#because if I can make like six good beanies for less than two dollars

[tj-crochets]

Beanies! I kinda got myself caught in a loop of “if I want to do this, first I have to do that”:

To start the pride quilt, I first have to finish the floral quilt, but to finish it I have to have clear floor space for the quilt sandwich, and to have clear floor space I have to put stuff away properly, and to put stuff away properly I have to make something with fleece, because my fleece won’t fit on the fleece section of my shelf anymore, so to make the pride quilt I must first make a dozen beanies

Eight beanies done, four to go! And the other four are more than half sewn! :D

[allandoflimbo]

Ashens (Part 3)

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Dystopian.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 3,036

Rating: M for Mature, E for explicit. Enemies to lovers trope, sharing a bed trope, friends with benefits trope, temporarily unrequited love, heavy angry sex, heavy on the angst, and very strong language.

Full Masterpage

Month: February

Year: 2021

It had been three years since you saw your parents being murdered in your living room and since the civil war started.

Society had fallen.

First, it was the fight for the cure, then it was the fight for protection. Next, came the riots, the fight for food, and eventually, it all became a survival of the fittest.

Electricity and communication were no more. You don’t even remember the last time you saw a working TV. Family was no more. Violence and dishonesty were now the brutal answer.

These days, protection came in the form of clothing you owned and how much you had of it. After it became apparent that this virus was actually a bacteria born and flesh-eating disease, everyone did what they could to try and keep their skin protected as much as possible. It ate through the skin and took over your body like a plague. Heavy clothing equaled less chance of being infected. It didn’t take very long for clothing stores to be looted along with the grocery and drug stores.

Eventually, you’d have to make use of any clothing you found on dead bodies that were killed by assassination and not by the virus itself. You couldn’t risk that.

But even that was rare to come by. Everyone jumped at the opportunity of a clothed dead corpse. Whether it was for the scarf, the pants, shoes, or socks.

During the riots, most of the homes had all been destroyed either by fire or vandalism. Some tainted by dead bodies; murder scenes. Some eaten by the virus. You didn’t want to live in a home that was infected. Destroyed homes were ruined by the winter’s harsh snowstorms and the summer’s heavy rainfall. Because of their collapsed ceilings mixed in with the weather, it all eventually began to mold and collapse.

Life was no more, happiness and serenity were gone, except for in The Capitol.

No one could get inside The Wall. You heard rumors that it was guarded by heavy military and machine guns, and all of Hydra.

The Capitol was a place where your parents had planned for every single one of you to make use of to help you survive and live a happy life. It was supposed to be a safe haven, not this.

It was now the place that had been savagely stolen by Hydra and the evil rich. The migration into The Capitol had happened very soon after your parent’s death. The rich, elite, privileged, and only some certain politicians, were taken in.

The other politicians, you heard in rumors, had either killed themselves or were killed by other government officials, just like your parents had been. You heard rumors that this had been an undercover mission for years. They all knew how to take over the moment it was necessary.

Even the doctors and scientists had been taken with them. And you wondered if it was at their own will. Meanwhile, everyone else - people like you and Will and simple middle-class families with children - were forced to fight each other to stay alive.

A bloodbath.

The first few months you and Will had refused to fight anyone for food. That wasn’t in your moral plans. But it had eventually come a day when neither of you had eaten in three days, and the only thing left, in a dirty store off Route 95, was a loaf of bread. You, Will, and this random girl all argued until you eventually agreed on splitting it into three pieces.

The girl had been chewing her piece, devouring like she hadn’t eaten in days when her eyes landed on the tattoo on your neck, and immediately you knew she knew who you were. Her eyes grew dark and she jumped at the chance to attack you when Will came from behind, hitting her on the back of the head with a heavy bucket, making her pass out.

You knew that no one really knew what happened to your family. They all think it was your parent’s intentions for all of these horrible things to have happened. They blame you and your family for this. This only made you want to avenge your parents even more and even Will knew. This life wasn’t what they wanted, and it’s not what you wanted either.

You had been sitting one night, in the middle of a forest in Connecticut around a blazing fire, eating a fish you had just caught with your handmade spear. It had fed you both for many months. Will smiled over the fire at you, licking the meat off the bone clean.

“We’ll get there, Y/N.”

You stared at the fire in a daze. You hadn’t lost hope. Or at least you don’t think you did. Your feet had been bare for weeks and they were starting to chafe and bleed.

You wouldn’t admit it, but part of you did lose a little hope. You feared the first snowfall of the year. It was almost comical to you how your last worry at the moment was frostbite.

You took a deep breath, enjoying the taste of the Tilapia. You wrapped your heavy scarf over your shoulders.

“I know, I’m just tired. I wish I had more strength, I wish we had more strength. There’s two of us and thousands of them, Will.”

It was the first sign of doubt you had shown in months, and it surprised Will slightly.

“I know, but we can do it. I know we can.” he licked his fingers clean and then laid down on the wet and cold grass, his hands behind his head.

Could you do it? You weren’t sure anymore. You knew you wanted to kill Hydra and you wanted to overtake The Capitol. But were you two really capable of doing that? Have you two been delusional this entire time?

“Its been three years. Three years.” You said softly. Exhausted.

“True, but we’re young. And we’re smart. We have an advantage they don’t. That.” He bent one of his legs and stared up at the scars, a small smile tainting his lips, “We could always call The Avengers.”

You scoffed, running your hands through your hair as you threw the bare spine into the fire. You were a bit sad you finished it, your tummy still turning in hunger.

“What Avengers? Hydra destroyed their home, everything. They tried to fight and they lost. Worst than when Thanos beat them. And to make matters worse, this is a virus, it’s not something they can necessarily control. They’ve become overpowered, even the damn Avengers are overpowered now by Hydra. This is like a horror movie that will never end. It’s time we face the facts.”

Will smirked.

“I don’t know if I buy it. You mean to tell me even Bruce fucking Banner couldn’t break that damn wall?”

You gave him a glare.

“I don’t think the goal here is to break The Wall. If anything that would ruin the purpose, don’t you think?” you picked up a small and harmless rock and threw it at his chest, making him cringe, “dipshit.”

Will continued to stare up at the stars.  The night was midnight black, and now since there was no longer any electricity, you could even see the milky-way.

“I don’t see this ending badly.”

You wish you had his good heart and good soul. You furrow your brows at him.

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“This whole thing. We’ll fix it, I know we will. I don’t know how, but it will happen. I’m sure of it.”

You consider his words and nod. You slowly take your time to get up and walk over to where he is. You pull your heavy apocalyptic-style hood over your head and scooch over closer to him. You cross your own arms behind your head, also looking up at the stars. They looked beautiful, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to feel even a little bit serene.  This is why you enjoyed Will. He was your best friend and your guardian angel.

“You really think so?” You ask.

Will turned his head over and looked at you. You did the same thing, staring back into his eyes.

You were suddenly afraid; afraid of losing your friend. What would you do without a good soul like him to keep you sane and strong?

“I do.” There was no trace of doubt in his voice.

Still, you tried to believe him, you really did.

You and Will began to fend for survival. You often thought of killing your parent’s murderer when you would both be laying under a tree in the cold of the night trying to fall asleep. You would never forget that face.  You and Will would both alternate between being watchmen to guard your food and weapons. You mostly used the weapons just for hunting, but you never knew what could happen. Still, you remained alert and vigilant.

You both never ventured too much into the city, trying to stay on the outskirts as much as you possibly could. But one day you had cut your hand while trying to spear more seafood in a riverbed, and the cut ended up being deeper than you could manage. Not only did you fear it to get in the way of your hunting, but you also didn’t want your blood seeping in through your clothing, making it more versatile to the virus.

You both found a looted, but in not-too-bad-of-a-condition, dollar store just off the freeway. You both climbed over some of the abandoned cars, making sure to look in each one just in case there was something worth taking.

You got to the entrance of the store, and Will told you he would be outside waiting and keeping guard while you looked for some bandages.

The store was almost completely empty, yet you found your way into the med isle, stepping over fallen light fixtures and useless items like beanie babies and dusted up Happy Birthday cards. You were rummaging through some boxes when you heard it.

A scream.

Will.

Your heart jumped into your throat and you acted on autopilot. You didn’t second guess, you ran through the doors and over the fallen cable wires without hesitation. Your eyes searched the eery and abandoned parking lot. You didn’t see him and you screamed Will’s name over and over again, running around the deserted parking lot. You knew it was dangerous, but you had to find him. You heard a groan and you quickly saw him lying against the curb off to the side of the highway, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

You feared the worst.

“No, no,” you repeated to yourself. You tried to be careful to not slip on the black ice beneath your leather boots.

You ran towards his fallen body and the first thing you say was how pale he was. His face was emotionless. Most likely shock. You crouched down next to him and you pulled his arm away from his chest. You saw a knife sticking out from his upper abdomen and blood.

A lot of blood.

He was panting and it didn’t take you long to look up across the street. There was a man faced down into the pavement. You swallowed thickly, knowing there was a fight and Will had gotten hurt.

“He saw you and he kept saying he wanted your coat, he was a loon and he had a machete, and he — and he—” Will panted.

“Shhh, shhh.” You hugged him tightly to your body as you rocked him back and forth.

“I wanted to protect you.” “I know, Will. I know.” You cried, closing your eyes tightly together and holding him closer.

He barely coughed out, his eyes rolling back.

“It hurts.” He cried.

You saw heavy tears cloud your vision and you felt a sense of impending doom.

“I got you, Will, I got you.” You don’t know if you were speaking to him or yourself.

He stretched his arm up and grabbed yours, pulling your embrace tighter around his body.

“We’ll get them, Y/N. We’ll avenge your parents, I promise. I’m too strong for this.” He squeaked, “I won’t die.” He said through clenched teeth.

Tears ran down your face as you watched him grab his own open abdomen.

“You are, Will. You are so strong.” Your face tilted to the side as more sobs racked through your body, “Please, don’t leave me. I can’t be alone. I can’t do this alone.”

You felt his nimble fingers dig into your elbow, smearing you with his blood.

“I’m so sorry.” He whimpered, some blood escaping his lips this time.

“Please, please.” You cried over and over again, holding him tighter to your chest.

It didn’t take much longer for you to feel him go limp in your arms. Your body shook with your cries when you repeated it back to yourself: Will was dead.

You didn’t allow yourself to cry for too long. You wanted to but you knew you needed to keep moving, and being this exposed could only cost you your life.

You quickly found a nice area, the nicest you could possibly find in an arena of death, and you carefully laid Will’s body down. Ironically, it was in a field of dead daisies. You delicately draped his arms over his chest and you whispered your goodbyes to him. You took a moment to cherish who he was. He was a lonely son of a construction worker and an accountant. His bother died two years ago after being infected. He had been in pain for a long time, but he had a good heart, and he strived to stay at your side to help you. You let your tears fall on your hands as you held his for just a few more minutes.

No more than a half-hour later after finding some bandages, you were back in the woods, continuing your journey south. You pulled out the compass that Will had given you, just to be sure. It was close to dusk when you heard the sound of a river running down below. Your stomach grumbled, suddenly feeling very hungry again. You had been out of luck today, finding not even one squirrel or deer. Not even a bird.

You hadn’t eaten since that morning when you and Will had split a couple of spare pumpkin seeds. Your chest tightened at the thought of him again. You felt awful for just leaving him in the field like that. You knew someone would find him soon and take the clothing off his body to keep for their own. But you had no choice. And there was no time for a proper burial, at least not in the middle of a city like that.

You continued your walk more and more, the boots that you had stolen off a girl’s body, squishing in the mood and dirt beneath your feet. You were thankful it hadn’t snowed yet this year. The cold was already unbearable as it was, if there was snow it would only make your journey worst. You couldn’t take it for granted.

You don’t know how much farther you walked since you had no watch. No one had watches anymore. Time didn’t exist anymore. But, it would help in order for you to estimate your location and how far you had left in your journey. You were guessing, realistically, it had been about an hour, judging by how much darker the sky now was.

You knew you needed to find a corner to settle in and build a fire. You needed a place to sleep for the night. Food would have to wait until tomorrow, you would go to sleep hungry again.

You take a deep breath and rest your hand on a large tree. You were extremely fatigued, in desperate need of water. You had been dehydrated for a while. You knew your canteen was running low so you had to savor as much as you could.

You took necessary sips here and there.

You drift your eyes over the horizon and through the broken branches until your gaze lands of a patch of grass that looked decent enough for a rest stop. You would lay your dirty rag you call a blanket there and get some rest.

You slowly started your walk, tucking your canteen back into your bag.

You heard owls in the sky around you and you grew worried as you began to realize that with Will now gone you were truly alone. There was no way you could avenge your parents alone. You couldn’t go into The Capitol alone.

You had no chance.

Your hands grew clammy and you started feeling worried sick, your mind now in overdrive.

You were screwed. You were all alone and screwed and there was no chance in hell you were going to come out of this alive. Suddenly, you find yourself angry at Will. Angry for lying to you and saying that everything would be okay.

How could he say that? How could he lie to make you believe it was true? You wouldn’t be capable of doing this alone? Even the Avengers couldn’t do this, even the Earth’s mightiest heroes could not win against Hydra, yet here you were trying to overthrow an entire city filled with them?

You remember the people talking about how their compound had been bombed and destroyed. They didn’t have a home anymore. They had three missions where they tried to overthrow it and failed miserably. It pained you to see that your parents hope for the future had become a living hell of blood and war. How could Will have so much faith in you? You remember the feel of his limp body in your arms and your sadness is unbearable.

More tears found your eyes and you rubbed your wet nose over the back of your sleeve. Something heavy caught the tip of your boot, and with a shriek you found yourself tumbling down and down.

Then, everything went dark.

[hazzasgayvodka]

mister long term booty call

In which harry has been your best friend for six years and after learning you haven’t had sex in six months, he’s willing to give you a hand, or rather a finger ;)

You hear the front door open and lean over the back of the couch to see Harry strolling in, not paying attention to your staring eyes as he leans his skateboard against the wall and drops his backpack right next to it.

“You’re late sir.” You quip, and he finally snaps his head up to meet your eyes under his unruly mess of hair tucked into his beanie.

“I know, sorry, I was uh-“

“Fucking Tiffany in the back of your car?” You smirk knowingly, getting up off the couch to meet him in the kitchen.

“Jenna,” He corrects, and you quirk your eyebrow up in further questioning, urging him to explain, “Tiffany’s sister.”

“God Harry, you’ve got to be kidding.” You groan, shoving him over as he opens the pantry to raid it for snacks most likely.

“Gotta do what you gotta do, Y/N,” He shrugs, grabbing the bag of salt and vinegar chips, “Not all of us have mister perfect just waiting for us to call him over.”

“Can you please not call him that?” You sigh, rolling your eyes, “And you could have a miss perfect if you wanted to, you just don’t want to pay for the poor girls’ popcorn when you take them to the movies.”

He shrugs with that regular shit eating grin on his face that you know all too well. You put a bag of popcorn in the microwave as he shrugs off his denim jacket and tosses it on the hook in the hallway before kicking his vans off and throwing them underneath.

“I mean you answered the question yourself,” He says through a mouthful of chips, “I could have that if I wanted it, but I don’t, especially not with fucking Tiffany, more like miss blowjob behind the Dennys.”

You swat him in the arm as he walks behind you to get to the fridge and grab a can of Fanta. He’s laughing as he cracks it open and chugs some of it down, plucking the bag of popcorn out of your hand and pouring some into his mouth.

“Harry! That was mine!” You huff, rolling your eyes as you grab a soda for yourself.

“It’s still yours!” He chuckles, collapsing on the couch with his backpack, “I’m just bringing it to the living room for you because I’m just that thoughtful.”

You walk around the corner to see him sat comfortably in the middle of the couch with all of the snacks piled up on the coffee table in front of him. He dumps out his backpack, adding two more bags of chips and six boxes of candy to the pile.

“Someone had a field day at the dollar store.” You joke, reaching around him to grab a box of Mike and Ike.

“Spent all ten bucks on you,” He nods, shoving a Twizzler in his mouth, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You sigh, tucking your feet up under your legs as you get comfy.

He grabs the joint from behind his ear and takes the lighter out of his pocket, igniting the end. He sucks in a drag as he slumps further against the couch, running a hand through his overgrown mess of hair.

“So how is mister perfect?” He muses, turning over to meet your eyes as he grabs the TV remote, “Still perfect?”

“He’s not perfect Harry, he’s just-“

“A student professor at your college with medical insurance and the keys to a Tesla?” He mocks, eyeing you over his shoulder as he starts flipping through the channels.

“Would you shut up?” You huff, grabbing the pillow from behind you and smacking him over the head.

“What?” He scoffs, “Am I wrong? He’s fucking boring, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes as he pulls off his Higgs hoodie, revealing his Astroworld t-shirt. He slumps back against the couch and you grab his hoodie yourself, pulling it over your head.

“So what is it?” He asks, breathing out another cloud of smoke, “Why isn’t he perfect? Other than the fact that he’s an absolute snore fest of course.”

You shove him over with your shoulder and steal the joint out of his hand, placing it between your lips instead, “He’s not boring Harry, he’s…safe.” You sigh, taking another drag.

“Safe?” He taunts, snatching the Mike and Ike out of your hand, “That is exactly what you call someone that’s drop-dead boring.”

“He’s not-“

“What’s his favorite ice cream flavor?” He asks instead, cutting you off.

“Um,” You think aloud, wishing you didn’t have to say it, “Vanilla?”

“God, Y/N! Are you kidding me?” He groans, throwing his head back against the couch, “What does he teach?”

“Biomedical engineering-“

“Fucking hell!” He shouts, cutting you off once again, “He’s literally a piece of white bread, Y/N,” He says, turning to face you on the couch, “God, you know Wonderbread? That’s him, he’s a fucking piece of Wonderbread.”

“He is not a piece of Wonderbread, Harry,” You defend, rolling your eyes, “He’s a stable guy, with a stable job, and-“

“At least tell me the sex is good.” He cuts in once again, shoveling popcorn into his mouth.

“It’s uh, the sex is um, it’s fine-“

“Oh my god, Y/N!” He shouts, his voice nearly startling you, “Even the sex is boring?”

“I did not say that-“

“You didn’t have to!” He laughs, “I’ve known you for six years, I can tell when you’re lying,” He smirks obnoxiously, “God I can’t believe even the sex is bad, what is it? You suck him off and then it’s like five minutes of missionary or-“

“Harry!” You squeal, grabbing the pillow you flung at him earlier and covering your blushing face with it instead.

“Oh, come on, you’re acting like we don’t talk about this shit.” He huffs, grabbing the pillow from over your face and tossing it over his shoulder.

“You talk about this shit, Harry,” You laugh lightheartedly, “Without me asking you to, might I add.”

“Well maybe if you were having better sex, you’d want to talk about it.” He shrugs, sticking his tongue out at you as he turns back to the TV.

“Maybe if you were less promiscuous, you’d talk about it less.” You counter, leaning back against the couch and shoving your feet in his lap.

“Maybe if you actually got some good sex, you’d be less annoying.” He teases, leaning back against the couch and folding his arms on top of your legs.

 You wake up to the light coming in through the living room window and peel your eyes open to see Harry underneath you. He’s passed out cold, his head in your lap and his feet hanging off the edge of the couch. He must’ve curled up on your lap after you fell asleep during your American Horror Story binge.  You suddenly hear a knock at the door and realize that must have been what woke you up, but who the hell is here this early in the morning?

You shove him off your lap and he grunts in protest, curling back up with one of the astray pillows as you stumble to your feet. You pass the kitchen on the way to the door and you catch the time lit up on the stove out of the corner of your eye.

One thirty? No way, it’s not one thirty in the afternoon. Sure, you two didn’t go to bed till four but it couldn’t possibly be-

“Y/N? Hello?” You hear your boyfriend’s voice ask from behind the door as he continues knocking.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You whisper to yourself, looking down to see yourself still dressed in the same sweatpants from yesterday and Harry’s Higgs sweatshirt.

“What’s happening?” Harry groans from the couch, standing up and running a hand through his messy bedhead.

“Mister perfect is outside because I was supposed to go out to lunch with him today!” You whisper harshly, trying to figure out how to get ready and air out the very present smell of weed in your apartment in the next three seconds.

“Lunch? Who the fuck makes plans to go to lunch-“

“Harry! Not right now!”

“Well fine, why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll entertain the snooze fest for ten minutes.” He suggests, walking past you to grab the door.

You cringe outwardly, your face screwing up into the worst expression as he pulls the door open and suddenly your two very separate worlds are colliding. Your boyfriend doesn’t know you as some girl who smokes weed and inhales potato chips while bingeing TV shows with your best friend who’s a self-proclaimed lady killer and proud retail associate at Zumiez. He knows you as Y/N, a girl he met studying at the library who enjoys critically acclaimed movies and going to brunch on Sunday.

“Hey there mate,” Harry grins, gesturing inside, “Why don’t you just come in and chill, she’ll be ready to go in like ten, maybe fifteen minutes, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of getting to know each other.”

“And you are?” Your boyfriend asks, raising his eyebrows as he passes Harry in the hallway.

“Her best friend,” Harry grins proudly, “Harry.”

Your boyfriend reaches out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry grabs his hand and pulls him into a bro hug, clapping his back. You meet your boyfriend’s eyes over Harry’s shoulder, and he looks anything but pleased.

“I’ll just be right out, I swear.” You say quickly, darting to your room to get changed.

You slip on a pair of jeans and huff in annoyance as you strip out of Harry’s stupid weed hoodie and put on a nice blouse instead. You spray yourself head to toe with perfume and brush your teeth twice to cover the smell of smoke sticking to you before shoving your feet into a pair of flats and rejoining the boys in the living room.

“You ready to go?” Your boyfriend asks hurriedly, standing from the couch and effectively cutting Harry off in the middle of whatever they were talking about.

“Um, yeah,” You stutter, grabbing your purse and turning to Harry, “You can lock up when you leave, yeah?”

“Yup, don’t even worry about it,” He nods, “You two have fun, but not too much fun.” He jokes, making your boyfriend grimace.

You fake smile, waving goodbye and nearly dragging your boyfriend out of your apartment and to his car parked outside. He’s still looking at you incredulously as you collapse into the car beside him and he starts it up, driving to the entrance of your complex.

He finally breaks the silence when you hit the first red light, “You never mentioned your uh-“

“I know, he’s um, he’s a lot,” You explain, trying to carefully word your next thought, “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“He seems like a nice enough guy,” He shrugs, “Didn’t really strike me as someone you’d be best friends with however.”

“Yeah, it’s just um, you know we’ve been hanging out for so long he just kind of-“

“Sticks around and hotboxes your apartment?” He remarks, the judgement dripping from his voice.

Your stomach twists in the worst way when the words come out of his mouth. There it is, the sentence you were waiting for. The one that confirms he thinks of Harry exactly the way you thought he would. Harry is loud, and obnoxious, and stoned ninety percent of the time but he’s your best friend in the whole world. He’s held your hair over the toilet while you puked up vodka soda more times than you’d like to count, and you don’t even want to try and think of how many movie marathons you’ve had at each other’s houses till ungodly hours of the night. You love that son of a bitch, no matter how many girls he fucks in the backseat of his old ass Mustang or how many times he bums five bucks off you for a Whopper when he’s got the munchies, he’s your best friend, and maybe he’s right about mister perfect.

 You walk back in your apartment expecting to see Harry still sprawled on the couch with the remote in his hand but he’s nowhere to be found. You trudge your feet back to your bedroom and grab his Higgs hoodie off the ground, stripping out of your blouse and pulling the hoodie back over your head. You dial his number as you collapse on your bed, laying upside down with your feet pressed to the wall.

“What’s up?” He asks right away, not even bothering to say hello, “How was your lunch date?”

“Definitely could’ve gone better.” You sigh, sitting back up when you feel the blood rushing to your head.

“What happened? Did he order unseasoned chicken and steamed cauliflower?” He teases.

“No,” You laugh, rolling your eyes, “I uh, I broke up with him.”

You can hear the shuffle of movement on the other side of the phone and you can picture him sitting up quickly from laying down on his back just like you are, “No the fuck you didn’t.”

“Yes the fuck I did.” You chuckle, rolling over onto your stomach.

“Wow,” He sighs, “What finally made you put the last nail in the coffin?”

“Remember when you asked how the sex was?” You grimace, covering your blushing face with your hand even though he can’t see you.

“Yeah.” He says uneasily, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

“Well there wasn’t any,” You gulp, awaiting his reaction, “We didn’t-“

“You guys never fucked?” He asks suddenly, cutting you off, “Y/N, you dated that guy for six months.”

“Believe me, I know.” You laugh, trying to break through the awkward air.

“You haven’t had sex in six months?” He asks again, clearly not able to wrap his head around the thought.

“Yes Harry, say it a little louder for your neighbors, would you?” You joke, tying your hair up in a bun on top of your head.

“God, what a piece of fucking Wonderbread,” He chuckles, cracking himself up with his own joke from earlier, “Six months Y/N, that’s like, that should be illegal.”

“Probably going to be a lot longer now.” You mumble, walking to the kitchen to grab a tub of ice cream out of the freezer.

“Longer? No way, I’m not letting you do that to yourself,” He laughs, “We’re going out tonight and I’m gonna wingman you so hard you’ll definitely-“

“No, no, no,” You sigh, cutting him off, “You know I don’t do that shit Harry, I’m not going to have sex with a total stranger.” You say through a mouthful of ice cream.

“Well, I mean, we could,” He says, “I’m not a stranger.”

You nearly choke on the huge bite of ice cream in your mouth when the words come out of his mouth. You almost drop the giant spoon in your hand as you set the ice cream down and press your phone to your ear to make sure you hear him properly.

“I’m sorry, did you just fucking say-“

“Y/N, it makes perfect sense,” He reasons, “We know each other, too well probably, and I’ve heard you complain after mediocre sex enough to know what you want.”

“No way! No you’re not-“

“And you’ve seen me naked plenty of times and I was there when you got that ass tattoo so I’ve basically seen you in the nude-“

“That is not the same thing.” You cut in.

“It’s close enough!” He laughs, “All I’m saying is I fucking know what I’m doing, and I could make you feel good Y/N, something you apparently haven’t experienced in six. Fucking. Months.”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose and trying to make your mind think straight. You can’t do this, this is fucking insane right? Fucking your best friend? Fucking Harry? You can’t have sex with Harry, he’s fucking Harry!

“Okay,” You say uneasily and fucking dammit if your subconscious didn’t just slam her face into the wall, “Just this once?”

“Just this once,” He confirms, “Unless of course you want to go for round two-“

“Don’t get your hopes up, Styles,” You warn, wanting to knock yourself out before you actually agree to something this insane, “Can you be at my place in twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes?” He scoffs, “Y/N, there is an art to this, you think I just wake up and look this good? For the full experience I’ve got to shower and shave and-“

“You’ve got half an hour until there is a strong possibility that I will change my mind.”

“Ugh, fine,” He sighs, and you swear you can hear him rolling his eyes, “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

 As soon as you hang up the phone, your mind is whirling. Fifteen minutes. You’ve got fifteen minutes until your best friend of six years is going to show up on your doorstep with every intention of seeing you naked. God. What have you done?

You hurry to your bathroom and brush your teeth first, gargling with mouth wash twice and checking your breath afterwards. Your hands are nearly shaking as you take your hair down from the bun on your head and you run your fingers through it, trying to sort out the tangles. Does it look better up? Will that make the act easier if your hair isn’t like all over the place? Does leaving it down look too nice?

You shake your head in frustration and decide to leave it down as you walk back to your room and start shuffling through your dresser. What do you wear to have sex with your friend for the first time? Do you put on nice underwear or does that look like you’re trying too hard? You definitely don’t wear tan, seamless boyshorts, that’s for sure. You wriggle out of your underwear and slide into a plain black thong instead. Not lace, not too fancy, and definitely not matching your bra but at least it’s not spanx.

Do you put your jeans back on? Or just stay in his hoodie and some underwear? That’s hot right? Are you supposed to be hot? Harry’s not going to think you’re hot whether you’re dressed in nothing but a thong anyways.

There’s a knock on the front door and you nearly jump out of your skin. God, he’s here. You try to make a split-second decision to throw on a pair of shorts until the knocking sounds again and you realize he’s locked out. You decide against the stupid shorts and walk back out to the living room, bracing yourself for what’s about to happen. You could just not answer the door, tell him you fell asleep. It’s happened before, he’d believe you, wouldn’t he?

“Y/N! It’s fucking cold out here!” He calls, banging his fist against the door.

You sigh, taking in a deep breath as you walk down the hallway to the front door and slide open the lock, pulling it open. The cold air hits you like a brick wall and Harry’s face lights up upon seeing you before he shuffles past you into the warmth of your apartment.

He’s still rubbing his hands together as he drops his skateboard inside and slides his backpack off one shoulder when your eyes rake over him, trying to compare his appearance to yours. He’s in a plain pair of grey basketball shorts and his favorite Thrasher hoodie with a red hat pulled backwards over his unruly hair. He’s anything but dressed up for the occasion and that’s perfectly fine by you, you didn’t sign up for the full Harry Styles experience.

“God it’s warm in here,” He groans, reaching for the thermostat to bump it down a few degrees, “You know, if you wore pants around the house you could probably save loads on your electric bill.”

You can’t find it in yourself to come up with something equally witty to throw back at him like you usually do. He’s still cracking up at his own joke as he strips out of his hoodie and you’re surprised to see his torso bare underneath. That’s fine, you’ve seen Harry shirtless before, many times actually, but this isn’t like those times, is it?

He turns to look at you over his shoulder as he bends down to his backpack, grabbing his pack of pre-rolled joints and lighting one between his teeth. He stands back up with the joint between his teeth and puffs a cloud of smoke in your direction to which you roll your eyes and shove him.

“So, are we doing this?” He asks, quirking his eyebrow up at you as he leads you the rest of the way into your apartment.

“I um, I don’t know, I think this was a bad idea we should just-“

“Oh, no you don’t.” He laughs, cutting you off.

You’re caught off guard as he takes the joint out of his mouth, balancing it between his two fingers and leans into you, pressing you into the wall and smashing his lips onto yours. He shotguns a puff of smoke into your mouth and you only cough a little bit, making him laugh as you swallow roughly. Suddenly his lips are moving against yours and holy fuck you’re making out with your best friend, you’re making out with Harry.

His free hand reaches to grip your waist, holding you in place against the wall as his other hand rests beside your head against the drywall, still gripping the smoking joint between his fingers. His hand hikes up the side of his hoodie, grabbing your naked hip and dragging his dull fingernails over your skin while his mouth continues moving with yours. You’ve definitely never been kissed like this before, with this much skill and rhythm and the perfect amount of tongue but of course he’s a good kisser Y/N, he’s had more than enough practice you remind yourself.

It’s not until his lips move away from yours and instead start to trail down your neck that you’re suddenly painfully aware that this is Harry. Your best friend, Harry Styles, is kissing down your neck and fuck is he biting your throat and making your fucking knees buckle.

“Harry?” You gasp, wishing your voice wasn’t so strained.

“Yeah?” He says, stopping his assault and looking up to meet your eyes, “What? Too much teeth? I’ll dial it back-“

“No, no,” You sigh, trying to clear your head, “Just enough teeth, I just um-“

“Want me to take off the hat?” He suggests, grabbing it by the bill and tossing it behind him, “The hair is part of the experience, baby.” He grins cheekily.

“No, Harry, god,” You huff, rolling your eyes, “I just um, I don’t know if I can do this, what if this ruins our friendship? Like what if I give you a bad blowjob and you just-“

“Woah, woah, woah,” He says, taking a drag, “For one, I wouldn’t friend dump you over a shitty blowjob and two, you’re not going to be giving any blowies you dolt, tonight is about you and making sure you get a hefty dose of orgasm to last you through the next six months.”

“Who’s saying it’s going to have to last me another six months?” You scoff, hitting him in the arm.

“I’m just helping you prepare for the worst,” He laughs, blowing another cloud of smoke into your face, “Now will you please relax and let me finish my artistic masterpiece on your neck?”

You roll your eyes as you lean back against the wall behind you and tilt your head back, allowing him further access to the skin of your throat. He grins, those stupid dimples indenting his cheeks as he leans back down and surprises you by grabbing the back of your neck and capturing your lips with his once again. His hands reach for the hem of his hoodie on your body, dragging it up and over your head, leaving you in nothing but your bright blue bra and black thong.

“Really pulled out all the stops, huh?” He teases, snaking his finger under your bra strap and snapping it against your skin.

“Says the guy in the basketball shorts.” You smirk, reaching forward to snap the band of his shorts against his hip.

The grin on his face is every bit devious as he grabs your hips, pulling you to him and ducking his head down to press his lips to yours once again. Suddenly the friction between the two of you is undeniable and you nearly hit the ground when Harry takes your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Bedroom?” He pants, hardly pulling away from your lips long enough to get the single word out.

“Mhm.” You hum, reverberating the word right back into his mouth as your lips move together.

He walks the both of you towards your bedroom door, still swung open from your hurried dash to get the door when he arrived. He nearly trips on two pairs of your shoes, swearing under his breath as he kicks them out of the way and leads you to the bed until the backs of your calves hit the mattress.

He pushes you down against the bed and your heart is nearly hammering out of your chest for the few seconds that you’re laying there, staring up at him and his swollen lips and blown out irises. Who is this man in front of you? This isn’t your high school best friend that used to put carrots up his nose at lunch and help you onto the roof of his house so you guys could smoke without his parents knowing. But it is.

“You good?” He asks sincerely, kneeling in between your legs at the foot of the bed.

“Yup, just fine.” You quip, trying to steady your breathing before he’s close enough to hear your heart beating out of your chest.

“God Y/N, you have got to relax.” He sighs, his hands running over your legs from your ankles to your thighs.

“Sorry if this is just,” You pant, closing your eyes briefly, “Just a lot to wrap my head around, okay?”

He laughs and you know he’s making a that’s what he said joke in his head as he leans back over you, pressing his lips to your collar bone and then traveling further down your chest.

“Would it be better if you weren’t looking at me?” He asks, looking up to meet your eyes as he drags your underwear off you, “Think you could relax if you couldn’t see me?”

“I mean, maybe, but how-“

“Here, get up.” He says simply, cutting you off and throwing your underwear over his shoulder.

You’re caught off guard as he instructs you to stand back up and he resumes your spot on the bed, his feet hanging off the edge quite a bit more than yours were.

“Come over here.” He says, reaching for your hand and you nearly feel like passing out as you kneel on the edge of the bed and crawl over to him, your naked ass in the air.

“What are you-“

“Put this one here,” He instructs, grabbing your right knee and placing it right beside his head, “And put this one right here.” He continues, grabbing your left knee and trying to drag it over his face to rest on the other side of his head.

“What? No! Harry!” You stutter, swatting his hand away but he grabs your leg tighter, meeting your eyes.

“Come on Y/N, just ride my face, then you won’t be looking at me while I-“

“Do not finish that sentence.” You warn, your chest heaving as you wrap your arms around yourself to try to cover up at least a little.

“Y/N,” He says softly, his hand reaching out to grab your hip, “Do you trust me?”

You look up from the comforter beneath your knees to meet his stern eyes. There’s not an ounce of teasing in his voice, no digs or cracking jokes, he’s sincere and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look this serious.

“If at any point you want me to stop, you just say the word and we’ll be done, we can put on a movie and act like this never happened, I swear,” He says, squeezing your hip for emphasis, “But for now, can you just give me a chance?”

You sigh, sitting back on your heels and staring at the ceiling fan whirring above you. This is insane. Sit on his face? Ride his face? He wants you to put that on his mouth, what if you fucking suffocate him?

“How do I do this again?” You sigh, looking back down to meet his eyes.

He grins, grabbing your left knee once again and passing it over his face, placing it on the other side of his head. You cringe, preparing yourself to look down and see none other than fucking Harry’s face between your thighs.

“You good?” He asks again and the warmth of his breath directly on your core makes your thighs clench.

“Just great,” You grimace, “Are you going to uh, get started down there, or?”

“You’ve got to sit down first love,” He laughs, his hands reaching around to grab your hips, “Can’t really reach you from way up there.”

Love. That’s new. Harry has definitely never called you love. You can’t tell if he’s saying it to comfort you because at this point, he can probably feel your heartbeat thumping in every cell of your body, many of which happen to be sitting on him at the current moment. You let out yet another sigh, bracing yourself as you lean off your knees, and onto the backs of your feet instead.

“Like this?” You ask cautiously, trying to keep yourself balanced on your heels so you don’t crush him.

“Just like that,” He says, nodding his head and his nose brushes your clit, making you jump, “Shit, sorry.”

“Careful, Styles.” You breathe, your legs already shaking.

You look down and meet his eyes, your cheeks instantly going aflame as he smirks at you with that stupid dimpled smile. His hair is splayed out beneath him, his eyes hooded as his hands move from your hips to your thighs, holding you in place as he licks one bold stripe up the center of your heat.

“Christ.” You sigh, your eyes falling closed as you suck in a sharp breath.

You hear him chuckle beneath you as he continues his assault, his hands locked around your jittering thighs as he licks up and down you, swirling his tongue in all the right ways. He sucks your bud into his mouth, pressing sloppy kisses to your core as he catches his breath before delving back into your heat.

“H-Higher.” You pant, leaning back on your hands that are firmly pressed to his chest behind you.

“Here?” He asks, licking a few stripes at just the perfect spot.

“Fuck, yes, right there,” You breathe heavily, moving one of your hands from his chest to thread through his hair, “Back and forth, horizontal.” You pant, hoping he understands what you mean.

His tongue starts flicking back and forth across the perfect spot and you nearly lose your balance and fall forward at the surge of pleasure in the pit of your stomach. His arms reach up and grab your hips, holding you upright as you shudder, your eyes screwed shut. He continues the movement, darting back and forth between it and the sloppy kisses he resorts to in order to catch his breath as he reaches up your back to the clasp of your bra. He snaps it open with a quick flick of his skilled fingers and tosses it to the side, your full chest finally on display.

“Did you just manage to get my bra off in the middle of all this?” You gasp, your eyes fluttering open to meet his, still trained on you.

“It’s all in the wrist.” He teases, purposefully nudging you with his nose this time.

You roll your eyes, reaching down to cover his face, wishing he would stop staring at you with that dimpled smirk on his face while his fucking mouth does ungodly things to your clit.

“That’s the spirit,” He smirks, “This is much hotter.”

“God, would you please shut up and put your mouth to better use?” You groan, uncovering his eyes once again.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He jokes, returning his tongue to where you need him most, your knees buckling almost instantly.

It’s only a couple seconds of that flicking movement that has you shuddering above him. He reaches up to tease your nipples, making you gasp and have to lean back on his chest once again. He’s smirking proudly as you come undone above him, your thighs threatening to clench together and absolutely squish his head, but he couldn’t care less. Your lip is nearly purple you’re biting down on it so hard and Harry notices. You’re keeping your moans contained but he won’t be having any of that, you better tell him how good he’s making you feel.

He leans you back to sit on his chest rather than kneeling over his face as you ride out your orgasm and you’re just about to ask him what the hell he’s doing when he pushes a finger into you. You nearly jump out of your skin at the overstimulation and your hands plant themselves firmly on the mattress on either side of his hips.

“Feel good?” He asks, trying to drag it out of you as he adds another finger, pumping into you relentlessly, and you involuntarily whimper.

“Mhm.” You nod, biting your lip once again as his fingers curl inside you and your back arches, nearly tipping you over the edge for a second time already.

“For fuck’s sake, let me hear you, Y/N.” He grunts, adding his thumb to rub against your clit as his two fingers continue curling inside of you.

“God, Harry, fuck,” You sputter, trying to get the words out, “Fuck me.”

“You want me to stop?” He asks, clearly not following, “Want me to fuck you instead?”

“No, asshat,” You pant, “Fingers, fuck me, don’t just curl them, in and out, you follow?”

He’s laughing as he nods, flipping his hair out of his face as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you once again. You throw your head back in ecstasy, still balancing on your hands and gripping the duvet in your fists.

“Better?” He asks.

“Much.” You breathe.

You move one hand from the mattress to grab him over his basketball shorts and he hisses through his teeth, his head suddenly falling back against the mattress.

“No,” He grunts, pulling himself back up to meet your eyes, “This is about you-“

“I know.” You nod, cutting him off.

He’s staring at you wide eyed as you palm him through his shorts, not that he needs any help, he’s already standing at stark attention against the waistband of his shorts.

“Doesn’t mean you can stop though, Styles.” You smirk and he lets out a chuckle as he resumes.

“Yes ma’am.” He teases, rubbing his thumb back and forth against your clit perfectly.

The repeated movement is just enough to push you over the edge with the added stimulation of his fingers pumping in and out of you. You nearly collapse backwards but his arms reach out and wrap around your waist, holding you to his chest.

“I got you.” He laughs, and you fall forward instead, collapsing against his chest as he falls back against the bed.

You feel numb all over in the best way. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, your entire head, your chest, your arms, your entire body is beating in time with the incessant thumping. You can’t remember the last time you felt this light, you’re floating, or maybe you’re lightheaded. Suddenly the room is a thousand degrees and you feel steaming hot to the touch.

“You okay?” He asks, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I can hear your heart beating.”

“Just got to,” You pant, swallowing hard, “Gotta catch my breath.”

“Makes sense,” He smirks, his arms snaking around your waist, “I have been told my services are rather breathtaking.”

You sit up, grabbing the closest pillow and stuff it over his face to which he flails beneath you, reaching around you to smack your bare ass. You nearly jump out of your skin, ripping the pillow from over his face to see him laughing hysterically, his hair an absolutely fucked out mess.

“Did you just-“

“You are not about to get offended that I smacked your ass,” He scoffs, grabbing your face and pulling your mouth to his with those stupid dimples popping from his cheeks, “That ass was smothering my face not even twenty minutes ago, love.”

 ***

You’re spinning in your desk chair, quite obviously avoiding the Economics homework pulled up on your computer when your phone buzzes on your desk beside you. You pick it up expectantly, but the name Noah flashes across the screen rather than the name you’ve been waiting for all day.

You lean back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and sighing before muttering a quick, “Fuck it,” and picking up your phone once again.

You dial the number easily, it’s number one on your favorites list after all and he picks up by the second ring, “This another booty call?” He teases and you hope to god that he’s alone if he’s talking like that.

“I told you you’re not allowed to answer the phone like that.” You huff, getting up from your desk and wandering out to the kitchen to grab a snack.

“You also said I was absolutely never allowed to fuck your face but what did we do the other-“

“Harry shut the fuck up!” You squeak, your cheeks suddenly flaming.

“I’m just proving my point, love.” He laughs, sniffling slightly and you can tell he’s outside.

“What are you doing right now?” You ask uneasily, biting your lip.

“Skateboarding.”

“To where?” You question further, hoping he doesn’t call you on the carpet for asking so many.

“Wait for it,” He chuckles, his breath puffing out quicker as he picks up speed.

“Wait for wha-“

Suddenly you’re cut off as there’s a knock on the door and then he’s walking through it, his cheeks rosy and his hair a wind-whipped mess.

“You rang?” He laughs, dropping his skateboard.

“Oh, thank god, the friend with benefits I ordered.” You fawn dramatically, batting your eyelashes as you cross the space between the two of you.

“Hey,” He snaps, grabbing you by the backs of your thighs and hoisting you into his arms, “I am a self-proclaimed long-term booty call and I will stand for nothing less.”

“You wouldn’t be standing for a whole lot of anything if you would hurry up and get us into my room already,” You smirk, throwing your arms over his shoulders, “Mister long term booty call.”

“Now you’re getting it, sweetheart.” He mocks, finally leaning forward and capturing your lips with his, walking the two of you back to your room and kicking the door closed with his foot. 

***

so like this obviously has a lot of potential for a part two and was HEAVILY requested so if you’d like that send me some ideas to include in a part two what do you guys want to see and also maybe get this to 1000 notes?? That’d be sick

love u guys

pls appreciate my sacrifice I was supposed to go to bed ages ago I work in 4 hours 

[boredzoomerpire]

Found a nice ask meme on questionslisting, good.

Get to know me

1. Name: Lucian Michaelis

2. Age: 21

3. City that you live in: Won't say the city, but it's California.

4. What do most people not know about you? I'm not American by birth. Oh yeah, also the vampire thing. But I figure more people know that, bizarre as that is to think about.

5. What do most people know you for? I dunno. Being the baby-faced guy with two cats who doesn't go out in the sun. You'd have to ask my neighbors.

6. Hobbies: Gaming, writing, reading, singing. Dancing, somewhat.

7. What are your passions? Writing poetry and tending to cats. Music in general.

8. What do you search for in a significant other? A big heart and a sweet smile. Nice figure would be a plus, but ah well.

7. What are you most proud of? My poetry.

8. When was the last time you had a significant conversation with someone you love? I spent hours talking to my cats last night. Unless you mean love in *that* sense. Forgot that one.

9. Have you ever collected anything? What was it? I collect video games.

10. List 10 things off of your bucket list. See the Taj Mahal and the Pyramids, write dialog for a video game, find the love of my life, find a way to eat something again, can't think of more.

11. What was the last thing you learned? How to post something on this blasted website.

12. How many relationships have you been in? Three.

13. Turn ons: Bright eyes, sweet smile, sense of humor, so on.

14. Turn offs: An empty cranium or an empty conscience.

15. Favorite food: none

16. Favorite drink: take a guess.

17. What is the best birthday gift you have ever received? A puppet show

18. Are you optimistic or pessimistic? Quite optimistic.

19. Do you sleep during class? Yes.

20. What is the most expensive thing you own? My computer. I pieced it together, but it can't be less than a few grand.

21. What is the cheapest yet most useful thing you own? Old flip phone. Worthless now, but it still works well and so I can keep an Italian number so my grandparents in Europe can call.

22. How many times a day on average do you check your phone? A lot.

23. Text or call? Text.

24. Opinion on long distance? Not sure.

25. What is your definition of success? Being happy to wake up.

26. Favorite song? Too many to list

27. Favorite artist? Possibly Abney Park, not sure though.

28. Celebrity crush/crushes? None.

29. When was the last time you read for fun? Today.

30. Favorite flower? Peonies and roses.

31. What is the best gift you could receive right now? A car. My Honda is as old as I am.

32. Any guilty pleasures? Corny pop songs.

33. What is one thing you would like to change about yourself? I'd love to look slightly less like a kid.

34. What do you search for in a friend? I dunno. What happens happens.

35. How many times have you said "I love you" in the past month? Didn't keep count.

36. Where did you last go other than your room/home? Work.

37. Why do bad things happen to good people? Destiny has no morals.

38. In your opinion, what hurts more? Being left out or being stabbed in the eye? I can probably regenerate my eye better than my heart.

39. How many green shirts do you own? None. Green isn't my cup of tea.

40. Do you like anime? Sorta.

41. What do you invest the most time in? Gaming.

42. What was the name of the last book you read? The Book Thief. Brilliant.

43. What's the difference between loving and liking someone? You like someone's superficial manners and appearance, and love someone's flaws.

44. Where are you most productive? At my desk with some music in my ears.

45. List 3 things you enjoy doing with friends. Talking, drinking tea, gaming.

46. List 3 things you enjoy doing alone. Reading, listening to music, gaming.

47. Do you believe world peace will ever exist? Sure, when everyone's either dead or too tired of this shit.

48. Do you have any allergies? I used to be allergic to mosquitoes. No really. It wasn't fun. Oh yeah, and wasps.

49. When was the last time you cussed at someone? I cussed at Diane a couple hours ago. Coffins aren't scratching posts. Neither are arms

50. What was the last promise you made? I promised a friend I'd babysit their dog.

51. What was your last dream about? Waking up in a morgue. Fuck that nightmare.

52. If you won a trip to Hawaii and you could take 5 people with you, who would those 5 people be? Not sure.

53. How many countries have you visited? Italy, the United States, Scotland--that makes 3.

54. What is your favorite medium of art? (Music, dance, painting, etc.) Writing.

56. When was the last time somebody complimented you? Yesterday Tommy said my outfit looked nice.

56. If you switched bodies with someone, how would you recognize yourself? I'm the one with the over the top sense of style.

57. Do you consider yourself mature? No.

58. How many days in your life do you think you have wasted on tumblr? None. Yet.

59. What is your favorite quote? None in particular.

60. If you started a new religion and you had to create 3 rules or commandments for your new followers to live by, what would those 3 rules be? Don't hurt cats, don't be an ass, gift me an article of clothing at least once.

61. What is your greatest accomplishment? Getting Diane to tolerate Sardine.

62. Do you believe in the death penalty? Not really.

63. What are your goals for life? To find love and travel the Earth

64. What do you think your soulmate is doing right now? Not even sure I am

65. If you could live anywhere, where would you live? The place can be in an imaginary, fantasy, or the real world. | Not sure, truth be told. Possibly Vivec City from The Elder Scrolls. Dunno why, it seems cool.

66. What were you like in 2013? 8 years ago... oh god, I was a 13-year-old. 8th grade. Detentions on the daily, my stupid eggy ass saw confrontation as the "MaNlY" thing to do. Fucking hell, why did you have to dig that up? Nobody deserves to hear tales of stupid little boy Lucian.

67. Do you have a job? Yep. Graveyard shift at the nearby pharmacy. Dull, but I've got to have it.

68. Tell us a story about your childhood best friend. Ah yes, guy named Tommy. He's trying to break into acting now and starting to see some results. When we were kids, he and his sister staged a whole-ass puppet show for my birthday. Didn't tell me. I smile to this day when I think about it

69. If you could change one thing about society, what would it be? Making people more open-minded, that's for sure.

70. How many all-nighters have you pulled before? ...I've been pulling all-nighters every day for months now.

71. Is tumblr your favorite website? If not, then what is your favorite website? Spotify does it for my favorite website. Lots of music.

72. What is the craziest thing you would do for a million dollars? I don't much care for a million dollars. So long as I can pay rent and packs, I'm fine.

73. Does money equal happiness? Nah. I'm about ten times happier now scraping by than I was when I lived with my family and had all the money in the world.

74. How many times have you experienced true happiness in your lifetime? Often, but I don't really keep count.

75. How many times have you experienced true sadness in your lifetime? I haven't kept count of that either. Often. I'm an emotional guy.

76. What is the funniest joke you have ever been told? An Italian joke about the Last Supper.

77. When was the last time you looked at the news? This morning. Yay on the US being first in the medal rankings of the Olympics. Slightly less yay on Italy being 10th

78. If you could say one thing to the world, what would you say? "Good afternoon!" Everything past that sounds like too much of a hassle.

79. What is your favorite animal? Cats and bats.

80. If you could earn a million dollars by pretending to be dead for 3 years, would you do it? Ask someone who isn't dead.

81. What is one thing that everyone is bad at? Dunno.

82. What time do you normally sleep? How many hours of sleep do you usually get? I used to sleep pretty regularly, midnight to seven or eleven to six. The vampire thing isn't helping my sleep schedule any, though. I'm awake past 3 PM, and don't usually get over 5 hours of sleep.

83. Does age necessarily equal maturity? Nah, I've met some old idiots.

84. What is your favorite clothing store? There's a little clothing shop near where I live. I'd never wanna leave.

85. In the winter- beanies or gloves? Don't know, can't feel the cold (though contrary to popular belief, it gets cold in California)

86. Would you rather have wings or a fish tail? A fish tail. People weren't made to fly. Says the one who *can* fly, but I don't like it.

87. If you had the power to erase one person from the world so that nobody remembered him or her except you, would you do it? I don't know, I don't think I care enough.

88. What do you fear the most? Destruction.

89. How many digits of pi can you recite? 3.14. Yep, that's it.

90. If you could travel back to one year and relive it again, which year would it be? 2019, probably. No pandemic, stuff in my life started falling into place...

91. Describe yourself in one word. Restless

92. Describe your last victory. I beat a friend of mine at Pokemon Platinum. Nobody expects bug types.

93. What is the weirdest thing you have ever seen? I've seen a few. Couple UFOs.

94. What is something you will never forget? The stars. Shit, the stars. You simply don't forget the first time you see them with eyes like mine.

95. Would you rather forget all of the past or remember everything in vivid detail? I've already got a treasonous overly-vivid memory. Wouldn't trade it for forgetfulness.

96. Have you ever broken a bone before? Well, yes, I think I broke my arm a few weeks ago. Not entirely sure because I can't exactly go to a doctor, but pretty sure. I can say this: regenerating bone sucks even with a regenerating power.

97. Is it harder to love or to hate somebody? Meh. I tend to keep it to "like" and "dislike".

98. Coffee or tea? Tea's tastier, but coffee's more effective.

99. What are some little things that you do that have changed your life in a positive way? Funnily enough, lately I've definitely decided to work on my life. I've been taking care to brush my hair more, and to enjoy the small things more.

100. How many hours have you spend on tumblr today? Hell if I know.

[coffeeandcas]

To continue this? Or? It's gonna be super angsty, like Dean-Winchester-has-an-awful-past angsty. WDYT? Destiel AU, obviously.

“Six dollars? For coffee? Is that a joke?”

The girl, pigtailed and snub-nosed, stares at Dean in utter indignation as he holds out her decaf, sugar-free, no-foam monstrosity. It’s got so much fake caramel syrup in it that it barely even qualifies as coffee at this point and it definitely isn't worth six dollars but hey, he doesn't make the rules. Bored, Dean wiggles the paper cup at her.

“Yuh. Don't like it? There's a Starbucks across the road, go get diabetes there, instead.”

Affronted, the girl huffs and puffs at him while she digs in her purse and Dean dumps the coins in the cash register with an extremely fake, ‘Have a great day!’ before leaning back against the sink and rubbing the back of his neck. Outside the sun is shining but it's chilly and autumnal and red-brown leaves skitter and swirl along the sidewalk, carried by a gentle breeze and stopped in their journey by people’s boots and sneakers. It's warm in the coffee shop and he tugs restlessly at the deep V of his black t-shirt, leaving a smear of wet coffee grains on his collarbone. It's a rare moment when the shop is quiet, and he takes in their few customers listlessly. Two girls sit huddled together on their iPhones, giggling at something, wrapped up in scarves and mittens despite the indoor warmth. An Asian kid, Kevin he thinks his name is, is dozing off in front of his laptop and a pile of textbooks in the corner. A couple sit in silence, both staring out of the window with empty cups in front of them, tension pulling into faint lines at their mouths. And a cute guy with short, military-cut hair and pouty lips talks on his phone loudly, laughing as he talks about some woman named Anna. Dean rolls his eyes. One of his many, many pet peeves is hearing someone yack loudly on their cell phones in public. He turns away, washing his hands under too-hot water and wiping down the bar. He had averted his eyes from the father and son sitting near the door, the kid colouring in a picture energetically and the father ruffling his hair with a fond smile. The boy only looked about eight years old. He swallows bitterly and grits his teeth, muttering to himself. Only two hours left of his shift then Ruby will be here to take over from him and he can head home to catch up on Dr Sexy and maybe hit the gym.

The bell at the door signals someone’s arrival and Dean plasters on his usual fake smile, feeling it melt into a small, more natural one as he sees his customers. He even manages to ignore the flurry of leaves that have blown in with them. These two are regulars, coming in together most days, sometimes twice a day if it's cold and blustery like today. They're both blue-eyed and painfully handsome, and today wearing matching blue scarves; one of them is in a slightly ill-fitting tan trench and the other in a long wool thigh-skimming coat with a black beanie covering a shock of dark hair. They're twins, and the most identical twins Dean has ever seen. They're talking intensely about something as they approach the bar, one of them shaking his head and laughing, and their faces split into identical smiles as they see their barista.

“Dean! Hi!”

“Hello, Dean.”

And Dean’s lips incline just a tiny bit, the closest to a genuine smile he ever manages when it comes to customers. Or to most people, really. He doesn't exactly like these two; they just annoy him less than most people. They're… he has no other word for it. They're both sexy. Nice to look at. Some might say intimidating. They seem to walk with the kind of purpose that evades most people, like they're constantly on some sort of heaven-sent mission, and he's forever watching other customers follow them with their eyes whenever they leave with their coffee cups clutched in their hands.

“Hi.” He wipes his hands and tosses the towel. “The usual?”

“For me, yes. Please.” Tan trench-coat smiles at him, pulling a black leather wallet from his pocket. Black beanie is tapping his teeth wth a manicured fingernail and looking up at the board behind Dean’s head.

“You've got plenty of new drinks. Pumpkin spice season is always my favourite. Is there anything you recommend?”

“No. Are these to go?”

“I'm so glad I asked, thank you for your expertise.” Black beanie grins at him, displaying a row of flashing white teeth, and trench-coat elbows him.

“Jimmy, be nice. And choose your own drink. Yes please, Dean, both to go.”

He knows they're called Cas and Jimmy, and he knows they own Novak & Novak, an art gallery a block away, but he can never work out which twin is which. Normally he has to wait for one to say the other’s name, because firstly it feels rude to ask but secondly, he doesn't really care. They're Cas and Jimmy. Why should it matter to him which one is which?

“Fine, I'll have… a vanilla brûlée latte with foam and extra whip please, Dean-o. And a slice of carrot cake, or whatever that is.”

Jimmy smiles at him again and Dean’s teeth ache from the amount of sugar in the drink the man is requesting. Around Jimmy’s neck is slung a camera, a white and tan Olympus with matching strap, which he has to push aside to find his wallet in his pocket. Cas elbows him before he can pull it out.

“My treat. Your turn tomorrow. And what about you, Dean?” Cas’ smile is more reserved, almost shy, but his blue eyes twinkle as he turns back to the bar. Nonplussed, Dean just stares at him.

“What about me?”

“Can I buy you something? You look like you've had a long day.”

“Oh, gee, thanks pal.” Dean rings up their order, irritably. He hates being told he looks like shit. “Way to make a guy feel good about himself. And no. I don't want a coffee. I get them for free anyway.”

“Oh. Right. I…” Cas has gone pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Jimmy is staring at the floor, a lock of dark hair curling onto his forehead, and he looks like he's got his lips clamped tightly together to suppress a laugh. Or a giggle. Jimmy Novak looks like the type to giggle. “I apologise, Dean. I didn't mean to offend you-”

“Whatever.” He hands Cas his change and turns away. “Your drinks will be ready soon, gimme five.”

“Alright.” One of the twins responds, then Dean is sure he can hear whispering over his shoulder. Or hissing, more like. One twin berating the other about something. Their voices sound so alike he can't tell who's speaking, and he doesn't really give a shit anyway. He's used to being talked about. People have been talking behind his back ever since his thirteenth birthday, he's grown a thick enough skin that it doesn't bother him any more. He doesn't care what they're saying.

He slides Cas’ extra-shot latte across the bar to him, frowning when the other man offers a shy smile. Cas is possibly, maybe, potentially the more attractive of the two, at least in Dean’s eyes. He's got to know the twins a little since they moved to Vancouver last year, after Jimmy almost fell into the coffee shop with an exaggerated gasp about his need for caffeine, and in that time he's noticed a few subtle nuances about the men that make them different. They're so subtle, however, that most of the time he still can't tell them apart at a first glance. Jimmy is the more talkative of the two, and seems the more energetic. Cas is shyer and more studious, and has a few more fine lines at the corners of his eyes than his brother, lines which Dean notices now as he looks at him and immediately feels irritated with himself. Why has he even noticed? Stupid of him. Cas must be at least a decade older than him. Eight years, maybe.

He finishes Jimmy’s drink and hands it over, turning away abruptly before either of them can attempt a conversation with him. He isn't interested. He's tired, crankier than usual, and just wants to be left alone. Honestly, he feels like Shrek half the time, wanting to be left in peace in his own solitary life. But, annoyingly, people do keep insisting on talking to him.

“Well, bye Dean-o.” The nickname grates on him. Jimmy sips his drink thoughtfully then nods, apparently satisfied. “See you tomorrow, I'm sure!”

“I'm already looking forward to it!” Dean matches Jimmy’s cheerful tone with unconcealed sarcasm and both twins bark out identical laughs. Jimmy gives him a two-fingered wave and saunters off, fussing with his camera, while Cas lingers.

“Did you forget something?” Dean asks, blunt as ever, and Cas turns his blue eyes on him, eyes as clear as the ocean and for a split-second Dean is captivated. Then he coughs and looks away awkwardly.

“No. I just wondered… I just thought…”

Cas is tracing a swirl in the rustic oak bar top with a finger and Dean follows its path. Cas has nice hands, objectively. If he were interested in peoples hands, or in Cas, he would say they were nice. Strong. Artistic, if the dents in his knuckles are anything to go by. They look like they would be nice to hold, his fingertips smooth and his palms soft, nails short and well-kept but not groomed like Jimmy’s. Dean would think those things if, you know, he was interested in Cas at all. Which he isn't.

“If maybe you, uh,” Cas falters and stops and Dean has to resist drumming his fingers on the bar. The bell at the door rings again and a small gaggle of teenage girls come in, jostling each other out of their way as they approach, all clutching their phones and with a little too much make-up on for Dean’s tastes. Cas, oddly, goes beet red and seems to think better of whatever he was about to say.

“See you, Dean.”

“Uh, OK, bye…” He scowls, watching Cas walk away to join his brother by the door then they both leave in another flurry of leaves. The hell was that about? “Weirdo,” He mutters under his death then turns to the teenagers with his fake-happy smile plastered on his face.

“What can I get for you guys?”

[riverdalefiction]

Glassy Eyed Light of Day

Summary: Jughead is working on his novel in the Blue and Gold office and Veronica comes to him looking for a distraction. With the bribe of a shake and burger, Jughead agrees to tell her a story.

Rating: T

Genre: General, Canon Divergence, Fluff

Pairing: Jughead x Veronica

Timeline: Post Chapter Six: Faster, Pussycats! Kill! Kill!, 1x06

Word count: 2,504

“Tell me a story, Jughead Jones.”

Veronica stood at the doorway of the Blue and Gold offices at the end of a very, very long day. Her mind was in a dire need of distraction and all her friends were busy with their own little demeanours - all but the boy whose hair matched hers.

Her tiny frame leaned against the door, more casually than she felt. There was a tired smile on her lips, more as an attempt to make the situation and her words seem humorous, which they really weren’t.

Jughead’s fingers stopped typing at once. His eyes shot up to hers dazzled with curiosity, not knowing what could make the infamous newcomer visit him, let alone ask him to tell her a story.

His eyebrows raised before he asked, “A story?”

“A story.”

Shifting her weight to both feet and parting from the doorway with a sigh, Veronica entered the office. It was her first time coming here; she’d been so indulged into her own actions and worries that Betty and Jughead’s newspaper completely slipped her mind.

Now, she was looking for exactly the opposite.

Her heels clicked against the linoleum and as much as it always made for an entrance, it didn’t seem to faze him even a bit. His gaze remained on her as she walked over, shoulders relaxed and hung little lower than usual, but the smile resisting to obey her mood.

From the way his brow lowered and his eyes lost the curious note, she knew he’d picked up on it. His fingers went back to typing and his gaze lingered for less than a moment.

Veronica sat on the chair next to him with a little less grace than she fashioned, but he didn’t show he noticed. She knew he did; Jughead noticed everything.

“I’m busy,” he mused.

“Can’t spare a minute or two for another troubled soul?”

Her smile grew a little and she noticed the corners of his lips tug upwards just a little. His fingers lost the speed for a second, followed by a shake of head.

“C’mon, Jughead,” Veronica said, now wishing she’d closed the door. “I need some distraction.”

“Five dollars and you’ll be given an appointment sometime this week.”

“Milkshake and burger and I get one now?”

“Deal.”

When he turned to her with a glimmer in his eyes that made up for a smile, weight was lifted off of Veronica’s chest - it came out as a sigh of relief, one she couldn’t contain.

She wished she could say she tried to talk to someone else about it. Really, her and the writer weren’t even friends in the right form of the word - more like friends-by-circumstances. But she couldn’t bother Betty with her family feud, not with Betty having one of her own. Archie was out of the question and Kevin just…

Well, there was no good explanation as to why she chose Jughead instead of Kevin.

But right now, Veronica didn’t want to talk. She wanted to listen.

“So, can you tell me a story?”

Jughead gave her a look, long and intense. His brows furrowed and she felt like he was weighing whether to ask for an explanation or not, because they both knew something was wrong. 

They studied one another, for a short time. Veronica noticed how the few strands of hair sticking out of the grey crown beanie reflected almost blue on this light, messily wavy. His face had gotten a little slimmer since she’d arrived to town, but he still sported a not-amused look of his eyes and the bags underneath them.

She wondered if this was their moment; both of them studying the other, memorizing their face and trying to connect the dots. 

At last, Jughead sighed.

“I can’t tell you a story.”

“Why not?”

“That’s just not how this works.”

He turned back to his laptop with no further discussion, fingers typing away. She watched him for several seconds. Her eyes, involuntarily, flicked over his shoulder to read off the screen – he was working on something with long, complicated words and something that felt oddly familiar.

No; she was trying to run away from the familiar.

“Jughead,” she called softly. “How does it work, then?”

He didn’t react immediately. One index finger was in the air just in front of her nose, before being placed back on the keyboard. The typing speed increased and the boy leaned forward with eyebrows furrowed and eyes glued to the screen. 

The sight was so Jughead-like that she couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

With an enthusiastic ‘HA!’ he slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in the chair, staring at her in amusement. 

“What were you working on?”

“Doesn’t matter. Have you ever written a story?”

“No?” Veronica’s nose crunched upwards as she thought about it. “No, I don’t think I have.”

“All right. Well, first of all, stories aren’t created just like that. You can’t start blank – you need a base, a skeleton to be able to even come up with something. Say, you can’t just waltz in here, requesting a story.”

“No? Why is that?”

“Because I have no inspiration whatsoever.” It sounded harsh; but it wasn’t, because for the first time in a while, she saw Jughead smile. He was having fun, with arms crossed on his chest and his body resting against the chair, half lying. 

“Can’t you get it?”

There was it, the infamous eye roll, paired with a mocking snort. “It doesn’t work like that, Ronnie. You either have it or don’t - it’s not your muse. It’s what your muse is supposed to make you feel, then you use it to craft a story worth telling.”

“Okay. I can be your muse.”

“Veronica—“

“No, Jughead. I said I’m taking you out for dinner, as a thank you for spending time with me.”

“You literally bought my time.”

“Shut up. We’re going to Pop’s now.”

“Okay.”

Ask Veronica Lodge why she took Jughead to Pop’s and she wouldn’t be able to tell you. The boy wasn’t her type, neither romantically nor platonically – he was of the brooding, melancholic kind or people she’s always strayed from. 

Except now, she found herself at the diner with the boy, ready to pour her soul out because there was no one else. Quite literally - the due were the only people at the diner.

As she’d promised, she got him a milkshake and burger with fries. It didn’t come with a story, though, as the boy seemed to have lost his inspiration.

“What were you writing, then?” she asked upon swallowing a fry. “Back at school?”

Jughead waited until he’d eaten all of his massive burger bite, following it with a long sip from the cherry milkshake. “Novel.”

“About?”

“Jason Blossom.”

Veronica only nodded. She’d seen the murder border he—and presumably Betty—have put up in their office, and she was very much aware of the two’s ongoing investigation of the murder. Besides, everyone knew Jughead was working on something ambitious and there was a little part of her that would be disappointed if he’d answered differently.

Because this was Jughead.

“So”—Jughead slurped from the straw—“what’s the New Yorker’s secret agenda with the mysterious writer?”

“To woo him into telling her his deepest, darkest secrets with a mischievous smile.”

Jughead pointed to the burger. “Well, I’d dare say the New Yorker’s plan is going along pretty well.”

“I’d dare say the mysterious writer is the only one who can help the New Yorker with a certain problem of hers.”

She held her head low, avoiding looking at him. There could be pity on his face, or nothing at all and she didn’t know which would be worse. No one ever pitied her before with her permission; they’d made her a snake, a spoiled rich white girl, pitying her for losing a good amount of her fortune but never because of her actual problems.

The words have been said. Now, it was all in or nothing.

Veronica hadn’t bought him that milkshake, burger and French fries to quit before she even began.

“I’m all ears,” she heard him say. “If someone needs their head cut off, I know a guy.”

“That’d be too many heads, dear Jughead.”

“Ah. Too bad.”

When she looked up, he was amused. Not the usual kind of amused with a smirk—like Archie—but a small, genuine smile flattering his lips with concern partly hidden beneath that facade. Just like hers.

So, she told him. She started from the beginning, when her father got arrested and coming to Riverdale through having to change the way she acted to fit in, to finding her mother and Archie’s dad making out in his trailer and Archie kicking her out of their duo without a second thought.

She thought it’d be a short story, maybe five minutes’ worth of time. But they’d gone through three milkshakes each, two burgers for Jughead and seven portions of French fries—Pop’s treat, as Veronica was at the edge of crying—and the night had already fallen.

He listened to her, not saying a word when he didn’t need to. When she’d get really bad he’d chime in with a sarcastic comment, and by the time she was nearing the end of the story, he’d even took a hold of her hand.

It was the first time she told someone everything, without keeping her usual charming and sassy cool.

His thumb brushed over her palm and she looked at him. For the longest time, he said nothing at all yet he didn’t have to; she found comfort in the sincere blue of his eyes. The way they sat, leaning towards each other and his warm hands taking in the cold of hers spoke more than words ever could.

Veronica had been wrong, at the Blue and Gold office before – this was their moment.

“I have inspiration now,” Jughead said quietly. “Do you want to hear the story?”

“Please.”

There was no smile on either of the faces, but she could tell things have softened between them. Honesty; a powerful bond.

Jughead leaned ever closer to her, now as close as the table between them would allow. The glimmer on his face was different now, enchanted and thrilled with whatever he was about to tell – and the intensity of his eyes on hers sent electric shivers down her spine, for the first time in forever.

“It doesn’t start once upon a time, I apologize.”

“Don’t,” she said with a smile, “it’s even better.”

“Okay.” He fell quiet. “It starts now, at Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe in the booth farthest from the entrance, with two dark haired people. One of them is the author of this story, and the other is the beautiful girl it is about. Much like other stories, it starts on a moody, dark night...”

Veronica closed her eyes. The only thing she was aware of was Jughead’s deep voice against the rain and her hands in his; and just like that, everything disappeared but the story about a girl Jughead saw her as.

‘You don’t have to walk me home,’ she’d told him. ‘I can call a cab and besides, it’s raining.’

But, as it turned out, once Jughead Jones set his mind to something, there was no way of changing whatever it was. In this case it was keeping Veronica until he’s made sure she was safe and sound at home, despite needing to squeeze with her under a one-person umbrella so they wouldn’t both get soaked.

She should’ve minded having half her body pressed against his – this was Jughead. But she didn’t, because this was Jughead.

Suddenly, she didn’t know what was going on anymore.

“Thank you for the story.”

He shrugged. “Found my muse.”

“Hey!”

She playfully punched his shoulder, though the unexpected action from both sides caused him to lose his balance and end up on the outer side of the umbrella. Instead of getting under it, he crossed his arms on his chest and glared at her, without a word.

“Jughead, what are you doing?” When he didn’t answer, she grabbed the neck of his jacket and pulled him back under the umbrella.

They were awfully close – only inches parting them.

Veronica’s eyes fell to his lips, before rising to his eyes again. “I’m more than just a muse, you know.”

“That certainly you are.”

Split of a moment – that’s how long his gaze lingered on her lips, but that was all she needed. Stepping on her toes, Veronica placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“I’m looking forward to hearing more stories I’ll inspire,” she whispered, leaving him dazed and confused.

She thought he’d be awkward about this – hell, she hadn’t thought of him this way until it just happened. But when he smiled at her—really, genuinely smiled with the most sincere of emotions—she knew she’d had it bad for a very long time.

His hands found their way to her hips and he pulled her even closer. “If you’re going to bribe me with shakes, burgers and fries, I can’t say no. And if you combine this with that, I’m yours whenever you want.”

“Deal.” Another peck on the lips. “Good night, Jughead.”

As she began to walk away, his fingers lingered on her wrist and he shot her a warm smile when she looked back. Her cheeks heated at the adoration on his face and she was certain hers mirrored his, even as she entered the hotel and couldn’t see him anymore.

In her, Jughead saw something no one else—not even herself—did. She’d like to say it was only about the story he’d told her, where she created a character based on her but ten times more beautiful and stronger and braver, but it wasn’t. While it was a beautiful moment, it’s not the one that was the game changer.

It was the way he studied her face in the Blue and Gold office, as if figuring her out; it was the way he listened to her talk about herself for hours, without complaining; it was the way he held her hands, not doing anything else, knowing it was exactly what she needed; it was the way he looked at her before he began telling her the story.

It was Jughead Jones. And for the night, it was enough to make her feel like her worries aren’t as big as they seem.

[limnotlimb-blog]

Music Memoir

chapter one: this must be the place (naive melody)

 “C’mon, Annie” Lauren elbows me in my side, “stop dragging ass!”  I push her and laugh, spilling her Miller Lite tall boy in the process.  We’re followed by our usual round-up: Tori, Gabby, and Blake.  I feel the bass in the air well before I see the party itself.   It was an old house, a couple miles down from our university campus.  It was our friend from high school’s housewarming party, and we didn’t know anyone else who would be there.  I was nervous, but had also found it’s usually more fun that way.  We can be anyone in the distorted light of parties with strangers.  The summer after high school, she was our first friend to get her own place and we were ecstatic to party somewhere besides our mom’s houses.  The door ajar, I push it open, feeling the warm air against my legs.  The traditional fluorescent lightbulbs have been abandoned for bulbs in hues of pink, orange, purple.  People are packed, not quite to sardines, but it was going to get there before the night was through .

My eyes drift, surveying the scene and people within it; warm eyes and sangria smiles across everyone’s face.  There’s beer pong playing right inside the door, a timeless game of skill and drinking. I move past a giggling couple to the table where drinks are in the kitchen and they had everything, and I mean everything.  I was impressed by the spread of refreshments, from cheap beer to the most popular liquors and even wine in addition to the bowl of sangria.  There were six packs of Gatorade stacked up on the left side, which act as a sort of holy water against the evil of tomorrow’s likely hangover.  I scoop some sangria, a tangy red with floating bites of oranges, into the signature solo cup of the same color.  I become best friends with a girl in the bathroom who had an extra hair tie, whose face I immediately forgot as soon as I stepped from the bathroom.  My boots stuck to the floor, creating a noise of tape being peeled from plastic as my heel escaped the layer of sticky, spilled PBR. I feel the laughter in the air almost more than the rhythmic bass itself.  The unmistakable verve of David Byrne’s voice echoes through me, “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” is welcomed readily and I can’t help but agree with the title: this must be the place!  Any party that ditches the tradition of electronic music in favor of 80’s pop automatically wins a place my heart and ears.  I lean against my best friend Blake and we smile, dancing to the irresistible nostalgia of the 80’s which we never lived through.  How long has this song been playing?  It feels longer than usual.  Or faster.  Is it the tempo?  It could be a remix.  Or did some asshole accidentally push the “repeat” button on their Spotify app and we’re doomed to repeat dance to this song until the end of the time?  Ha! What a weird limbo to exist in, neither here nor there; neither of the 80’s nor modern dance music.  I know one thing for sure, if I was going to be doing the limbo, it would have to be with Talking-Heads era David Byrne.  Talking Heads eventually leave their spotlight, and is picked up by fellow nostalgia. Tears for Fears, DEVO, David Bowie, Hall & Oates, Prince, and the like; all my classic pop friends were here.  The strangers were strangers nor more.  They were the girl from the bathroom with the hair tie, the cute boy that pulled me in to play beer pong with, the smiling couple who just had to have us over for dinner sometime, and of course a few faces from high school in addition to the friends I arrived with.  

Under the lavender light I felt alive.  My heart swelled and I felt like a babe in the woods.  My wide eyes were naïve in this sweet light.  I felt like I could touch the stars of glitter across my friends faces and swim through the night.  I felt beautiful and infinite and all the clichés at once.  I didn’t want the night to end, and ended up passing out on the couch between my friends, still wearing my sticky boots.

Cover up and say goodnight, goodnight.

chapter two: golden years

 It’s the summer again, this time three years later.  It’s the summer of which two balloons, gold, were permanently taped up in my kitchen: “21” they read.  My birthday was before the official beginning of summer, a sunshine day in late May.  Every two weeks after that, more or less, one of our friends turned the same, ever-so-hyped twenty-one.  It felt like “Groundhog Day”, but instead of Bill Murray and a rodent, it was cheap beer and bad decisions .  I found myself in the same night with the same people with the same events playing again.  We felt originally liberated by the party.  But, by this time, house parties had grown old, and the thrill of paying too much for liquor in public was very much in trend.  It was a Tuesday.  Or a Wednesday.  It was some day, it was any day.  I remember I wasn’t feeling incredible.  Something inside me itched, and I bit my lip anticipating the night.  I was feeling an anxiety in going out again, already having a bad night worrying about having a bad night.  I had been snappy all day and was talked into going out to the bar, my friends convinced this would relax me.  Why not give it a shot, I thought.

Our friends dropped us off as they rolled downtown on their way to a nightclub instead.  Arm in arm with my boyfriend, Conner, we were followed by two more friends as stepped out into the pavement.  The day’s heat still radiated from the sidewalk as we flashed our ID’s to the bouncer. In the state of Utah, all alcoholic beverages purchased must be consumed within the fence of the patio, making it a very crowded space.  This patio wasn’t much of a patio at all, more like a wooden pig pen attached outside this building.  It was about five feet deep and thirty feet long.  It overflowed with loud twenty-somethings, chain-smoking cigarettes and breathing it into each other’s faces.  In the small space their laughter bounced off each other, each smile magnifying the last.  I couldn’t make out individual conversations because of the crowd, so they simply buzzed as a whole to me as I walked by.  The smoke was lit by the neon signs behind them, Budweiser AT THE TWILITE CLUB.  Vivid pinks and blues shadowed their faces in opposite directions.

We had to push past layers of bodies to make it the bar.  Two of their cheapest beers (Rainer tall boys) and two shots of whiskey, please.  While I gagged, I couldn’t deny the whiskey warmed my stomach and got me closer to where I wanted to be.  That anxious itch in my heart felt soothed, but I still felt tense about work.  I had worked somewhere for three years, and needed to quit.  One shot please.  I was pissed at the dent a stranger left on my car, another. I wasn’t making enough money to cover student loans? Fuck it, let’s do a whiskey ginger.  It tastes better anyways.  Starting to feel anxious about the money I’m spending here, too? Hey, treat myself, right?  The heat of anger left my heart and moved to my stomach.  I didn’t want to be an angry girl, I wanted to just be fun.  I didn’t want to snap at drunken compliments, I wanted to be the party.  I wanted what those pink-blue faces had out front, I wanted the smiles and to forget the rest of the world outside of this dingy bar. I wanted to be happy again.  I realized I ached for the easy summer after high school, when I felt forever was now.  I remembered my sangria smile and wanted to be that again.  

My thought was interrupted.  I had to pee. The lounge’s bathroom as painted an outdated pink and the line poured out.  Why did I even come here tonight?  The cheap drinks were hard to resist (whiskey sours for four dollars?!) but I sure was paying for it now in this endless line to sweet relief. Groups of girls and boys would pour out of these tiny single stalls, cackling in shrieks louder than when they went in.  One girl, donning a beanie labeled “baby” shoved into me.  I pulled back: “lighten up!” she yelled past the sound of her friends’ grinding teeth.  I made my way into the stall, finally, and pulled my skirt down and took a seat. That hyped-girl was right, I need to loosen up.  Why did I come here if I was just going to be pissed off about it?    It started feeling hollow to me.  I found comfort in the dim light before, leaning against friends in the old pleather booths.  They weren’t here anymore; they vacated as newer things excited them.  People familiar had left this scene and I felt terribly alone.  I wasn’t where they were, and home is where I wanted to be.  

Past the bar there was a jukebox.  A relic of a past I never knew, I still was fond of it.  I liked this jukebox.  I liked it because when I flipped through the selections again and again, I saw my friends.  I found David Bowie’s “Greatest Hits” resting after D’Angelo but before The Rolling Stones. I keyed in 6809, enter and Bowie’s “Golden Years” started to creak through the old speakers and serenaded the bar from the grave.  The twangy yet funk guitar rang in; and I moved my hips in rhythm.  I loved to dance but this felt foreign.  My legs moved wrong and arms were awkward.  That heat in my stomach returned, but not for long while it started working its way up my throat.  I moved past my boyfriend and the bodies, back into the baby-pink bathroom.  No line, I managed to grab a stall just before the whisky evacuated my stomach and right back the way it came.  Don’t let me hear you say your life is over, life’s taking you nowhere, angel.  Oh, Bowie, how do you know?  You’re an angel now; or maybe the mothership took you back to mars, Starman.  Come on, get up, baby.  Never in the twenty years we both lived on this earth did he call me baby my name, but it felt good to think he was singing to me.  Look at that sky, life’s just begun. Nights are warm and the day is young.  There was no sky in this stall, just a bittersweet pale pink.  I wiped my mouth and looked up nonetheless.  I felt cold in this bathroom, and rocked back.  I didn’t want these to be my golden years. Those my senior told me these were going to be the best years of my life, and that scared me.  What the hell was I doing I sat on the floor with my back to the wall.  There’s my baby, lost that’s all.  A soft knock on the door.

“Baby?” his familiar voice asked.    Once I’m begging you to save your little soul.  Standing up, I wipe my gagged tears.  I open the door and there’s my guy.  Conner takes my hand.  “Let’s go home”.

Come, get up, my baby.

chapter three: warm enough for you

The next day I wake up to my roommate’s cat sleeping on my face.  I picked him off me and he looks at me, annoyed. He blinked, meowed, and ran off. I wrap myself in my robe and make my way to the bathroom.  I run the water into the ivory bathtub.  As the water is running, I find my Bluetooth speaker in my roommate’s room.  I work my way back, stopping only to feed the cat, and stop the water, adding the finishing touch of pink rose Epsom bath salts to the blue water.  I find the album on my phone and press play.  To SZA’s sweet voice, I drop my robe and step in, feeling the warmth rise as I sink in.  

Why is it so hard to accept that the party is over? Bring the gin, got the juice

Bring the sin, got that too

 I’m glad I got over my aversion to contemporary music.  Thinking back to those summers before, I couldn’t believe I dismissed decades of music purely because of the time it was created. Pretentious, yeah, I thought I was the shit back then. It was as if I was somehow superior because I owned “Dark Side of the Moon” on vinyl and definitely listened to it before you had (despite being born twenty-three years after its release).  I remember holding my iPod classic, finding it proper I only fill it with classics.  At this early age, around fourteen, I had fallen victim to the “hipster mentality” that was gaining traction in my suburbs, with a dash of rigid loyalism to classic rock.  I would dismiss artists or songs, simply because they were popular. Looking back at this, I don’t completely understand why I would limit myself.  Music could make me feel so many things, why would I dismiss entire categories or eras of music simply to feel “cool”?  In my bath I still felt the cold shiver of cringe, the kind only past embarrassment could cause.  I felt I knew so much back then.  This was met by an irony I was well aware of, that at any point in time I will think I know so much.  And three years from now I’ll think the same about this moment, then three years from then, and three years from then, and so forth.  I’ll be in perpetual state of vanity and naïveté until the end of my days. That’s something I should just accept now, I figure, why fight it?  There are plenty of other things that have happened over the past few years, besides my slight increase in self-awareness.

Won't you just shut up, know you're my favorite

Am I...

The cat found his way back in and sat atop the bathroom sink.  He stared blankly at me again, got down, and walked over. He put his front paws against the rim of the tub.  “Mrow” he yelled.  I reached my wet hand out and waited. He gave sandpaper licks then gave me a wide-eyed stare.  His name was Bowie, which my roommate named due to the striped marks across face; not too unlike the Aladdin Sane cover with the blue and red lightning bolt across the rock star’s face.  I called him Bowie-cat, so no one would confuse him with rock-n-roll’s deity—as if that was going to happen anyways.  He could be the reincarnate, I hoped, as he was born around the time his human counterpart died.  There’s the vanity again!  If David Bowie decided to come back down to our earth I’m sure as hell it wouldn’t be this cat.  I could dream though, I figured.  

Bowie-Cat stepped down and I let my hand rest in the air after him.  I wanted him to stay, but who tells a cat what to do? I was alone in my dim bathroom, and despite the warm water I felt the unmistakable chill of loneliness.  I wanted my friends back, real and famous. I wanted Bowie and Prince back, I wanted my old friends from that summer after high school to come back.  I wanted my friend that overdosed to come back, and all his shitty friends too.  I remembered the night before.  I did feel better, in those moments.  All those people in the Twilite Lounge were in it together that night, in a pool of whisky and laid-back smiles.  We were swimming together in it and I felt a little less lost.

Warm enough for ya outside baby, yeah

(Tell me that it's warm enough here for ya)

Is it warm enough for ya inside me, me, me, me

Warm enough for ya outside baby, yeah

 SZA’s lament still echoed in my bathroom.  I lowered my face into the bathwater, smelling the rosewater and I submerged. I sink my nose in first, blowing bubbles against the water.

I get so lonely, I forget what I'm worth.

We get so lonely, we pretend that this works.

 I lower my face in and feel the warmth creep over my closed eyes and hair.  I want to incubate in here, have this rose bath become my cocoon. Then perhaps I could emerge once again in three years, doubly wise and not hungover.

chapter four: blackstar

It had been a few months since my last visit to the Twilite Lounge downtown. I know this because the leaves had abandoned their post and now crunched under my heel.   Conner and I had been lying low, spending our nights at home with our new friend: HBO.  We get a call; it’s our friend’s last night in Utah before he makes the move to upstate New York.  He was going to start over, his aunt had a restaurant up there or something.    His name was Bo, and he as a wanderer.  Twilite Lounge was his favorite bar, with his favorite drinks priced cheap and favorite drug dealers.  I look deep for courage and manage to gather it, somewhere between applying my winged eyeliner and burgundy lipstick.  One thing was still certain, dark lipstick made me feel like a bad bitch and I was ready to face the world.  

I take the liquor slower this time.  It’s hard to say no when your friends throw salt-rimmed tequila shot in your face yelling “Shots!”  I indulge and take one, and shake my head at the combination of salt, tequila, and lime. I was feeling confident that night, and the tequila only fueled that.  I see our friend Bo, and we join him in a booth.  The sound of pool balls clacking together and drunken hollers blurred and I smiled on all of them.

I wanted to see Bowie that night.  I wanted to feel the exuberance of his single “Fashion” or the unforgettable joy of “Under Pressure” where Bowie and Freddy Mercury of Queen belt together.  I clicked through and through… I couldn’t find his greatest hits anywhere.  My eyes frantically searched and the only Bowie I found was stark black star against a white square.  My heart sunk at this album—it was his swan song of an album: Blackstar.

“They took it off! Conner, it’s gone!  They put ‘Blackstar’ instead.  Why the hell would you want to listen that here?  That’s not a good song for drinking.”  I pointed harder against the glass while I spoke, as if that would magically change what was behind there.

“It’s what’s ‘cool’ right now.  Or, it’s what they play when they want people to leave.”  Conner smiled, “You know, bum them out and kill their buzz.”

             Conner put his shoulder around me and assured me the album was still out there, we could even listen to it on the way home.  My mind was still stuck on “Blackstar” while he comforted me, because David Bowie knew he was dying.  He knew for a long time, it was a cancer.  It was the first album without himself on the cover, it felt like a goodbye.  His face missing on the cover felt clear to me, we better get used to not having him around.  The most striking track, to me, would be “Lazarus”.  I may not be religious but I can appreciate a good old fashioned biblical allegory. Lazarus rose four days after his death by the hand of Jesus.  David Bowie wrote this song for an Off-Broadway production with the same name.  It followed the character that David Bowie played in 1976, in “The Man Who Fell to Earth”, an alien who came to Earth in search of water to save his home planet.  Spoiler alert for a thirty-year-old movie—the alien is sensitive to light and blinded by a paparazzi camera.  He is unable to fix his ship and return home, now stranded on the planet Earth. The production follows the alien years later.

David Bowie was asked to write “Lazarus” for this fictional character’s second story.  Despite it being for a musical production, it does feel thinly veiled to be biographical. David Bowie did portray the man who fell to Earth, and he act the same alien persona in his music.  Was he not the Starman?  Had he not contemplated life on mars?  He was a space oddity and beautiful.  

I stood frozen, lost in thought, my finger on the button and my eyes unfocused on the album cover of Blackstar.  Conner came up to me, and I showed him the tragedy of Greatest Hits’ goodbye.

David Bowie died three days after the release of this single, music video, and the album.  I remember waiting after I heard, I waited for four days.  I watched the milky white record of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars spin round and round, while I refused to take the needle off the record.  It spun in silence, but I didn’t want it to end. After the four days, David Bowie proved he was no Lazarus and did not rise—I felt alone without him in this world.

I stayed and closed the bar that night.  I had a pocket full of quarters and was determined to get that sweet high score on the Indiana Jones pinball machine up front.  I didn’t want to leave Conner and his friends, but I couldn’t go and be with them either.  I arrived late that night, and by time I arrived most were well on their way to a hangover the next morning.  I didn’t want to play catch-up, so we were working on two completely different wavelengths.  I felt uptight and, honestly, lame.  I felt like a boring old woman, only able to watch my friends from across the bar.  I felt like I couldn’t connect with them.  I nursed a local pale ale on tap, and played pinball wizard against the machine.  My final pin ball for the game slid past the two clickers and into the machine.  Game over.

             I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was Bo.  I said before, he was a wanderer.  I had only known him for a month or two, but he was my boyfriend’s best friend for the past six months when he wandered into Salt Lake City.  He had greasy fake-bleached hair and was covered in hand-poked tattoos.  His eyes were red that night and his jaw was working overtime.  I didn’t know how I felt about him as a whole.  He had once showed me his tattoo: the twin towers and a plane, reaching from above his hip bones to his nipple.  The ink was crudely tattooed into his side, resulting in what seemed like a toddler’s doodle, vibrated into his skin.  I didn’t know if it was in remembrance of 9/11, satire, or maybe an ode to the conspiracy theory he believed in.  He told me he was passed out on heroin at the time, and while he would never admit regret to anything you could see it in his eyes.

             He also showed me beauty in his poetry and his kindness.  His heart ached for those in pain, and I could see the art bursting out of him. He was grandiose in his stories, and while I suspected hyperbole I would never call him out.  There was something magical about this character, and I didn’t want to pop the surreal bubble he lives in.

             Without words, he wrapped me in a tight hug that pulled me off the ground.  He whispered to me, “I’m scared to go.  I’ll miss all this.  Don’t hurt him”.  Just as quickly as he had embraced me he was gone, sliding past bodies pulling a smoke out of his pocket to smoke on the patio.  I stood for a moment, dazed, and went to find Conner.  He and a handful of our friends were crowding a small booth in the back.  

             Conner and I were tired that night.  I still felt out of place and it showed—I was itching to get out of there.  I asked if we could just quickly slip away.  Conner looked me in the eyes, with a serious c’mon. We couldn’t leave without a real goodbye.  I knew, and I was avoiding it.  Bo was such a surreal character and he slipped into my life without precedent and it felt weird to have him leave.  Conner grabbed my hand and wove me through the bar.  We couldn’t find him anywhere.  I checked the girl’s bathroom stall and behind the bar, no Bo.  Conner checked the boy’s restroom and the patio, no go for Bo.  We saw a friend of his and asked him where Bo went; he said he saw him skate away about ten minutes ago.

             How fitting, for this character to leave with a cat’s goodbye.  He slunk out of our lives as easily as he slipped in.  Conner and I stared down the street in the direction his friend pointed, and I felt Conner accept his friend had moved on to his next misadventure.

             I drove us home that night.  My mind wandered while I drove us the brief distance to my house. I looked to my right and saw Conner’s face, the red of the stop light reflecting off his face .  I saw shimmer below his eye before he was able to wipe it away.  I looked back to the road and felt a guilt settle inside me.  I had judged Bo the first time I met him.  He was on a 24-hour cocaine binge and his mouth was running a hundred miles an hour while he talked to me about the magnificent craft of Charles Bukowski. I couldn’t help but think of course this guy likes Bukowski.  He was strange but left a mark.

             I parked the car and walked with Conner inside. He undressed and slid into bed in quick motions, and was out before I had taken my shoes off.  I could tell his heart was hurting; he was going to miss his friend.  I found him exhaling a slight snore, and it seemed I wasn’t the only one who heard him. Bowie-Cat came in, greeted me with a “mrow!” and silently jumped on the bed and laid on his pillow, next to Conner’s face.  I pet and kissed both of their heads and went to my living room.

             My mind was empty as I sat down to unlace my Doc Marten boots.  I was reflecting on the night, and to fill the void David Bowie’s Lazarus started to creep in.The kick drum and rhythmic picking of an electric guitar.  The saxophone chimes in melancholy.  Look up here, I’m in Heaven.  I’ve got scars that can’t be seen.  Bowie’s voice rang in.  I again thought of Bowie in Heaven, then I thought of Bo in Upstate New York.  I’d never been there, but maybe it could be his heaven.  I know Conner was going to miss him.  His sleeping mind was probably replaying tonight over and over.  

I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen.  Everybody knows me now.

I judged Bo for the things he did.  For the binge-drinking and drug use, for his strange tattoos.

Look up here, man, I'm in danger.  I've got nothing left to lose.

I'm so high, it makes my brain whirl.

             As I kicked off my boots it began to sunk in. Bo was gone, David Bowie too.  It was like all the empathy I should have been feeling while I knew Bo himself flooded in.  I felt a shame boil in my belly.  It was like Bo fell to earth in Salt Lake City.  I started to understand, then.  These blue and pink faces weren’t necessarily free of loneliness or pain. In fact, it probably was felt inside them under the belly of cheap liquor like mine was.  We were all the same, just trying to be less alone. Things like drinking made it easier, it created a common denominator for people.  It became easier to talk, mouths became looser and social anxieties relaxed. Everyone was just trying to feel a little more connected, a little freer.  That’s what I felt those summers ago.  I felt liberated in the orange-pink light and fuzz of sangria.  Parties and bars and drinking, they were all methods to arrive at that feeling.  It may not have been a healthy reliance, but it felt good to exercise that right.  I deserved to feel connected, everyone does. Every pink and blue face I met deserved it.  We may have all fallen to Earth, blinded by its beauty, with nowhere to go.  We’re here on Earth until we’re not—until we return to heaven, mars, nowhere, or everywhere.  It’s easy to feel alien in these bodies, but we can find each other in the dark here, with the assistance of neon lights and long nights.  

Oh, I'll be free

Just like that bluebird

Oh, I'll be free

Ain't that just like me?

   The end.

   Tracks (In text)

This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody) Talking Heads

Golden Years David Bowie

Drew Barrymore SZA

Lazarus David Bowie

 Tracks (bonus)

Kiss Prince

Head over Heels Tears for Fears

I Can’t Go for That Hall & Oates

Hung Up Madonna

Bunny Ain’t No Kind of Rider of Montreal

Heroes David Bowie