#smoking that shit that concerned the ape

[beefbroganoff]

Beef Broganoff and the Concerningly Long Stardew Session

[dzpenumbra]

4/20/23

Blaze it. Says the guy who unceremoniously quit smoking weed like 3 or 4 months ago. And is too afraid to start smoking again because I'm super prone to freak-outs and I live alone. Yay.

I'm tempted to smoke at some point, I have been for a while. To the point where I've been tempted to ask my new doctor for an emergency xanax prescription or something, so I have something to help me come down a bit if I'm freaking out.

I hate that I'm still dealing with this, it's so fucking lame. I can't drink because it fucks up my stomach. I can't smoke cigarettes because apparently, given public opinion and ungodly restrictive pricing, it's literally the worst thing you can do to your body. Somehow managing to oust injecting neurotoxins into your body for no reason other than to make it cosmetically appear that you're good at sucking dick. I miss having a substance to help me relax. I have coffee to make me go up, and that's it. Nothing to chill me out.

I've been dealing with stupid weed freak-outs since I was 17. Freshman orientation, the first week of college. I remember walking around campus right after smoking a bowl with my friend Raphael, and we ran into our RA... who told us we were late for an orientation thing that was going on in the auditorium. And we walked in, and there were like... maybe 10-15 people spread out through the audience, and a speaker on stage. And the dude pointed out both of us entering, stopped his fucking presentation and pointed us out, saying something like "glad you could finally join us..." or something. And I was supremely fucking high. And his coy tone, and presence, and the feeling of being trapped and called out, and the bright red seats, the whole vivid scenario... turned into a hellscape for me. Very literally. I was like... "oh... I'm in Hell, this is like... the orientation for Hell. I died." Like a fucking psychological horror movie, like I got tricked into crossing over to the afterlife. Because that's how my creative brain works. And I handled it pretty well, I think I went and sat there for a while, maybe I stuck the whole thing out? Maybe I said fuck it and left halfway through, I don't remember. But... that was... I think... the first big freak-out of that caliber I ever experienced. The first of many.

I've been trying to research the hell out of them since. That was like... 2004. We've learned a lot since then. I think the most accurate term I have been able to find for them were "panic attacks", but those don't always really feel like they describe... the immersion of these experiences. Like... I was very convinced. I was in Hell. That's just where I was, and now I need to figure out what to do. I was terrified that I was going crazy for a while, especially back then, mental health was really not nearly as openly discussed and commonly known about back then. I was mostly concerned that I was having the beginnings of schizophrenic episodes. And that I was going to be hospitalized or something, institutionalized or some shit. That my life was basically over before it really started, and it was my fault.

Add to this that I didn't have anyone to talk to about the entire process. No good friends, who could've like... sat me down and gone "yeah, I get freak-outs too sometimes, they're super intense, but like... it's just a thing that happens, and you just need a trip-sitter kinda person to help you through it." Nope, definitely did not get that advice at any point in my life.

I've learned very recently that what these experiences are... are an alteration in the salience network of the brain. From what I have read, and I would really love to learn more about this so please do chip in if you know any more detail about this... The salience network apparently... moderates between the conscious and the subconscious. The "you" voice, You the experiencer; and the thoughts you have, memories that come to you, dreams you have, the "voices in your head". Apparently the salience network keeps the balance between those two, and weed can fuck with that. Which... is why it can help with stimulating creative thought, and why I was trying to use it in therapy to help bring down the walls I was building to stop myself from seeing a lot of the causes of pain I was in, but to do that in a safe supervised environment, so I could have emotional support and help grounding if I got overwhelmed. What I read, to help sum it up, is that disruption in the salience network can make a delivery guy knocking at the door be convincingly perceived as the FBI knocking on the door. It can make an anxiety chest pain be convincingly perceived as an imminent heart attack. Shit like that. It is not uncommon with weed at all. But I was not educated about this.

I kept smoking after that freak-out, regularly. I surprisingly didn't really have any more problems until one day, when me and... Raphael again... we scraped our bowls and made a big resin ball and smoked a bunch of it right before my English class. Like I went... right there. It culminated in a gigantic panic attack. And what I experienced there, at the time I was convinced were... hallucinations? But... I've learned so much about perception of reality since then, I realize how clumsy and naïve that definition would be. I have done mushrooms and acid and seen actual visual manifestations that weren't there. Like... shadow creatures, and little people dancing in fireplace embers, and geometric swirls in the clouds. In fact, my most vivid hallucination ever was after doing coke for 3 days straight, not sleeping at all, and drawing on my friend's wall in a blacklit room while we were listening to Mindless Self Indulgence. Poetic, yeah? XD I was so exhausted that I just lay down for a minute and I vividly saw a cat come over to me. A calico tabby cat, I did not for a second doubt it being real. I reached over to pet it and my hand went right through it and I immediately fell asleep. There was no cat in that house, there were two dogs, I was literally dreaming while still awake. Those were hallucinations. But what I experienced in the English classroom? That was a salience dysfunction issue. That was hearing the class laugh at a joke the teacher was making, but being so caught in my head that I didn't hear the context, so I was convinced the laughing was 100% pointed at me. It was feeling tingling in my body from my body high and was convinced that I was going to lose bowel control and shit myself in the middle of class. For ages, I haven't had a way to describe why this was so... traumatizing, why I was even classifying these as hallucinations rather than... insecurities? Anxieties?

It's because of how visceral and experiential they were. It was because of how real they were. It wasn't "I'm worried they might be laughing at me". It wasn't "I feel like they're probably laughing at me". It was "they are laughing at me." To the point where I went to the teacher after class and asked the teacher why they were laughing at me! I'm not even kidding. Same with the body sensations, it wasn't "man it would be really embarrassing if I farted in class". It wasn't "maybe my stomach's upset." It was "I am going to lose bowel control, it's just a matter of when." Very dreamlike. Like... in a dream... you don't question that you're in a cafe in an airport, but it's underground for some reason... and you're talking to a rock star idol of yours and just shooting the shit. You don't question it, it's just what is occurring. My phobias were being treated as the primary reality, and the toggle switch between critical/analytic mind (conscious) and intuitive/dreamlike/creative mind (subconscious) was impaired, so I couldn't snap myself back into questioning it. Especially back then when I had zero experience doing it and didn't even know what was happening.

I think this weakness is also part of why I am so experientially creative. Why my art and my inspiration come to me so effortlessly and easily. My theory is that it's the same conduit, the same process. I think I have a naturally more porous boundary between my conscious and subconscious, maybe less mediation, not sure. And I source my creativity directly from my subconscious. So... this weakness is not just a strength, it's kinda the core of most of my artistic identity... aka, my identity.

So yeah, because of my lack of ability to like... manage that properly... to ground myself in those moments and actively bring control back to my conscious mind. And my lack of desire to like... live in a terrifying psychological horror movie... I stopped smoking weed. And avoided it like the plague, for 15 years. Until 2018.

I have to use the bathroom, we'll be right back with more WeedTales after this quick break.

I gave weed a shot again after I broke up with my ex for good. Maybe a month or so after. I wanted to get off of meds, and I wanted something natural to help me do it, because I'd been through benzo withdrawal before and I really really wanted something to make the process more bearable. So I gave weed a try. And it really helped. It really did. For a while, too. Until I saw a Darren Brown special while stoned out of my mind, which fucked up my sense of reality and made me question literally everything I knew about fate and predestination and free will and shit. And not in a stoned college student going "whooooa wouldn't that be cool tee hee" 3rd person like they're watching a movie kind of way... like a "you just woke up in a hospital in 28 Days Later" kind of way. In a very very real, experiential way. It was an existential crisis, a... "what the fuck am I?" "Do I even choose anything at all?" "Do I even exist?" And it started to freak me out at existential levels, like a waking night terror. And I had no one to call, so I rode it out. And I went to the counseling center the next day to tell them about it. They had me with an emergency person I was seeing for the first time. I tried to tell her about it, how I felt like I was dying... which isn't entirely accurate, but it was the best I could sum it up in like... the 15 minutes I was offered. And she referred me to an outpatient program at a mental health facility. Which is kinda not cool, in hindsight.

After I got back, I started making more and more art. I learned more about meditation and trance induction techniques. I kept leaning in towards the void. It really was like a call of the void thing. The thing that freaked me out the most, that fucked up and derailed my life so many times, it just kept calling me back. The oceanic abyss of the subconscious. Dream recall, painting dreams, sourcing stories from dreams to make mini graphic novels, stream of consciousness poetry and writing, divination practices, intuitive drawing, shit like that. I was developing a process of prying open the door between the conscious and subconscious mind, and shoving a doorstop in there... So that I could dive in that endless ocean of inspiration and grab an unpolished gem whenever I wanted. That is development of an artistic process. And ritual.

Doing that alone... was terrifying... and to top it off, made me lose all my friends and family. And I'm glad they're gone. It pains me to say it, but I am. This weird spiritual dream artist is the person I have been since I was like... 16? Maybe even younger? And don't get me wrong, I am lots of people... but that's the one that like... I feel most alive and where I belong being. And they not only didn't support me, they actively tried to convince me what I was doing was "dangerous" and "self-destructive"... and implanted those ideas into my subconscious mind, to turn me against myself. And it worked. And the freakouts started again, in full-force, regularly. And I went off to a retreat seeking sanctuary... to finally safely get off of meds and to be around people who would actually offer me the support I needed. Unfortunately, the price I had to pay for that was abandoning my creative process entirely.

I was in there for 8 months. When I left... I was lost and trying to re-find myself. And a month later, the pandemic started.

I didn't start smoking weed again until last summer. So, summary, my weed smoking periods were... 2003 -> 2004, Spring -> Summer 2019, Summer -> Winter 2022. That's it.

When I last smoked, it was after my dog died. And I was not sleeping at all. I was sleeping from like... 3AM to dawn. Then getting up and making yogurt and granola and listening to music and carving and reading books on modern Druidry and shit all day. Weed helped me sleep again. I mean that sincerely. Some of the best sleep I've gotten this year was when I was high. In fact, most of my first journal entries on here were written while I was high. It was part of my bedtime ritual.

Sleep and bedtime have been my biggest thorn in my side since I was a teenager, the core of most of my mental health issues, I would wager. The sleep ritual of smoking to ease the body and let go, then journaling to kinda purge the chaotic and dark thoughts and resolve any issues I'm carrying? It brought me a peace that made falling asleep and staying asleep really easy.

And now... now, I'm struggling to sleep again. And it feels like when my dog died. This is day 3 or 4 now, I don't know anymore. And I don't think it was the neighbors this time, but I could be wrong. I did the same "get up after 5 hours of sleep, eat cereal, then get into the comfy chair, pop in the AirPods with noise cancelling and pass out again" thing.

So... I guess where I'm at with weed is... because I have like... at least 1/8 just sitting in my house, and a bottle of tincture too. If I were to smoke right now... what I fear is going to happen... yep, fear of Fear again... What I fear is going to happen is that I'm going to be woken up by my upstairs neighbors making noises... and my salience is going to be all fucky... and I'm going to wake up thinking there are people in my house, or some other unpredictable surreal narrative. And that wouldn't be so bad if I had someone I could text or call and sorta work through the anxiety attack, to help me ground, like I fucking tried to do in 2019 and my asshole "friends" would rush me off the phone and fucking roll their eyes at me. If I had that available, to just go "yo, I just woke up and I'm still a bit high, but I'm hearing sounds in my apartment and it's kinda freaking me out, could you just like... chill with me, or help me sort through whatever thoughts I'm experiencing, and help me reset my vibes?" That is literally the only thing I've needed for the past... at least 4 years. A good goddamn friend that's there when I need it. That's it.

But... since I don't have that? I'm genuinely scared. Because that feeling, it's like knowing with at least 85% certainty that when you lay your head down on your pillow tonight, you're going to have one of the worst nightmares you've ever had. And no one will be there to hold you and comfort you when you wake up. Motherfuckers wanna tell you "you're being dramatic" or "suck it up" or "grow thicker skin". <shakes head, grimacing>

So yeah, happy goddamn 4/20. If you don't have a severe anxiety disorder, consider yourself lucky that you have a natural outlet available to you that isn't an existential liability. I am very envious.

After all this... why am I still drawn to weed? You'd think I'd avoid it again, like I did for 15 years. Well... because I think it's the key. I think it's the key to building the skills I need to conquer my everyday anxiety limitations. I think a lot of what I'm dealing with in like... being anxious about driving while tired... or being anxious about being mugged on the streets and shit... I think it's so difficult because of how real it feels. Because it's a powerful real feeling. And I think if I can train dealing with bigger, more visceral freakouts... these everyday things will be child's play. It makes sense in my head, on paper... maybe less so. It's a theory.

Today was basically just... yoga, nap, shower, work on the "whiteboard" animation, practice guitar a bit, dinner, work more, watch stream, and... here I am. Nothing big, nothing too notable. Just... more sleep deprivation. And it's really taking a toll. So... yeah... I think that's a big part of the push towards weed. But ultimately? I think getting my sleep schedule more regulated will do more good than just smoking.

But I mean... I've naturally gravitated to this sleep schedule for 13 years. I've been nocturnal for my entire adult life. At what point is adjusting my sleep schedule arbitrarily... unnatural? Idk. Feeling a lot of "I could be wrong about that, better not say it with certainty" tonight. Depression, I guess.

Gotta end on a better note than that! Um... I made potato skins and mac and cheese for dinner. With the skins from the baked potatoes last night. It was really good! :) That's something. Alright, I'm off to bed, my eyes are like 1/3 open.

[aidontdraw]

The smokes for the viewer.

Remember at age 13 he became an unpaid intern to edit Pervy Sage's novel for 2 1/2 years. A novel so raunchy that the first 31 pages has sentences Kakashi could not say out loud. If you put this code in numeralical order its 7, 8, 15, 31, 106, 207. Meaning it starts of in a sex scene, you barely even know the characters names and they're already fucking. And 13-15 year old Naruto edited all of it.

And Naruto only got this internship after showing Pervy Sage his pussy. The only reason he aggreed to mentor Naruto was Naruto showed T&A for jutsu. Considering he's a 50 year old man, whos seen a lot of bodies thoguh out his long life, and writes a popular erotic novel series. Naruto's body has to be accurate, otherwise he'd be like, "haha your such a silly kid." Instead Pervy Sage so into it he suggested Naruto stay in that naked female form the whole time hes training him.

But the real proof is, when you see Naruto from the back theirs no clouds, but once we get a front view the clouds are back.

Naruto was an unsupervised kid bassicly since he was 4 years old. Unless you count the Hokage spying on him in that crystal ball. He had a lot of unsupervised time to view & study the form of a woman. Naruto is shown looking at porn a lot in the early episodes.

We see him pass down that knowledge in episode 2, Naruto teaches an even younger boy, Konohamaru, how to read porn for free in a book shop. He also taught him how to break into women's bath houses. By the end of the episode, Konohamaru also mastered this technique.

(Edit)

This Jutsu is one of the only known jutsu that we know for a fact that Naruto improved upon during his 2 1/2 years with Pervy Sage. (I honestly struggle to remember any other one he learned) Its the first one he reveals learning to both his friends, and the audience. Whcih added to the fact at the beginning of Shippuden, Naruto didn't learn much else during that time, he's still bad at the fundamentals, didn't know his own Chakra Nature, and if anything his control on the Kyuubi is much worse... Pervy Sage is not just a negligent teacher.

We as the audience are supposed to see Pervy Sage as a (grand)father figure for Naruto... The activities they do together are very not family friendly. All we know about Naruto's time with Pervy Sage is he spent the time editing a 50 year old mans erotic novel, break into bath houses to peep at women, perfected his centerfold jutsu, when ape shit in Kyuubi Mode.

This in tandom with his other known mentor, Kakashi, being an avid reader of these books, does put some question on what Kishimoto is saying about the student teacher relationship.

(edit over)

I'm 50/50 with this decision. Because on one hand, I really enjoy that the young girls in Naruto don't get sexualized as much as other Shonens. Anytime a woman gets sexualized, we get a Johnny Bravo Moment, and beat the shit out of the man. When Naruto becomes a sexy lady, its always to point out the hypocrisy of the men in charge. Because he took out the Hokage with this technique, several times.

Considering this media is intended for teenage boys going throguh puberty, I think Naruto takes a very intresting approach to teen boys learning about sex. Could use a little less breaking into bath houses, but they are shown an immediate consequence. So I'll call it a wash.

But on the other hand if you take it seriously, Naruto had to show pussy in order to get male caregivers attention. That has a lot of implications. Especially because Sauske also had to give up his body to an older man to learn jutsu.

Which is a very concerning message to give its intended audience, that both the protagonist and deuteragonist had to give their body to very perverted 50 year old men in order to gain access to skills they otherwise wouldn't have access too. Since they are the strongest characters by the end, its proven by the narrative that it was a good idea to do so.

Something that just occurred to me is that there are two possibilities for the harem jutsu and the smoke

Naruto has been exposed to one manner of indecent material by the age of 10 amd the smoke is for viewer censorship orrrrr

The smoke isn't just for censorship but it appears to cover his female form cause he isn't sure what a naked woman looks like(and all the old guys at the thought alone)

Don't worry the concept of the harem jutsu is horrifying no matter what😐

[hargrove-mayfields]

It’s Thanksgiving. Hawkins is still split in half, but hey, gotta stop and celebrate the little things, right?

Argyle isn’t feeling it. He misses his tia’s cooking. Joyce is a nice lady and all, but her turkey-

Wait, he’s supposed to be mad at her. He is mad at her, at all of them. He’s pissed actually.

But really, he’s devastated.

Even if the turkey wasn’t dry as a bone, he wouldn’t be eating it. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. The grief inside him takes up too much room.

Mrs. Byers catches on, after the first round of everyone else’s food is all cleared out and there’s some of little Byers’ little friends pawing for more. She asks him, “Argyle, honey. What’s wrong?”

Argyle isn’t the type to start shit, but if she’s going to ask, he wouldn’t mind airing it out.

“Talked to little red this morning.. Why didn’t nobody tell me my best friend was dead?”

They look confused. Mrs. Byers puts one of her always warm hands on top of his, and tries to force on a smile, “Argyle, nothing like that happened. We’re all still-“

He’s got to cut her off or he might feel something for her motherly concern. Not now. Not after what he’s been through for these people, “Nope. I went to the cemetery with red. Had to.. had to carry her on her wheels up to him. ‘Cause the path is too covered in grass. I sat at his grave for hours, man. Don’t tell me that didn’t happen.”

Still just faces of confusion. Funny how they treat him like he makes no sense. Someone dies for these people and they can’t even think of his name?

“Maybe you just need to relax..” He’s especially hurt when Jonathan tries to shut him down like that. That’s what broke him really. Makes him get a little louder, and a lot closer to spilling tears like salt water.

“Nah, I haven’t smoked for days, man. That’s what me and him used to do. I can’t just- I can’t..!”

Argyle has to stop there. He’s shaking so bad all the empty plates and glasses on the extra-long table are rattling. A bowl of mashed potatoes threatens to spill all over the leaf-patterned tablecloth. It all sounds like a chorus of souls as anguished as his. Reminding him of the root of his rage.

“Look, if I ever see that Neil Hargrove again, man, I will totally break my vow of peace. That.. shithead ruined everything.” A few faces of realization hit. Yeah. That’s what he’s talking about. And he needs them all to know how serious it was, “Billy had a car. He had big money saved up. We found his madre. Shit was gonna be okay… And then they left. 2,000 long miles away to their deaths.”

Little Jane reaches across the table to him, but Argyle can’t accept her hand. It’s not her fault and he doesn’t want her comfort. It’s not anybody's fault. How could they know he knew Billy?

But.. how could they leave him out too? When they told all their stories about what happened.. they never mentioned his name. He was just someone’s brother. And then he saw Max for the first time in her wheelchair, and he just knew it was bad news.

“My best friend is a goner and I never even got a chance to tell him that I love him. Life is majorly fucked.”

The wall decorations, the napkins, even Joyce’s sweater all say ‘Be Thankful.’ Argyle loses it. There’s big, heavy tears on his face now. He’s got nothing to be thankful for. He’s got nobody without Billy.

He looks around, at the dozen or so people in the room, and he feels by himself.

A sob wracks his chest, “I’m all alone, you know. Even here, I’m just all alone.”

~~~

Nobody had said another word to him when he got up and left the Byers rental. They all knew where he was going: the cemetery gate was left open for holiday mourners.

Climbing the hill is easier now that Max told him the way. Easier because he doesn’t have to keep his cool either this time. It’s just him and the rock in the place of his childhood best friend turned soulmate.

“Hey, hey mister blue sky.”

The ground is wet with freshly fallen and then melted snow, but Argyle doesn’t think twice before he’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce right in front of that grave. He reaches out and brushes off a stray wet leaf from Billy’s stone, and he sighs.

“I have had one hell of a day, man. You wouldn’t believe this shit.”

“Wish I could tell you about it for real.” Billy always listened to him so deeply. That kid would’ve sat there and listened to a fucking Shakespeare recited solely by Argyle. All he ever wanted was a friend. Argyle too. They were a match made in the closest thing to heaven the California shores had to offer, the boardwalk.

“I wish you could tell me everything that happened to you too. Never got to hear it straight from you.”

The wind rustles the leaves. It’s a sound Argyle will probably never get used to. Nothing like the Cali waves. For a minute he thinks about that being Billy communicating with him, but the Billy he knew would never leave his spirit in a place like this. He’s gotta be somewhere far, far from here. Argyle prays for that to be true everyday.

“Maybe you like the quiet. Maybe you wouldn’t want to tell me, I don’t know.”

It’s pretty damn freezing out. Joyce told him about some weird Midwestern wives tale, that if you sat out in the snow too long, you’d catch a cold and live forever. He just wants to be wherever all the noise isn’t.

“Sounds peaceful.”

Hours could pass just like this. Maybe he’d freeze and they’d find him here. What would they say?

They don’t know about Billy and Argyle. About holding hands under the water after dark.

They don’t know about the ice cream on their noses, and the cherry between Billy’s smiling pink lips on their first date.

They don’t know about the shy kisses. The gentle touches. The fear of falling in love.

But they were just kids. How could he know that’s would be all he ever had to hold on to, for the rest of his time?

“You know what I’m thinkin’?- I got it all figured out now, blue sky- I think you’re happy.”

He’d like to hope so. The sky is pretty blue today, despite the weather.

“You don’t gotta answer to anybody. You’re just on your own. Like me. Only that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Shit, he’s crying again. Billy would be so mad to see him beat down like this. He was supposed to be the bright one, to dry up the tears with rainbow colored sleeves. Nothing could’ve broken him as bad as this.

“You just weren’t free up here.”

Surviving almost feels worthless now. Argyle needs Billy like the tide needs the moon. Bound together, never changing. Never moving on. Working in perfect synchronization.

Always loving.

“Hey. Wherever you are.. I’m thankful that you’re surfing your own wave now.”

The sun’s going down now. Instead of warm blues and pinks and yellows, it’s all gray. How quickly things change. All dreary. Argyle’s kidding himself if he thinks that’s something to be thankful for.

Whatever makes him feel better, because it’s going to be a long, long time before he has Billy in his arms again.

“I love you, blue sky. Thanks for being my guy… I’ll catch you later.”

[briarworthandoleander]

So uh... My partner and I are still slightly amateur hunters, with me having recently entered high rank. We've talked about this monster, the Rajang... And now they want to eagerly fight one, and me having heard tales of how this beast fights, I am HIGHLY concerned for my partner's safety, even if I tell them to not do it, they still want to-

I have seen them get FLUNG onto the ground by a flying pinecone of a wyvern and now they want to fight some overpowered lightning ape that will do the same as the previous wyvern did. Please help, I need to stop them before they finally reach the same rank as me and get their shit beat in by a lightning ape.

Here's what I want you to do: I want you to tell your friend, word for word, everything I'm about to tell you.

Take it from a guy who's been hunting for well over twenty years and has multiple gold-crown special permits as a testament to his experience: don't. Rajang aren't your everyday fanged beasts. These are monsters that actively seek out and fight Kirin to eat their horns... and win. I've seen enough rookies get torn apart and crushed by those things in my day, and I'm not going to sit by and let a greenhorn get killed in a fight they're not ready for. I'm experienced and have the training required to hunt them, and the Guild even specifically asks for my help when it comes to capturing them alive for study and relocation. Even then, I don't take a fight with Rajang lightly.

That's a monster that could kill me if I made a mistake. That's a monster that I've seen crush the skulls of veteran hunters like me with one hand. That's a monster that I've watched flatten an entire hunting party. Literally. All it took was one boulder that it dragged out of the ground and a split second of panic. They didn't even get to scream.

I'm not blowing smoke. You don't want to fight one unless you truly, absolutely need to. Stick to what you know.

-Oleander

[harrysbbby]

The Rule of Benefit - Part 1

My new series is here! It follows JJ and his friends-with-benefits co-worker Bridget “Jett” Moore. One simple rule: no feelings allowed. 

Words: 3k+

Warning: smut. this is also my first time writing it. so it's probably terrible. so apologies in advance. but otherwise enjoy. 

gif by @rudypankows​

It wasn’t uncommon to see Jett’s nose buried in a book, even at work. Sat behind the large wooden desk, her head only lifted when the phone rang, or someone approached the desk. Working at the Kook Club was easy: good hours, great pay and the opportunity to do whatever she liked during the down times. With all the guests checked in for the night, and everyone seated in the dining room, Jett knew this was the perfect time to finish her extra credit essay.  

JJ was stood in the doorway to the dining room, watching the girl read, captured by her ability to unfalteringly concentrate.  

“Quit slacking, Maybank!” the duty manager called from near the kitchen. JJ quickly collected himself, rushing back through the kitchen doors to get his orders.

It was a few hours later when JJ finally approached your desk.

“Hey pretty girl, soup’s up.”

Jett’s head lifted out of her book to meet his blue eyes. She smiled. Working with JJ made the Kook Club bearable. He was funny, charming and not to mention hot. He would make her laugh by making silly faces through the dining room doors as he walked past or would make her smile by bringing her left over deserts from the kitchen.  

“Oh, hey there pretty boy,” the terms of endearment had resulted from a regular. The small, sweet but very rich middle-aged lady visited the club twice weekly at a minimum. She always called Jett ‘pretty girl’ and JJ ‘pretty boy’. Jett was convinced she was hitting on him, the way she would grip his bicep when ordering at the bar. JJ, on the other hand swore that she was into girls, supported by his observations of how she would linger at the desk when she would check in for a long weekend stay. So, they became a bit of a joke, but then the nicknames stuck. Jett didn’t mind. She quite liked them. “Did you say something about food?”

“Yep,” he smiled, leaning on the top of the desk, “Soup’s up. Literally. Chef made us soup with the leftovers. Want me to grab you some?”

As if on cue the girl’s stomach growled. She hadn’t even noticed the time passing by as engrossed in her book. It had been hours since she’d last eaten.

“Yes please,” she pouted at him, raising her hands in a begging motion. He laughed at her ruffling her brown straight hair. She scoffed, frantically trying to put it back into place so as to not look disheveled at the front desk.

“Coming right up, milady,” JJ curtsied as he walked away. Jett laughed at his actions just as the phone rang. JJ looked back to her over his shoulder. She was speaking animatedly on the phone.  JJ always admired her work ethic. He would never admit it to anyone, but he saw Jett as almost an inspiration- to get out of their lives, out of The Cut. She smiled at him and shooed him towards the kitchen. JJ saluted and disappeared behind the doors.

He retuned moments later, two bowls of soup and a plate of bread perfect balanced on his experienced hands. Jett was typing away on the computer, when she saw him approach. She quickly moved her textbooks out of the way, allowing JJ to place the food in front of her.

“We busy?” he motioned towards the screen where she had just been typing furiously.

“Yep, major group booking. We’re employed for the foreseeable future,” she grabbed the spoon he had collected for her, diving immediately into the soup. She hummed in delight, “It may be scraps but damn Chef really knows how to make them taste good.”

JJ hummed in agreement, a soup doused piece of bread filling his mouth. After swallowing most of it he started to speak.

“What’s for?” he grumbled out over his mouthful of food, pointing to the book that had been thrown aside for their lower-class feast. Jett laughed at the way JJ had asked her, covering his mouth as if it made him anymore polite.

“AP History,” she responded, “extra credit work.”

“Wow must be nice to be smart,” JJ joked, mouth now clear of food. Jett smiled softly.

“Quite boring, actually,” her voice was a lot less excitable as it usually was. JJ had noticed her change in demeanor of the past few weeks, “even worse when you’re poor and need it to get into a good school.”

“Amen,” JJ chimed, shoving another unnecessarily large piece of bread into his mouth. Jett grabbed an acceptably sized piece, dipping it into her soup. JJ rid his mouth of food completely this time before asking her, “are you okay? You’ve seemed a little off lately.”

So, he had noticed, Jett thought. She sighed placing her spoon against the side of her bowl.

“My, uh... my boyfriend broke up with me two weeks ago,” she said sadly. She noticed JJ’s concerned expression, “it was kind of mutual, I guess. He moved to the mainland. I guess I’m just kind of lonely.”

JJ nodded at her explanation, surveying the melancholy look on her face.  He had always found her hot but had never made a move because of said boyfriend. An idea sprung to mind.  

“My friends and I are having a party on Saturday. You should come, escape your studying for one night.”

Jett peered up at the boy’s pleading expression. Her internal war was overpowered by his puppy-dog eyes and pouty lips.

“Fine,” she relented, causing JJ to throw his arms up in the air, “it better be a good party, pretty boy.”

“They always are.”

***

JJ was right. Pogue boneyard parties were fun. Jett used to come with her ex-boyfriend every now and then. They would scrounge up some free booze, get a couple hits from some random’s blunt and blindly walk back to her house and have the most amazing, hazy sex.  

Jett adjusted her shoulders, shaking the thought from her mind. She couldn’t be hanging onto the nothing he had left her with. She would have to move on and forwards, no matter how hard it was.

“Jett!”

She turned to see JJ by the keg, arms waving enthusiastically in the air. She headed over to him allowing him to pass her a cup filled with cheap beer.

“Hey, how was your shift today?” Jett asked him, bringing the cup all the way to her lips, taking a long sip, peering over the rim at the boy. He licked his lips, watching as her chocolate brown eyes stared at him. He cleared his throat quickly.

“You know, the usual. People being dicks, dicks being people.”

She threw head back emitting melodical laughter from her lips.  JJ’s mouth turned upward into a smile. She brought the cup up to her lips once again, still giggling.

“That’s very accurate of our clientele,” she said eyeing his smile, taking another large sip from her cup. Her drink was nearly gone already, the liquid heating her insides.  

She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the fact she was a horny and recently single, but JJ looked different. She had never noticed how blue his eyes were, or how deep the dimple in his right cheek ran or how the curve of his bicep was so prominent. She quickly took another sip, finishing up her cup.

“Refill?”

Since she didn’t know anyone, JJ took the liberty of introducing her to his friends as they sat around one of the small bonfires, some of “JJ’s cousin’s good shit” being passed between them. At least that’s what Kiara had said. Jett knew of Kiara but had never properly met her before. She was of course familiar with her family’s business. Kiara spoke passionately about the harms of single use plastic as she passed the blunt to Pope. He was someone she already knew. He was in most of her classes, also vying for a scholarship like her’s. He bypassed the blunt, passing it to Jett. She took a long hit, before passing it to JJ, who was explaining to Kiara and Pope how he and Jett worked together at the country club. He passed the blunt to Sarah. Sarah was someone Jett knew. Her family’s presence at the club was a hyperbole. It usually meant a decent tip to be shared among the staff, and the few conversations she had had with Sarah were pleasant, but her brother was a different story.  

“Oh, yeah I thought you looked familiar!” Sarah exclaimed, coughing slightly as she passed the blunt to her boyfriend, who’s lap she sat on.  

John B took a hit before passing it back to Kiara, who was still chatting to JJ. Jett watched as John B grabbed Sarah’s head turning it towards him. She smiled seductively as he pulled his lips forward to meet his, smoke transpiring between the two of them. Jett cleared her throat abruptly.

“I need another drink,” she announced, leaving the group of friends to make her way back to the keg. As the liquid pour into her cup, she saw and arm lean against the keg, essentially trapping her between whoever it was and the metal. She knew exactly who it was.

“Rafe,” Jett said dryly, bringing her cup up to her lips and taking a swig as she turned to face up at the boy.

“Bridget, right?” he asked, leaning down to be at eye level with her. This brought their chests closer together, causing Jett to lean back, placing her hand which held her cup up against the boy. “I heard you’re back on the market.”

He winked. It caused a frown to spread over her face, rolling her eyes as she pushed past him.  

“I’m not for sale,” she heard one of the other Kook boys (Kelce maybe? She had seen him in the club a few times) whistle boyishly before bursting into hysterical laughter in Rafe’s face. Ignoring their antics, she made her way to a log further away, facing out at the ocean.

She stared out at the water, watching the waves tumble over and over. She reminded herself she needed to move on. She needed to be like the waves, take on the tumble, pick herself back up and get ready for the next. Jett was brought out of her thoughts when the sounds of skin flying across skin. She turned to see a tall, tanned skinny girl stomping away from JJ who cupped his hand over his cheek. Jett couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, which caught the boy’s attention. He walked over to her, taking the spot next to her, rubbing his redden cheek gently.  

“What was that?” Jett asked amused. JJ huffed,

“Tourons. Apparently, I got with the wrong one and now I’m out of bounds with just about all of them.” Jett let out a puff of laughter at his dejectedness, before they lulled into a relatively comfortable silence. But JJ sensed something was up.

“Why’d you run off before?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” dismissed Jett, keeping her eyes trained on the ocean, eager to avoid JJ’s gaze.

“Yes, you do,” he countered, shift his body to face her. “Back there with John B and Sarah. Are you jealous?”

“Maybe,” Jett spoke quickly, now staring down at her cup. Was she really about to pour her heart out to JJ Maybank, her coworker? It was almost as if the alcohol itself whispered ‘yes’ to her as her mouth projectiled words without her control, “I don’t know. I miss having that; someone to turn to constantly. To touch you. Do things with. I guess I’ve just got an itch I can’t scratch.”

JJ remained silent, eyes scraping her body. They mainly focused between her hands and her lips, detailing every move she made as she spoke.

“That was too much information wasn’t it?” She threw her head back in frustration.

“That’s exactly what the right amount I needed to hear.”

Her brows pulled together in confusion, turning to face the boy for the first time. His eyes held a deep hunger and she could practically feel the heat radiating off him. She swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat as he continued.

“You clearly have a problem no one else can fix. And I clearly have been exiled from Touron one-night stands. So, I propose a solution,” JJ stood up, hands gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke. “You and me. Sex. No strings attached.”

“What?” Jett asked incredulously.  

“It’s perfect! We both get what we want.”

She mulled over his words silently. She had to admit it would be convenient. She would finally solve her loneliness and would avoid the feelings that hurt her before.

“So, we’d be friends with benefits?” she asked, standing up, placing her hands delicately on his forearms, tracing back and forth. JJ smirked.

“Yeah, reckon you could handle it?” he asked queitly, leaning closer to her. Jett, flicked her hait back over her shoulder, looking up at the boy, hands still flowing softly across his skin.

“We need to lay some ground rules.”

“Absolutely,” JJ agreed. “This is not exclusive.”

“Done,” Jett settled. “No sex at work,” JJ went to object but, she brought a finger to his lips. “I need that job, pretty boy.”

He finger remained on his lips, causing his eyes to grow darker. He nodded in agreement.

“And finally, the most important rule of benefit: no feelings allowed.”

“Deal,” JJ whispered, pulling her hand away from his lips and pulling her in for a kiss. Jett dropped her cup half-filled with alcohol to the ground, wrapping her arms around his neck. She moaned into his mouth.

“Do you wanna--” JJ motioned over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Jett answered quickly allowing him to lead her away from the party.

They stumbled into the Chateau, leaving sloppy kisses along each other’s necks. JJ lead her into the spare room, shutting the door and pressing her up against in. Jett threw her head back against the wood, allowing JJ to explore her neck, sucking on the soft skin. She tugged on his hair, letting out a throaty moan. Keeping her hand his hair, she used it to spin them around, pinning JJ to the door. His eyes widen in surprised, then anticipation as she slipped to the floor in front of him.  She grabbed his belt undoing his pants quickly. Above her she could hear JJ’s breathing quicken as she pulled down his pants and underwear.

“Calm down pretty boy, gonna take good care of you.”

And with that she took his dick into her hand, pumping a few times before licking form the base to the tip. The moan that left JJ’s mouth was animalistic. His hands immediately flew to Jett’s hair, entangling themselves into it, pulling her closer towards him. Her head bobbed quickly, causing more grunts to escape from his lips. Jett could feel spit running down her chin as JJ pushed himself further into her mouth.

“Fuck, Jett. When did you get so good at this?” he asked, the sound of his head lightly thudding against the door as he screwed his eyes shut. She smiled sultrily, releasing him from her mouth, pumping his length as she looked up at him.

“Always have been. You’ve just been missing out.”

With a growl he picked her up by the sides, carrying her to the bed, flinging her across the sheets. He made quick work of ridding her of her shirt and bra. His mouth attached to one boob, his hands massaging the other.  Jett’s breathing quickened as she held his head to her, hips bucking up desperately. She whimpered needingly, craving his touch. He detached his lips, kissing slowly up her neck.  

“Patience pretty girl,” he whispered quietly. The hand that had been flicking at her nipple slid down her body and into the waistline of her shorts. He began to rub small circles over her clit. Jett let out a loud moan, hands instinctively coming over her mouth. With his free hand JJ grabbed her hands, placing them above her head. “Wanna be able to hear you.”

This caused an even louder moan to escape her lips, as JJ moved her panties to the side, easily slipping one finger in. Jett felt euphoric. JJ was already pleasing her better than her ex-boyfriend, and he had barely begun. She thought she could get used to their arrangement. He added another finger and began to pump faster. In contrast, he placed sweet kisses along her jaw, liking the feeling of her moans vibrating along his lips.  

“JJ, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna... ugh!” her eyes were screwed shut as her mouth was opened in a silent cry. JJ smiled against her skin, before retracting his hand. Jett’s body relaxed as he placed a kiss on her lips. He stood up ridding himself of his shirt and other items of clothing and she did the same.

She scooted back on the bed as a now naked JJ crawled on top of her, ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth. He placed it over himself, lining himself up. He leant down next to Jett’s face.

“Ready to do this?” he asked her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and nodded.

“As I'll ever be.”

JJ pushed himself inside of her, their moans mixing in the hot, sticky air. He waited a moment before picking up his pace. Jett’s legs wrapped around his waist as she let out breathy groans. Her nails scrapped down his back, causing him to moan into her neck.

“Shit,” he cursed, his motions keeping a steady pace. He snuck a hand in between them to rub her clit.

“Oh my God, JJ,” she cried. She pulled one leg from around his body, slowly bringing it up to place it over his shoulder. JJ hesitated for a moment but seeing the look of sheer pleasure on Jett’s face, continued. The new angle elicited even more cried from her lips, her nails raking along his chest. JJ grunted, highly turned on by the girl beneath him. He wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither was she. His fingers worked quickly on her clit as his hips continued to meet hers. They yelled each other’s name in unison as they met their highs, JJ completing with a few final strokes.  

He pulled out, disposing of the condom before collapsing next to her. They were both sweaty messes, puffing heavily. Jett let out a breathy laugh, wiping the hair which was stuck to her forehead with the back of her hand. JJ pulled the covers out from underneath him, allowing Jett to crawl under with him. They laid next to each other, staring up at the ceiling still catching their breath.

“That was--” Jett started breathlessly.

“Yeah” JJ agreed.

She could get used to this.  

Tags:

@downbytheouterbanks​ @thesailbells​ @sexualparkour​ @maybankxcameron​ @mileven-reddie @nikki082489​ @treestarrrrrrrr​ @mynamessusan​ @kristinaxilliano​ @love-bean​ @lauraxwndrlnd​ @jjsthumbring​ @obxmxybxnk​ @lovelymaybankk @http-cherries @belledutchess @wicked-laugh @jjswhore @sspidermanss @fandomobsessedlife @dolanfivsosxox @whenyouregrungeaff @poguestyleskye @iknowrocknroll567 @kingdomheartsfan109@dangerouswhispersblog @hopelesswritingxd @marveloucnco @riverdaleserpent04 @yeetingcelery @babyhoneystvles@ravngers @k3nz-doodl3 @famousstarsandkelly @readysteadygo23 @finelinetrack @sha-nah @silverstarsandsuns@awkwardnesshabitat @annedub @a-wade @ineedmorestyles @averagxfangirl @shreyaodedra06 @silverstarsandsuns@jjmaybangme @kisssmefree @shawnssongs @p0gues4l @hannahufflepuff @lovelymaybankk@tomfreakinghollandneedsaoscar @softstarkey​ @kiarasflowr @drewstarkey @tcmhollnd @myrandom-fandomlife​ @jjtheangel @jjmaebank @masintahin @o-b-x @stilinskiandsuch @jellyfishbeansontoast @tessisawriter @cutiecolbsss@my-soul-is-the-moon @sunshinemadds @kisssmefree @certainstatesmantoadartisan @lefthandwritings @poguecollins@disagreeable-pink @tytheguyudontno @helplessquotess @taaniesha @obx-beach @thegeekyblondegirlwholovesstars@lcil123 @teenwaywardasgardian @sortagaysortahigh@jeyramarie @ellystone @classygirlything @marauderskeeper@rudyypankow  @ssjiara @bluebirdsbluebells @lavenderpope @rretrophilee @kitluvs1 @outerpogues @maaybanks@maebanks @thelocalpogue @heyhey-heyward @popcsheyward @maybe-maybanks @pixelated-pogues @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @maybankdreams @maybankiara @pogue-writings @honeymendesx @faded-blue @smiithys@justpeachykeeeen @justcallmesams @danicarosaline @free-pool-trash @saturnspack @velyssaraptor @no-shxt-sherl@saphira1412 @raekenliar @pancakefancake @imuniqueperson123 @marveling-avengers @lus-shh@hmspxgue @winterdameron @lolitstiana​ 

[metalheadcowboy]

awe, billy calling steve and tommy his boys.

like someone asks billy if he wants to hang out and he’s like “sorry, i’m hanging with my boys tonight”

and steve and tommy are just like “we’re your boys 🥺”

UM YES PLEASE ????

“Ew, Tommy!”

Billy scrunched his face up looking over at Tommy, clearly disgusted by him. They were sitting with Steve on his old couch in his room passing around one of his last smokes out of his last box when suddenly Tommy stuck a finger covered in spit in his ear.

“What? You can’t take a wet willy?” Tommy jeered, looking over at him with that stupid fucking toothy grin he did.

“Oh, fuck you,” Billy replied, desperately rubbing his ear against his shoulder while Steve just looked on at them from his spot on the floor between Billy’s legs looking up at him with a concerned expression.

“Fuck me yourself.” Just as a smirk crept onto Billy’s face and Tommy looked like he was going to pounce on his like he was prey the phone on his nightstand rang.

“Aw, shit.” The blonde groaned, gripping Steve’s shoulder to help himself up, “‘Scuse me, Stevie.” He carefully maneuvered himself around the boy sitting on the floor as the phone rang annoyingly through the room.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m commin’, I’m commin’,” he walked the few feet over to his phone and picked it up, leaning against the wall next to his nightstand, hip jutted out as he held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, still grimacing at the wet willy he was given.

‘Hey, Bill!’ The voice on the phone spoke to him and he immediately recognized it as Heather.

“Hey, H, what’s up?” he greeted, twirling the phone chord around his finger, flipping Steve off when he rolled his eyes at him.

‘Thought you might wanna come with me and Rob to the club outside of town, you still got your fake, right?’ Billy chewed on the inside of his cheek as he listened to her talk.

“Yeah, but, I’m kinda busy right now-”

‘Too busy to go to a club, who are you and what did you do with Billy?’ At that Billy chuckled, looking outward at Steve and Tommy.

“I know, H, it’s just I’ve got my boys over right now, so I’m kinda preoccupied.” he explained, watching Steve take the cigarette he was puffing on out of his mouth, him and Tommy giving him the same soft look.

‘Oh, shit, did I, like interrupt something...’

“No! Nope, you’re good, we’re just hangin’ out right now,” Billy quickly cleared up.

‘Good, good, well, maybe next weekend.’

The blonde grinned. “Definitley.”

There was a pause, and mumbling on the other line that sounded like heather might be talking to somebody else, probably Robin.

“I’m gonna let you go, cool?”

‘Don’t forget to use protection!’ Robin yelled so loud Billy had to pull the phone away from his ear. ‘Don’t want to be an aunt too soon!’

“Oh my god, fuck you, didn’t you take, like, AP biology?”

‘Don’t be dumb, Bill, wrap that bitch in plastic wrap if you gotta!’ Billy could feel the way his face was burning

“Yeah, alright mom.” And with that he slapped the phone back onto the receiver, letting out a long sigh, hand scrubbing over his face. He barely gets time to recover before Steve’s voice is breaking through the silence.

“We’re your boys?” Billy’s hand fell back to his side, eyes opening back up to look at Steve and Tommy giving him sweet puppy dog eyes. He didn’t even know what to say or what to do with his two sweet boys looking at him like that, looking so soft and loved.

“Course you’re my boys,” he answered easily walking back over to where he was sitting, plopping down and letting them both cuddle up to him, arm around Tommy’s shoulders, fingers running through Steve’s hair as his head rested against his thigh, “Forever and always.”

Send me Stommy/Kegboys asks!! 💛🌻✨

[theatrekidmadi]

Billboard Hot 100 - 2020 Top 40 Debuts

* "Woah" by Lil Baby

* “Vete” by Bad Bunny

* “Heartless” by The Weeknd

* “Blinding Lights” by The Weeknd

* “Adore You” by Harry Styles

* “Futsal Shuffle 2020” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Out West” by JACKBOYS feat. Young Thug

* “Yummy” by Justin Bieber

* “Rare” by Selena Gomez

* “You should be sad” by Halsey

* “Good News” by Mac Miller

* “Sum 2 Prove” by Lil Baby

* “Life Is Good” by Future feat. Drake

* “Blue World” by Mac Miller

* “Unaccommodating” by Emimen feat. Young MA

* “Those Kinda Nights” by Eminem feat. Ed Sheeran

* “Darkness” by Eminem

* “What A Man Gotta Do” by The Jonas Brothers

* “Godzilla” by Eminem feat. Juice WRLD

* “Anyone” by Demi Lovato

* “B.I.T.C.H.” by Megan Thee Stallion

* “I Do It” by Lil Wayne feat. Big Sean & Lil Baby

* “Yikes” by Nicki Minaj

* “Intentions” by Justin Bieber feat. Quavo

* “Forever” by Justin Bieber feat. Post Malone & Clever

* “Numbers” by A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie feat. Roddy Ricch, Gunna & London On Da Track

* “No Time To Die” by Billie Eilish

* “Lil Top” by YoungBoy Never Broke Again

* “ON” by BTS

* “PTSD” by G Herbo feat. Chance The Rapper, Juice WRLD & Lil Uzi Vert

* “La Dificil” by Bad Bunny

* “Si Veo A Tu Mama” by Bad Bunny

* “Emotionally Scarred” by Lil Baby

* “Live Off My Closet” by Lil Baby feat. Future

* “Commercial” by Lil Baby feat. Lil Uzi Vert

* “That Way” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Heatin Up” by Lil Baby & Gunna

* “Stupid Love” by Lady Gaga

* “Venetia” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “I’m Sorry” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “You Better Move by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Celebration Station” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Bigger Than Life” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “POP” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Prices” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “BS” by Jhene Aiko feat. H.E.R.

* “Homecoming” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “I Love Me” by Demi Lovato

* “P2” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Silly Watch” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Lo Mein” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Baby Pluto” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Yessirskii” by Lil Uzi Vert & 21 Savage

* “Bean (Kobe)” by Lil Uzi Vert feat. Chief Keef

* “Myron” by Lil Uzi Vert

* “Escape From LA” by The Weeknd

* “Snowchild” by The Weeknd

* “Too Late” by The Weeknd

* “Hardest To Love” by The Weeknd

* “Scared To Live” by The Weeknd

* “Alone Again” by The Weeknd

* “In Your Eyes” by The Weeknd

* “Believe It” by PARTYNEXTDOOR feat. Rihanna

* “Break My Heart” by Dua Lipa

* “Turks” by NAV feat. Gunna & Travis Scott

* “Find My Way” by DaBaby

* “Toosie Slide” by Drake

* “level of concern” by twenty one pilots

* “I’m Ready” by Sam Smith & Demi Lovato

* “@MEH” by Playboy Carti

* “JUMP” by DaBaby feat. YoungBoy Never Broke Again

* “ROCKSTAR” by DaBaby feat. Roddy Ricch

* “Righteous” by Juice WRLD

* “The Scotts” by Travis Scott & Kid Cudi

* “Landed” by Drake

* “When To Say When” by Drake

* “Demons” by Drake feat. Fivio Foreign & Sosa Geek

* “Deep Pockets” by Drake

* “Time Flies” by Drake

* “Be Kind” by Marshmello & Halsey

* “Desires” by Drake feat. Future

* “Not You Too” by Drake feat. Chris Brown

* “D4L” by Future, Drake & Young Thug

* “Chicago Freestyle” by Drake feat. Giveon

* “Pain 1993” by Drake feat. Playboy Carti

* “GOOBA” by 6ix9ine

* “stuck with u” by Ariana Grande & Justin Bieber

* “Daisies” by Katy Perry

* “Trillionaire” by Future feat. YoungBoy Never Broke Again

* “X” by The Jonas Brothers feat. Karol G

* “Solitaires” by Future feat. Travis Scott

* “Flex” by Polo G feat. Juice WRLD

* “Dollaz On My Head” by Gunna feat. Young Thug

* “Rain On Me” by Lady Gaga & Ariana Grande

* “Sour Candy” by Lady Gaga & BLACKPINK

* “The Bigger Picture” by Lil Baby

* “TROLLZ” by 6ix9ine & Nicki Minaj

* “Black Parade” by Beyonce

* “How You LIke That” by BLACKPINK

* “Girls In The Hood” by Megan Thee Stallion

* “44 Bulldog” by Pop Smoke

* “Gangstas” by Pop Smoke

* “Aim For The Moon” by Pop Smoke feat. Quavo

* “Got It On Me” by Pop Smoke

* “The Woo” by Pop Smoke feat. 50 Cent & Roddy Ricch

* “For The Night” by Pop Smoke feat. Lil Baby & DaBaby

* “Fighting Demons” by Juice WRLD

* “Stay High” by Juice WRLD

* “The Adventures Of Moon Man & Slim Shady” by Kid Cudi & Eminem

* “Bad Energy” by Juice WRLD

* “Titanic” by Juice WRLD

* “Blood On My Jeans” by Juice WRLD

* “Hate The Other Side” by Juice WRLD & Marshmello feat. The Kid LAROI & Polo G

* “Conversations” by Juice WRLD

* “Wishing Well” by Juice WRLD

* “Come & Go” by Juice WRLD & Marshmello

* “Greece” by DJ Khaled feat. Drake

* “Popstar” by DJ Khaled feat. Drake

* “this is me trying” by Taylor Swift

* “invisible string” by Taylor Swift

* “seven” by Taylor Swift

* “mirrorball” by Taylor Swift

* “august” by Taylor Swift

* “my tears ricochet” by Taylor Swift

* “the last great american dynasty” by Taylor Swift

* “exile” by Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver

* “the 1” by Taylor Swift

* “cardigan” by Taylor Swift

* “Move Yo Hips” by A$AP Ferg feat. Nicki Minaj & MadeInTYO

* “my future” by Billie Eilish

* “Smile” by Juice WRLD & The Weeknd

* “WAP” by Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion

* “Midnight Sky” by Miley Cyrus

* “7 Summers” by Morgan Wallen

* “Laugh Now Cry Later” by Drake feat. Lil Durk

* “Dynamite” by BTS

* “Over Now” by Calvin Harris & The Weeknd

* “Ice Cream” by BLACKPINK & Selena Gomez

* “Hit Different” by SZA feat. Ty Dolla $ign

* “OK Not To Be OK” by Marshmello & Demi Lovato

* “My Window” by YoungBoy Never Broke Again feat. Lil Wayne

* “Holy” by Justin Bieber feat. Chance The Rapper

* “Franchise” by Travis Scott feat. Young Thug & M.I.A.

* “Fallin” by Why Don’t We

* “Many Men” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin

* “Slidin” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin

* “Don’t Stop” by Megan Thee Stallion feat. Young Thug

* “Rich N*gga Shit” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin feat. Young Thug

* “Glock In My Lap” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin

* “Wonder” by Shawn Mendes

* “Mr. Right Now” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin feat. Drake

* “Runnin” by 21 Savage & Metro Boomin

* “Lonely” by Justin Bieber & benny blanco

* “Tyler Herro” by Jack Harlow

* “Forever After All” by Luke Combs

* “positions” by Ariana Grande

* “pov” by Ariana Grande

* “off the table” by Ariana Grande & The Weeknd

* “motive” by Ariana Grande & Doja Cat

* “Dakiti” by Bad Bunny & Jhay Cortex

* “34+35” by Ariana Grande

[ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa]

Heavy in Your Arms

Prologue

Summary/Author’s Note:  Back from the service and hell bent on drinking his way through Southern California, Tig Trager is a rambler. He's alone, he's lost, and he likes it that way. He stumbles into Charming, a quiet town with a large presence in the form of the motorcycle club. Here he finds more than he bargained for, and something else he never thought he would deserve.

I got a message about this story awhile back and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. This is the story Tig fans begged S*tter for and he never delivered. I have really been missing Tig lately so I edited this from its original form that I posted seven years ago. I originally posted this as an OC under the pen name thatlassiegotglassed - Which was my original AO3 back when I was foolishly ashamed of my fic. Now I don’t give a fuck. 

Pairing: Tig Trager x Reader Word Count: 1624 Rating/Warnings: Language, death, violence, blood, typical SOA stuff, eventual smut

[Masterlist] [One Shots/Drabbles]

--

"Yeah, I dumped an FXR on the I-5 and the poor bitch slid right in front of oncoming traffic...Found out she was pregnant. Really loved that one..."

June 21st, 1993

The roar of the big trucks and the swishing of the smaller cars blazing down the freeway filled his ears and would have been calming, but they were out of place. He had been asleep, safe in his own bed, the cars from the road had never been this loud. He shifted slightly and instead of cool sheets under his hand, he felt the grit of the blacktop and the wet clumps of side-road sand, rough against his skin. He did what he did every morning and slid his hand down, looking for you. You would hum contently as he wrapped his big hand around your hip and pulled you back against him so he could smell your hair, nose you awake--but he wasn’t in bed. 

He had had a dream, a wonderful dream, that he had been riding. His hands had gripped the handles as the sun played hide and seek with the oncoming rain clouds. The crisp smell of the spring air had tickled his nose and filled his lungs as trees and the tall grasses of the fields outside the city whipped passed him. You were a comforting weight at his back, and every time you squeezed your arms around his middle it brought a smile to his face. 

The weight on his head let him know he was still wearing his helmet. With slow movements, he reached up and unclipped it, shoving it off and letting it bounce against the road.

Everything hurt. Fuck. He coughed, the movement pressing his cheek back to the cool blacktop, the air from his mouth blew dust particles up and made him shut his eyes. 

Except this was no dream. And you weren’t next to him.

Shit.

He had been riding and it started to rain, and the semi cut him off and--

“Doll?” he said, his voice feeling like razor blades down his throat. He repeated but with your real name, hoping it would get your attention more than any of his terms of endearment. 

When you didn't answer, he knew something was wrong. A silence had fallen around him, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears, as he saw your body laying twenty feet from him. Your helmet had fallen off, hair spilled to the side, blood flecked your temples and down your cheeks.

He started crawling, using his forearms to drag himself closer to you as other cars came to a halt and people started yelling. If he got to you, if he reached you--everything would be okay. You would be okay.

You had to be. 

--

January 1st, 1991. Somewhere in Southern California

He had met you on a Friday. A pretty calm day, where the world was relaxed in a way that he was not. How could he be? Alexander 'Tig' Trager was, how did they say, 'fresh off the boat', back from his service, he had made it. But, he wasn't concerned with doing it ever again.

The whiskey burned his throat. It was cheap but it was plentiful and he had no plans on stopping. He would take that pathetic government check and he would put it in the pocket of the first shitty dive bar he found.

“Hey, doll!” he said, raising his empty glass at a leggy blonde standing by the bar and shaking it slightly.

She gave him a scowl, turned her nose up and quickly walked back over to a different table to sit down with her small group of friends. Apparently, she didn't work here. Shit. He almost felt like an ass. Almost. The feeling quickly went away and he contemplated getting up for a refill.

“Hey, if you're not using it, then get off.” A gruff voice said from behind him.

Tig looked over his sun glasses at a large man. The man was obviously referring to the fact that he was sitting on the pool table. With a neck that seemed to thick for his face, and large, ape-like arms that dangled worthlessly at his sides, Tig knew if it came to blows, this asshole was toast. He hadn't had a good fight in awhile and just one look told him that this could be the itch he needed to scratch.

He put a cigarette between his lips and took his time lighting it. With a lazy hand, he pushed his glasses into his short, black hair. “But I am using it, man.”

“Move.”

“Nah--”

“Listen, pretty boy--”

“Pretty boy?” Tig said. His blue eyes flashed and he smiled. The second was one of his true talents, he could twist his lips and flash his teeth, in a way that made men run for the hills and made women fall out of their skirts...or so he had been told. “I've been called lots of things, brother. But that?”

“Just move your ass, okay?” the ape-man said as he jerked a thumb back towards the bar.

Tig didn't like being told what to do. It was one of his weaknesses according to his higher-ups in uniform. They had tried to break him, get him to bend and take one in the ass for Uncle Sam, but he refused. He wasn't about to do it for some low life in some shitty, middle-of-no-where bar.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. His pulse evened out, his breathing stayed calm, his subconscious entered that special place right before he spilled someone's blood on the pavement.

“Alright, one,” the guy started to count. 

“Oh, you’re counting, now?”

“Two.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Two and a half.”

“Three,” Tig finished for him and pressed the lit end of his smoke into the man's forehead. He may have looked like an ape, but the bastard squealed like a pig. He brought his elbow down in the middle of the man's back as he doubled over and clutched his face. Tig shoved him to the side as one of his friends came at him at a run.

“Fucker!” the second man yelled and managed to land a solid right hook to Tig's cheek.

The prick was wearing rings and Tig knew there would be blood without even looking. As he fell back against the pool table, it screeched across the hardwood floor and a few patrons jumped out of the way. His hand landed in a puddle of beer as he knocked a glass over on the felt and his brief moment of mourning was cut short by another blow to his face. That did it.

With a growl, he headbutted the other man. Skull connected with skull and he gripped his shirt, jerking him towards him before he could fall and sunk his teeth into the man's ear. Tig dug his hands into his hair and shoulder, kept his neck at a ninety degree angle and didn't stop till he felt the skin split between his teeth.

“Fucking psycho!” the man stumbled back and the ape man was back on his feet, yelling, arms stretched out and headed for Tig's neck.

Tig met him head on, bringing a firm right hook into his gut and bringing his knee up to collide with his face as the man doubled over in pain. He reached back and grabbed one of the pool balls, twisting around until it connected with the ape-man's temple. The sound was sickening and he dropped like a brick.

Tig raised up and could feel the first drop of blood slide down his cheek. He reached for his beer and pulled up an empty bottle. Dammit. What a waste. He flung it lazily over his shoulder and grit his teeth when it smashed against the wall.

“You owe me a beer,” he said, giving the man on the ground a kick. He didn't move. The fucker was out cold. He looked at the other man, still holding his bleeding ear and looking at Tig like he was about to start foaming at the mouth. “You gonna pay for it?”

The man just stood there, mouth open like a fish. Tig stooped and dug around in ape-man's pocket until he found his wallet and snatched a twenty-dollar bill from the main compartment. It'd have to do.

He heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked and he looked up just as the bartender and apparent owner of the place was pointing the barrel at his chest.

“Get out, Mister,” he said, firmly. “I'll call the cops.”

“They started it,” Tig said, stuffing the money in his back pocket.

“Well, I'll finish it,” the owner answered, jerking the end of the gun towards the door. “Get out.”

“Gladly,” Tig said, grabbing his leather jacket off the end of the pool table. “This place is a fuckin' dump, anyway, man.”

The man with the ear, or well, lack thereof now, gave him a wide birth as he pushed through the double doors and onto the dark street. He pulled his packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, only to flip the top open and find it empty.

“God dammit,” he cursed, tossing the box across the lot. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. It looked like he'd have to make a stop on the way home.

He threw his leg over his motorcycle and turned on the headlight. A deep glow lit up a small section of the dark parking lot as he kicked it to life and left the pathetic excuse for a pub in the dust.

--

Tell me if you wanna be tagged. I didn’t tag my Perm Tag List because I know you guys are all here for my Pedro Pascal character Fics so---I was not sure if anyone would wanna be tagged in Sons stuff.

[yikesharringrove]

Hi! Could you please write about Billy having PTSD/issues with panic at school like having a PTSD episode in class or basketball and Steve helping him get somewhere private and helping him calm him down and having dad Hopper pick him up?

Read on ao3!

The Hawkins police force was surprisingly, well, good.

For small town cops who mainly sat around snarking and smoking, they caught on to the violence in the Hargrove-Mayfield home fast.

Billy was in town no longer than a month before his dad was being placed into custody. He supposed it may have had something to do with a little redhead spitfire and a police chief who spent a few nights a year fighting monsters with the best of ‘em.

But nevertheless, it took a few home visits and one instance of Claudia Henderson witnessing Neil slap Billy in the parking lot behind the gas station for Neil to get arrested.

The rub was, Billy was still a minor, and Hopper didn’t really know if Susan could handle this boy, this 5′10″ ball of muscle and rage.

So he took the kid in.

He had experience in angry kids who were abused their wholes lives, who knew nothing but hurt. So he cleaned out the spare room in the cabin, helped Billy move his few duffle bags in there, his weight racks, his two boxes, just barely unpacked only for him to be moved again.

The first few days, Billy was quiet.

Didn’t really talk to him or El, mostly kept to his room. Not that Hopper didn’t try, it was difficult. El was easy to coax out, with the promise of some Eggos, she’d be wide-eyed and in the kitchen, nearly plastering herself to Hopper’s back as she followed him around, the hungriest little shadow.

Billy would smile tightly at Hop, obviously not trusting his huge stature.

When Billy had moved in, he and El had a talk. They were both going to try their best not to yell, to make loud noises, sudden moves. Hop had seen Billy flinch at cabinet doors being shut too hard, a beer can being crushed. Hop tried his best not to touch the kid without warning after one such incident when he reached out to clap him on the shoulder. Billy had squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving, braced for a blow.

El infiltrated before he did.

She asked Billy to help her with her reading. Noticed Billy was always flying through new library books, could demolish books in one sitting. He helped her with word definitions, vocabulary. Hop even came home one night to hear Billy in El’s room, reading to her softly.

Billy became fiercely protective of El very quickly after that. He had asked Hopper about her past, heard about her coming from the lab in general terms from Harrington, but Hop was candid, told him about the abuse, solitary confinement, the forced killing. Billy hardly left her side after that.

That’s another thing that came with Billy; the Harrington brat.

Apparently, at some point in the tunnels, the two had set aside their differences, had become friends even, good enough friends for Hop to come home to find the Harrington brat on his couch, braiding El’s hair, laughing at the television.

Turned out he wasn’t much of a brat as he once had been. Hop figured a brush with The Upside Down could straighten out even the shittiest kid, the kid that would mouth off to Hopper when he found him and his friends doing illegal shit at the quarry, throwing parties and getting into fights.

He now would just kinda, be there. He and Billy would talk quietly to one another, Hop once overheard actual giggles coming from behind Billy’s closed door one night.

And then El decided she liked him too, so it was a done deal.

Hop wasn’t sold on Harrington until December.

Neil’s trial was coming down the pipeline. He had been in custody for some minor charges, but the trial was for the long-term abuse he had been doling out to Billy.

So Billy had to testify. And Billy was a wreck about it.

Hop noticed him drawing into himself as the date came closer and closer. He would lash out sometimes too. Never at him or El or Harrington, but sometimes he would be doing homework and get tripped up a little and throw the textbook, swearing up a storm. He would listen to louder and louder music, would lift weights and chain smoke like nobody Hopper had ever seen.

The most explanation he got was when he heard Billy in his room with Harrington, talking softly through the door about the trial. He heard Harrington tell Billy he was proud of him for standing up, that he was strong. Hop smiled, and agreed with Harrington silently, moving on to plant himself on the couch for a while, the television loud enough he couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation (or when it dissolved into breathy moans).

But Harrington proved himself to Hop the next Wednesday.

It was only three days to the trial. Billy was shaky at best. Steve had been over most nights, had been talking him through his testimonials, practicing with him. When it would be too much for Billy he would coo praise into his hair before distracting him nicely.

But Billy was sitting in class, in his AP Chem lab to be exact, when someone dropped their textbook. The big monster made a loud smacking thud on the tile floor and billy was off.

His breathing was shallow, coming in too rapidly to fill his lungs. He fled the class, ignoring the teacher shouting his name as he all but ran.

He was so lucky to find Steve wandering the halls, swinging the hall pass on his finger as he avoided his English class. He grinned when he saw Billy, the smile giving way to concern when he noticed Billy’s wide eyes, the way his hands shook.

He pulled Billy into the library, shutting the blinds on the study room, the one they designated as theirs after a few too many panic attacks.

Steve could smell a bad one a mile away. He got Billy sitting, planted himself on the table in front of him, careful not to touch, and just, talked.

Billy had told him once that he liked it when Steve just made noise. It gave him something to focus on. Steve would keep his voice soft, delicate, and just rambled on, explaining the plot of some movie Billy didn’t care about in extreme detail. Billy was able to just focus on the sound of his voice, was able to focus on the overwhelming safety he felt when he thought Steve.

It took Steve until the end of the period to get Billy calm enough to head out, collecting Billy’s things from the lab, explaining to the teacher with his most charming smile that billy had fallen ill, a terrible flu causing him to run out and spew in the nearest restroom.

He checked back in with Billy before asking the sweet librarian if he could use the phone, gave her his big eyes and most I am the sweetest boy in the whole world smile he could muster.

He asked for Hopper when the tired secretary picked up with Hawkins Police, how may I direct your call?

Hopper sounded gruff on the phone, chided him for skipping class when Steve said hey Chief, it’s Steve. But he went silent at the mention of Billy’s name. When panic attack and bad one and library cut through, Hop was off the phone and in his truck, sirens on, speeding towards his kid.

He didn’t bother stopping at the office. He was Chief of fucking Police, he didn’t need to check-in or whatever. He found the library quickly, explaining to the woman at the circuit desk that his kid’s friend had called him, that his son was sick.

He checked every study room, opening the doors slowly after a few soft taps, knew sometimes Billy got tense when the doors flew open.

He found them in the last one, the shades on the window drawn. Harrington was perched on the table, talking softly to Billy, stroking through his hair.

Billy was sitting in a chair, his face planted onto Harrington’s leg as he shook. Harrington smiled a little at Hop, just kept talking, kept running his fingers through the curly hair.

“Hey, Kid. I’m gonna check you out for the week. When you’re ready, we can go home.” He hesitated when he moved to put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. Harrington took his wrist, moved Hop’s hand up, gently set his on Billy’s head, replacing where his had been skirting through Billy’s hair.

Hop just set it there gently for a second, giving Steve a thankful smile before pulling back, checking both boys out of school for the week. Figured if Billy was gonna sit tense at home, it may be easier for him if his best friend was there, his best friend that obviously knew exactly what Billy needed in his moments.

So he took them both back to the cabin, let Steve get Billy set up on the couch under a few blankets, sat with them on the armchair through a few episodes of some cartoon none of them were paying much attention to, El sitting on the floor, leaned against Billy’s legs.

Steve hadn’t stopped touching Billy once since Hop had seen them. He was holding Billy’s hand now, his thumb gently rubbing Billy’s skin.

They ate dinner together, Steve chattering away like he did, although he looked a little harder now. What he once thought was a nervous tick on Harrington’s part, was obviously helpful for Billy who would throw Steve looks through his lashes, would stare at him like he hung the stars in the fucking sky.

That was the first moment he realized why the kids called Steve their mom, he took care of people, had been taking care of Billy right under Hop’s nose.

He cornered Steve after Billy went to bed. Offered him a smoke on the porch.

“Kid, tell me about Billy. How do you help him like you do? He doesn’t trust me, which I understand, but if he continues not, then I can’t do shit for him.”

“I mean,  he does trust you. He just hasn’t figured you out yet. With his dad, he knew he was angry just from the way he would breathe. He doesn’t quite know what you’re about, if you’re gonna be mad at him for the same shit his dad always was. If he breaks a glass, are you gonna slap him or make sure he didn’t hurt himself? He’s weary. Doesn’t wanna test your limits.”

“But, he knows I wouldn’t hit him, right?”

“He doesn’t know that. The only father he’s ever had slapped him around his whole life, Chief. Now he has you, and you may not have given him a reason to be freaked, but he’s defensive, careful. Doesn’t wanna give you a reason.” He took a drag, making a face at the cigarette. Hop smoked strong stuff, the menthols Steve kept behind his ear were mainly just for show.

“But, if he’s, you know, like he was, how do I help.”

“He likes noise. The first time he had one in front of me, I started nervously talking and doing the dishes and he called it my benign chatter or something. He said he just focuses on the sound of me and because the noise is connected to someone that’s, safe, he feels safe.”

“But, if he doesn’t feel safe with me, how does that work?”

“He feels good with El, maybe she could practice reading aloud to him, or something until he’s there with you.”

“Okay, that could work.”

“And you can’t touch him until he’s ready. He’ll freak if you lay a hand on him. I was sitting there for a long time, but once he put his head on me, that means he wants touch, just soft. He likes his hair being touched a lot.” Hop huffed a bit of a laugh.

“He’s like a scared cat. Exactly like a scared cat.” Steve laughed too.

“It took me a while to figure this shit out, Chief. You’ll get there. He just doesn’t know where he stands a lot of the time. Kinda sees the worst in people. Makes sense, though.” He stamped out the barely smoked cigarette.

“You’re a good kid. Kinda had it out for ya for a while there. But I’m glad he’s got a friend like you.” Steve’s smile was really, odd. He wouldn’t look Hop in the eye, but then again, the kid could never hold eye contact for long. Hop kinda got the feeling Billy wasn’t the only one with some father issues.

“Uh, thanks, Chief. I should, uh, I should get home I guess. I’ll tell Bill I’m going.”

Hop stayed on the porch, mulling over what Steve had said.

Steve headed inside, kissed Billy goodnight and promised to be over tomorrow, pulled on one of Billy’s jackets and leaned over, muttering at him you’re safe here, Bill before giving him one more kiss.

Hop came home early the next few days, always walking in to find Billy and Steve pressed against one another on the couch, El usually pressed to Billy’s other side while they all watched t.v.

Steve waited outside the courthouse during the trial, hugged Billy tight when he came racing out, whooping and yelling the bastard’s goin’ to the slammer, Pretty Boy!

They all ate ice cream for dinner, the rest of the brats celebrating along with Max. Billy even hugged Hopper, briefly and with one arm, and went right back to Steve’s side after, but it was a start, and Hopper liked where this was leading.

[tiesandtea]

SUEDE: Style & Substances

Alternative Press, May 1997 (no. 106). Mag cover. Written by Dave Thompson. Archived here.

Suede Give Us A Glimmer...

Bleeding through the debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. Dave Thompson travels to London to discover why Suede are one of the few bands that matter in an age of stars who are "just like you."

Brett Anderson leans against an amplifier, hands in pocket, shoulders hunched. To his left, the rest of Suede are playing Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross"; to his right, a television crew is fiddling with camera angles. He wants a cigarette, but he never smokes this close to showtime. Instead, he swings a keychain and glowers into the monitors. It's rehearsal time in Studio Four, a theater-sized room as the BBC, and the only person who's enjoying himself is an increasingly rotund-looking Jools Holland. He's the host of this evening's show, and he's away in another room entirely. 

Later...With Jools Holland is a British TV institution. Less than three years old, it has nevertheless sewn up a comfortable niche somewhere between the chart-conscious grooviness of Top of the Pops and the more indulgent pastures of MTV Unplugged. It's a showcase for bands to run through a handful of new songs, play a favorite or two and give a taste of their live prowess without boring the unconverted senseless. Boring themselves senseless, of course, is another matter entirely, and as Suede are counted into the third rehearsal of their opening song "Trash," you can almost sense the desperation in Anderson's face. Then the action starts, and he's utterly transformed. Though he's barely moving and scarcely singing, he's conveying an intensity that explodes from his very presence, drawing the most disinterested eyes in his direction. Even the soundmen look up from their meters, and the camera crew compete for his undying attention. If Anderson weren't a rock star, he'd make a great lunatic. But because he is a rock star...well, he's probably a lunatic anyway. You would be, too, in his shoes. If the 1990s have given us anything, it's the demystification of the rock star. From the boy-next-door Weezers to the angst-ridden whiners, the message is the same: I'm no different from you; I'm no better than you; and, of course, I'm just as screwed up as you. Enter, or more properly, re-enter Suede, with their third album, Coming Up (Columbia). And all that hard work reducing idols to idiots counts for nothing. Because Suede couldn't be "just like you" even if they wanted to. Bleeding through the "is he?/isn't he?" debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and the "does he?/doesn't he?" of his rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. The scent of teen spirit clings to them, the doomed romanticism of consumptive youth which peaked on their last album, 1994's Dog Man Star, and peeks through the stunning Coming Up. Suede deal in emotional extremes, from the A Clockwork Orange apocalypse of their "We Are The Pigs" video in which armed hooligans howl through a burning industrial landscape while Suede gaze down from giant video screens, to the incandescent loneliness of the current "Saturday Night" video, in which a London subway station is transformed into a rave to which the band have not been invited. The band's junkie chic is as apparent in the stoned immaculate presentation of their latest wasted-youth album-cover artwork, as it is in the gorgeously gaunt frame which Anderson angles for the television cameras. Add a live show that oozes subversive glamour; couple that with the fearless decadence of Anderson's greatest lyrics, and whether it's all an act or not, Suede are a walking advertisement for the joyful sins of sleaze. Backstage in the bowels of the BBC, Anderson sighs. He's heard all this before. "Yeah, you can look at it like that, but that's other people's interpretation of it, and that's their problem. You can't look at yourself through other people's eyes, then worry about what you say through their ears; you've got to have some self-belief in what you are." Which is, right now, the biggest thing on 10 legs. Across Europe and the Far East, Coming Up charted at No.1 and has already outsold both its predecessors. Three singles have kept the pot boiling ever since, and the current Suede line-up (their fifth on record since their 1990 "Be My God" 7-inch single debut) is their strongest yet. Like Brian Eno's departure from Roxy Music, founding guitarist Bernard Butler's exit did not so much rid the band of one creative spark, as open the door for the flowering of another. Anderson's unequivocal grasping of the reins, only partly aided by the recruitment of guitarist Richard Oakes, may have diluted Suede's overall sound, but it has sharpened their vision to a razor's edge. The further addition of keyboardist Neil Codling fills the gaps that teen maestro Oakes couldn't plug; the Simon Gilbert/Mat Osman rhythm section is a thunderous roar that never lets up; and Coming Up is unmistakably the sound of the same great band that recorded Dog Man Star. The difference is, Anderson affirms, they've stopped pissing around. "After Dog Man Star, everyone thought we were going to do an operetta or something like that. But you get things out of your system. We wanted to refocus the band, the fact that we were virtually starting again; we wanted to readjust the basics." And did it work? "You can't completely divorce yourself from your past. I haven't got the memory of a goldfish; I was aware that I'd made two albums before it. But it felt fresh, and it felt as though we were making the record away from a lot of the crap you have to deal with, away from the spotlight, which was great. Plus...", and here he gestures to new arrivals Codling and Oakes, "... there's less of an obsession with self-importance, which was definitely a change in the band. The last two albums were quite precious and self-important, and that can be good and that can be bad." Ah, preciousness. Plough through five years of Suede press and the buzzwords leap out: "superficial", "fake", "David Bowie" - three hollow sides to the same soulless coin. But most of the people who call Suede "pretentious" are the same ones who fancy the Spice Girls. And the closest those cynics get to class is the corridor outside the school room. "It does bother us a bit," says Anderson. "People always want to polarize bands into camps, and what I always find objectionable, even with journalists who are pro-Suede, is, they always want to write about us as an alternative to this good, honest musicianship going on elsewhere, which kind of implies that there isn't any good, honest musicianship going on within Suede." Anderson resents that implication, just as he resents the accusations of vanity that are flung at him with equal frequency - the two go hand in hand, after all. "People ask, 'Are you vain?' Hang on, let me turn the question around. If you were going to appear on television in front of five million people, you'd probably look in a mirror to see what you look like. You'll brush your hair and put a bit of make-up on because you don't want to look like a pig. Does that mean you're vain? I don't think it does. "Ninety-nine percent of my career thought is dedicated to thinking about music; a very tiny percentage is spent on image. I may go shopping once a month; but while I don't think we're the honest blokes down the pub, we're not kooky weirdos either. We're just what we are." A decent image, though, is still worth a thousand songs (ask Marilyn Manson), and if it's not their Englishness that holds Suede back in the U.S., then it has to be their appearance. They look weird. Catch the "Beautiful Ones" video: Codling apes the same abstracted pose of diffidence and boredom that once made a star of Sparks' Ron Mael; and Osman and Oakes look like they're trying to extinguish a particularly persistent cigarette end. Their singer is fey. Imagine Bryan Ferry if a stick insect stole his trousers. Their music is arty. And they come on like they're somehow special, so special that America poses little interest or challenge to Suede. Other bands make no secret of their desire to crack the country, nor do they hide their disgust when they fail. Suede, though, never seemed bothered. Past U.S. tours (three so far) have been languid affairs, barely publicized flirtations which almost gratefully acknowledge that as far as most people are concerned, Suede might as well be a lesbian performing artist. Anderson dictates the band's Stateside manifesto: "I don't give a shit." "Don't get me wrong: please don't portray us as some sort of anti-American thing, because we're not. But as far as America is concerned, you can talk about airplay and videos, but all it really boils down to is the fact that America doesn't like Suede. And I'm not going to knock it, if they don't like it, they don't like it." And what don't they like? Kurt Cobain had a tummy ache, and a nation felt his pain. Trent Reznor's dog died, and a nation held his hand. Brett Anderson wrote songs about holes in your arm ("The Living Dead") and pantomime horses ("Pantomime Horse"); he equates love with flyaway litter ("Trash"), and he's never been in rehab. "I hate that rehab shit! That's one place where America get really suckered, with those rehab rock bands. Let me explain what going into rehab means. It means you're cool because you used to do drugs, but now you're a good lad, and you're really '90s, so you want to give them up. But it's a complete excuse, and anybody who says it or does it is a complete careerist. I don't think the public shoulg go out and buy records by people whose record companies have told them to say they're going into rehab. You want to talk about fakes and falseness in the music business; I think this rehab rock thing is such a lot of dog shit." So you don't just say no? "I can't sit here and honestly say that drugs are bad for you, because I don't believe that, and I don't think anybody with a brain believes that." He elaborates: "Smoking a bit of pot and taking a bit of LSD can open a few barriers in your mind, although I certainly don't think taking smack, taking coke or taking crack does anything. I know I've taken drugs before and looked back on it and said, 'That's fucking crap; you should have got your act together and stopped taking them.' They just numb you and turn you into a wrong-thinking fucking idiot. "But that's the whole problem with drugs, isn't it? You can't say 'drugs' because there's so many different factes to it. 'It's an aid to creativity.' Well, some of it is, and some of it isn't. You can't paint everything with one brush." As for the veneer of glamour which Suede's own observations convey, the danger that, to quote the new album's "The Chemistry Between Us," "we are young and easily led," Anderson remains equally adamant. "There's no point in trying to filter things like 'Don't talk about this, don't talk about that.' Lots of times when I'm talking about drugs, I'm talking in a pedestrian context. I'm not trying to make it into a big deal; I talk about it like I'd talk about anything else that's in this room." And though he agrees there is a moral question, he also believes it's impossible to do much about it. "The only way you can set yourself up as something moral is in the broader sense, by not treating music as this completely throwaway, meaningless thing, and not treating the sentiments expressed in the music as completely throwaway, meaningless things. "That's where I see my position morally, someone who can write a love song and actually bring a degree of warmth to someone else. You can't act as censor in your words; you just have to be positive about what you're doing and see that making records that people love, that people cling to, and that help people through sticky patches in their lives is, at the end of the day, a positive thing to do. There's very few things I think that are positive in the world, but music is one of them." And that is that. In an age when a star is only as big as his last three videos, and most stars are as interesting as a line at the post office, Suede are three albums into a career that means more to more people than any of the bickering of Suede's petty, wormwood competitors; and certainly far more than the bitter, twisted harping of their detractors. Stars shine, shit stinks, and the lowest common denominator is nothing to be proud of. No one really wants to watch Hootie feed his blowfish, but Brett Anderson spends "Saturday Night" moping around on a subway train, and it's the best thing on MTV this year. Who cares what else he gets up to? Turning as he heads for the soundstage, Anderson won't be drawn. "My drugs of choice are ginseng and chamomile tea, but don't worry. I'm going into rehab soon."

[haloud]

Ooo, Michael and Liz gen! How about a high school time stamp? Two AP kids both competing for valedictorian.

here ya go! i love these two sm

also on ao3

In the sixth grade, Liz Ortecho swears a solemn oath. She is going to vanquish Michael Guerin if it's the last thing she does. Standing there so smug with his first place science fair ribbon, with his stupid rocket. Anyone could make a stupid rocket. Liz absolutely does not spend the next month of her life obsessed with rocketry, striving with single-minded determination to outdo stupid Michael Guerin's extremely stupid first place project before deciding that rockets were so boring that only boring judges would like them and her efforts would be better spent on better things, like working her way through the rest of the Biology section at the library. Brains were her new favorite subject. Maybe if she understood them perfectly, she could engineer her own to never get beat by stupid Michael Guerin again. It doesn't help that Michael is apparently, suddenly best friends with Max Evans, so she sees him all the time now. And he always grins at her and goes "'sup, Ortecho?" like he knows exactly what he did. Vato. Let's see him be smug after Liz vanquishes him. It's the start of a truly epic feud. Rosa laughs at her for every extra hour she spends studying, every extra trip to the library, every time a perfect score on an assignment adds an extra strain of viciousness to her satisfaction. Rosa laughs even if it's kind of annoying to hear all about how stupid Michael Guerin thought that question 5 was C, HA. You'd think Rosa would have a better appreciation for the agonies and ecstasies of having an archnemesis.

On one of those extra trips to the library, Liz is deep into a plot to climb the shelves when no one’s looking when that hated voice says behind her:

“’Sup, Ortecho?”

And he plunks a stepping stool down in front of her. She glares at him. His face would look way better with a few extra holes in it.

Holding his hands up in surrender, he says: “What? I have to use it too to keep from killing myself by dropping forty pound textbooks on my head. Use the tools you’re given, okay?”

The worst thing about having an archnemesis? Sometimes they’re right.

In eighth grade, Michael Guerin breaks his arm. He tells the story of how it happened different every time, with the same grinning smugness that never fails to make Liz incandescent with hatred.

And then he bombs a math test. (Liz knows because she always sits where she can spy on his grades when they have classes together. Otherwise how will she know if she’s winning or not?)

Michael Guerin never fails math. The odd English project here and there, maybe; his favorite class to sleep in is History. It’s lackluster grades in those classes he seems not to care about that keeps Liz’s GPA maintaining a holding pattern above his. But in all the years Liz has known him, he’s never gotten anything less than a perfect score in Math or Science.

She stares at him, at his carefully blank face, at his infuriatingly casual sprawl in the desk, his legs hanging out in the aisle, his head almost on the desk of the kid behind him, his arm…

His dominant arm in a cast, cradled against his torso, preventing him from taking notes.

Well that just isn’t fair at all.

She spends the rest of the test review period copying her own notes for the past week in quick, neat shorthand. The second the bell rings, she’s out of her seat, smacking the originals down right in front of him.

“Don’t feel the need to give them back,” she said.

Michael’s face stays just as blank; in fact, he barely even looks at her. “What’s up, Ortecho? You won, why don’t you just enjoy it?”

“It’s no fun if it’s not fair, obviously. Just use the tools you’re given, why don’t you? It’s stupid that they haven’t given you a note taker anyway.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of things are stupid.”

But not Liz. She’s smart enough to know it’s gratitude that makes him actually join the Mathletes with her when they start high school, putting them on the same team for once, their two heads together leading New Roswell to its first championship in over a decade.

--

By junior year of high school, Liz and Rosa have saved up enough money between the two of them to buy a used car together. Liz is a perfect driver, perfect record, aced the test first try, doesn’t even speed..and the first time she takes the car out, she ends up on the side of the road, trying not to totally lose it while smoke pours out from under the hood.

This car took all her money and all of Rosa’s, how is it already broken? What will she tell Rosa? How will she afford a mechanic?

Better for it to break down now than for Mom to steal it next time she skips town, a vicious voice says in her mind, and that’s the final straw. Liz lets out a scream from behind clenched teeth and slams the hood down as hard as she can.

“’Sup, Ortecho?”

“Fuck off, Guerin!”

She doesn’t need to hear it, how he outscored her again in chemistry, doesn’t need to hear him ask if she’s got her SAT scores back yet. God, why does he have to be here now? She wants to revel in how she almost certainly schooled him at the essay, god damn it!

But he doesn’t even reply to the bile she spits at him, just pulls over in his beat up truck, pops the hood again, and clicks his tongue at whatever he sees in that tangled, bitter-smelling mess.

“Let’s hitch ‘er up, I’ll give you a tow to Sanders’ and drive you home.”

Liz puffs herself up, then lets it out slow. It’s Guerin. What’s he going to do, laugh at her? Not over this. He may be her archnemesis, but he’s not that.

“I can’t afford the fix,” she says.

“No charge.”

“What? No!”

“Look.” He smirks that awful smirk. “I know you’ll pay me back. We’ve got Physics together next year. Your anguish is all the payment I need.”

“Michael Guerin, you are the WORST.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

But he drives her home with the windows rolled down and lets her set the radio. The passing wind tosses both their hair and Liz laughs at how he looks with his curls in a wild frenzy all around him, and for long enough they’re both just kids. Not friends, no. Archrivals, which is, after all, the next best thing.

--

Liz was valedictorian. For what it’s worth.

--

“’Sup, Ortecho?”

Liz whirls around, and her dress whirls with her. Red, not white. Rosa was over the moon.

Michael is leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, vest and shirt half undone, looking ruffled and dreamy, like he just walked out of a magazine. Liz rolls her eyes at him.

“’Sup, sleazy best-man-seduces-the-bride stereotype?”

“Ouch.”

They both burst out into laughter, Liz doubling over and grabbing the vanity to stay upright, Michael buttoning himself all the way up to the top in a mocking show of modesty, until Liz’s laughter turns into anxious hiccupping and he drops the act as well.

“Liz, seriously, what’s up?”

His voice goes all concerned and understanding, the bastard.

“This is stupid, right? I mean, marriage is such a useless social construct now, and forty-one percent of first marriages end in divorce and fifty percent of all marriages, which is also a relevant statistic because I’ve already fucked over one fiancé in dramatic fashion and maybe I should just leave Max at the altar and get terrible person bingo, and—”

“Hey, Liz, hey, breathe.”

Michael helps her sit and rubs her back as she tries to head off hyperventilation.

“This isn’t stupid,” he says calmly. “You want this. You know you do. You already have Max heart and soul and all that sappy shit, it’s okay to want him legally, too. Use the tools you’re given, right?”

Liz sniffs and barks out a watery laugh. Dumbass.

“Who let you get all wise on me? I hate it.”

“Eh, I’m not wise, I just learned how to be a gracious loser.”

“What do you mean?”

“The big day? The fancy wedding, the ring on your finger? You win, Ortecho.” His face goes all wistful.

“Oh.”

Not knowing what to say, she knocks their shoulders together, and it makes him smile.

“Don’t worry about me. Since when have I ever been far behind?”

For their happiness, as hard-fought as it was, it feels right that they should watch it approaching together, neck and neck. Side by side, like all the best archrivals.

[always-against-the-grain]

thirds

Summary: You invite Negan over for dinner when your parents are out of town. Continuation of party favor

Pairing: AU Negan x reader (female, named Eddie)

Tags: AU Negan, Negan smut, Negan x reader, rough-ish smut

A/N: no proof read. we die like men

“Oh, fuck” you complained to no one, feeling your muscle soreness settling in as you hopped off your fathers SUV.

You had just come back from the gym and were excited to have the house to yourself. Your folks left town for your mother’s work and you had your whole night planned, get a stoned, eat some lasagna your mom pre-made for you, shower, smoke some more, watch some stand-up, and rub one out.

As you walked towards your front door you heard the faint clinking noises, accompanied by soft rock music; noticing Negan’s half open garage, beaming white light escaping onto the gray pavement.

You entered your home and read the note on the counter:

Eddie,

Your dad and I left for my work trip (that free loader). Left some lasagna in the fridge. 375 45 min.

Love you,

mom (and dad)

DONT USE THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL. Negan will take a look tomorrow at 9am, so please be up to let him in and get coffee going.

Knowing Negan was going to be in your home soon brought tingles to your insides. Reminiscing on how you fucked you in the bathroom a little over a week ago.Your memories aroused you, but frustrated you as well, remembering how he toyed with you that firework infused night.

You snapped yourself out of it and began setting the oven when the door bell rang.

You walked over an peeked through the side window.

Negan?

You opened the door and without a proper greeting you asked, “Um, weren’t you supposed to come by tomorrow?”

“Well hello to you too” Negan commented on your weak hospitality.

“And yeah, for the sink... I’m just here to let you know you left your headlights on” he informed you, tilting his head to the direction of the driveway.

“You couldn’t call?” You questioned his motives for being at your doorstep.

Not that you wouldn’t fuck him over and over, but you wanted to be the one to initiate that. He wasn’t gonna control the situation this time.

“Your folks got rid of the landline.”

That comment served as a potent reminder that you hadn’t physically lived in that house other than school intermissions, and that you didn’t know that much about Negan regardless of how good friends he and your parents were.

“And I don’t have your number, cause that would be inappropriate” He added with a smirk, knowing you were miles past appropriateness.

“Funny” you commented on his response in a dead-panned tone.

You reached for the keys on their respective hook on the wall and walked out towards the car, Negan followed behind. You unlocked it and reached your arm in to switch the lights off.

You shut the car door, noticing Negan was cutting through the lawn, half way towards his front door.

Having already gotten you slice of Negan you couldn’t resist him. Flashes of what tonight could potentially lead to infiltrated your mind.

Fuck

“Hey!” you called out to him.

Negan stopped in his tracks and turned his head towards you.

“You like lasagna?”

He paused in thought for a moment.

Should he enter your home without your parents? What if a neighbor saw? What would they think?

“Is it your mothers or that frozen shit?”

“It’s a Frankie original”

“Fuck. Alright” he was easily convinced.

Your mom did make a mean lasagna.

You set the prepared lasagna on the counter as you continued to wait for the oven to heat.

“You can take a hit of that if you want” you gestured towards the packed glass pipe and lighter sitting at the edge of the bar countertop.

“This what you always do when your parents aren't around?” He asked, reaching for the pipe.

“Smoke? Or invite not-age-appropriate men over?” You teased.

“Both” he said as he struggled with the lighter.

Spark after spark with no flame.

“I think that ones out. Let me get another” you skipped upstairs to your room.

Negan waited patiently, flipping through his phone. He noticed some leftover oil and grim on his fingers and got up to wash his hands. While you were in ransacking your drawers, your phone rang downstairs.

Negan let the first call go, but when the second call came he peaked over, concerned it was one of your parents needing to get a hold of you.

He was thrown off by the name on the screen.

Myles

“Found one” you said coming down the steps, Negan in the middle of drying his hands.

“Here” you handed it to him feeling the dampness on his fingers.

“Thanks doll. Your phone rang by the way” He let you know as he sat back down on one of the stools.

Negan took a couple hits as you opened up your phone and typing a quick message before setting it down.

Negans curiosity quickly unraveled.

“So whose Myles?” Negan asked, smoke exiting along with his words, “Myles with a Y...”

“Um. He is.. he’s my.. boyfriend” you said awlwardly, knowing how fucked up it sounded.

“If he’s your boyfriend, why the hell did you sleep with me. Twice for that matter” Negan questioned, almost interrogating you

“One, don’t come at me like that,” your defenses riding

“Two, it’s not like I’m doing anything he’s not already doing” you replied, taking a hit.

“Shit really? How do you know?”

“We were on a date one night, it was a normal day” you spoke holding your breathe and smoke in.

“and- and I don’t know, I looked at him, and I just knew.” Your voice becoming clearer as the white clouds left your body.

Woman’s intuition, Negan thought to himself. Reflecting on his own past.

“And his messages proved it so, there’s that” you added.

“Shit I’m sorry doll” Negan empathized, taking the pipe for his turn.

“It’s okay...” you said, a bit of sadness painting over your face.

“...you’ve help me get over it quite a bit” your voice lightening up, trying to keep yourself from getting down.

“Does he know you know?” he asked sparking another hit.

“Nah, not yet.”

“Why haven’t you told him? Hoping to work it out?” Smoke blowing from his lips

“Fuck no!” you laughed

“I didn’t confront him about it cause it was right before summer, he’s abroad, I’m doing an internship here. Would’ve been really stressful dealing with a break up right now.”

“But that a bridge we’ll cross when we get there, in the mean time I’m just gonna dick around” you said nonchalantly as you reached for the pipe once more, intentionally grazing his hand half a second slower.

Your final hit closed the conversation on your relationship.

You set the pipe down, free for Negan to grab if he’d like to continue.

“Okay, what about you? What’s your is deal, what do you do around here?” You guided the conversation towards his occupation, rather than his love life, worried that that information might put you off.

Negan grabbed the pipe.

“I teach” he said before taking a puff.

“You teach? You? A cigarette smoking, beer drinking, motorcycle driving, bachelor?” You busted his balls

“First of all honey, there’s not a wrong way to live a life. And secondly, I know I’m not perfect. Hell, I’m light years from perfect, but I am proud of what I do. I’m a good ass teacher, I make these kids find awe in bi-fucking-ology .”

“Biology? I’m sorry, but this is wild! I didn’t expect you do me a science geek.” You were actually intrigued, “How’d you get into teaching?”

“Well, I did my undergrad degree in biology. And I TA-ed a course and I realized I really liked teaching so after graduation I went ahead and got my Master’s in education.”

“Wait, I thought you coached”? You jumped to the next question

“I do that too. I teach 4 classes, 2 intro bios, 1 ap bio, and one health period. Then coach after school”

”What do you coach?”

“Coach women's basketball in the winter, and help out with baseball in the spring.”

“I’m guessing you like it? You seem very passionate.”

”I love this teaching shit. Plus, I’m someone these kids can talk to, someone who can guide them and be raw-fully honest about anything- I don’t patronize these kids. I get to be the person I needed at their age, it’s a sweet gig” He couldn’t help the smile spreading on his face

This conversation fine tuned your image of Negan. You found yourself lost in the dichotomy of it all. Here he was, shirt covered in black oil stains, smoking weed, cursing, yet vulnerable, gentleness peaking through his macho-ness.

Beep

You walked over to lay the lasagna on the rack. Negan admiring your ass as you bent over. He stared for as long as he could. Blood flowing to his manhood.

“So, we got 45 minutes to kill” you closed the oven and walked around the counter towards him.

Your hands went towards his knee cap, pushing his leg out to fit your stature between his seated figure.

“What can Coach Negan teach me in that time?” you whispered as your lips gravitated towards his.

You wantonly kissed him. Sliding your tongue in his mouth to wrestle with his. His hands firmly cupped your ass, pulling you closer to him.

“There she is.” He applauded, as you tugged on his lower lip.

“I was waiting for your dirty side to come out and play” he said, knotting his fingers through your hair that was in a post-work-out messy bun.

You tried to bring your mouth back to his and you got close, but his firm grip held you back.

“Uh-huh” he said, barely audible.

Negan stuck his tongue out slightly, leaning towards you. Your lips were ready to welcome him, before he sprung back.

“Fucker” You let out a sigh that was between a laugh and utter frustration.

He toward over you, staring at you lustfully.

He had you desperate for more. Negan felt your try to fight against his grasp again.

“You lack patience” He informed you, keeping you away from him.

“And you’re a tease” You immediately shot back at him

He closed his fist further, the taut strands pulling on your scalp, “I’m not a tease. I just know what you can handle.”

“I don’t think you do” You were up for the challenge.

“Oh, honey” He smirked doubtfully.

Butterflies flooded your gut, tingles shot across your upper back. You were nervous, but gave him no indication of that, so he figured he’d teach you lesson, put you in your place.

“Other than the word ‘stop’ is gonna make me stop. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes” You answered attempting to kiss I’m once more.

Negan kept a tight grip of you hair, but allowed you to bring your mouth to his.

He brought his other hand to your clothed center. Pulling his lips away to see your reaction.

Breathily moans began spilling out of you. Your eyes fluttering shut, focusing on his touch.

He stopped his maneuvers, “Look at me”

Once you opened your eyes and locked with his he resumed to pleasure you.

He stood up, hands still wrapped in your hair and on your womanhood. He kept you neck extended, staring into your eyes as you both stumbled toward the living room couch. His eyes told you he was excited to show you what you had not yet experienced.

He gave your final rubs before as you arrived to the L-shaped couch.

You began undressing other other. As each item of clothing disappeared you found new areas to grope each other.

“Oh fuck,” he mumbled as you reached for his heavy member, pumping him slowly.

Negan grabbed the sides of your jaw, giving you a nasty kisses before directing you in a face down position. He placed you on your knees, your rear directed upwards. The feeling the cool air gust over your wet center gave you shivers.

He lightly tapped your clit with his dick. He did that multiple times before sliding it between your folds, lubricating himself with your fluids.

“Ugh Negan... fuck” you mewled

You started to lean back into him, wanting more contact. Negan didn’t appreciate it that. He held your hip tightly with his other hand as he teased you for what felt like hours. He eventually stuck the tip of his cock inside you and sat still.

You knew if you moved he would make you wait longer. You decided to be patient and let him make the call. Admitting to yourself that he took the wheel form you once more.

Once you’re breathing settled, Negan stuck the entire length of his member in one motion, accompanied by a load groan.

“Oh fuck” you yelled as your entrance stretched around him.

Negan brought his hand to the side of your face to hold you down. You felt your check rub harsher against the couch cushion as he built up speed. The sound of his balls slapping against your wet pussy filled the family room.

His thrusts were euphoric and dominating. He was punishing you and wanted you to enjoy it.

In between his plunges you were able to catch a whiff of his cologne with his natural musk sprinkled in. That scent did something primal to you.

Your felt your release was close.

“Ne-, I’m- I’m” you started to inform him.

He began to force himself harder and deeper. You couldn’t keep your position, your pelvis dropped, your leg fell of the edge, squirming and kicking.

“Mmmmm!! Fuck!” Your toes splayed as your climax enveloped you.

You thought Negan would slow down after cumming that hard, but he kept pushing into your prone body at the same pace. Your hand reached back to brace his quad, hoping to diminish his thrusts.

Negan roughly gripped the hand that was trying to stop him and pinned it over your head, his long torso over your back, closing the space between you.

His hips continued to drive into you as he growled in your ear, , “This is what punching above you’re weight class is baby.”

You began moaning, not you’re typical moans though. The sounds escaping you sounded like a porno. If you heard a voice recording of this moment you would swear it was staged

Groans bubbled and escaped Negan as he felt his release building.

He clenched your hair and pulled out of you. You were relieved as you were becoming over sensitive.

He brought his member over your face, holding your head down onto the cushions.

His manhood hovered over you, swiftly pumping himself.

“ughhh” You heard his as his warm milky seed splattered on the side of your face.

He was breathing fast and heavy after his release. He used his member to scoop some of his cum from your cheek and brought it into your mouth.

“Dirty girl” he smiled as welcomed his cock, and sucked tenderly on his bulbous head, extracting all of him.

Afterwards Negan helped you sit up.

He picked up your shirt from the ground and handed it to you to wipe your face.

“Thanks” you said weakly, yet satisfied.

He sat beside you. Hand grazing your thigh, slowly working towards your center, as you rid your face of his seed.

The instant his finger touched you nerve bundle, you jolted away from him, lightly swatting his hand away.

“You okay?” He chuckled, stopping his movements but pulling you back close to him.

“Yeah” you answered “It was just a lot, but it was really good”

“Are you gonna listen to me now? When I say what you can handle and what you can’t?”

“Yeah”

He stared at you, wanted a different answer.

You know that look. It was the ‘yeah’-is-not-an-answer look, given to you by your own coaches.

“Yes” you said clear and respectfully.

“Good” He brought his lips to yours, slipping his tongue through.

Your make out session was interrupted by the oven.

Beep

“Let’s eat” He said.

____________________

After dinner you both hopped in the shower. You had sex again. And he was much slower and gentle in that second round.

Negan sat the edge of your bed, towel around his waist. He looked around your room, while you found something suitable for him to wear.

Half of your room was neat and well put together. The other half looked like an artists went on a bender. The wall and ground were littered with your drawings and ongoing project ideas.

“Here” you handed him unisex navy blue tee and sweats, “Let me know if they fit or not.”

You went back to your dresser to dress yourself in a Nike long sleeve and compression shorts

“How’d that work out?” You asked facing away from him.

“Take a look” He said waiting for you to see what was wrong.

You turned around and didn’t see anything fit too tight or too loose. Then you noticed the sweats were well above his ankles

You burst out laughing “Never thought I’d see you in capris“

“They fit around the waist, that’s what matters” He laughed

You both went back downstairs. Drank beer and played the stand up you had planned on watching. You both sat close to each other, in the very spot you had fucked earlier.

Mid-way Negan interrupted the special, “Hey, when do you head back to school?”

“Two weeks. We’re gonna have a little party. I’m sure my folks will invite you. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering” he said, but he really was plotting your farewell gift.

[rufousnmacska]

Secrets and Confessions Part 4

A Crescent City Ruhn-Hypaxia fic

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

*****

Part 4

*****

“What the Hel, Danaan?”

Flynn turned the empty bottle of scotch upside down, letting what little remained trickle out. He caught himself before calling Ruhn a drunk. “I thought you’d at least wait for us.”

Ruhn ignored him and started up the stairs. He heard Dec come through the door and then the two males were whispering. He knew it was about him. But he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.

He’d quickly fallen back into old habits in the last week. Drinking, smoking, going to clubs or staying in for the parties his friends held here. He never did more than sit there, alone and drowning in scotch and self pity. Bryce’s growing concern hadn’t even been enough to snap him out of this.

Stumbling into his room, he fell onto the bed, fully clothed and soaring from whatever he’d just smoked. He’d almost forgotten how much he had always relied on this. But now, he actually kind of hated the oblivion. Sure, it helped him relax, helped him sleep.

But then, so had she.

And there’d been no nasty hangover from her. Just heartache.

Shit, he was pathetic. It was no wonder it hadn’t worked.

He looked around the room, his eyes losing and regaining focus on a chaos of clothes and weapons and equipment and junk. He’d once tried to imagine her here, in this bed with him. A laugh escaped his lips and he jumped, surprised by the sound.

The buzz of his phone made him flinch again. Wishing he could bash the fucking thing against a wall, he pulled a pillow up over his head instead. If he didn’t need it for Aux duties, he would destroy it. His only other responsibility was a joke. The Chosen One, Starborn Prince, Heir of the Valbaran Fae ... meaningless titles for a worthless little prince who was nothing more than his father’s lapdog.

He laughed again, thinking, at the very least, he was damn good at pouting.

Another buzz came, muffled by the pillow but still audible. Against his better judgment, Ruhn reached over to the bedside table, knocking empty glasses over in a blind search for the phone. When he got a hold of it, he took a breath before cracking open an eye to see who’d texted.

He was expecting Hypaxia. Not hoping. Expecting.

She’d messaged him almost every day with what he assumed were apologies. He never opened them, never replied. Never scrolled through the photos he’d taken with her. Didn’t care that it had been two days since her last text. He definitely was not hoping to see her name pop up.

But it wasn’t her. It was Bryce with the second of her twice-a-day check-ins to see if he was still breathing. Those were here exact words. Every time.

Hey!

Are you still breathing?

No, he wanted to reply. How can I with my chest caved in?

Instead, he wrote back

Yes. Contemplating a career change. Writing for Fangs and Bangs. Seems I have a talent for melodrama. Good stuff.

He imagined Pax laughing at that as Bryce replied

You??? Never. I’ve never once thought of you as a drama queen. Never. Never ever.

Seeing the word queen made Hypaxia’s presence in his thoughts pound like a drum. Or maybe that was just his fucking head.

Nice. So you inherited all of the dq genes from dad then?

She sent him a middle finger followed by a heart.

Hypaxia had never sent those kinds of things until he’d shown her how, telling her the double meanings behind some of the more innocent looking symbols. After a day or two of nothing but faces and animals and magical signs, he’d teased her, telling her he’d created a monster. Immediately, she’d sent a string of little beasts and devils. Trailed by a heart. The memory filled him with heat, and in a far off way, like he was watching himself from outside his body, he realized he was smiling.

As if summoned by his thoughts of her, his phone buzzed in his hand and notification of a new message popped up. Before he could stop himself, his finger hit the name Pax, and it opened.

I miss you.

That’s all it said.

Ruhn squeezed his eyes shut. And he saw her sitting in the sunny courtyard at her clinic, drinking tea and laughing. He saw her watching him from across a crowded room, her dark eyes like magnets pulling him towards her. He saw her writhing atop him, the curls of her hair wrapped around his fingers, her mouth open in pleasure. He heard her voice, the chords and notes so lovely and silky to his fae ears that her singing left him weak in the knees.

He saw her whispering with Ketos, heard them discussing his suitability for their fucking rebellion. Saw her flinch way from him in fear.

He stared at his phone, long enough for the words to stop making sense. And long enough again for their meaning to come back around. Something about the quiet simplicity of those three words moved him to type.

I miss you too.

Or maybe it was something about the high he had going on. Fuck him. Without hitting send, he shut the thing off and tossed it on the floor.

After another draw on his cigarette, Ruhn welcomed the oblivion, and finally fell asleep.

*****

The message was read. Unlike all the others, he’d actually looked at this one. Hypaxia watched and waited as the cursor flashed in a steady rhythm. He was replying.

The anticipation made her suck in and hold her breath. With each flash indicating Ruhn was typing, she imagined what he might say.

Fuck you was highly likely. Or some other curse. That wouldn’t bother her. She’d rather get an angry reply than nothing. Anger would eventually fade. Nothing meant he was done.

When her chest started to burn from the lack of air, she inhaled shakily, realizing her phone must be toying with her. A few moments later, the cursor disappeared and the only thing left was a read at 10:33 notice.

It was nothing, then.

Hypaxia looked around her empty apartment. The tiny place had never felt so claustrophobic before. Even when Ruhn had stayed over, taking up more than his fair share of space with his booming laughter and tall, muscular frame. Somehow, without him here, it felt smaller.

She was not one to mope. Even during those first few weeks grieving the loss of her mother, she’d stayed busy and focused. That loss, while devastating, had been the result of a prolonged illness. There had been time to prepare. Closure.

The loss of Ruhn had been like a blunt force trauma. It hit her out of the blue and left her with no means of recovery.

The severity of it, the fact she was even comparing it to her mother’s death ... That was one more weight added to her collection, dragging her ever downward. She had not realized how entrenched he’d become in her life.

The ring of her phone made her jump and she scrambled to answer. But it wasn’t him. And thank the damn gods it wasn’t Tharion. The mer meant well, checking in on her between calls about the rebellion. But she wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk, or to discuss strategy about the upcoming meeting with Jesiba.

“Hello, Bryce,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment that it wasn’t the female’s brother instead. “What can I help you with?” Hypaxia expected some medical question, perhaps a request for an appointment.

But instead, Bryce asked, “So what’s happening with my brother? He’s barely functioning and I was only just now told” - there was a muffled sound like someone being punched, then a gruff Hey! - “you might know why.”

“What do you mean barely functioning?” There was no hiding her emotions this time. “Is he okay?”

“He’s just wallowing,” she said, trying to sound dismissive. But she wouldn’t have called if she wasn’t worried. “I’d assumed it was from my father being a dick. But that’s an all the time kind of thing. And Ruhn is used to it.”

Hypaxia didn’t bother saying that no one would get used to the awful treatment doled out by the Autumn King. That was something the half-fae knew as well as her brother.

“I didn’t know you were seeing each other,” Bryce added.

Impossibly, her heart sank further. Their relationship hadn’t been front page news. But she’d thought his sister had known.

“Hello? Are you there Hypaxia?”

“Yes, yes I’m here. Sorry, I was ...” But she trailed off, unsure of what to say.

Bryce must have known what she was thinking because she said, “Don’t read into that. After you two first met, I could tell that he liked you. And while he’s annoying and feels entitled to know the details of my life, he hardly ever reciprocates. But, he’s been different these past few months. Happier and calm. I suspected there was someone new in his life. I just didn’t know who.”

Hypaxia was silent, recalling when they’d first met. Not officially, not with names. Or, at least assumed names. She hadn’t been in the city long, working at the clinic and responding to some of the more unusual calls for a medwitch at crime scenes, hoping to get more information about what was happening and whether it was a danger to her witches. She’d seen him in the news, had even seen him from afar on a couple of occasions.

But it was at the murder of the temple guard in Asphodel Meadows that they’d first spoken. Hypaxia remembered how intense Ruhn was, not just about gathering the details of the scene, but about his sister. Long before he knew of her true abilities, he’d been a protective, loving brother.

He’d enchanted her that night, despite the grisly surroundings. Apparently, she’d done the same to him.

Cthona, that felt like ages ago.

“Are you still there?” Bryce’s voice was quiet and gentle.

“Yes,” she replied. “Sorry my mind wandered a bit there. Uh, yes, we’ve been together. Until recently.” An overwhelming urge to spill everything to Bryce came over her. The rebels were off limits of course. But the thought of having a friend to talk to, a friend who might offer advice or just listen, someone who didn’t only see her as a queen … The cold emptiness she felt wasn’t just from the vacant apartment. Or Ruhn’s notable absence.

With a quick shot of courage, she said, “I can’t really go into details about the how and the why, but I messed up. And I’ve been trying to contact him to apologize but he’s not answering. Can you give me his address?” She faltered, and said, “It must sound ridiculous that I don’t know where he lives. It’s just that we always stayed at my place.”

Bryce snorted a laugh. “That’s not ridiculous. His place is a sty. Literally. Flynn once had a pig as a pet. And I felt bad for it having to live there.”

Hypaxia heard Hunt laughing in the background and she joined in. “That’s okay. I’m not concerned about the state of his house.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Bryce gave her the address for a townhouse near the Old Square then paused before adding, “I’d give it some time though. He’s pretty sensitive. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s one reason our father looks down on him. There’s no room for emotion in that asshole’s world. Whatever happened between you … maybe wait a couple of days.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, thinking of all those conversations, in writing and in person, where Ruhn surprised her with his sweet nature. No, not surprised. She’d sensed it early on. But his tenderness always seemed so disparate from his cultivated appearance. Which, of course, was the point. And, according to Bryce, not as successful as he thought it was. “Thank you. I’m leaving tomorrow to attend to some things at home for a few days. I’ll wait until I get back.”

“Okay. Good luck! Not that you’ll need it. He’s crazy about you. Once he quits sulking he’ll realize that. I only mean good luck about surviving his shitty house. Call me if you need help finding your way out of the mess.”

For a second, she wasn’t sure if Bryce was talking about Ruhn’s place or her life. But there was a smile in Bryce’s voice. And a warmth that spoke of genuine affection. As if they were already friends.

Laughing and thanking her again, Hypaxia said goodnight. Thinking of Bryce as a friend, as someone who liked her, apart from Ruhn, made some of the chill dissipate.

But only some.

Later, as she lay in bed, Hypaxia thought about the blinking cursor. It wasn’t just nothing. He’d looked at the message and wanted to reply. That gave her hope.

To be continued...

*****

Thanks for reading!

My fanfic master list on tumblr and my writing on AO3 (mostly manorian with a little nessian)

Tagging @itach-i @queen-of-glass

[artificialqueens]

Underneath The Mistletoe, Part 1 (Bianca/???) - Albatross

AN: Bianca wakes up with a hangover and limited memories after kissing someone at Alyssa’s holiday party. Although she doesn’t know who it was, it seems someone else (or rather, multiple someone elses), does…and they’re enjoying the free entertainment as she struggles to put the pieces together and find her mystery partner.

Just pretend I released this before the holidays end. Thank you @VeronicaSanders for beta-ing and brainstorming with me.

What. The. Hell. Happened?

Those were Bianca’s immediate thoughts as she came to one very bright, very noisy morning.

The second she opened her eyes, the sun damn near blinded her as the noise outside the house, dogs barking, cars rushing by and the like, assaulted her ears. Pretty much the first thing she noticed was that she was not in her home. No, it looked like she was in…fucking Laganja’s bedroom.

‘Why?’ was her immediate thought as she looked around, completed baffled and dazed. Her mind struggle for a moment but then she finally remembered, ‘Oh, yeah. Last night was their holiday party.’

Alyssa and Laganja always hosted the party two weeks before Christmas and it was always themed. Last year had been tacky, ABC costumes and this year…ugh.

Alyssa had sent out the invitations weeks ago asking everyone to wear something in traditional Christmas colors…and tacked on a suspicious warning at the end; “And none of y’all better be wearing lipstick when you get here. You can just march yourself right to the bathroom and wipe that shit off if you try sneaking in with any!”

The instant Bianca had read that block of text, a red flag had immediately gone up. Hell, a fucking parade of red flags against a backdrop of fireworks went off in her mind.

But still, it was a chance to see her friends before the holidays swallowed up all of her time…and the offer of free booze didn’t hurt Alyssa’s case either. Besides, Bianca figured, how crazy could Alyssa really get with that request?

Well, as it turned out, she had quite the festive and innovative motive for requesting nude lips.

******

Bianca and Adore made plans to arrive at the party together and maybe even carpool on their way home. One might stay at the other’s house depending on how much they drank but that was a concern for much later, Bianca reasoned.

Even before they had stepped inside the tacky, overly decorated house, the party behind its doors sounded to be in full swing. Laughter and mindless chatter echoed onto the front lawn long before they were halfway up the driveway. They barely made it two feet past the door frame before Alyssa flagged them down and held out two tubes of suspiciously unlabeled lipstick before them.

“Take your pick!” she laughed out in excitement.

Far from amused, Bianca asked sarcastically, “What colors are they? Silver and gold?”

“Red and green, smartass! For Christmas!”

“Right. What about Hanukkah?”

“Cute, Miss Thing,” Alyssa remarked with a roll of her eyes. “Now pick one.”

Glancing between the similar tubes, Bianca had to admit there were absolutely no clues about the color each one held. So rather than leaving it chance, Bianca stated flatly, “Red. Which is red?”

Immediately shaking her head, with a Cheshire grin to boot, Alyssa replied, “Uh-uh. Not how it works, baby girl. You gotta pick one.”

“Oh, really?” Bianca sneered as she crossed her arms and stared down her friend. Those ruby red lips of hers had not gone unnoticed, especially given the hard time she was giving Bianca right now. “And you just happened to pick your favorite shade by random chance?”

A flash of guilt swept across Alyssa’s face for just a moment but by the time Adore had started snickering in the background, it was gone and replaced an annoyed pout.

Feeling rather justified, Bianca made a further jab of, “Yeah, that’s what I thought, bitch. Which one is red?”

Alyssa’s response was only to huff but it was easy to see her beginning to try and think of some counter argument or sarcastic remark. Before things could escalate that far, Adore reached over and plucked one of the tubes from Alyssa’s hands.

Quite calmly, she uncapped it and upon seeing the glaring red, promptly handed it over to Bianca.

A smirk was present on both of the women’s faces, particularly when Alyssa grumbled, “Killjoy,” as she handed Adore the remaining tube.

The contents were a bright green, almost too bright for the holidays, and instantly Bianca had a guess as to where it came from. 

“Steal that from ‘Ganja?”

Full of indignation at the accusation, Alyssa let out a squawk of, “Borrowed.”

“Like you ‘borrowed’ my green halter last year?” Bianca countered with a scoff at the denial.

“I’m gonna return it!” Alyssa argued even as her voice rose in pitch. Her cheeks were beginning to burn with a light as she mumbled, “Just need to find it again.”

A quick roll of the eyes gave away Bianca’s thoughts on the matter but just in case it wasn’t clear enough already, she added in, “Don’t worry about it. I already snatched it from your laundry basket last month.”

Alyssa was the very picture of beauty and composure as she stared with wide eyes darting back and forth between a smirking Adore and vaguely irritated Bianca. Her mouth was gaping open like a fish as she tried to search the recesses of her mind for some kind of excuse for herself. All she could come up with, however, was a very flimsy and rather grating, “It was an accident!”

“Of course it was.”

Whether it was luck or simply overhearing the chatter of her roommate and not wanting to be left out, Laganja found her way to Alyssa’s side to greet their latest arrivals. She took one look at Bianca and the fresh lipstick on her face and pouted, “Mmph. Wanted to see Bianca with green lips for once.”

“Ha,” Bianca snapped back in a deadpanned tone, “Like I’d be caught dead with that shit on my lips.”

******

Ugh, fucking Laganja .

No doubt she had a hand in choosing this year’s theme. Probably had enough of everyone (mostly Bianca) teasing her for wearing that hideous green lipstick year round.

She was usually a pain to deal with under normal circumstances but last night she was something else entirely, certainly she’d been helped along by the ever flowing alcohol at the party. Even when she greeted Bianca and Adore at the entryway she’d been well on her way to buzzed and probably already high as fuck.

It was a wonder sometimes though; for all that stereotyping about pot smokers being lazy and complacent, little of that seemed to apply to Laganja. The girl was energetic and active as anything, even after smoking whatever productive she could at every given chance. Adore was about the opposite when she smoked; becoming contemplative and almost thoughtful (as much as she could be while high off her ass). But most importantly, she was chill … relaxed.

A little rambly, sure, but nothing so loud or annoying as Laganja was. No whiny, high-pitched voice to grate on her nerves. No overly-emotional outbursts or flaring tempers.

But wasn’t important right now. What Bianca was most concerned about was what happened last night after arriving. She knew she must have drank quite a bit, the fact that she chose to sleep in Laganja’s bed rather than in her own bed was evidence of that. She could only hazard a guess as to what state her hair and makeup must be in…Actually…perhaps it’s best not to think about that right now. Maybe just avoid all reflective surfaces anyway. No, what she needed more than anything, except perhaps coffee, was a nice, hot shower to clean off the paint she slept in last night.

Hopefully, after that and giving herself a chance to wake up a little more, her fucking hangover to end all hangovers would disappear and she’d be able to think clearly once again.

So, with a great effort from her still fatigued body, she pushed herself from the bed and stumbled into the main hallway. It was quiet inside the house and a little unsettling given how late in the morning it was, she expected at least Alyssa to be up and wandering around trying to clean up the mess. But it was damn near silent…apart from a soft snoring coming from the living room.

As stealthily as she could manage, Bianca crept towards the living room to take a quick peek at its state after last night. A quick look around the room confirmed that she was not the only one that had slept over. Adore was nestled on the couch, probably face down and drooling onto the cushions as various examples of Laganja’s hideous throw pillows covered her head and protected her from the sun shining in through the bay window. As for Laganja she was curled up on the other end of the couch, using one arm as a pillow as the other hung off the edge of the couch.

But Adore and Laganja weren’t the only ones sleeping off last night’s drunken escapades in here. After a further glance, Bianca found Willam sprawled out over the loveseat with an arm thrown over her eyes and her messy curls falling across the rest of her face. Even the straps of her dress barely seemed to be holding their place on her shoulders and her heels were missing from her feet. Actually, it seems there was a collection of shoes near the loveseat, Willam’s own likely among them. Adore’s platform boots stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the shiny stilettos and wedges of the remaining guests.

Deep in one of the corners, it seems Raja and Manila had managed to find comfort curled into one another in the constricted space of the recliner. From what Bianca could see, both women’s makeup had been somewhat smeared, particularly their lips. She could only imagine what Willam’s usual glittery mess must look like, especially after her arm had undoubtedly smeared any eyeshadow that was left.

After a quick double-checking to ensure everyone was still fast asleep, Bianca crept out of the house to do her walk of shame in as much privacy as could be managed in broad daylight and a Lyft. To her relief she met no one else aside from her driver as she traveled back to her apartment and proceeded to get ready for a much needed shower. While the water heated up, she finally dared to look in a mirror to begin removing last night’s makeup and it was then that she made a disturbing discovery. 

Aside from her own smudged ruby-red lipstick, there was also a very distinct layer of green smeared over top. Not just a small hint of green. No, it was everywhere . It was even fucking extended up her cheek!

Just what the hell happened last night?

Sure, Bianca’s pecked friends on the cheek or lips while drunk before but she’s never made out with anyone!

And who had it been, anyway?

‘Had anyone seen? Taken pictures?’ She wondered.

Oh, god! This is not what she needed to worry about so early in the day. Especially not with a hangover to boot.

‘Okay, just…take a moment,’ she reasoned. ‘Just let everything come back on its own. Don’t force it.’

And of course, what better way to encourage those buried memories to come back than to just let her mind wander in the shower. The warm spray was so relaxing, so calming…It was just what she needed after passing out on a couch.

And sure enough, some of last night’s events did begin to seep into the forefront of her mind. 

She remembered…bickering with Laganja a bit more over that hideous green lipstick…mingling with some of her friends for a few minutes and then…

Oh, right! She made her way to the kitchen to grab a drink!

She finished off the first glass of wine alone and then…she poured another before joining the rest of the party again. There was laughing, joking. She was having a great time catching up…But what else?

A number of guests had been wandering around taking photos and videos for Instagram, Facebook and god knows what else. She’d even posed for a few of those and posted one or two herself…and then…

Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind; Raja! 

She and Raja had gone around looking for another bottle of wine and stumbled upon Alyssa’s secret stash. The good bottles. The expensive bottles. So of course, they eagerly dipped in and shared what they had found. It was then the party really got interesting and Bianca’s memory began to spread thin.

She remembered laughing, so much harder than before. There were little glimpses but she and the others were having a wonderful time. Someone had their feet up in her lap for a minute before she pushed them off. Probably Adore. But what about after that?

It was foggy…she drank so much but it was fun…

Then there was a vague, thin little memory…Her back was pressed against a doorframe, eyes closed, some kind of… smell …and she was kissing someone…but why?

She tried focusing on what she remembered before the drinking, what she noticed soon after arriving and commented on…what was it?

Mistletoe!

Now she remembered! Alyssa and Laganja had hung that shit all over their house. Bianca had dodged nearly every one of them she found, especially if someone were standing near it. Almost certainly there’d been one above her and whoever she kissed…but why did she let them? Was she really drunk enough to be that messy with one of her friends?

And who the fuck was it?

That was what annoyed her the most. She just couldn’t remember!

But maybe she didn’t have to.

An idea struck her and like a flash, she finished her shower and went to grab her phone. By now most of the photos and video from the party should be posted…maybe someone had caught a snapshot of her without realizing it…But as she looked through all of the updates, she realized this was a tougher challenge than she originally anticipated. Aside from just the pictures, there must have been hours worth of video to watch, thanks to a few of the attendees livestreaming, along with whatever else might posted in their stories.

Ugh…what a pain.

But she had to know.

So for nearly an hour, she sat on her bed in just her towel and scrolled through every picture and video that had been posted by her friends. It was when she came to the sixth profile (Tatianna’s) that she finally struck gold. In the background of one of her stories Bianca caught a glimpse of herself with someone’s hand tucked under her chin. They weren’t kissing just yet but she’d have bet anything that would have come next. 

But thanks to whatever stupid filter Tatianna had been using, the background was largely blurry and Bianca could barely make out her own figure, much less someone else’s. Not to mention that annoying habit of Tatianna’s that prevented her from standing still. Her fucking hair blocked out nearly everything that might have made the other woman recognizable. All except that one visible hand. But perhaps the most irritating thing of all was if the story had been just a little longer, Tatianna would have moved just enough to see the other woman’s hair color, something that would be a lot more definitive than just their fucking hand! But no, the universe would have been too kind to allow that.

So frustrating!

Even after playing the story on a loop for five minutes, all Bianca could learn was that the person she kissed had light skin, at least lighter than her own…

‘So Bob’s out,’ she figured.

But…there was something else…She didn’t really remember the person tucking their hand beneath her chin but when she kissed them, she could have sworn they were about her height…she didn’t have to crane her neck too far, she recalled…but also…if her memory could even be trusted, the kiss just felt nice…inviting even. Clearly it was messy judging by the smeared lipstick but there was something just…well, she couldn’t explain it…at least not right now.

But that’s a thought for another time.

‘And when was this posted anyway?’

About 7 hours ago, so…2 AM-ish. Not many people likely to be left at the party by then. She could probably name a few with a little extra effort- Oh!

Alyssa would probably remember. She’d have to text her in a minute. Bianca was certain there was another clue to discover still and sure enough in the next story posted, discounting the one displaying all of the empty glasses and bottles scattered on the kitchen counter, was of Tatianna and Willam . It was still time stamped as 7 hours ago but what caught Bianca’s eye was the heavily smudged green lipstick on Willam’s face…and where certain traces of red could be seen.

‘Oh, god, if it’s her. Fucking Christ, I’ll need to head over to the free clinic.’

But it still wasn’t anything definite. However, it was the best lead Bianca had at the moment until she finds out everyone else who was still at the party. So, as she waited for a response from Alyssa, undoubtedly sleeping in after such a long night, Bianca was going to question Willam on what exactly she remembered of last night’s escapades.

******

Sharon: Biiiitch!

Sharon: You are not gonna believe what I saw last night!

This was the first message Willam saw popping up on her screen after last night’s drunken fiasco; a group text initiated by Sharon including damn near everyone of their mutual friends.

Before anyone could even ask what it was (or why she was texting so early in the goddamn morning), a picture loaded on the screen that undoubtedly had several jaws dropping.

Michelle: Is that BIANCA?!?!

Vanessa: Who’s gonna tell that bitch she got syphilis now?

Jackie: WHORE!

Mariah: When’d she turn into Drinkx?

Jinkx: Fuck you!

Countless messages filled the new chat group, so much that it was almost impossible to read all of them as they came through. Immediately at the sight of the picture, Willam was left doubled over and cackling. 

Saving the picture to her phone, she returned her attention back to the chat and found the other members debating on when to tell the involved parties. Some wanted to tell her right away and begin the mandatory teasing, others wanted to wait and keep it as an in-joke for the time being.

The one thing they could all agree on was that this information was, under no circumstances, to be shared with certain people. Alyssa and Katya, first and foremost; two of some of the biggest loudmouths in the group.

And not that ‘rat-snitch Phi Phi’ came another declaration. Otherwise, Bianca would know within the hour.

Further debate went on for nearly an hour until Willam found a new text message alert appearing at the top of her screen. Her eyes lit up with a devilish glint as she returned to the group chat to inform them that Bianca was inviting herself over and of course argued with them on what she ought to do.

Whatever they decide, Willam was intent on having her fun with this.

******

Despite Bianca’s sense of immediacy with her text, Willam did not seem to feel any rush to respond back right away. During the two hours it took for her to reply, Bianca was left stewing in her apartment sending ever urgent messages in the hopes of getting an actual fucking response. So, once the first indication of a reply flashed across her phone, Bianca was off like a shot and racing towards Willam’s home.

In record time, thanks to quite a bit of speeding, she arrived at Willam’s apartment building and began knocking on her door. Nearly the second it opened and she was face-to-face with her exhausted friend, Bianca blurted out, “What do you remember from last night?”

Smirking, Willam shot back, “What? No ‘hello’? No 'Good morning!’ or ‘How about we get some coffee?’”

“Don’t try me, bitch,” she warned as she stalked inside the apartment and made her way to the living room, “I’m not in the mood. What. Do. You. Remember?”

A sense of coy, teasing overlaid itself in Willam’s voice as she asked, “Depends…What do you want to know?”

“Cut the shit, Willam. Do you remember anything from Alyssa’s party?”

“Well…” Willam mocked as she sat down next to her friend, “I remember there was music and food, dancing and drinking. You and Raja raiding Alyssa’s liquor cabinet. Kameron and Asia ducking out early to-”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

Still with a smirk on her lips, Willam taunted her, “Do I?”

The glare shot her way might have intimidated just about anyone else but Willam found it more amusing than anything. It was unusual for Bianca to get so worked up and certainly this wasn’t an opportunity Willam was going to miss, not when it was so enticingly presented before her. But part of her did feel a strange bit of pity for Bianca. Clearly, she must have remembered something about the kiss. Perhaps she was just trying to damage control…for what little good it might do her.

Quickly coming to the end of her patience, Bianca gave a heavy, reluctant sigh before admitted, “I kissed someone last night. I don’t remember who.”

The response, as Bianca expected, was an immediate, loud seal-like laugh that echoed throughout the room. She didn’t think it was meant to be malicious, but it certainly did nothing to relieve the sting of embarrassment she felt following her confession. Nevertheless, a scowl grew across her face as her fingers drummed irritably along the couch’s cushion.

Once she had some control over herself again, minus the snickering that snuck through, Willam asked, “So…you don’t have any idea who was? Seriously?”

Glaring back at her smirking friend, seemingly just for good measure at this point, Bianca replied begrudgingly, “All I know is that they were wearing that stupid green lipstick. It was all over my lips when I woke up this morning…”

With that admission, Willam shrieked with laughter and collapsed onto her side as she threw herself into the couch cushions. A very familiar burn of irritation ran through Bianca’s core and despite herself, she could feel a light blush beginning to rise. 

“Fuck off,” she snapped back, “It might’ve been you, cunt!”

At that the laughter doubled and soon Willam was clutching her arms around her sides to keep herself together. “You-” she gasped out between her broken cackling, “You really think-it might’ve been… me?”

Bianca gave an irritable shrug of shoulders and avoided looking directly at Willam for the time. “Might’ve been…There was a picture of you on Tati’s Instagram with your lipstick smudged with someone else’s. Someone that was wearing red.”

Pushing herself up from the cushions, her body still shaking with hidden fits of giggling and that ever present smirk on her face, Willam turned a bit thoughtful as she replied consideringly, “Well…anything’s possible.” It truly was. Her sobriety last night was probably not much better than Bianca’s but at least she remembered some of the events of the party. She knew she probably kissed someone at the party but based on that picture flying around the group chat, Willam knew it wasn’t with Bianca. Still though, this opportunity was just too good to miss. She just had to keep playing along. 

“I was drunk and high off my ass most of the night,” she conceded, “I probably could’ve kissed Raven and not remembered it.” 

Not exactly the answer Bianca had been hoping for. Ideally, she’d have liked someone to know for sure or at least have evidence. But with Willam and her own shaky memory it seems this might just be left as a mystery. 

The disappoint on Bianca’s face was clear to see and before she could really think twice, Willam found herself offering, “Well, we can try it. If you want, I mean.”

The shrug of her shoulders with the suggestion was nonchalant but just maybe, if Willam were honest with herself, the idea did excite her a little. For as long as she could remember, ever since they first met, Bianca’s never really kissed any of their close friends, or at least none too frequently like Willam herself did. It would be an odd night indeed if Willam was drunk around her girlfriends and didn’t makeout with at least one of them. But Bianca was different. She always seemed to turn her nose up at it, or roll her eyes and walk away. Maybe even adding in a snarky comment here and there. All of this behavior left Willam, and probably a few others in the group chat, slightly curious as to what it would be like to kiss her. But certainly they all loved seeing her getting just as messy as them for once.

And with her suggestion, Bianca actually looked to be considering it, to her surprise…though it was taking a bit more time than Willam would have liked. But after a minute of internal debate, Bianca was nodding her head in confirmation.

Seeing the approval on Bianca’s face, Willam leant in closer until their lips were very nearly touching. She stopped just short in case Bianca was going to change her mind at the last second. Both of the women held their breath for just a moment before Bianca closed the gap and let their lips brush together.

It was soft and hesitant at first as Willam let Bianca take the lead. Something in the back of Bianca’s mind worried about crossing a line but deep down she knew that wouldn’t be the case. Not with Willam at least. The situation was strange, Bianca never thought she’d be kissing one her friends while stone-cold sober, but this was actually nice. It wasn’t breath-taking or life altering but it was enjoyable. Willam was really a good kisser but not as forward or domineering as Bianca would have guessed. Perhaps because this wasn’t an effort to take her to bed…just a little experiment to find some answers…and Bianca had to admit, she did find one of them through this kiss.

Pulling away, she noted almost regretfully, “Not you. The kiss last night was just…different from this.”

And it was. She felt comfortable during this kiss alright but not in the same way as what she remembered from the party. Something about that kiss just let her feel totally relaxed, while kissing Willam today, though admittedly fun, still left her feeling tense.

Willam gave her friend a consoling smile and chirped away brightly, “Well, at least you can cross one name off your list.”

“Yeah…”

“Who is on your list by the way?”

Bianca gave a half-defeated sigh of frustration as she pulled out her phone (no new messages of course) and opened her notepad app. Glancing down the list, she grumbled, “I still need Alyssa to get back to me but I know at least there was you…then Manila and Morgan…Trixie…Adore and Alaska…Dela…and Phi Phi. That’s everyone that I know was still at the party after 2 and had that green lipstick.”

“Don’t forget about Laganja,” Willam was quick to add. Bianca shot her very expressive, WTF glare but she reasoned quite soundly, “Well, she does live there and green lipstick is her trademark.”

Wholly unconvinced and even a bit annoyed at the suggestion, Bianca was firm in rebuking the thought, “It wasn’t Laganja. I’d remember that.”

“Not that you remember much.”

“Neither do you, bitch!” she snapped back, growing even more irritable.

Rolling her eyes and letting that particular subject drop for now, Willam moved on to inquire, “So why them? And what’s so special about 2AM?”

“Tati has a story up,” Bianca began with long-suffering sigh as she pulled out her phone and opened up Instagram. Handing the evidence over to her friend, she added, “I can see me just fine but…”

“Just their hand,” Willam murmured, now seeing her problem and murmuring in agreement, “Not much to go on.”

Deciding to throw in her last possible clue, just for the hell of it, Bianca took her phone back and muttered indecisively, “And I think they might’ve been around my height.”

“Then cross off Alaska,” Willam stated brusquely.

Bianca arched a brow at her but Willam was quick to cover for herself with “…She’s too tall.”

Shrugging her shoulders, Bianca deleted the name from the list and immediately another caught her eye that ought to go for the same reason, “Adore’s off, too.”

“And definitely not Morgan,” Willam added in with a shake of her head, “You’d have woken up with a black eye, not green lips if you kissed her.”

And probably true. Raven likely would have decked her if she ever made a move on her girlfriend.

“So that still leaves…Manila, Trixie, Dela, and Phi Phi.”

“And Laganja,” Willam reiterated with a sing-songy tone to her voice and teasing smirk on her lips.

“Not Laganja.”

Another short fit of laughter erupted from Willam at her stubborn insistence. Rolling her eyes, Bianca held her tongue on the matter. She might’ve said something if not for a notification that Alyssa was finally getting back to her. Took her long enough, but then again, it was a late night and she and Laganja were probably cleaning up the mess their guests had left.

But even if Alyssa isn’t able to give her any new information, that still leaves four potential suspects for Bianca to investigate. On a normal day, that might not be so bad, but around the holidays?

Ugh. Who knows when they’ll all get back to her. It’s not like they’re all the greatest at replying promptly anyways. And what if it doesn’t turn out to be any of them? Or if there’s no way to really confirm it? What would she do then?

But like an angel, or maybe devil, coming to her aid, Willam piped up with a cheerful grin and offered, “Hey, let me ask a couple more people and get back to you, okay? I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks,” Bianca said, feeling a bit more hopeful. Maybe with Willam’s help, she really could figure this out…or maybe it’ll all blow up in her face thanks to Willam’s big mouth.

Well, for now, she’s finally got ahold of Alyssa so she’s off to find out what she knows.

******

The instant Bianca was out of sight, Willam had her phone in hand and was rapidly typing away in the chat.

Willam: Ladies!

Willam: None of you are going to believe what just happened

Within seconds the chat came alive again and Willam basked in the attention as she recalled every little detail of Bianca’s visit for their entertainment and amusement.

[breakyourhaloandley]

01: All I Need Is One More Broken Heart

I let out a shaky breath, smoke seeping out from between my lips. The small exhaust fan above me is buzzing, threatening to break any day now just like everything else in this apartment. Jake would kill me if he knew I was smoking inside, but I don’t see how it matters. This place is a glorified garbage heap so a little cigarette smoke isn’t going to make a difference. 

Lifting the bottle of white wine up to my lips I take a long drink before staring back at the person in the mirror. I don’t know what time it is, nor do I really care, but I’m sure it’s not the ‘proper’ time to be drinking, whatever that means. Black eyeliner is smudged under my eyes and my long black hair is in desperate need of brushing. I’ll get to it later, sometime when I’m not stuck in a fucking spiral of drunkenness, sadness and utter lack of care for my wellbeing. 

The front door clicks and I hear someone fumbling with keys, I guess Jake is back. I flick the rest of my cigarette into the toilet before flushing away the evidence. I stumble, almost losing my balance as I make my way up to the kitchen where he’s fixing himself a plate of questionable Chinese leftovers. 

His eyes dart up to me, and he doesn’t even have to say anything. I see it in his disappointed scowl. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon Andy,” he states, motioning towards the bottle in my hand. 

“And this is white wine, not liquor.” I retort, needing anything but a lecture from one of my bandmates. None of them have any room to talk. 

“You know we have band practice tonight, right? Tour starts in a week.”  “Don’t remind me” I groan, well aware of the ticking time bomb set to blow up in my face in a matter of days. 

I should be excited, it’s our first major tour. We’re headling the AP Tour this year along with my friend Matt’s band, D.R.U.G.S. I should be, but I’m anything but excited. A few months ago it would have been a totally foreign concept to me, the thought of not wanting to be on tour. Yet things change, people change and in what feels like the blink of an eye the things that used to fill you with joy become your worst fears. 

It’s not that I don’t love music anymore, it’s not that I don’t want to be in this band or that I don’t want to sing anymore. It’s that I don’t want to deal with the things that come with it. The screaming fans who think I’m some perfect fucking idol they should look up to, someone who can save them from themselves when little do they know I can’t even save myself. It’s the interviews, the time schedule, the sleepless nights in a bunk too small for my legs, it’s the loneliness despite being surrounded by people night and day, it’s the expectations. 

I wonder if the fans will notice, notice the new cracks on my perfect exterior where the flawed human being is threatening to breakthrough. I don’t know what happened, but something changed on the last tour. It was as if this darkness had consumed me. The funny thing is that I had actually made a vow to myself at the start of our first tour that I wouldn’t drink. I’d seen alcohol destroy too many of my childhood idols to ever want such evil in my life. 

Like most promises, this one wasn’t kept. It was our second tour and during the kick-off party, I had a fatal lapse in judgment. Someone handed me a drink, the stench of alcohol was potent but I drank it anyway. I can only compare the feeling to someone who is about to drown, and right before they open their mouth and let the water fill their lungs, they manage to resurface gasping for air. All the anxiety, the fear, the demons that have haunted me since childhood were suddenly quiet. I felt free, happy, confident and social. 

I no longer cared what people thought about me, like that life-saving breath of fresh air, I felt alive. 

I guess you could say I went overboard, I started drinking every night and that’s when the darkness started creeping back in. The shadow slowly wrapping its cold fingers around my throat and after the tour ended it spiraled out of control. Bad decisions, at least those that I can remember, haunt me yet I just keep making them. 

So now I have a week before the tour starts, a week to get my shit together.  “And are you fucking listening to me?” Jake snaps, pulling me out of my wine-induced haze. 

“Uh yeah-”  “I said you can’t pull the shit you’ve been pulling on tour. No more ending up on the stage floor crying and making a fool of us. John said that-”  “Thank you, Jake, I’ve seen the videos I don’t need a lecture.” I cut him off. 

---

The walls burst down the second I see him, like floodgates opening-up and memories that I thought were buried suddenly resurface like it was yesterday instead of a month ago. He’s standing there, silky black hair concealing his face. He’s too busy tuning his base to even notice that I’ve walked in. His tattooed fingers work the strings of the instrument and I’ve never been jealous of an inanimate object before now. 

My heart is racing in my chest and I swear to god he has to hear it. I feel a knot in my stomach and I’m not sure if it’s that or the hangover making me feel like I’m going to throw up. Ashley looks up, his caramel eyes fixating on my lanky frame. Eyes dart up and down and wait, was that a grimace? He sets his base down and his boots click as he walks towards me. 

“You okay Six?” he asked, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. 

“I’m fine Ash.”  “You’ve lost weight,” he comments, the tone of his voice tells me he doesn’t mean it as a compliment. 

I’ve been steadily dropping weight since our first tour, I don’t know where it got out of control but like most things in my life, it did. God, I want to be fucking wasted right now, anything but dealing with this. 

This dance we’re doing around each other is new, and I don’t know the steps to it. All I know him as is my best friend, the person who’s been there for me since the start, warmth in cold, oxygen to a drowning man. 

I can still feel his lips on mine, the night it all went to hell. It was the last week of the tour and after killing almost an entire bottle of whiskey we made a fatal error. The circumstances that led us to that error are blurry, blacked-out sentences in the story of my life. What I do remember has become my own personal hell that plays on a loop in my brain. 

The heavy motel door slams shut, the outside world ceases to exist as time stands still in some little town in Texas. Those tattooed fingers are dancing along the outline of my hip bones, my back pressed up against the cigarette stained wall. I’ve wanted this moment since we met, to feel his strong arms wrapped around me, to be the center of his attention and desires. And here we are, our lips inches apart, a hurricane about to make landfall. 

His hands glid up my bare skin, following the contours of my torso. A shiver goes down my spine and I feel my heart about to explode. “Kiss me” I whisper my breath catching in my throat. 

Our lips collide and I melt, surrendering myself completely over to him. I part my lips as he slips his tongue into my mouth, his nails digging into my pale flesh. There’s a roughness to it that drives me mad and I can taste the whiskey on his lips. 

He pulls me over towards the bed, falling on top of me as the bed creaks under our combined weight. His fingers lace in my hair before violently pulling it back. I let out a moan all the nerves in my body firing. He has complete control over me, I’m a puppet on strings. 

I tug at his belt, leaning up and whispering in his ear “I want to feel you inside me” I don’t care what the consequences are all that matters is this moment. 

He pushes me back, quickly standing up. My heart stops in my chest as he shakes his head, a disgusted look across his face. “Fuck” he breathes pushing his hair back. 

“W-What?”  “God, what are we doing? No... Andy, I’m not gay. I- fuck I’m drunk. Look we can’t do this, I’m not attracted to you and I’m sure as hell not gonna fuck you.” 

My heart shatters into a million pieces, this has to be a dream... no a nightmare and I will myself to wake up. Only I don’t wake up, “Ashley...” 

“Look I get it, you’re uh- you’re gay. I kind of always suspected that I guess. But I’m not and this isn’t going to happen. We’re bandmates, I’m your friend and we’re both just drunk.” I stopped listening to the words coming out of his mouth but the next thing I knew he was out the door, something about sleeping on the bus. 

We ended up doing the whole awkward day after ‘talk’. Let’s just forget about it, neither of us meant for it to go that far, we can just carry on as if it never happened. Bullshit. 

And now we’re here. It’s been a month since I’ve seen him, the longest we’ve ever gone since he joined the band two years ago. He stares at me, I guess expecting me to say something from this mutually agreed-upon script we’re supposed to be acting out now. Words fail me though, all I feel is the lump in my throat and it feels like it is suffocating me. 

“You’re taking care of yourself, right? You said you were going to get better about that. Cutting down on cigarettes and drinking, eating better.” I can’t tell if the concern in his voice is real or just for show. Did I even say that? Maybe I did, but I didn’t mean it. 

“I’m not going to drink this tour.”  “One out of three is better than nothing I guess.” he jokes, though I don’t think he believes me. 

“I uh- I’ll be back in a sec.” I manage to get out before brushing past him and away from the others. 

I barely make it into the bathroom of the studio before breaking down. Air is hard to find as I gasp for breath, the tightness in my chest getting so bad that I swear I’m going to pass out. I brace myself against the sink, my knuckles turning white from the death grip I have on it. Tears well up in my eyes before falling, mixing with the black shadow around my eyes into long black streaks down my face. 

There is no way I’m going to be able to do this tour sober, I don’t know why I’m fooling myself. I want nothing more than to be half a bottle deep in whiskey right now, all these fucking emotions shut off. Sliding down against the wall onto the tiled floor my head spins from the hangover and lack of oxygen which only increases the nauseous feeling in my stomach. I try to convince myself this is just another panic attack but the feeling of death is so real. I lean over the toilet, pushing two fingers back into my throat until I feel my gag reflex kick in. I throw up the little that’s in my stomach before leaning back against the wall. 

My hands shake and I’m unsteady on my feet as I push myself off the ground. I rinse my mouth out with water and try my best to wipe away the smeared makeup before walking back out to where the rest of my band is. They’re already practicing, the sounds of drums and electric guitars drowning out the sounds of my little breakdown. I try my best to force a smile and join in, but I feel disconnected from them, from the music, from life. 

We practice for hours, and I feel every second of it. While the rest of the guys talk about ideas for the tour I slip out the back. I light up the second I step outside, the nicotine calming my nerves instantly. I’ve smoked half the pack before I even realize it, but the health of my lungs doesn’t make my list of concerns. 

I listen to the sounds of the buzzing street on the other side of the building, closing my eyes as I try to find a moment of tranquility. 

“Andy we need to talk.” his cool voice says from behind me. Ashley walks over to face me, grabbing the pack of cigarettes and lighter from me. I watch as he places one between his pale pink lips, the flame flickering in between the cracks of his cupped hand. 

A dirty little secret about Ashley, he’s known to smoke a cigarette or two whenever he’s stressed. He loves to preach about hating them, how disgusting and dirty they are but compared to the things he used to use it’s nothing. The thing about being so close to someone is you know almost all of their secrets, you’ve met all of their skeletons and Ashley has more than his fair share of them. So I let his theft slide. 

He blows the smoke out in a white cloud before sighing. “I told John that on hotel nights I’ll room with one of the other guys. I think it’s best that way.” 

I scoff, laughing at his feeble attempt to act like we’re not completely fucked. “Is it?” 

“I figured it would be easier for you.”  “Wow you’re so considerate” I reply, my voice laced with sarcasm. 

“Andy you said that we would just agree to forget about everything. Just be normal bandmates. I know you’re hurt but it’s just the way things are. Maybe it’s my fault, I let you believe there was something when there wasn’t.” 

Ashley was my lifeline when I moved here. A month of living in my car before meeting him and the others had taken its toll on me. I was on the verge of giving up and crawling back to Ohio with my tail between my legs. Then I met him and he showed me a warmth that kept me going. He was there the nights I broke down in tears, missing home and second-guessing myself. He was there when I needed advice, guidance, someone who I could trust. Even when I started drinking he was there, making sure I didn’t die of alcohol poisoning, pulling me together the next morning... and now it’s over. 

“I’m sorry for fucking things up. I just... miss what we had, friendship, whatever you want to call it. I’m drowning Ash.”  “I’m still your friend Andy. Don’t be dramatic, you’re twenty now you don’t need someone babying you.” 

My heart aches, I tried to fight it for so long. I tried to tell myself that it was hopeless to have these emotions for someone who would never want me the way I wanted him. I tried to convince myself that the truth wasn’t the truth, that I wasn’t madly in love with the man in front of me. I am in love with him though, and for a few moments on that fateful night, I thought he loved me back. 

“When I asked you to kiss me, why did you?” I ask bluntly. 

He is clearly thrown by the question, and the calm facade he is so perfect at maintaining drops for a second. Just long enough that I can see he is human, not some robot immune to emotions. “I don’t know.. maybe there was a part of me that wanted to try it, maybe it was because you asked. Maybe it was the whiskey.” 

I close the gap between the two of us, the smoke from our cigarettes mixing in the air. He doesn’t move back, just stares at me, his face once again expressionless. “And you felt nothing?” I whisper. 

“Nothing Andy.” We stand there, motionless in the cool Hollywood air. Kiss me, punch me, insult me, push me up against the brick and fuck me, do something. “Then I guess I’ll just forget about it,” I reply. 

He places the cigarettes and lighter into the pocket of my leather jacket. “Goodnight.” he simply says before walking away.