inez , 18, they/ them . 𖦹 blk asf, dni if not antiracist .
freak hoe (nsfw for gn/gnc readers) 𖦹 multifandom writer (see masterlist here) .
do not modify, translate, or share any of my works on any other platform without permission, please ! if the username isn't "tranzcend and evolve" in any way, it ain't me !! ๛ do not share any of my works with any of the actors, musicians, or creators (or any legitimate person written/responsible for characters) written about in this blog . Fandom shit stays within the fandom .
this is a blog that's unapologetically leftist in their politics. even though all works are fiction, they will absolutely deal with real subject matter that affects the reader (race, gender, class). my goal is to create fanfiction for poc and gnc individuals like me without the shitty white-centered heteronormative bullshit.
most recent work: helping wes' do his hair sometimes .
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wes borland/gn! fem-presenting! poc reader, could be read as romantic or platonic, reader does this hairstyle on wes (just imagine it as his early 90s hair length), fred makes an appearance, fluff.
Wes flicked off the cap to one of your hair mousse products as he sat cross-legged in the chair to your vanity. You were sectioning off portions of his hair, the long strands still damp from when he washed his hair earlier. Your room, still slightly foggy from him showering, filled both of your senses with the familiar scent of your shampoo, conditioner, hair oil, and sweet-scented heat protectant. Wes had somehow managed to uncap, sniff, organize, and reorganize almost every perfume on your vanity in the span of 10 minutes — a new record for him.
For the past few weeks, Wes has been intently watching you do your hair and attempting to recreate it on his own — only to learn that not only is it harder than you make it look, but also he's absolutely shit at curling hair. He finally caved and asked you to do his hair for him, something you happily obliged to as long as he washed his hair first. Despite the effort it took him to sit completely still wasn't wholly successful, he had settled down much more than before. He sat with his knees tucked to his chest and his chin resting on his knees as he watched you work through the mirror.
You hummed along to one of the songs on the cassette tape Wes had filled with your favorite songs as you placed another thin, colorful elastic band around the tips if your thumb and index fingers, threading a section of twisted hair to join the other miniature ponytails at the crown of his head. Gently separating the section into two and tugging them apart to tighten the band, you watched as Wes turned his attention to one of the many containers of hair clips nearby.
Of course, he sifts through it, looking and appraising each hair pin until he finds these pearlescent plum-colored butterfly clips. The deep shade of purple glimmered with shades of teal and green under the light like little beetles, something he immediately liked.
"Can I borrow these?" He offers one for you to study. You make a small sound of agreement before taking it between your fingers and clamping it above one of the neon pink rubber bands holding his hair back. You mentally cataloged how pretty the purple complimented the color of his blonde roots as well as the rest of the toffee colored tresses. Purple and pink suited him surprisingly well, even when he's dressed up in his studded black choker, Metallica shirt, and worn out black jean shorts.
"Like that?" You asked, to which he nodded quickly. You grinned as he ransacked the container for any identical clips, mentally reminding yourself to take a picture of Wes before he left for the photoshoot he planned on doing with the rest of his band.
You had admired Wes' self-confidence long before you had gotten involved with him, noticing him around town as he hung out with his friends. I mean, it's not every day you meet a guy who styles his hair in space buns and walks around in taped-together sweaters and jean shorts big enough to cover his knees, especially not in Jacksonville. However, rather than letting it deter you from him and treating it as something to laugh at, you found yourself in awe of how pretty he looked and wondering what it would be like to get to know him.
Luckily, he didn't completely shut down when you decided to talk to him for the first time. Sure, he was a little awkward, but the tension eased the moment you brought up music. Turns out Wes had really good music taste, a fact that would bridge the gap between you two and turn into a friendship of swapping tapes and recommendations between hanging out with your respective friend groups.
You were ecstatic to finally see him play with his band, Limp Bizkit, at The Milk Bar. You remember watching completely starstruck as the near empty venue was filled with the intro into "Pollution" overwhelmed your senses. Your friends hated the music, but you got the vision pretty damn quickly. Once their set was over, your friends waited outside as you complimented Wes and his band on their music and asked if they planned on playing again any time soon. Since then, the rest has been history.
You were over halfway done, only needing to curl a few sections and to set them with hair pins and hair spray. Wes lifted another silver hair clip in your direction as you unwrapped a tight ringlet from your curling wand, scrunched it up, and sprayed it with hair spray before taking the pin and clipping it.
"Alright," you murmur as you pin the last section of hair. "All done. You have to keep these in until your ready to go out, okay?" you flick one of the silver pins. "It keeps the curl from losing its shape."
Wes nodded before admiring his hair in his reflection, brown eyes slightly wide as he takes in the finished product. Not only were you good at what you do, you somehow you managed to not burn the shit out of either of you in the process — something he would've done almost immediately.
He finally gets up and stretches his limbs, a groan leaving his body before he ducks his head into the mirror yet again. You couldn't help but smile as you took the camera he had brought with him and opened the side view, flicking on the camera to capture the moment.
You press record as he tucks one of the pin straight strands behind his ear, leaning over your vanity as he helped himself to adding a few more decorative clips where he saw fit.
"I'm assuming it's safe to say you like your hair?" Wes's eyes flicker to you, then the camera, his expression remaining deadpan as he blinked slowly at the lens. You snort when he gets up and immediately gets too close to the lens, making it blurry as you try to back up. "C'mon, Wes! Be serious!" You laugh as he narrows his eyes at the camera, flicks an eyebrow, and eyes the room suspiciously. He only breaks character when you slap his shoulder, a smile breaking across his features.
"Of course I like it," he says as he turns to lean again your vanity. You zoom in on him, capturing him from the waist up as he folded his hands under his chin and offered an exaggerated smile before devolving into a snarl and a few more silly faces that pull a string of laughter out of you.
He thanks you again, his attention briefly flicking away when you comment on how pretty he looks before settling on your bed, careful not to mess up the array of stuffed animals at the head of your mattress.
You couldn't help but capture the moment on the Polaroid camera on your night stand, rolling your eyes when he crosses his eyes and sneers at the camera just as the light flashes.
"Can you ever take a normal picture?" You ask with faux irritation, to which he replies with a smug "nope".
♔
The time from you finishing his hair and him getting ready to leave was filled with him answering questions you have about playing guitar — how long did it take him to get good? What the fuck is a whammy bar? What's the hardest and easiest songs he knows how to play? Despite you having no clue what he's talking about most of the time, you still do your best to understand to the best of your ability (even when you still get the string names mixed together). Eventually, the both of you end up on your plush shag carpet as you blow and wave your hand frantically over the second coat of glossy purple nail polish on his nails, both index fingers featuring a black and pink spiral design.
Time passed almost too quickly when you hear a car horn blare outside.
"C'mon, Wes! Get your ass down here!" The familiar sound of Fred's voice echoes across your street despite the time of night. Wes cursed as you helped unplug the miniature amp from the outlet in your wall and gather his things as he unclipped his hair. Sure enough, the curls kept their shape, gently bouncing with each movement he made.
You snap a quick candid photo of him slinging the strap of his guitar case across his chest, grinning as you open your bedroom door and hurry down the stairs to unlock your front door. You walk him out and wave goodbye as he approaches the band's van.
"Took your time, pretty boy," Fred shook his head with a small smirk as he narrowed his eyes at the guitarist's hair. A few wolf whistles and joking catcalls from Sam and John elicits a deadpan expression from Wes.
"Yeah, yeah, unlock the door, assholes." Wes raises a middle finger before packing his belongings into the back of the van. He turns back around to wave goodbye to you before shutting the back doors and hopping into the passenger's seat.
"Good luck, guys!" You call out as Fred raises a hand and nods once in goodbye. The van pulls off with a screech, the howls of Wes' bandmates giving him shit fading with each toss and turn of the vehicle. You shook your head with a an incredulous (and loving) scoff before turning on your heels and walking back into your home.
