oh hello there welcome aboard the taywhora clown bus!! could i request a little drabble pls? i will let u choose the au and trope but i would love to see the line “i think i would rather eat expired spam” bc it's hilarious and i can see either of them saying it 💖
Beep beep the bus just drove over the curb. Thank you for the request hun. I had so much fun writing these idiots who clearly don’t know shit about feelings. Enjoy!
AU: Roommates
Trope: Exes
Quote: “I think I would rather eat expired spam.”
A’whora pushes the pedal of her sewing machine back just a nudge and stretches out her legs. She rolls the last couple stitches back and forth, then cuts the threads unceremoniously, resigning herself to completing the project sometime in the early morning, after some food and some beauty sleep. It wasn’t as though she was going to sleep much tonight anyway.
She rolls her shoulders, easing the tightness gathering there and trailing down her lower back, pulling herself to her feet. As much as she loves the chair her and Tayce drunkenly rescued from the curb many months ago, hauled four flights up their cramped stairwell and shoved into A’whora’s office, the air light and crisp and giggling along with them; as much as she loved drinking Tesco chard, the bottle passed between them as she taught Tayce how to sew patches of scrap fabric into the chair to hold the bursting stuffing back, bandaging and sloppily kissing many a pricked finger, it still hurts after a while. It always does.
So Awhora throws back the last of her cuppa and heads down the hallway, stopping at the smoke detector flush against the wall, getting on her tip-toes, tapping a cotted finger against the button until it gives a firm beep. She doesn’t want the apartment to burn down, partially because she couldn’t bear to see a dress she’s already put twenty hours of work into to go up in flames, partially because she doesn’t want a reason for the lease to break early, partially because fire kills people.
“What’s with all the candles?” A’whora asks, slipping the cot off of her finger and into the bin. She asks, though she already knows. It’s not as though Tayce has changed much, and Tayce was always one to set a scene for date nights, so the candles and stemless wine glasses aren’t out of place. She doesn’t give Tayce the chance to answer, choosing to jab at her instead. “Lavender doesn’t cover the smell of burnt rubber, babes.”
Tayce rolls her eyes in return, still stirring frantically at the pot in front of her. “You’re not helpful, Whora,” she drawls, now jabbing at whatever's in that wretched pot with the back end of the wooden spoon, red sauce splattering across the stovetop, sticking in Tayce’s brow. “Fuck.”
Awhora rounds the counter, grabbing at Tayce’s arm. “Slow down, Hannibal,” she chases with a laugh, taking the spoon from Tayce to stop the violent prodding and stop herself from wiping the sauce out of her brow. “Back it up and tell me what we’re doing here.”
“What I think I’m doing here is massacring a piece of chicken until it’s cooked.” Tayce takes the spoon back, giving it a once over before tossing it into the already full sink.
“Well…” A’whora grabs a fork and bumps Tayce’s hip away from the stove. “For starters, turn the burner off.” She brushes the pasta and sauce away from the chicken, holds it up in front of her face, and gives it a good once over. “And surprise...it’s burnt.” She then sticks it in Tayce’s face, watching intently as her eyes cross in front of the blackened chicken.
If Tayce’s bemused sigh—as though she didn’t know food could be overcooked—doesn’t do her in, then her pursed, plump lips surely do, like she’s brainstorming ways to unburn the chicken, or better yet, ways to have A’whora fix it like she always did, well, still does.
“Just try it to be sure, yeah?”
A’whora wrinkles her nose, returning the chicken to the pot and poking at it like it might grow legs and get on up. “I think I’d rather eat Spam, bloody canned meat, than this.”
“At least this isn’t bloody, innit?”
A’whora gives a playful shove. “You’re stupid,” she says, though she know’s she’s endeared by how quick Tayce thinks she is, how she jokes even when she’s fucked up, how A’whora wished she could do the same. She dodges Tayce’s return shove to grab the bin, nearly spilling over, and drags it to the stove. “You put the chicken in raw, or you cooked it first?”
“You just put it in, let it cook with everything else, of course,” Tayce replies easily. “So we just take the chicken out and it’s a lovely Italian meal. I say I’m going vegetarian and she’s taken by my love of animals...”
“You got to bin the whole thing.” A’whora interrupts, making a move for the pot, but Tayce grabs her wrist.
“Just try some of the pasta. Maybe that’s done right.”
“It’s not. It’s gonna give me food poisoning, babe.” A’whora knows it’s a touch blunt for the woman she knows can barely heat beans from a can, but is clearly trying, and that adding “babe” does nothing to soften it. She’d like to blame the feeling of Tayce’s slender fingers wrapped around her wrist on her snappishness, but she knows that makes her melt beyond her control if anything.
Tayce scrapes the pot, muttering to the pasta “Suppose she thinks she’s a chef now. Right Gordon Ramsey but can’t make much more than a bowl of shreddies.”
A’whora should be offended, but it’s true. And it’s Tayce.
“I don’t know what to do, but I know what not to do, at least.” She clears her throat and tries again, releasing her wrist and holding out her hand for the fork. Tayce obliges. “You can’t put raw meat in cooked food. The chicken’s got germs and you’re overcooking the pasta and you’re boiling down the sauce to a paste.” She tries scraping a mushy noodle from the side of the pan. “That’s three reasons why I’d rather eat expired Spam, with my freshly manicured fingers, than try this, love.”
“Little old me got an upgrade to the fingers, huh.” After Tayce’s smirk falls into an indignant huff, she steals the fork back. “Lucky it’s not for you, dear.” She picks out the chicken and flicks it into the bin.
“I’m just saying, you’re not getting fucked after feeding her that.” A’whora grabs the paper towel roll and wipes down the counter as best she can, knowing it’s going to need a good scrub later. From the sauce, of course.
Setting the fork down, Tayce tilts her head toward A’whora. “That’s not really your problem anymore,” she says, and A’whora almost thinks she’s imagining the lilting, coy tone, though she’s sure she’s not imagining the lightheadedness that comes along with it.
She swallows. “Well, I still genuinely care about you and your pussy, so I suggest you toss that in the bin and grab some takeaway.” She makes her way to the living room, tugging on a pair of boots before grabbing her wallet and phone off the coffee table.
“And if you call in enough time, I might still be out to grab it for you.” A’whora grabs Tayce’s leather jacket off the hook—it’s the only one out here, and she’s not sure if she’s just too lazy to grab her own, or wants to send a message to whatever woman’s coming over—and shrugs it on, stuffing her hands in the pockets. “And if I’m still out, I might actually grab it for you.” She flashes a slick smile, nodding only once Tayce concedes and begins spooning the pasta into the bin.
“That’s a love,” A’whora taunts, waving her phone a bit. “Let me know about the takeaway.”
“Bitch,” Tayce mutters through a soft grin.
A’whora opens the door, and says, into the falling night, “yours,” before heading out and locking up behind her.
Thank you for the ask! Boy do I have Things to talk about
18. Do you have a fic reading/writing routine?
Literally I haven’t read a fic in maybe two months? I just like a bunch of posts that I’m going to get to but then don’t get to because I lie to myself. I’m a teacher at a learning center, so rn guiding kids through their Zoom classes and online work really knocks the wind out of me by the end of the day.
And for writing, I usually wait until I get a hot nut to make a writing schedule, follow it for about two days, and then remember I have other obligations and can’t write in my free time so I bag the schedule and complain to Rebeccah about how I have no time to write. I do that for like two weeks at a time, then rinse and repeat aha.
19. What’s your favorite character headcanon?
My absolute favorite headcanon is A’keria being the all seeing, all knowing presence she is, like she always knows what’s going on even when it’s got nothing to do with her. I also love writing Brooke, who on the surface is super harsh and competitive, but on the low apologizes to the barista while ordering coffee. And I love writing a protective, mama bear Yvie, who just wants to support her friends, which sometimes means calling them out. And of course I love writing Big Silk, getting into everyone else’s business and trying to set up these morons, even when A’keria tries to stop her because Big Silk can not be stopped. And of course writing Scarlet as the queen of stupid/smart/dirty jokes that make you wonder whether she’s aware of what she’s saying or not.
hello hello hello Christine!! i saw the words "i'll try any ship" so i'm here to force my love of Monique on to everyone and politely ask for 27 with either Monet x Monique or Monique x Vanessa pls! 💖
Hello! I have tried very hard to give the ceo of vanique some solid vanique. Please consider my efforts in my next quarterly performance report, ma’am.
Without further ado, and without any particular au, here’s vanique in “Do you hear yourself when you talk?”
Monique was made to be viewed by candle light, Vanessa decided.
She sat across the table from the woman, who was carelessly swirling a glass of what they, to the disgust of the waiter, called pink wine, studying a menu full of food they would usually argue could not possibly be worth it, especially compared to their typical takeout rotation, in which all they ordered was cheap and tasty, and only half the restaurants would sometimes give them food poisoning.
But tonight, with the three lit votive candles on the table, the small, polished stone of Monique’s necklace sparkling in the dancing light, things were different.
It was Tax Return Dinner.
Tax Return Dinner was a glorious day. It was the day when Monique slipped into her iridescent sequin dress as easily as Vanessa found it slipped off. It was the day when Vanessa would walk to the bathroom with a spring in her step, sneak up behind Monique while she was brushing her teeth, yank her down by the arm, and whisper an inch away from her ear, “I might just wear that red thing tonight,” and watch with a smirk as Monique nearly gagged on toothpaste. It was when Vanessa could walk right up to the tank of fighting lobsters behind the hostess stand and play god with those delicious beasts.
With the check cut and their cashed out tax return now in a fat stack of twenties, fives, and ones, burning a hole through Monique’s pocketbook, the possibilities were endless.
“Do you know that you’re beautiful?” Vanessa posed, unraveling the cloth napkin, scrambling to save the little fork from tumbling over the edge of the table.
“Yes ma’am.”
Monique didn’t bother to look up from the menu, but Vanessa could still see the cloying smirk emerging as her eyes scanned the entrees, and she couldn’t help but chuckle.
Vanessa playfully rolled her eyes. “You’re not even playing the game right, stupid,” she whined. “I ask if you know and you’re supposed say, no, Vanj, I don’t give me an explanat- explanshion-” She collected herself and began her imitation again. “Whatever, tell me about it, please. And then I get to say that you’re beautiful and I love you.”
A woman from the table next to them trained her eyes to Vanessa, stabbing her salad violently.
Reaching her hand across the table, Monique offered Vanessa a gentle smile. Their hands met. Monique’s hand was soft and familiar, her fingers cresting over the back of Vanessa’s hand.
“Vanj,” Monique began, tearing away to catch Vanessa’s gaze. “You are stupid as fuck.”
A laugh ripped through Vanessa, tearing through the dining room ricocheting off of the mirrored walls and mahogany leather booths, causing Monique to join in and more patrons to join in with Salad Lady’s irritated staring.
“I do love you,” Monique admitted once her own laughter died down. “You should know that too.”
Vanessa felt it with every throbbing of her eager heart, every instance in which the light seemed to pull entirely toward Monique. On their ratty couch that was suspiciously already in their apartment. Against their mattress, comforter discarded on the floor, as Monique slowly pushed her back with a splayed hand against her chest and a whisper that she’d take care. In the restaurant, squirming in that red thing. She did know.
“Should we get stuffed shrimp to start? I think we should get stuffed shrimp.” Monique pointed at the menu in front of her, as though Vanessa could read it from that far away, or could find it on her own menu, which she hadn’t even bothered to open.
“Get whatever you’d like, babe.” Vanessa took a swig of her own pink wine. “It’s tax return dinner.”
“So stuffed shrimp?” Monique raised a brow. “What all do they stuff it with? Like it’s so much that they’re just like fuck it you don’t gotta know what we do to this shrimp, all you gotta know is that we stuff it.”
“Please, I’m gonna be stuffed tonight,” Vanjie said, tightening her grip on Monique’s hand. “First with that fat lobster, gettin’ squished by all them alpha lobsters, and then with you.”
Salad Lady — who was now onto her main course — coughed.
“Oh, really?” She tilted her head.
Vanessa hummed, feeling Monique’s gaze darken. She ran her tongue over her front teeth. “I feel pretty sure this table’s all that stopping you right now, so...”
Gaze fixed to their still joined hands, Monique inconspicuously slipped her pinky finger off of Vanessa’s hand. She looked back up and drummed the remaining three fingers.
“Put it back,” Vanessa whispered thickly. “I’m gonna want all you can give me, every bit of you.”
A fork clanged. Salad Lady’s head shot back up at breakneck speed. The man across from her shook his head and held his hands up, but Salad Lady was unperturbed. She whipped her napkin off of her lap.
She turned back to the man across from her, and snapped “Do you hear this?” before turning back toward Monique and Vanessa. “I mean, do you hear yourself when you talk?” She spread her napkin back over her lap, adding with a twisted face, “my god,” smoothing down the napkin repeatedly.
“Who the fuck are you?” Monique cried out, raising her free hand to form a scolding pointed finger. “Who do you think you are?”
“Yeah, you get back to your farm raised snail and scallop raviolis and your dry ass man and leave us alone.”
The woman kicked at her man under the table, urging him to do something. He looked between them before going back to cutting his steak.
The woman huffed, turning back to face her man with a scowl.
Vanessa downed the rest of her drink. “And fix your dress, Mary. You got a stain.”
