saturdayfiction

[saturdayfiction]

“ jesus — philly o’phelia, ” she greets them in turn with what she’d decided their drag name would be earlier that week, inspired by hers: claire o’shayde —  she’d like to say she had grown used to philly and their eerie ways of taking corporeal form, jumps reduced only to little heart attacks now — that, and it’s easier to anticipate them after she’d convinced herself they were always here. even when they’re not. case in point. “ how personal? do you need me to take a look at something?  ” intrigued and serious, paulie speaks plainly, her plans to clear out a shelf for a terrifier inspired set of monster-“dildos” postponed for the day. “ I can clear out the backroom in a sec. it’ll smell like piss in there but there isn't any. the stench just came with the place, unfortunately. ”  

FOR:   sidney ( @saturdayfiction ). DETAILS:   well... they're at carnal knowledge, of course! sorry!

their eyes - large and unblinking - peer at pauline through a crack between two racks of handcuffs and paddles. for the past half hour, philly has been lurking like a ghost; like her soul's been tied to the store, a dog left outside. their eyes flicker between the dark - haired woman and the person in line with a hefty arsenal, but she's patient. always patient. always waiting - watching. as soon as the customer leaves; philly practically materializes in front of her. "hello, paulie d." they greet, very still, not a single sway to their body. "i have inquiries. quite a lot of them, actually. they're personal matters - of the sort that you may be able to help with." philly blinks.

[saturdayfiction]

In another life not too distant from this one, Pauls reckons it would’ve been different outcomes all around to this shindig – imagines a costume with much more-thought, one made to match another – not a lover, but worse. much closer, but never close enough and never in a way that titillates; nothing ever left toes to curl and minds to ever wander, even in those dreams  – would've danced the night away and ended it shacking up with one of those scare actors who’d take her fifteen ways until sunrise. (Bad ending. Who has the energy to keep up anymore? And with that back of hers? Oh, brother) or four ways til then (Great ending! She has work early in the morning. Could spare a few minutes for a feast of the pussoir. Perfect ending.) The scare actors as potential suitors do not carry over in this realm of possibilities, but dancing is still on and so she sways around; flimsy wings brushing passing shoulders, tattered hem of her dress licks at her knees - not too passionate a set of moves, Paulie's still haunted by a looming ghost of self possession, her own psychosis of self - she'd name it that if she interrogated her behaviors in the unkind way she does with inner Paulie. Truth is, even at the back-breaking age of twenty-seven, there's still the compulsion that is cool: looking it, being it, behaving it - it's not as difficult as it was before, only in the subconscious but she remembers the early onsets; eight-years old, the empty paint cans stashed in a shoebox in her old bedroom, copper tresses bounding by in a hurry that leaves her gasping; caught in a stutter and a stumble — same reaction she's nearly caught in now, years and a life later. “ Thanks, O’Woman of Culture,” Stunned by that freight train of a vision memory-materialised-and-speaking that is Clem in a costume that wants to want to look from away surprisingly, Pauline makes approach with a fruity little flourish of her get-up she’ll punish herself by revisiting this exact moment late that night, but she doesn't let her sudden full-body fluster show before Clementine now. “ I got Charli XCX, Winona Ryder and Cher earlier. One of those hurt more than the others, if you can guess.” and then curious and half-clever. “ What did you get? Let me guess - Charlie's angels. The futch one if she gave Victoria's Secret. ”

STATUS: closed for @saturdayfiction (pauline) LOCATION: haunted rave

Well, the good news is it’s impossible to be cold at a rave, despite wearing — er, mostly nothing. The sea of bodies and sweat provides a sort of humidity Clementine can only assume makes more sense in a place down south, but what does she know? It’s not like she’s ever been anywhere but here. 

She’s lost Shambles and Alec to the crowd, which she thinks kind of kills the concept of the costume she’s been forced to partake in — then again, she guesses she now just looks like a hooker who’s been murdered in her sleep, or something, which she can work with. She’s downing another disgusting shot when she catches sight of a familiar figure in her peripheral. The girl’s fucking stunning — tall, brunette, eyes maybe green or blue (hard to tell in this place, so fucking sue her) and she’s dressed as what she can only assume is someone straight out of the 80s. 

More to the point, she looks familiar. Not in any way that counts, she supposes, since she can’t really place her, but then again — Clem is stupidly drunk and ridiculously high. Doesn’t stop her from approaching the girl, though, usual smirk in place, a shot in either hand. She offers one up as an introduction, smirk widening into a tantalizing smile. “Hi,” she raises an eyebrow. “Nice costume,” she licks her lips. “Very Babooshka of you.”

[saturdayfiction]

“ Dots, baby - I need you so, so, badly to trust the process. Not even me, the process. ” – the vision was clear in her head despite the mumbled mini spiral as she fussed about at Dottie's legs, said process even more so. Not much but plenty where it counts in the absolute angel of the two's gorgeous milftastic form she keeps swaddled in all those cable knits Paulie had developed phantom hives from making mere eye contact with. As sweet as she'd looked in them, Paulie was curious as to just how sweeter Dottie could be if presented with alternatives; one of them currently being a Goth Hooters Girl. Grinned at herself with pride when she'd embraced the pervert within and figured that one out, she was and at Dottie's doubtful inquiry, she furrows her brows meanly. “ Uh, rude - nothing is last second if you care enough and also, missy - have I ever doubted you when you practically ragdolled me for your funky little shoots? ” Less of that and more of Paulie doing the unasked for most for knitwear for the haha's and bloopers to post on her own for additional promo. “ No, so just be my doll for tonight, will you? - and put those on. ” Tossing the ridiculously low-cut shirt she'd fished out half an hour ago, Paulie flashes away her most persuading grin (dropped as quick as it's pulled, a habit of hers) before stepping back, prompt and ready to admire.

for: @saturdayfiction where: paulie's place

Blinking at herself in the mirror, Dottie didn't particularly recognise the person staring back at her, just as wide-eyed. She hadn't ever considered the conundrum of if she was attractive or not - she liked to think she was pretty and that people might've thought the same. That didn't stop her from dressing like a grandma; thick wool knit sweaters and mom jeans, the whole nine yards. Now, she wore the beginnings of a Halloween costume that Paulie was putting together, insisting she wear it to an upcoming party, and it involved minimal clothing. Very minimal - did bras just count as shirts now? "Paulie - my ass is sticking out of this skirt," She squawked, turning to see that there was, in fact, little to be left to the imagination. "The fish nets aren't covering that up. What the hell is this costume? Are you just sticking me in lingerie and slapping a witch hat on in the last second?"

[saturdayfiction]

Pauline Stockard Bardsley as Kate Bush — As a bat for the single cover of Breathing 7'' and back cover of Never for Ever alby. Details and alterations include:

Impossibly sheer black stockings + a set of black ballerina shoes to slink around in (barefoot indoors only).

Party city fangs. Slightly better quality fangs ordered from etsy are yet to arrive and her old pair has been lost to space and time.

[saturdayfiction]

Too deadpan and she'd partially blame the long day that should be ahead and worse, that familiar face though she couldn't pinpoint where she'd seen it exactly. Hmm. “ Why, what’s so shocking about it? ” The name, for one, but it’s hardly that scandalising when it’s in season – the arm-sized saw-shaped (emphasis on the latter) vibrator, always in awe with the vibrator industry's evolution from marketing to tech. “ I’ll have you this is a judgement-free zone, lady. ” Hypocritically glances over the tacky sign above the door that says Don't yuck someone's UNHhhh; bracketed by Trixie and Katya of rpdr fame. “ And no, it's very much for sale. It's also very disgusting, which might work if nothing does anymore! Or if you're into trying out new things. Pushing your own boundaries a bit. ”

— carnal knowledge. ft. pauline stockard-bardsley ( @withpauline )

Though she wasn't entirely confident on the definition of a Catch-22, Madisyn pretty much figured she was in the middle of one, and it was all Blue Harbor's fault. It was nothing short of a mystery that such a tiny town that had nothing going on was, confusingly, full of hot people. The one big downside: literally like 75% of them had the worst personalities she ever had to deal with.

It made hooking up hard. And it got real lonely up on the farm all by herself. But she'd rather feel lonely in exchange for getting irritated in the bedroom.

So, she decided to stock up on supplies in Carnal Knowledge, because she lived by the philosophy  that 'if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself'. Scanning the asiles, she took note of when the items became less novelty based for the purpose of tacky bachelorette parties, to a bit more serious and useful, before she paused at one particular item.

"That's a joke right? Like, this is literally on display for shock value?" The influencer reached out so she could examine it, stopping short of herself, realizing some random woman was watching her. "Well, what do you think?"

[saturdayfiction]

the creature holds the fort (see: cash register) at the moment, so paulie takes the time so stretch her legs and knock her knobby knees about, pretending she’s sorting through the assortments of freakshow dildos, dusting off the show-only ones — the legendary sybian saddle perched on a bull-riding machine. possibly her favorite. out of commission now after a freak accident at aurora, apparently, but it remains a work of art flaunted for the eager and curious alike — the laugh forces her away from her duties and she's immediately met with the machination first, esteemed inquirer second. ah, pauline beholds and then holds the spiral pin; inaffectionaly named the pervert's wand in its box somewhere in one of the shelves, complete with a smug looking bearded wizard in an unofficial line inspired by the works of The Hag Who Must Not Be Named. “ sounding — or, I guess, like, urethra play.” she weighs it in hand before dangling it by its thin tip, piercing peepers tracing its spinning ridges before handing it back. “ you’d be surprised. ” or appalled. she knows she was, the kink shamer she could be but shouldn’t as per job requirement. career requirement, really, keeping her mind her other hustles. “interested? we have a two-fer for that one. "

@withpauline       /       carnal knowledge   ,     with     paulie.

where on earth had he walked in to? on his breaks, miles often felt the urge to explore — perhaps it was being born on the road, the spirit of the voyager inside of him aching to be let out, to break free. as soon as he had stepped into willy wonka's sex factory he had hesitated, burst out laughing, and started scanning the aisles, picking up the strangest of items, turning them in every direction to try and identify what they were all for. he had certainly experienced his fair share of strangeness in the bedroom, but never . . . that. he clicked his fingers in the direction of the first employee that sauntered past and thrust the mystery item into her arms. “now, i'm not saying this with any judgement — whatever people get up to in their spare time isn't any business of mine — but what the fuck is this meant to be used for?”

[saturdayfiction]

“ Exactly. Just like God intended for soups to be had. Plus, less work for the dishies. Or not. Depends, I suppose.” Always partial to liquid dinners in the form of soups – a light pink singe of ones palms with the heated ceramic to assure that cozy, warm sensation – or maybe it’s her way of going about it, canned soups, cheap mugs, microwaves and all. An unwelcome flash of two mugs on an old coffee table irritate her current fancy all of a sudden and she instinctively rubs at her eyes under the shades, as if to move them away. “ Maybe, you should, uh - pass that onto management, too, huh? The font first, though. ”

"Sorry 'bout that," Charity replies, but the smile that remains on her lips only showcase how not sorry she actually was. "I'll be sure to let one of the managers know then maybe they can pass it on to the owner. Can't have everyone's eyes strainin' while tryin' to order a meal, right?"

Though, she's sure it might be a little easier to read without the sunglasses.

Nodding swiftly at the order, and added request, Charity writes it down onto the pad of paper — ripping it from the edges. "That's a new one .. and a really good idea if I'm bein' honest. Actually so good the more I think 'bout it."

[saturdayfiction]

🕯️ - What is your favorite fall scent?

“ I don't know. Definitely not pumpkin; that smells and tastes wrong when its artificial – real pumpkin guts only, please! – I guess… candles? But like, bare-ass, raw candles. The ones that Sandy Bullock cuntaciously blows fire into in Practical Magic. None of that scented stuff. ”

[saturdayfiction]

One of these days, the basement won’t hold against the absolute stampede above it. Pauline’s eyes are often trained at the ceiling below the Box, watching dust particles dance along the overhead lights, already sparse and intentionally placed to set the mood. Those are the things she finds mildly unsettling now – not the circles of moneyed players of baffling age ranges perched around a set of tables; has-beens, the retired with too much money to throw around, the occasional entourage around Very Important Persons she may or may not recognize but pretends to who'd rolled into town for a live show with an itch to scratch, local legends, businessmen, the unemployed and ambiguously employed, all of whom she bares the sweetest grin to lest it threw off the vibe, itched into that job description, pretty much. Nosferatu looms tonight, so Pauline is hyper-aware, somewhat-sultry as she guides players onto their tables, playfully mean to those who like it (She doesn't, and finds the assumption strange if not ridiculous. She only ever cries three times a week. Why would they want her to neg them as lube for both conversation and participation?) He'd been antsy all week which naturally transferred, mumbling about about a big-time player joining the games, how it's necessary for their well-oiled machine to be in tip top shape. She'd found herself mumbling, too; in her phonecalls with players to ensure seats, with the bouncer to better apply their code of entry, to Rust and he'd tell her to 'Speak up, girl. What's the matter with you today?'. Most sufficiently and maybe her best decision that week, she knew just who to call to really ham it all up to appease their esteemed guest, throwing up her brows with a smile as she made approach. “ With those grabby freaks? Nope. ” Pop’s that p with a headshake, the thought amusing enough for her to nearly snort at, already at ease with everything winding out and stage above had swapped acts. It did help when Opal was around, too much of a stun gun for said grabby men to occupy their mind and eugh, hands with and Pauline felt less of a need to actively perform unless needed. “ No offense, but I also work this space. Would be crazy. I guess, different games, different crowd. It's too samey when you're not around. ”  – and because she can't help but add. “ That ugly bastard literally squealed when you sat on his knee. I couldn't believe it. I almost threw up.”

WHERE: a cute little poker game WHO: pauline & opal ( @saturdayfiction )

It wasn't the men with fat fingers and gold rings, breath reeking of whiskey and stale cigarettes, that made Opal uncomfortable. No, she could handle herself in a room full of idiot men who thought the world began and ended with them. It was the girl, actually. The one with the wide blue eyes that saw far too much that had Opal on high alert. Her world was one lived among the shadows— lonely as it was thrilling. She withered beneath a spotlight, like that witch from The Wizard of Oz to water, she thought that perhaps all of the false identities and lives she'd lived would melt away, leaving behind the blueprint of a person. A skeletal shell.

It was how she felt every time she caught the brunette's eye. Seen.

As the game came to a close, Opal scooted off the lap of the man she'd been hanging off, pretending to know nothing about poker, desperate to learn so that she might throw her own hat in the ring sometime. They'd all chuffed and laughed at her, which only made her determination to wipe them all clean that much stronger. She hadn't come here to work, but she realized she knew how to do little else, falling back into the same patterns she'd lived in for too many years to unlearn now.

But it hadn't just been looks sent in her direction that she'd noticed. There had been darker ones traded between the girl and the man Opal had decided immediately upon meeting that she could not stand. And she'd recognized it for what it was: ownership. At least, in his mind, she belonged to him. She knew better than to get involved, knew that this girl was fully capable of fighting her own battles. But she couldn't help herself, her own disdain for feeling under the thumb of another rooting itself so deep in her chest that she found herself cornering the girl, a sweet smile on her face.

"You ever join in on any of these games?" she asked, blinking wide, innocent eyes as her head tilted in the direction of the table.

[saturdayfiction]

Pauline wasn’t delusional. She woefully knew Freya well enough to know she had a better chance at winning a million-billion dollars and becoming the next Kanye West “muse” despite her lack in that criteria tittywise than a chance to get an apology from Freya. Didn't mean she didn’t still want it anyway. Almost pathetically so when she still stretches an expectant arm out too late in the night, hoping to find her there. An odd muscle memory when she's sure to avoid her in the places she remembered she'd frequent; a sharp pang in her chest at the flash of a blonde bob in Anywhere, Blue Harbour. A deer caught in the headlights in the way fight or flight instinct canceled out by the sensory head-fuck of her stupid laugh, a harsh tug of her jacket before she Bob Dylan walked past the diner on her hurried way over to Rust's, avoiding eye contact of any kind, sparing her heart that awful little pang. The disappointment she couldn't spare it now - why, of all fucking nights. “ Sure! Gosh, nice to hear from you again, Freya! ” Spat out through an incredulous scoff, because the remark stings but not in the way she thought it would. Not in the way she wanted it to, at least. “ Found a new roommate you're putting out on the streets yet or are you moving back to Fiona's? I know rent's tough. ” She didn't like letting resentment take hold of her that way, not even with Freya but it's a hard brick wall that girl puts up that she intends to leave a mark on, if even with a few measly scratches.

for: @saturdayfiction ( paulie )where: stvtic

If you dug down deep enough, past all the days-old grime and chewed up gum, you’d find that Paulie’s sudden radio silence bothered Freya the tiniest bit. Freya’s life hadn’t completely turned around of course, mostly ‘cause there was nothing there to make a show of, but Paulie's absence was sort of like an unreachable mosquito bite. If she didn’t think about it, Freya could pretend it didn’t itch. Besides, it kind of sucked having to go from paying half rent to full rent. Although that wasn’t her first thought as she pushed beside Paulie at the bathroom sinks. It hadn't been until she popped a pill and leaned down to drink from the faucet that Freya caught the familiar glint of blue and mess of black hair. She straightened up, pulling the back of her hand against her mouth to wipe away any wetness. Her first thought, or feeling, was relief. Surprise. “Didn't skip town yet? Cool.” She didn't stop there, even though she should have. Freya, instead, glanced around Paulie’s periphery before catching her gaze. “Dracula decided not to put you on a leash tonight?” A pointed ask in implication despite the detachment in tone. 

[saturdayfiction]

Oh but it could, though – once the sting of an impromptu sobfest dissolves from Paulie’s line of vision , concealed futily by the sunglasses perched on her reddened nose ; worn indoors like an asshole. An absolute martyr , she’d insist she’s sparing the world from her bloodshot blues. Jumpscare, trust me. “ Ha, right? would really help if y’all didn’t go with hieroglyphs for fonts. Feel like I’m getting punk’d right now. ” She shudders at the thought of Ashton Kutcher popping from around the corner and slides the well-worn menu away with some care and a little sniffle. “ Can I, uh - get the chicken soup in a mug, please? ”

for: @bluestarters

location: waterway diner.

“You know, I hate to be the barer of bad news ..” the waitress begins, smile on her lips as she gestures to the menu rested on the table, “But the menu ain't gonna change no matter how long you stare at it. ”

[saturdayfiction]

FULL NAME — pauline stockard-bardsley. FACECLAIM — margaret qualley. GENDER & PRONOUNS — cis woman and goes by she/her pronouns. AGE — 27 years old. OCCUPATION — cashier @ carnal knowledge; "assistant manager" mumbled and shmumbled at whoever asks @ the black box (local venue); occasionally an onlyfans creator. NEIGHBORHOOD — cardinal hall. LENGTH OF TIME IN BLUE HARBOR — a year since her return; she had been in blue harbor very briefly when she was seven years old and moved away two years later.

if you ask paulie, she’d probably tell you she doesn’t recall her early life having a specific point of origin. she’d say that because her mother’s an absolute narcissist.

what paulie wasn’t conscious for in her life, eileen bridgers tells long, dramatised tales about. mostly to pass time in their long rides between towns as they got away from questionable-at-best boyfriends and potential step-fathers. a repeating cycle that revealed that as much as eileen was prone to lying, she was even more susceptible to being lied to right on back.

her mother dreamt big dreams but never applied herself in anything, only wished for a soft life that she never got with her taste in men and dragged pauline right along as her mini sidekick. they led a very thelma-and-louisesque life with a handful of situations that frankly a child-aged pauline or eileen herself should not have been through but hey, many lessons learned. lot of 'em about survival — and soft serve scammery.

at one point in their grand ole' tour in the states, they'd landed in blue harbor, where eileen and pauline had found a home in a man named ryst.

now, trusty rusty was nowhere near the idealized man eileen envisioned for herself, but he made do; had a decent place in weaver ridge, an honest job and some savings though eileen begrudgingly ended up picking up a job at the diner to contribute in funds and better yet, he didn't mind paulie. if anything, he cared for her heaps and paulie had found a father figure in him. things seemed okay for a while. steady, until eileen started getting the itch - and it got physical, her cruel way of demanding better living conditions.

to paulie's surprise and utter heartbreak, it took longer for something to go wrong that time, for eileen to want more or for rust to grow resentful or maybe figure a lie out or two, but even then he was willing to work it out. eileen didn't so they moved away and left rust behind.

tw death implied / paulie's life went by faster by that point. more places to be, her resentment for her mother cementing slowly and then fully when eileen finally met someone to her tastes. someone who paulie never respected for being stupid enough to not see through her mother but then her mother changed, too. a grieving man with a motherless daughter in a proper suburb somehow struck a chord madame scammer u.s.a, and eileen became a good mother for once. pauline, to this day, refuses to believe it. / end tw

she managed to go to college to major in linkedin and then dropped out a year in - much to eileen's disapproval - opting to stay home & picking up a few odd jobs until it got too suffocating. until she became a bad influence on her step-sister, until she reminded her mother too much of what she was.

haunted by her old life, feeling isolated in her own new home, and seeking the one proper parental figure she had in her life, paulie took off to blue harbor to find rust in hopes that he was waiting for her all this time. unfortunately, she was met with confusion and misplaced bitterness that soon eased off - there's still love, not much trust that she won't take off again, though - but she couldn't stay at his place. a surprise little shit (begrudgingly affectionate) of a son had her room now but they kept close contact and he even found her a job in until she was good on her own. an oxymoron if there ever was one.

abuse (financial and physical) implied, coercion implied, toxic dynamic tw / moving out and on her own meant pauline needed a better paying job. she juggled two at carnal knowledge and ablusement and made good money on onlyfans until enter vlad — not a real name, certainly a real person in her tired peripherals sometimes but it's good for her heart to pretend that he isn't. briefly put: a messy involvement masked as an offer for a better paying job: an 'assistant' at his mumbled line of work that deals with underground gambling at the black box venue in town and she promptly agreed. it got harder to say no to vlad after that. a lot of maneuvering around further offers of 'assistance' now that she knew the larger implications to a man like that, but she still works for him. he's paying! end tw

personality wise: paulie's clever with some wit to spray at people (60% street-smart but mostly mouth smart) (see: absolutely can and will be annoying). has her deep-seated insecurities and is crass. she isn't easily trusting but isn't entirely aloof either. feels strongly which she doesn't like, gets easily overwhelmed and deals with that and many of her problems very poorly. prone to panicking in very specific situations but she swears she isn't. a victim of routine at home and a bit of an agoraphobe; really doesn't allow people in her space (for various of reasons, one major reason to do with vlad. see: panic induced behavior) but loves being at other people's spaces. loves! - here for a good time, i don't know about a long time-[muted]

[saturdayfiction]

my life without me (2003)

[saturdayfiction]

how to stop feeling like your body is a crime scene

[saturdayfiction]

FIONA GALLAGHER — in Shameless | “I Am a Storm”

[saturdayfiction]

Shot by Natasha Ribeiro-Austrich, 35mm film.