QUESTION— Ps. Unhinged Answers Completely Acceptable.

I lowkey want to create a Arcane OC, but I’ve literally never seen the show and have absolutely ZERO art skill

i need stealth black sanji to fuck me bro

I HIGHLY recommend this series, granted that it’s not finished yet. But it is seriously good so far, and I can’t wait to finish it.

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; I

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: your family moves to your mother's hometown of santa carla, california after her divorce is finalized. you are less than enthused to be there, but you try to keep your complaints to a minimum for the sake of your mother. on your first night, you run into a strange group of punks.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, mentions of homelessness, mentions of poverty, stuck-up?reader (she's rather prissy at times),

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: here it is—the first chapter of the new and improved version of cry little sister. i initially wrote this fic back in the beginning of 2021 and you can still find the original, orphaned version on AO3. I hope you enjoy! Note - I used the term 'multi-murderer' at one point because 'serial killer' was still a relatively new phrase in the 80s. fun fact - the orignial chapter one was 2661 words; this one is 4434 words.

… [2] [3] … [8] [9]

" —You, too, can make a difference with a one-time donation of nine-ninety-nine— "

"Keep going."

Snow emanates from the car's speakers as Mom fiddles with the dial.

" —degrees today, a record high for our slice of sunny California. We'll see temperatures drop into the low seventies this evening —"

"Keep going, Mom," says Sam.

Snippets of songs, commercials, and talk show host voices overlap as she flips through the radio stations, again, to appease her youngest. Finally, a semi-clear melody plays as she settles on a new one. However, Sam shakes his head. His sandy blond curls bob with him in disapproval.

"Keep it goin'."

"Hey!" Mom cries, "I like that song!"

But Sam makes a face. "Keep going."

You're tempted to kick his seat.  If he says keep going one more friggin time...

Huffing, Mom complies, choosing peace over violence. The next station is, somehow, even worse.  Country.

"Ooo, what about this?" She giggles, shooting you a look in the mirror. You cover your grin with your hand.

"Keep going, mom," says Michael.

"Oh, alright."

More static until the middle part of an old sixties tune began to play. Immediately, your brothers groan.

"No, no, no—wait!" Mom perks up, "This one's from my era." She bops her head from side to side, drumming her fingers on the sweat-slick steering wheel. " Groovin' on a Sunday afternoon! "

Michael and Sam exchange glances and chorus, "Keep going!"

You gap, bracing your hand on the armrest, "Wha—no.  I  like this song."

"Keep going," they echo. Much to your chagrin, Mom joins them, albeit mockingly.

"I got it, I got it. My music isn't hip enough for you."

You sneer at Michael. "Who died and made you king of the radio?"

"The same person who crawled up your ass before he kicked it, four-eyes."

Michael moves to flick your forehead, but you smack his hand away before he makes contact.  That little shit!  Michael swats you back in an equally childish move, chuckling.

"Hey, guys," Mom cranes her neck to look at you through the rear-view mirror. "No fighting, please? Here, I'm changing it."

She turned the dial and stumbled onto a popular rock station. The boys relaxed into their seats, finally listening to good music. You roll your eyes and settle back in your seat, arms crossed.

Triumphantly, Michael wiggles his eyebrows. You flip him off.

"Oh, now this," Sam comments, "This really jams."

It did not, in fact, jam, but you let sleeping dogs lie.

Not literally, though. Nanook was wide awake, sandwiched between you and the window with his shaggy head out the window. He might have been the only passenger in this car having the time of his life.

You can't wait to get out of the car. You've been on the road for nearly thirteen hours now, stopping only to refuel or if one of you really had to pee. You were dying to get out and stretch your legs, which had become a near-permanent bed for Nanook to rest his head. Sure, you liked the dog, but sometimes he got on your last nerve. Especially right now.

You're tempted to pull the classic 'are we there yet,' but fate is on your side.

"Hey, we're almost there," Mom cheers.

She gestures out the window to a corny billboard. A cartoon beach with brilliant blue skies and cresting waves greets you. Yellow-and-orange letters stretch across the sign, reading WELCOME TO SANTA CARLA.

Sam wrinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

Mom takes a deep breath and sighs, "That's the ocean air, baby."

"Smells like someone  died ."

"Aw …. Honey." Mom merges into a new lane. The general distaste for the place was not lost on her. She glanced back at you and Michael and rubbed Sam's arm. "Look, guys, I know the last year hasn't been easy, but I think you're really gonna like living in Santa Carla."

Her tone is so optimistic it hurts. You cover a wince by re-adjusting your glasses. It's like if she says it with enough conviction, it'll come true. You hope she doesn't notice how you shrink away.

Outside your window is a kaleidoscope of weirdness. Immediately you're hit with crowds of people walking or leaning out their windows as they drive, whooping and hollering. It's a free for all. A high-intensity beach town if you'd ever seen one.

Sunburned skin and skimpy clothes are a staple here. On the sidewalk, you spot a woman wearing rollerblades and a bikini weaving through the crowd like a ballerina. Ice cream cones leave a trail of sticky puddles on the street, serving as a catch-all for cigarette butts and loose bandaids. It's a mess. And yet, an intriguing one. Nothing at all like Phoenix.

Michael nudges you. "Did you see that?"

"Hm?"

"The sign."

"What about it?"

Whatever he's about to say is drowned out by Mom. "We're going to gas up really quick, okay?"

You quirk an eyebrow, elbowing Michael to continue.

"Uh. Nevermind, okay?"

"Sure..."

Mom flicks on the blinker and turns into a rinky-dink station off the main road. A crowd disperses, allowing the vehicle to pull in but not without complaint. Some smack the hood, others shout an oh-so-witty  Watch It!

You sink lower in the seat, cheeks burning with secondhand embarrassment. A group of vicious-looking punks passes by—the kind that has huge mohawks and neck tattoos. You can't help but gawk.

Hello, Santa Carla.

As soon as the car stops, you're careening out of the vehicle. Your knees pop as you stand as if crying out  for freedom, at last!  Mom and Michael stand near the attendant while Sam takes Nanook for a bathroom break. You stay on the opposite side of the car, casually stretching your arms and back as you bask in the breeze.

For the thick of summer, Santa Carla is mild. It must have something to do with being on the coast. The breeze from the water would keep it relatively cool, but the humidity was a bitch. After spending less than a minute in the elements, you can feel your hair frizzing up.

You shield your eyes, squinting over to the beginning of the sandy beach. It's packed.  Damn , you wish you'd bought a pair of sunglasses, but constantly changing them out with your prescription ones would've been a hassle. Squinting like an idiot would suffice.

A couple minutes later, Sam comes running back. Nanook jogs beside him, panting happily.

"Mom!" he calls.

Mom glances briefly over her shoulder and says, "Yeah?" before returning her attention to the attendant.

"Mom, there's an amusement park right on the beach."

Your eyes follow where he points. There is an amusement park a little ways away. You make out the shape of a rollercoaster and cartoonish kitchen shops, which spill onto the sand from the boardwalk. Mom is unphased and instead moves her flighty attention in the opposite direction of the coastal wonderland.

She passes him a few dollars and says, "Sammy, go tell those kids to get something to eat, yeah?"

Across the way, a couple of teens are dumpster diving, picking up half-eaten sandwiches and moldy Chinese takeout containers, giving them a sniff before discarding them into the dumpster once more. You lean further against the car and cross your arms as if they'll shield you from the uncomfortable reality you're faced with. They're runaways. This place is crawling with them. It's like a  Where's Waldo  - once you find one, you suddenly see a dozen more, blending into the background.

Reluctantly, Sam accepted the cash and did as Mom said. You choose not to add your two cents, knowing it would only crush her. Your family needed the money just as they do. You're poor. Barely scraping by over the past couple of months as you prepped for the move, and now you're almost positive that's the last bit of money Mom had on her. But when Sam gestures toward Mom after giving it to the runaways, you watch your Mom's face light up, and you know you are better off keeping quiet. The runaways show their appreciation with a wave and yellow-toothed smiles.

Sammy jogs to the car, jutting his chin at the boardwalk. "Can we go now?"

"Maybe later. Grandpa's expecting us, soon."

Your little brother whines.

A pair of surfers pass the car, raking their Ray-Ban-covered eyes across your body. Their skin is red and peeling from hours in the sun.

One of them whistles at you. "How you doin', baby girl?"

Nose scrunched in disgust, you deign not to respond. Instead, you open the back door and slide inside, taking shelter in the humid cabin; so much for stretching your legs.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long before Mom, Sam, and Nanook re-enter the sedan. Michael, who had unhitched his bike from the trailer, follows behind your car for the rest of the way to Grandpa.

You can't say you remember the old man all that well. It's been years since you saw him. Probably since Sammy was born. Grandpa didn't like to leave Santa Carla, and he and Mom's relationship had been strained until recently. (No thanks to your father, you're sure.) You can only recall his face from pictures in a photo album, back when he still had color in his hair. You're not sure what to expect.

The lively scenery fizzles out, turning into dirt roads, bleached from the sun and overcrowded with scraggly flora. Large wooden poles lay discarded on the law, a fencing project long since abandoned. Although they don't look out of place, the yard is littered with strange knickknacks and ornaments, making the space seem more like a junkyard than the house of a man pushing eighty-five.

When the car stops, you tentatively pop open your door.

The house is … not what you expected. And that's being mild.

Michael hops off his bike, walking ahead of you, but stops short. You follow his gaze and see a pair of legs sprawled out. The rest of the body is hidden by debris.

The four of you approach with caution. The legs don't move.

You share a look with Michael. Unfortunately, this could be only one person, which doesn't bode well.

"Is he dead?" you ask.

Michael affirms, "He looks dead."

Mom waves you off and climbs the porch. "He's just a deep sleeper." She shakes his arm, "Dad? Dad, wake up."

Michael inches closer. Not getting too close to the Maybe-Corpse, but close enough to have a good look. "He's not breathing, Mom."

Sam pops his head in between you two, Nanook trotting up the steps to get a sniff. "If he's dead, can we move back to Phoenix?"

You wack him on the back of the head. "Dude."

"What?"

You make a face as if to say  Have some fucking tact, dipwad!  But Sammy merely rubs the back of his head with a pout.

"What?"

Suddenly, the Maybe-Corpse sits up, one eye open. "Playin' dead … and from what I heard, doin' a damn good job at it."

"Oh, Dad!"

Mom embraces her father, laughing at his incorrigible attitude. You exchange a look with your brothers. What a weird old man.

Unpacking the car was the easy part.

The issues arose when it came to deciding where to put it.

And, hey, it's not like you came here packed to the gills with miscellaneous belongings. Quite the opposite. The four of you had paired down exponentially before the move, donating and selling your items left and right. Sending them to church yard sales, the Salvation Army, or your next-door neighbor's sister-in-law.

No, it wasn't your fault. Grandpa's house was, to put it delicately, a fucking mess. A hodgepodge taxidermy nightmare with tribal art, kitschy figurines, and petrified wood art cluttering every little nook and cranny.

Grandpa filled you in on the house's layout as he supervised. There were two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, and four bedrooms. One, which was obviously occupied by Grandpa (though from the sound of it, he didn't sleep there), only stored more of his disturbing taxidermy.

Mom would have her own room, which left two others.

Michael attempted to pull rank, claiming that he should get his own room as the oldest. But you refused to go down without a fight. It was quite easy, in the end. All you had to do was pull your Woman Card—citing exactly why neither wanted to room with you.

So, Michael would room with Sammy, and you got a bedroom all to yourself.

You carry your books in by the armful, neatly balancing more atop your head. (A cool party trick but not useful in many scenarios—present one excluded.)

It's sad to think this was a mere fraction of your collection. When the divorce was final, you had pawned off most of your books for extra cash to help Mom out. She didn't ask you to do this, but you wanted to. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Abruptly, Sammy and Michael tear past you. Sammy clips your shoulder, sending the stack of books on your head, crashing to the ground. You stagger, dropping the box in your hands to the ground unceremoniously.

"Watch it, dweebs!"

"Mom! Help me, help! He's gonna kill me! "

Mom sidesteps, narrowly avoiding a similar fate. "Hey, no running in the house, guys!"

In a daring attempt at an escape, Sam threw a set of double doors open. It led into a once-spacious room filled with dead animal heads, disturbing tools, and … fresh animal carcasses.

"Talk about the Texas Chainsaw Massacre," Michael mutters.

"Rules!" The three of you whirl around, coming face-to-face with Grandpa's stink-eye. "Got some rules around here."

With a flick of his wrist, Grandpa motions for the three of you to follow as he trudges into the kitchen. He wrenches the fridge door and points to a cardboard piece that reads OLD FART, covering the middle shelf.

"Second shelf is mine." He flips it open, showcasing the goods that lay inside. "I keep my root beers and double-thick Oreo cookies in here. Nobody touches the second shelf."

Another pointed stink eye at the three of you.

He takes his leave from the kitchen, an unspoken command to follow him. Leading you into the living room, Grandpa says something about how he prefers his couch to be when Michael interjects.

"Hey Grandpa—is it true that Santa Carla is the murder capital of the world?"

"Where did you learn that?" you ask, startled.

"'S on the sign."

Grandpa presses his fleshy lips into a thin line. "Ehhh … There's some bad elements around here…."

Sam blinks. "Wait a second, lemme get this straight. Are you telling me that we moved to the murder capitol of the world? Are you serious, Grandpa?"

He shuffles, choosing his next words carefully. "Now let me put it this way; if all the corpses buried around here were to stand up all at once, we'd have one helluva population problem."

With two hats stacked on top of her head, Mom stopped long enough to hear the tail end of the conversation. She rolled her eyes and said, "Great,  Dad. Now you're going to give them nightmares."

Grandpa waved his hand at her, muttering something under his breath about how kids this age are surprisingly well-adjusted. Your stomach twists at the mere thought of what you just learned. But, apparently, living in the Murder Capital of the World doesn't phase an old codger like your Grandpa because he's on another one of his tangents before long.

"Now, when the mailman brings the TV Guide on Wednesdays, sometimes the corner of the address label will curl up … You'll be tempted to peel it off. Don't. You'll end up rippin' the cover and I don't like that." He turned into the taxidermy room and, with a stern glare, began to shut the doors. "And stay outta here!"

Sammy jogs after him—the horror of his new living arrangements suddenly forgotten—eyes bright. "There's a TV?"

"No. I just like to read the TV Guide. Read the TV Guide, you don't need a TV."

Grandpa slams the double doors shut with a definitive thud. Sam flinches, his expression falling flat. Apparently, the imminent threat of murder is nothing compared to being without MTV.

Together, you walk hand-in-hand with Mom along the Boardwalk. Night has fallen, and yet Santa Carla doesn't know darkness. Neon signs and blinking lights glistening from amusement park rides chase away the blackness. It's an artificial Arcadia. The smell of corn dogs mingles with the salty ocean spray and BO.

"Isn't this place fun?" Mom cheers.

To say that Santa Carla was better at night would be a lie. It's just as sweaty and packed as before, but now there are more miscreants. People up to no good, drawn to the dark, have come crawling out of the woodwork and currently infest the Boardwalk like maggots on a carcass.

You would rather be at home reading, but you endure the torture for Mom.

"It's … something."

You won't deny that it's exciting, but it's not your cup of tea. Everything is a little too much, a little too loud, a little too bright. A group of surfers pass you by, brushing against you. You shy away, gripping her hand tighter.

Mom giggles to herself, pointing vaguely. "I think I dated that guy."

Instead of following her finger, you stare at a four-sided bulletin board. Flyers stacked upon flyers create an inch-thick layer over the cork. Some advertise band performances. Others, the grisly black and white photos of the MISSING. A woman in her late sixties tapes a new one atop another. You'll avert your eyes.

"Horrible," you mutter.

Mom notices, her happy mood dampening. "That's the kind of thing that makes you sad with the world."

"More like  depressed ."

"You've just gotta hope they're somewhere good. Somewhere better. Like me," she motions to herself. "A little running away never hurt anybody. It's all about improving your situation. That's all."

Her admission makes your heart feel heavy. It's no secret that Mom was a bit of a rebel back in her day. She's been open about her time on the street, how it made her more appreciative of the little things, but still ...

You get a good look at her and try to peel back the layers of makeup and age, imagining her as a naive sixteen-year-old. Did she have a missing flyer? Would Grandpa have made one? Did anyone who saw it care, or did they walk away blissfully ignorant.

Michael's words flash across your mind. MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD. What an ugly thing to know? How lucky were you, knowing that Mom was one of the lucky ones when she could have been some multi-murderer's nameless victim.

Tightening your grip on her hand, you rest your head on her shoulder. "You don't have to worry about me running away."

Mom sighs—it almost sounds relieved. She lays her hand on my cheek, smoothing it over my hair.

"Thank you—I hope I never do. But if you want to, you know, just tell me."

"I think that defeats the purpose."

That earns a giggle from her. You laugh. It's nice to see her laugh again. She's been depressed even before the divorce was final. The sudden upheaval of her life, losing her job, and moving to a new state with three children ... It's a lot. You try to remind yourself that she's only human. Flawed and scared, just like you.

A sun-bleached HELP WANTED sign sits in the restaurant window; however, something else steals Mom's attention before you can point it out.

A small child. Maybe seven or eight—you've never been good at guessing children's ages—stands in the middle of the crowd, sobbing. No one else has noticed him, save for the two of you. You think you can hear him crying for his Mom, but it's drowned out by the general raucous of the Boardwalk.

Mom makes a B-line for the little boy, leaping into action before you realize she's gone. She kneels to his side and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. They exchange a few soft-spoken words. The boy doesn't quit crying; he seems marginally calmer now that an adult has stepped onto the scene.

She calls out to you. "I'm going to go in here, okay? I'll see if I can find his Mom. Just stay put for me."

"Yeah. Of course."

She smiles, close-lipped yet appreciative. Mom leads him into the video store with one hand on the young boy's back.

You watch her go, suddenly feeling out of place on the Boardwalk. Too exposed, too vulnerable. All around you are swarms of people, cackling, smoking, and stealing. Everything is so new and unknown that it makes you tense. Even though you're old enough to stand on your own—a full-fledged adult, if you want to get technical—you can't help but miss the safety that your Mom provided just by being beside you.

" ... Murder capital of the world ...? " You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. "That's just ... peachy."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a used bookstore, some of their wears outside on a cart.  Hm. A Perfect distraction . You wander over and pursue the cracked spines. Some of them are so worn that you can hardly read the title.

Dragging your fingers along the battered books, you randomly pluck one from the cart, which appears to be a serial gothic horror, and flip it over. The synopsis is mildly interesting, similar to dozens you've read before, so you can easily guess where the plot will go.

Glancing toward the video store, you see the little boy being led away by who you presume to be his mother. He's sobbing harder, but it's out of relief. The mother scoops him up. The boy is much too big to be coddled that way, but it pulls a small smile out of you. But, now ...

"... Where's my mom?" you ask, the air under your breath.

Instead of getting an answer, another group exits the video store. A group of punks around your age draped in black leather and bad attitude. One of them catches you staring. Quickly, you avert your eyes, returning to the book.

Brows furrowed, you grab another book, but you're too distracted by your own thoughts to read anything. What's keeping her?

You gnaw on your lip. Then, just as you decide to look for her, a figure blocks your light.

Prepared to rip someone a new one about personal space, you look up, coming face-to-chest with one of the aforementioned punks. He leers at you with gorgeous baby-blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. Long blond hair cascades down his shoulders in a well-styled wave. Your insult dies before it's born, lips parting in shock.

Blondie's smile broadens. "Hello, hello, hello." He rests his arm on the wall beside you, casually leaning closer. "How are you doing on this fine evening?"

He speaks with the quintessential west-coast accent, and it suits him. He's summer personified, and perhaps in another scenario, you would have reciprocated his energy, but you're starting to feel claustrophobic.

"I'm fine." You blindly put the book back and duck under his arm, "If you'll just excuse me—"

A second punk blocks your way. He's shorter than the other, cherubic face and curly blond hair forming a halo around his head. His smile is less than angelic.

"Isn't that the darnedest thing?" He doesn't touch you, but his hand hovers inches from your skin. "We're going that way, too."

You turn away, but the first blond is waiting for you. "Yeah," drawls the first. "We can be your armed escorts for the evening. Don't want a babe like you getting lost."

"That's very generous of you, but I'm fine. I've gotta go, I'm meeting someone."

This earns a chuckle out of them. It echoes around you, and with a quick sweep of your eyes, you also realize the other two punks are there. They stay a few steps back, allowing their buddies all the space they need while they lean against their motorbikes.

Heart pounding, your throat constricting as if an invisible hand had reached out to choke you. You stagger back and bump into the railing.

The bleached blond pushes off his bike, readjusting his leather gloves. "Aren't you meeting someone right now?"

You avert your gaze from his, only to lock eyes with the fourth and most silent punk. His irises are like sloes, blackened pits of amusement. You would find no help in that man; he liked taunting you just as much as his companions.

Californian Blondie leans in close, toying with a strand of your hair. "What's your name, baby?"

He draws out the word—bay-bee—lazily. It sounds eerily similar to Jon Travolta's character from  Grease ; he nailed the greaser accent. It sounds like he's used it on hundreds of chicks, and it's worked every time. Unfortunately, you are no different. It brings a rush of heat to your face, and you try to hide it behind your hand.

You tell them, if only to shut them up. "Really, I need to go—"

"So soon?" The shorter, curly-haired blond pipes up.

Another bought of laughter ripples through the four of them. You want to die. Shrinking against the railing, you can't help but wish that Michael was around. He may be a meathead, but he was bigger than them. The threat of a punch might make them stand down.

"Don't you wanna get to know us?" jeers Curly.

"Not particularly."

"Ack—" He grabs his chest, feigning injury. "—you wound me! Be careful, boys, the lady's words are sharp!"

He stumbles back, colliding with the tall, dark, and brooding punk before dramatically collapsing. Apparently, his act is worthy of Shakespeare because the bleached blond is clapping. Yet, all the while, his piercing cyan gaze never leaves yours.

"Marko!" California Blondie cries, abandoning his position beside you to come to his friend's aid. "Hang on a little longer, buddy. There's still a chance!"

You catch a glimpse of Mom exiting the video store. Seizing your chance, you push through the boys and join her.

Mom takes one look at your face, and her smile falls. "Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." You link your arm to her and pull her in the opposite direction of those punks. "Let's just go, okay?"

The punks erupt into another fit of laughter, and you flinch.

my ass cant think of anything different

so why not poly141 x Reader squid game au

where either all 141 are VIP

or

Price is a frontman while the rest of the 141 could be his square soldiers?

Idk what reader could be tho, tell me ur thoughts!

🤔Stranger things theories🤔

ok, ok, ok hear me out alright. ok so every night Before Eddie would go to sleep on his filthy ass mattress, he would braid his hair.

Alright I know how it sounds but just think Eddie takes about ten minutes out of his nightly routine to braid his hair and that’s why it is so curly and wavy. And better yet when he meets Max he asked her to braid his hair so that Max can take her mind off of Vecna and shit.

Now I know what you guys maybe thinking, what no any Munson does not braid his hair his hair is naturally curly you’re you’re a lying you’re making things up. Well I may but that’s the fun of this. This is just theories it’s not really what’s happening it’s just me putting my loose ideas into a little folder for other people to read my loose ideas as well.

so let me have my moment with Eddie Munson with braided hair at night you guys so that his hair can be extra bouncy from mama Steve.

Bad moon rising master list

A/n: This will be the main page link for this story, and I will try to upload each chapter as frequently as possible. Enjoy ;)

Chapter one

After a nasty divorce, you and your family are forced to live with your Grandpa in the lovely notorious Santa Carla, California. Filled with punks, geeks, surfer nazis and apparently all kinds of creatures of the night.

Chapter two

The first night in a new town is always weird but exhilarating, and thankfully the boardwalk is there to welcome you and your family. Though, even with all the bright lights and loud music that surrounds you, you some how attract the attention of four bikers.

Chapter three

It’s been a week since you’d last seen the lost boys, and the only thing that you really know about them is their names. But, the boys seem drawn to you in a way that no one can explain why. And after an incident on the beach, the boys are eager to help get payback for you.

Omgg you write based on ur fic right? If so could u do the club boys x a reader in their club that does school cheer and allstar? Like going to her comps or games, seeing her uniform, and watching her become like a totally different person from her normally shy self?😭 I think it would be cute!! Love love loveee ur fic keep up the good work😽

THIS IS SO FIRE🔥🔥🔥🔥 YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE GENIUS FOR THIS REQUEST!!!!

OH. MY. GOD????

Okay, you CANNOT be the same girl who joined their club cause what???

Now, they were wondering why you haven’t been coming to the club meets on Fridays hardly and on this particular day, they were gonna give you some shit for it. Bill specifically because he’s the “leader” so of course he’s gonna ask why you haven’t been showing up.

So, the four of them waited on your front porch for a good hour…they were VERY impatient but they wanted to catch you at the right moment to pester you about where you have been going, completely unaware that nearly every Friday their school had a football, basketball, or even a soccer game to host. This is what they get for not sticking around and not caring about what events are happening but it still doesn’t excuse you being missing!

After an hour of them sitting there on your porch, they saw car lights pulling up in your driveway and they perked up. They were going to confront you ONCE and for ALL—let’s hope you don’t possibly be kicked from the club due to your shutout attendance.

… “WHAT THE FUCK?” -Bill, who’s standing there with his mouth agape as he stared at you. The other three had the exact same expression as they watched you—who was also looking like a deer in headlights as you held your cheer bag tightly.

It was just some silent staring that the five of you were doing until your mom broke it with asking you if you told the boys that you got into Cheerleading now. You hadn’t told them.

Were they mad? Nah. Were they still upset about you not telling them? Yes. But did you look hot in that cheer uniform? Hell yeah. Sooooo what could they say?

They were confused. They didn’t understand why or how you found yourself involving in such a competitive and social sport like Cheerleading. It went out of your character gradually so it was a surprise for them.

They were cool with it—cause I mean you’re still their crush- I mean friend, right? The only thing that’s an issue is how are you supposed to tend club meetings now? Even worse, will you be able to hang out with them as much as you did before getting into Cheerleading? It was a wreck because they NEEDED to see you. They HAD to see you. It was like a drug for them that they never did wish to have a hangover from. Crazy comparison, but it’s the genuine truth, the whole truth!

“Why not just go see her games or competitions?” -Jerry.

Oh. Oh Jerry. You dumb FUCK. Why would they drop everything to go see the girl of their dreams, do some backflips and cartwheels alongside her clown ass teammates, look at sweaty jocks, and their school lose this seasons game? Are we deadass?

Yes. Yes we are deadass. Cause guess what? The next game, they sat on those bleachers and cheered you on like no other. Even if y’all’s school did lose, they cheered like batshit crazy. They received so many weird ass stares from people beside them while they stuffed theirselves full with snacks from the concessions. It was a whole THING with them.

Would yall believe me if I told you Jerry let out the girliest scream when he saw you do a backflip while one of your cheer buddies were holding you up. Luckily, you landed on the other girl’s hand, ultimately ending up okay in the end but that was scary!

Don’t invite them to your cheer comps. Dont do it.

Cause one time, your team didn’t win the competition—it was the hardest one yet and you all worked very hard on it. The judges were pretty biased and what not—it was very obvious that they were and it got under your skin. So that sensitivity inside of you boiled over as you cried because that’s so frustrating. Your teammates were trying to comfort you and all of this other stuff but it will NEVER beat how bad the boys acted.

They cussed the judges out and everything cause are we FOR REAL? How did you not AT LEAST get third place? The shit is rigged! It ended up in them getting escorted out while you followed after them. Did they get the spot you deserved? No. But was it sweetly chaotic about what they did? Yes.

They saw that you have came out of your bubble SO MUCH and it genuinely makes them proud because they never saw that side of you. It really showed that you changed—and not in a bad way either. The five of you still hang out a lot, they see you every Friday for games, they cheer you on. The list grows!

It makes them even more happy when you tell them that they were one of the main reasons why you started to open up.

They love you so fucking much, girl💔💔💔

keishin finally (finally) gets you into bed with him—well, onto couch with him, in his little one-room apartment in the back of sakanoshita mart—and he thinks all his prayers have finally been answered. thinks he's found some sort of cosmic apology for every misfortune he's ever suffered in how soft your lips are against his and how sweet you taste.

he knows he doesn't deserve this; that he hasn't done anything in his unremarkable life to merit how good you feel underneath his hands, or how dizzying those little noises you're making when he touches you are. but, against all odds, you're really here, you really want him, and he's determined not to fuck this up.

"keishin."

every time you say his name he feels like he's hearing it for the first time. like he's being blessed by it. it takes him a moment to process the way you've called for his attention as he suckles a little bruise against your throat, using every modicum of will he has left in him to pull away and meet your gaze.

you look so good underneath him on his ugly, ancient couch that it makes him ache. your lips glossy and swollen, your eyes heavy-lidded and yearning. you reach up and touch his cheek, and he can't tell if your hand is cool or his face is burning.

"do you have a condom?"

and all at once keishin comes crashing—violently, disastrously, crushingly—back to earth.

he blinks at you, wide-eyed, in the wake of your question. you seem to understand his answer even though he can't bring himself to say it.

"are there any in the shop?" you ask him, optimistic and gentle, with an encouraging smile.

keishin perks up—visibly brightening at your moment of genius—but as quickly as the hope uplifts him, he's deflating again. he pinches his bottom lip between his teeth.

"we're out right now," he murmurs sheepishly, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

he only keeps a couple of boxes of condoms behind the counter at a time, since so few people ever come in asking for them. last week takinoue had showed up half-hammered two hours after closing, and banged on the shop door until keishin grumpily answered it. his drunk friend went on to explain that he'd gone out drinking with his colleague from work and she'd invited him home with her, but he desperately needed condoms. keishin chucked the last box at his stupid face, and yusuke swore up and down their next night out drinking would be his treat before skittering off into the night again with a grin from ear to ear.

he was going to kill yusuke with his bare hands the next time he saw him.

"keishin, it's okay," you say with a light laugh at the positively crestfallen look on his face. "we don't have to—"

"no!" keishin interrupts you before you can say the words he just cant bear to hear. not right now. not from you.

even if you promise him that this could happen again another time—that you don't have to go all the way tonight, that there will be other opportunities—he has no way of knowing if that's true. no way of guaranteeing it.

he's got a taste for you now. he knows what you sound like. he knows how you feel.

and he refuses to let this opportunity pass him by.

keishin pulls himself upright so quickly from where he'd been hovering overtop of you on his lumpy sofa that he almost gives himself whiplash. he stumbles up to his feet, brushing his bleached hair back from his eyes—he's not sure where or when he'd lost his hairband, but the strands are hanging freely now and falling into his gaze. he grabs his jacket from the floor where he'd hastily shucked it when the two of you stumbled through the door in the throes of passion.

"I'm just gonna run to shimada mart!" he says to you as he stuffs his arms ungracefully into the sleeves of his jacket, his words so frantic they're almost bleeding together. "it's only about 10 minutes away, if you just wait right here—"

"keishin."

"shouldn't be longer than 25 minutes! 20, even! i might even be able to get macchan to drive me back if—"

"keishin, wait."

your laughter makes him stop dead in his tracks, halfway to the door. he's only got one slide on his foot, the other still sock-clad, and in his haste he realizes he'd grabbed his television remote instead of his cellphone to shove into his coat pocket.

you've caught him by the sleeve of his jacket, holding the material pinched between your thumb and forefinger as you stare up at him from the sofa with the sweetest smile on your face. he's frozen as he peers down at you, his lips parted, his dick still half-hard in his jeans.

"don't go," you say to him, tugging him back towards you by your grip on his cuff. he moves easily, gravitating back into your orbit in spite of how gentle the actual pull had been.

"b-but,"—keishin casts a forlorn glance back in the direction of his apartment door—"what about the condoms?"

his voice cracks a little on the question and he has genuinely never wished so ardently for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

you release his sleeve in favour of twining your fingers with his now that he's near to you again, your soft hand slipping easily into his own. that same dull ache in the pit of his core (and between his legs) throbs again as you blink up at him.

"i've been trying to tell you," you begin, a bit exasperated but not without its own fondness. you hesitate a little, looking away shyly before adding, "we don't... need one."

keishin thinks he might die.

really, genuinely die.

he wonders if maybe this is what the old man felt like when he almost keeled over from that heart attack last year, because keishin's pulse is pounding so violently in his head he feels like his vision is going a bit spotty around the edges—like when you stand up too fast after a night of drinking.

he's brought back to the moment as your hand squeezes his own—a gentle, questioning gesture.

your lashes flutter as you blink up at him, your head tilting slightly to the side. you smile a little at the dumbfounded look on his face.

"...if that's okay with you?"

(keishin pays for takinoue's drinks for the next six months, but never explains why.)

They just had the most bodacious thought

Sylus: Know why I called you in here?

MC: Because I accidentally sent you an NSFW pic.

Sylus: *Stops pouring two glasses of wine* Accidentally?