This is the least pest behavior I’ve ever seen... it’s YOU and it’s SHILLAM

-

Willam is bored.

She’s at one of Courtney’s friend’s cousin’s parties, and she knows no one other than Courtney herself, who’d scampered off with some asshole brunette almost immediately after they’d arrived. Willam is completely alone at a party with shitty beer, shitty music, and shitty company, and she’s just thinking about taking an uber and leaving Courtney to find a ride home with ‘Bianca!!’ when she spots someone of major interest in the corner of the living room.

She’s gorgeous. Blonde, a silvery shade of platinum that’s clearly artificial, with a skin tight black sequined dress and legs for days. Her makeup is dark and smokey, her plump lips set in a thin line as she stares daggers at a couple dancing and laughing on the couch, the cushions practically bent in half under one of the girl’s stilettos.

Willam can relate to that glare.

She makes her way over to the woman with relative ease, adjusting her too short dress and making sure her hair has still retained some of its volume. If Courtney is getting laid tonight, it’s only fair that Willam gets some ass as well.

“Not a fan?” she asks once she’s near the woman, raising her voice over the music. The woman looks at her with surprise, clearly unprepared to be approached, but her expression quickly falls into one of interest.

Bingo.

“Of the beer or the music?” she asks, revealing a pleasant smoker’s rasp. It’s sexy as fuck, and Willam is suddenly very much determined to get this woman alone.

“I meant the dancing!” she shouts back, and the woman lets out a surprised laugh.

“Well, they’re all shitty,” she says, glancing back at the couple. “You’re the only decent thing I’ve come across so far.”

“Yeah,” Willam agrees. “I get that a lot.”

“Do ya?” the woman laughs, and Willam grins proudly. 

“Willam,” she says. “Who should I make the autograph out to?”

“Sharon,” the woman says, her eyes glittering with amusement. “I’m sure I have a photograph of Jessica Simpson around here somewhere.”

Willam snorts, charmed. “Great. She pays me good for that, you know.”

“Signing fake autographs?”

“It’s a lot of work.”

Sharon hums, smirking, and she brings the beer bottle she’s holding up to her mouth, her eyes darting back to look at the couple again. Willam follows her gaze, a little irritated that Sharon’s eyes aren’t on her and only on her, to find that the couple has moved to sitting on the couch, tongues practically down each other’s throats. She looks back at Sharon, who’s now frowning down at her beer.

“Got a problem?” she asks, and Sharon grimaces, a blush dusting her cheeks. It’s kind of adorable.

“That’s my ex-girlfriend,” she says. “Alaska. We broke up a week ago - you’d think she’d have some tact.”

“Only a week?” Willam asks, distaste curling on her tongue. “Jesus.”

“It just hurts, y’know?” Sharon says, glancing at Alaska again. “Fuck.”

An idea pops into Willam’s mind, a way to get herself what she wants while also giving Sharon something in return (other than her company, of course).

“Well,” Willam says, excitement at the prospect of doing something less than nice making her feel weightless. “Kiss me, so they can see.”

Sharon looks at her, startled. “What?”

“Let’s make Alaska jealous,” Willam says, eyes darting to Sharon’s full lips with anticipation. “Kiss me. Show her you’ve got a hot piece of ass, too.”

“Arrogant, much?” Sharon cracks, but she looks like she’s considering it.

“Come on,” Willam wheedles. “You know you want to.”

“Maybe just a little,” Sharon says, amusement still in the corners of her mouth, and she glances back at Alaska. “Fine.”

Willam feels a little thrill of excitement run through her. "Let’s do this, whore,” she says, and she knocks Sharon’s beer bottle out of her hands, the crack of it loud on the hardwood floor. Everyone in the room jumps, including Sharon, and Willam can feel everyone’s eyes on them.

“Hey--” Sharon starts, and Willam puts her hands around her neck and pulls her down for a kiss.

Willam has never had so much fun kissing someone before.

Sharon immediately melts into her, her hands coming down to hold Willam’s waist, pulling her so close that their bodies are pressed flush against one another’s. Willam can smell cigarettes on her, taste shitty beer on her tongue, and heat pools in her belly at the way their lips slide together effortlessly.

Willam slides her hands into Sharon’s thick curls eagerly, humming into the kiss, and Sharon smiles. It makes happy butterflies flutter in Willam’s stomach, and the feeling makes her pause, drawing away from Sharon gently.

That had felt an awful lot like a crush, and Willam really, really does not need to develop feelings for a woman not over her ex and that she likely won’t see again.

Sharon’s giving her a bright grin, revealing a tiny gap between her teeth. It’s incredibly endearing, and Willam shoves the feeling away haphazardly.

“Is she looking?” she asks, and Sharon frowns before something like realization crosses her face, and she looks towards Alaska.

“Yes,” she breathes, and Willam turns to find a blonde woman with ratty hair, presumably Alaska, looking at them, clearly upset. The girl she’d been making out with is on her phone, seemingly uninterested.

Clearly, Willam has inserted herself into some sort of game, one that ends with Sharon and Alaska getting back together after they’ve gotten over whatever they’ve fought over. The way her stomach sinks at the realization is ridiculous - she’s known Sharon for all of ten minutes. She’ll be fine.

Even if that had been one of the best kisses of her life.

“Looks like it worked,” Willam says, regret pinching her stomach. “Might as well go over to her.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Sharon asks, and Willam turns to frown at her.

“What?”

“I’m not trying to get back with Alaska,” Sharon says, her mouth twisted up into a wry smile. Her eyes are a little sad. “That should have been over a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Willam says, for lack of anything better to say. Other than “thank god”, which might be inappropriate. “Sorry.”

“I think you should kiss me again,” Sharon leads, and Willam’s stomach flutters again.

“Yeah?” she asks, and Sharon smiles again.

“I’m waiting,” she says, and Willam steps up to her again. Sharon meets her halfway.

This kiss is even better than the first.

gotcha baby ;) (i will be doing the rest of these asks but not yet bc i got work to do lol)

It’s not often Willam has a quiet evening in.

Of course it’s not. It’s practically unheard of. She likes to get drunk with her stripper friends and do poppers and do body shots and inevitably end up in her pool (she has a pool, because she’s an LA slut). Quiet evenings are an abomination, and Willam loves partying.

She doesn’t hear the door knock, because she’s too busy licking someone’s torso - she can’t quite remember the name, but they’re a friend of a friend - but eventually someone taps her on the shoulder and alerts her to it.

“Feds?” She asks, not sure who she’s talking to.

“No sirens.” They reply, shrugging.

Could be late party guests who haven’t grasped Willam’s rule of just open my door and come inside. Could be a neighbour asking them to keep the noise down - actually, there’s no way, since it’s been years since she’s had neighbours close enough to complain. Malibu is so great if you’re an asshole like Willam.

Could be Sharon Needles. Wearing a University of Pittsburgh hoodie (she definitely didn’t go there, so who the hell knows where she got that) and a pair of black leggings patterned with upside-down white crosses (because of course). With no makeup on, a suitcase by her side, and bloodshot eyes.

She doesn’t exactly look ready to party.

“Good… hello to you, Needles.” Willam greets her, forgetting how to string words together. In her defence, she’s drunk. And high. And Sharon sometimes makes her tongue-tied. She’s done that ever since they met.

(It was back in a juvenile detention centre ten years ago. They were delinquent kids. These days, Willam likes to think of herself as a delinquent adult, because she’s a performer now and she’s allowed to drink and do drugs all she likes. Sharon will always be a delinquent, but these days she sings, so she’s doing alright for herself now. Even if she looks like shit.) (They’ve both looked worse. At the detention centre. Fifteen was a rough age.)

“I need your help.” Sharon tells her. She fucking looks like it, and all. She’s definitely not here to party, then.

“No?” Sharon questions, and Willam realises she accidentally voiced her thoughts.

“Right. Sorry. Drunk.” She laughs, then squints at Sharon. “You high?”

Sharon shakes her head. “No, I’m just so fucking tired. My flight got cancelled and I can’t make it to my gig and I need somewhere to stay. I knew you were close by.”

They made a pact once to always help one another in a time of need. 

“No hotels open?” Without trying to be rude, Willam’s in the middle of a party. And Lia Margarita is here. She’s not sure who that is, but one of her friends made it sound like a really big deal. Willam thinks she’s some kind of pornstar.

“I have no money. Got mugged just outside the airport. They got my wallet and phone. I cancelled my cards, but they’ve got the cash. I would’ve called, but I can’t.”

Willam’s going to have a quiet evening. Jesus Christ, this hasn’t happened in years.

She beckons Sharon inside, sends her upstairs with the suitcase and tells her to change. Then it’s the tough part - chugging an ice cold glass of water (filtered, because she’s fancy like that) and shepherding all of her guests out of her house. Drunk, high, attitude-y LA people, being forced out of a house party at 1am? Not so easy.

Willam fights through the protests and gets them gone. It fucking sucks, but there’s no way Sharon’s gonna sleep with all the speakers blasting, and that’s her new priority. Not to brag, but one time Sharon described Willam to someone else as the kind of girl who would give you her own shirt off her back if you needed one. She’s right - one, because she has this dumb weak kind spot, and two because Willam doesn’t see the point in shirts.

Lastly, she goes around the house and shuts off all the speakers. There’s so many. A ten minute hunt for the last one finally sees it in the depths of her pool, glowing and flashing, and she remembers that underwater one she purchased for pool parties (all of her parties end up as pool parties). She jumps in to shut it off, dries with a towel, and finds Sharon upstairs.

“Thanks. You’re the best.” Sharon blinks sleepily. She’s still in the university hoodie, but she’s changed into comfy sweatpants and her hair is loose, bleached straw white, and wavy. She pulls Willam into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, hug.

“You alright?”

“I got mugged. I feel the opposite of alright.” Sharon yawns, but Willam notices she’s tense. She shifts out of the hug, settling next to Sharon on the bed, and puts her arm around her.

“You’re safe here. You know that, right?”

It sort of doesn’t matter to Willam anymore that her party is cancelled. Because she doesn’t know if she means that Sharon’s safe in her home, in her bed, or in her arms, but she’s happy to note to herself that it applies no matter what.

Sharon’s eyes are big and blue, but heavy. Willam can see them fluttering, threatening to close as Sharon nods her understanding.

She remembers the detention centre. She remembers a rough fifteen year old who didn’t trust anyone and never slept because she never felt safe enough to do so. She remembers the insomnia, the screaming, the thrashing.

a/n: it’s ya boi, back from holiday with a very Summery bit of nonsense for u all! love to purecamp for just screaming beta-ing this. hope u all like it and if u do, pls hop into my ask box or pop an ask here to show me some love xo

summary:

“Or…how about we swap shifts? I take yours now, you cover my beach shift later on. Gives you more time to crack on with the nonentities of reality TV.”

Chad looked initially excited then suddenly narrowed her eyes, following Sharon’s quick gaze over to the three girls on the sunbeds, where the pink-haired one in her line of vision was now arguing with the sunbed-reservers. As Sharon snapped her gaze back to Chad, the other girl was now giving her eyes a colossal roll.

“Oh, Sharon, could this be any more of a cliche?”

(4kish oneshot. Sharon’s a lifeguard. Willam’s a dumbass. lesbian au bc it’s me xo)

(it’s shillam again bc i’m weak n i love them. pls send all ur love to @artificialmeggie for checking through this for me too pls. also i’m on mobile bc i’m on holiday so sorry if this is horribly formatted)

for the prompt: “no one needs to know”

“FUCK!” Sharon exclaims, lashing blindly at her altar before storming to the other side of the room, her enraged stomps drowning out the sound of things tumbling over. She thinks about giving up entirely and throwing herself into the hammock Aquaria had insisted on erecting only to never use, but the combination of her current lack of luck and her lack of faith in her daughter’s carpentry skills convince her otherwise. Thus, she resigns herself to lying face-down on the wooden floor, booting the ground with the toe of her scuffed Dr Martens just for good measure.

“And you wonder where I get my dramatic streak from…” drawls an all-too-familiar and all-too-frustrating voice. Sharon’s daughter Aquaria is perched like a princess upon Sharon’s king-size bed, lounging back against a plethora of throw pillows and lazily waving a hand in the air supposedly to dry her nails. Sharon loves the little nightmare, she really does, but she’s not in the mood, knows that she’ll snap if she opens her mouth to respond and doesn’t want to put that on her. Luckily, Aquaria knows her all too well, not even giving her a chance to retaliate.

“Oh, and be careful with the altar. If you kick a candle over and set the place on fire I’m not taking the blame like I did when you burnt dinner last year. We’re both too old for that now, it’d be embarrassing.”

Aquaria is ten.

Sharon still doesn’t dignify her words with a coherent response, letting out a long, low groan just to remind her daughter of her current suffering and torment. She hears the sound almost immediately echoed from the bed, is unsure whether she’s being mocked or watching her daughter become herself and is unable to discern which option she’d hate more.

Lifting her head, she watches Aquaria flounce off the bed and flick her long, blonde hair over her shoulder with purpose, tiny heels clacking as she makes her way across the room, pausing to reassemble Sharon’s altar with what Sharon just knows is a hidden eye-roll. The little brat.

“Fine,” she announces in a sharp, impatient tone, as though Sharon had just made a decision or request she wasn’t aware of. As well as her flair for the dramatics, it seemed the kid had also inherited Sharon’s general distaste and impatience regarding other people. She was so proud. “If you’re not gonna talk to me, I’ll go and fetch somebody else for you to rant to.” And with those words she struts out of the room, her little wedge heels clicking against the wooden floors and her hair bouncing behind her, completely ignorant as Sharon calls out half-arsed protestations in an attempt to change her mind, get her to stay instead.

“Well don’t you look fucking pathetic?”

“No. Not you.” The smugness of the voice she hears, clearly revelling in the sight of Sharon, collapsed and defeated at her feet, kills any trust she had in her daughter. Because she could not have made a worse call than fucking Willam if she was really trying to provide her with any modicum of emotional support. When people told her having a kid would be the catalyst of her long impending breakdown, she’d never imagined this would be how. The little traitor.

The sound of stilettos, almost definitely red bottoms, grows louder and a pang of dread blossoms in her heart as she hears the woman approach, flippant and sarcastic in all the worst ways as she exclaims “Wow, okay. I thought we were friends!”

Sharon doesn’t have fucking time for her and her dumb games. “You thought wrong.”

Apparently Willam doesn’t have time for her either though, because her snickering suddenly stops, toes digging under Sharon’s side and then lifting as though trying to push her up, obviously to no avail.

“Get up.”

Sharon tries to ignore the way such a demand makes her jaw clench and muscles tighten somewhat.

“No,” she groans in response, long and whiny, determined to be as difficult for Willam as possible, to wield all her brattish and stubborn parts like a weapon and prolong the experience as much as she possibly can. It’s probably petty, definitely antagonistic, but she’s still frustrated and maybe Aquaria is smarter than she’d thought because she’d provided her mother with the greatest outlet - someone to wind up.

She relishes in the aggravated sigh she gets in return. “Get off the fucking floor and into that fucking hammock.”

The bite of the demand, the scratchy growl underlying in Willam’s voice as she speaks so plainly and apathetically, as though Sharon is nothing more than a mild inconvenience that won’t behave does something to Sharon. It’s the indifference of her voice, the way it essentially yells that she knows exactly what to do with Sharon, how to deal with her and why and that she has no doubt she’ll execute this control flawlessly causes a stir inside the woman, her teeth grinding ever so slightly and an involuntary shiver wracking her which seems to be the final straw.

Willam stamps her glitter Louboutins against the ground with enough force to snap the flimsy kitten heels in half, centimetres from Sharon’s head, her ankle brushing the outermost wisps of her hair in the movement and Sharon tries to ignore her body once again, biting back a whimper she knows would be pathetically high and embarrassingly needy as heat pools in her stomach. She mutters a resolute “fuck!” all hard vowels and spiked fricatives, finding comfort in the knowledge that Willam is just enough of a dumb blonde not to understand the true target of her exclamation.

Body protesting, she hauls herself to her feet and plods obediently over to the mesh hammock that hangs low in the corner of the room. Despite her best efforts, she has to admit that perhaps Willam did have a somewhat decent idea, collapsing into the fabric after feeling the pull of temptation deep in her stomach and letting out a small, audible groan at the way her body is so graciously welcomed. Her muscles relax, the brain fog and electric anger causing her current storm-like state beginning to ebb away as she closes her eyes, lies back and just breathes, deep, heavy, slow, and full, like she has all the time and all the oxygen in the world to enjoy. For just a moment, she forgets her not-quite-friend is even there, losing herself in the onslaught of sensations and sinking into her own, private, relaxed little haven of a world. Hell, for a moment she almost considers thanking Willam, a notion that leaves her head almost as immediately as it crosses it, the thought broken apart entirely by the interruption of none other than the woman of the hour herself.

“Cute.” In spite of their differences, Sharon has always found great pride in being the only one smart enough to be able to decipher Willam’s different tones and meanings, always picking up on a fake comment, sarcasm and every tiny emotion bitten back behind polite, uncharacteristic words. But when she says that one, tiny little word, Sharon is lost completely, unable to recognise whether it’s her own intrusive and self-absorbed thoughts causing her to detect a chink in Willam’s armour of sarcasm, some modicum of genuine emotion and belief behind the comment. Once again, however, she reminds herself that this is not the time nor place and pushes every thought stemming from it to be suffocated in a dark, faraway corner in her mind. She traps every branch within the area and blocks it up, pressing a label onto the jar of thoughts declaring it for a rainy day. She starts to miss her pre-Willam irritation as the woman clears her throat and continues. “...Anyway. Budge over.”

Still on autopilot, her body made of clay that moulds itself to Willam’s words, she finds herself obliging before she’s even really processed the words or what they imply, body shuffling closer to the window. With just a half-second of hesitation, Willam gracelessly kicks off her heels and plops herself right next to Sharon, a little off-centre so the hammock swings slightly as her shoulder collides with Sharon’s chest, grappling helplessly for an anchor to the rocking fabric and finding it, unfortunately, in Sharon’s t-shirt, her fingers clinging so tightly to the neckline that the tips dig into the soft flesh of her tits. A small part of Sharon - a wayward thought that had just about escaped the rainy day trap - secretly hopes that Willam has pressed hard enough to leave little marks in her skin, a visual reminder of her touch, the collision of her body with Sharon’s.

As the choppy movements of the hammock slow and eventually still, Willam begins to maneuver herself into a more comfortable position, rolling onto her front and overlapping the leg closest to her with her own. Her grip on Sharon’s top remains tight, her body seemingly trying to accommodate that one point of contact in the most convenient and comfortable way, resting her head atop and then above Sharon’s shoulder when the former doesn’t work out, face tilted towards her so that her breath bats softly against Sharon’s cheek and the slight bulge of her small chest pressed against Sharon’s left arm, rendering it dead and absolutely useless. Not that Sharon minds. Not that Sharon’s not going to pretend she does mind.

“Uh…. Will?” she asks cautiously, humiliated by the way her voice cracks ever so slightly, how overall delicate and gentle it sounds. Willam bumps against her in acknowledgement. Every part of her body that has the luxury of feeling Willam’s burns, the originally warm feeling growing more scalding and deadly the more she thinks about and accepts it. So she tries to amp it up a bit, this time almost obnoxiously loud and abrupt as she asks, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cuddling you.” She halts for a moment as though that’s it, a horrendously obvious and yet cryptic answer, smirking at Sharon’s disapproving frown. Apparently, the expression was yet another step too far, and the stirring in her stomach starts up once again, this time the heat a result of a chemical reaction as lust and fear mingle together in the most addictive of ways as Willam’s face hardens, eyes stony and cold, her whole demeanour, despite being wrapped around Sharon, clearly indicating her aggravation. When she speaks, it’s snappy and abrupt again, the Willam that Sharon knows and therefore knows how to deal with - a no-nonsense bitch with a heart layered with stone and gold that knows exactly what she’s doing and why, and that it’s not really any of your business, thank you very much.

“Fine!” she snaps, eyes rolling so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t do herself permanent damage. “I tried to be nice about it!” Sharon isn’t sure whether to believe that, the push and pull between them being so off and inconsistent all day that she’s actually never felt more on edge around Willam yet somehow never felt more comfortable around her either. She’s not so sure how nice that really is. “Like it or not, you’re a repressed little dyke who’s throwing her toys out her pram like a fucking toddler because she needs a hug and she’s touch starved by other woman. I’m trying to deliver.”

This time, the heat that had been pooling in her stomach doesn’t burn her or frighten her, instead spreading through her body as an almighty warmth, accomplices to the warm arms that wrap around her as Willam finishes speaking. It’s horrifyingly difficult not to react, as always with Willam, for an entirely different reason. Because Sharon has always prided herself on understanding Willam and the emotions and messages underlying in her words, and this one is clear as day - Willam cares. She notices, knows Sharon even if neither of them like the thought of that, and cares enough to want to help even when she knows she’s going to get nothing good out of it️. Sharon had wondered why of all people Aquaria had approached Willam, but the painstaking tenderness of her words and her touch leaves her wondering whether Aquaria even asked her at all, a thought far too exhilarating for her to continue thinking. Nevertheless, she makes a mental note to thank her daughter when she eventually returns, considering that maybe the new sewing machine she’d been begging for isn’t too expensive after all. Her head spins as she bites back a grin, trying to return to her permanently antagonistic state and diffuse the tension between them so thick, palpable and tangible it feels like a weapon.

“This is still too weird.” Her tone is so unconvincing, so wobbly and quiet and indirect she doesn’t even believe herself. Willam snickers.

“Well suck it up, bitch, I’m not here to ruin your image! No one needs to know Emo Goddess 666 needs a good hug sometimes.” She shuffles closer, every bitchy and humorous facade long gone from her expression. The thought of such vulnerability and trust between them threatens to swallow Sharon whole. Willam winks, nosing at Sharon’s chin as the arm clutching Sharon’s shirt finally releases the garment and rests lazily over the woman’s waist, a warm, protective anchor against all the shit she’s thought all day, week, year. “Or that she gets them.”

This time Sharon hums, too content and heavy-lidded to try and muster up a response. In another universe, she corrects Willam, reminds her that she’s goth, not emo, biting her lip and squeezing her thighs together as Willam tells her to shut the fuck up before she makes her. In this universe, however, Willam accepts the hum as a sign of Sharon’s begrudging complacency and trust, the sparks of hope that signify a new beginning almost visible were it not for how deeply she’d buried her face into the crook of Sharon’s neck at this point, the two of them entangled as though they belong this way. And maybe they do, so Willam pushes her luck, it seems.

“We need to talk about what happened last night.”

Willam shook his head as he gathered his clothing from the floor. “No, we don’t.”

Sharon sighed, standing up and shutting the bedroom door, effectively barring Willam from leaving. “Willam, we can’t just pretend that last night never happened.”

Willam put his hands on his hips. “Why can’t we? We were drunk, we had fun, and now it’s over.”

“Neither of us were as drunk as we’re pretending we are, and you know it. Last night was so much more intense than any other hookup I’ve had, Willam, you had to feel it too.”

Willam crossed his arms, blank-faced. “Why does that matter?”

Sharon had to tread carefully, knowing that one wrong move could send Willam bolting. She stepped a little closer, taking Willam’s hands in her own. “I know that you like me, Bill. Have you ever even considered the idea that I might like you just as much?”

“But you don’t,” Willam said flatly, refusing to make eye contact. Sharon tipped his chin up, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“Think again,” she said, connecting their lips. When she pulled away, Willam could barely hide the smile on his face.

I chose shillam, which was a mistake, because this is too long for an ask prompt. I blame you, citrus. your power.

-

“We’re going downtown, Katya,” Sharon says for what feels like the 87th time, “not a strip club.”

“There’s a strip club downtown,” Katya tells her, wiggling her eyebrows. Sharon lets out an exasperated huff.

“I’m sorry, is this your bachelorette party?” Sharon asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is it Raja’s?”

“I wouldn’t mind a strip club,” Raja says, shrugging, because she doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘loyalty’. Irritation flashes hot in Sharon’s chest, and she turns to give Raja a disbelieving look.

“You told me last week you wanted to ‘stay classy’,” Sharon says, using air quotes.

“Last week I wasn’t listening to you and Katya argue about it,” Raja says, and she stands, shaking the little flapper dress she has on and grabbing her purse. “Besides, it’ll be like a last hurrah. Raven thinks clubs in general are gross, so there’s no way she’ll go to a strip joint with me.”

Sharon lets out a breath. “I made reservations at Chachki’s, Raja. Chachki’s. For you.”

Raja shrugs. “Cancel them,” she says. “I’m more in the mood for cheap burgers, anyway.”

“I hate you,” Sharon mutters, grabbing her handbag. Katya claps, grinning.

“Ready to see some ass, ladies?”

Sharon rolls her eyes so hard she sees white.

-

Sharon is fucked the moment the second dancer steps on stage.

They arrive just in time to see the tail end of the previous act, all huddling together at an empty section of the stage, laughing as they push through middle aged men and what looks like a bachelor party. Sharon cracks a smile as Katya waves the stripper goodbye as she gathers her tips, giving the audience one last glance through hooded eyes before she slips behind the curtain, a different song beginning.

Sharon feels herself relaxing, her initial tenseness wearing off. She’s always hated strip clubs for the sole reason that she hates being lumped in with the men that frequent them, cheating on their wives or just using the women as objects in their own sexual fantasies, and she hates feeling like their predatory gazes are in any way comparable to her own. But the dancer had seemed to be enjoying herself, the men in the audience calling her name like they’ve known her for years, and Sharon finds herself ready to have a good time, straightening a ten dollar bill in anticipation of the next performer.

Then, Willam steps out on stage.

One of the men shouts her name once she steps out, clad only in a cheap blue t-shirt that goes down to her knees and a shitton of blue body glitter. She has thick, wavy blonde hair streaked with purple, pink, and blue, and she wears a smug smirk on her face as she grabs the pole, pointing her shiny black stilettos daintily as she circles it.

Sharon is entranced.

“Nice to see some lesbians tonight,” Willam shouts, grinning over at Sharon’s party, and Sharon’s heart jumpstarts at the unexpected attention. Willam winks, and she points at them. “This is for y’all!” she says, and Sharon’s heart stops as she rips off the t-shirt, revealing a toned stomach and a lacy black bra and panties, gartered together like they weren’t already sexy enough on their own. 

Willam hits the beat of the song, grinding her hips at the pole she’s still holding onto, and Sharon’s heartbeat drops down between her legs.

Willam doesn’t spend much time with the pole, instead twirling around it for another moment or two before she struts down the stage, grabbing one of the men’s bills and sliding it down her chest, between her breasts and along her stomach until her fingers are just underneath her panties, where she leaves the bill poking out like a badge of honor. 

She can hear Raja and Katya hollering and wolf-whistling, throwing money at Willam with abandon. All she can do is gape, her own dollar bill forgotten in her clenched fists, unable to take her eyes away from Willam and her glittery smirk.

Sharon shouldn’t be so turned on by this. Or should she?

Sharon knows that you’re supposed to be attracted to strippers - but not this attracted, right?

Willam does a little move with her hips, falling to her knees to take more bills from the men, making her way around the circular stage. Sharon’s breath catches at the sight.

Willam crawls over to where Jinkx is waving a few bills, and she takes them in her mouth, only to take them out again to slide them into the front of her lacy black bra, making sure her touch lingers there for a moment too long. It isn’t anything that Sharon hasn’t seen before, but her stomach still bottoms out, heat burning in her belly at the sight.

The heat in her belly drops a little lower as Willam gives Jinkx a little half smile, blowing her a kiss. Sharon really, really wants Willam to smile at her. She really, really wants a kiss, too, maybe.

As if she’s just read her mind, Willam turns to face Sharon and the ten dollars she has crumpled in her hands, clenched together in her lap, and they make direct eye contact. Suddenly, Sharon can’t breathe.

She manages to hold Willam’s stare for around .5 seconds before she’s tearing her gaze away, horrified at the blush she can feel burning across her cheeks and feeling like she’s just been caught staring. Which, she has, but that’s what she’s supposed to be doing, right?

Leave it to Sharon to get a crush on a stripper she’s known for the entirety of one minute.

She keeps her gaze firmly on the ground, ignoring the way Raja is hooting at her, until fingers are suddenly hooking themselves under her chin, lifting her face up. Willam stares back at her, smug smirk firmly in place.

“Got somethin’ for me?” she asks, and Sharon’s mouth goes completely dry as Willam’s hands smooth over her shoulders, fingers finding Sharon’s bra strap and pulling it back, letting it snap softly back against her skin. Sharon prays that the tiny gasp she lets out is inaudible.

This has to be illegal. Or against the rules. Or something.

Sharon’s brain is short circuiting, holding her breath as Willam’s long nails trail down her arm, gently unfolding her fist to take the ten dollars, her eyes never leaving Sharon’s. Sharon raises her eyebrows at her, some of her dignity returning with the absence of Willam’s touch, as she tucks the money into her bra.

“You’re just gonna take it?” she asks, teasing, and Willam’s eyes glitter.

“Sorry,” she says. “Here, I’ll make up for it.” And then she weaves her fingers into Sharon’s hair, and pulls her in for a searing kiss.

It’s sloppy, glitter gritty on Willam’s lips and Sharon’s own lipstick too thickly applied, but the feeling of Willam’s mouth against hers is still burning, thrilling in a way that has Sharon’s toes curling. Willam pulls back too soon, and Sharon can help the whine that leaves her throat. Willam winks at her, before she pushes herself back to her feet, moving over to the pole again.

The bachelorette party is staring at her gleefully, and Katya slaps her on the arm, hard. “And to think you didn’t want to go!” she cries, and Raja stares at her, her mouth parted in shock.

“I’m the bride,” she says. “Isn’t this shit supposed to happen to me?”

Sharon shrugs, pretending like she doesn’t feel her cheeks burning. “Maybe I’m just the hottest one here!” she shouts, turning back towards Willam. She’s still at the pole, lifting herself and spinning around it, her arms so toned and strong that Sharon’s knees go weak at just the thought of them wrapped around her waist.

“Let’s not get too carried away,” Raja yells into Sharon’s ear, the thumping bass of the song’s chorus rendering her still nearly inaudible. “Try not to get jealous when she gives someone else special attention!”

Sharon bites her lip at that, coming down from her high, a little. 

She wants her kiss with Willam to be special, one of a kind, but she steels herself for when Willam leaves the pole for the men again, accepting her fate. 

Except, Willam never does.

She sticks to the pole for the entire rest of the show, and Sharon hopes she’s not imagining the glances she keeps sneaking at her, her expression intrigued. Once she’s off stage, Sharon excuses herself for a smoke break, feeling jittery and far too flustered to watch someone else grind their way across the stage. 

She makes her way to one of the exits, sighing as the cool night air hits her face, sliding a cigarette between her lips and lighting it quickly. She inhales, the nicotine instantly doing wonders on her nerves, and she relaxes against the brick of the building.

“It won’t work.”

Sharon jumps ten feet into the air, whirling around to find Willam on the other side of the exit, a lit cigarette between her fingers. Her stomach drops, and she scrambles to pull herself together enough, trying not to freak out at the prospect of speaking to Willam face to face after what had happened during her performance.

“What?”

“You’re not going to get over me that easily,” Willam says, that smirk curling up in the corner of her lips again. She’s still completely covered in glitter, but her hair is pulled into a messy bun, a sweatshirt and short shorts pulled over her lingerie. Sharon thinks she might be the prettiest girl she’s ever seen. Sharon bristles a little at her words, blushing.

“Who says that’s what I’m trying to do?” she asks, defensiveness creating an edge to her voice. 

“I do,” Willam says, and she steps closer. Her perfume smells like heavy spices, and Sharon fights the urge to breathe in deeper. “That kiss was something. I can’t be the only one that felt it.”

Sharon feels herself softening, frowning at Willam thoughtfully. “I…” she trails off as Willam takes another step closer. “You weren’t,” she settles on, and Willam’s smirk turns into a half smile.

“Good,” she says. “Because you’re hot, and I wanna talk to you without twenty other people begging for my attention. How’s that sound?”

“Great,” Sharon breathes, her heartbeat quickening. “Perfect.”

“Good,” Willam says again. “I’ll give you my number later. Right now, I kinda just want to kiss you again.”

“Testing to see if the spark is still there?” Sharon teases, her eyes already glued to Willam’s lips. She can see where her lipstick is smudged from when they’d kissed earlier, and heat runs through her body at the thought of messing it up even more.

Willam shrugs. “Whatever works,” she says, and Sharon meets her in another kiss.

It’s just as intense as the first.

alright let’s do this - breaking character

instinct: spies au, or secret agent. i’m going with secret agent. (heavily inspired by the writing’s on the wall bc that song kinda slaps and i have had a fic plan around the song for AGES). i’m thinking sharon is some kind of villain - she’s the daughter of an extremely successful and manipulative mafia boss who was recently killed by a government operation, and they’re aware she’s going to take over the business and will 100% want revenge and 100% has the legal support from the various leaders they’re puppeting etc

they send in willam, a secret agent, as a sort of femme fatale, planting her as a key witness to an operation of theirs that deliberately fails, and “exchanging information against them” in exchange for her life, and then begins infiltrating them. she ends up growing very close to sharon as her goal is to seduce her and they talk often about sharon’s plans, her problems, the running of it all, etc, and willam’s loyalites quickly become divided as she’s unsure what she should do

the final operation date starts growing nearer and nearer and sharon is stressed bc she has some important deals happening and willam is stressed bc she wants sharon to succeed/survive but also wants to complete her mission???? and she regrettably leaks the secret location where sharon is supposed to pick up... something (drugs? weapons? probably weapons) but when they get there, it’s totally empty and on the walls some cocky agents have spraypainted “IT’S OVER, NEEDLES” before they come out and grab her

okay okay okay i had to take some time to think (and also do work i have so so much of it) and i think i got something (also not necessarily inspired by the song/lyrics but i did listen bc vibes)

ANYWAY the fic premise is, willam is attending some kind of rave (please forgive my lack of actual knowledge about raves but u know, skimpy bright clothes and makeup and drugs and flashing lights and loud music) and she’s completely off her tits having the best time of her life, and as she’s wandering and dancing she finds a space away from the crowd but still able to hear the music and she just lays on the ground and lets the world spin and sort of blankly giggles at nothing, right? and then she hears a thud but she didn’t feel anything so she doesn’t react until a face appears next to hers and she realises this girl has tripped over her, just starts laughing and she’s like “heyyy girl! u want some?” and they start sharing their little stashes and giggling at nothing and end up dancing together and making out well into the early hours of the morning

at some point they exchange numbers but when willam gets back to her hotel on a massive come down and then adjusts back to the real world she sort of looks at it as this weird spiritual experience and she was so high the whole time that she’s not even entirely sure this girl (sharon? her name was something like that) was even real

that is until she receives a text from a number that she has saved but with a completely unintelligable contact name that says “let’s do that again sometime babe x” and she’s floored bc it actually happened?? wha???

they start texting as willam goes back to work as a performer in a couple of bars and clubs around town and they’re sorta flirty and reminiscing and admittedly they don’t remember much but it’s all in good fun, sharon always sends a little x at the end of her messages and willam wants to but she’s like... i made out with this girl once at a rave so i will Not allow myself to become obsessed w her...............