#I'll tell you why its because i was reading going postal and i was like DAMN sir terry pratchet deserves that knighthood

[frankmillerturnonyourlocation]

Spotify Wrapped Prompts #20

The moon hung in the sky like half of a sand dollar and Emerson tried to fold his napkin into what he remembered being a goose.

It wasn’t quite working, half because it had been a while since his high school Mandarin class, half because the napkin was that flimsy brown shit found only in the greasiest of diners and the most public of schools, three quarters because his left pointer finger was in a splint, and about a teaspoon because he was blitzed out of his mind.

The moon was beautiful tonight, he thought as he bent the napkin this way and that and tried to remember the bit of poetry that started something like that. If one of the few souls in Griddy’s Doughnuts had asked this young man what he was doing in this little diner and when was he planning on ordering something, anyway, he would have told them that he was watching the moon. This would have been wrong on two counts: the bright white light that had captured his attention was in fact not the moon but a streetlight, and he was at the diner waiting for a friend.

He wasn’t quite sure which one of his friends had called from an unknown number and asked to meet at a little doughnut shop, at least not at this very moment. He couldn’t remember being too anxious about it, though, so it must have been someone he wanted to see.

And it probably wasn’t anyone from the party, either— they would have said something to him while he was there, and he didn’t really know most of the people in there, anyway. A friend from high school ran into him at the gas station and brought him back to their new apartment in the city for some chips and dip, and also a few swigs of alcohol, and also a handful of Strawberry Bomb or Girl Scout Cookies or Blue Eyes White Dragon or whatever the hell that pretty girl said her weed was called. Remembering the party, Emerson’s chest welled with gratitude for the kindness of strangers who say they knew you when you were both teenagers.

A teenager stepped into Griddy’s, opening the door like he had expected it to dematerialize as he approached and was, frankly, disappointed that he had to bother with touching it at all. The bell jingled in sympathy.

“Emerson,” Five said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Glad you could make it.”

Eyes wide and perhaps a little red-rimmed behind turquoise-rimmed glasses, Emerson blinked, made one last, hasty fold to the goose’s head, and reverently slid it across the table. A precious gift for a dear friend. Five stared at it. Its neck slumped over.

“I’m here,” Emerson said, as if explaining. “Right where you said. This is where you said, right?”

Five’s eyebrows slanted just a half-centimeter lower. “Emerson,” he began, feeling silly even as he asked, even as he knew the answer, “are you high?”

He pressed his hands against his cheeks, the gears in his head whirring. Five, uncharacteristically, allowed them the time they needed to turn— perhaps enjoying the smell of smoke. “Would I know if I was?” he answered, pointing his finger gun at the folded goose as a perceived gotcha.

After a moment, Five laughed into his hands. “Of course you are,” he mumbled. “Unbelievable.”

“Sorry, what?” Emerson asked, now whispering for some reason. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”

“I just asked if you had money,” Five whispered back. “We should buy some doughnuts.”

Emerson’s eyes practically sparkled in the dim light. He nodded once, twice, three times, and then started rummaging in his coat pockets.

Shaking his head, Five leaned back in his booth. “Can you believe they managed to sell this place?” he asked. “And the new owners even kept the name. Other than the, uh—“ He looked around the near-empty diner. “—cosmetic interior design changes, the place hardly looks any different. The more things change, huh?”

He was speaking mostly to himself. Emerson’s attention was focused solely on exploring the contents of his jacket pockets. With the triumph of the sun illuminating clouds from behind, he drew forth a tiny, mint-green wallet with a zipper. He placed it on the table ahead of him, right next to the slowly-unfolding goose.

Five’s eyebrows quirked. “Are you asking me to order?”

“You’re allowed,” Em justified. “You’re old enough. Even if you’re little.” He suddenly grew mournful. “And getting littler by the day.”

His fingerless-gloved hand gesticulated in a way that implied that he thought he was illustrating the concept. Five reached across the table for his wallet without looking away. “Em, do you think I’m aging in reverse?”

“You could be. Like Mork.” He cracked a knuckle with one hand. “Or maybe you’re just weathering? Off the top? From the wind. Or, no, eroding. Maybe time’s eroding you and turning you into sand.” He reached out to fuss with Five’s hair and was promptly swatted away.

“That’ll be my cue,” he said, smiling that one smile he did that felt like a punch. It didn’t quite land, glancing off Emerson’s shoulder and leaving him smiling peacefully back. Before stalking off, Five slid the black pepper shaker in front of Emerson. “Smell it,” he ordered. “Pour it in you hand, not just the shaker. And I swear, don’t eat it straight. If you think it’ll taste good you’re lying to yourself.”

Em looked at the shaker thoughtfully. As Five walked away, he gasped in realization. “Is this something you learned from Klaus? About weed?” he asked, in his normal volume. Seeing that Five was no longer present, he turned around. “Hey, Five!”

Five was leafing through Em’s wallet up at the counter. “Get me a dozen donuts, mix of flavors,” he said, in that brusque sort of way old men talk to young servers, “and a black coffee.”

“Five, did you learn it from Klaus? Is pepper a hangover cure for...” He searched for the words. “For when you’ve had drugs?” he finished, loudly whispering the last word.

“And a hot chocolate.” He spun around, exasperated. “No, Emma!” he hissed. “I didn’t learn shit from Klaus. I thought telling you to play with a pepper shaker might keep you occupied for the minute it takes me to order!” He turned back to the server with a tired, half-sarcastic smile. “Babysitting. Can’t believe I’m giving him sugar this late.”

The employee behind the counter was in their mid-twenties and working a late Friday night shift at a shitty little donut place. But in just two and a half more hours, they would be fresh out of the shower with a bottle of wine and ready to marathon the entirety of Galavant for the first time since college. So for now, they kept their customer service face on and prepared Five’s order.

He leaned against the counter as he waited, watching Emerson watch him from back at the booth. Em waved at him. He waved back.

“Sorry I was so loud,” Emerson whispered.

Five craned his neck towards him. “What was that?”

He cupped a hand— the one that was not cradling a handful of black pepper— over his mouth and leaned out of the booth. “Sorry I was so loud, Five.”

“No worries,” Five responded in full voice with a lopsided smile, projecting just a bit louder than he really needed to. “Not like there’s anyone here to care.” Em smiled softly and went back to playing with the pepper in his hand. Five watched him.

“Would you like your donuts in a box or a bag?” the server asked, dreaming of their doormat.

“Better make it a bag,” Five sighed, fishing a few bills out of Emerson’s wallet and sliding them across the counter.

At the booth, Emerson was staring at the false moon again, humming a tune so earnestly he might have been singing to the night sky.

Five returned with a bag of sticky donuts under his arm and a drink in each hand. “Here,” he said. “Sober up.”

Emerson peered into the bag, eyebrows raised. “Can I have some?” he asked, so childlike that Five just had to stare at him.

“Yeah,” Five said, the venom catching on his tongue and dissipating into the air. “I got them for you. The hot chocolate too.”

The headlights of a passing car illuminated Emerson’s face in a mosaic of triangles of light. Their eyes reflected something that Five had only seen a few times before. Then the light was gone, and Emerson seemed a little less high. “Thanks, Five,” he said, and reached into the bag for a donut wrapped in wax paper.

Five watched him eat about a fourth of the donut in one ambitions bite. He folded his hands in front of his chin. “You never really struck me as a... hobbyist substance user, Em.”

“Oh, it wasn’t mine. A friend let me smoke some. I got invited to a party.” Em finished his donut, and then waved a powdery hand. “Not you, a different friend.”

Five’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Do you consider us friends?”

“Of course,” Emerson replied, so quickly and so easily that Five wondered if he was answering a different question.

The gears of Five’s mind, for a brief moment, faltered. He felt the hours of the night slipping through his fingers. “Did it occur to you, when you were getting stoned in a basement somewhere, that maybe this wasn’t just a courtesy call?

“Can I have another chocolate one, or do you want that one?”

“Dammit, Em!” Five snatched the bag away. “I’d expect this from my degenerate of a sibling, but not from you. I called you here for a reason, and if you’re not lucid enough to hold a conversation with—“

“Don’t call Klaus a degenerate.” Emerson almost spilled his hot chocolate with the force of his words. “And who the fuck are you to talk? Why couldn’t you just tell me on the phone or, or— at least tell me your name when you left a message? Made it less ominous?”

“Are you trying to insinuate that it’s my fault you smoked a stranger’s pot? That you just had to get high because I made you so anxious?”

“No!” Emerson slammed his styrofoam cup down on the table. “I’m just saying that I’m not the only one who’s being a fucking idiot today.”

Five brought his coffee to his lips.

Em pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “What are you trying to hide from your siblings, Five? And is there even a good reason for it?”

“Of course there is,” he said before he could remind himself that he didn’t need to justify what he was doing, didn’t he know how much Five had already done for his family? Didn’t he understand that everything he did, every choice he made, was in some way for them?

Em nodded as though his stupid psychic abilities extended to telepathy as well. “Sorry I ruined the night, Five.” He sounded heartbreakingly genuine. “But can we talk about whatever this is in the morning? I want to sleep. The world’s not gonna end before then, is it?”

Five waited until Emerson’s eyes flicked to his face. “No,” he said softly, when they settled somewhere around the flaccid half-goose of a napkin on the table. “Not tonight.” Small miracles. He allowed his jaw to unclench. “Come back to the mansion?”

The thought of Emerson wandering back to his apartment in this state, even as the high was wearing off, made his stomach twist up in a way that usually meant someone would be dead pretty soon. And what would be the point of walking him home and then having to teleport back to the mansion? He would be walking the same distance either way— give or take— so he might as well make it easier for him to make sure Em ate something in the morning.

A small, shy half-smile bloomed on Em’s face, brightening the whole damn town. “Sure,” he said, “Thanks, Five.”

#warning for alcohol and drug use #writing #this one wENT SO OFF THE RAILS AAAAAAHHH #it just like. BARELY connects to the prompt #but ive been tapping along at it for like. maybe a week or so now and its like yeah time to open up my notes app. where was i. hey WHY #WHY DID I MAKE MYSELF HIGH WHY WAS THAT A CHOICE I MADE #I'll tell you why its because i was reading going postal and i was like DAMN sir terry pratchet deserves that knighthood #and i was getting self conscious about my own writing being SUPER boring in comparison #and so at like nine o clock as im in my bed doing a little bit of Stuff I Enjoy before going to sleep i was like you know what? #this is the spice this story needs #instead of like. taking actual knowledge of plot and shit from this really good novel i just finished. its okay im working on that #also can you tell that i 1. have never smoked weed and 2. had no idea why the fuck five would need to talk about #i just needed SOMETHING that would fit in with of a friday night by anais mitchell!!!! and just sitting in a cafe thinking about #an old poet and how this fading town was once something else #doesnt make for an active story i cant COMPARE to reacher gilt showing up at moist's date right before the post office is on FIRE #that was the point in the book btw where i was like oh. oh. this is masterful work what do i need to do to write like this #and part of the problem maybe. is that i can't set that sort of narrative trap for my characters when i get tired out writing 2000 words #reverse urashima taro

[nosferatyou]

If I Can Be So Bold: Chapter 2 (Jack White x OC)

Summary: The Girls first detroit show continues on with their headliner, the white stripes. And Lee gets to know our handsome stranger.

WC: 2.1k

Warnings: Nicotine use and mentions of alcohol.

Notes: I know this is shorter but that felt like the best place to stop the chapter. Keep you on your toes you know. More notes at the end.

Chapter Three

If you’ve ever been to a house show or a show in a small venue, you know its standing room only, which means limited views of the artists. Which means most people are pushing to the front to get as close as possible. And it is our first Detroit show we had to get as close as possible. 

Sure, I might have pushed a little too hard and made a small enemy, but it is always worth it for music. 

You will feel it in your chest, and you’re probably going to have the most fun upfront. The only exception is the mosh pit, but the chances are good that you’ll be thrown in by accident at one point or another. 

The girls and I had fully pushed and fought our way to the front; the only thing separating us from it was a group of assholes who didn’t understand what the sharp elbow jab meant.

The moment our newfound friends entered the stage, people lost their shit, and understandably so. They were Detroit’s little secret, so to say. Everybody loved them and thought they were the only ones to love them. Still, all the cheering was enough for us to get kicked for a noise complaint.

They both were wearing red and white, which I'd noticed earlier but had thought nothing about. It now seems to be their “thing.”

 I first saw meg, all smiles and adorning a kick-ass pair of coca-cola pants. Now Jack, what appeared to be a simple white shirt and bright red pair pants, was so striking. Maybe it was the bright lights, or perhaps he was just strikingly handsome, and I was using the clothes as an excuse. Either way, his face read that he was ready to do anything. Very sharp, very focused, and all the while looked prepared for anything. 

Harriet elbowed me and quietly said, “Quite the blues band they are.”

“Oh, hush up Harry, let them have their fun.”

Then played his guitar, no introduction words, no hello. He’s straight to the point.

While their whole look was one of grandeur, which was impressive for such a small band, what truly caught me off guard was their cover of “Moonage daydream” by none other than David Bowie. 

An already hard enough to cover song by any professional band. They somehow did it, and well too. They were keeping that Detroit garage sound and Bowie’s twang still in it. 

Said assholes from before had a tape recorder in their hand, already recording their set. 

Ezra spoke up.

“Sounds like a weirdo.”

“Not everyone is gifted with vocal chords as good as mine, Z.” Harriet said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“You guys need to learn show etiquette, lordy.”

They all eventually shut up, though, and started to get into it, Including me.

Throughout the energetic set, we started to realize how close our music was. Full of blues and heavy sound. The way they played with each other was just like how we did. They even had an overexcited frontman who ran the show. 

Two things were for sure. He was incredibly talented, as much as he was attractive. Maybe Harriet was right with the whole rebound thing.

By the second song, we all were dancing with the music. Jumping along to the sparse chords of “Screwdriver,” every time he played the three magic chords, we all hopped in unison. 

By “Let’s shake hands,” we all had been dragged into the mosh. All laughing our asses off and picking up any fallen comrades in the process. Harriet got a pretty gnarly bruise from that one. 

Long story short is that we all were having way too much fun.

There was this slow song, though, gave the two of them more room to look around and see the crowd. They both were both so invested in their playing that they’d hardly looked past the stage. 

Everyone in the crowd was just as enamored with watching them. 

I caught a particular man’s eye. Just as he had mine earlier. Every time he'd sing he'd look up at me. Eyes filled with something completely different. They weren’t pissed off. They weren’t dark and brooding. He was just watching me, and he seemed so invested in it too. Maybe it was narcissism, but they almost seemed lustful? As dumb and cliche as it sounds, I saw it. The way he looked at me was with genuine interest. I, of course, returned it. 

While I also had his gaze, I felt two more eyes on me. Which was, of course, was Harriet, noticing what was happening. Giving me the same dumb eyebrow wiggle as before. 

I returned my gaze to the stage. Sadly our exchange of glances had ended, hed turned his back to the crowd to grab another guitar that was just laying on the ground. On the back of his shirt was a crudely written setlist with song names like “Bob Coffee” and “Sugar good.” Which I can only assume (And hope) are abbreviations.

For the last song of the set, they played an incredibly upbeat slide song. Which I much appreciated, no one used a slide anymore. 

He gave an incredible performance and an even better solo(s) with the small piece of brass on his finger. 

Once they finished, they quickly made their way off the stage, and we did the same, bouncing through the sea of people to grab another beer from our shared van. 

“All I’m saying, Z. Is that if Timbuktu were real. Why have I never met anyone who's been?” said Harriet nursing her billionth beer.

“I swear to god you’re losing brain cells, Harry. Go check a fucking map.” Argued back Jo

“Josephine. That does not convince me of anything. It’s in all the stories! Take me to god damn Timbuktu, and i'll believe you.”

Jo groaned and threw her head into her hands. “Okay, firstly, my name isn’t even Josephine, it's Jolene, You know this. Secondly, you’re a lost cause.”

I grabbed my cigs, done listening to their dumb argument, And made my way to the back alley behind the venue. 

As I came upon it, I saw tonight's man of the hour. Leaning against the broken wall of the venue, cigarette already in hand. 

I had half a mind to turn around out of spite for Harriet’s sake, but was too far gone,

“Well, hey there, stranger.” I said jokingly, breaking the silence of the night.

He looked up, not startled by the noise. He didn’t seem bothered by the company either. 

“Well, hey yourself.”

I took a spot next to him and grabbed a cig out of the pack, tapping the top of the box on my hand before. Almost instinctively, he was ready with his lighter. Id leaned in and breathed it in, 

locking eyes with him in such close contact. Both of us Making the same eyes as before. 

“Quite the show you played tonight.” I said after taking a long drag from my cig, he repeated the 

action.

“Likewise,” he took another drag. “I'd have half a mind to think  you’re copying us.” He said with a wink.

“Likewise.” I mimicked, wink included. 

We both couldn’t seem to look at each other, eyes locked on the dark horizon. You know, that awkward stage of knowing somebody, but prolonged eye contact was just a no go.

“I haven’t seen you around here, and you have a face I wouldn’t forget. You passing through?” He asked

I gave a small laugh, “No, actually just moved here. Just me and the girls now. Taking over the southwest side.”

“No shit, huh? It seems we share a postal code.” He looked over to me with a small smile on his face.

“No shit. What street?” I asked, my excitement way too present.

“Ferdinand. Small shitty house, porch painted white and red. You can’t miss it.” He finished his cig, quickly grabbing another.

“Oh, I remember that! It was the first thing we noticed when we got here. But you’re a block over neighbor.” I bumped his arm, returning his small smile.

We went silent for a moment, just looking over the Detroit skyline, still in the stages of not knowing how to start conversations.

“So tell me, stranger. I want to get to the bottom of this mystery of our shared music. Who are your influences?” I asked, taking another drag and entirely putting my attention on him.

He laughed and put out his cig, stomping it into the ground. 

“Well, it’s the blues. You know Son House and muddy waters. That and Iggy Pop.” 

“Well, there’s the correlation. The same goes for me. Though I am more privy towards Taj Mahal and Howlin wolf Myself.” I stomped out my cig as well.

“You’re dad listen to them all the time?” He asked

“Oh, all the time.” I moved a little closer, not enough that he’d notice, but enough. “But country rules my house. It's law in Tennessee, you know.” I said, a small smirk falling on my face. 

“More the reason to go then.” 

 I very dramatically rolled my eyes. “Eh, more the reason to leave you mean.” 

He fake scoffed, covering his heart with his hand. “Are you telling me you don’t like country? Judging by your dad’s taste, it’s probably the good country you don’t like too.” 

“Overplayed and over appreciated is what I always say.”

He moved closer, just as I did, and his goofy smirk grew. “You’re telling me you don’t like johnny cash?” He asked.

“Not a bit.” I crossed my arms matter of factly. 

While we were in an “Argument,” I couldn’t stop thinking about Harriet’s words. Rebound. Plus his whole damn family wasn’t here to watch me shamelessly flirt.

“But I’m open to a certain handsome stranger changing my mind.”

He was unphased. In fact, it only made his smile grow.

“Well, I’ll just have to do that, Rosie.” 

“Hm. Rosie. I like that.” I said, moving even closer to him. Were less than a foot away from each other’s face, and Though I exchanged so little words with this man, I was ready to kiss the hell out of him. 

“Though I’m only going to let you call me that because you’re acting so nice. You know, lighting my cigs and all. Very gentleman like of you.” 

“I aim to please, Rosie.” He said simply. He drifted even closer.

I could feel his hot breath on my face. My heart was beating out of my chest. I couldn’t stop my actions if I tried.

I pushed forwards and met my lips with his. My already booming heart felt like it was about to explode. Why Was I so nervous? Guess I half expected him to pull away.

He didn’t, though, in fact, his hand came up and cradled my face, and his other made its way to my hip. Pressing me against the brick. 

Our bodies pressed together heatedly against the wall, us breathing heavily as our lips pressed together, heat radiating off the both of us. I could taste our shared breath, prominently cigarettes; I could feel the thud of our combined heartbeat as we fumbled to put our hands wherever we could. Both us acting like it was the one thing keeping us alive. 

Everything about him was dizzying, the way his hands gripped me like his life depended on it, how passionately he was kissing me despite how soft lips were. It made my stomach dance; it made warmth consume me.

I so desperately held onto him, my hands finally settling around his neck, nustling into his long unruly hair. It scared me how much I felt that I needed that. How addictive he felt.

From the van and out of sight, I could hear the girls asking where I was. I slowly broke away from our kiss, not wanting to be found out by the others. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for their incessant grade school teasing. 

We stayed close, still in each other’s arms. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Not wanting to let go. Still hungry for his touch.

“I think I have to get the drunk children home.” I said with a sigh.

“It’s the responsible thing to do.” He said with a goofy smile.

I kissed him again, this time just being a small peck. It was still just as good. 

I moved out of his grasp and went to grab a cig. He was ready with the lighter.

“Well, Rosie, if you ever want to..” His face tinted pink. “Jam. We will say jam. You know where I live.”

“I might just have to take you up on that offer.” 

“Well, See you around, stranger.” I said with a wink.

“See ya around, Rosie.” He leaned against the wall and repeated my actions. 

Turning around, I made my exit, cooly of course, but my whole body was buzzing.

Quick End notes: 

Firstly, ooh that smooch. This series is not what you guys think this will be. This is only the beginning. And i mean it really is just the beginning, but chapter two.

Secondly, If you didnt catch it this is set in 1998. And unfortunately while in my planning, I didnt catch that he had the worst fucking haircut ive ever seen that year. So Im just gonna pretend he looks 2000 era jack white. (see below for a visual of what is and what should have been)

What is

What should have been

#jack white #jack white fic #if i can be so bold #the white stripes #jack white x oc #nosferatyou writes #series #meg white #ben blackwell #nashville #detroit #jack white x reader