#those things are The Shit . menthol slaps i love menthol

[antimonys-stuff]

guy who unironically inhales vicks cough drops

[1800nosleep]

Bird Song Headcanons

headcanons for lydie, vinnie and the rest of the main characters !!

warnings;; vinnie is vinnie, swearing, cig smoking and alcohol drinking, parent deaths, drug overdose (parents), child abuse, vinnie being the best older brother, normal outsiders warnings,

VINNIE

vinnie is so AHHHHHHH

best way to describe vinnie is malewife

he cooks, he cleans and he takes care of lydie

if im being honest, i based him off of darry if darry wasnt constantly on ponys case

but anyways

vinnie was born vincent frank rockwell on june 18th, 1945 in tulsa, making him twenty years old at the beginning of the story

he is older than lydie by four years

he works at a cafe on the west/northside and is a barista

he is a neutral greaser, he doesn't fight in rumbles but he hangs around Tim and Buck and Veranno (his hcs are further down)

vinnie has some pretty terrible childhood trauma, from witnessing his mother overdose from a prescription pill to his father beating him and lydie

he started smoking cigarettes at the age of twelve, he calls them cancer sticks and exclusively smokes menthols

he thinks they make him better than everyone else

70's! vinnie would absolutely love the doors, jimi hendrix and all of those artists/bands

70's! vinnie moves to california and tries to live out his hippie, stoner, runaway fantasies

anyways

vinnie is dating a neutral chick from the west/north side

maude monroe, a twenty-year bartender at buck's

vinnie and maude are always hip to hip when they're together

vinnie is absolutely obsessed with her

he helps her dye her hair platinum blonde and he will bend over backward to make her happy

that being said lets talk about maude

MAUDE

MAUDE IS A GIRLBOSS ICON

she was born lara monroe on february 7th, 1945 in New Jersey, to her single mother, who worked in a bar when maude was younger

maude had changed her name to maude in memory of her mother, maudie

she moved to tulsa after her mother passed and the idea of still living in Jersey made her stressed out

BUTTTT once she moved to tulsa she met vinnie and lydie at one of buck's parties

she dresses in a minimalistic greaser style

she adores marilyn monroe, audrey hepburn, bette davis, and all of the og girl bosses

she and vinnie have dressed up like holly and paul from breakfast at tiffanys for halloween at least twice since she has seen the film

maude and angela shepard are bffs

absolute besties

if maude isn't with vinnie, she is with angela

70s! maude and vin get married after they move to cali

70s! maude gets into very cringy and shitty horror/ thriller films and she dresses very similar to stevie nicks

maude and lydie defo smoke weed together

they hotbox in maudes and vins stolen chevy impala

anyways let's get to lydie

LYDIE

our main bae

alr first things first

bae is an angry, angsty sixteen yr old who was born on august 29th, 1949

she and vinnie have always been super close especially once their mother died

lydie is in tenth grade with ponyboy, she and pony have study sessions

anyways enough of that boring shit

lydie listens to nina simone, julie london, ella fitzgerald, billie holiday and most of the music greasers listen to (not saying that the greasers listen to nina, billie, or any of the people I listed )

lydie will say that she loves one song and then go back on that and claim she loves another song, she cannot decide what her favorite song is

her fav song is april come she will by simon and garfunkle

she is a very smart person, like she and pony are some of the smartest greasers regarding book smarts

she is definitely one of the more responsible greasers

she isn't respectful to authority but she is more kind to others compared to dallas for an example

anyways

she mostly hangs around pony and johnny with the occasional dallas and soda

SPEAKING OF DALLAS

she and dallas have full-on brawls

dallas will say something completely buck wild and she will fucking go off on him

throwing punches and slapping and just a full-on beatdown between the two at least until they're broken up

vinnie or darry pull them apart and make them apologize

lydie and dallas have a very complicated and complex relationship

lydie will say she absolutely fucking hates him

and dallas will be like "shes so wonderful"

its his mommy issues

its fine tho cuz ultimately they fall in love after a near death experience and lydie is like "nah im just in love with what he did" but in reality...

she is in love with him, period.

also read dallas' hcs right here

alright last but not least, lets talk about veranno

VERANNO

my sweet baby

veranno is literally the dirtiest and most raunchy greaser out there

he is always in and out of jail, constantly getting into arguments and fights, and he's never quiet

never a relaxing time with him

veranno was born veranno gerard bianco in new york on april 27th, 1945 making him twenty years old

he is an orphan who was never adopted or cared for

he hangs around anywhere, in alleys, in ditches, in vans

he is everywhere

he mostly hangs around vinnie and his friends when he isnt in jail

like dallas, he has been in jail for squatting and breaking in several times

lydie writes to him all the time, especially when his stay is longer

he travels a lot, he visits nevada and arizona a lot, just to get away from tulsa

regarding what music he's into, he exclusively listens to chuck berry, elvis, and all of those fifties artists

he makes fun of people when he overhears them listening to bob dylan, the beatles or simon and garfunkle

he thinks they are "pussy musicians"

lydie will defend them so hard

dallas is very jealous of veranno and literally no one knows why

most people think it's because of lydie and how close veranno is to her

but dallas will deny it every time its brought up

anyways

last but not least

veranno has a big soft spot for children

when he was a teenager (13-15)

he babysat this rich families children and these children changed him

he treated them like they were his own

i luv veranno sm

thank you for reading !!

likes and reblogs are appreciated

pls do not steal my work or repost it anywhere as for that is plagiarism and that my friends is a crime !!

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

And If This Is It

Third chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption; puking

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER THREE:

“Shots?!” Jules shouts over the deafening music.

He passes a tiny glass of clear alcohol to Y/N and Charlie. At this point, neither know if it’s tequila, gin, or vodka. At this point, neither truly care.

Carter’s, the hole-in-the-wall dive tucked between a pawn shop and convenience store, housed the trio every Wednesday night. When unable to convene outside of work any other time of the week, they at least have their sticky booth and cheap booze to fall back upon. If Y/N had half the mind to care, she could bet the shady owner had an unsavory side business that allowed for such decently priced alcohol. But she doesn’t have half the mind. The sharp air intoxicates her even before the first drink, drawing her attention elsewhere. Plus, Jules always arrives first to claim their usual seats, a round of drinks at the ready. Tonight, he focuses on shots.

They clink their glasses together, slam them on the grimy counter, and tip them back. Charlie cheers, her flushed cheeks pushed back in a sloppy, wide grin. Her laughter bellows into Y/N’s chest, forcing her to join in. The tribulations of the past seven days wash away with each new shot. Her mind only wanders as far as Jules across the table and Charlie next to her. Nothing mattered right now, not unrequited love or shitty jobs.

“So! So! Then I said, I said! I don’t care what those bitches think. I’m— I’m a good server, ya know? And I told James— “

“—Jason,” Jules supplies.

“—Yeah, that one. I told Jason to stick it!” Charlie slurs, recounting her meeting with their boss.

Y/N cocks her head at Charlie, who white knuckles the table to stay steady. “Did you really?” She speaks slowly, the words catching on her heavy tongue.

“No. But I thought it. So it counts.”

Jules and Y/N share a look. “Sure it does.”

Out of the three of them, Jules holds his liquor the best. He drinks anyone under the table, and still gets up for work without a grueling hangover. Y/N took Thursdays out of her availability because she doesn’t have his stamina. It took only two shifts filled with headaches and poor service for her to realize she cannot power through the dehydration and pain. Wednesday nights take it out of her, and the following morning includes a date with her toilet and a bottle of Pedialyte. Trying to keep up with Jules, which she foolishly does, is a signed, sealed, delivered death sentence.

She happily accepts it, for it means quality time with her friends.

“Listen, missy. You listen here! You don’t get to talk about— about thinking things and not saying them!” Charlie accuses. Y/N holds up a hand in protest. “No! I don’ wanna h-hear it.”

In just a few words, the thoughtless cocoon Y/N made shelter in crashes to the ground, bringing up debris and Dean’s face. His freckles. His lips. The things she wishes she could say— I love you, I want you, I need you— taunt her, dancing across her mind and scuffing up the floors. “Yeah? Well I don’t wanna talk about it!” She all but shouts.

Charlie huffs. “Fine.”

Jules says nothing, simply peering at his two best friends with mild concern in his glossed over eyes. Y/N avoids his gaze, instead choosing to watch the desolate street through the frosty glass. Charlie waves her hand to the waiter to call for another round.

With new shots in front of the respective drinkers, the tense silence dissipates quickly, easy conversation about what each other missed taking its place. Jules relays the details of his third date with Alice, a girl he served once. She left her number and on a whim he decided to text her. The thirty percent tip she left helped her case, too. The two get along great, from what he says. They share similar interests, including early morning trips to the gym and pretty much any physical activity. At the thought, Y/N shudders. She reserves her mornings for her bed and coffee.

As Jules carries on about the lovely Alice, Y/N finds herself thinking down a stark path. It travels away from Carter’s worn booths and blaring music, finding solace in scratching concrete and big hands. Some days, she truly wishes she could call Him her boyfriend. Some days, she only wishes to be near Him. Right now, it’s the latter. The too-loud conversations around her, the thick air, the heavy warmth in her belly; it makes breathing a chore.

Charlie grabs her wrist, pulling her over-worked thumb from her teeth. The crevice between her nail and skin bleeds. Out of her head now, she realizes her friends stare at her, conversation ceased. Jules’ eyes bore into hers, and she can feel Charlie staring at the side of her head.

She doesn’t have to ask what crosses their minds. Their faces paint light worry and their questions clearly. Y/N sighs, head dipping to focus on the empty glass before her. Neither of her friends say anything, allowing her to trudge through her hazy thoughts.

“I…” she starts, but shakes her head. Needing a something to center her, she throws back her head and swallows another shot. It burns, but it reminds her she is alive and well. Well enough, at least.

Charlie only knows what an inebriated Y/N shared once, and she assumes Charlie happily passed on the message. Even still, the words halt in her throat. Charlie interlocks their fingers, giving a squeeze. It’s okay, Y/N knows she wants to say. “I need some air.”

Not awaiting a response, she drops Charlie’s hand and alights from the booth. Concentrating on walking, Y/N works her way through the crowd to the door. The cooling air of the night caresses her cheeks, relieving some of the heat from her skin. The car-lined road before her, adorned by dim streetlights and neon store signs, appears in double. Cigarette smoke wafts to her nose.

She turns towards the scent. Sober Y/N would never smoke. The taste lingers on her tongue days after, plaguing anything she drinks or eats. However, Drunk Y/N, riddled with anxiety and one too many shots, craves it.

A woman clad in little clothing leans against the worn brick, cigarette balanced between her fore- and middle finger. Y/N stumbles the few feet to her, her body moving before her thoughts. The lady looks up. Her tired eyes trail over Y/N’s body, taking in the sight, ending at her face. Y/N tries to imagine how she looks.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Wordless, the woman passes Y/N her pack of menthol and a lighter. Nodding in thanks, she lights the cigarette and draws a deep breath in. Sweet relief. She sighs contentedly, handing the pack and lighter back. In silence, Y/N joins the stranger in leaning against the wall. Drunken camaraderie over a bad habit makes the world feel smaller; friendlier.

Here she stands, a mess. And here some straggler stands, someone she’s never met, probably going through her own shit. People are small, in the grand scheme of things. The big picture. Everything feels silly, like a cosmic prank, wherein God will jump from the sky and yell, “Hahahah! Happiness is not a by product of existence, you simple minded fucks. I made you to suffer.”

She wouldn’t be surprised, not anymore. Some days, her heavy bones and even heavier head weigh her down so much, all she can do is suffer. Suffer through schooling; a dead end job; a wistful love; a bleak future. Perhaps God created her as suffering; not a person who could, but a person who is.

A long drag from the cigarette clears her mind. She reminds herself that her sidewalk existential philosophy is only wise by proxy of this night’s poison.

Flicking the cigarette, she nods her head in thanks. With a clearer head, the double vision subsides. Still, she sways as she walks back to the door of the bar. Bracing herself, she pushes it open. Music, this time a familiar song she can’t place, wraps its comforting fingers around her heart. This is where she is meant to be: sandwiched between the tacky wall and Charlie, sat across from Jules.

Charlie stands as Y/N comes into view, allowing her to take her seat once more. The conversation continues seamlessly, as if  Y/N never left. Jules and Charlie keep the side glances to minimum, instead focusing on another round— this time paired with glasses of water— and what Jules’ should do next with Alice. Deciding to solely focus on her friends before her, Y/N utilizes her remaining energy on keeping up with the conversation.

“I mean… she seems to like you a lot, dude. Who the hell… else would get up at five to go on hikes?” Y/N slurs, raising her voice.

“A crazy, person! She’s crazy.” Charlie whispers with a shake of her head.

Y/N laughs, downing another shot. “Yeah, well, either way, she likes it, ya’know? She likes it!”

They dissolve into a fit of body-rocking, soul-shaking laughter. As it peters out, the energy follows suit. Y/N hits a wall, her shoulders sagging with a sigh. “I’m— I’m gotta go, guys. My eyes are gonna fall out.”

“Wait! Just one more shot. C’mon, Y/N/N! One for the road,” implores Jules.

Ever the bad influence, Y/N agrees. In the back of her head, she hears her sober-self admonish her. She pushes it away while Jules waves his pointer finger for another round. Grace, the waitress, already has three ready. Used to their antics as their usual server, she also drops the bill.

Clink, slam, gulp.

Y/N slaps a twenty on the bill, knowing it covers her portion of drinks. Charlie scoots out of the booth again, staying standing to wrap Y/N in a bone-crushing hug. The scent of vodka and Daisy fills Y/N’s nose, covering every piece of her in Charlie. Jules envelopes her next. Her cheek rests against his chest, and he sets his chin on her head. They hold each other for a moment before pulling back.

Y/N leaves her friends to settle the rest of the bill. Escaping into the night, she embraces the cool air. However much she finds solace in Carter’s, the stuffy heat paired with the little room to move constricts her. Even on the now empty street, her chest refuses to loosen. The returned double vision surely doesn’t help.

“Walk,” she mumbles, commanding herself to just fucking go.

Normally, she would call a ride service right about now; or she’d stick around with Jules and Charlie to ride with them. But right now she needs the freedom of the seedy side streets and open sky above her. Four doors and a short roof would only further agitate her.

So, for the sake of her sanity, she makes her way down the street. Having walked these streets many times, Y/N’s feet carry her, rather than she commanding them. As she works her way towards the main road, the lights become brighter and cleaner; trash slowly dwindles in the gutters until they’re as clean as they can get in this part of the city.

At the intersection of Boulder and Hamilton, she stops. Going left would lead her home, a destination twenty minutes away. Going right would take her to Dean. Her body decides before her mind. Five minutes and a few turns, she stands on Dean’s stoop.

Her heavy fist raps against the wood while she leans her forehead against the cool service. Eyes closed, Y/N focuses on slowing her breathing. The edges of a panic attack creep into her mind. Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I—

The door opens, taking from Y/N her support. Without it, she falls forward, preparing to meet the unfriendly catching of the floor. Instead, warm, bare arms wrap around her waist. “Y/N?” Dean asks in his deep, gruff tone.

God, I love your voice. The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it.

“Oh, do you, now?” Dean teases, righting her on her feet but keeping his hands on her shoulders.

Fuck.

“Shuddap,” she scolds.

“What are you doing here, Y/N/N?” He moves a hand from her shoulder to grasp her chin, pointing her face to look at him.

She leans into it. “Drunk.”

Dean chuckles, a warm sound that pushes any anxiety out of her mind. He has that way about him. “I can see that. Here, come inside so I can close the door.” She does as he asks, still leaning into his touch. He leads her to his couch, guiding her gently down onto the cushion. Resting on his knees in between her legs, he examines her face again.

She tries to look him in the eyes, she truly tries, but their overwhelming jade and the smell of his shampoo and his hands and that little grin and— and— and. The list goes on forever. In the dim room, lit by the outside lights and the paused TV, she wants to fall into him. Her fingers itch to grab his stupid stubbled cheeks and bring his stupid plump lips to her own. Her heart threatens to jump straight from her chest and into his hands. Her skin prickles where his forefinger and thumb hold her chin.

“Traitors,” she mumbles.

“Hm?”

Y/N shakes her head, causing Dean to release her chin. Dammit. “Nothing. I’m just— I’m so drunk, dude.”

He laughs again, sending a wave of peace over her body. “Yes, I know. Let’s get some water in you.”

Water sounds like a great idea, just the mention causes Y/N’s mouth to dry, readying for the coolness to coat her throat and fill her stomach. While Dean pours her a glass, she better settles against the sofa, shifting until her back rests against the arm and her legs splay out before her. The cold of the leather raises goosebumps, but it grounds her.

Dean returns with a stainless steel tumbler, placing it on the cushion by her hip. He lifts her legs and rests them upon his thighs as he too settles into the couch. Arm rested on the top of the couch and eyes caressing her flushed cheeks, he awaits for her to speak.

Every thought racing through her mind pleads to blurt out “I love you!” in some form or another. Taking a long, refreshing sip, she swallows the water and her heart. The hand gently kneading her calf provides almost enough courage to cast aside her inhibitions, but instead she listens to the voice in the back of her head. Why ruin something great? Why risk it?

Pussy, her warring side jabs.

Shaking her head, she removes her gaze from his and unto the television. “Die Hard?”

He waits a beat before he speaks, “Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Like there’s two John… John McClanes on the TV, which means two Hans Gru—bers, and I… I dunno if I can watch that.”

Glorious, golden, all-compassing laughter. “Well, I’m sure the McClanes will be fine; twice the firepower.”

Y/N can’t stop herself from returning to gazing at Dean. The lights from the kitchen silhouette his face, but she sees it, nonetheless. Knows it like its her own, for she sure has stared at him long enough. His seemingly perpetual little grin pushes his cheeks up the slightest bit. He looks so young.

With little thought or permission, she reaches a hand out to brush against his cheek. The barely present beard tickles her palm. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, and he nuzzles further into her hand. If only she could stay like this, legs across Dean’s, hand on his cheek, eyes closed.

“Dean…” she whispers, mostly for herself. Her heart will never get used to sitting so close to him, a beacon on her worst of days and a partner on her best.

“Hm?” he asks, still leaning into her touch.

It takes everything from her, her willpower, her bones, her chest, her lungs. She can’t stop herself for much longer, she knows. And, the thing is, her traitorous body doesn’t protest. Nothing in her says to stop; everything in her begs— no, screams at— her to grab him and hold him tight. To never let go.

As she leans forward, her left hand reaching for his other cheek, the tumbler clatters to the floor with an unforgiving clang. They both startle back, Y/N drawing her legs from his lap and Dean finally opening his eyes. The withering stare she casts at the stupid bottle should shatter it. Instead, it stays whole and mocking. She reaches down to right it, her knuckles white as she harshly slams it onto the floor.

The lights seem to bright, now. The throbbing in her head makes its presence better known, pulsing the picture of John McClane leaning over a sniper rifle. Bile rises in her throat.

“Fuck,” she barely gets out before bolting from her seat and running for the bathroom. Way to ruin the moment, you monkey.

Y/N grabs the edge of the toilet with one hand, gathering her hair into a mock ponytail with the other. At the sight of the bowl, her stomach instantly lurches. With the little she had to eat, mostly burning alcohol makes a return, accompanied by some nachos and fries.

A set of hands replace her’s in her hair, allowing her to better grasp the toilet. Dean settles behind her, bracing her sides with his thighs and whispering unintelligible comforting words in her ear. With his free hand he rubs her back, up and down her shoulder blades to her lower back.

No longer retching, she wipes her mouth toilet paper. Her body still shakes, skin clammy and hot. She crosses her arms over the seat, resting her forehead against her forearms. Dean continues to massage circles into her skin. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, to the bowl and to Dean.

He releases her hair, instead choosing to pull her from the toilet and into his chest. Together, limbs wrapped endlessly, Dean leans against the wall and she leans against Dean. “Nothing to be sorry for, Y/N/N. C’mon, you’ve seen me completely plastered.”

She tips her head to the side, resting it against his shoulder. “It’s gross. Not cute. At all.”

His chuckle rumbles against her back. “Nah, you’re always cute.” It’s barely a whisper, if she weren’t next to his mouth she’s sure she wouldn’t have heard it.

They sit in silence, breathing against each other. Y/N revels in the coolness of the ground and his arms around her waist.

“Why’d you drink so much, Y/N/N?”

Her sighs heaves her shoulders. “I dunno. Why do you drink, Dean?”

“Sometimes to forget things.” He keeps his voice level, but Y/N knows him well enough to see he worries for her. The implications of his statement do not go unnoticed.  

She shakes her head. “I just have a lot going on. Plus, it’s Wednesday. You know that’s my night with Jules and Charlie. We drink. It’s what we do.”

“Okay. Just checking. Let’s get you to bed, kid.”

[screensirenfic]

Menthol Cigarettes - Chapter 12 - Slight NSFW

We stayed like that for a moment, waiting in comfortable silence as I gasped lungful after lungful of air; not quite believing how lightheaded I felt; how much of a rush Billy had managed to coax out of my body.

Billy planted a gentle kiss on the side of my neck, almost reverently as he lifted a hand to wipe away the stray pieces of hair that had stuck to my face.

“You alright; sweetheart?” He broke the silence with a soft question, ended with another kiss to the top of my shoulder, signalling the end of whatever role play we were going with.

“Jesus; Billy...” I sighed, breathless and unable to think straight after such a thorough fucking.

He began to lower me down to the mattress; my whole body protesting at the change of position, but necessary if I was ever going to get feeling back into my arms and legs.

“I didn’t hurt you; did I?” He asked; his eyes soft with concern as he untied my wrists; kissing where his belt had chaffed with apologetic gentleness.

“No... That was...”

I began to try and find the words to explain how he had made me feel, but they all escaped me, so instead I just giggled breathlessly; hardly believing what this boy managed to do to me.

“That good; huh?” Billy teased with a bright smile; the sheer adoration in his blue eyes enough to make me want to flip him over and fuck him all over again.

“Shut up; you idiot!” I grinned, slapping him playfully on the shoulder, because he had no right making me feel all these things!

He opened his mouth to make another snarky comeback, but I beat him to it, pulling him down in another devouring kiss, broken with pretty smiles.

When we eventually stopped sucking face; he pulled away, hovering over me as he just stared down at me; blue eyes swimming with a thousand thoughts.

“What?!” I asked; confused but eager to know what was going on in that pretty head of his.

“Nothing...” He replied, running a hand over my hair as he smiled down at me.

“Just thinking about how beautiful you are.”

And that was blatant flattery; if I ever heard it!

“You’re full of shit!”

I shoved him off; because he really should know better by now than to try to lie to me.

I was the daughter of a cop; for Christ’s sake!

I sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating storming off in mock protest just for him to coax me back to bed.

“What?! It’s the truth!” He exclaimed; keeping in on with his bullshit ignorance routine as he propped himself up beside me.

“You’re an asshole; Billy Hargrove!” I stated like I had a thousand times before; though this time, nothing could disguise the smile on my face.

He got to his knees, crawling his way across the bed with that mischievous smirk on his face; a surefire way to tell he was planning to get the jump on me.

“And a bad liar!” I continued, slapping his hands away as he tried to grab me; still astounded how he could go from cold callous dom, to an absolute child in seconds.

Still; he managed to wrestle me into submission, toppling us both back onto the bed as I collapsed in a fit of giggles; his face inches away from mine.

He smiled at me,  before moving down to plant a soft kiss on my lips, then another on the tip of my nose.

“Alright; you wanna know what I was really thinking about?” He asked; his face suddenly turning serious, though I knew better than to trust any of his facial expressions. He could still switch personalities just like that!

I nodded eagerly, unable to keep myself from biting my lip, because it was probably gonna be dirty, and end with us acting out one of his fantasies for the next hour or so.

“About you moving to California with me.” He said, and my face dropped, because I really hadn’t been expecting that.

“Jesus; not this again...” I sighed, pushing him off me and sitting upright, because really; I should’ve seen this coming.

Billy had been talking about California for months. About how beautiful it is, and how much he missed. He often talked about moving back there and living on the beach; though recently those discussions had turned to me joining him.

“Come on; would it really be that crazy?” He asked; not realising that it would be exactly that!

“Well; besides the fact that we haven’t got anywhere to go to-“ I began; trying to be rational here, because this was a pipe dream!

I couldn’t possibly move to California!

“What about my dad?! What about Steve?”

I listed the people closest to me as legitimate reasons to stay, but on the mention of Steve’s name, Billy’s face dropped.

“Billy; I didn’t mean it like that...”

I quickly back-pedalled, reaching out to touch him, because I could see the self doubt on his face; the ongoing belief that he still wasn’t good enough for me, despite all my reassurances that he was enough!

“No; it’s fine. I get it.” Billy pulled away, shutting me out again as he let all that sadness simmer.

I grabbed hold of his arm, trying to make him look at me so he’d see the honesty in my face.

“Billy; you know that I love you...” I stated; meaning it with all my heart and hoping he knew that too.

“Yeah. So you keep saying.” He snapped back; still bitter and hurt from the Steve thing.

“I just need a little time; that’s all.” I offered, because I could give him that.

I just wanted the opportunity to think everything over and weigh up my options.

“So; you’ll think about it?” He asked; turning to face me with eyes so hopeful, it was heartbreaking.

“I promise.” I nodded, owing him at least that; because if I was as committed to him as he was to me, I needed to consider our future; and whether or not it continued in Hawkins.

He smiled at me; relief plain on his face, before he kissed me again, pressing me down hard and firm into the mattress.

[kireihan]

ship headcanons: mc gets sick

Leviathan x Bernadette:

is it the time?? the long awaited episode where the love interest gets sick??  hello?? his time has come

except he knows like batshit abt what to do when his lover is sick

spends like an hour freaking the f u c k out because bern?? are you ok?? talk to me honey are you dying?? is everything alright??

i mean, he knows that you need the towel and the soup so he isn’t entirely hopeless

no sickies in his room pls and thanks, cant have no germs on his precious figures. plus where would bern sit in his room? there is no rest only weeb here.

has a cooler body temperature compared to the other brothers. his hands are always fucking cold man, who needs a towel when you have levi’s hands? 

watches anime with her. then realizes it’s actually straining her, so he actually holds back from watching to wait for her

pls he tries his best

Solomon x Horizon:

“wdym you aren’t coming over today” “dude im sick” “sick what? are you sick of my shit? too bad you have to deal with me~ “no im like sick sick i cant” “shit im sorry hold on ill be right there babe”

snip snap he works his fucking magic and she’s well again

except his magic makes her feel like 10x as worse before becoming better the next day so she would rather not do it that way

solomon thinks she’s a pussy, brave it out for like 12 hours and ur fine the next day “just do it, i’ll make you feel better” “12 hours of torture? for a cold? hell nah”

hori is a bit more sensitive when she’s sick so solomon isn’t as annoying

treats her rather nicely actually

“babe please sit down” “no i wanna-” “n o” “i’m fine” “you are not fine do you feel your own fever- oh there she went. she fainted.” 

Lucifer x Lia

lmao bitch wont even touch you unless he has gloves and a mask bc what will happen if he gets sick?? god forbid he has to take a day off

she insists on going to school but lucifer makes her stay at home

lucifer is really sick of her getting so irritable like my god just cooperate stop snapping at him 

hires the royal doctor to take care of her because his princess deserves the best

and because he’s too prideful to admit he knows shit when it comes to taking care of a sick human

caught a cold afterwards bcause god hates him

thats funny of me to say

sits by the bed and spoon feeds lia soup during the peak of her illness

Barbatos x Julia

barbatos barely has to do anything because julia is prepared. she’s a competent witch

that doesn’t stop him from fretting on the inside

isn’t as overbearing/skittish as the others, but makes sure he checks in on her everynow and then

julia finds out he makes insanely good soup, i mean she already knew that but he cooked it specifically for her when she’s sick

sometimes julia will fake sick to eat it

she does become a lot grumpier and kinda clingy when sick, since her senses are a little messed up with the cold making it a little harder to perceive things so she leans on barbatos for this

julia once tripped and fell when she was heading to the bathroom during a high fever and barb had a fucking heart attack

Mammon x Reese

someone actually save these two. like my god.

mammon becomes really sulky in school and refuses to do anything without reese around 

reese will haul himself to school but mammon hauls his ass right back to bed then proceed to complain about reese’s absence. 

“dude you okay?” “yeah it’s jsut a little stuffy nose.” “you don’t look very good.” “just a little dizzy, i’m sure it’ll go away” “bRUH-”

mammon slams open the door to catch reese streaming on deviltube because reese is bored

back to bed a g a i n mammon is about to lose his cool

mammon knows shit about taking care of a sick human but this is his human you’re talking about, so he goes and buys expensive medicine

claims his finger slipped when buying it lmao

eventually mammon falls asleep next to reese’s bed

and catches a cold from being the idiot who continues to ask for kisses

Beelzebub x Sen

beelzebub is so confused but tries his best

goes to barbatos to learn how to make soup for sen because soup always makes him feel better

sen complains about feeling cold, and beel knows he has the highest body temperature out of the demons and has a pretty strong immune system from eating god knows what so he has no qualms about crawling into bed with sen and cuddling her so she’s warm

i mean she actually has a fever but sen slapped on one of those menthol cooling patches on her forehead so it’s gucci

beel’s hands are large and warm. instant heating pads. 

really attentive and sits by her bed like a sad puppy asking if she needs anything 

since he has a habit of guarding lucifer’s room when said brother is sick, he guards sen’s room too. just kinda sits in front with his ddd and a pile of snacks, inconveniencing everyone who tries to pass by the hallway

Belphegor x Usako

walks around house of lamentation wrapped in a blanket and leaving tissues in her wake

why is she so mopey my god belphegor doesn’t have the energy for this. slaps a cold towel on her forehead and passes out on the floor

usako literally refuses to rest so belphe has to cast a sleeping spell on her to get her to stay down and recover

belphe goes to ask beel how to help usako get better since beel seems to have better success with sen

you have to realize belphie, sen and beel are like one of the only functional couples here ok.

“why are you so fussy just eat the medicine.” “sTOP FUSSING” “MY GOD JUST EAT IT” belphie is like yey close to flipping his shit

accidentally made her cry because she’s sensitive and belphie sighs really loudly as if to say “damn ur annoying” but goes to cuddle her anyways and presses kisses to her forehead to pacify her

she shows up the next day 100% genki genki and belphie is like “??? weren;t you just sniffling and coughing and having a fever yesterday what happened to you” 

Satan x Yen

satan is probably one of the only competent boyfriends here ngl

has read a ton of books and spends his time reading random things on the internet so he figures out what yen might need

except the damn girl is always sleeping and it’s time for her daily dose of medicine which unlike usako, she doesn’t kick up a fuss over eating. 

gets sick pretty easily and is prone to high fevers. satan ignores her complaining as he places cold towels on her back and forehead. 

yen’s usually too tired and sluggish to actually put up a struggle so there’s just a lot of verbal whining abt the cold 

becomes kinda childish when sick, when she’s really tired and about to fall asleep, she’ll tug on satan’s sleeve and ask him to stay a while

also gets really clingy and hates being alone 

but she’s asleep like 99% of the time lmao

[killingthebuddha]

It was the summer of 1990, when I was stuck in Albany because I needed two more courses to graduate. I found a sublet and I signed up for a history course on the Gilded Age, of which I remember nothing, and an English course, The Bible as Literature. The professor was rangy man with a gray beard. On the first day he explained that we would be examining Bible stories as texts like any other, which made my heart rate accelerate with intellectual excitement. The pear-shaped Christian woman who sat next to me had a different view. Whenever she made one of her frequent declarations of faith the instructor looked ready to chew his own arm off. Frankly I liked how she proclaimed her beliefs without embarrassment, and for being the only student in the class who had bothered to ask my name. That is, until she learned that I was Jewish, and she started handing me pamphlets about the upcoming Billy Graham revival meeting.

That summer I went to class, and I must have done the reading, because my transcript indicates that I earned a B in the Bible course and a C in history. (It is typical of my academic career that I earned a B in a course that I found deeply interesting.) I also had a part-time job on campus. I referred to myself as the chairman of the library, because my job was fixing the chairs.

In the evening I’d get high and play guitar. I’d taken a music theory course that had opened up some things for me and I was writing songs. They weren’t necessarily good songs, but there were a lot of them, maybe three or four a week. I was into Paul Simon that summer, especially Hearts and Bones and Graceland. My own songs sounded nothing like his, first because he was Paul Simon and I was some schmuck with a guitar in Albany, and second because I was simultaneously getting into rootsier stuff like the Band and Ry Cooder. I was chasing some combination of lyrical cleverness and rhythm. I wanted Paul Simon’s wit and Levon Helm’s feel. Let’s face it: I never got there. But I like myself for thinking about that stuff at twenty-one. I like myself for trying.

My roommate was my friend Jen. She was a bright, perky brunette who smoked menthol cigarettes and drove a stick shift, which I thought was hot. We had an uncomplicated friendship that was a relief from the tense, neurotic undercurrents flowing between me and my girlfriend, who, in all fairness, was a tall, green-eyed blonde who drove a pickup, which was also hot. But I felt pulled along against my will. Perhaps because I was pulled along against my will. My girlfriend and I had been on and off since high school, and I longed to get away—from her, from Albany, from my overbearing parents, who were, if not physically nearby, never far from my thoughts, judging me, finding me wanting.

When I was a young man, my self-hatred was like an undiagnosed illness: chronic inflammation of the shame organ. I could never understand what my girlfriend saw in me, but she was smart and pretty, so I kept limping back to her. I didn’t know that I was allowed to look for someone more suitable, that her ambition and looks did not, for me, outweigh her overdeveloped sense of injustice and her own crippling insecurities. That I would have been better off with someone like Jen, who by the way liked my songs, or at least pretended to like them, as opposed to my girlfriend, who was threatened by my playing, because it was a space I had created wherein she didn’t exist.

Not that I was any prize. I was always short of cash and I stank of cigarettes, and, as you will soon learn, I could be a dick.

One night Jen brought home a six-pack and we sat on the crappy carpet and I played her some songs. After a few beers the good kind of tension was so obvious that even a timid kid like me couldn’t deny it, and I kissed her. We went to bed and had drunken college sex. It was delicious. After she fell asleep, I lay awake considering that apparently I was the cheating type.

Unless I was supposed to, you know, be with Jen.

But in the morning Jen said that she valued our friendship and she felt really bad, and I said that I valued our friendship and I felt really bad (even though I felt fine), and although it seemed possible that Jen was waiting for me to say I’d rather be with her, and I liked that idea, I wasn’t equipped to ask for what I wanted.

Aside from my self-doubt, another irritant in the summer of 1990 was the Grateful Dead, which was unavoidable. Their fan base had exploded. Maybe the Deadhead subculture, with its meandering nostalgic drugginess, appealed to early Gen-Xers as an antidote to the constrictions of the 80s. Maybe it was more fun to wear a tie-dye than giant shoulder pads. Who knows. I was mostly neutral to their music. My upstairs neighbors, however, absolutely fucking loved the Dead—Ronnie, and Dan, both nice Jewish boys grooving out to “Sugar Magnolia” as they played Nintendo and passed the bong.

Actually Dan wasn’t such a nice boy. A short, swarthy kid, he was already a kind of low-level grifter. For example, one evening Ronnie came home to find that Dan had treated him to takeout Chinese. Ronnie was touched until a few weeks later he saw that the food had been paid for with his own credit card. Finally we got wise to him and started locking our doors. There wasn’t much else to do, as we’d seen the last of him: Dan had disappeared, of course without paying the rent.

One day when I came home from class there was a Fed Ex package waiting for me.

“Dan called,” Jen said. “He asked if we got a Fed Ex package for him in your name. I told him I hadn’t seen it.”

“Good thinking.”

I looked at the Fed Ex. It was the first one I had ever received and it carried with it an air of great mystery and import, as if inside were the manual to adulthood. Instead there were four tickets to a Dead show in Buffalo. I called my bank and sure enough the tickets had been charged to my credit card. Since I hadn’t ordered them, the bank erased the charges.

“What should I do with the tickets?” I asked the operator.

“You, could, you know, use them,” he said.

I invited Ronnie to go with me. We made the four-hour drive in his mother’s Oldsmobile. A big, voluble blond kid, Ronnie was good company. We shot the shit and smoked Camel Lights and listened to his Dead bootlegs until I begged him to put on something else. As usual, when you are young and on a driving trip, there was sense of expectation and freedom. Traffic was light and the sky was big over the New York State heartland.

But inwardly I was anxious. We’d planned to sell the extra tickets for food and gas, and I kept thinking about when my enterprising brother had almost been arrested for scalping Rangers tickets in front of Madison Square Garden. I imagined spending the night in some Western New York jail cell and, God help me, having to call my father for bail. There was no guarantee that he’d help. Freshman year I had taken the bus to Boston to visit a friend; I’d gotten lost, and in those days before cell phones I couldn’t get in touch with my buddy and I didn’t have a credit card. I called home collect and asked my dad for help.

“You’re not getting a fucking dime,” he yelled and hung up.

But the tickets sold easily. Just after we got off the highway, there was a scraggly young dude on the verge, an expression of grit on his bearded face as he held up two fingers, the universal gesture of a Deadhead in need of tickets. Ronnie pulled over, and the Deadhead slapped fifty bucks in my hand. As we hunted for parking at Rich Stadium, I was feeling better. I had cash and a full pack of smokes. I had my own credit card now for emergencies. Most importantly, I had weed.

Ronnie and I set a time to meet back at his car in case we got separated, which, because we immediately got very high, happened within minutes. I wandered the parking lot alone, looking at the Deadheads, wondering if their evident joy grew out of their shared values or if it were merely the drugs. Either way I remember wishing that I could be a part of it. I didn’t want to be a Deadhead. I did however want to submerge myself for a while, to find some relief from the relentless pulsing of the shame organ.

I ran into Jill, a slim, tall, sloe-eyed girl with straight shining brown hair. We had made out twice freshman year. The first time we had been interrupted by my dumbass roommate. The second time ended when she puked. Now she and her boyfriend were following the Dead around the Northeast, supporting themselves by selling homemade granola bars. I was so impressed by their initiative. They had a VW bus and everything. More importantly they had found a way to be in the world. I tucked that knowledge away for later usage—that it was indeed possible to create your own independence while doing something fun.

At some collectively acknowledged moment the deadheads moved together toward the stadium. I had a general admission ticket so I made my way to the open area before the stage. Crosby, Stills and Nash was the opening band and I was looking forward to seeing Steven Stills play guitar. It was a lovely day, and it wasn’t too crowded, and I found a spot maybe 100 feet from Stills, and CSN was singing “Southern Cross,” a song that I loved for its drippy earnestness and killer harmonies.

And yet a pilot light of anger had flicked on in my gut. I had forgotten how Graham Nash gets on my nerves. His leftover sixties things seemed like a pose. I should add that Ronnie and I had dropped acid in the parking lot. I have the impression that Dan the Grifter had given it to us, but that seems impossible. Nevertheless, I had put a tab on my tongue, and it was coming on pretty strong. I watched CSN, and after Graham Nash said something incredibly annoying as the band played the intro to Woodstock, something like, “show us you deserve to wear those tie-dyes and get into it,” the pilot light flared, and I did something that I would forever regret.

“You suck, Graham Nash,” I shouted. “Go back to England.”

“Dude,” said some guy.

I swear to God that I saw Graham Nash look at me, baffled, before returning his focus to the song.

“Graham Nash. You’re a stupid limey.”

A circle had formed around me, dozens of heads backing away from this white-hot center of hostility. I think that was what snapped me out of it, that I was surrounded by people gaping at a crazy person, and the crazy person was me. in the shame organ pulsated with mortification.

So I left. I shouldered my way through the crowds and returned to the parking lot, where a wizened hippy sat on a cooler, chanting, mantra-like, “Groovy, groovy soda. Get your orange soda.” He repeated this line with unflagging enthusiasm, even though it was only me and him and the cars.

I was thirsty.

I bought a soda.

“You look like Bob,” he said.

“Bob Weir?”

“That’s what I said man, Bob. You look just like him.”

“No I don’t.”

“Dude, it’s good. Girls love Bob. Hey,” he shouted, open-mouthed, revealing blackened stumps of teeth. “It’s Bob.”

“I’m not Bob,” I said, feeling close to tears. “I’m Gordon.”

“It’s Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaab,” he shouted.

I ran away from the dentally challenged hippie and kept going until I found a shaded picnic bench on a grassy strip between the parking lot and a chain-link fence. I took out a cigarette. To my surprise, I was also holding a Zippo. I had no idea how I had acquired it.

It was nearing dusk and the air was cooling. I hadn’t been aware of the heat but now I felt the sweat drying on my back. I remembered my orange soda; it was a little warm but the sugar made me more alert. I could hear the roar of the crowd as The Dead took the stage. (The Internet tells me that the first song of the show was an eight-minute “Hell in a Bucket,” which indeed sounds like hell.) I smoked and I played with my Zippo until I felt ready to be around other people.

But when I tried to get back into the stadium, the security guards wouldn’t let me. I tried another gate with the same result. I shuffled back to my picnic bench in defeat. Mostly I was disturbed by my outburst against Graham Nash, who probably never hurt anybody, except maybe Joni Mitchell. I mean, what the fuck? I had just heckled Graham Nash! Was it the acid? Did it have some speed or mescaline or (God forbid) PCP in it?

Anyway, I was calmer now. I could hear Jerry’s guitar chiming away in the mixolydian mode, as it had done for decades to an audience of Caucasians that never seemed to tire of it. And I had to admit that I wasn’t disappointed about missing the show. In fact, I was relieved. There was a kind of clarity in the aftermath of my acid trip that allowed me to assimilate that I wasn’t merely indifferent to the Dead. I actively disliked their music. They were excellent musicians, but it didn’t cohere into anything. It was a sonic mess. They didn’t leave room for one another. At any given moment, an instrumentalist chooses between playing and not playing. Jerry, Bob, Brent, Phil, the drummers whose names I forgot, they were always playing. Every beat of every song, they were playing. Whereas the musicians that I admired—Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal, Levon Helm—they all knew when not to play.

And by the way did anybody really think that Jerry was a good vocalist? Did anyone really believe that Bob was as soulful as he believed himself to be? Could anyone honestly state under oath that they actually enjoyed the tedious, apercussive wankfest of “Drums” and “Space?”

Okay, the Dead had some good songs.

But the Grateful Dead was not a good band.

There is always the temptation when writing about this kind of experience to force a neat little lesson out of the narrative. But that too would be dishonest. It would be years until I put it all together, until I finally understood that I was free to like Stephen Stills, just as I was free to dislike the Grateful Dead and Graham Nash. I was not, however, free to heckle Graham Nash. In other words, it didn’t matter what I liked or disliked, so long as I wasn’t a dick about it.

It took me even longer to grasp that I was allowed to go after what I wanted.

It was fully night now and the lights above the parking lot were painfully bright. The Deadheads flowed through the gates, mobile clumps of hair and swirling tie-dye bearing the scent of sweat and patchouli. The acid had just about run its course; all that was left were wisps or tendrils of color in my peripheral vision. It was time to go home. Or at least back to Albany. Now if I could just remember where Ronnie had parked his mother’s car.