#Anyways. Renee figured out probably. The most colors I can fit on her from my very limited knowledge is having her be a chimera to get two

[thatoneluckybee]

Turning your favorite characters into cats is a BAD IDEA because while trying to figure out the most plausible way to make a cat as close to a rainbow as possible genetically (using breed specific traits on breeds they don’t work with too because it’s a doodle screw it) you will discover something genetic that doesn’t make sense in YOUR CATS and then spend an entire day on breeder and veterinarian websites discussing the minute differences between different types of gray and run around aggressively explaining cat genes to people and trying to get their opinion on something and still not get answers and if this becomes a hyperfixation I should be legally allowed to scream

[wulfrann]

A wingman winged (Palmetto by the Sea part 1)

All for the game

Rating: Teen and Up

Relationship: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten & Allison Reynolds, Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (side)

Additional Tags: AU - Modern Setting, AU - No Exy, First Meeting, Eden’s Twilight, Neil ‘Best Wingman’ Josten

[Part 1 of the Palmetto by the Sea series - Chapter 1/1 - 3k words - Published 2020-12-10]

Summary :

It's a Saturday night at Eden's, and Allison needs Neil's help to approach the object of her long-suffering crush - that is to say, she needs him to distract the girl's intimidating friend long enough that she's able to approach in the first place.

(TW: alcohol, sexual harassment (short-lived), brief display of violence, smoking)

[Read on Ao3]

*

A wingman winged

The music thumps the ground in rhythm, low and deep like a pulse as it throbs through the club and reverberates into the bodies twisting as one on the dance floor. Eden’s Twilight isn’t really Neil’s scene, but the dark aesthetic and ever-shifting neon lighting make it easy to blend in. The shadows bend and stretch over his scars, reducing them to odd tattoos at first glance - and he makes sure he never gets a second. The clothes he’s wearing are nice enough and all black, but neither form-fitting nor revealing. Standing next to Allison’s brand of tastefully flashy clubwear, he’s no more than a foil. Seduction is her domain, and she thrives on it.

Which is what makes the fact that she’s asking him for help absolutely baffling.

“I’ve seen you wrap more than half this crowd around your little finger like it was nothing. Why can’t you just do the same with her?”

“You don’t understand,” Allison repeats for the third time that night. She has her chin in her hand and is leaning over her drink, swirling the expensive cocktail around with her straw. “I’ve tried everything, and the most I’ve gotten is for her to look at me. She hasn’t even tried to buy me a drink.”

“Have you tried talking to her?”

Allison scoffs. “I don’t set myself up for failure. She’s given me no sign that she’s interested. Besides, that little troll of a man she keeps around would probably bite me if I tried.”

Neil snorts at that. He’s seen the man in question glare people away, from both himself and his friend, all evening - on one occasion, he’s almost certain that the man even pulled out a knife. There’s no mistaking the way that the light glinted off of the blade, not even from across a crowded nightclub. Neil would recognise that brief flash anywhere.

His friend though, she looks friendly enough. White hair dyed rainbow at the tips, a silver cross, a few piercings. She’s wearing a black dress that wouldn’t look out of place in daylight and a soft smile that Neil is tempted to believe is fake just because of how earnest it looks. She’s also got the muscle structure of an athlete, a fact which Allison has reminded him of enough times that he’ll probably never be able to forget.

“Couldn’t you just accept your defeat and move on?” Neil tries, but he’s known Allison long enough that his heart isn’t in it. She’s never been one to give up.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Have you seen the arms on her? I’m getting her in my bed whether her little bodyguard likes it or not.”

“What if she’s straight?”

Allison shakes her head at him in that way that means he’s failed at some kind of social task and starts to count her points off her fingers. “Neil, the woman is ripped, has an undercut, rainbow hair, and armpit hair.”

“How do you know-”

“I have eyes. Besides, that blond troll she always comes here with is definitely gay, and everyone knows queer people travel in group.”

Neil throws a skeptical glance towards the unlikely duo, but doesn’t argue. None of what Allison listed strikes him as particularly telling, but he’s been told that his ‘gaydar’ is ‘absolutely abysmal’ on numerous occasions by about everyone he knows except Kevin, who's just as bad as him if Allison can be trusted.

Neil might as well accept his fate. “What do you want me to do?”

Allison grins at him. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

*

Locating the two of them isn’t as easy when he’s not sitting on the upper level but standing right here in the crowd, surrounded by people and blinded by the rapidly changing lights. Years of hyper-vigilance end up paying off once he’s gotten his bearings right, however, and he starts making his roundabout way towards the section of wall they’re leaning on. The man is sipping on some kind of drink and staring blankly into the distance while the woman does most of the talking, though she does glance in Allison’s general direction more than once in the amount of time it takes Neil to reach them. He doesn’t blame her - even he has to admit that Allison’s dancing is a thing of beauty.

Neil, on the other hand, only ever pretends to dance. He’s gone out with his friends often enough that he’s picked up a few generic moves and can blend in, but it just - doesn’t appeal to him. Still, what little grasp he has on it is enough to get to his target unnoticed.

One falsely awkward step later and he’s got a glassful of whiskey and coke soaking into the man’s black tank top and dripping down his pants.

The hand wrapped around his arm, steadying him, is an unexpected addition. Neil’s previous drink messed his balance at the last minute and he’s pretty sure he’d have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t been caught. The man’s grip is undeniable strong, but it’s the eyes that really hold Neil down to his spot. He can’t quite tell the color because of the many strobing lights and colored neons flashing around, but he thinks they might be brown.

“Oops,” Neil says, straightening himself up with exaggerated movements. The man’s eyes flicker down his drenched top before sliding back up to Neil’s eyes without so much as a frown. “Sorry for your muscle shirt,” Neil adds as an after-thought, digging the word out of an afternoon spent (unwillingly) shopping with Allison.

The man arcs a single eyebrow. “You’re drunk,” he says, with one of the flattest voices Neil has ever heard.

Neil smiles widely, swaying a little on his feet. He still has the man’s hand wrapped around his bicep. “No,” he retorts, slurring the words a bit, “I’m Neil.”

The eyebrow arcs up even higher. Neil’s smile widens. He’s about to say something else, whatever sentence he can think of that would maintain the man’s attention on him, when someone else’s voice cuts in.

“Andrew, you���re soaked!”

Neil turns towards the woman, spying Allison making her way over from behind her, and raises his now empty glass. “My fault. I wasn’t looking.”

She smiles. From close up, it looks even softer than Neil thought. “That’s okay, it happens,” she says, then glances down where the man’s hands - Andrew’s? - is still holding on to him. “Are you okay? Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I just tripped,” Neil reassures her, then looks over at Andrew, whose eyes haven’t left his face. He’s… staring, with an intensity that catches Neil off-guard. And then he’s not, because Allison is coming over and calling his name. The hand drops from his arm like it was burned.

“Neil! There you are.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, then turns, falsely confused, towards Andrew and his friend. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” the woman says, looking a little stunned.

“Your friend spilled his drink on me,” Andrew states, throwing a look at his own friend.

“I was just going to ask the barman for paper towels,” the object of Allison's scheming adds, already half-turning away.

Allison doesn’t hesitate one second before following suit, offering her help. When the woman starts to protest, she takes hold of her arm and all but drags her to the bar. Neil watches the interaction without holding back his smile.

When he turns back towards Andrew, the man is staring at him with a frown.

“Sorry again for your shirt,” Neil offers, though he forgets to make himself sound like he means it. “You should probably take it off.”

The arched eyebrow comes back, and Neil realizes what he just said with a choked laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that. But it would dry faster,” he adds, feeling stupid. Andrew doesn’t look convinced, though, so he feels compelled to add, “I don’t swing.”

“I don’t watch baseball,” Andrew deadpans.

“I’m not talking about baseball,” Neil says, grimacing in disgust. “It’s not even a real sport.”

The look Andrew gives him is the blankest one yet. Neil looks down into his empty glass, then at Andrew’s tank top.

“You really should rinse it down, at least,” he ends up saying. “Otherwise it’s going to stick.”

Andrew stares at him a little longer, then downs his glass and starts to move in the direction of the bathroom. For some reason, Neil follows.

The bathroom is painted mostly black, like just about everything in Eden’s. Only the large sink is white. Neil leans back against it and watches as Andrew grabs a few paper towels from the dispenser and soaks them with water, then starts to wipe at his shirt. He thinks about helping, but remembers the way Andrew avoided touching anyone on his way to the bathroom and figures that there’s not much he could do, anyway.

“You’re not drunk,” Andrew states after a while.

Neil debates lying as Andrew throws the wet ball of paper away and walks to the dispenser to get more, but decides against it. “No, I’m not. I don’t like it.”

Andrew barely glances at him. “You play drunk well for someone who doesn’t like it.”

“S’not hard,” Neil says, shrugging, then figures he might as well come clean and adds: “Allison needed an excuse to talk to your friend.”

Andrew meets his eyes then, eyebrow arched up. “Did she try buying her a drink?”

“That’s what I said.” Neil smiles, then shrugs again. “Apparently she’s been trying to get your friend’s attention for weeks, but nothing’s worked.”

Andrew lets a sharp breath out of his nose, which Neil guesses is the equivalent of a laugh, if the lack of facial expression he's shown so far is anything to go by. “If that’s what she thinks, then your friend’s blind.”

Neil grins. “I’m glad. I thought I’d caught her staring a few times, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Renee likes to think she’s subtle.”

“Well, at least they’re talking now. I don’t think you’re getting those paper towels though,” Neil adds, watching Andrew wash his hands with a distracted kind of fascination. Somehow, the dark armbands encasing both of Andrew’s forearms make his hands stand out. Broad, and worn, with an odd elegance in the way they move. Neil would bet a lot of money on Andrew having some kind of manual career, at the very least a hobby. Something meticulous.

It’s only after Andrew’s wiped his hands and thrown away one last paper towel that Neil realizes he’s been staring, and he moves his eyes to Andrew’s face instead. He finds him with his head tipped slightly to the side, looking at him with the faintest hint of curiosity on his face.

Neil is about to say something - he's not sure what - when some guy he’d barely registered on his radar suddenly steps into his space.

"Hey there, pretty face,” the guy slurs, exhaling cheap booze right into Neil’s face. “Were you waiting for me?"

Neil looks up at the guy's face and begrudgingly resists the urge to bash an elbow into his nose. "Obviously not," he spits.

Hoping that it's enough for the guy to take his hint and leave, Neil starts to turn back towards Andrew. He is immediately jostled back towards the guy as a large hand grabs his chin and twists. "Hey, I was talking to you, Scarface."

"Wow, I've never heard that one before," Neil retorts, rolling his eyes. "You know, you should really make up your mind, asshole. Either I'm pretty or I'm not. Now get lost," Neil says, and is about to jam his knee into the guy's crotch when something tears the asshole away from him. Neil's balance is shaken by the movement, but he manages to stay upright by gripping the sink.

"You don't touch people without their permission. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?" Andrew says, pressing down upon the hold he has on the guy's arm, which he's twisted behind his back with one hand. He has a knife pressed to the guy's throat with the other. His voice is flat enough to cut. "If I see you again, I'll gut you. Understood?"

The guy nods and Andrew sends him sprawling onto the floor. He scrambles quickly to his feet and promptly runs out the door. Light glints off the small knife’s blade, clutched so tightly Andrew’s knuckles look white.

"Thanks," Neil says in the silence. "But I could have handled it."

"I don't care," Andrew snarls back.

Neil looks at the tension oozing out of Andrew's every cell and decides to keep silent. It's the right decision, judging by the way Andrew closes his eyes and starts packing up the tension, folding it back inside little by little. Neil knows the feeling.

The knife vanishes from his hand (and into one of the sheaths Neil suspects are sewn into the armbands), and Neil follows Andrew out of the bathroom. They stand by the door for a bit while Neil watches Andrew scanning the crowd with a clenched jaw. The tension is still there, even packed up, even pressed down tight under the surface of his skin. It needs more space than that to leave.

"Let's get out of here," Neil offers.

Andrew glances at him, then nods. Neil takes a hold of the hem of Andrew's shirt and leads the way out of the club.

*

The night's chill is a welcome change of pace after the density of the packed club's air. Neil inhales a gallon of it as soon as they've stepped outside, and hears Andrew do the same. It smells of cigarette butts and wet asphalt. He had no idea it'd rained.

A faint click on his right - Andrew lights a cigarette and offers him another one. Neil takes it and watches the smoke spill out of Andrew’s mouth like magic, grabbing hold of the lighter only as an afterthought. The metal is smooth under his touch and slightly warm over the imprint of Andrew’s hand. Neil brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a drag, closing his eyes to focus on the burning air flow rushing down his windpipe. He blows it out smiling, eyes trailing after the faint grey cloud. Andrew’s eyes are on him.

“Thanks,” he tells him, raising his cigarette in the air.

They smoke in silence. Neil lets the little circle of fire eat away at his cigarette without taking another drag, content just to breathe and to watch as the tension coiled so tight in Andrew’s chest unwinds, seeping out, one exhalation at a time, into the quiet night.

The quiet can’t last forever, however, especially not on a Saturday night at Eden’s doorsteps, and so the peace is brutally broken a few minutes later as a group of inebriated twenty-somethings spill out over the sidewalk laughing loudly and singing songs. Andrew adroitly sidesteps one of them as he staggers to the side before getting dragged back by his friend, brushing shoulders with Neil. They got their stuff back from the cloakroom when they stepped out and Andrew’s wearing a leather jacket over his muscle shirt, black as the rest of his clothes.

Andrew looks at the group staggering its way down the street until they’re far enough they can barely hear them. “Are you hungry?”

Neil shrugs. “Kinda. Why? Are you asking me to dinner?” Neil asks, smile tugging at his lips. “I doubt we’ll find anything open.”

Andrew smothers the butt of his cigarette on the wall and tosses it into the trashcan Eden’s staff left by the door, then gestures at Neil to follow. It goes against about every instinct Neil has cultivated along the years, but he does.

He doesn’t know why. Andrew’s back is broad and he walks at a steady pace, with an assurance that doesn’t look learned and yet still probably is. Neil remembers the way Andrew looked when he bent the asshole’s arm behind his back, like what he really wanted was to break it in half but knew that he had to hold back. His voice hadn’t faltered then, either. Neil wonders if it ever does.

They stop in front of a motor bike parked some way off of the club, street lights glinting off of the metal and black bodywork. Andrew gets a helmet from some kind of locked compartment and hands it over to Neil, who takes it by reflex.

“Where are we going?” he asks, turning the helmet around in his hands. He’s starting to wonder whether Andrew’s even aware that there are other colors outside of black.

Andrew grabs a pair of gloves out of the compartment and slips them on. “A kebab joint,” he says without looking at Neil. “It’s open until 3.”

 Neil considers the bike, then the helmet in his hands. “I’ve never ridden on a bike before.”

“Don’t get on before I tell you to. Don’t make me lose my balance. When the bike leans into turns, lean with it,” he drones out. “If you do that and hold on, you’ll be fine.”

Neil considers Andrew. The solid stance of him. Once he climbs on the bike, he’ll have no control until they stop.

“Okay.”

There’s a buzzing beneath his kin.

*

The kebab joint is a tiny square of neon light squeezed in-between two higher-end shops, and the only open place to sell food for miles around. There are no tables and no interior, just a counter with a window display that reminds Neil of ice-cream shops, filled with meat fillings, some kind of fried rolls, and a handful of sad-looking pastries. The items are listed above and to the sides - hamburgers, kebabs, paninis, all with various meats and side dishes and an array of sauces Neil’s never heard of before. He has no idea where to start, and so asks for the same thing Andrew ordered.

They pack the smell of cheap food and fat in plastic bags and leave the shop front to sit by the pier. The kebab is greasy and would have made Kevin scream, but the meat is tasty and the sauce is good, and it’s somehow the perfect thing to eat right now.

Through the cloud of their food wafts the sharp smell of iodine. They claimed a spot of the pier to sit, legs dangling through the railing, and the wood too smells of salt, is so ingrained with it that it sticks slightly to the skin and leaves imprints of tiny crystals on their clothes.

They eat in silence; the wash and backwash of the sea beneath the pier is a rolling whisper, swishing quietly past the piles and back again, a dark rippling sky in movement. There is no agitation around them, yet still it seems as though the sea swallows all sounds, pillows the silence with its mass, shaping a quietude with depth. It’s a quality of peace Neil has never felt before.

He’s just about finished with his food when his phone buzzes.

[From: Allison] where r u??

Neil snorts. Andrew raises a quizzical eyebrow at him, but he just shakes his head.

[To: Allison] I left 30 minutes ago, but thank you for noticing.

[From: Allison] was busy :-*

[From: Allison] u haven’t been kidnapped right? did u go home?

[To: Allison] No and no. I’m at the pier with Andrew.

[From: Allison] ?????

[From: Allison] was that a joke???

Neil huffs out a laugh, enjoying the confusion, and puts his phone on silent as more texts keep coming in. Andrew’s phone buzzes once, but he doesn’t check it - just grabs a cigarette and his lighter, replacing the smell of their meal with another. The smoke drifts up and disperses, yielding to the handful of stars valiantly fighting against the electrical constellations of city lights. The moon is gibbous amongst them and fractal upon the sea; Neil distractedly notices that it’s waning, as the curve makes a d and Jean’s trick somehow never left his mind, despite his lack of interest in the conversation at the time.

It makes Andrew look even paler, this lighting. His hair is made of silver and the volumes of his face either stand out or cave, stark and almost unreal.

Andrew’s eyes flick to his.

“Staring.”

Neil smiles. He takes the cigarette from Andrew’s hand and takes a drag, blowing memories up, up, up until they’re gone.

“What do you do?” he asks when he hands the cigarette back. “For a living, I mean.”

Andrew doesn't answer. He just looks at Neil and pulls on his cigarette. A bit of wind blows the smoke sideways, across his cheek and back to land.

"If you won't tell me, I'll guess," Neil says when it's clear he's not getting an answer, and pretends to study Andrew's appearance for clues. "You could be an artist. You look like one." He grins at the unimpressed look on Andrew's face. "Bit of a cursed poet vibe, with the piercings and all that black. Strong aesthetic. I guess you could be a musician, too."

The corner of Andrew's mouth twitches. "Shallow."

Neil shrugs. Appearances tell a lot more than people think, but he's pretty sure he got it wrong. He doesn't actually know how artists are supposed to look like - that's not really the kind of things he learned to watch out for - but it's as good a guess as anything. "It's either that or undertaker."

Andrew blows smoke out through his nose. "Sorry to disappoint, but I just serve drinks."

Neil hums. "Full time?"

"No. I also cook."

"You're a chef, and you still eat food like this?" Neil asks, waving at the plastic bag sitting between them.

"Aide," Andrew corrects. "Anas' is the only decent place still open. I don't see you complaining."

"It was pretty good," Neil grants, then adds, because it's only fair: "I'm a student."

"Late calling?"

Neil smiles. "Something like it."

An eyebrow shaped like a question. Neil ignores it in favor of the sea, but the weight of Andrew's gaze stays fixed on him like an anchor. He wonders if Andrew's trying to guess what something like it may hide; wonders how far away from reality he's wandering, trying to find something reasonable; wonders, even, how he'd react if Neil told him the truth. Whether he'd balk at the scars that prove it or stare at them the same way he's staring at the ones across his face now, blank and unwavering, on the upside of bored.

*

Riding on Andrew's bike the second time is just as exhilarating as the first. The city flies by in a blur - the docks, the bars, the empty streets, they blend together and melt together until there's nothing really left but them, passing. Alone. A figment caught between two worlds.

When Andrew drops him off, the ground still moves beneath his feet. Neil shoves his hand into his pockets and grins, feeling absurdly carefree.

"Thank you. For the ride and for the food - it was amazing."

He means it. Andrew is looking at him like he's trying to figure out if he does. He holds out his hand, and Neil frowns.

He looks to the sky and sighs. "Your phone."

"Oh," Neil says. He puts his phone in Andrew's palm.

Andrew takes one glove off and puts his number in quickly. He tosses his phone back to Neil and brings two fingers up to his temple in salute.

The bike roars to life, the noise filling the street until it's gone. Neil looks down at the brand new contact in his phone, carefully prodding at the little bit of warmth beneath his sternum.

Matt, Dan, Wymack, Allison, Abby, Kevin, his therapist, his dentist and his doctor. Andrew's number brings the staggering total amount of contacts into his phone to a very satisfying 10.

[phil-and-a-corgi]

highschool bandfic in a nutshell - chapter 2

chapter 1

rating: t/m (swearing and also irene’s writing.)

word count: um i dont know a lot ( 2083 )

summary: uhh we have that on the first page

here if you want to read it here then here you go materinos(doesn’t include behind the scenes bants though

here read it on google docs yeah i know so professional(this one has behind the scenes banter)

SECOND CHAPTER (2)

(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - pete’s pov)

after finally putting on my eyeliner (i had no time to do it this morning and i looked like a garbage can filled with shit on fire) i hopped off the sink counter. sighing and putting my MAC charcoal liner back into my bag.i dabbed just a wee bit of eyeshadow because WHY THE FUCK NOT. the bell rang, signalling that i was late for first period. why do i let a bell, a mere beep for 5 seconds control where i go and when i go. it just shows how even though everyone tries to be themselves that everyone ends up being dragged by the trends of society. so i decided to sit in the background and look through tumblr. on my phone. ten minutes of scrolling through poetry and kittens. i should get going now. so i did. i walked into mr armstrong’s class.

“mr wentz may i ask why you’re late.” he asked, jokingly in a teacher’s voice. “sorry it’s required to ask that” he whispered, winking at the class.

“i know why, because he was busy being a GAYLORD”(dh quote) that try hard kid justin bieber teased.

“ok justin please explain how your bleached hair isn’t gayer than his amazing eyeliner.” mr amstrong retorted back as the whole class “oohed” at justin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - frank’s pov)

Fuck Ms. O-Conner. Fuck her class. It's the only class that I don't have with my beloved Gee and the rest of the guys I hung out with and the only class where the teacher actually expects me to do shit. Like okay, maybe there’s some nice chicks in this class and I sit in the back next to a window where I can stare out of and think of my beloved, beautiful Gee, but so what? Lorde’s (yeah, that's what her preferred name was, what a joke) a fucking bore. Honestly, so would this school be, if not for my beloved, precious, beautiful Gee and the shit going on with Ryan and Beebs’ tea drama. Oh, that and the whole of Beaver’s crowd; it was fun watching them get owned by literally everyone here.

Anyway, English class. Lorde Bitchface was screaming about the importance of “putting emotion into your poems” and using “meaningful symbolism” to give your writing “depth” like the edgy bitch she was, so I just tuned her ugly mug out as usual, grabbing my notebook and turning to a fresh page. I gripped the #2 mechanical pencil in my hands and let my mind wander and think about my beloved, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee, which wasn't very hard. I thought about the last time we had made out (in the bathroom near Bitchface’s class in the stall that no one used) and let my hand draw what I thought. I never was a good artist, but my beloved, handsome, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee had taught me a couple things (some about art, some about other things), so I had become pretty good. I concentrated for a good 5-7 minutes on the drawing, making every line count, and then smirked to myself at the finished masterpiece. It was stunning; well Gee was.

“Ah… Mr. Iero, why don't you tell us?” said Lorde Bitchface, looking at me with that stupid fucking teacher look that Mr. Armstrong had copied perfectly from her and would use to joke around. But I, being me, tried to pass it off with a smartass answer, something I always did that got on the bitch’s nerves.

“See now I would, but I don't do things like that for free,” I said, giving her a mischievous look. Several girls in front of me (except Hayley, that sassy lassy, who just rolled her eyes and went back the crap that Bitchface was teaching) turned around and giggled, playing with their hair in a vain attempt to try and get my attention. They knew about Gee and me; the whole school did (that's a story for another time), but they still thought they could get me. But I played along anyway, winking at them and giving them the Frank Iero Famous smoulder. The girls seemed impressed, but Bitchface clearly wasn't, her ugly face (okay, I knew she wasn't ugly, she probably got a lot of action actually with that figure, but I despised her so fuck off) morphing into one of disgusting bitch anger, her nose and eyebrows scrunched up and her lips pursed into a tight, white line. I knew she was about to blow, when a kid sitting all the way up in the front who I didn't even know existed until he spoke his next words (that would definitely be his last if I ever found him alone in a dark hallway, by the way) said, “He's being inappropriate and drawing repulsing images in his notebook, Ms. Lorde. I saw him when I went to sharpen my pencil, Ms. Lorde,”

He then turned around and smirked at me, his wavy ginger hair following him as he did, an aura of smugness about him that I did not appreciate.

I saw the anger drain from Lorde Bitchface’s face and have it replaced with a look of calmness that was actually more efficient in scaring people than her anger.

Fucking asshole, I thought, momentarily losing my cool before reminding myself that I was Frank Iero and bitches wished they could kiss the ground I walked on with their crusty-ass, chapped as fuck lips.

So when that fucking whore of a teacher gave me detention, I simply smiled and said a cheeky, “Can't get enough of me as it is, Lorde? Not that I can't see why you wouldn't want more of this,” running my hands through my hair, knowing that this was definitely gonna make the ugly hag throw a fit, which would be far more amusing than if I had just accepted the offer of yet another detention.

It worked; I got sent to the principal's office, but like hell I was actually gonna go there. I smiled to myself as I walked outside the door, giving Bitchface a cheeky salute as I went out, not staying long enough for her to scream more shit at me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - ray’s pov)

geez well this is frank's seventh detention this week and it's only wednesday. how is that even possible. well, lorde's most recent detention got him a saturday detention for the whole day and i knew he was supposed to go hang out with gee. gerard would be heartbroken if he couldn't make it to their next date. they have date night in saturday. i had to convince lorde to get him out of detention. she hadn't hated me yet, so i had a chance. while we were supposed to be writing deep poetry, i went up to her desk.

                 “hey um, ms lorde, uh sorry about frank. his family isn't really okay at the moment, and well, he's been acting up. more than usual. his parents have been really hard on him, especially with the detentions. i hope you can withdraw the multiple detentions from the past three days. don't mention this to him, or anyone else. please.” truth was that franks family wasn't doing to well but they weren't being hard on him, they didn't care anymore.

          lorde paused for a moment. “ok then, ill withdraw the detentions. only for this week. why don't you go down to the office and tell him this detentions are withdrawn.” i knew i could do it. most ladies have more vulnerable emotions, they’re more sensitive. and that's why women are so great. and now he only had three after school detentions..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - tyler’s pov)

It was lunch for the Sophomores, so as usual, I was trying to find my best fren Josh Dun. It was strange, he wasn't anywhere to be seen, when usually I could spot his vibrant colored hair in any crowd (it was a bright yellow today). So when I entered the large circular shaped cafeteria, and didn't see him, I started to panic a bit.

He was there in the morning, we walked here together, he was there in first period, I saw him when I went to go to the bathroom, he was there during third period because I was there with him, oh no, he got kidnaped… he got bullied he's in a locker somewhere stuck I have to go, he's hurt I have to sav-

“Tyler!” I heard someone scream from behind me, interrupting my very important thoughts about Jishwa. I turned around in pure panic, ready for the news that was going to be solemnly sorrowful; news about Jishwa’s untimely death.

Alas, it was only Jenna Joseph Black, a pleasant surprise at that. I smiled in spite of my internal mental struggle, watching Jenna smiling and running up to me. The cafeteria was now starting to fill up, with cliques of people banding together in their own respectable tables, as usual.

Jenna grinned at me, giving me a friendly greeting. I didn't want her to get worried for my stupid overthinking habit. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, leading me to our lunch table which consisted of me, Jish, her, Hayley (Kiyoko) Adam, Jack, and Ryan. The others weren't there yet, me and Jen usually arrived early, Josh not too far behind us, with the rest walking together, usually bringing some mundane news about whatever they considered important in their lives. Usual conversations involved Jack and his frens coming in with their loud but awkward selves, Hayley not too far behind them, her hands crossed in silent disapprovement at almost everyone and everything. They all would then come in to our table, interrupting the meaningful conversations that Jen, Jish and I would be having, usually conversations about the possibility (or plausibility) of whether coconut sharks could or not exist, (if they did exist, where would they be swimming?) with talk about the latest song from so-and-so’s band or whether Ryan and Brendon would ever get back together, or at least make up.

But that's not what exactly happened today because Jen, ever the one to notice and care, gave me a caring concerned look that depicted exactly how much she cared and was concerned about me and Jish, her eyes gleaming in the bright-lighted cafeteria, her mouth morphing into a depressing frown.

“Where's Jish?” She inquired, the proportions of her face perfectly in line, to the point where she made everyday curiosity look like it was the epitome of perfection, suddenly standing up, probably (or plausibly) realizing that if Jish were here, he would be right now.

I slouched further into my seat, gulping, my throat feeling dry, “I don't Jen… I don't know…”