#about 50 ashtrays (full)

[trivialbob]

I am back home from vacation in Isla Mujeres. Sheila is staying a few more days. We know other visitors on the island. Sheila is hanging out with them this week.

The Island is a 25 minute ferry ride from Cancun. It is about tourism, but not at all like being inside an all-inclusive resort. Many folks we ran into visit Isla for several weeks at a time and stay in small condos or rooms.

(A bit long, with pictures, below the cut)

We rented a two-bedroom place in a small, four-unit building. It was at the north end of the island. That's where many of the American and Canadian visitors stay. But locals live there too. From our roof we could see the family next door, cooking and putting out their laundry to dry. Our door is the blue one in the bottom left picture.

Some US hotels I've been at lately don't offer daily changes of sheets and towels. "For the sake of the environment," ya know. Our modest place in Isla included fresh sheets and towels every day in addition to full room cleaning. It felt luxurious.

More local people live mid-island and to the south end. However, visitors rent places all over the narrow island. A couple we know has the equivalent of a studio apartment mid-island for two months at $600/month. A realtor would call it "Very cozy." I liked it.

That couple has bicycles they store there for when they come back each winter. They also rent a golf cart from time to time to drive around the island, as many visitors do. Some Americans and Canadians purchase places instead of renting. Some beautiful, modern houses dot the island.

One of the first things I did upon arrival was slather myself in SPF 50 sunscreen. My pasty white head and back made the soft, white beach sand look like black pepper in comparison. The sunscreen worked well. I have only one small patch of burned skin where I missed covering a spot on one ankle.

You won't find chain restaurants here. The few banks and gas stations have familiar names, but that's about it for big brands.

Warning signs are few and far between. Servers bring cold beer to the beach, in glass bottles. This was my fourth or fifth visit and Sheila's 12th. We've never seen or heard someone break a bottle. There are no lifeguards at beaches or pools.

When crossing roads, cars, golf carts, and scooters seem to have the right-of-way over pedestrians. Sidewalks are rough and uneven. You learn to be careful and pay attention. At times soldiers and police patrolled the streets with rifles. We felt secure the whole time, even while walking in dimly lit local neighborhoods.

One resort-like place where we hung out at for a few hours has a pool with concrete seats and tables in the water. A server, seeing me cooling off in the water, asked if I'd deliver a glass ashtray to four women sitting at table in the pool.

Smoking isn't allowed inside bars and restaurants, thank God. Unlike the US where that's just understood, there are some No Fumar signs posted in Isla businesses. I bet I didn't see more than a dozen people smoking the whole time I was there.

Touristy stuff is there if you want that. Two streets have vendors hawking t-shirts, magnets, and such. Scuba and fishing trips are available if that's your thing. Golf carts and scooters can be rented. Mainly I eat good food, drink relatively inexpensive drinks and cheap beer, read, and relax. Surprisingly though, I recorded 10,000 or more steps every day.

Many of the older buildings would make an American code inspector twitch with anxiety. Few stairs, even very steep ones, have railings. Nor do all the rooftops. Our place had a railing on top but the buildings next to us did not. A realtor might call those "Unencumbered terraces." I easily could have done one of those cop TV show stunts, jumping from building to building while chasing a perp down the block.

Try tracing these wires. Or finding the source of the water lines. A realtor might say "Plentiful utilities." We did have excellent water pressure, hot and cold. Just don't drink it.

Bathrooms in some bars and restaurants... oh my. An Applebee's is more sanitary, but then you are eating at Applebee's. About ten years ago one of Sheila's friends purchased a toilet seat with her own money and installed it herself in one of the island's bars she liked to frequent. She had developed some nice leg muscles from so much hovering. Life's trade-offs, right?

One bar's women's room has a lot of comments in Sharpie about Mark. Some female out there somewhere DOES NOT LIKE MARK. Apparently a frequent visitor to the island, she documents when bad thoughts of Mark cross her mind. The men's room offered some scribbles both for and against Mark. At our table a group of us sat around trying to come up with the story. It could have a chance at being a Netflix/Hulu movie.

We didn't cook. There are too many local places that are fun and tasty. In some parts of the island you can actually order a meal at someone's house and eat on their patio. I'll have a separate post later about how we hired local guy bring us to seven different places for food one night.

Several times we shared restaurant tables with other visitors, some we knew from previous visits, some total strangers. A couple from New Jersey wanted to sit on the patio at a restaurant Sheila and I like. All three outside tables were occupied. We had empty chairs at ours, so we invited them to join us and had a wonderful evening talking with them. The wife did sound a bit like Carmela Soprano. Her husband, however, did not make me remove my cap. Another restaurant had a cat you could pet during dinner at another place.

In addition to the restaurant cat there were sidewalk dogs. They putter around or relax on the warm pavement. People walk and drive around the dogs. I assure you that white dog in the right picture is just sleeping contentedly. I didn't use a flash, so I wouldn't disturb him. The little one on the left greeted me as I walked along the malecón on my way to a massage.

We played pickle ball while there. The courts were in the middle of an area with few tourists. All the players were Americans. I wonder what the local residents think of the game with the bright, plastic balls that go clink, clink, clink. That's me in the yellow hat (top left picture). The bottom two pictures are what was behind the courts.

I could get used to scooter life. Sheila has one at home, but it's engine is literally six times the size of what these ones here have.

Carnival celebrations began on Friday. Our place overlooked the town square, by the Catholic Church. It was fun to watch the celebration with the loud music and lots of people.

That got long! Enough for now.

[mousevsbug]

Tom Waits - Rain Dogs

I spent a bit of this album trying to imagine what I should be doing while listening to it. I was in a smoky basement plotting my next move as a goon in a lowly street gang. I was chainsmoking into a crystal ashtray writing a letter to an old lover wishing them happiness in their new marriage, despite myself. Then towards the end I had a lover, and we were dancing through the evening as an ode to 50 years of our stone blind love. Then I stopped thinking in cliches and just enjoyed it. Especially that percussion. And I'm sure there's nothing I can say about the storytelling prowess and ridiculously characterful musicality that hasn't already been said by those taken to the places I went before me. I haven't stopped listening to this record since.

Favourites: Clap Hands, Jockey Full of Bourbon, Blind Love

#2024 #favs #i ran errands to this album

[strictlyteeds]

Revisiting this time 2022

I tried so hard to let this last weekend, be a normal super bowl weekend. It was far from it.

I looked at our boarding passes from our trip last year this time to celebrate my bday. I honestly was so excited to spend my 40th bday in Vegas with you and we were just gonna do everything to have a blast.

Vegas was so much fun, this was really the Vegas trip that got me hyped to the idea of partying all through Friday night into Saturday morning. We ate, drank, and partied to celebrate but the best was yet to come.

This particular trip, hanging out at the airport was the best part of the trip. We did our normal thing of getting there early and playing some games and chilling. I remember waiting for you to be done with the bathroom at some seats close to our gate. You came back with a bag full of things for me. A shot glass, ashtray, and flask all matching for my b day. Wasn’t the most thoughtful gift anyone has gotten me. But I knew you tried your best given the limited options at the airport.

We got on the plane, first class seats of course because it was my 40th!! We sat down just in time for me to start watching the Super Bowl. I was so excited about the trip I completely forgot it was super bowl weekend until we got on the plane. 

To be honest, this best super bowl I have ever had, and I have had many super bowl parties in my life. It was perfect with our chips and sandwiches for dinner. You were watching a movie or something, and I was heavily invested in watching Joe Burrow and Jamar Chase do the impossible. 

Talk about the best Super Bowl? The halftime show was fucking epic!! Dr Dre, Eminem, 50 cent, snoop, Kendric, and a tribute to my guy Pac. I remember just me and everyone on the plane jamming to the half time show. You looked at my screen and kept looking. I reached over to your screen and I set it to the Super Bowl for you to watch and hear on your screen and headphones.

For that one moment, I felt like I complemented you, just as you complemented me. We would have some other moments like that. But, that was the moment I fell in love with you Mary. That is why this weekend is so hard, this weekend wasn’t just my 40th b day. It was the first moment I fell in love with you and told myself I was gonna spend this year making her the happiest woman I could.

But this is also why it hurts so much. 

[thedancemostofall]

I, New York

Lam Lai

I long to hear the history of ordinary people who populate and recreate all over the NYC subway lines, strung together like beans on a charmbracelet drumming on their worldly advice and late-night distractions, I smoked an ashtray’s worth of cigarettes, cold and tired and snuffing out the little fire on yellow brick walls baring my bones to the whims of demolition, I jumped over to Manhattan from Staten Island wishing to be Superman but also making music, yes music, from stretched out lizard skins suspended in animation, I wiped the hair off my scalp dancing around a hollow pumpkin, swore to the forehead of my German moms that I would be unmarried at 50 or otherwise relocate to a harsher life in Uzbekistan, I hid behind cardamom, cumin, and Halal-style chicken with my eyes darted thinking about Egypt, and the ABCs of Atlantic Barclays Center, Brooklyn, and a biweekly regular named Catherine, I drank in a tent in the Q train station at Beverly, never showered but always made time to guide clueless New Yorkers to alternative train service like an MTA angel, I in a rush to get to a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown dozed off daydreaming about mushrooms, catfish, silkworms and missed my destination by just one stop; went back the other way and still couldn’t stop dreaming, I asked for baby formula, bow-legged and inarticulate, full of luck and lice on my silver hair, dashed from one street to the other, filling the night with whispers and threats of self-immolation, I broke a mirror three years before, and now, feeling the effect of medications, yearned to go back to a more violent time in quiet white rooms praying to another religion mistaken for glued together plastic flowers, I drank my Vietnamese sweat, turned around when spoken to in God’s language, offered fresh fish, pears, and dried plums on a makeshift altar afraid to blink under oath

[wraithsoutlaws]

never wanted to use mods more than i have seeing that you can decorate houses U__U

#thats not true i always want to but !!! #i just want to decorate dagger and dum dums apartment #well. dum dums apartment that dagger has moved himself into forcibly #messy horrible ugly cramped thing it would be #garbage everywhere....literally just a haven for cockroach #dagger drags in trash from the alley for him. an entire old mattress just for cockroach's bed #knives in all the ways and furniture #walls covered in old punk posters and vinyls #one wall for dagger to paint on #video games and computers all over #about 50 ashtrays (full) #just. chaos....gross nasty boys i love them...neither one of them is much for cleaning #but dum dum has a limit to all the shit dagger will bring in (hes a nomad!!! let him be thrifty!!! he hates it but he cant help it) #dagger just tells him its for cockroach and its an argument dum dum will never win #he tries to be harsh when it comes to cockroach but when he doesnt think dagger is watching he lets him cuddle up to him uvu #its about the domesticity of the chaotic murder men....................... #x: perfect drug

[gegewrites]

Ashtray- This Bitch P2

1-29-22

Words idk

Edited no

(@abbybarnes17)

Your pov-

“Faye, pick out what you want.” I said.

“Are you sure?” She asked looking around Forever 21, even though they were closing we still had one at the mall and she wanted to go here.

“Yes.” I assured her and gave her a smile, she gave me a smile before walking around with more intention of finding clothes and she did a really good job, I didn’t even tell her to buy appropriate clothing she just picked them out her self. She got crop tops, a cute pink bedazzled hoodie and leggings, but she also got 2 pairs of jean shorts and a pair of jeans with rips through the legs front and back. Faye was a really nice girl, she really was. When we were shopping she showed me clothes she think I would look good in, I actually did take a few because I did like them.

“Okay, I’m done, what about you?” I asked and she nodded, both of our hands full of different fabrics and colors.

“I’m done too!” She gave me a little dance as we walked towards the check out,”why’d you do this?”

“Because you deserve to be treated to something instead of threading other people…and I thought we could get you some more clothes then what you have because Custer said it’s gonna be another week or so.” I heard her sigh with annoyance at the last part.

“He’s annoying.” We got into the check out line,”are you sure you wanna pay for all this?”

“I’ll make it back within the week, it’s no problem.”

“If you say so.”

1 pm-

Ashtrays pov-

(y/n) and Faye have been gone since 9, Inwas sitting on the couch in the lounge by the wall and fez was on the other one.

“When do you think they gon be back?” I looked over at fez who was looking at the tv, a blunt in his hand.

“Should be back in half an hour.” He looked over at me,”why?”

“Just wonderin.” I looked back at the tv.

“You miss (y/n) don you?” He asked and I looked over he had that stupid ass smile on his face.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Ya you do.”

“No I don’t.” He chuckled.

“Whatever you say.”

“I will throw this at you, don’t think I won’t? Keep talkin.” I raised my bowl of cereal.

“Jus’ thinkin maybe you have gon soft, there’s nothing Well’ wrong with it.” He took a hit from his blunt.

“You have green nails.”

“And they look dope.” He sat up and looked over towards the security monitors,”they back.”

“Thought you said half an hour.”

“I was wrong.” He continued to watch the monitor, I put my bowl on the table and sat on the couch with him, both of kneeling on the couch resting our forearms on the back looking at the monitors.

“She actually got clothes.” Faye and (y/n) were at the gate, Faye had two bags and (y/n) had one. We watched as (y/n) unlocked the gate. Faye walked in first and then (y/n) so she could lock it. Soon we heard the main door open. We looked at each other before getting off of the couch, I jumped over it and he went around, he’s boring like that.

We walked down the hall together before we found (y/n) and Faye.

“Hey boys!” (y/n) smiled, Faye was currently in her clothes, leggings, a grey hoodie and a white crop top.

“Have fun?” Fez kissed (y/n), I watched as Faye walked down the hall to the bedrooms.

“Ya, look Faye and i are are gonna go try these on.”

“Aight.” Fez said as he took the blunt from his hand.

“Happy?” She looked at me and I looked at her for a few seconds before nodding.

“He missed you while you were gone.” Fez said walking away.

“Did not!” I yelled at him as I started to follow.

“Softy.”(y/n) snickered.

Your pov-

A few hours later-

I sat on the couch with Faye and ash and Fez were in the other. I had Faye’s hand in mine as I painted her nails a soft pink color.

“How much it cost?” Fez spoke up.

“Consisting everything in there was either 50 or 80 percent off, only 150.” I looked over at him quickly and then looking back at Faye’s hand, she had really nice nails,”what’d you two do while we were gone?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think Fez smoked and watching the discovery channel and I think you spent it missing me.” I liked to tease ash like this cause he knows I’m fucking with him.

“You’re a bitch (y/n).” He shook his head at me.

“I thought I was the bitch.” Faye chimed.

“No youre the blonde herion whore bimbo bitch.”

“Ash!” Fez and I both scolded at him and Faye laughed, her head falling back onto the couch.

“I like that name.” She spoke through her fit of laughter.

“See she don’ care.”

“Oh my god I love Penguins.” Her head shot up when the narrator started talking about penguins.

“They cute.” Fez agreed. Both of them were now focused on the tv. I screwed the top of the nail polish on and put it on the table as I looked over at ash, he was looking at me.

“Thanks.” He mouthed to me a slight smile on his face.

“Of course.” I mouthed back as fez extended his arm over to me the blunt in between his fingers, I leaned a bit and took it from him. I took a hit and held it in between my fingers. I saw ash relax into the couch, I haven’t seen him fully relax since Faye’s been here. I took another hit of the blunt and passed it to fez again. This was nice…everyone in the same room, everyone quiet. I looked over at fez and he looked back at me.

“Wanna go fuck?” He mouthed to me using her head to gesture to the hall.

“No.” I mouthed back shaking my head.

#euphoria #fezco euphoria #euphoria fandom #ashtray euphoria #euphoria fic #ashtray #faye euphoria #Fezco #Gegewrites

[dweetwise]

i've been wanting to try writing these three together for some time and the new skins finally gave me the kick to do it. i know next to nothing about bowling but here's a 50's bowling au anyway <3

word count: 4.5k

Élodie X Felix X Ace: Bowling date

“Aaand Rakoto gets another strike! She's on a roll!” Elodie whooped as the pins fell down neatly. “Richter doesn’t stand a chance!”

She turned around to find Felix glowering in their booth. His shoulders were tense; for once not from work stress, but from the quiet fuming he did as he bit his cheek to no doubt stop himself from responding to her goading.

“Aww, don’t pout, ma crotte,” Elodie cooed when she sauntered back to the couch after three strikes in a row. “I am sure you can catch up in twenty turns or so.”

"I guess it's only fair that you win one round after I destroyed your record last time," Felix deadpanned.

"Oh you bastard, I knew you were still smug about that!"

Their playful bickering continued for a few more turns and Felix's glare morphed into a self-satisfied smile as Elodie failed to capitalize on her next two splits.

Elodie couldn't remember the last date activity that didn't end up in her and Felix butting heads. As two fiercely competitive individuals, it was only natural that they'd get lost in the game, poking and prodding at their opponent to try to gain the upper hand. They both knew it was part of the game and enjoyed it almost as much as the thrill of winning, and their long friendship and comfortable relationship assured that none of the animosity from the heat of the moment was carried over back home.

Still, Elodie knew that regular couples probably didn’t have date nights where any minor competition ended up in a verbal blood bath.

Then again, her and Felix had never been a regular couple.

Maybe that was why Elodie caught the way Felix’s attention seemed to be slipping more than usual this evening. As much as she liked to think she was the better of them at bowling, truth be told they were pretty evenly matched. But tonight Felix's score lagged behind even as Elodie managed some downright awful throws, so the next time she caught him discreetly glancing away from the game towards the bar, she followed his gaze to see what was occupying his thoughts.

The bowling venue wasn't very busy despite it being a Friday night – one of the reasons they preferred to frequent this place above more popular, crowded bowling halls – and there were only a few people meandering at the bar. Elodie curiously scanned over them, though her gaze didn't linger on the laughing teenagers or bored housewives that gossiped over wine.

No, her eyes were immediately drawn to a lone man smoking at the edge of the bar, and right away Elodie could see why Felix was so transfixed.

The man looked about Felix's age, sporting a stylish leather jacket that stuck out like a sore thumb among the college sweaters and bowling shirts. His dark hair was slicked back impeccably with one strand carefully tucked loose in an effortlessly casual look. As the man reached to stump out his cigarette in the ashtray, Elodie noticed a cuff of bold red peeking out from the sleeve. The man turned on his chair and she managed to catch a glimpse of the full outfit; the leather jacket covered a red patterned shirt paired with a bandana wrapped around the man's neck, with a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neckline of the shirt. The alluring stranger didn't look like he was dressed for bowling – though neither was Elodie, herself, and she could appreciate the effort of a carefully planned outfit when she saw one.

And yet, the man was clearly waiting for someone in this bowling hall, based on the way he kept checking his watch and glancing at the door with a frown.

Elodie turned back to the game before she was spotted by either Felix or the mystery man. As expected, she felt no jealousy about catching her partner eyeing another; both she and Felix had long since established their willingness to share their relationship with others, should the opportunity present itself. It was difficult to navigate sometimes, in public, as people had all sorts of misconceptions and prejudices, and thus it had been a while since they last attempted this. So Elodie tried to stand back and let Felix decide for himself whether this was something – someone – he wanted to pursue.

Or that was the plan, but after ten more minutes of lackluster bowling and Felix's poorly disguised puppy-eyed glances in the direction of the bar, Elodie had had enough. Mr. Leather Jacket was still without a bowling partner and looking increasingly more uncomfortable every time the door opened and whoever he was waiting for didn't arrive.

It was the perfect opportunity; maybe Felix just needed a little push.

“We should go and introduce ourselves,” she said casually.

Felix whipped his attention back from the direction of the bar to face her. “What?”

“To Leather Jacket over there. You’re staring at him like a lovesick puppy.”

“I am not!”

“Come on, Felix. He’s solo and clearly your type.”

“Shh, keep it down!” Felix hissed. His panicked eyes scanned the lanes next to them, but hardly anything would be able to be heard over the sound of the jukebox and rubber balls hitting lacquered hardwood.

Still, she stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. "Are you saying he's not your type? I think he's quite attractive."

"No, I'm –" Felix sputtered. "Let's just focus on the game."

"Alright," Elodie relented.

Like usual, Felix was absolutely terrible at following his own advice. His attention was clearly more of the handsome stranger than on beating Elodie's score, and after a few more turns of watching her boyfriend embarrass herself on the lane, Elodie decided to take a chance.

"Be right back," she said, walking away from their booth.

"Where are you going?" Felix asked, obviously suspicious.

"I'm just going to get a drink," Elodie lied.

She walked up to the bar – maybe exaggerating the sway of her hips as she went – and smoothly slipped into the seat next to Leather Jacket. She placed her order with the bartender and lit up a cigarette before pretending to just notice the man next to her.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.

The man looked up at her calmly, apparently not as skittish as his earlier fidgeting would have suggested. Brown eyes scanned over her and something in the man’s tense posture relaxed.

Elodie took a drag of smoke and studied him while she waited for a reply. The man looked younger up close, though Elodie had trouble placing his age – his face was smooth and round but his eyes wrinkled as he smiled.

“I was, but it’s starting to look like I got stood up,” the man said with a friendly smile. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“If you don't have a bowling partner, would you like to join us?” Elodie gestured to Felix.

The man's gaze followed the movement. Felix snapped to attention by their lane, and then gave a half-smile and awkward wave.

“It’s alright,” Leather Jacket said. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your date.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Elodie flicked her wrist. “Me and Felix will have plenty of other times to argue about bowling scores. The more the merrier, hm?”

Her companion tilted his head like he was considering it, then smiled. “Sure.”

“Wonderful,” Elodie returned the smile. “I’m Elodie, by the way.”

“Ace.”

“Well, Ace –" she glanced at his feet. "Do you have bowling shoes?”

There was a crack in Ace's smile. “Ah. No.”

“That’s alright,” Elodie said. “Why don’t you go pick up one of the rental pairs and meet us by the lane."

“Uh… I haven’t paid –”

“I’ll cover it,” Elodie said, placing her wallet on the counter. “As an early apology for having to listen to our silly bickering.”

“If you insist.”

Ace headed for the shelves of probably-reeking rental shoes and Elodie took one last, indulgent inhale of smoke before snuffing out the cigarette in the ashtray. After paying for her drink and the shoes, she returned to Felix – who was practically vibrating from tension.

“What did you do?” he asked, accusatory.

“I invited him to join us, since you were too much of a coward.” She sipped her drink calmly.

“Elodie! Why in the world –”

“Don’t worry about it! It’s just bowling, let’s have some fun. He’s a charmer – you'll love him.”

Felix's face went through about ten different emotions of mortification, giddiness and annoyance, before finally huffing and settling for a small smile. "You're impossible."

The tone was fond and Elodie smirked; her gamble had paid off. "You're welcome."

Before she could tease her boyfriend further, Ace hesitantly approached their lane – ugly rental shoes in place.

“Ah, Ace," Elodie greeted. "This is Felix."

“Hey,” Ace extended a hand, which Felix shook. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” Felix managed surprisingly levelly. And then, because he was Felix, he suddenly looked at the floor between them and said “I like your socks.”

Both Elodie's and Ace’s eyes dropped to Ace's feet. His ugly bowling shoes clashed horribly with the red and black checkered socks – which, to be fair, were very cute on their own.

“Thanks!” Ace recovered smoothly. “I like your shirt. Really fancy.”

“Thank you,” Felix said stiffly, before hurrying away to reset the scoreboard.

“I’m glad you could join us,” Elodie said.

“It’s my pleasure,” Ace said. “Not everyday you get to bowl with the best dressed couple in the joint.”

Such a smooth talker; this would be fun.

“Well, it was a tragedy that someone with an outfit as handsome as yours wasn’t in on it,” Elodie flirted back.

“Good to know that the date outfit’s not going to waste,” Ace smirked.

“Are you ready to start?” Felix approached them. “Ace, have you selected a ball?”

“Err, no,” Ace said, his bravado faltering again. “Actually, this is my first time bowling.”

"Oh, that's lovely!" Elodie said. "Me and Felix can teach you. Felix, m'amour, help him with the basics, yes?"

"Of course." Felix turned to Ace. "Let's start with the grip."

The plan was twofold; firstly, Felix was a much better – or at least more patient – teacher than Elodie. And secondly, it let the two of them chat on their own; hopefully about something other than socks.

Felix always was much more confident when he got to talk about something he was passionate about. Elodie watched as he easily went over beginner-friendly tips, demonstrating the grip on his bowling ball while Ace listened. And then, because he was a sweetheart, Felix handed over the ball for Ace to try, rather than selecting any of the germ-covered rentals.

“Like this?” Ace asked. Even Elodie could see that his grip was all wrong.

“No, that’s – sorry, can I…?” Felix asked, his hand hovering over Ace’s.

“Go ahead.”

Felix corrected Ace’s grip and Elodie tried not to smile over the progressively darkening flush on her boyfriend’s cheeks at the hands-on contact.

“There, that should be better,” Felix said, satisfied with his work.

“Thanks – sorry for being such a ditz,” Ace said, then grinned. “Normally I know my way around balls, but I guess there’s some tricks I’ve gotta learn.”

Felix’s face flamed red and Elodie chuckled heartily at the joke.

Once they got the game started, Ace seemed happy to strike up conversation.

“So where are you guys from?” Ace asked.

“Are you saying the accents didn’t tip you off? My, we’ve evolved,” Elodie smiled. “I am from France, and Felix from Germany.”

“Ah, bonsoir,” Ace said. “I may have had some inkling. Have you been here long?”

“We only moved a year ago for work. Felix is still very self-conscious of his accent,” Elodie said, knowing Felix could hear them.

“I think it’s charming.” Ace probably also knew that Felix could hear them.

“What about you?” Elodie asked. “Are you American?”

“Sometimes,” Ace grinned. “No, but really, I’m from Argentina.”

“From where?” Felix asked, joining them. “I visited Buenos Aires for work a few years ago. The architecture is beautiful.”

Elodie smiled and got up for her turn, leaving the boys to it.

Once conversation finally drifted away from architecture and into chit chat about the game, Elodie took the chance to ask Ace about himself.

“What do you do, Ace?” she asked.

“Oh, a little this and that,” Ace said. “I try to pick up odd jobs here and there; bartending, event hosting, saleswork, to name a few. It keeps things interesting.”

“A man of many talents, I see,” Felix said.

"Something like that,'' Ace said. "What about you guys? You said you moved here for work?"

"Mostly Felix's. He's an architect – a very good one," Elodie said, knowing Felix always downplayed his accomplishments.

"Huh, that makes sense," Ace said. "I was starting to think you just really liked houses."

Felix's cheeks glowed pink and he cleared his throat.

"And I do… a lot of things," Elodie said. "Finding things for collectors, attending auctions on their behalf. Along with some archeology."

"Jack of all trades – for rich people?" Ace asked with a grin.

Elodie smiled. "Something like that."

When it came to the actual bowling, Ace was doing as expected of a beginner – that was to say, pretty horribly. Despite Elodie's and Felix's advice, he couldn't seem to get the hang of it, his results inconsistent and appearing more down to luck than any improvement.

On Ace's next gutter ball, Elodie could clearly see that his backswing was off. Even though Ace had shedded the bandana and sunglasses out of practicality during the game, his leather jacket still seemed to be constricting the movement of his arm.

"Oh well, second time's the charm!" Ace turned to them with a bright smile while waiting for his ball return, not seeming bothered by his failure.

"Maybe you should try removing the jacket?" Elodie suggested.

"And get rid of the style points?" Ace gasped in mock offense.

"At least you'd get some bowling points," Felix mumbled, making Elodie bark out a laugh.

"My god!" Ace exclaimed while Felix merely smirked. "Is he always this sassy?" he asked Elodie.

Yes, he was; but only when he was comfortable.

"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet." Elodie said. "The polite businessman is just an act to cover up the neverending sarcasm."

"Would you prefer I use weaponized flirting to navigate my way through clients?" Felix raised an eyebrow.

"I'm unsure if batting your eyelashes would work on stuffy old architects like it does for eccentric art collectors, but you're welcome to try."

Rather than a witty retort, Felix made a choked noise next to her and Elodie turned her attention back to Ace – only to find that the man had taken their advice and removed his jacket. He was in the process of lining up his shot, all focus on the lane and allowing his audience to freely sneak glances at his form. Elodie saw Felix averting his eyes and trying not to stare; she however had no such inhibitions, blatantly eyeing the way the patterned shirt clung to Ace's broad shoulders and tapered off into a narrow waist.

Removing the jacket seemed to have helped at least a little bit, because Ace's throw looked more natural, and he managed a respectable four-pin split – though Elodie may have been a little too busy admiring the flattering fit of his jeans to fully notice.

Ace definitely caught her staring at his behind once he spun around, and Elodie shot him a wink over the rim of her glass.

The playful grin she got in return assured her that he didn't mind.

Between teaching Ace the right form and bowling strategy, laughing at each other's jokes and trying to navigate the subtle flirting, the remaining forty minutes of their booked time went by faster than Elodie would have liked.

“Should we continue for another hour?” Elodie suggested.

Ace grinned brightly. “Sure, if you guys are up for it!"

“I’ll go ask if we can extend our booking,” Felix decided.

“Hold on, I’ll come with you," Elodie said. "I want another drink.”

“Should we bring something for you?” Felix asked Ace.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Elodie followed Felix out of their booth, before she remembered something. “Oh Ace, chéri, could you watch my purse?”

“Sure thing, bella.”

At the bar, Felix and Elodie finally got a minute to chat alone.

"So, what do you make of our new friend?" Elodie asked.

"He's nice." Felix stared at the counter with a smile, before lowering his voice so the other patrons didn't hear. "It almost feels like we're all on a date together."

"It does, doesn't it?" Elodie smiled. "I wouldn't mind seeing him again."

Felix hesitated.

"M'amour, what's wrong?" Elodie asked, a hand on his shoulder. "Do you not want that?"

"No, I do, it's just…"

"If you've changed your mind, it's okay," she said. "We don't need to do this again – now or ever. You are enough for me, you know that right?"

"And you are for me," Felix said, then smirked. "Sometimes too much."

Elodie laughed and lightly smacked his arm.

“There's just something about him." Felix looked over at their lane with his eyebrows scrunched up – his focusing look. "Doesn't this feel a little too easy?"

Elodie glanced over to the table and saw Ace sitting by her bag, shuffling a deck of playing cards he must have been carrying. Huh; very apt for someone named Ace.

"I don't know. Maybe," she said. Even if she couldn't see anything suspicious, she trusted Felix's judgment. "He could just be nervous."

"I just need a little more time. Sorry."

"Never be sorry." Elodie leaned in to kiss his cheek. "We're doing this together."

She felt his cheek pull up in a smile under her lips. Then, in an uncharacteristic display of public affection, Felix turned his head to catch her lips in a sweet kiss.

"I love you," Felix said.

"I love you too, ma crotte." She smiled. "Now are you ready to get back to our little friend?"

"Shit."

The curse slipped out of Elodie's mouth before she could stop it. Felix had managed yet another strike, and at this rate her victory would be downright impossible.

Felix turned to her and Ace with a smug smile. As distracted as he had been before, now he merely seemed determined to show off to their company.

"What's the matter, Elodie?" Felix gloated. "Are you having trouble keeping up?"

"Oh, don't pretend like you weren't losing by fifty points before we reset earlier," she shot back.

"Reminds me of last month, when you got a whopping zero in tennis –"

"The sun was in my eyes!"

A chuckle from beside Elodie snapped them out of their argument.

“You guys are a pretty strange couple,” Ace said.

“Oh, not really – ” Elodie started.

“I agree. We're two absolute fools.” Felix smiled as he took a seat next to her.

Elodie couldn't resist leaning against him with a soft chuckle; it was a relief to see Felix relax to this degree.

"How long have you been together?" Ace asked. He didn't seem uncomfortable by their closeness at all.

"Hmm… around four years?" Elodie guessed.

"Five," Felix corrected smugly like the bastard that he was. "And three months."

"Really? Huh," Ace said. "I thought it'd be longer. You kind of act like an old married couple."

Elodie laughed and Felix sputtered. "We're not actually that old –" Felix started, but Elodie placed a hand on his shoulder to let him know that it was a joke.

"Well, we have known each other for thirty years," Elodie said.

"Twenty-six," Felix mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Ah – that explains it, I guess," Ace grinned. "You've been friends this entire time?"

"Oh, heavens, no," Elodie laughed. "When we first met, we hated each other."

"She was spoiled and obnoxious," Felix said matter-of-factly.

"And you were antisocial and haughty. Such a snob," Elodie shot back with a smirk.

"Not much has changed in twenty-six years, now that I think about it," Felix teased.

"You're on thin ice, darling."

Ace chuckled. "I take it you worked out your differences eventually?"

This level of interest in their relationship was unusual, but not unwelcome. Elodie couldn't help but be pleased; this had to be a good sign.

"We were forced to, since we shared a friend group," Elodie said.

"I came to admire her resourcefulness and headstrong nature," Felix said fondly.

"And I had to admit that Felix was smarter than me," Elodie said. "He's also annoyingly lovable, once you get to know him."

"I can imagine." Ace's smile was directed at Felix this time. And it clearly had an effect, since Felix immediately coughed into his sleeve and averted his eyes.

"And then after two decades of being friends, we finally got our heads out of our behinds long enough to give this relationship thing a try," Elodie said, giving Felix's arm a gentle squeeze. "And now I can't imagine my life without this infuriating besserwisser by my side."

"And you've moved to taking your disagreements out through bowling?" Ace grinned, shaking his head. "You two are really something."

"Thank you." Felix seemed to take it as a compliment.

“I suppose we are pretty unusual. Not to mention much more… open than most other couples.” Elodie gave Ace a meaningful look.

He raised an eyebrow – in intrigue?

Meanwhile, a clueless and happy Felix took advantage of the silence by stealing a sip from Elodie's drink.

When their additional hour was up, Ace excused himself to the bathroom, giving Elodie and Felix another chance to talk in private.

"Have you decided yet?" she asked, eager to get a conclusion to their wonderful evening. "Or are you still suspicious of him?"

"No I, ähm, I think I was wrong." Felix shuffled his feet before continuing, “Yes. I want to see him again.”

“Then we should ask him on a date. Properly, this time."

“But do you…" Felix faltered. "I mean, do you still want to? It’s not just for me?”

“Mon petit, I don’t know if you’ve been watching, but I haven’t flirted this much since five years ago when I tried to get through your thick skull that I'm in love with you,” Elodie chuckled. “I happen to like him very much. And I think he likes us too.”

“Really?” Felix asked, a hopeful smile on his face. He was such a big, adorable dummy sometimes.

“Call it a woman's intuition. Trust me on this.”

“Okay.”

“After all, I’m never wrong.”

“Alright, let’s not get too full of ourselves –”

“Just telling the truth!”

“Oh wow, I really can’t leave you two alone for five minutes, huh?” Ace’s voice startled them both.

Fortunately, the Argentine was just walking up to them, and Elodie deflated in relief that he seemed to have just arrived and thus missed their earlier conversation.

"He started it," she joked. She could practically hear Felix's eyeroll next to her.

"Well, shall we?" Felix asked, nodding towards the door.

"After you," Ace agreed.

They gathered their things and headed out together. Ever the gentleman, Felix held the door open for both Elodie and Ace.

“Thanks for tonight. I had a lot of fun – turns out bowling isn’t so bad,” Ace said.

“It was our pleasure,” Elodie said and Felix nodded in agreement.

Before Elodie could ask to meet up again, Ace stretched his arms over his head with an exaggerated groan.

“Damn, my arm’s gonna be sore tomorrow,” he joked. “I should get going, maybe put some ice on it just in case.”

“I hope we weren’t that bad,” Elodie lightened.

“Speak for yourself, not Mr. Hardass Instructor over there,” Ace grinned to Felix, who bowed his head and chuckled. “Anyway, I really should be going.”

Elodie panicked. “Do you need a ride?”

“Nah, I drove here,” Ace said. He looked at them both. “It was good meeting you two. Maybe we’ll run into each other again some day.”

Elodie had no idea what to say – she didn't expect Ace to leave in such a hurry, and now her whole plan was ruined. Luckily, Felix covered for her.

“That would be nice,” Felix said. He sounded sad, which broke Elodie's heart.

Ace smiled. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Elodie said.

And just like that, Ace was off, disappearing into the dark of the street behind parked cars.

“Merde,” Elodie cursed.

“I guess you have to be wrong sometimes,” Felix said. Elodie elbowed him with a pout.

When they got to their car, Elodie slumped into the passenger seat while Felix pulled out into the street.

She dug through her purse for lipstick, needing something to do to distract herself from the disappointment. Instead, she frowned as she found the contents of the bag a little misplaced. Her cigarettes were on the bottom of the purse instead of the top where she'd left them, and her wallet wasn't in its usual side compartment, but in the middle with some sort of paper slip peeking out of the half-opened zipper. Curious, she pulled on it.

It was a playing card; the ace of hearts, along with a folded piece of paper around it. Opening it revealed a hastily scribbled note.

You know, two brilliant people should really know better than to leave their valuables unattended with a stranger – especially after flaunting their designer wallets earlier.

You asked what I do earlier: I’m a con man. It just so happens that you're not the only one flirting your way through clients for a living, cherie.

Now I know what you're thinking: "What a shit con man, he left all my exorbitant amounts of cash untouched!" And yeah, you'd be right. But I hope that's gonna make this seem a little more genuine, because if you two still want to, I’ll be at the bowling alley at the same time next Friday – and this time, I won’t be on the clock.

Ciao,

Ace

Elodie laughed – it seemed Felix's suspicions were correct. Rather than feel betrayed, however, she was impressed; by the end, Ace had managed to fool them both completely.

But evidently not all of it had been an act. Throughout the night, her and Felix had somehow managed to make Ace see them as more than just his next targets.

“What? What does it say?” Felix was glancing anxiously between the road and the letter.

Elodie smiled. “We have a date with a certain little troublemaker next week, mon amour.”

She knew Felix wouldn't need convincing. And this time, they might even be able to tell Ace about how Elodie attending auctions for rich people mainly involved her sneaking in and stealing a precious item to sell on the black market while her successful architect boyfriend charmed the other guests.

It was cute, really, how Ace appeared to think that his petty crimes would be some sort of groundbreaking revelation. Now it just seemed he'd fit into their relationship and lifestyle even better than Elodie could have imagined.

"I knew it," Felix said with a shit-eating grin.

…Of course, the only downside was that Felix would never let Elodie forget the fact that he'd known right away while she hadn't suspected anything out of the ordinary.

Oh well, perhaps Ace was worth withstanding a few smug smiles for.

fun fact: “ma crotte” means “my turd” in french and is apparently “a sweet yet silly nickname” according to The Internet and i’m like 140% sure elodie would use it for felix

#elodie rakoto #felix richter #ace visconti #riconti #felix x elodie #ace x elodie #felix x ace #ot3 #dweetwrites #dbd fanfic #dbd #dead by daylight

[imaginesbymk]

“Find Me Under The Giant Rabbit.”

Reservoir Dogs/Pulp Fiction One Shot

SUMMARY: I read a Reddit fan theory that Mr. Pink survived, escaped the cops, got arrested and was then put on parole - leaving behind his old life and lying low as a waiter at Jack Rabbit Slims. What happens when you show up to the restaurant one night?

PAIRING: Mr. Pink/Buddy Holly waiter x Reader

TAGS: swearing, smoking + mentions of basically everything that happened in reservoir dogs which is the heist, violence, etc

NON REQUESTED

WORD COUNT: 2,870 (it’s long i’m sorry)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is probably the cheesiest thing i’ve ever written, and it’s nothing tarantino would ever put in his films, also there’s no way PF and RS can legitimately tie in together 100% even though there are some factors to support otherwise, but i wanted to write this and see something lol :( leave a like/reblog + feedback!!!

[gif credit]

YOU put your car in park, shutting off the engine, and observed it from afar. It was one hell of a big restaurant, almost a bit too cartoon-like. There was a giant anthropomorphic rabbit on top, and the lights claiming the name were glowing a bright red and yellow. Mind you, this was in Los Angeles, so who wouldn’t blame you if you took one look at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, and mistake it for a restaurant at Six Flags? 

Dozens of bikers came in with their motorcycles, yet their engines couldn’t even overpower the chatter coming from newcomers left and right. You ignored a heavy tattooed biker dressed in all leather and denim catcalling you from afar, and you reached the front desk. 

A man dressed in uniform, most definitely in character, tipped his hat at you and led you to a table with only two chairs. You weren’t expecting anyone to join you in the other seat across. So what if you went for dinner by yourself? You didn’t bother asking anyone to join you for that matter. Not anyone you could think of at the top of your head would be any less boring.

You began tracing your fingers around the rim of the ketchup bottle when not even five seconds after sitting down, a lady approached your table with ruby red lips. 

Of course, you thought. Servers were dressed up as icons from the 50s era.

“Marilyn,” you say in awe.

“Close enough,” Instead of being seated in the Marilyn Monroe section being served by a Marilyn Monroe-looking Marilyn Monroe, you were greeted with a tall Mamie Van Doren, who is just as breathtaking as Marilyn refilling everyone’s coffee mugs from the other side of the restaurant. “How about I get you started with drinks?”

Ricky Nelson’s performance on stage came to an end when Mamie arrived with your food. You looked around the place while eating. People weren’t eating by themselves. Families, friends, dates, all of them occupied their seats. Now that you’ve noticed, you sort of wished you brought someone with you, otherwise the seat across from you is used as a footrest. 

So there, you propped your feet on top, and relaxed… then you sat upright. Your eyes fixated on the waiter in his section, which were the cars back in the 50s used as booths. You watch him walk towards one of them. The couple was a young woman in a blunt bob cut with bangs, and a man wearing a black suit with long black hair tied back.

You squint your eyes. It couldn’t be...

“Hi, I’m Buddy. What can I get ya?”

You blinked, dropping the half bitten French fry from your mouth. Holy fucking shit.

It was all coming back to you. The news broke out about the heist going wrong at the wholesale, all dead except for one, a cop who laid dead on the ramp inside the rendezvous was identified as Mr. Orange. Since he wasn’t supposed to know where you were from, Mr. Pink never turned up to your door as an emergency hideout, or to drag you with him on his getaway because he never had one. You never heard of him ever since. 

Here he was, Mr. Pink, alive and well, wearing glasses. What the hell happened? How long has he been working here? Is he supposed to be Buddy Holly?

“How do you want that cooked? Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?” you hear him ask the man in the suit who ordered a steak.

“Bloody as hell, and oh, yeah, look at this- vanilla coke.”

You noticed the irony. He left you in a black suit - and he comes back in white. Like he’d ever want to be caught dead in white, or pink.

“What about you, Peggy Sue?” he asks the woman, jotting in his notepad. You recognized the pun.

“I’ll have the Durwood Kirby burger, bloody. And… the five dollar shake.”

Were you about to laugh? Call out his name? That was enough for you to get antsy in your seat, but you didn’t want to draw attention. You saw him again while finishing up half of your meal, giving the couple their drinks and disappearing back into the kitchen. He was doing his job, but it wasn’t like he was giving his one hundred percent. For someone who preached to the Gods about professionalism, Mr. Pink sure lacked work ethic. Every employee was on point with their character impersonations as if you had travelled back in time. Meanwhile, he acted like himself and seemed bored while wearing an emotionless face, as if he hated his job and epitome of his existence. It was never a dull moment for him whenever he was with you, though.

You got up to use the restroom.

“We’re lucky we got anything at all. I don’t think Buddy Holly’s much of a waiter,” you heard the man at the booth tell the woman as you walk past them, spotting their food from the corner of your eye. It’s no surprise hearing that. Mr. Pink never looked like the type to work at a job like this.

You sat back down and soon, Mr. Pink reappeared, standing over to the side and watched the announcement of the twisting contest, smoking a cigarette. You see him eyeing two pretty blonde women walking past him, and he looked back his way, now in your direction.

He finally did what you wanted him to do, and he stares at you for nearly a solid minute.

You waved awkwardly. 

Mr. Pink tosses the cigarette in a random person’s ashtray and disappears behind the door once again. You darted out of your chair, and marched your way to where he headed, just as the couple he served got up on stage to participate in the twisting contest.

A Zorro waiter jumps in front of you. “Stop right there, mi amor!” his eyes darted at you through the cheap black mask he was wearing. “I believe the bathroom’s on the other side of the bar.”

“Where’s Buddy?” you ask Zorro.

“I’m afraid Mr. Holly is taking a quick break from unenthusiastically serving love birds in their cars.”

“Can you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Once I see him.” Zorro then took out his sword and pointed it at you, a grin plastered on his face. “Now, shall I escort you back to your dining spot?”

Although you were aware this guy was only in character, you didn’t wanna risk getting kicked out, or having a realistic looking sword ripped through your body. You sighed and turned around, heading back. You noticed at your table a folded napkin beside your empty plate. Mamie Van Doren was last seen there, her back facing you with her heels clicking away on the tiles.

“Excuse me!” you called after the waitress. She ignores you, smiling down at new customers at an umbrella table.

Cocking an eyebrow, you used your finger to flatten the crease and read the note in bold handwriting.

FIND ME UNDER THE GIANT RABBIT. - BUDDY 

You threw the door open and ran outside, precisely under the giant rabbit of the Jack Rabbit Slim’s sign, just like he said on the napkin. You felt like an idiot checking every direction to find no one. Not a lot of the bikers were seen riding or hanging out around the parking lot, some people were coming and going, but you couldn’t find Buddy Holly.

Defeated, you turn to walk back inside. 

Mr. Pink rushed out the door and caught his breath. It looked like he was chasing you down before you could take off. A song used for the twisting contest kept playing from inside.

You didn’t run up to him and jumped in his arms or anything dramatic in that matter. You both stared at each other.

A few days before the heist you two stood across each other waiting for Mr. Brown and Mr. White inside the hideout. It was a quiet moment, not an awkward one. He just took that opportunity to study you, as you did him. It took him that moment to realize he was warming up to you. 

“Well hello there, Buddy,” you smile smugly.

YOU and Pink loitered at the side of the eatery, where the back door to the kitchen was located. He had taken off his fake glasses, showing his full frame.

“Okay,” you watch him lean against the wall, lighting his cigarette. “Talk to me. What happened to you?”

“What the hell do you think? Cops tagged me when I tried driving away. I was put behind bars, and by some fucking miracle this place took me in when I needed money.”

“You didn’t know any other crime bosses looking for a lanky dude?” Pink rolls his eyes at your joke. “I know the heist went terribly wrong, I saw the news. Everyone’s dead as Dillinger.”

“That briefcase had a shit load of two million dollars worth of stones,” Pink blew smoke out. “I swear, if that asshole undercover cop was never sent to set us up, I could have been enjoying a cocktail in Santorini. You’re lucky you called in sick that day.”

You shuddered, remembering how god-awful the illness was. “Never again. I felt like I was being hot glued to a sauna.”

You remembered the day of the heist. In fact, you mentally prepared yourself for something that you’ve never done before. You braced for what was supposed to go smoothly as Joe promised. Instead, you were woken up by the worst case scenario above 38 degrees. You were thankful Joe took it easy on you and promised another job next time. 

“All right, your turn. What did you do after that shit show went down?” Pink asks you.

“Just did my own thing. I wasn’t there so the cops never searched for me.” Pink took a slow drag, staring at nothing. He didn’t really look the same as before. Still lanky, except his hair was a bit more darkened and styled in curls, possibly because Buddy Holly had it permed that way. But his face read that he had been through a lot. Normally you felt zero pity for assholes like him, but you managed to blurt out, “I missed you.”

Pink, blowing out smoke in the air, eyed you up and down and furrowed his brows. “Likewise.”

Not only did it suck not being able to make money, you also couldn’t do it with Mr. Pink. As much as he kept his professionalism to a T, he squeezed in time to get along with you. It was no wonder Joe hired you - you were different than the guys, you moved differently and never felt small. Mr. Pink was drawn to that. 

Maybe that was just an understatement. He grew intimidated by something he expected to experience the least from in the job, and of course, straight out of a fairytale, you had to stop and ask yourself if you felt the same way, and if what you felt was right. Neither of you had any idea. It was against the rules to give out personal information to each other, and Mr. Pink took those rules very seriously, even if it was just one job that he most likely wouldn’t come back to unless a higher pay was involved and Joe Cabot liked him enough to recruit him again. 

If Mr. Pink grew too attached, if he let his guard down for one second, God forbid something would have happened to you. Without a doubt, he would have heavily blamed himself and walked away from the job without saying another word. 

His options were to wait until after the robbery to make a move, or do his job, get paid and leave. Whether or not it was out of selfishness was out of the question. Mr. Pink is already selfish in an intuitive kind of way, he’d rather avoid spiraling into a wave of emotions for one person - so he chose the latter.

“What?” Pink looked at you, feeling a bit tense. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Huh? No. It’s nothing,” you blinked, realizing you were staring at him longer than you should have. You shook your head, most likely shaking off the intrusive thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to tell him what’s on your mind. 

If anything, he’s most likely sleeping with the Marilyn Monroe waitress. “It’s just… you shaved the goatee.”

Pink nodded, looking a bit annoyed that there was no facial hair left on his chin to rub. “Buddy Holly had a clean face. For the record, the only advantage of this job is that I’m under disguise. Other than that, this place is a circus. I’m zooming back in time whenever I clock in.”

“It’s a 50s themed restaurant,” you state. “Working here sounds like fun. At least you get to dress up and experience pop culture.”

He scoffs. “No, fuck the 50s. Shit was all I Love Lucy and those puffy ass dresses.”

“They’re called poodle skirts, Pink.”

“Like I give a fuck what they’re called.”

“You know Buddy Holly smiled. He was a singer and a guitarist. If you keep up the attitude, no one’s gonna tip you. Nice Guy Eddie told me about your rant on tipping.”

“Ha! And? You will never find me up on that stage performing That’ll Be The Day, moving like a fucking animatronic.” Halfway finished, Pink tossed his cigarette aside and looked at you. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

You felt your cheeks flushing. Fuck. “I am?”

He nodded, putting his Buddy Holly glasses back on his face. “Yeah. It’s a breath of fresh air seeing you here.” He stares down at his wristwatch for a moment.

“Your break’s done?”

“It’s been done,” he says. “Fifteen minutes ago.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re so fired.”

“This isn’t the first time I stopped caring, so my boss isn’t gonna bat an eye.” He had his hand wrapped around the back door which was supported by a wooden block to keep it open. “Look, I’ll see ya arou-”

“Pink?” Your heart rose up to your throat.

He turned back to you. “Hm?” 

You just had to do it. You reached up and kissed him softly. Pink didn’t shove or curse at you. His features softened, pulling you close to him and kissed you deeply. Even when you two pulled away, his arms didn’t unwrap from your waist. His forehead was pressed against yours now.

“My name’s Y/N,” you tell him.

He stares at you, no snarky, sarcastic comment left for him to give.

“I know you’re not willing to give your name up just yet, you can’t fully trust me, and I get that, but I won’t tell anyone what happened. You got lucky, I think… but I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m serious.”

“Y/N,” he says your name for the first time. “You don’t have to go all sappy for me. Karma came in hot. Jesus Christ, I mean, I left you.”

“Not really. You didn’t know me. The cops had the place staked out the entire day, there was nothing you could do.”

He looked down at his shoes. “All right. But still, I feel shitty. Can I at least make it up to you?”

“How?”

Pink shrugs. “I get paid tomorrow.”

“Good for you,” you reply. “Save it like you’re gonna lose it.”

“I’ve had this job for a while now, I got enough to last. But once I win the lottery, I’m gone.”

“To Santorini?”

“With a cocktail in my hand. But that’s besides the point, right now I got enough to take you out on a date… if you’re down.”

“Where would you plan on taking me? Here?” you laugh.

“You’re funny. How about the movies? Overruled, I’m taking you to see a movie. I gotta know where you live first. It’s okay to know now.”

You nodded, you couldn't argue with that. Besides, you two would just be making out in the dark the entire time.

His hand was back on the handle of the back door. Pink pulled it open, looked back at you and smiled for the first time tonight. That warmed your heart, and you were certain it warmed his. He watched you stuff something inside his pocket square as you told him your address. He went back inside, shutting the door on you. You walked back to the front of the restaurant to pay for the bill, and went straight home. 

Mr. Pink shuffles past the chefs in the kitchen, feeling through his suit pocket to pull out his notepad and whatever you stuffed inside just moments ago.

I didn’t even serve them. Is this supposed to be for Mamie Van Doren? He stares down at the dollar bill crumpled in his hand. His frown suddenly transitions to a small but genuine smile. 

Fuck it. Nothing could stop him now. He definitely owes you a date night. He quickly stuffs the tip back in his pocket square, and comes out the sliding door. 

THE END

—

TAGLIST: @locke-writes​ @aryn-the-bearheart​

#reservoir dogs x reader #reservoir dogs fic #reservoir dogs fanfic #mr pink x reader #mr pink #reservoir dogs imagine #reservoir dogs #mr pink one shot #reader insert #reservoir dogs one shot #one shot #imagine #mk's faves

[afandommultiverse]

Solo en la came - Yami Sukehiro LEMON

Words -  1589 Request - 

A/n - I'm sorry, this has been in my drafts for months but I just couldn't figure out how to finish this so I'm sorry if its a bit shit, especially at the end.

I stomped my way towards the inn, Yami following behind loosely and smirking down at me.

"I don't know why you're so mad, Doll, s'nothing." I stopped and turned towards him.

"I told you to stop calling me that! And It's not nothing- THIS WAS MY DAY OFF AND YOU DRAG ME TO SOME STUPID MISSION! BUT WAIT! It's not even a mission, you just wanted to go to some stupid distillery!"

"It was 50% off WHOLE BARRELS. If it's that big of a deal, just take your day off any of the days this week." Yami scoffed with crossed arms, looking at me as if I was the problem.

"Any of these days this week are NOT having a sale at the crystal shop!" I yelled, finally turning to leave and pay for a stupid room because we had stayed too late at the distillery Yami was so crazy about.

"2 rooms please," I asked the old lady at the front counter. She ran her finger down the list of rooms before growing and looking back up at me.

"Sorry dear, we only have one small suite left." I looked up from my Yul and paused. 

"Please there's gotta be another way!" I heard a deep chuckle behind me and I turned to see Yami stepping in.

"Come on, Doll, I'm not that bad."

"Yami, you snore!" I whined, turning back to lade and paying her sadly. The old lady smiled sympathetically and handed me the room number.

"I'll get some water ready!"

I walked to our room and opened it quickly, rushing to get off my feet. I laid my stuff on the end of the bed and sat to remove my shoes. Yami laid down on the bed and kicked off his shoes before lighting a cigarette and resting his arm over his eyes.

"Are you gonna bathe?" I asked getting up going through my bag looking for my nightclothes. I heard him hum a yes before leaving the room to take my own bath. I got to the bathroom and stripped quickly, eager to get into the warm water and wash up. It was a hot day today and being inside the distillery didn't make it any better.

Washing of the dried sweat and any other dirt or grime, I rinsed my hair and stepped out to dry off. As I wrapped the towel around me and turned to start getting dressed, the lock to the door clicked and the door opened. In walked, Yami a towel thrown over his shoulder and shirtless.

"Yami!" I yelled, glaring at him," Close the door!" He stopped and looked at me.

"You're still in here?" He whined, pouting, and goring before closing the door. But before I could dress, I heard him yell through the door.

"Hurry up or I'm taking a bath while you change!" I quickly threw my shirt and shorts before grabbing my door and heading for the door. I opened it and stopped before running into Yami, I glared up at him before moving to the side and walking to our room.

When Yami did return, I was almost asleep, only feeling the movements of him getting in bed before I finally went to sleep.

~~~

I woke up to a foul smell and sniffed it a few more times and I sat up. I looked down with my eye scrunched trying to see through grogginess.

"Yami? What time is it?" I yawned, opening my eyes clearly and losing breath at the sigh beneath me. My hand resting on his naked chest and the other holding up my weight at his side, brushing the skin of ribs. A cigarette rested on his soft lips and blinked up at me sleepily. Realizing his cigarette was the source of the smell, I took it from his lips and reached across him to put it out in the ashtray beside his side of the bed.

"Those are gonna kill you," I muttered.

"One way or another." I slapped his chest lightly.

"I hate it when you talk like that," I laid back down, moving to get off him before he spoke again.

"I don't mind." I stopped looking down at him, then looking to the other side of the bed. The sheets were cold, and Yami was really warm. I nodded before laying back down on his chest.

"Good, 'cause you're warm." He let out a deep chuckle and wrapped his arm around me, resting his hand on my back.

"You wanna rub my back?" I question half-jokingly, surprised when his head started moving. It was nice, and for a moment we just laid there. I wasn't ready to go back to sleep yet and stared out the window in front of me. The sun hadn't begun to raise but the sky was beginning to lighten.

"Y/n?" I turned to look up at Yami.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry." My eyebrows flew up in confusion.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry I dragged you here today. I know you were looking forward to that sale." Yami didn't look at me, instead, he was looking off to the side.

"It's okay, Yami. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was just irritated, that clerk was a weirdo." Yami laughed and held me a little tighter as he laughed.

"He was, wasn't he?"

"Oh god yes!" He laughed more, only making me laugh with him. When we calmed down, Yami finally looked at me with a small smile and I smiled back at him.

"Y/n?"

"Yes?"

"Don't be mad."

"Wha-?" Yami pulled me up to him and pressed his lips to mine gently. His arms wrapped around me and pulled me to rest on top of him comfortably. I wasted no time kissing back, resting my hands on his face. His hands moved down my body and gripped at my hips. As I dragged my tongue against him, I ground my hips harder against him and moaned into the kiss.

His hands gripped tighter, moving to still me. Pulling back he stared at me a little breathless.

"You sure about that, Doll?"

"You have no idea." I rushed to pull off my shirt and leaned back down to kiss him. He rolled us over and peppered kissed down my neck, nipping and sucking every now and then. Soft moans fell from my mouth and my hand ran through his hair tugging at it gently.

"Yami," His fingers ran up my sides, sending shivers down my spine in excitement. His lips latched to a nipple and rolled it with his tongue while one of his hands rolled my other bud with his fingers. My thighs tightened around his waist and squeezed his sides, sensitive to the onslaught of his tongue.

I gripped Yami by the hair and pulled him away from me, flipping us over, I settled over his hips. I kissed my way down his body, nipping, and weak points that made him shudder and moan. I was quick to remove his briefs, eager to get a hold of his cock. He stood tall and erect, bulbous head red and weeping.

My tongue flicked the head teasingly before taking him in. For what I couldn't fit in my mouth I stroked with my hands gently. Yami gripped at my hair and guided me slowly.

"Look up at me darling, I wanna see you, I wanna see those fucking eyes," He panted softly looking almost out of it as I sucked his cock. His hips stuttered when I would suck harder on the tip, tightening his grip in my hair. Finally, he pulled me off, wasting no time in pulling me back up and kissing me feverishly.

"You are too fucking good at that, Doll," He nipped at my neck, a hand slipping between us as he moved to center himself below me. He lowered me gently, waiting patiently as I lowered. I had never felt so full, so stuffed.

"Jesus, Yami." I gripped at his shoulders tightly and rocked my hips testingly, moaning softly when each vein dragged against me just right. Yami's hands were hot against my hips, lifting and dropping them against him.

"Yeah, you're a bit of a tight fit for me too, Doll." I cried out as he dropped me down a bit harder, pulling into his neck as he began to buck his hips against me. Collapsing against him, I could only moan in his ear kiss at his neck as he used me as a cock sleeve. Yami flipped us over fast, pinning me to the sheets.

He was definitely something to look at, sweaty and flushed. His grin was lewd and lazily, his eyes glinting with a lust that would take hours to satisfy.

"I hope you don't expect this to be a one-time thing, Doll." He punctuated it with a certain thrust, aimed to hit that spongy spot just right.

"W-Why would I think that- oh god!" Yami leaned down and kissed me softly.

"I dunno, you tell me." I wrapped my legs around him, bringing him in closer and looking him in the eyes.

"I'll tell you one thing, Yami, this won't be the only time we do this. I-in fact, I expect you to do this every day from now on. If you're up for it?" He slipped out and flipped me over, angling my hips up he slid back in fast, keeping my chest against the sheets.

"Doll, you have no idea how up to it I am.

#yami sukehiro #Black Clover #oneshots #oneshot #xreader #lemon #smut #Yami x reader #yami sukehiro x reader

[terrence-silver]

Hey, I saw your gorgeous faceclaims for Terry's parents earlier, so I was wondering; could you perhaps do some sort of quick one-shot featuring the two of them? Nothing long or complicated. Just a little insight into their daily (messy?) lives back in the 50s? Thanks a lot. 💙

He waddled in drunk.

Again.

Thing is, he didn’t understand how come Red 31 wasn’t a winning option on the roulette wheel when red as a color has never failed him before - his lucky choice for years, in a sense. He could’ve swore to god almighty, that fucking game was rigged. It was rigged and it was rigged in such a way to harm the economic savings of decent, hard-working Americans like himself. Really, if anything, he blamed McCarty for letting in all those damn Communists into the country and messing up the order of things around here. That was the only way Morton could explain his losses tonight. Fifty thousand dollars in one sitting. Straight ripoff and as such, the deplorable state he was in tonight was well-warranted. Did he try to fight those bastards in the security department? Yes! Did he get thrown out of the casino? Yes, he was! Did he, by any chance get in an alteration with one of the suckers who did in fact win a sizeable amount of money tonight on the same fucking roulette wheel and were slaps generously thrown around? Yes, they absolutely were! And proudly at that! This was a free land.

And now, he was home.

Deep-fucking-joy.

His beautiful pastel Harrods catalogue house.

To his gorgeous nagging wife and their gorgeous tiny brat son.

-”It’s three in the morning.”-

A voice chided and of course Myra would be awake waiting for him like some sort of interrogator in the partial darkness of the hallway, stepping out of the bedroom in a silk bathrobe over her lace chemise and her blue rollers strapped to her curls, arms crossed over her chest with bloody intent, a scowl gracing her red lips as she took a long drag out of her cigarette, huffing the smoke into the air. She had time to put on a lipstick? In the middle of the night? The damn casino scammed him out of his own money and she had time for her goddamn rouge face-paint? The absolute nerve of this broad. She didn’t even wear her usual house slippers. No. She had her heels on like some manner of decadent, shameless saloon harlot. Because of course she did.

Wretched Biblical viper.

-”Y’know. If I knew you’d be so good at stating the obvious and telling the damn time I’ve would’ve strapped you to my wrist instead of a Rolex and just carried you with me around all day.”-

Morton shook his hand at her frantically to nail the idea behind his words into her head, clanking the gold clasp of his arm-watch in her direction. The general idea was, that before she even tried to accuse him of anything at this late hour, to gently remind her, as she often needed to be, that he in fact made all the money in this household, and as such, he could waste and spend as much of it as he pleased, however he pleased, whenever he pleased like the man he was. Because, really - who was going to stop him? Did she really think he didn’t know what time it was? There were no clocks in casinos. Yet, he always knew, regardless. It was an ingrained instinct, by now.

-”You’re bleeding, you reek and you look like hell, Morty.”-

She clicked her tongue in annoyance alongside an eyeroll, using an endearment instead of his full name, walking around him with her heels clicking on the marble carpeted floor as she plopped down in the velvet armchair facing him directly, crossing her legs, watching him pour himself a glass of scotch and downing it one swift move. This has happened before. Of course it has. But, was it such a sin he wanted out of this stifling, godforsaken upper middle class life out here in the fucking desert, peddling rings and knick-knack like a common salesman or roadside merchant? Was it so bad he wanted to make a quick spin of money? Was it so hard to understand he wanted Lady Fortune to smile at him? If only just once? Let him live the life he knew he deserved? That she deserved. That their son deserved. That he, correction and all humbleness aside, Morton Silver, deserved, most of all?

-”We can’t all look like Liz Taylor, ma’am. Respectfully.”-

He spat back in disgust, loathing how beautiful she appeared.

So close to making him behave in ways a gentleman never should.

-”How much?”-

She inquired firmly, with a certain sense of softness.

He immediately what she meant, even without clarifying.

He averted his gaze, sighing in defeat - putrid, bitter defeat.

Leveling his eyes instead, with the glass liqueur bottle in front of him.

-”That much, huh?”-

Myra knew, even without words spoken, more or less what the monetary casualties of tonight’s exploits were - she had an instinct for things like that by now, the damn woman - finishing the butt of her cigar and crushing it in the crystal ashtray next to her seat and leaning over her white cream boudoir instead, starting to remove the rolls from her hair one by one, combing them out steadily and attaching the pearled earrings to the pierced holes of her lobes. She once stated he had a serious addiction and that  she read in a health magazine at her book club that such things weren’t anything to be ashamed of and that it could be curable with the right methods and care - that she worried about the state of him - where he was headed - where they were headed, as a married couple - but he didn’t want to hear about it. If she intended to institutionalise him she had another thing coming. He knew what they did to people deemed crazy.

And the Silvers had a reputation to uphold around these parts.

His father was a jeweler and his father before him.

His father’s father, even.

He only wanted to increase what he inherited.

Not let it all go to waste with the knowledge that he wasn’t quite right.

People would avoid them both like the plague for it - bloody bastards.

-”I’ll make it back for us. I always do. You know me! You know I do! I’ve luck at the tip of my fingers, all I need is the right moment at the right time and it’ll find me when I least expect it! And you love me for it! Maybe next time this year, we’ll be sitting at a balcony somewhere, overlooking the sea! And you’ll be sunbathing with a big hat and we’ll never look back! Maybe up the West Coast - maybe -”-

He found himself ranting, a wave of desperation, guilt and hysteria taking over his senses, fueled by alcohol and a need to rationalize and justify himself, suddenly on his knees and grabbing Myra by her ankles, nearly ripping the nylon of her sheer, flesh-colored stockings with the sharpness of the ruby on his wedding band, pulling her away from the mirror and back unto her arm chair, embracing her legs and leaning his face unto her lap, trapping her in place because he needed her to stay put and listen like he needed air to breathe, rambling and stuttering as he did. He despised this place and he knew she did too, but money was never enough to move someplace better permanently and for that reason he hated it here all the more out of rage. All the dust and scorched, dryness of the earth, and the unbearable desert wind and the goddamn mob burring mutilated bodies out in the wild, and the hyenas, and the loan-sharks, and the snakes, and the hookers and the temptations and the sinning and people blowing their fucking brains out due to accumulated debt and he just couldn’t take it anymore. It was hell. And he wasn’t out of here in a couple of years, he’d just ram his car off of the first cliff with himself, Myra and Terry in it and call it a day. It wasn’t the most Christian way to go, but heck if he cared at this point. He was as far removed from God’s light as he could be by now.

-”You’ll wake up the child with your drunk rambling.”-

She chastised whispering, with infinite tenderness.

With a tinge of sadness and pity too, he figured tiredly.

Letting her run her manicured fingers through his hair sweetly.

Comforting him - another woman would’ve left him by now, surely.

He drank and whored around and gambled and cussed and shouted.

Not her though - all she wanted was him, their son and money.

And although a bit skinny, puny and small for his age.

Almost to the point of occasional embarrassment -

Morton figured a change of scenery would do Terence good too.

Get some strength back into him - make him tall, statuesque and healthy.

Last thing Morton Silver wanted was a malnourished, sickly offspring.

-”Do you believe me, though? Do you believe me when I say I’ll give us lives worthy of gods and leave behind this petty corner-store waste of time? I don’t want to spend the rest of my days behind an old, dusty counter, convincing people which fucking engagement ring to buy some random, nameless dame off of the street they met in a joint one time!”-

He looked up at her almost pleading, fingers digging into her skin to the borderline point of nearly making her bleed - his humiliation at requiring her approval in the first place mingling with genuine need and rage at even being in his position mixing into a potent sort of fury where he was just one inch away from slapping her if she answered negatively and then grabbing her and kissing her the next for running her pretty little mouth like that. He was an irresponsible, hypocrite, drunk gambler and lying, materialistic, greedy whore-mongerer. She was a tobbacco-addicted, fashion-crazed, haughty diva obsessed with her pearls and being the perfect, unassuming upper-crust housewife and mother. They were made for each other. Hell, they even looked alike, aesthetically speaking, both pale, lanky, dark haired, with stark blue eyes - like a matched pair of paper dressing dolls cut-out from a magazine. If anything - little Terry would be a looker. Not an overly wealthy looker, but a looker nonetheless. A little pretty twig-boy with no inheritance quite big enough or impressive to turn heads. Not if they stay here. In this crime-infested cesspool of filth that threatened to drag him down even lower.

He pressed a sloppy, inebriated half-kiss to the side of her mouth.

Trying to make himself forget how much he exactly lost tonight.

She turned her head away, nostrils flaring at the stench of him.

She didn’t exactly bear the scent of roses either, reeking of tobacco.

How many did she exactly smoke in the darkness expecting his return?

-”You always did things your way and I’ve enabled you, in part. Now all I can do is sit around and wait for you to come home alive and hope to god someone doesn’t beat you half to death on the steps of some sleazy, two-bit gambling den like a dog.”-

Myra’s voice cracked and she was overtaken by a wave of sobbing.

Tracing the fresh wound on his head, impartially.

In defeat - her tone pained, regretful.

They been through his debate a million times.

And a million times they’ve reached this exact conclusion.

She didn’t even bother cleaning the blood on his scalp.

This happened so often, there was hardly a point anymore.

He’d be battered and bruised at work again by tomorrow.

She’d ambush him in this same fashion, at this same hour.

Wearing the same bathrobe and spewing the same reprimanding.

And he wouldn’t really change or learn - neither would she.

#two people being extremely in love and extremely fucked up #and extremely dysfunctional and tragic because of it #terry silver #silver family #morton silver #myra silver #request #kk #ck #a highly fanon take #but i hope you like it

[leprincedesdragons]

Magic Home

A look at Tyler Lee’s and Daniel Choi’s Kengsinton Residence 

Model Daniel Choi and husband, Tyler Lee, are the newest owners of a two-bedroom London condo at Kensington, a luxury development by renowned designer Jacques Thoreau. The 3,000-square-foot condo features private elevator access along with an abundance of luxury amenities that make this landing spot the perfect upgrade from Lee’s bachelor apartment in Mayfair. The modern residence is complete with a full-time doorman and concierge, a gym and spa, and a beautiful terrace. This is what a dream home looks like.

Quidditch player and Royal Tyler Lee and his husband, Daniel Choi, are no strangers to the home renovation process. Together, the couple, who have been married for two years, has tackled a previous home renovation project. But their most challenging redo to-date is a sprawling Tudor-style apartment located in the most expensive neighborhood of London. The couple purchased the 3,000-square-foot property earlier this year. It was originally built for a large family in the 1830s, but after being untouched for 50 years, Daniel and Tyler knew it was the right time to put their design skills to the test once again.

An extensive renovation later, the couple is happily living in their new house. “The great thing about Daniel is that when he decides to go for something, he really goes for it,” says Tyler proudly. “He is incredibly impatient and focused, so I would wake up every day to new boards, full of ideas and photographs of furniture. The renovation was done at Daniel’s supersonic speed: a month for the whole house. Tyler and Daniel preserved the old-world charm of the original house but weaved in modern touches by rearranging the layout, incorporating eye-catching furniture and graphic art. In our visit to their luxurious residence, the couple shares their favorite spaces from the minimalistic guest dining room to the charming private sitting area.

Keen and eclectic collectors of both art and furniture, the couple had a number of diverse pieces they were intent on integrating into their home, among them two paintings by Johannes Vermeer, a 1690s William & Mary cabinet, that found its place in their kitchen, and Vilhelm Lauritzen light fixtures, now in the dining room. The latter are favorites of Tyler. “When someone’s walking upstairs, you hear them clink a bit,” he says. “It makes a charming sound.” For new acquisitions, they were determined to avoid anything ubiquitous. Items that got past their stringent criteria include an emerald Ico Parisi sofa in their bedroom and a Johanna Grawunder pendant light in their walk-in closet.

Private sitting area

The sitting area of quidditch player Tyler Lee’s Paris apartment, which he redesigned with his husband and the architect Anthony Rey. The sofas are covered in a fabric from Martin’s collection for Mokum, the light fixtures come courtesy of Paris design firm Desjeux Delaye, while the tables are vintage, and the black marble sculpture by Alfred Basbous was purchased at the Hong Kong International Art Fair.

Living Room

The dark, deep color of the walls was chosen as the main color, to create an atmosphere of intimacy and seclusion. The colors that dominate much of the ground floor are a mix of turquoises, greens, and black, with hand-painted walls of dark emerald set against oak floors. That palette, Daniel says, came from an unusual brief: “Tyler handed me a black peacock feather and said, ‘This is what I want.’“

Photo: in the living room, walls painted in the shade “Very dark green” (Emery & Cie), used in total look, gives life to the decoration elements. On both sides of the mirror, Christopher Boots’ “Pythagoras” wall lamps from the Armel Soyer Gallery. On the mantelpiece, Vanessa Mitrani vases and Dan Yeffet’s “Segment” lamp from her Collection Particulière. On the right, Augusto Bozzi bench and armchair from the 1950s, burnt wood coffee tables (Atmosphere of Elsewhere), reading lamp “ED027” (Edizioni Design), lamp post “Superloon”, by Jasper Morrison (Flos) , vintage carpet (Ada) and the painting “The Girl with the Pearl” by Johannes Vermeer, ottoman (Maison de Vacances), ashtrays from India Mahdavi.

…

#oc #edits #magazine #home #aesthetics #otp #tyler #daniel

[beatleszeppelin]

Airport- Hippo Campus

Chapter 3

Summary:  Hippo Campus, flying to London, if they can get on the plane. There’s old ladies, peeing, anxiety, milkshakes, and hand holding. So buckle up, we have lift off.

Warnings: Anxiety attack, crying, Planes, Gropy old ladies, Drinking, Boner Jokes, Non-Graphic M*sturbation

Word Count: 1.6k

That night, after opening for Modest Mouse, they sluggishly packed up their things and hopped in the van to go back to the hotel. GPS helped them find their way, and they went up to the room to get ready to go out. 

Zach walked out of the bathroom wearing a button up shirt… on top of a button up shirt. And Whistler decided to stay home, to try and get some sleep or whatever. 

It was Friday night, and loads of people were walking the streets, everyone was going in different directions, like that crosswalk in Japan. The three of them walked for about 5 to 10 minutes before they hit the the pub they were supposed to meet Jake's “new friend” at. 

The pub was small on the inside, but a decent amount of people were there; tables lined the walls and were almost filled, and the back corner was open, and playing music to dance to. The three boys went in and sat at the bar that was initially hidden due to people surrounding it. A girl, from the sanctuary that is behind the bar, walked over and asked, “ Hey Sweetheart, can I get you and your friends anything to start off with?” 

Jake and Zach both looked at eachother, and then at her, pointed at themselves, and asked “Me?”, but she just shook her head and ran her finger along the collar of Nathan’s shirt. His face turned red, and he immediately tried to tug at his shirt to loosen his collar so he could breathe. 

“... I’ll take a whiskey, neat.” 

“Vodka soda.” Jake nodded in.

“One beer please.” Zach added in. 

“ You boys don’t mind if I card you? You barely look 17.”

Zach elbowed Jake, he’d said that they wouldn’t card here.

Nathan handed the lady his ID, after scrambling to find it.

“21!?” she asked, surprised, “And American, I haven’t seen too many American boys here.”

Jake’s hand wiggled it’s way into his pocket, fighting against his tight jeans. He opened the trifold, and showed the woman his license. She passed him his drink the second he got his wallet back in his pocket.

“And what about you?” She said sliding over to Zach.

“I don’t… I must have forgotten; I’m sorry.” He said, hands still fumbling in his pockets, frustrated, like a child brushing their hair before school.

“Hey, it’s okay darling, I can get you a water or something, if you’d like. And I might have to ask you to stay away from the bar, just in case the boss comes back.”

Zach looked to Nathan to answer for him, how a mother must answer for her children at the doctor’s. 

“Yeah, he can take a water, and we’ll sit over there,” Nathan said, pointing toward the booths.

Zach looked at Nathan, smiled, then looked at his feet, which were barely touching the ground, due to the stools height. The woman slid a water with ice and a cute little umbrella in it, over to Zach. And in return, she received a genuine smile.

They all walked over to one of the only empty booths available; sitting right next to a trash can, with an ashtray on top. Jake cornered Zach into one side of the table, Nathan on the other. 

“Hey I think the bartender’s into you” Jake said to Nathan.

“No, where did you even get that from?”

“She kept touching you, and she liked that she made you nervous.”

“She did not make me nervous,” Nathan retorted.

“Yes she did, but that doesn’t mean you wanna fuck or anything. It only means that she’s a pretty girl that anybody would be attracted to.”

Zach sat and sipped on his tiny glass of water, while listening to this conversation go on for another couple minutes, until he piped up “I finished my water”. 

Nathan downed his second drink and stood up, ”I think I’m going to head back to the hotel, it’s too loud in here to talk.”

“Can I come with?” Zach asked, shoving Jake off the bench.

“Sure, Jake, are you gonna stick it out?” Nathan asked, not wanting to leave his young, drunk friend alone in a bar waiting for a strange man.

“Yeah, I’ll give it til 10.”

“M’kay, give one of us a call if they are secret sex trafficers, wanting to sell you to a dominatrix in the middle east or something.”

“Will do.”

Nathan walked back over to the bar, set their empty cups on the counter, and started pushing their way through the crowd. Zach subtly grabbed the edge of Nathan’s long tee-shirt, so he wouldn’t get lost. When Nathan got through the door, he learned just how much alcohol he had previously consumed. He was slightly buzzed. I mean what would you expect from a boy, who never drank at home, who was 5 ft 6, with shoes on, and weighed on the lesser side of a hundred and fucking something pounds. The ground moved with his steps, and his hands felt really warm. So, Zach hailed a cab.

They sat in the back of the cab, talking louder than they should have been, whether it was due to hearing loss from the pub or Nathan being a little drunk will never be known.

“Hey can we get off here,” Nathan yelled to the cab driver.

“It’ll be 7 pound 50.”

“Thanks,” he said, passing the money forward.

“Why did we get out here?” Zach asked.

“Liquor store… you’re too young to drink-back home, and you couldn’t-drink here, so…” 

“So, you’re gonna get me drunk?”

“Me and Whis.”

“Whis and I,” Zach mumbled.

“If I dare him to do it, he won’t turn it down.”

They got out onto the street, a cool air hit their faces, sobering them from the stuffy cab. Zach stepped up the steep curb, holding out a hand to assist Nathan up. The contrast of light in the liquor store was a shock, it felt like the opening lines of the book The Outsiders. The fluorescent lights shone off the bottles that lined the shelves. A display with barrels and fancy looking bottles sat in the middle of the store, but the outer edges were what they were drawn to. The bell attached to the door rang as they walked in. They strolled in; Zach walked in as if someone had told him to act natural, cause his crush was near, and Nathan walked with poor posture that perfectly matched his drunken, slurring speech.

“Do you even know what to get?” Zach asked, looking over his shoulder, at the man behind the counter.

“I’ll get a decent whiskey, and a cheap wine for Whis.” He said, scanning the labels.

Zach kept checking his phone, maybe for something to do, or he could have been checking the time. He does that a lot.

Nathan picked the plucked bottles off the shelf, and took them over to the cash register. The man’s name was Robert. He scanned their bottles, and asked them for an ID for the second time that night. This time though Zach was not stricken with anxiety, but rather with excitement that they were actually going to get away with this, but then again he could possibly get drunk for the first time in the coming hour.

Robert had a pin on his shirt, a Hamilton pin, right there on the collar. He looked like an overgrown theatre kid, who hadn’t slept in days, but hey… maybe he hasn’t. 

“That’ll be 42.27” 

Nathan paid, and they took the paper bags out to the street. The bag was heavy. It made Nathan lean to the side with the weight of it.

“We should get to the hotel in 8 mins, if you want me to shoot Whistler a text to make sure he’s awake, and ya’ know not naked.”

“Nah, I like excitement in my life,” Nathan said with a slight laugh. “Speaking of, have you seen Whistler shirtless recently?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“That fucker is jacked!”

“No shit?” Zach asked, giving in to Nathan’s bad habit of swearing.

Nathan laughed. “Hey, remember this morning with the whole Jake thing.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t remind me.”

“Um… Jake’s uh, dick isn’t…”

“Oh it’s huge if that’s what you’re asking.” Zach said.

“Thank Jesus!”

“Why were you asking?” Zach asked, with serious curiosity.

“Well this morning, I saw him… when you guys rolled over, then I asked Whistler, he didn’t seem to think that… you know, that Jake was like seriously packing. And he had told me at breakfast, that like 6 inches is like… like normal, but I didn’t believe him, but I also didn’t want to google it.” 

Zach pulled out his phone. And three seconds later, he said “3.5 inches”.

“What?”

“Average is three and a half inches,” “Oh, okay.” Nathan said, and his shoulders relaxed all tension that was being held from the previous conversation.

“And I think the average might even be lower, but Jake is an outlier.”

Nathan smiled, like a full smile, with teeth.

As they turned the corner, Zach said “You never had sleepovers with Jake in middle school.” “Huh, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well like I was a year younger,”

“You still are.”

“But it was more noticeable when your friends are your brothers' friends, and they are 13 or 14, and you are 11. And I was like 4ft 9 with shoes on, and they had to shave and stuff. When we were like 11, and 12 I was tiny, and Jake looked like he could have been my father. It was… an interesting time.”

They got to the elevator, Nathan set down the bag, and shook out his hand. The handles had made indentions in his hand, so Zach took the bags for the last stretch of their journey. They knocked before entering the hotel room, put the key in, heard the click, and entered.

#Hippo Campus #hippo campus fan fic #jake luppen #Nathan Stocker #Whistler Allen #zach sutton

[dyoxide]

im in a good mood so i put together my personal 200 songs list, everything is in a spotify playlist already but if you want to read my rankings i’ll put it below. it isnt really based on what’s “best” or like most culturally significant cause im not trying to spend that much time, so it’s basically just in order of significance to my own style. also i made it on spotify so there are probably some un-streamable songs that would’ve made the list but whatever

frank ocean - seigfried

burial - come down to us

kanye west - hold my liquor

kendrick lamar - sing about me, i’m dying of thirst

beyoncé - drunk in love

burial - ashtray wasp

sufjan stevens - death with dignity

frank ocean - pyramids

playboi carti - no time

lana del rey - venice bitch

lone - pineapple crush

azealia banks - soda

frank ocean - chanel

four tet - lush

yves tumor - honesty

machinedrum - gunshotta

moodymann - lyk u use 2

young thug - hercules

future - march madness

beach house - silver soul

chief keef - war

dj koze - pick up

playboi carti - beef

burial - rodent

lil uzi vert - dark queen

frank ocean - skyline to

tee grizzley - first day out

baths - ossuary

doon kanda - axolotl

erykah badu - phone down

nina kraviz - working

fka twigs - give up

sza - normal girl

nicki minaj - four door aventador

tinashe - superlove

kanye west - no more parties in la

sky ferreira - everything is embarrassing

lil ugly mane - on doing an evil deed blues

clams casino - natural

crystal castles - plague

kendrick lamar - untitled 07

xxyyxx - alone

oneohtrix point never - replica

blue iverson - soulseek

young nudy - ea

yves tumor - limerence

playboi carti - location

babyfather - deep

against all logic - you are going to love me and scream

the carters - summer

perfume genius - otherside

burial - stolen dog

maxo kream - roaches

sophie - msmsmsm

ryuichi sakamoto - andata

solange - losing you

drake - no tellin

gunna - sold out dates

blood orange - evp

beyoncé - party

rick ross - mc hammer

sufjan stevens - futile devices

lana del rey - terrence loves you

quay dash - queen of ny

trippie redd - 1400/999 freestyle

grimes - flesh without blood

waka flocka flame - 50k

sky ferreira - i blame myself

young thug - hot

rico nasty - hockey

teams - alchemy

megan thee stallion - freak nasty

charli xcx - track 10

the knife - full of fire

future - the percocet & stripper joint

lana del rey - sad girl

elysia crampton - dummy track

azealia banks - no problems

a$ap ferg - shabba

kelela - enough

beyoncé - party

rae sremmurd - take it or leave it

lil peep - beamer boy

zomby - euphoria

chief keef - baby whats wrong with you

odd future - oldie

meek mill - jump out the face

kilo kish - self importance

freddie gibbs - thuggin

aphex twin - aisatsana [102]

actress - the lord’s graffiti

laurel halo - chance of rain

vessel - argo (for maggie)

moodymann - freeki muthafucka

dj rashad - drank, kush, barz

young thug - just might be

kendrick lamar - feel.

kelela - all the way down

tinashe - sunburn

lady gaga - scheiße

delroy edwards - love is in the air

blood orange - you’re not good enough

maxo kream - pop another

earl sweatshirt - chum

leon vynehall - drinking it in again (chapter iv)

skee mask - 50 euro to break boost

arca - thievery

partynextdoor - wus good/curious

nicolas jaar - no

rezzett - worst ever contender

special request - soundboy killer

junglepussy - i just want it

sporting life - triple-double no assists

laurel halo - airsick

salem - king night

gucci mane - actavis

a tribe called quest - we the people….

blood orange - christopher & 6th

keith ape - it g ma remix

charli xcx - secret

grouper - lighthouse

grimes - rosa

dold - eva

roman flügel - song with blue

nickelus f - i got up

freddie gibbs - practice

lil b - i love you

buddy ross - runnin around

travis scott - 3500

tyler the creator - lone

alice glass - without love

solange - don’t wish me well

kadhja bonet - nobody other

lil uzi vert - canadian goose

sega bodega - daddy

amnesia scanner - as too wrong

oneohtrix point never - meet your creator

andy stott - faith in strangers

laurel halo - throw

a$ap rocky - fashion killa

bonobo - eyesdown (machinedrum remix)

curren$y - fashionably late

shinichi atobe - so good, so right 2

delroy edwards - for club use only

sd laika - great god plan

nina kraviz - fire

baba stiltz - beirut

arca - brokeup

crystal castles - vietnam

aphex twin - abundance10edit

james ferraro - eternal condition

caribou - silver

zomby - things fall apart

galcher lustwerk - i neva seen

m.i.a. - double bubble trouble

skream - where you should be

lil ugly mane - wishmaster

archy marshall - buffed sky

balam acab - motion

lanark artefax - styx

christian scott atunde adjuah - ruler rebel

salem - king night

shxcxchcxsh - monolithic conclusion

sepalcure - pencil pimp

logos - wut it do

tirzah - fine again

lorenzo senni - win in the flat world

compton white - mainland

barker - filter bubbles

sega bodega - boyz n the hood

x-coast - mango bay

shygirl - msry

tv girl - cigarettes out the window

hiatus kaiyote - molasses

kelsey lu - dreams

actress - our

hiele - gestures

croatian amor - love means taking action

dean blunt & inga copeland - 9

jamie xx - the rest is noise

sade - babyfather

drake - look what you’ve done

kendrick lamar - ronald reagan era

machine girl - crystalline chute

the field - cupid’s head

dj rashad - let it go

huerco s. - 'iińzhiid

s. maharba - w.i.g.t.s.

purity ring - obedear

chynna - fuck wit me

jitwam - yesiknw

emeralds - now you see me

daphni - sizzling

lone - re-schooling

tnght - higher ground

lotic - resilience

forest swords - the highest flood

pional - we have been waiting for you

patricia - the words are just sounds

marie davidson - so right

[she-is-tim]

Neighbours AU part 6 Self control

Lucas is a young, exhausted musician who just tries to relax, while Eliott is the overexcited, dubstep loving artist who lives next door.

Aka Lucas confronts his annoying neighbour who turns out to be gorgeous

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 

Saturday 17:46

Eliott was resting on the couch, smoking cigarette, not weed this time, since just accross him were sitting Lucille in the armchair. She came to check on him since he didn’t texted her after the party at all. Eliott was feeling better than ever in his life, he was dating with Lucas since a few days only, but it was just so perfect. They spent Thrusday night and Friday morning together, but then his sweet pianist had to work, so they separated. 

Now Lucas was at a concert, he was preparing for it all morning, playing soft melodies while Eliott sat on the couch in Lucas’ apartment, doodling in his sketchbook. It was such a perfect moment, Eliott wanted to stay like that forever. 

Now he was in his own apartment, far away from his lovely partner. Of course Lucas invited him, but he told him that he has a new project coming up, so he needs to work on that today to have more free time on sunday. It was a lie, obviously. He couldn’t go to crowded places like cinema, theatres, concerts, other events. It made his anxiety worse.

“What’s up with you? You look like a kid that lost his favorite toy.” Lucille said, slowly taking a sip of her beer. She looked pretty like always, wearing a white shirt with black flowers on it, tight, dark jeans, her hair was curly and shiny, her nails painted light pink. 

“Nothing.” Eliott mumbled, blowing out a big cloud of smoke. “I’m okay.”

“Eliott, I know you more than anyone. I can tell when something is bothering you.” she said seriously and put the bottle on the coffee table between them, crossing her legs and arms. Eliott sighed, putting his cigarette in the ashtray, sitting up. 

“I’m dating someone. Are you happy now?” he said annoyed, he hated how Lucille was acting around him, but he really needed this sometimes. A caring friend making sure that Eliott is not suffering alone. 

“Someone... Please tell me it’s not the guy from next door.” she said on a worrying tone, making a weird face when Eliott frowned. “For god’s sake, Eliott. Don’t you remember what happened last time you liked a guy?” her tone was a bit angry now, which made the boy angry too, he sat up, staring into his friend’s face.

“I am not your boyfriend, nor your child, Lucille.” he said seriously, his eyes were shooting sparks. “This is MY fucking life, If I wanna mess it up again, then so be it.” he said a bit louder than he wanted, but he had to make sure Lucille gets the message.

“Yeah, sure.” she said on an arrogant voice. “I’m pretty positive that he knows about your illness, your insecurities. I bet he knows well how to handle you on the bad days.” her words were like venom, crawling under Eliott’s skin, poisoning his blood. He didn’t say anything, just lit another cigarette, inhaling the hot smoke, then letting it out, closing his eyes in the process. 

“I’ll tell him, I just need time.” he said it after long minutes of silence. Lucille rolled her eyes, grabbing the beer again to drink. “What would you expect me to do?” he asked angrily. “Start the first meeting with ‘Hey, I’m Eliott, I am an illustrator, I like dubstep and oh, sometimes I have so bad anxiety attacks that I end up in hospital’?” his voice was harsh both because of his anger and the cigarette he was smoking. 

“Maybe that would be the best.” she mumbled.

“No, Lucille. I don’t want anyone to see me as a sick person and pity me for that shit! I want Lucas to like me because of me. To see the person behind the illness.” he explained, tears forming in his eyes now. He hated to be like this, having such bad anxiety, mixed with some panic attacks. He wanted to be normal, or at least just feel normal. He couldn’t have that with Lucille, that’s why they broke up, but maybe it can work with Lucas.

“I’m sorry.” Lucille said softly, putting down the empty beer bottle, grabbing Eliott’s hand softly. “I’m sure he will like you a lot. I mean you are annoying as hell, but if he stayed after hearing that terrible music you listen to every day, I’m sure nothing will scare him away.” she said softly, kissing Eliott’s cheek. The boy smiled softly, leaning his head on Lucille’s shoulder. He couldn’t wish for a better friend.

Sunday 10:34

Lucas had to crawl out of his warm bed, making sure he gets ready before his beautiful partner comes over. They were planning to have lunch together, Lucas insisted on cooking himself before Eliott could offer the same. He never ever wanted to eat anything that was made by him. He might have been a real angel, a talented artist, but he was a terrible cook.

He grabbed his phone to check on messages before going to the bathroom. He had to take a shower, brush his teeth, style his hair a little. He wanted to look perfect, since his date was basically a demigod. He only got a few messages, mostly from the boys, congratulating to the successful concert last night. They weren’t big fans of classical music, but they were there on every concert of Lucas if they could. 

From Yann: So, how are things going with you and Eliott? You gonna introduce him to us? It’s time to wake up, Lulu.

He laughed at the stupid messages from his best friend, but he had to check the other messages too, before answering. He got a message from a member of the orchestra, he ignored that, but he jumped a little when he saw the message from his mother. She rarely texted him, due to her mental state. She was taken care by a professional, but it always made Lucas feel guilty that he couldn’t take care of her on his own. She was really problematic, her delusions and breakdowns made Lucas’ teenage life harder than it should be. Now he just tried to live his life, forgetting the problem of his family.

From Mom: In my dreams I saw a creature with horns, taking you into the depths. Never follow the path of the darkness, light can’t wander off, or it will be lost forever.

Lucas sighed, he didn’t reply to that one, his mom often sent him nonsense messages like this, especially when he was younger and she didn’t get proper medications. He shook his head, focusing himself on reading the last message he got while sleeping. It was from Eliott, he sent it at 3:45. Lucas rolled his eyes, knowing that his partner were not much of a sleeper during night time. 

From Eliott: I’m looking forward to our date today.  Should I bring some alcohol? Maybe a joint?

Lucas couldn’t help but smile like an idiot, seeing Eliott’s silly and basically useless messages. They made no sense, but they showed to Lucas how much Eliott was excited and eager to meet up. It was less than 24 hours since they last met, but it felt like a lifetime to both of them.

To Eliott:  You could bring some champagne, no smoking today. I wanna enjoy this date without getting high

From Eliott:  You woke up? Good morning! 

Lucas chuckled and put down his phone now. Eliott was such a dork sometimes, but he loved that. He walked to the bathroom, taking a shower, brushing his teeth, fixing his hair. He was almost done, when he heard music, coming from the living room. He dressed up, walked there, but it was actually coming from the other side of the wall. Eliott was listening to Skrillex, at 10:50. Lucas laughed and walked to the kitchen, preparing to cook. He kinda liked this silly music now, it was fast, weird and chaotic, just like Eliott. 

He was making food to whatever music Eliott was listening to. It felt like the wall between their apartments was gone and they just stood there, in front of each other, dancing to the music like they are carefree teenagers again. Lucas had such a wide smirk on his face, it was hurting, but he couldn’t stop himself. This was the very first time he felt so free and happy, all thanks to this goofball next door. 

He finished cooking a little after 12:17. He tried to make a healthy, but tasy meal. Unlike Eliott, he was trying not to poison his crush. He put the steamed vegetables in a bowl, the roasted chicken on a plate, the well-cooked rice was already on the table, looking delicious. He put two plates and cutlery, making sure it looked perfect like in those cooking shows. He also put wine glasses next to the plates, fighting back the urge to look for a fancy candle. That would be too much and also would make no sense, since it’s the middle of the day. 

He looked at the table victoriously, enjoying the perfection of his hard work, before looking for his phone to text Eliott. He asked him before if he had any type of food allergies, so at least he didn’t had to worry about that part when cooking. 

To Eliott:  You can come in 5 minutes, door is open

Lucas smiled and put his phone on the kitchen counter, making sure it’s on mute. He didn’t wanted to be interrupted by his friends this time. He walked to his bedroom, changing his casual clothes to a bit more fancy ones. He put on tight, navy blue jeans and a white t-shirt. He was holding a black suit for a few minutes, thinking if he should put it on or not, but he rejected the idea. They were home, he didn’t had to look so fancy.

He was so distracted by dressing up that he was still fixing his stupid shirt when the front door opened. His heart was racing as he basically ran out of the bedroom to the living room, facing with the most beautiful person on this earth. His hair seemed to be shorter, maybe he cut it himself, but it still looked perfectly chaotic. He was wearing grey jeans like always, a blue t-shirt with a raccoon on it and an opened denim shirt on top, just to make himself look like a full 3 course meal. Lucas stopped breathing for a second when Eliott smiled at him. 

“You look beautiful.” he said with a soft smile. Lucas just noticed the champagne bottle in his hand as he raised it. “I got us some drink.” he said proudly. 

“Yeah, cool.” Lucas mumbled, licking his lips, still staring at Eliott. 

“You like what you see?” he asked with a triumphant smile. He obviously enjoyed how speechless Lucas was. The boy tried to collect his tought and imaginary slapped his face a few times for making himself look like a complete idiot in front of Eliott. 

“Anyways, let’s go to the kitchen.” he said, ignoring Eliott’s question and grabbed his arm gently, leading him to the kitchen where the food was waiting for them. 

Eliott smiled brightly when he saw all the deliciousness Lucas made just for them. It made him extremely happy that someone cared for him this much. He obviously had dinner dates before, but no one’s ever done anything like this for him. He smiled at Lucas and without hesitation, planted a soft kiss on his lips.

“You are incredible.” he whispered as he pulled back from the kiss.

“I wanted to impress you.” Lucas mumbled, his cheeks turning a bit red because of the flattering words. 

“Mission complete.” Eliott smirked. “I’m gonna open this.” he said, still holding into the champagne bottle, looking for a bottle opener in the drawers. 

Lucas couldn’t believe how confidently Eliott was moving around in his apartment, like he was living here too. He liked to see him look around, then happily opening the bottle with a loud popping sound. He smirked at Lucas, walking to the table to pour champagne in the glasses.

“You know, I should be the one serving you, not the other way around.” Lucas said with a soft smile, he didn’t mean to complain, he actually enjoyed Eliott’s enthusiasm.

“I can’t just sit around and watch you do everything. You worked so hard to make this amazing food for me. I gotta thank you somehow.” he said seriously, putting down the bottle in the middle of the table.

“I think that kiss was more than enough for me.” he said smiling, walking to Eliott and stroking his face. “I never had the chance to do this for anyone actually. I’m happy that you like it.”

Eliott looked into his eyes, all kinds of emotion running through his body at the same time. He cupped Lucas’ face gently, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, taking in all the beauty this boy had. He wanted to enjoy this moments, every single moment he got to spend with Lucas before all goes to shit, because it happens every single time. It’s just the way it is. He wasn’t normal, he was ill, problematic, not worth the effort. But right now in this blessed moment he could be normal, he could be a man in love without being afraid of what happens the next moment. 

He leant down, pressing his lips on Lucas’, starting a gentle kiss, still holding his face in his hands. Lucas slowly wrapped his arms around Eliott’s waist, pulling him closer, opening his mouth to let that curious tongue inside. Then all went wild, in the next moment, Lucas was sitting on the kitchen counter, with opened legs, Eliott standing inbetween them, kissing him deeply, while his hands were in Lucas’ hair. He had no idea when his partner put him up there, but he couldn’t care less. His fingers slowly slipped under Eliott’s shirt, touching his abs. His skin was warm and soft, his hand wandered upper, stroking Eliott’s chest now. 

The taller boy had to break the kiss to take a breath before going in for another wild, wet kiss. Their tongue were dancing uncontrollably in their joint mouth. Eliott were holding onto Lucas’ waist now, slowly pulling up his shirt to reveal his beautiful body. He couldn’t get enough of it, the nerves on his fingertips were screaming for more. 

After long minutes of making out in the kitchen, Lucas pulled back, leaning his head on the cupboard behind him, wheezing like he just ran a marathon. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest, his hair was a mess, his cheeks were bright red, just like his swollen lips. He looked at Eliott, who basically were the same, though, his hair was always that messy. He looked even more hot with those red, wet lips.

“Fuck...” Lucas mumbled, placing a hand on his chest, like it could calm his fast heartbeats. “I wasn’t expecting this to be honest.” he said which made Eliott to laugh. He loved to see him smile and laugh, he looked genuinely happy.

“Honestly, I was surprised we got to the kitchen. I was actually planning to do this on the couch.” he said smirking, playing with Lucas’ already messy hair, while he was drawing circles on Lucas’ stomach with the other hand.

“You really have no self controll, huh?”

“Around you? Not anymore.” he said smirking, placing a kiss on Lucas’ neck now. “I was holding myself back when you first came to my apartment. It was the hardest thing i’ve ever done in my life.” he whispered as he kept kissing his neck. Lucas shivered and grabbed Eliott’s shirt, letting out a little moan. 

“Eliott...”

“You were there... on my couch... defenceless, looking so fucking gorgeous. I needed some serious control to not jump on you, making you mine right then and there.” he kept whispering on such an erotic tone that made Lucas shiver. He had goosebumps all over his body, his nerves were screaming for more. He wanted Eliott so badly.

“I would have nothing against that...” he mumbled in response to Eliott’s seducing speech. The other one smirked, biting a mark on his neck happily, while his hands were sliding up and down on Lucas’ body under his shirt. 

“I don’t wanna sounds rude, but right now I found you much more delicious than the food on that table.” he said, licking the skin on Lucas’ neck. The boy gasped, holding Eliott’s arm stronger and crossing his ankles behind Eliott to keep him close. There was no escape, not this time. 

“Enjoy your meal then.” that was all he could say, but it seemed to fire up Eliott. He pulled back just to take off Lucas’ shirt, throwing it away. His lips attacked the bare skin without warning, making Lucas moan uncontrollably. He never had such pleasure in his life before, like Eliott knew exactly where to touch and kiss him to make his body a hot, screaming mess. 

He slid his fingers into Eliott’s fluffy hair, pulling it a little as the pleasure were running through his body. His mind went blank, everything around him ceased to exist, it was only him and Eliott left on this world, holding onto each other, kissing, touching, licking. It didn’t take much time to get all of their clothes off, throwing them away in the kitchen without caring where it lands. 

Sunday 13:48

Lucas sighed, looked at the boy laying next to him. They didn’t actually remember when or how they made it to the bedroom, but now they were here, legs intertwined with each other, bodies sweaty and hot, hair messy, lips red, swollen and their eyes filled with so much emotions as they looked at each other. Lucas wrapped a hand around Eliott, placing his head on his chest softly, listening to the heartbeat that was just as fast as his own. 

“I’m pretty sure the meal got cold.” Eliott mumbled into the silence of the room, which made Lucas release a little laugh.

“Yeah, We gotta reheat it later.” he said, stroking Eliott’s stomach lazily. 

“I don’t wanna leave this bed.” Eliott said, fingers wandering into Lucas’ hair to play with his soft locks. 

“We can’t stay here forever... not even if we want to.” Lucas mumbled, kissing his chest softly. “But we will have a lot of opportunities to lay here like this again.” he said on a soft voice, looking up at Eliott, who seemed to be really excited now. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Don’t you think so?” Lucas raised his eyebrows which made Eliott giggle.

“Of course I do. I just still can’t believe that this is real.” he explained, still giggling. Lucas loved this sound, he could listen to it forever. 

“People often do naked cuddling in bed after sex with their boyfriend, you know?” he said confidently without realizing what he just said. Eliott raised his head a little, looking into his eyes. 

“Am I your boyfriend?” he asked intrigued to get an answer. Lucas blushed and looked away. 

“I just thought that... you know... after this...” he mumbled a bit unsure, avoiding eyecontact. Eliott smirked, cupping his face gently now, placing a kiss on Lucas’ lips to make him shut up.

“Of course we are boyfriends.” he said happily which made the other boy to release a sigh of relief.

“Okay, good.” he mumbled, placing his head back down on Eliott’s chest. “We are boyfriends...” he whispered to himself, closing his eyes with a happy smile on his face. 

#Elu Neighbours AU #Skam France #Eliott Demaury #Lucas Lallemant #Eliott x Lucas #Elu

[digital-arts-etc]

Clean House to Survive?

Museums Confront Their Crowded Basements

With storage spaces filled with works that may never be shown, some museums are rethinking the way they collect art, and at least one is ranking what it owns.

By ROBIN POGREBIN - MARCH 10, 2019

Paintings line the basement storage space at The Indianapolis Museum of Art, which has graded its entire collection to help determine what art it may want to sell or transfer to another institution. Indianapolis Museum of Art at Newfields; Lyndon French for The New York Times

Fueled by philanthropic zeal, lucrative tax deductions and the prestige of seeing their works in esteemed settings, wealthy art owners have for decades given museums everything from their Rembrandts to their bedroom slippers.

It all had to go somewhere. So now, many American museums are bulging with stuff — so much stuff that some house thousands of objects that have never been displayed but are preserved, at considerable cost, in climate-controlled storage spaces.

At the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston: ashtrays, cocktail napkins, wine glasses. At the Indianapolis

Art Museum: doilies, neckties and women’s underwear.

In storage at the Brooklyn Museum: a roomful of home décor textiles, a full-size Rockefeller Center elevator and a trove of fake old master paintings the museum is barred from unloading.

Some collections have grown tenfold in the past 50 years. Most museums display only a fraction of the works they own, in large part because so many are prints and drawings that can only sparingly be shown because of light sensitivity.

“There is this inevitable march where you have to build more storage, more storage, more storage,” said Charles L. Venable, the director of the Indianapolis Museum of Art at Newfields. “I don’t think it’s sustainable.”

His museum was so jammed with undisplayed artwork that it was about to spend about $14 million to double its storage space until he abruptly canceled the plan.

Instead, it embarked on an ambitious effort to rank each of the 54,000 items in its collection with letter grades. Twenty percent of the items received a D, making them ripe to be sold or given to another institution.

Not long ago, such ratings would have struck many in the museum world as crass. But Mr. Venable is now at the vanguard of a growing number of museum directors who are taking a hard look at how much they have and how they collect art because they fear a history of voracious stockpiling and the pressure to acquire still more is creating a crisis for American museums.

“It doesn’t benefit anyone when there are thousands, if not millions, of works of art that are languishing in storage,” said Glenn D. Lowry, the director of the Museum of Modern Art. “There is a huge capital cost that has a drag on operations. But more importantly, we would be far better off allowing others to have those works of art who might enjoy them.”

MoMA regularly culls its collection and in 2017 sold off a major Léger to the Houston art museum. Yet, it too is in the midst of yet another costly renovation (price tag $400 million) to be able to exhibit more of its ever growing collection.

Part of the problem is that acquiring new things is far easier, and more glamorous, than getting rid of old ones. Deaccessioning, the formal term for disposing of an art object, is a careful, cumbersome process, requiring several levels of curatorial, administrative and board approval. Museum directors who try to clean out their basements often confront restrictive donor agreements and industry guidelines that treat collections as public trusts.

Collections have ballooned in the past 50 years.

Some major American museums have seen the size of their collections soar. Even the oldest institutions often saw their holdings double or triple in number

Percent change in collection size, 1970 to present

Brooklyn Museum...3%

MFA Boston...................75%

Philadelphia Museum of Art......114%

Denver Art Museum........................251%

Indianapolis Museum of Art..................265%

Metropolitan Museum of Art................... 329%

Whitney Museum................................................692%

Dallas Museum of Art...............................................818%

SF MoMA......................................................................1014%

MFA Houstob..............................................................................1438%

            100%       300          500      700       900        1,100       1,300  

Major museums are only able to display a small portion of their collection.

Number of objects on display at a given time:

300,000 objects

.........................Dallas Museum of Art

..................................Whitney Museum

600,000................................... SF MoMA

......................................................Indianapolis Museum of Art

..............................................................MFA Houston

900,000...........................................................Denver Art Museum

...................................................................................Brooklyn Museum

..........................................................................Philadelphia Museum of Art

1,200,000.................................................................................MFA Boston

1,500,000..........................................................Metropolitan Museum of Art

The percentage on display is affected by space constraints, but also by how much of a collection is devoted to works on paper, which cannot be shown for long due to light sensitivity. The Met collection is particularly weighted toward works on paper, but its percentage on display, about 4 percent, is in rough parity with other museums on the list.

And many still hold the view that a wholesale parting with objects can be risky. Overlooked art comes back in style. Forgotten treasures turn up. Many pieces, they argue, should be retained for scholars, regardless of how often they go on public view. And much art still needs to be acquired as museums respond to the soaring popularity of contemporary art and aim to integrate more work by women and artists of color.

“People can’t understand why museums have more than they can show at any given time,” said the critic and curator Robert Storr. “But preserving the best of the past — no matter how unpopular it may temporarily become — is the purpose of museums. They should protect their holdings; they shouldn’t jettison them for short-term gains or savings.”

But holding on to it all has consequences, most notably the pressure to build new exhibition wings. Some wealthy collectors take matters into their own hands, creating private museums to retain control of what goes on view.

Eli Broad, the philanthropist, said one reason he created his own Los Angeles museum, the Broad, was to ensure a proper display of his impressive collection of modern and contemporary art.

“I don’t see how giving art to museums that are not prepared to show a fair amount of it makes any sense,” Mr. Broad said. “Of the 2,000 works in our collection, I got the sense they would show 1 or 2 percent of the work and the rest would go in storage.”

Generous to a Fault?

The current museum storage predicament has its roots in gifts like Adelaide Milton de Groot’s to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Upon her death at 91 in 1967, she did not give just a few paintings from her collection. She gave all of them — more than 200.

Thomas Hoving, then director of the Met, recalled in his 1993 book, “Making the Mummies Dance: Inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” that he was “shocked” to learn from his No. 2, Theodore Rousseau, that “only half a dozen paintings” were first-rate.

“Many of the other pictures were not even worth showing,” he wrote. Upset, Mr. Hoving said he demanded an answer from Rousseau, “What were we going to do with them?”

“Put them in storage or sell them was his answer,” he added.

Adelaide Milton de Groot, who died in 1967, arranged in her will to leave more than 200 paintings to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sidney J Waintrob; Budd Studio

Museums have always had to be diplomatic with important collectors. With acquisition budgets so limited, they have long depended on donors’ largess.

“Museums were accepting with less criticality when collections were smaller,” said James Rondeau, director of the Art Institute of Chicago. “We took 12 when we might not have even taken one.”

Some donors were able to dictate terms.

In 1985, when the philanthropist Wendy Reves donated more than 1,400 works from the collection of her late husband Emery Reves to the Dallas Museum of Art, she required that it re-create five rooms from their villa in the South of France — including furnishings from the décor of the home’s original owner Coco Chanel. Among the accouterments in the display: Mrs. Reves’ slippers beside the bed.

Four years ago, Stefan Edlis and Gael Neeson gave the Art Institute 42 contemporary works worth an estimated $400 million. It was the largest gift of art in the museum’s history and came with a stipulation: All the works have to be on display for the next 50 years.

“I got the deal of a lifetime,” Mr. Edlis said in an interview.

In the case of Ms. de Groot’s large gift to the Met, the museum sold some 50 pieces, and ended up with much public criticism and an inquiry by the Attorney General’s office as to whether the Met had trampled on the intent of Ms. de Groot’s will.

Two years later, Mr. Hoving agreed to accept the collection of the investment banker Robert Lehman — at 2,600 works, then the largest art donation in the Met’s history. Though some art critics questioned its quality, the Met built a wing to display the collection, with rooms that re-created the Lehman family residence.

Under the Lehman Foundation’s agreement with the Met, the collection will remain in the museum forever.

Today the Met’s collection tops 1.5 million items,  many of them stored in 105,000 square feet of on-site storage, the equivalent of almost two football fields, and four off-site locations in New York and New Jersey.

Max Hollein, director of the Met, said the collection’s size reflects that the museum’s mission extends beyond display. “We also preserve the cultural heritage of humankind,” he said, but added that going forward, “Our focus at the Met is not going to be on what we still need but on what we have and how we display it.”

As Mr. Hoving found out, deaccessioning can sometimes be a dirty word. A routine practice, it is nonetheless often fraught with controversy. Won’t donors be insulted when museums re-gift or sell their donated work? Aren’t such gifts, underwritten by taxpayers, part of the public trust?

The Berkshire Museum Museum drew protests when it announced a plan to sell art from its collection in 2017. Gillian Jones/The Berkshire Eagle, via Associated Press

Moreover, the Association of Museum Directors has strict guidelines dictating that proceeds from such sales can only be used to acquire more work, not to cover operating costs like staff salaries. Institutions that have violated these rules in the name of financial survival — including New York’s National Academy of Design, the Delaware Art Museum and the Berkshire Museum— have been labeled pariahs, in some cases penalized by the refusal of other institutions to lend works.

“If an institution is faced with an existential threat, isn’t it better for the institution to survive with some works of art than no works of art?” countered Gary Tinterow, director of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, defending the Shelburne Museum in Vermont’s decision to sell $25 million worth of art in 1996. Mr. Tinterow said his museum has gradually been getting rid of the excess in its two house collections of decorative arts — including those ashtrays and stemware.

Anne Pasternak, the director of the Brooklyn Museum, said there is increasing discussion these days about revisiting the strictures of deaccessioning policies. But she acknowledged “there is a lot of fear around this conversation.”

From Dusty Attic to Modern Museum

From the Brooklyn Museum’s first days, storage was an issue. When its Beaux-Arts building on Eastern Parkway was built in 1893, the museum was focused on amassing enough art to put on view, not where to keep it.

“They took just about anything that was offered and thought maybe someday it will be useful,” said Kevin Stayton, the museum’s chief curator emeritus.

In those early years, random spaces were recruited to house things. “You had storerooms and you threw work in it,” Ms. Pasternak said.

Some donors literally dropped their collections at the door. One art dealer, Ivan C. Karp, persuaded the museum, starting in the 1950s, to take some 400 fragments of ornate terra cotta and stone mythological creatures that he and friends had salvaged from demolition sites. They were stored in the museum’s backyard. Some were used for a sculpture garden. Others ended up in a parking lot.

Objects stored in remote areas came to be forgotten. Such was the case about 20 years ago, when curators found an old slab of marble leaning against a back storage wall. It was a delicately carved 1860s relief by an important self-taught sculptor, Margaret Foley.                     

Arnold Lehman, who led the museum from 1997 to 2015, recalled confronting the great morass, including more than 23,000 items of American and European clothing and accessories, an impressive but fragile collection that was costly to maintain.

One advancement in storage has been to make it visible to the public as done here in the Brooklyn Museum's Luce Center for American Art. Andrea Mohin/The New York Times

“I kept saying that we weren’t equipped to deal with this properly,” Mr. Lehman said.

He set out to consolidate and now the museum is that rare art institution that holds fewer items today than it did 10 years ago.

Not that it was easy.

Some complained when Mr. Lehman transferred some 1,500 terra-cotta pieces to a foundation in St. Louis. There was grumbling when he sent the museum’s huge trove of costumes to the Met in 2008 under a deal that gave Brooklyn continuing access, and its name on the collection.

Mr. Lehman was never able to unload some of the 926 items that were bequested by Col. Michael Friedsam, once president of the department store B. Altman, who died in 1932.

A quarter of the gifts, including old master paintings, turned out to be fake, misattributed or of poor quality. The museum still stores and cares for them because the courts have ruled that, under the colonel’s will, deaccessioning requires permission from his executors. The last of them died in 1962.

The Brooklyn Museum storage facilities are updated today. Paintings hang on special racks; objects returning from loan are temporarily isolated, lest they be carrying pests; and an open storage area allows visitors to see items that would otherwise be out of view.

But Ms. Pasternak, who took over as director in 2016, is continuing to look at “next steps” regarding storage. One focus: a room that holds thousands of textiles, European tapestries and lace, and some furniture.

She would like to turn it into a gallery for African art. The cost-benefit analysis, she said, seems straightforward: “A permanent home for an African art gallery versus storing something that we’ve never shown.”

  The Indianapolis Museum of Art at Newfields has deaccessioned more than 4,600 works since beginning a major study of its collection in 2011. Lyndon French for The New York Times

On the Front Lines: Indianapolis                                              

If you want to start an argument, there are few better ways than assigning something a grade.

So Mr. Venable created quite a stir by deciding to rank the entire collection of his Indianapolis museum.

Founded in 1883, the museum shows 8 to 10 percent of its collection at any one time. The ranking began in 2011 when a Mellon Foundation grant paid for outside experts to spend six years reviewing the collection.

His own staff then built on that work. By the end every item had a grade: “A being a masterpiece,” Mr. Venable said, “and D being maybe onetime in the distant past this was a valuable object for us but we probably shouldn’t hang on to that.”

The assessment measured a work’s aesthetic qualities, its physical condition and whether the museum perhaps had better examples of the genre. Mr. Venable decided not to keep art purely for study, asking. “How many scholars actually look at those things on an annual basis?”

Now comes the tough part — getting rid of the works through sale or transfer to another institution. What may be a D painting to a large, encyclopedic museum, which has several by that artist, may be an A to a smaller institution, which has none.

Charles L. Venable, director of the Indianapolis Museum of Art at Newfields. Lyndon French for The New York Times

The storage spaces at Indianapolis. The conservation of art requires an understanding of aesthetics, logistics, the science of materials and how they react over time and to other substances. Lyndon French for The New York Times

Since 2011, the Indianapolis museum has deaccessioned 4,615 objects, with the vast majority of those having been sold. Some 124 works have been transferred to other institutions, including art glass from the Marilyn and Eugene Glick Collection.

The museum decided that only some of the collection’s 250 pieces were worth keeping, so Mr. Venable approached the Glicks' grandson-in-law, David Barrett — a museum trustee — about transferring some to another institution.

The Marilyn K. Glick Center for Glass at Ball State University in Muncie, Ind., soon received 60 pieces from Indianapolis.

That kind of flexibility is essential to museum survival going forward, Mr. Venable said.

”What is the balance between almost obsessively art collecting and spending vast amounts of resources on it?” he said. “Are we really just addicts collecting objects that our curators bring in generation after generation?”

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/03/10/arts/museum-art-quiz.html

=============================

Collections have ballooned in the past 50 years.

Some major American museums have seen the size of their collections soar. Even the oldest institutions often saw their holdings double or triple in number

Percent change in collection size, 1970 to present

Brooklyn Museum...3%

MFA Boston...................75%

Philadelphia Museum of Art......114%

Denver Art Museum........................251%

Indianapolis Museum of Art..................265%

Metropolitan Museum of Art................... 329%

Whitney Museum................................................692%

Dallas Museum of Art...............................................818%

SF MoMA......................................................................1014%

MFA Houstob..............................................................................1438%

            100%       300          500      700       900        1,100       1,300  

Major museums are only able to display a small portion of their collection.

Number of objects on display at a given time

300,000 objects

.........................Dallas Museum of Art

..................................Whitney Museum

600,000................................... SF MoMA

......................................................Indianapolis Museum of Art

..............................................................MFA Houston

900,000...........................................................Denver Art Museum

...................................................................................Brooklyn Museum

...............................................................Philadelphia Museum of Art

1,200,000..................................................................MFA Boston

1,500,000..........................................................Metropolitan Museum of Art

The percentage on display is affected by space constraints, but also by how much of a collection is devoted to works on paper, which cannot be shown for long due to light sensitivity. The Met collection is particularly weighted toward works on paper, but its percentage on display, about 4 percent, is in rough parity with other museums on the list.

The Indianapolis Museum of Art has ranked its collection with letter grades to determine which works may be a drain on resources. Which one do you think got an A?

Grade: C  Cour d'une Ferme    Maurice de Vlaminck    c. 1926                

Grade: A   Jimson Weed   Georgia O’Keeffe   1936                

Grade: B   The Flight into Egypt    Marc Chagall    1943-44                

Grade: D  Seascape   A follower of Willem van de Velde II 17th century

  Right!                   

The Chagall won praise for its “whimsy and pathos,” but curators celebrated “Jimson Weed,” calling it O’Keefe’s “largest and most ambitious floral work.” They noted, “The use of three blooms separates it in quality and importance among its peers of similar composition and subject.”   “Seascape” earned its low grade in part because of a large hole in the canvas but also because it’s not by Velde, but a “follower of” Velde. In sum, a curator wrote: “Extremely poor condition. Poor quality painting.”        

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/03/10/arts/museum-art-quiz.html

[curlsandcrown]

Camp Bughead Day 15: Noir / Mystery

Moodboard: Rachel & Jen / Writing: Jen & Rachel

Thunder booms behind him as he lights up a cigarette and leans back in his chair, boots thunking against the desk. The fire on the match blows out as Jughead shakes it and tosses it into the ashtray. Blowing out the smoke, he closes the file on his lap then discards it, into the pulled out drawer of his desk.

His head falls back over the top of his wooden chair, staring at the ceiling while the tobacco burns, waiting for his next puff. All of the help that people want from him is piling up but they all have shitty leads. For once, he’d like a case where it was a little more straight forward.

As if the powers that be were listening, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says to the wood door, not bothering to move an inch from his chair.

A beautiful blonde walks in with 50′s wavy hair laying over one shoulder with a light pink trench coat and high heels walks in. A flash of lightning brightens her face and her green eyes stand out the most.

“Are you Detective Forsythe Jones?”

“Actually, that was my father. I took over the business.” All she does is blink at him and lightly lifts an eyebrow. “I’m Jughead,” he pauses then clears his throat, “Jones.”

He takes another drag, letting it fill his lungs before blowing the smoke slowly through his lips and putting it out in the ashtray. Jughead sits up and leans his elbows onto the desk, feeling the seam of his shirt push against his skin in a very uncomfortable way. Part of him feels like an ass because he doesn’t have another chair readily available for her to sit in but it’s not in his business to make them comfortable. All he needs are the facts and what their goal is.

But before he can lay it all down for her, she moves across the room and fingers a few of the spines sitting on his bookshelf.

“I’m sure you have a full caseload but I have something that I need you to work on. It’s an urgent matter.”

He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, wondering how she can remain so calm if the matter is so urgent. “What makes it urgent?”

The blonde walks back over and sets her hands down on his desk, leaning forward enough for him to smell a hint of floral perfume and the ozone from the impending storm outside. Her green eyes meet his and Jughead has to restrain himself from tilting forward in the chair as if she’s going to tell him a forbidden secret.

“Because I’m about to lose my business and go bankrupt.”

Well….he’s intrigued.

“My business partner is swindling money and losing thousands daily. I want to know where it’s going. Ideally, I want you to follow Archie Andrews.”

“Is he married?”

“He’s a manwhore.”

Jughead leans back in his seat and starts to rub his thumb along his bottom lip again. A single business partner losing money. This should be interesting and easy to wrap up. There’s a fire in her eyes and he can tell that she’s pissed about the situation.

“I’ll need your number.” He opens a drawer and takes out a a piece of paper and a pen then pushes it to where her hands are still leaning against his desk.

“What for?”

“So I can discuss the case with you instead of having to meet up.”

She stands tall and smiles. “You’ll do it?”

He nods and she writes down her number before grabbing her coat. “Thank you, Jughead. Truly. I’ll gather the money to pay you.”

After she leaves, he looks down down at the sheet. Elizabeth Cooper. Co-owner and face of Cooper & Andrews Fashions / Creations. Maybe that’s why she seemed slightly familiar.

A week into the investigation, Jughead is trialing Archie as he leaves his apartment. He lowers the dark fedora on his head while the redhead looks back across the street, looking to see if he recognizes anyone on the dark street. The other man pulls up the collar of his coat and moves towards the high end apartment building at the end of the street.

He pulls out his phone and texts Betty that he’s got a lead if she wants to meet up with him. Jughead strikes a match and cups his hand over his cigarette to light it then tosses the put out stick into the trash. Holding the item between his lips, he takes out some binoculars out of his jacket pocket to look into a window that just brightens up a dark row in the building, watching Archie take his coat off and loosen the tie. Suddenly a women comes up behind him wrapping her arms around his waist and drops fingers down to his belt.

Once Archie’s pants are undone, a raven haired woman comes to his front and he recognizes her as none other than Veronica Lodge.

Jughead laughs at the scene taking place and takes another drag just as Betty comes around the corner in a darker jacket this time but pale pink high heels.

“Those will kill you.”

He shrugs and takes a hold of the smoke between his fingers. “I’m not the one who has to worry about dying tonight. Here, take a look.” Jughead hands her the binoculars and points out the room to look at with the hand holding the cigarette. “He’s been getting rooms here a few days every week for the better part of three months.”

She holds the device between her dainty hands and brings it up to her eyes, moving until she focuses on the room in question. “That’s when I noticed our store’s bills were going past due. It’s unlike Arch to not keep an eye on the business that keeps him afloat. He’s even asked to borrow money and now the bank is keeping a close eye on us.”

“That’s not all he’s spending the money on.”

She hands him the binoculars with a disgusted look on her face and turns to him. Jughead knows his face is shadowed by his fedora and the way he’s standing under the light based on the way she’s having to focus to see him. “What does that mean?”

He takes another drag and blows it out slowly, smirking at what she just witnessed. “That woman he’s with? Her name is Veronica Lodge and she’s a high end escort.”

Betty’s jaw drops at the information he’s given her once it has processed through her mind. “How do you know that?”

Jughead clears his through and takes another deep inhale. “That information doesn’t matter.”

She turns and stares at the window, the silence looming between them before her back straightens. “I’ve seen her at the store. She always has a bunch of shopping bags but I swear she’s never paid.” Her fingers curl into her palms and her eyes turn a dark shade of emerald green under the street light. “Not only is he paying for the room and to see her, he’s giving away our merchandise!”

At the look of rage in her eyes, he steps closer to her slowly. “Betty…. Betts, you need to calm down.”

She takes off and runs across the street, heading to the hotel lobby while he stands there stunned.

“Aw, fuck.” He puts out the cigarette and runs after her, holding his hand out to the oncoming cars, hoping they won’t run him over while he chases Elizabeth fucking Cooper through the streets.. “How do you run in heels?” He shouts to her.

Betty makes it through the lobby and into the elevator, Jughead barely sliding in to keep up and get on it with her. He leans against the wall, not having had to run this much in a while since he takes mostly only PI work.

“What are you doing?” she asks with a clipped voice.

“Don’t you realize that if she’s an escort, there will be someone watching her room in case there is anything, and I mean anything resembling a threat, they can act against it.”

“Oh and you’re supposed to save me? Be a knight in shining armor?” She scoffs.

“I do have a gun, so….” 

He shrugs when Betty’s head turns sharply to look at him. “I don’t need your help.”

After catching his breath, he moves over and cages her in with his arms. “You hired me to help you and I’m telling you in my professional opinion, a confrontation is not the way to go.”

The elevator dings and Betty brushes by him to walk to the room that he pointed out while they were standing the alleyway on the street. Jughead notices the hallway is eerily deserted, no hints of sound coming from any of the rooms or any lights beneath the doors. A loan figure appears on one end of the hallway as she raises her hand to knock and another at the end as she hesitates.

“Betty, we need to go.” His eyes dart to one of the other figures whose hand moves into their front jacket pocket. 

“No, he needs to explain why he’s doing this to me.”

Grunting in frustration, he grabs her arm and pulls Betty into a kiss. Her protests die against his lips as he pushes her back against one of the closest doors, knowing the hall would be free of any other guests. Jughead grabs a small tool out of his pocket, deepening the kiss and works on the lock of the door, glad they hadn’t switched to key cards yet.

As soon as they’re through, Betty doesn’t let up and brings her hands to his jaw as the door shuts.

#campbughead #bughead fic #bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #riverdale #riverdale fic