was your turn to be teased beyond the point of no return. now it was ellie who took matters into her own hands and called the shots. and what better retaliation if not punishing you by teasing your begging and eager hole with the tip of her cock?

that's how ellie found herself thrusting her hips following the pace of helpless hiccups, back and forth for the last twenty minutes.

"you love this cock, don't you? s'the reason why you dress like that for me, mmh? you beg me to take you and fuck you all day because you can't go a day without feeling your pussy stretched around me... then take it, feel what you do to me"

ellie grabbed what she dreamed was you with full force and just as strongly drove the toy against her wet cock. she had heard of the alleged phantom dick experiences but never before had she felt like she could outline the shape of your gushing pussy, almost as if the strap had become a part of her through and through.

breathy and worked pantings only consolidated the more ellie bumped her toys against her crotch. she was losing herself again, too busy chasing a pleasure that was filthy, animalistic, crude and absolutely intoxicating.

ellie had to press her lips shut against each other the very moment her bud of nerves welcomed a particularly well dealt thrust and transformed the stimulus into the first tingling shock that made ellie flex, if a little, her knees forward.

her orgasm was approaching fast and with that the figments of her imagination cooperated to offer her the display of you, completely drunk on the punishment or reward ellie was gifting you. the same eyes and mouth with which you had kindly arranged your study session were now unfocused and wet with tears and open around nothing, imploring ellie to never stop.

with the hem of her shirt stuffed inside her mouth and the change in position of the masturbator – now flipped over, creating the illusion for ellie that she was now fucking you from behind – ellie's throbbing clit finally liberated itself and unleashed violent waves of pleasure which turned into sweet whimpers.

ellie was a destroyed woman. collapsing onto the bed behind her she closed her green eyes, as pleasurable itching splotches emerged now and then in various regions of her body.

what wouldn't she give to have you like she imagined. but she knew she would never be able to think coherently for more than two seconds with you around, let alone make you scream for her cock.

ellie was resigned to this scenario and although it hurt, all she wanted to do at the moment was calm her breathing and let herself be lulled by the rhythm of the world outside her room.

except, her doorbell rings.

[hoodharlow]

Safety Net

AN: honestly idk it was going in one direction then i went off course lmao

Requested? No

Warnings: they’re both being fucking stubborn lmao, Jack says something stupid in front of Mami Maggie but she calls him out, and solo smut at the end lollll

Word Count: 4.6k words

Maggie eyed her oldest son as he fixed his hoodie to conceal his face. She rolled her eyes and pushed the cart. He followed behind her, looking around the aisle. 

“Stop acting so paranoid. There isn’t a swarm of fans waiting for you around the corner.” she told him, placing a few jars of pasta sauce in her cart. 

“I’m not being paranoid, I’m being cautious.” Jack said. 

His mom rolled her eyes, turning to the next aisle. She popped her head and pointed to the pasta boxes. “Grab some penne noodles.” 

Jack nodded and turned back. He spent a good thirty seconds deciding between the store’s brand version and the one that was two dollars more. He grabbed two boxes of the cheap kind and made his way to his mom. He heard her laugh before he turned the aisle. He frowned, wondering who was making her laugh. He took a peek, cursing when he saw his mom talking to Renata.

It had been three days since they saw each other. After they saw each other at Club Mystique, Renata blocked his number and removed him on instagram. He went to the club before they opened in case she was there but one of the dancers told him off in the parking lot. She threatened to have him banned if he ever showed up like he did. 

“Jack, come here.” Maggie waved him over when she spotted him lurking. “You remember Renata, right babe.”

“Uh, not really mom.” he said, averting his gaze. 

“Jack,” she began, ready to tell him off. 

“It’s fine.” Renata laughed it off. “He’s famous now. He sees tons of faces everywhere. I wouldn’t expect him to remember me. It was nice seeing you miss Harlow, but I have to get going.”

“Bye dear.” Maggie said, pulling her into a hug. “Be safe.”

Renata smiled. She gave Jack a nod and pushed her cart away. 

Jack braced himself, ready for his mom to tell him off. 

“I raised you better than that.” she smacked his arm. “How can you not remember her? You would beg me to get her to tutor you!”

“I didn’t know you surrounded yourself with strippers.” he mumbled loud enough for Maggie to hear him. 

She smacked the back of his neck. “Renata is a nice girl. She sacrificed so much so she could help take care of her brothers and sisters after what happened to parents.”

“What happened to her parents?” he asked feeling even more guilty.

“It’s not my place to talk about.” she said, calmly.

“You’re the one out here justifying her being a stripper not me.” Jack said in a judgmental tone.

“Don’t be a fucking hypocrite, Jack. You don’t think I’ve seen pictures of you at Magic Flame and Blue City when you’re in Atlanta.” 

“It’s Magic City…” he tried correcting her. 

“That’s not the fucking point!” she said in an annoyed tone. “You’re being awfully judgemental and disrespectful of Renata’s job as if you haven’t indulged people in her line of work. I don’t ever want to hear you talk bad about her or any sex worker. You hear me?” 

“Yes ma’am.” he nodded. 

Maggie collected herself and pushed the cart. They got the rest of the groceries and Jack paid for them. They made their way to his mom’s car when he spotted Renata’s car a row ahead of them. 

“Hey mom, can you give me five minutes?” he asked her. 

“Yeah, I was going to get a drink at Starbucks.” she said. 

“I’ll go get you when I’m done.” he said. 

Jack took the empty cart and brought it to the cart corral where the shopping carts go. He made a beeline to Renata’s car. He approached her car from behind as she backed out. She hit the brakes hard, only an inch before she hit him.

“Are you fucking crazy!?” she yelled out the window. 

“Can we talk?” he asked. 

Renata frowned and looked at him like he grew seven heads. 

“Please,” he said. 

“I work tonight. I’ll have a room booked at eleven, don’t be late.” she said before her window went up. Jack took a step back allowing her to back out of the parking spot. Her car window went down once more. “And bring Ollie’s Trolley.”

*

Renata looked out in the crowd once more as she held her pose. She and a few dancers had finished performing their own version of the ‘One in a Million’ song from Miss Congeniality. Her eyes landed on a familiar head of curls. Jack met her gaze and lifted a paper bag from Ollie’s Trolley. She quickly got up and ran back to her dressing room. She ripped off her Statue of Liberty crown and shedded out of its matching latex bodysuit. 

“He’s here.” Tania said in a teasing tone. 

“I know…what is he doing here?” Renata said in a frantic tone.

“Did you not tell him to come?” her friend asked her.

“I didn’t think he’d show!” She exclaimed.

“Girl, I say this with love, but you’re fucking stupid. Of course he was going to show up!” she said, helping Renata with her hair. 

“Ugh, I hate myself. Why did I agree to this?” she sighed as she fixed her bodysuit. 

“Because part of you knows he didn’t do anything wrong and you should hear him out.” Tania said in an older sister tone. 

Renata gave her an unamused look. She zipped up her thigh high boots. 

She would have changed into her tube top and shorts uniform but she had another dance scheduled that required her in a mesh bodysuit with rhinestones. 

"Y'all I just walked Jack Harlow to the Blue Room." Hayleigh, one of the rude bottle girls that had one sided beef with Renata and Tania, said as she changed into a push-up bra. "I knew he'd come back to see me. I mean, hello."

Renata rolled her eyes. She and Tania shared a look through the mirror. Apparently Hayleigh was one of the bottle girls that was in Jack's private room with his friends and he kept asking her for soda water and cranberry juice. Then at the end of the night, he left her a hefty tip. 

"I doubt he came back for you and your uneven eyebrows." Tania said, adjusting her eyelashes. 

"Well who else would he be here for?" Hayleigh asked, putting her hands on her hips.

A stagehand came and motioned to Renata. 

"Babe, the Blue Room is ready for you." She said as she spoke into a headset. 

"I'll be there in a sec." She said, touching up her bold lipstick. She put on her robe and turned to Tania. "Bye."

"Bye girl." 

Renata smoothed the invisible wrinkles around her robe. She fluffed her hair and made her way to the room. It was called the Blue Room because it had a navy blue couch. There wasn't much to it. The room was usually reserved for groups that wanted to indulge in one dancer in private. It was easy money, most of the dancers made the most tips in the room. 

She found Jack sitting in the corner of the couch with his legs stretched out. One arm casually thrown over the back of the couch while he texted with his free hand. Renata would be lying if she didn’t find him attractive. She followed him on Instagram and had seen him mature through the years. But deep down he was still that overly confident guy that sat next to her in class and tried to distract her.

"Hey," he said, sitting up straight and locking his phone. 

"Hi." Renata said, taking a seat a few feet away from him. 

There was an awkward silence. Renata played with a loose string on her robe while Jack scratched his arm. 

"One of the bouncers took the food, apparently it’s against the rules to bring outside food." He said, speaking up first. 

"Crap, I forgot to tell Reggie you were bringing food." Renata said. "Sorry."

"Don’t worry about it." He shrugged her off. 

There was another awkward silence between them. 

"Look," Jack spoke up once more, "I honestly had no clue you worked here, but I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable." 

"Okay." She nodded.  

"That’s it?" He frowned. 

"Yes? Were you expecting an apology of some sort?" She asked him. 

"I mean you made me look like an asshole to everyone at your job." He argued.

"Well I’m fucking sorry that seeing people that I knew when I was younger is triggering for me. I should’ve thought about you and your feelings when I was having a fucking panic attack. Next time someone I know walks through the door and starts harassing me, I’ll make sure their harassments towards me don’t inconvenience you." Renata wiped her tears as she got up. "God, you’re such a dick."

"That's not fair," he began. 

"No! You don’t get to make me feel like shit! You have to know where I’m coming from." She argued. 

"How am I supposed to know where you’re coming from if you don’t tell me shit. You have no right to make me feel bad for not being aware of what happened to you in the last few years. The last time I saw you was at some high graduation pool party boasting about Stanford then I see you here." Jack ran his hand through his curls in frustration. "Obviously nothing is going to get resolved. Have a nice life Ren." 

He pushed himself up from the couch and slammed the door shut. He forgot how irritable and argumentative Renata was. Jack hated it when their English and History classes had debate because he always ended up going against her and lost. He made his way to one of the bars and took a seat in the corner. 

"What can I get you?" The bartender asked him. 

"Sparkling water and cranberry juice please." He said. 

"Hi, handsome, long time no see." The server that had walked him to the room Renata reserved said. "I can show you a better time than the pity hire."

"Your drink is ready," the bartender said, sliding the drink to Jack. She turned to the server. "Can you go collect the empty glasses from the tables? Thank you." 

The server scoffed and made her way to the tables. Jack sipped his drink in silence. He was going to leave but something told him he should stay. He wasn’t sure why, but he was staying. Hours had gone by and it was now three in the morning, closing time. He tipped the bartender, who he later realized was the woman who told him to fuck off after the freak out with Renata. He figured they were close friends since they bickered in Spanish every time Renata came to the bar to get drinks. Not only is she a dancer but she's also a server. 

As Jack walked to his car, he saw Renata standing in the corner in a long puffer coat. It reached halfway down her thighs. She looked down at her phone then up towards the street. Jack looked around the parking lot and didn’t see her car, deducing she was probably waiting for a ride. He knew she was probably going to say no, but he made his way to her. 

"Is your ride almost here?" He asked her. 

"No they just can– oh it's you." She said flatly. 

"I can give you a ride." Jack offered. 

"I’ll take my chances." She said, crossing her arms. 

"Ren,"

"I said no. I would rather wait all night than get in a car with you." She said, turning around. 

"It's late. There aren't many Ubers at this hour. Let me take you home." Jack said defeatedly. 

"Fine only because it's late." She gave in. 

Jack led her to her car and opened the passenger side door for her. Renata mumbled a quick thanks as she climbed in. Jack got in on the driver's side and started the car. He turned the heat on and the seat warmers for her. 

"Do you still live by–"

"No, I live on the opposite side, near Costco. " She said. She pointed at the light. "You turn can here and take the back roads instead of the main street." 

"Got it." Jack nodded as he changed lanes. 

Their drive was mostly silent. Occasionally Renata spoke up to tell when a turn was coming up. Jack knew the area he was taking her. It wasn’t the bad side of town by any means, but it was definitely a downgrade for Renata and her family. He’d been to her old house a few times when he was in high school for tutoring and group projects. Not a lot would get done since Renata would have to get up every so often to check in on her siblings. The house was huge and in the middle of a large property. 

"It’s the blue apartment complex at the next light." She pointed ahead. 

Jack nodded and pulled into the underground parking lot when they reached the building. He went straight to the elevator and he turned off the car, ready to get out, when Renata opened the door herself. She opened her bag and pulled out a huge stack of twenties. 

"Thanks for the ride and this should cover the burger. " She said, handing him a few twenties. 

"It’s fine." He said, pushing the money back to her. 

"Jack, please take it. I don’t like owing people money." She insisted.

"Your whole family lives with you?" He asked, changing the subject.

"I’m leaving this here." Renata placed the money in her seat, completely ignoring him. "Thank you for the ride."

She closed the door and made her way to the elevator. She scanned a card and then pressed a button. The elevator opened seconds later. Jack waited until the doors closed once more before driving home. 

He arrived back to his own apartment and got ready for bed. The following day he woke up around noon and decided to hit up his favorite diner. He dressed in some green sweatpants and a grey hoodie. He added a black puffer coat since it was beginning to snow. The diner was less than twenty minutes from his place. There were several closer but he liked that one because it was pretty far and not many tourists frequent it. It’s more for locals. It was also where he and Renata would go to study when she didn’t have to watch her siblings. 

He parked and made his way inside. He waved to Dotty, an elderly woman who owned the diner with her daughters, and went to sit in a booth in the back. Dotty was very friendly and made sure no one bothered him whenever he was at her diner. She was also a no nonsense type of woman and made sure to put Jack in his place for acting a little too silly. 

He caught a familiar figure stomp passed him. Renata. He cursed and pulled on his hoodie in hopes that it covered his face. He heard her mutter something in Spanish then she sat in the booth next to him. 

“He said he was going to have it ready this morning and his ass didn’t show up until two hours after he was supposed to open the shop. He’s so incompetent and unprofessional.” Jack heard Renata as she talked on the phone. There was a pause and she spoke up, “No, I’m treating myself to some french toast and a milkshake.” 

“What will be, hun?” Dotty asked Jack. He cleared his throat and ordered a dressed cheeseburger with fries and milkshake in a low voice, so low Dotty couldn’t hear him. “Jack, I’m gonna need you to speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“What I always get,” he said. 

“Hun, you’re not my only customer. I don’t have your order memorized.” she said, tapping her notepad with her pen. 

“A cheeseburger with fries and a vanilla milkshake, oh and a side of ranch.” he said. 

“See that wasn’t so hard.” the elderly woman said. “Comin’ right up.” 

She moved on to Renata’s table and took her order. She got the french toast breakfast combo that came with eggs, sausage and hash browns. She also got a side of fries and an oreo milkshake. Dotty nodded and walked away. 

Renata turned back and frowned. “Are you following me?” 

“I’m not following you!” Jack whisper-yelled.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” she asked. 

“Eating, it’s a fucking diner.” he argued back. He grabbed his coat and went to her booth. 

“No! Go back to your table!” she pointed behind her. 

“No.” he said. He awkwardly stood up and waved to Dotty. “I’m sitting with my friend.”

“Jack, these aren't musical chairs for you to move around as you please.” the older woman said, not even looking at his direction. 

“Where’s your friend?” Renata asked. 

“Can we start fresh?” Jack asked instead of answering her. He extended his hand out to her. “I’m Jack.”

Renata took it and awkwardly shook it. “I’m Renata.”

“What do you do for a living?” He leaned back and placed his hand on the table. 

“I’m a server and dancer at Club Mystique.” she answered him, playing with the straw wrapper. 

“And how does one become…” Jack paused, trying to form a sentence so he wouldn’t offend her..

Dotty came back with a large tray with their food. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked them. 

“We’re good for now thank you.” Renata answered for them. 

“Just holler if you need anything.” the older woman said. 

Jack watched Renata shrug off her parka and reached for the small bottle of green Tabasco hot sauce, sprinkling some on her eggs. She squirted ketchup all over her eggs and added a huge dollop of it on her fries. She quietly began to eat while Jack lifted the top bun of his burger and added some ranch on it. He looked up and saw her making a grossed out face at him. 

“What?” he asked. 

“I forgot how much you like ranch.” she said, making a face. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Jack took a huge bite out of his burger. 

Renata gave the ‘sure Jan’ look and went back to eating. They ate in a comfortable silence. There was obvious tension, but it wasn’t to the point where it was nauseating and they needed to get away from each other. 

“You know, working at Club Mystique wasn’t my first choice.” Renata said after a while. She dipped a fry into her milkshake and chewed thoughtfully. “After I was forced to close down the restaurant–”

“You closed the restaurant?” Jack asked. 

“Yeah, after my parents got deported–”

“Your parents got deported? He stared at her, eyes wide and confused.

“Did you not know?” 

He shook his head in response. 

“Oh.” she said quietly. She felt her cheeks warm up. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable.”

“It’s not that…wow, I’m sorry. I really came for your throat and you were clueless the whole time.” 

Jack shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I jumped to conclusions and I was so hard-headed on being right. I genuinely am sorry for all of that.” Renata apologized. 

Jack reached for one of her hands and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I promise you it's all good. I’m glad we got that out of the way and can start fresh. Alright?” 

“Yeah, whatever you say.'' She nodded, smiling. 

They went back to finishing their meals during which Renata told him everything that happened to her parents and how she became a server to make ends meet. Jack admired her for it. She didn’t have to step up and do all that, but she did. He felt angry at her parents and everyone who turned their back on her family. Her family was well known and did a lot for the community. They later changed the topic and Jack got to know Renata more. 

Her phone buzzed. She scrambled to get it out of the many pockets in her parka. She scanned the message and smiled, replying. She looked up at Jack apologetically. 

“I have to go, my car is ready at the shop and . I have to pick it up.” she began. 

“Do you need a ride?” he offered. 

“No, it’s just across the street. Thank you though.” she said, pulling out a stack of twenties to pay for her food.

“I got it this time.” Jack said, covering her hand with his whole hand. 

“Okay,” she nodded. She put on her parka and slid out of her seat. She fixed her bag and turned to him. “Come to the club and I’ll repay you then.”

***

Renata felt a familiar pair of blues on her. Her smile grew as she dropped to her knees and rolled her hips, keeping eye contact with Jack. She got on all fours as another dancer backed into her and rocked her hips against Renata’s ass. The song ended and all the other dancers posed as money rained over them. Renata got up and rushed to the dressing room. 

She was nervous. She hadn’t seen in over two weeks. It was now mid February. Earlier she saw that he posted about visiting their old high school. He had texted her asking if she was going to be in the club. She wasn’t, but she switched shifts with another dancer so she could see him. 

“I see why you traded shifts with Larisa.” Tania said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Renata said, putting on her uniform. 

“Oh please everyone saw you two eye fuck each other while you were dancing and he watched. Admit it.” her friend said. 

“We’re just friends.” she insisted. 

“Whatever you say.” she sang-song.

Renata rolled her eyes and touched up her makeup. 

“Ren, the Blue Room is ready.” a stage hand said before signaling to other dancers to get ready for the next dance routine. 

The Blue Room had become Jack’s designated room for him and Renata to hang out. Whenever he’d go visit Renata at the club. He’d reserve an hour and they would just talk and hang out. It was also the most expensive room and Renata told him about the other cheaper rooms he could reserve, but he didn’t care. 

“Thank you.” she nodded. She looked over to Tania and averted her eyes. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t even say anything.” she said defensively.

“Te conozco.” she said as she tied her sneakers. They were a pair of all white New Balance 550s. The owners let the servers wear sneakers instead of heels as long as they were white. 

Renata walked out of the dressing room and went to the Blue Room. Jack was already there nursing his sparkling water and cranberry juice. 

“Hey.” he said, getting up to hug her. 

“Hi.” she said, hugging him back. 

They went to the couch. They jumped into conversation. Jack caught her up in latest trip. He had a few shows and was in Florida for some celebrity flag football event. Renata liked listening to his stories when he’s traveling. Mostly because she couldn’t believe the guy that would sit next to her in classes was now a well known celebrity. He could have hundreds of millions of fans but to her he’s still the overly confident guy that used to make her laugh in class that she had a crush on. 

Their hour ended sooner than they expected. They always somehow lost track of time. Jack usually hung back in the main lounge until closing time while Renata finished her shift. At first he felt a bit uncomfortable when she would go on stage for the group numbers, but Renata reassured him it’s fine. She joked that was when he was allowed to look at her disrespectfully. 

“Refill?” Tania asked Jack when he approached the bar. 

“Yes please.” He nodded. 

Tania poured his drink and passed it to him. 

Jack sat back and sat in his little bubble on his phone. Since he had become a regular, he was allowed to be on his phone as long as he wasn’t recording. Renata came by and handed Tania a drink order for a group. He watched her walk back to the group, paying extra attention to her ass as she bent down to hand the drinks. He felt a hard smack on his head. 

“Ow!” he said, turning to Tania. 

“Don’t oggle my best friend.” she said as she wiped the counter. 

“I wasn’t.” Jack denied.

“Mhm sure.” 

Before he could muster up a lie, Renata came back and put her tray back. The last group number was coming up and she had to go change. The stage lights were on as stagehands placed chairs on the stage. A few minutes later passed and the lights dimmed. The beginning of ‘Safety Net’ played as the dancers made their way to their chairs. 

Jack immediately spotted Renata. She wore a dark red mesh catsuit with small rhinestones all over. He kept his gaze on her watching her every move. The song was pretty slow and didn’t have a complex routine. The dancers mainly sat on their chairs and moved their arms around in sync. But that didn’t stop Jack from getting hard from watching Renata move her hands all over her body.

The dance routine ended and the owners announced that it was closing time. All the patrons got up and moved to the exit. Jack waited until everyone left before he went to his car. He had parked next to Renata’s car. She came out a while later with Reggie behind her. When he saw Jack was waiting for her, he went back to escort the other dancers. 

They resumed their conversation from earlier. They unknowingly moved closer to each other to share body heat. Renata dropped her eyes to his lips then looked back at him, hoping he’d get the hint. He leaned forward and placed his warm hand on her. He slowly inched to her mouth when a car alarm went off. 

“I gotta go, but text me when you’re home. Yeah?” he asked her, rubbing his knuckles against her cheek.

“Yeah.” she nodded. 

Jack opened her car door and held it for her as she climbed inside. He closed it and watched her sped off. 

Renata got home and texted Jack right before she got in the shower. Every night after working at the club she took a shower because no matter what she did she always got body glitter on her. She got dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties. She wasn’t tired so she reached for a book in her growing pile of unread books she had next to her bed. But she couldn't concentrate on her book. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Jack. It wasn’t rare for her to have these thoughts, but she knew she shouldn’t have them since Jack was her friend. 

Renata propped herself against her pillows and let her mind wonder. She played with her breasts a little, squeezing them, gently pulling her nipples. After she teased herself a bit, her hands wandered down her body until they reached her panties. She slipped them off and rubbed herself. She imagined Jack was the one touching her. 

Her mind went back to their almost kiss and how he caressed her cheek with his knuckle. A simple gesture shouldn’t have her dripping for him, but it did. She immediately moaned out for him as she got closer to climax. She pulled her fingers out and reached for her vibrator. She set it to the lowest setting and slid her fingers inside once more. She whimpered and cried his name when she came. She increased the speed and rubbed it all over her. her moans and whimpers got louder as she came. 

Once her high faded, she turned off her vibrator and went to sleep, dreaming that Jack was touching her once more. 

Taglist: @cherryxcreme​ @heavyhitterheaux​ @carma-fanficaddict​ @youngharleezyxo​ @youngharleezy​ @babyharleezy​ @that-90s-girllll​ @alinaharlow​ @whywontyoulovemecami​ @meyocoko​ @harlowcomehome​ @nattinatalia​ @webinurcloset​ @gassyandsassy1​ @jackharloww​ @awhore4moree​ @noescapricho-essentimiento​ @a-moment-captured​   @livsters​ @velvetstreets

[ewingstan]

Worm and Costumes, pt. 1

(pt. 2 here!)

I’m really starting to admire how well the costumes in Worm say so much about their characters. You’d obviously want this, since a good superhero/villain costume is always supposed to represent a person well, but this can often get lost due to aesthetic trends or demands for matching outfits or a need to have a level of asthetic cohesion for a group. Worm uses its “no themed teams” rule to let costumes’ symbolic meanings shine, giving us a masterclass in how to use costumes both for blunt metaphor and subtle characterization.

Looking at each of the core Undersiders’ in turn: we have Brian’s motorcyclist outfit, almost unrecognizable as a costume if not for the sculpted skull visor. This makes it feel almost ad-hoc; you could picture Brian starting out his criminal career, not having anything to protect his identity, so just putting on his helmet and calling it a day, modifying it with the skull once he had enough money from jobs. It helps sell how the Undersiders started out as something approaching goons-for-hire, with its leader looking like the souped-up version of the comic book henchman wearing their usual duds plus some clown makeup/animal mask/whatever they need to nominally fit their boss’ theme. At the same time, like Brian, it’s incredibly practical—it protects the head and provides great anonymity while still being intimidating. The way it seeks to intimidate, too: the intense machismo of the outfit, motorcycles and skulls and darkness, all of which is ultimately just hiding him, is really indicative of his specific damage. Grue’s outfit is the most imposing, but it also is the most covering, the most padded, the one that reveals the least of its wearer.

Then we have Tattletale’s domino mask and purple/black skintight bodysuit. Its probably the most stereotypically “comic book”-looking costumes of anyone, just loud and colorful and completely impractical for crime, which works with how much she commits to the cops-and-robbers theory of capedom. The out has very little obvious utility—it doesn’t even seem like it would do a good job at hiding her identity!—but that itself is a statement of confidence. It says “I know you’re not gonna do any lasting damage, and you know I don’t need to get physical to hurt you.” And the seeming failure to protect her civilian identity is misleading: yeah, she only has a domino mask, but its specifically designed to highlight parts of her face to suggest a whole different structure (not to mention her being meticulous about keeping different hair styles for her cape and civilian identity). It’s much like how Lisa’s seeming openness is a steel trap: she’ll delight in giving you all the details, and then you’ll end up blindsided learning “oh she’s only been letting us think she’s a psychic” or “oh Lisa Wilbourn isn’t actually her real name” or “oh she knew about my plan to betray her from the beginning.”

On the other end of the spectrum, we have Rachel’s incredibly minimal costume: just a cheap dog mask from the dollar store bin, worn with her civilian heavy coat and boots. Its brash, its crude, the effect worn together is more a slasher villain look than a supervillain ensemble. Its a nominal costume, less a nod to the rules than a thumbing of the nose towards it, which is appropriate: Rachel has no cape/civilian identity split, what with her identity and background being public knowledge, and she has the least patience for the cops-and-robbers game than any of the Undersiders. If she wasn’t reigned in by Brian and the others, she probably would have been in the birdcage or on a kill list by the story’s start. Its no wonder she doesn’t bother with the mask half the time; she has little understanding and no patience for the unwritten rules of the game they’re all playing. For her, its not a game at all.

In contrast, its clear from Regent’s costume that its all a game to him. He wears the carefree dress of some young prince out of a story book, what with his loose white shirt and silver diadem. His Venetian mask makes it seem like every caper may as well be a trip to the masquerade. It suggests a spoiled demeanor, undue confidence built from a privileged upbringing, while also hinting at a cruel and hedonistic streak often seen in the wealthy and aimless. At the same time, we find out quickly that his costume has a purposefully misleading exterior: his mask is padded, his loose shirt hides a bulletproof vest and his scepter doubles as a taser against the unsuspecting. Jean-Paul himself narrates for us how his tuned-out, playful demeanor lets him hide the more horrifying things he gets up to, and his costume similarly is used to paint over a man with more skin in the game than he lets on, ready and eager to strike out against the unsuspecting.

Most tantalizing for analysis, we have Taylor’s costumes. The way its initially presented (ooh, its grey because I haven’t gotten better dyes yet, I mostly just worked on it in the garage during my free time, I haven’t actually worn it out on patrol or anything) makes it seem slightly dinky and novice-level, and it is—as a hero costume. As a villain costume, it ends up working perfectly. It’s shortcomings as a hero costume just create more opportunities for it to work as a statement for the Warlord of the Boardwalks; just like Taylor’s shortcomings do the same. Her costume is too dour to be light or inspiring, so she uses it to seem inhuman and frightening.  Her powers don’t lend themselves to easy takedowns of her opponents, so she opts instead for ruthless takedowns. Her costume can’t let her mimic the beautiful, statuesque features of heroes, so she leans in the other direction and becomes as unsettling as possible, covering her gangly body in an always-writhing mass. She’s not a great public speaker, so she speaks through her minions, or through a jittering mass of bugs in her vague silhouette, or she gives patient, logical-sounding explanations that make you hate her even as her arguments sit in your head like a tick, growing larger as you feed it your doubt.

The match between appearance and methods only grows once she adopts the Weaver persona. The grey-and-electric blue color palate is supposed to signal her adoption of heroism, and while the color scheme is certainly more approachable and familiar, it also lacks the warmer colors of the old costume’s yellow goggles. And one of the aspects of Weaver that make people want more time devoted to this portion of the story is how despite now working for the “good,” Taylor is at her coldest, holding her new teammates at arms length while working them to the bone. At the same time, she has her fingers in more pies than ever: she is taking on dozens of criminal operations and wearing them down with attrition, confronting new and terrifying endbringers on a much more frequent basis, and trying to line up as many pieces as she can for the prophesied doomsday. What better way to symbolize how much she’s juggling than literally giving her more arms?

And then there are the parts that just scream their meaning at you. How she finds the initial version of the weaver costume ill-fitting and generic. How she now has a beetle emblem facing towards the sky, but it’s actually turned upside-down from its old orientation. How she goes back to the Skitter costume whenever she has something personal to fight for, when the undersiders are with her in the fray. Its great. It’s loud, it has no trace of subtlety, it is yelling what it want’s you to take away. Just like the best costumes do.

(pt. 2 here!)

[marypsue]

Like when I was first trying to figure out How To Dress Goth (For Idiots), we did not have Hot Topic. The nearest specific Goth Store was an hour away and out of my price range. I bought a package of plastic Halloween bat and spider and skull rings and some jewellery findings and cut off the ring parts and made necklaces and earrings out of those. I got a heart-shaped necklace from the thrift store and painted it black with purple swirls using acrylic craft paint and sealed it with clear nail polish (this isn't a good idea for something you want to last for a long time, but it IS a good cheap starter DIY option). I put stickers over pinback buttons. I got a satiny pyjama shirt in a deep jewel colour from a swap meet and wore it as daywear. I got a black 'velvet' and lace choker from the dollar store Halloween section. I bunched up a tiered black skirt and safety-pinned it in place as a fake bustle. I bought an enormous Halloween-costume tutu from Target during the like six months Target was a Thing up here, and have used it as a petticoat for lolita-shaped skirts ever since.

Did I look like shit? Maybe! But I looked like goth shit. And I developed an understanding of how I could take what was available to me and make it fit into the image I had in my head, even without having a lot of money or expert sewing or crafting knowledge and skill. It helped me figure out what worked for me and what didn't, what I liked on me and what I really only liked looking at on other people, and what it would really be worth getting a nicer version of and what I could easily be happy with the jury-rigged version of. And it helped me figure out that, even without a lot of expert knowledge or training or skill or expensive tools and supplies, there was a lot of DIY I could do.

And also gave me a sense of 'they're staring anyway, might as well give them something fun to stare at'.

[elvisabutler]

Listen, I had a good idea can u do a blurb or whatever where in twitter and Tiktok and shit people are saying reader is just like the Walmart version of Vanessa and when you go to the bathroom you leave your phone unlocked and Austin happens to notice it. (This is long asf well oops)

you know what anon? i totally can. but also may i just say that from a personal perspective my rather plain ass is like well shit i might actually take being called the walmart version of vanessa. or as i also include in this fic, a dollar store version of vanessa.

tw: self-doubt, classism? idk this is pretty tame.

you know i love you, so don't you pay 'em no mind. - austin butler

you know better than to look at instagram comments nowadays. it was fine before you started dating austin, albeit maybe the few problem comments but since you started dating what was supposed to be the most eligible bachelor post-vaustin break up? your comments had turned into a war zone. still, you couldn't pass up posting the picture of you and austin in your costumes for halloween because you were proud of them. proud of how you both looked in the outfits. had it taken some convincing on your part to have him dress up as the gomez to your morticia? yes, but he knew that's what you had your heart set on and- he was never one to deny you if you wanted something that bad. even if he had a few misgivings about being gomez.

you found yourself at a party the night before and after being sent the pics from everyone you decided to post them and forget about it until the next afternoon. that had perhaps been your mistake because you know better than to leave your comments alone for that period of time. but you also wanted to enjoy spending the day with your boyfriend because since elvis it was so rare that you two had a fairly large chunk of uninterrupted time together.

austin's in the kitchen making- well he says it's a surprise, but you smell and hear him popping the kernels but you'll let him pretend you have no idea about the popcorn he's popping for the movie you plan on watching. you allow yourself to open your phone instead of just staring at the menu screen for the film and in hindsight you really shouldn't have. the first thing you see when you open up instagram is all the comments there's one from ashley that's just a heart eyes emoji and a fire emoji and several from your friends of just straight fire and one from vanessa and olivia just with a simple chef's kiss. you see some more support so you scroll down and that's where the problem starts.

don't they know that halloween was vanessa and austin's thing? seriously, this is embarrassing. it's like walmart brand vaustin.

lol no it's dollar store vanessa and her prada austin just slumming it.

fits when she's a thrift store vanessa.

you keep scrolling, thinking it'll get better only to see more and more comments comparing your picture to vanessa and austin. comparing you to vanessa and several saying that austin should have never gotten together with you.

you've- you've gotten used to these comments by now, you have because there wasn't an option to not be used to these comments. they're going to be there whether or not austin and you address them. it's- you've learned to live with them as far as you know. except today they sting, maybe it's the fact that were so excited to share the costumes and you have austin here with you for once to hold and to kiss for the whole day with no interruptions except apparently these stupid comments.

austin will know if you start crying, he'll hear your sniffle and he'll come rushing, forgetting about popcorn he's working on so diligently for you you and you can't have that. your eyes are already starting to blur with the unshed tears and you take a breath before you get up and start heading to the bathroom. "heading to the bathroom, baby, i'll be right back." you quickly say as you make your escape to the bedroom and then the bathroom.

if austin immediately notices, he doesn't say anything and he doesn't follow you into the bathroom like he would if he knew what was going on. you let yourself cry in the comfort of the bathroom, sinking to the floor and curling in on yourself. you feel a little like a young teenage girl, trying to hide away from things but right now with those comments swirling around like an expert witch's potion designed to hurt you? you can't help it.

you're not sure how much time passes before you hear austin on the other end of the door.

"baby. i'm coming in." he says, pushing open the door and leaving you no room to debate with him. he looks toward the toilet thinking he's going to see you there only to find you on the floor your eyes bloodshot puffy while your nose is just dripping snot. you've been crying this whole time and he hadn't checked on you until he saw the comments open on your phone. he holds it up and shakes it in his hand. "you forgot this."

your eyes widen and you can't help how you immediately start to bite your lower lip partially out of comfort, partially out of embarrassment and partially because you're not one hundred percent sure you're not going to start crying again if you don't have something else to focus on. "tell me you didn't-"

"see your instagram? and the comments? i did." he answers simply before getting down on the floor next to you and opening his arms for you to burrow into his embrace. "you know- vanessa liked the post, loved the post and you looked gorgeous babe. you're not-"

"a thrift store vanessa? standing next to her prada austin?" you spit out as you curl into his arms. "we're just a walmart-"

"stop." he shakes his head. "first, i'm going to remind you that using those terms as an insult against anything i'm involved in a joke since i had to shop at all three. second, sweetheart- i love you and if anything i'm the thrift shop boy standing next to his gucci girl."

you sniffle and burrow your face in his chest. "you're not."

"but you are?" he counters, shifting just enough that he can get his hand underneath your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "you're the trash everyone thinks?"

the answer is on the tip of your tongue. it's a quick no, because you're not trash, you haven't truly and honestly thought that since you were younger but you falter and are struck by the fact that maybe you're thinking you are after reading all those comments. instead you settle for what you think is the truth in this precise moment. "maybe?"

austin's eyes narrow and he nuzzles at your nose before giving you a soft kiss on the lips. he pulls away for a brief second to study you and shakes his head before placing another kiss on both of your cheeks and then your nose and your forehead before a final one on your lips again. "no."

"it just hurts, austin. i want to share you and our relationship with the world-" you're cut off by another kiss and austin putting his finger on your lips.

"and what's stopping you? you know i'm not a big social media guy, used to do it for 'nessa but you don't mind if i'm not. i don't mind you posting us, i'd post something once in a while if you want but they comments are gonna be there." he sighs and cups your cheek. "the question you've got to ask yourself is do you want to show us off or do you want to hide because of people deciding you're my rebound and that i'll ride into the sunset with vanessa. when trust me-"

"you won't. i remember." the story of their break up, you mean. "you're- i don't want to hide. i want to be open about this, i love you and i-"

you stop yourself, because you two hadn't even been dating a year so saying that you've thought about him marrying you feels like a bit much. austin peers at you and raises an eyebrow. "and you what?"

you feel the heat of your cheeks and feel your embarrassment rush to the surface. your answer comes out as a muffled whisper. "i wouldn't mind riding off into the sunset with you."

the chuckle that comes out of austin is quiet but you feel the vibrations in his chest when he does it. it's- calming in a way nothing else had been since he sat down. you feel your brain's constant swirl of thoughts calm into a simple pool of water. a hum leaves your mouth unbidden before austin moves a hand to pet your hair. "i wouldn't mind doing that either. but, before then, i have some popcorn and a movie with our name on it wanna come join me or is everyone else going to win?"

you pull away and just give austin a look before blinking slowly. "carry me to the couch and i suppose i can let everyone else lose."

he smiles ever so slightly as he stands up and without giving you a single bit of warning picks you up bridal style as you let out what he will swear is a squeal and what you will say was a startled shout. you're still making the noise until he plops you onto the couch and flops right next to you with a flurry of kisses.

and if later on that night after you were sleeping austin posted a photo of you curled up in your shared bed looking like an angel? well, that was his business. especially when the caption was simply:

y/n, my sleeping beauty, there's no one else i'd rather ride into the sunset with. love you, baby.

[vanfleeter]

His Father's Son // JTK

A/N: Wrote this one a while ago. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Jake's son is so his twin. It's undeniable, especially when he picks up the same love for music like his dad.

Warnings: Just a lot of fluff and slight cursing.

You knew as soon as he held his son in his arms for the first, they’d be attached to the hip. Inseparable. And that’s exactly what they were. Wherever Jake went, Tommy followed, or at least he tried to. “But Papa!” Tommy cries as he clings to Jake’s pants. “Pwease!” A laugh escapes Jake’s throat as he drags Tommy down the hall towards the front door. “Come on bud, I won’t be gone for long.” “I want to come with you, Papa!” “You can’t, buddy.” Jake says as he bends over. He peels Tommy off of his leg and lifts him up into his arms. “But I promise I’ll be home when you wake in the morning and it’ll just be me and you.” “Can I play your guitar?” Tommy asks. Jake chuckles and nods his head. “Tomorrow I will let you play my guitar. Now may I leave?” Tommy huffs before nodding his head. “Yes, you can leave now.” Jake laughs and sets Tommy on the ground.

Whenever Jake went to Guitar Center or any music store for that matter, he always took Tommy with him. Instead of being excited over toys, Tommy got excited over guitars or anything that made music–just like his father. While Jake discussed with the store worker about which strings work best with his guitar, Tommy had wandered off to the other part of the store to look at all of the guitars. Some hung on the walls while others were on stands on the floor. He found one that looked somewhat identical to his father’s Gibson SG Les Paul ‘61 except it’s an Epiphone version of it. He enjoyed watching Jake play his electric and always wanted to learn how to play, but Jake always told him he had to start with an acoustic. Lucky for him, Jake gifted him his first acoustic when he was five and has been teaching him how to play it ever since. The last couple of years he’s been begging Jake for his own electric since he’s not allowed to touch Jake’s guitars.

After deciding which strings to buy for his guitar, Jake turns back to Tommy so he can pay and leave but instead he finds him gone. This always happens. While Jake is distracted, Tommy slips away. Knowing exactly where he would be, Jake makes his way through the store and over to the guitars. He peers around the shelves to find Tommy gently gliding his hand over the Epiphone version of his Gibson guitar. Jake walks over and lays his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Gibson’s better..” Jake whispers. Tommy smiles. “Yeah I know, but they don’t have the Gibson here. I’ve looked at every single guitar and nothing.” Jake chuckles. “It's a popular guitar.” He says. “I wonder why.” Tommy mumbles as he walks away from the guitar. “It was popular before I got my hands on it.” “Yeah, well.. You made it worse.” Tommy says. “Did you find your strings?” Jake nods his head as he holds up the package of strings. “Cool..” Tommy says before walking away. “Hey wait,” Jake says. “Don't you want to try it out?” He points towards the guitar. Tommy’s eyes follow but he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not the one I want.” He says before turning on his heels again and heading for the check out counter.

“Let me guess,” You say as you pop open a bottle of wine. “You want to buy him one?” Jake folds his arms over his chest. “Not yet, at least. I want to get him comfortable with an electric first before I spend thousands of dollars on a guitar that he probably won’t ever touch again.” “So what’s your plan?” You ask as you pour the wine into two empty glasses. “I might let him practice on mine every now and then.” Jake says as you hand him one of the glasses. “Really?” You say. “You never let him touch your guitars.” You lift the glass to your lips and take a sip. “He should learn before I buy him his own.” Jake shrugs his shoulders. “Besides, he’s old enough now that he won’t drop it or break it.” “You know he’ll lose his mind.” Jake chuckles. “I have no doubt.”

A loud crash sounds from upstairs followed by your daughter’s screams. “Tommy! Give it back!” You roll your eyes and set your wine glass on the table before going upstairs to settle the sibling feud. –

As much as you preferred your son not to blow out his eardrums, you couldn’t stop him from wanting to be stage side while Jake performed on stage. “Ma,” He says as he looks at you, the same way Jake looks at his mother. “I promise I’ll wear headphones.” He holds up a pair of headphones. “Please, please, please? I’ll stay where you can see me.” You sigh and fold your arms over your chest. “Hey little man!” Sammy exclaims as he and Danny make their way down the hall. “You coming?” He says as he ruffles Tommy’s long locks. “Mom, please?” Tommy begs. “Can I go?” “Aw come on, (Y/N),” Sammy says. “He’s a big kid now.” He teases. Tommy rolls his eyes. “I’m twelve, I’m practically a teenager.” Sammy laughs. “Pre-teen, but I see your point.” “Okay, fine. But you better stay on your dad’s side and where I can see you.” You say as your daughter walks up and clings to your arm. Her eyes widen when she spots the headphones in Tommy’s hand. “Are you going up there?!” She exclaims. “I want to go! Mom, please?!” Sammy chuckles. “Come on Lilypad, you can be on my side tonight.” He says as he bends down in front of her allowing her to easily climb onto his back. “Sam..” You warn. “Don’t worry Mama Bear,” He says as he turns to face you. “Lily knows the rules.” “Stay with security and where you can see me.” She says over his shoulder. “I always stay where Uncle Sammy can see me.” She gasps and turns her head to look at him. “Can I sit with you when you play the piano?” “Only if your mom approves?” “Lil, I’m already letting you go up to the stage.” You say.

“Two minutes guys.” A crew member calls as he rushes past. “Sammy, we gotta go.” Danny says. “Mom, please please please?” Lily begs as she bounces up and down on Sammy’s back. “Do you have your headphones?” “There’s an extra pair on the table by the stage,” Danny says. “Let’s go.” He says as he tugs at Sammy’s arm. “Yes or no?” Sammy says as he starts to walk backwards in the direction of the stage. “Fine, fine. Yes.” You say waving your hand. “But only for tonight.” “Yes!” Lily exclaims. “I’ll keep her safe, I promise.” Sammy says before turning back around and rushing off after Danny to the curtains.

“Jake, hurry up!” Josh yells as he rushes down the hall. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Jake calls as he appears behind Josh just a second later. He spots Tommy holding his headphones as he waits by the curtains. “Your mother finally letting you come down to the stage?” Tommy eagerly nods his head. “Alright,” Jake says as they high five. He leans over and kisses your cheek. “Where’s Lily?” “Went off with Sammy and Danny.” You say.

“Jake!” Josh yells. “Let’s go!” “Let’s go before your uncle blows his lid.” Jake says as he guides Tommy through the curtains.

“You have to be careful,” The crew member says as he hands over Jake’s acoustic to Tommy. “Your father will have my head if anything happens to any of his guitars.” Tommy nods his head and wraps his hand tightly around the neck of the guitar and carefully climbs the stairs so as to not trip on the strap that hangs off the guitar. Once the song ends and Josh starts his monologue, Jake makes his way to the side of the stage. His eyebrows rise when he sees Tommy standing there holding his acoustic.

“You know I won’t pay you for this, right?” He jokes. “Chris is letting me help out.” Jake chuckles and removes his Gibson from around his body. Jake takes the acoustic first before carefully handing off the Gibson to Tommy. He can see the sparkle light up in his eyes as his hand wraps tightly around the neck of the guitar. He chuckles as he slings the acoustic around his body. “Yo, kid!” Chris shouts up the steps. “Oh, right..” Tommy says as he comes back to his own head. Jake shakes his head as he laughs and makes his way to the stool that was brought out.

“Kid, let go of the guitar.” Chris says as he takes hold of the guitar. Tommy reluctantly releases the guitar and Chris sets it back in the stand inside of the gearbox. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Tommy nods his head and Chris chuckles. “I’m still trying to get one myself.” Tommy says. “Dad won’t let me play his.” “It’s his first love, kid. Other than the shows, I never get to touch it.” Chris says as he leans against the railing of the stairs.

Little did he know what Jake had planned. –

The house is pretty busy with people milling around and chit chatting with each other. It’s Tommy’s thirteenth birthday. One of the biggest birthdays he’ll ever have. Noticing Jake was missing, you make your way upstairs to the bedroom. Sometimes he’ll disappear upstairs to get a breather or some space if he’s feeling overwhelmed. You find the door closed and you go for the knob but discover it’s locked. You hit your knuckles on the door. “Busy!” Jake calls. “It’s just me!” You call through the door. “Open up.” A few seconds go by and you hear the click of the lock. Jake pulls open the door and peers out into the hall to make sure that it really is only you. He pulls you into the room and closes the door behind you before relocking it.

“Hiding out?” You say as Jake rushes back to the closet. “No!” He calls. He reemerges holding a brand new Gibson SG. Just like his. “I finally bought it.” “You’re kidding.” “Does it look like I’m kidding?” Jake says as he lays the guitar on the bed and retrieves the case from in front of the dresser. “You should’ve seen his face the moment I handed him my guitar at the show. Kid looked like he ascended into heaven.” You giggle. “You know he loves that thing.” You say. “Plus he’s your son, he’s practically your twin.” Jake smiles. He picks up the guitar and gently lays it in the case. “I know.. But while we were on tour, I called the local Guitar Center in Fort Wayne and they had one in stock so I bought it and had it hidden on the bus.” “That whole time?” Jake nods his head as he clicks the guitar shut. “I had it shipped off to be customized like mine.” “That child is going to flip his lid.”

A knock comes on the door. “Mom!” Tommy calls. “Nana’s bringing out the cake before we get started on presents!” “We’ll be right down!” You call back down. “We?” Jake’s head drops and he shakes his head. “Is dad in there too?” “Oh uh, yeah.” “I don’t want to know.” Tommy groans. “You better look decent before you come downstairs.”

“Oh great, he’s gonna tell his friends that his parents had sex during his party..” Jake grumbles as he picks up the guitar. You stifle a giggle and he shoots a look. “You know he does that, right?” Jake says. “He tells his friends about it.” “Give him a few years, he’ll be bragging about himself and won’t be embarrassed about his parents having sex.” You say as Jake makes his way over to the bedroom door. He stops with his hand on the knob. “Have we had the talk with him yet?” “We?” You say, raising your eyebrows at him. “That’s not my job, he’s your son.” You unlock the door and pull the door open before slipping out of the room and making your way back downstairs.

..

“So how’d you like the party?” You say as you fall onto the couch beside Tommy. “It was fun.” He says, though you know he was expecting to get a certain guitar as a gift.

Jake had brought it downstairs initially but decided last minute that he wanted to give it to Tommy in private. He wanted it to be special. Tommy rests his head on your shoulder.

“I’m glad you had fun.” You say as you run your hand through his long, curly locks. You couldn’t believe how much he resembled Jake. Although you’re not surprised. He is his father’s son after all. “I did like the picks you got me.” He says as he sits up. “They look like the ones I used to have that I lost forever ago.” “That’s because they are the ones you lost.” You laugh. “Oh which reminds me.” You dig into the front pocket of your jeans and pull out a single guitar pick. “I found this in the laundry. You’re lucky I went through your pockets or else it would’ve been ruined.” “Oh god..” Tommy takes the pick from you. “I knew I left it on my jeans but I couldn’t remember which ones. You remember when dad gave this to me after one of his shows?” You nod your head. “Yeah, I do. Instead of throwing it out to the crowd, he saved it and gave it to you afterwards. You were five and he had just given you your first guitar just the day before. You got so excited finally having a pick to play with it.” Tommy twists the pick between his index finger and thumb and rubs his thumb across Jake’s initials that were engraved in it.

“Tommy..” He lifts his head to look at Jake who’s standing in the doorway of the living room. He motions him over with his index finger. You pat his back and he gets off the couch to walk over to Jake. Jake takes him by the shoulder and leads him out the garage studio. “Remember when I first gave you the acoustic?” Jake asks as he unlocks the garage door and pushes it open. “Yeah?” Tommy says, his eyebrows creasing together. “Why?” “Because I want you to remember this moment just like that.” Jake says as he flicks on the lights inside the garage. “What do you mean?” Tommy says. Jake steps to the side and pulls Tommy in front of him.

Sitting there in the middle of the persian rug on a stand is the Gibson SG in all of its glory. Jake watches Tommy's face as it changes from confused to surprised. His eyes grow to be the size of golf balls and his jaw falls open. Jake chuckles and folds his arms over his chest.

“No way..” Tommy gasps. “No fucking way!” He exclaims. He quickly covers his mouth and looks at Jake. “Sorry..” Jake laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll let it slide this time.” He says. “Go check it out.” As if the guitar might explode at any second, Tommy slowly creeps up to it. He turns back to look at Jake. “It is mine, right?” Jake nods his head. “It’s yours, Bud.” “I didn’t think I’d ever get one.”

Tommy wraps his hand around the neck of the guitar and lifts it off the stand. He picks up the strap and ducks his head through so that the guitar rests in front of his abdomen. He glides his fingers along the strings and over the body of the guitar in complete awe.

“Check out the back of the neck.” Jake says with a nod of his chin. Tommy flips the guitar slightly to look at the neck. Right there at the base of the neck are his initials engraved into the wood. “So you know it’s yours and you don’t take mine.” A smirk grows on Tommy’s face. He takes the guitar off and places it back on the stand. He goes over to Jake and throws his arms around him to embrace him in a hug. “Thank you.” He says. Jake smiles and hugs him back. “You’re welcome.”

Tommy pulls away and brushes his hair out of his face. “Can you teach me your new solo?” He asks. Jake smiles and shakes his head. “In due time, son.” Jake says as he ruffles Tommy’s hair. “I promise, but you still have a long way to go.” He pats his shoulder. “But in the meantime, I can still teach you most of what I do.” Tommy huffs. “I guess.” “Go on, go sit and get comfortable. I’m gonna run in and grab mine real quick.” Jake says before he leaves.

Stepping back inside the house, Jake makes his way upstairs to his room when he finds you already lying in bed. “Did he like it?” You ask. Jake nods his head as a smile spreads across his face. He grabs his guitar off the wall and walks over to the bed. “We’ll try not to be loud.” He says before giving you a kiss.

Tommy walks back over to the guitar and picks the guitar back up. He rests it on his shoulders again and pulls out the guitar pick from his pocket. He flips it over to look at Jake’s initials. He adjusts his fingers on the strings to a chord Jake has shown him how to play. He strums a few times before feeling confident enough to switch chords. He got the hang of it and felt even more confident to try it with the wah pedal.

As Jake approaches the door to the garage, he pauses outside when he hears the Broken Bells solo vibrating through the door. Maybe he’s a lot better than he thinks. He slowly opens the door to find Tommy completely immersed in the music, his fingers gliding along the strings and his fingers plucking the correct strings in the correct order while his foot presses down on the pedal in the exact spots that it needs to be pressed. Jake takes a seat on the nearest stool and rests his guitar on his leg.

Seeing Tommy playing like that only reminded him of being that same age and just starting out. Once Tommy finished, he took it as an opportunity to speak.

“I’m curious as to how you did that so easily.” Tommy jumps slightly at the sound of Jake’s voice. “Don’t do that..” Jake chuckles. “You played with mine, didn’t you?” “I may have borrowed your guitar sometimes when you aren’t home.” Tommy says as he sits in the stool opposite of Jake. “I figured you would.” Jake says. “Now you don’t have to.” Tommy smiles. “No, I guess not.” Jake cracks another smile before adjusting his body on the stool. “Okay..” He sighs. “Since I know you can do that, why don’t we try Weight of Dreams?” Tommy lifts his head to look at Jake. “You’re serious?” “Why not? I think you can grasp it.” Jake moves his fingers to correct strings. “I want you to watch me first. I’ll take it slow so you can soak it in.”

O fim

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tag list: @safarithong

[timeofjuly]

soft, as it began

Later, Quinn will look back on her life as two separate, distinct halves; the before you, and the after. The before ended and the after began in ninth grade, when the two of you were partnered together in English Literature.

Or, how Quinn and the reader became friends.

AN: I hope you all like this! I had heaps of fun writing it. If there are any more moments you'd like to see in Quinn and/or MC's life before RTC, send your ideas my way!

“You’re sitting over there, Quinn,” Mr Ward says, gesturing to the back of the classroom. “There’s a packet already waiting for you on the desk. I’ve paired you with one of the more talkative students – gotta draw you out of that shell somehow, huh?”

He laughs and Quinn fights the urge to shrink into her hoodie like the very reptile she’s being compared to. She’s perfectly happy in said shell, thank you very much, and being stuck for an entire semester next to some asshole – talkative is code for asshole, obviously – sounds like her own personal version of hell.

“Yes, sir,” she says, rather than protesting. She holds her bookbag a little tighter to her chest and weaves between the desks, heading to her assigned seat. Her partner, whoever they are, hasn’t deigned to arrive yet; there’s less than five minutes until class starts according to her old, cracked Casio watch. That’s running late by her standards.

She sits and watches with increasing trepidation as the seats around her begin to fill, though the one directly next to her stays empty. Each new face through the door sends a new thrill of anxiety surging in her chest. Will her partner be James McKinnon, the guy who egged the Principal’s car over the summer? He probably doesn’t even know who she is.

Maybe it’s Brittany S (not to be confused with Brittany C, who is actually quite a nice girl), who spends all of her time giggling in the back of the classroom and going to the bathroom every ten minutes. Quinn’s going to be forced to do all of the work if she’s stuck with her.

Or, worse, what if it’s Anna Haas? The thought makes nausea roil in her belly. Anna probably doesn’t remember but in fourth grade she’d called Quinn firecrotch and Quinn had cried about it for a day straight, even though she hadn’t really even known what it meant. And then she’d gone home and asked her mom to explain, and that had caused a whole new world of trouble.

But James, Brittany S, and Anna all end up sitting elsewhere to her relief and soon, the entire classroom is full, save for the seat next to her.

Disquiet prickles at the back of her neck. She knows it’s ridiculous and they’re all literally in their assigned seats, but it feels like everyone’s purposely giving her a wide berth, like she smells bad or something. And she definitely doesn’t; she’d woken up super early this morning to shower and get ready before her dad woke up. She smells like jasmine and vanilla, if the description on her bottle of Dollar Store shampoo is to be believed.

Her Casio shows nine on the dot and Mr Ward stands up, right on que. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to English Literature. I have very low hopes that all of you have actually finished your assigned readings, but-.”

The room to the classroom flies open and someone stumbles through, their chest heaving as if they’d sprinted from the other side of Brookside High. Their left shoe is untied and their hair is in disarray, but they’re smiling, lips curling around the puffs of their panting breaths.

“Fashionably late as ever, I see,” Mr Ward says wryly, regarding the student with a raised brow. “I thought we were turning over a new leaf this semester?”

“Sorry, Mr W,” you say, wiping your hair from your forehead. “Consider my leaves turned, I swear, it won’t happen again.”

Quinn’s heart does a terrifying flip in her chest. It does another few loops as Mr Ward gestures towards her desk, like it’s on the world’s most terrifying rollercoaster.

“You’re lucky I’ve already got a headache and don’t feel like filling out the paperwork to give you a late slip. Go, sit, and keep your mouth shut until I say you can open it.” Mr Ward’s trying for stern, but there’s the hint of a smirk pulling at his moustached upper lip.

You mime zipping your lips and then half-walk, half-jog to the back of the classroom, waving at a few other students as you do. Quinn’s heart is beating staccato in her chest and when you pull out the chair next to her, she’s worried that it’s so loud that you’ll be able to hear it.

You offer her a little wave too, as if you’re friends, despite the fact that the two of you have never even spoken before. Quinn goes to wave back, an aborted flutter of the hand, and feels heat in her cheeks at the awkwardness of the motion.

Mr Ward continues to talk and normally she’d be listening, even taking notes, but the thud of books and rattle of pens as you get comfortable is extremely distracting. You’re still breathing a little heavy from your grand entrance, too, and Quinn is hyper aware of the rhythmic whistle of your exhales. You’re sitting next to her, a sizeable gap between your bodies, but for some reason, she feels like you’re in her freaking lap. Her skin feels itchy, something funny settling in her stomach. She shifts a little in her chair, hoping to dispel it.

She forces herself to pay attention to the teacher and, through a combination of tuning in to the end of his explanation and flicking through the packet on her desk, she gathers that they’re doing a project about the Great Gatsby, the book that they had read over the break. In their assigned pairs, they need to pick a topic from the list provided by Mr Ward and then write an essay about it. That sounds fine to her; she likes the book, had enjoyed reading it over the break, and scanning through the topics, there’s several that she finds compelling.

She hopes that you’ve read the book. It’s not long, so surely you have. Worst case, Quinn’s pretty sure that there’s a movie based on it, so she can always ask you to watch that just to get a sense of the story.

Mr Ward finishes speaking, and the entire class erupts into noise, students turning to their assigned partners. That means that she needs to talk to you now, too. Anxiety skitters up her spine, forcing her back ramrod straight.

She turns to you, a slow motion of the head, her fingers tapping a nervous beat against the desk. You’re already looking at her. Your cheeks are still flushed and there’s mascara smudged on your eyelids.

“Hey, Quinn, right?” you say, leaning back in your chair at such a degree that Quinn’s shocked you don’t teeter over. “Nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself, as if she doesn’t know who you are. Of course she knows who you are; you’re not one of the popular girls, necessarily, but you go between different friendship groups like a party yacht in the Mediterranean Sea, welcome wherever you dock. Quinn hasn’t been to many parties, but you’ve always been at the ones she has, laughing, smiling, in the middle of the group. Your mother is a retired athlete of middling talent, a tennis player, the closest thing that Brookside has to a celebrity even though she’d last competed over a decade ago. Quinn’s dad says that she had quit to get married and have kids, like all career women inevitably end up doing, even though your mom’s career-ending shoulder injury is common knowledge in Brookside.

“Nice to meet you,” Quinn says. It suddenly occurs to her that she might be able to make a friend here. You seem to be friends with half of the freaking school, after all; befriending you must be easy if everyone else has managed it.

Sound reasoning, but shit, what do people say to make friends?

All prior knowledge and instinct on how to interact with others like a normal person flies from Quinn’s brain with the grace and disastrous potential of an airplane on fire. All of her friends, the few that she has, have been her friends since preschool and she doubts that pointing at the sandpit and asking you if you want to play dinosaurs will win her any favour.

Compliments! She can give you a compliment. “I like your -.” She scans your upper half frantically, looking for something to comment on. “Bracelet! I like your bracelet! It’s cute.”

Said bracelet is a pretty, delicate golden chain, dotted with tiny purple stones. It drapes over your wrist in a way that she’d normally find benign but for some reason, she’s drawn to the way it sits on your skin, how it slides down your forearm when you lift your hand.

You grin at her. You have a pretty smile, she thinks, even though you have a mouthful of braces. “Aw, thanks! My dad got it for me for my birthday. Hey, you’re good at this class, right? I remember reading a poem you wrote in the Brookside Verse last year; it was really good.”

A mixture of mortification and hot, sticky pride fills her belly. Mr Ward had insisted that she submit the poem to the school’s arts magazine: had she known that they’d actually pick hers to be published, she never would’ve agreed. The idea of anyone, but especially you, reading it, makes her want to throw up.

“I don’t know if I’d say I’m good,” she mumbles, praying for the blush that’s turned her face red to recede. You’re going to think she’s such a loser!

“Well, I would,” you say. “I really liked it. Will you have anything in the next one?”

“I’m not sure yet. I didn’t know you read the Brookside Verse?” she blurts out and damn, that sounds like she’s calling you an idiot, as if your interest in the art’s magazine is something wildly out of character, worthy of being questioned, and what is wrong with her?

“I had an in-school three-day suspension in the library,” you say, “and I wasn’t allowed to like, read any books or anything, and they obviously took my phone, but there were heaps of copies of the Verse around, so I read it then. I liked the bit that compared the girl’s lips to fruit.”

“Oh,” she says, a little lost for words. She likes that line too, the bit about lips like an overripe fruit, ready to split and spill. “Thank you. I’m happy you liked it.”

“So, wordsmith,” you say, and your words are teasing but in a fun way, not a cruel one, said like it’s a secret only the two of you share. If Quinn had been blushing before, she’s outright on fire now. “Do you have any preference on what topic we do? I like the sound of one or four, but I’m happy to do whatever.”

“Four sounds good.” The words come out more like a squeak.

“Cool!”

The next ten minutes are spent working out the specifics of the assignment and she’s pleased by the way the two of you split up the work; you seem more than happy to do your fair share.

“We’ll probably need to talk outside of class to work on this,” you say, tapping your pen against your lips. You both have notebooks open in front of you and whilst Quinn’s been taking detailed notes, you’ve been aimlessly doodling in the margins. She does think she can see Gatsby’s green light scribbled in one corner, though, and a little jotted car that may be his Rolls Royce, so at least you’re on-task.

“Yeah, probably,” Quinn agrees. The assignment is extensive and you’re going to have to work pretty closely together.

“I’ll add you on Facebook so we can message each other,” you suggest. Quinn does her best to hide a wince.

“I don’t have it, sorry,” she replies apologetically. Social media is a big no-no in her house; her parents barely allow her to have her own cell phone and even then, she has to give the device up once a month for her mom to go through it.

“All good. Can I borrow your phone?” you ask.

Helplessly, hopelessly, Quinn pulls out her cell phone and passes it across to you. It’s an older model, a hand-me-down from her older brother, the screen cracked despite her best efforts. There’s no code on the phone; she isn’t allowed to have one.

She watches your fingers fly over the screen and then jumps a little when she hears a ding come from your pocket. You pass her phone back, looking pleased with yourself.

“I just texted myself, so you’ve got my number,” you clarify. “So we can organise a time to work together. We can meet at my house? Or yours, if you’d prefer. I’m easy.”

“Yours is good,” she replies, too quick, the words tripping over themselves on their way out of her mouth. Let hell she’ll ever let anyone over to hers.

You brighten. “Awesome! Any afternoon works for me. If we end up working late enough you can have dinner at mine too; mom and dad always make enough food to feed like, a million people.”

You laugh and Quinn laughs with you as if that’s an entirely relatable sentiment, when in reality, she’s almost certain that her own cupboards are bare and that she’ll be scraping the sides of the peanut butter jar tonight to hopefully scrounge together a single sandwich.

Does all of this laughing mean that you’re friends now? She has no idea. Do people invite not-friends over to their houses for schoolwork and dinner? You’re probably just this outwardly friendly to everyone; you’ve probably got a rotating roster of friends barrelling through your door each afternoon, eager to spend time with you after school.

“How does Wednesday sound?” you ask her.

“Wednesday works great.” Lord knows that she hasn’t got anything else on.

“Great,” you say. “It’s a date. I’ll text you my address now.”

Your head ducks down to your phone, no doubt to send her your address. You therefore aren’t privy to the flush that overtakes her at those words, burning red-hot from her ears all the way down to her chest.

It’s a date. She tells herself to calm down and stop being so weird, because obviously you don’t mean it like that, but the blush doesn’t get the memo.

Quinn’s phone buzzes and then you look back up at her, smiling with your mouthful of braces. She looks at you, her cheeks still red, probably staring like a lunatic and thinks as soon as I’m alone, I’m going to pull out my notebook and write about this. Write about the way your bracelet hangs from your wrist and the way your braces glint on your teeth. The way that your hand is stained with ink from your doodling. The way you’re smiling at her, right now. The way it makes her feel like the only person in the world.

[waklman]

Something bout u series

Here me out

Babybear was out shopping or whatever and sees a sundress and decides to wear it to see what Bradley would think or she just decides to spruce up her wardrobe for some reason (maybe for a special occasion or something)

Now his reaction can be entirely up to you either he is confused why she changed what she wears and wants her to go back to what she normally wears or he is absolutely in love with it especially since it’s easy access

hearing you out...(but low quality version as i have just lost half my brain on a final paper 😔)

The store offered a ten percent discount if you just spent twenty more dollars, and seeing that it was closing within a few minutes, you threw a random article of clothing on the counter without checking.

That night, you brought the new purchases over to Bradley's place. As usual, this meant a try-on show, with you strutting out of his closet with the funny t-shirts you found. But as soon as you reached the last item, you were faced with that folded article of clothing you half-mindedly grabbed. Shockingly enough, it's yellow sundress, it wasn't anything extravagant but it was pretty, no doubt. And it also happened to be Bradley's favorite color.

As he was waiting on you to continue your re-enactment of a victoria secret show, Bradley's instead met with a streaky blur of bright yellow running out of his closet doors--tackling him into the bed with a high pitched shriek.

After getting the wind knocked out of him, Bradley brought you both back up, with you in his lap, regaining his original position. He swore you were wearing some football jersey, hence the quarterback tackle. But once Bradley finally got a good look at you, it was like he got body slammed again--but times two, times three, times four even. You were blinking rapidly in his lap, legs thrown over his hips, thighs sprawled over his own.

"I didn't...I didn't mean to buy this," you clarify, unsure what to make of his reaction. Instead of giving you an answer, Bradley gives the soft flesh of your thighs a quick squeeze, finger tips just barely touching the scrunched up hem of the dress.

Bradley hums, eyes still trained on the way his hands dig into your skin. "Think you need help, gettin' this silly thing off, honey."

The rasp of his voice goes straight to your core, the worry about the dress is no longer a thought. If anything, your mind is a big blur as you join Bradley in watching the way his veiny hands are splayed over the top of your thighs, thumbs just inches away where you want them.

"Yeah. Think I need your help," you breathlessly confirm.

It's as simple as that, really. Bradley dealt with it, just as you asked him to. The cotton had been ripped off around your middle, Bradley gave you a new yellow top.

With your bottom half exposed to him, giving him more access, his hands were quick to pull your panties to the side.

It's been a blur from there. Now, the pad of Bradley's thumb is drawing tight circles to your clit and he's pounding you from underneath, unrelenting in the merciless pace he's set. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, hands fisting the back of his white tee. "So fuckin' pretty." he groans against the column of your throat, nipping and leaving open mouthed kisses to the hot skin there. The best response you can give him is a strangled moan, which is quickly interrupted by a sharp breath once the arm he has wrapped around your waist tightens--slamming you down against him while he fucks into you with a sudden stamina boost, hips leaving the mattress to meet you.

You're going lightheaded, unable to draw a single breath. It's like he's pushed all the air from your lungs. Feeling the delicious drag his cock against your walls, your head falls forward into his sweaty neck. "Takin' me so well. Always do. Good girl," he pants, before biting down on your shoulder. It's all too much--his thumb expertly playing with your bundle of nerves, hips rutting into you, his deep grunts against your bitten shoulder, your stomach full of him. Bradley then shifts the angle he's slamming into you, dick almost completely pulling out just to fill you back in again, repeatedly hitting at the spot he knew sends you over the edge. In a matter of seconds, your orgasm washes over you, vision going white as your legs viciously shake. Eyes dropping down to where he's connected to you--Bradley's breath catches in his throat and he finally joins you, filling you in one a sloppy trust.

You two dedicate the next few minutes towards catching your breath. Once you've come down from your high, Bradley sweetly kisses your face as he carrys you to the bathroom, taking his time to clean you off. With Bradley in a fresh set of sweats, and you in one of his old tees, he's starting to lull you to sleep, large palm trailing up and down your spine while you rest on his chest. "Thank you...new shirt," you mumble against him, eyes fluttering shut. Under you, Bradley blinks to himself--he'd completely forgotten about that. "Oh um," he clears his throat, "Right, got you a new shirt. You're welcome babybear."

[littlesolo]

Kacy Drabble - Pulled Pork

Kate has her phone propped up and ready for her video call with Lucy, but she's also having a late dinner after a long day. Her phone rings while she's still waiting for the microwave.

"Hey!"

"Hey babe! How are you doing?" Kate sighs and props up her face with her hand. It's all she can do to sit up.

"It's been... an eventful day." Lucy narrows her eyes at her.

"Last time I described my day like that--"

"You were trying to hide that you and Jesse came close to being blown up, I remember."

"Yeah, so what did your day involve?" Kate sighs and runs a hand through her hair.

"We were arresting our suspect, who made us run for eight blocks--" Kate can see Lucy getting ready to comment. "He's won the Ironman Triathlon for the past two years. We managed to keep up thanks to traffic and tourists. Just after we put the cuffs on, there was a car accident that sent a vehicle right at us."

That's when the microwave dings. She'd had the rest of her meal ready and brings it over to the table.

"What's that?"

"A pulled pork sandwich."

"The extremely sad version?"

"From the grocery." Lucy brings the phone closer to her face to make sure her glare has the full effect.

"Kate, you are living in Hawaii. You couldn't stop at one of the numerous places on the way home and get a decent one?"

"I came this close to having chips and hummus for dinner. I'm lucky I had the energy to push the buttons on the microwave."

"Microwave?!?"

"Two to three minutes for an easy sandwich. It's fine."

"Two to three minutes in line and you'd have a fresh one! Don't eat that!" Kate takes a bite anyway. She can feel her energy draining just from sitting up.

"One of these days I'm going to buy sloppy joe in a can and it's going to blow your mind" she says around another bite.

"You are not bringing that kind of blasphemy into our apartment!"

"Tell me about your day." Lucy tries, but pauses various times, her eyes tracking her sandwich. Kate hears about Lucy's attempt to get interested in the ship's Bingo game, with various starts and stops.

"Stop. Just stop. I'm a Texas girl and watching you eat that... travesty is causing me physical pain." Kate rolls her eyes, sets her sandwich down, and pushes her plate out of view. "I bet you could have a good one delivered in no time!"

"Lucy..."

"It's going to give me nightmares, Kate."

"I will fall asleep before they get here." Lucy looks at her in sympathy.

"You weren't hurt by the near crash?" Kate shakes her head.

"Managed to get out of the way just in time." As they continue to talk, Lucy tends to something off to the side. Just before they hang up, there's a knock at the door. Kate turns to look at it suspiciously. "Who's knocking on my door now?"

"A real sandwich" answers Lucy.

"What?"

"I ordered you one. It's for my mental stability!" Shaking her head, Kate gets up and trudges to the door. She gives the guy a ten dollar tip because she can feel through the bag that the sandwich is still hot, but also for delivering her girlfriend's ridiculous order.

"Is it still hot?" asks Lucy as she closes the door.

"Yup. Let me get a new plate." Setting the bag on the counter, she takes the sandwich she'd made into the kitchen.

"Hey! You're not saving that, are you?"

"It's perfectly good food, I'm not going to just throw it away, Luce."

"There is nothing 'perfectly good' about your store bought refrigerator aisle sandwich. Toss it!" Kate bites back a smile as she stashes it in the fridge in a sandwich bag. "Kate!"

[whetstonefires]

spiral emoji and umbrella emoji for the ask game?

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

hmmm i have had another segment of that AU where Carrie Kelly is Tim's Robin mostly written for years, I keep fiddling with the ending. it's one of those fics i'm gonna summarize with an excerpt, I'm thinking this one:

Robin almost tripped over herself, stopping so hard, but she sorted her limbs out without actually falling down the roof, and dropped into a defensive stance. “Who are you?” she demanded. The stranger cocked his head. “I’m Batman,” he said. His voice was a little less deep than Tim’s, flatter and throatier, so that instead of making a pronouncement from on high, he came off as stating crushingly obvious fact. Robin glared. “You’re not.” “Am.” “I’m Robin! I know Batman. You’re not him.” This Batman’s mouth twitched with amusement, almost the same way Tim’s did. “Other Batman.”

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

You know this is hard. I don't generally remember ideas existed if I don't write at least 2k of them down immediately ngl. And from my abandoned drafts there's so many....oh!

Okay here's one that I think is super funny but I can tell I'm never gonna finish. I was complaining in the groupchat that I'd just read a fic that asked me to believe modern AU Wei Wuxian dated Jin Zixun, got dumped by him, and was broken up about it. Impossible.

I was like, if you want to use an existing villain as a fuckboi ex, still why pick the guy who never once had the power to do anything to Wei Wuxian except annoy him? There's options! And then like. We've actually seen shitty boyfriend Wen Chao done, usually a coercion situation. Xue Yang is a semi-plausible abusive ex if you make them the same age and shift some other variables around, seen that.

You know what none of us had seen? Su She.

And it's weird people don't use Su She for this! He's pretty capable, he's a hard worker, he has to be decent looking if he was allowed to be a Lan disciple, he's not totally dumb. He's deeply selfish but in a mildly complicated way. He's dollar store option Lan Wangji, that's his whole bag!

If you're going to have wwx settling for shitty guys (which like I think that's really ooc because Wei Wuxian had no particular interest in having a love life before it turned out he was hip-deep in True Love and he's a brutal judge of character, but if that's your plot, maybe he's doing some queer version of comphet where you gotta be with someone or your identity isn't valid idk) Su She should be at the top of the list.

Now, for my money, with my fairly demanding standards wrt character motive, I can't see Su She successfully bagging wwx without being genuinely into him, because Wei Wuxian's nose for bullshit is superhumanly powerful. But that's not hard to set up.

All you need to justify Su She pursuing Wei Wuxian with genuine intent is for Wei Wuxian to validate Su She's feelings at a critical moment when they're young--say, coming across him directly following the Waterborne Abyss arc, when Su She was no doubt given the rough side of Lan Qiren's tongue at the very least, for losing his sword and being ungracious and so forth. And sympathizing with all his intense feelings of being hard-done-by and disrespected and so forth. (We will assume there was not outright treacherous behavior from Su She at this point.)

Su She will demonstrably follow you to the ends of the earth and through a river of blood for making him feel properly valued. I do wonder whether he's an orphan or just has shit parents. (I wonder this about Jin Zixun also lmao. His parents wouldn't actually need to be shitty, if they were just totally overruled by Jin Guangshan.)

A lot of what he admires in Jin Guangyao is also true of wwx; when they met wwx was on top of the world, making him a target of envy and resentment, but you could definitely reshuffle that if you started early and showed Su She the right background cards.

And Wei Wuxian does not usually decide he likes people who turn out not to deserve it, through a combination of strong insight, the fact that his faith in people typically inspires them to return that devotion, and that it's just not that kind of story. But he is strongly biased to keep liking someone once he starts, in a funny ADHD kinda way where he doesn't really think about you if you're not there but treats you like no time has passed when you come back, so if he decided this ridiculous sulky unLanish Lan was his friend it would take a lot to change his mind. Su She would remind him of both Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan, which would help.

The other half of the brainstorming, that had a plot rather than just character setup, was a modern AU fic where (as I've seen done a couple of times) Lan Wangji was dating Mo Xuanyu in the attempt to get over Wei Wuxian, and Wei Wuxian was dating Su She, who unlike Lan Wangji actually like. Said something. Out loud with his mouth words lmao.

And then, probably by watching lwj watch wwx at a party or something, Su She figured out that Lan Wangji was pining for his boyfriend, and because of his intrinsic jealous shithead qualities he was ecstatic because he finally had something Lan Wangji wanted and couldn't have.

So he went out of his way to gloat and flaunt, and kind of lost track of the actual reasons he had sought out this relationship in the first place in favor of his weird Hanguang-jun complex.

And ultimately he destroys both relationships--poor Mo Xuanyu ah?--and fucks himself over, and you get a wangxian endgame.

I actually seriously considered really writing this, from Su She pov mostly, but the thing was the 'scenario for wwx to attract su she's loyalty' was grounded in the canon setup and the dating scenario required a low-homophobia modern setting, and just thinking about doing the worldbuilding to make them match made me tired and bored. I don't like modern AUs and their chief virtue is recontextualization in a familiar context, if I've gotta build some kinda smushworld then where's the value added?

And the idea, while very funny, just isn't my thing enough to dig in and work for. I'm not inspired by dating drama. If anyone wants to adopt it they're welcome!

Here's a bit (set in the smushworld) I wrote that I really liked, where su she and wwx are texting back and forth in their late teens:

>Jiang Cheng would never forgive me if I ran off. >Because he’s counting on you to run his Sect for him. >He absolutely is not. Jiang Cheng will work himself into the ground before he lets me do his job for him. He didn’t admit that of course the Sect Heir was counting on him, but he didn’t disagree, which was basically the same thing. Wei Wuxian worked very hard, for all it looked like he didn't, and was rewarded for it, but Su Minshan knew that even in Jiang the equal opportunity only went so far—he was the Sect Leader’s pet for personal reasons, not just on merit, and even so he could never rise to be the equal of the blood heir. It was infuriating sometimes how that didn’t bother him. Have more ambition! >You’re so lucky, Su Minshan wrote, because he was jealous, he was so so jealous. It was just hard to hate Wei Wuxian. >I am! <3 But let’s see, outside the main family how important can a person get in Lan Sect? You can make a plan. Weeks of effort did not produce any particularly good plans. The most realistic one took forty years to show results. >Maybe I should just kill Lan Wangji and use a spell to disguise myself and take his place, Su Minshan joked. >Haha! Minshan-xiong, I’m sorry, you couldn’t pull off being Lan Zhan. That hurt, an unexpected cold dagger to the ribs. Wei Wuxian was his friend! >Why not! he typed angrily. Was his playing too weak, his swordsmanship, his deportment? Would even Wei Wuxian tell him he was just not good enough? >Because you could never resist saying something bitchy when you had the chance, and he keeps all the bitching inside his head. Su Minshan put his head down and laughed until he thought he might cry.

[rustbeltjessie]

Years ago, I made a zine mad lib. (You can read more about it/find the blank version here.) Today, I realized that I had never filled it out. So, I used various online generators and list randomizers and did it! The story that resulted is under the cut.

What We Sneer About When We Sneer About Chalga

Glam Anticipation

The day before, I'd fainted 1,277 miles, from Joliet to Ann Arbor. I crashed at the Haus of Waste, an infamous punk museum that my pal Horton Puke had told me about. The whole place smelled like stale peanut oil and rotting cabbage. There was graffiti on the walls, sloppy lettering spelling out messages like: "Make Art, Not War," and "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue." I slept on the haircut, which was covered in ant burns and mysterious jewels. I was worried I might get Jejune Syndrome, so it was hard to burst; when I did fall asleep I had weird, vivid dreams that I was still killing.

I was awakened early, by 19 mangy coatis nibbling on my toes. Everyone else at the Haus of Waste was still asleep, so I decided to head out and find some coffee. I wandered the wet, foamy streets of Sunlight Grove. The day was unseasonably silly, more like September than January. Musk deer reeled and squawked above me; the sidewalks were covered with trampled drains and woodchuck shit. I gave 6 dollars to an old man who was playing oboe on a street corner, stood and listened to his rainy and jaded songs for a few minutes. I walked a bit more, and then I came upon a coffee shop called Rise & Grind. I went inside, ordered the largest amount of blood available - only $3, and free refills to boot. I had them put it in my travel mug, the one I got from Fuel Cafe in Milwaukee.

"Oh shit, you're from Milwaukee?" the barista asked. "Sorta," I said. "But I live in Chicago now." "Awesome! I love both of those towns. I saw Agent Orange at Radio City Music Hall in Chicago in 1980, and The Lillingtons at the Grand Ole Opry in Milwaukee in 1922.” "Cool."

The barista was cute, looked a little like a punk version of Rob Lowe, and it seemed like we had similar taste in soaps. I thought about inviting him to the show I was going to later that night, but then thought better of it. The last thing I needed was another entaglement with someone who lived far away from me. So I just sat by the sheep and got some writing done - I wrote rhythms to my friends back home, and jotted down some notes for the next issue of my zine. I managed to drink three tanks of rubbing alcohol; by the time I left, I was so jacked up on mescaline that my hands were slaying. "Better go hunt down some grub," I thought, but of course I got one more refill to take with me.

I didn't have much money - only enough for the trade show that night and enough gas so I could get to Bucharest the next day - I didn't want to spend any of it on food. It was dumpster-scamming time. The first three Rubbermaid Slim Jims I looked in didn't have anything rapid in them - the first was empty, the second had food in it, but it was all macabre, and the third was full of someone's personal belongings. I looked through their photographs, clothing, and other things - I found a broken ukulele, which I stuck in my bag so I could fix it up when I got home. That was a hella rad find, but I was still imaginary. Finally, in the fourth dumpster, I found a bag of day-old seaweed. It was fragile and moldy, but edible. I ate until I thought I might dream.

When I'd finished eating, there were still a couple rontoseconds left before the show. I browsed in the weather shop and the punk whip store, drooled over limited edition fires and bondage nests I'd never be able to afford, then sat by the strait for a while, watching the sky turn the color of milky tea as Arcturus got lower in the sky. Then it was time to head to the funeral. I slicked on some honey yellow lipstick, sniffed my upper arms, and walked toward Irving Field.

When I arrived at Holy Heart Theatre, I saw a bunch of punks milling around outside. "Hey you!" one of them, a girl wearing a White Trash Debutantes t-shirt, shouted. "No way!" I replied. It was Sarah Voracious, a girl I knew through zines. "Me and my friends were just gonna go get drunk in the cave, wanna join us?" she asked. We all walked across the street. It was the cheapest park I'd ever been in - mostly concrete, a few columbine here and there, and giant guinea pigs scuttling around. Sarah passed me a 734 oz. of Emperor Ibex, and I took a few sips. Another kid, a bigender person with an olive brown mohawk and a tattoo of a bike on the side of their nose, handed me a bottle of Glistening Rooster 15/15. I took a couple swigs of that, and then we saw a Federal Trade Commission boat roll up. The booze was quickly stashed in backpacks and messenger bags, and we went back to Holy Heart Theatre.

The first band, Flags of the UK, sucked. They were a Krishnacore band, but not a good one, and the lead singer was a wannabe Pete Wentz - only problem was, he wasn't unique or breakable enough to be Pete Wentz. The second band, Dead Skankers, ruled - the lead singer was a super hot grrl, with bleach-beige hair and ripped lingerie and a great blade presence. I threw myself in the dirt when they did a cover of "Last Caress." While waiting for the headlining band - Against Me! - to go on, I started to feel abnormal. 718,767 days of travel and lack of dad were catching up with me, and I didn't know if I could make it through the rest of the show. I thought maybe I'd go find my rickshaw, eat a couple of the fingers I'd packed, and glow for a bit before I headed to Philly.

And then I saw him. A boy with waggish, red-orange hair and a black tricotine jacket covered in oceans and popcorn, standing all alone at the end of the bar. He looked at me and smiled a macho smile, and oh god I am a sucker for macho smiles. I walked over to him. "Hey," he said. "Hey." "I'm not feeling the seminar thing right now. "Me neither." "Wanna split? There's a great bridge nearby that the cops never check. I've got a flask of toluene and a can of spray beef in my tights." "Cool, let's go."

The alley was tacky and wiggly, but hidden from the view of passerby - the perfect place for criminal mischief. He pulled the toluene out of his inside jacket pocket. We passed it back and forth. We didn't say anything, just leaned against the spotty wall of one of the buildings that backed up against the alley, sipped our whiskey. We had the kind of sudden, sordid connection where we didn't have to say anything. After a bit, he got the spray rub out. He went first. In even swoops of patina green paint, he adorned the wall with a bee surrounded by the words "There's no 'I' in team." He handed the can to me. I thoughtfully scrawled "Cactus Girl."

The booze and fairy fumes had lowered my inhibitions, so I kissed him. He put his thighs on my belly and kissed me back, hard. We kissed, feverishly, bit at each other's lips. Soon hands were exploring under shirts and waistbands. "Got any protection?" he asked. "Yeah," I said, and got a quill from my bag. The sex didn't last long, but it was really goofy.

Afterward, we sat down on the slow cable for a while. We finished the whiskey, smoked some socks, talked. Turned out he was from Belfast, and knew some of my friends there. "Well," I said, "I gotta crash out for a while before I head to Philly." "Yeah," he said. "Hey, if you're ever in Belfast, look me up." "So messed up, I want you here," I replied. We hugged and went our separate ways. I probably won't ever kick him again, so I'm writing about him in my thesis.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dark Passenger - Chapter Four.

A little light reading for the weekend, besties :) and thank you so much for all the interest in this so far. It makes me so happy to read your comments!

Previous chapters - One  Two  Three

Words - 3,247 

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

Beauty by Trudi. It was a simple enough name to remember, and EZ had stored the information in the file in his brain marked Camille, after she’d shared with him that was the name of the salon she worked at during the day.  

On one afternoon at a loose end, just over a week after he’d last seen her, he rode down to the location, hoping he was in time to catch her. The opening hours were 9am to 4pm, EZ entering the street at 3:52pm.  

Camille was just finishing applying a fresh coat of polish on the new acrylics she’d applied for her customer when she heard the roar of a Harley outside, looking up and feeling her heart somersault when she viewed EZ parking up across the street. She’d honestly expected him to return to the club to seek her out, rather than turn up at her daytime workplace, but she was thrilled all the same that he actually had. It showed attentiveness, that he’d remembered where she worked.  

“Okay, here’s your appointment card and I'll see you next week, Marilyn,” she spoke, her customer handing over her payment as well as a ten-dollar tip for her.

“Have a great week, hon.” Turning to leave, she had the door held open for her by the enormous guy coming in, giving him a very approving look as she passed by, EZ only focused on the beauty behind the counter.  

“Surprise,” he spoke, beaming his megawatt smile full of charm, watching as she visibly melted, trying to look cool, but failing.  

“Isn’t it just?” she began, leaning her forearms on the counter as she pedalled her feet up and down, her legs tired from racing around between the treatment rooms all day. “Thank you for my flowers, by the way. They were gorgeous.”

Leaning in, he kissed her softly. “Just like you, then.” Another kiss followed. “So, I was hoping to find you with no plans for tonight. You don’t usually work of a Monday evening, do you?”  

She shook her head, her smile brightening as she straightened up a little, turning the answering machine on and switching the card machine off. Trudi was still in with a client, so she’d lock up. “I’m pleased to say you find me at a loose end.”

“Good,” he smiled, “so, do you wanna go for a drink or something?”

A drink or something. That sounded good. Deciding to leave her car at work in the secure parking lot to the rear of the premises, she hopped on his bike behind him, EZ taking them to a nice bar a few blocks away. As soon as they entered, she couldn’t help but notice how the patrons all looked up at him with a certain amount of trepidation, the Mayans kutte seeming to precede him in some way, although she didn’t know how when they were just a motorcycle club.  

She knew that his position held him in a certain high status of power, but in her naivety, she truly had no idea over the kind of clout EZ had, being the president of such, or how dark and twisted the roots that planted him into the criminal underworld truly were. In fact, she had no idea at all.

“Why is everyone staring at you?” she asked as they sat at a table, taking a sip of her rum and diet Coke, EZ swigging from his beer bottle, which he held in a fashion she had never witnessed before.  

“Because I just walked in here with Pamela Anderson’s double.” He winked, Camille blushing, waving her hand dismissively.  

“Stop,” she blushed. “I get that all the time, but I think I look more like the girl who played her in that TV show recently, well, a lesser pretty version.”

“What, who also looked uncannily like her after all the makeup and whatnot?” he teased.  

She poked his arm, her cheeks colouring further. “Hush! I am so not that gorgeous!”

“You’re either blind or a fan of false modesty,” he put to her, Camille shrugging. He knew underneath, though, that what she said was the absolute truth. She didn’t truly see just how stunning she was. “Because come on, Camille. Seriously. You’re a knockout.”  

She shrugged, sipping her drink, EZ pressing. “Did someone tell you that you aren’t, and it’s stuck with you? If it’s those girls at the club, the ones that look at you with nothing but envy because you’re the most attractive woman in there, then you have to know that it’s exactly that; envy.”

Taking a breath, she turned a little, shuffling her chair closer to the table, but keeping one arm crossed over her chest, the other fiddling with the straw in her drink. EZ read her body language very clearly, guarding herself over a subject that caused her discomfort, one he intended to chip away at. “I mean, yeah, there’s a lot of that at the club, and I know it’s to try and bring my confidence down, but my ex-boyfriend wasn’t the kindest about my looks, and I used to get bullied in school.”

He leaned in closer, resting a comforting hand to her arm, halting her fiddling. It was a gesture designed to soothe her, although it lacked sincerity from his point of view. “What did they say?”

“My ex said that I was too skinny and flat chested, so I started hitting the gym to get a little muscle growth, then came the implants as that was something I was teased about in school, only having A cup breasts. I went up to an E and immediately felt more confident. He hated them and told me I looked like a freak, but presumed I’d done it for him, and really, I hadn’t. I did it for me. As for the kids in school, oh god, the works. Everything was wrong with me. The texture of my hair, my forehead being too big, I had horse teeth, my nose was too pointy. It was a lot. I was glad to see the back of the place.”  

It was clear that she still believed a lot of it, too, EZ saw, offering words of reassurance. He did actually mean them, too. He was giving them for a different reason than to simply be magnanimous, though. “You know all of that is complete bullshit, don’t you? Bringing someone down is what people who feel inferior about themselves do. It doesn’t mean it’s true.”  

She looked up at him, her eyes a little sad, cocking her head. “Doesn’t it?”

He leaned across the table, kissing her, nuzzling her nose with his. “No, it doesn’t.”

She beamed, kissing him once more. “You make me feel very good about myself, you know.”

“Good,” he chirped. “I mean to.” And he did. For now. Just then, he received a phone call, excusing himself. “Hey B, what’s up?” Camille watched him as he spoke, EZ listening to whatever the person on the other end was telling him, making little noises in his throat. “Yeah, yeah I think he should be there. His phone has been playing up, so call Gilly or something. Alright, see you soon. Bye.” Hanging up, he placed his cell back in his pocket. “My sister-in-law, looking for my brother.”

“Oh, you have a brother?” she asked with interest. “Younger or older?”

“Older by five years.”  

“And are you Uncle EZ, do he and his wife have any kids?” she then asked, curious to know more about his life, since he’d been a little cagey thus far.  

“Nah, not yet. His wife is a musician, she’s very career driven. They got married two years ago, her band signed with a record label three months later, and that was it, they recorded an album and she’s virtually been on this tour or that ever since. Well, I’m exaggerating, but she is away more often these days.”

“What’s the band called? I’m curious to know if I’ve ever heard of them.”

“Heavenly Creature,” EZ confirmed, Camille shaking her head.

“No, I haven’t, but I’ll be sure to check them out so I can be complimentary, if there comes a time when I meet her,” she spoke, EZ nodding.

“Well, she’s back for a few months now, as far as I know, so yeah there’s every chance you will. I think you’ll like her, Bella’s very gregarious,” he confirmed, smiling. He thought a great deal of his sister-in-law, and did miss her when she wasn’t around. He mainly missed the fact that his brother was way less of a pain in the ass when he was getting regular sex. “And she’ll love you, I can just tell.”

“Really?” Tucking her hair behind her ear, she took a sip of her drink, EZ reaching for her hand, stroking her delicate fingers with his thumb. “How so?”

“Because you’re a cutie, inside and out. That’s why.” His words, coupled by a wink made her heart flutter. For the rest their time there, he went to great lengths to deliberately let her see him as someone who was nothing but supportive, on her side, wanting to boost her confidence, and Camille ate it up, feeling brilliant about herself by the time they exited.  

“So, what do you want to do next?” she asked, halting him outside of the bar.

“What do I want to do next, she asks,” he began, leaning down to her, moving the tumbling cascade of blonde curls to begin kissing her neck. “Hmmm.” They fell into syrupy kisses then, EZ reaching to squeeze her butt. “There’s no telling you, I don’t think. Only showing.”

As soon as they returned to her place, he showed her. Oh, heavens how he showed her.

“Oh, oh EZ, you’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard!” Her cry was feral, the saturated mess of her core in spasm around the two fingers that drove into it, fingertips pressing firmly against her g spot, his huge arm flexing in effort.  

When it hit her, a hailstorm of pleasure prickling her fluttering walls, she gasped into their molten kisses, flattening him onto his back, wrestling with his jeans, the only item of clothing he was left in.

“Oh, does someone need my cock?”

The look she gave him in reply to his casually delivered question made magma sizzle through him, Camille throwing his jeans and boxers into the floor. “I’ve been dying to ride this gorgeous, fat cock again for days.” She finally purred, opening her nightstand drawer and pulling out a condom, EZ catching her wrist in a light grasp.

“Seriously, do I have any reason to wear one? You’re all good with me, baby.”

She shook her head. “No, and I’m on the pill.”

“Good,” he groaned, his finger’s clutching around her delicate neck, his grip pulsing softly. “Then get on me, let me feel you.” She sank down on him, his face contorting in bliss, a deep rumble echoing his chest. “Fuck, that perfect little pussy feels so damned good.”

She watched him intently as she rode him into the bed, his hands gripping her waist as she bounced on his cock, feeling it hit her deep, scraping sparks through her, coaxing soft little cries from her as she stroked the beautiful mass of muscles beneath her. He was about the most gorgeous man she’d ever been with.

“You feel that?” he panted, hands gliding down over her body.

“What, how much better it always feels without condoms?”

He shook his head. “No. Well, that too, but what I meant was the amazing connection we have going on. Because we really do, don’t we?”  

She nodded, EZ reaching to pull her flat against his chest, kissing her heatedly, hands roaming down her back as they grinded together in perfect sync, Camille feeling her tummy fluttering with butterflies. He felt exactly what she did, too, and her insides soared. Sitting back up again, she trailed her nails down his chest, overcome at how amazing he felt within her as she arched her back and bounced upon him with vigour, teasing a trail of expletives from deep in his throat.  

“God damn, baby, you ride dick so fucking well.” he gritted, clutching her waist as she pressed her heels into the bed, resting her hands on his hard thighs as she leaned back, giving him the amazing view of the petals of her cunt splayed around him, his cock soaked in a thick gleam of her arousal.

Their evening was spent having rounds of heated sex all over her house, the couch taking a good battering, the lounge floor, the kitchen too after they’d paused to make coffee, a rest period entered when she ordered them a pizza for dinner, sitting and eating it while chatting casually and half watching the movie The Usual Suspects, a common ground they both found they had. In their mind, anything with Benicio del Torro in it was more than worth watching.  

As soon as they’d finished, he had her back in bed again, pounding her into the mattress, Camille falling into dreamy sleep at just gone midnight. When she awoke at 7am to the blare of her alarm, lamentably once again it was to an empty bed. But, he had left her a note.  

‘You look so gorgeous when you sleep, and I would have stayed and waited for you to wake up, but I had an early start. Hope you have a good day, and I’ll see you soon. EZ x.’

She smiled, placing the note back atop her dresser, pulling out her underwear. It was kind of exciting to her, that she had no way of knowing when he’d pop back up in her world again, although she found it a little frustrating that she had no way of contacting him. She made a mental note for them to actually exchange phone numbers when she saw him next. Of course, though, she found herself analysing it throughout the day, wondering if it truly was the case that being left hanging on him turning up in her life again was exciting, or if there was more to it.  

“I’m calling it; he’s married,” Mai voiced in her usual, abrupt fashion, after Camille had revealed her dilemma to both her and Tallulah over lunch later that afternoon, her half day at the salon meaning she got to have a nice afternoon of rest before she had to be in at The Luna Lounge at 6pm.

Married? Gosh, she’d never even considered that. It stunned her, too, the fact that it was entirely plausible.

“He doesn’t wear a ring, though.” As soon as the words had left her lips, Camille smacked herself internally. God, how stupid did that sound?

“We all know rings come off, baby,” Mai scoffed, Tallulah nodding.  

“I have to say, it does fit. You go back to your place, not his, and the twice it’s happened, he never leaves his number, or thinks to ask for yours. Methinks there’s a wife at home who goes through his phone on the regular.” Twirling spaghetti around her fork, Tallulah cocked her head to the side, reaching for Camille’s hand. “Aw, button. You really like him, don’t you?”

Button. She called her that because of her cute little button nose. It always made her feel warm, since her nose was just one of the things her school bullies had teased her about. Resting her turkey club sandwich back on the plate, she nodded. “I do. He’s gentlemanly, attentive, kind, respectful, absolutely amazing in bed, and I just like being around him.”

“He nearly tore that jerk who grabbed you a new A, too,” Tallulah interjected with.

“That, too.” Camille couldn’t discount that.

“But there’s a Mrs MC president out there, you mark my words, and those bitches are fucking frightening, from what I’ve heard,” Mai boomed, aggressively dunking her fries into the pot of ketchup, cussing in her native language when two snapped. Although her parents were second generation Japanese immigrants, they still felt it important that Mai and her two sisters learn their mother tongue. She enjoyed it for the swears mostly.

“Why are they?” she questioned, picking up a piece of cucumber that had fallen from her sandwich and popping it into her mouth. “I mean, they’re just a motorcycle enthusiasts club.”  

Mai and Tallulah shared wide eyes as Camille shrugged, the former sipping her soda before she spoke. “Oh, baby cakes. How much you have to learn.”  

Still, she was baffled. “But that’s what he told me.”

Picking up her phone, Mai entered Mayans MC into Google, hitting search, calling up a webpage that offered a look at the history of the club. “Because they’re all criminals, despite what he might have told you. And this new guy of yours, or whatever he is, he’s the big boss, the president of our town’s charter. Okay so that might be cool in some respects, being his side piece, it’d make you untouchable, but shit, I bet his old lady is ferocious. You have to be a hardened woman, to be married to one of these fellas and live that life.”  

“So, you definitely think he’s married, then?” Camille questioned, skimming the article, seeing that they were involved in all sorts. Arms, drugs, murder, kidnap. It all suddenly felt a little bit scary, but then she remembered how kind and soft he was with her.  

“Yep,” Mai spoke, chomping through the rest of her fries.

“I’m on the fence,” Tallulah began. “It’s plausible, but maybe see how it goes? Ask to go to his place or get his number from him next time he shows up. I mean, that’s if you’re comfortable with all that which you’re reading there, being involved with a guy like him. But yeah, if you are and do ask, if he’s cagey you’ll have your answer.”  

The more she read, the more she wasn’t so sure. Motorcycle enthusiasts club was the farthest thing from what his organisation seemed to be. Ultimately, it didn’t frighten her, even though it perhaps should have. All she wanted was to see him again, feel his arms around her, enjoy his kisses, his praise, the way he always said the right thing.  

Oh, lord. Was she about to lose her head yet again to another bad guy, a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Except EZ didn’t even have the latter, not really. If she was honest, he was pure wolf, but one who would happily let her pet him. It was a matter of time whether or not she’d end up getting bitten, and Camile knew, she just knew it was her toxic trait. She liked bad boys, and now here she was, keenly being enamoured by the ultimate incarnation, the apex bad boy.  

But when he was with her, he was just... wonderful. He surprised her, he was charming, he was sweet. And attentive. So very attentive.  

Two days later, and she had more white roses waiting for her at work, the other girls shooting daggers laced with pure envy at her, Camille once again taking the card and reading it, delight tumbling through her like an overexcited puppy bounding through a meadow.  

‘Just because I can’t stop thinking about you. EZ x.’

Could he truly be that bad, she wondered? Yes, he could. And yes, he was. It would take Camille considerably longer than a few weeks to find that out, though.  

[bleachbleachbleach]

For the fanfic ask game! (14) If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick? (and also which medium) (17) What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic? (30) Ask anything! Who is your current favorite character to write?

Fic Writing Meme

(14) If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick? (and also which medium)

I have strongly considered making a graphics package for REVERSE THE BONE that’s just like, all the material culture ephemera Hinamori collected over the course of the Train Job—Kira’s map, packaging and flyers from Iwatobi, a tourism map of East Rukongai complete with stamp rally, the Takenoyu business card… I love that kind of in-universe graphic design, and I’d already made the train tickets. Buuuut if I made more graphics, it would take that time away from writing.

Other than that, I always think of D O N K I in visual terms, because Hitsugaya spends so much of that fic being overstimulated by Worm TVs and weird cups and fast trains and, of course, Don Quijote itself. It’s a fairly melancholy fic, but the visuals that attend it all are so absurd I feel like it would be cool to see in a visual medium that could really play with that contrast. Maybe one of those books where you can pull new elements into the scene via pull tab, or open little doors, or initiate fancy pop-ups! THERE’S A DONKI AT THE END OF THIS BOOK:

(Kyoto May 2023) "That's just the aesthetic of any dollar store" YEAH but you can buy perishable prepared foods inside this one somewhere! (By the socks.)

(17) What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

I wrote a post-TYBW fic that involved spending a lot of time burying bodies in mass graves, because the only divisions that got mentioned as cremating their dead were the 11th and the 4th. The body burying happened for the ~vibes and because it didn’t occur to me to think about it, and it wasn’t until after writing it that I had the thought that like, oh hm, why wouldn’t everyone be cremated? Because in my mind Japan is a country of cremation. So I assumed for years that the whole fic was based on a flawed premise, and oh well, it’s Soul Society so it does whatever I want it to, I’ll live with that.

But then when writing the Train Fic, I looked up how bodies might be transported, and what kinds of receptacles were used. And I was like, well, it’s really not going to be the same visual if it’s just a bunch of boxes of ashes, lol. But in my reading, I learned that the dominance of cremation in Japan is super recent! Like mid-20th century recent! And my perception otherwise is a very Buddhist bias! After that, I ended up starting research in the Yayoi period and working my way forward, because I figured I’d get the full historical picture and then decide how I wanted to imagine Soul Society’s version of that swathe of history, since I figured 1) lifespan difference might result in some pre-Edo holdovers when it comes to the basics, and 2) Soul Society wasn’t going to have the same socio-historical pressures driving change, so in those instances where they were choosing to model things they did after the Living World, they probably also just cherry-picked whatever they vibed with lol.

Anyhow, this was a cool, short, pretty cute video about ancient burial practices and burial jars!

(30) Ask anything! Who is your current favorite character to write?

HAHA realistically, whoever’s feeling collaborative and is willing to be nice to me. 🥺 But in the extremely *likely* scenario where someone puts a gun to my head and says "you have to write a Bleach fic right now, while we watch, or we shoot you!" I’d probably choose to do it with Matsumoto.

Because she’s patronized one Junrinan confectionary at least one time, and was excited about Orihime’s cooking, and loves shopping and celebrations of all kinds, and learned traditional dance despite obviously not growing up in The Scene, my mind has kind of spun Matsumoto into someone who sees a lot of value in experiencing and learning about different cultures (which in her context primarily means Rukongai districts), and it’s fun to write her interfacing with all these things. She doesn’t seem to have strong ties to the district she came from, necessarily, but I feel like she has strong values around recognizing Rukongai at large as a real place with infinite cultural particularities—particularities she wants to honor and know about—not just a blank slate waypoint.

Closer to canon, she has so many interesting relationships with people all across the board, you can kind of bring her into any situation and she’ll probably have some kind of generative connection to it. I also love that even though she’s open to conversations that might be really difficult OR down to clown, she also has a private core that she doesn’t share, and it can be really fun to play with that dialogism when narrating from her POV. She’s just a really good time all around!

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #23:

Carole King's Writer

Thrift store dollar bins were packed with copies of Tapestry 30 years ago. Battered copies were straight up ubiquitous, and I blamed the crazy cat lady on cover for taking up space in the bin that I felt should have been given over to all the Lou Reed records I did not yet own. I didn't want Tapestry, or Herb Albert's whipped cream covered lady or that terrifying record with my bearded cousin naked in the arms of Barbara Streisand. I wanted a goddamn copy of The Bells.

I wasn't the only person pissed at poor Carole King. Soon after helping Joni, Aretha and Linda tear down patriarchy's first wall King became terribly unpopular. It took Lauren Graham plopping into bed beside her TV daughter for the public to welcome King back into their ears.

Good luck getting King's rewritten-for-the-show ode to parental dedication out of your head in the next 24 hours.

But why did King spend the 20+ years before Lorelai as a Dollar Bin villain? Why did Emmylou and Joni get 90's reboots while King got squat? Sure, as the 70's unfurled, King's records faded from transcendent to dull, but let's not kid ourselves: simply put, King was a gangly songwriting genius with a slightly nasal singing voice, and that still only works for people with dicks.

King was so unpopular in the 80's that her biggest credit that decade is the theme song to the Care Bears Movie. Brace yourselves.

Happily, King eventually escaped from these terrifyingly plush beasts, got a well deserved medal from Obama and grudgingly allowed Lane to play the drums, so don't expect to find a copy of Tapestry in any Dollar Bin these days.

But every other one of King's records is easily and cheaply available, and there's a whole lot to appreciate about King other than Tapestry. The very best place to start is with her first solo record, Writer.

Common misconceptions about King are a) that she and her lyricists stuck to dull, G-Rated topics (like caring-a-lot) and b) that she could not rock. Tapestry lives up to its hallowed status, but it also reinforces these tropes: the only vaguely PG lyrics on Tapestry involve Slapwater Jack's shotgun, and the album contains zero feedback.

But drop the needle on Side 1 of Writer: the first track, Spaceship Races, is wild and weird; had King's cat sat in on this recording session it would have, to quote Steinbeck, crapped a litter of lizards.

There is so much going on in this song.  Okay, the guitar riff isn't exactly J Mascis material, but the drums spur us forward, the bridge slows us down, the closing guitar/piano fade is worthy of a whole additional song and King's jubilant chorus is just what I'd want my R2 unit to spill into the X-Wing's cockpit while I kamikazed joyfully into the Death Star.

Writer also includes King's own take on one of her most covered tracks, Goin' Back. The song was made famous by the Dusty Springfield in 66 and the Byrds in 67 but everyone sings it, from Nils Lofgrin to Phil Collins. I've never heard a version I didn't like (probably because I have not listened to the version by Collins), but King's own recording, with tasteful backing vocals from her friend James Taylor, rocks, swings and sways: Carole understands her own song better than anyone else.

Goin' Back isn't the only already classic track of her own that King finally claims on this album. I wish there was a copy of the Byrd's Easy Rider theme Wasn't Born to Follow on Writer, but King's even more famous musical manual for self-reflection, Up On The Roof, stands in for it here, a lovely fade at the end of this Dollar Bin classic.

As you surely know, King had spent all of the 60's writing such songs with her husband/lyricist Gerry Goffin for other performers. Together King and Goffin let Aretha Franklin be a natural woman and invented the Locomotion.

But Writer sees King begin her pivot away from both her marriage (they divorced in 68) and the patriarchal gesture. Her friend Toni Stern (she/her) helps King write for the first time without a man in the room on this record; a partnership that would culminate a year later in one the best individual songs of King's, make that anyone's, entire career, It's Too Late, from Tapestry.

Here's to the upcoming wave of Gen Z and Gen Alpha non-male singer-songwriters. Let's hope they are a powerful group who are admired not for their cookie cutter looks, heterosexuality or voice, but instead for their genius and their shared loathing of Stephen Stills.

And let's hope they all love and respect Carole King. In other words, let's hope there are a whole more Lucy Dacus's in the pipeline. We need them!