#drug rehabs los angeles

[carraraluxurydrugandalcohol]

At Carrara Luxury Drug & Alcohol Rehab, we understand the complexity of addiction and its impact on mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Our luxury addiction rehab in Los Angeles provides a peaceful and comfortable setting conducive to healing and self-discovery. From spacious accommodations to gourmet meals prepared by our chef, every aspect of your stay is designed to promote relaxation and wellness.

Carrara Luxury Drug & Alcohol Rehab 1813 Marcheeta Pl, Los Angeles, CA 90069 (323) 302–9650

My Official Website: https://carraratreatment.com/

Service We Offer:

Addiction Treatment Drug Treatment Alcohol Treatment

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[breathelifehealingcenters]

At Breathe Life Healing Centers, we are proud to offer leading dual diagnosis treatment in Los Angeles. We understand the complexities of treating individuals with both mental health disorders and substance use issues. Our integrative approach ensures that clients receive personalized care designed to address the underlying causes of their addiction and mental health challenges.

Breathe Life Healing Centers 8060 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90046 (323) 998–1073

My Official Website: https://breathelifehealingcenters.com/ Google Plus Listing: https://www.google.com/maps?cid=15676640868029295330

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Service We Offer:

Clinic/center — Rehabilitation Substance Use Disorder Addiction treatment Drug Treatment Alcohol rehab Alcohol detox Drug detox residential drug rehab

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[blissrecovery0]

Experience Comprehensive Care at Premier Luxury Drug Rehabilitation Centers – Bliss Recovery LA

Bliss Recovery LA is one of the best luxury drug rehabilitation centers and offers people the best chance of overcoming addiction in style. The also provides a serene and secluded setting for all clients to be comfortable and at the same time receive the best treatment. Hence, at Bliss Recovery LA, the clients enjoy personalized care and interventions developed by a caring team of experts who seek lifelong sobriety. The center offers all sorts of therapies including detoxification, basic therapy, and aftercare in a chic environment. Bliss Recovery LA offers a private experience with primary focus on the quality of the recovery process of our guests.

[thrivetreatment]

At Thrive Treatment, we believe that every individual deserves the opportunity to reclaim their life from the grips of addiction. As a premier drug rehab center in Los Angeles, we offer a comprehensive range of evidence-based therapies designed to address both the physical and psychological aspects of addiction.

Thrive Treatment 3101 Ocean Park Blvd. #309, Santa Monica, CA 90405 (855) 232–1334

My Official Website: https://thrivetreatment.com/ Google Plus Listing: https://www.google.com/maps?cid=8070610015888882261

Our Other Links:

Los Angeles Treatment Center: https://thrivetreatment.com/treatment-services/ Alcohol Rehab Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-we-treat/addiction-treatment/alcohol/ IOP Programs Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/treatment-services/intensive-outpatient-program/ Alcoholism Detox Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/treatment-services/detoxification/ Video Game Addiction Treatment Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-we-treat/addiction-treatment/gaming/ Marijuana Detox Program Near Me: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-we-treat/addiction-treatment/marijuana/ Inpatient Residential Treatment Center Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/treatment-services/inpatient/ Dual Diagnosis Treatment Center Near Me: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-we-treat/dual-diagnosis/ Mental Health Center LA: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-we-treat/mental-health/ Sober Living LA: https://thrivetreatment.com/treatment-services/sober-living-homes/ 12-Step Program Los Angeles: https://thrivetreatment.com/what-is-a-12-step-program/

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[carraraluxurydrugandalcoh]

Carrara Luxury Drug & Alcohol Rehab is a leader in luxury drug rehab facilities, offering comprehensive care and a luxurious setting. Our facility provides a blend of high-end amenities and evidence-based treatments tailored to each individual’s needs. Our team of experienced professionals includes addiction specialists, therapists, and medical doctors who provide personalized care throughout the recovery process.

Carrara Luxury Drug & Alcohol Rehab 1814 Marcheeta Pl, Los Angeles, CA 90069 (323) 302–9650

My Official Website: https://carraratreatment.com/

Service We Offer:

Addiction Treatment Drug Treatment Alcohol Treatment

Follow Us On:

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[aishnico]

I'm thinkinggggg....maybe something angsty to fluffy with Slash?

#𝙎𝙇𝘼𝙎𝙃: 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳

» summary: you were tired of your boyfriend’s drug habit, so one night you asked him to choose between you and his habit. when he left you without an answer, you went to let all these things out of your head.

» word count: 2.1k

» warnings: angst to fluff, alcohol, described drug use, grammar issues

another glass has broken with your heart. you couldn't fix the glass once it's broken but the heart could. countless apologies, excuses, and promises would fix your heart, but not properly.

but you were sure this time, it surely broke and couldn't be fixed.

you looked at the floor. vodka was spreading through it, so your tears across your cheeks.

he turned his back against you. leaned his arms over the table. "don't... don't ever tell me what to do. you are supposed to be my girlfriend, not my mom, damn it!" he then rushed over to you. you weren't scared of him. you knew he would never hit you. but you were scared what was he going to say next.

"it's not my fault that you can't make me feel better than this shit!" he showed you a little pack of white dust. you felt helpless. you would hide his drugs away from him. and he was that addicted to find them no matter where they were. you would do this because you cared about him, and didn't want to see him killing himself over and over.

you wiped your tears and stood up. "i don't want to see you killing yourself anymore. you're not only killing yourself, you're also killing me! don't you care about me?!"

"bullshit, you're not dying. you're well enough to argue with me!"

"don't dodge the question, do you care about me?! do you want me to be happy?!" you were yelling at him and your voice got weaker. he was silent, looking at the floor. you gulped and approached him.

"i'm going to ask this you once again. you would always change the topic but this time you don't have a choice but to make a decision. drugs, or me?" you asked. looking at his big, brown eyes sincerely.

he looked at you. he wanted to say something, you felt it. or maybe you were wrong. he didn't say anything and went to the bedroom. you were standing not knowing how to react or what to do.

you wanted to swear to him, telling the most painful words to him. but at the same time, you wanted to talk with him again. trying to convince him to get clean for the nth time. you didn't care how much this was going to take. you just wanted to be happy with him.

but guess he chose to be happy just alone.

you left the home and went to the busy streets of los angeles, trying to find an empty cab. after minutes, you found and entered inside. you told the driver the name of the bar where you would often hang out with guys. you wish one of them was there.

and of course there was the indispencable axl! he greeted you nicely but his smile dropped when he saw your heartbroken face. "sugar, what happened?!"

you didn't answer him, just sat next to him and buried your head in your hands. he patted your back. "is it slash again?" you raised your head and looked at him.

"i asked him to choose between me or drugs, he didn't even answer me! i don't know how many times i tried to get him to the rehab, how many times i hid them from him. he just... *sob* can't give up on his first love. i'm nothing to him."

"that's not true, you mean a lot to him. i can't even imagine how he would be like without you."

you sobbed and buried your face again. "do you want a drink? i want a drink. i'm going to buy us drinks!" he went to the bartender. after a couple of seconds, he was walking through your direction but stopped once he saw a beautiful chick. he then gave her your drink. fucking carrot... you thought and stood up from your seat.

you were walking across the people, trying to forget things at least for tonight. and you stopped once you saw a couple of guys snorting cocaine. they smiled at you. "wanna join?" you didn't answer but sat next to them. maybe you could befriend them and let all these things out of your head. but you weren't talking with them unless one of them approached you.

"what's bothering you? we don't want to see people in deep thoughts around us. just forget them. let them go even for just one night." he probably understood that you've never done this before.

he rolled up a small piece of paper into a straw. there was already a big amount of cocaine on the table. he grabbed his razor blade, chopped it, and made a short line of it. he looked at you.

"wanna try? if you don't, then i will." you sighed and wondered how is the feeling this thing gives to your boyfriend or your friends. you then took the roll of paper from him and quickly snorted the line.

you gasped loudly and pulled your head backwards. after a couple of minutes, you felt yourself hot, your palms were sweating and your heart was beating like crazy. the guy beside you laughed at you.

"how does it feel?"

"i... i d-don't know, i feel anxious, i g-guess?" you stuttered. he rubbed your back. "then you should snort again, you will start to feel happy. trust me."

you felt unsure but remembered the times when slash would come home to you happily. he would cling to you and refuse to let you go for a while. he would be so lovey-dovey with you. his current mood would also make you cheerful. but then you realized it's not because he saw you again after an exhausting day, he was because of this shit. you wondered if you could be cheerful like him at the moment.

so you nodded and he chopped again and made you a roll. you took a deep breath and snorted all of it. your head became more fuzzy but a couple of minutes later you felt cheerful and excited. you chuckled at yourself and stood up while staggering.

"now i get it," you grinned and winked at him. then you started to go to the dance floor. you were staggering but you didn't care. you were walking between people and saying them good morning! while smiling. they looked at you strangely.

when you approached the dance floor you started to move slowly, and accommodating to the song. after a couple of seconds, you were dancing like crazy, not minding to look cringe. everybody here was like you, after all.

the guy who helped you to snort stopped behind you. when you turned your head to him you smiled.

"i was looking for you, wanna dance together?" you closed your eyes and shook your head to him. then turn your back against him again. you suddenly felt a pair of hands around your waist.

"now, now. don't be like that. you look so precious and funny right now. let me enjoy your company for a while." his face now was behind your ear. he whispered "maybe we can bring this to another place..." you then turned to him and knitted your eyebrows. "i thought i said no?" you left him there and started to look for axl.

your body temperature was increasing, and so was your heartbeat. you started to struggle more, you knew you looked pathetically and never wanted to do it again. even if your little happiness lasted a couple of minutes.

"axl... axl wh-where are yhou? call shlash..." you couldn't even speak properly. your legs started to shake. you found the door and exited the bar. you were walking to the road. eyes searching for your boyfriend. maybe he was worried about you so he came here to look for you?

“shl-soul, are yhou h-here?" you were squinting, trying to figure out which car was your boyfriend's. and before you realize it, you were hit by something massive.

you woke up with loud noises. you grimaced because fluorescent light was dazzling your eyes. you slowly blinked and turned your gaze to where the sounds were coming from. you saw axl and slash, arguing about something.

"how could you let her snort?! why didn't you stay by her side?!"

"she's not a child, especially not mine! she can make her decisions now, you know!"

you saw slash sit on the couch in front of you. he buried his face in his hands. axl sighed and left the room. when he did, you heard sounds of crying and sobs.

"how could i let this happen..?" he sounded helpless. it made your heart clench. when either of you would cry, the other one would join after. it was mutual. so tears were leaking from your eyes now. he raised his messed up face and looked at you, eyes widened at realization.

"sweetheart, you're awake!" he cheered but his voice was broken. you didn't say anything. he grabbed your hand and placed it on his, caressing gently. "how do you feel?" he asked.

you just shrugged. "i don't know, my legs hurt." he shut his eyes and gulped. "i... i am sorry, for not being there with you." his voice sounded shaking. you wanted to ask him if that was all he wanted to apologize for, but before you opened your mouth, he continued.

"not only for this. i am sorry for not listening to you, even though you only cared about my well-being. sorry for making you cry and feel heartbroken. you never deserved this, never. and i don't deserve your concern.

when you asked me to choose between you and drugs, i went to the bedroom only to think about that. i didn't choose them over you. i could never choose something over you. you're my priority, my everything. i never want something bad to happen to you. i could never get over this." he finished and kissed your hand carefully.

you sighed. "oh slash, i don't even know how many times we talked about this. same thing happens every time..." he looked at you with his big pretty brown eyes. "i swear this is the last time, we'll never talk about this. i swear. i don't want to make you miserable anymore. you deserve nothing but happiness. and i'm more willing to give you that."

you raised your head and looked at the ceiling, sighed again. "did that accident have to happen for you to say these?"

he straightened up. "don't tell me you did this on purpose..." his voice sounded nervous. you shook your head. "of course i didn't, i just always wondered how this shit makes you happy but i'm not, so i wanted to try it once."

"pretty, you know this shit is nothing compared to you. i was mad at you for you hiding it, but that's not an excuse for to me say those untrue things to you."

you smiled at yourself, wondering if axl or duff talked to him about this. finally, you gave up on yourself.

"i love you so much, slash. and i guess we both understood how is to lose almost someone."

"i love you too, sweetheart. more than everything. and yeah, you're right. i don't want one of us to experience this feeling again. " he smiled sincerely at you.

you tried to move your body aside and patted to empty space. he looked at you worringly. "are you sure, doll? i don't want to hurt or crush you." you just chuckled and opened your arms to him. he hesitated but climbed to the bed. you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him for a kiss. the kiss was sensual and full of love. you missed his plump and soft lips on yours, on every part of your body.

you then run your fingers through his dark curly hair. you loved playing with them carefully. he doesn't like it when it hurts.

you wanted to deepen the kiss because you missed him so much. you don't remember when you two kissed like this last time. but he pulled out looking at you breathlessly, then lay beside you.

"after we go home, i'm gonna search and then register myself on a program. this time i'm gonna complete it, i swear." he grabbed your hand and pressed a wet kiss on it. then did the same thing to your cheek. "slash!" you whined but he knew you actually liked it.

you were lying on his chest while he was caressing your waist. you've felt peaceful. and felt like your eyes would shut soon. he noticed it and planted a wet kiss on your forehead. you giggled.

"i love you." he said while sincerely looking at you. you smiled and snuggled to him. "i love you too, my big crybaby."

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

[michelle-is-writing]

Left Behind ch.2, Nikki Sixx

Word Count: 1.3k~

Read Chapter 1 here!

TW!: mention of prior drug and alcohol use, rehab, slight angst

Five months of being back in Los Angeles had proven to be just the same as when Nikki and I lived in Los Angeles all that time ago. The only difference was the new apartment I lived in and, of course, Nikki. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night we broke up, and it’s been slowly weighing on me as time goes on. Now six months pregnant, I try to find things that once made me happy like before, but it hasn’t been easy.

I don’t know how Nikki’s doing right now; I don’t even know where he is. The guys called me a lot when I first left, but I never answered their calls, and eventually, they slowly stopped. The only time I answered was when Mick tried calling me, and I explained where I had moved to and why; I didn’t tell him that I was pregnant, however. I hardly even turned on the TV anymore, too afraid to see a news report concerning his death from an overdose, only to be revived in an ambulance afterward.

Hearing what happened made me want to go to him and just make sure he was okay, but I felt like I couldn’t. I knew I was probably the last person he wanted to see, and sadly, I didn’t want to see Nikki the way I saw him before I left, strung out and barely holding onto himself as the heroin constantly coursed through his body. I don’t want memories like that coming to mind when my little girl eventually asks about her father. I want to be able to talk about the good moments we had before everything came crashing down, and I ended up where I am now.

Getting home from my shift as a hospital receptionist, I sit down on my couch and rest as my back relaxes from the reduced straining caused by my large bump. I didn’t think I’d be this big until maybe the last couple of months, but that’s not too far away. I just wish the swollen feet would go away. Out of everything, that has to be the worst part of my pregnancy.

Hearing a knock at my front door, I lift my head from the back of the couch and look toward it. In the time I have rented this place, no one ever comes to my door, not even solicitors.

Standing up from my couch, I walk over to the door before looking out the peephole, only to see an all too familiar figure. However, there are a few differences between him now and the last time I saw him. A small noticeable difference is the small strip of hair growing down his chin. On the other hand, the major difference is the healthy look he has, all while being nervous as he stands in front of my door. I’ve never seen Nikki insecure about anything, always finding confidence from somewhere.

Unlatching my door, I open it, Nikki’s eyes instantly catching mine as he comes into my full view. He doesn’t look sick like he used to, with the skin around his eyes no longer holding a purple hue to it and his cheeks appearing a tad fuller. By the looks of it, Nikki might even pass as clean to someone, but for me, I find myself in disbelief at the thought. I can’t assume anything and make myself hopeful like so many times before.

“Hi,” I murmur, completely lost as I stare at the man in front of me. He shyly smiles back, also appearing lost for words. Mick must’ve told him where I was since I haven’t told anyone else.

“Hi, baby,” he responds, his eyes flickering down to my noticeable bump before flashing back to mine, now wet with tears. “I’ve missed you, a lot… You have no idea.”

“Where have you been, Nikki?” I can’t help but ask, taking a step outside my door to fully face him. His arms awkwardly linger by his sides, not quite knowing what to do with them. A long time ago, Nikki would have instantly taken the chance to pull me close, but now, his actions are halted by uncertainty.

“In all honesty, I’ve been in rehab for the past several months,” he confesses, my eyebrows jolting in slight shock at his revelation. “Me and the guys, we all checked ourselves in. And now, we’re finally clean,” Nikki adds, his smile shining with a bit of pride now. At the same time, I also feel myself proud of him despite everything else.

“That’s great, Nikki,” I tell him, watching a tear slip from his eye. My instincts tell me to wipe it away from his cheek, but the hurt that remains holds me back from doing so.

“I-I know what I said when you left was horrible, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,” Nikki tells me, causing the harsh memories to flow back into my mind. “I’m so sorry, baby. I never wanted to hurt you, and I’m sorry I did,” he continues, making me tear up as he steps forward to cup my cheek in his hand. “My memories of us were the only thing getting me through withdrawals, and every time I thought about the night you left, I broke down. I never wanted to lose you, and I never wanted you to go through anything alone.”

My eyes squeezed close at his last comment, the reminder of what he used to say to me, making my heart clench in my chest. “Two against the world,” I can hear his voice from long ago say. The words were a reminder that I wasn’t alone in anything I did; I had someone there to catch me if I fell. But I’ve been alone for a while now, and it’s not that easy for me to just open myself up to him all at once like before, unfortunately.

Seeing his eyes linger on my belly, I find the courage to take his hand in mine and rest it against my bump. “Why don’t you come inside, and we can talk some more,” I suggest, his hand ever so gentle as he runs it against my sweater. “I can show you pictures of our baby girl too, if you’d like,” My voice ends up in a whisper as I say the words I’ve wanted to tell Nikki ever since I discovered our baby’s sex.

At my comment, Nikki looks back at my face with even more tears clouding his eyes before pressing his lips to mine in the softest kiss Nikki has ever given me. His hand still remains on my belly, albeit his fingers are now intertwined with mine. I didn’t think I’d get to do this with Nikki again; I didn’t even know if I’d ever get to see him again.

Pulling away from the kiss, Nikki’s smiling face lingers in front of mine as he rubs his thumb against my cheek. His touch still remains gentle, careful with every move he makes. “I’d love to, baby,” he answers me, his voice choked up a bit. “I’d love to more than anything.”

Smiling back, I can’t help but feel more tears begin falling from my eyes. This feels almost unreal to me, and I can’t help but feel an overwhelming amount of emotions hit me all at once. Nikki holding me just like he used to is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced, and as he wipes away my incessant tears, I realize just how amazing this moment is. Nikki is clean, he knows about his little girl, and he’s finally back. The Nikki I once loved is back.

[enthusiasticharry]

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 | 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 10.5k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: fifth chapter! again, this has taken so long but work (again) has been kicking my arse but i finally have finished it and it's ready for you. this chapter starts off so cute but ends a little less cute (i'm sorry in advance) and i would love to hear all of your thoughts and opinions so pls come and chat to me about it!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language, talk of rehab, drug overdose and slight relapse, harry being a cutie and an annoying fucking journalist who messes everything up.

𝐩𝐥𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒 here

Los Angeles, Summer 1974

“We don’t need a bridge in every song, YN,” Harry sighs, his fingers coming to rest on the bridge of his nose.

“I know that Harry, but I’m just saying that this one could,” YN sighs, pacing up and down in the small studio room that had become their second home over the past few months.

The problem that YN and Harry encountered very quickly as they began writing was that they were both very good at their craft and very opinionated people when it came to writing songs. This, therefore, meant that every so there would be a tiff between them every so often about one thing or another. They were easily rectified though, an argument, a conversation and then makeup sex in a corner of the studio that they had found in a prior one of their tiffs.

“But why? We could easily do a third verse and then go straight back into the chorus,” Harry had his hand over his eyes at this point. He was tired, they both were, and they were both getting more and more stressed as the days went on.

YN sighed and walked over to him. Without even thinking she pulled his hands away from his eyes and dropped down on his lap, placing his hands on her waist so that she could see him. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, the man below her immediately relaxing into her touch.

“Hey,” YN dropped both of her palms down onto his cheeks, mainly to make him look at her but also because she likes the feeling of his stubble beneath her palms, “It’s okay, we can take a break.”

Harry sighed and shook his head, pouting slightly as he did so, “We both know we don’t have time for a break.”

YN shook her head with a roll of her eyes, “We can take a break if we want to take a break.”

“I just want to finish this song today,” He leans forward so that his head is resting on her chest, and so that he can wrap his arms tighter around her, “If we finish this today then we’ll be in front before the journalist comes tomorrow.”

YN sighs and drops her own head on top of Harry’s. She had completely forgotten that tomorrow would be the day that their safe space would be infiltrated by the press. They had been asked and warned about when the Rolling Stone journalist would be coming to do the piece on Harry tomorrow, but YN just forgot that it would be so soon – they were still in their bubble.

“Okay,” She clambers off Harry’s lap, starting to pace up and down the room, with her finger resting on her lip, “I’m thinking.”

Harry leaned back on the sofa, running his hand through his hair before placing his arm on the back of the sofa. Whilst YN paced, his eyes never left her. He was in complete awe of her. Just seeing her do her magic in her head, working on music with him. He wanted to see this every day for the rest of his life.

“How about we go back to the chorus, yeah?” YN says, arms open in front of her as she finally stops pacing, “So we’ve just finished lower and slower Give me all of your love give me something to dream about, how about we go back to Living in a Daydream/ Living in a daydream, but drums and bass kick in, and it’s louder.”

Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head before standing up, his face beaming a grin as he wraps his arms around her, hoisting her up so that her legs were around his waist.

“Baby you’re a fucking genius,” He leans forward to place kisses all over her face and lips, causing her to giggle, “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

YN’s lips parted in shock, and she tapped Harry on the chest lightly, wrapping her arms around his neck. It didn’t take long for YN to place her lips on Harry’s, her fingers tugging on the curls at the nape of his neck.

“You know,” YN mutters against his lips, pulling away slightly before they got too carried away, “We’re going to have to be on our best behaviour when the journalist arrives tomorrow.”

“Uh,” Harry pulls away, pursing his lips, “I don’t know what this ‘we’ is, I think it’s you that will have to be on your best behaviour.”

YN shakes her head, “Says the man that can’t keep his hands off me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” He shakes his head, “I am perfectly able to keep my hands off you.”

YN wasn’t expecting to have a near-death experience today but when Harry let go of her, allowing her to fall down a little bit before he grabbed her again. She stared at him with wide eyes whilst he beamed with laughter looking down at her. Unwrapping her legs from him, she forced his hands off her so that she was standing on solid ground again.

“Not cool,” She blew out air from her lips, “So not cool, and after I’ve just helped you with your song as well.”

“No, baby, come on,” He stalks after her as she makes her way towards the sofa again, “Don’t be mad, baby.”

Without a single hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, spinning her around so that she could fall on the sofa on her back, and he could hover above her.

“I’m not mad,” She shook her head, allowing her fingers to wrap around his curls again, “Because you have just proven my point exactly.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs, his eyes never leaving hers, “I’m obsessed with you, and I can’t be away from you.”

Without a single hesitation, YN leant forward and placed her lips on his. It had been a few months since that night in the camper when their relationship had really solidified into what it was today. Every time YN saw the camper sitting in Harry’s driveway her stomach twisted. Even though time had passed, and they had made an abundance more memories since that day, it was still one of her favourites.

There were other things that always felt too good to be true when she was with Harry, and how playful he had been with her a few moments ago was one of them. The fact that he used the word obsessed to talk about her, has her stomach twisting and her head up in the clouds.

“What do you say to one more secret rendezvous before we have to be professional musicians,” YN mumbles against his lips, her hands coming to rest on the collar of his shirt, fingers itching towards the button.

Harry beamed another grin at her, “I like the way you’re thinking, but we’ll have to be quick. Jeff’s coming by later.”

“We can be quick,” She shrugs, moving her hands down to where his shirt was tucked into his trousers, “Or Jeff can get an eyeful of your ass… again.”

“YN, we have to find at least one song that I can get some horns in, or I just won’t speak to you ever again,” Harry shrugs as they walk through the door of the studio.

YN can’t help but roll her eyes at how dramatic Harry is. They were hand in hand, walking into the studio that they had booked for God knows how long, their perspective guitars in their free hands. It was currently nine in the morning, and the two of them had woken up at seven-thirty so by YN’s calculations that means that she had been listening to Harry go on and on for an hour and a half already about these fucking horns.

The door had just slammed behind them when YN stopped in her tracks and turned to look at Harry, “It’s nine in the morning, I haven’t had my coffee and cigarette yet and I can’t listen to one more word about these fucking horns. If you don’t mention them for the rest of the day, I will give you anything you want.”

“Anything?” Harry raises his eyebrow at that.

“Anything.” YN was at her wit's end.

Harry contemplates for a second before nodding and holding his hand out for her, “Deal.”

“Thank fuck.”

A clearing of a throat shook them out of the little conversation that they had going on. They both turned to see Jeff and a man that they didn’t recognise standing in the middle of the room, obviously in their own conversation before they were interrupted by their little squabble.

“Harry, YN, this is Christopher Thomas,” Jeff introduced the two of them to the stranger in the room. Both of them dropped each other’s hand to shake Christopher’s, “He’s the Stones’ writer that’s going to be spending the week with the two of you.”

“Oh,” Christopher speaks up, “We’re only writing the article about Harry.”

“I know that. We all know that” YN’s the first to speak up, “But I’m part of the furniture here now.”

“Oh, cool,” YN had a slight suspicion that he didn’t quite understand, but he would soon, “Well, just pretend that I’m not here, and I’ll just butt in if I have any questions.”

“Perfect,” and with that, YN immediately sprang into action.

Harry had many different versions of YN that he enjoyed – but studio and writing YN were always his favourites. It’s when Harry truly saw YN and everything that sparked joy in her. The way she was constantly bopping her head, tapping her finger when she had a melody in her head or even the way she chewed the end of her pencil when a lyric was trapped, and she needed that little bit of willpower to get it out.

The first item on the list today was to record the vocals for Daydreaming which was the song that they had finished last night and shown to Jeff. Luckily, they had finished their more X-rated activity before Jeff had arrived, meaning that he hadn’t had an eyeful of Harry’s ass again which was a plus in their book.

Whilst Harry was recording, YN usually sat in the recording booth with Keith, the producer, and usually scribbled down ideas for her own songs, and made comments here and there about something that Harry was doing that she thought he could change.

The band had recorded their parts last night when they had sorted it out, with Harry singing just to keep the timing but today was when they are properly recording. Every time they write and record a new song for Harry’s album, she says it's her favourite. That hadn’t changed for this one, but it was just so fun that YN truly did love it.

Harry was talking to Keith in between takes, and YN was scribbling some lyrics down in her book that had been circling in her head when she could feel some eyes boring into the side of her. She looked first through her peripheral vision to see Christopher sitting to the side of her and then looked at him to see that he was looking directly at her.

“Can I help you?” She asked, her eyes wide as she asked.

“So, you and Harry have written all of the songs together so far?” YN loved the press; YN loved the press.

“Pretty much,” She nods, with a small smile on her features, “He’d have an idea and I’d help flush it out, or vice versa. But every song we worked on together.”

“What about you? Have you both worked on songs for your album? That is assuming that you’re making one.” He asked. The pen and paper were making her uncomfortable now, especially with his scrawl that was the loudest thing she’d ever heard it seemed.

“A few,” She shrugged, tapping her own pen to her paper now, “But I don’t have a deadline, and Harry does.”

He seemed happy with that response and stopped the questions for now. Harry had started singing again and instead, she could smile, and watch as he sang his heart out and made her proud. There was just something about the two of them in a studio together, doing what they loved that just couldn’t be any better.

It was a place where they could grow as people, and as musicians and had also truly helped their relationship grow in the space that they had been there. Now it seemed as though the studio was also the place for a week and a week only, as well as any other events they may go to that week. It was one week.

It didn’t take long for Harry to finish recording Daydreaming, and once he had he was ready for his initial questioning about the album by Christopher. YN had taken this time to lounge on the sofa, with her guitar and start to strum out some of the melodies to the lyrics that she had written in her book. In all honesty, she didn’t want it to seem as though she was eavesdropping, but she totally was.

“Uh, YN,” YN perked up at the sound of Betty, the studio’s receptionist sticking her head through the door, “There’s a call on the line for you.”

“Thank you, Betty,” She smiled, placing the guitar on the sofa. She walked past Harry as she made her way towards the door, running her hand across his shoulders as she did.

Once YN was at the phone, she picked it up and placed it to her ear, “This is YN.”

“Babes,” Just by that first word she knew that it was Vivienne, “I know that you’re with the Stones’ journalist right now and I’m sorry for interrupting but –”

“Woah, slow down Viv,” YN laughed, slightly shocked by how quickly Vivienne was speaking, “Slow down, I can’t tell a single word you’re saying.”

“Sorry, babes,” Vivienne sighs, taking a deep breath before starting again, “You know the band that I photographed up in Malibu last week?”

“Yeah,” YN laughed, “You’ve only just stopped going on and on about how dreamy their bassist is.”

“Well,” Vivienne started, “I got a call from that same bassist today and they’re having a party in the Hills that they’ve invited us to.”

“What?” YN laughed, “They just phoned to invite both me and you to this party?”

“No, no,” YN would bet money that Vivienne was shaking her head right now, “They’ve invited me, and they’ve invited you and Harry by association because I can’t do it without you, and you and Harry are attached by the hip.”

“Well, currently I and Harry are attached by the hip also to a Stones’ journalist, but I’ll see if we can shake him off,” YN laughs, which Vivienne joins in, “Where is it?”

“In the Hills, tonight. I have the address but not on me,” Vivienne speaks over the receiver, and then there’s some crackling.

“Don’t worry about it babe, we’ll meet you at the apartment later,” YN speaks, fishing out her cigarettes from her pocket as she does so, “I’ll drive you since I won’t be drinking.”

“I love you so much, babe,” Vivienne beams through the receiver, “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” YN laughs, “Now I have to get back, I’ve left Harry with Christopher and I dread to think what they’re currently talking about.”

“Okay babe, see you later.”

Even though YN was slightly nervous by the fact that she had just agreed to go to a party in the Hills, her first one since she had gotten clean, she was doing this for Vivienne, and she just had to remember that. She wasn’t going to be on her own because Harry and Vivienne were going to be there for her.

YN lit her cigarette and sighed – it was time to go break the news to Harry and also save him from Christopher.

“Do you think the denim dress or the floral one?”

YN and Harry were currently lounging on the sofa in YN and Vivienne’s apartment, with front-row tickets to their very own fashion show courtesy of Vivienne. So far, they had seen about five outfits, and they had finally whittled it down to two options. Harry was sitting nursing a beer as YN lounged on him, her legs extended across the sofa and her full attention on making sure that Vivienne felt her best, and also didn’t have a breakdown.

“Well, what look are you going for?” YN asked, a cigarette dangling from her finger as she pointed a Vivienne, “Sexy and mysterious, or cute and fun?”

“I don’t know,” Vivienne’s entire face dropped, “I don’t know what look I’m going for. Do I need to have a look that I’m going for?”

“Vivienne, you’re panicking,” YN jolts up, moving towards her friend, “Just breathe, okay? You don’t need a look. Just wear what you feel best in.”

“Okay,” Vivienne nods, picking up the denim dress, “The denim.”

“The denim, okay,” YN smiles and hands her friend a half-smoked cigarette, “Now, finish that and get your ass ready or we’re going to be late.”

Vivienne nodded, the cigarette now resting between her lips and made her way back into her room. YN sighed and dropped down next to Harry again, resting her head on his lap.

Harry laughed and shook his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Vivienne not cool, calm and collected.”

YN nodded, “It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does you just have to be firm and almost tell her what to do.”

“Noted,” Harry dropped his hand down so that he could lace his fingers through YN’s, “Is there any particular reason that she isn’t cool, calm and collected today?”

YN smiled, “The party whose band it is she photographed the other week.”

“The one in Malibu?” Harry asked and YN nodded, “Didn’t she go on and on about how nice their bassist was for this entire week.”

YN’s eyes widened as she looked at Harry, a cheeky grin on her face as she did. She had never seen Vivienne like this before in her life.

“She has a crush, baby,” YN laughs, placing a chaste kiss on his lips, “And we’re going to be playing wingman and wing-woman today.”

“Are we, baby?” He nudged her with his shoulder and YN rolled her eyes.

“Yes, we are,” She prodded him on the shoulder, causing him to pull away from her slightly, “I’ve never known Vivienne to have a crush on anyone, so this is a big deal.”

“I know it is baby, but we’ll just watch from the sidelines,” He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer, “We’ll make sure that he’s good enough for our Viv, and then leave them be. We’re not going to meddle.”

YN sighed with a pout on her lips, “That’s no fun, but okay I guess.”

YN’s little pout on her face but that quickly disappeared when he started to dance his finger along her cheekbone. It was so soft and so light that YN almost giggled, but she suppressed it with a bite of her lip.

“Are you sure you’re going to be, okay?” He asked, not breaking eye contact with her the entire time.

“Yes, Harry,” She beamed up at him, “I’m going to be all right because you’re going to be with me the entire night, right?”

“Right,” He leaned down and placed a kiss on her lips, which YN smiled into, “And Christopher.”

“And Christopher,” She laughed with a roll of her eyes.

When YN had mentioned to Harry earlier in the day about the party, she had forgotten about the listening ears that were also there. Christopher thought that joining them at a party in the Hills would be the perfect opportunity to see Harry outside of the studio and see what he was like in his daily life – as though he wouldn’t be exactly the same.

“Come on, lovebirds,” They pulled apart from each other at the sound of Vivienne, all dressed to perfection standing in front of them and sounding a hundred times less stressed than she did earlier, “We’re already late and we’ll never make it if you two start fucking on the sofa.”

YN shot up and threw daggers at her friend, “That was one time, Vivienne!”

“One time too many,” Vivienne picked up the car keys from the table by the door and threw them at YN, “Now come on.”

As YN wouldn’t be drinking tonight, she was going to drive the three of them to the party. The last time that YN went to a party in the Hills she was so out of it that she couldn’t remember what she did when she got there, never mind how she got back. This time was going to be different. This time she was going to have so much fun, and she wouldn’t be having a drop of alcohol or hit of any drug.

Harry was sitting next to YN, his hand resting on her thigh as they drove through the Hills, singing along to whatever song was playing over the stereo. Vivienne was sat in the back, her eyes focused straight ahead. YN wanted to ask if she was okay, but she knew better when Vivienne was nervous about something. There were only a few times in the years that YN had known Vivienne that she had ever seen her in this mood, and the last time that she had spoken to her she ended up with her head being snapped off.

When they arrived at the house, the party was already in full swing. Music could be heard from all the way down the street, and people were lingering everywhere it seemed. Vivienne rushed out of the care before Harry and YN could ever call her back. YN shook her head at her friend’s antics and allowed her hand to slip into Harry’s as they made their way inside.

YN had slightly forgotten what parties in the Hills were like. The mass amounts of bodies enclosed in a house, drinking and dancing to the thumping music, as well as people doing God-only-knows-what in each corner of the room, as well as the garden. YN would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit nervous, but just the feeling of Harry’s hand in hers meant that she was okay.

“I’m going to get us a drink,” Harry spoke in her ear once they had made their way inside, “Go find Vivienne, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay,” YN nodded, holding onto Harry’s hand until the very last second.

Standing in the corner of the room where Harry had left her, she scanned the room for any sign of Vivienne. She wasn’t in the room, so she moved to the doors that gave her a view of the garden and that was when she saw Vivienne, standing talking to a girl with the biggest smile on her face that YN had ever seen.

It was all starting to make sense now. All of those times that YN saw Vivienne talking to men but then it would never go any further, the fact that Vivienne hardly ever had people around to the house at all. Just seeing Vivienne standing there, talking to that girl with a beaming smile on her face almost made YN tear up a little bit.

“Hey,” Harry was soon standing next to her again, passing her an open bottle of cola whilst he held a beer in his hand, “You found Vivienne?”

“Over there,” YN motioned in Vivienne’s direction with her glass, a sombre expression on her face.

Harry lifted his beer up to his lips, “Who’s that she’s with?”

“The bassist, I think,” YN tapped her manicured nail against the bottle she was holding, “I just want to know why she didn’t tell me.”

“Hey,” Harry wrapped his arm around YN, sensing the slight drop in her mood, “She probably didn’t know what it was herself. She was probably scared, scared at what she was feeling and scared of how you’d react.”

YN nodded, wrapping an arm around herself as she did, “I never wanted to make her feel as though she couldn’t tell me.”

“Hey,” Harry turned her slightly so that she was looking directly at him, “It probably wasn’t you, yeah? You didn’t do anything that made her feel as though she couldn’t tell you, it was probably that she had to come to terms with it herself before she told anyone.”

“Yeah,” YN nodded, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, “You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right,” He nudged her with his shoulder, and YN didn’t even hesitate to roll her eyes at his antics, “Now come on, we’re going to mingle, make sure Viv’s okay and then go home and do what I was promised earlier.”

YN’s features screwed up, “I don’t remember promising you anything earlier.”

“Uh, I remember very specifically that you did,” He nodded, his eyebrows furrowing as he did, “If I stopped talking about horns, which I did.”

YN rolled her eyes but still leaned into Harry, not hesitating to lean forward and place a kiss on his lips. Their idle chatter buzzed out until they were just watching the party unfold around them, that was until a man that YN had never seen before in her life stopped in front of Harry.

“Hey, man!” Harry seemed to know who he was though, and he pulled away from YN slightly to give him a very ‘dude’ handshake.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, man,” Harry smiled as he pulled away, “Is Eric here too?”

“Yeah, man, he’s in the kitchen. Wanna come say hi?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” The man walked off, but Harry turned to YN, “Do you wanna come?”

“No, go say hi to your friend,” She smiles, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek, “I’ll go find Vivienne.”

“Okay, baby,” He pressed another chaste kiss to her lips, “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

YN stood there, and she did think about going to see Vivienne, but she didn’t want to intrude. She was happy and stood watching her friend dance with a person whom she obviously cared about in some way. She was well and truly happy, and then she saw a familiar figure in her peripheral vision (once again) that YN had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at.

“Hi, YN,” Christopher smiled at her, at a party and yet still holding that stupid notebook and pen.

“Hi Christopher,” She beamed instead, “Harry’s inside if you’re looking for him.”

“I’m looking for you actually,” That caused YN’s eyebrows to raise in confusion.

“Okay,” She laughed, leaning one hand onto the table she was standing near, “Fire away.”

“I spoke to my editor today, about you being in the studio and we’ve decided that I’m also going to write a page piece on you as well,” Christopher explains, and YN has to widen her eyes just to make sure that she doesn’t show too much of an expression on it, “About your return to music, after your disappearance halfway through Harry’s tour two years ago, and how the two of you are now together.”

YN’s entire demeanour changed when he explained what he wanted to write about. The original excitement that Rolling Stones wanted to write a piece on her, to then hear it has to be about a time of her life that she wanted to forget more than anything.

“Are you sure you’re up to that?” She asked with a shrug, tapping her finger along the rim of the glass in her hand again, “I mean you must have your hands full with Harry’s.”

“No, it’s completely fine,” He shrugged, “So let’s hear it. Why did you cancel your opening for Harry halfway through the tour all those years ago?”

“Uh,” YN spoke, quickly followed by a nervous laugh, “I was ill. I had to cancel to get better.”

“So, it was nothing to do with the reports of you overdosing in a hotel in Cleveland?”

YN felt as though her entire body was on fire. YN didn’t even know that the press had access to that information. In all honesty, she thought that Kenneth had covered it up in a way that meant nobody knew about it. But then again, she hadn’t been around the press and journalists enough to know if anything had got out.

“That… it isn’t…” YN placed her glass bottle on the table and moved away from him slightly, “Excuse me.”

YN didn’t know what to do. All she knew is that she had to find Harry, or she might do something that she might forget.

YN was standing in the kitchen of her and Vivienne’s flat, only dressed in one of Harry’s shirts and a pair of socks to shield her feet from the cold wooden floors. She had woken up this morning for the first time ever after a party from the night before with a completely clear head, and she was happy. The first thing she did, with her little radio playing a Carole King song, was make her and Harry a cup of coffee. He was currently in her bed, still asleep and she knew that when she woke him up a warm cup of coffee would be something to soften the blow a little bit.

Her hips were swaying to the melody of the song, a hum escaping her lips. She was in her own little world, in the best mood and ready for another day in the studio with Harry (minus the ever-lovely Christopher still being there) – if she could successfully rouse him from the bed.

“Hi.”

“Fucking shit,” YN all but jumped out of her skin at the sound of an unfamiliar voice just behind her.

YN turned to see that it was a familiar person though, the girl that Vivienne had been talking to the entire night. The bassist from the band whose party it was, dressed in Vivienne’s dressing gown after what YN can only guess was a very eventful night.

YN and Harry had left the party shortly after YN’s conversation with Christopher (which she failed to mention to Harry). They did only leave when they had confirmation from Vivienne that she would be okay and manage to get a lift home. They knew she would be okay, and in all honesty, they knew so many people at that party that YN felt okay leaving Vivienne, and she also didn’t want to interrupt the good night that Vivienne was having – which is why she had this conversation when Vivienne was on her own and her guest had gone to replenish their drinks.

“Sorry for scaring ya’,” The accent was a shock to YN, especially the southern drawl, but everything was a shock to YN about this experience, “You must be YN, right?”

“Right,” YN nodded, placing the coffee that was in her hand down for fear of spillage again, “And you are…?”

“Pamela,” The girl outstretched her hand for YN to shake which she did, “I’ve heard a lot about you, from Vivienne.”

“You too,” YN answered honestly, “There was a time, about a week ago, when you were every other word that came out of Vivienne’s mouth.”

The girl laughed and there was a slight pause in the awkwardness that was spinning between them. YN didn’t really know the etiquette for something like this, as she wasn’t normally the first person up in the apartment and made a mental note to apologise to Vivienne for every time, she had done this to her.

“I hope it was all good things,” YN laughs with a nod, “Anyway, I was told I could find some coffee somewhere in here.”

YN nods and points to the pot, “I’ve just made some, help yourself. There are mugs in the cupboard above.”

“Thank you,” Pamela made her way into the kitchen to the coffee pot whilst YN picked up her two mugs.

“It was nice meeting you,” YN laughed, “I’m sure it’s not the last time we’ll see each other.”

Pamela nodded and YN took that as her opportunity to beeline straight back into her room. Her eyes were wide when she walked in, mainly from that entire interaction and also the fact that Harry was staring at her with furrowed eyebrows as she walked in.

“What’s that face for?” He laughed, accepting the cup of coffee from her as she made her way over to the bed, and crawled on, immediately resting her head on his shoulder.

“I just had a lovely conversation,” YN sighed, resting her cup of coffee against her chest, “With Pamela.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at her, “And who is Pamela?”

“The bassist from the band,” YN smiled, “Viv obviously had a very eventful night last night.”

Harry laughed and rested his head upon hers, “Just like us then.”

YN laughed and whacked him on the shoulder. Even though Harry did annoy her, she wouldn’t dispute that with his constant teasing, it did make the constant butterflies in her stomach erupt. That was a feeling that she would never get over, and she never wanted it to end.

Even though they had never truly spoken about what they were, they didn’t need to. For the first time in YN’s life, she was so unbearably happy that nothing else mattered to her – not one thing. It was almost as though even though they hadn’t spoken about it, the two of them knew that this was it for them. They were each other’s person, and the mere thought of that made her so happy.

“I’m sure we’ll talk about it when she’s ready,” YN sighed, picking at a loose threat at the end of Harry’s shirt, “I don’t want to push her to do something she’s not ready for, but at the same time I want to know everything.”

“She’ll come to you when she’s ready,” Harry muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. He was right, once again but she didn’t want to admit it.

“I know, I know,” YN nods, her eyes focusing on her shirt rather than Harry, “I don’t want to push her into doing something she isn’t ready for, but bringing her home must mean something, Harry.”

“It does,” YN can feel him nod against her head, “If she didn’t trust you, she wouldn’t have done that. That sort of thing is a big step.”

YN nodded, allowing his words to just resonate with her for a minute or two. Harry was right, as he had been throughout so much. YN knew that it wasn’t the case that Vivienne didn’t trust her, but it was more of the fact that Vivienne had been living with this secret, which no doubt wasn’t easy and didn’t think that YN would want to hear any of it. That was also when YN realised that she hadn’t helped with that, because even though YN had been present in person in those previous years – she wasn’t ever truly present.

“Sometimes,” YN started, mumbling slightly so that she and Harry were the only ones that could hear even though they were the only ones in the room, “I think back about what I was like before I went to rehab, and I wish that I could take the entire thing back.”

“I get that,” He sighs, wrapping an arm around her and bringing her closer, “But if that hadn’t happened to you, and you hadn’t pushed past that – you wouldn’t be the person you are today. The one that’s here with me, and the one that can now be here for Vivienne when she needs you.”

YN did start to cry, just silent tears that streamed down her cheeks. Maybe it was everything with Vivienne, or maybe it was everything that had been brought back to her last night due to that one conversation that she had with Christopher. Harry noticed immediately, placed his coffee cup down and grabbed hers to do the same, and just pulled her into his chest. He just let her cry.

YN hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Obviously, she had good days, and she had bad days when dealing with the guilt of what she had put her loved ones through but recently she had been having more good days than bad. One of the things that she appreciated more than anything was that she had Harry there with her, through the good and the bad.

“I’m sorry,” She pulled away from his chest, chuckling slightly at the sight, “I got your shirt a bit wet.”

Harry shrugged, “It’ll dry.”

He lifted his hands up and wiped under her eyes, ridding all of the tears that had collected there, “I’m probably really snotty.”

“You are,” Harry grimaced, reaching over a grabbing a tissue for her so she could wipe her nose, “I love you in all states, but snotty definitely isn’t my favourite.”

YN was in the middle of wiping her nose and she stopped dead in her tracks, the tissue hovering over her nose. Harry looked sheepish, like he had been caught and immediately retracted his eyes away from her face.

“You love me?”

Harry chuckled, leaning back against the headboard, and running a hand through his hair, “Isn’t that obvious?”

“But you love me enough to say it out loud?”

It was completely baffling to YN. The feeling of the person you love, loving you back is something of a dream. YN couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she fell in love with Harry, but it definitely consolidated when she saw him standing by that camper the day that he picked her up from rehab. There were many things that turned her feelings for him into love, but the fact that he not only bought her a fucking camper but drove it all the way to pick her up and take her back home was something she’ll never forget that he did.

“I’ve always loved you enough to say it out loud,” He shrugged, finally looking back up at her, “I was just looking for the perfect opportunity, and also the balls to say it.”

YN laughed, “And you chose that perfect opportunity and also had the balls when I was snotty?”

“You’re perfect to me,” He ran his finger along her cheek, “Even if the snot isn’t the sexiest.”

“I love you.”

Once she had muttered those words, it was as though all of the pieces just fit together and Harry’s face beamed, “You do?”

YN nodded, “I do, a lot actually.”

Without a single hesitation in his body, Harry leaned forward and placed his lips on hers. She had thankfully rid of the tissue before he lunged at her, even if she wasn’t ready for his attack. Every kiss that she and Harry shared meant everything to her, but this one had a fire and a passion behind it that YN had never felt before in her life. It was just filled with passion, lust, and acceptance and the biggest one of them all, love.

It didn’t take long before YN’s body was dropping back on the bed, Harry’s fitting perfectly between her legs on top of her. Her hands clawed against his back as if she was trying to somehow bring him even closer to her (it wasn’t humanly possible).

Harry pulled away, mainly to allow them to catch their breath and rested his forehead on hers, “I love you.”

YN beamed a smile at him, “I love you.”

Then his lips were back on hers, pulling her body upwards slightly so he had a better angle to unbutton her shirt (his shirt) that she was wearing. It didn’t take long, and by the end, he was so impatient that he just ripped it open. He started to push the shirt down her shoulders, pressing kisses along her cheek and down her neck until he reached her collarbone, gently nipping the skin with his teeth.

Harry pushed away from her body just as he pulled the material down her arms, her chest completely exposed to him. Before, YN was in such a rush that the idea of someone stopping just to look at her would have spiralled her completely out of control, but with Harry it only made her desire for him grow. It did also help that he looked like a kid in a candy store every time he saw her tits.

“So perfect,” He started his attack of kisses again, moving down her collarbone to her chest until he was in between her breasts. He placed kisses all around them, not missing an inch of skin before taking her left nipple in his mouth, nipping, and sucking with the perfect pressure that had her thighs clenching and her body withering. He didn’t leave the second one alone either and moved to the right and gave it all the same attention.

YN was growing impatient, and when he finally pulled away from her chest, she grabbed the shirt that he had on his body and pulled it over his head, leaving his own torso exposed to her. She ran her hands over his arms, and then his pecs and all the way down his stomach until it landed on the trail of hair that led into his boxers.

“Woah, woah,” He pulled away from her lips and grasped her face in his hands, “What’s the rush for? We have all the time in the world, baby.”

“I know,” She nodded, placing a chaste kiss on her lips, “But if I don’t feel you inside of me soon, I fear I may actually combust.”

Harry laughed at her words and allowed her to push his boxers down, freeing his already hard cock for her. In a quick movement, Harry was pushed down on the bed, and YN was pulling the boxers off his body and throwing them somewhere in the room. Placing a kiss on his hip as she moved her way back up to him, she pulled her own panties down and off her body so that she was completely exposed to him.

With a gentle hand, she wrapped her fingers around his cock, allowing her thumb to run over the tip which had him bucking his hips up to meet her hand. Harry’s head rolled back, but his eyes never left hers. YN couldn’t hide the grin that ran over her face, just from knowing the effect that she had on him.

“You ready, baby?” She grinned, moving so that her body was straddling his, her pussy perfectly aligned with his cock.

Harry nodded, dropping his head to his shoulder, “Always ready for you, baby.”

After running his cock up and down a few times, allowing the feeling of it on her clit to send a shudder down her body she finally sunk onto him, allowing herself to slowly work him in fully into her. Her face relaxed in pleasure as she finally took him all the way, his hands resting on her hips to help her with the movements.

YN rested her hands on the headboard behind Harry, using it as a way to keep herself steady as she started to rock her hips on his cock. YN’s head rested above Harry’s, her eyes clamped shut and her mouth open slightly as breathy moans escaped her lips. Harry’s grip moved from her hips to her ass, helping her with movement as it all started to get a little much for her.

“YN, baby, open your eyes,” Harry’s words drew her out of the slight daze that she was in, “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes and looked down at him, the beautiful man beaming up at her, “I love you.”

“I love you,” He only just managed to murmur the last word before her lips were on his.

Her body flushed against him, and she continued to rock her hips. Harry wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her even closer to him if it was possible but still helped by lifting his own hips up to meet hers.

In all of her life, YN had never felt such an emotional and yet physical closeness to anyone. There had never been any relationships in her life apart from this one, and whilst it was all so new there was no fear for her at all because Harry was with her, and he was experiencing all of these things with her at the exact same time.

“I’m close,” YN mumbled against Harry’s lips, her eyes closed, and lips parted as more moans left them.

Without a single hesitation, Harry moved one of his hands between them and started to circle her clit with the pad of his thumb. It was the one thing that YN needed to send her over the edge, her movements stilling, and her legs beginning to shake and quiver. Harry continued his movements, bringing her through her own climax until he himself went over the edge, spilling into her.

It was feeling; unlike anything YN had ever felt before because it was just laced with such love that she almost couldn’t handle it. She ended up dropping down on Harry, her body sweaty and spent, and her breathing erratic.

“Jesus Christ,” YN laughed into Harry’s neck, where she was comfortably resting her head, “You’re going to have to give me a few minutes after that.”

Harry laughed and pulled her tighter against his chest, “You do wonders for my ego, you know that?”

YN, even in her sleepy state, managed to roll her eyes at him, “Shut up. It takes two to tango.”

With a chuckle shared between them, and the softest kiss that YN had ever been given in her life – she knew this was it for her.

“Harry,” YN mumbled, her pointer and middle finger resting on her lips as she watched him press some buttons with Keith, “I think this is the one.”

Harry stops pressing whatever buttons and turns to look at YN, “What?”

“This is the one.”

They had been working on this album for a few months now, and YN was ready to finish it in all honesty. It wasn’t that she didn’t love working with Harry because she loved it more than anything. But YN was ready to get her own album done, the second album that she and Harry had been doing bits of pieces of whilst writing his.

“You’ve got to give me something, YN,” Harry laughs, walking over to her and sitting on the table in front of her, “This is the one what?”

“The one where you can use your horns,” YN passed the notebook that she had in her hand to Harry, the one with his scribbles on it.

Harry takes the notebook from her and reads through the pages. YN could see he had no idea what she was talking about at first, but once he saw her vision it would all make sense.

“Just think, okay?” She leant forward and placed her hands on his knees, “It’s ‘cause I love you babe/ In every kind of way/ Just a little taste/ Know I love you babe/ horns start ba, ba, ba, ba, ba/ You know I love you babe/ more horns.”

YN was humming the rhythm, or what she knew of it and that’s when she saw it click in Harry’s head. His eyes widened, and he was bobbing his head along to her words. He lifted his head up from the paper, looked at her and beamed that boyish fucking smile that lit up her whole world.

“Baby,” He threw the notebook to the side, leaning forward so that she had to lean back, “You’re a fucking genius.”

YN squealed, laughing as Harry tipped her backwards so that she was lying on the sofa, and he was hovering above her. They both knew that there were other people in the room, but in all honesty, they had probably all seen them in worst states than this – minus Christopher.

“Harry, stop it,” YN laughed, whacking him on the shoulder as he started to peck kisses all down her neck and collarbone, “Harry, stop.”

“No, I’m so fucking happy right now,” He laughed, finally moving off her and sitting down on the sofa beside her, resting his arm on the back of it so she could slip comfortably into his arms, “You got me my fucking horns.”

“You got yourself your fucking horns,” She laughed, taking the hand that was rested on her shoulder in hers, threading their fingers, “I just figured out where you were going to put them.”

“I knew there was a reason that I kept you around,” He laughed, leaning over to light up a cigarette.

YN shook her head and tapped him on the chest lightly, but she happily accepted the lit cigarette to take a puff from him.

“You keep me around for more than just your fucking horns,” YN shook her head, passing him back the cigarette.

Harry laughed, “There’s more than one horn that you satisfy, baby.”

YN’s lips parted in shock and her cheeks flushed. She looked around the studio to see if the engineers, or Christopher, had heard what she said but they were all talking amongst themselves and doing their own thing, paying absolutely no attention to either of them on the sofa.

She tapped him lightly on the chest again, but she didn’t move. She just allowed herself to rest in his arms, cigarette smoke dancing between them. It was times like these, where they were basically sat in silence with each other that YN truly fell in love with him all over again.

“Okay, baby,” Harry lifted YN up lightly so that he could slip from under her, “I need to take a piss.”

“Don’t be too long,” YN pouted, accepting his half-smoked cigarette before watching him walk away. YN sat up and grabbed the notebook again, going through it again a few times in her head.

Everything was perfectly fine until she felt the sofa dip at the other end. It was Christopher, of course. YN smiled at him but focused more on the notebook.

“You two certainly seem as though you’re in love,” He muttered, lighting his own cigarette as he did so.

“We are,” YN nodded, messing with a loose thread on the end of her shorts, “We are very much in love.”

“You do know what it looks like though, right?” He continues to ask, YN’s eyes furrowing which was an indication that she didn’t know, “You, getting up on stage with him, doing a song with him, opening for him and now it comes out that you’re sleeping with him – people are going to talk.”

“People always fucking talk,” YN shrugs, “Whether or not they talk the truth is another fucking question.”

“But people are going to speculate,” Christopher shrugs, “That you’ve fucked your way all the way to the top, used everything that Harry has given to you in love to reap the benefits for your career.”

“So, this is how it is, yeah?” YN sits forward, resting her elbows on her knees, “You wanna know about Harry’s music, and when the next tour is, and what inspired every song and for me I get, are you a fucking addict and are you sleeping with Harry to use him? Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m only asking what everyone else will be thinking,” Christopher states, his face just as calm as it was before.

“Well fuck you for asking,” And with that she stands up, throwing the notebook on the table and storming out of the room.

As she leaves, she spots Harry talking to another one of the producers outside. His conversation immediately holts when he spots her, and he’s excusing himself to walk over to her.

“Hey, hey what’s wrong?” He asks, placing his hand on her cheek but she shakes him off.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” She shakes her head, knowing that she cannot lie for shit but also that Harry can always tell when something isn’t right with her, “I’m, uh, going to go for a drive.”

“Want me to come with you?” He asks but she shakes her head, leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek.

“No, no,” She fakes a smile, “You go back in there, you’re so close to finishing.”

“Okay,” He nods, leaving his hand on her until the very last second.

All she knew is that she needed to get the fuck out of there – and she needed a drink.

YN doesn’t know what possessed her to think it was a good idea to drive to the liquor store, or what possessed her to think it was a good idea to go inside and buy a bottle of whisky but here she was. It was then that she drove to the beach, parked up and made her way to the sand.

At this point, she hadn’t drunk any of it. It was just there, in front of her staring at her. This was the worst low that she has had since leaving rehab, and the main issue is that her main support system, Harry, wasn’t here. YN’s almost positive that if she told him what Christopher had been saying that he’d be supportive of her, and he wouldn’t believe all of the bullshit that he was saying.

There was just that one part of her, that one fucking part that believed that he would believe the prick, and that would be it. She would lose him over some fucking bullshit from a fucking journalist that didn’t know shit about her or him or their relationship.

When the temperature dropped, and YN realised that she had been sitting on the beach for a few hours she made her way back to the car, the bottle of whisky still clutched in her hand. In the car, she placed the bottle in the glove box beneath papers so that nobody could see it at first glance. She hadn’t had any though, that was for certain.

She drove home, and this time to her and Vivienne’s apartment and not to Harry’s house. She couldn’t see him right now. She just needed a break and a night with Vivienne if the girl was there. When she walked inside, she dropped her keys on the table and kicked her shoes off, smiling when she heard the sound of humming from the kitchen and the smell of something good.

“Viv!” She called, making her way towards the sound, “Is that you?”

“It is!” Vivienne called back, smiling when YN walked through the door, “And I have Ed’s.”

“Oooh,” YN exclaimed as she leaned against the counter, a big smile crossing her face, a true smile, for the first time in a few hours.

Ed’s diner was so close to their apartment that it was one of the places where they had really grown as friends. It was twenty-four hours, and that meant when they stumbled home from a night on the strip in the early hours of the morning, Ed’s was always there and waiting for them.

“Did you get me the chicken?” YN asks, walking over to the cupboard and grabbing two glasses – one that she filled with wine for Vivienne and sweet tea that she filled for herself.

Vivienne turns to look at YN, completely flabbergasted that the girl would even ask such a question, “Did I get you the chicken? I pray those words didn’t just come out of your mouth.”

YN looks at her deadpan and then raises one of her eyebrows, “Did you?”

“Of course, I fucking did! I know what your favourite is!”

YN laughs and carries the drinks towards the sofa, Vivienne bringing the food. It didn’t take long for both of them to start tucking in once they were seated, a comfortable silence washing between them apart from the sound of the stereo playing.

“So,” Vivienne starts, wiping some sauce from the corner of her mouth, “Harry phoned.”

“He did?” YN raises one of her eyebrows, her eyes not lifting to meet hers.

“He did,” Vivienne repeats, her own eyebrows raising, “Says you walked out of the studio today, and didn’t come back.”

“So, what if I did?” YN shrugs, “It’s not like I have to fucking be there.”

“YN,” Vivienne starts, placing her food down so that she could turn towards the girl without the fear of knocking it, “This isn’t like you, what happened? Was it Harry?”

“No, it wasn’t Harry he’s –” YN shook her head, not wanting to cry, “He’s fine, it’s nothing Vivienne I promise.”

“Okay,” She finally nods, “But when you’re ready to talk, you know I’m here.”

YN smiles at her friend, “Thank you.”

“Anyway, we need to be celebrating tonight anyway,” Vivienne starts, “Because I’ve landed myself a pretty fucking good gig.”

“And what’s that?”

“Pamela, and her band, have asked me to come on tour with them,” Vivienne beams, “As their photographer."

YN beams a smile at her friend, so happy for her, "And as her girlfriend I imagine.”

It was Vivienne’s turn to act sheepish. She was obviously completely enamoured by this new relationship, and YN was happy to just have a change of subject. She didn’t want to burden Vivienne whilst she was so happy, and that was why YN decided that she would just be there for her friend.

“That as well.”

“I’m so happy for you Viv,” YN reaches over and grabs her friend's hand, “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

“Yeah,” Vivienne smiled, gripping YN’s hand just as tight, “Fucking look at us babe, taking the world by storm.”

“YN,” It was Jeff that called her attention from across the studio, “I have something for you.”

“What is it?” YN furrowed her eyebrows.

“It’s from Christopher, addressed to you,” Jeff passes her the envelope, and she thanks him.

It had been a week since that prick had left, and none of them had spoken anything about him since he’d gone. In fact, none of them had said anything about what had happened when YN had stormed out, not even Harry, and she was thankful for that. In all honesty, though, they had been busy. Today was their last day in the studio (hopefully) as Harry’s album was basically finished. It had been a long time coming but she was thankful because now she could move onto her album and truly get herself back into the thing she loved again.

YN dropped down on the sofa and opened the manila folder, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she did so. She took the sheet of paper out of it, and her head started to ring as she read it.

YN YLN: The Rise from Her Fall by Christopher Thomas

YN YLN rose to fame and in what seemed to be a snap of her fingers it was all gone – that is until now.

For those who don’t know, YN YLN found her fame after being brought onto the stage by Rock N’ Roll legend Harry Styles during one of his gigs on the strip, here in L.A. Back then she was just the daughter of a Senator and a Socialite in Los Angeles, in the public eye but not really.  From there, they recorded a song together and YLN even opened for him on his tour – that was until she cancelled halfway through.

When I asked YLN about this at a party in the Hills, she described the reason for her disappearance as an ‘illness,’, and yet when I asked again, recounting the knowledge of her apparent overdose – YLN stormed off without a word. Whilst we don’t know the true reason for her leaving, illness or overdose, fans have been waiting for her return and that time is upon them.

Walking into the studio for what I assumed to be my first day with interviewee Styles, I was greeted by YLN as well. They explained that not only were the two an item, but they had been writing their prospective records together for the past few months. A shock to me, but to everyone around they looked like a well-oiled machine.

Writing an album, as intimate as that is with anyone, must have been something to those two-singer songwriters with their budding romance. When Harry had an idea, YN would help flush it out and vice versa. For each song on each of their albums, just always have it in your mind that they wrote it together – it changes your entire perspective.

After what could only be described as a very romance-heavy conversation about horns, I questioned YLN about the public opinion surrounding her relationship with Harry. How, to the public eye, it looks as though this ‘romance’ that has blossomed might have all been an ingenious plan to help further her career.

I was on the receiving end of an outburst from YLN at this point that I can neither confirm nor deny these rumours, but with the information that YLN not only left the studio but didn’t return for the rest of the day – your own opinion can be forged from this information.

One thing I will say is that when Styles’ album comes out, and subsequently YLN’s – fans and not will be in for the ride of their lives.

YN couldn’t read any more of it. She wanted to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time. Instead, she screwed up the manila folder and the envelope and shoved it down on the sofa, her hands coming to thread through her hair.

YN didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know whether to talk to Harry and maybe he would talk to Jeff and get the article pulled, or maybe if she spoke to Kenneth then he’d be able to get it pulled. YN didn’t know what to do in all honesty.

She looked up at Harry, standing at the desk with the producer, bouncing along as they played the final mix for Music for a Sushi Restaurant which was the song that Harry finally got his horns on. He looked so happy. So, so fucking happy and YN couldn’t do this to him. He wrapped his arm around Keith, and whilst both of them were distracted she slipped out of the room.

YN didn’t cry, and she didn’t scream instead she just kept her eyes facing straight ahead and walked straight out of the studio doors. She walked over to her car, opened the glove box, and grabbed the bottle.

And this time, she did drink.

[likeadaydreamorafever]

Mischa Barton: ‘The trauma doesn’t just go away overnight’

The OC made her one of the most famous stars of the Noughties. Now 37, and with a new role in Neighbours, she’s back — and this time it’s on her own terms.

There was a time, not so long ago — the Noughties — when we hunted young women until they went mad. A pack of men with cameras followed them, stalked them, waited outside their homes to take their photograph, so that people could devour their lives and their changing teenage bodies, and watch their rising panic as they cracked under the pressure we were putting them under.

“It was all very Hunger Games,” says Mischa Barton, 37, sitting in a hotel room in central London, hair blow-dried, coffee poured, legs crossed. The British-American actress was 17 when she was cast in the teenage TV drama The OC, catapulting her to worldwide fame and making her Karl Lagerfeld’s “face of a generation” — an It girl in an era of size-zero bodies, up-skirt shots and gossip blogs.

Barton was — reluctantly — a paparazzi favourite. She was beautiful, cool and sceney, with a trail of rock star boyfriends and wild child friends. She suffered as a consequence of rather than in spite of the fame. She was arrested for drink driving, spent time in rehab and was detained in a psychiatric hospital. In 2017 a video of her, incoherent, rambling and distressed, was sold to the gossip site TMZ, peddled as proof of her going off the rails. Her drink had actually been spiked with a date rape drug. That same year an ex-boyfriend tried to sell a video — filmed without her knowledge — of her having sex and being naked in her own home.

“You can go to therapy every day for the rest of your life,” she says, “but there’s just a certain amount of trauma [from] all that I went through, particularly in my early twenties, that just doesn’t go away overnight.”

Today her life is a little quieter — the paparazzi don’t yet know where her new home is in Los Angeles (though the sound of cameras can trigger a panic attack, part of her enduring post-traumatic stress disorder). The OC is coming up to its 20th anniversary, with a new generation of Gen Z fans going wild for the Y2K vibe. She has had a stint on Dancing with the Stars and the reality TV show The Hills: New Beginnings, as well as parts in horror films, indie films and now the resurrected teatime soap Neighbours.

Barton was, and still is, a valuable commodity. “They first wanted me to do an arc on Neighbours when I was in my twenties,” she says, dressed smartly in a blazer, A-line dress and preppy jacquard pumps. I’ve just finished watching the new season, I tell her. “Oh wow,” she says in her mid-Atlantic drawl, “have you actually been watching it?” Sure, I continue, it was nostalgic. “Oh wow,” she says again, flatly. “Yeah. I haven’t seen any of it.” Barton still has the cool-girl energy that drew so many people in: arch, a little judgmental, but fun. She is the popular girl at the party.

The “final” episode of Neighbours was broadcast on Channel 5 last July, after 37 years and 8,903 episodes featuring alumni including Kylie Minogue, Jason Donovan and Margot Robbie. A group of heartbroken fans campaigned for its return and four months later Amazon Prime signed a deal with the production company. The reboot features old favourites Susan, Carl and Harold, as well Barton’s new character, Reece Sinclair, the expensively dressed American hotel proprietor who is having an affair with the bellboy.

Barton spent two months filming in Melbourne, cramming lines for 5am call times. “They work crazy hard [on soaps],” she says. “Really, it was gruelling. You’re lucky to get a second take.” She did, however, rewrite some of her script. “They don’t let everybody change their lines” — she lowers her voice — “trust me. The other kids were like, oh, can I do that? And [the writers] were like, no.” She cackles. “Say your lines as scripted!”

The actress will always be known for The OC, in which she played Marissa Cooper, a rich, blonde Californian who was troubled and glamorous — and who every teenage girl was desperate to be. The first series, which aired in 2003, pulled in an average of 9.7 million viewers per episode in America and was a hit on Channel 4, and she won two Teen Choice awards.

“I don’t think I was fully prepared for that level of fame,” she says. “Because it has never been something that I have sought out. I really would much rather be anonymous.”

Still a teenager, Barton was lauded for her looks and treated, she says, as much older than her years. “You do look back and you were 18 dating 34-year-olds,” she continues. “With hindsight you’re like, yeah, that was weird.” An interview with Harpers & Queen has recently resurfaced in which Barton, 19 at the time, says she was told by her publicist to sleep with Leonardo DiCaprio, who was 30, “for the sake of your career”.

She left The OC after three series — she says she was bullied on set and exhausted by 18-hour days for each 24-episode series — asking the writers to kill off Marissa as brutally as they could. She died lying in the road, dripping in fake blood, her crashed car up in flames.

In the following years Barton became a familiar face on the LA nightlife scene, all smoky eyeliner and faded band T-shirts, photographed with Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan and Amy Winehouse, while dating the Kooks’ frontman Luke Pritchard, the American rocker Cisco Adler and the Roughs’ guitarist Taylor Locke. “I definitely got to tour with some cool bands,” she says, still a little thrilled by the whole thing. “I mean, I was obsessed. But I don’t know if I could date a guy in a band any more. It just sounds exhausting and dirty.” The paparazzi attention was certainly not “healthy” for romantic relationships. “Everything is just so heightened,” she says. “You depend on the person so much more, you think you’re that much more in love because they’re your grip on some sort of normalcy.”

In the gossip blogs she was considered fair game. She was criticised for losing a stone in a year, then criticised for being “bloated Barton”, with the celebrity blogger Perez Hilton often the leader of the pack. “Nothing I did was good enough,” she says today. “It was the peak of cruelty about young women’s bodies. It was wild.”

Could she leave the house without being followed by photographers? “No,” she says immediately. “I couldn’t. [The paparazzi] were doing all kinds of crazy stuff to me.” She says they tracked her car, tried to climb over the walls of her house, paid off restaurants and bought mobile phones for homeless people so they could tip them off. “I was stalked,” she says. “I did go a little bit nuts at [one] point. I just felt really helpless.”

Then there was an arrest (2007, driving under the influence, without a valid licence and possessing cannabis), rehab (court ordered) and psychiatric hospital. She said she was “depressed and overworked”, and then, she claims, pumped full of prescription drugs by her “team” to keep her working. People have got kinder about mental health, though, she says. “That’s one of the better things about society these days — people are more willing to talk about having had depression or anxiety, or it’s not so taboo.”

But it was her legal battle against her ex-boyfriend that was “one of the worst and most gruelling experiences of my life”, she says. In 2017 Jon Zacharias tried to auction off illicit videos of her to the internet’s highest bidder.

After a years-long legal battle she won the case to prevent him from doing so. “It’s shocking to realise that there is that type of darkness in the world,” she says. “And you wonder what you’ve done to attract it.”

Mischa Anne Barton was born in Hammersmith in west London, the middle of three girls, her mother a producer and photographer, her father a foreign exchange broker. She went to St Paul’s Girls’ Preparatory School before the family moved to New York when Barton was six.

She was a bookish, shy child who found respite in acting. She had her first modelling job at eight and her first professional stage role the same year. By 11 she was in Italian Vogue. By 13 she was the lead in the movie Lawn Dogs, which had dark undertones of child molestation, followed by Pups, a crime drama. “Even from a young age I was sexualised,” she wrote in Harper’s Bazaar in 2021.

After her big break in The OC she starred as the “hot girl” in various music videos (Noel Gallagher, James Blunt, Enrique Iglesias) and became the face of Chanel, Calvin Klein, Monsoon Accessorise, Neutrogena, Herbal Essences and Keds.

“I was definitely told ‘sign here’ many, many times over,” she says. “I’ve gotten a lot better with legalese. Now I will read a contract front to back.”

Do people think she made more money than she has? “Oh, I know they do.” Today you can watch The OC on Amazon Prime, Hulu and ITV. “But I say to my friends, ‘Oh cool, I just got a direct deposit for $1.50.’ And they’re like, ‘What’s that?’ And I’m like, ‘Residuals.’ ”

She pushed herself into indie films and cerebral plays, which she loved, and then appeared on the rebooted reality show The Hills, which “wasn’t for me”, she says. “It’s the fame-chasing and the posing stuff that I don’t like. I found them to be very alieny.” She says the producers tried to make out that the original cast of The Hills had hung out with the cast of The OC in the Noughties, “but that was not the case. I never saw them around. I mean, it was a completely different world, a different type of celebrity.” She looks up from pouring herself another coffee. “You know what I mean.”

Today Barton lives between New York and LA. She is steady and grown-up, but still with a streak of flightiness. Her spontaneity “is a problem”, she says. She travelled around Indonesia alone over the summer, then France, then the UK, where she has been staying with her older sister, a barrister, in Kensington.

“I’m happy being single at the moment,” she says. “Because it comes up, the whole thing of ‘Do you wanna settle down and have kids?’ I am a weirdly traditional, conventional person when it comes to stuff like that, more so than people think. But it really depends on the person you’re with.”

In the past few years there has certainly been a collective reckoning regarding our behaviour towards young, famous women of that era. But does that regret mean anything to the women who suffered through it?

Recently the FBI knocked on Barton’s door, saying they were “working on a case” and wanted to play her a series of tapes. She listened to her conversations with people from years ago, which were recorded covertly. “Who knows who was doing it?” she says. “But I was almost grateful to know that they [the FBI] were going to such lengths, otherwise you feel crazy and paranoid.”

She has also had direct apologies. In 2019 Perez Hilton told her, on The Hills: “If I could go back in time and do things differently, I would.” Barton was largely unmoved. “This bullying you did for so long to so many young girls, I find it hard to let go,” she replied. “I can’t really accept the apology entirely.”

I bring up Hilton today and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t listen to anything he says because he’s so crazy,” she says. “You can see how sorry people feel for what they did to people like Britney [Spears] then. Everyone now is like, ‘I can’t believe we did that to those poor women.’” She pauses. “People feel so entitled to you and your body and your image. It’s a strange feeling. It’s strange.”

Video included in the article:

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About Poison Ivy and Count Vertigo

Hi, hello, I’m not dead, I’ve just been incredibly busy and kind of taking a break from social media in general. Currently on a MASSIVE DC Comics kick and there’s one particular topic that I’ve seen some HORRENDOUS takes about on here, so let’s discuss.

I never thought I’d be saying this, but CONTENT WARNING: I’m unfortunately going to be discussing topics related to rape and sexual assault below the cut. If that ain’t your cup of tea, I completely understand, and you’re free to scroll away now. TLDR if you don’t wanna read the whole thing: I’ve seen people accuse Poison Ivy of raping Count Vertigo just because she brainwashed him. These people have clearly never read the comic in question, and I’m sick and tired of this misinformation being spread around.

Okay? Okay, let’s do this.

So, it shouldn’t suprise anyone that Poison Ivy is probably one of my favorite DC characters of all time. I mean, I consider her to be one of my first gay awakenings (the others were Darcy from Winx Club and Emma Frost from Wolverine and the X-Men, if you’re wondering). So, when I see people accuse Ivy of being a full-blown RAPIST, I’m obviously gonna be upset.

Now, me being a simp is not clouding my judgement in this case. When I first saw people making this claim, I tried my dammdest to put my bias to the side and figure out what the hell these people were talking about. Lo and behold, I find out that it’s complete BS.

This particular claim stems from John Ostrander’s run on Suicide Squad starting back in 1987. I’m specifically referring to issue #45. This section on Count Vertigo’s Wikipedia page explains what went down infinitely better than I could, so I’m just gonna quote it here:

“He would later come to join the Suicide Squad in exchange for a shortened prison sentence, and it was revealed that he was plagued by bipolar disorder. After the Suicide Squad disbanded for the first time, Count Vertigo was captured by Vlatavan rebels, who wished to use his powers to overthrow the current Vlatavan government. They used a variety of drugs on him, each with a differing effect on the Count, as he would for example suddenly see himself as an Angel of Vengeance, sent to wreak havoc on the current rulers. Although he largely believed himself master of his own will, his mood swings were completely subject to his captors.

He was captured by Poison Ivy when the Suicide Squad came in and resolved the conflict and Kaligari (then-ruler of Vlatava) was murdered. Count Vertigo was Poison Ivy's slave for a long period of time, during which he grew to hate Poison Ivy and frequently threatened to kill her when he was free of her control. Amanda Waller was able to free Vertigo of her control so that he could stop a group of missiles hitting Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem at the behest of the villain Kobra. If the Dome had been destroyed, innocent lives would have been lost in a resulting war.

Vertigo succeeded, and it turned out that as he went into rehab and expunged the chemicals that had been pumped into his body by both Ivy and the rebels, that he was unwittingly cured of the disorder that had plagued him for so long.”

I’d also like to point out this snippet:

“Vertigo also resolved his grudge with Poison Ivy. During the War of the Gods crossover, he was perfectly willing to let her die when he found her abandoned on an Amazonian island; ironically, she was bound and promised whoever freed her, her undying devotion. Snickering snidely, Vertigo left her to die in the ruins of the collapsing temple they were in. Still, Ivy was saved, and Count Vertigo would later reluctantly work alongside her in the Suicide Squad, leaving their grudge be.”

Now, what does this have to do with Ivy allegedly being a rapist? Well, I’ve seen multiple people on here claim that Ivy raped Count Vertigo when she brainwashed him. To be quite blunt, this couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no, and I mean NO instances of Ivy raping or assaulting Count Vertigo. The worst thing she does is have him do things for her. That’s it. No overly sexual stuff in there at all. Here, take some pages that (hopefully) prove my point:

So, tell me why I’m seeing people say stuff like this (these were all taken from @super-hero-confessions btw. No hate to that blog, and I’m sorry y’all got caught in the crossfire on this one):

“What Poison Ivy did to Count Vertigo is exactly what Purple Man did to Jessica Jones. If it’s okay to stan Ivy, then it should be okay to stan Killgrave.”

“POISON IVY IS A RAPIST, USING HER PHEROMONES TO MAKE PEOPLE DO THINGS THEY WOULDN'T NORMALLY DO IS THE SAME AS GIVING SOMEONE A DATE RAPE DRUG. TRYING TO CALL PEOPLE HOMOPHOBIC BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE THE PAST OF YOUR FAVE CHARACTER BEING POINTED OUT, JUST SHOWS IMMATURITY AND THE FACT THAT HARL/IVY FANS FORGET THAT IVY IS A VILLAIN.”

“IT'S REALLY TELLING TO ME THAT THE PEOPLE WHO CALL JOKER A RAPIST FOR WHAT HE DID TO BARBARA ARE THE TYPE OF PEOPLE WHO MAKE EXCUSES OR TRY TO DOWNPLAY POISON IVY ACTUALLY RAPING COUNT VERTIGO. "IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME BACK THEN, IT DOESN'T COUNT." YOU'RE DISGUSTING AND A HYPOCRITE.”

“I LOVE SEEING POISON IVY FAN BLOGS SAYING IT'S WRONG TO LIKE PURPLE MAN BECAUSE HE'S A RAPIST. I GUESS THEY THINK A WOMAN RAPING A MAN LIKE WHAT IVY DID TO COUNT VERTIGO DOESN'T COUNT.”

“POISON IVY DOESN'T DESERVE A REDEMPTION ARC BECAUSE SHE IS A RAPIST.”

“IT ANNOYS ME WHEN PEOPLE SAY JOKER SHOULDN'T BE GAY BECAUSE HE'S DONE BAD THINGS. POISON IVY IS A RAPIST AND A SERIAL KILLER AND NO ONE COMPLAINS ABOUT HER BEING LGBT? WHY CAN'T JOKER BE?”

Now, I’m saying all of this in relation to Count Vertigo. If there’s any ACTUAL instances of Ivy raping someone, feel free to let me know. HOWEVER, if you’re going to do that, I want you to cite the actual comic where it happens. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in college, it’s that you should never make a claim if you can’t back it up with an actual source.

That being said, I think the idea of Ivy and Vertigo being a couple is really funny, and I’m absolutely down to write a fanfiction addressing all of this stuff if anyone’s interested. I may be a shitty fiction writer, but dammit, I’m willing to try.

Anyway, stop calling Ivy a rapist. Sure, she does stuff that crosses a line on occassion, but she’s a villain. I’m pretty sure they all do that.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go listen to some Precure OST’s to cleanse my mind of this absolute nonsense.

[crescentcampbell]

See, the reason they don’t end up together the first time is because they don’t know how to care for each other and it’s perfect that Daisy is the one that recognizes it. Both Daisy and Billy have had everyone take care of them their whole lives. For Daisy, its Simone and Teddy, and for Billy, its the band and Camila. In both respects, they love Daisy and Billy and do whatever they can to care for them. Taking them to rehab when they need it. Making excuses for shitty behavior. Following them to Los Angeles and giving up their lives. Making homes for them. Meanwhile, Daisy and Billy are good at feeling love for people and telling them about it, but they’re not good about showing it. Daisy almost gives up her chance to work with Teddy despite Simone’s love and support in multiple ways from letting her live with her to encouraging her to sing in the first place,  and Billy nearly walks out on the band and Camila multiple times even though they do everything for him. 

When Daisy realizes that Billy is drunk on stage, and she sends him home, it’s because she knows that while she loves him, she doesn’t know how to care for him yet. Daisy and Billy at that point would destroy each other, as Billy says, and Daisy would hate herself if she destroyed him. Because love and caring are two, separate things. You can love someone and not care about them. And you can care for someone and not love them. Daisy knows that Camila both cares and loves about Billy, and Billy does love Camila, but the reason they’ve grown apart is that he hasn’t shown her that he actually cares for her. Think about it. Camila’s home, alone raising a kid while Billy goes off and lives his rockstar dream and sings with another woman. Camila knows how to make Billy be his best self. To keep him off of the drugs. To make sure that he shows up. Because she’s invested in him and cares about him. While Daisy struggles to even care about herself. And in that moment, sending Billy away, she is learning to care. About herself and other people and that’s why its the PERFECT change. Because in the book, while it’s a power move for Camila to say, “Please leave,” to Daisy, it still comes off like Daisy is the only part of the problem. Whereas Daisy realizing there’s a difference between passion and caring for someone signalizes she’s changing in the right direction. And Billy going home to Camila after she says that is the same thing. They might be performers that write and sing about love, but love isn’t always love songs and grand gestures. It’s everything in between them. And that’s what they had to learn. Once they figured out that, then they could be okay. Because if you can’t live without big moments and grand gestures, then things will get hard for you. 

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