#Tucson bars

[wehavehadtoday]

hi :)

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Linn Lane - The Book of Bars & Devils - Linn Lane - 1976

[mudwerks]

(via Arizona Daily Star)

The Legal Tender bar in Tucson over the years 🍻

[cheekyblunders]

Road Trip!

From San Diego --> Arizona--> New Mexico -->

Stopped for gas in Tucson, Arizona and then headed to a retro dive bar.

Shelter Bar

Then went down a few blocks to fill up on Noodles at Noodleholics.

Then I drove all night to New Mexico. At midnight I found a campground and slept in my car.

Next stop: Gila National Wilderness

I visited the old cliff dwellings and hiked through the canyon to spend a night at the Jordan Hot Springs.

[aleksracing]

Strut Bar, Front Lower Bar and Rear Lower Bar for Hyundai Tucson 4th gen NX4.

Strut Bar, Front Lower Bar and Rear Lower Bar for Hyundai Tucson 4th gen NX4. Great products!

[harvestheart]

Dancers in a bar. Tucson, Arizona, Photo © Thomas Hoepker, 1963

Dancers in a bar. Tucson, Arizona, Photo © Thomas Hoepker, 1963

[motherofagony]

FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn. 

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink. 

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem. 

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks. 

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck. 

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that. 

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water. 

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash. 

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.  

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no. 

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you. 

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven. 

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you. 

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it. 

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control. 

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove. 

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see. 

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.” 

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.  

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit. 

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust. 

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you. 

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

[the-night-picture-collector]

/ Thomas Hoepker, Dancers in a Bar, Tucson, Arizona, 1963

[backwardswalks]

the passenger - screening and q&a with carter smith | horrorigins fest 9/28/24

so there was a screening of the passenger at horrorigins fest in tucson, az over this weekend that had a theater screening of the passenger and then a live q&a with carter smith afterward!

there were some really good questions and there's some video on horrorigins instagram (here and here, they haven't posted a full but i know there were several people recording and the festival is ongoing through today so they may post full video later) but some highlights:

he reiterated a lot of things that he's said in interviews about the script (so i won't go into detail about that)

he talked about his background at FIT and how benson's wardrobe was extremely intentionally chosen, and that the costume designer wanted to kill him bc the exact shade of his cardigan took three times to dye to get it right, it's also acrylic and very itchy (he has one too lmao)

he said that he gave johnny and kyle freedom to improvise on the script as much as they needed/wanted but that for the most part they stuck to it

burgers burgers burgers was a convenience store that they cleaned out and the stuffed animal place was in an actual empty mall that was "abandoned" (he mentioned there were like 7 empty malls they could have used, this one was completely empty so they didn't have to shut it down but idk if it was abandoned in the traditional sense)

he talked about the close ups and how much he loved kyle and johnny's faces and how he could shoot the whole thing in close up

the script was originally called "Randolph Bradley" which he did like but marketing didn't think would grab people and he also likes The Passenger for the movie they ended up making

i wish they had given the audience members mics when they asked their questions bc i'm watching the recording back to make sure i don't misquote something so i can't really hear some of the questions :( they also didn't upload the whole thing as of yet so the rest of this isn't verbatim but:

he agrees that at its core its a love story! when i asked my question i said "i wanted to touch on the love story comment from earlier" (bc someone else briefly mentioned it before asking a diff question) and he was like "i ALSO want to talk about the love story more!!" and was very excited that i brought up that "there's obviously a queer undertone to the film" and he just talked about what he saw in the script and how that came about, again said that jack stanley was like there's no romance but carter was like ummm anyway

he said that "this was the best thing to happen to either of them" (randy and benson) and agreed with someone who had described them as two sides of the same coin

he said that blumhouse also wanted them to lean into the weird romance aspect of it (or were okay with it), kyle was incredibly down to lean into the weird romance and was like "can we make it MORE gay"

afterward the fest went to a bar and mostly everyone went! so we actually got to hang out with carter just me and my friend and we talked a little bit more about the film and just other movies that he's enjoyed, we talked about his weekly newsletter, just random stuff like that. some highlights of that:

he said that kyle was all in on the queer undertone and was like can i touch johnny MORE

he said that there is a scene where benson touches randy again in a way that is similar in vibe to the scene in the mall parking lot where he touches his neck/wipes his tears but that they ended up cutting it because he (Carter) felt like it would undermine the emotional impact of that particular touch! he didn't expand on what the touch was or where exactly it went (he said it was after the teacher but didn't specify if it was after shepherd or mrs beard but i imagine he meant shepherd)

carter said that he would absolutely do a full up and down queer movie with kyle (if it was ever the right fit rather than writing a role for that reason)

it was really great and so interesting to hear his thoughts on the film and on filmmaking as a whole! he is really friendly and super nice and really knowledgeable. he had so much good stuff to say about the industry and he couldn't get enough of praising johnny and kyle both for their performances (rightly so) and what a good time he had making the movie.

bonus:

carter was kind enough to sign my poster (which he reposted the picture of on instagram). (i go into more detail about this event and stuff here) he also gleefully took photos of the saint randy and saint benson candles i made (because i am insane) and said he was going to send them to johnny and kyle because they would love them. kyle also reposted the picture of me and my friend the festival posted of us with the candles so now i am just dryheaving in my room. <3

anyway! support your local film festivals!! without horrorigns this wouldn't have been possible so support local and indie filmmakers and local and independent film festivals! <33

[seat-safety-switch]

There's this super fancy steakhouse near my home, and I've always wanted to eat there. Their salad bar is beyond excellent, a friend informs me, and their grated cheese is actually from Italy. Expense aside, you'd think this would be an easy trip for me. You're wrong.

You see, this steakhouse is so fancy that they have a special employee whose job it is to park my car. As far as I can tell by watching their parking lot with high-powered binoculars, their "valet" will take your car from you at the entrance, park it for you, and retrieve it for you when you're done eating. This, presumably, saves you the dinner-ruining stress of gently turning your vehicle to place it into a parking space.

Personally, I don't mind parking. My own backyard is full of cars packed helter-skelter, with mere millimetres of space between them. I could probably park a bus in here, if I really had to, but it would take me a couple of hours to get it back out. That's not the problem. The problem is that the valet would have to drive my car, which means I'd have to explain how to drive my car to them.

In case you think that's not a problem, allow me to explain. Most carbureted cars have a single choke, which you pull out when the car is cold in order to help it breathe a little better. Mine has sixteen, which must be pulled, bagpipe-like, in a specific order as the engine is running in order to keep it from dying at the lights. Could I fix it? Not until they create a bottle of head-gasket fix that also cures giant holes in the block.

Sure, I could park a few blocks away and walk there, but the valet will smell the desperation on me. If I have a rusty, propane-spurting 1970s Chrysler product, maybe I'm an eccentric. There's fewer of those left than Ferrari 458s, which makes me a "vintage collector," at least in the eyes of the super-rich-people yacht-owning magazine I tricked into doing an interview with me last year. All that goes out the window if I show up on foot. Same goes for letting my dinner date drive me there: her Hyundai Tucson is, well, a Hyundai Tucson. Not eccentric at all. Practical. They hate that there.

Ultimately, I think I'm going to have to bite the bullet and do things the hard way. I've already applied for a job as their assistant valet. There's an employee discount, and I'm pretty sure that I'll be head valet once the bossman sees that I can fit like 700% as many cars in there as the old guy. It's just going to take a few weeks to get them back out again, which is even better for business.

[joshsindigostreak]

Moonburn

Chapter One

Nine of Swords, Upright: sleepless nights, worry and anxiety.

Vampire Hunter!Jake x Witch!OC

Authors Note: Hey y’all!! I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter in Jake’s story! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! If you need to catch up on the Prologue, do so here.

*Set prior to the events of I See Hell in Your Eyes. This is the beginning of Jake’s story. This can be read independently from ISHIYE but there will be cross references as it’s in the same universe.

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Not very many just some swearing.

Description: When a young affluent hunter finds himself taking an unexpected detour in Tucson, Arizona, he finds himself drawn to a local dive bar with a rather ecclectic clientele, situated on an equally intriguing location adjacent to a cemetery. Cemeteries are neutral ground, so even if he found a Vampire to snuff out, he couldn’t. Especially with the owner of the bar being a Witch and watching him like a hawk.

Jake’s dreams were always distinctly under two categories: either he’d find his dream self walking down an empty city street, head on a swivel for any Vampiric activity, trailing one he had found earlier that kept evading him. Or, he’d wake up in his childhood bedroom, realize that he was seven years old again, hearing footsteps in the hallway growing closer.

His mind would not let go of the night that Vampire broke in and found the twins’ room first on the upper floor. The Vampire’s appearance had morphed over the years, steadily gaining more grotesque. But the feeling of its mangled and dirty fingers tangling in his hair and violently pulling upwards, sending white hot pain into the boys’ scalp as his feet lifted off the ground, was always the same.

This night was no exception, and unfortunately for the young hunter it was the latter scenario.

A distant creak of the hardwood floors down the hallway always startles him awake. His large and curious brown eyes would always pop open at the sound, and he’d strain his ears to try to figure out who was walking towards his shared room with Josh. It couldn’t have been his little brother Sam; he was too light to make the floorboards move like that. Josh was snoring above him, oblivious to everything, so that ruled out him. Maybe his parents? But he could hear the heavy thuds of shoes as the sound got closer, and why would his parents have their shoes on in the middle of the night? The realization that it was someone else in the house besides his family made his blood run cold and had him pulling his covers up to his chin as he tried to make himself as small as possible on the bottom bunk.

A few agonizing minutes later, the footsteps were right outside his door, and his younger self was stiff as a board, bracing himself for whomever would enter. Sure enough, the doorknob would slowly twist and a stream of light from the hallway would stream in as the door opened. All he saw before he screwed his eyes shut was a large, intimidating silhouette peering into his room. Jake tried to keep his breathing even, not wanting to give it away that he was awake. The intruder made his way into their room, kicking a few toys out of the way in the process. He could feel their presence near his bed, and it took everything in him to not flinch at the putrid breath that was being exhaled into his face.

But Jake was a frightened child, and his instinct was to get to his brother as quickly as possible. When the creature whispered, “jackpot…” his eyes shot open and he opened his mouth to yell for his twin, all while trying to scramble down his bed and make it to the ladder leading up to Josh’s bunk. His tiny hand had just reached one of the bottom bars when the all too familiar sensation of fingers in his hair and being yanked backwards and upwards rattled his system. Distantly he would hear his brother startle awake and barely touching the ladder as he flew down to come to his rescue.

The creature paid Josh no mind while he lifted up the younger boy to his eye level, his mouth twisting into a sadistic smile and revealing the long jagged fangs that extended from his gums.

A Vampire had somehow broken into their extensively guarded house.

Jake kicked and squirmed midair, trying to get the Vampire to drop him, but it was no use. The creature stared into his eyes, hunger clearly on his mind. The young boy couldn’t take it anymore and as he clawed at the Vampire’s wrist he took a deep breath and released a shrill, high pitched shriek that rattled the-

The now adult Jake shot up in bed, silver knife white knuckled in his fist. Through his own personal training, he had taught himself how to sleep with his hand curled around a knife under his pillow, and not letting go of it until he was awake.

His skin was damp and clammy, feeling especially chilled from the ceiling fan spinning above. In spite of this sweat gathered on his hairline, threatening to spill down his face. His eyes darted around the room for any threats, as if he was ready to face off with the Vampire from his memory. But the hunter was alone in the tiny motel room, and when he deduced this he rolled out of bed, still holding the knife. He padded over to the sink in the miniscule kitchenette and poured a glass of water from the sink. He gulped it down but it took two more glasses to finally get some relief in his dry throat.

After setting the glass down and abandoning it next to the sink he went around the room to check his security measures. His crossbow lay still on the other side of the bed, with a wooden arrow locked and loaded, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. With Josh off doing whatever it was he was doing, the weapon was the closest thing he had to a partner in crime.

The solitary window was covered by curtains, and Jake carefully pulled back one of the panels to look out onto the parking lot. The sun was freshly risen, giving him solace in the fact that his ultimate threats were locked inside and away from the light. Sunrises had always been Jake’s favorite for this reason. His shoulders relaxed as he opened the curtains as far as he could, letting in as much natural light as possible. Now that he was awake and definitely not going back to sleep any time soon, he turned his attention to getting a shower and washing off nightmares as best he could.

~!~

It had been over four days now, and Jake still could not get his night at The Tipsy Tumbleweed out of his head. He went to other bars around town to kill time, but all of them were so basic to him. They were too loud, or the drinks sucked, or the TV’s weren’t on anything interesting, or the bartenders would try way too hard to flirt with him for better tips. He wanted to go back, he wanted to see her, he wanted to at least get her name.

But Jake was full of an unfamiliar feeling of intimidation he wasn’t used to. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked into a situation where he wasn’t the top dog, even when surrounded by Damned corpses who were decades older than him. His exposure to other supernatural creatures was limited. Growing up the focus was so heavily on Vampire’s that he rarely took the time to learn much about others. He usually just relied on Sam to info dump about whatever creature he was obsessed with that month and he’d tuck any useful information into the back of his mind and kept on moving.

Sam’s best friend happened to be a Werewolf, which was a secret that all three Kiszka boys kept to themselves out of respect for Danny, who always seemed like a good kid regardless of his DNA. The twins were just glad that their little brother had finally made a true friend, which was something they always worried about given Sam’s nerdy and introverted nature. The change in Sam after that first summer with Danny was like night and day, and his confidence and ego hadn’t stopped growing since. It was a gift and a curse, Josh would say in exasperation.

Witches however? Jake hadn’t truly met one in person before. He knew of them, and had gotten a few lectures on how to watch out for them. His mother in particular emphasized that they were simply untrustworthy and never expounded beyond that. Once again his brother would fill in the blanks sometimes. He mentioned a few who had gone to his university but he wasn’t particularly close to them. That hadn’t stopped Josh from making cracks about Sam going to Hogwarts whenever he got the chance, or asking if he had any classes with Hermione. This usually resulted in the nearest object thrown in the oldest sibling's direction.

The most Jake knew about them was that they were definitely not human, and most had innate abilities that were passed down via genetics. Covens were a thing but not a requirement, and most were very secretive as to what they got up to. One thing Jake would never openly admit is when he was out of his depth on something, but he couldn’t just accept defeat like this and twiddle his thumbs until he could get out of town.

Which was why he was sitting in the parking lot of The Tipsy Tumbleweed, staring at the entrance from the drivers side of his shitty rental. He mulled over the vague threat she had given him days prior. She didn’t say he couldn’t come back…just that he couldn’t come back and pull any shit. He could do that. He could just walk in, sit down and be good. He could potentially apologize.

The hunter repeated these affirmations to himself as he walked inside, immediately greeted by the familiar music, the glow of the various neon signs, and the scowl of the owner of the bar he was standing in.

She was behind the bar, writing something in a notebook of hers on the bar top when those big hazel eyes looked up and locked onto him. It took a conscious effort on Jake’s part to not trip over his own feet under her gaze.

He settled on the bar stool directly in front of her without a word, and the two stared at each other wondering who would flinch first. Her hazel irises were all he could focus on, and he took the opportunity to map out the different ways the green blended into light brown.

“Are you going to behave tonight?”

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

Her right eyebrow slowly raised, “not in my bar there isn’t.”

The hunter nodded at the Witch, falling back into silence.

She reached to her left and brought a low ball glass in front of her on the bar and her other hand grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured about two fingers worth into the glass. It was the same order from that first night, this time untampered with.

“We’re going to try this again, but if you even look at Lou for too long I’ll physically toss you out myself.”

The hunter's eyes swiveled slightly to the right, his peripheral catching sight of the Vampire who was focused on the TV. Jake quickly snapped his eyes back to the bar owner’s,

“Got it,” he replied in an obedient tone that he rarely spoke in.

She nodded and replied, “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some regulars to greet.”

The Witch turned on her heel and walked out from around the bar, passing behind Jake and making her way to one of the two-top tables towards the front of the bar. As she passed, a sweet yet earthy scent wafted around him. Was that her perfume? He pondered. Or was that just her?

He racked his brain as he tore his eyes away from the swing of her hips and turned back to his glass. Whiskey was always his go-to at bars, because no one could truly fuck it up, but in truth, he was a Pinot Noir guy. It started when he was a teenager and the only alcohol he could get his hands on was the wine in the basement. His parents collected bottles from their travels and had so many at this point that they never actually drank that Jake sneaking a bottle or two every so often went unnoticed. He quickly figured out what he liked so by the time he was actually of age it became his private staple.

Jake continued to fire off questions in his head as he outwardly minded his own business.

He was brought back to reality when a familiar young voice answered, “her name is Cecilia, by the way.”

Jake looked up and saw the young bartender named Stacey standing in front of him.

“How did you-”

Her eyes went wide once again, just like that first night, “oh shit I’m so sorry! Sometimes it's hard to differentiate people’s inner voices from their outer voices and it sounds like someone asked me something out loud and-”

Jake raised his hands slightly off the bar, palms facing outwards to show he wasn’t mad, “hey, you didn’t do anything wrong it’s ok.”

Her face relaxed slightly, but she was still clearly embarrassed, “Cecilia’s been helping me get better at it but I still fuck up some times.”

Jake looked at her with warm eyes, “I’m assuming that you heard me thinking about him,” he cocked his head in Lou’s direction, “and went off and told her the other night?”

She looked down at the bar top and fiddled with her fingers, “yeah…we’ve just never had any trouble in here before and Lou is just really special to us and I didn’t want anything to happen to him.”

Stacey kept her voice low, as to not let Lou hear her saying that he was special to her. However, it didn’t work and the Vampire kept facing the TV and he suppressed a small smile while his face turned pink.

“Well you don’t have to worry about me, I'm not going to mess with him.”

“I guess that truth serum worked,” she looked up, trying not to smile.

Now it was Jake’s turn to look embarrassed, “yeah…yeah it did.”

“Well she’s still letting you sit here so she can’t be too mad still.”

“I’m on thin ice but I promise I’m just here cause I like the place, that's all.”

Stacey looked down and saw that Jake’s glass was empty, “do you want another drink?”

Jake looked down at the glass, but decided to do something different tonight, “do you have a good Pinot here?”

She looked at him blankly, “wine?”

“Yes…”

“Umm…I think we have a few bottles in the back.” She turned and disappeared behind the Employee door.

Jake sat there softly tapping his thumbs on the edge of the bar, inwardly hating that he was making a fuss over something as arbitrary as a drink. It was another reason why he always fell back on his “usual.” He hated being “that guy” in situations.

After a few minutes the young bartender busted through the Employee door and nearly jogged over to Jake’s spot at the bar. It was clear she wasn’t used to using a corkscrew, but after cussing a little under her breath the cork popped from the bottle. She threw Jake a triumphant smile as she poured him a glass.

“Thank you, Stacey,” he said warmly.

“Any time,” she replied before leaving the bar area to ask if anyone else needed refills or new drinks around the bar.

He studied the glass closely, grasping it by the stem and tilting it to the side and then back again to see what kind of legs it had before bringing it to his nose to see what flavors he could pick up. The alcohol itself was pretty strong, but he had had worse. It was medium bodied, with tannins that weren’t too overpowering due to the bright acidity from the-

“Are you detecting the grapes?”

A silky voice startled him and his eyes left the glass to look in front of him. It was Cecilia. His face reddened slightly, again, but her face broke into a smile as she wrote some figures down in the notebook she had placed on the bar.

“Oh umm-”

“Relax, I’m just fucking with you,” her smile stayed fixed on her face and Jake felt his shoulders relax. He hadn’t even realized how tense they had been. “You’re the first customer to order any of the wine we have, by the way.”

“I imagine people aren’t really thirsty for wine right off the highway,” the hunter said as he took his first sip. Oh, that’s not too bad, he thought, surprised at the texture and flavor of the wine.

The Witch nodded, “yeah people are more interested in their usual beers or liquor. You know the whole, ‘candy is dandy but liquor is quicker’ mentality.”

The corners of Jake’s mouth almost turned into a smile, “my brother likes to say that a lot.”

Cecilia’s eyebrows raised in curiosity, “you have a brother?”

Jake nodded, “three, actually. Two are biologically siblings and the other one we all kind of adopted over the years. He’s a good kid.”

She smiled, “oh that’s nice. Are they all hunters too?”

“Only one of them is; Josh.”

“Is he older or-?”

Jake grimaced slightly, “well…older…by five minutes. The other two are younger than me.”

Her lips formed an O, “so you’re a middle child? I can see that with you.”

Had it been anyone else, Jake would’ve gotten offended by that, but he let it slide for Cecilia.

“Only technically.”

“I can’t relate, I just have a little sister, Astrid. Or Ass-strid as I called her growing up.”

At this point they were both smiling softly at each other.

“What’s she like?” Jake asked before taking another sip of wine.

The Witch started to roll her eyes but stopped, “oh she’s the picture perfect Witch my mother always wanted, except that neither one of us inherited Moms psychic abilities. Astrid can enter people’s dreams, which was so fun growing up.” This time Cecilia let herself complete the eyeroll.

Jake’s eyes softened as he looked at her, the question clear in his expression.

“As for me, I do this…,” her eyes swiveled down towards Lou, who was once again minding his own business. His usual glass sat idly as he paid attention to the commercial on the TV, and immediately slid down the bar towards the Witch like a hockey puck, directly into her curled hand.

Lou was unimpressed and let out a short, “hey,” towards her and she sent the glass back, not spilling a drop.

Jake had never seen a telekinetic in person before, and sat there dumbfounded.

“Wow…” was all he could say.

She shrugged, “I can also read Tarot pretty well.”

Something inside the hunter was very interested in it all. Witches were something that weren’t brought up a lot, and when they were it was never in a positive light. He was mainly taught to focus on the Undead more than any other creature.

“...and your mom?”

Cecilia leaned in towards the hunter, closer than she had been before and whispered, “my mom talks to dead people.”

Jake blinked at her.

“She heads a Necromancy coven in Northern California where I grew up,” the Witch leaned back towards her side of the bar, “it's not as exciting as you think.”

He wanted to ask more questions, but the way Cecilia’s expression soured at the mention of her mother gave him enough of a hint to drop that part of the subject.

“How did you end up in Arizona?”

This time, her eyes softened wistfully, “my dad was from here.”

The word ‘was’ stuck out to him.

“Oh yeah?”

She nodded, “yeah.”

The two stared at each other, allowing the silence to wash over them. Jake swallowed the last of his wine, and before he could open his mouth another question was thrown his way.

“I just realized I am a terrible bar owner and have been talking to you this whole time without getting your actual name?”

Jake smirked, his eyes staring into hers, and slowly extended his hand over the bar, “Jake Kiszka, hunter of the Undead and at your service.”

The Witch held out her hand and wrapped it around his to shake. The warmth of his skin rippled up her own arm, over her shoulder and down her back, settling at the base of her spine

“I hope you don’t tell your baristas that,” she retorted with a crinkle in her nose, “Cecilia Addington, bar owner with First Born Daughter problems.”

Jake never wanted to let go of her hand. The firm grip of her fingers and the softness of her skin had his head spinning.

He wanted to know if all of her skin was just as soft.

Reluctantly, they both dropped their hands at the same time each taking a second to flex their hands under the bar out of each other's sight.

Jake was the one to speak first, “so how does-“

“No more questions until you buy another drink, Jake.”

The butterflies from sixth grade swarmed in his gut at the sound of her saying his name.

She turned her head and gave Stacey a Look and a nod towards the hunter, before giving Jake one last smile before slinking around the bar to greet a few patrons that had just walked through the door. Jake watched her the whole time, listening to the volume of her voice and appreciating the fact that she was a hugger just like he was. Fuck.

It was going to be a long night.

To be continued….

Tag List:  @dannyandthekiszkas , @readyforthegarden , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema, @sacredthethreadgvf , @losfacedevil , @jakekiszkasbuttsweat , @shutupdevvie , @hearts-hunger , @gretavanfleetposts , @ascendingtostardust , @mackalah , @andromeda-raine-gvf , @jake-kiszkas-smirk , @gracev0609 , @sacredjake , @earthlysorrows , @gvfpal , @myownparadise96 , @itsafullmoon , @gvfmelbourne, @twistedmelodies , @that-witchy-pan , @gold-mines-melting , @texas-bbq-pringles , @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface , @childinthegardenn , @char289 , @stardustvanfleet , @sunfl0wer-power , @holdingup-fallingsky , @bladenotblaze , @gretavanlace , @lipstickitty , @jjwasneverhere , @josiee-gvf , @peaceloveunitygvf , @musicislove3389 , @gretavanhockey , @gretavanazula

[peachthebeast]

On the side of a bar in Tucson, Arizona.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

The ultimate party pad mansion is this 1969 Spanish style home in Tucson, Arizona. 6bds, 8ba, $2.895M.

The entrance has a water feature.

Nice casual living room.

The dining room has 2 glass walls to get a view of the other rooms, plus a skylight.

Kitchen with a mirrored wall (?) and a family room off to the side.

The primary bedroom has whitewashed brick walls.

Walk-in closet.

Lots of space in here, the primary suite, including a loft.

Large room with a hot tub, shower, catwalk to who-knows-where.

Outdoors is a large fountain.

And, a patio w/a pool, kitchen, weird umbrella sticking out of the pool.

They also have a basketball court.

Then, off to the side of the patio area is an enclosed handball court.

Purple crushed velvet home theater with snack bar.

Home gym.

Outdoor pool table.

Guest casita. Note the outdoor bird cage on the right.

Interior of the casita / guest house.

Place to restore your own classic cars.

Another patio w/a fountain and pergola.

All on 1.57 acres.

[theehorsepusssy]

GOD

The picture you posted of the GOD license plate -

That guy is a sort of cultural icon in Tucson, AZ and still drives that car around.  He goes by the name GOD. He’s in his eighties and owned a dive bar called the Meet Rack that had a sling, a stockade, and a gynecologist chair. He would brand his likeness on you with a hot iron and you’d get 20% off drinks.  It closed during covid.   https://tucsonfoodie.com/2018/

08/14/branded-at-the-meet-rack/

[deadboyfriendd]

In My Hand

This belongs to the Wild Horses universe, a culmination of blurbs between Eddie and Desert Artist!Reader. Based off of the Gutterballs fic by @dr-aculaaa , based in her Sunday Morning universe!

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady

Seamstress for the band

Pretty-eyed, pirate smile

You'll marry a music man

Ballerina, you must've seen her

Dancing in the sand

And now she's in me, always with me

Tiny dancer in my hand

The thing they don’t mention when you hit Interstate 10 heading westward through Tucson is: there is a vast expanse of nothingness you have to clear first. It is mind-numbing. It is beige. It is open for miles and Eddie fears it may all be a mirage– or that he will drive into a painted-on hole in the side of a mountain and flatten himself. 

No one warned him about the low desert, the beige-ness is all of his utter disdain for it. He pictured red-rocked Sedona, some girl in a flat-bed pickup waiting for him with tanned skin and a backless top. Not this. Mid-february it it was already warm. He thought he could see the mirage warp on the horizon, even when it was broken by the beginnings of buildings coming into his foresight. It is late after-noon by now, sun burning hot and angry but not yet pushed towards that precipice of cooling. He felt it begin to warm his neck past comfort where the black shirt lay across the flat of his back. 

This bar was a dive, for sure. Not unlike his home bar. Reclaimed wood that was probably old fifteen years ago and waxy bar tops that stayed sticky despite the mildewy wetness of the rag that was being passed over it. The bartender was a gruff-looking man, whom Eddie assumed knew how to make two variants of drinks– pulling capped lids off of bottles, or straight liquor, over ice if you were lucky. Eddie took the former, settling himself over a barstool, his guitar in case resting against his knee. 

“No open mic night here, ‘m afraid.” 

“You know of anyone looking?” He’d asked, solemnly hoping for some semblance of tips to get him to the next town. 

“Backtrack the frontage a few miles, you’ll turn back on to a county road that takes you out towards Texas Hill. You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em. They’re about your type,” He’d said back, taking one last look at him up and down. 

He placed a few dollars on the bar top, telling him to keep the change as he headed out. 

By now, the sun leaked saturated hues into a nitrate sky. Just as the bartender had said, frontage road, county opening, and right out in the middle of the desert lay a congregation of vans, campers, and RV’S. Desert Hills. He’d said in his mind, smugly. A smattering of old, second-hand cars and the marring of people to match. The irony of this all had been incredible. A bus, painted green, was parked sideways across the front of the congregation, a drop-cloth, hand-painted sign reading, “Howl at the Moon”.

A parable of lepers-by-day, though, by night they would peel back the sore to reveal fresh skin and a strong voice. Here, the day started when the sun went down. There is a fire in the center burning hot with blue flame at the nucleus. A sun in which you orbit as a celestial body. 

You are dancing around the fire a liquid dance with no rhyme or reason. It’s fluid in motion and like ribbon in deliverance. You are brilliant, a mass of curls that sway, not as many strands, but a brilliant unit, breaking off into parts that fall over your shoulders and back again. Draped in patched together masses and adorned in turquoise– barefoot in the dune of soft sand with no fear or reverence in what hides beneath. 

“What’re you gonna do with that guitar, Mister? Ya gonna be a rockstar?” You ask, all pretty eyes with lashes that kiss at the corners. 

 He nods, smiling as you take his hand to pull him towards the mass. “That’s the plan.”

“You can be anything you want here.” 

The moon peeks out over the east mountain and you howl in punctuation. It’s a wild and unruly thing, almost like you. It pierces his ears and fills him with warmth. Something stirs in his stomach. Like champagne. You deliver a few light-hearted slaps to his chest in the midst of his, encouraging a loud, crackling howl that bellows from deep within him. It fizzles out in laughter. 

Something about the pitch of your laugh and the dusting of stars across a gradient purple sky makes something move in slow motion and, somehow, it makes him wonder how soft your hair must be at the roots. 

“Well maybe you can play that guitar for me sometime. We’ll make you into a real rockstar.” You tell him, gesturing to the guitar propped against a hay bale. Across the front reads: This Machine Slays Dragons in a hand-lettered font. 

It feels stupid to try to shake your hand, he realizes this after he offers it. You take it anyways, “My name’s Eddie, by the way.”

“Well, Eddie.” You pull your culmination of silver squash blossoms from your neck, chiming a lovely song as they move to rest around his neck, “I knight thee. This land is your land.”

You smile at him, all teeth. “Hope we don’t have any dragons come around.” 

“Or fascists.” he shrugged

“Or fascist dragons.” 

“Then we would really have a problem.” 

[oliverreedmasterass]

Words: 4k

Synopsis: My interpretation of what happened backstage before the guys took the stage in Tucson, slaying the house down boots houston I’m deceased

Warnings: language, drinking

__________________________________________

“Shit,” Josh cursed as he sifted through their tote bag of rhinestones, face glue, and eyeshadow palettes. “We have so much left over.” 

“We could auction it off for charity,” Danny suggested as he peered over Josh’s shoulder at their stash. “I know for a fact that someone would buy that.” 

“Why would they do that?” Jake asked from the greenroom couch with a furrowed brow. 

“I don’t think you understand how obsessed some of our fans are,” Danny replied. 

“Eesh,” Jake said. 

“I can’t let it go to waste,” Josh seemed troubled. “I paid good money for those rhinestones.” 

“You didn’t pay for those rhinestones, I did,” Jenn corrected him as she entered the greenroom. “And they were dirt cheap.”

“Oh,” Josh mumbled. 

“I do think we should go all in for tonight though,” Jenn suggested. “Just to end the tour with a bang, you know?” 

“I’m in,” Danny was quick to agree. Out of the band, he was the most willing to put on stage makeup. In his eyes, it was a fun way for him to stand out from behind his drum kit. Plus, he felt pretty fucking hot when his eyes were darkened with the eye shadow. 

Josh gave one more look down at the tote bag and shrugged. 

“Why not?” he decided. “I think Jenn’s up for the challenge.” 

“You bet I am,” Jenn grinned. 

“What are we talking about?” Sam asked as he plodded into the room, a bottle of water and his phone in his hands. 

“Going all out with the stage makeup,” Danny caught him up to speed. 

“Ah,” Sam replied. “Count me in.” 

“You want me to do your makeup too?” Jenn was floored. Sam had never expressed any interest in her doing anything with his face. She had heard him complain to Danny before that he put way too much effort into his skincare routine to have makeup ruin his pores. 

“Sure,” Sam said like it was nothing. “I don’t want to feel left out.” 

At that, everyone in the room turned to look at Jake. He was scrolling through his phone but looked up when he noticed the silence. 

“What?” he asked. 

“You can’t be the only one out there without a little makeup,” Josh told him. 

“You guys have your fun,” Jake waved them off and snapped his head back down to study his phone. Josh, Danny, and Sam all exchanged disappointed looks but decided not to prod Jake any further. When he had his mind made up about something, it was set in stone.  

“We’d better get started,” Jenn broke the silence. 

“I’ll go first,” Josh volunteered, because he felt like his rhinestone time was something sacred between him and Jenn. 

While Jake continued to direct all of his attention to whatever was on his phone, Danny grabbed his guitar from its case and plugged it into the amp they always requested on their rider. Near him, Sam opened his storage trunk with a grunt and started to mix a drink from his “On-the-Go Tiki Bar”. Danny started to pluck out the opening to “Broken Bells” while Josh settled in a folding chair and waited for Jenn to get her supplies ready. 

“What are you thinking for me, Jenn?” he asked her. Jenn studied his face, trying to envision what would look best on him. 

“I think we should actually put the rhinestones on hold for tonight.” 

“Daring, I like it.” 

Danny repositioned himself so he could get a good view of what Jenn was doing while he continued to mess around on his guitar. Jake took a brief second to smirk at him when he started to play a Cream song but, just as quickly, he was looking back down at his phone. Sam, with his mixed drink in hand, tried to get a peek at what Jake was doing by very non-discreetly leaning over the arm of the couch to place his face between the phone and Jake’s eyes. Jake slammed his phone into the break between the couch cushions and glared at Sam. 

“Don’t look at my phone,” he scolded his younger brother. 

“I just want to know what’s so important,” Sam defended himself. 

“None of your business, that’s what,” Jake replied. 

“Fine,” Sam huffed. He moved away from the couch slowly and, when his back was turned to Jake, Jake slid his phone back out from the cushions and started to retype his password. He called out in shock when Sam quickly turned on his heel, spilling his drink everywhere, and jumped back to Jake’s side to snatch the phone out of his hand. 

“Give it back!” Jake sprung to his feet and started to chase after Sam. Danny, making sure he was out of their way, began picking out the Benny Hill theme on his guitar. 

“You guys better not bump into Jenn,” Josh warned his brothers from his folding chair. 

“Disconnect from the source!” Sam called over his shoulder while he ran in circles around the green room, Jake on his tail. 

“Samuel!” Jake’s tone was stern. Unfortunately he wasn’t their father, so it had little to no effect on Sam. Sam started to prance around and Jake grunted out in frustration that he wasn’t able to catch up to his pest of a brother. When had Sam gotten so fast? Or was it that Jake had just gotten slower? Jake didn’t want to think too hard about that. “Please,” he forced out through grit teeth. Sam stationed himself so Danny was in between him and Jake and shook his head. 

“What is it? Were you googling yourself again? Or are you looking into Imagine Dragons tickets?” 

Danny started to play “It’s Time” which earned him a hefty smack from Jake. 

“Hey, I’m not the one who took your phone,” he frowned at Jake. 

“I would have done that to Sam instead if I could reach him,” Jake apologized. 

Sam took advantage of Jake’s moment of distraction and slyly entered the rest of his passcode, unlocking his phone. Jake looked past Danny to Sam and groaned when he saw a large grin spread across Sam’s face as he studied Jake’s phone. 

“Oh my god,” Sam finally spoke, letting the phone drop down to his side. Jake lurched past Danny and grabbed it back from Sam, who had started to laugh and shake his head. 

“What is it?” Danny looked back to ask Sam. 

“This idiot,” Sam motioned towards Jake, “this macho man who turned down Jenn’s kind offer was just Googling ‘eyeliner tips.’” 

Even though Jenn was in the middle of painting a golden line under Josh’s right eye, he whirled around in his seat to face his twin. Jake’s eyes snapped to the ground and he jammed his phone into his pants pocket. 

“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” he excused himself, and hustled out of the room. 

“What the fuck was that?” Josh asked after Jake left. 

“He did want to get his makeup done,” Danny explained. “He was just embarrassed.” 

“I don’t see what the big deal is, though,” Josh said. “I mean, you and I wear it all the time, Sam is going to tonight as well, it’s not weird at all.” 

“It’s not really his thing though,” Danny countered. 

“It used to be,” Sam pointed out. “When he was in the thick of his pirate obsession, he leapt at every opportunity to put eyeliner on.” 

“That’s right, he wore it for a few gigs and photoshoots,” Josh recalled. 

“Well, people change,” Jenn gave her two cents. “Maybe he feels disconnected from that part of his life so he’s trying to ease back into it.” 

“I guess,” Sam said. “I still don’t understand why he had to be so secretive.”

Jenn leaned away from Josh after she finished drawing the last golden line on his face and admired her work. 

“That looks nice,” she congratulated herself. Josh turned to study his reflection in the mirror and, after taking in the new look, beamed back at Jenn. 

“Good work, I look like a ray of sunshine.” 

“That’s what I was going for.”

Josh rose to his feet with a grunt and pointed towards the door. 

“I’m gonna try to find Jake and get him back here.” 

Everyone agreed that was a good idea, so Josh disappeared down the hallway out of sight. The room settled in its silence and then Jenn checked her watch and bugged her eyes at the time. 

“Danny, do you want to get over here?” Jenn motioned for him. Danny eyed the cable that was connected from the amp to his guitar and seemed to contemplate whether he could bring the guitar to the chair without it unplugging. He gave it a shot and plopped into the chair with satisfaction, testing out a loud chord that rang through the room. 

“I’m gonna play while you work, if that’s okay,” Danny told Jenn. “I’ve got some pent up nerves I need to work through before we get out there.” 

“Do what you need to do,” Jenn told him. “Just make sure you stay still.” 

Sam wandered to find another chair and brought it next to Jenn’s side so he could get a front row view of Danny’s makeup routine. 

“Can you make it extra dark tonight?” Danny put in a request. 

“You got it, bud,” Jenn nodded. 

“Wow,” Sam breathed out as Jenn passed the first layer of black eyeshadow over the top of Danny’s eyelid. “That stuff is pigmented.” 

“How do you know about pigments?” Jenn arched an eyebrow while she continued to work. 

“I have a sister,” Sam replied simply. 

“And a refined taste for quality eyeshadow palettes,” Danny poked fun. Sam faked a frown in Danny’s direction, which he returned with his tongue out. 

Sam continued to watch Jenn work her magic on Danny and, with each brush stroke over his eyes and rhinestone glued beneath his waterline, Sam started to feel a building anticipation to have his own turn in the folding chair. He just wished that Jake felt the same way. 

***

Josh was glad that it only took him a couple of minutes to find Jake. That was the perk of not only being his twin, but also spending almost every second of the day with him: the guy was pretty predictable. Josh knocked on the stall Jake was hiding in and made sure his voice was soft and soothing. 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked through the door. He could hear Jake jump in surprise. 

“I want you to go back to the greenroom and throw something at Sam for me,” Jake grunted after some thought. 

“Come on, Jake, this is silly,” Josh ignored him. “If you want to wear eyeliner, you should have said so. We just want you to be happy is all.” 

“I’d be happy if you respected my privacy,” Jake still sounded frustrated. 

“Okay, Sam taking your phone wasn’t cool.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“But I’m sure he’ll apologize to you.” 

“Josh, can I just have some space?” 

Josh knew that it was best to clear the room for Jake, as much as he wanted to try and console him. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

He made his way back out of the men’s room and shook his head. Jake could be a handful sometimes. 

Josh returned back to their room, running through all of the things he could have said to Jake that probably would have been better than what he opted for, and stopped in the doorway. Sam was sitting in the folding chair now, looking up at the ceiling while grasping onto his legs, tears pouring down his cheeks as Jenn passed some gold eyeliner under his eye. 

“You’re doing good, Sam,” Danny tried to comfort his friend.

“This feels so weird,” Sam mumbled. “I take it back, maybe I don’t want any makeup.”

“I’m almost done,” Jenn promised. 

Sam’s eyes looked to be scanning every inch of the tiled ceiling to keep himself distracted while Jenn traced the line out to the corner of his eye and flicked up. 

“I don’t feel the wet thing anymore, are you done?” Sam’s eyes looked back at Jenn and Danny. Danny studied Sam’s face and let out a chuckle. 

“That looks pretty good, Sam. You should have done this a long time ago.” 

“You think?” Sam gave him a goofy grin back. 

Josh joined their side and took in Sam’s new look. It was subtle in comparison to Danny’s dark eyeshadow and ruby rhinestones combination, but it somehow made Sam look even more ethereal than he usually did, walking around like a Jesus lookalike and all. 

“We look so celestial,” Josh commented. It was Sam’s turn to take a look in the mirror and, after gazing at himself a little bit too long, he looked back at Josh and nodded. 

Danny started to play “Here Comes the Sun”. 

“I’m not done yet,” Jenn said over Danny’s impression of George Harrison. 

“What do you mean?” Sam asked. Jenn uncapped her tube of mascara and held it out to Sam, who cocked his head to the side. “Um?” he responded. 

“It’ll make your eyes really pop,” Jenn explained. 

“You never give me mascara,” Josh pouted. 

“Just let me have this one thing,” Jenn turned back to quiet Josh, who immediately sealed his mouth shut. Sam wasn’t arguing or running for the hills, so Jenn leaned forward and brushed the wand under his long eyelashes. It would have been a crime if she left those things alone. When she finished, Danny spoke her mind. 

“Good call, Jenn,” he said. 

“Am I pretty?” Sam said, starting to bat his eyelashes. 

“No! Don’t!” Jenn was quick to stop him. “It hasn’t dried yet, you’re gonna ruin everything and then we’ll have to start all over.” 

That made Sam stop pretty fast. 

“How did it go with Jake?” Danny finally seemed to realize that Josh was back in the room. 

“Well, he’s not here, so not great,” Josh replied. “I think he needs more time to cool off.” 

***

Once Jake heard Josh shut the men’s room door, he peeked out from the stall. He knew that he was overreacting to everything, but he really didn’t appreciate how much Sam made him look like a fool back in their room. The only reason he had Googled eyeliner tips was because he was curious, that was all. Hearing everyone talk about stage makeup made him feel nostalgic for the days when he owned his own eyeliner that he tucked away in his desk drawer, penciling it quickly under his eyes whenever he felt especially bold. But that was a solid six years ago, and a lot had changed since then. Their fanbase had easily quadrupled in size, and he was worried that people would be especially vocal about how awful he looked if he couldn’t rock the eyeliner like he used to. 

But the reception with his haircut had been overwhelmingly positive, and Jake had even started experimenting with different hoops to wear on stage, which people seemed to enjoy. He could feel himself testing the limits of his appearance, trying to reinvent what the modern day rockstar was technically supposed to look like. It was just that he knew, deep down, that he was worried he would look like a knockoff member of Maneskin. That band was too hot for their own good; he didn’t want to come across like a copycat.

Jake made his way to the line of mirrors above the sinks and studied his face. He had shaved the night earlier because his mustache still wasn’t growing in the way he wanted it to, so he looked nearly identical to his 2016 self, shorter hair and all. The longer he looked, the more he could picture himself out on the stage with eyeliner. In his gut, he could feel it starting to become less of a want, and more of a need. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself. He was going to have to be sneaky and fast.

It was a good thing that his band members were the least observant people alive. Jake managed to army crawl back into the room, steal Jenn’s makeup bag from literally under her nose, and slither back out into the hallway without a soul noticing him. It definitely helped that they were all crowded around Sam, who was acting as though he was being tortured by Jenn as she put on his rhinestones. In that moment, Jake was grateful that Sam could be a massive drama queen sometimes. 

Jake sprung back to his feet and hustled to the bathroom, carrying the bag under his arm to stay discreet around the numerous roadies and stage hands who were rushing around the backstage area. He forced the door shut behind him and scanned around, finding a trash can that he could tuck under the doorknob to insure that no one else came in. 

“Hello, old friend,” Jake greeted the eyeliner pencil as he pulled it out from the bag. 

It was time to go back to his roots. 

Jake was disappointed by just how out of practice he was with the pencil. It had seemed so simple when he was younger, but he had to take into account that he wore it a lot back then. Jake started with the lower lash line of his right eye since that was usually the easiest part, but ticked when he accidentally smeared the black line downwards, making him look more like a raccoon than a rockstar. He fumbled around in the bag and heaved out a sigh of relief when he found Jenn’s makeup wipes. For a second there, he was convinced he was going to have to return to the greenroom with his tail in between his legs and his makeup all smudged to beg for help. 

He wiped the slate clean and steadied the side of his hand on his cheekbone to give it a second try. 

“You’re a pirate,” he whispered in encouragement. “Be the pirate.” 

This time around, muscle memory must have clicked for Jake because he successfully drew the pencil over his waterline without a single tear. In case it was a fluke, Jake quickly moved to the top of his eye and, just as easily, drew a second line right above his lashes. 

“Ha!” he couldn’t help but call out in glee as he checked his progress in the mirror. The old Jake was coming back, and it was nice to see him. 

Jake was proud of how effortlessly he was able to get his other eye done, and he couldn’t help but flash finger guns at his reflection because he was really feeling himself. 

“I don’t need Jenn to do this for me,” Jake told himself. “I’m the makeup expert, not Josh, not Danny, not stupid Sam. Me.”

He knew he was short on time, so he tossed the eyeliner back into Jenn’s bag, packed up the makeup wipes, and carefully removed the garbage can from the doorknob. A part of him wanted to continue sneaking around until he had to go out on stage, but he also knew that it was better to just own up to what he had done. 

So he bounded back to the green room. 

***

“Do you think I should look for him?” Danny asked around the room. “We need to take the stage soon.” 

“He’ll be out there, he’s just going through something right now,” Josh said. When Jake asked for space, Josh always let Jake come to him when he was ready. “He’ll come back when he wants to.” 

“I hope so,” Danny looked at the doorway again with worry. Jake had outbursts every so often, but the music always came first, so if they ever got into an argument backstage, he usually let it slide pretty fast. This time around though he was gone for a lot longer than usual, and Danny was starting to believe that Jake had left and caught the first flight back to Nashville to start his solo career. 

“I can look for him,” Jenn offered. She was in the middle of cleaning up her work station, but stopped, turning around in a full circle. “Where did my makeup bag go?” she asked. 

“I saw it on the table not too long ago,” Josh said. 

“That’s what I thought too,” Jenn mumbled. “It’s not there anymore.” 

“Did you take it, Sam?” Josh turned to his brother. 

“No, I did not take it, Josh,” Sam responded, his hand snapping up to mess around with the rhinestones Jenn had glued near the corner of his eyes. 

“Don’t touch those,” Jenn took a brief pause from her search to coach Sam. “The glue isn’t great. It doesn’t take a whole lot to pull those off.” 

“Oops,” Sam said, letting his hands flop back to his sides. 

“Maybe I put it in the travel case,” Jenn thought aloud, returning back to the missing makeup bag. “It’s just so weird, I’m usually so good about keeping track of everything. It’s almost like someone snuck it out when we weren’t looking.” 

“That’s because that’s exactly what happened.” 

Jenn, Danny, Sam, and Josh all snapped their heads towards the doorway and gawked at the sight of Jake, who was cockily leaning on the frame, tossing Jenn’s makeup bag from hand to hand, gazing at all of them with his darkened eyes. 

“My god, Jake,” Josh was the first to find his words. “You’ve still got it.” 

“You bet your ass I’ve still got it,” Jake retorted as he handed the bag back to Jenn. “It was bold of you all to assume that I wouldn’t want in on the fun.” 

Jenn finally got a good look at the job Jake had done and waved her hand in front of his face to get his attention. He twisted around to look at her. 

“Can I help you clean that up?” she softly asked. “I think it would look good if it was smudged.” 

Jake hated admitting it, but after giving himself another quick look in the mirror, he realized that Jenn was right. His lines were a bit crooked in some places, as if he had actually been a pirate trying to apply the black lines on the choppy sea. 

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed. He really did want to look his best, even if it meant temporarily coming down from his high horse. He threw himself back into the folding chair and could feel Josh, Danny, and Sam’s eyes all on him as Jenn pressed a pencil brush against his lids and swished it back and forth, packing the dark color towards the corner of his eyes. 

“Do you want some rhinestones?” she asked with hope when she was done. 

“No,” Jake was quick to shut that idea down. He had a very specific vision of how he wanted to look on the stage, and rhinestones were not a part of that image. “I will switch these out though,” he added in an attempt to not hurt Jenn’s feelings, pointing at his earrings. “Got anything good on hand?” 

“I’ve got a pair I’ve been wanting you to try,” Jenn sounded unbothered. She reached back into her bag and retrieved a ziploc bag that contained a pair of impressive-sized, clunky golden hoops. Jake gazed at them in admiration. 

“Those look great.”

Jenn helped him fasten them on and then Jake stood back to his feet so he could look around at his bandmates. He had to admit that they all looked really good. Even Sam, as much as he looked out of his element, and as much as Jake despised his guts in that moment. 

“I think we’ve never looked better,” he decided. 

“It is a good way to finish off this tour from hell,” Josh agreed once he was done taking in Jake’s appearance. The shorter hair, bigger hoops, freshly shaven face, and eyeliner practically made him look like a different person. He looked confident and happy, which was more than enough to satisfy Josh. 

“Amen to that,” Danny commented. “Five shows left.” 

“Let’s give them a night they’ll never forget,” Sam looked around at his bandmates. “I’m gonna slay for my besties.” 

“Please never talk again,” Danny patted Sam on the shoulder as he moved to put his guitar away. 

Jenn watched the four boys do their final prep before going out on stage and beamed. She was one fucking brilliant makeup artist.