#can already feel the anxiety just radiating out of my body like a neon fucking sign saying ‘this bitch is UNWELL’

[fingertipsmp3]

I’m out of propanolol hahahahahaaaa

[djxrxn]

a regular thing

fuse (ct-8902) x reader

wc: 1.7 k

warnings: alcohol consumption!! some explicit language, maybe some mentions/references to sexual situations

art used is by jangofctts!!!!!! fuse and the rest of the sunburst squadron also belong to jangofctts!! this is because keida ( @jangofctts ) as well as danielle ( @jango-fettish ) REFUSE to let the sunburst squadron be happy, so now i have to step in ugh, ridiculous. anyways enjoy!

Damn. You forgot how gorgeous Fuse’s smile was. 

It had only been a year since you wandered back onto your assigned base to find your squad was missing a member. Not dead, your commander had told you, just not here. There were snide comments, remarks told under breaths and in languages you neither spoke nor understood. They didn’t need some fucking mechanic trying to start a fight because a transferred clone had been insulted. 

Your commander - Fang, all sharp words and crooked smiles, a man you were nervous to talk to in the first place, let alone push him on a topic he didn’t want to continue talking about - had told you to leave it, leave him be. This was for the best. 

So you did. You left the thought of him behind on base, closing off the memories you carried in your chest to rot and slowly starve. Hopefully, one day, they’d be nothing, and you could finally wash Fuse off like the rest of the grease stains that littered your hands. 

That was so kriffing difficult, though. Every blaster fire, every stray explosion no one had planned for on the field, Maker, even a fly-away spark, and you felt sick. You missed him, you missed his warmth so much. You felt his absence in your fucking bones, your body physically ached. You worried, how was he supposed to stay alive without you watching his six? How was he supposed to get out of the trouble he caused without someone like you, someone who wasn’t hell bent on pissing off their commanders and brothers?

And how were you supposed to do anything without your partner in crime - without someone to ease your fears and anxieties, to calm you down so you could fix one last wire on the last speeder needed to get away from the Seppies. 

A unit - a duo. And now, you were alone. 

Stumbling upon him like that, watching him scrub the red off the plastoid armor… if you hadn't known better, you would have thought maybe something like the Force had brought you together. You supposed the Force had also pulled you apart, too, but-

Now here he was. 

Getting his ass to come with you to a club was easy enough. All you had to do was pay for his drinks - maybe it had been a year, give or take some time, but Fuse was still Fuse. 

Empty shot glasses littered the table. This late into the night, you weren’t really sure how many you had, you didn’t really remember much. Everything existed in a haze, a bright and vibrant dream. The music was almost too loud to hear your own thoughts, let alone the person you came here with. The patrons of the nightclub moved about, but the only person you wanted to focus on was right in front of you, a wide grin stretched over his cheeks — you never noticed the dimples in his cheeks, or the handful of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Up close, and with only him to transfix on, every detail was explicit and bright, the warmth radiating off of him feeling more like fire than a gentle spark. 

The feelings you tried to push away, the real reason you were so upset that you never looked for him, the fear that nothing would be reciprocated, all of it, it came roaring to the forefront of your drunken mind. He was beautiful, like a violent sunset, all fiery reds and deep oranges — you felt the panic flooding through you as you remembered that every sun crawls behind the horizon, leaving a cold and dark night in its absence. Nothing was forever. 

You tried to say his name, but it came out crooked and garbled, a mess of syllables and vowels, it didn’t sound correct. “Fuse,” you tried again. Better, but your words still slurred. 

Now it was his turn to say your name, and Maker, it made your chest ache. 

“I—” Did you want to tell him? You couldn’t un-ring this bell, you couldn’t go back. What if Fuse was still hurt and wanted nothing to do with you, what if—

You didn’t know when you were going to see him again. For all you knew, his new squadron was moving out in the moving, being shipped out to another moon or a Inner Rim planet, He would be gone just as soon as you had him again, and if this was it… 

“Hey,” you tried to shout over the music, “I love you.”

“What?” Fuse shook his head. “I can’t hear you, what?”

“I missed you,” you said. He rolled his eyes, but his smile grew a little bit brighter, and his eyes looked softer. For a moment, the past was forgotten and your Fuse was back. Every transgression had been forgotten, and for this bright and shining minute, you were better. 

“I missed my favorite cockroach,” Fuse laughed. “We have to do this again, huh?”

You tried not to be upset that you couldn’t say it, couldn’t fucking tell him. You wanted so badly for him to understand why you didn’t look for him. Fang was a terrifying commander, sure, but you and Fuse had gone around him and his orders before. No, the reason you didn’t look for him because you thought Fang was right, this was for the best. You couldn’t really be with Fuse, even if he did feel similarly. 

“I can’t let you go,” you said. “Not again.”

Fuse wasn’t sure — chalk it up to the whiskey, or maybe to the fact that Fuse had never paid close enough attention to you, to the way you looked at him like that, with eyes that almost looked misty, with a tight little frown forming on your sweet mouth - but to him, this felt so much deeper than the normal shallow of your relationship. This was not cut and dry, what you two had was not simple. Maybe it had never been simple. 

“So, yeah, this is gonna be a regular thing,” you added quickly. 

Fuse nodded. He didn’t want to think about what you meant. If you pushed on it, sure, you both could have that conversation. But he wasn’t running head first to be burned by you again. You could call the shots, and Fuse would follow. 

“Alright,” he said, shooting you half of a grin. “Fine by me, cockroach.”

You took a breath, glancing away for a moment. The lights around you glowed neon pink and purple, a haze of color and sound and life — your life had revolved around the war. You didn’t know where you would be without it. Out of a job you supposed, but then, you wouldn’t have Fuse, or any of his brothers. All the same, it was nice to get drunk in a dreamy club and pretend like you were normal sometimes. You could pretend that you were a normal civilian, and that you weren’t required to be on a military base in the morning, preparing for another battle, another violent and miserable day. You could imagine a life with someone, maybe with Fuse - making caf in a cramped kitchen space in a small apartment in the Inner Rim. You and Fuse could open a shop, maybe something repairing vessels, or blowing them up, fuck, none of the details mattered. The more you thought about it, the more you just wanted a normal life with Fuse. You wondered if he had ever thought about a normal life with you too - you really hoped so. 

When you looked back at him, Fuse was already staring at you - dark eyes and parted lips, his brow was furrowed up. Some dark thought was eating at his thoughts, tearing through him and overwhelming senses. You wanted to help him, you wanted to take his mind off of everything, you just wanted to heal. 

You worked with machines — you knew how to retire and reprogram and fix things to make it run smoothly. Fuse was not a machine, and he was not made of wires and parts. You didn’t know what to do to fix things, if there was even a way to fix the damage. 

Fuse leaned forwards, just a fucking hair closer, but it was enough to make it hurt. This was too much, he was too bright and too much, and you were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to touch him. 

“Can I kiss you?” You stumbled over your words, and you were worried he couldn’t hear you again, but—

He surged forwards to reach you, his hands flying to cradle your head. Fuse’s lips were warm against yours, his belts were warm, he was so fucking warm, you felt alive. Every breath you stole between soft groans and nips of teeth came easy, releasing the tension that had been building in your chest all night. His tongue grazed along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth, and this was home.

How many times did you think about kissing Fuse like this? How many times did you imagine his hands instead of your own? This was everything you could have ever wanted, everything you needed from Fuse. You missed him so much, thought about him every moment, but this was worth it. Fuse could burn you in every way he knew how, and you would probably deserve it, but you would brave it all to kiss him again.  

“Can this be our regular thing too?” You whispered against his mouth. Fuse pulled away for a second, and you almost were afraid that he was about to say no. But he moved forwards again, silencing all worry in your mind as he kissed you again. 

“Yeah, it can be,” Fuse answered you. He wouldn’t mind at all if kissing you like this was a regular occurrence. His thoughts weren’t in order — not that he had excellent ideas sober either, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to sneak you onto base without Blanche or Blue catching wind of it. Fuse was trying to come up with a plan, something that no one would notice. That would be hard, especially if Sweets was on patrol for the night- 

It didn’t matter, he decided as you tugged on his bottom lip, your gentle hands crawling up his thighs. It really didn’t matter at all — his brothers would be fine with it, or they would get over it. Fuse just wanted you, and now that he had you? Nothing could take his little bug away from him. 

[hellaciousdecimation]

The night had started all too serious, as Khivol had prepared himself to confront his sister alone. Rafkyl had been understandable nervous for his friend, wanting to go with him, however as Khivol removed the pendant that had hardly left his side, and handed it to the sea dweller, Raf knew there was no way he could; after all, he had his own matters to tend to, and it seemed that the elder god planned to join him. As Khivol left his apartment, he absolutely had planned on going straight to his sister’s office, yet as he arrived at the corner of a street, still several blocks away from the small shop she had rented out for the past thirty or so sweeps, Khivol couldn’t help but feel something tug at him to turn down the street to his left, instead of continuing straight. 

As he did, he immediately knew why the street felt familiar, the jade coloured neon sign down near the end of the street catching his eye. His hesitation to continue onward quickly faded away, as he found himself nearing the small occult shop, the sign he remembered making sweeps ago hanging above the doorway. Before he knew it, he had his hand on the door knob, and he stepped inside, the smell of incense, candles and odd ingredients hitting him like a gust of wind, and the droning hum began in the back of his head, like a whisper he had hoped to forget. 

Behind the counter was a petite jade, who idly flipped through a magazine, while chewing on some gum and leaning on one of her arms. Glancing up from her magazine, returning her eyes to it’s pages only to shoot her gaze back up to the indigo who had just entered the shop, the woman’s lips twitched into a smirk, as she slipped out of her chair, heading over to Khivol. 

“ Oracle be damned.., so you are still alive after all? Your sister had me convinced some asshole had landed you in your grave, she worries too much, clearly.” Branni chuckled, crossing her arms, looking up at the indigo who now towered over her. Her soft tones pulled Khivol out of the anxiety that he had started feeling, her talking to him like nothing ever happened, making him feel at home. However, before he was able to speak, Branni raised a brow, looking over his face, and tilting her head in intrigue. “ What’d you do? You’re not wobbling or anything… and.. What’s with that aura?” 

Khivol’s brows raised then furrowed, before realizing just how long it had been since the two of them had talked. Realizing the change in his body language, Branni motioned for him to follow her, leading him to the back of the shop, where she began to make some tea, and he took a seat at a table, covered in a velvet cloth, and a red, blue and gold patterned scarf was repurposed as something she draped across the table, clearly something she did her readings on. It took him a moment to realize it was one of the many things he had given her while they still were together. 

“ You still take your tea the same?” Branni’s voice pulled Khivol out of his thoughts, and he looked to her, surprised to see a reddish coloured jar of honey in her hand. 

“ You seriously still keep some of that around?” He smirked, chuckling before nodding. “ Yeah, same as always.” Branni smiled, placing her free hand on her hip, giving him a smirk once more. 

“ Yeah, of course, I wouldn’t want to be out if you visited..,” As she added a teaspoon of the ruby honey, as well as a touch of milk from the minifridge tucked under the counter,, Branni glanced at Khivol over again, raising a brow at him as she set his and her tea down at the table. “ So, I take it that it’s a long story? Well I‘ve got all the time in existence. What the fuck has happened since we last talked?” 

Setting his hands around the cup before him, soaking up the warmth it radiated, Khivol took a moment to organize his thoughts. Before taking in a deep breath, sighing softly as he began to speak. 

“.., I started trying to.., numb myself with drugs and alcohol, I hoped it’d kill my sixth sense, so I could be with you again.., It worked, however it took a lot longer than I thought, and in that time I.., I tried black jack with some of the people I drank with.., that turned into a.., a terrible cycle of addiction and debts..” Raising a brow, Branni refrained from interrupting him, letting him continue on. “ What started as a way to be able to live my life without discomfort turned into me ruining my life.. And I couldn’ face seeing you knowing the mess I had made.., even if I had the abilty to actually be near you.., the guilt became my new sixth sense…Well, two sweeps ago I.., I think I was nearing my limit. I was starting to accept that things would never get better.., but then I met him.., an elder god by the name of-” 

“Dhy’Yhvn?” Branni asked, cutting Khivol off as she realized just what the aura was that she was sensing. Khivol looked up at her, surprised but not at that she could know, but that she did know. 

“ Yeah. I take it you learned a lot about other elder gods from the Oracle then?... Yeah he showed up.., promised me he could help me and that he wanted to help me.., I think it was that he wanted to help me that made me give him a chance.., It’s been two years now.. I haven’t gambled, I don’t rely on my vices and.., I’ve felt in control again..” Branni sips her tea, processing all he had told her. Although his words were brief, she could tell all the intricacies he dared not speak, her insight being able to fill in the blanks, “ I’ve learned some from them.., But I’m guessing that’s why your sister came to me, you haven’t talked to her since meeting him, Knowing her I don’t blame you..,Lys never liked the supernatural, let alone the things beyond what we consider just that…” A silence washed over the two of them before Branni glanced over to the Tarot deck between them, and she reached over, splitting the deck into five piles, and setting them in the spread that Khivol recognized as the one often referred to as the Message from the Universe. Humming as he sipped his tea, Khivol raised a brow at Branni, his ears twitching as he formed what he was about to ask her. 

“ When she talked to you, did Lys have her around?” Before he got his answer, Khivol told Branni when to stop shuffling each pile, and told her which to reverse the alignment of. 

“ Yeah, I could sense this ‘Goddess’ before she even entered the shop.., what a lie, I know Lystal doesn’t believe it but it’s still terrifying to think of who she’s defied with her web of lies.., The Oracle only has spoken good of Dhy’Yhvn.., the rest she wouldn’t trust any more than she herself should be trusted. Shall we begin?” Taking another drink from her tea, before setting it to the side, Branni cracks her knuckles, turning the first card over, revealing 

“ The seven of wands, This card suggests that someone, or something is blocking your path, Before you can continue on your journey, you must face this challenge, you need to be strong, confident and brave, this is not a fight to ignore and because it’s reversed you must consider what it is you’re defending. Perhaps you should lower your defences while dealing with this.” 

Khivol exhaled sharply out of his nose, a knowing smile on his face. “ Work life, Right?” Branni nodded, raising a brow at him. Moving onto the next card. 

“ Four of cups. This card represents that you have been disappointed by something or someone, and you are stuck emotionally. You can’t be bothered to look further than your own brooding mind and it’s a shame because what you need is not far away, you just need to listen to the voice of wisdom to get there.” After a moment of letting Khivol take in the card he had gotten for his emotional life, Branni turns over the next, the one that represents his intellectual life.” The Queen of swords.The Queen knows much from her experiences and her studies bay it have been from books or the people around her. While the Queen can exist comfortably in any situation, interacting with people, sharing intellectual pursuits and making good, loyal friends, the queen may come off as apathetic, unable to show affection and may come off as intimidating and lacking warmth. For you, the Queen is reversed, suggesting that the Queen is cold, judgemental and harsh, her intellectual gifts being diminished by her bitterness, and she may even use her intelligence to inflict unnecessary pain.”  

Khivol hesitated from taking a sip of his tea as Branni explained the Queen card, simply giving her permission to continue as she noticed his expression change stopping her from turning the next card. 

“ The Page of Pentacles is someone who is skilled with crafty, hands on approaches to the world, enjoying learning new things and excelling in things like classes and workshops. The Page of pentacles uses their craft to help them earn and save money, always trying to have something extra on top of their income, often using it to express their generosity, giving unexpected gifts. However when the card is reversed, it suggests someone who is under a position of servitude, or someone who may not want to give more than they have to.”  Not seeing anything in Khivol that tells her to stop for a moment, Branni moves on to the center pile, turning over the card, revealing the major arcana that represented Khivol’s Spiritual life. Upon seeing the card, both her and Khivol both took a moment to laugh, meeting eyes with one another. Branni glances down once more at the card, beginning the explanation, knowing all too well that Khivol already knew, but still took enjoyment in hearing her speak. 

“ The Hermit stands for seeking one’s own truth, representing self reflection and withdrawing from the situation at hand as to find the answer you need.” She looked up at Khivol once more, giving him a smile. Khivol shook his head in disbelief. 

“ They always know too much don’t they?” Sitting up in the chair to take the Hermit into his hand, looking deep into the illustration depicted, Khivol sighed. “ That’s what this was, wasn’t it.., some time to think.., some time to reflect on the questions I had….” 

Branni waits until she’s sure he’s done musingn before weaving her fingers together, leaning on her elbows looking up at her old mate. “ Want to talk about what each of these mean to you?” Running his thumb against the card’s smooth surface, before returning it to the pile it belongs, straightening it out idly, Khvol nods, looking at the cards before him.

“ A lot of these just tell me what I already know.. I need to talk to Lystal.., I need to tell her how I feel and why I’m doing what I’m doing.. She is the Queen and I am disappointed in her.., not just because of all of this ‘goddess’ bullshit, but because.., because of how she’s treated me…, I don’t blame her.., not entirely but it still hurts and I.. I’m just tired of how she’s handled my problems.., Like I wanted it all to be like that.. Like I enjoyed it..” a depressed sigh follows his last words as Khivol takes a moment, looking to the page of pentacles. “.., However I’m also another obstacle.. One because I’ve held myself back in becoming happy.., but also I.. I’m not giving enough of myself into the things I care about.., to the people I care about..I’m scared, I think we both are.., I’m… scared of…” 

“ Of losing someone again?” Branni reached over, placing a hand on Khivol’s, her brows knitted in concern as she watched his expression change from shock to sadness as he holds back tears. “... Khiv...I know how much it hurts.. I still love you. The only reason I did it was be cause I was going to end up killing you, and I couldn’t stand that.. I wanted you to learn to control your powers.., not burn them away.., I’m sorry..” 

“ I don’t blame you Bran, I could never..” 

“ No but you’re blaming yourself, and it wasn’t your fault, It never was your fault, Not the accident, not your powers.., not any of it.. And you can’t let fate make you afraid of getting with someone else.., If you love them, don’t let them get away… I’m sure they love you too, You deserve love.” 

Khivol’s breath hitched as he laughed nervously, quickly being unable to hold back the tears that began to roll down his cheeks, however instead of the natural indigo hue  they typically were, his tears were tinted with the same strange blue hue that took to his eyes when Dhy’Yhvn’s blessing shined through. Getting out of her seat, Branni goes over to him, pulling him into a hug, which he quickly returns, sobbing into her chest as she soothingly pets the back of his head. Many minutes passed before the Khivol scooped the tiny jade into his lap, calming down from the emotional breakdown enough for Branni to part their embrace, so she could get a good look at him. 

“ It’s going to be okay Khiv..,Let’s not be strangers anymore okay?.. If you ever need someone to talk to.. I’m here..,” 

“ I’d like that… Thanks Bran….” Khivol smiles, resting his cheek against her head. 

[bun-writes-things]

Pairing: Alfred x Francis, Alfred x Arthur (mentioned)

Content Warning: drugs, dubcon,noncon, alfred is dumb and has no ability to read people in this.

Note: mun does not condone any of this. Based off the hetalia 2010 halloween art. I think. Francis is an incubus. Alfred is human.

Let me know if I should continue.

---

Alfred F Jones loved anything that was risky, he was, after all, popular, the top football player, and not to mention a rather good student grade wise. He was also the hero to anyone who needed it. However as said he loved taking risks and that included coming to this rundown club. He heard his friend Gilbert talk about it and how awesome it was and naturally if Gilbert liked it, he would too. He was pretty surprised because when he entered there were lounges, a dance floor, a bar with neon colors and lights strobing ahead as different colors flashed among the bodies of those dancing. It was loud, full of energy, everything he enjoyed. But he was still leery, if he had a friend with him maybe but it was Halloween and he was dressed up like Indian Jones (his Hero) and so with a deep breath entered the club fully and started to let the music wash over him, making him calmer as he moved over to the bar.

A few drinks first, he thought, after all it was a rave club they should have mixed drinks if nothing else. That was when a man offered to buy him some, and naturally while Alfred could tell characters he was a bit nervous and this man looked scary so he accepted, unaware that with each drink it was spiked with XTC extract.

Francis Bonnefoy was normally not the man one would expect to see at a rave. With longish blond hair, a silky, cultured voice, an old world sort of laize-fair about the world and his self-proclaimed sex appeal, many would think of him more of the more artsy type. Truth be told, though, he loved these sorts of events. They pulsed with energy as bodies crowded against each other and moved in sensual ways that made him desire the companionship of a lover more than he normally would. He smirked as he sat in the bar. Tonight was Halloween. Not only were people dressed as scantily and risqué as normal, but in costumes. Who was the God to create a holiday for such a fetish to be proudly celebrated?

He had to thank this God amongst humans. In celebration, Francis had also chosen to dress up. Gause, and plenty of it, draped over his body to hide what would be appropriate to hide any... indecent features. Those with his boots, his hair tied back loosely, and some chains to add for the slightly scary but lusty look. In front of him sat a half-full glass of wine. In the folds of his outfit, he hid a small friend of his. It came in so much good when he really felt like he needed the company of a warm body. As a young blond dressed as a cowboy 'saddled' up to the bar, he smirked. Such a handsome young man... Francis discretely removed some of the drug from his attire and ordered a beer. He slipped the drug into the drink, then offered it to the young man, who warily accepted it. Things were going well already.

Alfred never once noted the drink may be spiked, instead choosing to just accept it. It was only after the fourth one that he felt high, like he was flying. Everything seemed to glow, pulse with its own energy, its own movement and oh he felt warm. So very, very warm like when his boyfriend Arthur would hug him at night type warm only, more intense, wanted. His blue eyes were glazed as he glanced to the man who sat no more then a few seats from and moved to stand, finding it hard as his legs were like jelly at the feeling of pure bliss that washed over him. He moved carefully though, getting used to the feeling and smiled charmingly, the drug making his anxiety die down.

"Hi..." he said, blue eyes not being able to stop themselves from traveling across the gentleman’s body. He looked to be in his mid twenties, classy, sophisticated...and sexy with come hither sapphire blue eyes and luscious blond hair he wanted to touch. Not to mention that body...oh gods that body...

Francis smirled coyly and looked up at the cowboy. He had taken a little longer than most to succumb to the drug. But that just made things more fun. Such a wonderful game... "Bonjour..." he said, practically purring as he lifted the wine to his lips and sipped luxuriously. It was fun to play this up, to see how his victims would reply. This all ended the same way, of course, but to get there... that was most of the fun.

"Comment ca va... mon cher..."

Alfred blushed brightly at the man's accent, how smooth his words sounds leaving those kissable lips. If he had been in any right state of mind he'd have slapped himself. He was with Arthur, but it was one night so surely he wouldn't be mad if he flirted right? After all he was the one who denied coming so he could just sod off then and spend time with his imaginary friends.

"Uhh...tres bien? " he asked, hesitant in the language.

He never much cared for other languages, preferring to have others speak his language, not the other way around. A typical American mindset but...well...he was just that. American. Though he couldn't stop the heated feeling he kept feeling in his core as his stomach did flip flops, body breaking out into a cold sweat as he stood before this man. Why did he have to be so damn hot looking?

"I'm Alfred," he said trying to keep his mind from being filled with a hazy lust that seemed to radiated from this man, it was dizzying.

"Mmmm... Alfred..." The Frenchman replied, watching him with half-lidded blue eyes. "Je m'appelle Francis... It is good to meet you... Alfred..." He consented for English, though his French accent dominated his speech. To make his to be lover exert so much effort would not be good. After all, how would he be able to have fun with someone asleep?

"Nice to meet you," He said blushing at the purr in his voice. His pants were feeling a bit tighter then they should be, and he knew why. Maybe it was him but Alfred loved accents.

Hearing them, trying them out but he loved it best when the accent was spoken in a purr, like when Arthur spoke to him during their heated lvoe making sessions or even when he was simply instructing him... oh merely the sound of his voice was enough to drive the American mad with desire, with love. But this accent, oh this accent was different it made him feel lust, need...want... something that he was always careful to control, because a hero never let themselves succumb to such needs, such wants....right?

Francis crossed his legs in a sensual manner, arching his neck backwards so that his hair would fall aside, reveling even more bare flesh and skin. This was working all too well. "Do you come here often, mon cher~?" He bit his lower lip with mock innocence and winked at Alfred, the man with the cowboy hat and the American accent. "I have not seen you before..."

"Ah yeah my friend Gilbert normally comes here, he was talking about coming here but he got tied up with our friend Antonio so I decided to come by myself...its my first time..." he said innocently, though his speech was a bit slurred and his actions were more slowed, but he was closer now, closer to the man who seemed to be like a drug to him, pulling him ever deeper, ever closer with those words, that accent, that beautiful fuck me body...but it was the smile, the look in his eyes that made the poor twenty year old man blush and feel a lust he never felt before with anyone.

"Ahhh, mon ami, Gilbert~" Francis said, sighing wistfully. "Such a shame he could not be here. However... if he were here... I would never have met you, mon Alfred~" The Frenchman sipped again from his drink. "Would you care to sit next to moi~?"

"I would thanks," he said, leaning away from the Frenchman and sitting on the stool, trying to hide the obvious bulge he was sure was visible. The music was still pounding and it seemed to make his heart beat in time. Poor drugged up Alfred. "You know gil?"

Francis nodded. "Oh, oui. He frequents here as well. We became... quite close..." He smirked and winked seductively at the poor straining American, allowing him to imagine the meaning in his words. "But I am glad I was able to meet you on your first time, mon cher~"

Alfred let out a stifled groan as he twitched some, fingers tapping rapidly on the bar top as he watched, lsitening to the man speak, not so much his words, wodnering what it would be like if he were to whisper in his ear. At the mention of becoming close naturally he could only imagine the sex that seemed toi be hinted in those words. OH fuck.

"I...see..." he said, voice strained as the drug began to work more, fogging his mind, making everything heightened. Was this what his friend Yao felt like when he took opium?

"Oh oui..." he said before finishing the glass of wine with a dignified sip always the gentleman, after all. Francis smiled and stood, letting the bandages settle naturally again along his body.

"Mon cher... you look so uncomfortable on the stool. Shall we retire to... somewhere more comfortable~ Oui?" He approached Alfred and smiled, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I know of a wonderful little couch in the corner where we can get... better acquainted."

[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