#idk. I just don’t even know what to do either

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

the hottest man north of havana

pairing: cabana boy! javi x rich older woman! reader

cws/tags: oral f! receiving, p in v, (semi) public sex, young (adult) javi!!, cheating (reader has a husband but he is prob cheating too and sucks)

summary: lonely rich woman at country club while her husband is away has a thing for the cabana boy

a/n: title reference to copacabana by barry manilow (that's either really obvious or really not obvious idk). obv you should listen to that while reading (long version) and margaritaville bc mentioned as well, but i listened to a lot of steely dan while writing this?? so, do with that what you will

*the cosmo article referenced is real and i have it saved to my computer and might post it bc it's so funny

wc: 3.6k

thank you @almostempty for your help on this one <3

Your husband’s away on ‘business’. AKA he’s in bed with a girl half his age a couple thousand miles away from where you sit on a lounge chair by the country club pool. It fazes you less than it should, but women like you don’t marry men like him for love. Or, at least, you don’t stay married for love. Half the women, wearing designer swimsuits and oversized sunglasses to hide aging under eye bags, are with their husbands for money too. The only difference is that you’re willing to be honest about these things. 

Honestly, the new cabana boy is handsome. They usually are, but this one has a certain charm that has you hiding behind an issue of Vogue to sneak a peek at his toned body when he’s not looking in your direction. 

In your persistent delusion, he pays special attention to you. He delivers fresh towels to the women on the other side of the pool, but he never lingers around them like he does with you. That pretty grin is genuine, you tell yourself, he’s not only working for tips. 

He nearly startles you when he comes by to offer you a refill of your margarita, a dizzyingly beautiful concoction since the bartender never skimps on the tequila, at least not when you’re the one ordering. He surely has a thing for you, or the way your tits look in a bikini, especially when they’re pressed up against the counter as you call his name.

“I really shouldn’t,” you say with a smile that begs him to convince you to have another. “It’s too early for more alcohol.”

“What’s that saying… ‘it’s 5 o’clock somewhere’?”

“Sure, in Margaritaville. I think we’re still a couple hours behind, though.”

“I’ll be back in a couple hours, then,” he says, taking your glass from the table beside you. “In the meantime, can I get you anything else?”

You can think of many things you’d love him to get you, but you settle for a seltzer with lime. 

You take a short nap and when you wake up, you know exactly what time it is because Jimmy Buffet is playing through the speakers to let you know, in addition to cabana boy who is humming along to the tune.

Your knight in a tightly fitting t-shirt approaches swiftly with your drink already in hand.

“How’d you know?” you ask, coyly, before taking a tiny sip. 

“What can I say? I know how to please a woman,” he says with a wink. 

You smile through the scoff you give him. “Alright, cabana boy, don’t let it get to your head.”

You learn his name the next day when you overhear one of the women you used to play tennis with bitching to him about this or that. 

“Javier,” you say as he walks past. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning on his heels with a look of relief on his face. 

“I heard you getting an earful back there. What’d you do to earn that?” 

Knowing her, whatever he did shouldn’t have landed him on anyone’s shitlist, but she’s got just about every name in the phonebook written down. 

“She requested an extra towel and a bottle of water to be brought to her in the women’s locker room, but I wasn’t very prompt.”

“Risking your tips, aren’t you?” you tut, teasingly. 

“Doesn’t usually tip me anyway,” he says under his breath, looking off to the side, pretending the confession isn’t meant for your ears.

“Oof. Even you can’t win her over,” you say with a pout.

“Suppose I was wrong about the whole ‘knowing how to please a woman’ thing,” he says with a faux-dramatic sigh. 

“I suppose so,” you say. Sitting upright so he can hear your voice when you say much lower, “but, you’ve really tugged on my heartstrings here, so I give you my deepest sympathies.” You grab a couple twenties from your wallet and hand them to him. 

“Pity tips,” he muses, a smirk tugging at his lips as he plays along with your little game, “I’ll bring you another sob story with your next drink.” 

The wink he gives you is his way of saying ‘thank you’. 

While you’re acutely aware of the power dynamic between the two of you, it does feel like he’s become a confidant in a way. You’d be far happier with his company than anyone else’s. 

While you’re in the midst of reading the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, Javier comes by to check up on you - something he seems to do more frequently now. Maybe it’s the tips, maybe it’s the tits. 

“Is it any good?” he asks, nodding to your magazine. 

“About as good as trashy magazines get. Why? Were you looking for some fashion advice, sex tips, embarrassing breakup confessions?” You offer up the gifts promised on the outer cover, nonchalant with equal attention paid to each, hopefully masking the fact that one of those topics is far more interesting than the others when you’re up close and personal with the effortlessly handsome Javier. 

Your eyes meet briefly at the mention of sex tips. 

“Hmm. How ‘bout those sex tips?”

“Alright, then,” you say, patting the spot beside you, beckoning him to sit. “Here are the best places to have hot summer sex…”

You can feel his body heat, his hand placed behind your body to hold himself steady as he leans in to read over your shoulder, pretending to be enthralled with this stupid article. 

“Number one,” you begin, “in the water.”

“A classic,” he notes, looking towards the pool only a few feet from you. 

“It says here that the ‘dirty mermaid’ position is ideal.” You point to the illustration of a couple getting it on. 

“Seems simple enough.”

“Wait ‘til you hear this,” you say, pausing for suspense, “their next suggestion is sex on a trampoline.”

“I can see the appeal,” he says. 

“Okay, well, then you better try out ‘the circus freak’ position the next time you have a rendezvous on a trampoline.”

“I’ll keep that in mind in case the circumstance arises.”

And just when you think you’ve got him to yourself, he’s whisked away from you by another dissatisfied country club member - maybe she’s jealous, you think,  until she gives you a sneer and then, you’re positively certain she is. Before he departs fully, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Let me know if you find anything you think I might like in there.”

The magazine tells you to fuck in a tent, on a sailboat, or in the woods, but all you want is Javier, right here, right now - be it the dirty mermaid, the circus freak, or just a man and a woman unable to ignore their overwhelming attraction to each other. 

Alas, you go home alone. The only one to touch you that night is your vibrator, and no matter how creative your imagination can be, you can tell the difference between silicone and the real deal. 

You return to your spot by the pool the very next day. Usually, you can apply your suntan lotion by yourself, albeit with some difficulty, but today, you struggle to get the part of your back that would normally be covered by your swimsuit - but of course, you know to avoid tan lines you need to keep your top off and your tits pressed to the towel. 

“Need any help?” Javier asks at a most opportune time.  

“Maybe a little, but let me just lay down first. I don’t want to flash you or anyone else.”

“It wouldn’t bother me at all, but I’m a gentleman, so I’d look away if you asked me.”

“I didn’t take you for a gentleman.”

“I could be one. If that’s what you’re into.”

You struggle to get your top off enough to put lotion on without exposing yourself, and Javier whispers to you, “Just take it off. No one’s around.”

You look at him, suspicious - and excited - about his motives. 

“I’ll be a gentleman,” he reiterates. 

“You better be,” you say with a face that dares him not to be  one, before turning and taking your top off. 

Javier takes the bottle of suntan lotion and squeezes a dollop onto his hand before rubbing it from your shoulders down your upper back, remaining cautious not to touch you anywhere too scandalous. Still, his touch lingers and he begins to massage your tense muscles. 

“Wow,” he says, “You’ve got a serious knot right here. What’s got you so tense?”

“A masseuse and a shrink?” you tease, expertly avoiding the question. “Javier, you’re really working overtime.”

“I’m just trying to build a good rapport with one of our most loyal members. It’s part of my job description.”

You suppose it is, but he’s surpassed ‘good rapport’ and made it to the number one spot on the list of men you have sexual fantasies about. You want to give him more than cash tips or sex tips. You also want to take far more than the tip from him. 

So, you keep him beside you for longer by letting him see deeper into your life as he shifts his touch. 

“Well, if you really want to hear all of my life’s hardships - Ooh, yes, right there - I’ll spill.”

You swear you can hear him inhale a sharp breath when you tell him where you want his hands. 

“Right here?” he asks, tentatively pressing his thumbs in more forcefully. 

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” you say. “You’re doing great, Javier.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, but you’ve heard those words enough times to know that his voice is different this time. That he’s affected by your praise. 

“It’s so stupid,” you begin with a light laugh, “I’m just pissed off at my husband.”

“Oh?” he says with a hint of disappointment in his tone. 

“Yeah, he’s off on ‘business’,” you say, air quotes included, “but we all know what that means.”

“Do we?” he asks, and he may have said something else, but you cut him off. 

“Ooh, down a little bit, babe.” The pet name slips from your lips accidentally, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

He moves his fingers to the perfect spot and you nearly moan. 

“I can’t believe your husband would give up spending a day with you, especially… one like this…”

“One like what?” you ask, curiosity piqued. 

“Ma’am, I’ll be honest, you look great in this swimsuit.” When he hears your laugh, he adds, “I swear. I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Well, Javier, I’m halfway out of this swimsuit right now.”

“As a gentleman, I wouldn’t dare take a peek, but I imagine you look even better like this.”

But you know he’d love to - as would you. You imagine there’s a tent forming in his uniform swim trunks. 

“I know I was planning to lie on my stomach, but would you mind getting my chest as well,” you suggest. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he says. 

You turn to him, revealing your naked upper body, simultaneously praying that the pool area is empty and that it’s crowded with women who’d certainly be jealous of what’s going on between you and the cabana boy. 

You’d think he’d never seen a pair of tits before if you saw his face - absolutely awestruck, unable to tear his eyes away from them. 

At your request, he gently massages them. 

“Goddamn, your husband is lucky,” he says under his breath. 

“Is he?” you say. “You’re the one touching me right now.”

His hands trail down your sides, testing the waters. 

“It’s a hot day… you don’t wanna get burned… so maybe you’d like me to get your thighs too? Just to be safe?”

You never thought you’d have a man begging just to touch your thighs, but you can’t complain. 

“You’re so thoughtful,” you say, “if you don’t mind, that’d be wonderful.”

You can tell he’s itching to get your swimsuit bottoms off. 

You whisper to him, “You can take them off if you want.”

“But my hands are covered in sunscreen. I wouldn’t want to give you an infection or anything.”

“You have a mouth, don’t you?”

His brown eyes melt as he eagerly dives between your thighs without another word.

His tongue works wonders as it glides over your folds, paying special attention to your clit, flicking his tongue teasingly, then sucking lightly. You realize how large his hands are when he wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you into him. You’re fixated on his fingers, how badly you wish he could give you them.  

“Javier,” you say, “I want you to fuck me.”

(If you weren’t so needy, you’d beg to get on your knees, to scrape them on the concrete, and to suck him off. He serves you too often, you owe him more than just tips).

When your vulgar language reaches his ears, he looks up at you, wiping the shock off his face with a hand through his hair. He looks excited from his eyes to his shorts as you give him the once-over. YOu quickly slip your bikini back on before he takes your hand and leads you to a slightly more secluded part of the pool. Anyone who swims nearby could see you, but women further away with their noses in their trashy romance novels (when they’re not stuck in everyone else’s business), won’t be able to tell who is getting it on behind the waterfall. 

No, it doesn’t look even close to as gorgeous as the tropical destinations you’ve visited, but it does conceal your identity. And, Javier looks better than any man you’ve ever seen. The country club made an active decision to hire hot young men who could easily be printed on an advertisement in one of those stores in the mall that you no longer frequent - you’ve outgrown the overbearing scent of cologne and the juvenile style. Last summer, there was a blond pool boy, the summer before, he had blue eyes. But, Javier is something else - he’s a walking wet dream. And he’s yours. 

The water is cold, particularly so when you’re in a shady area, but Javier’s sun-warmed chest pressed against yours keeps you from shivering. And, with every subtle touch, heat pools at your core. 

When you’re submerged in the water, he slides your bikini bottoms to the side and lowers his swimsuit just enough to free his cock. You can’t resist the urge to touch him, so you stroke him slowly and you can tell he’s holding back pretty moans that you’d die to hear.  

Before he can lose himself to the feeling, he picks you up and you hook your legs around his hips. He keeps you close to him, not letting your back scrape the edge of the pool behind you. His grip is firm but his touch is soft. 

You coax his cock to your entrance, and he lets you, but not without warning.

“If we do this, I’m gonna need you to be real fucking quiet.”

“Same to you.” Your voice falters as he slides the head along your folds. 

Quite frankly, you couldn’t care less if everyone in the general vicinity heard the moans you hold back - in fact, you’re proud to be the one in Javier’s arms - but you try your best to collect yourself, to pretend the first inch, the initial stretch, doesn’t faze you. Even the anticipation of being filled by him makes you clench around him, your body trying to pull him closer, ignoring your intentions to keep up this coy persona with a quip readily stowed just behind your lips when he says something flirtatious and witty. You want to be the one to make him blush.

It is the opposite of sex with your husband. Not only because Javier is younger and far more attractive, but because you have to make an active effort not to cum too quickly when his fingers reach between your bodies and find your clit. You’ve spent years faking orgasms with your eyes closed, imagining a man like this is the one panting above you. Better make it last. 

Javier’s hands have a steady grip on your hips, forcing them to meet his with every thrust while your arms take place on his shoulders. You lean in and kiss his neck, eliciting the slightest moan, and you have to hold yourself back from sucking at his skin. You want to hear him, you want to mark him. You want to make him yours. 

You hear the clop clop sound of sandals approaching accompanied by a pair of feminine voices. It snaps you from the momentary daze and what is meant to be a warning comes out like a whimper. 

“Javi,” you say, and the sound of his name coming from your lips only spurs him on. 

You have to stifle your cries by burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your words are muffled but you manage to convey enough to get a response - not the one you were expecting, though.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I want them to know I’m fucking you.”

You know that Javier can have just about any woman he wants, you feel lucky to be chosen, but you know, despite his words, he wants you in secret. He’s just good at dirty talk, and you’ll gladly take the fantasy he builds for you. 

“I’m serious,” he says. “I want them to know how good I’m making you feel.”

Good would be an understatement. Pleasure ripples through you, threatening to push you over the edge, into an intense orgasm. He angles his hips so that every time his cock fills you, it strokes your g-spot along the way. And his fingertips work tirelessly on your clit. 

But he slows his pace, he pulls you back from the ledge.

“I wanna hear you when you cum,” he says, and he’s unable to hide his ragged breathing behind his sternness. 

He’s not demanding, he’s begging. 

And it works all too well with you. 

You meet his eyes - an agreement - and he returns to his previous routine, the one that makes your thighs tremble and your head loll back. 

“Javier…” His name flies past your lips and you wonder if you would’ve said it anyway, without his direction. It comes out in a desperate cry — one that covers up any noise that comes from Javier. You only catch the latter end of his orgasm, taken entirely by your own, but his face will be forever etched into your mind, in that corner that you keep secret and sacred. 

All of a sudden, in your post-orgasm haze, Javier pushes you gently into the waterfall, so you end up soaked (in a new way). You understand why when he pulls you out of the pool bridal style. 

As everyone in the area gawks at you, likely having heard you scream Javier’s name, he acts like the hero he is. 

“Someone had a few too many drinks,” he announces. “Luckily, no CPR is needed, but I’ll be taking her to the med station for a checkup. Everyone may resume their regularly scheduled lounging.”

There are whispers amongst the crowd - there always are - but you’re impressed by his acting. 

When he sits you down on a chair meant for the aftermath of swimming-related accidents (most of which result in nothing more than a bandaid), he says to you, “It’s important to stay sober if you don’t want to end up in sticky situations.”

“Sticky situations like the one on the front of your shorts?”

“Goddammit,” he says with a sigh. “They’re gonna fire me.”

“I hope it was worth it,” you say. 

“I’d say so,” he says, but you can still see a tinge of worry in his eyes. 

“Besides,” you say, “I think I might be able to get another job.”

“Really? That’s awesome,” he perks up. “But, I’ll miss seeing you every day.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Your husband arrives home the next day and you immediately complain about how the maintenance men did a terrible job keeping the backyard pool clean. Truthfully, they really weren’t the best and you’d been thinking about finding a new pool boy anyway. 

When your husband goes to look up ‘pool maintenance in my area’, you say, as nonchalantly as you can, “I heard that one of the cabana boys at the country club is quitting, and he’s actually really good at his job. He works super hard, never slacking off.”

“Alright. I trust your judgment. Maybe you can get his contact info from the club and we can ask for his rates.”

You already have his number saved in your phone so you call him and get his email address and pretend you’re calling the country club. You draft the perfect email for him to send your husband, to show him that he’s the perfect man to work for you. 

“Wow,” he says, when he receives the email. “He says here that he even offers extra services like bartending and poolside service… whatever that means. His rates look reasonable too. You did a great job, honey.”

“Thank you,” you say, accepting a kiss on the cheek from him. “I can stay home and monitor him, assuming you have to work on Monday…”

“Actually, I’m so sorry, but I’m leaving again in the morning.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“San Francisco. Another conference. But, don’t fret, I’ll be back in a week. I would love it if you stayed home when he’s here - just in case - but I trust your decisions either way.”

Needless to say, Javier is great at his job when your husband is home, and even better when he’s away. 

[your-unfriendlyghost]

No Class

 Aka making Stevepop fight

this fic comes from the h/c I have that Steve’s not really close to anyone at school except Soda and Evie, so when Soda drops out, Steve gets frustrated. I’ll cross post this to Ao3 later I think.

All the Stevepop here is platonic technically but they’ve definitely got…something goin on idk- any way you slice it they’re each other’s person ok? (This is also pre-meeting Evie, that’s why she’s not mentioned lol.)

(edit- wait no i did mention her apparently?? Idk I guess it isn’t pre-Evie??)

There’s also a little inspo here from this post by @dallasgallant - they posted it ages ago but yk I think abt it still lol. I dunno that I really did the concept justice here, as I don’t go….deep into it or anything, but it’s definitely present

-

“You can’t drop outta high school, man,” Steve says weakly. “You…you can’t.”

  Soda sighs, tilting his DX cap down over his face. “Stevie…” he murmurs, voice soft and pleading. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Steve shakes his head. He can’t wrap his mind around this. Soda can’t- he can’t just leave!

  “God, I dunno, take some of my shifts? Or make Ponyboy get a job?!” Steve says, running a hand down his face. “He’s thirteen, don’t shelter him like that-”

  “Jesus,” Soda mutters, as if there’s something obviously wrong with that that Steve isn't getting.

  “What?!” Steve snaps.

  Soda gives him a dull-eyed stare. “C’mon, he ain’t sheltered.”

  Steve scoffs. “Yeah, right- I’ve seen him cryin’ like a girl, and y’all just let him be a wimp. He's sheltered as hell. But Soda that ain’t the point-”

  Soda’s jaw clenches. “Aw, watch it, man.”

  “No! No, you can’t just leave, I won’t- you can’t- Oh, c’mon, we just have a year left- I mean, believe it or not, Ponyboy can pick up some slack ‘round here too-”

  Now Soda’s eyes flash, and he audibly snorts. “Shut it, you ain’t really one to accuse anyone of bein’ sheltered, Randle.”

  Steve freezes. “The hell does that mean?!”

  Soda shakes his head. “Nup- I shouldn’ta said that. Never mind,” he sighs. 

  “No! No, you tell me what ya mean!” Steve says, painfully aware of how shrill he sounds.

  “Naw. I shouldn’ta opened my damn mouth’. Just…just forget it, Stevie,” Soda insists.

  “Tell me what you mean, man, you said it, you gotta explain it!” Steve argues.

  “No! I don’t wanna talk about this right now, man!”

  “Spell it out for me, why don’t ya?!” Steve says, getting up in Soda’s face now. “‘Cos as far as I know, gettin’ kicked outta my own house all the time sure ain’t sheltered!”

  Soda shoves him back a bit, gently. “Jesus, I never said you was sheltered, I just said that Pony ain’t!”

  “No, no, I heard ya, don’t you go lyin’ to me now, Curtis,” Steve hisses.

  “Fine, ya really wanna know?!” Soda growls. “All I’m sayin’ is that you’re the only grease I know who’s got a three-story house, whose papa still makes good money, and who always has a wallet fulla cash! Yeah your ol’ man ain’t so great, but ya always have new clothes an’ shit-”

  “AIN’T SO GREAT?!” Steve yells, voice booming. “I SLEEP AT YOU AND DAL’S PLACES HALF THE TIME!”

  Soda flinches. “I know! That’s why I took it back! All I’m sayin’ is that you got opportunities that me or Pony’d kill for, and I dunno if ya even know it- but I know you ain’t sheltered, shit, man, I know it, okay?”

  Steve can barely hear him over the angry hot buzzing in his head. Opportunities?! Yeah right, what opportunities?! And the third floor ain't even a third floor, it’s just a damn attic room that Steve moved into for space! Ponyboy’s never been struck by his papa- and sure, Steve hasn’t either, least not after the age of five, but he’s been shoved hard which ain’t so different! Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with a look burning in his eyes like he hated him. Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with horror, realizing he’d hurt his son- Mr. Curtis never said GET OUT, because he couldn’t resist hurting him and needed him gone- 

  “Soda-” Steve says, voice high and loud, louder than he means it to be, “fuck-” 

  Soda looks at him, eyes wide, and Steve realizes he’s grabbed the front of Soda’s shirt.

  He huffs and lets go, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “I’m goin’ to Dally’s,” he grunts, slinging on his leather jacket. “Don’t wait up.”

  Soda, now tired again, says “Didn’t plan on it.”

  “...Good,” says Steve as he shoves the door open, because he can’t think of anything tougher to say. 

  “Steve?” Soda says, flatly.

  For a second, Steve thinks he’s gonna apologize, because Soda always caves first. He glances over his shoulder at him. “What?”

  “Don’t talk about my brother like that,” Soda says, voice low.

  “Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive,” Steve bites back. He slams the door.

  Boy, he wishes Soda had just apologized.

-

  On the drive to Dally’s, Steve feels sick. His stomach twists as he replays the conversation in his head.

  Who is he to call Soda sensitive? Steve’s as sensitive as they come. Well, not sensitive, he’s no Ponyboy. Reactive, maybe. 

  But then again- what was Soda on about?! Dropping outta school?! Just to coddle the damn kid?! Steve swallows feverishly at the thought of school without Soda. 

  What about him?! Doesn’t Soda care? It ain’t hard to work at thirteen, Steve started at sixteen but he knows plenty of guys who started younger- Why should Soda bear the burden of leaving school? Why does Ponyboy get to stay?! Sure he’s leavin’ junior high a year early, but he can do school and work at the same time, can’t he?!

  Why’s Soda always gotta sacrifice himself for a spoiled little kid?

  Steve turns a corner too fast and gets honked at. Dammit. He rolls his eyes.

  Doesn’t Soda care about the fact that Steve’s gotta stay in school, and he can’t do that without Soda?!

  And yeah, the Curtises are low on funds, and yeah, Steve isn’t, but he ain’t a Soc either! He doesn’t- he doesn’t buy new clothes all the time- well, sure he has three leather jackets, but he got those for cheap at the charity store! 

  Plus, it was with money I earned from sleepin’ in the lot- Pony’s never had to sleep in the lot, Steve thinks madly. Neither has Soda- he just don’t get it…

  Steve’s not even sure who he’s fixin to complain to about it now. After all, if Soda don’t get it, no one else will.

  But Dal works. Two-Bit too, probably.

-

  Sometimes at night Soda paces. Back and forth, back and forth, in awkward dizzying figure eights. He flicks on the stove and walks to the icebox, turns around and walks back to the threshold where the kitchen meets the living room, and walks to the icebox again. It’s been a day since his argument with Steve.

  Two-Bit’s watching some show on the TV, maybe the Twilight Zone, although Soda’s not rightly sure. Two glances at Soda’s pacing, but doesn’t question it- maybe he would have, normally, but he’s half asleep as is, and besides, he’s probably seen this display plenty before anyhow.

  “Did you just turn the stove in with nothing on it?” Two-Bit asks instead, blinking.

  “Huh? Oh,” Soda says. He puts the kettle on the fire. “Oops.”

  “You gon’ remember to turn it off, ya airhead?” Two-Bit grins.

  Soda grins back, a little sheepishly. If the comment had been from anyone else, it woulda stung. But Two-Bit gets it. He knows the score. After all, he’s a month away from eighteen, yet he’s in the same grade as Soda.

  “You gon’ remind me?” Soda replies, cocking his eyebrow.

  Two snorts. “Naw- leave that to me, an’ you’ll end up with your whole damn house burned down.”

  “Aw, well, that’s just as likely if it’s left to me- I mean, I’m the dumb one, ain’t I?” Soda laughs, but he must’ve done a pretty lousy job at hiding the hollowness in it, ‘cos Two-Bit’s eyes soften.

  “No you ain’t,” Two-Bit sighs, tilting his head back.

  “Sure I am,” Soda spits. “Y’know, sometimes I gotta ask Ponyboy for help on my goddamn homework- you know that, right?” he says, whirling around and walking back to the sink, and then the icebox.

  Two-Bit’s shoulders slump. “Stevie was sayin’ to me and Dally the other night that you was fixin’ to dropout.”

  Soda stiffens. “He did?!”

  “Sorta thought he was just bein’ dramatic at the time, you know how he is…but I reckon he wasn’t after all, huh?” Two says pointedly. Two knows he’s right- when it comes to real knowledge, Two-Bit’s only wrong when it’s funny. He just wants to hear Soda admit it.

  Soda clamps his jaw shut. “That ain’t fair. Ain’t none of his goddamn business. Ain’t yours, neither.”

  “Okay, sure, I reckon that’s a fair assessment,” Two-Bit says easily. “You ain’t gotta tell me nothin’. …You will though, won’tcha.” He says it like a statement, and cocks his eyebrow.

  Soda scowls and opens the cupboard, getting out a box of cereal. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” he says, shoving a handful of cocoa pebbles into his mouth to prove he really doesn’t.

  “Right, you don’t,” Two-Bit says sarcastically.

  “I just don’t get what Sth-teve is so hung up ‘bout!” Soda lisps through the mouthful of cereal.

  Two-Bit smirks, like ah there it is.

  “Sthut up,” Soda groans.

  “Hey hey, my lips are locked, bub,” Two-Bit says innocently.

  “I mean Chrisht-” Soda pauses and swallows the last of the cereal- “he knows I ain't bright, what’s goin’ to school even doin’ for me?! It’s just a waste of time that I oughta spend makin’ money, makin’ myself useful! It ain’t like it’s some damn tragedy, I ain’t Darry!”

  “Hey, no one is,” Two-Bit says, patting Soda’s shoulder.

  “You know what I mean- I mean, I ain’t…I ain’t got no…what’s the word? For when ya could be somethin’...polenta?”

  “Potential, I reckon,” Two-Bit says. “I only know that ‘cause of how often Ma says I’m wastin’ it,” he adds hastily.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t got none to waste,” Soda sighs. “I ain’t a sport, I ain’t a brain, and the only classes I’m passin’ are gym and shop. What the hell is the point? Steve oughta know that!”

  “Steve oughta know a lotta things he don’t know,” Two-Bit says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Y’know?”

  Soda blinks. “...Maybe I’m slow, but…ya lost me.”

  Two shrugs. “Well, Stevie-boy ain’t got the same problems as you and me, that’s all.”

  “Right, ‘cos he has more money.”

  “Well, kinda, but I mean he ain’t got no one he’s…lookin’ out for the way we do. He’s just got himself and his folks.”   “Just his dad, really. His mama ain’t been home from the hospital since we were like…fourteen,” Soda corrects on instinct.

  “See?”

  “So? He still can use his heart a bit, can’t he?” Soda protests. 

  “Sure. But when have we ever known him to?”

  Soda wants to protest, ‘cos that isn’t true, not exactly. When Mom and Dad died, it was Steve who held him, who didn’t need him to keep it together. It was Steve who signed up with him for double shifts on the weekends, because Soda needed the money but hated working alone. Steve watches out for Evie, too- when she needs a place to stay, to get away from her stepfather and her mom, she hides out at his place. 

  But Steve’s always disliked Ponyboy. Maybe Two’s right. Maybe Steve just can’t get it.

  But it isn’t like Steve hates the kid, either, right? He just cares more for Soda’s company than he cares about Pony’s grades.

  Soda chews his lip. It isn’t like he’s not sad to be missing out on time with Steve, either. Sitting in class, tossing notes at Steve, sneaking off campus with Steve, wrestling Steve in PE… They’re like the highlight of his school experience. 

  But he’s sixteen now. And unless he plans on getting back into riding rodeos any time soon, his future’s just gas stations, and maybe the army if he gets bored of gas stations. There’s just no point in putting it off if it’s coming either way.

  So yeah, he’ll miss Steve, but Steve’ll just have to deal…right?

  “He just keeps sayin’ it isn’t fair, ‘cos I reckon he’ll miss me,” Soda mutters.

  “Well it ain’t like you’re abandonin’ him,” Two-Bit shrugs. “He’s bein’ dramatic.”

  “He is dramatic,” Soda sighs. Steve’s always been dramatic. 

  But Soda…kinda gets it.

  Steve’s a pretty lonely guy. He’s got Soda, sometimes Two-Bit, sometimes Dally. And he’s got his old man, and his ma, but only when she’s conscious enough to talk.

  Soda puts the cereal box away. “Hey Two, tell Darry I’m at Steve’s place, yeah?”

  Two-Bit smiles faintly. “What’re ya gonna say?”

  “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

-

  “Hey Steve, come on a walk with me?” Soda says. He’s breathless and red-faced, like he ran here, and is cupping his hands ‘round his mouth to yell up from the backyard.

  He’s gotta do that, ‘cos my room’s on the third floor, Steve notes miserably. He really is the only greaser he knows who lives in a house with three stories. 

  He wants to fly out the window and throw his arms around Soda. Sure, Soda’s wrong, but still…

  He resists that urge though, and instead, he leans out the window and says “I’ll meet ya downstairs.”

  “Tuff.”

  Outside, Soda gives him a little smile. “The uh…weather’s nice, huh?”

  “It’s May,” Steve says. He cringes. He didn’t mean to sound smart-mouthed.

  “Yeah,” Soda says, scrunching his nose. “I guess.”

  “I ain’t…I ain’t a Soc, Soda,” Steve mutters. Sure his old man has a good job and a college degree. They still live on the East Side. Steve’s still never gonna get outta Tulsa.

  Soda nods. “I know that, Stevie. I shouldn’t have said that to ya. I’m not sorry for it though.”

  Steve scowls. “Then what’re ya here for?”

  “To take a walk with my best buddy,” Soda answers, tossing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

  He leads them down the street, out towards the empty lot. 

  “I don’t like school, Steve,” Soda says, running his hand along a chain link fence. “You know that.”

  “No one does,” Steve mumbles. “That’s why they gotta force ya.”

  “Pony does,” Soda says, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Pony digs school pretty okay.”

  “…I guess.”

  “And y’know, he’s pretty damn good at it, too. Gets all As n’ all.”

  “Except in math,” Steve corrects. Ponyboy definitely got a B- in math last semester.

  “Except in math,” Soda says, smiling. “But the point is, he’s got somethin’ special. He’s got a brain. And he’s gonna get outta this town someday.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real Einstein, huh,” Steve grunts, a stab of irritation in his gut. All hail Ponyboy, child genius, better than downtown hoods like Steve and Soda. “We get it.”

  “C’mon, I gotta be able to support that, y’know?” Soda says, ruffling Steve’s hair. 

  Steve swallows. Fine. Sure. He gets it. He does.

  “But that don’t mean I don’t wanna be ‘round you, you dig?” Soda says.

  Steve’s breath hitches. “Oh- Soda, ‘course I know that,” he says, although he’s not rightly sure he did a second ago.

  “Okay. Fine,” Soda says, amusedly. “But you get it, right? I mean, you’re the only thing I’m gonna miss about that damn school building, savvy?”

  Steve smiles. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just ‘cos we ain’t gonna have class together don’t mean we’re gonna not…stick together, okay?”

  “It’ll be different,” Steve says, maybe just to be stubborn.

  “Yeah, but not really. You’ll have Two and Dal and Johnny.”

  “Not really. They got other buddies. And it ain’t the same.”

  “Of course it ain’t. Ain’t no one in the world who I like the way I like ya, Stevie. You’re special, and I reckon I’m special to you in the same way, huh?”

  Steve nods, looking at the cracks in the cement under his shoes. 

  “You’re my best friend, Sodapop,” he murmurs. He’s also Steve’s only real friend.

  “You remember how when Dal showed up, how you got all angry?” Soda says, squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

  Steve shrugs, even though he remembers it perfectly. 

  “Yeah, you acted like I was replacin’ ya or something,” Soda grins.

  “You both liked horses. I felt all left out and whatever. Sue me, I was eleven,” Steve says, flushing a bit. 

  “Well I stuck by ya anyhow, even though you’re scared of horses and we all know it.”

  “I’m cautious ‘round horses, not scared,” Steve protests, smiling a little.

  “Sure ya are,” Soda humors him. “The point I’m gettin’ at though is that it was different after Dal met us. Things were different. But I was still me, and you were still you, y’know?”

  Steve nods. “Yeah. I guess,” he says, leaning his head into Soda’s shoulder.

  “So you ain’t mad that I’m droppin’ out then, yeah?” Soda says softly.

  Steve sighs. He is. It’s illogical and unfair, but he’s a little mad still. He lets that throb and die though, in the back of his mind. 

  “I just…I’m gonna miss ya,” Steve says.

  “I’m gonna miss ya too. But we’ve always got work, and the weekends, and hell Stevie, it’s nearly summer, so you ain’t gonna have to worry ‘til September. And then after that, you’ll graduate and we can be free to hang whenever we want for the rest of time.”

  “I wanna hang with ya for the rest of time,” Steve says, so quietly he almost can’t hear himself.

  “Good,” Soda grins. “Me too.”

[takendruid]

Okok so, requesting some help from StephCass shippers, and maybe also TimSteph shippers/people who know decent amount of information about TimSteph’s relationship

Can you guys, StephCass shippers, explain to me the reasons why you ship them?

I don’t know nearly enough about Steph or Cass, or their relationship to each other, to make a proper judgement of the ship.

It always kind of felt weird to me, because it just felt like Batcest even though Steph isn’t actually Bruce’s kid. And then I actually started to think about why the ship makes me uncomfortable in a batcest way, before having the realisation that I simply don’t know enough about either girl or the relationship they have with each other (nor Steph’s relationship with Tim) to justify feeling that way.

I’m relatively new to the Batman fandom, so I’m still learning a lot. And this is something I feel like I need to be educated on before I can actually make a judgement of the ship.

Because I only found out today that the reason Tim and Steph broke up was apparently because Tim is bisexual?? I already knew he’s bi, I didn’t)t know that apparently that was the reason they broke up (but don’t quote me on that, and feel free to correct me).

I have started to read the comics, but there are so many comics that I just… need that shit explained to me. Tim and Steph’s relationship kind of also made me uncomfortable because Batcest, but to a bit of a lesser degree, before I had the same realisation about TimSteph that I did with StephCass; that I know basically fuck all about their relationship to each other because I’m a newbie, and very uneducated.

The way I have always perceived Steph and Cass has just been as sisters, and Steph and Tim as exes who are still close and have a very sibling-like relationship. Before realising, obviously, that I just know fuck all.

This post, and request for an explanation comes from a place of genuine confusion and curiosity, not any hate. I do just need the StephCass ship explaining to me because I genuinely don’t know very much about either girl, or their relationship to each other.

Sorry I keep repeating myself ✌️ (under the cut isn’t anything really relevant to what I’ve talked about here, it’s just an explanation of what I have seen comics-wise)

Idk if anyone is going to ask, but when it comes to the comics, I have started actively reading some currently releasing ones like Batman & Robin: Year One, and Absolute Batman. I have also bought Absolute Superman and Absolute Wonder Woman, but haven’t gotten around to reading them yet. I’m perfectly aware that the Absolute comics are basically AUs/is an AU (idk if they carry into one another), and that B&R:Y1 is of a retelling of Dick’s origins as Robin???

I have actively read the two issues of Red Hood Gotham War, and the surrounding issues in Batman and Catwoman that take place at the same time (Bruce… what the fuck… writers, what kind of mischaract-). I wouldn’t say I have “read” either RHATO, but I have skimmed through the one with Artemis and Bizarro; from when Jason is kind of… disowned-ish by Batman as a Bat, up to about when the group of kids were introduced (because I wasn’t reading it properly, I got super confused and just stopped looking). But I have read more closely the Prince of Gotham issues when looking at it a second time for a quick moment. I have also skimmed through the early issues of both RHATO comics. Jason is my favourite character, so I have kind of tended to look at official stuff more aimed around him. That is why I know pretty much fuck all about Steph and Cass.

I briefly know their backstories, I know that Steph became Robin for like 2 weeks after Tim was fired, I know that Tim and Steph were dating. But I haven’t actually read anything official with them in besides RHGW, which includes like a panel or so of Steph as Spoiler.

And yes, I have read most of WFA (I need to catch up) but I’m perfectly aware of the context it existsin; it’s not official, it’s slice of life, it’s a webtoon, and it does not properly represent the characters… even though (some of the) said characters have been so disgracefully mischaracterised by the official comics that WFA doesn’t deserve the amount of shit it gets for doing the same thing, or so I have heard.

I’m not claiming to know my shit, I think that’s pretty obvious. I trust the people on Tumblr to not treat me like shit because the community here is lovely. But I know there are going to be the odd people that might pull me up if I don’t clarify what comics I have actually read and seen. Or maybe not pull me up? More just be curious to actually know my level of knowledge from the official sources, instead of people on the internet talking about it.

[mrs-starkgaryen]

Well, well, well, dissecting time just so I can remind Maggie that I am in her walls (thanks you've passed your illness onto me)

1. "Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado."

A) Even at home, she's dreaming/ thinking about the stars (Hollywood stars)

2. "It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone."

A) Don't worry baby girl, Aegon is gonna make you finish in front of him and I'll you'll love it

3. Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

A) we all are Mason, shut up

4. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

A) well I didn't like that foreshadowing

B) she's gonna get close to Aegon and we know he's a messed up man 😭

C) I'll she'll still love him though

5. “And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies."

A) Or when Aegon dies...

B) Maggie, are you in my walls? This is my family 😭

6. “Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless."

A) mother? What you doing here, loca?

B) how Sunshine is so sunny, idk. I guess you have to have rain to appreciate the sun

C) no wonder she think she needs plastic surgery- not just for Hollywood but she probably feels like she needs to live up to her parents expectations somehow (cuz she feels like she is disappointing them with her choice of job?)

7. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A) Sunshines reminder that social media is fake lmao

B) but this is a mood- it gives crying whilst doing a thumbs up picture 😭👍🤳

Also those dogs? I love dogs but these ones are scary! The family and the dogs seem to hate her?! My God. Are they picking up on the family hostility to her?

If they don't shape up, unlike the bats- I won't mind if Jace steps on one of these.. (jk)

8. A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

A) Aegon ever heard of playing it cool?

B) damn he's down bad

9. You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you."

A) oh an old man, imagine if he meant Aegon-

B) HE DID! Mf ain't old

C) I also squealed like she did when I recognised the shoes 🥰

10. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

A) and if I say 👀

B) foreshadowing...

C) also hello Simon Bassett from Bridgerton?

11. “Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

A) for now Aegon...

B) He will show her the different flavours

C) also could symbolise that she is kinda naive and then as the story progresses- she's not so sweet anymore 😀

13. “It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

A) said every man ever 😉😂

B) ooh will she be in season 56, episode 28?

14. “Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—..... that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

A) did he have to do something to make people (or him) like himself more?

B) omg did his dad make or encourage his siblings/ family to change to become more famous, to carry on his legacy in Hollywood? Did Aemond try and change himself and now he's took a step back into scriptwriting cuz atleast then he can control his own story?

C) she's gonna lose or nearly lose her humanity in this industry, I can see it. It's gonna break her down and then Aegon and her have feel better sex..

15. “Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

A).... need I say more

16. “The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

A) you're killing me

B) she's gonna like riding this horse 😭 (I'll let myself out)

17. His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

A) either becca is crazy

B) or his family are and they'll update becca

C) or both. Like I said before- maybe they set him up wirh becca to calm him down, to make him (the targaryens) look good in the papers

18. “I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

A) a possible other nickname?

B) all her nicknames are cute and sunny, like her until this industry snuffs it out 😀

19. Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

A) This whole thing felt like a summary for the story

B) at first she's whisked away in a world of Hollywood: glitter and glammer. She's "full of blind naive surety"..

C) Then it's she's less so but she still tries to be optimistic? As she realises this is not what she signed up for

D) husband is dead, Aegon is dead? Then she's full of rage

E) under artificial light? The Hollywood spotlight..

F) she starts to give them her body (plastic surgery), her mind (she starts to doubt and panic in fame) and then her soul (Hollywood kills her optimism and dream)

Also- Are the eyeshadows representing things?

A) In the first chapter she had shimmery, pink, warm brown eyeshadow (showing that she is warm, positive and sparkling with a dream, it's all new).

B) when she's with Mason, it's sparkly black. Like she's not 100% with him but that's okay because she still has her dream that she's gonna be able to be an actress and subconsciously be with someone better...

C) in the ice cream shop, she has bright pink- so bright in optimism still and pink meaning flirtatious feelings for Aegon?

Idk, all this is my crazy mind and I love whatever you come out with!

A Curse [Chapter 2: Harbor Gateway]

A/N: Thank you for the warm welcome you have given this series!!! I am sick with bronchitis currently so this has been a big bright spot in an otherwise miserable week 😅 I can't wait to show you where this story is going, I hope you're ready for it 🥰💜

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent...at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon's right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, ice cream, judgmental parents, aggressive Akitas, we're literally in Minnesota!!!

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado. On the other side of the glass is inky Minnesota night, a full moon dissolving away, glowing freckles of constellations. You’re staying with your parents and Mason has roommates, so the truck was the expedient choice. It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone.

Mason glances down at the used condom on the floor of his Silverado, hastily discarded, viscerally slick in a way that becomes sickening in the letdown, as the endorphins and the adrenaline slip away and the blood pumps slow and unclouded. He smirks as he asks: “You sure you don’t want to get back on the pill?”

You sigh, drawing another star. You are still naked and sprawled across the back seat, glistening with sweat in the moonlight. “Well I tried three different prescriptions and had three miserable experiences, and I’m really not interested in playing side effect roulette again. And I can’t risk my skin going insane and random bleeding when I’m running around all over L.A. trying to get parts.”

“What about that little sperm assassin T-shaped thing?”

You look at him. “An IUD?”

“Yeah.”

You wince, engraving another star into the steam on the window. “I don’t think I like the idea of having a piece of metal shoved up inside me.”

He laughs. “But you’ll get silicone implants?”

You shrug; you can’t deny the irony. “I don’t need an IUD to be an actress.”

“Look, I’m not complaining about the tits thing,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “Obviously I’d enjoy them too. And you’d still have them when you move home, so it’s not a waste even if the acting thing doesn’t work out.”

You already know he feels this way, and yet still, it hurts. “When I move home?”

He smiles and crawls back on top of you, his Carleton College hoodie whispering against your belly and chest, soft royal blue cotton on damp skin. He had been a Political Science and International Relations major who took Theater Arts 195: Acting Shakespeare for an arts credit. He was beyond terrible and had no appreciation for the field whatsoever, but he was tall and strong and jolly, an earnest corn-fed Midwestern boy, and when one day after class he’d asked if he could take you to Culver’s for a burger and frozen custard, you’d said yes.

Here and now, in the back seat of his Chevy Silverado, Mason kisses your forehead. Then he ghosts his thumb over the ridge of your orbital socket and cheekbone, where your dark glittery eyeshadow has smudged like a spreading bruise: Galaxy by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Elysian by Natasha Denona. “I’m not saying you aren’t good. But how many people on this planet get to be movie stars? It’s just not realistic. And it’s about so much more than talent. It’s about who you know, and luck, and chemistry, and looks, and a bunch of other things that are mostly out of your control. You’re never going to be the type of girl who’s an influencer or winning Miss America, you’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t very, very pretty. And I loved you anyway.”

Loved, past tense. You and Mason stopped using that word a year ago; now the nostalgia is painting memories like the walls of an old house. His memories, anyway. You sit up and start yanking on your clothes: oversized yellow Santa Monica crewneck, black sweatpants with elastic cuffs at the ankles. “I think I’m going to get the gummy bear implants.”

Mason licks his lips. “Yum.”

“They’re a type of silicone, but they’re supposed to feel more natural and be less dangerous if they rupture.”

“Will you have scars?” he says as if the notion has just occurred to him, troubled, perhaps a little revolted.

“Well yeah, they have to end up under my skin somehow.”

Mason shudders, then he has another thought. “Who’s going to take care of you after surgery when you’re all sore and zonked out on opioids?”

“My roommate Baela said she would. She’s had friends who have gone through it already.”

“Okay, good. I wouldn’t want you to be alone out there.” Mason touches the back of your head, a quick fond gesture. He’s the only man you’ve ever been with, and even that took a while, months of trying to envision him undressing you before you were sure you could do it without flinching, without being afraid or shy or bewildered. But in the end it had been easy, always easy, which is why you keep coming back to him like a comet. Your elliptical orbit takes you far away and then close again, and such natural patterns are effortless to keep.

You say, the edges of your lips curling into a furtive smile: “I’m definitely not alone.”

Mason groans. “You’re going to hook up with that new agent guy, aren’t you?”

“What? No! No way, he has a fiancée.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s more amused than annoyed. “Okay, whatever.”

“You know I don’t date anyone.” Which is why each time you’re home visiting, Mason gets a text: Want to get lunch at Culver’s? or Can you drive me to Target? or Pick me up around 9 p.m.?

Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

“I’m just grateful. Someone finally gave me a chance.” You look to the window; the steam and your hand-drawn stars have evaporated away. “And yeah, he’s interesting and he’s cute, and he’s kind of mean but then unexpectedly caring sometimes, and I think he���s one of those people who are really good at what they do but only when they’re inspired…but that doesn’t mean I’m into him romantically.” A pause. “And even if I was, there’s no harm in a super-secret, one-sided crush.”

“Okay. Have fun with all the adulterous sex.”

You chuckle. “Thanks, but that is not the plan.” You slip on your flip-flops, shimmy out of the back seat, and trot around the Silverado to the passenger’s door. Mason climbs into the driver’s seat and turns his key in the ignition. You ask: “What happened to that ballerina girl who was in your Instagram stories for a while?”

“Had to ghost her, she got super clingy and controlling. She was texting me at work all the time and got pissed off when I was putting a ton of hours into that election thing for CNN.” Mason is a political analyst. He turns to you. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

“I think people are wonderful. You just have to find the ones you click with.”

“I should have figured you’d say something like that.” He steers his truck out of the otherwise empty parking lot in Lac Lavon Park. “I’m looking forward to you being home again.”

“I’m not.”

You both laugh, and then Mason drives you to your parents’ house.

At the dining room table, Mom and Clara are researching wedding venues, vast countryside estates and metropolitan historic hotels. Clara got engaged two weeks ago during a vacation to Turks and Caicos. In the living room, Dad and Tripp are watching commentary on the NBA Finals. Tripp’s name isn’t really Tripp; he is the third James in a row, named after your father and grandfather, and Tripp is short for triple. All over the house, there are Akitas lolling in plush dog beds and clicking around on Brazilian Cherry hardwood floors. They have faces like teddy bears, but their dark eyes track you mistrustfully, as if you are an intruder.

No one asks where you have been. They barely acknowledge that you are back. “Hello, dear,” your mother calls distractedly from the dining room, and that’s all. You jog upstairs to the bathroom you share with Clara before anyone can notice your smeared makeup and the unsavory post-car-sex sweat gleaming on your skin. You get into the shower, turn on water so hot it is nearly scalding, and close your eyes. With your back pressed to the jade green tiles, your hand wanders down over your belly and stops between your legs. Your mind cycles through fantasies, but nothing seems to be working.

It’s not real. It can’t hurt anybody.

You imagine that Aegon is the one touching you, and in under a minute it’s over.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I want there to be horses,” Clara says, scrolling through her phone and ignoring the food on her plate: roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, green beans sauteed in garlic and olive oil, panzanella salad. Mom prepared it all herself, not because there was no help available—your parents have a housekeeper named Angela who comes by several days per week—but to prove she could. In the living room are shelves heavy with books by Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, Cat Cora, Julia Child, Nigella Lawson. You hear echoes of ambient clicking, Akitas meandering down hallways and staircases.

“Horses?!” Tripp replies with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, gesturing to the sliding glass door. “Don’t you get enough horses in your everyday life? Don’t you have like five right out there?” Your parents’ house sits on ten acres of land, including a barn and several paddocks for Clara’s rescued Thoroughbreds.

“I want beautiful horses,” Clara insists. “Unusual, photogenic, so they can be in the background of all the photos. Maybe Friesians or Haflingers?”

“I’m not sure we can sort the venues by types of horses available, dear,” Mom says. All that’s on her own plate is a heap of green beans and a few pieces of skinless white meat chicken.

Clara moans and drops her face into her hands. “It’s so overwhelming!”

“You’ll find a place you like, Clara Bear,” Dad says mildly, painstakingly slicing meat off a drumstick with his fork and knife.

“And Owen is no help at all. Every time I ask for his opinion he just tells me to do whatever I think is best, but I don’t know what’s best, that’s why I’m asking him!”

Your mother pats Clara’s shoulder reassuringly. “Guys don’t care about weddings,” Tripp says, twisting around in his chair to see the television in the living room. On a rerun of E! News, the hosts are discussing Chris Hemsworth’s rigorous fitness regime and Meghan Trainor’s “mommy makeover.” You peek under the tablecloth. One of the Akitas, Yuki, is glaring as she waits for you to drop something for her to eat.

“You could do something like that,” Mom says to you, and you realize you haven’t been listening to the conversation.

“Sorry, do what?”

“You could be a wedding planner or a real estate agent. Those are actual careers, but there’s more creativity involved, isn’t there? And didn’t you take a design class in college? That would certainly come in handy.”

“Hm,” your father says with a frown, still dissecting his chicken. He would rather you go to law school like Tripp. You would rather lie down in traffic.

“I took a set design class, Mom. Because I was studying how to be an actress. And that’s what I’m doing right now in Los Angeles, trying to be an actress.”

“You could become an architect!” Mom bursts out with sudden enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

You titter evasively. “I can’t draw, Mom. Or use the modeling software, or do math.”

“You know, you don’t need any specific degree to get into law school,” Tripp says, and your father gives him a nod of approval. “You could have majored in dance or bagpiping or Egyptology, it doesn’t matter. All they want is a high undergrad GPA and a 168+ LSAT score, and I bet you could get that if you studied. You can even retake the test a few times if you need to.”

“Why do you do that?” Clara snaps at him. You eat your panzanella salad and pretend not to be listening. Beneath the tablecloth, Yuki growls. You toss her a few cubes of Italian bread so she won’t bite you.

Tripp shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Do what?”

“Why are you always wasting your time trying to convince her to grow up and get a real job? If she wants to embarrass herself, let her. I have problems that I’m trying to solve, so how about applying yourself to those instead?”

“Are you serious? You think I should be calling around to wedding venues asking about their selection of exotic draft horses?”

Clara aggressively stabs at her green beans with her fork. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Hey, hey, kids, no swearing,” your mother says. “It’s Father’s Day. Be respectful.”

Dad turns to you. “You could be an entertainment lawyer, how about that? You could work in intellectual property or negotiating contracts.”

You smile warily. “I’ll think about it, Dad.”

Clara says to your parents: “Well I hope all the money you’re throwing out the window to support her in California isn’t coming out of my wedding fund.”

You close your eyes and think: I can’t spend my life in a cubical. I can’t spend every minute of every day trying to forget who I am.

“Shh, shh,” your mother pleads, rubbing the back of Clara’s clenched hand. “You will get exactly what we promised you, that amount is still set aside for your wedding. Nothing she does affects you.”

“And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies.

Your father is now asking Tripp about his summer associate position at Latham & Watkins in Chicago. Your mother is advising Clara to get a wedding dress with a corset back so it can be adjusted in the event she gains or loses weight at the last minute. Underneath the table, Yuki is growling again; she noses your knees threateningly.

“I got an agent,” you say, and everyone looks at you.

“Really?” Mom asks, sounding a little perplexed.

“Who is it?” Dad says.

“Aegon Targaryen. He has a small office in Elysian Park.”

“Oh, I think I recognize the last name.”

“His family is in the industry.” You are beaming; you can feel the heat rising in your face. “But Aegon kind of does his own thing and tries to stay out of the limelight. He was an actor when he was my age. And I guess he thinks I can get roles, so that’s really exciting.”

Your mother seems concerned as she nibbles at a shred of white meat. “Is he an older man?”

“Not that much older. He’s thirty-five.”

“Well, be careful, darling,” your father says gravely. “Who knows what his intentions are.”

Clara evidently agrees. “Men can be so creepy. I had this one professor in pharmacy school who cheated on his wife with one student, then cheated on her six months later with a different student. And then he retired to Boca Raton and was never heard from again.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Tripp says to your father. “We read about Clinton v. Jones in torts class, it was wild, I didn’t know he was such a freak even before the Monica Lewinsky thing…”

After dinner, while your father and Tripp are flipping through television channels in the living room and Clara is upstairs on the phone with Owen, you go to the kitchen where your mother is washing dishes in a bubble-filled sink. Again, she doesn’t have to do this; Angela will be here to clean the house tomorrow. But it’s part of being a perfect homemaker, and if she’s not good at this then she’s not good at anything.

She glances over when she hears you come in. “Did you get an appointment with one of the doctors your father recommended?”

“I did, yeah. I have a consultation on Friday.” You lean against the marble countertop and cross your arms so you don’t fidget nervously. From a dog bed on the floor, Mochi glowers at you. “Do you think I should get the surgery?”

She shrugs; you’re not certain if she is more indecisive or apathetic. “Your cousin Madison had a nose job the summer before college. Your old classmate Emma got a blepharoplasty and then met her husband three months later. Practically all of my friends have had breast augmentations, and I’ve certainly never regretted mine. I think if you’re going to get anything fixed, it makes sense to pick that.”

You try again to elicit a strong opinion, whether an endorsement or objection. “I don’t think I’d want to do it if I didn’t feel like it was necessary to be an actress.”

“Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless.”

You stare at Mochi distractedly. The dog huffs, unwelcoming. “What was the recovery like?”

“Oh, hell,” your mother says. “But once you heal up it’s worth it. I can wear square necklines and strapless dresses again.”

“Technically, you could have worn whatever you wanted.”

She gives you an impatient look, a you’re too old for that sort of frustration. “No one wants to see some sad flabby woman.” She is including your father in this statement. You remember being home for Thanksgiving Break during your freshman year at Carleton and inadvertently stumbling upon emails from one of the hospital interns when you used his laptop to buy movie tickets: indecent inuendoes, flirtatious photos, no smoking gun but certainly more than was appropriate between colleagues. You had tried to tell your mother, and she had deflected over and over again until you realized that she didn’t want to know; it was easier to be carried by the currents of momentum than to rock the boat until it sank. “This agent of yours…is he celebrating Father’s Day with his family?”

“No, Aegon lost his dad when he was in college.”

“That must have been difficult,” she says vaguely as she scrubs a pot with a green Scotch-Brite dish wand. Your parents are now at the age when their friends have begun to succumb to strokes and heart disease and cancers, and the lurking specter of mortality both horrifies and fascinates them. “What did he die of?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mom?!” Clara shouts from upstairs. “Osaka is puking in the hallway!”

Your mother sighs and dries her hands on a dish towel, then leaves you alone in the kitchen. You linger there for a while, listening to the faint drone of CNN from the living room television, then leave the house through the sliding glass door in the dining room. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

You laugh and respond: They belong to my sister, I am personally very anti-horse

You hope he’ll continue the conversation. You don’t have to wait long. How’s Minnesota? Aegon asks.

You stop and consider how to answer, then decide not to overshare. Devoid of palm trees…but good!

There is a pause—perhaps thirty seconds—and then Aegon types: How’s the ex-boyfriend?

Is he curious or jealous? You smile. Still not standing in the way of anything :)

Aegon reacts with a heart emoji, then immediately switches it to a thumbs-up. You cannot ignore the wave of warmth and fondness and exhilaration that overwhelms you. Logically, you know he’s engaged to another woman. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem relevant.

You think: It’s just a crush. It can’t hurt anybody.

Then you remember what your mother asked, and as you stand outside in the fading dusk light you Google Aegon’s father Viserys Targaryen. He has his own Wikipedia page. You scroll to the bottom, where it reads in nondescript black letters: On October 27, 2009, Targaryen passed away at his Malibu residence after a long illness.

~~~~~~~~~~

You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you.”

“What?” You look towards the ice cream freezer and there he is, dark jeans, green Nike Killshots, a yellow Hawaiian shirt that’s too big for him. “It’s my agent!” you shout as you rush over to meet him, loud enough that everyone in the shop turns to stare.

“Shh,” Aegon says, but he’s laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask from behind the counter.

“I got some good news, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Cool! Should I make you ice cream first?”

“Um, sure.” Aegon surveys the menu of Signature Creations. He seems overwhelmed; he actually looks a little panicked.

“Are you usually a chocolate or vanilla person? Or peanut butter, or coffee? Or mint?”

“Strawberry,” Aegon says.

“Strawberry,” you echo, surprised. “Okay, I think you’ll like Our Strawberry Blonde.”

“Neat.”

“Because, you know, it has strawberries and you’re blonde.”

“Sounds literally perfect for me,” Aegon says, smiling.

“What size?”

“Uh…” He reads the labels on the cups in the display case. “The big one.”

“No, you have to say the real name.”

He chuckles. His cheeks are pink, his turbulent blue eyes sparkling. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then I’m not making you ice cream!”

He groans. “I want an Our Strawberry Blonde in the size Gotta Have It.”

“Cup, cone, or waffle cone bowl?”

“Stop asking me questions or you’re fired.”

“Waffle cone bowl,” you decide. Aegon studies you as you work, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side: scraping a mound of strawberry ice cream out of the freezer with your metal spatulas, taking it to the cold countertop, and smashing in graham cracker pie crust, caramel, fluffy whipped topping, and fresh strawberries. You use one of the spatulas to expertly scoop the mixture into a waffle cone bowl, not spilling a drop. Then you hand Aegon his ice cream and ring him up at the cash register. He pays in cash.

You ask Josh, the manager on duty, if you can take your fifteen-minute break now. He frowns. “I thought you were going to refill the yellow cake and Oreo cookie mix-ins first.”

“Hey,” Aegon says. He waves a ten-dollar bill in the air to show it to Josh and then dunks it in the tip jar. “Do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Josh mutters to you. “But you don’t get a second over fifteen minutes.”

There’s no time to waste. You hurry to a small table by the window. It’s 8:30 p.m., and outside the world is indigo-dark and threaded with inorganic sparks of headlights, streetlights, kaleidoscopic neon signs. Your eyeshadow is vibrant and pink, because no one cares about that when you work at an ice cream shop: Push by Natasha Denona, Coax by Urban Decay.

Aegon takes his first taste of his ice cream as he sits down in the chair across from you. “You were right, this is delicious. A bop, not a flop.” Then he notices the bruise on your right wrist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“Oh. One of the Akitas bit me. Don’t worry, I can cover it up with concealer.”

Aegon is irritated. “Why is your mother letting her Akitas bite you?”

“It was my fault. I forgot that Oni doesn’t like when people pet his feet.”

Aegon sighs, stirring his Our Strawberry Blonde. “You want some of this?”

“I can’t,” you say reluctantly.

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I already had a little cup when I got here this afternoon so I have regrettably hit my ice cream quota for the day.” And then, when Aegon clearly does not approve: “I try not to restrict too much but obviously staying the same size takes effort. That’s not a disorder, it’s just reality.”

Aegon seems to debate arguing, then instead scoops up a heaping spoonful of ice cream and holds it out across the table. “Come on. It doesn’t count if it’s on my spoon.”

You smile sheepishly and open your mouth for him. Your lips close around the plastic spoon: coldness, sweetness, the grit of pulverized graham cracker pie crust, the infinitesimal black seeds of strawberries that catch between your teeth. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

“I am,” you confess. “I know the joke. But I really do always get the vanilla-adjacent flavors. Cookie dough, French vanilla, sweet cream, cheesecake…”

Aegon smirks playfully. “Pathetic.”

“So you’re an enlightened being because you eat strawberry ice cream.”

“Boring people like vanilla. Kids like chocolate. Interesting adults like strawberry.”

“Do you actually have good news for me or did you just come here to be a ghoul?”

“I got you a part.”

“What?!” you squeal, and people are gawking again. This time, Aegon doesn’t tell you to be quiet. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he replies, grinning like he can’t help it.

“A part in what?”

“It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

You scream; Josh scowls at you from behind the counter. “Oh my God, no way, no way!”

“You’re going to be the wife of a guy the doctors kill with negligence. Three scenes, two are pretty short and unremarkable but then you get to yell at the surgeon in the last one. Gives you the opportunity to show some range and make an impression.”

You can’t believe this is happening. “They aren’t going to make me audition first?”

“Well…it’s very last-minute,” Aegon says. “The actress who was supposed to do it has a drug problem or something, I guess, so she ghosted and they were scrambling for a replacement. And I completely fabricated your credentials.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I typed up a resume and sent it over and they loved it. So try not to talk about your actual experience because none of it will match.”

You shake your head, stunned, amazed. “What if they try to contact one of my alleged former employers?”

“Then they’ll be talking to Aemond, and he will lie and say you were an absolute pleasure to work with.”

Aemond Targaryen: Aegon’s younger brother, a screenwriter, a philanthropist, a well-respected entity in Hollywood, and you know this from the Googling that preceded your first meeting with Aegon last week. “And Aemond doesn’t mind helping you commit fraud?”

“It’s not a favor I call in very often.” Aegon finishes his ice cream, then begins breaking apart the waffle cone bowl and shoving shard-like pieces into his mouth.

“When’s the shoot?”

“Very very early on Thursday, that’s the bad news.” Thursday is two days from now. “So I’ll have to pick you up at your apartment at like 5 a.m.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

He smiles, gnawing on a chunk of his waffle cone bowl. “I figured.”

“You’re going too?” The hope is unmistakable in your voice.

“Of course I’m going.”

“I didn’t think agents usually went to film shoots.”

“Well, fortunately for you, your agent is imminently fleeing Los Angeles and has already parted ways with most of his clients and really has nothing else going on besides hiding in his office and playing a Nintendo 64, so I figured I could make it. And also if I’m going to be enthusiastically recommending you to people, I should probably see you work at some point.”

You wiggle your eyebrows flirtatiously. “Do I get to make out with my fake husband?”

Aegon is amused. “From what I understand, you get to chastely kiss him once. They’re sending the script over to my office first thing in the morning, so you’ll only have a day to learn your lines.”

“That’s enough time. I’ll make it work.”

“Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

Thursday. “Is the shoot just one day?”

“Yeah, they should be able to get everything they need from you on Thursday morning. Why?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday and I was just wondering if I’d have to reschedule it.”

Aegon is immediately vigilant. “What kind of appointment?”

“Uh…” You smirk guiltily. “It’s just a consultation. No slicing yet.”

“And you’re going to cancel that,” Aegon says flatly.

“Seriously?”

“Do you want implants because you want them or because you think other people want you to have them?”

You hesitate. “Both.” That’s probably a lie.

Aegon leans back in his chair and studies you. “Yeah, you’re cancelling that appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because when I agreed to sign you, you told me that you’d do anything I say. And I’m telling you to cancel it.”

“But why don’t you want me to get implants? Everyone gets implants.”

“Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—it’s very difficult to stop. First it’s your tits, then it’s your eyes and your nose, then it’s your chin and your cheeks and your neck and your ass, and it’s just this revolving door of painful, dangerous, unnecessary procedures that are condemning you for being mortal, that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

You smile, then reply quietly: “You’ve never seen me.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t care if you have twelve nipples under there like a fucking beagle, you don’t need plastic surgery.”

You both laugh, and the tension evaporates, and even if you don’t cancel the appointment—Aegon is one person, the entertainment industry is omnipotent and eternal—you are glad he seems to like you the way you are. Behind the counter, Josh is waving manically to get your attention and summon you to return to work. You pretend not to see him.

Aegon asks: “Why don’t you like horses?”

“They freak me out. They’re all teeth and legs and they’re huge, I’m always scared they’ll step on me.”

“Your dad’s a doctor, right? I thought all rich girls had horses.”

“Where I’m from, a lot of women ride horses to distract themselves from the fact that their husbands are riding their receptionists or interns. I’d rather have no horse and no awful cheating husband.” And Aegon stares at you and turns serious, because perhaps you’ve inadvertently addressed the elephant in the room: he has a fiancée, and neither of you are acting like she exists. You swiftly pivot. “I’ll make an exception for you, though.”

He appears startled. “What?”

“The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Aegon chuckles uneasily and gets up to throw his trash away, then stands under the florescent lights with his hands in his pockets, his blonde hair falling out of its gel and hanging over his forehead. He gazes down at you pensively; you are still seated at the table. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be done around 10:30 or 11.”

“Okay. Can I come back to pick you up and drive you home?”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

He gestures to the inky dark window, incredulous. “Because obviously you shouldn’t be walking alone in Harbor Gateway at midnight? You know there was a shooting a block from here last week. I looked it up.”

“I walk home all the time.”

“You really need to stop doing that.”

“You are being very dramatic for a non-actor.”

“Listen, I can’t go to my house and try to fall asleep while I’m wondering if you’re getting mugged or murdered.”

You look at Aegon. He does seem genuinely worried. “You can drive me home.”

“Great. See you in two hours.” He strides away and shoves open the glass door; the little metal bells hanging there jingle.

“Aegon?”

He halts mid-step and turns around. “Yeah?”

“Does Becca know where you are right now?”

His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

And before you can reply, he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

On Thursday, June 19th, Aegon picks you up in his white Chrysler Sebring convertible while the city is still asleep. The sky is dark, the streetlights passing by overhead, infinite pinpoint supernovas. There are hardly any other cars on the road. Aegon’s hair is a mess and his eyes are bleary; he’s sipping a Starbucks coffee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other. He is wearing a suit, but he still manages to look unpolished, his white shirt half-untucked and his black tie too skinny. He sets his coffee down in one of the cup holders and passes you something venti-sized and iced.

“I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

“Aw, thanks! Skim milk?”

“Nope,” he says, smiling. You smile back and take a gulp of it, cold and sweet and bracing. “What’s your hype song?”

“I can’t tell you,” you say, embarrassed.

“Why not?”

“You’re going to terrorize me.”

“Don’t Stop Believing? Don’t Stop Me Now? I Gotta Feeling?”

“Lose Yourself.”

Aegon throws back his head and cackles, his hair flying in the wind. “That’s definitely a fireable offense. I’m ditching you the second we finish this shoot.” But he taps around on his phone and plugs in the aux, and then Eminem is thudding through the speakers as the Sebring sails north and the red-gold dawn rises on the horizon, a celestial message from the East Coast, an omen from the future.

Aegon drives you to Prospect Studios in Los Feliz, just east of Hollywood. Filming will be indoors on a soundstage. You spend what feels like forever in hair and makeup, and the costume designer—who had prepared for a different actress—dresses and redresses you over and over again, frowning at your chest and waist and thighs, and you have a sudden pang of nauseating panic and dread: I don’t belong here. What the fuck was I thinking?

Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

But when it’s over, while you are still standing on the soundstage with the other actors, Aegon puts on his sunglasses and smiles at you from across the room; and you remember what he said outside his office on the day you first met—you are so bright, sunshine—and you know you’ve done a good job.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz x Reader

Part 2 of Dynasty

Can a broken heart still beat?

Warnings: Character death, depression, drug use, suicide, reading of a suicide note, true love not letting death get in the way? Idk where this came from, no wait I do! blame @desimarie12

Mouse sat in the chair next to your bed, eyes never leaving your face. The solid sound of the machine helping your lungs push air through your body was the only sound in the room. Every moment that ticked by and you clung to life was a moment he managed to draw a breath. Twenty four hours, that was what the doctor told them. You were closing in on eighteen hours and still holding on. 

The door cracked open and he didn’t have to look up to know it was Erin and Jay. They hadn’t left the hospital either but they’d stayed in the waiting room throughout the night until visiting hours rolled back into effect or well until Sergeant Benson called in a favor and suddenly it didn’t matter if the three of them were all in your room or not as long as they stayed out of the way. “She’s still holding on man” Jay spoke softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He nodded slowly “Holding on is a lot different than waking up Jay. She’s strong, she’s so damn strong but what if her body can’t handle this?” even simply giving voice to the thought was enough to force another round of tears from his eyes, they slid silently down his face. Erin stepped up next to him, slipping her hand down in his and squeezing it gently “If there’s any way for her to find her way back to you she will. She loves you so much” 

He squeezed her hand back, wishing he could offer her some word of comfort. You would want him to, that was your best friend but any word fell flat on his lips. He didn’t blame her by no means, he would never do that simply because he knew you. If an innocent person was in danger around you, especially a kid? Nothing would’ve stopped you from saving them. Even at the expense of yourself.  “This isn’t your fault Erin” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly and he could hear her inhale sharply before she said “I called her to this task force Mouse” 

He cut his eyes up at her and saw tears sliding down her face “Don’t mourn her yet Erin, please. I can’t…I can’t handle that” she nodded, wiping at her eyes “I’m sorry” and turned to walk out. Jay looked back at him then at the door “I’ll go check on her. If you need anything man, just yell.I’ll be right outside” 

Mouse listened to Jay leave and thought to himself, how would Jay ever give him what he needed? What he needed was for you to wake up. For those beautiful eyes to be looking back at him, that smile you had anytime you were hurt and trying to hide it plastered on your face and you joking about the fact that you wanted a vacation to New York City but maybe not like this. That was what he needed.  

He leaned up to let his hand brush against yours, fingers curling around yours “Baby, I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m here. Jay’s here too and Erin. The moment Erin called me and Jay got on a plane. I haven’t left your side. I’m not leaving your side. You are everything to me, you hear me? Everything. So I really need you to wake up. Whatever you want is yours. Every argument the rest of our lives you’ve now won before they ever start. You want to steal my coffee every day? It’s yours. Hog the blankets? Please take em. Have the water so hot in the shower I swear it’s gonna scald us both? It’ll be fine, we know plenty of good doctors. I just need you to wake up..Please baby wake up” he could feel the tears flowing down his face but he didn’t care you were still holding on for something, he was praying for the first time in his life that the something was him.He was praying that you were fighting to come back to him. He couldn’t do this without you. He didn’t want to.

When the twenty four hour mark hit, doctors swarmed your room. It seemed like you shocked most of the hospital by making it that long. Mouse stood back with Erin and Jay watching as the doctors went over your injuries with each other, talking about running more tests and further treatments.

“What now?” Jay asked, breaking their conversation because so far he’d been the one out the three of them to talk to the medical team the most. He had no choice but to hold it together, for Mouse and Erin both. “Detective Halstead, we’re doing everything we can for her” the doctor assured them but about that time your hand twitched.

“She moved,” Mouse whispered and stepped forward. The doctors all turned towards you but to Mouse’s horror you started to seize, he could see red stains start to seep through the bandages covering your body and something started coming out of the tube down your throat “Get them out of here” the doctor told Jay nodded towards Mouse and Erin. 

“Fuck you, I’m not leaving her” Mouse fought, struggling against Jay who was trying to grab his arm. He’d promised you he wouldn’t leave your side. “Officer Gerwitz you don’t want to see this” a nurse assured him, grabbing his other arm he turned to look at her and saw the tears in her eyes and this time when his legs went out from under him no one was there to catch him. His knees buckled and he hit the floor on them, watching as the doctors and nurses moved around your bed.

He was helpless to move, hell he couldn’t form a thought as he watched them shock your body, it jolting off the bed. “Greg, come on man. Don’t be in here for this” Jay tried, choking back a sob as his wide eyes landed on the bed as well. “I’m not leaving her” he whispered, even as the movements of the medical team ceased and they called the words that stopped his own heart beating in his chest “Time of death one eleven p.m.”

Mouse sat on the front pew of the church in his dress uniform, staring at your casket that was covered in the CPD flag. The unit was sitting around him, Erin was on his left side and Jay was on his right. He could’ve cared less. He was alone. You were gone.

He gripped his dogtags in his hand, the ring he’d never given you now rested on the chain. He had planned to slip it on your finger the moment you got home from New York. He’d never dreamt you getting home would’ve been in a body bag. The little girl you’d saved, Clarissa. She’d gotten her parents to fly her out for the funeral. She’d spoken with his blessing. 

She’d hugged him and told him she was so sorry you were gone. He’d tried to act like anything she said mattered, Erin had given him a small nod so maybe it had seemed like it did to him. He was glad the little girl was safe, that much was true. These niceties, the apologies they wouldn’t bring you back. They wouldn’t fix the gaping hole in his chest. They wouldn’t give him a reason to get up every day.

Hank stood at the front of the church and nodded to the unit. They would carry you out to the hearse then carry you to your grave. The last time Mouse would have you in his arms in any way would be helping to carry you to your grave. They’d wanted him to not help but what kind of man would he be if he couldn’t carry the woman he loved to the end? 

He stood with his team, positioning his cover on his head, tears streaming down his face as they all took their positions on your casket. Him and Erin were in front. They lifted you up and walked as one out of the church. Nothing had ever felt heavier than the weight of that casket, knowing it carried you inside.

_________________

At the cemetery they spoke of you. How you lived, how you loved. How you died being a hero. Mouse stood to the side, blue eyes glued to the light grey casket. One by one those of your unit were allowed to place a photo or something inside. Erin placed a photo of you, her and Nadia. Jay put his lucky keychain, Adam put a coin Makayla had asked him to give you, Kim had a stuffed animal from their niece. Kevin had three red roses. One from him, one from his brother and one from his sister.

When Hank looked over at him he walked over to the casket, footsteps slowing when he got near it. The dress Erin and your aunt picked looked exactly like something you’d wear and the funeral home had done a good job. You almost looked like you were asleep. Almost. He laid the dogtags across your chest “I’m sorry you never got this ring. I’m sorry I never made you my wife. I love you and always will” he whispered then slowly closed the casket, staring at your face until the last moment possible.

Mouse sat on the bed, photos of you scattered around him. Your smiling face looking back at him from every one. Your pillow still vaguely smelled of your shampoo, your coffee mug was still in the strainer, the last load of laundry you’d asked him to get out of the dryer and he’d forgotten still sat in the machine. The candle you loved sat half burnt next to the bed, the movie you and him planned to finish when you got home was still saved on the dvr.

He tried. He tried for weeks, he tried. The pain was ripping him apart more and more every day. He found a new dealer, it was fairly easy.  He was high more days than sober now. The very thing you’d always feared, he’d gone back to his old ways but who was there to care? He’d lost the only reason he had for breathing, the very air in his lungs. He clicked his laptop, watching the video of you and him Jay had taken at the halloween party a few months before. You were laughing, arms around his waist and looking at him like he was the most important thing “Forever and a day Gerwitz?”  just hearing your voice over the video made tears hit his eyes as he heard his own voice reply “Forever and a day love”

He stared at the bottle in his hand. It was enough, he’d made sure of it. He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to be with you. The pain was too much. He’d considered just using his gun but he knew Jay would find him and he couldn’t do that to him. This way he’d just go to sleep and wouldn’t wake up. A lot less for Jay to find.

He sat the envelope with Jay’s name on the laptop and opened the bottle along with the bourbon. He’d see you again and the pain would stop. That was all that mattered.

Jay walked slowly into the apartment, calling Mouse’s name out. He knew something was wrong but he hadn’t expected what awaited him either.

______________________

Jay and Erin sat together between yours and Mouse’s graves. Hank had pulled some strings, his death had been ruled a heart attack so he’d gotten a proper CPD burial and they’d made sure it was right next to you where he belonged. Hank had even footed the bill for your headstones to read “Loving Husband” and “Loving Wife” ; it was only suitable. Not even death stopped the love you two had for each other.

“Have you read his letter yet?” she asked and he shook his head and fished it out then held it out to her “Here, you do it” she took it then cleared her throat: 

Jay, I’m sorry that I know you’ll be the one to find me. I wished there was someone else but we both know with her gone there isn’t. I’ve tried man, I really have. I can’t continue to live in a world she’s not in. She was always the air in my lungs and every day without her I suffocate more and more.When I met her I found my reason to keep going and the day I lost her I lost that reason. If there’s a life after this I will find her in it and love her it it, if there isn’t at least the pain will stop. Please don’t hold onto guilt over me and don’t let Erin hold onto guilt over her. We both knew our best friends loved us. Be happy man, if you find love don’t wait for anything. See you in the next life brother, Mouse

They were both crying by the time Erin was through reading. Jay slipped an arm around her and pulled her over onto his shoulder “I just hope they’re together” she whispered. “Me too” he replied, the wind catching their words as it blew past your graves maybe carrying that message on.

One moment Mouse was swallowing a handful of pills and not fighting against the urge to close his eyes, the next he was laying on a patch of grass. Grass? How did he get outside? “Wake up Greg” he heard your voice and felt your hand on his face and for a moment thought he was hallucinating, the pills hadn’t worked. They’d just caused this.

He felt the air move around him then your other hand went to the opposite side of his face and he heard your light laughter “I swear if you don’t open those gorgeous blue eyes Gerwitz” he slowly opened his eyes and you were kneeled in front of him, real as day. Your hair was in a braid like you always wore it during summer, you were wearing a light blue shirt with cut off shorts and sneakers. You looked happy and healthy.

“Sweetheart? Is that really you?”  you nodded, tears shining in your eyes “It’s really me Greg” he pulled you into his arms and you laughed, letting him wrap both arms around you. “How? Baby, where are we? What happened?” when he rolled so he was holding his weight on his arms and you were under him in the grass you smiled sadly up at him, running your fingers up into his hair and he closed his eyes, feeling tears threaten at feeling your touch “Why are you here so soon? You had so much life left” you whispered and he opened his eyes, looking down at you. 

His girl. Whole and here with him. Wherever here was, it didn’t matter. He had you in his arms. “No I didn’t love. My life ended the day you left” you smiled “I love you Greg” then pulled him down to you. The moment your lips met his both of you let tears slip free. When you pulled away from his lips he leaned his forehead against yours “I love you so much” you grinned “Forever and a day Gerwitz?” he nodded “Forever and a day baby” 

[gothgamergaara]

Realizing that i am having issues that are causing me to be the source of the problem that they make ig psych infographics about :^)

[twinstxrs]

so much happened in this whole episode but i’m still on fig infiltrating ruben’s dream, making it look like the place where his friend was murdered, and then disguising herself as kipperlilly & repeatedly saying different variants of “somebody needs to take the fall for this, and it’s not going to be me. it’s going to be you.” while adaine as the elven oracle shows up next to her. can you imagine waking up from that, the idea of a horrible truth being pinned on you by your friend to save her own skin while the personification of fate and destiny stands there, almost as a promise that this is GOING to happen to you. we don’t even know if this kid is guilty. my god.

[capricioussun]

2am post jumpscare

[crows-king]

I've been thinking a bit about how Galinda and Fiyero work as foils(?), and the contrast between their goals, personality, and their relationship to social influence individually change how they navigate their specific social situations.

And why it puzzles me when people judgmentally compare them and what they'd do in "What-If" scenarios as a gotcha to make one seem better/worst. Because in my mind they are similar but not comparable, because they fundamentally have very different personal stakes.

Primarily because of the difference in how they act in an Active (Galinda) vs Passive (Fiyero) approach to social engineering. And also, because one of them in writing is more developed as an individual than the other.

I'LL MOSTLY BE TALKING ABOUT: WICKED MOVIE - PART 1

Galinda is inherently Active. She has wants and desires that she's driven to achieve, and so actively plays the part of the good socialite because it will help her become more popular and to eventually become "Galinda the GoodSorceress". "It's not about aptitude, it's about the way you're viewed", and so on. It’s the one thing she knows she’s good at.

Of course, she also likes the attention and validation, but her charms doesn't come as naturally as she wants others, and probably herself, to believe. (I love that quote Ariana said somewhere about how "Galinda sees herself as a graceful swan, when she's actually a very stiff, but still beautiful swan", or something of that sort). She's insecure that she’ll lose people's favour and thus her most important asset, so she continually appeals to them. It's an act that she simultaneously enjoys doing for the most part, but also traps her from ever being truly close to anybody for fear of being known and not meeting expectations and losing that adoration. Until Elphaba that is.

Because of her drive to fulfill her dreams and to keep her best asset, and personal desperate need for validation, she has a much more obvious internal conflicts when she has to choose between Elphaba/the moral good vs keeping with the good graces of authority and/or the public. She's more prone to being influenced by others, and many of her choices become a calculated risk. She’s often times selfish and chooses her own desires, but it’s what makes her such an interesting and very human character. The struggle she balances when she’s forced to choose for better or worse.

In contrast

Fiyero is Passive. Dancing Through Life is literally him telling others that being lazy and not thinking is the best way to cope and enjoy life by ignoring problems. He is discontent with his life, but doesn't really acknowledge it until Elphaba reads him. Much like Galinda he is also playing a part, but it's not as tightly controlled as Galinda because he doesn't have an end goal for it.

Of course, while he probably doesn't want to lose his princely privileges. His passive "brainless" approach doesn't really put him in risky situations that would put him in conflict leading to losing things he cares about, because he really doesn't have a lot to lose. (Which is a byproduct of the fact he is primarily written as a love interest side character without much of an arc or motives outside his love triangle relationship to Elphaba and Galinda).

What confounds me is when people compare them and judge what their choices would be in if they were placed in pivotal moments, because we never really see them in situations with similar stakes.

For example, the Lion Cub scene. Most people interpret this scene as an act of braverism and heroics by Fiyero. And in some part it is, he's spurred on to save the cub, and he and Elphaba do. But it's telling that he only does this after everyone is asleep and there are virtually no risks. Any present social or physical conflicts that could arise? POOF! Gone. The worst that could probably be done to them is being punished, or even kicked out, if they’re discovered afterwards. Which Fiyero is not new to and doesn't really care about, and while maybe uncertain for Elphaba, is also unlikely because she's Morrible's irreplaceable pupil.

Some people use this scene as evidence that under his facade, Fiyero is secretly valiant like Elphaba thinks so. But I think in actuality tells the opposite. It reveals that Fiyero does care about the Animals, yes. But, the fact he only acts when prompted and there are no longer any present risks initially makes him seem less brave than Elphaba, and even Galinda. Because it contrasts with the Ozdust dance scene between the girls. Where Galinda had to make an active choice to do the risky and brave thing as an apology for hurting Elphaba, and offer to truly connect with her in front of everyone with the possibility of social out casting. She has an obvious internal conflict and risk assessment where she ends up picking the moral good over her personal comfort and social appeal. I'm genuinely curious on what kind of choices Elphaba, Galinda, and Fiyero might have done in that situation if they weren't given the perfect out by the magic poppies.

Would Galinda have helped in with the lion cub if she were awake? Probably, but who knows? Because in the narrative, Galinda isn't really put in a situation where she could choose good without being watched or without someone breathing down her neck. The prospect of being punished and kicked out from Shiz would also be most plausible and ruinous for Galinda. Morrible would definitely use it as an excuse to kick her out, or at the very least punish her, if she could, and it could throw away her only chance of achieving her dream of becoming a sorceress. She would have probably joined them in the end, though. If only to make sure they were safe. Compared to Fiyero, she has more conflicts of interests because she has personal aspirations and influence based on her reputation, and thus have more fears and consequences to consider in losing it.

Would Fiyero have joined Elphaba on the broom? Maybe, mostly likely. Because narratively, he’s never given a reason why he shouldn’t. He doesn’t see his worth and his skills intrinsically tied to public influence and opinion. He doesn’t have any wants or wishes he would have to abandon. He’ll have to leave his friends and family, but it’s not shown how close they really are to him outside Feldspar, his Horse friend, and he’s probably joining them anyway. He’s definitely more equipped to survive on the run compared to Glinda. Unlike Glinda, who is proven right in the end to being most useful when she can wield her powerful social influence For Good, Fiyero would probably be most useful as a sidekick to Elphaba. He was always written to be Elphaba’s follower, it’s no surprise. It’s also easier to take risks when you don’t have much to lose. But I think most people would agree that would make a less interesting story.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

Male patients who will literally call their wives to verify things like their med list grate on my nerves SO much……. Are we 12

[rinchdressing]

klapollo week day 7: aa4 sequel

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

is your custom blog theme supposed to lag the fuck out for anyone visiting. like is that a bug or a feature. it makes my browser freeze every time i open a post

It’s not supposed to do that

If anyone else has this issue pls let me know

I’ll get around to changing it eventually

[chibishortdeath]

Genuinely debating just deleting all my accounts and starting new doing something else because I am miserable. The Castlevania fandom is the worst fandom I’ve ever been in my whole life.

Vent under a cut. Read the warnings in the tags.

First time I started being a fan of it I was a young teenager. At the time I was heavily suicidal, playing SotN is what got me distracted enough not to do it. Started out with Instagram because that’s where I heard most people went to start an art portfolio and do commissions.

First few months of being a fan of the series the hashtags were frozen due to the election happening, so I, a suicidal teenager, was immediately subjected to graphic gore porn of my favorite character (Simon) who I turned to looking up for comfort that was stuck there until the hashtags were unfrozen. For months I could not turn to my source of comfort without seeing that, and turned to dissociating even worse than I already was instead. That was the first red flag.

After this I had some sincerely good experiences with some live streams. Genuinely nice people doing cosplay and gaming. But there was one person I watched who did not end up as good as everyone else. This person followed me, liked my outfit stories, talked to me in chat. I was still in high school. Not gonna go into details for anonymity’s sake, but long story short I got groomed. And at around the same time I had made another “friend” in the fandom who turned out to be homophobic and would take out all their problems on me, a teen, while they were a grown ass adult. Instagram continued to get worse. Found out someone I was close to made some racist rant behind my back. Found out another was a MAP. So on and so forth. And the worst part is how many people I knew who were close friends with these people, people who would not have believed me if I’d told them. Especially since some of them were more popular than I.

So I gave up on Insta, stopped posting, stopped talking, and I got a discord. Which started out fine! Found a small server of nice fans, made good friendships I still have. I had Reddit for a short amount of time and found out how dogshit it is when a smaller server I thought was cool started bullying a small artist for drawing gay fanart. I use it purely for game dev and vocaloid help questions now. Eventually I got the courage to come here, to tumblr. Months into that move I run into CP. And then several TERFs. And then a necrophile in the main tags. And then misogyny. And then racism. And then defending CP. Then a surge of transphobia. And then I get shit for getting the courage to call out CP. I try to go to YouTube to find content and escape— run into out in the open slurs and people bluntly claiming albino people aren’t human in comment sections about Juste. I try to watch videos and see the art of my groomer being used everywhere. I am constantly reminded that I am outnumbered.

I go back to discord. The main mod of it ends up interacting creepily with minors and is transphobic to my friends. Whole server blows up. Large amount of people take the mod’s side and blacklist us from a large amount of servers, gossiping about everyone involved to completely unrelated people while not telling the whole truth, all while being horrifically transphobic about a friend. Someone else in the server turns out to be an abusive piece of shit. I don’t even try making a twitter because it’s a hellhole anyway, and someone I’d know about from most other platforms I’d been on harassed a friend of mine on there. Not to mention the transphobic roleplay account that’s still around somehow.

I swear I have to block a new person in this fandom every. single. day. I swear some bullshit happens in this fandom every. single. day.

I want to draw a vampire hunter and not be absolutely thoroughly terrified that I am going to run into more vile shit and dangerous situations if I talk to anyone. I want to draw a vampire hunter and not be deeply afraid of meeting new people in this fandom. I want to draw a vampire hunter and not have my paranoia confirmed every day. I want to draw a vampire hunter and find comfort in doing so again.

Is that too much to ask.

[cxntpxppy]

yooo weird question but, when i get told that i’ve done something wrong or made a bad joke i get like Chills through my body and panic and feel like i’m gonna throw up or cry. is that. normal

[weaselishmcdiesel]

.