#assorted writings

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"Should I get a boob job?"

"Hello to you— What?"

"Do you think I should get a boob job?"

"Of course not. I mean, what? Is this a test of some—"

"Shaaaane. I'm serious."

"I'm not exactly an authority on boobs. Who said you need—"

"My manager. "

"Tracie said that? Does she even like boobs?"

[Be warned this is turning into its own thing, im still gonna post my progress and little writings here tho :3333]

WARNING: Blood, Gore, Death, mentions of vomiting

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Trixie wasn’t in the room when it happened, having gone to get some food.

Mike's brain does a hard reset. Or it tries to, but keeps getting stuck.

"Go to work," Harvey waves him off and sits back at the desk.

"Mmm," Mike manages.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you."

"Of course I'm fucking thinking about it. How am I supposed to think about anything else?"

Harvey sighs. "I don't pay you to stand there thinking about me getting pegged."

Thank you so much!

Classic! This was actually on the playlist while writing that fic, so we'll continue it a bit.

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Carson's apartment is not like Lupe's. It's larger—a studio with a kitchenette, more windows. She doesn't have to go downstairs for a bathroom like Lupe does. She overlooks the back alley, she can sit out on her fire escape if she wants, and even gets a sliver of sunset. Lupe's attic room looks out on to trees.

She doesn't miss it. It would a crazy thing, to miss a room she'd been in for less than twenty-four hours. And she doesn't miss Lupe. She saw her three days ago, and will see her again in less than two weeks. But she opens the window for a spring breeze and cigarette smoke wafts up from the fire escape. Every time she ties her shoes she remembers Lupe untying them, sliding them off her heels. There's a mark on her neck that's mostly faded, and a dirty playing card that was slipped in her skirt pocket. Jack of diamonds, bat cocked up on her shoulder, long socks with stirrups and nothing else on. She's got dark hair and dark eyes, but no freckles.

Carson's packed her bags this morning, though her train ticket isn't for another eight days. She's only been here a matter of months, but it's amazing how much stuff she's manage to accumulate. Her landlady is getting most of her dishes, the kid down the hall already took all her back issues of the Times and the Chronicle. When she's back at work—if they even want her back after this season, if she even wants to go—she knows the girl at the clipping service so she can get whatever she needs.

She wrote a letter to Max but hasn't sent it. Maybe she'll be in Rockford when the season starts. Maybe she's gone for good.

Carson rolls a baseball around in her fingers. She was never a pitcher, but her dad taught her. Two fingers, even on the seams—fastball. Finger and thumb together, three others around the ball—changeup. Two fingers together—slider. She fumbles it; it rolls away under her one comfortable chair.

A great song!

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"How do you know if you're doing the right thing?"

Poe puts down his fork and finishes chewing. Finn does this, sometimes, philosophical questions out of nowhere and they deserve a serious response.

"Like, in general?"

Finn thinks for a moment. "No, like in specific. You've been to a lot of planets, right? A lot of different systems?"

"Sure have."

"And I've been learning, you know, I've been reading about history and about religion and stuff. All that stuff we didn't have when I was growing up. They're all so different, aren't they? So how do you know what's the right thing to do? When you're on a planet you've never been to, how do you know you're not doing something bad."

Poe taps his chin. "Recon, mostly. You check it out, talk to people who've been there, see what the customs are. But you mess up sometimes. One time I tried to shake hands with— well, that's a longer story."

"And that was a bad thing? You did something wrong?"

"I wouldn't say bad. It's more like etiquette. I think being, you know, kind is pretty universal. If you try to be kind, you'll probably be okay."

Finn frowns. "But how do you know?"

"You don't. But if you're trying to be kind, worst comes to worst you'll just come off strange. Nothing wrong with being a little strange, right? Gives everyone something to talk about. Mostly kind and a little strange."

Jumping on the Spotify wrapped bandwagon, send me a number and a fandom and I'll write a little something for you based on that song

(extra points for a league of their own but I'm open!)