#I really like buying band tees so that I have something from the experience

[victory-cookies]

god I’m so torn. I have a few things I really buy rn but realistically I don’t think I can afford all of them. So I’m trying to weigh what I should let myself but bc I haven’t bought myself anything nice in a while

[ninathekllrr]

General!Ticci Toby HCs. . .

This took longer than expected . . Read till the end for a lil blurb <3 reminder ! English isn’t my first language.

—Clothing;

It depends on how old Toby is.. at first he only wore the clothes Slenderman “found” him in and whatever other articles of clothing he was able to scavenge up. It wasn’t until a few years later he felt safe enough to venture out and buy some clothes from the thrift. (with stolen money cuz bitch don’t get paid to be a lumberjack,,, a human lumberjack that is.)

I’m so bad at describing; just think of Will Graham's season 1 outfit n shit. 😭 I feel like he’d probably dress like a grandpa. Oversized Grandpa sweaters, those button-ups/dress shirts under w collars that peep out, any baggy pants in general. Work/toe steel boots >> .

He just doesn’t bother much w dressing up! It’s also so he doesn’t stand out much whenever trying to go somewhere in public — sometimes he’d get lucky and find band tees of bands he likes or Jeff lets him borrow some of his own.

—music;

A firm believer that he loves metal. Something about the chaotic-icy helps him “soothe the voices.” his favorite bands would be Sevendust, Rammstein, and Lamb of god!

Once when he was on a mission he accidentally broke into the wrong house and lucky him it was a middle-aged white dad who had a thing for 2000s rock and metal. Killed that fucker and stole as many albums and CDs as he possibly could :p.

He’d DIY a bunch of studded leather bracelets and give a few away to Natalie and Jeffery. Gifting is his love language tbh

—interests;

Most residents of the manor (when he ‘lived’ there) don’t/didn’t know much about Toby since he doesn’t bother socializing much. He seems pretty disinterested to the rest but the dude really has some great hobbies and things he enjoys. For one he loves crafting, especially wood carving! He also has a habit of collecting animal bones/remains to clean and use them as decor. His favorites prob have to be fox skulls :). Very much a trinket collector as well. Just a odd man :3

Besides hobbies, oddly enough he enjoys Sanrio-related things—specifically cinnamon roll. (Since it’s the only character he knows,) he will convince you that the cinnamoroll is a bunny, not a dog. He refuses to accept that the little cartoon character is not a bunny as he first assumed. Of course he likes music music,, he’s given poetry a chance, isn’t the great at it but really enjoys it!

—Biography;

Toby is Dominican-German. His mom was Dominican while his dad was German! He’s fluent in Spanish and somewhat broken German. Around 5’9 to 6’0 foot tall. Late teens and early twenties he was more scrawny than anything but after 13 years of labor and trying to survive he obv grew some muscle mass and like… isn’t built like a 17-year-old boy idfk. Ofc, he was born on April 28th 1994. Toby grew up in more southern states (specifically Alabama) and has a slighht southern accent.

—Proxy experiences;

Toby is a runaway proxy; one of the very few that managed to escape Slendermans (or the operators, depending on which) grasp. Though he isn’t exactly safe cuz of this, If he gets too close to the terrority of Slenderman or the operator he starts developing symptoms and illness. Course the main being static n amnesia, waking up in random places covered in blood, etc. Toby can’t feel pain so the static doesn’t cause immense headaches but it’s dangerous for that exact reason; he can never tell when his nose starts to bleed or his ears rupture.

Toby only got involved with the operator in his later years (maybe around midish late 20’s) when he was in the minced of escaping Slenderman, and just so happened to meet Tim Wight. He spiraled into a REDACTED hell hole from there.

—Love interest(s) ?;

Oh boy, , it really depends on how quirky im feeling. Ticciwork and TicciJeff tbh. He loves ppl with no sanity 🫶🫶 Thankfully Jeff isn’t involved with Slender because he’s too much of a loose cannon to be controlled, much like EJ, the rake, seed, smile, grinny, etc. and Slenderman doesn’t take interest in Clockwork but since she has connections with some of slendermans valuable tyrants and or proxies, the entity leaves her be.

Jeff was the one to help Toby escape slenderman, and snapped him out of his “devotion” era. Clock is just amazing girlfriend and always there for him :p.

extra . . . .

[ REDACTED ! ! ]

This Deja vu feeling haunts him. He doesn’t understand why he’s being searched for. Why do the cops know who he is? Why is he? Who was he?

Childhood didn’t exist. Was he always grown ?

Why is it when he passes down that neighborhood, it feels so nostalgic . Nothing left but ashes and decaying foundations of homes, homes that were once were preoccupied by happy families. He call still smell the remains of the burnt buildings. Strange. It’s like he could never forget.

Jeff always went quiet whenever they were talking and the topic of this neighborhood was brought up, does he know something the EX proxy doesn’t?

What’s more confusing is that fateful night with Natalie, he found himself driving down a dark road that one night. It shared similar sentiment much like the abandoned neighborhood, only much more sinister. He was with Clocky, Pretty brunette with a clock for one eye,, the other an odd emerald green. Over time, the twitchy man taught himself to read clocks just so he wouldn’t have to check his phone for the time. Natalie’s eye always went tick tock, tick tock.

It was only him and Nat against the world at that moment,, so who was the mauled looking blonde in his rear view window? Sitting in the back of his car as well, it was strange. Jeff usually hoarded up the back seats. . He wouldn’t share it with a victim.

But it isn’t just a victim. Toby found himself struggling to catch his breath, who is she? Nat. It’s not Nat. It’s not Jeff. It’s just some blonde girl. A young adult that resembles someone he doesn’t know. Does he know ? ? ?

Who is she?

What was once a soft and familiar safe touch was now ghostly and evocative ? ?

Everything is blurry around him. He doesn’t hear her asking if he’s okay.

He doesn’t feel her cold touch, her hand covering his on the steering wheel.

One moment he’s on the road

The next he’s out cold

.

What caused him to swerve into that tree ?

Why did he put their lives at risk ?

.

Panting. He heard harsh panting. Was that him? Was that her? His hands were completely thrown off the steering wheel and replaced with paler, somewhat smaller ones. Not so gentle though. Something warm was dripping down from his nose. Metallic scent wafted and clogged his nostrils. He licked his lips and wasn’t surprised to be met with blood - he looked in the rear view mirror - NO BLONDIE IN SIGHT

He looked out the window. Did he just barely manage to swerve away from that tree? No. He didn’t save their lives. He looked to his right. A singular green eye met his. She’s unharmed, unlike REDACTED but shooken up. What brought him back to his senses was that familiar disoriented voice.

“Toby, what the fuck ??”

[webdollzz]

HIII i actually have a request if u do genderfluid readers 😋😋 if u do could you do something with the reader not being out yet so when they stare at a dude hobie kinda assumes the worse ?? then they gotta explain they wanna BE him not WITH him yk

bonus if reader is constantly presenting very fem so its a bit of a surprise idk thank u 🤞🤞🤞

a/n: hii angel! of course I can do that, I hope this does my genderfluid babes justice <3

warnings: afab!genderfluid!reader x unlabed hobie?? he fws what he fws, anxiety on hobs part, gender envy on yours, albeit bad descriptors of being genderfluid? I'm trying. he thinks you're cheating/losing interest, british grammar???

You're out on a walk with Hobie, him wanting to take you to his favourite punk shops - buying you whatever you liked from in there cause he's just happy you're liking his style. You're all skirts and blouses - but you don't always want to be that. Sometimes you like it, sometimes it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin because you want to be more masculine that day, week, however long, but you're limited. Baggy clothes just won't cut it anymore.

So, whilst you were sat on a bench, enjoying your food with Hobie and you saw a boy walk past who is just radiating gender envy into you, your eyes stayed glued to him. They way his clothes can be stuck to him with no chest in the way, his hair short but fluffy, his rings decorating his slender, short nailed fingers, Hobie notices. He noticed your lack of response to what he had said before, he looked at you. Then looked where you were looking, his brows pinching together. He then watched you stare at this guy with so much intensity, it's as if he wasn't here at all.

"Wha' Ya know 'im?" He asked, still staring at you and your body language, a familiar unease bubbling in his stomach from the last experiences he's had with unfaithful girlfriends.

"Huh? Oh..no, no I don't." You said, finally taking your eyes off him and making eye contact with your now unhappy, nervous boyfriend.

"Oh? Why you starin' like tha', then?" He grabbed the drink out you lap, taking a long sip of it whilst staring at you over the bottle. His throat feels dry. Is the bottle shaking? Why are his hands shaking?

"I liked..his tee shirt. It had a cool band on it." You lied through your teeth, and Hobie could tell. He slightly shifted in his seat, deciding to leave this little problem for when you were back at his flat.

"Aight.." He shrugged, putting all your stuff into a bag. "C'mon, les do the res' of the shops before they close." He mumbled as he stood up, and you were expecting him to take your hand, but he didn't, now giving you the uneasy feel of dread in the bottom of your stomach. What had you done? The rest of the walk around was mainly quiet, Hobie only making a few comments here and there, but he never actually spoke first. He was just replying to you. You walked back to his flat in the quiet, your hands in the pocket of his jacket he let you wear once it got cold. He's upset but you're still his girl. Are you his girl?

You furrowed your brows, trying to figure out where you went wrong this afternoon. You guys were having such a good time, 'why did he go quiet? Did he want the last cookie you took? No, he wouldn't get upset over something as silly as that. Did he not like the drink you chose? He drank it, it couldn't of been that bad. Why did he start asking about that guy that walke pas- oh fuck. He thinks I was checking him out. Fuck, fuck! how could you be so stupid? He sees his girlfriend starin' at a guy of course he's gonna assume that! How do I tell him I want to be him? Not be with him?'

You enter the flat behind him, shutting the door quietly behind you and taking off your shoes. You watch him wall over to his sofa, sitting himself down with a sigh before looking over to watch you. Seeing the worry and guilt etched onto your face, he spoke up.

"Ya' aight, doll?" He asked, almost in a whisper, not really wanting you to reply.

"We needa talk." You said, walking over towards him. He felt his heart drop, feeling like all his fears were coming true in one afternoon. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, giving a small nod.

"Go on." He glanced off to the side.

"That guy today? I wasn't...I didn't check him out." You said, sitting in the armchair just opposite him, fiddling with your rings.

"Wha' was tha', then? Hm? 'Cause it certainly looked like you was checkin' 'im out." He said almost roughly, the tone making you wince. He's getting defensive, that's understandable.

"No, love - I wasn't. I..fuck. This is going to sound insane, and you're probably gonna feel differently once I say it but I have to say it, I do, i-"

"So say i'." He interrupted you, narrowing his eyes slightly, frowning.

"I...I didn't want to be with him- I just...I wanted to..be him." You admitted quietly, looking down at your hands. He paused, his frown growing but now in confusion. What?

"You...wanna be a boy?" He asked slowly and carefully.

"No- well, yeah. But only sometimes. I feel more masculine than I do feminine some days, but I've been unable to express that. So what you were seeing wasn't attraction, it was envy. Envy that he could look so boyish without even trying, just putting on clothes, not trying to be masculine." You huffed, your voice slightly saddened. Hobie was probably gonna feel completely different about you now.but it's better than him thinking you were going to cheat someday.

He stayed eerily quiet, staring at you. Studying you. Was that true? he couldn't tell. He's leaning more towards yes, though. Nobody would be this worried about this eccentric of a lie.

"Aight..'ow long 'ave you felt this way?" He carefully asked, sitting more upright.

"Since I was a kid, really. I only just realised recently what it was, though. My "tomboy" phase. When I started developing 'n' my clothes got baggier as my chest got bigger, but then I'd wear low cut things, I-..I'm sorry you only just found out - that I only just told you. I didn't know how to approach it, y'know? It's not an easy subject to come by. Hey it's your girlfriend, I sometimes don't wanna be your girlfriend cause I wanna be your boyfr-" He cut your rambling off by pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, his hand on your cheek. He brushed your hair behind your ear, pulling away from they kiss.

"Ay, listen. Tha's fine. I don' see ya any differently. Ya still the love of my life, yeah? Don' worry 'bout it, luv.If you wan', ya can have a bunch of my old clothes, for when ya feel like a lad. Can help you make fits." He comforted you, bringing you closer to him.

"Jus' tell me when ya' start feelin' like tha', yeah? I wouldn't wanna do sum' that makes my love uncomfortable." He said to you, kissing your cheek softly, then your temple, then your forehead. You smile, feeling like you could just cry from how accepting he was of that, of you.

"You'd really do that for me?" You mumbled, making him nod instantly.

"Of course, baby."

"And you don't feel any differently towards me?"

"No' in the sligh'est."

"You still love me?"

"I love you even more each second. Tha' ain't gon' change. I fell in love wit' ya, darlin'. Ain't gonna care 'bout you wantin' to be like that sometimes. Jus' means you can be like me." He smiled, kissing all over your face in-between his words, really wanting you to know he means that. You couldn't help it, a stray tear rolled down your cheek. And he wiped it away immediately.

"Nah, don' cry, my love. 'Cause then you're gon' make me cry." He mumbled, his hand sliding through your hair and to the back of your head, bringing you closer and kissing you again, sweetly and softly. You returned the kiss, of course. He gave you a few more quick kisses, before pulling away, his hand staying put.

"You wan' go pick sum aftershave ou' from my collection?" He offered.

© WEBDOLLZZ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[meissashush]

CorNyx 1, 2, 3? ^_^

*bouncing* Let's goooooooo!

Who would end a heated argument by defending their actions with ‘because I love you!’ ?

Nyx. 100% hands-down Nyx.

Cor would have lists upon lists of reasons, but will usually resort to just stonewalling pretty early on. If there is one thing being the Marshal has not been good for him, it's having equal sided arguments. He gets too used to having the final word in things and not entertaining 'excuses'.

That said, the "I love you" as an excuse would throw him, because it's not something he can he can just Marshal himself out of. He has to engage at that point or end up loosing by the default of being a cold-hearted bastard.

2. What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?

Now, both of them have a lot of experience with dealing with nightmare-induced mania, being as they are both soldiers and have doubtless had to help comrades calm down both on the field and off. It would be a methodical, almost-instinctual, process, though Cor would likely approach it more text-book while Nyx might appeal to the emotions at play.

Either way, they're in good hands.

3. Do they wear the other’s clothes? (sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

On purpose? Not really. Nyx sometimes yoinks a clean shirt or pants on their days off, and sometimes Cor is addled enough in the morning to grab just any shirt off the floor, but mostly they stick to their own.

They really are roughly the same size, though Nyx likes tighter pants and Cor stretches the sleeves out of his t-shirts like a fussy child, it's just that the clothes Nyx wears are all either obscure band tees, mildly inappropriate alcohol promotionals, or out-right rude cartoons. Everything Cor owns either says Crownsguard on it, has the insignia, or was a gag gift that he wears just because it's there. Some of them were cheap multi-pack buys from whatever store he stumbled into one day and realized he might need more plain shirts, but rarely is anything of any real quality or purposeful. Nyx describes Cor's clothes as Sad and Cor just doesn't want to be caught dead in what Nyx wears, so they stay in their lanes.

But, if one of them were to buy another a gift of that nature? It would naturally make it's way into rotation and be worn to absolute death.

[zoe-oneesama]

Serving up some LOOKS! I love Mylene's Ivan sweatshirt! Would you be willing to talk about what sort of style elements you use for each character? (If you already have and I haven't found it, please ignore the question, that's on me)

I mostly did this for Mendeleiev’s class back when Punch was starting Leave for Mendeleiev, and I did a small run down for how the Main 5 fashion will change in Scarlet Lady, but not Bustier’s class sooooo:

Marinette -[I’m copy/pasting from an earlier ask]- When she likes a color, she sticks with it. She has a versatile wardrobe, but pink must always be present. She has the hardest to nail style because she experiments all the time, but no matter what she doesn’t feel comfortable unless she has an outer layer. Summer, Winter, Shorts, Pants, she needs to the comfort of a jacket - for Tikki to hide in when her purse isn’t appropriate.

Adrien -[Also C/P]- Basic B*tch. He thinks he’s fancier than he is. Oh sure, his clothes are well tailored to him and fit well, but they’re basic as hell. Gabriel isn’t as “innovative” as he thinks he is. Most of his clothes have the Gabriel logo and he sticks to the brand…because Adrien has no fashion sense whatsoever. Oh, he knows in theory what works and can put an outfit together, but he doesn’t want to. If it were up to him, he’d wear tshirts with physics puns and cat themed jackets. But alas, when one is an icon…

Alya -[C/P]- Mom Vibes. Fashion is not her priority. She knows enough to do good for her figure, but otherwise can’t really be bothered. Flannels and jeans in varying heights and a snappy tshirt are all she needs. But she is drawn to things that remind her at least of superheroes or superpowers. Her ridiculous high tops with the spiky tongue? She thinks it makes her look fast. She’s also the one who’s going to embarrass Marinette by wearing trendy but “garbage” fashion: fanny packs, Jellies, ugs with sweatpants. Dammit Alya, you’re a beautiful human being, do you mind NOT dressing like a hobo on vacation?! (Secretly her favorite outfits are from Martinique, but she saves them for special occasions).

Nino -[C/P]- Precious trash goblin. Wash your shirts and the neckline won’t be so worn out! He likes graphic tees with his favorite bands and DJs logos on them (he’s partial to ones without the name of the band or DJ so he can find other fans) and prefers things to be loose. He’s also drawn to colors and he’s super chill when his “garbage” girlfriend rolls up to a date looking like she’s going to an amusement part with her four kids, because it means she can’t dump on him for not looking “put together” (she would never!). He’ll try to dress up every now and then for a fancier date or when Adrien manages to snag him a spot at an event with him, but it’s pretty clear he’s uncomfortable without his hat and headphones. He has a few Moroccan outfits that he brings out in the Summer.

Chloe - Expensive Fashion Forward Chic. She made a staple out of shaming anyone else who dared to wear her favorite color yellow over the years. She was extremely smug about being the first in her grade to experiment with makeup that she never bothered to get good at it. Her clothes are expensive with just a smidge of impractical - only someone with cash to burn would constantly wear white pants! She’s also the kind of person to put off dressing for the cold as long as she can- if she puts on all these jackets and layers, how will these peasants see my brand name clothes underneath?! A lot of her fashion decisions are based on long forgotten advice from her mother - gold over silver jewelry, always have something on your head, brand or nothing. She’ll only abandon a well worn trend if her mother directly contradicts it.

Sabrina - Nerdy, geeky, almost like she’s wearing a uniform. She’s preparing to be Chloe’s assistant best friend for life so she has to look the part. She’s long abandoned any hope of shining next to Chloe, so being flashy and showy is out of the question. Luckily, Chloe isn’t drawn to patterns, so that’s a field of fashion that Sabrina can claim for her own. Doesn’t matter where it is, something she’s wearing needs to have a pattern. Leggings are her favorite accessory and she’s taken to collecting Chat Noir merch (though it’s less out of admiration for the hero himself and more for her “role” with Chloe. It reminds her of the rare times when Chloe acts like they’re friends.)

Mylene - Bohemian, and a touch artsy. Peace is important to her and her vibe reflects that. She’s not super up for showing a lot of skin, but neither are a lot of girls in her class. She leans towards a muted color palette so that her hair doesn’t clash, though she usually tries to match one piece of clothing to some color in her hair. Her accessories are a bit childish and kitchy, like her monster head bead, and she has a huge collection of hair accessories, like bandannas and headbands. She has a lot of different passions with various levels of seriousness, so she’ll come to Marinette for advice on how to use her wardrobe to fit the level of professionalism she wants.

Alix - Sporty but on the lazier side. Fashion is such an anti priority. She’s the one Marinette will go to for her more out there ideas because she has no recoil to pants made of buckles or shapeless over shirts, but that’s as far as it goes. Her clothes are made to be weather resistant and easy to slip on (and so that her dad won’t be pissed if she wipes out and rips something). If it were up to her, she’d just shop out of thrift stores and pick out all the color blocked 80s windbreakers, but when your whole squad is held together by a fashion designer, you can only get away with so much. Her nicest clothes are made by Marinette for her professional races and competitions and her favorites have nods to Egypt mythology and history.

Ivan - Punk but like…beginners guide to punk. Let’s be honest, when you’re built like a brick house, shopping is hard - or at least not that much fun. Ditto when you’re a dude that just…doesn’t particularly care. Ivan has a bunch of cargo pants because they fit, they’re grungy, and they’re practical. SO MANY POCKETS!!! Beyond that, like Nino, he prefers to wear band shirts of his favorite groups. His hiking boots are the nicest things he owns and he has a few bracelets that he only brings out when he’s “dressing up”. The most colorful thing he owns is a hoodie/pants set from the Cartoon Monster Show that Mylene’s hair bead is modeled after.

Kim - Sporty and Serious. Sweatpants and running shoes. That’s the make of his wardrobe. After all, you need to be able to challenge anyone to a race at ANY TIME!! Dressing up for him means putting on a pair of jeans, and he’s pretty much always under dressed but also completely oblivious to the fact. Red is his favorite color and he’s partial to that one brand of sports wear that’s on his hoodie-shirt and sweatband. If something is waterproof (and therefore, sweatproof) he’ll give it a try AS LONG AS IT’S REEEEED!!!

Max - Geek Fashion. Max dresses like he’s already 65 years old, and with his best friend being Kim? He might be. He has invested in some good walking shoes because when your bestie is running off at any and every moment, you gotta do SOMETHING to keep up. His pants are higher up than most guys and his shirts are always tucked in. He prefers sweaters over sweatshirts and cardigans to jackets. We are comfortable in this house, not trendy!

Juleka - Electro Goth. Black is the main attraction, but she likes that punch of something neon - purple, green, even blue (Rose can tell she’s feeling romantic when she puts on some pink). She’s tall and likes clothes that accentuate that and she’s a fan of the details - shoulder cuts, lace inserts, epaulets. And despite covering half her face, she’s really into makeup (and she’s way better than Chloe). Does she have colored contacts? She’ll never tell.

Rose - Decora Kei is probably the best shortcut to describing her look, followed by Kawaii Fashion. Doesn’t matter if she burns to look at, she IS the embodiment of soft and cute! Obviously pink is her favorite color, bu she also likes pairing it with some other bright colors. Rainbows. Are. EVERYTHING. And she’s a sucker for bunnies and strawberries and angel wings ^^! How else is she supposed to have an amazing day if she’s not decked out in sunshine?!

Nathaniel - Basic but like Colorful Basic. He definitely hopped the skinny jeans phase and will continue to do so until he finally grows a bit. He holds onto clothes pretty long because there’s only so many times you can buy new shirts after getting paint and charcoal on them before you just stop caring. He aims for durability instead of fashionable, but also collects clothes with the logo from the show he likes. (And no one knows about his secret Ladybug merch collection that he only wears around his house).

Lila - Gyaru was the search term I used. She’s one of the few with a not super saturated color palette, sticking to dark neutrals. She’s drawn to patterns, like polka dots and zebra prints, and tries to balance it with neutral colors. Plus anything that makes her seem “exotic” and foreign and more interesting, she’ll wear (as long as it’s stylish enough for her.) She cleverly toes the line between fashionable and trashy, showing just enough skin or using a just flashy enough pattern. Every piece she wears she’s crafted a whole story around how she got it, like her bracelets being a gift from street kids in Belize or her earrings being a prize she won when impressing an East Asian Prince. 

[nade2308writes]

(For Nate, John, Cole, and Lucas, sorry it's so many!)

👁 What is your OC’s eye color? Do they have any eye-related habits, like winking or rubbing their eyes? Do other people tend to notice their eyes?

👤 What is your OC’s skin like? Is it unblemished, or are they prone to breakouts? Do they have any scars, tattoos, or other skin markings? Does their skin tend to be sensitive to things that get on it (lotions, cleaning products, etc.)?

👖 What type of clothing does your OC generally wear? Why? Do they have any “signature” accessories?

Thank you so much for this asks @thethistlegirl ❤. I was delighted to receive it, because my brain just went wild with the answers. Hope you will like it.

👁 What is your OC’s eye color? Do they have any eye-related habits, like winking or rubbing their eyes? Do other people tend to notice their eyes

Nate - Nate's eyes are blue. They can sometimes change to lighter shade of blue or green, depends on what color are his clothes. He tends to rub his eyes when he is tired. Other people definitely have noticed his eyes because of the subtle change and it makes him stand out, although he would like to not be noticed much.

John - John has rich dark brown eyes that can get lighter over time, especially when he is tired or crying. He does have the habit to wink at Nate and Nate started doing that at one point, too. People don't usually notice his eyes because he fits the description of brunet with brown eyes, but in a crowd where that look is uncommon or less represented, John's eyes are noticed for sure.

Cole - Cole has brown eyes with a golden circle around the brown. He does not have a habit of doing anything with his eyes, other than rub them when he is tired or when he tries to stay focused. His eyes are noticed from people because of the golden circle. It gives them a unique look. It's what Lucas notices first too after the initial fail when they first met.

Lucas - Lucas has blue eyes, like the sky, and sometimes they get a stormy shade of blues and greens, when he is tired or angry or scared. They darken so much that they sometimes seem they are not even blue. Due to the nature of his poor eyesight, he wears glasses and that sometimes stops him from rubbing his eyes. But also he is afraid of an eye infection if he touches his eyes and he's been doing something beforehand. He's had a lot of eye infections in his life and they suck. No one really pays any attention to his eyes unless he keeps longer eye contact with them, or they get to know him. He is shy and keeps his head down most of the time. In fact, Cole saying that his eyes are pretty for the first time is the only comment he's got about his eyes in a very long time.

👤 What is your OC’s skin like? Is it unblemished, or are they prone to breakouts? Do they have any scars, tattoos, or other skin markings? Does their skin tend to be sensitive to things that get on it (lotions, cleaning products, etc.)?

Nate - Nate's skin is very sensitive. He is prone to get sunburned if he stays for a longer time under the sun and even with sunscreen the protection rate is very small, he could still burn. He has some faded scars on his back from where his father sometimes took a beating on him with the belt, but he doesn't have anything lasting. The scars on the inside are those that are not easy to forget. He has a mole on the junction between jaw and neck, and he inherited that from his mom. He has several tattoos that are all about being a survivor and holding on. He gets another one right after his uncle is caught and the case is closed. There's few other scars that are mostly from injuries in the line of duty.

John - John has a lot of scars from the line of duty injuries. He has bullet wounds scars, a nasty one where he took a knife to the side and almost died, and there's several from when a suspect came at him with a whip (don't ask about that case) and caught him good on the back of his neck, extending to his collarbone. He has several tattoos, mostly a reminder of his life so far. He has a stylized Dia de los Muertos skull with marigolds for his family that died in a car crash. He has a tattoo reminding him of his dead partner. And he gets one that reminds him of Nate right after Nate gets into a coma.

Cole - Cole has a lot of scars. He was in the Army and got himself shot, stabbed, tortured, and carries scars from each of those encounters. His skin is prone to break out even if it's a light strike against the skin, like a friendly slap on the shoulder or his thigh/arm (when you get excited and want to get someone's attention). Luckily those little encounters do not leave scars, just a bit of redness and bruises that will go out in a few days and it might be painful for a bit, but it's bearable. The worst wound and scar Cole has is from the last mission in the Sandbox, right before he was honorably discharged. He got shrapnel in his left side and then was captured alongside one of his unit when he attempted to save that guy from the insurgents' lair.

Lucas - Lucas' skin is very delicate. He is prone to bruise easily when he bangs himself on doors and furniture edges. He is a klutz. And sometimes he gets bruises if someone grips his hands or arms tightly. It makes him feel very self conscious about how that might look to the naked eye. He's had to convince people that he is not participating in any illegal activities that might give him bruises more than once. His father was against tattoos, and Lucas never got one, but he always wanted to. He has burn scars on both arms, courtesy of a lab accident where the experiment he worked on exploded, and it shouldn't have. Later, it was discovered that the ingredients were sabotaged and that's why the thing exploded. It takes a while for Lucas to tell Cole that he has scars. Most people don't react well to them.

👖 What type of clothing does your OC generally wear? Why? Do they have any “signature” accessories?

Nate - Nate loves wearing soft blouses, sweaters and hoodies. He grew up in a warm climate, but after living in NYC for a better part of his life and meeting John, he learned that just because he could, he shouldn't tough out the harsh New York winters by refusing to dress warmly. It's something his adoptive father Paul and his partner John gripe about constantly to him. He feels the most comfortable in well worn jeans and pants. He doesn't like the scratchy and constricting feeling of new clothes. Signature accessories for Nate are scarves.

John - John likes to dress in sweaters and cargo pants mostly, but some days when he is off duty he likes to indulge by wearing skinny jeans with a band tee. He loves classic rock so he has all kinds of t-shirts with band logos. Sometimes he wears those at work although Walter (their boss) is not very fond of that and has berated John on more than one occasions. He wears wrist cuffs and wrist guards often so that's a trademark look. During a mix-up between the police and FBI years ago he was arrested and the cuffs cut into his skin and left permanent scars that John doesn't want anyone to look at because it raises so many questions as to how he got them. Sometimes he wears rings. He also wears a San Sebastian medallion (his bio parents gave it to him shortly before they died in the car crash). 

Cole - Not to be a walking cliche, but Cole loves flannel/plaid. Almost all of his shirts are different shades and colors of plaid. He has t-shirts in several colors that he sometimes wears underneath the shirts. In summer though, he wears tank tops while he works. He is most comfortable in well worn jeans that are faded due to so many times of being work. He likes to lounge in a t-shirt and sweatpants, but often sleeps only in his underwear. As for a signature accessories, he wears rings on both hands.

Lucas - Lucas loves to wear sweaters and shirts that are soft and cottony. He likes the feeling of fluffy clothes and he would buy the softest shirts when he indulges himself in shopping. He also likes to combine a shirt with a vest, as well as a plaid or monochrome shirt with an open vest. He likes to wear jeans, even though sometimes he lets himself buy some chinos or even tuxedos (although that's just for events he was invited to so he only owns a few pair of tuxes). He loves rings, but just like with the tattoos, his father did not allow him to wear any. When he meets Cole and Cole notices Lucas' fascination with the rings, he breaks out the box full of rings that Cole doesn't wear anymore and gives them to Lucas.

[cultivated-man]

About Me

I have been tagged by the lovely @day6andetcetera 

1. Its your birthday! What did you ask for and did you receive it?

I don’t really like celebrating my birthday, or getting gifts but I did ask for one thing this year- I asked for a pretty traditional Chinese tea set and sadly I haven’t had a lot of time to use it much. I keep asking my mom to buy me a ukulele but she wants to hold it for Christmas but I cant wait that long ugh

2. What was the last song or album you listened to?

I’m currently listening to music because I was trying to do homework but lost focus so oh well I’m here now- anygay, I am listening to the 1975’s Frail State Of Mind. I love this song and I think that the 1975 is one of those groups that you should listen to if you really want to get to know me because I’m bad at explaining myself, I end up giving people music to understand- (them and Twenty One Pilots, swmrs, Stray Kids, Green Day.. I could go on-)

3. What is your go to snack when you’re hungry or bored?

I don’t really snack, but if I do I make myself some ramen or I eat some pretzles. We rarely have candy in the house but if we do I’ll eat that.

4. What is your morning routine?

Currently my daily routine has been this: I wake up at anywhere between 8am to 10am, I get up about 30 minutes to an hour after that because it takes a while to really reboot my brain in the morning. Then go to the bathroom and splash my face with some water. After that I go downstairs, drink some coffee and chat with my mom for a while, then I go back upstairs into my room and read my tarot cards. I really don’t normally do much at all until my older sister goes to work at night (she is a huge distraction to me and how I function properly, I can’t do schoolwork when she’s around)

5. What mythical/cryptid creature would you be?

Would the grim reaper count? I feel like that would be super cool to be someone who takes someone’s life when it is time. (wow that’s dark) If not then I’d pick a demon or the devil anyway because that shit is cool too.

6. How do you interact with someone that you don’t like?

It really depends. Unless they have wronged me, my friends or family in a way that I can’t forgive them, I will tell them straight up to get out of my life. If its something small or I have my gut feeling that I just don’t like them, then I do what I normally do with any person- Ignore them. That’s kind of a lie, if they talk to me I will be kind and talk but if not I will do everything to avoid any human contact.

7. How do you define a toxic person?

Oh wow, what a question. I think a person is toxic when they are hypocritical, manipulative, overly cocky, downright aggressive/rude for no reason. That is probably my least favorite person.

8. Have you ever been to a concert or fanmeet type event?

I have been to a few concerts! Most of them I was just someone to fill an extra ticket, except when my ex bought us tickets to go see Twenty One Pilots two years ago when we were still together. It was a great show, that is my favorite band and seeing them live was the best experience. I would recommend everyone seeing them at least once. Even if you don’t like the band, because they just have such a strong presence on stage its amazing. I really really want to go to a kpop concert and now that I live near LA I think I may have more chances to try! Now it’s a matter of picking which group… now that’s hell.

9. Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?

Kinda? I mean, my older sister got me into reading about it. Its based on huge generalizations of groups of people, but sometimes it makes sense, so I kinda believe.

10. If you only had one sense (hearing, sight, touch… ect.) which one would you want?

Another hard question. That’s super difficult for me because I’m torn between touch and hearing. Those two are two senses that I am really reliant on. I always listen to music and I can’t live without it. I do have hearing problems in my right ear so I fear any other problems with losing that. I also have lost my 20/20 vision but I am not so worried about that as much. I didn’t really answer that question but I don’t think I will because that’s super hard.

11. Who is your favorite celebrity or idol?

There are a few celebrities that I look up to I will just list a few but I wont explain why much because that would take for-fucking-ever. Here’s the list in no certain order: Elton John, Jake Gyllenhaal, Chris Bang, Matthew Grey Gubler, Lee Hoseok (wonho). All of them have something that really has changed my life in one way or another. All of them have said and done things that really have impacted me.

12. If you could talk to Your favorite celebrity for a limited time, what would you tell them?

I think I would want to talk about life. How they changed mine, and I would want to also make an impact on them as well. At least a little one, because I love being someone who makes people think differently, and I have made impacts on people that I never thought I would so I think that would be fun.

13. I’m taking you out on a date and its your choice. Where are we going, and what are we doing?

I’m a slut for museums, parks, bookstores, zoos, coffee shops, anything to deal with that type of thing, waking around and viewing things I guess? I’m a big nerd so anything like that would be amazing.

14. Do you like sweet or savory foods?

I like both, but I’m more of a spicy savory guy, but I do like me some sweet deserts.

15. Do you have any band merch or anything from your favorite artist? If so what?

I have a quite a few band tees for Monsta X, Stray Kids, BTS, Twenty One Pilots, and I think that’s it? I have a BTS and Twenty One Pilots beanie, I have BTS and Stray Kids albums/posters. I think that’s it? OH I have a Twenty One Pilots necklace that is a homemade friendship necklace made in the shape of Ohio (my home state) and my friend gave it to me with the confetti from the concert that we went to (she went to the concert with her sister, they carpooled with us). 

I’ll tag a few people~ @maddiesup @sarawatism @thecynicalartist @totalgarbitxh 

[metalchickaf19]

The Bowers Gang: How the Guys Would Behave at a Rock Concert with Their S/O (Anonymous Request)

* In a scenario where the guys take their partners to a Guns N’ Roses concert.

* Any and all credit for this idea goes to the requestor.

Belch

Super psyched to be at an actual rock concert

Like... the most psyched you’ve ever seen a person be

Has only ever been able to buy taped live performances off the burners at his school, and so is kind of mind-blown to actually be at one in the flesh

Shows up early to tailgate/kick it with the metalhead crowd (starts blabbering about 60s’, 70s’, and 80s’ rock with at least five different groups of people)

Matching band tees for Huggins and his partner?

That question is met with a resounding yes (our resident teddy bear spent the entire night before decorating them)

Lets his s/o sit on his shoulders for the majority of the performance...

... yet also manages to keep a beer in his hand the whole time somehow

I don’t even know, man - dude can balance a Solo cup full of Budweiser and his fully grown beloved without flaw

Functioning alcoholism, folks - it’s an art  

Randomly tickles his s/o’s sides/sways them around on top of him to the music

Lots of drunken singing (*cough* screaming *cough*) along with the band  

Tries to get up on stage during the finale (because intoxication), but gets booted off by security

Insists that he and his s/o should try to sneak backstage and meet the band after the show, but ultimately passes out and needs to be driven home

What can I say? Drunk Huggins 1.) slurs everything, and 2.) is mischievous

... It’s really good that you didn’t try to sneak backstage though

That was a terrible idea

Henry

Didn’t want to come to the show, but let his s/o drag him along

Mostly because relationship Bowers = soft Bowers, but also because Butch took the day off work that day

Tries to start a fight with literally everyone that bumps into him (aka: 70% of the crowd)

In general, acts like the one tense needle in a haystack of party people

I.e. Won’t eat or drink anything, stands rigidly straight, watches the people around him as if they’re up to something, etc.

Basically just radiates that natural “Bowers” vibe despite the fact that the setting isn’t suited to it anymore

Doesn’t sing/respond to the music at all once the show starts...

... but is straight-up enthralled by the concept of the mosh pit

Seriously. Just stands and stares at it for a good few minutes, completely ignoring the stage

Never decides to join in though, because Henry isn’t about that “fair fight” life

Rolls his eyes every time his partner sings along with the band

Eventually starts mumbling lyrics under his breath/nodding his head along to the beat, but stops every time his s/o looks over at him

Yeah... you basically brought a walking corpse as your concert date

Have fun with your socially inept, perpetually angry boyfriend

Patrick

Doesn’t care about the music part of this at all - just came to fuck shit up

Didn’t even know what band he and his partner were seeing until they showed up early to tailgate

Takes food from people’s cars/trucks/grills mid-conversation so they won’t notice (i.e. hiding in plain sight)

Also steals a couples’ tickets immediately before the show, and sells them back to them saying he “just had extras”

Moral of the story: Hockstetter is never a kind soul, folks - if he has what you need, he’s probably the one that took it from you in the first place

“Encourages” his s/o to jump into the mosh pit (aka: tries to physically force them into it while laughing like a maniac)

Eventually accepts that they won’t do it though, and dives headfirst into it himself

... the mosh pit was disbanded by security a few minutes later though, because people started dropping with severe injuries (random stab wounds, 2nd degree burns, etc.)

Screams out the lyrics with his s/o every time the band lets the audience sing along

Goes into a literal trance when everyone puts their lighters in the air at the same time  

Probably the most “at peace” facial expression his partner ever sees Patrick make - just stares out at the field of flame in front of him, and barely seems to be processing it

... But you know what Hockstetter was thinking about?

He was thinking about how he wished he had brought his hair spray, so he could light up 80% of the crowd at the same time with one spritz

... Yeah. His train of thought was less than wholesome, and we’re all extremely surprised by this, I’m sure

In the end, slightly murdery, but overall a fun experience

His s/o better be down to try to sneak backstage after the performance, though - unlike Belch, Hockstetter can actually make that shit happen  

Victor

Doesn’t know the band well, but is happy to be at a concert nonetheless

Spent the last few days familiarizing himself with the band’s music so he would be able to follow along with the songs

Doesn’t sing much, but moves to the music a lot

I.e. Nods his head a lot, rocks his body back and forth to the beat - “cool guy” moves

Cuts loose when it comes to headbanging, though

Like... legit.

What can I say? Criss gives no fucks when “Welcome to the Jungle” is playing, so shut your mouth and stand at a safe distance

Randomly disappears from his seat in the middle of the show...

... and comes back with an armful of band merch for his partner (hat, t-shirt, complimentary hot dog - the works)

Keeps an arm around his s/o and sings along with them after some adorable urging (Victor can never resist the dough eyes)

Whenever a slow song plays, pulls his partner to a secluded part of the venue beside the stage to dance with them in private

... which inevitably leads to a highly romantic make-out session every time

Ends the night with a cheap, late-night meal at the local diner, and much talking about the extreme amounts of fun had at the concert

Is it a dream date?

I’ll let you decide.

... Yes, it’s a dream date.

[atc74]

Huckleberry

Square(s) Filled: Western for @spngenrebingo, Love Confession for BTZ Bingo, Road Trip for @spnfluffbingo2019

Warnings: slight angst, Dean in a Stetson, tears, fluff

Summary: Y/N plans a trip and fakes a case to tell Dean how she really feels but it doesn’t exactly go the way she had planned. 

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2611

Written for: btzbingo, @spngenrebingo, @spnfluffbingo2019

Beta’d by: @alleiradayne, thank you love. 

A/N: This may have been a request or a suggestion at one time, or it could have been a conversation between me and @sis-tafics, I don’t really remember. Either way, I like how this turned out and I hope you do too!

Like Dean’s scent? Buy it here from @scentsfromthebunker!

“Hey Dean, I found us a case,” Y/N looked up as Dean walked into the kitchen, his dead man robe hanging open, revealing his boxers. He shuffled in his old man slippers across the cold concrete floor to the coffee pot.

“Great, I’ll let Sam know. Ready in thirty?” he asked, savoring the first sip of his coffee.

“It’s a milk run, thought maybe you and me could take this one on our own. Give Sam some alone time.” Y/N looked at Dean over the rim of her cup, waiting on his reply.

“Yeah, sounds good, Sweetheart,” he smiled and her heart flipped in her chest, lodging itself in her throat. She’d always been a sucker for his smile, but when they were alone like this and she knew it was just for her was a whole other story.

Thirty minutes later, she meet Dean in the garage as he was checking the weapons. She tossed her overstuffed bag in the back seat and joined him at Baby’s trunk.

“So we have pretty much everything we need for anything, except lamb’s blood. It’s not a djinn, is it?” He looked to her as he lowered the lid on the weapons cache.

“No. No djinn. Please no djinn ever again,” she shook her head clear of the memories of a hunt gone wrong a couple years ago. It was the turning moment in her life and her perspective of the elder Winchester. The djinn-induced dream revealed her deepest desire and while deep down she may have always known she was attracted to Dean, she never thought that a life with him could be possible. She pursed her lips together, blurting out her well practiced dialogue. “Ghost. Should be a simple salt and burn. Two, three days tops.”

They climbed in the car, doors shutting in unison. Dean turned the ignition and Baby rumbled to life, purring like a badass kitten. As he put her into drive, pulling out of the garage, Dean turned to Y/N. “Where to m’lady?”

Y/N was sure she blushed a couple different shades of pink. “You’re gonna love this, Dean... Tombstone, Arizona, good sir.”

“Tombstone? Are you shitting me right now? We have a case in Tombstone?” Dean was so excited, Baby lurched under the pressure of his booted foot when he turned his upper body to face Y/N.

“Easy cowboy!” she laughed. “It’s just a case.”

“It is not just a case. It’s a ghost in Tombstone! Ahhh! Maybe it’s Billy Claiborne! I bet it’s Billy Claiborne,” Dean smirked and turned his attention back to the road, flooring it to get to their destination. It was going to be a long drive.

And it was. With Dean so excited about a potential case in Tombstone, the mecca of all things Wild West, it was a struggle to keep him focused. The sooner they were checked into their room, the sooner her nerves would calm down. Or get worse. It was a crap shoot at this point.

Y/N had never been so nervous in her life. Sure, she hunted the worst of the worst. She’d been shot, stabbed, broken bones and has been stitched up more times than she can count. But telling her best friend she’s in love with him? It was a whole new ballgame.

Dean slowed as they entered the city limits, his eyes wide as he took in the sights of Tombstone, Arizona. After all the miles he had logged, after all the places he had been and things he had seen, it was somewhere Dean had only ever dreamed of visiting. He didn’t even care what the case was, he decided they were staying a few extra days so he could see and experience everything Tombstone had to offer. And with his favorite girl by his side.

“Hey, I called ahead and reserved us a room. I thought it was the least I could do, dragging you all the way here and all,” Y/N mentioned as he stopped at the crosswalk. “It’s just ahead, Wyatt’s Hotel and Coffee House. Two of your favorite things, Winchester. Wyatt Earp and coffee.” She giggled as she watched Dean, a wide smile breaking out across his handsome face.

“Don’t forget you and whiskey,” he winked and Y/N felt herself blush in the darkness of the Impala. “Let’s get checked in and start fresh in the morning, huh?”

After Dean parked, they got out of the car, bags slung over their shoulders and walked into the hotel. Y/N approached the desk, checking them in while Dean stood in the middle of the lobby, his mouth agape, taking in everything. The hotel was directly across the street from the O.K. Corral and there were faded photos all along the walls depicting the rich and outlawed history of the town. Y/N jingled a set of keys at Dean to get his attention and together they climbed the stairs to their room on the second floor of the hotel.

Dean took the keys from her and stared at the sign on the door announcing they were entering the Wyatt and Josephine Suite. “Seriously?!” His voice was higher than his usual baritone, accentuated by the excitement. “Wyatt and Josephine!” Dean unlocked the door and swung it wide. The room furnished with period pieces, right down to the steel frame bed and lace doilies. He didn’t even say a word about the single king size bed.

Y/N let him inspect every little piece of the room while she went to change in the surprisingly modern bathroom. She had done her research and while the website toted a ‘spacious modern bathroom’, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. She tried to keep her mind focused on taking off her clothes and putting on her pajamas, which to be honest, was just a pair of loose boy shorts and a old band tee she had stolen from Dean. She could hear the voices in her head telling her she was wrong. She shouldn’t do this. She’d lose her best friend. But for once her heart was louder and stronger than the voices in her head. She smiled to herself and stepped out of the bathroom to find Dean already in bed, reading what appeared to be all of the brochures the hotel had provided.

“Did you know the O.K. Corral is literally across the street? Man we gotta go there! And the Birdcage Theatre. This is awesome!” Dean hadn’t stopped smiling since they left the Bunker. Y/N hoped he doesn’t stop for the entire trip.

“I knew you’d be excited about this!” she told him, climbing into the opposite of the bed. “There is a coffee shop downstairs and a continental breakfast is included. What’d’ya say we get some shut eye, then start our day with coffee and pastries, maybe some bacon?”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean repeated, placing the brochures on the bedside table and flipped off the small lamp.

Y/N woke the next morning to an empty bed and room, Dean having disappeared. Christ, there better not really be a case here! She thought to herself as she attended to her morning business. She stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped tight in a towel to find Dean sitting at the small table. Y/N wasn’t sure who was more surprised. Dean to find her in just a towel, or her seeing Dean in his best western get up, complete with light colored Stetson and boots.

Y/N took hold of herself mentally shaking the impure thoughts from her head. “Soooo, what’s with the gettup, cowboy? Or should I say Marshall?”

“Well, when in Rome…” Dean gestured to the room with a wink in her direction and she swore her knees were going to buckle if she looked at him one more second, or worse, she was going to rip the towel from her body and throw herself at him like a fool. She quickly grabbed her clothes and returned to the bathroom.

“Fuck!” she mumbled after she managed to close the door. She was going to have to fess up sooner rather than later, because in all her scheming, she forgot to pack her Fed suit. Throwing on a tank and her tightest jeans, she stepped back out in the room to see Dean holding out a hat similar to his own.

“I got you one, too, Sweetheart,” he dropped the hat on her head.

“That’s so sweet, Dean. Thank you,” she whispered, overcome with emotion at the small gesture.

“Of course, Sweetheart. I gotta take care of my best girl,” he smiled and placed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Speaking of which, your suit is hanging in the closet. I’ll go get us a table while you finish getting dressed.”

Y/N watched him swagger, yes swagger, out of the room. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest that she was surprised he didn’t hear it. She took her suit from the hanger, shocked that she forgot it, but Dean remembered. He was always looking out for her, even when neither of them realized it.

She twisted her hair up in a low bun at the nape of her neck and brushed some mascara on her lashes. She never was much for makeup, but figured a light coat couldn’t hurt. She checked herself once more before grabbing her key and making her way downstairs to meet Dean. She dreaded having to tell him the truth, but hoped he wouldn't be mad. So what if there wasn’t a case? They were in Tombstone, Dean’s Disneyland, and she was going to make the most of it for him.

Dean had secured not only a table, but he already had it loaded with hot coffee, just the way she liked it, a pile of bacon, along with a plate of fruit, and a toasted english muffin, complete with peanut butter. He was halfway through a chocolate covered bear claw when she sat down. “You spoil me, you know that right?”

“Someone has to. If it wasn’t for me and Sammy, you’d spend your days hungry and naked,” he chuckled, mumbling something under his breath that sounded a lot like “not that I’d mind” but she brushed it off as a hallucination due to minor starvation.

“You’re right. You cook for me and wash my clothes. I’m a lucky girl. I’d hate to think what I’d be without you,” she nibbled on the english muffin, licking the peanut butter from her thumb.

“You’ll never have to worry about that, Sweetheart,” he vowed, quickly changing the subject. “Now, tell me about this case.” He rubbed his hands together, ready to hear all the gory details.

“Yeah, about that. I hear there have been some sightings at the Birdcage Theatre,” she mumbled.

“Birdcage Theatre it is!” Dean finished his coffee while she ate the last bite. “Come on, you can finish your coffee on the way over. It’s just a couple blocks.”

By the time they reached their destination, she couldn’t keep it from him anymore. “Dean there isn’t a case!”

“What do you mean there isn’t a case?” Dean turned and looked at her, the look on his face a cross between annoyed and offended. “You dragged me all the way here for nothing? I can’t believe you faked a case!” He turned on the heels of his boots and walking away.

Tears streamed down her face. She hadn’t even made half the confessions she had planned and he was already pissed at her. Great. Way to go Y/N, she thought, kicking a stray rock down the street and she walked back to their hotel. Just as she reached the hotel, she spotted Dean leaning against the wooden fence at the O.K. Corral. He looked deep in thought so she let him be and walked up to their room. She shed out of her suit, carefully placing it back on the hanger and in the garment bag. Y/N dropped to the bed and curled up into a ball, letting the tears fall for everything she had just lost.

She groggily blinked her eyes open, the sun shining too brightly through the lace curtains. Dean was sitting in a chair too small for his large frame, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. She walked over to where he sat, kneeling in front of him.

“Dean I am so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have faked a case, but I just wanted some time with you. I thought this would be the perfect spot to get away. Forget all the shit we’ve been through this year. You’re always taking care of me and I just wanted to do something nice for you for once. I’m sorry,” she sniffed, the tears coming back.

“Sweetheart, why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to get away? If you had led with that, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat!” Dean looked down at her, crying at his feet. “Why go to all the trouble?”

“Because of you, Dean. You do everything for me. You’re always looking out for me whether you realize it or not. You feed and clothe me. You and Sam took me in without question and gave me a home and a family,” she cried.

“Because that is what you do for someone you love, Y/N.”

“I’m so sor - wait. What did you say?” she blinked rapidly, thinking that it would somehow improve her hearing. She thought she heard Dean say he loved her.

“I have been such a chicken shit! Ever since that damn djinn hunt, I’ve been lying to myself, to you. I shoulda said something, but I was afraid I was going to lose you,” Dean confessed, sliding from the chair and dropping to his knees in front of her. “I love you. I think I have since you burst into our lives. I can’t imagine mine without you.”

Y/N couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It seemed so surreal, she laughed. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes for good reasons. “Oh my God, Dean. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Those are the sweetest words you could ever say to me.”

“Care to enlighten me, Sweetheart?” Dean didn’t look amused.

“Yeah, yeah. I, um, I planned this trip a couple months ago. I brought you here on the false pretense of a case because I felt I needed an excuse and I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you how I really felt. I love you, Dean. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me in my stupid life and just needed you to know,” she smiled up at him.

“I’m so glad you planned this. I love you, Y/N,” Dean whispered, leaning in. He pressed his lips to hers softly, testing the waters. Y/N reached up, grabbing the back of his neck and pulled him closer. She returned his kiss with vigor, pulling back from him only to catch her breath.

Dean leaned his forehead on hers. “For smart people, we’re pretty stupid. I coulda been kissing, and doing other things to you, this whole time.”

“No time like the present,” she grinned, kissing his lips once more.

“Can we still go to all the places and see all the things? There isn’t anyone I would rather experience Tombstone with than you,” Dean professed.

“I’m your Huckleberry,” she whispered. The trip may not have started the way she planned, but it certainly was turning out better than she could have dreamed of.

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it!

The Whole Enchilada: @iwantthedean @dolphincliffs @mrswhozeewhatsis @meganwinchester1999 @cherrycokegirls1 @closetspngirl  @roxyspearing @flamencodiva @blacktithe7 @sis-tafics @just-another-busyfangirl @evansrogerskitten @amanda-teaches @wotinspntarnation @winchesterprincessbride @winecatsandpizza @kickingitwithkirk  @wi-deangirl77 @hobby27 @mogaruke @gh0stgurl @paintrider13-blog @hunterscabin @alleiradayne @idreamofplaid

The Dean’s List: @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @dean-winchesters-bacon @maddiepants @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @supernatural-jackles @docharleythegeekqueen @adoptdontshoppets @mtngirlforever

BTZ Crew: @katymacsupernatural @pinknerdpanda @hannahindie @chelsea072498

[allurefm-blog]

hey ! my name is link ! i go by he / they pronouns , am 21+ & live in the cst timezone ! i’m an obnoxious aries , but i promise i’m nice for a clown . i’m excited to be here ‘cause i’m a slice of life h*e . & this here is my weirdo tommy , who i hope you’ll like a lot . under the cut , you’ll find some misc. info & wanted connections , but here’s his dossier & pinterest board , which has more information for you . feel free to like this if you’d like to plot & i’ll swing by in your ims ( or ask for discord which is honestly easier for me but it’s okay if you don’t ) !

☕ . ˚ ◝  (  kim jongin. genderfluid. he/they. ) thomas “tommy” song is a twenty-five year old gemini. the deja brew barista’s go-to order is matcha lemonade and grilled cheese. they like to listen to tempo by lizzo feat. missy elliott while they wait for their order. the employees of the deja brew think they are inconsistent but swear they’re totally versatile as well. maybe that’s why collected sketchbooks that remain empty, horror movie marathons, band tees paired with perpetually messy hair remind me of them.

misc. info : ( content warning for : emotional abuse & neglect, negative religious imagery )

they’ve always lived in the la area & don’t really see themselves leaving even if they hate it here sometimes for whatever reasons they made up in their heads

their father owns several businesses & is generally well off. he has people convinced that he’s a really good guy but in private he’s an unbearable asshole. just really nitpicky about everything & overbearing in forcing his opinions on his family

their mother was a struggling actress & the few projects she was in flopped & then she became too old by society’s standards to get work & tommy’s dad ragged on her for it, poking at her appearance / weight until she finally gave up & settled for being his assistant

not only is their dad just a dick he’s also extremely catholic which intensified his already aggressive personality. for as long as tommy can remember their dad nagged him for anything possible. they never seemed to be “enough of a man” for him which absolutely tainted the way they viewed themselves

this plays a large part into why they decided to dump the idea of being a man period. all their life they never felt comfortable with being masculine & felt like a failure any time they tried but it wasn’t until their late teens that they felt comfortable identifying as nonbinary

they also suffer from a lot of catholic guilt. their dad was that typical shitty religious guy who went on homophobic rants at random so those views affect them even now

while they consider themselves closeted & default to saying they’re straight when asked they don’t keep up with it very well. any time a pretty guy makes eye contact with them they’re gonna go for it then beat themselves up for it later

they’re a thot. they enjoy physical intimacy but don’t really believe in the idea of romantic love ( yep his dad ruined that for them too ) so they prefer to sleep around than try to get close to anyone

whatever relationships they’ve been in they probably ruined it by not being affectionate or caring enough because they never learned how to be like that with another person ( whatever feelings they and their mother shared were more out of pity than actual love )

also they might be a cheater. i haven’t fully decided if they have or not but they definitely consider it constantly when they’re dating ( if you want some kind of plot like this let’s goooo )

so basically they struggled growing up but just emotionally & mentally. they were great in school but they hated the experience & everything along with their parents caused them to become pretty anxious & introverted in their adulthood

they can & will go out but they prefer not to & they’re terrible at socializing. things can be pretty awkward with them without them meaning to. & their sense of humor is very dry so it can come off as mean ( again without meaning to )

they’re really interested in drawing & painting but they went to college for computer science & honestly it makes them pretty miserable but they’d rather suffer than deal with their dad jumping down their throat

they took a couple of years off from school to gather themselves mentally ( basically had a breakdown in the middle of a semester & their dad still drags him for it ) but are in their senior year now

they only answer to tommy. if you call them tom or thomas you’ll just get a scowl in response then ignored

basically they’re both a fake goth & art hoe. they wear black sometimes but not constantly but always refer to themselves as a goth & they buy more sketchbooks than they need ‘cause they never draw in them ( they prefer using napkins & their textbooks )

they roll up their jeans and their sleeves because they’re bisexual

dogs are some of the only things that will make them outwardly happy if you want them to lose their mind then just show them a dog or even pics / videos

they love matcha it’s their favorite flavor but they actually hate coffee despite working in a cafe. but they’re really good at making latte art & getting tips because they’re pretty & and good at flirting with customers

they’re obsessed with horror movies. they relate a lot to movie monsters for trans reasons & find them comforting even when they’re super gory. currently their favorite movie is midsommar so you can catch them going off about it a lot

they love slushies & smoothies. if it’s blended & has a lot of sugar then they fuck with it heavily. also most of the time they’re too lazy to make their own food so they use drinks a lot as meal replacements 

they can’t cook worth a damn. they probably get most of their food from deja brew

they love plants a lot & keep a bunch of them at all times 

they’re a hipster they love collecting vinyls & patches for their many denim jackets

they love going on drives to anywhere everywhere at random. they don’t need a destination they just wanna drive

they sleep in small four hour bursts & are pretty much always tired

they love pizza & pasta. if it’s italian they’re a stan

they’re super clumsy. probably run into things or trip five times a day

they’re secretly dramatic & gets upset when their friends / lovers don’t give them enough attention but they will never bring it up other than through playing it up 

they collect band tees even for bands they don’t listen to & they don’t care if they get called out for it

wanted connections : 

rooommates ( one or two )

exes ( any gender. it can be messy or friendly. i’m willing to have tommy be the issue since they can be rather uncaring & we could even do a cheating plot if you want maximum angst. also bonus points if they’re exes that are still “involved”. )

hookups / fwbs ( any gender. singular experiences or regular type things )

childhood plots for those who’ve lived in la ( childhood friends, first kisses / crushes, all that good stuff )

high school sweethearts

their first sexual experience with someone masculine. i want the awkward teen ( or early twenties whichever ) experience & it’s probably something that tommy gets ( dare i say it ? ) shy about even now

flirtationships that don’t go anywhere

maybe a regular customer that they keep flirting with & the customer thinks they actually have a thing for them but they don’t & it’s weird & awk

maybe they fuck up your drink and your muse is mad about it but they try to flirt their way out of it with either good or disastrous results

your muse is the person that has to deal with this behavior

one-sided crushes ( don’t mind who has the feelings ! )

mutual pining but they’re both idiots & have no idea

anything from this tag 

party buddies. horror movie buddies. video game buddies. road trip buddies. any of these can be combined

tinder date ( it can go well or not )

literally anything you can think of i’m probably down for it

[winnipegpatty]

We’re Fatally Flawed | five | s.m. series

a/n: this is 5.4k of cute shit, and i’m in love with it. please send me feedback. catch up with the masterlist in my bio, and feel free to support me on ko-fi if you like what you read! <3

“We are always in motion Like the winds, the tides, the ocean Everyday I'm born again I wake up I feel that second wind We're gonna be alright, we're gonna be alright”

At the age of nineteen, Mandy hadn’t been on many dates. She’d spent most of her teenage years listening to punk bands and attending Warped Tour with her best friend Valerie. But at nineteen Mandy had also been in college for a semester, and felt like her life was quickly changing forever. She was pursuing a teaching certificate, and he style was changing everyday. She’d lost some of her punk flair for a more reserved, comfortable style. She’d started researching child psychology and wondered more and more about how she may one day change lives for the better.

It was in her first psychology class where she met James. He was handsome, with short, styled blonde hair. His eyes were a bright blue that were captivating, and Mandy wasn’t quite sure she could trust him. But when he’d asked her on a date, there was a part of her that wanted to say yes simply because she hadn’t been on a date since coming to college. And that’s part of the big college experience, right? Dating, going out, partying? Some part of her, admittedly primitive but nevertheless there, felt like she may have been missing out on some grand life experience.

So she’d yes. And on a Friday evening, in the heart of downtown Toronto, Mandy felt what it was like to be completely broken for the first time. When she’d arrived at a movie theatre, expecting to meet an eager James. She’d thought, maybe they’d get a popcorn to share and half way through the movie maybe he’d kiss her. That’s what people always did in the movies anyway. But it became increasingly apparent as their agreed upon time and spot grew closer. Fifteen minutes. Ten minutes. Surely by five minutes? And then...ten minutes late. Twenty minutes late. Mandy was sure the previews were probably over. Maybe the movie had even started. But, she’d been standing outside of the theatre for a half hour, and it was embarrassing to turn around.

So she did what any independent, strong, slightly hurt girl would do. She marched up to the ticket window in her brand new black platform boots and ordered a ticket for the Fault in Our Stars. They’d planned on seeing Captain America: The Winter Soldier. But, if Mandy wanted to watch a romance movie then she fucking would. The movie had been out for weeks, and had been moved to one of the smallest theatres. When she entered, the movie had just begun. From the back, she could see another person sitting towards the middle, but no one else. Another lonely soul. She wondered for a moment what their sob story must be. Did it rival her own? Mandy took a seat a few rows in front of the guy, and leaned back into her chair, hoping to absorb herself in the story of Augustus and Hazel and forget for even a moment about herself.

It just wasn’t in the cards for her.

Hazel was sitting in The Heart of Jesus, which Mandy was pretty sure she probably couldn’t say without a trademark at this point, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked to her left to see a boy, slender in figure with boyish curls and a sweet smile, hovering near her.

“Any one sitting here, or do you happen to be as lonely as me?” His lips lifted slightly as he motioned to the seat next to Mandy.

She let out a soft laugh, feeling somewhat embarrassed at being called out on her loneliness, but she really couldn’t deny it.   

“Nope, it’s just me.”

“Two makes company,” the boy offered.

Mandy smiled, but didn’t respond as the boy walked around the row of seats and into her own. For a moment he stood by Mandy, still not sure of taking the seat.

“I’m Shawn.” He offered his hand to her as he finally took a seat.

“Mandy,” she shook his hand, then looked at the screen, “And that’s Hazel Grace. She has cancer.”

“Damn that must suck,” Shawn muttered, also turning to the screen.

Mandy chuckled and just whispered a ‘yeah’ under her breath.

Being the only two people in the movie theatre was pretty great because you could laugh and talk as much as you wanted.

“What a fucking bitch,” Shawn shouted, completely outraged at the way Monica had dumped Isaac.

And then they’d gone to egg the house, and Mandy about lost her mind.

“You’re daughter’s done a great injustice, and we’ve come here seeking revenge.” Gus had said when they decided to egg Monica’s house.

“Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to use that one day,” Shawn laughed and Mandy laughed along with him.

And then they’d gone to Amsterdam, and Gus told Hazel Grace his cancer had returned, and Shawn cried. Mandy cried too, but it wasn’t as loud.

“They’re so young,” Shawn whispered to her.

“I know,” Mandy hiccuped lightly. “Why the fuck do people like this movie?”

They walked out of the theatre together that night with each other’s numbers, red eyes, and bleeding hearts for Hazel Grace and Gus.

__

“Mandy?” Shawn whispered.

They were laying in bed, Friends playing on the tv across the room, and Mandy was dozing between consciousness and a blissful sleep. Her sleeping since Shawn had told her about the tour hadn’t been stellar, and she didn’t even want to think about what was going to happen when he was gone.

She hadn’t slept alone for two years.

Shawn was leaving in two days on a red eye out of the country. She wasn’t ready, but she knew it was coming with or without her permission.

“Mandy?” Shawn whispered again, this time nudging her lightly.

“Hmm?” She asked, not asleep but at that point when you’re right on the edge and really don’t want to be bother.

“Come with me.” Shawn said.

“I’m not going anywhere, this bed is warm, and I’m going to sleep in the next ten minutes,” Mandy said in a monotone.

“No,” Shawn stammered, “Come with me. On tour.”

There was a pause – and not like a good pause, an accessing pause – before you Mandy sat up in the bed.

“Excuse me?” She asked, pushing her back up against the headboard.

“I know we said that you’d visit and I’d visit and we’d talk. I just, I don’t want that for us Em. I want to be with you, in person, together. So come with me.”

Mandy scoffed, she actually scoffed.

Crossing her arms, she looked at Shawn before saying, “I can’t.”

“I know,” Shawn whined, “You have a job, but I’ll be making money Mandy! We can afford it. We’ve saved, tour covers the costs of living. You can quit and come with me, and we can be together.”

“No, Shawn, I can’t quit.” Mandy responded, her tone reeking of her annoyance with Shawn.

They’d talked about this, discussed it like the adults they were, and now Shawn just wants her to up and quit her job to be with him? It wasn’t happening.

“Come on, Mandy,” Shawn groaned, throwing his hands up in a frustrated gesture. “It’s just a job, and you can get a new one when we come back. There’s always going to be another job for a teacher.”

“Shawn it is the middle of the school year, my students rely on me, and I cannot just leave them because my boyfriend doesn’t think he can live without me for a few months.”

“Thirteen months, Mandy. Thirteen. It’s more than a few,” Shawn’s voice rose slightly. “You realize, that thirteen months is getting quite close to half of the time we’ve even been in a committed relationship. We’re not talking about a short vacation or a small business trip. We’re talking about over an entire year Mandy. And I want this relationship to work, and I just don’t know that it will last a entire year of long distance.”

“Winter break is in less than two months Shawn,” Mandy reasoned. “I’ll see you then. I’ll buy tickets right now if you want me to. We’ll be long distance for a few months, sure, but we can handle it. And then the summer will be here before you know it. I am willing to work on this Shawn. This is important to me. You are important to me. But I cannot quit my job. I will not give up on the kids. I won’t give up on Jack right as I’ve begun making progress. You’re important, Shawn. God you’re so important to me, you have no idea. But my job and my dreams are important too. Please, please understand this.” Mandy pleaded with him. “Please,” she whispered finally.

Shawn stared at the ceiling for a minute, feeling dejected. He knew Mandy was right, but the sinking feeling in his gut told him they weren’t going to last even a month of tour. He told himself that was just his anxiety talking to him. He did his best to push those thoughts away.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Shawn resigned. “You’re right, and I had no right to ask you to do something like that.” He leaned over the middle of the bed and lightly placed a kiss on Mandy’s lips, before he turned away from her. Shawn laid down, covering himself with his blanket, and turning off his bedside lamp. “Goodnight, Mandy.” He mumbled.

Shawn tried his best to fall to asleep instead of falling into the anxiety attack that felt like it was lingering at the door, waiting for his guard to come down.

___

Dating Shawn had been like a dream, consisting of everything girls grew up hoping for. Over the five months they’d been dating, Mandy had seen Shawn transition out of business college and into a budding musician. He’d gotten his lip pierced, which Mandy found to be incredibly attractive. And his once small gages had grown two sizes. His curly hair had grown, and now his curls flopped in front of his face lightly if they weren’t styled. He’d switched from wearing slacks and dress shirts to torn band tees and ripped black jeans. Mandy wasn’t sure if Shawn was just becoming who he’d always wanted to be, or if she’d taken him to one to many punk shows on the weekends and started to rub off on him.

She couldn’t really bother to care though, because she loved any version of Shawn that he wanted to be.

Five months wasn’t much time, but Shawn knew it was enough time to fall in love. Because that’s exactly what happened to him when he met Mandy. He had no idea what had possessed him that night at the theatres to tap on her shoulder and take a seat next to her, but he thanked his lucky stars everyday for it. It was around the fourth month when he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved her. There was no momentous moment that brought his attention to the feeling.

It was just like any other day. It was warm outside, which was something Canadians didn’t get frequently. It was early August and there was a carnival in town in his hometown of Pickering. He’d made the drive with Mandy on a Saturday morning. Classes hadn’t started up again for her, but Shawn wasn’t going back this semester anyway. The drive was quiet, peaceful. Mandy had her window rolled down, and the wind was blowing her hair in her face. She never seemed to mind though, a quiet smile on her lips as she watched the buildings of toronto turn into trees. The sun was shiny onto her tight brown curls, making them appear lighter than they were. Over the four months, her freckles had become more pronounced than when they’d first met. Her thick, round, metal rimmed glasses sat perched on her nose, and she just looked like a dream to Shawn. She was perfect to him.

When they’d stepped out of the car, the carnival in full swing, Shawn looked to Mandy and smiled. She was a few inches taller than usual, in her favorite black platform docs. Her plaid skirt was short and her black long sleeve crop top finished off the look. Shawn was always stunned by beauty, sure, but what made Mandy special was her confidence in wearing whatever she wanted. She’d show up to a punk rock concert, not a single piercing or tattoo on her body, feeling completely at ease where other may feel intimidated. She’d show up to class decked out in fishnet tights, a polka dot red dress, and three inch platforms. She didn’t give a fuck what others thought about her. And Shawn admired that about her.

“Where to first?” Shawn asked, reaching for Mandy’s hand as they walked into the sea of people.

It was like breathing in childhood nostalgia. The small of corn dogs and cotton candy, kids running around screaming with balloons in their hands, couples kissing sweetly behind game booths. Carnival workers hollered out at passer bys trying to tell tickets, trinkets, or the like.

Mandy hummed, “Funnel cake.”

“Funnel cake,” Shawn repeated happily.

With their hands tangled together between them, they set off for funnel cake. Shawn paid, and they found a plastic table to sit at while they talked softly about Mandy’s next semester of school. Shawn’s left hand rested on Mandy’s thigh as they both ate. Mandy sucked the powdered sugar off her fingers, and rested her head on Shawn’s shoulder as he ate the last few pieces.

“Wanna go ride the sketchy death machines?” Mandy’s smiled into Shawn’s shoulder as she mumbled the words, referring to the carnival rides.

Shawn’s chest shook with his laughter and he nodded, “I’d love to ride a sketchy death machine with you Mandy Stein.”

She giggled sweetly, “That just might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me before.”

“Well, I’d hope so,” Shawn rolled his eyes, “I just said I was willing to die with you. It better earn me some boyfriend points.”

Mandy peered up at Shawn through her mascara covered lashes, “You already have all the boyfriend points you could possibly need.”

Shawn beamed down at her, lightly kissing her lips, tasting the sugar on her tongue as their breath intermingled. As they pulled away, Shawn squeezed her thigh before patting it lightly. “Okay, up. Time to die.” He said sarcastically through another laugh.

“Off we go!” Mandy shouted, as she dramatically skipped off to the ticket booth.

If Shawn thought Mandy looked beautiful in the sunlight of the car ride down, then he wasn’t prepared for her beauty at sunset. They’d managed to spend the day at the carnival, sharing kisses, playing rigged games designed to make them lose, and eating enough sweets to make someone hurl. It was perfect. It was beautiful. They were getting tired, but Mandy was determined to ride every ride one more time before they could leave. Now, the sun was a golden orange and the sky was a blushy pink. They were buckling into a ride that would lift them high and swing them in a circle (a glorified swing for adults is how Shawn described it, but Mandy said that took the fun out of things). Their legs began to dangle as the ride lifted off the ground, and Mandy squealed in anticipation in the feeling of her gut dropping. Rides like this gave her such an adrenaline rush, and she’d stay on them all day and night if she could just chase that feeling forever. Her short curls blew backwards and her legs swung freely. A look of bliss swept her face, and Shawn smiled contently, knowing in this moment that he really did love her. He knew-- not because her beauty, though it was breathtaking-- but because he’d do anything to see that look of happiness again. He’d do anything to put that look on her face, and assure that she was always as happy and free as she was in this moment.

As the ride came back to the ground, Shawn felt more grounded than he ever had in his life. Grounded with Mandy by his side, he ran his hands through her hair and tugged lightly on one of her particularly tight curls. She looked at him, thinking he wanted her attention. Her eyes were bright, and Shawn smiled down at her. While they waited for the ride attendant to come around and unbuckle the bar, Shawn took the moment to appreciate Mandy. He cupped his hands on her cheek and leaned in to kiss her softly.

He pulled way, his lips inches from hers and whispered, “You’re beautiful, I hope you know.”

A blush ran up her fair skin, and Shawn loved that. Loved that she blushed just as wildly and easily as he did.

“You’re beautiful,” He said again, this time with a slight fire in his belly and his tone stronger, “And I love you.”

A small gasp slipped from Mandy’s lips, puffing over Shawn’s lips.

“You love me?” She whispered.

“With everything in me.”

“I love you too, Shawn.” She push forward, connecting her lips to Shawn in a passionate kiss. He nipped on her lower lip and she moaned ever so lightly. He pulled away, leaving her breathless, her lips plump and red.

“I love you so much, Mandy Stein. I could never come up with the words to make you understand.”

__

Shawn leaves for tour tomorrow, and Mandy was determined to make the most amazing, not at all sad, memorable day that he’s ever had. She wanted it to be a day they could look back on and smile and remember fondly. Not a day that they thought back on and were sad. There would be no tour talk today. No talk about distance. Or missing each other. No, this was going to be an exciting day filled with adventure and memories.

And if it wasn’t, so help Mandy, she would find a way to turn back time because a bad day simply wasn’t an option.

She may have an entire day full of activities planned that Shawn had no idea about, but could she really be blamed? She had no idea when would see Shawn next, and she wanted to remember this day. She woke up at six, which was unusual for a Sunday morning, but she had a plan to execute. She started with a quick shower, styling her curls into a top bun to keep it out of her face. Then she headed to the kitchen to fix Shawn’s favorite breakfast, french toast and bacon. It was around seven when she heard Shawn shuffling down the hall. He entered the kitchen with a yawn, scratching his stomach like a fucking chimpanzee scratching itself. But he looked cute, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Why’d you get up so early?” Shawn asked through another round of yawns.

“Wanted to make you breakfast,” Mandy said as Shawn leaned his large frame onto hers, causing a laugh to spill out of her. “Get off of me you fucking giant.”

Shawn mumbled, “Don’t wanna.”

He wrapped his arms lazily around her waist, nuzzling his nose into her neck.

“Ugh, you’re such a baby koala when you’re tired.” Mandy adjusted under Shawn’s heavy embrace, to be slightly more comfortable under his weight.

“You’re supposed to love it when I’m clingy and cuddly,” Shawn said with a pout on his lips that Mandy could feel on her neck.

She laughed softly, “I love everything about you babe, even when you’re clingy as fuck.” She pinched his love handle softly and jumped a bit, muttering a quiet ‘hey’.

“So can I eat this food? Or is just for show?” Shawn asked, kissing Mandy’s clavicle quickly as he popped off her, standing up straight. Mandy straightened up from the release of Shawn’s body on hers.

“Of course, eat as much as you’d like.” Mandy smiled, pushing up on her toes to kiss Shawn on the lips lightly. “And good morning.”

Shawn returned Mandy’s smile, “Good morning.”

They sat next to each other, eating quietly in the peaceful atmosphere Mandy had tried so hard to create.

“So, I had something I kind of wanted to do today,” Shawn said as he finished his last slice of french toast.

“Oh?” Mandy asked, not giving indication that she’d already had the day planned completely.

“Yeah, I…” Shawn stuttered for a moment. “Well, I don’t know if you’d be up for it, but I was just thinking maybe it would be cool.”

He continued to ramble for a moment before Mandy finally interrupted, “Shawn, stop rambling. What are you talking about?”

A light blush covered Shawn’s cheeks, “I have an idea for a tattoo I want.”

Mandy’s brow creased, “And you want to do it today? Why today?”

Shawn scratched his neck for a moment, “Well...I want you to get the tattoo too,” Shawn trailed off.

“What?”

“Like...I want to get matching tattoos.”

“Shawn, I don’t have tattoos…”

Shawn nodded, “I know, and I know you can’t have them at school...so I thought maybe you could like...get it on your shoulder or leg or something that’s covered by clothes.”

Mandy stayed quiet for a moment, thinking about Shawn’s words. “You’ve really thought about this?”

Shawn nodded quickly. “If you don’t want to that’s okay. But like...I think it would be nice. It’s like a reminder that we’re going to be waiting for each other...” Shawn’s blush deepened, “I don’t know maybe it’s stupid.”

Mandy shook her head, placing a hand on Shawn’s thighs. “It’s not stupid. If that’s important to you, then I’ll consider it. What’s the design?”

Shawn’s face lit up with hope. “Hold on!” He was beaming as he stood up from the table and bounded back to the bedroom. He came running back with his phone moments later. “Okay, so like I was thinking this.” Shawn pulled up a picture on his phone of a bird.

Mandy eyed him, “A...bird? You want me to get a bird tattooed on my body for the rest of eternity?” She was skeptical. She thought he’d have something romantic in mind...not a fucking bird.

Shawn chuckled. “Not a bird...a sparrow.”

As if that were better?

“Shawn...that’s a fucking bird.” Mandy said pointing accusingly at the photo.

“It’s a sparrow, and it’s cute,” Shawn pouted again. “It has a meaning. It’s not just a bird.”

Mandy rolled her eyes at his adorable pout. Even with a lip ring, gages, and a tattooed chest, he somehow looked like a little boy asking his mom to buy him candy. “Okay, well, what is it?”

“The sparrow is one of the only bird that remembers it’s home.” Shawn said, his eyes lit up with excitement. “And sailors used to get this tattoo before going on a long voyage, it was the sign of someone who’s a traveler and away from home a lot, but that they remembered their true home.” Shawn’s lips lifted slightly as he looked at Mandy smiling. “And well, Toronto is great and all, and sure Pickering used to be home...but Mandy,” his breath ghosted Mandy’s lips and she did her best not to shiver, “You’re my home now. And I don’t want to forget that, and I don’t want you to forget that I’m always going to be coming home.”

“Well, shit,” Mandy breathed. “When did you become a fucking poet.”

Mandy’s plans for the day flew out the window as they got dressed together, going to a tattoo parlor down the road that Shawn loved.

“Anthony is literally the best in Toronto,” Shawn said as they walked into the parlor, nervous energy pouring out of him.

“Okay babe,” Mandy laughed after squeezing his hand.

“Hey Shawn!” Anthony hollered at Shawn from a chair where he was finishing a tattoo for someone. “Be with ya in just a minute, man.”

“Thanks Anthony,” Shawn smiled.

Fifteen minutes later, Anthony was wrapping the person’s tattoo and was giving after care instruction before he came to greet Shawn with a shake and a clap on the back.

“Been a while, man.” Anthony smiled. “What can I do for you today?”

“Looking to get two tattoos. One for me and one for Mandy,” he gestured to Mandy.

Anthony nodded, “Can absolutely help you with that. You have an idea? How big are we talking?”

Shawn reached into his pocket pulling out his phone, showing the picture. “I’m going to get it here,” Shawn pointed to his right hand. “About this big,” he made a circle that took up a good portion of his hand.

Anthony nodded, turning to Mandy, “And yours?”

“Same one,” Mandy said quietly.

“Same place?” he questioned.

She shook her head, “No, uh,” she looked up at Shawn, questioning. “I think on my thigh, here.” Mandy gestured to her left thigh, just right below where her underwear would end.

Anthony nodded. “Okay, about the same size?”

Mandy nodded.

He walked behind the counter, opening a book of appointments. He muttered a few things to himself for a moment before looking up to Shawn. “You okay with coming back in about two hours? I have enough time to get you both in back to back then. Otherwise, we’ll have to do them separately.”

“Yeah, that works.” Shawn smiled.

“Okay, be back at eleven-thirty and we’ll be ready. Send me that picture so I can prepare a bit.”

Shawn nodded, sending the picture to Anthony’s number. They’d worked together enough that this had become a routine.

“See you,” Shawn said as they walked out of the parlor.

Mandy smiled, thinking she could probably execute a few of her plans with Shawn before they’d have to be back for the tattoo.

“Okay, my turn now.”

Shawn smiled, holding her hand tight. If he knew anything about Mandy Stein, he knew she probably had an entire schedule planned for the day. Her type A and teacher personalities sometimes came together to become controlling of time spent together. He’d been a little worried about Mandy being okay with them just getting tattoos on a whim like this, but she was doing so well at going with the flow.

“Where to, Ms. Stein.” Shawn smiled, “I know you have a million things you want to do.”

Mandy’s cheeks heated, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Shawn hummed, unconvinced.

Mandy refused to give any clues as to just how planned the day had been prior to Shawn’s interruption. But she really didn’t mind. If Shawn was happy, she was happy. She led them to High Park, just wanting to go for a walk and enjoy his presence. She hadn’t wanted this day to be full of tourist adventures or excessive experience after another. She just wanted to spend the day doing all of the things she and Shawn had been doing with each other every weekend for the past three years. She wanted to remind him of their life together.

“You wanna go to a movie tonight?” Mandy asked as they walked through the garden.

“Sure,” Shawn shrugged, not really concerned.

“Cineplex is having a throwback weekend,” Mandy said mindless as she stopped to look at a particularly patch of daisies.

“Yeah?” Shawn questioned.

Mandy hummed, “Thought we could see The Fault in our Stars again,” she replied quietly.

Shawn nodded, “I’d love that.”

They returned to the parlor not too long after they’d eaten an early lunch.”

Mandy got on the chair first, nervous and ready to get the everything over with.

“Okay, just show me where,” Anthony asked.

Mandy pushed up the left side of her flowing yellow sundress, pointing to the area on her leg she wanted it. Anthony went to work preparing her skin and the needle as Shawn sat in a chair next to Mandy.

“How much is this going to hurt?” She asked Shawn quietly.

“You’ll be okay.” Shawn smiled.

“You might have to sing to me.” Mandy laughed lightly, nerves keeping her on edge.

“Happily.”

Anthony swiped over Mandy’s thigh with a pad and rubbing alcohol. The feeling cold on her skin, as Mandy felt her muscles tense. Anthony pulled out  razor, unwrapping it from plastic, and then quickly shaved the peach fuzz hair off Mandy’s thigh.

“Okay, Mandy,” Anthony spoke, “Which direction do you want the bird to face.”

Mandy placed the bird the way she thought it would look best, and Anthony got to work tracing the stencil onto her skin. Shawn and Mandy talked quietly, just going about business as usual as if someone weren’t coloring on Mandy’s skin.

“Okay, just going to get the machine ready, and then we’ll be ready.”

Mandy breathed deeply, trying not to think about it.

Shawn chuckled lightly as Mandy pushed her head against the chair, closing her eyes.

“This isn’t funny, Mendes.” She grumbled.

“It actually is. You always act so tough, listening to your punk music, and going head first into a mosh pit, but here you are scared of a little needle. It’s pretty funny.”

Mandy’s teeth gritted, “Needles are sharp.”

Shawn laughed lightly.

“You’re lucky I fucking love you,” She said with her eyes still closed.

“You’re right, I am lucky.”

“Okay, I’m ready. I’ll do the outside of the bird before doing the inside. There’s very little shading involved, so it really shouldn’t take too long.”

Mandy squeezed her eyes tighter, “Okay.”

And Anthony was off, diligently pressing the needle in and out of Mandy’s skin. Anyone who said tattoos didn’t hurt were lying to themselves because this hurt really fucking bad. Mandy grumbled a bit under her breath, doing her best to breathe.

“Want me to sing?” Shawn asked with a glint of humor in his voice.

“Wipe the fucking smile off your face first,” Mandy said without even opening her eyes.

“No idea what you mean,” Shawn’s eyes gleamed, not that Mandy could see.

“I know what your smug voice sounds like. So either shut the fuck up or sing a song.”

Shawn laughed, thinking through songs he could sing. He finally settled on a song, starting the verse of End Game.

“Really? Taylor Swift?” Mandy asked, not able to help the small smile on her lips.

“You got beef? Take it up with T Swift. She’s an icon.” Shawn laughed, continuing to sing the song.

I wanna be your end game. I wanna be your first string. I wanna be A team. I wanna be your end game. I don’t wanna touch you. I don’t wanna be just another ex love you don’t wanna see. I don’t wanna miss you, like the other girls do. I don’t wanna hurt you.

Shawn eventually transitioned out of Taylor Swift and moved into a Shawn Mendes original. Mandy smiled at the sound of his sweet honey like voice filling her ears, imagining she was laying in their bed at home and not in downtown Toronto in a tattoo parlor. She’d never get tired of hearing Shawn’s voice sing to her like she was the only person that mattered in the world.

“Okay,” Anthony said sometime later, Mandy almost having forgotten he was even there. “Just gonna bandage it up real quick.”

The next thing she knew, she was trading places with Shawn, and Anthony was prepping Shawn for his matching tattoo.

“See?” Shawn smiled, “Not so bad, babe.”

“Whatever.” Mandy mumbled, but smiled back.

Shawn, of course, took his tattoo like a champ despite the fact that Mandy knew it had to hurt like a bitch to get a tattoo right on the bones of your hand. Shawn didn’t even complain once though. Mandy and Shawn and Anthony chatted idly as Anthony worked with the confidence of a pro. Once Shawn’s hand was bandaged like Mandy’s own tattoo, they went to the counter to pay.

“Send me pics of it when it’s healed up,” Anthony said to Shawn as they started to leave the parlor, “And don’t be a stranger!”

“Thanks, man!”

They walked out of the parlor, Mandy holding Shawn’s left hand.

“So it’s official,” Shawn smiled, “We’re an annoyingly cheesy couple with matching tattoos and call each other their homes.”

“I hate us,” Mandy grumbled.

Shawn bumped her hip as they walked down the street, “Well, I love us.”

She loved them too, really. Even if being a stereotypical cutesy couple went against every rebel fiber in her body. She’d conform to every societal norm if Shawn asked her to.

tagged: @fourtristattoos @shavvnmendcs @unhealthyobsessionwithmarvel @justanotherfangurl272 @yourwonderbelle @babyangelshawn @rosecth

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Now you see them: It's been a long time since there was a pop phenomenon like this - frenzied fans, rhapsodising reviews . . . Suede, it seems, might be the future of rock and roll. Then again, they might not.

The Independent

Sunday, 21 March 1993 

Written by William Leith

A THURSDAY in March 1993, 7.20pm. The Top of The Pops presenter, Mark Franklin, introduces the latest video from Suede; the studio audience gives a youthful cheer. Brett Anderson, Suede's lead singer, appears on the walkway of a nasty tower block. He wears: no shirt, a tight black leather jacket, so short it reveals his midriff, black trousers low on the hips, so you can see his angular hip-bones, a cheap-looking necklace. He looks pale, almost ill, a figure from an early 1970s nightmare. His lank fringe covers his whole face.

The camera rushes down the scummy walkway into a dark room, where a coloured light flashes sickeningly; over the fuzzy guitar noise Anderson sings - or rather, he wails: 'Like his dad, you know that he's had / Animal nitrate in mind / Oh in your council home, he jumped on your bones / Now you're taking it time after time.'

This is 'Animal Nitrate', Suede's third single, a song about - what? Domestic violence, drugs, child abuse? It's thick with filthy undertones - and people are wild about it, just like they were wild about Suede's first two singles, 'The Drowners' and 'Metal Mickey', so wild that a concert-goer told me: 'It's not just girls who pack themselves at the front of the stage and try to rip Brett's clothes off - it's boys, and it's nothing to do with homosexuality . . . it's everybody, it's a mania.'

In his careless, Mick Jagger twang, which he has to a tee, Anderson tells me: 'Yeah, there's been a lot of hysteria at our gigs. But we're quite bored with playing live already. Once you have captivated a couple of thousand people, got them in the palm of your hand, and had them salivating . . . you don't really know where to go from there.'

They're still in their infancy, but Suede have snared the imagination of a certain type of rock fan - the sort of people who latch on to thin, angst-ridden white boys, the caste who worshipped the Smiths in the Eighties and David Bowie in the Seventies. Most important, Suede have become the darlings of the rock press. Melody Maker, the New Musical Express, Select, Q, Vox are wild about Suede, too; Suede have had more hype than anybody since the Smiths, or possibly even the Sex Pistols. The reviews are florid, poetic, half-crazed; they express the almost lascivious delight of journalists hungry for something to pin their hopes on. Suede, says the New Musical Express, are: 'The triumph of decadent aristo-foppery over prole pop.' They are 'Out there, so alone, brilliantly vulnerable' (Melody Maker). Or, as Select magazine put it: 'Never mind the bollocks. Here's Suede.' Needless to say, Suede's publicists, Phill Savidge and John Best, won the Music Week award for the best publicity campaign of 1992. The judges said they 'took Suede from obscurity to accolades to being hailed as the best band of the year'.

In the past year, Suede have been pictured on 19 magazine covers (including six Melody Maker covers, four New Musical Express covers, and, unprecedented for a band who have yet to release an album, the cover of Q magazine, which appeals to older fans). The Christmas edition of the NME, on which Brett Anderson posed as Sid Vicious, was the biggest-selling NME for a decade.

But Suede haven't yet released an album; their first three singles reached, respectively, 49, 17, and 7 in the chart. This is not the big-time yet; it's not U2 or Simply Red or the Cure. In an important sense, Suede haven't happened yet; they are in an interesting limbo. They might not happen. Lots of bands have got this far - or nearly this far - and no further; what happened to the Stone Roses, to Sigue Sigue Sputnik? They seemed like great ideas at the time.

What will Suede's fate be? Nobody knows; the world of rock music is too fickle to predict. When I met Brett Anderson, he said: 'I do want to have a place in history. I really do.'

'And what does it take for a band to have a place in history?'

'I think . . . three great records. Three great albums. But then again . . . the Sex Pistols did it with one, didn't they? I don't know. I don't know.'

BY THE end of 1992, when the height of Suede's chart success was still only a No 17 single, journalists were drooling over Brett Anderson. They practically had him on the couch. They loved his angst, his preoccupa-tion with himself, his ability to verbalise. He was perfect - he was everything they could possibly want.

In a typical exchange, he told Melody Maker: 'When it comes to writing, there's something to be said about being unhappy. I know I've been at my most creative when I've been sexually unsatisfied. When I'm sexually satisfied I write a load of old rubbish.'

Melody Maker: 'Are you sexually satisfied now?'

Anderson: 'Yeah.'

Melody Maker: 'So you're writing a load of old rubbish.'

Anderson: 'Yes, and it's a problem, because we're supposed to be doing our debut album . . .' He even had an exact position on sex, which was: 'I see myself as a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience.'

Perfect. As soon as they spotted Suede, the rock press knew they were on to something. The journalist who first wrote about Suede was John Mulvey of the NME. Suede were nobodies, playing third on the bill at the University of London Union. Mulvey says: 'They had charm, aggression, and . . . if not exactly eroticism, then something a little bit dangerous and exciting. Brett was a brilliant frontman. He has a certain edge to him which most people don't have, like Ned's Atomic Dustbin or Kingmaker, who are woefully bereft of that spice.'

'That spice' is something the rock journalist needs to find, if he is to make a living. Week in week out, you trudge to seedy bars and clubs, desperate to find something exciting. When I was a rock journalist in the Eighties, people would come into meetings every week, excited, with their discoveries. This is it! One week it was Stump, another week it was the Soup Dragons. We had the Shrubs, the June Brides, Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Half Man Half Biscuit; they were all the talk of the NME office for days, or weeks; sometimes they held out for longer, as long as there was still a chance of starting a cult, of getting people excited enough to rush out and buy the magazine. The strike-rate is very low; mostly, these discoveries fizzle out. So when the music press is faced with something that might go the whole way . . . it explodes.

'Here was a British band it was possible to get excited about,' says Danny Kelly, editor of Q magazine. 'The kids have to wait for the Smashing Pumpkins, or Hole, or Come, to come over from America. Whereas Suede is a very real, very immediate thing - they are around and playing.'

Kelly continues: 'In the last 10 years bands have been very apologetic; they've thrived on the attitude that 'we're the same as the audience'. Suede's attitude is 'we're brilliant; we're the stars, and you're the admirers'.'

Steve Sutherland, editor of the NME, says: 'When I first saw Suede, it was one of the few times I can honestly say I saw a band and I was utterly convinced they were brilliant. Often, you get a band with attitude, or a gimmick, or good songs, but seldom everything together.'

Kelly says: 'Also, Suede allude so knowingly to things that rock journalists are comfortable with - Seventies glam, Cockney Rebel, the Smiths, sexuality, asexuality, male violence. If there is a game to be played, they're playing it very well . . . they are skinny white boys speaking to other skinny white boys about their inadequacies.'

This week's NME cover story is the transcription of a meeting between Brett Anderson and David Bowie, who listened to a tape of Suede's first album sent to him by Steve Sutherland. Bowie told Sutherland: 'Of all the tapes you've ever sent me, this is the only one that I knew instantly was great.' The two singers, the 'Thin White Duke' and the star-in- waiting, chat about sex, drugs, Nazism and the ins and outs of being a pop star. Talking about Bowie's recent, relatively anonymous, period, Anderson says: 'It's funny that, when David started Tin Machine, it was the start of the cult of non-personality . . . maybe you were just feeling the times.' The article is headlined: 'One day, son, all this could be yours.

HE COULD, conceivably, be the next David Bowie, the next Mick Jagger. Or it could all come to nothing. Who knows? Brett Anderson sits with his feet up on the table, talking quietly about his chances. He wears: black corduroy trousers, cut low, a thin jumper with nothing underneath, shoes with holes in the soles, a reaction against his recent, more stylised image, which included an appearence in the NME with an elaborate shirt painted on his body.

'Are you conscious of the way you dress?'

'Yes . . . I'm feeling pressure on how to dress in that I don't like being made into a cartoon. There's a certain element of the music press that deals in comedy and turn you into a two-dimensional thing. The whole foppish thing is getting quite boring really.'

Sitting, as he is, in stardom's waiting-room, Anderson is hyper-aware of the traps he might fall into. Recently, for instance, a tabloid scoured his earlier interviews and found them to be larded with references to drugs. 'They said there was a backlash against Suede because parents were worried for their kids,' he says. 'The whole media's a huge dangerous web.'

'Do you ever think that all this might just be hype? That you might never go the whole way?'

Anderson, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head in his hands, says: 'The British music press are notorious for getting it wrong, for leading people up the garden path, because they just . . . they're too obsessed with the idea of things. But we never really felt it wouldn't happen. We knew we had a bit of substance over the style.'

Anderson believes he's going to be a star. He's happy with Suede's first album, Suede, on the cover of which is depicted a couple kissing - an ambiguous picture, which could be a man kissing a man, a man kissing a woman, or a woman kissing a woman. 'I chose it because of the ambiguity of it, but mostly because of the beauty of it,' he says.

He also says: 'There's an elegance and a beauty to our music that people haven't heard yet, and I want that to come across - the flow of it, the swoon, to a certain extent.'

Anderson comes from Haywards Heath, where he met Mat Osman, Suede's guitarist, at school. 'He's always known he was going to be a pop star. He was very arrogant,' says his childhood friend Alan Fisher.

'I'm quite glad that Haywards Heath was such an ugly place,' says Anderson. 'Being born on the outskirts of London, being able to just peer in but not quite see what's going on, is a really tantalising thing - it makes you hungry and gives you a certain amount of ambition.' He lived in a council house with his father, a taxi-driver, his mother, an artist, and his sister, who 'escaped' at the age of 15. 'I didn't go to any gigs,' he says. 'I didn't like all the bands that were around - Echo and the Bunnymen and all that stuff.' Anderson's taste was more obscure - he liked hard, punky bands - Crass, the Exploited.

After attending Manchester University for two weeks, Anderson moved to London with Osman. 'Before we met Bernard,' he says, 'it was just me and Mat in my bedroom with this rubbish drum machine, writing awful songs.' Then they auditioned for a guitarist, and chose Bernard Butler, who worried Anderson because he was 'too good'. They also auditioned for a drummer, and picked Simon Gilbert, who tells me over the telephone: 'I heard a tape of their early stuff. I said, this sounds really good, but they need a drummer.'

'And then it just . . . took off?'

'Oh, no. We played all the shitty gigs for a year and a half. We played the Amersham Arms in New Cross to one person.'

'Do you remember the moment when the rock press discovered you?'

'Yes. I remember the first few reviews. I'll get it out of my scrapbook if you like.'

BRETT Anderson, sitting precariously on the window-ledge, with his feet balanced on the radiator, talks about Suede's first album. His favourite song is 'So Young', a full-tilt anthem of slashing guitars and pained howling, a great song - which, like so much of Suede's material, recalls the prancing confidence of Marc Bolan, of early Bowie. 'It deals with the knife- edge of being young,' says Anderson, who is 25. 'There's the desperation and all the pitfalls, but then actually turning them into something hopeful and beautiful that looks forward and that isn't negative.

'It's a rejection of the traditional English character,' he goes on. 'A desire to push all the claustrophobia and tat and bits and pieces away, and stride into the future, which isn't the most original thought in the world, but maybe one of the most important.'

'So will success spoil you as a musician then? What if you get comfortable?'

'I don't really feel as though I could ever be comfortable.'

And now, a week before the release of Suede's first album, Anderson must go to a studio to meet Bernard Butler and write songs for the second album, tentatively scheduled for release early in the new year. He has also been thinking about the video for the next single. 'Up to now,' he says, 'we've been playing on the grittiness of it all. But I wanna take it all to a different level; I wanna use nature more. I've got this image in my head of these horses galloping, and then I'd have it superimposed, and make it a lot more beautiful, a lot more floating, a lot more . . . implied.'

Anderson gets down off the window-ledge. By the time the stuff he will write this afternoon is in the shops, he might be just a vague memory. Then again, meeting him is something I might boast about to my grandchildren. Who knows? Nobody, yet.

[pensurfing]

30 Days Feeling Better

~~What up guys, it’s me. Ya GIRLLL.~~

So the entire month of July I’ve been eating nonstop healthy. (Now if you want a percentage, I’m looking more towards 90% healthy eating). So for those who are used to my long posts of nonsense, topics, and babbles, this is another long babble and experiment I’ve done. Yet again. 

July 1st I cut out fast food entirely. (With the only one allowed cheat, which I choose Chickfila because they actually have a wide selection of healthy fast food items. But I needed to still get a grasp on what to order and why.) Now it hasn’t been 30 days Y E T as I type this out, but I’ve already meal planned and trust me. I’m doing to eat it. July was me teaching myself how to shop healthy, eat healthily, and teaching myself what I do and don’t like about “the healthy demons”. How was I before this fast-food cut? 

Before I cut out fast food, let me explain my long long relationship with my eating issues and then when I did decide to eat fast food was the easiest grab. 

We can literally jump back to summer before freshman year. I lost all of my baby fat in a single summer and as well as got my big girl boobies. Not just my fat girl boobies. This gained the actual praise of my mother and her bringing me places. My mother to this day doesn’t give praises. It’s not her. Her phrase is “very good” and that’s the end of that discussion. So young Caitlin related this to If I stay skinny, my mom won’t be ashamed of me. Cue Caitlin from freshman to junior year only eating one thing a day and it would be a snack from the vending machine. “BIG TEXAS CINNAMON ROLL”. Boy did I love those things. I did not eat much. Jumping to senior year, with doing baseball, band, having a part-time job at Stone Mountain Park as a photographer, my body DEMANDED me to eat more. So my metabolism and I both were confused as to how much more was being put into my body. I gained weight quickly and was vilified by many of the adults in my life back then; my mother and her little friends, band director who I saw MORE of at the time back then, teachers, name it. High school boys praised said weight gain because I at least gained it “in the right places”.  What was the easiest grab for a busy senior in high school? Bring in the dancing fast food mascots. 

This continued through college. With assignments, being sent all around the Midtown and Downtown of Atlanta, I was a busy kid. So again, what was an easy grab? Cue now the restaurants that were slowly becoming my silent killers. And add their trusty sidekick, sweet tea. The Southerner’s weakness. And what about after I graduated? It’s only officially been two years after college. 2017, I had the lost of my aunt. Now if you were to ask young Caitlin who her family was, she would just say her aunt, mom, and grandmother. Ya know, the people who cared enough to maintain a relationship with her. This is still true to this day; I have many relatives, but not many family members. If that makes sense. So along with 2017 being the most fulfilling part of my life, it was also the worst. Now cue 2018: The year I tried to ignore it all. The breakup of a best friend, the showing of my PTSD of my abusive relationship, what was my comfort food? The devil that is D U N K I N. 

And there you have it. My exact to the tee map out of why I went from around 145lbs junior year to slightly about 200lbs two years after graduation.

So why is a month so important? Don’t get me wrong, in no way shape form or fashion trying to replace my therapy. The therapist? Different discussion. But one thing that shocked me was the Nancy does have her decent moments. Which is why I guess I still keep rolling around to her: “Our discussions are here to help yes. But giving yourself a fighting chance would be cutting out something that causes your relapses (PTSD).”  In short, I didn’t realize fast food being the tie to a lot of childhood trauma, ex trauma, and why I don’t like myself at 180%. They all tie to that time period. And it is no surprise that there are a number of studies that fast food leads to depression and obesity. She showed me the studies, and I was aware, just didn’t think it would affect me personally. Not the best logic there Cait. 

I guess this month was important because it felt like me saying, fuck my past. I’m going to be better and treat me better; I can’t expect to become a better person if I just keep throwing my past mistakes in my face. (Eating wise and also improving me personally wise.) ((AND TO WHOEVER MADE IT THIS FAR. YOU TOO. Don’t let people try and drown you in your past. It’s understandable, you made mistakes. You didn’t say something charming, made someone upset, whatever. You apologized and tried making amends. Did it work, no? That’s ok. You held yourself accountable. Them being upset is their problem. Not yours and not your issue to try and fix up. If they can’t respect the you RIGHT NOW who is wiser than the prior you, then you better fucking leave.))

So to the reason why I actually made this post: 

From July 1st to August 1st, ya girl did well not eating fast food and making better health choices. I so far started with just buying salads from Publix. The easy to pick up bowls have been my lifesaver. Literally, your salad, dressing, meat and cheese, and fork is just RIGHT THERE. I bought yogurt for breakfast; yogurt pretzels; tiny juice packs, chicken breasts, turkey lunch meat, any cheese BUT KRAFT, and only baked chips. Which means I took out; Burker King, McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Zaxby’s, any other heavy fried fast foods, Fried Chickfila items, donuts, pastries in general, brownies, loads of bread, etc. What I allowed: Grilled Chickfila items once a week; cooked veggies, not ice-cold fruits; light meats; no heavy pork, bacon is only “ok”; more seafood; small cookies; and I bought a huge gallon water tug. Put stickers on it, and marked my times of when I need to drink more water. My skin is SO CLEAR.  

Quitting old habits cold turkey makes you quit your new habits cold turkey. No one has ever really explained that well to me before. So, here it is in writing so I won’t forget. I’ve felt much better about my appearance to where I don’t hide at home and when I go to conventions now. I lost weight especially in my face and in my lil muffin. I’m fitting old shirts I hadn’t fit since my sophomore year of college, I have more energy to do more things. It’s a huge difference in my mood, behavior and even my body. I’m loving it. 

I’m not saying go and run and do a challenge, but challenge yourself. Drink soda all the time? Start with no soda that day, then a week, then a month. Give you sour mood at least a fighting chance. I didn’t know my body was trying to kick my ass and tell me to eat better until this month honestly. Last year, you wouldn’t have been able to convince me otherwise. Some of you may get this far and just go “Cait this is stupid, you’re stupid” and that’s fine. Glad I just wasted your time! Really! But for some who need that sign, my guy this is your gentle sign. Ok?

This has been a Caitlin babble where she didn’t have a sour aftertaste after typing this all out. She felt hopeful, helpful, and proud. 

TRD: I started eating healthy this entire month and I’m excited to eat new foods and I feel MUCH better about waking up in the morning; and about myself. It was a hard thing to start, but I did it.  Quitting old habits cold turkey makes you quit your new habits cold turkey. So be kind to yourself.  

[punkpuns]

Answering Asks Again

Hi there, I’ve built up a bit of a backlog on asks so here are a whole bunch of them answered.

---------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------

Friend I’m sorry I got to you late - but maybe that’ll help, at school you should have a selection of thrift shops around where other students have been donating stuff as they’ve moved off campus and that’s a goldmine. I’d say hit the thrift shops, find some stuff you think looks good and is comfortable, and shop only on half-off days. If there’s nothing that quite looks like you want it to, mod it.

And look, tossing out everything you’ve got and starting fresh is pretty wasteful - maybe see if there’s someone in your dorm who would be down to trade? Maybe you could set up a facebook clothing swap event for people on campus? Use it as an excuse to get to know people. Or mod the clothes you’ve got - khakis and a polo can be turned into cutoffs and a tanktop pretty easily, and a stencil plus some acrylic paint from the art supply section of the campus bookstore can make you some pretty awesome custom stuff, you can dye even the most pastel of sundresses black.

Experiment, figure out what you like. Start slow and add one piece at a time - maybe stovepipe jeans aren’t your thing so buying four pairs would be a mistake. Maybe you only want to wear yoga pants and I salute you, but that’s up to you to figure out.

--------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------

This feels a little bit trollish because I’m having trouble envisioning an adult who works in a law office and in local politics but hasn’t figured out how to dress in a way they want to or hasn’t figured out whether or not they should.

I’m going to assume you’re young in which case I’m going to actually recommend that you don’t bring much of your style to work for one reason: optics are important.

If you’re involved in local government, work at a law office, and are a punk it stands to reason that you’re pretty politically active and motivated to make changes in the world, and it sounds like you’re uniquely positioned to do so! But here’s the thing: the last time I went to talk to the city council and a group of us showed up in black the local paper called us “kids” and “extras from a Depeche Mode video.” I now own a mousey brown skirt suit and a wig to go talk to the city council.

It’s great to express yourself, it’s less great if expressing yourself prevents you from achieving your goals or making the changes you want to see in the world. It’s really easy to pigeonhole punks as slacktivist poseurs who masturbate to Richard Spencer punching remixes and never vote and that’s because a lot of punks live up to that image.

So I guess what my real advice is is feel out your office, maybe you can get away with skull earrings or a grommeted wristband for your watch but keep your hair to neutral colors if it’s going to get you fired. Activists need attorneys and paralegals and local city councils on our side so there’s value in sucking it up and dealing with the system until you’ve got uplifted enough voices to change it.

Unless you work at, like, the Exxon law offices or with a prosecutor or something. In which case ? why? would you be here? of all places?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay the true punk answer is wear whatever you’re comfortable in. Nobody should care what you’re wearing and if they do they’re an asshole.

That said I understand why it can be uncomfortable to stand out in a crowd - a dark pair of pants, a tee shirt, and a hoodie (if it’s cold enough for one) should be physically comfortable and won’t make you stand out like a sore thumb. Wear comfortable shoes that are thick enough to protect your feet in case you get stepped on, make sure your jeans have enough pockets that you don’t have to carry a purse.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

ALWAYS. If you want in on this donate $10 to the ACLU, RAICES, a local abortion fund, Planned Parenthood, or the United Way Flint Water Fund. Any of these groups will email you a receipt for your donation. Screenshot that receipt and send it to me through tumblr messenger along with a picture of whoever you want illustrated, if you want to see them as a punk, goth, or metalhead, and the names of their 3 favorite bands and I will get an illustration back to you (1 figure only, waist up, grays, no background).

If you donate more I’ll do a more detailed illustration. Here’s an example of one that I did for one of my college professors:

She donated $100. I’ve got limited time to draw so if you want a drawing like that one ^^^ message me first and make sure I’ve got my schedule clear enough for it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Boy howdy do I ever:

https://www.ocweekly.com/five-native-american-bands-to-give-thanks-for-6596916/

https://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2016/09/8-artists-exploding-the-concept-of-native-american.html

http://remezcla.com/lists/music/los-angeles-latinx-punk-bands/

http://tanyatagaq.com/

http://www.toiletovhell.com/here-are-some-indigenousnative-metal-bands-to-help-you-celebrate-columbus-day/

http://remezcla.com/features/music/the-ogs-goth-playlist/

http://www.dazeddigital.com/music/article/38098/1/photos-from-la-s-latinx-metal-scene

https://www.mixcloud.com/LovelyMetalhead/lovely-talks-heavy-episode-25-black-and-metal/

http://lord-kitschener.tumblr.com/post/158978645618/so-goth-i-was-born-black

https://www.racked.com/2017/10/23/16492192/black-goth-girls

http://coilhouse.net/2012/09/i-am-so-goth-i-was-born-black/

http://www.dazeddigital.com/music/article/28372/1/why-is-the-history-of-punk-music-so-white

http://diningwithdana.tumblr.com/post/115035345741/pocs-in-gothdarkindustrial-music-hey-fab-bats

http://www.dazeddigital.com/music/article/28419/1/the-black-punk-pioneers-who-made-music-history

http://www.post-punk.com/goth-so-white-black-representation-in-the-post-punk-scene/

As to whether I’ve got any comics in particular about race in the goth/punk/metal scene, I’ve touched on it here and there and discussed why racism doesn’t belong in the scene but I’ve never gone in depth about the people of color who have been erased from the history, but I would very much like to and I have some notes that I’m collecting to do so.

[callmebliss]

When I was a kid, one of the ways I really knew school was about to start for a good number of years was The School Shopping. Not the pencils and notebooks and erasers kind - the clothing kind. My parents would pack myself and two siblings into the vehicle and drive us for what seemed like a millionty years to a store in a Far Away Town With A Weird, Unfamiliar Name.

Google maps now tells me this is a slightly longer than hour drive. Which, when you're 9, is Seriously A Millionty Years You Guys.

I don't know what the store was, but I know that it had row upon row of rack upon rack of clothing, and we would pore through it all and forge our mettle in the fires of Parental Pricing And Garment Utility versus But Daaaaaad, Moooooooom, I Really Waaaant a Jeaaaaan Jackeeeeeet And Jelllllyyyyyyy Shooooooooes. (Seriously, how did they not stuff me into someone else's shopping cart and leave me behind?) We would fill a cart with clothes. Two carts. Sometimes even three. Three kids, and a years's worth of shirts, sweaters, nightgowns, trousers, dresses, skirts, and coats, all processed through that impenetrable-to-a-child math of Will This Be Warm Enough This Winter and the calculus of How Many Growth Spurts This Year.

All I really know, now, is that they must have been getting some hella deals to drive an hour each way plus Zod Only Knows how many hours working their way through the store and getting us evenly and suitably outfitted for the coming year. It's the kind of thing for which I have a fresh and tangy appreciation, especially coming off of too many years of unemployment during which I would have to slowly parse out my shopping, visiting any thrift shops that were convenient, figuring out who is going to outgrow their pants first and how many pairs can I afford right now as a bandaid for their closet situation to keep them going, keep them clothed, keep them comfortable and warm and presentable.

I understand how awesome it was that so many of my relatives made sure I got clothing for Christmas and birthdays.

So now... now I have a job. This weekend, for the first time in a long, long time, I realized that I was able to buy something (it was a small something in the grand scheme, nigh unto negligible, probably not even ten bucks) and not only did I tell the cashier No Thanks I Don't Need The Receipt, but I realized by the time I got back to the car that I wasn't even really sure of how much I had spent.

I was able to buy headphones for two of the Spawn to have at school, and I didn't go for the cheapest option instead of the one I knew they'd like best.

And today?

Today, I went to Savers. Yeah, still a thrift shop, and yeah, on the 50% off sale day. But I went there and crawled my way through racks of clothing, first for one child and then for another, pulling out pants, shorts, a pair of swim trunks and a winter coat that are both DEFINITELY too big now but He'll Grow Into Them, and sweatshirts, long sleeve shirts, tee shirts. I even found one of them a three-piece-suit and am REALLY hoping I can convince him to wear it when Band has their first performance, because Heckin' Yes. I even went so far as to shop for myself a little: two belts, a shawl/scarf, and a pair of brown leather ankle boots.

I filled an entire cart to heaping and, when I got to the checkout, I didn't think for a moment about pulling anything out to put back on the racks. The kids have a slew of new-to-them clothes ready to go for the school year, from suit to boots. I am tired; it's been a while since I've done such an intensive shopping experience. But it's the beginning of the school year, and the kids have a whole lot to be excited about.

And given that what's old is new again, I might hit the thrift stores again this weekend and see if I can't find myself a cropped jean jacket.