#miwimagine

[writingismyhappytime]

Marry Me (Part 10)

Ricky Horror X Reader

Warnings: Language

"Daddy! (Y/N)!"

Ricky jerks awake, and you stir, lifting your head sleepily.

"What is it, baby?" Ricky asks groggily, rubbing his eyes as he tries to straighten, only to realize you're holding him down. You must have fallen asleep on the sofa, no wonder he feels so stiff and achy.

"I'm hungry." Chloe peers at the two of you from the arm of the couch, her arms crossed over her chest as she looks back and forth. "I couldn't find any pancakes."

Pancakes?

You rub your eyes as you sit up, still feeling tired but not absolutely terrible like you did yesterday. Apparently your stomach bug was just a 24 hour thing, for which you're grateful. Chloe seems fine too if she's asking for pancakes, which does sound good to you. Do you have any mix? You'd have to google how to put it together if you don't.

"I'll make you some," Ricky clears his throat, getting to his feet slowly and rubbing his lower back. He's never slept on your couch before, but in that position, it's definitely not good for his posture. He offers you his hand, helping pull you up, Chloe grabbing your blanket as it falls to the floor and tossing it back onto the sofa. "What time is it?"

"Around six thirty," you yawn, eyeballing the bathroom. You didn't even set an alarm, you could have been late opening the shop! You're relieved Chloe woke you up when she did.

Did Chloe sleep the entire night? Why didn't she wake either of you up if she didn't? How long has she been up? You can't believe you fell asleep on Ricky, that wasn't your intention, although you did snooze pretty well honestly. More than likely because you were sick and dying, not because he's warm and comfortable.

"I wanna help," Chloe follows Ricky towards the kitchen, who hastily remembers to move his sneakers under the coffee table so you don't trip over them in a few minutes. He lets her get the mixing bowl and utensils out as he finds the pancake mix, wondering if the strawberries are still decent enough to put on top of the food. Where's the syrup?

He's still so tired he doesn't think he remembers how to make anything. He brushes his black hair behind his ears, glancing down at the little girl concentrating on pouring the white powder out of the blue box, letting way too much fall into the bowl. She hasn't brushed her hair yet, he can tell by the way it's laying, and is she wearing his house shoes?

He glances at the bathroom door as he hears the shower turn on, sighing before he turns his attention back to breakfast. He manages to get just enough pancakes made for Chloe to sit down and eat before you call for him.

Huh?

"What?" He hesitates, turning off the stove and trying to listen to what you said.

"Where are the towels?"

Oh!

Well, as far as he knows, they should be in the bathroom, but he'll check the linen closet. He keeps an eye on Chloe as he leaves, seeing her legs swinging back and forth at the kitchen table as she eats, humming to herself. He'll have to make sure she brushes her teeth after he brushes her hair so she doesn't look like she just crawled out of a hole, and get her dressed for the day. He guesses he'll just be taking her to work with him when she gets out of school, the guys don't usually mind since she just likes coloring at the table and the producer always gives her candy when she thinks Ricky isn't looking.

"Here's some," Ricky nudges the bathroom door open, offering the towel without looking as steam starts to billow through the opening. He can't wait until you're out and he can run through, he hates he's still wearing yesterdays clothes and for some reason smells like Chinese food.

"Ricky, I'm in the shower, you can just bring it in. Sit it on the sink," you sigh, the hot water still running against your tired body. It's kind of embarrassing, but you hadn't noticed the suspiciously missing towels until you were already in the shower, but at least Ricky has good enough hearing to bring you some. You know you just restocked it last night, but maybe you only thought you did? You were delirious after all.

Ricky sighs, his eyes nervously flicking to the flowered shower curtain before he drops the towels by the sink. Are you two getting comfortable enough around each other where this isn't going to be awkward? He kind of likes that, you don't seem bothered by him walking in at all.  "Anything else?"

"A back massage and some rose petals to walk over, thanks."

Ricky snorts. "Right on that."

"Were there not towels in here last night?" You ask after a moment, frowning. You know you put some in there. "Like, I'm not crazy, am I? I know I put some new ones on the shelf."

"Uh, I didn't look." Ricky has no idea, he never pays attention. He glances at the fogged mirror above the sink, absently drawing a little smiley face in the corner through the water. "I'll ask Chloe."

"Did we have pancake mix?"

"Yeah, I found some. There's plenty for everyone." And half the band, since most of the bag is in the bowl. "Are you working today?"

"Might as well, I don't feel like I'm dying now."

"I'm going to take Chloe with me to work, she's usually just fine. Do you need anything or want us to get something?" He asks, hearing his phone ring. He ignores it, he doesn't want to talk to anyone this early. He has plans on taking a shower, getting Chloe ready, and then driving to work; if it's one of the guys, he'll talk to them then.

"I should be good, thanks."

"Hello, thanks for calling Daddy's phone, this is Chloe."

Ricky hesitates, turning to look out the half-open door as he hears his daughter answer the phone. She sounds chipper, not at all plagued by a stomach bug or thinking she's going to die anymore. He's relieved you're both feeling better and he isn't going to have to contend with that at the same time, he's not sure he's mentally prepared for that chaos.

"Oh, hi, Chris!" she brightens a little bit. "Daddy? Oh, he's helping (Y/N) take a shower, I can tell him you called."

"CHLOE!" Ricky gasps, able to hear your laughter start from behind the curtain as he makes a mad dash out of the bathroom, nabbing the phone from his daughter and urging her back to the kitchen table, ignoring her confused expression.

He's going to have to talk to her about being too honest.

Also he was not helping you take a shower.

"Hey," he mutters as he lifts the phone to his ears, his face hot. He can't believe Chloe just said that. Of all the times for her to answer his phone! Thank god it wasn't her mother, he can only imagine how downhill that would have went.

"Hey, did you cut the shower short?" Chris sounds amused as if he's trying not to laugh, and his guitarist sighs heavily.

"I was just giving her a towel." he grumbles, shooting his child a look as he skulks towards your bedroom, shutting the bathroom door as an afterthought so it's not wide open. You're still chuckling to yourself, you probably think it's hilarious.

"Ahuh. So we have a meeting at twelve, I've emailed you the lyrics for the next song, we can begin writing the music for it now. Ryan's supposed to meet us there, but Devin is out for the day."

"That's fine," Ricky runs his fingers down his face. "I'll have to bring Chloe, she's staying with me for the week."

"She feeling better?"

"She's happily eating pancakes, no sight of sickness." Ricky assures, knowing how Chris is. The man can't stand for someone to even cough or sneeze around him without liberally spraying Lysol he magicks out of thin air.  "She'll just color like usual. Or play on my phone."

"Sounds good. See you at twelve."

"See you." Ricky clicks the end button, cutting his eyes at his daughter's back but deciding not to say anything right now. She's just now finishing up her pancakes, smearing what's left of her syrup on them. "Chloe, you're going to work with me after school today, alright? When you get done, we'll get ready."

"Okay."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?" Ricky focuses on the road in front of him, his fingers curled loosely around the steering wheel. He has his hair brushed behind his ears, tired blue eyes staring forward as they wait on the light to turn. He feels like he's been sitting here for fifteen minutes, Chloe impatiently asking if they're there yet for the last ten.

She's going to be late for school if this damned light doesn't change! He hates having to walk her inside the school, he wants to just drop her off during the designated time frame where the teachers are out there to make sure they get in there safely.

"Are you and (Y/N) going to have a baby?"

"What? No." Ricky hesitates, his eyes flicking in the rearview mirror. He tried to get her hair in order, but eventually you'd come to the rescue when she started whining five minutes in. She was good for you, letting you run the pink brush through her black strands, clipping the pastel bow as you drew the front of her hair back so it wouldn't fall in her face.

Ricky thinks Chloe is out to get him today, but you'd just rolled your eyes at him and told him to not be so stupid. Still, she's giving him... attitude, or something, he can't explain it. Answering his phone like that, getting all fussy when he tried to get her ready, not wanting to finish taking her medicine like the doctor said because it tastes bad. He doesn't get it, she's never like this.

Also why does she always want to ask him these leading questions when they're in the car and not when he can really look at her and focus?

"We're not going to have a baby." he says firmly, knowing that without doubt. Not unless there's some kind of immaculate conception. "Why? Do you want a little brother or sister?"

"Well..." Chloe hesitates, then shakes her head. "No. I don't want to have to share you."

Oh.

Ricky's cheeks flush, and he doesn't immediately respond. Why did her words have to hit such a special spot? She doesn't want to have to share him, that's precious. All he wants to do suddenly is squeeze her in a hug.

"You don't have to share me with anyone, don't worry. It's us against the world, kid."

"Mommy was talking to Sam," her mom's stupid ass boyfriend, "and she said if you had a new baby you might not want me to come over anymore."

He sighs. Her mother, she's out to get him, there's no peace.

"Why would she say something like that?"

"She's worried that you won't keep me sometimes when she has to go to the doctor and Sam is busy."

"Does Mommy go to the doctor often?" Ricky asks carefully, knowing last time he tried to get Chloe to tell him anything about it she stubbed up and wouldn't. It makes his chest pinch with worry.

"More now. She gets upset and stays in the bathroom a lot." Chloe frowns, her brows furrowing. "She doesn't like Sam, he makes her cry."

"How does he make her cry? Is he mean to her?" Ricky shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tightening his grip on the wheel. What's her boyfriend doing that's making her cry? Ricky will not tolerate that! He might not get along with the mother of his child, but he's not going to let someone bully or hurt her either, that's unacceptable!

"They fight a lot." Chloe shrugs her tiny shoulders. "He told her she would have to get daycare if you and (Y/N) had a baby, because he wouldn't watch me. I told Mommy I can watch myself but it just made her cry more."

Fucker.

Ricky hates Sam.

"We're never going to have a baby, you're the only one I'll ever have." he replies, and reaches back, feeling her fingers curl through his immediately. He gives them a gentle squeeze, lightly applying his foot to the gas as the light finally changes.

"Daddy, you can't have babies," Chloe reminds. "You're a boy."

Okay, she has him there.

"Okay, true," he represses a smile. "But you know what I mean. I won't have a baby with anyone else."

"What if it's an accident?"

"It's very unlikely."

Chloe doesn't seem convinced, but she's barely six. She doesn't understand how all of that works yet --- nor is Ricky comfortable with her ever finding out about it.

"Daddy, was I an accident?"

"You were... a surprise," he replies, deciding this conversation is going downhill quickly. "Are you excited to see your uncles?"

"Is Ryan gonna be there?"

"Yes."

"Then yes!"

Ricky chuckles, relaxing a little in his seat. It bothers him that something is terribly wrong with Claire now, that you're right about it. What's this about her boyfriend being mean to her? What's going on with the two of them? If he needs to step in --- he knows it's none of his business, that there's boundaries, but he can't stand the thought of Chloe having to witness an abusive relationship or anything that would traumatize her.

He had a rough youth, made some bad decisions as a teenager, he never wants Chloe to feel like he did, to go to lengths to want it all to end. He wants her happy and to have a good life, and he wants to be there to witness her growing up and being successful.

He's going to have to talk to you about this tonight.

~~~~~~~~~

"She really said that?" You gasp in surprise where you sit on the edge of your tub, slowly applying your lotion to your hands as you stare at his reflection in the mirror above your sink. "That this guy is mean to her mom?"

"She said that he makes her cry," Ricky scowls, slowly brushing his teeth and doing his best to speak around the toothbrush. Chloe has been asleep for a few hours, and the two of you are getting ready for bed. Ricky has found the two of you are getting into a routine when Chloe is there, going to bed at the same time, but usually talking softly for an hour or so before one of you falls asleep. "But that she has to go to the doctor a lot. And Chloe worries that if we have a baby, she won't be able to come over as much."

"Well that's silly." You sigh, rubbing the scented lotion onto your wrist. You have to wash your hands and arms constantly so the grease and other liquids you deal with don't stain your skin, and you don't want it to dry either. You religiously apply it, and hope Ricky doesn't mind you doing so while he's also getting ready for bed. "Even if we did, that wouldn't change anything. There would just be more screaming."

"Exactly! And that stupid fuck is freaking her out," Ricky scowls as he spits, turning on the sink to let water run over the blue toothbrush before he washes his mouth. "She's worried we won't want her, and that's not the case! She's too young for anxiety!"

"Do you think everything is okay with Claire? Should you talk to her?" You worry, leaning down to push more lotion in your hands, slowly massaging it into your legs.

Ricky's eyes flick to your reflection, watching absently. "I tried to talk to her about it the other day, but she told me it was none of my business, in much less nice terms."

"Well, if you were already fighting, I'm not surprised. Maybe try again," you say, running your fingers across your thighs. You always wear those shorts to bed, although it ranges from ridiculous basketball shorts to the typical ones women seem to wear, with...

"Is that my shirt?" Ricky asks after a moment, noticing the black t shirt with the symbols on the sleeves. He was wondering where that went, he couldn't find it the other day.

"Oh, is it?" You ask lightly, shrugging your shoulders. "Must have gotten mixed in the laundry."

"So you're stealing my clothes now?" Ricky asks in amusement as he turns to look at you, seeing you rubbing your hands together. You send him a look, the scent of brown sugar hitting his nose as you finish up.

"Well, not intentionally, but I guess so." You hope he doesn't mind, you really didn't think anything about it as you grabbed the shirt and tossed it on to sleep in. It looked just plain to you.

"It's fine, looks better on you anyway." Ricky shrugs, absently tugging at the hem where it comes to the middle of your thigh. "I don't have the curves for it."

"Don't be silly, you have wonderful curves," you tease, distinctly aware of his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your thigh, goosebumps left in his wake. You avert your gaze from him as you put your lotion up, clearing your throat. "You're coming to bed, right?"

"Yeah," Ricky waits for you to leave before flipping the light off. He checks on Chloe before making sure the door is locked and everything is good before heading to bed. He sighs as he nudges the bedroom door halfway closed, crawling in bed beside you and curling his arms around his pillow. "God today has been long."

"At least you're done now," you squirm beneath the sheets, finding that it's a little warmer tonight and you don't really want them. "We can rest, and do it all over again tomorrow."

"Oh, don't remind me. Chloe wouldn't settle down today in the studio, she like to drove me crazy. I don't know what her problem is today."

"She's a kid, and she thinks that she'll be replaced. Just give her some time," you say, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. You lay on your side, gazing at him in the darkness, seeing he has his face pushed down into the pillowcase. You reach forward to squeeze his shoulder, seeing him slowly move to look at you. "She has too much to think about. Why don't we do something fun tomorrow? I can take off early, we can take her mini-golfing or something, let her not think about it."

"Really?" Ricky's surprised.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm terrible at golf, so maybe a movie? Just something that would keep her occupied." You say, figuring it would be fun for Chloe to spend some quality time with her dad. "You have court Friday anyway, so when Chloe gets out of school tomorrow we'll have a day with her. Or you can, if you think it would be better if it's just the two of you."

"No, we can all go," Ricky likes the idea. "Chloe would ask constantly why you weren't there if you didn't come. I'll treat you girls to a night out."

"I can ---."

"If I don't pay, it'll look weird, we're married, remember?" Ricky says, the wedding ring heavy on his finger. It's black with silver designs, and he finds he twists and plays with it constantly. It doesn't feel as weird to wear anymore, and he's not uncomfortable, thinking everyone is staring at it and knows what a sham his marriage is. "You and Chloe can wear matching outfits and everything."

You snort. "I don't think I could pull off those little dresses she wears all the time, I wouldn't be as cute."

"I dunno, you have great legs, you can wear whatever you want." Ricky yawns, unaware of how bright your cheeks suddenly are.

Does he think your legs are great?

"Are you worried about Friday?" you ask after a moment, knowing you've been thinking about it. Friday is the big day, the entire reason you got married. You're anxious about it really, worried that it still won't go in Ricky's favor --- courts never seem to favor the father in these situations.

"Yeah. What if they still don't let me get her more often?"

"Then you keep working for it. Just show it's something you really want," you absently brush your fingers through his thick hair, tucking it behind his ear. "They'll see you're serious about it and not just doing it to be an ass."

"This is the second time I've tried for it, they should know I am." he mumbles, his eyes closing as you caress your fingers through his hair. It feels nice, it's soothing. "I'm not sure if Claire is going to be so adamant against it this time or not."

"How old was Chloe then?"

"Around three."

"Probably not so much, she's not a little baby anymore. She has her own mind about her."

That she does. "Attitude, too."

"She's just worried, don't hold it against her. I'm sure tomorrow will be better."

"Mmm." Ricky hopes so, she wore him out. He doesn't like getting onto her constantly, and finally he had to grab her arm and pull her to the side, tell her if she doesn't settle down he was going to send her to you and make her work on cars.

She didn't like that idea, and definitely calmed down, if not sulked a little.

Chris thought it was hilarious, said that you were going to make Chloe into the next little mechanic and she could take over the shop from you. Ricky doesn't care if Chloe does learn to work on cars, but she's definitely a little young for it just yet, especially since she hasn't been raised around them. He worries about her even just darting through the garage.

Maybe tomorrow will be better, like you said.

~~~~~~~~

"Are you sure this carnival is a good idea?" Ricky mumbles uneasily, Chloe's hand held tightly in his as you all three stand at the ticket booth. He doesn't like such a large crowd, what if he can't see his daughter at all times? What if someone nabs her? Some of these rides look sketchy, what if they break?

"It'll be fun, it's alright," you reply, seeing how excited his daughter is. "You can't keep her in a bubble all the time, plus I've always gone to the carnival, it's fun. Cotton candy, the lights, kissing boys behind the tents and sneaking away from parents." You tease, seeing the uncomfortable look on Ricky's face.

He gives a pained sigh, urging her to stand between the two of you as he goes to pay for the overpriced tickets. Chloe shifts her weight excitedly, barely holding onto your hand as she looks around at all the sights. Everything smells like popcorn and cakes, and she likes the way people are dressing in all the bright colors and tutus!

"I want a tutu like that," she says, looking at all the sparkles. "Daddy, can I have a tutu?"

"Maybe later," he slips a red bracelet around her wrist. "Let's go explore. Do you want popcorn or anything?"

"Yes, please! It smells good!" Chloe says excitedly, loosely holding onto you. You tighten your grip on her as you follow Ricky under the large arch decorated with balloons and onto the fairground.

It looks like any other fair, games set up all around that you can win prizes of stuffed animals, a dunktank, the staff dressed up in all sorts of outfits or walking on stilts. Chloe's eyes are huge as she looks around, taking in all the sights from the bright colors to the food vendors. Her fingers keeping flexing in yours, and honestly you're a little nervous you'll lose your grip on her.

You understand why people want to constantly carry their toddlers.

"A photo booth!" Chloe tugs forcefully on your hand, making you veer to your right instead of towards the vendor offering popcorn for a dollar at his little stand, wearing a red and striped hat and matching shirt. Ricky hastily follows the two of you, seeing as his daughter is suddenly intent on having her photo taken in one of those random photo booths with the curtain. "Let's get our pictures taken!"

"Ah --- what about the popcorn?" You don't want your photo taken! You're dressed nicely enough, but just normal, not picture-worthy. You're not wearing the right makeup, plus the booth looks really small, so maybe Ricky and Chloe should just get some cute ones together and leave you out of it. When you make the suggestion, Chloe looks completely against it, arguing that you need a photo of all of you instead.

You give Ricky an apologetic look as you slip into the small booth, barely enough room for you and him to both sit. He has no choice but to slip his arm around your shoulder as he draws the curtain, Chloe sitting on your laps in the middle, impatiently waiting for you to slip your quarters into the machine so you can get started.

You haven't been in one of these cheap booths in years, the black curtain a little ratty, the seat hard and uncomfortable, especially since you're squished together. You glance at the dim screen as Chloe goes through picking a design for the frame of the strip, and you realize you may have put too many quarters in with how many photos you're getting.

"Our first family photo," Ricky says after a moment, giving your shoulders a light squeeze as you roll your eyes. only to cringe as there's a flash to let you know that's probably the first picture captured. Great, your first photo together and you're rolling your eyes at your husband, you suppose it's really showing how your marriage is going.

"Smile!" Chloe says with a huff when it starts counting down on the screen again, which you hadn't noticed before. You want to squirm, your leg is falling asleep, the booth is just too small! You're not too fond of enclosed spaces, but, well, you force a smile anyway, leaning into Ricky.

Okay, that turned out cute.

"How many photos are there?" Ricky grumbles after the fourth one and yet the booth keeps going, shifting uncomfortably. His fingers absently draw circles along your arm, and you shift a little at his warm touch.

"You get two strips for as many quarters as I put in," you reply sheepishly, giving him an apologetic shrug. "Let's make faces, we have enough good ones."

You and Chloe make faces, while Ricky purses his lips and doesn't look impressed. You pinch him lightly, and he sends you a look before he makes a face like what you want. It'll be cute, everyone is supposed to have funny pictures together! You grin as you look at him, pleased.

Chloe giggles as it shows a preview of the photo, liking all of your expressions. You turn to look at Ricky, amused; you had no idea his tongue was so long, or that he could nearly touch his nose with it while his eyes crossed, impressive.

He quirks a black brow at you, and you smile at him, just... looking at him for a moment. You have to admit he's cute, with his black hair framing his face and his pale skin. His beanie is drawn down a little low, but you like it on him, he always looks good.

You're kind of glad you married him, honestly. He sets a high standard for anyone else you're ever with. He's actually thoughtful, he makes you breakfast if he gets up before you, which is every time Chloe is over since she's an early riser. You two have sort of got a system down with living in the apartment, it seems normal and natural now. It's like having a roommate who just sometimes has to sleep in the same bed as you.

Sometimes, though, it would be nice to have more than a roommate. The thought has crossed your mind several times, but you're not sure if it's really something you want to go for. Plus, what if you make a move and he turns you down? You're really good friends, and have only kissed because you have to under the circumstances. What if he's not into you? What if you embarrass yourself instead, you'll never live it down!

You're not even sure why you want to complicate the situation like that, you know it's going to be over eventually. There's no point in becoming fuck buddies when inevitably your marriage will end, and what if you get even more attached? You're sort of getting used to being part of a trio, Chloe has become a constant in your life and you're going to miss her when she's not around --- with the court date being tomorrow where Ricky starts the process for full custody, you're not sure what's going to happen.

It's not going to be something that's just immediate, you're sure it's going to take some time as they have to go through processes; you're not up to date on how it works, but it's not... well, you kind of like how everything is going right now.

Except maybe you'd like to add a little more to it?

You do it on impulse, leaning forward to kiss him, you're not even sure why you do since you know it's a bad idea. Your wedding crosses your mind, how he kissed you that day, like he really meant it. You don't think anyone has ever kissed you so passionately before, as corny as that sounds.

Ricky is surprised, you can tell it by how he goes still, but then he's kissing you back, his soft lips melding against yours. You can feel your heartbeat escalate at the gentle way he responds to you, and it's such a simple kiss, not demanding, not leading to anything else --- just... good. You sort of melt, holding your breath and finding you're enjoying this much more than you expected.

"Ew! Enough moushy-moush!" Chloe gasps indignantly, curling her nose in disgust when she glances behind her, the pictures finally complete and no longer holding her attention. "Don't be gross!"

Ricky chuckles against your lips, reluctantly leaning away to look down at his daughter. His lips are tingling from yours, and he knows his cheeks are hot, especially with where his thoughts were going. He didn't expect you to kiss him, there wasn't a reason too, unless you were just doing it for the photos? He doesn't think you've kissed since your wedding, and that suddenly seems like it was years ago.

"Sorry. Still want that popcorn?"

"After we look at photos!" Chloe slips out of his lap, throwing the curtain open and grabbing the two strips out of the dispenser on the booth. You and Ricky crawl out of the small space, and you stretch your arms above your head with a yawn; working all day wore you out, even though you did take off early.

You watch as Chloe grabs the photos, peering down at them with a pleased face. You look over her shoulder, biting your lip at the stupid faces you're both making in them, and then the one where Ricky finally did too. Yep, totally caught you rolling your eyes at him, and --- oh. It caught you kissing.

Well.

"You're adorable," Ricky says, lifting one strip of photos up, the first round you took. He likes them, you actually look like a little family together like that. He has maybe a few photos where it's him and Claire with their daughter, but that was in the beginning.

"Can we get popcorn now?" Chloe is looking at the vendor like it wasn't her idea to sidetrack first. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Ricky nods as he tugs his wallet from his back pocket and hands her a dollar. His eyes stay riveted on her as she darts the few feet away to the man giving out popcorn, and you slip your arm through his, following her. It seems like such a natural thing to do, to curl your arm through his or hold his hand, your wedding ring sparkling in the lights around you; you figure it's just because it's still new to you even wearing it, and so pretty and sparkly and he really did a good job picking it.

Chloe turns happily with her bag of popcorn, offering the two of you some before taking handfuls and trying to eat much more than she can at once. You chuckle as you watch her, Ricky keeping up with her easily, not letting her get too far away from him or making her hold his hand in the most crowded areas.

"I wanna get my face painted!" she gasps as she sees the table set up, a few artists painting on kids faces with brushes. Your eyes flick across them, seeing their tattooed arms and piercings, their faces all painted Day of the Dead style. Chloe heads straight for the woman in the sparkly tutu she saw earlier, and Ricky actually sighs as he follows her.

"Oh, cheer up, now we can eat her popcorn," you say as she carelessly gives it to you, looking excited as she stands in line. You noticed one of the guys dressed as a skeleton keeps glancing up, his eyes focusing on Ricky before he returns to the task of his painting. "I think you've been spotted, Mr. Horror."

Ricky's eyes flick to the skeleton guy before away, pretending he doesn't notice. He gets it sometimes, being in a rather popular metal band, people staring at him like they know him from somewhere or outright recognizing him. He usually tries to ignore it unless they approach him, and tonight he really just wants to enjoy his time with you and Chloe.

"Hey, kiddo, what kind of picture do you want?" the lady asks as Chloe sits down on the stool in front of her, eyeballing all the different designs she can choose. Ricky reluctantly puts two dollars in the jar with the price, wondering if he's going to have enough cash before the night is over. He figured Chloe would go more for the rides and the games than this stuff.

"This one," Chloe points at the black and white butterfly design, and you raise a brow, surprised she didn't go for the sparkly purple one, you would have... but you also like glitter.

"Alright," the artist dips her brush in the paint, brushing blonde hairs out of her black painted eyes as she starts drawing on the little girls face slowly. Her hair is in pig tails, and you have to commend their attention to details with their outfits, you're surprised the kids aren't afraid of them.

You lean into Ricky, his arm slipping around your shoulder as you wait on Chloe. Your eyes trail around you, washing over the crowd and the staff, all the excited children running around. You can hear the music from the rides and the games, and you purse your lips, seeing the game with the darts and the balloons.

You used to be really good at that one, you wonder if you can win Chloe a prize... or just embarrass yourself.

You cross your arms, watching as the butterfly starts forming, the long wings turning out around her eyes. It's really pretty, especially when the lady draws the silver bits out, really giving it some depth.

"Hey, uh, excuse me."

Ricky glances over, his blue eyes flicking to the skeleton who'd been eyeballing him earlier stepping up. He's about Ricky's height, dressed in full costume with black and white face paint, a brush still held in his paint-stained fingers.

"Sorry to bother you when you're with your family, but I'm a big fan of your music," the skeleton says, sounding nervous and managing to look sheepish beneath his makeup. "You guys are badass. Could I get a selfie with you?"

You're trying so hard not to smile but oh my gosh. Ricky is having a famous moment, he can't say no. You'll even take the photo, this is great. You find it funny no one really cares about signatures anymore, photos do make it more clear you met someone.

"Uh," Ricky shifts slightly, but you squeeze his hand where it dangles off your shoulder before stepping away.

"I can take the picture," you offer, the skeleton perking up. Ricky sends you a look, but you ignore him as you take the guys phone, Chloe still preoccupied with her face painting to care about anything else. You take a few steps back, the skeleton beaming where he stands beside his favorite guitarist as you take their photo. "There ya go."

"Great thanks!"

"No problem," Ricky says, shrugging his shoulders. You like that he's a little embarrassed, but shouldn't he be used to it by now? You're sure depending on where they go, they have to get recognized a lot. "Glad you like our music."

"Daddy, Mommy, look!" Chloe suddenly demands, and you both look at her, seeing a pretty black and silver butterfly design around her eyes. "What do you think?"

"It looks pretty," you reply, giving her a strained smile; oh shit, did she mean to say mommy? She's never called you that before, and oh god if Claire ever heard that she would absolutely die. There would be another world war, she would crucify you, you can only imagine how many voodoo dolls with your likeness would pop up. You're definitely not ready to be called mommy. Did Ricky hear her?

"Very nice," Ricky agrees, returning his attention to the skeleton, shaking his hand for a moment before the man returns to painting faces. You give the lady a smile who painted Chloe's as you help her off the stool, her hand clamping in yours happily as she admires the design in the dinky mirror sitting on the table.

"Why don't we play some games, hmm? Or get on some rides?" Ricky suggests as he returns to his family, Chloe's hand finding his so that she holds onto both of you as you start walking. "There's some teacups over there I think."

They don't spin fast, right? He doesn't want her getting sick, not when she's just really starting to feel better. His eyes flick to you, but you're not really saying anything, still holding onto the half-full bag of popcorn.

"Okay!" Chloe excitedly starts forward, dragging both of you along with her. Ricky isn't sure who's going to be exhausted by the time the night is over, him or Chloe. He's hoping running around and doing everything will make her sleep good tonight, considering he has court tomorrow and then her mom is picking her up from school.

He just wants everything to go well, he wants to be able to do more with her, watch her grow up. It's not so much to ask! He kind of likes doing stuff like this, little family things he can't do with her mother. He would be miserable if she was there, constantly bitching about something, they would end up fighting it and ruin the moment for Chloe.

Some people just aren't meant to be together.

~~~~~~~

"She's completely wore out," Ricky yawns as he closes the bedroom door behind him, seeing you're on the sofa in your pajamas already, flipping through the photos you took on your phone earlier in the night. "I couldn't get her to wash that butterfly off her face so it's going to be a mess in the morning."

"I'm sure it'll be alright," you reply, glancing up at him. You move your legs so he can sit down beside you, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "I got some cute photos of her on the spinning teacups, you two looked adorable."

"I could barely fit in it."

"That's the best part," you chuckle, shifting so that he can look through the pictures with you. You have a ton of Chloe just... well, being Chloe and doing stuff, playing games, having fun on rides, carrying around the stuffed dinosaur you won her at the balloon game; you were extremely proud of yourself, you've never been so pleased to give someone your prize before. Chloe absolutely loved it, and Ricky even looked impressed.

"Look at her eating popcorn," you chuckle, Ricky leaning against your shoulder to look. "She had it everywhere in the car."

"She doesn't mind if its stale or not." Ricky smiles, seeing her asleep in her carseat, head tilted to the side. "She could barely stay awake after the first hour or so, I had to carry her to the car and then she asked where we were going next."

"As long as she had fun, that's what matters." You say, trying to stifle your own yawn. "I thought she'd like it."

"She had a blast." Ricky glances at you. He wants to ask about the kiss from earlier, find out what that was about. Was it just for aesthetic purposes, do you want him to post the photos? That's what people typically do, right? Post them everywhere to show how cute their family is. "Did you... enjoy yourself?"

"It was fun. I can't believe I did so good at that balloon game, I haven't done that in years." You say, pleased. "I used to be great at it when I was a teenager."

"When you snuck off from your parents and kissed boys?"

Your cheeks heat, and you send him a look. "I was joking. I was too awkward of a teenager, I didn't really go on dates."

"I didn't either." Ricky doesn't have a lot of fond memories of his youth, he was awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin back then. He's dreading when Chloe becomes a teenager and he has to figure that out.

"So we were both losers," you say wryly, earning a roll of his eyes. "No wonder we match up so well."

"I like to think we're just that good of friends."

"Maybe." Friends, right, yeah that.

You finish going through your photos, sending him all the really good ones before tossing your phone down and stretching. "I'm exhausted, I'm probably going to bed too. You coming?"

"Later, I have to get my stuff together for court tomorrow." Ricky grimaces. "I have to make sure everything is good to go."

"Just don't stay up too late," you say, thoughtlessly patting his thigh before getting to your feet. "Being tired won't do you any favors."

"I know. Night."

"Night."

Ricky watches you walk away, sinking down lower on the sofa.

You haven't said anything about the kiss, so..?

So why did you do it? It was such a good kiss, just simple, not leading to anything. No one could see you, so you didn't have to do it. He was surprised, he didn't expect it, and maybe he shouldn't have kissed you back like that, but he couldn't help himself.

There's just something about you.

Then there's also the issue of Chloe calling you mommy. He heard, he just ignored it, not sure what he was supposed to do. The look on your face told him you didn't miss it either, but he's unsure of how you feel about it.

If Claire ever hears her daughter call you mommy, she would destroy half the planet in rage. She couldn't ban you from seeing Chloe, but she would definitely make his life hell. He doesn't want her to think you're trying to replace her or take her daughter away, that's not either of your intentions.

Should he talk to Chloe about it? She might have just slipped up, caught up in the moment. She's only six, it has to be confusing for her, seeing the two of you together. Does she want to have parental figures like that? Is she too young to even care?

He runs his fingers down his face with a soft groan, starting to give himself a headache. He'll talk to you about it tomorrow, see if it bothered you or if you want him to talk to Chloe about it. He thinks it was just a slip up, she was just caught up in the moment, she's just a kid.

He doesn't want to berate her or anything about it, she wouldn't understand.

Man, parenting is complicated.

[ohgoditsyou-k]

IMAGINE: Going on a date with Ryan

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 12 - Ink

“Do you remember it? That first show I was at with you?”

Michael had emerged from the bathroom with one hotel towel around his waist, using another to towel off his hair. I rolled toward him and stretched out my legs again under the fluffy white comforter, reaching all the way through my pointed toes. Nothing felt more delicious than lying down in a comfortable bed after a long day, especially on tour. It was such delicious fatigue that I didn’t even dread Michael climbing in with me.

“Well. I know it was in 2007.”

“Obviously.” I rolled my eyes and let the gesture roll the rest of my body onto my back. I felt good tonight, and I’d let that warm feeling extend to Michael.

“I believe it was Springfield,” he said and grinned like he was proud of himself.

“Springfield?”

“Yeah, you know. There’s a Springfield everywhere? So my best chance of guessing correctly is Springfield? Get it?”

“Except that I don’t think we’ve ever been in a Springfield together, not once, not on tour.” I closed my eyes and sighed, suddenly tired with a new and less comfortable level of exhaustion.

“I know. It was a joke.”

“Got it.”

Michael turned away from me before removing his towel. He was relatively modest even in front of me and I couldn’t remember if that had been true before or after sex had become a special occasion for us. It was hard to believe we’d once been able to fuck like it was our job even after a show and Michael insisting on meeting fans afterward. We’d ripped off each other’s clothing the moment we entered the hotel room and had no use for it again until we left the next morning. I would lie in bed, blissfully sated, and watch Michael walk completely naked to the bathroom for a glass of water and study the amorphous inked shading of his arms and back in the dim light, trying to pick out specific images before he disappeared from sight, then again on his chest and arms as he returned to me before slipping back under the covers, before slipping back around me.

I realized for the first time that I didn’t just miss that time; I was lonely for Michael himself. Just not the Michael that presented himself to me day after day now, not the real one.

“Remember?” I asked the ceiling. “I was still in Seattle and I flew down to San Francisco to start the tour with you? It was the first time I got to watch you from the sidelines.”

“I suppose so.” I could hear him rifling through his suitcase and took heart that he wasn’t trying to come to bed entirely bare.

I could feel my body becoming heavier and sinking further into the bed. I’d forgotten the rush I felt at a live show and how it carried into the rest of the evening. It had made me begin to appreciate Michael again. It had made me kind.

But the more my kindness went over his head, the faster it faded.

“You don’t remember? Truly?”

He turned back to me in red boxer briefs and a white undershirt, palms open in defeat. “Truly? I’m tired. I’m truly exhausted and I truly want to sleep.”

Any tenderness I’d been clinging to this evening evaporated.

I sat up, pulling the comforter around my waist defensively, as if I would prevent him from using it. “Michael, I don’t understand you!” I was alarmed by the shrillness of my voice but persisted. “You claim that you want to be closer, spend more time together, be more intimate, but things like this - you don’t even remember the day I fell in love with you!”

He hung his head.

“I do.”

“You do remember? Then why did you lie?”

“Because I’m exhausted and I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“You don’t want to - I didn’t ask you to talk about it, I only asked if you remembered? So the answer is yes, it’s that simple.”

“I remember. I remember, okay? Yes, we were in San Francisco and it was December 6, 2007, and you were wearing black jeans and a long-sleeved thermal under your Appetite for Destruction T-shirt and I thought it was kind of cute that you were dressed more modestly than maybe any woman who had ever watched me perform. Your hair was blonde then but your makeup was heavy, like you were trying to wear your credentials on your face, like that would make me finally give in and let you do my makeup, because you were always bothering me about that. You would sit just behind me so that I would see your face over my shoulder, studying mine and waiting for me to make a mistake so you could correct it or tell me how to avoid it the next time. And I remember that I got on the stage and received a reception, a roar, like I’d never heard before. And I thought ‘This will show her. If she’s not impressed by this, then nothing will ever be good enough for her.’”

He paused. I was collecting my thoughts, trying to formulate a response, but then he continued.

“And by the end of that set, that show, the first show of our biggest tour to date, I knew I didn’t need you to love me because that feeling was all I needed and as long as I had fans who loved me, who loved my art, I would be okay. And I supposed it worked because as soon as I stopped needing you, you started needing me.”

The words he’d said to me after that set, the words that were forever burned into my memory, the grin that accompanied them, curdled in my memory.

Do you love me yet?

I felt my face contort in confusion. “So when you proposed you didn’t even love me?”

“Of course I loved you.” Michael sat on the very edge of the bed, as far from me as he could, turned away. “But back then I may have partially loved you for the wrong reasons. One of the things I loved so much about you was how much you admired me, how much you loved me. Don’t you understand? I’ve been trying to connect with you properly ever since then.”

“I think,” I began slowly, “that you and I have different ideas about what it means to connect properly.” I realized I was hugging my legs close to my chest and released them, sat up taller. “I don’t think connecting properly is expecting you to be the center of my universe, or hounding me for sex all the time.”

He was still turned away but I could feel him freeze, could feel his breathing stop.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“How would you describe it?”

The few seconds of silence that followed contained eternities.

“If I were a different person I might call you a frigid bitch.”

The words were a sucker punch to the gut.

“But you would never.” I sucked in my breath and stood. Crossed the room and pulled an oversized tee out of the suitcase. Pulled it on over my cami. One step at a time. Picked up my purse. Grabbed my hotel key and a hoodie. Slid on my sneakers without tying them.

Opened the door without looking back.

And suddenly I was in the hallway with no idea what to do next.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[writingismyhappytime]

Kiss the Devil (Part 20)

Ricky Horror X OC

Warnings: Language, Extreme Violence

A/n: This series is almost over! I have maybe one or two more chapters, and then Kiss the Devil will finally be at its end!

Huh.

"Miss Clearwater?"

Oh, right.

You gaze at Ricky's band manager, wondering what the hell he wants as you work on your fifth cigarette of the day. You've been puffing like a freight train, you can't help it. You're worried about the hunters, that someone could be ready to kill you at every corner.

"What is it?" You sound as annoyed as you feel; you've seen Motionless in White's manager a lot, he's usually on the bus with them. You're not sure what he's doing irritating you when you're trying to have an internal crisis, but you also don't appreciate it.

You'd promised you'd meet Ricky in fifteen minutes for his show, the band apparently had something big planned and you'd said you'd be there to offer him support. So, unless the band manager is going to tell you the details on that, you could care less about what he wants.

Plus, you just don't like him.

You're not sure why, what about him that makes you so irritated. He just gets under your skin, with his beady eyes and weird mustache that looks like a kid in puberty is trying to grow it. You hadn't told Ricky about your aversion to him, there had never been a point.

You just don't like people in general.

Also it might just be you.

Whatever.

"Can you come with me? The band is having a big surprise for their fans for tonights showing, and I'm supposed to bring you somewhere you can have the best seat." The band manager explains, looking like he's uncomfortable. "I wouldn't normally do this, but Ricky begged me."

Ricky, eh?

You frown a little more, finishing off your cigarette and dropping it to the ground. "Well, what's the big surprise?"

"I'm not going to spoil it for you." The manager shakes his head. "I promised I wouldn't. Would you please follow me?"

Ah, for fucks sake.

Ricky really could have warned you about this.

"I guess so," You sigh, your hands on your hips. "I wouldn't want to disappoint Ricky."

You'd feel bad about it if you did.

The manager brightens, giving you a smile and beckoning you after him. You chew the inside of your cheek as he starts walking, reluctantly beginning to follow.

You hope this surprise wasn't a flop.

~~~~~~~~

Where are you?

Ricky is disappointed.

He can't find you anywhere, and his show ended ten minutes ago. He'd been so ready, so pumped to bring you on stage and drop to his knees, pulling the box out of his pocket and proposing to you in front of a ton of people!

Alas, had you caught on to his plans?

Or did you just ditch him to be an ass?

His shoulders slump as he leans back against the stage, lighting up his third cigarette in ten minutes. His chest is tight, and he wants to be angry at you for ditching him. He wants to make the moment for the two of you special, show you that he's crazy about you, he ---- well, his feelings are rather obvious now, aren't they?

"Hey, dude."

"Hey." Ricky glances at Ryan as his friend sidles close, his hands tucked into his pockets. Ryan sort of knew about the plan, and he feels terrible about his friend. However, he's incredibly worried, too.

He's not an eavesdropper, he never has been, but he's quiet. He hears things, more so then even the rest of the guys think he does. DJ Devil is his idol music-wise, but as a person, he doesn't like you as much; his opinion of you has tumbled lower and lower as the tour has progressed. The way you'd strung Ricky along, the biting remarks you'd publicly made to him, only for him to still be ready to grovel at your feet for attention. He'd finally won you over, but you'd embarrassed him, made a fool of him, and Ryan doesn't like that.

There's also the matter of the conversation he'd accidentally overheard the other day. He'd been walking by, he'd left his pass on the bus, when he'd heard your voice. He couldn't help but pause, hearing your furious tone as you talked on your cellphone. You were worried about Ricky, about your life putting him in danger, about someone hunting you down? It sounded like you were involved in some kind of shady shit, one that involved money and a lot of blood.

Ryan's stomach had plummeted.

He doesn't want Ricky bummed about you anymore, he wants his friend as far away as possible. He'd heard Devin ask once why Ricky was researching the mafia, and Ryan now thinks he has an inkling as to why.

You.

You're mafia, or in some kind of drug cartel, or something equally crazy.

Ryan's glad you didn't show for Ricky to propose.

~~~~~~~

Yoltan's worried.

You're not answering your phone, your texts --- you were supposed to check in an hour ago. He bites his plump lip, glancing at the blonde actress slumbering beside him. She's another fling, a pretty face and a wealthy checking account to keep him floating. He doesn't care about her, she's irrelevant, and he'll soon be moving on. He already has her soul, he needs nothing else from her. Still, she supports his frivolous activities, his spontaneous needs to travel, so she still has her uses.

Now.

He has to find you.

Are you fraternizing off with that human again? He can tell how much you care about the musician, he's never seen you look at anyone like that in all his years of knowing you. He never knew you before you changed, or how you might have looked at your soldier, but it didn't matter. You loved your musician, somehow the man had captured your heart despite all the walls you'd carefully constructed over your years of being a reaper.

The blonde man slips out of bed silently, not disturbing his lover in the least as he moves to leave the room, wearing nothing more then a pair of silk pajama pants. He glides over to the balcony, shuffling the doors open and closing them easily behind him. The smell of the ocean immediately hits his nose, and his eyes flick over the ridiculously blue waters, the hint of the sun rising over the cliffs.

He looks down at his phone, seeing he has no notifications from you.

You're more careless now then you used to be, because of your musician, but you always manage to respond. Still, Yoltan has a bad feeling, with all this hunter nonsense getting out of his control --- leave it to humans to think they're better at decisions then the ones making them. They were messing up his entire game, and at this rate, he would be found out. He doesn't want you hurt, he never has, and the hunters on your trail are acting completely of their own accord.

Unacceptable.

He has worked decades to create enough paranoia in these humans, for it to slip on to their children that he could mold, control. You were important to him, you were like the daughter he gave his soul to save, and he doesn't want you to be hurt or in pain. He wants you to have another chance at life, all he has to do is destroy the demon and turn all of them mortal again.

He wants to age, he wants to taste what death is like --- in such a way that he does not immediately go to Hell, of course, or his soul in control of the demon he serves. No, he wants to make amends, and this is the only way he knows to do it. Surely taking out a demon would give him some sort of immunity in the afterlife, yes?

He will see.

He tries you for the third time, hearing the phone merely ring and ring but you never answer. He grimaces, and flicks to a new name.

He has to call several times, of course, as musicians generally try to never answer numbers they don't recognize. He's on the verge of tossing his phone into the ocean when he hears that smoker's voice, irritated.

"Hello?"

"Ricky, is (Y/N) with you?" Yoltan doesn't waste any time.

"Is --- who?" Ricky's voice crackles, there is a great distance between them, but Yoltan can still make out his words. "Who is this?"

"Do not be a fool, you petty musician! Is ---- Kree, with you?" Yoltan presses in irritation, and Ricky finally recognizes the voice on the end of the line. He shuffles where he was lying down in his bunk, his heart in his stomach. He'd been sulking in his bunk for a it, curled around a pillow and debating all the decisions in his life that had brought him to that point of wallowing.

"Yoltan." Ricky hesitates, peeling back his curtain and dropping out. He glances around, but most of his band members are preoccupied, giving him the opportunity to slip off the bus unnoticed. "No, I --- Kree was supposed to meet me earlier today for a show, but she never showed up. Why?"

"I have been unable to reach her, and she's passed the time she was supposed to check in with me." Yoltan shuffles restlessly. "If she is not with you, where is she?"

"I dunno, I figured she ran off with you again when she ditched me." Ricky sounds almost flippant, managing to grate on the ancient reaper's nerves. "She usually does whatever you want of her."

Huh.

Jealous?

"So she has disappeared again?" Yoltan can't help the tense tone to his voice, and even a hundred miles away Ricky can hear the worry.

"Do you think she has? Shit! Do you think they got her?" Ricky demands, his entire body tensing. His heart instantly throws itself against his chest in panic, fear making his adrenaline spike until he has a hard time breathing. "What do we do? Where would they take her?"

Yoltan's white teeth dig into his reddening lower lip. "Is your band manager around?"

"What?" Ricky's taken off guard.

"Is your bloody manager there, Richard?"

Richard? No one calls him that.

"No, I haven't seen him."

Fuck.

Fuck!

Yoltan's hand tightens dangerously around his phone, and it takes all his restraint not to crush the small device between his fingers.

"Dammit." Yoltan seethes; disobeying his orders again! Useless bastard!" I want you to find him, now, Ricky. I want you to call him, I want you to pinpoint his location immediately!"

"What? Why? What use is he?"

"He's a goddamn hunter, you useless imbecile!" Yoltan hissed, turning to pace the balcony liked a caged animal, his entire body bristling. "He has most likely taken Kree to dispatch of her, and you should by now understand what that means! Find him!"

Yoltan ends the call, inhaling deeply through his nose, trying to find a sense of calm against the storm of panic inside his chest. He's frightened for you, he never should have let this get so out of control. He'd promised he'd protect and care for you, and he meant it. He couldn't stop the demon from hurting you, or for you agreeing to whatever he wished, nor could he stop you from having to take souls, to do the things you must for them.

But this --- he'd never meant for this to escalate.

He'd wanted to keep you safe, he'd thought going on tour an excellent idea. You would be in the limelight, the humans would not be so foolish as to try to hurt you ---- Yoltan isn't often wrong.

He has to leave, now.

He turns on his heel, striding into the bedroom. His eyes flick to the actress, and he slips to the bed, applying just enough pressure as he crawls to stir his actress. He leans now, nuzzling her delicate, pale throat, covered in his pointed bite marks. She might be soft, but she very much liked him rough.

"My sweet Evangeline, I must take a trip," he murmurs, his breath fanning her skin as her eyes flutter.

"Another, sweet Ambrose?" she murmurs sleepily, Yoltan's fingers caressing her cheek like butterflies against her skin.

"I am afraid it is necessary. My daughter needs me."

"Mmm, this daughter, you rarely speak of her so. What does she need?"

"Someone to save her from a very delicate situation." Yoltan sighs, kissing the woman on her too-long nose. "I shall return when I can ensure her safety."

"She's a very lucky girl, to have such an attentive father." His actress yawns, curling her arms around her white pillow. "Be back before my show tomorrow night?"

"I will do my best, Evangeline."

Yoltan doesn't know if he'll return or not.

~~~~~~

Ricky is frantic.

He'd scoured the bus for the manager, demanded of everyone if they'd seen him, then tore off to scope the venue. He'd been over it twice and had not found the man! He'd called him over and over, left voicemails, sent text messages --- the manager is usually much more attentive! Shit!

He's been a hunter the entire time!? How did Ricky not realize this? Did you know? Did you suspect him? How did Yoltan know?

Fuck!

No, no, no --- Ricky can't lose you like this! You're both supposed to be together forever now, it can't be over! You're here somewhere, you have to be! You've only been gone perhaps two hours, tops? That's it --- there's not a lot of places one can go in two hours.

Well, there is, but Ricky doesn't want to think about that.

To be so much stronger, faster, and a predator, Ricky feels completely helpless against the situation. What's he going to do? If you die, he becomes human again, but that doesn't matter to him --- the future is bleak without you in it. He wouldn't want to be a reaper if it meant not having you at his side.

He has to do something.

Something drastic, something that would catch the managers attention.

He hesitates, staring down at his phone.

He knows.

Ricky: WHERE ARE YOU? BAND EMERGENCY. CHRIS WAS IN AN ACCIDENT, CALL ME ASAP

Now.

Ricky rushes back to his bus, tripping as he clamors up the bus steps. He glances around furtively, spying the lead singer of his band leaning against the counter as he chops up a banana into little pieces.

Well, this was going to get bad.

"Chris, I need a favor!" Ricky bursts, Chris glancing over, his knife stilling.

"What?"

"I, uh, need you to look hurt."

"You what?" Chris sends him a look. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Please! I need you to have a bloody nose, or a black eye, or something," Ricky stresses, completely panicked. His calm resolved minutes ago, and every fiber of his being is stretched to the limit. All the guys swivel, staring at Ricky like he'd lost his mind.

"Ricky," Ryan hesitates from where he sits at the table, playing cards with Balz. "Dude."

"Please." Ricky begs. "I can't explain why, but --- Devin, can you make his face look like shit? Black eyes, blood, all that?"

Devin's eyes widen in alarm.

"Why the hell does that need to happen?"

"Because --- because --- can you just trust me?" Ricky's says in frustration, glancing around. He needs this to happen, it's the only way he can prove to the manager something is going on! He hesitates, and straightens, suddenly remembering a trick you'd told him once he'd become a reaper; always be calm, always look confidant, and always make eye contact when you want your way.

Right, time to employ reaper tactics.

His eyes burn into Chris', the blue color suddenly so vibrant it catches the taller man off guard.

"Chris, I need you to do this for me," Ricky says in a level tone, one that bode no argument and bode an uncanny resemblance to the voice you commonly used when you were tired of bullshit. Ricky turns his piercing gaze on Devin. "I need you to help."

"I --- we ----," Devin momentarily flounders, unable to look away from the vivacious blues before his head is nodding, his will not strong enough to disagree anymore. "Of course, whatever you want."

"Chris?" Ricky looks at him pointedly.

"Yeah, sure." Chris nods as well, the food in front of him completely forgotten.

Good.

Ryan sends the three men an incredulous look as Chris and Devin move toward the back of the bus, Ricky hot on their heels.

What the fuck is going on?

~~~~~~

You squirm against your restraints, a heavy sense of deja vu making you feel sick. You're in a damned chair again, your wrists tied so tightly to the arms you're in danger of losing circulations in your hands. Whoever had tied them had no inclination of letting you escape, and that's unfortunate on your end.

This time, you weren't up against amateurs.

You weren't sure at what point your day went to hell, probably when Ricky's band manager whacked you over the skull with a pipe and sent you tumbling into the trunk of his car. Or someone's car, hell if you know who it belonged too.

You writhe, your head pounding, but you've had worse injuries. Your eyes flick around the darkened room, the single lightbulb above your head buzzing annoyingly. It looks like someone's basement, there's a boiler in the corner, some tables, boxes of old, forgotten things. The floor above your head is creaking, there's lots of dust showering down on you with every step that makes you itch.

It's annoying.

Huh.

They'd taken your phone, but you can see it on the table across the room. You feet are bound too, but you'd seen enough horror movies now, you can still figure a way out. You're too pissed to be scared this time --- being hunted has gotten on your last nerve.

You're not afraid of death, but your kidnappers are going to be begging for it when you're done with them.

Now, about moving this chair.

You're being practical, it's like the fearful side of your brain has shut down. You're intent on getting lose, on finding someway to break free. You have someone to get back too that you care about, and that returns your feelings. You almost feel guilty for missing his big show today, but obviously that decision had been taken out of your hands.

Your eyes flick up as you hear someone start shouting angrily, their words too muffled to make out.

Huh.

Hmmm.

Well...

Shit.

This wasn't working.

You purse your lips, purple hair clinging to your dampened cheeks, sweat making your skin prickle from the ridiculous warmth of the room. You're normally a little more cold natured, but this is ridiculous.

You squirm in your uncomfortable chair, looking around the dark room. Well, even if you reach your phone, you're not going to be able to use it. Unless you can touch the screen with your nose, your fingers are absolutely useless.

So, that lead to the practical decision of finding a way to remove your bonds. Frayed rope, of course, the men had to be all medieval.

At least they hadn't chosen metal manacles, of course.

You chew your lower lip, seeing the tools on the table, a rusty color your brain ignores. This room has seen a lot more reapers then just you, but you're not going to follow in their footsteps. You have some questions for these idiots if they ever make their way down --- especially the band manager.

How long has he known about you? Was he biding his time?

You're curious to know if he knows about Ricky, but you're not about to ask. You doubt he'd kill a member of the band who supports his paychecks, but humans are dumb in their righteousness.

Stupid mortals.

You're almost glad you're not one.

~~~~~~

"We can't abandon her!" Yoltan says stiffly, standing in the damp, cold parking lot. It had taken him only an hour to travel inland, and only a few moments for the demon he served to appear before him one called.

The two of them stand there, leaning against Yoltan's red car, as if two friends rather the a demon and his slave. The air is humid, the clouds are black and threatening rain, but neither of them notice. The weather is unimportant.

The demon looks exasperated. "You think I care about that girl? If she dies, I just get her soul."

"If she dies, the only reaper you're going to have left is me," Yoltan growls, finally showing his temper. "If that happens, you're going to fall so far behind all the rest of them, you'll be laughable."

The demon narrows his eyes. "Watch your tone, little prince. I am not above ending you myself for such insolence."

"I called you here to help. You can find her at any time, that's part of the contract. No doubt the hunters have brought her to one of their dens, where more of their members will be." Yoltan ignores the comment; he's been a reaper a long time, demons are more talk then they are bite when it came to those who did their jobs for them.

"Think of all the bragging rights, if you manage to destroy the hunters before another demon does," Yoltan adds, changing tactics slightly. "You'll look very formidable."

"Mmm, your coercion does not work well on me, Yoltan." The demon is growing bored, he doesn't care about you, how you die, he gets your soul regardless. However, there is the issue of looking bad in front of the other demons that he does consider. True, destroying the human hunters targeting his peons would prove to show the others how powerful he is, that he put an end to the annoyance while the rest of them tottered about uselessly.

It's tempting.

Yoltan is right, as is usual for the ancient man.

The demon looks at him appraisingly. "Were you not human, Yoltan, you would have made an excellent demon."

Yoltan ignores that comment as well. "You will find her, then?"

"Well, it is incredibly taxing to create new reapers, even sub contract ones don't last long anymore," the demon sighs, letting Yoltan know instantly he knew of your musician's contract. "And it's true, you and (Y/N) have been my heaviest collectors of late, you two never fail me, unlike the rest that have been eliminated. I suppose it's in my best interest then, to intervene in this matter."

For fucks sake, good.

Yoltan shifts restlessly, glancing up as the clouds above thundered deeply, resonating beneath their feet.

"I will take us to their den, but --- I'm also taking the contract reaper."

Yoltan tenses. "He will not be useful, he is too new."

"Oh, but the new ones are always stronger, more brazen. It'll be interesting to see his talents. If he's good enough, I might make him a permanent addition; wouldn't (Y/N) be excited at that prospect?"

Yoltan is silent.

No, you wouldn't.

The demon chuckles.

"Shall we go collect the young musician then, little prince?"

~~~~~~

Ricky feels sick.

He's never seen, or met, a demon before, and he immediately never wishes to again. The man before him makes his skin crawl, makes his hair rise, his stomach twist and churn. Just being in the same air space as the creature makes him feel weak and shaky.

"Well, you're rather small." The demon comments as he circles Ricky, as if studying a show dog. "I thought (Y/N)'s tastes rather ranged to the more broad shouldered, beefy sorts of men, that's what her lover was before. Ah, but who am I to judge taste?" The demon loses interest. "Yoltan."

Yoltan moves forward instantly at the demons command, his hand curling in the back of Ricky's t shirt.

Ricky sends him a startled look; there wasn't a warning, he had just been pacing the length of the back of his bus when Yoltan and the demon --- which Ricky knew instantly without any sort of introduction --- appeared in front of him. He'd been startled, he hadn't seen them walking from anywhere, but he hadn't had a chance to even open his mouth.

Yoltan merely shakes his head, hoping Ricky remains silent.

The less he spoke to the demon, the better.

"Well, now that we're all together, let's go find that little nurse, shall we?" The demons voice is deceptively chipper as his hands appear on his hips, his features making Ricky's eyes ache. "I want to kill all these humans before sundown."

Kill?

Kill humans?

Is that what the demon just said?

Ricky feels his face whiten, and his stomach drops to an all new low. He wavers on his feet, causing Yoltan's grip to tighten in the back of his t shirt.

Passing out is not an option at the moment.

~~~~~

Well better you than Ricky, you guess.

You slink down sulkily in the chair, spitting the blood out of your mouth. You remain icily silent as the man circles you. He's doing the typical captor thing, trying to get more names out of you, trying to make you feel intimidated.

You're just angry.

The entire situation is ridiculous, you're pissed you're in it, and you've almost got one foot lose. Your eyes are on the man, violet gaze narrowed.

The captor has to admit, you've remained silent longer then he would have guessed from your soft appearance. You seem young, with colored hair and those bright demon eyes all of your kind seems to have. They're on his face, meeting his eyes every change they get. It's odd, but he's feeling less and less of an inclination to torture information out of you; instead, he'd really like to just have a conversation, get you to speak so he could hear your voice.

You're a pretty girl, he doesn't want to mar your skin, and your fingers are talented --- he's skulked along the edges of your shows of course, waiting for the opportunity to drag you into the basement. The band manager had provided you just like he said he would, making it easier.

The man doesn't know all of a reapers abilities, they seem to vary with each creature they encounter. Of course, the usual torture is generally enough --- none of the reapers are very strong against pain, they're very weak, actually. It's discouraging --- the man had always liked watching the movies where the torturer stood in front of his victim, prying information out of him as he pried his fingernails off and into the air.

You, however, are a formidable victim. You'd survived the attack before, albeit with some broken bones, if he remembers correctly. Had you handled it this calmly then? It's a bit unnerving, but he can handle it.

He realizes he's come to a stop in front of you, his hands limp at his sides as you gaze up at him. You're so silent, your purple lipstick smudged on your soft, plump lips now. You're a very beautiful girl, shame he has to kill you.

Because that's what he has to do, right?

That's the entire point of you being in his basement.

But he doesn't want to now.

Funny, how men are always the easiest for you. You sigh silently, not breaking eye contact with him. You're rusty, you don't usually use your coercion like this. It's been a few months, you've been preoccupied with Ricky, so you haven't used it.

Men are such easy targets, though, and your ability is natural.

You don't smile, you don't move, you just gaze at him, feeling your eyes burn with the need to blink. You don't want to break concentration, though, this is your only chance --- you have absolutely no idea what else you can do. You can't break your bonds, they're too tight and you're not strong enough. You've not been collecting souls, and your strength has begun to dwindle as a result.

Dammit.

Look what doing the right thing has done for you!

It's so much easier to be an asshole.

However, when there's a loud thud and a high pitched scream from above, you can't help but look up in surprise.

What the hell?

Your captor does as well, and you hear several frantic, hysterical voices before more shouting and scuffling.

You blink up at the wooden boards above you, seeing something start to seep through them, dripping lazily down.

Uh?

What the shit?

~~~~~

Ricky is not made for this kind of thing.

He's disoriented, first, at the fact that demons are real; yes, of course he knew you were contracted to one, but that didn't make it real. Seeing the demon, hearing him, being around him --- Ricky couldn't fathom how you stood it all those years.

Second, he doesn't like the fact he was standing in a parking lot a few minutes ago and now he's in the center of someone's rather cluttery living area. The two men sitting on the couch watching TV had, understandablly, been shocked at their abrupt and stomach churning arrival, causing them to shout and scramble backward over the sofa.

The demon had merely laughed gleefully at their alarm, and processed to --- Ricky can't think about it, bile rises to his throat. He's merely doing his best to stand perfectly still beside Yoltan, who's face is expressionless. Ricky is holding his breath, there's a coppery taste in the air that he doesn't want to acknowledge.

His back is to the sofa where the two men were, and he's doing his very best not to puke his guts out.

He's never seen anyone be --- he can't say he's never seen anyone die before, but never like that! The way their heads had bent, their shouts cut short... Ricky is glad he's not connected to the demon. The demon was cruel, he made sure the death hurt before prancing off to another victim. He's laughing and giggling like it's some kind of game, as if a treat!

Yoltan glances sympathetically down at Ricky; the new generations of the time didn't have the same stomach as those that came before him. Yoltan grew up in times of war, before there was any sort of technology and spears and duels to the death decided kingdoms and marriages. He isn't affected by the site before him, the demon having his merry way with all the foolish humans Yoltan had trained; none of them recognized him, he'd never met any of them personally, and none knew his true name to even rat him out --- none, of course, except the band manager.

Who Yoltan intends to deal with personally.

"Kree is most likely held downstairs somewhere, these people have a fondness for basements." He says after a moment through the sound of a person's femur cracking in the living room. "You should go find her."

Ricky is almost a yellow color at this point, becoming less and less impressive in Yoltan's eyes. He hopes the young boy can keep up, otherwise he'll never make it as a reaper.

"That looks like a basement door, why don't you check there?" Yoltan suggests gently, pointing. Really, he wants rid of Ricky so he can head upstairs where no doubt the band manager is cowering; he has intentions of ripping his head right off his beefy shoulders.

Maybe even with a close hanger.

Yoltan has gotten inventive over the years.

Ricky moves on shaky legs, his body on autopilot. He looks at nothing but the white-flaked door, his hand trembling as he turns the gold knob and swings it open. He has tunnel vision as he hesitantly starts down the creaking steps, worried they might give under his weight at any moment as the door closes behind him. He's not so sure about this, but --- well, he is sure he's in shock and nothing is processing.

Is this what you've been involved in?

Is this a regular event for you?

Does the demon typically go to people's houses uninvited and then shred them into ingredients for his supper stew?

No, he can't think about it, otherwise he might do something embarrassing, like faint.

Fainting is not something he does.

Not when you need him; focusing on you is the only thing currently keeping him sane.

He'd gotten a response back from the band manager after he'd sent that fake photo of Chris looking like he'd been run over by a truck, getting his attention --- he hoped that made some difference for you, that they hadn't hurt you.

The thought almost makes him glad for the demons cackling rampage above.

He nervously takes another step down, and another, the concrete floor of the basement starting to come into view.

Then ---.

"Kree!" Ricky gasps.

Tags:  @imaginemiw   @bigdaddyfairywinkle @riegan @lucifersnudes    @horrorshow365    @imjustareject99    @nikkihorrorxx   @miss-evil-one

[writingismyhappytime]

A Little Jealousy Never Hurts

Vinny Mauro x Reader

Warnings: Language

"I'm thankful  it's almost the end of the semester and I'm still passing all my classes," you sigh as you lean back in your chair, propping your feet up on your desk. You run your fingers sleepily down your face, but considering the late hour it's no surprise you're tired.

Your boyfriend nods his head where he sits in the floor, leaning back into the bed you share as he plays video games. You know he's tired too, it's been a long semester and quite a struggle living with roommates, everyone having different schedules.

Still, it annoys you that he'd rather spend his free time playing games than talking to you. You've been together a year now, moved in with each other a few months ago to help with rent, and you feel like it's just not going quite as well now.

You like Vinny, he's cute, and really sweet when he's paying attention. Sometimes you think he can be rather childish and petty, a brat really, but that's what being an only child gets you. Sometimes you'd like nothing more than to lock the door and kick him out, throw his things dramatically out the window like you've seen on movies --- but only sometimes, the rest of the time you don't know if you can survive without him.

Now, actually, isn't one of those times.

He's getting on your nerves.

"Hey. Do you two want any takeout?" Your roommate asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. He glances at your boyfriend, who's not even acknowledged him, before back at you where you sit resigned, feet still propped on your messy desk with an irritated expression. "(Y/N)?"

"Just order two of whatever you're getting." You tell him, forcing a smile. "I trust your judgement."

"I don't know if you should, but thanks. Oh, and here," he takes a few steps forward, stopping at the edge of your desk as he offers you a book. "This has been one of my favorite reads so far, I thought maybe you'd like it."

"Oh nice, thanks!" You brighten at the book he hands you, a little excited. Your roommate and you share a love of novels, fantasy books that take you to worlds you wish you could disappear into. You're close because of that, constantly swapping books back and forth, both of your rooms starting to pile up with them.

You flip the book open, letting your feet drop to the floor as you scan the synopsis on the back, curious. "It sounds pretty cool so far. Is there romance?"

"Among other things, yes."

"You know the romance is what I care about."

"Ahuh. There's also magic, wizards, demons, hunters who try to stop them without any parents to tell them what to do."

"They're always kids saving the world, huh? Why not someone our age, dying of sleep loss and trying to get a degree that won't help them at all?" You grumble, miffed. You're half tempted to write your own book, full of stupid, cheesy romance, about a girl struggling through college that somehow gets thrown into a supernatural fiasco that resorts in a hot, sweet, yet also badass boyfriend.

Too cliche?

Vinny glances over as you and your roommate talk, momentarily letting his controller rest in his lap. He had two exams today, his brain is fried and he just wanted to mindlessly play some video games before going straight to bed. It's the end of the semester and he's never been so stressed in his life.

Living with you makes it a little easier, you keep him straight and makes sure he doesn't screw up focusing on his studies. You're a nerd, but that's why he likes you so much, and you're cute, and nice when you're not harping at him like a mother.

You have a thing for books, which is what is causing your shared room to kind of fill up, not that he minds. If it makes you happy, you can have all you want. Your roommate is always coming in, leaving a book or taking one, the two of you chatting about it and going into your own little worlds.

Vinny gets jealous, admittedly. He wishes he could be so enthralled with something he goes all in to it, the way you and your friend do. He doesn't know the guy too well, they only talk because they live together, but he's not bad.

"What's going on?" He asks after a moment, just wanting to remind you that he's still in the room, that he's not invisible. His game is completely forgotten now, left on pause.

"Oh! He just recommended me another book to read," You reply, lifting it up slightly where it rests in your lap as you glance at him. "I'll give it back to you as soon as I'm done, Tony. Might take me a couple days, I still have some exams to study for."

"Don't worry about it. Just hand it back before the month is up so I can return it to the library."

Vinny frowns, crossing his arms across his chest.

You two talk so casually, and you're so relaxed with each other. He bites the inside of his cheek as he watches you interact, a tightening in his gut; this guy could so easily steal you away from him, you have more interests that match up. You both love fantasy worlds and books, talking about them, going to writing club and signings, whereas he could care less about all of that stuff. Fictional adventures with wizards and shadow hunters don't excite him like it does you guys.

Since the moment Tony moved in, he's watched the two of you grow closer and closer, and though sometimes he's quite sure Tony isn't interested in women, he still gets worried. He can't help the twisting, anxious feeling in his gut he tries to ignore all the time when he sees you together; he knows he's not perfect, he has his moments where he's a dick or a screwup, but he tries to make up for it.

"How's your last exam?" You ask your roommate, letting the book rest of your desk. "Do you think you passed?"

"Probably. I did enough cramming all I was thinking was equations, they haunted my dreams." The roommate shudders. "You?"

"Well, it's sink or swim, I guess. I was so nervous I couldn't sit still. I do not want to take that class over again."

"Let's hope you don't have too then."

"Hey, weren't you going to order food?" Vinny suddenly asks, interrupting the conversation before it goes too far. "Do you need my card or anything?"

"Oh no, I got you guys." The roommate hesitates, seeing Vinny's huffy look. "I'll go ahead and get something ordered, though. Anything you guys want in particular?"

"No." Vinny's reply is short. "Just whatever."

You send him a sharp look he ignores as he turns off the TV, getting to his feet. Your roommate purses his lips, merely nodding before taking a few steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Vinny! What's with the attitude?" You scowl at him, annoyed. He's always such a jerk to your roommate, who you're starting to like more than your boyfriend. You don't know why he's always so snappy and short lately, it's getting on your nerves; so uncalled for!

"I don't have one," your boyfriend replies, sitting down on the edge of your shared bed, leaning down to grab his untied sneakers, jerking them on.

"You say with a bitchy tone." You grumble, slouching in your chair as you cross your arms. You eyeball him cautiously. "But seriously, what's your problem with Tony? He's a great roommate, he even orders us food when he's getting some, and lends me books. You borrow his toothpaste all the time since you're too cheap to buy your own."

It's not that Vinny is too cheap, he just keeps forgetting.

Vinny sighs. "I don't have an issue with Tony, alright? He's cool."

"Then what's wrong?" You genuinely don't understand.

"I just... you don't talk about stuff that way with me."

"I don't what?"

"When you and Tony talk about books, you're just --- so animated, I guess. You don't talk to me that way." he shrugs his shoulders, looking down as he fumbles with his laces. You get such bright eyes when you talk about books or the plot of them, the characters, you're so into it. It's like you immerse yourself in that world, leaving him out of it.

"I didn't think you were interested in listening to me talk about fantasy worlds." You reply, gazing at him. Is he jealous or something? "You've never seemed to be. It's just nice to have someone to share books and talk about them with, you've nothing to worry about. Tony is gay as hell anyway; you'd stand a better chance hooking up with him than I would."

Vinny rolls his eyes, his cheeks starting to get warm; he knows being jealous is stupid, he just can't help it. He really likes you, and he keeps worrying things are going to go wrong. He's never moved in with a girl before, and it seems like stuff is going fast with you.

"Are you going to answer me or ignore me?" You stare at him, irritated. You hate it when you say something or ask a question and he just doesn't respond to you, it drives you crazy!

"Er, sorry. I just, I dunno --- I wish I could be into like you are, but I'm not." he shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not much of a reader, and I can't get into it."

"We all have our different interests."

"I know."

"We both like Chinese food, and we both like to watch Gordon Ramsey yell at people. That's two things we share that I don't with anyone else," you say after a moment, wanting to make him feel better. "We talk about how annoying the patriarchy is, and we both want to move to Montana and start a cafe."

"Actually that last part is yours."

"Well, you never disagreed, figured we were on the same page."

Vinny's lips twitch, and finally he looks at you, seeing you're just gazing at him, leaning back comfortably in your chair.

"I know I shouldn't be jealous, it's dumb. I just can't help it."

"You're an only child, you just don't like sharing." You tease him, trying to lighten the mood a little. He smiles slightly, and you reach over, curling your fingers through his; the room is small, you can take on step and be on the bed beside him, so you're not too far away. "Well, we're not always going to like the same things, and  that's okay. I'm definitely not going to run off with our gay roommate. Does that make you feel better?"

"A little."

"Good." You squeeze his cold fingers. "Now let's go make sure he doesn't want to move out because he's unloved."

"I don't want to."

"Oh, come on," you get to your feet and pull, forcing him to follow suit. "Feel a little better about it now?"

"Only if you kiss me."

"Kiss you? Why would I do that?" You scoff, even as you're turning to face him, your fingers threading through his as you smile. You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss against his lips, feeling him sigh into you. His hand rises, cupping your cheek as he deepens the kiss, just holding onto you for a few moments.

This is one of the reasons you're with him. You can have a disagreement, but he's so easy to talk too, to work it out with. He listens, he thinks about it, and he's sometimes pretty reasonable about it. Plus you love it when he ends up making up with a kiss, it's always so sweet, so cheesy it makes you melt on the inside.

You suppose a little jealousy never hurts when you end up getting kisses like this.

[writingismyhappytime]

A Little Privacy, Please?

Ricky Horror x reader

Warning: Language, smut

You lay back across the bed, smirking as you hear the front door open. It's dark in your bedroom, the black curtains are drawn tightly, blocking any light that could enter.

It's been three long months since you've seen your boyfriend, he's been on tour with his band. You're usually able to take the first month without him in stride, but after that you feel like you're going crazy!

You're frustrated without him.

Sure, there's FaceTime, and you can send him all the dirty photos you want, but it doesn't satisfy you.

No, nothing does. You need him home, you need him there to make you feel complete. He's the first guy you've been with that is as wild in bed as you are, that makes you whimper and moan in all the dirty ways you want too.

Ooo La La.

You're so glad he's home!

You have quite a surprise waiting for him.

Heh.

You lounge back on the bed in your red and black lingerie, stretching your arms out above your head. Your hair is sprawling around you, and you're going for a sexy pose.

You miss him, you miss his hands on your body, his lips against your cheek. You two are always drawn together, you can find him anywhere in a crowd and he you. You get all warm and tingly just thinking about him, and butterflies still flutter in your stomach when you see him after a long time.

You think about him all the time. Day, night, in the shower, when you're trying to sleep... thoughts of Ricky, of all the things you've done together, to each other...

You hear Ricky call your name, hear the thump of his bag as he drops it into the floor. You bite your lip as he strolls down the hallway, the boards creaking beneath his weight.

You squirm a little in anticipation, holding your breath as the bedroom door finally opens. Ricky blinks a few moments as he stand in the dark doorway, letting his eyes adjust.

He straightens when he finally notices you, his lips curving at the sight of you on the bed.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs, his voice already husky as he casually leans against the door, crossing his arms. He lets his gaze scour you in the dark, pleased with what he sees.

"Hey. Been a while," you reply, lips still smirking. You slowly move your legs, making sure you're showing off all your lovely assets. "You like what you see?"

"Very much." He doesn't hesitate to answer, already he can feel the pressure in his dark jeans growing.

"So, stranger, you want to join me over here?" You go for a sultry tone, raising one brow at him. You crook a finger, beckoning him closer, and it's all Ricky can do not to jump you then.

However, he's learned a thing or two since he's been with you. You're all about the foreplay and anticipation, so he doesn't want to give in just yet. No, he's going to make you really want it.

"I want to see what you're offering first, baby."

Oh really?

You like this.

You shift slightly, sensually straightening your legs, letting the smooth skin brush the sheets. You draw your fingers between your breasts, tugging at the thin material covering them as you cup and roll them for his view. You peel open the silk of your lingerie, tracing your fingers down your tanned stomach, the jewelry in your navel glittering from the light over Ricky's shoulder.

Your fingers trail lower, caressing the hem of your panties. You know his eyes are on you, that they haven't left you for one moment. You like how he has to shift as you caress and cup your body, biting your red painted lower lip. You half your fingers just above your panties, your eyes catching Ricky's .

"What else do you want me to do?" You ask softly, hoping he understands what you want.

Ricky grins. He loves it when you're like this, waiting for direction and very receptive to orders. He could sit and watch you cum over and over, and he has before. He gets off more with you then he has any other woman, several times a night. You're always ready, your legs spread on a dime for him and he absolutely adores that.

But only for him.

You take your sexual pleasure very seriously, and when you're with someone, you're loyal. Ricky has ever met another woman like you, and he doubts he'll ever get tired of you. You're the best sex he's ever had, he's not bout to give that up!

So he know what you want, and hes fully prepared to give it.

His dark brows quirk, knowing you need to work for your reward.

His lips part, tongue licking in anticipation.

"Show me what you have under there, baby girl. Show me how wet that cunt is."

Heat immediately ripples through your stomach at his words, and it's all you can do not to moan already. You fucking love it when he talks to you that way, it turns you on so badly! Your cheeks turn rosy at the command, your fingers slipping down to remove the cute piece of fabric.

You life your legs, curling your knees towards your chest as you draw your panties up your thighs, to your knees, finally to your toes. You lightly toss the material, liking how it got Ricky in the chest as you willingly spread your legs, your painted toes drawing against the sheets.

Ricky has to shift again, his cock immediately pushing against the material of his jeans. He hasn't got off with you in months, his body is already begging to be inside of you, cumming in your tight cunt and claiming you again. His fingers twitch, but he stands still, his body humming.

You knew he wouldnt be blessed to resist you. You're just glad he playing along. Your breath comes a little quicker, your chest rising and falling, stiff nipples straining against the thin material covering them.

"How wet are you?" He murmurs, his voice becoming rougher.

You sigh as your fingers dip between your legs, thighs widening so he has a good view of what he's missed. You slip your finger between your damp folds, covering your skin in your own juice. Your hips shift of their own accord as your touch your swollen clit, nudging it slowly.

You'd been ready and wet all day in anticipation of Ricky's return, it had been agony not to touch yourself, to not be satisfied. But you knew the wait would be worth it.

"I'm so wet for you," you finally say, shivering in the cool air. "I've been waiting for you all day, baby. Only for you."

You draw your glistening fingers up, pressing them against your lips, eyes closing as you taste yourself. You moan, your eyes flashing to his as you lick your juices from your fingers, seeing him shift again, knowing his blood pressure is rising.

Keeping himself off you is starting to prove challenging for Ricky . The more he watched you, the harder he became. His pants were now a painful prison, and your lustful gaze isn't helping.

It's a game to you, seeing how long he could hold back from you, how long you could taunt him until he cracked. He wants to taste you, he wants his tongue to glide through your folds until you're writhing and crying out, your hips arching into his mouth as he suckles hard.

Damn it's torture!

Ricky's tongue passes across his lip ring , his mouth watering .

"Do you want me, Ricky ?" Your purr, your fingers returning between your thighs, tracing your exposed slit. "Don't you want to taste me, run your tongue up my cunt until I'm cumming?"

More then anything!

But not just yet, he wouldn't give in despite the pressure.

You press down on your clit, rubbing it in slow circles and torturing the both of you.

You thought of him when you cum, when you pleasure yourself . You hate he has to travel for work, that you can't be together more often. You miss his playful teasing, those bright blue eyes, the way he looks at you...

Your clit throbs beneath your touch, causing you to whine slightly. You slide your finger down your shiny folds, knowing he's watching every movement, hoping he's enjoying the show. You thrust your finger into your tight body, moaning Ricky's name as your pleasure rises. Heat flows over your body, your stomach tightening and curling along with your toes.

Your finger starts thrusting harder, coating your digit with arousal.

Ricky is nearly panting, his hands clenched into fists as he stands there, watching your finger thrust in and out of you over and over, your juices covering the body on display for him. He knows having him watch you turns you on more, you're so fucking kinky, this was actually mild for you!

Fuck, he doesn't know how much longer he can stand there, watching you writhe and whimper, before he outright cums from the sight! His cock is throbbing, he's incredibly uncomfortable, and he can't help but lick his lips.

The idea of you touching each other, dirty words being whispered back and forth, moans and whimpers flooding your ears....

"Fuck." Ricky breathes, at his limit as he sees your back attempt to arch, your glistening lips parted in pleasure as you keep up your fervent thrusting. His blue eyes greedily run over you, his whole body thrumming with heat as he sees you on the verge of cumming, your panting breaths drawing him in.

He's done.

It's been three long months since he's had you, since he's tasted you. He needs to kiss you, lick you, taste you --- fuck you!

He needs you!

You give a tight, breathless laugh of triumph as Ricky practically lunges for you. His long fingers wrap around your wrist, wrenching it from between your thighs and pinning it to the sheets. His lean form hovers over you, your sensitive thighs brushing the rough material of his black jeans.

Ricky's lips caught yours forcefully, his tongue pushing its way past your lips to find your own. He kisses you hungrily, his hot mouth keeping yours busy as his hands flex around your wrist tightly.

You hum happily, grinding up into him, the bulge in his pants evident to you. Ricky loves the feel of you, he can't stop his hands from running down your body. His hand slips down, jerking so forcefully on the front of your lingerie you hear it rip with a moan.

His hand covers your breasts, your stiff nipples pressing against his palms as he cups them. You feel amazing, all warm and responsive, pressing into him wantonly. One hand finally slips down your stomach , pleased when he reaches your thighs. He works his fingers low, stroking your soaked folds back and forth, groaning as your warm juices coat his fingers.

You're so wet for him!

The blue-eyed male groaned against your soft lips as your fingernails graze his back beneath his t-shirt, leaving thin, pink streaks on his fair skin. You pull him tightly to you, your fingers locking into his long hair and tugging, just hard enough to make him moan.

Ricky likes it rough, although not too many women have ever seen that side of him. You'd vaguely wondered a few times if he'd be open to a threesome, other man or woman it doesn't matter to you. Still, that's a conversation for another day.

He doesn't hesitate to fit himself between your parted thighs, pressing into you, lips still conquering yours. He shuffles, managing to peel off his jacket and jerking his shirt off, letting them fall to the floor. His hand is still cupping your breasts, squeezing and toying with your nipple. He tugs, knowing how much you enjoy your breasts being played with. He can't wait to be naked with you, fucking you for the rest of the night.

Your lips cling to each other, your arms winding around his neck as you strain into him. Your skin is burning where it touches, your mouths hot. You hate it when he's gone, but oh do you enjoy the moment when you reconnect.

Ricky finally tears his lips from yours, instead sealing them to the crook of your neck. He suckled hard on your skin, grinding his body down into yours, creating a lovely friction.

He wants to touch all of you, remember your curves. He squeezes your breast one more time before letting go, wanting to explore the rest of you. He nudges with his legs, urging yours to become wider for him. He caresses your inner thighs, his teeth skimming your delicate throat, a mark already forming.

He's missed your body.

The hand between your legs is teasing, keeping you hot and bothered but not letting you cum. He brushes your soaking folds with his finger tips, chuckling when you whine unhappily. He pinches your clit, making your body jerk immediately as you gasp, nails digging into his neck. He presses two fingers together and slides them inside of you, enjoying the way your heated walls clench around his digits as he thrusts them in and out.

He smirks as his lips draw lower, sealing them around one taut nipple. He runs his tongue along the bud, lavishing it with attention. He suckles, nuzzling and kissing, leaving a glistening trail behind.

He's missed you.

It's not just about sex with you, although he definitely appreciates it. You're actually funny, you support him but you're not with him just for money. You make him laugh, you challenge him, you make him feel like he can be a better person. You force him to think about his decisions, to not let his life be stale.

You're moaning, drawing his attention back from his thoughts. Your nipple throbs beneath his tongue, hardening  the more​ he toys. Your thighs tighten, and he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your hot breath blowing into his ear.

You spread your legs wider, whispering hot little nothing's into his ear. You want him to be harder, to really show you how much he's missed you and you don't want to wait much longer. To finally have him in your grasp ---.

He tugs on your breast with his teeth, leaving little marks against your body. He shows your other breast the same attention, not wanting you to think he wasn't going to give you plenty of his time.

Ricky wants you to cum. He wants you to cum as he finger fucks you, as he bites and nips , to hear you gasp his name. Your skin is flushed bright red, you're starting to quiver, fingers clenched against his scalp. Your head has fallen back against the sheets, your chest is heaving against his attention. He increases his thrusts, brushing the thumb of his free hand against your clit to hasten your orgasm.

You're not quiet, you have no shame in expressing how good you feel. The two of you have had noise complaints before on the really adventurous nights. You suddenly give a loud cry, arching against him as his slick fingers hit the spot that always makes you los control. You cling to him for dear life, holding on as your entire world shakes and shatters around you; you can hear him moaning as you floor his palm with your ecstasy, your head falling back once more.

It's always so good!

Ricky groans against your chest, his hot breath exhaling as you clench and cry out. He can feel you still shivering, his fingers seeing their assault inside of you. You're panting for breath, and he kisses your collarbone lightly, pleased.

"I missed you," you sigh, kissing his cheek. "Welcome home, baby." . "I'm not home yet," he murmurs mischievously, peeling your legs wide. You grin, pleased he isn't done, he does still have to get off. He grips your hips tightly, pinning them against the mattress as he kisses your stomach. Your fingers flex against his hair before letting go, curling instead into the sheets. He can smell your arousal the lower he dips, feel your heat.

Glancing up, Ricky lowers his hand to the front of his pants, tugging the button and zipper open to relieve some pressure on his aching cock. he's throbbing, his body begging his mind to already be inside of you, to feel that heat swallowing him.

He needs you.

"I want to be inside of you," he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before straightening. He hooks his arms around your legs, dragging you down the bed and making you gasp; you love it when he's like this!

He forces your legs wide, your body eagerly bending to his wants. You hold your thigh open for him, your eyes on his cock as he shuffles close to your entrance. He's so hard, you want to wrap your lips around his thick shaft and suck until he explodes in your mouth!

Fuck!

"Ricky," you whine, unable to stop yourself from reaching for him. Your hands curl around his arms, dragging him on top of you. You can feel his head pushing against you, slipping against your soaking folds . Ricky's lips capture yours, and you give half gasp, half cry as his thick cock thrusts between your folds, burying himself in your heat.

You're so fucking snug, just like always. He can feel how warm, how welcoming your body is, your whimper as he shifts making his blood boil. Youre hugging him, walls tight as squeezing. Your hands are almost shaking as you hold onto him, your lips against his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you gasp, pulling on his hips. "Fuck me, Ricky. Hard."

Your words crawl across his skin, his body burning with an intense heat immediately. His lips lock with yours a he begins moving, groaning himself. Shaking his back hair out of his eyes, he slips his hands beneath your ass, cupping your backside and lifting your hips against his pelvis, feeling your entire body jerk at the sharp motion.

His hips drive forward, his shaft sinking into you over and very with such force you have to press against the headboard, only vaguely hearing it smack against the wall over and over. He groans at how wonderful you feel against him, your tight walls squeezing pleasurably. It's almost overwhelming, feeling you again, and from the pulsing in his cock, Ricky knows he can't last long.

He rocks his hips against yours, thrusting long and hard inside of you, the angle making your toes curl in the air. He has your hips lifted, all the control in his hands, his fingers digging deeply into your ass, no doubt leaving small bruises behind.

He groans, only able to hear the sound of your bodies wet smacking, of your bare skin against the other. His cock is throbbing heavily against your slick walls, and he didn't think he could last much longer.

It's just too much.

Ricky's lips lock with yours, muffling his throaty groan as his shaft aches, at its limit. He fits so perfectly between your thighs, your lips clinging to each other. Your clit is throbbing your body consumed with that undeniable heat --- you're on the verge of cumming and you both know it.

Ricky gives a few rough, swift thrusts into your body, his fingers clenching into your skin as he drags your legs higher. He's going to make you cum so hard you forget he's been gone the past few months.

He grinds his hips into yours, working you over so well you're actually caught off guard when your climax hits. Your eyes roll back as a wave of heat carries your body away, everything going dark as intense pleasure overwhelms you. Your body throbs with aftershocks if your orgasm as you melt into the wrinkled sheets, aware of the shreds of lingerie clinging to your damp body; Ricky still wore his pants.

He smirks breathlessly as you cum beneath him, your snug core hugging him as your arms hold him tightly. He kisses your cheek, slowing his thrusting, letting you enjoy your orgasm.

He gives you a moment, then he gives in to his own relief, one he's been denying himself since he'd seen you laid out on the be in that sexy outfit. He grips onto your hips, groaning into your neck as the tightness of his body finally relaxes. He pants , his body lying on top of yours. His fingers twine through yours, your legs shifting around his waist.

"It's good to be home," Ricky sighs and you gave a breathless laugh, your fingers stroking through his damp hair.

"I'm so glad you're back, Ricky ," you murmur, kissing his shoulder as the two of you lay there.

"I am too, (y/N). Being away from you is torture." He said, reluctantly raising his head. He brought your fingers to his lips, kissing each one individually. "Especially with all those photos you sent me."

You half smirk, gazing up at him warmly.

Yeah, you have no shame.

"You're staying for a while, right?" You ask, biting your lip deeply when he rolls onto his back, your legs quickly closing. Ricky lays there a moment before shuffling the rest of his clothes off.

"Yeah, we're not going on tour for a while. We have time together," he yawns, you quickly snuggling into his side. You lay your head on his shoulder, his arm curling around you to keep you close.

Good.

"You know, if you guys would let me tape you some time, we'd have a badass porno."

You and Ricky both look up, and you frown as you see his band mate Devin standing in the doorway.

"Devin!" Ricky hisses, starting to sit up immediately, turning red. "What the fuck, man!?"

"You two literally left the door open!" Devin defends himself immediately, looking amused as Ricky hastily tosses a sheet over you. He doesn't want anyone else to see your goods!

"Can we not have some damned privacy in our own apartment!?" Ricky bursts, holding a pillow over his junk as he scrambles up.

"Uh, no. Not when you leave your bedroom door open and I'm sleeping on your couch until I leave tomorrow." Devin grins. "So, when's round two?"

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 9 - Grease Paint

Echo Eclipse had made themselves comfortable in the cramped dressing room. I didn’t know them yet, not even well enough to match the person to the instrument, but I’d developed visual mnemonics to differentiate. The one whose head was shaved underneath a long sweep of brown hair and the one with the round face sat in folding chairs, hunched over a phone, sharing earbuds. The small one was sprawled out on a ripped leather couch, playing a game on his phone. The young one stood in front of the wall-sized mirror smearing his arms in black grease paint.

Chris was squatting on the floor when I entered the room, hunched over a pile of bags and rumpled clothing, drinking from a bottled water. I knocked on the open door to avoid having to announce myself.

I couldn’t find a place for my hands on his body that felt natural when Chris greeted me with a casual hug; he was so tall, so long in the torso. I couldn’t reach around his neck easily but I avoided hugging him around the waist. I lifted my arms underneath his and pressed my palms between his shoulder blades, into his sleeveless T-shirt.

He reintroduced me to the rest of the band, which I appreciated. I’d only recently been able to recognize the band to tell them apart from the crew, and I was shit with names.

Kyle with the round face shared earbuds with Adrian with the long sweep of hair.

Tyler, smearing black over his body, smiled at me in the mirror.

Smith gave a single wave without looking up from his phone.

None of them paid further attention to me.

I shoved my makeup case onto a folding table amid Subway sandwiches, loose cords, tape, and bottled water.

“You brought makeup?” Chris asked.

“It’s my job.”

“Right.”

I gestured at the sleeveless tee he wore. “This is what you’re wearing onstage?”

“Nah, I got another one I’ll put on afterward.”

“You should put it on now. I don’t want you smearing your makeup or getting it on your shirt.”

He shrugged, opening his palms to me. “It’s usually fine.”

“Look, am I doing this or not?” I half-smiled to hide slight exasperation.

“O-kay,” he drew out in concession. “I guess we’ll do it professionally then.”

Chris pulled the sleeveless tee over his head, tugging it over his face by the front collar and pulling the back collar all the way over his head. I caught inked plumage along his ribs before averting my eyes. I stared hard at a snag in the gray-green carpet though my attention remained on his skin; my eyes focused on the floor but saw only skin rippling over his ribs.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, now wearing a black sleeveless tee that wasn’t much different from the first, placing himself in a plastic avocado-colored chair in the middle of the room. “Since the smallest fucking person here is taking up the largest piece of furniture?” he called louder, reaching over and smacking the toe of one of Smith’s black boots with his massive palm.

Again without taking his eyes off of his phone, Smith saluted him with a middle finger.

“You’re fine if you sit up straight.”

Chris rolled his shoulders back and sat on the edge of the chair, at seated attention. I unrolled the fabric case I’d tucked my brushes into, unzipped my pouch and started pulling out the various tubes, jars, and palettes.

He gestured at my set-up. “Did you study this or something? Like, go to cosmetology school and turn someone’s hair purple?”

“Only if they wanted it. Put this around your neck.” I threw one of Michael’s old towels at Chris before dabbing my fingers into the blue-tinted primer. I started in the middle of his face, underneath one cheekbone.

“No, actually, it’s all kind of self-taught trial and error kind of stuff. Now there are all these tutorials on YouTube, it’s easy. I’m old enough that I just missed all that. I had to learn by making myself look like Pennywise a few hundred times first.” I finished adding primer to his forehead, then continued on to his chin.

“I hope you’re done learning then.”

“Never,” I snorted. “I promise not to learn too much on you, though.”

I screwed the top back onto the primer and Chris maneuvered in his chair trying to see his face in the mirror, past Tyler smoothing the black paint over his neck.

“There’s nothing to really see yet. It’s just primer.”

He sank back down into the chair. “I don’t know what that is. I definitely never used it before.”

I poured foundation onto the back of my hand. “It’s just like getting your face ready for everything else. It helps it stay on better. Sit up.”

“I don’t use brushes when I do this either,” he said, noticing the brush I’d swirled through the foundation before I began buffing it over his nose.

“Can you do some kind of makeup magic to make my nose look smaller?”

I smiled despite myself. “You don’t want that. Your nose is fine.”

He was quiet for a moment while I buffed the foundation around his lips. I buffed around his forehead and temples and he asked, “Does this mean if this goes well you’ll do my makeup again?”

“I’m certainly not going anywhere. Close your eyes.” I dusted some iridescent eyeshadow over one lid.

“How did you get suckered into doing this again if you’ve done it once already? I mean, how did you fall for this if you already know what touring is like?”

Now the other lid.

“The bus helps.” I feared it was an obvious lie.

“Enough?”

“It helps.”

I began coloring in one eyelid with a black eyeliner pencil and jumped when Kyle suddenly roared with laughter over the phone.

“What are they watching?”

“Martyrs.”

“Oh?”

Chris waved one hand dismissively and opened his eyes while I reached for a stiffer brush to rub in the eyeliner. “Yeah, there’s something wrong with him.”

“Let me believe it’s the American remake and I can forgive the laughter.”

He closed his eyes again while I worked. “No shit, though, I wish we had a bus with a shower and all. I’ve definitely had a set or two that were pretty ripe because we didn’t make it to the next stop in time for a shower.”

“That sounds miserable.”

I suddenly flashed to Erica Jong’s so-called “zipless fuck” and the Fear of Flying heroine’s desire for the artist even after seeing the skidmarks in his underwear.

Chris continued, “And there’s been times when I did shows in the same clothes without washing them, worn the same makeup the next night.”

“Good thing you’re in a band. The glamor overrides the smell, I assume.”

“I hope?”

“I mean, I’m sure it doesn’t bother the Echo Eclipse groupies.” I wasn’t exactly sure whether or not Echo Eclipse even had groupies, but surveyed the face in front of me and thought that they must.

Chris laughed good-naturedly, showing his teeth. “Groupies? I don’t think any band had groupies since the eighties. I know we don’t.”

“None at all?”

“No way. ‘Stans’ sure, a few. But nowadays it’s like you never heard of a band, you basically follow them on tour, or they’re getting a restraining order against you.”

“Any restraining orders, then?”

“Someday, maybe,” he said, comically wistful.

I began blending a darker brownish shadow into the crease of one eye.

“What about you?”

“What?” I stepped back, puzzled.

He opened his eyes again. “Any stalkers? Isn’t that a thing?”

“I’m a woman in the internet age and I’m married to Michael March.”

“Too many to count, then.”

He shut his eyes as I began blending again. “But a fraction as many as Michael, and mine are a little less scary.”

“Yeah? I can’t even think about the shit he must see over the years.”

“The young ones are some of the scariest, too, which is funny since he’s in his forties. He likes to say that in the beginning, before all this social media, the worst thing a fan did was cry or scream or try to forcibly kiss him at a signing, and that’s a relief now.”

“Yeah.”

“But we disagree about the worst thing a fan has done.”

“What is it?”

“I think the worst thing fans do is when they cut themselves and send Michael their razors. Before we met he actually received an envelope once, but it was tucked inside a small, like, courier envelope. The envelope inside was brown all over, just covered in blood. Michael didn’t handle it himself, obviously, but they told him the bloody razor was inside and a Polaroid of where this fan had carved ‘Michael’ into her arm. Big ropey scabs.”

Chris was silent for a moment, then said, “Not the point, but with all that blood how could they make out the Polaroid? Didn’t the blood mess up the picture?”

“I said the same thing! We actually had a big fight about it when we were dating. I laughed at the fact that it was obviously staged, not like some fan put this together in an act of desperation. And I swear to God it’s like he was insulted! He got all mad at me for like interpreting his life or something like that. But that was the most offensive part to me: the fact that it was all kind of staged like that. So manipulative. This person’s desire to create this scenario was more offensive to me than if it had been real.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty sick.”

“Right?”

“So what does Michael think is the worst thing a fan has done?”

I rolled my eyes and reached for the eyeliner again, this time to line his eyes. “This has happened more than once, but sending used panties in the mail.”

“That’s some Motley Crue shit.”

“It definitely happens. Like, still.”

“Do you think they ever just buy them and send them, or do you think it’s real? Like, do you think they really wear them around and send them?”

“Some of them, absolutely. Some actually arrive crusty.”

Chris widened his eyes.

“Stop, I don’t want to poke you. One fan sent these crusty panties - like crust dusting the envelope and everything - and I swear to God the smell will stay with me forever. But that wasn’t even the worst part! She included this letter that was just a detailed description of her maturbating to the ‘Solace in Silence’ video, but it went on for three pages.”

“Most of the time I couldn’t fill a postcard.” He shrugged and I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s pretty groty, though. I’m surprised you’re not as bothered by that as he is, or more bothered by that than the bloody razor.”

“Oh, God no. I don’t care about the panties. I totally get it.”

“You get it?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Really.”

“Absolutely.” I lifted the lid on the loose translucent powder and grabbed the fluffiest brush. “I get the idea about being absolutely infatuated and having no outlet for it. I get being so tortured by these unrequited feelings, and you feel like you’re going to burst, and it’s so ridiculous and impossible that all you want is for them to know. And it builds to the point that you want to make it known in the biggest, bravest way possible, make as much of an impression as you can. And making an impression on a celebrity isn’t easy. If I were them, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Too bad you’re not an Echo Eclipse fan, then,” he smirked.

“Who says I’m not?”

“What, you did your homework for the tour or something?”

“I did my homework for your makeup. I’m into it. The videos are intense.”

Chris released a breath that was half laugh and half embarrassed sigh.

“No, stop for a second so I can do your lips.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s still talking.”

He parted his lips obediently. I ran a liquid black over his lips, tipping the silver rings in his lower lip first one way, then the next. I painted under his two rings with a lipliner brush. His lower lip was full and I was careful to cover it all before making clean edges. I made points at his cupid’s bow and slid carefully along his upper lip, and without thinking I glanced up at his closed eyes. When they opened on me I looked away quickly.

“One more thing.” I pulled a tissue from my purse and draped it over his lips, then brushed more of the loose powder over the tissue. “It should stay better like that. But let me know if I need to touch it up.”

“So you’ll be around then? Are you going to watch our set?”

I hadn’t thought about it, but now I suppressed a smile. “I can do that if I’m won’t be in the way.”

“If there’s room for randos that won radio contests there’s room for you. I’ll be all high-maintenance, like ‘I need my makeup artist on standby.’”

I laughed.

“So I’m finished then?”

“You should be good.”

Chris jumped out of his chair and elbowed Tyler out of the way to study his face in the mirror. I cringed as I noticed Tyler smearing the black grease paint around his eyes. Chris widened and narrowed his blackened eyes, stretched the skin over his upper lip and examined either side of his nose in the mirror, then sneered.

“This is sick.” He turned back to me and laughed, delighted, and his teeth were shockingly white against his black lips. “This is fucking sick!”

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 11 - Liquid Liner

Andie joined me in the wings for Second Chance’s set. I pulled up the same chair I’d sat in for Echo Eclipse and pulled another plastic folding chair alongside mine. It was too loud to talk much but I appreciated having her there. As if I subconsciously needed moral support, even if it was silent.

The crowd had begun cheering between sets and a fresh wave of whistling and screaming began every time anyone from the crew walked onstage. When the lights went out, the screams grew louder still. New applause and whistles for each band member’s entrance: first Pelly with a quick wave, then Abel, and Andie hooted and clapped harder. Next was Mason to even more applause. They began the opening of “Hated Heart,” their usual opener, and Michael stalked across the stage as he sang the opening lines.

The crowd blew up.

From where I sat I could see a small portion of the audience, mostly the fans pushed up against the barricade, but it was the same sight I always saw. In every venue, in every city, in every country the view from this seat would be the same: mostly women in their twenties and thirties in front, shrieking, the occasional fan in tears, all of them with arms extended to Michael whether he was inches away or clear across the stage.

It hurt my heart that they wanted him so badly. I knew that he deserved better than I was able to give him, but I just didn’t have it in me. I didn’t have the same passion for my own husband that millions of strangers had.

I remembered seeing Second Chance from the wings for the first time, or at least I thought I did. The memories ran together, to be honest, but there was one particular show I at least thought of as the first show I saw as more than a “fan.”

I’d prodded at him beforehand, making suggestions for his makeup that he refused to hear. Watching him bent over his makeshift makeup counter, carefully lining his eyes with black liquid liner, I’d reminded him, “You know I do this professionally, right? And I’m right here? With nothing to do?”

He simply repeated for the millionth time, “I have to do it myself” and removed the bobby pin that held the flat-ironed hair out of his face.

Then he turned to face me. He wore black pinstriped pants clasped by black suspenders over a thin black tee with black boots. “But I will borrow your lashes.”

Admiration still vastly outweighed exasperation then.

Second Chance was always an energetic band and my obvious newfound interest in the band meant I’d looked up videos of their older shows and seen a couple of their high-energy performances already, but this show was another level. Michael was on another level.

Second Chance took the stage and Michael remained frozen at the mic stand until the band went into “Hated Heart,” when he snatched the mic, spun twice, jumped onto the drum risers for two beats, high-kicked off the risers and landed in a crouch, and sang the opening on his knees before crawling toward the edge of the stage.

The crowd was just as hungry for him then.

He maintained that energy level for the duration of the set. I was in awe. The entire performance was just that: a performance. A menage of swirling, leaping, kicking, sliding, and crawling. A couple of times I thought maybe I’d caught his eye from where I stood - and I stood through the set, the idea of sitting never occurring to me once - but realized it must have been impossible to see me or anyone or anything that distinctly with the lights in his eyes as they were.

When they finally wished the crowd a good night and jogged offstage to towel off and grab more water, Michael grabbed my face between his hands and kissed me deeply if quickly. He was covered in sweat that came off on my lips and I licked at the salt he left behind as he grinned and said, “Do you love me yet?”

This show was burned in my memory because the question haunted me, and the question haunted me because I’d decided yes, before he’d even asked the question, yes. Now I was in love.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 1 - Chris

Chris.

The first time Chris put his hands on me I felt my body turn inside out. When he reached for my hips, one enormous palm cupping each one, my skin shrank from him the way prophets have shrunk from the presence of God. This act was a sacrament: his tongue on mine a communion wafer, the bruises he bit into my throat a well-deserved flogging. This was what mattered; this was the meaning of life.

Here is what I learned from Chris: betrayals, like death, happen in threes.

Some betrayals are immediate; some betrayals creep in and take hold in your sleep.

Some betrayals have already occurred long before the act takes place, the last rites said, the final breath taken.

This is what Chris taught me.

A single pair of hands can be both cruel and gentle. The same eyes can be endless wells of despair as easily as they can turn cold. The same face can inspire tenderness and terror.

The same tongue can punish and reward. Chris taught me this, too.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 6 - Corkboard

Second Chance preferred local dives to chain restaurants when possible, so I assumed Ray’s was “our” choice until we got inside. It was a barbecue place that seated us at picnic-style benches covered in red-and-white checked tablecloths, the kind of benches that make your ass ache after fifteen minutes. Framed art of pot-belly pigs running a restaurant - taking orders, making change, prepping food - decorated the walls. I hadn’t been a vegetarian since college, but this was in poor taste. I wished I’d gone with Andie and Abel and a few of the others looking for a vegan-friendly option.

There was a brief skittering around the picnic table as we were seated: we sat promptly and Echo Eclipse shuffled to decide where to sit on the opposite side of the table.

“Wait, wait… Hold up.” The tall one, the singer, held up his hand. “Here, I get Michael. Then guitar, guitar,” he said pointing first at Mason, already seated, then at the empty space opposite Mason. “Bass, bass,” he continued, pointing at Tyler, then the space next to Mason. “And drums, drums.” That was Sam across from their drummer.

Michael squeezed me onto the bench next to him so that he and I were both occupying the space across from the other singer.

The singer grinned as he sat. “That’s how you do that.”

“Et tu?” the Echo Eclipse drummer called from the other end of the table. “You put the drummers all the way down here?”

“Yeah,” he called back. “Didn’t you hear? Nobody gives a fuck about the drummer!”

They all laughed together as Second Chance smiled politely.

Echo Eclipse was still a young band. Together ten years - as we soon learned - or not, they were a young band. They all still liked each other. Their chemistry was immediately apparent; they relished each other’s company. Second Chance getting together for this tour had been more like distant cousins reuniting at a funeral. No ill will, no animosity. A pleasant greeting but not much else to say.

I’d always loved spending time around the other guys. I loved Michael more when I saw him through other people’s eyes, and that included the band. He was kind, charming, classy. He was a good man who anyone would want to know. He commanded respect and he wasn’t so fucking obsequious. That he saved for me. It was a hard truth that I enjoyed Michael as a member of the band more than I did as his own person.

But at least I admitted it. To myself.

The server was a girl, and young. Young enough that she had no idea who she was speaking to when she took Michael’s drink order of water with lemon. Over the last year or so I had only just begun to notice that the vast majority of servers and cashiers I dealt with were young enough to call me ma’am unironically. This girl had to have been in high school. Her joints were knobby and her hair was limp. Second Chance was on TRL while she was in diapers.

Jesus.

The Echo Eclipse singer, Chris, reached one hand toward the server’s hair. I thought he was going to grab a lock of it but he stopped at the gesture. “My hair was this color once.” He grinned a vertical labret piercing and two snakebite rings at her.

The server peeked from under stringy bangs at the black hair that hung to Chris’s shoulders like this was a trap, the setup to a cruel joke. Her hair was the shade between blonde and brown that doesn’t register as a color at all.

“It’s not that color now.”

“No, I know.” He fingered a lock of his own hair between his index and middle fingers and glanced down at it. “That was my natural color but I couldn’t pull it off so I did this.”

She smiled hesitantly.

“Looks pretty on you, though.”

I smiled at the server’s reaction as she blushed and scampered away with our order. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard a man other than Michael pay a woman other than myself a compliment devoid of entendre.

On the surface, Chris wasn’t unlike Michael when I first met him. He seemed already to have a bit of the same ease and grace about him that Michael had. The same likeability, whatever quality it was that made people want to please them, Chris had it. It was probably the same quality that made them good frontmen, though Michael hated that word.

“Man, I have to thank you for having us on the tour,” Chris was saying to Michael with a sweeping glance down our side of the table to include whoever was listening. I was certain that every one of us felt like he was thanking us individually.

Michael gave his tight-lipped smile, the one I’d thought was a sign of taking me seriously all those years ago, the one I knew now was a sign of discomfort. For the first time I wondered whether or not they’d even had any say in Echo Eclipse being on the tour.

“We’re glad for it,” he said, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “We need some energy on the tour now that we’re old men.”

“If this is old, man,” Chris said, gesturing at Michael in his black jeans and baggy black sweater, the sleeve of which he kept winding around one wrist, “then I can’t wait.”

“Well. You will.” The uncomfortable smile again, and I could feel my own grin overcompensating for Michael.

Chris turned his attention to me. “And you’re a fuckin trooper, man. I bet you didn’t know what you signed up for.”

I opened my mouth to answer but Michael beat me to it. “She did,” he said. “She’s toured with us before. When we were engaged. She did my makeup for every show when I still did that kind of thing.”

“He was actually pretty handy with a makeup brush as I’m sure you can imagine, so it was just kind of an excuse to be together.”

Mason, who I hadn’t realized was listening, lowered his head in mock-confidence and interjected, “It was the least amount of makeup he ever got done.”

The guys laughed - even Michael - and I squirmed. Michael placed his long fingers on my knee and I squirmed more.

“I’m running to the bathroom,” I said and extricated myself.

The restaurant had only a unisex single-seat bathroom but it was clean. I washed my hands and reapplied a nude lipstick. I brushed flakes of black mascara from under my eyes. I wondered how much longer I should stand there to make it seem as if I’d actually had to use the bathroom.

The great irony of my career, or my career-turned-pastime-turned-only-solace-from-Michael, was that it taught me a great universal truth: the power of makeup is finite. Makeup on a horrible person was like lacquer on barbed wire and I’d had that experience more than once.

Conversely, some of the most beautiful people I’d met in my life were shit with a brush. Physically beautiful people. Radiant people. People who emitted a positive energy like it was plutonium.

Returning to our table I realized that, despite the growing list of similarities between the two of them, this was the difference between Michael and Chris. Michael had that inimitable ease and grace but he didn’t radiate positivity like Chris did. Sam had it, too, which is why I’d adored him from the moment I met him.

I slowed my steps approaching the table to study them, the two of them, together. Michael’s eye crinkles - there were entire blogs dedicated to his eye crinkles. And you could see exactly where Chris’s would form as he ducked his head to laugh. That was a difference: Chris often tucked his head when he laughed, when he was amused, and Michael tended to raise his chin like he was balancing something on it, a pose of arrogance. It was as if, for each of them, the gesture was an inverse function of their height.

Chris turned and caught my eye as he continued speaking to Michael, and the connecting of our eyes was like puncturing a corkboard with a thumbtack. A fastening, a nestling. Secure and satisfying.

Only as I sat again next to Michael - in even less space than before I got up - did I realize that he had been watching me return to the table, as well. They had both been watching me, Chris smiling, Michael and his tight lips.

I sat slowly. “What’s… up?”

Chris’s ankle grazed my calf as he pulled his legs back under his own seat and he apologized. He asked, “Would you be down to do my makeup? For the show tomorrow?”

I glanced at Michael as a reflex. He was watching me intently despite being close enough that, turned toward me like this, his breath moved my hair.

“Sure.”

This was another reflex, a reflex I had when asked to do something for someone. It didn't make me a good person. It made me a bitter and unhappy person. It was a prison of compulsion. Someone said thank you, I said you’re welcome; someone said excuse me, I said I’m sorry; someone said can you?, I said yes.

I still felt the brushing of his ankle against my calf moments later.

***

I felt obligated to spend some time in Michael’s bunk again that night. I felt obligated to throw extra attention his way since I knew I would get a reprieve the next day with all the work for the show. Sound check would take time, warm-ups would take time, dressing would take time though not quite so much as it used to, but I could take extra time with Chris’s makeup.

I relaxed into Michael a tiny bit more, knowing temporary relief was imminent.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 8 - Honey

I sat with my legs up in the front lounge of the bus. In the yellowed pages before me, purchased on the road for $0.50 at a used bookstore, Ted Bundy had just abducted a girl by a lake and a hoard of witnesses had noticed nothing unusual. I looked up from my book to see Michael emerge from the bathroom, a honey-colored towel around his waist. The nautical stars tattooed into his abdomen disappeared into the front of the towel, and pagan symbols scattered across his legs below, no cohesive pattern or logic to unite them. The door to the bunks stood open and I watched him disappear through it, heard him sling his toiletries into his bunk.

I shouldn't have been on the bus. I’d be spending more than enough time there over the next couple of months and I should have been savoring any time I could get outside with my face in the sun and feet in the dirt. But I had lingered outside too long with Andie and forced myself back onto the bus for some relief. I didn't tan, I baked, and it would probably take a day to see the extent of the damage.

Sam was reading diagonal from me, his Converse propped up on the seat next to me. I loved Sam so I forgave him his taste in literature. It was elitist. He found no value in most of what I read, though he would never tell me so. He only read whatever had just won a snobby literary prize and got a real hard-on when a book he’d already read and approved of won something major.

Now he was poring over Hemingway, which meant he had just quit a book. He’d told me once, “When I'm disappointed with a book I quit reading it and go back to Hemingway. To remind me what a book is supposed to be.” My eyes rolled hard at that one.

“Babe,” I said, grabbing and shaking the toe of his shoe. “I’m going back to the graveyard for a bit. I’m doing Chris’s makeup so I’m going to check them out real quick before I head over. I’ve legit never even heard of them before now.”

Sam didn’t look up from his book. “Research, then?”

“Please. Music videos.”

“That’s valid research. Those guys are alright.” He nodded his head in approval. “Pastiche is a legitimate art form.”

“Whatever. Thanks in advance for the hotspot.” I smacked the sole of his shoe with my paperback before stepping through the open doorway.

I passed Mason napping in his bunk and Andie watching a movie on a tablet before stepping back into the graveyard. Michael was halfway dressed. His track pants were in place underneath the towel still wrapped around his waist. He pulled a Depeche Mode tee down over his head before uncinching and pulling off the towel. With this many years of touring under his belt and so many of them in vans and RVs, he had made an art of maintaining modesty. I’d never known anyone else in the band - or the crew, or the tagalongs like me - to be so conservative on tour. If I hadn’t known Michael I would’ve said it was an impossibility.

I squeezed by him to get into my bunk. He was in the zone already. He hardly even noticed I was there. I sunk down in the bunk and propped on my stomach the tablet I kept under my pillow.

I did a Google image search and was glad I did. Chris’s makeup preference was different from Michael’s. Michael had always gone for an androgynous look: he’d worn his wavy black hair halfway down his back for years, or bundled it into a messy bun secured with chopsticks. He wore heavy makeup, particularly heavy eye makeup, but it was feminine. Fake lashes, glitter eyeshadow. Inspecting these images I saw that Chris preferred more of a goth/Misfits look, bordering on corpse paint. He appeared with heavy black circles around his eyes, black lipstick at times, his face even paler than his natural pallor. His arms and neck were painted black when he performed, and I wondered why he would cover all that hard-earned ink.

A YouTube search yielded a number of music videos and at first glance they seemed fairly polished. The videos spanned all of their albums and the band members changed as I clicked through them. How had I never seen this band before? I returned to the top of the list and ensured that the tablet was muted, then clicked on the first video in the list.

This was an entirely different experience from the person I’d sat across from at dinner the night before. That person had a warmth about him; he’d smiled through the whole meal. People tended to smile around Michael, of course, and it was no secret that Chris was a fan of his, but it hadn’t been the gushing of a fan. I remembered Chris’s interaction with the server; he wasn’t a long-time fan of hers, certainly, but had treated her the same.

But this.

This version of Chris was sinister. Wicked. I’d seen many bands. Many, many bands. Typically, it was apparent the look, the vibe, the sound they were shooting for, and typically they were overshooting. Comically overshooting.

This was something else, something real. Something genuine. Not only Chris - every one of them. There was no cringe-worthy mugging for the camera. No superfluous hair tosses, no menacing snarls. Their presence was sufficient.

And Chris.

I turned onto my side in the bunk, my back to Michael, propping the tablet on a bunched up bit of blanket. Blocking Michael’s view of the screen.

I clicked over to the next video, then the next. The ease of Chris’s movements carried into the videos. How many singers had I seen in my lifetime that seemed not to know what to do with their bodies? That needed a guitar to hide behind, whether they knew how to play or not? Chris dominated every frame he was in. His stature lent itself to dominating: he stood taller than anyone else in the band, and his lean frame made him seem taller still. His body language was entirely un-self-conscious, entirely present. Every ounce of passion he had fueled every snarl, every grimace.

And his face. His eyes. Chris had a sneer that flipped my stomach, and a smolder that could melt steel. A smolder that took me entirely by surprise and pulled at my chest. I had to remind myself of the camera’s presence, that I wasn’t looking into eyes that could look back.

A sudden self-consciousness swept through me, followed by an intense resentment. It occurred to me, in the back of my mind, that watching Chris with my husband next to me was traitorous. I hadn’t meant it to be, but the fact of not being able to look away from Chris made it so. But the shame was fleeting and resentment prickled my back, where I could feel Michael’s eyes. I curled tighter around my tablet as the next video began automatically.

***

When I left for Echo Eclipse’s dressing room backstage, Michael was doing the vocal warm-ups that made my skin crawl. After years and years of this I could have done them myself. I called out that I was leaving and he waved me away without opening his eyes. He could have been waving at anything, really.

I left with my makeup case under one arm.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - Prologue

Don’t say his name: feel it. Locate the the first phoneme, the initial /k/. The sound starts not in your mouth but deep in the base of your throat. It is the sound of a catch in your breath, a hitch in your body.

Feel it: /k/.

Feel it rumble up, rumble through you, rumble along and roll your tongue into a final flail of submission. Roll your tongue along the postalveolar sound. Feel it graze your teeth, just barely. Be careful not to bite.

Release your breath on the /i/, and only then realize you’ve held it. You held your breath for this release in anticipation of the trailing /s/, a slide of the tongue, subtle and serpentine.

Feel his name in your mouth, your chest, your belly. Feel his name through your fingers and toes. Feel his name and you needn’t say it.

Feel it guarded close to your heart.

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 7 - Gravel

Andie was a preternatural creature. She claimed that everything she knew was the result of an attunement with the vibrations of the universe, and she knew everything. I hadn’t taken to her when Abel first introduced her to us a few years back. Michael and I greeted her warmly, and her response was, “You carry yourselves like children.”

Michael blinked at her.

“We do?” I asked in a knee-jerk attempt to humor her.

She nodded and her expression was free of condescension. In fact she seemed pleased, as if she had correctly guessed our ages, as if she had successfully completed a parlor trick.

She pointed a ringed finger at Michael and said, “You like a child who hasn’t learned shame.” Then she swung the same finger at me. “You like a child who has only learned shame.”

We’d both raised our eyebrows at that.

“That’s good,” Andie had continued. “You complement each other.”

I hadn’t appreciated a new arrival presuming to read me, or doing it with such confidence, but Andie had been with Abel for three years now and I liked her better after she had put in some time. It wasn’t that I’d learned to like her, but that I’d learned her. I’d learned her language, her attitude, her mannerisms, and in learning Andie over the last few years I realized she never said a negative word about anyone. I could forgive people like that a lot: they were a dying breed.

So when Andie turned to me and said, “You and Michael are out of sync,” I listened. Despite myself, when Andie spoke I listened.

We sat in lawn chairs behind the venue, catching snatches of soundcheck through the propped-open back door as the crew roamed around and doors in the backstage area opened and closed. I kicked up dust and stray bits of gravel with my flip flop and Andie propped her boots on a third lawn chair, tying up and retying her waist-length blonde hair.

“I thought Michael and I complemented each other?” I smirked. I had reminded her of this encounter many times over the last few years, joking about the experience immediately putting me off.

“That’s exactly what it is. It’s your gait,” she said and sipped her bottled water.

“We walk differently now?”

“Not him. Only you. You carry yourself differently than you did then.”

“How’s that?” I kept a trace of skepticism in my voice, like I was humoring her. It made me feel better about taking her seriously.

“You used to carry yourselves like children. Michael still does, but you don’t, not anymore, not at all.”

“So I walk like an adult now?”

Andie paused. “Yes, that’s it exactly. You carry an extra weight no one else can see.”

I looked off and considered this, like I could see into the distance beyond the tour buses though they blocked the view I was facing. I always wanted to laugh at Andie, at how the things she said could momentarily seem so profound until you realized they were vague enough to be meaningful to anyone, any situation. Like a fortune cookie or a psychic reading. I smirked again.

“So I walk like an adult now,” I repeated. “I am an adult. So isn’t that a good thing?”

She wagged more silver-ringed fingers at the question.

“It's not good for Michael.”

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 5 - Ammunition

I regretted the tour immediately.

Second Chance was headlining the Guns & Germs Tour and a group of up-and-comers I’d never heard of were opening.

We were on a bus as Michael had promised, and this time the bus had a shower. But it was one shower to be shared with eight other people. Mostly men. I carried my toiletries into and out of the bathroom with me whenever I needed them; I’d learned on the last tour that most people on the bus didn’t bring soap or shampoo and counted on mooching. I knew that most of the men would use whatever was within reach, whether it was Tyler’s $0.98 coconut-scented shampoo or Michael’s organic, vegan, cruelty-free shampoo and leave-in conditioner.

I’d had to cram everything I needed with me into a couple of small travel bags, a couple of wardrobe staples in my narrow hanging space, and everything else stayed in the suitcase in the luggage compartment. And every time I tried to settle into my bunk on the bus I thought of a reason I needed the one thing I’d left in the suitcase jostling back and forth below us. I had my books, but not my book light; I had makeup, but not the new false lashes. I had my watch, but not my wedding ring.

Michael had the most luggage, but it was nothing like it used to be. The last couple of tours he’d established a uniform that he wore for every show. He’d eliminated all the makeup and the straightening iron, but now he brought along all types of drapes and shawls and cloaks that were far bulkier than the clothing he used to tour in.

He’d asked me to tuck his Creepers and a couple of sweaters in my hanger space since his was full, but I’d refused on principle. This had been his idea. If my presence was going to make the difference between bringing the Creepers or not, he should have thought of that before.

The most cumbersome items he traveled with now were his workout equipment: dumbbells, barbells, resistance bands. A tub of protein powder bigger than my head. More shaker cups than one man should need. He kept it all in the back lounge of the bus where no one ever went except Michael and Mason when they wanted to write music “in peace.”

Michael and Mason had already spent most of their time in the back lounge, Mason with his guitar and Michael with his notebook. When we were first dating I wondered if there would come a time when I could open and flip through that notebook as I pleased or if it was more personal than that, like a journal, making it all the more enticing. I still didn’t know the answer; only that Michael threw it down carelessly around the house and that I didn’t care enough anymore to pick it up.

I was simmering in my bunk. My bed was in the “graveyard,” among the darker bunks located toward the back of the bus, and if I strained my ears I could just make out Michael’s strained singing. Or I wanted to think I could because it fueled my anger.

Michael had dragged me on this tour with him, we were already a hundred miles from home, and I was reading true crime books in a bottom bunk no more than three feet wide. I’d said nothing to him about it so far. I was savoring my anger, swirling it in my mouth before I spit it out. The longer I waited to unleash it the more I ammunition I would have against him. When I looked at it objectively I was actually sad for Michael: the more he disappointed me the more deeply satisfying it became to tally the strikes against him.

“Where’d Spenser go?” I felt a feline tug in my ears at the sound of my name. This voice was clearer and came from the lounge in the front of the bus.

A second voice. “Reading, I’m sure. Probably in her bunk.”

It didn’t sound like anyone was planning to disturb me. Tyler, Sam, Andie, and Abel were lunching in the front. Early-tour camaraderie. I liked them all fine - I adored Sam, in fact - but I’d learned from last time that I needed to pace myself. We would be together for months and if I was still going to like them by the end I needed to take plenty of time for myself now.

Michael trudged out of the back lounge ahead of Mason and I watched their calves pass me, both in track pants. The door to the main lounge closed behind them and I heard them rummage through the kitchen for a moment before Michael returned and rolled into the bunk across from me.

He laid his head on the pillow and gave me the look that once gave me butterflies. Now it nauseated me: it was a look of adoration. It meant I would have to fend him off physically, verbally, or both.

“Did you get some work done?” If I got him talking about new music he might forget about whatever else he had in mind.

“A little.”

He extended his arms between the bunks, inviting me into them. Colored ink swirled across them as though guided by actual wind. His clean nails - always cleaner than mine - just barely peeked over the fingers he used to beckon me to him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, come on,” he said, pressing himself further into the bunk to make room for me.

“No way. There’s nowhere near enough room for both of us.”

“We’ve done it before.” The smile didn’t fade; it grew at the memory. “It didn’t bother us then. We’ll just squeeze tighter.”

I sighed and slid into his bunk, into his body.

He was right, of course. Once upon a time this had been nice. It hadn’t mattered how many people were on the RV. We’d twisted our limbs together, his arms around mine, hands locked behind my neck; my hands tangled in his much longer hair; our faces buried in each other’s necks. We weren’t making out at all times like Tyler with all the girls he brought along. We were grasping, clinging, focused in on the moment, our breathing, on the feeling of our bodies pressed together, the heat at every point of contact. I couldn’t get enough of him then. I wanted to crawl inside of him and make him my home.

I turned my back to Michael now so he could spoon me and I wouldn’t have to look at him. That feeling from before was so foreign to me now. I curled into myself and clasped my hands together under my chin. The outer bar of the bunk dug into my hip and my knees hung off the side. My breath was shallow; as if moving too much or even breathing too deeply would rouse him.

Abel, also banished to the graveyard, approached and ducked his head down to meet my eyes.

“Aw,” he cooed half sarcastically, but only half. He rolled into the top bunk above us. “You two never change.”

Michael smiled into my hair.

I would endure this.

“I feel so lazy now,” Michael said, nuzzling the back of my neck. “No time to nap, though. We’re eating with the boys tonight. I should hit the shower while I can.”

“The boys?”

“The Echo Eclipse boys. We want to spend some time with them before the first show.”

To their credit, Michael and the band believed in the bonding power of touring. They believed in mentoring younger bands, and they had been particularly optimistic about having Echo Eclipse on tour.

Naturally, I’d never heard of them. Once again, Michael was deciding who I needed to know, who was worth my time.

I would endure this. I had no choice.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 2 - Michael

I met Chris through my husband, as I meet everyone through my husband. By now I think most of the people I’ve met in my lifetime have been through Michael. One of the drawbacks of being attached to an instantly recognizable person.

His band’s pop cultural relevance isn’t as immediate as it once was, not even as much as when I met him. But their fans are cult-like, even as they age. Google the name “Michael March” or the band “Second Chance” and you find endless articles, images, gifs, even fanfiction. A startling amount for a band in their twenty-first year together. More and more, though, you find interviews with younger bands, eager up-and-comers, who cite Second Chance’s Ready, Set...  or even Six-Foot Drop as the first CD they ever bought.

Some of the young musicians single out Michael himself as their personal hero. They worship his self-possession, his grace, and, whether they admit it or not, they’ve lifted his entire aesthetic. It’s obvious in the photos that accompany these interviews that become more and more airbrushed over the years.The asymmetrical haircuts, the horror-themed tattoos, the drapey black cloaks and sweaters, the pancake makeup and so-called “guyliner.” This breed can all be traced back to my husband.

Ten years later, Michael isn't the same man he was when I married him. I can't hold that against him, though: he’s actually never been that man at all. The man we all thought he was. When I married him I didn’t know any more about him than the kids singing his praises in Kerrang! and Alternative Press do now.

I met Michael at a photoshoot for his Satanic Panic line, which was new at the time. It was an occult-themed line of T-shirts that would expand as far as chunky plastic jewelry before folding.

I was trying to model then. I was twenty and somewhere along the way I’d confused an aptitude for cosmetology with the calling to stand - or sprawl - in front of cameras. I received a misleading-yet-encouraging amount of work with niche companies because of my niche look. I externalized my goth inclinations as much as possible back then: I didn’t have Vogue Italia proportions, but corsets helped and places I modeled for shrugged at my average height and accepted my curves because I knew how to hide them when I had to. It took time for me to realize my aspirations wouldn’t take me much further, and working with a rockstar name like Michael March would be the apex of my modeling career.

Over the course of a short lifetime, I’d become attuned to the signs of mutual attraction. I didn’t sense it often, so when I did I felt every wisp of hair on my body was standing on end. My cheeks warmed and I found myself winding my fingers in and out of my hair when I spoke to Michael for the first time. He was beautiful; there was no question. We met during his false eyelash phase; he wore eye makeup I envied. The length of his asymmetrical black hair hung in his face and a silver hoop stood out on his lower lip. At first glance he looked much the same as he had in Second Chance’s early years, but he was no longer youthfully lean. He had hard, compact muscles he now worked to maintain, and his face was equally hard.

He had lifted the corners of his mouth in a tight smile as he shook my hand, and hadn’t smiled again in speaking before or after the shoot. His lack of emotion made me feel that he took me seriously, and I was young enough that that feeling was all that mattered.

I don’t remember what we spoke about specifically, only the feeling he gave me and that that feeling carried over when we shot together. I’d shot with many men, of course, but with Michael there was a different chemistry than I’d ever experienced before. Almost as if I had no ownership of it, as if this “chemistry” was all his to share or withhold as he wished, as if he’d share the same chemistry with any other woman who could have been in my place. He didn’t work with me like other men had, and he didn’t work against me like some of the worse models did. He manipulated my body as he saw fit, and my body somehow knew what his was asking.

He moved slowly, like we were underwater.

He faced me toward the camera, pulling my hair back with one hand and running his other icy hand up the front of the tee, over my bare stomach.

He turned me to the side and pulled my hair back again so that my back arched away from him, faced his tee toward the camera, and planted one foot through my legs so that his thigh rubbed up against me.

He turned me away from the camera so that my tee’s back design faced forward and jammed his hands into my back pockets, his tattooed arms encircling my waist.

I was young. I’d thought this mattered. I thought it meant something that our bodies spoke to each other in this way. I thought it mattered that I seemed able to read him without thinking, or that he knew how to direct my body better than I could direct it myself.

It was years before I realized that this physical connection meant nothing. It was several more years before I realized that this connection actually meant more than I’d ever realized, that this should have been a warning.

It was when I met Chris that I finally realized that, ultimately, a connection like this could mean everything.

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue

[jaymarawrites-blog]

LIKE RATS - 4 - Denim

“Tell me you’re joking,” I said and sat up straighter, giving the suitcase a light kick away from my side of the bed.

Michael raised his eyebrows at me, hands frozen over the suitcase, mid-fold of that denim vest, the dark studded and patched denim vest he wore through the last tour I’d joined him on. He seemed genuinely surprised, as if he’d never considered this reaction a possibility.

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m not twenty-two anymore. Bunking with you isn’t quite as alluring now that we live and sleep together at home.”

I was aware of the venom in my voice but I couldn’t stop once I’d built up momentum. His obvious disappointment didn’t deter me. I was being nasty, but I was good at it.

“But what if it could be like that? It’s not all of us stuck in an RV anymore. We won’t be so cramped. It could be like when we met. It could be like…” He threw up his hands. “You could be twenty again.”

“But you can’t be thirty-two again.”

His face sagged. The lines around his eyes deepened. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. The slightest bit of a pouch had gathered his skin under his narrow chin. It was nothing, really. No one else would notice it in a million years.

But I did.

I hadn’t meant what I said the way it sounded. Except that I really did. I resented that he thought it would be so easy, even if I should have been satisfied. If I resented him not noticing my disinterest, then, by my own logic, I should have been open to at least discussing this. But I was too exhausted to even try.

***

I’d gone on the road with Second Chance while Michael and I were engaged. It was embarrassing to remember the pride I’d felt at being seen with him years before. He had no reason to think I was trying to have a life of my own now since I hadn’t wanted one then. It’s impossible to travel with someone like Michael and not feel powerful. Even the ability to stand in his eyeline and have him see me, look at me, not through me. That imbued a person with power beyond belief.

In a way, it made me more powerful. Or at least that's how I saw it at the time. The only person more intimidating than Michael was the woman with the power to turn his head. Fans who normally gushed became hushed in my presence, suddenly self-conscious of their fanaticism. Some of them conceded that I was beautiful and told me so, but that was for Michael’s benefit. A power play. Like they had the power to confer beauty on me. I always returned the volley with a polite smile: My usual reply: “I think you’re pretty.”

This wasn’t always possible, though. I didn't think of myself as an unkind person, but sometimes I found myself interacting with an unfortunate who, if I’m being honest, it would only be cruel to call pretty in front of other people. It would be calling attention to her misfortune. In these cases I would look for something specific to compliment about them: some piece of jewelry, a T-shirt, shoes that I can point to and say, “Wow, I love that!”

It was all about power. It was exhausting.

***

Michael continued packing silently. I could usually tell when he was considering what to say. I could see him turning the words over behind his eyes. But now I saw nothing. His face blank, his eyes blank, his movements deliberate as he rolled up his socks.

Was that all it had taken? Had I broken him? He looked broken, and I felt only disgust with him for saying nothing, doing nothing. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to punch him in the nose. I wanted to crack his eye socket. I wanted to do something to evoke some sort of reaction, any reaction I could get. I wanted him to cry or scream. I wanted him to push back, tell me I was being a cunt.

I was being a cunt.

Instead, he averted his eyes, continued on as though I weren’t even in the room with him. Like he was already on the road in his mind. He had already escaped me.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

~~~

Begin at the beginning: LIKE RATS - Prologue