#Taco is a diva

[honeyjars-sims]

[froxyfroggo]

besties

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it was time for paige to share her life to the world

The Dallas heat clung to everything—your skin, your clothes, your breath. It had been one of those dry, hazy spring days where the city buzzed with anticipation, and today that energy had a name: Paige Bueckers.

Drafted to the Wings only a week ago, your wife had already been pulled in a hundred different directions—interviews, photoshoots, press conferences, sponsor obligations. And tonight, a team dinner to cap it all off.

You knew she was exhausted. You’d seen it in the slump of her shoulders when she got dressed earlier, the tired smile she gave you as she kissed your cheek goodbye. Still, she went. Paige always did the hard thing with grace.

You stayed home with your daughter.

The dinner had started off light—wings, tacos, laughter echoing around the table at some local spot her new teammates loved. Everyone was still riding high from the buzz around the team, and Paige, though quiet at first, settled in after a couple rounds of teasing and margaritas (which she didn’t even sip, but they still joked like she was three drinks in).

“So Paige,” Arike Ogunbowale said from across the table, grinning, “you and Azzi… what’s the deal?”

It was casual, playful—just a nudge in the middle of the chaos—but the whole table paused. Even the waitress setting down guacamole looked like she froze mid-motion.

Paige blinked once, then laughed. It was genuine, warm, and more amused than anything. “Me and Azzi? Nah. We’re just close. Like… family.”

Arike nodded, her mouth full of tortilla chip. “Okay, okay. Just checking. Social media’s obsessed.”

One of the rookies chimed in, “Yeah, I mean, you’re always together.”

Paige shrugged, still smiling. “That’s what happens when you’ve known someone since you were fifteen. She’s my best friend, that’s all.”

There was a flicker of something protective in her voice. Not sharp, but final.

The questions faded, and the conversation shifted toward next week’s training schedule. Paige let herself relax again, but a weight settled in her chest. They didn’t mean any harm. But part of her still hated that people couldn’t imagine her love life without assuming it had to be another basketball player.

No one had guessed the truth.

It was late when she got home. The house was quiet, soft golden light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway. Her sneakers came off with a sigh, and she padded softly down the hall.

First stop: the nursery.

The door was slightly cracked. Inside, a small figure lay sprawled on her belly, wild curly hair fanned out against the sheets. Her favorite stuffed puppy was clutched in one hand, the other hand thrown dramatically over her head like a tiny diva.

Paige stepped inside slowly, carefully. Her heart melted instantly.

She bent down, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “I love you, bug,” she whispered, so low it was barely sound. “So much.”

She lingered there for a second—watching, listening to the even rhythm of her baby girl’s breathing—then gently closed the door behind her.

You were propped up in bed when Paige came in, your face glowing in the light from the TV. A rerun of Chopped was on low volume, the judges arguing about undercooked scallops. You looked over as she entered, your expression instantly softening.

“There’s my superstar,” you teased.

Paige’s face cracked into a tired grin. She kicked off her hoodie and jeans and climbed into bed beside you, settling against the pillows with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired I think my bones are asleep.”

You chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “You handled that media circuit like a champ. I saw the clips.”

She groaned, turning her face into your neck. “So many questions. And they all ask the same thing. ‘What are you most excited about? How does it feel to be in Dallas? Do you think you and Azzi are soulmates?’”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what?”

Paige leaned back and looked at you, laughing. “I’m not kidding. One of my teammates asked if Azzi and I are a thing. The whole table went quiet like it was the tea of the night.”

You couldn’t help your smirk. “And what did you say?”

“That she’s like my sister,” Paige said, deadpan. “But I guess people don’t expect me to be married to someone who isn’t also a Nike-sponsored hooper.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well, they can keep wondering.”

Paige reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. She toyed with your wedding ring. “I don’t really care what they think. I just hate not being able to say it out loud.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But here, with us… you don’t have to hide.”

A beat passed.

Then Paige looked toward the ceiling, her eyes fluttering shut. “Sometimes I just wanna scream it. ‘I’m married to the love of my life and we have the most amazing little girl and I’m not dating my best friend!’”

You laughed quietly, running your fingers through her hair. “You’re tired.”

She nodded into your chest. “I am. But happy tired.”

For a few minutes, you lay in silence, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows across the room. Her breathing slowed. Her hand still clutched yours.

Then she whispered, “She was asleep when I checked in on her.”

“Was she curled up like a little croissant again?”

“No,” Paige said, grinning against your skin. “Starfish mode tonight. She’s dramatic, just like you.”

You chuckled, closing your eyes as Paige snuggled in closer, her voice barely a breath now. “Thanks for holding it down at home.”

“Always,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Now sleep. You’ve got a city to conquer tomorrow.”

And with your arms wrapped around her, the soft hum of the TV, and your daughter safe down the hall, Paige finally let go—of the noise, the questions, the pressure—and drifted off in the quiet comfort of home.

Saturdays had a different feel now.

In Connecticut, it used to mean quiet coffee runs and long naps between workouts. But now, in Dallas, Saturdays were noisy. Messy. Beautiful. They started with sticky pancake fingers, early cartoons, and your daughter toddling around the kitchen with one sock on, yelling that she was a “big girl” and didn’t need a bib.

You and Paige had decided early on that today was just for the three of you. No media. No workouts. No press. Just a family day under the sun.

And so you found yourselves at a park, right in the middle of downtown Dallas. It was a bright, cloudless day. Families filled the green spaces, music echoed from a nearby jazz trio, and the food trucks lined up like a mini festival.

Your daughter, Emma—two and a half years old and already a firecracker—clung to Paige’s hand like she was leading a grand expedition across the grass.

“Where are we going, baby?” Paige asked, her sunglasses perched on her head, her other hand holding your iced lemonade.

“To da dogs!” Emma shouted, pointing at the off-leash area where a dozen bouncing golden retrievers played in a chaotic fur ball.

Paige gasped dramatically. “THE DOGS? Why didn’t you say so sooner?!”

She scooped Em into her arms, spinning her in a wide circle that sent squeals of laughter into the breeze.

You followed behind, grinning like a lovestruck idiot, because no matter how many times you saw Paige with your daughter, it never got old.

After the dogs (which Em referred to as “her friends”), you found a shaded bench by the splash pad. Shoes were off. Chubby toddler legs were kicking water in all directions. Paige sat cross-legged on the concrete beside her, letting the spray hit her jeans, not caring one bit.

“Okay, okay,” Paige said, pointing at a tiny spout, “if I put my hand here, will it spray me in the face?”

Your daughter nodded, wild-eyed. “Yes! Do it! Do it!”

Paige pretended to consider. “I dunno… seems risky.”

“Do it, Mama! Be brave!”

You watched from the bench, barely holding back a laugh as Paige gave in with theatrical flair. She slapped her palm on the stream and—true to your daughter’s prediction—it shot directly into her face.

Both of them screamed.

Your daughter collapsed into giggles, falling back into your lap as Paige wiped her face and feigned betrayal.

“I trusted you!” she cried.

“I sorry,” your daughter said through giggles, not sorry at all.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a tiny little prankster, that’s what you are.”

She pounced, grabbing your daughter from your arms and tickling her belly until the poor girl was a breathless, wriggling mess.

Later, after lunch from a taco truck and ice cream melting faster than you could eat it, the three of you laid on a picnic blanket near the edge of the park. Paige was on her back, your daughter curled up on her chest, slowly blinking up at the blue sky. She was coming down from her sugar high, hair damp from the water, eyelids fluttering.

You leaned over, resting your head on Paige’s shoulder.

“Tired?” you asked.

“Like, I’d-rather-get-run-over-by-a-scooter-than-move tired,” Paige whispered back. “But this is the happiest I’ve been in… I don’t even know how long.”

You looked down at your daughter’s little hand resting on Paige’s shirt, her tiny thumb unconsciously stroking Paige’s collarbone. Paige didn’t even seem to notice—she was so used to the closeness now.

“She loves you so much,” you said, your voice quiet.

Paige turned her head to look at you. “I’d give her the moon if she asked.”

You smiled, and she kissed you softly, the kind of kiss that didn’t need fireworks or urgency—just comfort and presence. Just love.

The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the buildings. You started packing up while Paige stayed sprawled out on the blanket, your daughter now fully asleep, mouth slightly open, cheek pressed to Paige’s chest.

As you folded up the corner of the blanket, Paige looked up at you, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think they’ll ever get used to this?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The world. The media. Everyone who thinks I should be with Azzi or still single. Everyone who can’t imagine I’d choose this—quiet Saturdays and sippy cups over spotlight interviews.”

You met her gaze and smiled softly. “They don’t have to understand it. You just have to live it.”

Paige looked down at the little bundle on her chest, then back at you. “I’m living it. And it’s perfect.”

By the time you made it back to the car, your daughter was groggy and muttering something about needing her stuffed puppy. Paige kissed her forehead, promised they’d find it when they got home, then strapped her gently into the car seat.

As she closed the door, you caught her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, tugging her in.

She stepped into you easily, wrapping her arms around your waist.

���Thank you,” you whispered against her temple.

“For what?” she asked.

“For being this. For loving us like this.”

Paige tilted her head, brushing her lips across your jaw. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

And with your daughter softly snoring in the backseat, the air still warm with sun and laughter, you believed her with your whole heart.

Sundays in Dallas were slower, warmer in every way. The city was quieter. Even the breeze felt lazy, like it didn’t have anywhere to be. Today, you and Paige had taken your daughter to the Dallas Farmers Market — your favorite spot for fresh fruit, wandering stalls, and letting your toddler explore the world in her little denim overalls and butterfly sneakers.

She held Paige’s hand as she toddled toward a booth selling homemade soaps, squealing about the ones shaped like ducks. Paige, with her signature cap pulled low and sunglasses on, nodded along like this was a very important duck decision.

You were laughing, sipping your coffee, when it happened.

“Wait… hold up.”

You turned toward the voice just as Paige froze.

Two figures stood by a booth across the path. Tall, athletic, and unmistakable even out of uniform. Dijonai Carrington and NaLyssa Smith.

“PAIGE?” Dijonai called, her eyebrows practically hitting her hairline. “Is that you?”

Paige straightened slowly, adjusting her hat like it might help her hide in plain sight. “Heyyyy... guys.”

NaLyssa squinted. “Are you holding hands with a baby?”

You tried not to laugh, especially as Paige’s eyes flicked to you with a silent help me.

“She’s a toddler, actually,” you said, stepping up and offering a warm smile. “And yes. That’s our daughter.”

Dijonai’s jaw dropped so fast you swore you heard it.

“OUR?!”

Your daughter looked up at the sound and instantly broke into a grin. “Mama!” she shouted, lifting both arms toward Paige. Paige scooped her up with practiced ease.

NaLyssa blinked. “Mama?!”

“Okay, okay,” Paige laughed, already blushing. “Let me explain.”

After the initial shock wore off—and after your daughter insisted on showing them her duck soap and a sticker she got from a face painting booth—you all decided to hang out the rest of the day.

The five of you ended up grabbing Thai food from a food stand and sprawling out at a nearby park on the grass. The energy was light, Emma chasing butterflies and occasionally tripping into Paige’s lap, then laughing like it was the best thing ever.

NaLyssa took to her like an auntie in five seconds flat, giving her piggyback rides while Dijonai tried (and failed) to braid her curly hair.

By the time the sun started dipping low, you looked at Paige and smiled. “We should invite them over.”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. They’re not gonna let this go without the full story anyway.”

That evening, with your daughter finally asleep upstairs—curled in her bed with her stuffed puppy tucked under one arm—you all lounged in your cozy living room. The lights were dimmed, music soft in the background, a couple candles flickering on the coffee table.

You poured glasses of wine, passing them around before curling up next to Paige on the couch. She stretched her arm around you, fingers gently tracing your shoulder as you sipped.

“Alright,” Dijonai said, settling into the beanbag like she owned it. “Spill. We need the entire story. Like… Paige Bueckers has a family. Who would’ve guessed?”

Paige smiled, leaning into you a little. “It’s not as dramatic as you think.”

You nudged her playfully. “Kinda is.”

NaLyssa raised her glass. “Let’s hear it.”

You glanced at Paige, who gave you the go-ahead. So you started.

“Well… we met at UConn. I wasn’t a player—I was studying sports medicine and doing photography for the women’s basketball program.”

“She had a camera in her hand every time I looked up from the court,” Paige added with a soft laugh.

“I got pregnant right around the start of my second year, basketball season was just beginning,” you said, tone quieting a little. “It was… unplanned. The baby daddy didn’t stick around.”

Dijonai’s smile dropped. “Damn. That sucks.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was rough. But Paige… she just showed up. Not all at once. Just… little things. Bringing me food. Walking me back to my dorm when my ankles were too swollen. Sitting with me during appointments when I couldn’t reach my mom.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Paige said. “But I knew I wanted to help her. I wanted to be around.”

“And then one day, she showed up with a crib she built herself,” you continued, laughing softly. “Badly built, by the way.”

“Hey!” Paige protested. “That thing held perfectly until month six.”

NaLyssa giggled. “So when did it… become more than friendship?”

You looked at Paige, your eyes softening.

“It was slow,” you said. “But honest. I think I loved her before I realized I did. Before I even knew I was allowed to.”

“I fell first,” Paige admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “But I waited until she was ready. I wasn’t going to push it.”

You looked down at your wine, smiling. “And by the time our daughter was born, it was just… obvious. She was already her mama. Her name deserved to be on the birth certificate. We got married shortly after Emma was born. No doubts whatsoever.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dijonai let out a long whistle. “So I guess the ‘Pazzi’ rumors are just rumors, huh?”

Paige burst out laughing. “Yeah. Definitely. Azzi’s actually Emma’s godmother.”

NaLyssa choked on her wine. “What?! Y’all are out here playing chess while the whole internet’s writing fanfics!”

“Yeah,” Paige smirked. “And I read some of them. Wild stuff.”

You gasped. “Paige!”

“What?” she grinned. “Some of ‘em are kinda flattering.”

Dijonai shook her head, laughing. “I love this. I can’t wait to see the look on people’s faces when they find out.”

You looked at Paige, her cheeks flushed with wine and happiness, and smiled. “We’re not rushing that. But it’s nice to finally share it with someone.”

She leaned over and kissed you softly, letting her hand drift over your thigh. “Yeah. Feels good.”

NaLyssa raised her glass again. “To chosen family. And duck soap. And a little girl with the coolest moms in Texas.”

You all clinked glasses.

And in that living room—warm with love, filled with quiet laughter and soft confessions—you realized just how full your life had become.

Not just because of what you had with Paige.

But because of everything you’d built together.

The morning started with pancakes and cartoons, as it usually did. Paige had an early shoot around, but it was her first open-practice session with the team since the season officially kicked off — and she insisted on making it a family affair.

“You sure they won’t mind?” you asked as you buttoned your daughter’s little Wings jersey, the one with Bueckers on the back and “#5” in glitter iron-on patches.

Paige gave you a look like you’d just asked if basketballs were round. “They’ll love it. Trust me — they’re already obsessed with her and they haven’t even met her yet.”

You raised a brow. “They’re gonna be obsessed with me too, right?”

Paige leaned in, kissed you softly, and murmured against your lips, “I already am.”

The College Park Center buzzed with energy when you arrived. The team was mid-practice, music bumping through the speakers, sneakers squeaking across the court. Trainers and staff bustled around, but when Paige jogged in with you and your daughter in tow, heads turned.

A few players paused their drills, doing double takes.

“Is that…?”

“Oh my god, she’s here!”

NaLyssa was the first to run over, already beaming. “Hey! My favorite tiny human!” she called, bending down with arms open.

Your daughter squealed and took off across the hardwood — all bouncing curls and flashing sneakers — throwing herself into NaLyssa’s arms.

“You see that?” Paige said proudly, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Star player in the making.”

“You mean star recruiter,” you teased. “She’s already got the team wrapped around her finger.”

Practice paused for a bit — not because it was scheduled to, but because your daughter had singlehandedly hijacked the gym.

Maddy Siegrist taught her how to spin a ball on her finger (badly), and Teaira McCowan gave her piggyback rides down the sideline. Arike pretended to “lose” to her in a 1-on-1 dribble showdown, flopping dramatically every time your daughter drove the ball (slowly pushed it across the court while making car sounds).

Paige, watching from the bench with you tucked under her arm, just smiled like her whole world was right there on that hardwood.

When Coach Chris Koclanes walked over, hands on his hips, you tensed — but the coach just looked at Paige’s daughter, then at you, and broke into a warm grin.

“So,” he said, “this is the little MVP we’ve been hearing about?”

“She’s the real star of the family,” you replied.

Coach nodded sagely. “Well, we’ve got open tryouts in 2042.”

Later, after a water break and some light drills, the team settled into a shooting competition, and Paige brought your daughter onto the court with her.

“Alright, baby girl,” Paige said, handing her a mini basketball, “show ‘em how we do it at home.”

Your daughter squinted at the toddler-sized hoop they’d rolled out, took three steps back, and chucked the ball with everything she had.

It bounced off the rim, hit the floor, and rolled to NaLyssa’s feet.

And everyone still cheered like she just hit a buzzer-beater in the Finals.

“She’s got that dog in her!” NaLyssa yelled.

“Sign her now!” Dijonai called from the baseline.

Emma spun around, arms high in the air, and shouted, “I WIN!”

The team exploded in laughter and applause, and Paige scooped her up and spun her around.

“You always win,” she whispered, kissing her cheek. “Always.”

Practice wrapped up with team stretches, and your daughter sat in Paige’s lap, mimicking every move with a dramatic flair that had half the players in tears from laughing.

You took a few pictures — one of Paige mid-stretch with her daughter copying her pose, both of them giggling, sweat-slick and sunlit under the gym lights. Another of the whole team posing around your daughter like she was their mascot.

By the time you were heading out, your daughter’s head rested sleepily on Paige’s shoulder, a little snack in one hand and her other thumb tucked in her mouth.

“She did great,” you whispered.

“So did I,” Paige murmured back with a grin. “I was so nervous.”

You looked up at her. “About what?”

“Bringing my world together,” she said. “You, her… them. I just didn’t want it to feel weird. Or too much.”

You kissed her gently on the temple. “You didn’t bring your world together, Paige. You built one. And we’re all lucky to be part of it.”

Paige glanced down at your daughter, kissed the side of her head, then looked at you like she couldn’t believe she’d gotten this lucky.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered. “I’ve got my whole team right here.”

The next morning, you were still in pajamas, your daughter sitting in her high chair absolutely covered in oatmeal, when Paige’s phone started blowing up.

She frowned at it, brushing oatmeal off her hoodie as she picked it up. “Uh… babe?”

You looked up from your coffee. “Hmm?”

“I think… I think we just went viral.”

You raised a brow. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

Dallas Wings – Instagram (@/dallaswings) [“Golden” – Harry Styles] “The Bueckers Era has officially begun 💙💚”

The video opened with Paige walking into the practice facility holding your daughter’s hand — her tiny legs moving double-time to keep up, her jersey bouncing as she walked.

Cut to:

Paige tying her daughter’s shoes on the bench

A shot of you sitting court side with your camera in hand, smiling at them

Your daughter making a shot in the toddler hoop and doing a victory dance as the team erupts

Paige picking her up and spinning her in the air, both of them laughing

Finally, a close-up of your daughter asleep on Paige’s chest during cool-down, Paige’s hand protectively over her back

And then…

Overlay text at the end: “Family.”

The comments? Unhinged.

@/wnbastan69: wait... PAIGE IS A MOM???

@/wingsnation: WHO IS THAT WOMAN ON THE BENCH. SHE'S GORGEOUS. IS THAT HER WIFE???

@/bucketsqueen: this is not a drill. paige bueckers is a MILF. i repeat—

@/azzistan: I KNEW she wasn’t with Azzi. THE BABY IS CALLING HER MAMA.

@/uconnfan1 ok. hear me out. that woman has a tattoo of Paige’s number on her arm. go back to the February UConn Gala photos. it's her. they've been together.

The TikTok version? Hit 1.2 million views in three hours.

And your DMs? Albeit being private. Piling up with everything from “CONGRATS OMG” to “how did you pull her???” to “tell us your love story pls pls pls.”

You just turned your phone over and looked at Paige, who was feeding your daughter a blueberry while trying not to panic.

“Well,” you said, sipping your coffee. “Hard launch.”

That night, the Wings media team reached out about doing a feature for their upcoming mini docuseries, “Inside the Paint.” Paige hesitated, but you looked at her and said:

“If we’re gonna tell it… let’s tell it right.”

You, Paige, and your daughter sat side-by-side on the couch in your home, camera crew set up across from you.

“She’s my whole heart,” Paige said, glancing at Emma who was now climbing into her lap with a granola bar. “She’s not technically mine. But she is.”

You nodded. “We met at UConn. I was pregnant — alone. Paige was just… Paige. Gentle. Always there.”

The camera caught Paige’s hand finding yours.

“She helped raise her. Changed diapers. Did midnight feeds. Built cribs badly,” you teased.

“She was the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t alone in it,” you continued. “And somewhere along the way, we just… fell in love.”

“My name’s on the birth certificate,” Paige added softly. “And my last name’s on both of theirs now.”

“Mama was all she knew Paige to be.”

The crew filmed the bookshelf with framed family photos. Paige carrying your daughter on her shoulders at the beach. You three asleep on the couch in a tangle of limbs. A picture of Azzi Fudd holding your daughter at her baptism with tears in her eyes.

“She’s the godmother,” Paige confirmed, grinning. “Azzi. The real MVP.”

The episode dropped on YouTube and Instagram the following weekend. And in under 24 hours, it was the top trending topic on WNBA Twitter and TikTok.

The reactions? A mix of sobbing emojis, fan art of your little family, and people just melting over how soft Paige was the whole time.

@/bballdreams: I thought I couldn’t love Paige Bueckers more. And then she became a wife and a mom. I’m DONE.

@/fanbrushfire: [art of Paige in uniform holding your daughter’s hand, with you in the background cheering them on] “Mama Bueckers”

@/sidelineheart: Paige Bueckers being a quiet, private wife and mother and then casually dropping the most beautiful love story I’ve ever heard?? How is this real??

That night, curled up with Paige on the couch, your daughter asleep upstairs, you scrolled through the chaos while Paige played with your fingers.

“You okay with it?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “I’m glad it’s out there. You deserved to be known like this.”

She kissed your temple. “We deserved to be known.”

The Wings had just pulled off a thrilling win against the Mercury. Paige had dropped 19 with 8 assists, but the real surprise came postgame.

As the buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted, the arena lights dimmed for the usual fan-appreciation wrap-up — but then the Jumbotron lit up with something unexpected.

“Special Presentation” — the screen read, flashing between highlights of the game and a video montage.

Your daughter appeared on-screen, wearing an oversized Wings hoodie, shyly grinning.

“Hi Mama,” her tiny voice said, echoing across the arena. “I proud of you. You my favorite player ever and ever. Can I give hug now?”

The arena melted.

Paige turned, stunned, and saw you at the tunnel — holding your daughter, her eyes bright and excited.

The crowd parted like the sea as the two of you walked onto the court. Your daughter wriggled out of your arms and ran straight to Paige, who dropped to her knees to catch her.

The ovation was deafening.

Tears welled in Paige’s eyes as she kissed her daughter’s cheek, holding her tightly, forehead resting against her tiny one.

The announcer laughed through the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen… the real MVP of the night.”

@/espnW: Paige Bueckers just got surprised on court by her wife and daughter after the Wings win. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. 🥹💙

@/wnbatalk: “Can I give hug now?” I’m SOBBING. Who raised that little angel?!

@/courtsidechronicles: Paige crying while hugging her daughter, then looking at her wife like she hung the moon? Love is so real.

@/fanartfridays: [Art of the three of you walking off the court hand-in-hand, with the Wings logo glowing behind you.] “The Heart of Dallas.”

You tucked your daughter into bed, her plush Wings blanket pulled up to her chin. Paige leaned down and whispered, “You were so brave today, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she mumbled, already drifting.

You walked back downstairs together, hand in hand.

On the couch, Paige wrapped her arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“I think they really know us now,” she murmured.

You tilted your head toward her. “They do.”

“And they love her,” she added, a proud smile blooming across her face.

“She’s impossible not to love,” you whispered. “Just like her mom.”

Paige kissed your cheek and pulled you closer, the glow of the moment still radiating through every room of your home.

“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me have this life.”

You turned in her arms, looked into her eyes, and smiled.

“We built this life together. And the best part? We’re just getting started.”

The WNBA season had hit its brief midseason break, and for the first time in months, the house was quiet. You were curled up on the couch flipping through a book while Paige lay on the floor with Em lying across her chest, both completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Paige’s breathing.

Then Paige’s phone buzzed from the coffee table.

She carefully reached for it, glancing at the screen without disturbing the sleepy toddler snuggled into her.

Azzi: I swear to God if I don’t see my goddaughter in person soon I will riot

Paige smiled and nudged you with her foot. “Guess who’s demanding visitation rights.”

You looked up, already grinning. “Azzi?”

She showed you the screen and you snorted. “She’s obsessed. But, fair. You know we’ve been meaning to visit.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a softer tone as she looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully on her chest. “I think it’s time we go back. Just for a few days.”

“Back to where it all started?” you asked.

Paige met your eyes, voice thick with nostalgia. “Back home.”

[horny-marbles]

Hey babe can I pretttttyy please request some Ben Drowned my queen my diva literally anything smut ;) or fluff is amazing with me if not it’s totally fine much loveee <3

bro i have so much shit with ben in my notes app from a few months ago when i was fixated on him it's not even funny. headsup that i hc him as a chill ass stoner with piercings because hot! 🤓☝🏻 kissiesss enjoy <33

(also can you tell i like the word molasses lmfao)

Wetware (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

CW: drug use and sex under the influence, oral (f receiving), face sitting and rimming, light nipple play on ben, riding, creampie

summary: you and your weed bud get bored of smoking and lounging and decide to try something new.

wordcount 5.2k + a little bonus (epilogue?) at the end because i heart ben fr

Ben’s room is a black hole of time. You’ve gotten lost in it more times than you can count—somewhere between a third bowl and the fourth replay of whatever pixelated horror game playthrough he was hyperfixated on that week. There’s no clock in here. No windows, either, not really—just blackout curtains held up with thumbtacks and stubbornness. It could be 3AM or noon, it doesn't matter.

You’re sinking into Ben’s mattress like it’s got a personal vendetta against spinal support, the springs threatening to divorce the fabric entirely every time you shift. It’s not gross, not really—just lived in. The pillows are criminally soft, like they’ve been through a hundred late-night existential crises and held strong. The air smells like weed ghosts, synthetic berry vape, and Ocean Breeze air freshener that expired in spirit if not in can. It’s too warm, too humid, your skin already buzzing under your clothes—but it's comforting. Familiar. Kinda gross actually. Whatever.

This is where you always end up. When the world gets loud, when your head’s heavier than your spine can carry, when you both decide—without words—that it’s a “fuck everything” kind of night. No better place to waste time than this little cocoon of LED hell and lava lamp glory. Neon signs blink overhead in god-awful Comic Sans. One says “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VIBES.” The other one is just a glowing PNG of Shrek’s face, flickering like it's high with you. He swears they're ironic, but you don't really believe him.

Ben’s across from you on the bed, one leg draped lazy over the side, arms behind his head like he owns the place—which, okay, he does, but it’s more about how he owns it. Effortless. Messy. Cocky in a way that never tips into annoying. His eyes catch the LED glow like they were made for it—red pinprick pupils in oceans of black, alien and warm all at once. That shaggy ass hair always in his face, and he never fixes it. You don’t think he’s looked in a mirror on purpose in years.

You’ve been his smoke buddy since forever. It just happened. One shared joint on the porch after a rowdy party in the mansion you both bailed on early, and suddenly you were always crashing here. Sometimes in the same bed, sometimes on the floor. No weirdness. No expectations. Just easy passes of the blunt and lazy banter between coughs.

But tonight’s different.

You’re both cross-legged, facing each other like it’s a summit meeting, except instead of discussing treaties, you’re cradling two little capsules in the sweaty curve of your palms.

Molly. Because weed’s gotten too safe, too expected. Too routine. You needed something new. Something soft-edged and alive under the skin. And Ben just shrugged and said, “Sure,” like you’d asked if he wanted Taco Bell instead of McDonald’s.

He rolls his capsule between his fingers. His nail polish is chipping, some see-through black from last week still clinging to the corners. You feel the shape of this night settling over you just watching his fingers move. Not heavy. Just close. Intimate in that slippery way—like if either of you thought about it too hard, it might feel like more than it is. But you’re too chill to overthink. That’s the whole point.

“Bottoms up, bro,” he mumbles, voice thick with cotton and calm, and you both knock yours back like it’s communion.

Ben’s gone quiet. Not unusual. He’s a drifter when he’s high, floats between tabs and videos and zoning out completely. But this isn’t that. He’s on his back beside you, head pillowed on his arm, watching the LED lights morph from pink to blue to red again like they’re telling a story. You’re turned toward him, fingers curled loosely under your cheek, your body floppy in that too-much-sensation kind of way. Like every nerve ending’s been gently unsheathed and is just vibing out under your skin.

You feel it in the edges first—like your thoughts are melting down the inside of your skull, softening at the corners. Breath deepens without asking. Jaw’s a little tight, but not in a bad way—like your body’s clenching in on itself, holding on before it lets go. Your heartbeat thuds a little louder than it should, pulsing in your ears like background bass. You blink slower. The lights go smeary at the edges. You feel the mattress underneath you in high-definition, every lump and warmth patch suddenly personal, almost intimate. Your teeth feel good. Everything is soft. Everything is so fucking good.

The LEDs don’t flicker anymore—they pulse. Soft waves of color across the walls. Everything feels like it’s syncing. Like the room has a heartbeat, and it’s climbing up your spine.

You and Ben haven’t said much in a while. Haven’t needed to.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s glowing.

It’s been—what, thirty-five minutes? Forty? Doesn’t matter. You feel him now. Not just his presence, but the gravity of him. Like he’s warmer than the rest of the room. Like your chest expands more when he breathes. Like his exhale brushes your skin even though he’s a full arm's length away.

You laugh, breathless, for no reason. He turns his head, sluggish and drowsy, and smiles like your laugh was a spell.

You blink at him. He blinks back. His pupils are blown, looking like they could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t even mind. There’s a line of soft blue light tracing the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheekbone, the little dip at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he says softly, like it’s a revelation. “You look crazy good in this lighting.”

You snort, eyes rolling but heart thudding, and it’s stupid how warm your cheeks feel. “Shut the fuck up. You’re literally glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

He just grins wider, and it’s lazy and beautiful in a way that doesn’t even make sense. You’ve looked at him a thousand times—lit by smoke clouds and YouTube autoplay and dying lamps—but now it’s like his skin is gold leaf. Like every freckle, every lazy shift of his lips, every breath is shining.

“You’re high as shit,” he says, voice honey-slow, syrup-lazy.

“So are you,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling stupidly. Your face feels too big for your skull. Ben lets out this slow, breathy laugh, and fuck, even that feels good. You watch his jaw flex with the smile, the little hitch in his shoulder when he shrugs like he can’t even be bothered to be cocky about it.

He shifts a little closer. Doesn’t say anything, just lets his fingertips brush the soft inside of your wrist, featherlight, and you both inhale like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched anything. You roll your arm a little, letting his fingers graze along the underside. Your skin sings under the touch, tingles that chase each other like static up your elbow, your shoulder, your spine.

“Dude," you murmur, voice wobbly with the hug of seretonin, "touching stuff feels insane right now.”

Ben’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah?”

You grab his hand lazily, your fingers barely holding his, just enough contact to spark fireworks in your palm. “Yeah,” you whisper, and your voice sounds thick and sweet and sleepy. “Touch my arm.”

He does. Slow, dragging his fingertips up from your wrist to your shoulder, and fuck. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You feel each ridge of his fingerprint like it’s being engraved. You suck in a breath, involuntary, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Your fingers are still tangled with his. You roll onto your back and tug his hand with you so he follows, half-leaning over you now, both of you blinking slow, pupils so wide you’re practically seeing stars.

His hand finds your waist—slow and curious—and the second his fingers touch the curve there, you moan. Barely audible. Embarrassing. Real.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your face into your elbow. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah,” he says, voice dropped to something low and smooth and warm. “Don’t even trip.”

His hand spreads across your waist, fingers dragging up the fabric of your shirt, and it feels like lightning. You both start laughing, delirious and giddy, like you’re high on each other instead of this fucked up little pill you don't even remember where you got it from.

You open your mouth to say something stupid—probably “your hand feels like velvet, what the fuck”—but he kisses you instead.

And ohhh.

It’s soft. Like kissing in a dream, like your mouths are made of heat and velvet and instinct. No teeth, no rush. Just press and melt. His lip ring is warm against your mouth, smooth, the perfect little edge in all that softness. You let out this tiny sound—barely anything—and he presses closer.

His hand slides to your jaw, just his fingertips touching you, like he’s scared to press too hard and pop the bubble. His lips taste like whatever berry vape he’d been hitting earlier and maybe a little weed residue, maybe a little Ben—static? It doesn't matter. He kisses like it’s just something to do, like breathing, like gravity pulling him closer.

Your whole body is heat and nerves and cotton. You kiss back lazily, high and weightless, lips dragging open just enough to deepen it a little. Just enough to breathe into his mouth, and when you do, he shudders. Just a little. Just enough for you to feel it in your chest.

You murmur against his lips, “Is it just me or does this feel crazy good?”

His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice low and cracked open, “It’s not just you.”

Your lips find his again—hot, open, slower now. Tongue against tongue in a wet slide that feels like drowning in syrup and rapture. Your mouths fit like they’ve done this a hundred times. Like they’ll do it a hundred more. There’s nothing messy about it. No grabbing. No biting. Just this lazy, drugged gravity pulling you back into each other every time you drift a millimeter apart.

Every inch of him feels woven through every pore on your body. Every place he touches you, you feel ten times over, and it sends this slow throb through you—low, soft, but steady.

You hum against his mouth, light and dazed.

“Feel good?” he mumbles, lips brushing yours, voice scratchy like he hasn’t talked in a hundred years.

“Mmmhm.” You nod once, small. “So good I might cry.”

Ben lets out a quiet, surprised little laugh—breathy and deep, warm where it puffs against your cheek. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, fingers skating under the hem of his hoodie, “you feel stupid good too.”

His breath catches, just slightly, when your palm flattens against the bare skin at his hip. He's so warm and smooth it almost feels fake. You trail your hand up, slowly, just feeling. Muscles shifting under your palm like slow waves, the stretch of them under soft skin. You feel like you could cry just from the warmth pooling in your gut.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “what the fuck are you made of?”

Ben groans, low in his throat, and that’s when he finally presses his hips just a little closer—barely a grind, barely a shift—but the heat of him slots perfectly against you and fuck. It’s not frantic. It’s not a need. It’s just there. Like his body wants to be against yours. Like it was always gonna end up here.

The throb between your legs tightens, sudden and thick, and the moan that slips out of you again sounds so helpless it makes his lips stutter on yours. He stills. Smirks a little, but his breath shakes. “That was so hot,” he murmurs, voice low and so close. “Fuck, you sound hot.”

His hands slide under your thighs, gripping just enough to guide, and you shift without thinking, letting him tug you upward and over until you’re straddling him. The movement’s effortless, but it feels like the earth tilting. Like gravity changed its mind.

Your hips start rolling before your mind can even catch up, like it just started happening. You’re barely aware of it, but the friction is fucking heaven, slow grinds over the hard line of his cock under his sweats. His hands are on your waist, guiding the motion—not pulling, just letting it happen. You kiss through it, drugged and soft and soaked between your thighs.

He’s looking up at you through drags of his mouth over yours like you hung the stars just by sitting there. He grunts, tilting his hips up into the drag of your cunt—just once, slow—and he murmurs low and sweet and way too casual for how hard he sounds, “Wanna sit on my face, pretty?”

You whimper. Like a full-body shiver that leaks out your throat. The words hit somewhere between your ribs and your cunt, hot and sudden and unbearable. You swear you nearly cum just from hearing him say it. The audacity. The casualness. You clutch at his shoulders, blink down at him like he just opened the fucking gates of heaven.

“Fucking—yeah,” you gasp, already shifting. You scramble up to your knees, laugh breaking out when you nearly fall sideways because your limbs are all molasses and light. Ben steadies you with a soft noise, then just lays back, arms folded behind his head, that stupid stoned smirk on his face like he’s the pillow now.

You pull your shirt off awkwardly—get it halfway stuck, then give up and shove it over your tits, braless and flushed and fucking glowing. His eyes drop there instantly. Lingers. His tongue wets his lower lip and he mutters something that sounds close to awe as you start crawling up his chest.

And when you do—when you finally get your knees to the mattress and your thighs cage in his face—you hesitate just long enough to process what’s happening. Just long enough to see his face under you—black eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s sacred, watching the sway of your tits, hands coming up to grip your thighs just under the curve of your ass, holding you steady.

“C'mon, pretty,” he groans, voice so fucking deep it vibrates through your whole lower body, “have a seat.”

Then you lower yourself—and his mouth meets you.

And holy. shit.

The second your cunt touches his mouth, it lights you up. It’s like being kissed by heat itself. His tongue drags flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, lapping with a pressure so lazy and steady it feels like it’s been happening forever. His nose presses right against you, his mouth open and eating like you’re ripe fruit—sweet, messy, tender. There’s nothing polite about it. He’s fully in it, no teasing, no precision. Exploring for himself as much as he's pleasing you.

You moan, broken and loud, hand flying to his head to hold on. His hair’s soft and sweaty, and you can feel the way his mouth curves into a grin under you.

“Jesus fuck, Ben—”

He groans, nosing deeper, sucking your clit just once—slow—and you swear your brain fractures. You jerk, thighs quaking, hands flailing for something to hold, something to feel so you don't yank on his hair because the sensation is so good it’s horrifying.

“Ben—fuck,” you gasp, breath snapping in half. “Fuck—”

His arms wrap around your thighs, strong and steady, pulling you down until you’re seated fully against his face. Sloppy, deep licks that dip and circle and press up into you with devastating slowness. He tilts his head just a bit and stays there, lips wrapped soft around your clit, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles until your whole body is tightening.

Your body’s gone nuclear. Like your skin is lighting up, nerves raw and too alive, every drag of his tongue a lightning bolt that melts back into syrup. It’s lazy. It’s wet. You’re gushing on his mouth and he just takes it. Tongue buried, lips parted, devouring.

He hums low like it’s good, like you taste good, and the vibration punches right through your clit and lands somewhere deep in your stomach. You roll your hips once, instinctive, and a moan punches out of him right into your cunt, like you just gave him a hit of something purer than anything he’s ever smoked.

He noses up into your clit as he works, lips soft and open, tongue licking slow under the hood with maddening care. One of his hands slips up, palm cupping your hip like he’s grounding himself there, the other sliding back to your ass, pulling you closer, tighter, until your pussy grinds against him again—this time on his face.

He tilts his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth—soft and slow and so fucking good—and your whole body jerks. Your hands tighten on the headboard, tits bouncing slightly with the movement, and Ben opens his eyes just to watch.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice muffled but needy, “ride my fuckin’ face.”

Your hips start to move without you thinking—just lazy little rocks, forward and back, riding his face like it’s the only rhythm left in the universe.

Ben’s hands tighten, fingers bruising in the best way, and his thumbs pull your cheeks apart just slightly, spreading you open so he can really lick you. You gasp again, voice wrecked. He laughs under you, muffled and arrogant and so pretty.

He watches your tits bounce softly with each breathless grind, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk with it, like he’s seeing a dream in real time. His tongue is relentless. Your thighs are shaking. And then, just to watch your reaction, his tongue slips lower, past your dripping hole, licking a slow, slick line across your rim.

Your whole body jolts like he electrocuted you. You freeze for half a second—but your pussy pulses in response, clenching around nothing so tight it aches. You can’t even speak. Your chest heaves. Your thighs twitch. And he hums, pleased, like this was the plan all along.

At first it’s just a breath. A ghost of a tease. He licks between your cheeks, slow and unbothered, casual as hell, just a lazy upward drag of his tongue over your ass. Your breath catches, whole body jolting, and you whimper—high and confused and wrecked.

You barely notice your hand creeping down your chest, palming your own breast like you need the grounding. He groans under you again, tongue still moving in sync with the tiny, wet grinds of your hips over his mouth and nose, slow and deliberate—back and forth between your soaked cunt and your ass.

You come like your body’s caving in on itself.

No warning. No rhythm. It cracks through you in pulses, long and drawn out, muscle-deep and fucking perfect—like it’s wringing you out. Your thighs lock around his head, hands flying to the wall to stay up, and your mouth drops open on a soundless moan as your whole body shudders. Pussy pulsing so tight you feel it squeeze his tongue. Brain splitting like lightning down your spine. Your muscles melt but your nerves won’t stop firing.

You feel crazy. You feel amazing. Like your brain doesn’t know what to do with all the good. The molly, the mouth on you, the weight of your body draped over his head while the room glows warm and golden around the edges. Your skin’s sticking to his in spots. Everything feels hazy and whole. Like this is the best place on earth to die.

His hands move with you—up, warm and slow, from your ass to the small of your back. One of them slides higher, fingers spread wide like he wants to hold your whole spine in his palm. The other comes around, smooth over your ribs, thumbing just under your tit before finally cupping one with lazy reverence.

Then, all slow grin and and eyes glinting redder, he mumbles,

“So, like… you gonna ride my dick too, or you need a nap first?”

You snort. Half laugh, half moan, rolling your hips once like your body’s answering before your mouth can.

“Jesus—Ben—”

But you’re already climbing back down his chest, already fumbling for his waistband like you’re drawn to it, not choosing.

He just grins up at you, eyes low-lidded and glowing.

“C’mon, dude. You gotta know I’m dying over here.”

And he is. His dick’s flushed and hard and slick at the tip, twitching against his stomach like it’s got a pulse of its own.

You wrap your hand around it, slow, just to guide him, and his hips lift like he can’t help it. You have to take a moment just to admire the throb in your hand, the flex of his stomach, the glimpse of teeth showing when they sink into his bottom lip. And when you sink down, when your pussy finally wraps around him, hot and soaked and still fluttering from your orgasm, your hips stall. His jaw drops. Both of you go still.

It’s like a fucking detonation. A slow-blooming, devastating kind of silence. It’s not even how tight you are—though you are—it’s how hot it feels. How slick, how intimate, how molly makes it feel like he’s not just inside you, but part of you. Like your whole body was waiting for this exact moment to exist. You clench once, and his hips jerk like you electrocuted him.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

You start to move eventually. Slow. Just a tiny grind forward, a slow circle back. Not even up and down yet. Just wet, slow drags. Like your body’s trying to memorize him from the inside out. You’re both gasping, breathing harder, but there’s no rush in it. No urgency. Just pleasure. Thick and consuming.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, barely audible, like he’s praying to your cunt. And fuck, maybe he is with the way his head drops back to the pillow, throat exposed, jaw slack, brows furrowed like he’s on the edge of something just from the way you’re grinding on him.

You drag your hands up his sides, still moving slow. The friction is everything. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every roll, every grind, and you can feel yourself start to tremble again, thighs burning but too high to care. His hands find your hips, not to guide—just to hold. Fingers twitching like he wants to tell you to slow down—if going any slower is even possible—but his body saying otherwise.

Your palms slide under his shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. The way it rides up under your fingers makes your mouth water. It bunches under his arms, revealing his stomach, his chest, and when his pierced nipples come into view—flushed and tight from the heat of you or both—you lean down, lips brushing over one.

He twitches. Breath stutters.

You lick. Just a soft kitten lick. Then another.

Ben chokes on a moan. Hips buck helplessly up into you, cock grinding deeper inside you.

“Fuck, dude—”

You do it again. A slow lick around the ring, then another just beneath it, teasing, playful. Your hips never stop moving, just grinding down into his cock like you know how deep he is, how he’s splitting you open and making you whole at the same time.

He grabs your ass tighter now, still not forcing, just grounding, needing.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, what the fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering open just to watch you mouth at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing to me.”

You grin against his skin, eyes glazed and happy and wrecked.

“Riding your dick,” you whisper, and he groans like you just blessed him.

You lean back slow, hands smoothing down his stomach again, and you plant your palms on his waist, arch your spine just to feel how your tits bounce with the motion—half for yourself, half because you know he’s watching.

His gaze stays on you like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His pupils are blown wide and bright, lips parted like he can’t even close them without gasping. There’s sweat at his hairline. His chest is heaving.

Then, for one perfect second, his face twitches. Just a shift—mouth curling up into this crooked, gritted-teeth grin like the sight of you fucking yourself on him is too much to bear but he loves it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty it’s pissing me off,” he mutters, voice low and dazed and almost laughing.

You bark a breathless giggle and bounce a little harder on him just for that. And he groans, eyes rolling halfway back, hands flexing on your hips like he’s trying to be chill, but his body’s begging for more.

His hips roll up under yours with slow precision, timed to every bounce like a perfect rhythm only the two of you know. Slow. Deliberate. Meeting your movement with this thick, upward grind that punches a moan right out of you. Not fast, not rough—just deep. Skin slapping sticky where you’re soaked all over him now, the noise heavy and lewd.

“Yeah, fuck me, just like that—holy shit—"

He moans it like a prayer, voice cracking as you grind down harder to match his thrusts. Your clit’s catching on the base of him just right, and your walls pulse so tight around his dick you can feel the way he throbs inside you. Every drag is wet and obscene, every slide in so thick and hot it feels like your brain’s sloshing in your skull. The molly makes it bloom. Every sensation feels like it echoes, spreads, deepens.

Ben’s head drops back, throat arched, his hands gripping you firm but not forceful—like he’s bracing for impact. His abs flex under your palms every time he fucks up into you, low and slow, building the pressure like he knows you’re both about to see God in a minute or two.

“Jesus—” he breathes, jaw tight, “fucking Christ, love this fuckin' pussy, baby, ride it, c'mon—I'm close, fuck, please—”

You whimper and keep riding, chasing the drag, the slide, the stretch. The friction is everything. Wet and relentless and perfect. The way he fills you, the way your bodies meet with slick, noisy thrusts—it’s like being gutted slow, like a star collapsing in on itself.

You slam down once more and his hips snap up into you at the same time, so deep you choke, stars bursting behind your eyes, and you come. Together. Throb on throb, your bodies synced up like it's something celestial.

Second orgasm hits hard, violently soft, like you're being peeled open from the inside and having honey poured over every exposed nerve ending. Your whole body seizes up, mouth open in a silent scream as your pussy milks him through it, sucking him deeper. He spills into you with a whiny, cracked “fuckfuckfuck—goddamn—”, hips jerking, breath breaking apart against your neck as he holds you down through every pulse. You feel every throb deep inside you, feel the warmth spread between your thighs like it’s part of the drug, like it’s burning you alive from the core out.

You’re shaking. Still grinding just a little, just enough to ride out the waves. Your legs are jelly, your hands barely holding you upright as you collapse forward, sweaty chest pressed to his, your face buried in his neck.

Ben’s arms wrap around you, loose but strong, and he breathes through his nose, still catching up. One hand runs up your back, gentle, and the other smooths down to your ass again like he just needs to feel you.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breath. Just skin. Just that slow, echoing after of molly and sex and feeling way too much to care.

You don't even realize you’ve slumped off of him until your cheek’s mashed against his chest and he’s laughing, soft and breathless, palm skating down your spine with the weight of molasses.

“Bro,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice fried. “That was... unholy.”

You hum something between a laugh and a wheeze, forehead sticky against his skin. “I think I saw God.”

He snorts. You feel it rumble through his chest, and for some reason that makes your heart twitch. He lifts a lazy hand to push your hair out of your face, fingers catching in it but not bothering to fix anything, just letting it tangle. His other hand's still on your ass, more out of habit than intention. Neither of you move to clean up yet. Just breathing. Heavy and slow. Still connected in the heat of it, even if his dick slipped out somewhere along the way and left a mess between your thighs.

Eventually—slowly—you peel yourself up with a grunt and a stretch, making some squelchy sound that earns a quiet “ew dude” from him and a slap to his chest from you. He wheezes out a laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up just enough to grab a crumpled hoodie off the floor. He tosses it toward your legs like a sad little towel, and you use it without complaint. Still giggling, still glowing.

Once the worst of the mess is handled with zero grace and zero effort, you both flop back down into the sheets. He groans, rolls over enough to reach into the drawer next to the bed, and pulls out a pre-roll like it’s a religious relic. Or more like something to dampen the horrendous comedown that's looming just around the corner.

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble, watching him dig around for a lighter with one eye half open.

“I’m thriving,” he corrects, sparking the joint with practiced laziness. The tip glows red-orange in the blue-pink lava lamp haze, smoke curling into the air like incense for a post-sex shrine. He takes a long drag, then offers it to you without looking.

You take it, hit it, let the smoke settle in your lungs like it’s a warm bath.

Then his voice, low and sleepy against your forehead, smoke soft in his exhale, "Yo. You wanna hit Waffle House in, like, three hours?”

You giggle into his neck.

“Absolutely.”

BONUS:

The Waffle House parking lot is mostly empty, just one tired cook inside and a waitress who gave you the side-eye when you walked in to grab your to-go order like you were smuggling out contraband. Ben didn’t step a toe out of the car—too many security cams, one too many people who’d ask why his pupils are glowing red like a demon on a bender.

He waited slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie up, tapping at the cracked dashboard with fingers twitchy from the tail-end of a serotonin flood. When you slid back into the car with a bag full of grease and sugar, he moaned like you just proposed marriage.

Now you’re parked under a busted streetlamp, eating waffles and hashbrowns out of styrofoam with plastic forks, legs up on the dash, his seat fully reclined. He looks like sin. Hoodie half-off, hair a wreck, the last of the weed still burning slow in the ashtray. He smells like syrup and sweat and sex and smoke.

You're still giggling at nothing.

"Why," you say, licking butter off your thumb, "does Waffle House always taste like it was made by someone who’s lived through war."

Ben stares at you like you’re the second coming. “Because it was, bro.”

You laugh hard enough to choke on syrup, and he takes the opportunity to steal a bite off your plate with no remorse. The light from the LED “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign flashes red across his face every few seconds, making him look even less human than usual. But to you, right now, it’s just... hot. You’re high and full and floaty. He looks sticky-sweet and stoned and so fucking pretty in that lazy post-fuck way, lips glossy with syrup and smiling like a troublemaker.

You lean across the console and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just sugar on lips, mouths sticky from breakfast-for-dinner. He tastes like maple and smoke and something a little burnt, and your brain short-circuits at how good it is. You lick into it, messy and slow, and he hums low in his throat like it’s better than dessert. Your fork clatters somewhere by your feet but you don’t care—your hand’s cupping his jaw, and he’s tugging you halfway into his lap.

His tongue drags syrup off your bottom lip like he’s starving. You moan into it, more sound than intention. He grins crooked, still kissing you, still high, mumbling against your mouth:

“We might have peaked tonight, can't even lie.”

“Mmm,” you breathe back, not even pretending to disagree.

Neither of you stops. Not for a while.

Eventually, when your food’s cold and your thighs are back across his lap and he’s kissing your cheek with lazy pecks just to hear you giggle again, he sighs through his nose and rests his head back against the seat.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “we should definitely fuck in this lot before we come down and contemplate suicide for the next week.”

You laugh into his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

[layton-heritage-posts]

Hey, class rep! Do u know what the people going "Taco bell!!" at Hourly Eternal Diva are referencing? Searching "taco bell descole" online has proven useless.

Oh, that's because ages ago someone made this gif. Don't ask me why.

This led to taco bell descole being an inside joke for a bit.

[skythealmighty]

behold, i present: Inanimate Insanity Infinity! sort of! more info below the cut :)

this took like 5 days . please enjoy nobody is okay

II S1 Contestants Infinity Death Order - Infinity Timeline Alternate

Canon S1

Bow

∞ S1

Paper

Eliminated early because Salt had a massive vendetta against him and rigged it so he would lose. They also came up with the Black Hole elimination idea because of an off-hand comment he made once as a joke. Closest to canon

∞ S2

Marshmallow

Broke down from the pressure and quit. Didn't realize that would get her killed; glad to see Bow, though. More confident after years in the afterlife

∞ S3

OJ

Refused to participate in challenges after Paper was gone. Salt tried his best to keep him in, but he lost on purpose. Was depressed for a while but healed over the years

Baseball

Got unlucky a few too many times. Was nonplussed about his elimination, mostly. Second closest to canon

∞ S4

Nickel? (Quit to assist)

Made it halfway through the season before he decided he didn't want to do this anymore and needed an excuse to get away from Balloon, who of which he had used one of the newly generated contestants to get back at with immediately following Baseball's elimination. The Divas accepted his offer because Chives was a little slow, and a nickel would be hard to kill

∞ S6

Paintbrush

Tried to attack Salt and Pepper halfway through the season due to a buildup of frustration that had been brewing since ∞ S1. Was immediately disqualified, eliminated, and replaced- and made an example in front of the others during it. Extremely bitter towards them, and a bit quicker to rage, but otherwise pretty close to canon

Bomb

Started out an average player and slowly but surely became more confident in the game before pushing himself too far one too many times and getting himself injured. After a season of less and less good performances due to his injury, he finally got eliminated, but was still considered an 'all-star' to many. Easy-going and friendly, but still a bit nervous

∞ S7

Pickle

Him lasting this long surprised pretty much everyone, so his elimination was more or less a "finally" moment. He stayed with his gimmick of being the gamer and ended up falling into his sterotype pretty comfortably, but he rounded out as a person over the years and has a lot of random hobbies. Hasn't entirely forgiven Taco, but he gets along with her. Pretty relaxed

∞ S8

Knife

Mellowed out to adapt to how the game went- would have attacked S&P too, but learned from Paintbrush's mistakes. Played a good solo game, trying to not form any teams or alliances, and just ended up getting unlucky and eliminated. Never got taught sarcasm by Nickel, so even though he's mellowed out, he's extremely blunt

Balloon

Wanted to lay off on the intensity and be nicer, but due to fear of losing he was forced to find his footing, ending up being surprisingly good at it. Fan-favorite until the end because he competed in the name of his friends, and much more confident and snarky than in canon. Has forgiven Nickel

∞ S9

Taco

Hid in the forest until being forced to compete in ∞ S8, her act long since revealed. Barely scraped by last season and was an early elimination this season. Similar to canon but has had time to grow and mellow out. Regrets her actions in Season 1

∞ S10

Apple

Mostly clueless about whatever darkness lay beyond the show, she was mostly a fan favorite for being extremely cheerful and supportive. Still is, even after death

Fan

Lightbulb's left hand man and an observer with a quick wit, he molded himself to be the type of contestant Salt and Pepper wanted and survived due to that, leaving hidden messages for fans to find to try and expose them for what they'd done and signal for help and for people to find out the truth. He sadly never got to see the result of him trying, but now that it's over for him, he's back to his old self, or at least as close as he can be

∞ S11

Lightbulb

The last survivor, and a beacon of hope until she ran out of time. Cheerful and friendly and a major role model. The world and Nickel weeped when she was lost, and it marked the end of an era. Despite her reputation, she's still close to her canon self, just with a surprising capacity for seriousness and used to carrying responsibility on her shoulders

[numberonetacostan]

also sorry I keep sending these but I have even more thoughts.

this is about taco getting to live with the others after the finale (before ii 18 dropped of course)

the pickle part is something I think about because he may never forgive her but also, I think they should be allowed to find some common ground and/or some shred of understanding. So this is why I keep saying pickle AND bomb would accidentally get taco hyperfixiated on rythm games like project diva. I think taco needs more friends and for some reason bomb becoming her friends feels something very funny but also very fitting. he gifts her a whip btw

NO APOLOGIES NECESSARY!!!^^ I HOLD MY RETURNING SUBMITTERS IN HIGH REGARD!!!!!!!!! :D Thank you for sending in another hc and welcome back!!!

Oughsbduqjsbsiwjsj Taco dissociating in her room!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She would definitely dissociate!!!! (Or I'm projecting but what's the point of having favorite characters if you can't project on them, yeah?)

I do think that Pickle and Taco should eventually be able to find common ground!! Justin, I believe, in a stream mentioned Taco would like video games!!!! So it would be a good thing for them to both like. And in regards with Pickle offering it to Taco, I agree!!!! He's not a fan of hers or anything, but despite his own feelings of anger and bitterness towards her, he would not want to see her suffer!!! He would get no satisfaction or joy out of it!!! He's not that kind of guy!!!!

Taco playing rhythm games for hours while Bomb and/or Pickle watch is adorable actually I think. She would get so into it and probably be quite good at it too!!! I've never played a rhythm game but they seem like the sort of game that's either really soothing or really rage-inducing. Both of which I'd like to see for Taco, lol.

Like an actual whip or is there one in the game? Either way I like it I think Taco should have any weapon she wants <3 Mic would confiscate it though.

[cobrasx]

HEEEEY!!! ✺◟( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)◞✺

I'm a little embarrassed to send my question but I really want to interact JAJSJAKSNS

• Why do you like DTMG?

• Can you make a top 3 of your favorite characters?

¡¡¡¡I love your content!!!!

HOLI HOLIIIIISSSS!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA STOPPPP im literally SHAKING rn HELP I LOVE YOUR CONTENT!!! dude ive been meaning to interact w you too, but omlllll I GOT SCARED LMFAO "SMOOTH" N "SAUVE" ARE NOT IN MY VOCAB N REAL TALK UR JUST SO COOL DAWG 😭💯💯 i also speak spanish, pero no creo q se suficiente para mantener una conversacion completa. es q no quiero sonar tan gringa-- como que se me va el avión al abrir la boca AJJAJJSJSAJAASHSX pero si lo se leer muy bien! no te sientas obligada a enviar cosas en ingles, sientate comoda en escribir en el idioma q quieras <3333

reasons why i like dtmg well UHHRRRRRRMM i quite fancy its missed potential ehueheuhrurhur WAIT LMAO LIKE,,, my fondness for the series stems from what could've been, and as for whats already there, i think its just something i can vibe w. truthfully, bjc is what really got me into it, but what keeps me attached is his bond with spencer. i think what they have is special, and ive always adored that kind of friendship where shit just kinda happens, but you n bro just gotta thug it out. you can be at your worst and there'll b someone who can just see through all that and accept you. doesnt mean theyll always agree with you, and sometimes it feels like they gotta put up with you, but they stay. i feel that way with dtmg in a way LMAOAOA

dtmg is very hit or miss w it's humor, but i can't even complain cuz when it's just me n her, dtmg is the funniest bitch in the club <333 ill laugh at literally everything, but dtmg just happens to have that SAUCE. that, and its poor executions sometimes; like sometimes a character can say smth in a certain tone but they're animated to a completely different vibe and that shit just takes me the fuck out. reading too much into it sends me, and just sitting there enjoying the ride blasts me off into orbit. my humor is so ass, but it's great that i can be that vulnerable w a show :3

SHE SAID WHATS UR TOP 3????? STIMMING AND SKIPPING IM STIMMING AND SKIPPING

IMMMMokayokayokay

SO!!!COMIN IN AT NO.3 !!!

MISS BLAH BLAH?!?!!?

. i love me a woman with short blue hair and pronouns <333 AHHHSHAHSHHH i hate how there's so little screen time for her,, like she doesn't even say a WORD, but her impact is so huge she stole the show for me like DUUUUUDE. i like to think that she's one of the only ppl to see billy for all his flaws. i LOVE that feuding with him makes her so happy cause she KNOWS she's getting on his last nerve. i LOVE that bjc feels threatened and offended enough by her to drop several diss tracks ALL to her name. i LOVE that in a world where billy can end careers at the snap of his fingers, shes REMAINED relevant annnnnd looks to be enjoying her celebrity status thru n THRU LIKE OH MY GODDDD IIII LLLOOVVVEEEEE!!!!! AND BJCs STILL MAD YEARS AFTER HIS OWN PASSING MAAAANNNNNEEE HOW CAN U HATE HER IF SHES ON YOUR MIND??? LORD IK SHE A BADDIE,, STAY PRESSED GRAHHH 💙💋

NUMBAH TWO??? YKKK ITS GOTTA B OUR MANNNN

BUCK

. the chillest mf there is. funny asf, a total nerd maximum geekage (i see them pins bbg), ik he rockin it w the lgbtqs, AND a successful businessman with total wi-fri OWNAGE. a fucking DIVA. a fucking LEGEND. the intercom that suspiciously sounds like the 14 year old that frequents the place says free fish tacos for every flyer RETURNED? and his response is "sure, what the hell" yesss YESSS MY KIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG. REAL KING SHIT. YOU SAW THEM HEELS TOO?? I KNOW U SAW THEM. OUR BOY FRESHHHHH. OUR BOY FLYYYYYYY AND THATS 'CAUSE HES THE GOAT‼️‼️‼️ THE 🐐🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

NOW FURST??? U KNOW I HADDA U KNOWWON

BOBBY

. i think he's pretty tragic as a character; about as tragic as a character can b in dtmg LOLOL!! i like it when ppl r against bjc, and w their own valid reasons. bobby was just a fan who wanted to be like his idol, and in the process he ended up neglecting his own identity to fit the bjc standard. bjc rly set himself up for failure, and i love it when he faces the repercussions of his own actions. billy can't stand to see someone one-up him at his own game, and bobby being so good at being a ghost in such a short amount of time-- YUHHRRRR god that makes me so proud of him. when bobby is great, it's not at the expense of others, and he never showed any signs of intentionally making billy feel bad abt his lack of expertise up until the end of the episode. even then, bobby was never an antagonist for the fun of it. he was able to see the toxicity that billy beared, and i find that him saying "billy's somewhere he can't say mean things about people anymore" speaks volumes for his character. word choice here, "people" instead of the personal "me". he's vile, spiteful and tried to replace billy. he's so FUN. a butthurt and emotionally immature guy, but that's what i find so fascinating. LIKE CHAT THIS ALL COULDVE BEEN A NARRATIVE BEAT

THIS WAS SO FUN!!! thank you for this, i had so much fun talking abt these goobers. hearing from you is always a pleasure pan!!!! KEEP AN EYE ON UR INBOX <33333

[ii-rarepair-confessions]

someone mentioned silvertaco here at one point so i found this doodle i did not so long ago :3

two scheming, conniving, british divas

silver’s “ah yes, an icon” and the fact they were the only one in hotel oj smiling when taco showed up is sweet to me. these two deserve to be a little evil together as a treat.

(this is one of those ‘i could make her worse’ couples. not just in the chaotic way but also they’re both refined, have super high standards for themselves, chat shit about people, are pretty insecure and generally not good at keeping positive relationships with people so they might enable eachother if that makes sense)

☆

great british lesbians is making me giggle LMFAOOO,,, this is so good!! they can be evil... as a treat. the most evil couple in ii yes i love it

[risestarkiss]

hello vee, I live here now.

-vee the tenant

○○○○ Oop! 😯 Well, welcome! I'm not used to having....permanent guests. 😊 *tidies up*

Tuesdays are taco nights, Garbage day is every Thursday.

Don't mind the bird. She's a diva. 🙄😌

Most importantly, have fun! 😁💜

[boroughshq]

Greetings, loves! I'm popping in with a tiny announcement about a new page update. The page in question is our locations page! The page itself has the exact same layout, the only difference is an additional 30 locations have been added to the page! Hope that adds a bit more variety for our members and their threads and character careers. The specific locations are listed below by borough for convenience!

Manhattan:

Bluebirds - brunch resturaunt

Bark Park - membership dog park

Pegasus - gay club

Muse - lounge

Luxury Nails - nail salon

Zenith - rooftop bar

Toastery - bread bakery

Brooklyn:

Brownstone Books - bookstore

Diva Diner & Drag Show - drag restaurant

Vault - upscale bar

Sappho's - women's cafe

Gilded Gallery - sculpture gallery

Etoile - ballet studio

The Bronx:

Vino e Cucina - italian restaurant

Santiago's - bodega

Riot House - concert hall

Bronx Dog Park - public dog park

The She Shed - lesbian bar

Queens:

Inkwells - writer's cafe

Sugar & Spice - lesbian club

Flushing Subs - sandwich shop

Casa de Tacos - taco shop

The Blue Note - jazz club

Antiques -antique store

Staten Island:

The Well - dive bar

The Snug Mug - cafe

Tailgaters - sports bar & grill

Bit Bar - arcade bar

The Tool Shed - gay bar

Crab Cabana - seafood shack

[dayloid]

Here are sum of my own parappa headcannons!!!

**Please don’t be afraid to criticize/correct them if you think you don’t agree with. Just lmk. I’m trying to make things work out for them. Changes may vary. Thank you :)

Parappa Rappa: American Male/black//19/Hetero/Dating Sunny/Works at a restaurant/Poetic Justice

//Likes gaming, karate, keeping his hopes up, cruising, boxy boy, e-40, will.i.am, rap music, skateboarding

PJ: American fat male/black/20/Hetero/Married to Sweety Bancha/DJ/Still Lazy

//Likes food (mostly donuts), sleeping, sleeping, uhh what else? basketball, uhh sle-

Katy kat: American female/mixed/19/Bi/Friends with Lammy/Milkcan sing leader/bass guitarist/fashion sense

//Likes tennis, punk music, skating, avril lavigne, fashion, macarons, photography, friends

Lammy: American female/caucasian/19/Bi/Milkan guitarist/punk-scene girl

//Likes pandas, alt rock music, blink-182, tacos

Ma-San: Japanese-American female/18/aro-ace/Milkcan drummer/tomboy

//Likes the gym, athletes, writing, being a drummer, reading

Sunny Funny: American female/black/19/Hetero/gardener/baker/caretaker

//Likes nature, cooking/baking, uhhh…r&b music(?), traveling, fashion

Sweety Bancha: American female/black/19/Hetero/Literature lover

//Likes green tea, hanging out with friends, reading, flowers, PJ Berri

Colonel Noodles: American male/white/19/Hetero/Noodle fan/Beard Burger Cashier/Supporter and a friend of Parappa Rappa

//Likes noodles, rapping, helper, planning, and being a leader(?)

Matt Major: Canadian male/caucasian(mixed)/20/Hetero/never into romance (except Paula, they’re dating)/total mvp/studious guy

//Likes basketball, essays, hanging out with friends, keeping busy, magic tricks, nasa, alt-rap and lofi music, gaming

Paula Fox: American female/mixed/19/Hetero/athletic diva/girlboss/fashionista

//Likes shopping, karate, learning new things, reading, cooking, acting, being a star

Pinto Rappa: American female/black/7/Hetero/book lover/supporter

//Likes books, family, friends, uhh…that’s it I guess :/

[3hates4straights]

HAIII this is a shared blog with me and my friends Suki and Sammy :33 We will post about ships and headcanons for the fandoms we are in!! if you fo not like our headcanons or what we stand for we kindly ask you to not interact with our blog. We are strictly anti cishet and ask that cishet people do not interact with us due to trauma and other factors. We are radinclus and support not policing identities such as mspec lesbians, xenogenders, and non harmful microlabels <3

- Jack

₊˚⊹⁠♡—— ⁠♡ ——♡⊹⁠˚₊

Intro for blog owners ^w^

₊˚⊹⁠♡—— ⁠♡ ——♡⊹⁠˚₊

Name: Jack

pronouns: he/bark/pup/dog/husky/wolf/howl/cat/kitty/meow/purr/plur/glitter/woof/arf/growl/hiss/alpha/nepeta/pinkie/pink/rainbow/sparkles/peace/winter/spring/summer/fall/yearbook/school/pencil/table/skibidi/pokemon/pikachu/eevee/bulbasaur/arceus/lugia/rainbowdash/squirtle/charmander/charazard/solgaleo/nosepass/audino/venusaur/ivysaur/litten/skitty/pony/violet/scout/neopets/leapster/leapfrog/vtech/uwu/eraser/pen/glitterglue/plushie/paw/tacos/iphone/parry/parrygripp/cake/puppy/lankybox/webkinz/russ/catwalk/catwalkkitties/snoozelings/puppysurprise/littlestpetshop/lps/cardboard/mystery/tampon/piano/keyboard/puppyinmypocket/ipadkid/elsagate/guitar/synthesiser/fridge/liberty/pawpatrol/everest/skye/chase/marshall/rocky/zuma/rubble/crayola/nds/wii/nintendo/nyantendo/n64/taxidermy/buildabear/beaniebaby/dinosaur/pyroraptor/velociraptor/utahraptor/bambiraptor/microraptor + more :3

interests: Homestuck, mlp, webkinz, warrior cats, lapfox trax, guidestuck, pokemon + more

DNI: straights

Tag: Jack🐾

₊˚⊹⁠♡—— ⁠♡ ——♡⊹⁠˚₊

name: suki/basil/hunter/etc (the cute system)

pronouns:bug/bugself/hunter/hunterself/bottom/bottomself/bi/bisexualself/omori/omoriself/basil/basilself/paint/paintself/pancakes/pancakeself/cosplay/cosplayself/plysh/plushself/bluey/blueyself/hunter/hunterself/collector/collectorself/meow/meowself/autism/aufismself/silly/sillyself/tumblr/tumblrself/stim/stimselc/emojicatemojicatself/gay/gayself/pos/posself/adhd/adhdself/theowlhouse/theowlhouseself/piano/pianoself/violin/cello/plush/fur/woof/ferret

And more!

fandoms:

Owl house

Omori

My little pony

Autism fandom

Etc!

dni:

-Straights >:(

Lumity shippers

Flamingo Fans

People who think they are Hunter (I am Hunter!)

Tag: Suki🧙

₊˚⊹⁠♡—— ⁠♡ ——♡⊹⁠˚₊

name: kai/kris/arte-fact/sammy/ms.birdy/zoomble/sonic the hedgehog/loli/yuki/otaru/pepper/lemon pepper. (if you say the wrong namethat i want you to call me at the certain moment you will be blocked !)

pronouns: auti/stimmy/stimmly/curiously/current name/quizzy, 1st person, narrative, 2nd person, 3rd person, 1st person ominous, god, lain, lain iwakura, the god, the only real god,the god i worship, the reason for life, manipulator, gorey, goreful, gore, miku, mikuo, the, kawaii, mother, father, stepmother, stepfather

fandoms: sonic, webkinz, serial experiments lain, sammyclassicsonicfan, needy streamer overload, project sekai, project mirai, project diva, vocaloid, kirby, harry potter

dni: straights, shadow the headgehog fans, mario fans, gta fans, playstation fans, xbox fans, puppetiers, 3d modelers (i get triggered by the way 3d models look), mouthwashing fans, basic people

Tag: ihateshadow🍀

[tonyburgessblog]

Semi-Homemade Fish Tacos And Cilantro Lime Rice

Semi-homemade fish tacos with cilantro lime rice. The tacos are a collaboration between me and The Soup Diva. They are made with tortillas, fish sticks, slaw, cheese and salsa. The rice is made with rice, lime, cilantro, garlic powder, and salt. A very budget-friendly Saturday night meal.

[projecthipster]

On the Road

Photo of Jack Kerouac by Allen Ginsberg, yes, that one, the "Howl" guy, the one played by Daniel Radcliffe in Kill Your Darlings

"the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars"

When I first read Kerouac, I was living in a rental house where we had communal taco dinners and went down to the bar to dance every night there was a band in town. We all worked at the ski hill, which we’d get to in an early pre-dawn winter morning by a crowded van from the Save-On parking lot. The work was hard sometimes, pushing back big metal chairs every few seconds to load the continuous conveyor belt of bodies, and meditative other times, sitting in a silent top hut watching snow clouds pass through the valley below. When we had days off, we went back to work anyway, and skied. It was a lively, adventurous life, and while I like to think I had enough wisdom to see both sides of On the Road, there really was no better time to read it.

Just to be clear: I absolutely still believe in adventure, in living life to the fullest, and in passing days with friends in search of great unknowns. I just haven’t been doing a very good job of it lately, back in the city with a job that I generally like but that doesn’t give me any days off ever, with a car (dear Sylvia, a silver Honda almost as old as I am) that hasn’t started since her catalytic converter got cut from her undercarriage right in the driveway. Right about now, I’m definitely feeling a bit of what Kerouac’s in-book expy Sal Paradise feels at the beginning of every one of On the Road’s five different road trip sections, that restless need to take to the road and live for each day, crossing great unknowns, or even just moving a bit beyond the routine.

And when the road sections get going, goddam, can Kerouac write in a way that makes you want to be right there with him hitching in the back of a farmer’s flatbed, watching an enormous dawn flood the sky beckoning ever west, passing into dry rangelands, wondering about the endless promise of west. Kerouac writes the cardinal direction like a holy word. And I live pretty far west, a city on the plains where’t rare if ever rains. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, though I’ll vouch for my hometown over the sorry province it sits in, any day. I guess On the Road was written (as a single long literal scroll run through Kerouac's typewriter, legendarily) before they found oil in this place, that sick antediluvian gravy that corrupts into bro-ish capital culture every exporter it touches, here or in Russia or Dubai. At least The West isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, to me, until you get further west, beyond the continental wall of mountains, where the rivers flow higher and the cedars grow green and people live freer and sleep in vans and climb sport bolts in abandoned graffitied mills and lifties lift each other up more and… goddammit, I’m doing the same thing. On this continent, do you just keep craving the furthermore West as the balm for all troubles, until you get to Haida Gwaii? And everything’s just fine there? To be fair, Haida Gwaii is a pretty awesome, beatific place.

Apparently Kerouac wanted a movie adaptation of his book starring Marlon Brando, which you could totally see, right? But Brando didn’t get back to him, and these two egotistical silent generation divas fell out. There was eventually a movie adaptation, and it makes so much sense what year the book finally made it to screen. A middlingly-reviewed version of On the Road, which I haven’t seen, flopped unremarkably into theatres in 2012 — in the year of Moonrise Kingdom, Gravity Falls, Lonesome Dreams, and My Head is an Animal – the year of indie-tinged woodsy wanderlust hitting the zenith of culture. The year that google searches for the very word hipster peaked in Canada, according to the data (it was in June; in the USA it had peaked a year earlier, worldwide a year later.) Well, of course, this is a book replete with that quasi-spiritual sense of adventure and rootsy authenticity as a virtue, the book about the original hipsters, in the Cab Calloway sense. 

In a 1938 pamphlet penned by the jazz legend, Calloway laid out a “Hepster’s Dictionary” — reprinted sometimes as the Hipster’s Dictionary, yes, the source of the word itself is a printing error — of jazzman’s jive, the first dictionary published by an African-American on Black dialect in the USA.  “Hip,” according to Calloway, means “wise, sophisticated, anyone with boots on” (“got your boots on,” in a bit of cyclical defining, means “you know what it is all about, you are a hip cat.”)

A decade and a war later, by the time of On the Road’s setting, “hipster” was already a bit more pejorative, referring to white fans of Black musicians trying to glom onto Black music culture. And Kerouac, I mean, Paradise’s gang absolutely does this – you can cry cultural appropriation if you like, but it’s not like in the writing he takes credit for creating the music, he just writes about it in such an impassioned way that you can’t help but want to sit in those same clubs and listen to Miles Davis blow, man, blow. Would we think about jazz in the same way today without Kerouac spreading its evangel through the broader culture? Maybe. Can’t say.

It’s easy to look at all of this as kind of shallow, selfish, not really adding much to the culture as a whole when it’s just young men partying across the country and leaving people behind. But it’s worth remembering just how much American culture was nosediving into the Pleasantville-ass ethos of checkerdress suburbia at the time, smack halfway through the century. If it was going to be anything other than that, there needed to be a book written with passion about something, anything else. 

I also think it’s worth reading as if Kerouac knows that it’s all a bit hedonistic. The way the structure of the five parts lies, it does read a bit like an addiction narrative. Sal Paradise loves Dean Moriarty (calm down, Tumblr, not necessarily like that – although…) and loves the carefree life on the road. But after every trip, he comes to a bit of a burnt-out end and settles back down in New York with a new girlfriend and another job, this time for good… until Dean rolls back in and Sal, restless with life as it “should be,” up and leaves it all and sets in motion again, to drink and prostitute and leave people and relationships in the dust. And there is a sorrow to this that strikes one like an addiction story. Sal knows he’s hurting people, and himself, with this life. One particularly egregious section shows the gang in Mexico, working on farms, all but marrying into local families, going native as it were – and then on again like ghosts into the night, leaving overworked single mothers behind without a whisper. Because while Sal and Dean might be searching for a transcendent “It,” there’s always the possibility of something more It over the horizon, and that’s why Sal can’t quit. So many of my favourite books ride this oh-so-careful line, glorifying an aesthetic enough to make the reader want to chase it right along with the characters, but also showing the self-destructive narcissism of that pursuit.

There’s a brush of religiosity over all this search for meaning among the just-roll-along monotony of a postwar, seemingly culturally victorious America. There’s a bit of fascination with (although never an encyclopaedic explanation of) eastern spiritual concepts like dharma and karma and zen. I’ve been thinking for years about the “don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear?” line at the very end of the book, and I still can’t crack its meaning. God is from Winnipeg?

That last is a Mad Magazine parody (Mad has been around that long‽) but I would so subscribe to it if I could.

Somewhere along the line, around when the Beatles went to India I guess, Beatniks morphed into Hippies, too. Point is, they’re all just different historical breeds of hipsters. Every time such a costume is commodified, it loses the fun of being countercultural, and has to evolve, but the spirit endures. What’s the latest evolution, now that the Brooklyn-Portlandia-Robert Lanham-flannel-indie-folk hipster of the ‘00s has also been commodified a bit? Who knows, man. For me, it’s just clinging to the style, and maybe taking a bit from all the hip cats of the past where applicable, until it rolls around from outdated to nostalgic. Everything comes around in the end. Plus, finding places, like that ski town in the Kootenays, where it never died at all.

I give this hipster book a rating of yeah man! Yeah!

Project Hipster is a futile and disorganized attempt to dive into the world of things that the internet has at some point claimed "are hipster," mostly through ListChallenges search results.

This review comes from the first result for "Hipsters," Essential Books For Hipsters

Up next: back into Tarantino, I guess.

Stay deck.

[numberonetacostan]

So, I don't recall ever telling you about this very funny scenario I had where lightbrush fankid (I called them flashlight based off of another lightbrush fan kidI saw around) and tacomic kid (you know them, you love her luz) just are in love with each other or something like that. The ages and timelines are unclear to me but hey this is an AU it doesn't need to make sense at all, So like my own idea of how they develop is when they are teens and I am just going to say outright, flashlight is a diva to me. Not sure if diva is the right word but she is the embodiment of ''the world is mine'' by hatsune miku, she thinks highly of herself and practically acts like a princess, which ends up ending in her becoming insanely annoyed with luz at first. Luz is just out there for silly and whimsy just like lightbubl! but at difference of her mom flashlight cannot tolerate them at all, luz likes to mess with her a lot, maybe tease her here are there with her appeareance and just enjoying to get some funny reactions out of her and I'll have you know flashlight HATES it, she has to be held back from shaking luz like a snowglobe or something. their dynamic in simple terms is just:

which comes to the fun part where they fall in love! flashlight is outright just going through the 5 stages of grief all at once in the span of an hour. She CAN'T be in love with the fool who has been pestering her since they were children, she just can't- and what do you mean she is jealous? of course she isn't jealous luz pays attention to other people instead of her! its natural to be upset when people don't pay attention to someone as dazzling as she is (even though she never got upset to this extend before) AND NO SHE IS NOT IN LOVE! SHE WANTS TO HIT THEM WITH A HAMMER! IF SHE WANTS TO KISS THEM ITS COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT TO THE CONVERSATION AT HAND! Luz is just ''flashlight pretty :3'' and totally unaware of their own feelings.

usually my favorite thing to think about when I ship fankids is the parents' reactions to the chaotic dynamic at hand and I think they are as confused as the audience would be. taco just watched from afar, sips some tea maybe nudges luz to invite flashlight to a date or something and luz immediately agrees because she has unwavering faith in miss taco. I don't know how lightbrush and mic would react to lightluz insane chaotic lesbians dynamic but you bet its pretty obvious to everyone and especially them.

Hey Kiara!!!^^ Welcome back, and thank you for sending in some more Luz content!!!

The dynamic you're describing sounds kind of like a ship between Lightbulb and Silver Spoon might play out and I find that hilarious. The idea of Painty's child turning out to be like Silver also amuses me greatly.

Also one character extremely upset about their feelings for another while the other is :P is so silly!!! With all the complicated relationships in ii, I'm sure the parents/older objects would find it quite funny. They would so make bets.

But Luz being a tad nervous to take the first big step but taking solace in Taco's confidence and going for it is also SO SWEET. I love it when characters have unwavering faith in each other. Mic would be proud that Luz is carrying on the family tradition of homosexuality, I think since LB and Luz are quite similar and get along so well LB would be very happy, and Painty would just nod and say "it was the silliness that got you, wasn't it?" Like parent like child lmao.