#like hes my angel baby punk rock band guy

[lip-rings-and-quiffs]

Look at him!!!!

[sunburnacoustic]

Rich Costey: Producer

Recording Muse's Absolution

(article in Sound On Sound by Richard Buskin in December 2003)

Photo: Tom Kirk

With their number one album Absolution, British three-piece Muse have established themselves as one of the most ambitious and innovative rock bands in the world — and in Rich Costey, they've found an engineer and producer who understands their aims and encourages them to experiment.

"I believe that anything should be possible at any moment," says Rich Costey. "The records that I'm most fond of are ones where people have taken as many chances as possible in service of the material. The process itself may yield both successes and defeats, but you'll never know unless you're free to explore, and that's something an outfit like Muse is very comfortable with. Those guys have been playing together for a long time, and as a result they are completely fearless and will try anything. That's one of the reasons why we had such a good working relationship."

A guitarist in high school who turned to producing indie bands in Boston and New York, Costey spent three years as the in-house engineer at Looking Glass Studios in Manhattan during the mid-'90s, assisting modern classical composer Philip Glass, and it was there that he steeped himself in the experimental approach to recording that has characterised much of his subsequent work, including the aforementioned Muse's acclaimed new album Absolution.

"My time at Looking Glass was just a thrill for me," he recalls. "I had been a huge admirer of Philip's, and it was no trivial matter for me to be able to work on his records day after day. When you're mixing for him, he holds out the score the whole time to ensure that you can hear all of the parts and are following the dynamics, as he simply composes on paper in the traditional manner. One day I was mixing something for him, and he was describing some of his compositional methods — he would use his motifs in an almost modular fashion, plugging in and reusing different parts of the same material within the same piece — and he told me 'Attempting to exactly repeat a success is bound to seem a failure, whereas if you move forward it's far more likely to seem a success.'

"How that translates to me in terms of making records is that I tend to reject the notion that there's a sort of penned-in area regarding how rock music is supposed to sound. These days there's a certain guitar sound that people think of as the guitar sound, and that's unfortunate. Previously, artists were more comfortable pushing things forward and trying things out, and obviously there are still artists who do that, but not many. That's what I'm interested in doing, though it usually means a bit more effort and occasionally a bit of risk."

Finding The Muse

After relocating to Los Angeles in the late 1990s, Costey teamed up with Jon Brion to produce and mix Fiona Apple's second album When The Pawn Hits The Conflicts... This led to assignments from producer Rick Rubin, which included the mix of Rage Against The Machine's Renegades album in 2000. Since then, Costey has undertaken numerous mixing projects, as well as production and engineering for the likes of Dave Navarro and, most recently, the London-based Muse trio of guitarist/vocalist Matthew Bellamy, bassist Chris Wolstenhome, and drummer Dominic Howard.

Originally hailing from Teignmouth, Devon, the three began playing together at the age of 13, first as Gothic Plague, then as Fixed Penalty and Baby Rocket Dolls, before adopting their current name in 1997, when they released their eponymous debut EP on Dangerous Records. A second EP, 1998's Muscle Museum, led to critical acclaim, a rapidly growing live following, and a contract with Maverick in the US, and in the wake of albums Showbiz (1999) and Origin Of Symmetry (2001), the band have attracted plenty of interest thanks to songs that meld melodic, sometimes unconventional lead vocals with strains of grunge, punk, psychedelia and arena rock. All of these elements are prevalent on Muse's new album, Absolution.

"I had become a fan of theirs, particularly after hearing their last record," says Rich Costey. "This was conveyed to them by some mutual acquaintances and we decided to collaborate. They had worked with the same people for a while, and I think they were interested in mixing it up a bit. By the time that I came into the picture, they had already recorded several tracks for the new album with John Cornfield and Paul Reed: 'Butterflies And Hurricanes' and 'Blackout' were among them. Those had gone very well, but they were interested in trying out some other ideas and seeing what else might be out there."

Costey would end up mixing 'Blackout', which utilised mandolin and real strings recorded at AIR Lyndhurst in north-west London, and recutting the vocal, bass and piano on 'Butterflies And Hurricanes'.

"Initially, we went to AIR just to see how things would work out between us," he recalls. "I did what I normally do, and they sat back and observed me. In retrospect it's kind of funny, because now, having gotten to know them so well, I realise they were a bit coy. There was also something of a continental divide between the American use of superlatives and the more reserved English use of them, but I wasn't aware of this at the time. For instance, soon after we went into AIR, my engineer Wally Gagel and I got what I thought was a great sound for the band to track live, and when I finally rolled some tape and they came in the control room to listen back, I thought they'd be over the moon. However, their response was along the lines of 'Uh, yeah, it's fine. All right, let's crack on...' and I felt deflated. It turned out that they did like it, but they were simply a bit reserved. They loosened up later — and I'm sure I did, too — when we got to know each other better.

Tractors & Water Sports

Grouse Lodge Studios, where much of the tracking for Absolution took place.Photo: Tom Kirk

Opting for a rural residential facility to complete the recording sessions for Absolution, the band members located Grouse Lodge in Ireland via the Internet, and it turned out to be a successful choice. "We just showed up and took our chances, and the place was fantastic," Costey remarks. "We had a great time there. It's the only place I've ever been where there are windows all the way around the control room and tracking room. And it was kind of funny, because at one point Dominic was in the live area while we were sitting in the control room, and just as he was playing a really intense drum part, some guy on a tractor drove by the window that was behind him. You don't see that too often in a studio! Fortunately the isolation was good — there's no tractor on the record.

"Grouse Lodge has a Neve VR, and although it was a good-sized board, we still brought in 14 [Neve] 1073s and several [UREI] 1176s as well as some Pultec EQs. The studio contacted a number of rental companies for additional mic pres, and apparently that was all we could get because Iron Maiden were tracking somewhere and using up all of the other 1073s in the UK.

Recording the introduction to 'Apocalypse Please': Dominic Howard plays a drum fill from the Grouse Lodge swimming pool, with the driver from an NS10 speaker used as a close mic.Photo: Tom Kirk

"Of course, one of the advantages of a residential studio is that you can just kind of take over the place, and so we were able to do things like set up mics in the residences, while for the song 'Ruled By Secrecy' I had this idea that I wanted the drums to be intimate and very close, yet with a unique distant ambience.

"At one point, while we were rehearsing in the smaller Studio B, the band was running through the number with the doors open and I could hear it echoing around the courtyard. It sounded fantastic, so one afternoon while we were tracking I decided to set up the drums outside. We brought out a whole bunch of mic pres to ensure that the mic line was as short as possible, and we spent a number of hours setting this all up.

A less successful experiment: Dominic Howard plays drums outdoors in the Grouse Lodge courtyard. Photo: Tom Kirk

"The kit was backed up into a sort of corner, with brick on one side and stone masonry on the other, alongside a tractor. Directly behind it was open, and it was good that Dominic was close to the wall because that enabled him to get a little more bass out of his kit. We set up a couple of distant mics and ran them through some Neves, and then I sat down in the control room and he started playing... and it sounded terrible. I think we captured one take, but we didn't use it at all. We got a little bit of ambience out of the courtyard, but the overall sound was unbearably thin and it just didn't have the presence that I'd expected.

"Still, one idea that we did try and that was really good found its way onto the tracks 'Apocalypse Please' and 'Time Is Running Out'. The intro to 'Apocalypse Please' has a tom section, and I really wanted that to sound just ridiculous and as epic as possible. So, lo and behold, the studio had a swimming pool, which of course was full of water, and what we did was bring over a couple of kick drums, put them on stands, and miked one of them really close with the disembodied woofer of an NS10 to get a low, thumping sound, while a few C12 ambient mics were placed in the swimming pool area. We also had to bring mic pres into the pool area for all the same reasons, and Wally and I set things up so that Dominic could actually stand in the water while he was playing, just because it looked really good."

So, were there any lapping sounds? "Not during that section, although we did do some hot-tub overdubs later on. We did a couple of takes of the bubbling water, but again we didn't use it. In fact, we did a bunch of stuff. I'd seen a modern classical performance a few years back where there was a whole back line of people hitting gongs and dipping them in water. The water gong is not an unusual 20th-century classical instrument, but as we were gong-poor, we took some samples of doing the same thing with cymbals, hitting them loads and loads of times while dipping them into the water. Of course, cymbals have nowhere near the sustain and heft of an actual gong, and whatever they did have would dissipate as soon as they went into the water, so that was pointless. But it was funny.

"One thing that actually was useful was recording a couple of takes of Chris diving into the pool — we used that on the start to the bridge of 'Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist'. Listen really closely and, right where the bridge hits, you can hear him jumping into the pool. We used rather nice microphones to capture that, so we made sure to keep them clear of the water, and we also had to move really quickly because I was concerned about humidity affecting the mics."

Reaching For The Overheads

"I didn't want to do anything that sounded like their previous records. I liked Origin Of Symmetry quite a lot, but one of the reasons why I thought I might make a good producer for Muse is that I believed I could hear what they were reaching for and felt there were moments where they weren't quite getting there. For example, it struck me that at their basic level they wanted to sound like a colossal, dynamic, epic and powerful rock band, but there were a lot of moments on their past two records when they didn't quite achieve that. So, the first thing I wanted to do was make sure that they sounded pretty damned big and aggressive when they were supposed to, and that was down to the recording methods as well as their performance.

The control room at Grouse Lodge is based around a Neve VR desk. Photo: Tom Kirk

"For their part, the guys had heard some of my mixes for Rage Against The Machine and Audioslave and they were quite keen to get a sound that was just as big and assertive. They play extremely well together and they sound quite powerful on their own, but as usual we needed to explore different drum kits to obtain the right sound. Dominic's very good at tuning his drums and Chris has his own bass tone down really well — he's got three amps with different degrees of distortion coming out of each. I also brought in a Diesel guitar head, which I'm pretty fond of, and Matthew played a bit through that as well as his own custom Marshall, and overall I set them up a bit differently to what they were used to.

"In fact, I spent quite a while trying to sort out the drum sound, because Dominic is a pretty aggressive drummer and he tends to hit his cymbals rather hard. A bit of thought went into how to have the individual drums sounding defined without being washed out by the cymbals, and to that end I did something that I wouldn't recommend anyone doing carelessly, using far too many microphones. For overheads you might use a stereo pair, maybe accompanied by a mono microphone, but we ended up using that for an overall kit sound and tight-miking each of the cymbals. I myself normally use [AKG] C12s, and then for the close mics I use [Neumann] KM84s whenever they can be found, and I'll slightly mix those in to get a lot of attack — that way, the overheads themselves can be fairly low, and you can mix up the attack of the cymbals without the overall sound being too brash.

"Chris's monstrous amp rig consisted of three Marshall bass heads and three different Marshall cabinets, and how much room we had in any given studio basically determined what size of cabinets we set up. One of them produces a cleaner bass tone, while the second amp largely goes through [an Electro-Harmonix] Big Muff [distortion pedal], as well as a few other pedals that he'll occasionally hit. Then his third amp, which is the most distorted, uses an obscure Japanese distortion pedal, which is pretty weird, expensive and apparently difficult to find. It has a real nasally tone that doesn't necessarily make any sense on its own, but when you mix it within the context of the rest of the bass sound it's critical to what Chris wants. He has several bass guitars, and there's a well-worn Pedulla that he's particularly fond of.

"I like to use condenser mics whenever possible on the bass cabinets. They tend to have a much more open sound, the transients come through a lot stronger, and the net result sounds a lot more like you're standing in front of the amp. There certainly is a place for dynamics and I am a fan of them as well, but to me they colour the sound much more than a good condenser. That having been said, I've actually got a fair bit into recording the bass with this mic made by Blue, called the Mouse. Wally Gagel and I used it last year on the Antenna album by Cave In and it was excellent, so I used that on Chris's bass rig and I also used it on the snare, doubled with an SM57 whenever possible. I sometimes use a Neumann FET47 to record the bass, but Chris's rig was so loud that I didn't think we could get away with that — nowadays, I think people play much louder than they did when 47s were introduced, and one of the advantages with a newer mic like the Blue is that it can take a stunning amount of level.

"Aside from that, we used a pretty standard setup on the bass: [Sennheiser] 421s and [Electro-voice] RE20s. We tried a whole host of things while working at different studios, and we used different stuff each time. The full band was set up at AIR in the lead-up to Christmas, and then a couple of months later we set up at a place in Ireland called Grouse Lodge, where we did the majority of the recording over the course of about four weeks. We didn't have exactly the same microphones to choose from there, but we tried to copy the AIR setup as much as possible so that the basic tracks didn't sound totally foreign next to one another."

Learning Reserve

Muse singer Matthew Bellamy hits some pretty amazing vocal notes on the new record, most notably on cuts such as 'Apocalypse Please', 'Time Is Running Out', 'Hysteria', 'Blackout' and 'Butterflies And Hurricanes'. "He has an amazing voice and an amazing range," confirms Rich Costey. "He is completely confident with what he's doing. He'll just get in and, in three takes, he'll have everything he needs. Sometimes, with the vocals, not unlike the rest of the process, we would try out different things, different directions even once we knew we had something great, and while this would occasionally produce improved results, most of the time it wouldn't because Matthew's own first instinct was exactly right.

"In terms of the vocal mics, we would switch between different ones according to the song. I'm a big believer in that as well. For example, he sang 'TSP' into a [Shure] SM7 that I had — one of the advantages for many singers who do a lot of shows is that they can grab hold of the SM7, carry it around the room and do whatever they want without creating very much handling noise. To me, that sounds quite a bit better than your more typical SM58, which a lot of people might use in the studio. The singer can press his face right up against the microphone without any worry whatsoever, so we used that on a few songs, while we mainly used a C12 for Matt on most of the more sedate vocals. Then again, in the case of 'Endlessly', we tried out a few mics — we tried an RCA 44, but that was just a little too dark, so we ended up going with the 77.

"Matthew has tremendous vocal capabilities, and if anything he's still learning what those capabilities are. I think one of the things that he became more comfortable with during this project was the ability to sing in a little more reserved fashion. Like on the verses of 'Sing For Absolution', his tenor voice is very quiet and just beautiful, whereas normally he's pushing himself quite hard. Any time you work with a great vocalist it's pretty exciting.

"Matthew's styling determined, to some degree, what I'd want to do with his vocals. For example, when he's singing loud, part of his sound frequently amounts to clipping the mic pre — I'd deliberately clip the mic pre on 'Time Is Running Out' as he sang louder and louder, adding more intensity and grit to his vocal. Distorting a vocal is so commonplace nowadays that to me it's the same as distorting a guitar or a bass. And much of the time when I'm mixing records for other people I'm distorting the vocal... whether they know it or not!"

Things That Have Character

In the months between the AIR and Grouse Lodge sessions (see box), Matthew Bellamy did more songwriting and Rich Costey took care of overdubbing some of the first-batch songs at AIR: 'Sing For Absolution', 'Stockholm Syndrome', 'Hysteria', 'TSP' and 'Fury' (which would end up as a bonus track on the Japanese release). These were then completed at North London's Livingstone Studios during a 10-day period following the Christmas/New Year break.

"We used the custom vintage Neve console at AIR, and whenever possible I only monitor on ATC SCM20s, which they also had there," says Costey. "Every facility was booked at the last minute, and when you're going from studio to studio it's really a crap shoot as to what you're listening to. On the other hand, the console at Livingstone was an SSL G-series, and it made a big difference switching to that from the vintage Neve. We rented a bunch of Neve 1073s to use as front-end mic preamps, and I also brought my old Universal Audio 1108s with me to warm up the sound. The UA mic pres are Class AB, whereas the 1073s are Class A. I largely only record through vintage Neves, but in this case we couldn't find a UK studio with one at short notice, and while I wasn't able to completely match the sound, I didn't mind that. I find it tedious when records sound the same all the way through. I'm much more interested in things that have character, and so long as they sound good, that's all that matters."

Rich Costey and Matthew Bellamy in debate at the desk in Grouse Lodge. Photo: Tom Kirk

Matthew Bellamy's custom Manson guitars were mostly recorded through the aforementioned Diesel and Marshall amps running into a variety of cabinets. "The band played live together, facing each other in a semi-circle, and Matthew was singing, too, which he apparently doesn't normally do when they're cutting basic tracks," Costey explains. "Still, once we'd created those basics, it was a case of anything goes. I don't really believe in any hard and fast rules after that, and I don't necessarily like to go with one setup for a whole record. So, after we got the basics, we would try to push every single overdub to make it as interesting as possible.

"The way that I and the band chose to work — and I like to work this way, anyhow — was to concentrate on one song at a time for a while. I remember that we did quite a bit of work on 'Stockholm Syndrome' and 'Sing For Absolution' at AIR. We'd just put up a song, see what it needed, and explore it for hours, days, whatever, and then at the point where we felt we were slowing down we'd move on to the next thing. That process continued at Livingstone.

"On 'Sing For Absolution', I had a pretty clear idea as to what I wanted to hear on the chorus: big, broad-sounding guitars with a little bit of echo — it's hardly ever the case that something goes down without getting run through a [Maestro] Echoplex. I'm addicted to them, although recently both of mine unfortunately have gone ill on me. Still, I wanted the big, broad guitars with Matthew's voice just peeking out over them without being too far in front, keeping the chorus kind of subdued and real simple whereas the verses really needed to sound expansive and three-dimensional. We did some basic stuff at AIR on that song, and then when we got to Livingstone we spent time treating different pianos.

One of Rich Costey's much-loved Maestro EP4 Echoplex delays. Photo: Katy Alverson

"The main piano sound on that song was heavily treated. I laid nails, guitar strings and all sorts of metal objects on top of the piano strings themselves so that they rattled, and then I miked all that with a pair of C12s. I had the dry piano coming into the console and I then split the signal so that half of it went to tape and the other half went to a [Digitech] Whammy pedal. In fact, the Whammy pedal also got split, so that half of it went to — no surprise here — an Echoplex and the other half went to a [Lovetone] Doppelganger pedal. That achieved a fake stereo, with a dry attack front and centre, while the Doppelganger with the echo was on one side and the Whammy's echo was on the other. Then we doubled it, so that it wasn't even fake stereo any more; it was two performances, which made a lot more sense.

"Once we had that down, the song took on a much more melancholy sound, and thanks to the piano it also had kind of a broken sound which, I think, worked well with the lyrics. After that, we did some ambient passes of various synths running through different effects and doing volume sweeps while Matthew played throughout the song. We just wanted things to sweep in and out around the vocals."

Although the songs were all comped, with each of the band members performing a minimum of passes, Costey was keen to guard against too much editing. He typically treats Pro Tools as if it were a tape machine, not because of a retro mindset but simply in order to enhance the music by way of a more human touch, and he'd therefore utilise as much as possible of a single take before editing in parts only where this was absolutely necessary. The same applied to overdubs — he'd use as much as possible of complete takes, and never once was a performance flown into another section of a song.

"I made that mistake years ago," Costey admits, "and what ends up happening is that the record has a real thin veneer to it, almost like a genetically engineered tomato that looks perfect but has absolutely no flavour."

Three People Trying to Sound Like 10

The approach paid off. Absolution boasts a collection of very live-sounding tracks that convey the effect of the band members playing complete performances. Then again, in terms of aural imaging, for all of the reverb and power chords, the manner in which the instruments blend into one another creates a sense of the musicians being bunched close together within a fairly confined space.

"I think that's partly the design of the band," says Costey. "Because they're only a three-piece, Chris's bass tone is engineered from the ground up to go from the low lows of the bass through the bottom end of the guitar. And Matthew, by extension, because he switches quite frequently to the piano, doesn't necessarily feel like he has to carry the brunt of things with his guitar. What you have is three people trying to sound like 10, and they've got it down pretty good, so that their instruments sonically tend to overlap one another, and the way they play off each other tends to overlap more than it does with a lot of other bands. Often you hear bass players who tend to double the guitar roots very low and function as a mere guitar support, but that isn't the case with Muse.

The Grouse Lodge live room. Photo: Tom Kirk"

At the same time, another reason for the tight sound may be that I don't tend to use much reverb on things like drums when I'm mixing. I pretty much just used whatever ambience was to be found on the room mics. Then again, when we were at Grouse Lodge in Ireland, we occasionally augmented things in terms of the drum sound, and this was especially so on 'Falling Away With You'. We ran a couple of Earthworks mics way down to the other end of the building, in the hallway towards the residences, and the track had this ridiculous, cavernous pomposity to it. This wasn't very useful if the drum part was busy, but if it was a simple part then it sounded terrific, and so there were a couple of moments where I cranked those up quite a bit."

One notable aspect of 'Falling Away With You', which starts off as a ballad before seguing into heavy rock, is the prevalent sound of Matthew Bellamy's fingers sliding on the strings of his guitar. "That's simply the sound of a human playing guitar," says Costey. "Matthew was playing his black Manson guitar very quietly through an Overbuilt amp, and all we added was a bit of reverb, so it was fairly clean. However, if you run just a little bit of compression you're bound to enhance those finger noises. A lot of people find them distracting, but for me that's the sound of someone playing an instrument. I have worked with people who play in such a manner that you don't hear any finger noises at all, and in those cases I just defer to the musician, but with Matthew you can hear the sound of his fingers on the strings, and this created a kind of intimacy that perfectly suited the quiet section of 'Falling Away With You'."

On some tracks, Matthew Bellamy didn't want to track his vocals until he really had a feel for where the music was going to lead him, whereas on others he'd record his part and, in so doing, highlight the fact that some more musical texture needed to be developed underneath the vocal. One example of this was the song 'Endlessly', with its loungey-sounding Wurlitzer intro and backwards cymbal and conga during the short instrumental break.

"That song was really a work in progress up until almost the last minute, and we took a different sort of vocal approach with it," Costey recalls. "Obviously, it's too slow to be a dance number, but there is a kind of subdued four-to-the-floor, 909-sounding rhythm going on throughout the track. That's largely due to the fact that Matthew did a couple of demos, and one of them featured him performing on a piano as well as a drum machine that was playing that pattern. There was such an honesty to it and a directness to it that even though we tried it with a full band approach, nothing seemed to work as well as what he had on that demo, which was just a real pure intro and a really heartfelt vocal. We therefore took that approach and built on it, and we had Dominic play loads of different drum patterns within that tempo and then actually cut up ones that had kind of a light jazz feel with a couple of fills."

More Chet Baker, Less Arthur Baker

After the work was completed at Grouse Lodge, the project switched location once again, this time to Cello Studios in Los Angeles, where three weeks were spent overdubbing before the mix then took place. It was here, during the overdubs, that 'Endlessly' really came together.

"Although we were happy with the drumming aspects of the song, we were still dissatisfied with a lot of it," Costey explains. "We were in Studio Three, where the Beach Boys had once recorded Pet Sounds [when the facility was still known as United Western Recorders], so we tried to conjure up the spirit of Brian Wilson by bringing in an old S6 tube monophonic synthesizer. I mostly wanted Matthew to use it to play some arpeggios, but those didn't end up sounding very good, and so he then reached over to these auto-chord figures on the left-hand side of the keyboard, where you can just hit one button and it will play the chord. Underneath it is a button that you can press to control the volume of that note, and while we were running the track down Matthew started playing the chords to the song and using the dynamic button to tap out a rhythm. That ended up being the main thing that the rest of the song was centred about: the real soft, moody, warm keyboard sound that plays in the chorus.

"At that point, we absolutely knew that we wanted the sound more Chet Baker and less Arthur Baker. So, Matthew sang into a big old RCA 77 ribbon mic, and we did a number of other overdubs on the track, but we tried to keep it as sedate as possible even if, by the end of the song, it gets a bit expansive. There's a treated type of opera vocal coming in later in the song, and we tried to be very careful with that, because it's a dangerous area."

Meanwhile, another song that starts off in fairly staid and straightforward fashion before building in force is 'Ruled By Secrecy', on which thundering piano bass notes are interspersed with high notes that ride over the top of the vocal. "A lot of the time we would actually cut the right-hand and left-hand parts separately and treat them separately," Costey remarks. "The beginning of 'Ruled By Secrecy' was all CP80, which is an old Yamaha electric piano, and while that was a left-hand part we also doubled it up with a right-hand part that was actual piano. We also took the CP80 and ran it through a couple of guitar amps only for the left hand, so that the left hand would have a larger tone to it when Matthew hit those notes. Then, by the end of the song, when he was hitting the more sustained left-handed parts, I trotted out the old Echoplex as well."

'Time Is Running Out' was probably the most difficult song for band and producer to nail down, especially with regard to an intro that required mucho experimentation. "We tried out all sorts of percussion ideas," says Costey, "including people clapping their hands and slapping their knees. At one point Wally even miked up Chris and Dominic scratching their heads to produce a shaker track, and that worked suprisingly well, but we didn't end up using it. Eventually, we concluded that the bass would comprise the centrepiece of the intro, so we had to come up with a unique, very characteristic tone, although I wasn't totally convinced about the bass line that we initially settled on. We spent an entire day trying to get the greatest bass intro sound ever created in all humanity, and by the end of that time we went with an acoustic bass guitar running through a ton of pedals and different amps. Then, just as we'd attained a sound that we thought was pretty good, Matthew walked in, listened to it and said, 'Fantastic, you've just spent eight hours on a flanged bass?' He was right of course, not having spent hours on the floor, toying with pedals and cables. We didn't keep any of it. Still, there was always good give-and-take like that, and we trusted each other enough to go with our respective ideas."

The well-stocked gear rack in Cello Sound, where Absolution was mixed, with Rich Costey's own gear on top and in the portable rack to the right.

As most arrangement decisions regarding the songs were made while recording, the overall modus operandi amounted to settling on a direction that would subsequently determine the nature of the overdubs and then the mix. This, in turn, ensured that the mixing process was relatively short and strightforward; about three weeks in all.

"The biggest challenge on Absolution was making sure that the whole thing hung together cohesively," Costey asserts. "We tried out so many different ideas, and in a couple of songs we didn't get the arrangements totally nailed down until it was time to mix. At that point, if you're not happy with something it's too late to go back and change it. So, during the last week there was a certain amount of making sure that all those loose ends were dialled in, and that the songs sounded good next to one another and sounded like the same band. Hopefully, that's what we achieved. By the end, for all of their British reserve and my over-the-top American enthusiasm, the guys were very excited about this record — and so, of course, was I."

[theold-ultraviolence]

ahhhh hiiii thank you so much for your super sweet response to my last ask!! 🥹🥹

I'm so glad that it being really long and rambling didn't bother you bc I always get really self-conscious about if I'm annoying people 😅

and also no need to apologize for not responding right away! none of my asks are urgent and you really only ever need to respond to them if and/or when you have the time and energy ☺️☺️

okay but omg him praying for a dragon has me in TEARS 😭😭 the poor baby!!!!!!!! I can actually almost see it happening like in Lilo and Stitch when Lilo is praying for a friend and she's like "send me an angel - the nicest angel you have" and then it just cuts to Stitch climbing out of the fiery wreckage of his ship and he's just like maniacally laughing

like I can just see baby aemond being like "send me a dragon - the nicest dragon you have" and then it cuts to vhagar, this absolutely enormous, terrifying, old battle-scarred dragon just like looming menacingly over the castle 😂

okay and also completely random and totally unrelated, but I know we were yelling about fall out boy together when the new album came out, and I was wondering if you were familiar with the australian pop/punk/rock band Tonight Alive? I only ask because on their second album the other side, they have this song called "complexes" and it is soooooooo aemond-coded to me. like, esp in relation to his father and re: what you said about his father barely even caring that aemond got hurt and just that whole super painful scene. idk it just seems to very much kind of describe his feelings towards his father after everything that happened. but also I'm incapable of being normal about media and I always end up listening to music and instantly thinking of my blorbos, so this may honestly just be something that makes sense in my brain 😅

ummm okay that's all the random thoughts I have today!!

sending you so many good wishes always!! ❤️

🐍 🔪

Not at all, dear! Like I said I love long messages and it is never annoying for me!

Omg NOT LILO & STITCH THAT'S TOO SWEET!!! and super fitting lmao! yet another fire ass take!😅 ok but adding to our previous ask, it's very interesting to note how, Aemond must have prayed for his dragon, yet it wasn't necessarily given to him directly, rather he claimed it. Vaghar was just there within his reach because her previous rider had passed; the object of Aemond's desire, so to speak, presented itself but it was up to him to prove he was worthy of taking what he wanted before anyone else could take it from him (which is what leads to the confrontation that results in him losing his eye). In answer to his prayers, the gods must have put it in his path, but it was up to him to either grab it or not. He took and thus had to pay the price, which if we go back to his faith - the bigger our desires, the bigger the price to pay for them.

ALSO TONIGHT ALIVE!? OF COURSE!! omg you're taking me back to my warped tour days!! yes I do remember them but I haven't listened to them since my warped tour days lmao! I'm gonna have to listen to that song because I'm always on the look-out for Aemond songs for my playlist, so thank you so much for bringing it up! And honestly, me too. Once I have a blorbo in my mind, I swear I'm like hyperfocused on finding songs or quotes that fit them. I almost always make a playlist for my fictional silly guys and it ends up being all I listen to for entire seasons 😅 so I'm right there with you!

Sending you many good wishes right back, and a lovely start to your week, my dear! thank you so much for all the random thoughts. They're always a treat to read no matter how random, in fact, I welcome the randomness! ❤️

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[seanfalco]

A Red Carpet Event | Misfits Timeline Anomaly’verse

an oc x oc collaboration between @seanfalco & @super-unpredictable98

Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Language, Smut (fingering, voyeurism, semi-public sex) a/n: And the smut continues.  I love that even when we say we wanna work on something fluffy, it almost always turns smutty. 

[ masterlist ]

——

"Is everyone set for tonight?" Lydia asked as she came into the room, having just arrived from the hairdresser.  "Outfits, hair, makeup..." she mused, ticking off each on her finger.

When Lyddie had told the quad she was taking them all as her date to her first award show, the reactions had varied from excitement, to fear, to complete insanity.  The truth was, she was scared to admit publicly that she was in a quad, but she couldn't keep that hidden forever and it shouldn’t be hidden, there was nothing wrong with it.  Not to mention cheating rumors had been spreading online after some fans snapped pictures of Lydia and Win, which was complete bullshit.

“Are y’sure this dress is alright?” Win asked, looking at her reflection again.  “Or these shoes?  Maybe I should change...” she murmured, second guessing herself.  She thought she looked nice, but this was definitely not her scene.  She was used to band practices in garages and shows in sleazy dive bars, not award shows and red carpets.

"You look gorgeous, Winnie."  Lydia held Win's hands.  "You'll be the most beautiful girl there, guaranteed."  Lyddie's dress was hanging by the wardrobe, it was purple with a wide skirt, a black leather corset around the waist and lacy sleeves.  "Can one of you please make our lipsticks smear-proof so I can kiss my girlfriend?" she asked.

“Comin’ right up!” Win’s Nathan exclaimed, snapping his fingers with a flourish.  “There, snog away m’loves,” he said, pressing a kiss to Lyddie’s temple and then one to the top of Win’s head.  “She’s right, you look fuckin’ stunning,” he whispered in her ear before straightening, leaving her smiling softly.

"I love dating reality warpers..." Lydia sighed before pulling Win by the waist and kissing her hungrily.  "I can't wait to show you off to everyone."  Turning to look at the two very observing Nathans, Lydia cocked an eyebrow.  "Seriously?  Neither of you have even showered yet, do you even wanna come, or should I just bring Win?" 

"It takes literally two seconds for me t'be ready, Lollipop, calm down..." her Nathan laughed at how nervous she was.

“Same,” Win’s Nathan said with a shrug.  “Besides, it’s not everyday we get t’see th’pair of you all dolled up like this.  Gotta savour th’moment,” he pointed out.

"Well, enjoy the show, I guess..." Lydia laughed as she undressed to put on her dress.  "I imagine none of you wanna help me get dressed with magic, do you?" 

"Why would we?" Lyddie's Nathan asked.  "Cut down on your naked time?  No way!"  The other Nathan laughed, wholeheartedly agreeing with him. 

“Do you need some help Lyddie?” Win asked reaching for the dress on the hanger.

"Please, baby.  I need you to pull those corset strings as if I was hanging from a cliff, the camera adds ten pounds and I can't afford that on my first award show," Lyddie laughed.

“You got it, love,” Win murmured, helping her lace up the corset while the boys watched, lounging on the bed.  “Is that tight enough?” she asked, tugging the ribbons as tight as she could, though not wanting to hurt her girlfriend either.

"Yeah, that's good," Lydia said, nearly losing balance for a second, but soon she was able to breathe again; fainting on the red carpet was also not a very good idea.  "Thank you, Winnie."  Lydia turned to the mirror, looking for anything to fix before bending over to lace up her combat boots. She thought about wearing heels, but she didn't wanna be the tallest one in the group.  "So, how do I look?"

“Like an angel, a punk rock angel,” Win supplied with a grin while her Nathan nodded enthusiastically.

"A sexy punk rock angel."  Lyddie's Nathan waggled his brows at her while biting his lip.  

"Thank you, guys," she murmured, looking down, slightly flustered. "We should probably get going, the car should be arriving any second." 

"Oooh, a car?  Right posh, Lollipop, you'll end up spoiling me."  Lyddie's Nathan got up as his usual shirt and jeans became a dark blue suit.

Win's Nathan snapped his fingers, deciding on a black suit to match Win's little black dress.  "There, we look like a right pair now," he said, admiring himself in the full length mirror with a wink before turning back to the others.  "Right, I think we're ready then," he said excitedly.  "I wanna see this car you've got us.  D'you think they'll have champagne in there?"

"Jesus, I hope not..." Lyddie muttered under her breath, partially because she knew the only thing worse than two Nathans were two drunk Nathans.  

When the quad stepped outside, the car was already waiting.  When Lyddie's manager had said he’d send a driver, she didn't expect it to be a limo driver, but hey, she wasn't complaining. 

"Oh my God," she shrieked excitedly.  The lights inside the car made it seem like a nightclub on wheels.  

"I know!"  Lyddie's Nathan grabbed a handful of candy from one of the tiny jars and shoved it in his mouth.  "Brilliant!"

"Damn, this is nice," Win murmured, running her hands over the leather seats as her Nathan plopped down next to her, throwing his arm around her shoulder.  "I bet you could shag back here," she mused, looking around while Nathan searched for the booze. 

"Ohh shit, good idea babe," he exclaimed, his eyes latching onto the champagne flutes on the opposite side of the car.  "Thereeee we are," he cried, rubbing his hands excitedly as he grabbed one, handing it to Win as he reached for the chilling bottle.  "Nathan, Lollipop, some bubbly for you?"

"Hell yeah," Lyddie's Nathan nodded excitedly, shoving more food into his mouth.  

"When in Rome... Sure, why not?" Lydia agreed.  Maybe the alcohol would help with her nerves.  Looking around, she wished she could be as carefree and wild as her girlfriend.  Win was the life of the party, Lyddie was more like... the mum that holds everyone's hair back when they get sick.

“You okay?” Win asked, noticing Lyddie’s anxious expression as she took a sip of her drink.

"Um... yeah, just a tad anxious," Lydia suddenly felt very much like that little girl in the bowling alley again.  Performing was one thing, she was confident in her skills, but this was different.  People would be looking at her, not listening to her music.

“Wanna talk about it?” Win asked, frowning slightly, resting her hand on Lyddie’s thigh.

"You know, it's just... everyone's having fun, thinking about shagging in the backseat, while I'm freaking out.  For once I wanna be able to enjoy the moment."

Win looked thoughtful before quickly tipping back the rest of her champagne. “Would you like me to help you take your mind off it?” she asked, moving closer.  “Because I seem to remember your make-up is rather smudge proof.”

"That actually sounds amazing," Lydia drawled, taking another sip of her drink before handing it to her Nathan, who seemed happy to finish it for her.  "What do you have in mind, baby?"

Win’s only answer was to smirk as she leaned in to capture Lydia’s painted lips, reaching up to brush her fingers along her jaw as she kissed her, moaning softly.

"Oh, okay..." Lyddie's Nathan finally noticed them and watched hypnotized.  Lydia let herself go, the champagne plus Win's cold lips made all her doubt immediately fade away.  "That's better," Lyddie murmured, pulling Win onto her lap.

“I’m full of good ideas,” Win murmured, wrapping her arms around Lydia’s shoulders as she settled in her lap.  “You really do look fucking hot tonight babe.”

"You too," Lyddie murmured against Win's lips, both of her hands sliding down to her girlfriend's ass.  "So hot, I can't believe you're mine."  Lyddie's Nathan stared at them agape, mirroring his clone's reaction.

Win grinned into the kiss, wanting to thread her hands into Lyddie’s hair, but refraining, not wanting to mess it up.  Opening her mouth, she teasingly licked at her girlfriend’s parted lips.

“I would say I’m all yours, but I know how much you like sharing,” she murmured. 

“Oh shiiiit,” Win’s Nathan hissed, whistling low between his teeth.  “If y’keep that up I’m gunna hafta either do something about this hard on I’m gettin’ or it’s gunna be an awkward night.”

"Way ahead of you, man," Lyddie's Nathan was already stroking his cock at a steady pace. 

"Right now you're all mine," Lydia whispered in between kisses, one of her hands resting on Win's thigh, the other kneading her breast.  "I need to blow off some steam."

“Jesus,” Win’s Nathan exclaimed, quickly averting his eyes from his clone’s cock and hastily fumbling at his belt.  “I guess that works,” he muttered, sighing as he took himself in hand. 

“Oh good,” Win murmured, grinding gently against Lydia.  “I can definitely help with that baby.”

Lydia's arousal soaked her knickers, but she didn't worry about that, she just wanted to feel Win, all of her.  "I want you to mark me up," Lydia begged.  "I don't care who sees it, I want them to know I'm being taken care of."

Win pulled back, her brows shooting up. “Really?  Right before your event?” she asked, the thought arousing her further.  It was her guilty pleasure after all to leave her mark on her partners.  She just didn’t want Lyddie to feel self conscious when they got there.

"Yeah, give those bloody gossip magazines something to talk about."  Lyddie bit her lip, her hand slipping between Win's legs, fingers gently teasing her inner thighs.  "Don't you want them to know how good you make me feel?"

“Oh God, Lollipop, you’re such a rebel,” Win teased, but she didn’t have to convince her further and she latched onto Lydia’s neck, her teeth grazing her sensitive skin before she began to suck, drawing a breathy moan to her girlfriend’s lips.  Lifting her face she lapped gently at the spot before moving slightly lower to repeat the processes, kissing her with fervor.

"Just like that, Winnie, it feels so good..." Lydia gasped, the thought of people knowing what she did just made her even hotter.  "I wanna make you feel good."  Lyddie's fingers quickly found Win's clit, circling it gently at a torturous pace.  "Did you get this wet just from snogging me?"

Win gasped as Lyddie touched her.  “Yes, you definitely have that effect on me babe,” she whispered, the soft grunts of pleasure from the boys only serving to turn her on more.  She’d found right away since joining this relationship how much she like being watched.  “Lyddie, please?” Win whined, pausing her exploration of the other woman’s neck.

"Oh, please?" Lydia smirked, finding herself in one of her 'taking charge' moments, which have been more frequent ever since Win came into her life.  "Please what, baby?  Tell me what you need.” 

Lyddie's Nathan was always surprised to see her act this way, but he was starting to realize he liked it... maybe he should ask her to do the same to him sometime.

“More,” Win sighed, grinding against Lyddie’s hand.  “Faster?” she asked with a pout.  Win’s Nathan’s bit his lip.  Hearing Win beg like that did things to him.  She wasn’t usually the submissive type, and as much as he loved when she took charge, he loved seeing her like this, vulnerable and begging for it.

"Aww, you do look cute when you beg..."  Lyddie moved slightly faster, pressing her forehead to Win's with an amused grin.  "Such a good girl.  Nate," Lydia turned to Win's Nathan, narrowing her eyes playfully at him.  "Do you think I should finger her?  Do you think Winnie deserves it?"

For a moment his hand froze as he gaped at Lydia.  “Y-yeah, give it to her Lollipop,” he exclaimed, groaning softly.  “Fuck that’s so hot.”

"Okay then," Lydia smiled at Win, as much as she loved being a submissive, seeing her girlfriend helpless like that was really sexy.  "I guess you deserve it..."  She teased Win's entrance for a second, gathering her arousal before pumping two fingers inside of her, the heel of Lyddie's hand still rubbing against the other woman's clit.

“Oh fuck, Lyddie,” Win moaned.  “I’m supposed to be the one distracting you,” she murmured, dragging her lips along Lydia’s neck.

"You are," Lydia sighed, her fingers curling to find Win's sweet spot.  "I love to see you like this... Just don't come before I say so, alright?"

“Yes, Lyddie,” Win answered obediently, her voice coming out breathy.  “I love you, you’re so good to me,” she murmured, burying her face in Lydia’s neck, biting down hard.

"I love you too, baby," Lyddie purred, clenching her eyes shut, she was really turned on, but she liked the idea of having to wait until they all got home.  "I wanna hear you moan for me."

Win moaned louder, clutching at Lydia as she felt her climax nearing, pleasure coursing through her.  “Oh Lyddie, I’m close!” she exclaimed, writhing in her lap, grinding against her hand as it pumped into her.

"You wanna come, Winnie?" Lydia studied her face carefully, adding a third finger inside of her. "Ask me nicely, tell me how bad you want it..."

“Please Lyddie,” Win gasped, “please, I’m so close, I wanna— I want— oh please baby,” she begged.

"Such a needy little thing," Lydia mused for a second, enjoying what she was able to do.  "Okay, baby, come for me."  Lyddie's words seemed to have an effect on her Nathan as well and he squirmed as he came, making a huge mess on his suit, but he didn't care.

Win’s mouth fell open, her eyes falling shut as she came around Lyddie’s fingers with a whine, her whole body tensing. “Holy shit,” Win’s Nathan gasped, biting his lip as he came over his hand.

"That's better," Lydia held Win against her chest, kissing her temple.  "I feel a lot more confident now, we're gonna crush this thing." 

"Jesus... you crushed me," Lyddie's Nathan exclaimed, zipping up his trousers, leaning back in his seat.

“Ahh, so that was your plan all along,” Win mused, brushing a weak kiss to Lydia’s jawline.  “I’m glad I could help.  Fuck, but I love you like this,” she murmured, straightening to glance back at the Nathan’s.  “Oops, looks like you made a bit of a mess there, Natty,” she purred with a laugh.

"If I can make you beg like that, I can do anything..." Lydia chuckled.  "Maybe I should take charge more often, you look so hot." 

"Oh, yeah," Lyddie's Nathan looked down at his ruined suit, but with a swift hand motion, it was clean and perfect again.  "There, problem solved."

“I’m hot?  You’re sexy as hell,” Win laughed.  “I like dominant Lydia,” she admitted.  “Though I like you every way,” she added, tracing the dark hickies she’d left.  “I left you some gifts,” she whispered before slipping off her lap to sit between Lyddie and her Nathan.  “Nathan, babe, you have a little something too,” she pointed out, glancing down at his trousers and the white stain there.

“Yeah, well, you look a little disheveled yourself sweetheart,” he teased, snapping his fingers to fix their appearances.

Lydia grabbed a mirror in her purse to look at the state of her neck.  "That's definitely gonna leave an impression... I love it." 

"At least we don't gotta worry about fans hittin' on ya," her Nathan muttered, moving to kiss over the marks.  

"You know... even if I don't win tonight, I'm already happy with the outcome."

“And when we get home, we’ll celebrate either way,” Win’s Nathan exclaimed as the car rolled to a stop.

"I can't wait..." Lydia looked over her shoulder to wink at him as someone opened the door, and she hopped out of the car.

The others followed, with different degrees of nervousness, Win slipping her hand in Nathan’s.  Outwardly she held her head high, a slight smirk on her face, but the way her fingers trembled in his, he knew she was anxious.

Lydia was somewhat used to the public by now, but the Press still scared the shit out of her.  She took her Nathan's hand on one side and Win's on the other as they walked down the red carpet. "

Lyddie, Lyddie!  Who are you wearing?" a voice rang in her ear. 

"I have no idea, this is thrifted," she laughed, posing in different angles. 

"Lyddie!  Are you still engaged?" 

"Yes, she is!" her Nathan pulled her hand up to flash the ring.

“Lyddie!  Who else is with you?” one of the photographers shouted before snapping several photos of Win and the other Nathan.  “Is your fiancé a twin?”

“You could say that,” Win’s Nathan grumbled under his breath, while Win flashed a smile at the camera, giving Lydia’s hand a squeeze.

"These are my partners," Lydia nearly shouted, way too excited to say that.  "My boyfriend, and my girlfriend." 

"Are you expecting a win tonight?" A reporter asked, recorder in hand. 

"Oh yeah," Lydia leaned in to speak into the mic.  "But even if I don't get album of the year, I feel that this win already came for me... I mean to me."

At Lydia’s words Win felt her face flare hotly, and a loud cackle burst from her Nathan’s lips.  “Oh you could definitely say that!” he exclaimed, giving her a cheeky pinch.

Lydia smiled for a few more pictures before moving on to sign a few autographs and take pictures with her fans waiting by the barricade.  Her Nathan nudged Win's arm, smiling while he watched Lydia laughing, having fun and being herself without worrying about anyone's opinion.

“Hmm?” she murmured, looking up at him. “What’s up?”

"Look what you did... she's so happy."  He didn't wanna be sappy, but it was too adorable.

Win flushed at his praise, a soft smile lingering on her lips as she watched Lydia.

“Ahh, it was nothin’,” she murmured, leaning into his side.  “She did all the work,” she murmured under her breath.

——

 Delilah glanced at the screen as she took a sip of her drink, only half paying attention to the award show as several musicians walked along the red carpet, until a flash of green hair caught her eye and she nearly choked, leaning forward to snatch the remote and turning up the volume. “And who do you have with you tonight?” 

“These are my partners—“ Delilah’s mouth fell open as she recognized her step sister’s face come across the screen, hanging on the arm of the gangly curly haired bloke she’d moved out with, as well as a woman with cotton candy coloured hair. 

“MOM!”

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: Voyage of the Rock Aliens (1984). Tagline: “the story of a guy, a girl and an alien... and one night they will always remember!” I’m using this period of enforced social isolation to explore the weirder corners of YouTube for long forgotten and obscure movies. (My boyfriend is accompanying me only semi-willingly).  

Incomprehensible. Stultifying. Bizarre. Botched! In the early eighties, former child actress, cherub-faced starlet and “triple threat” Pia Zadora reigned as the undisputed queen of bad movies. (Her filmography-from-hell includes crimes-against-cinema like Fake-out (1982) and The Lonely Lady (1983)). Enduring the 97-minute duration of misbegotten low-budget New Wave musical comedy Voyage of the Rock Aliens certainly justifies how Zadora earned that title. (Note: don’t confuse Voyage of the Rock Aliens with Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1968) – an entirely different but equally terrible film starring that earlier queen of bad movies, Mamie Van Doren). 

Voyage was calculatedly formulated to promote Zadora as a viable pop siren in the vein of Madonna or Cyndi Lauper. In fact, it opens with an epic rock video for “When the Rain Begins to Fall”, Zadora’s hi-NRG disco duet with Jermaine Jackson. The video has that artfully distressed post-apocalyptic / post-punk look typical of the era (it’s hard to overstate the stylistic influence of Mad Max in the eighties). Seemingly tacked-on at random, the video bears zero relation to what unfolds next. How to explain Voyage of the Rock Aliens? According to Wikipedia, its scriptwriter conceived it as a deliberately campy tongue-in-cheek spoof hybrid of fifties and sixties b-movie genres. A postmodern mash-up of science fiction, beach party musicals, monster movies and rock’n’roll juvenile delinquent flicks sounds potentially amusing in more competent hands, but the conception and execution here is frankly - if cheerfully - inept. 

Zany hijinks, wacky misunderstandings and “what-the-fuck” moments ensue when a group of rock’n’roll-crazed aliens (styled to vaguely resemble Devo) land their guitar-shaped spaceship on earth and try to ingratiate themselves with the local teenagers of a town called Speelburg. Voyage’s tone is established with an introductory Beach Blanket Bingo-style musical number. The song is grating. The choreography is clunky. The weather is visibly overcast and chilly. Some of the “high schoolers” are seemingly well into their late twenties. To be fair, it does offer a time capsule of eighties fashion trends: it’s a veritable day-glo riot of ra-ra skirts, crimped hair, fingerless lace gloves and wraparound sunglasses. Dee Dee (Zadora) yearns to sing with her boyfriend Frankie’s band (Frankie and The Pack) at their high school’s upcoming cotillion. But surly delinquent hoodlum Frankie (Craig Sheffer) is such a selfish, insecure jerk he won’t let her. (This scenario reminded me of Lucy constantly wanting to crash Ricky’s stage show in old episodes of I Love Lucy). The leader of the aliens (Tom Nolan) develops a crush on Dee Dee and has no qualms about her joining his band, inciting Frankie’s jealousy. 

Proceedings are padded-out with some annoying sub-plots. Two homicidal killers escape from a high security mental facility. The eccentric elderly female sheriff investigates the town’s UFO sighting. (This surely represents an unseemly career low for Academy Award-winning veteran character actress Ruth Gordon of Rosemary’s Baby and Harold and Maude fame). There’s also a sea monster whose tentacle pops up at random and is never explained. Storytelling coherence isn’t one of Voyage’s strengths: it frequently feels like some pages have gone missing from the script, or some crucial explanatory scenes have been accidentally deleted.   

Anyway, Zadora gamely tackles the acting, singing and dancing with more enthusiasm than skill. Frankie’s bandmates are played by a genuine Los Angeles psychobilly band called Jimmy and The Mustangs - a poor man’s Stray Cats, although it must be said they do provide eye candy in their mesh t-shirts and studded leather biker jackets. Speaking of which: pouting young pretty boy Craig Sheffer’s Frankie is filmed like an escapee from an eighties gay porn film, with a homoerotic focus on his sinewy torso and painted-on black jeans. With horrible symmetry, Voyage concludes by reprising “When the Rain Begins to Fall” (with Scheffer lip-syncing to Jermaine Jackson’s vocals) with some of the most half-assed green screen technology ever captured on celluloid. Clearly the filmmakers had stopped caring by then. Problem is, you will have too! 

Voyage of the Rock Aliens is FREE to view on Amazon Prime. Watch the trailer here.

[jasonndeans]

young gods - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 1,990

warnings: brief scene involving harassment and brief use of the f slur at the end.

chapter: 1/?

summary:  You weren't looking for anything when you met Dio, but you also couldn't take your eyes off of him. You were drawn to him, shrouded in black mystery and his softer side he kept well hidden under that duster. A part of you knew when you first saw him, he was destined to fly too close to the sun. At first, it wasn't really anything he said or anything he did. It was the feeling that came along with him. You'd never felt this way before, and the crazy thing is, you didn't know if you should. You knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but...how can the Devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you? Maybe he knew that when he met you, too.

Dio didn’t have much to bring with him on the day he took you up on your offer to live with you in your small New York City apartment; small, albeit big enough for two. He carried almost all of his earthly possessions with him in his pockets — the keys to his father’s ancient, barely running Honda, a pack of cigarettes, loose cash and change, and his trusty switch. The rest would have to be crammed into his car and hauled over, mostly consisting of clothes and shoes, thrifted or stolen. 

“I was wonderin’ when you’d rescue me from the Smack Shack,” he’d quipped, lips curling.

“The Smack Shack” is what he’d dubbed the worn-down, abandoned place he and his buddies — all of them pursuers of a list of drugs, some of them sellers like Dio — often crashed in when a softer, more secure sofa couldn’t be reserved for the night. Thus, The Smack Shack. You’d visited a handful of times despite the fact that it gave you the creeps. Dio had your trust, as did…some of his friends. The neighborhood just wasn’t the safest in Manhattan, needless to say, and there was no guessing what shady characters were looming about in these hollowed out homes. You’re just glad he’s out of there. And with you.

“Ohh, I rescued you, huh?” You’d teased back, your voice lilting in a sing-song tone. “I must be your knight in shining armor.”

He hummed in the back of his throat with a mock grimace, leaning forward to kiss you. “Don’t make me sick, birdie.” His lips were chapped and tasted of smoke, and as much as you detested the habit, it was something so purely Dio. A smirk played on his lips upon pulling back with decorated fingers idly tapping out a rhythm onto a tabletop of a squat little sandwich shop you worked at. “I seem to remember things differently.” Expectant, he cocked his head, casting a shadow of his star-shaped earring onto his neck -- one of many, many things that endeared you to the boy in black.

As if on cue, you turned sheepish with a duck of your head and a bashful smile cast downwards. He was referring to the day you two first met. Officially, that is. Along with the thrill of waitressing and constructing sandwiches, you worked behind a cash register at a record shop -- Empire Records. Music’s always been a constant comfort for you, in your ears when you needed a voice to scream your sorrows, your rampages or your little victories. You’d amassed quite the collection of records as you grew and your music taste with you for a player you’d fixed up and obtained from a seller when on the hunt for more important things like furniture and necessities to fill your then new apartment. You didn’t consider yourself to be one of those douchey vinyl connoisseurs, but you liked the place well enough. It was only a matter of time before you noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who’d frequent the place without buying anything. He’d stick to the Industrial Rock or Post-Punk ailes and he definitely looked the type, decked head to toe in grungey black attire, adorned with silver jewelry and chains. Every so often the two of you would lock eyes, make slightly painful small talk about whatever was playing through the speakers. You even inquired once if he’d learned your shift schedule with how often he’d appear when you were working, and, leaning suavely on his elbows before you, he’d replied:

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. That all depends...would you think I was a creep if I said yes?”

Perhaps a normal individual would confirm this, but you had to admit the guy was cute. Okay, he was hot with his dark eyes lined in black, brow piercing and air of confidence. So you smiled and shook your head. Dio smiled back.

You recall during one of your early morning shifts, Dio asked for your coffee order, motioning to the cup in your hands. You gave it to him and he advised against grabbing your morning coffee the next time it was scheduled on your calendar. With curiosity, you obliged and on that day and each day after, in he strolled with your cup in one hand, his in the other. So you carried on like that for a while, chatting over coffee, much to the dismay of your manager.

“Your boyfriend’s a distraction,” she’d remarked one day. “And a loiterer. I don’t care how dreamy he is, he can’t keep hanging around here if he’s not gonna buy anything.”

Admittedly, that caused your heart to sink a little. Yeah, you understood her frustration from a business perspective, but despite not even knowing this guy’s name, his gloomy presence brightened your otherwise dull work days.

When you transferred your manager’s message, Dio issued a breath of...disappointment?

“I don’t believe in money,” came his confession, almost hardly classifying as one what with how casually it was delivered. He chuckled at your raised brow. “Everyone’s a slave to these meaningless pieces of paper and metal, even you. ” A nail painted black pointed at you. “If I want something, nine times outta ten, I’ll find my own way to get it. Seems a little fucked up to work for the essentials for survival, don’t you think?”

For a moment, you sat with this new information. Yeah, it was a little fucked up to fork over hard-earned cash for things like basic needs, but how else was someone expected to live? Mulling it over, you sipped your coffee, once again brought by him. You shot Mr. No-Name-Kid a knowing look. “Am I drinking stolen coffee?” Your smirk couldn’t hide from him.

Dio only laughed.

One night as you closed up shop, you were disheartened at the absence of a certain trench coat clad “customer” in the store that day. You couldn’t place where this was coming from. After all, the two of you were only..what? Acquaintances at most? Names hadn’t even been exchanged, and yet you found yourself scanning the streets outside for any sight of him at the door; reminded of his face when bands like The Cure filled the shop.

Your sigh deflated you as you dug for your keys in your bag -- both to lock up and for your car. It was whatever. This guy had a life too and was under no obligation to visit you as you worked.  You turned the key to Empire Records, locking it shut and gave the doors a pull to be sure, Yup. All good. Nodding to yourself, you turned to locate your car in the lot next door. The night was brisk, pushing past the fabric of your cardigan as you walked an empty sidewalk. Under the glow of buzzing streetlights and neon business signs, you tugged it closer to you. The work day was dwindling, at least on this street, cars every so often rolling past. You’re about halfway to the car park when your ears catch a second pair of footsteps behind you. Your lips and spirits lift with the hope that they might belong to the heavy boots of Dio after all and you turn to greet him.

“Nice night, huh?”

This guy’s not Dio. His hoodie covers shaggy chestnut hair, hands in his front pocket as he trudges along. This dude reeks of weed and booze. You ignore him and continue on your path.

“Not a talker. Got it. Listen, honey, you don’t gotta clam up around me, I’m a swell guy. I’ll walk ya’ to your car, that’s where you’re goin’, right?”

Jaw clenched, you ball your cool hands into fists at your sides, keeping your car key poking out from between your fingers should this douche not get the hint. “I don’t need an escort, thanks.” Your reply is sharp, eyes remaining en route. Other than that, you try your damndest to ease calm through your body. Tempting as it is to dash to the safety of your vehicle, you’re not about to put any fear on display for him. You’re okay. Breathe. The lot’s less than a block away now.

Then a hand snakes its way around your waist.

“C’mon, baby, ‘m just tryn’a be a gentleman. Isn’t that what broads want?” His breath is rancid in your nose.

You jerk away, shooting daggers. “Offer declined, now leave me alone.” Now you pick up the pace with your destination in sight. You don’t make it far before you’re jerked back by fingers at your forearm that tug forcefully. The bastard opens his mouth to spew more drovel, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. Screwing up your face, you reel your arm back and jab him with your key in the ribs.

Pain sputters through his lips. No skin was broken (unfortunately), but he’s stumbled back a few paces and grabs where you’d struck him. “You bitch!” He spits, his glare glassy. “Fuck’s your problem?!”

You’re halted by a chilling mixture of fear and shock at your own actions, snapping out of it when the drunk stranger lunges forward. No time is wasted in absolutely fucking booking it now. He may be hammered, but you’re taking no chances. You pay no attention to the string of swears and slurs from behind you and finally reach your car. The vibrations in your hands make unlocking the door difficult, and glancing up you can see your pursuer drunkenly heading toward you.

“Fuck!” You cry. “Stupid fucking--!”

“If I were you I’d stop right there, you piece of shit.”

The familiar voice that hadn’t been there prior snaps your head up, scanning the darkness to catch Dio crossing the street looking more menacing than you’ve ever seen him. You could get in your car and peel out of there right now, but you’re frozen in place watching the scene unfold.

Your attacker finds his way to his feet again, looking dumbfounded at the character who’s walked onto the scene. “Who -- who the fuck’re you?!”

You catch a smirk on Dio’s lips under flickering streetlights. “That all depends on what your next move is, jagoff.” He looks pissed as all hell, though there’s a layer of calm to his words that stirs your stomach. Dio now stands in front of the other with his hands in leather pockets, like he’s provoking him. He’s always exuded this...intimidating aura, clad in all black and chains but you’ve never seen this side of him in action. Maybe now is a bad time to come to this realization, but you have to admit: it’s sexy.

“Oh that’s, ‘s cute,” Mumbles the brunette guy, snickering. “‘S this your boyfriend comin’ to the rescue? Looks like a fuckin’ faggot if I’ve ever seen--”

Dio’s boot to this guy’s crotch cuts him off in the middle of his “insult” and he crumples to the concrete with a groan; if that isn’t enough, Dio lands a second kick to his temple.

You can only stand there lamely with your jaw agape and watch him swagger over after he just knocked a dude in the nuts.

“Sorry I was late,” he says smoothly. “I was in a meeting. You alright?”

Stupidly, you blink at him in the low light. “I--um...I’m…” Real nice. You shake your head to jumpstart your brain. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. Really.” So he’d come to see you after all.

Dio nods, appearing grateful to hear you’re unharmed.

You two begin to speak at the same time and chuckle in unison. He falls silent, ushering you to continue. You look your rescuer in the face, unable to swallow a smile. You’d missed those eyes, seeming so warm in the cool of the night. “So, do I get to know the name of my savior?” You prod.

He laughs once, low in his throat. “Dio.”

[morbidly-malicious-muffins]

What Kind of Music Slashers Would Vibe to Headcanons♪

This little thing popped into my head. Fyi, the canon timelines are thrown out the window for this so... Yeah.

Bring forth the bop~

RZ Michael Myers

"Let my weapons be your children, let my armies be your damned. Try to suffer on in silence, try to stop me if you can." --- This Cold Black by Slipknot

I think he'd really enjoy metal in general. I can totally see him unknowingly stomping to some Marilyn Manson and Meshuggah, though the lyrics and message probably will just fly over his head.

He listens to some heavy shit, but probably all the more mainstream bands/artists.

The loudness and organized chaos of the genre fills the void in his soul and reflects the state of his mind, despite his stoic and non-verbal outer demeanor.

Someone please do everyone a favor and introduce Michael to some death metal. Admit it, it really fits his aesthetic.

This is just based on speculation, but I suspect a 70% possibility of RZ Michael resonating with Cannibal Corpse. Fight me.

He hates classical music with a burning passion. Back in Smith's Grove, they played Bach's Air Sul G on tap. (its canon in the first movie lmao) He hates it. Mikey no likey.

Freddy Krueger

"No stop signs, speed limit, nobody's gonna slow me down. Like a wheel, gonna spin it, nobody's gonna mess me around." --- Highway to Hell, by AC/DC

Freddy listens to classic rock, period.

This guy is ngl a supporter of music taste discrimination. You listen to pop? Disgusting. You listen to Jazz? Disgusting. Classic rock is the epitome of all music.

He'll call you music-related slurs you never knew existed.

As stubborn adamant as Freddy is, he does harbor some guilty pleasures, including 70's hair metal and glam rock. Pshh. What a heckin hypocrite.

Some of his all time favorites are Guns N' Roses, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and AC/DC.

(Basic bitch)

*Hip thrust movements to go with his 'The Sprinkler' dance moves, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N' Roses blasting in the background*

OG Michael Myers

He doesn't listen to music, but if he did, he would probably enjoy Jazz.

Michael only listens to Miles Davis because he enjoys his music and can't be bothered to discover more artists.

Oml Michael I know Miles Davis is amazing but don't neglect other iconic artists plzzz. Someone please make him listen to some Teddy Wilson and/or Dave Brubeck.

I imagine him sitting stiff-straight on a rocking chair (he just likes how it moves), knife in his lap, rocking and zoning-out relaxing to 'Blue in Green'. (I love that piece)

#AfterHeFinallyKillsLaurie

#RetirementGoals

He also hates classical music because of the same reason as RZ Myers. Seriously, if either of them so much as hears the opening chord of Air Sul G, expect the speaker to be stomped to a pulp in a split second.

Bubba Sawyer

Alright let's all be honest with ourselves... 70's pop and country is Bubba's shit.

Look me in the face and tell me he wouldn't adore ABBA, The Jackson 5, and Dolly Parton. Thats right you can't

Everytime 'Dancing Queen' starts playing on the radio, Bubba will drop everything and start busting down.

Ain't nothing and nobody stoppin him. Drayton is powerless against the supreme sovereignty that is ABBA.

But let's also appreciate the fact that our Bubster can motherfuckin get down. *wipes sweat from forehead + heart eyes*

He would also do passionate lip sync with his heart and soul, to Dolly Parton's 'I Will Always Love You'.

50% chance of him starting to cry right after he finishes his earnest performance.

*Holding Bubba in your arms, rubbing comforting circles on his back as he bawls hysterically, incoherently babbling on about how much he loves you*

I also feel for some reason he'd really like Joan Jett & The Blackhearts.

Thomas Hewitt

"For one moment, I wish you'd hold your stage, with no feelings at all. Open minded, I'm sure I used to be so free." --- Citizen Erased by Muse

Y'know what I have a hard time imagining the type of music Tommy listens to. Kutos, Mr. Hewitt, you have defeated me.

siKE

(This is where I yeet the timeline out of the window y'all)

Thomas enjoys Muse, Evanescence, and Radiohead. (Fight me)

He just loves how emotional their songs are. He'd have one earbud in as he works away at his projects for hours. The music helps him concentrate, it is also a source of emotional support to him.

Hearing the heart-wretching lyrical content of 'Lost in Paradise' performed so beautifully by Amy Lee's angellic voice is really comforting to him. It's like hearing about another person's experiences. It makes him feel less alone in dealing with his emotional and mental turmoils and burdens.

The first time Thomas heard 'Creep' by Radiohead, he almost cried.

He also listens to My Chemical Romance sometimes. He only knows the Black Parade album, but he loves it. If 'Creep' didn't make him cry, listening to that entire album from top to bottom sure did. He started sobbing half-way through 'Famous Last Words'.

Tommy is emotional boi 🥺

Brahms Heelshire

C l a s s i c a l

No matter how stinky Brahms is, you can't tell me that he's not classy.

Schubert is his bitch. Schubert's style tends to be quite majestic and/or dreamy, (generally) and can change color/sound very abruptly yet appropriately. (This is just my opinion based on experience with Schubert's pieces, but then I only know his piano pieces soo) (let's still cue that maestoso to scherzando transition)

But of course, Schubert isn't the only thing he listens to. He prefers the romantic period, so Mendelssohn, Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Shostakovich, Brahms, Schumann, you get the gist, all the staples. Oh yeah Elgar too. To be a proud English lad.

*Brahms swaying in the living room with the grace of a baby giraffe, engrossed in the beautiful melodies in Schumann's Kinderszenen.*

(Oml please check out 'Von fremden Landern und Manschen' and 'Kind im Einschlummern') (For those who play piano, they aren't that difficult too totally recommend) (Ok sorry I'm done now)

Brahms would totally waltz around alone to Chopin's waltzes and nocturnes.

Oh yeah apart from that classy shit, he likes to jam to meme songs.

"Hey now, you're an all star, get your game on, go play---"

*cut to Brahms passionately fortnite dancing*

Listens to The Strange Man Who Sings About Dead Animals for a good laugh. (Please, all of his songs are gold)

Vincent Sinclair

He'll have 'emo' and 'classical' with a side of metal, thanks.

I headcanon that Vinny McWaxy is an INFJ, so the boy is likely prone to crippling existentialism. It would make sense for some aspects of his music taste to reflect that.

*cut to Vincent sitting rock-still on his workbench/stool, hands hover in mid-air, staring straight ahead, some John Cage piece playing*

You'll never hear this from Vincent but he enjoys sexy-time music. He has this whole erotic playlist he listens to while working. (Boy likes to feel sexy on the job, I respect that.)

I think its pretty much canon that Vinny loves MCR. (Hello fellow emo piece of shit 👋) His favorites are everything by them really. A hardcore fan. He used to have MCR, P!ATD, and 30 Seconds to Mars posters plastered everywhere in his workshop until he had to remove them all to add to the intimidation factor of his waxy hell for passer-bys. For the record, he is very gay for Frank Iero.

On the metal part of his spectrum is mostly classic metal, groove metal, and thrash/heavy metal.

Rammstein, Pantera, Vildhjarta, new and old Metallica, Dream Theatre, Coheed and Cambria. His bitches.

He also uses music to scare victims when bringing them down to his workshop. *cue horror movie soundtracks*

*KI KI KI MA MA MA*

Is a whore for the dramatics when in a good mood.

*Lacrimosa by Mozart plays as he makes a point to bring the wax painfully slowly down toward a drowsy and petrified victim*

A lament for your upcoming death, pitiful human.

Bo Sinclair

"The day has come for all us sinners, if you're not a servant you'll be struck to the ground." -- Beast and The Harlot by Avenged Sevenfold

Bastard boy is into dad-music™. (same)

Dad rock, classic rock, pop punk, punk rock, old school pop, his shit.

He listens to a lot of the same bands as Freddy, but Bo (generally) doesn't discriminate and explores a more diverse variety of music.

Its a fandom canon that Bo loves Avenged Sevenfold. I totally agree.

A7x is the perfect amount of cynical, political, and shred for Beauregard, (I hc that ge hates his full name so plz don't ever call him Beauregard)

He listens to the radio whenever he's at work. Whatever that might be.

Will NEVER admit it, but he thinks Vinny's music taste is dope as hell.

He'll turn off the radio just to strain his ears to listen to Vincent's music downstairs. No one will ever know that though. You don't.

Actually likes classical music too. Its not one of his main genres but there's one piece he really likes, Second Movement of Shostakovich Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Major.

He never thought he'd enjoy this type of music. Its so.... Calm. He discovered that piece from Vinny's playlist. When he first heard it on his brother's speaker, he fell in love. It was one of the extremely rare cases in which he'd be committed enough to ask Vinny the name of the music.

Tiny shuffle for man-kind, huge fuckin step for Bo. Good job Bo, we're proud of you.

Also pleeeeeaaase message me or request stuff, I'm bored and have little inspiration 🦊

I might do a pt2 of this, since I didn't write many of the boys and gals🤷‍♀️

Also sorry if I've neglected some genres/artists (Like i've neglected non-piano classical pieces.... Bc ya girl is just a pianist), a person can't know everything😗

---Zali 🖤

[livingmybestfictionallife]

What If?

Request from @chanandlersstuff​: Hii, it's me, again. I want to request another Mgk imagine. Something like he goes to a new bar in the city and discovers that the owner is his childhood sweetheart or his first crush, the reader, and they can kiss or something like that. I love how you write and that's why I will ask you for a lots of requests

A/N: Thank you so much for your support! :) I hope you enjoy this one! Also, idk where Cassie and her mother reside. I assume it’s Cleveland, so that’s what it’s going to be in this story. ALSO, a bit of Pantera/Damageplan trivia is included as part of the plot of the story simply because I was listening to it and realized this takes place in Ohio--you’ll see why it’s important if you don’t already know. Hope you enjoy!

A/N part 2: If you ever want to be tagged in something, send me an ask or a message! :)

December 8th, 2004 was always a day that stood out to Colson, simply because it was the biggest ‘What if?’ in his life. He’d experienced too much heartache in his youth and would continue to face pain and anguish throughout his adolescence and early adulthood, and he had so many things that he would reflect back on and wonder what could have happened to make things go differently? What could he have done better? What kind of divine intervention would have been needed? What if he’d just gone home? What if he decided to hang out with someone else?

It seemed that as he reached thirty, he became more enamored with laying these what if questions to rest. He could spend the rest of his life wondering about what would happen had he not fucked something up or had something just gone a different direction, or he could accept that each of those mishaps had led him to the man he was today. He was happy with his life, and for the first time in a long time, he could admit that he was truly happy; he had a beautiful, happy, and healthy daughter that was the light of his world, a successful fifth studio album that blew away the punk and rock charts, and he was in what had to be the healthiest relationship in his life with a gorgeous woman that he loved. Yet still, there was one what if that refused to escape his mind: what if December 8th, 2004 went differently?

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Cassie had told her father over a thanksgiving dinner in Los Angeles about her school’s Winter Talent Show, and that she would be performing a song off her father’s album as a tribute to her late grandfather. Colson couldn’t refrain from tearing up as his daughter told him this and promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

He’d shown up to Cassie’s talent show with a bouquet of flowers and a couple of friends he bothered to still talk to after all these years. His eyes glistened with proud, sorrow-ridden tears as he listened to the angel he had for a child sing his lyrics--with school appropriate revisions made--about the struggles he faced with his father since he was about her age. Of all the what ifs that passed through his mind, a lot had to do with his ability to be a good father for Cassie, and every second he spends with her reminds him that she is so much better of a person than he ever was at her age, and it was in that pride that he allowed a solitary tear to fall. He knew his father was proud of Cassie as well as she sang Lonely for her school, and when the show was over, he wrapped his daughter in the tightest hug he could, terrified of the fact that someday, he wouldn’t be around to hold her anymore.

It seemed death was always prevalent in his life; after all it was a death that caused the biggest what if in his mind to continue to pester him.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

(Y/N) paced around the densely populated room and watched not only the patrons, but the employees as well. She’d never even thought of opening a bar, in fact, she never considered being an entrepreneur of any sort, but when the opportunity came, she realized she’d have to be a fool to turn it down. Music had always been a passion of hers; she’d performed in small garage bands with friends, played local shows throughout high school and college, and she even got a degree in music production in hopes of working with a recording studio or record label. (Y/N) had followed this dream and worked at a Bad Racket Recording Studio since 2012, about three years after the studio opened.

It wasn’t until about a year ago that a friend got her in contact with someone who was looking to co-own a bar and turn it into a music venue for local bands. She loved the idea of promoting local bands and musicians, especially since she’d spent the past seven years watching people bring their dreams to life through recording. Maybe it was time to help them realize another dream, the dream of performance.

The reverberations of heavy guitar and drums pulsed through her heart and bones as the performing artist tonight began a cover of Damageplan’s ‘Breathing New Life’. Her heart skipped a beat inadvertently as her mind became lost in the music that electrified the air around her. As an early teen, she’d found solace in music of all genres, but her favorite had been the rock/grunge/metal scene. Pantera had been one of her father’s favorite bands, and so she grew up with a fondness of the musical stylings of the two Abbott brothers from Texas. A lot of kids her age couldn’t understand what was so appealing about Pantera to her--they assumed that just because her parents listened to it she was forced to as well and therefore didn’t know what good music was--but there was always one kid who understood. 

One blonde boy would always make sure to ask (y/n) what new music she’d found, if she’d heard of the drama that was going down between bands, and if she’d wanted to listen to CDs together after school. She always responded with a smile before any words left her mouth to continue the conversation, and over the course of middle school, that blonde kid, who she’d known only in passing before, became her closest friend.

As (y/n)’s eyes continued to drift over the crowd, images of her childhood friend’s face flashed through her mind as her gaze came to rest on a tall man dressed in all black, with unruly blonde hair. Had he not been wearing his jacket around his waist and a short sleeved shirt that revealed his tattoos, (y/n) would have glossed over the man’s presence without a second look, but the I-71 North tattoo that was half-visible beneath the rolled up sleeve had given away the man’s identity. With a smile on her face and confidence in her stride, (y/n) approached the bar.

Colson had been in town for a few nights before he’d had enough of his old buddies bugging him about trying out a new bar called Panther’s Den. They continued to swear up and down about it having a nineties feel, and how maybe he should see about setting up a small performance for old-time sakes there. After about three days of this continuing pestering, he gave in and agreed to go to the bar. Together, the small group sat huddled together as they waited to order drinks when a woman approached them with an unforgettable smile pulled across her face. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she called out over the band as she shifted her weight from one foot to another and waited for the man to bring his eyes to hers. She half expected to see the bloodshot, sleep-deprived, almost hallowed out expression he had worn from time to time in his youth, but when those bright blue eyes turned to face her, (y/n)’s smile grew as she looked into the healthy face of her long time friend.

“(Y/N),” Colson was quick to exclaim as he stretched out his arms and pulled the woman into his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Just running my business.”

“You manage this place?” Colson asked as he looked down into the woman’s eyes. She’d always been mesmerizing to him, although he could never put his finger on it. Maybe it had been how little she cared about what other people thought about her in school, or how badass her taste in music was to him. Maybe it was how supportive she was in him when he said he wanted to rap, or the way her eyes seemed to light up whenever a good riff stood out to her. Maybe it was the way she couldn’t help but nod her head to the beat of every song, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating on a specific lyric, or the fact that she was his earliest supporter. Whatever it was that captivated him at thirteen was doing the same thing to him at thirty.

“I own it; well, co-own, technically, but I picked the name.” With a smirk, (y/n) lowered herself into the barstool beside Colson and watched as the posse that had surrounded him began to disappear.

“I definitely see the connection now,” he laughed as his eyes traced over the woman’s features. There was a lot that was different--she had less of a baby face that she had in school, seemed a bit more kind and lighthearted than when she was so doom and gloom back in the day, and wore a smile that used to take him what felt like hours of coercing to bring to her face. “How have you been?” Colson hated the question. Often he thought people would think he asked it just to compare his success to their current phase in life, but with (y/n) it came with a different kind of awkwardness that he would have to face.

“I’ve been doing well. My business partner and I got this place up and running last year and it’s been going pretty smoothly,” she admitted. “I was working with a recording studio for a long time before this, but nothing too exciting.” (Y/N) loved what she did and often didn’t have much to talk about with other people besides her work. Her personal life consisted of watched re-runs of TV shows that haven’t been on the air in years, entertaining herself and her pets at home, and not really making an attempt of finding new relationships--friendly or romantic.

“No guy in your life?” Colson found himself asking with an insecurity swelling in his chest that didn’t die down until she shook her head and dismissed whatever fears he didn’t realize he had.

“What about you? Dating Megan Fox must being something,” (y/n) said as she nudged Colson’s ribs with her elbow.

“Yeah,” Colson muttered as he tried to hide his face from (y/n) as he spoke. “She’s great, and I’m really happy.” His words were truthful in every sense of the matter, but that what if still tugged at his heart.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

At twelve and thirteen-years-old, there’s no way to know what love feels like, so Colson tried to ignore the knots that came into his stomach or the words that got caught in his throat whenever he would hang out with (y/n). He ignored the burning in his chest whenever their faces touched while sharing the cheap headphones they used to listen to (y/n)’s CD player with, and buried the jittery feeling he had whenever he knew he had plans with (y/n) and was counting down the hours until seeing her. The only thing that forced him to come to terms with how he felt towards (y/n) was another boy in her class that offered his headphones over to her one day before school to listen to the newly released, Volume 2 box set from Motley Crue, which had just announced they were reuniting. 

His blood boiled as he saw her hand brush against the other boy’s as she accepted the headphones and bobbed her head to the beat of whatever song was flooding her ears. It took Colson all of the courage his young self could muster to ask (y/n) to go on a date with him, and all of the money he had earned through small, odd-jobs to pay for the perfect date for this perfect girl.

He’d tried to ask two of his older friends who could drive to take him and (y/n) to Columbus, but wasn’t able to bribe them with enough money for them to agree. Eventually, he had to ask (y/n)’s father for help. His own dad was too busy working to be bothered with a middle school date, so he hoped the man who gave his daughter her love of music would be understanding. (Y/N)’s father found the young man’s idea heartwarming and fun, and agreed to take the pair to Columbus under the stipulation that he stayed to keep an eye on them. At that point, Colson was so relieved the date was panning out, that he didn’t care if her dad came along. 

Excitement had overwhelmed both (y/n) and Colson as they embarked on the two hour drive from Cleveland to Columbus, but the time passed quickly through their loud singing, enthusiastic conversation, and (y/n)’s wild anticipation as Colson revealed to her that they were going to Columbus to see Damageplan perform live. He remembered an early conversation he’d had with (y/n) about how she’d love to see Pantera live, as well as the disappointment she had a year ago when the band broke up. Although it wasn’t the exact same as seeing her all-time favorite band, he’d hoped Damageplan, which the founders of Pantera formed after their breakup, would be a close second.

Had they not been caught in traffic, they would have gotten to the show on time. To this day, Colson and (y/n) were both sure the traffic had been a blessing in disguise. They wanted to be front and center for the first song, but that came with the possibility of losing their lives.

They pulled up to the venue about fifteen minutes late. “The show is hours long! We won’t miss much in fifteen minutes,” (y/n)’s father had continued to reassure the teenagers that sat together in the back seat of his car throughout the drive. However, as they pulled up to see ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars flooding the scene, he realized that they may have missed everything. After her father got out and talked to a few people who had remained at the venue--either to give statements to officers or simply because they were in too much shock to drive--he returned to the car where Colson and (y/n) waited, put the vehicle into drive, and pulled away from the scene. It was about twenty long, agonizing minutes of silence before he pulled over through a fast food drive through to order the teens food. With his voice low as they waited for burgers and French fries, he delivered the news to the pair sitting in his backseat. Dimebag Darrell was dead, and their lives had been spared by some traffic on I-71.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened with us if we actually made it to the concert?” Colson found himself asking (y/n) as his fingertips picked at the label on his beer bottle.

“The possibility of getting shot crosses my mind,” (y/n) responded dryly as she leaned against the bar on her elbow.

“I mean, what if we made it to the venue and that guy didn’t show up--he never got on stage and killed all those people. What would have happened--with us?” Colson’s eyes never left (y/n). The question had plagued him since that night, followed by a million subsequent questions, such as, Why did I never ask her out again? Why did I see that as missing my shot?

“Well,” (y/n) began with a smile playing on her lips. “That would have been the best date of my entire life. Hands down, nothing could have ever topped it,” she said as her genuine smile curled even higher into a beaming grin that made Colson weak. “I would have probably found a way to give you a kiss whenever my dad wasn’t looking, just to show you how much I appreciated not only your plan for the date, but also you as a person, my best friend, and my biggest crush back then.”

“If I would have asked you out again would you have said ‘yes,’ even after what actually happened?” He was hesitant to receive her answer; he didn’t want to know he had wasted so much time wondering if he missed out on the relationship he was meant to be in by being too cowardly to ask. As his eyes met the soft smile of the woman that stood beside him, his heart sank into his stomach and his stomach turned to lead.

“Yeah, I would have,” she admitted. “You were always there for me, Colson, and I kind of anticipated you asking me out again. You were my favorite person to be around, and I’m so proud of you for chasing your dreams.”

“But how much different would my life be if you were beside me the whole time?” He seemed defiant in his question, as if his tone could change the past and alter the present so he could see the difference in his life like comparing two ‘find-the-difference’ pages from a Highlight’s book.

“You wouldn’t have Cassie,” (y/n) stated with a matter-of-fact tone, “and I know how much you love that child.” Colson smiled at the mention of his daughter, and knew her statement to be true. If (y/n) was around, he would have never met Emma and Cassie would have never been born. “You would have still gone off on your own and done what you wanted to. Having me as your girlfriend wouldn’t have changed you wanting to be with models, I couldn’t ever keep you from something you set your mind to, so the drugs would have pulled us apart. In your own opinion, would I still be your friend if I saw everything you’ve done?” With a smirk and a chuckle, Colson reached out for (y/n)’s arm and gentled rested his hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t know if I would still be my friend. But I’m turning around from a lot of the stupid shit I used to do. You know, mellowing out with age,” he laughed and earned a small smirk from the girl that got away. “What about who I am now? How do you feel about him?” 

The words came from his mouth with a solemn look on his face as he scanned the woman’s appearance. He still loved her, and a big part of him knew he would never stop loving her. After all, how could he? He never got the opportunity to see where he and (y/n) would have gone. Would they have a child of their own? Would he have listened to her if she pestered him or threatened to leave when it came to the drugs? Would he have even felt he needed them? All they could do was speculate, and speculation wasn’t enough for him. He wanted an ending on their relationship, one way or another, he needed to know. This open-ended bullshit was eating at him every waking second of his life since December 8th, 2004, and he needed to have her tell him it would have never worked, then he could move on.

“You’ve always been incredible to me,” (y/n)’s softened voice admitted as she gazed up at the man she’d loved since her youth. “And you always will be, but you have Megan, and I know you--you’re happy. Don’t ruin what is a great thing over something that could have been, regardless of how either of us feel.” (Y/N) could feel her heart sinking and her eyes ache as they threatened to fill with tears. 

All she’d ever wanted was for him to walk in here, admit his feelings for her, and live some fan-fiction reality of a happily ever after, but the real world was much more cruel. People move on, and even if they don’t fully move on emotionally, they don’t sit around waiting forever. Colson hadn’t remained single in the sixteen years between their first almost date, and she never expected him to. The least she could do was wish happiness onto him and be happy for him when he found it. “I think you may have had a bit too much to drink, Col,” she sighed as she pushed the glass of liquor that sat in front of him aside. Throughout their reminiscing and conversation, he continued to order drink after drink to drown the anxiety of seeing her, and (y/n) could tell it was getting to his head. “You don’t want to do something you’ll regret when you sober up.”

“I need to know, (y/n),” he stated in a firm and exasperated gasp as they pair disappeared into her office so that he could sober up while she collected his friends to take him back to wherever he was staying.

“Colson--”

“Please,” his gentle blue eyes were staring down intently at (y/n)’s soul, a soul filled with hope and warmth clouded with traumas of her own, a soul that always felt tethered to his. With a deep breath and gentle sigh, she pulled herself onto her toes, gently rested her hands against his chest and shoulder, and closed her eyes as her lips found his.

Their kiss was simple, something a pair of middle school kids would have become so giddy over having done, but as adults, it was damn near impossible to ignore her heart jumping into her throat, the way his hands felt on her hips, how soft her lips were against his, how desperate he was to deepen the kiss, to sweep his tongue across her lips and lean her against a wall to feel her pressed against him. (Y/N) had pulled away from Colson before he could find the courage to do what he’d always wanted, and the pair stood toe to toe with electricity buzzing in their heads as they continued to reflect back on the past few seconds. Neither had felt that way with another person before, and neither were certain they would ever feel that way again, because Colson was happy, and Megan didn’t deserve to be thrown aside over the possibility of all the what ifs he had in regards to (y/n).

She gently bit down on her lip and stared at the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid looking Colson in the eyes, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to contain herself if he decided he wanted more. Thankfully, he took the hint and pulled (y/n) into a gentle hug before he turned rather clumsily on his heel to catch up with his friends.

“You’re always welcome here, Colson,” (y/n) called out before he left her sight, hoping he would understand her on the deeper level they always were able to converse with one another on.

“Thanks, (y/n),” he said in return as he held the door to her office gently in his hands. “I’ll try to come back again when I’m not so busy.” A coy smile played on both of their faces once the door was placed between them, and hope continued to spring from both of their chests.

Colson left the Panther’s Den feeling even more confused by the what ifs than he had initially been, and the sensation of the kiss had left him feeling even more light-headed and puzzled than any alcohol or overthinking could cause. In their silences and stolen glances, in the touch of their lips and how each other felt beneath the other’s hands, Colson knew whatever electricity between them, whatever spiritual connection, or tethering of souls would never go away. It was a matter of timing for the pair, thirteen wasn’t the right time for them to get together and it was deflected in a gruesome way, but whatever the temptress of time was planning for Colson and (y/n), he knew he was ready to fall, so he placed their fate in the hands of life, and continued down the street with the gentle graze of her lips pressing like a phantom against his own.

[undiscovered-horror-icon]

SlipKnot Members [Part Two]

[All of this info was copied form the archive of this blog on Skyrock.com circa 2009 -2010: User: maggot777 on Skyrock. com ]

[I’m just sharing it and take no credit]

[This post will include the current members, circa 2010]

Name: Sidney George Wilson Position: DJ N ° 0 Nickname: Monkeyboy or Ratboy Born March 15, 1978, Sid is the youngest of the group and by far the craziest. His scenic escapades helped to build the reputation of SlipKnoT in its early days. Since the European tour where he accidentally injured a fan during the concert in London, he has calmed down somewhat. Although with British origins, Sid is American and was born in Des Moines. Passionate about music, he creates a posse of Djs called Sound Proof Coalition. It is thanks to this posse that he will meet the group during Dotfest in 1998. “I don't know why, but this skinny dude with his red T-shirt and green shorts caught my eye that day. And then it must be said that a guy who listens to punk while scratching on hip-hop is not common, ”Shawn declared. Six months later, Sid will go to the Hairy Mary Club to see the band in concert. That night Shawn jumps into the audience and comes face to face with Sid. From this impromptu meeting was born the friendly rivalry between them, the goal being to knock out the other during the concert. For the record, this is the only time Sid has beaten Shawn. After this concert, Sid will meet SlipKnoT and tell them that he wants to be part of the group. The legend says that Shawn will not think more than ten seconds before saying yes, estimating the man enough barjo to join the group. Since then, Sid has been a mainstay of the band, justifying his presence with samples and scratches on many tracks, he's also working on a more personal project for which he took over his DJ name Starscream and released a solo album called Full Metal Scratch It in reference to the movie Full Metal Jacket. The album announced for 2001 did not actually see the light of day until 2004 following a number of problems with the label that was to release the CD. In the end, it was N2O that played the role of distributing the CD containing most of the samples that Sid uses in SlipKnoT as well as in various other projects. He also collaborates with Ampt, a band from New Jersey that he joined as a DJ.

Name: Nathan Jonas '' Joey '' Jordison Position: Drums N ° 1 Nickname: Speedball Born April 26, 1975 at the Mercy Hospital in Des Moines, Joey spent all his childhood and adolescence in the small town of Yankee, located fifteen kilometers from Des Moines. Very introverted because of his small size (1.60 m), Joey has often served as a pain reliever for his classmates, but he knew deep down that one day he would prove to them that he was better. than them. Arrived in high school, he is deeply into Kiss and Black Sabbath and decides to start a group; he held the position of guitarist there. The guitar has always been his passion and he plays it whenever he can. However, the pitiful level of the drummer in his group pushes him to get behind the barrels. He finished his studies in high school and decided to get into music. One of his groups (Modifious, of which Paul and Craig were part) has had some success but not enough to make a living from it. There is a job at a gas station. Working at night, he occupies his days rehearsing with the group. One evening, his best friend comes to see him with a certain Corey Taylor. Corey doesn't make a good impression on him and the evening ends with a sentence to his friend about Corey (who is red-haired and had long hair at the time): "Bring Dave Mustaine (singer-guitarist of Megadeath) to to treat, it is too serious this guy. " Some time later, he will be contacted by Paul to join an even more obscure called SlipKnoT group. Outside of the group, Joey is involved in various side projects, the most successful of which is Murderdolls, a punk / glam band in which he is a guitarist and with whom he released an album. one owes the magnificent tribal S and as well as the logo of the group. SlipKnoT's capital K is due to the fact that at the time he drew it Joey was a mega-fan of Korn.

Name: Paul Dedrick Gray Position: bass, vocal backing N ° 2 Nickname: Porky or Balls Born April 8, 1972, Paul is the only member of SlipKnoT who is not originally from Des Moines. Born in Los Angeles, he followed his family when they moved to Iowa. Paul is one of the creators of the group along with Shawn. Very discreet and yet very influential, he played with Joey in Anal Of Blast and in various other groups before creating SlipKnoT. He had moved back to Los Angeles when Shawn asked him to come back one evening because he had an extra project he couldn't miss. He died at the age of 38 on May 24, 2010 of an overdose.

Name: Chris Fhen Position: percussion, vocal backing N ° 3 Nickname: Pornochio or Mr Piklenose Born February 24, 1972 in Des Moines, Chris is the little comic of the group. Always playing the puppet, he does everything to be noticed and is happy to go on stage. Chris is one of the last to join SlipKnoT. He joined the group after Brandon left and his integration was not without difficulty ... for him. Shawn called him in for a rehearsal in which he had to prove himself. After two hours of playing, the group reunites in the garden while Chris, alone at the other end, paces. After letting him run around in circles for thirty minutes, Shawn finally waved him over and said, "Sorry man, you're not up to par." Annoyed, Chris lowered his nose and said, "Okay, it's okay guys," turning on his heels. This is the moment that Joey chooses to say to him, “We're kidding, man! », Before bursting out laughing with the rest of the group. But that was just a little taste of what to expect. He's the one we hear vomiting on the hidden SlipKnoT track while Paul laughs beside him. This memorable streak was actually Chris' initiation into the "SlipKnoT spirit", the others having forced him to watch a hardcore movie. Chris played an important role in the recording and mixing of SlipKnoT. He helped Ross Robinson and Joey with the post-production work. Ross Robinson says of him, “Chris is a great guy. He really has his heart set on his feet. "

Name: James Root Position: guitar N ° 4 Nickname: The Peach Born October 2, 1971, James (or Jim) is the giant of the group, dominating the situation of his 1.90 m. He joined the group at the end of the recording of SlipKnoT as a starting point for the previous guitarist, Josh. Prior to being a part of SlipKnoT, James was playing in Atomic Opera and Deadfront with which he released an album and was about to record another when Joey called on him. The latter explains: “James was one of the best guitarists in Des Moines. With Atomic Opera, they were by far the leaders of the Iowa metal scene. And then I knew the guy, he had the job profile. He also stars in Stone Sour.

Name: Craig Jones Position: sample N ° 5 Nickname: 133 mhz (we nickname him like that because he's crazy about machines and 133 times 5 plus 1 equals 666) Born February 11, 1973, “This guy is definitely the most crossed out of the nine. He never says anything and that's what gives me the fuck. It is there and yet we forget it. Having said that, it's better if he doesn't say anything. The only time he opened it we had nothing but shit. This is how Craig is described by Ross Robinson. This is hardly flattering but nevertheless very true: Craig is the “ghost” of the group, always the last to arrive on stage and the first to leave. He joined SlipKnoT as a guitarist to replace Donnie Steele. He will prove himself during the recording of Mate.Feed.Kill.Repeat .. He also contributed to the ambiences with his samples, which really impressed Shawn in addition to his performance on the guitar. Seeing his mad passion for machines and computers, Joey and Shawn decided to promote him and integrate him full time into SlipKnoT. In three weeks, Craig went from replacement guitarist to official sampler of the band.

Name: Shawn Michael Crahan Position: percussion, vocal backing N ° 6 Nickname: Clown or Kong Born September 24, 1969, Shawn is at the same time the leader, the pillar and the dean of the group. SlipKnoT is her baby. It was he who chose who would be part of the adventure and that from the start. Before joining SlipKnoT, he set up various groups which were only successful with critics. Unable to live on his music, he then manages with the means on board. He was first hired as a welder (this experience would later be used for the creation of drum-kits). The savings he made enabled him to buy the Hairy Mary Club, a bar in Des Moines called to become the SlipKnoT's lair for a few years. As a wise businessman, he will regularly organize metal evenings in his club and the Saturday night concerts will quickly become an institution in Des Moines for any metal and rock fan. It is during this period that SlipKnoT is formed. The future members of the group all hanging out regularly in the club, convincing them to play together will not be very difficult. Next is the recording of Mate.Feed.Kill.Repeat. Which costs Shawn all his savings and pushes him into heavy debt. He sells the Hairy Mary Club to repay his debts, before the scale gained by SlipKnoT allows him little by little to live on music. The Hairy Mary Club having been sold, the group had no room to rehearse, and it was only natural that Shawn put his family to contribution: SlipKnoT invests in his parents' cellar. They spent almost two years there, Ross Robinson came to see them rehearse before signing them on his label. It was also in his parents' garage that the photo was taken that served as the cover for SlipKnoT (album). Married with four children, Shawn is a very cultured person; he adores Cézanne and Picasso, which contrasts quite a bit with the image of the slightly psychotic Clown that we see at concerts (I confirm). He also likes to philosophize about life around a bottle of wine, which makes tell Corey, “Shawn is a very smart guy, even if you don't always understand what he's saying. "

Name: Michael Thompson Position: guitar No. 7 Nickname: Log Born November 3, 1973, Mick spent his childhood in Des Moines. Big fan of music, his tastes range from Jimi Hendrix to the Beatles through Morbid Angel and Deicide. He joined a group for the first time at the age of sixteen. Subsequently, he is part of various formations with the future members of SlipKnoT, but seeing that it is hard to make a living, he decides to give guitar lessons. It was then that one evening, taking advantage of Donnie's departure, Paul called him and asked him to join SlipKnoT. “I was really pissed off at that time. When Paul called me I jumped at the chance, ”says Mick to explain his arrival in the group. Outside the group, Mick is a very discreet person; he describes himself as a person who likes to live at night.

Name: Corey Taylor Position: Vocals N ° 8 Nickname: Faith or The Sickness Born December 8, 1973, Corey is in a way the guru of the maggots. His singing, his tone of voice and his charisma (I also confirm) make him a unique singer in the metal scene. Corey initially wanted to be a drummer but decided to write songs after listening to Screaming Life by Soundgarden and Bleach by Nirvana. Born of an unknown father, (but now we know who he is) he lived for a long time with his mother and his sister, traveling the North-East of the USA and sometimes (even often) finding himself homeless to sleep. Completely addicted to cocaine from the age of fifteen, he overdoses twice. The second made him realize the fragility of life and he went to settle in Ohio with his grandmother, to be far from his bad company. It was there that he developed a taste for music thanks to his grandmother's record who listened to rock 'n' roll and in particular Elvis Presley, of whom he became a very big fan. At eighteen, he chose to take his independence and return to the roads to finally return to his hometown of Des Moines. There, he assembles the group Stone Sour, with which he begins to record some titles. On several occasions, his path crosses the path of the members of SlipKnoT. And it is finally after a Stone Sour concert that Corey sees Joey, Mick and Shawn unload in the sex shop where he works. Corey sums it up in a few words: “Basically, they told me that if I didn't join their group they would give me my birthday. I admit I hesitated a little but finally I said to myself that it was the right choice for me. " Corey is very involved in songwriting; his difficult childhood is a source of inspiration for him. However, he refuses to talk too much about it. In early 2004, he married Scarlet, his long-time fiancée, with whom he had a son, eighteen months earlier.

[Might do a part three on new guys, maybe] 

[feel free to leave corrections in the replies]

[fallout-headcanons-and-stuff]

What about each of the Fallout 4 companions' favorite songs? Not limited to what's on the radio in the Commonwealth, but maybe still within the usual musical era the games showcase?

FO4 Companions Favorite Songs:

TW:

Some of these songs deal with topics such as mentions of suicide, depression and drugs(this is mostly just a warning for Hancock’s song list and a bit for Caits)

Nick Valentine:

-Genre; Jazz, Rock, Country, Disco????(I Genuinely can’t decide) I personally think he’d like all types but his most favorite would probably be Jazz as a safe bet.

-Song(s); Somebody to Love by Queen, Heart Ache by the Number by Guy Mitchell, Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra

Cait:

-Genre; 100% Metal Head, Metal Music all the way. It gets her pumped up when she needs the extra boost of excitement.

-Song(s); There’s a lot of songs she would choose, two notable songs she would probably like would be Angel of Death by Slayer or Back in Black by AC/DC

John Hancock:

-Genre; As much as I would love to say Jazz I feel like if he found out what the Alternative/Indie was, he would absolutely love it.

-Song(s); God there’s a lot of songs I think He would like, however these are the ones I think he’d like the most... Everybody Gets High by MISSO, Don’t Threaten Me with a Good Time by Panic! At The Disco, My Strange Addiction by Billie Eilish and Broken by Lund

Deacon:

-Genre; pop, but he’ll never admit it, he’ll always say Rock but he knows damn well pop music is his absolute favorite.

-Song; Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

Curie:

-Genre; Electronic Dance Music. She just enjoys it, it makes her very giddy and she gets more pep in her step if she listens to this genre at any time.

-Song; Almost every Daft Punk song, but would probably have to choose Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger.

Porter Gage:

-Genre; A big, BIG Rock fan! He would probably put MacCready to shame by how much he, himself loves Rock music. He could probably name almost every popular pre war Rock band without even flinching. Absolute beast.

-Song(s); In reality he probably couldn’t choose for the life of him, but if he had to he would have to say either, We Will Rock You by Queen or Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.

X6-88:

-Genre; Is quite in love with Jazz as a whole, but also a bit of Rock, he always thought that music was a waste of time until Sole introduced him to music, specifically Jazz and Rock.

-Song(s); I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire by The Ink Spots and Paint it Black by The Rolling Stones.

Codsworth:

-Genre; absolutely loves the classical genre, but he’s recently been getting into Blues and Jazz because of how much those genres remind him of pre war.

-What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong, he would always play it for baby Shaun so that Shaun could fall asleep, worked ever time.

Preston:

-Genre; I think Preston also doesn’t have a favorite genre, I think he’d enjoy country but I also thing he’d enjoy a bit of Rhythm and Blues. He probably isn’t picky though

-Song(s); Buttercup by Jack Stauber, The Other Side of Paradise by Glass Animals.

MacCready:

-Genre; Rock ‘n’ Roll baby!! It’s been his favorite sense he was the mayor of Little Lamp Light

-Song; The Wanderer by Dion, it reminds him of home back in the Capital wasteland, it was also his first introduction into Rock music and he’ll never forget it.

Danse:

-Genre; Country and Disco, I am not elaborating

-Song; Funky Town by Lipps inc. and Dancing Queen by ABBA I don’t know why but I enjoy these songs and I think he’d enjoy them to.

Piper:

-Genre; Hiphop and Alternative/Indie, but she refuses that she likes Alternative/Indie so that Hancock doesn’t get all smug.

-Song(s); Walk This Way by Run-D.M.C., Hayloft by Mother Mother.

[lip-rings-and-quiffs]

He (2016 Luke Hemmings)

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 38)

A faint, warm breeze caresses Mila’s face as she and Juri walk along the quiet street, running alongside the newly built wall. A few of the Alexandrian men are working on the final piece, funnily enough nearby the church that caused it to break. It’s been two months since the wall collapsed now, or at least that’s what she thinks. Mila looks at the new construction as she and Juri passes, feeling a sense of calm throughout her soul as her eyes sweep over the repaired structure that has also been expanded; a part of Deanna’s original plan for the community. On the piece of the wall that stood by the invasion, next to the small graveyard, someone has written the name of those who have perished; loved ones, friends, family and those who became family after the outbreak. It’s a nice memorial site, a quiet corner of the community. Since that day, when the walkers poured into Alexandria, everything has gone back to a somewhat normal state.  

It’s a hot mid-summer’s day, the sky is blue and the clouds look extra fluffy. Juri points towards them and gestures as if he squeezed an invisible marshmallow between his soft little fingers.

“Yeah they look tasty.” Mila smiles and squints up towards the floating clouds cruising by without a hurry. “What about-” Softly, she pinches Juri’s button nose. “I try to find us some yummy marshmallows for a barbecue when I get back, huh?”

With glittering eyes Juri nods and hugs her tightly; obviously he is positive about the idea.

“Then it’s a date.” Mila chuckles and hugs Juri back, before putting him down on the ground. “Ufh, you are getting heavy. Soon I won’t be able to carry you around.”

With a proud, sunny face Juri stretches, he’s certainly not a little guy anymore; in Mila’s eyes, paradoxically, he’s still her little baby, while she’s also well aware that he’s turning four in a few months. Where the heck did the years between infancy and two go? With a smile, she thinks of Maggie and what adventure awaits her and Glenn in the years to come. At least they have each other, a small consolation when the world is constantly on the brink of doom. 

“Since you’re a big boy now, you’re going to teach Maggie’s baby a lot of important things. Like Carl does with you and Judith.” Mila says and takes Juri’s hand. “You think you can do that?”

Juri nods, with eyes that take the task very seriously. He adores Carl like an older brother and being addressed as a big boy, doing ‘Carl-stuff’, is everything he’s ever wanted. Juri gestures with his free hand and makes a finger walk in the air; of course he will teach the new baby to walk. But when he lets go of Mila’s hand, to show that he’s going to teach the baby to tie its shoes, Mila raises her left eyebrow.

“Well, I think we have to practice that one a little bit, Malysh.” Mila says.

Stubbornly, Juri signals that he’s already trying to learn, or rather states, very stubborn, that Daryl should teach him. He’s done it before, Juri gestures with a triumphant grin.

“Really?” Mila smiles. “Sure, I bet he’s good at it. What’s left for me then? I’m just gonna sit by and watch?”

By putting his hands together in front of him and pointing his index fingers straight ahead, Juri gestures a finger-gun. He narrows one eye and pretends to aim and fire. He points at her with a smile, clarifies that she’s best at shooting, therefore she should teach him. 

“Spasibo, malysh.” She winks at Juri. “Not quite yet, though. But I promise you, I will.”

Further down the street, both of them catch sight of Daryl and Denise. They part, Denise walks away from them and Daryl turns and starts to walk in their direction. Mila waves at him and Juri starts to run as fast as his short legs possibly can towards their favorite archer. Despite his packing, a backpack and the crossbow, Daryl receives Juri when he reaches him; he lifts him up in the air on straight, strong arms, making Juri’s blonde hair dance around his angelic face. The silent laugh that spreads on his face makes Mila’s heart swell with joy. She had never thought that the surly archer would melt completely because of a, certainly charming, mute toddler; her little ray of sunshine. He even smiles as he lifts Juri into the air. Surely a sight for sore eyes, she thinks as they meet in the middle of the street.

“Ya’ ready?” Daryl greets her as he puts Juri down. “We’re heading out now.”

“All done.” She replies, notices a piece of paper in Daryl’s hand. A shopping list? “That’s a nice little list you got there.” Mila peeks over the edge of the slightly crinkly paper, that looks like it’s been passed around the entire community. “Food, gas, some medicine, more medicine… another medicine-” She frowns her eyebrows. “Orange soda?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Denise wanted to surprise Tara.”

“That’s nice.” Mila nods.

It was decided last night that Tara and Heath would go on a longer supply run. Daryl was asked to follow, but declined. Mila suspected that it was because of her; she’s been a bit under the weather the last couple of days; she’s been tired and just a bit feeble, felt nauseated. Carol was sure it was just her female hormones acting out, which could very well be a possibility. Tracking a period during the apocalypse wasn’t high on her ‘to do’-list, so she brushed it off. Daryl didn’t say anything about the reason for his decision, but Mila guessed that he didn’t feel like leaving her behind, even though she’s neither sick or… well, anything really. Just a bit tired. Instead, it was decided that Daryl and Rick would go on a supply run. Mila offered to come along; Daryl couldn’t possibly stop her from following, so it was settled that she’d tag along. 

They walk to the dusty Chrysler sedan together. Rick’s already in place, assuring that his gun is loaded and attached properly to his belt when they arrive.

“Mornin’.” He greets them with a nod; Once a cop, always a cop. The only thing missing is the wide-brimmed hat. “Ready to go?”

Both of them nod and Daryl hands Rick the list of supplies.

“Ya’ see anything you miss?” He asks.

Rick glances through the list quickly.

“We’re outta’ toothpaste.” He states and lifts his eyes to them, waving the note between his fingers. “Keep an eye open for spearmint and baking soda. Michonne’s orders.”

“Got it.” Mila turns to Juri and squats in front of him. “Okay, be nice to Carol and the others, don’t run away.”

With a serious look, Juri reminds her of the promise of marshmallows.

“I’ll remember.” Mila promises and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “There, davay.” She gets up from the ground as Juri turns and runs over to the porch, climbs the stairs and gets into the house to find Carol. 

They get in the car, Rick and Daryl in the front seat and Mila in the back seat. She puts her handgun and backpack in the seat next to her and Rick rolls over to the gates, where Eugene’s about to push it open for them. On the other side, pierced on a couple of rebar attached to a broken car, a couple of walkers are trying their best to reach for them with their worn, boney arms, all in vain. 

Eugene strutts over to the passenger seat of the car and leans into the open window. The mullet looks more solid than ever as he hands Daryl another note. “I mapped out some of the agricultural supply places in the area.” He says in the heavy Texan accent Mila finds incredibly fascinating. “Even if they’ve been cleaned out, my bet is that the sorghum would be untouched. Now, that there is a criminally underrated grain that could change the game with our food situation from scary to hunky-dunky.”  

No one says anything. Mila rests her elbows on the backs of the driver’s and passenger seats and leans in so her head sticks out in between the two men in the front. 

”I'm talking standability-” Eugene continues. “Drought tolerance, grain-to-stover ratio that is the envy of all corns.” He pauses. “Think about it.”

”Gosh I could listen to him forever.” Mila says and looks at Rick. “Hunky-dunky.” She repeats in an as good as it gets Texan accent, while meeting Eugene’s eyes.

“All right.”

The car drives out through the gate, Rick accelerates and they leave Alexandria behind. 

“I’m having a good feeling ‘bout today.” Rick says cheerful.

“Really?” Mila replies.

“Just-” Rick shrugs. “You know- You just feel it. Today’s the day. We're gonna find food, maybe some people. The law of averages has gotta catch up.”

“We ain’t seen nobody for weeks.” Daryl notes. “Maybe we ain’t gonna find nobody.”

“That’s sunny.” Mila says, strokes his bare arm with her fingertips. “Let’s cheer this bad boy up, sheriff.”

Rick grins and pushes ‘play’ on the stereo. The music starts faintly and Mila recognizes the band as Social Distortion. 

”Oh I like this one!” Mila exclaims and starts to sing along.  

”Thought ya’ only liked country?” Rick looks at her in the rearview mirror. 

”Nuh.” Mila shakes her head. ”I’m full of surprises. Fun fact, I went to a bunch of cool concerts back in Jersey. These guys, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Rise Against, Pearl Jam- Lots of rock, punk, country-” Mila continues to sing along when the chorus starts. ”I made out with the Social Distortion singer, Mike Ness, after a concert. Or at least I think it was him.”

”Think?” Daryl sputters and turns to look at her. 

”I was eighteen!” Mila shrugs easily. “And drunk beyond judgement.” She confesses. ”He was- old, kinda’ handsome. Smelled quite nice, except the sweat. When I think about it, it could just as well be any middle aged guy with tattoos and tons of hair wax working backstage. I will never know for sure. But I’d like to believe it was the singer. Makes the story more interesting.”

Rick laughs.

“Concerts are wild.” He agrees while tapping the steering wheel. “I took Lori to see Tim McGraw once, before Carl was born. Cheap fried hot wings, beer in red plastic cups, great music; great night.”

“Is he the-” Mila starts to hum while drumming on the thighs. “Hu-huuu- I like it, I love it-”

“-I want some more of it-” Rick tunes in and snaps his finger to her beat. “I try so hard, I can't rise above it. I don't know what it is 'bout that little gal's lovin’-”

“Christ sake-” Daryl sighs and slides further down the passenger seat. 

“Here-” Rick hands Mila the worn plastic case of cd’s from the door pocket. “Find something good.”

“Yes, captain.” Mila unzips the case and starts to flip the plastic pages, filled with scratched cd’s, before finding something that looks promising. “Here-” 

“Please, don’t-” Daryl pleads. 

Too late. She leans into the front seat and pushes the cd into the radio.

“Crank it up!” 

Rick turns the volume wheel up to fourteen and both he and Mila happily exclaims “yeeeah” when the intro to “Life is a highway” blasts out of the cheap stereo. 

“Ya’ both crazy!” Daryl cries, in an attempt to drown out the radio. 

“Draws ‘em away from home!” Rick calls before tuning into the catchy chorus with Mila.

Rick knows the lyrics even better than she does; she still stumbles on the fast lines combined with her not pitch perfect english.

After driving for awhile, while continuing their exceptional singalong, Daryl manages to override the music:

”Look-” Daryl points out of the window and Rick hits the brakes in a matter of seconds. ”Back up.”

While Mila stretches forward and turns down the volume, Rick puts in reverse gear and drives the car back to the intersection. About a hundred meter to their right lies a couple of buildings. A silo, a shed and a barn, with ’sorghum’ written all over the dirty white roof. Rick turns the wheel, hits the gas and drives in the direction of the barn. He drives up on the dirt road and parks in front of the red building. It looks untouched, as if no one else knew about the great power of the sorghum. They step out of the car and look around. It’s quiet, no walkers.

“Let’s check it out.” Rick looks around the corner.

”Best to be safe.” Daryl says and walks over to the storage roll up door. He checks the handle, nods as to tell that it’s unlocked. ”Ya’ cover?” He looks up at her and Rick. 

”Yup.” Rick returns, hand on his gun. 

While the two men get ready for combat, Mila throws a glance out over the fields surrounding the barn; keeping an eye open for potential enemies. The door goes up with a loud noise and Rick bursts into the barn. Mila’s eyes land on the back of a truck. 

“No sorghum?” Mila says.

”Doesn’t look like it.” Rick turns to her and Daryl. “We’re good.” He states and points at the truck. ”One more time?” 

”It ain’t locked.” Daryl puts his hand on the handle and thugs at the box truck roll up door that rolls up with a rattle. 

”Wohaa!” Mila exclaims. 

The truck is filled with supplies; food, blankets, towels, everything really. It must be their lucky day.

”How ’bout that?” Daryl says. “Looks like we’re done for today.”

”Let’s get this thing going, grab our gear and come back for the car later. Take another way back and see what we can see.” Rick states. “We still need to find more things.”

”I’ll go start it up-” Mila says. ”If it starts.”

”I think it does.” 

”Also one of your optimistic predictions?” She smirks at Rick, turns and walks over to the drivers side and opens the door. ”Hah, they where dumb enough to leave the keys.”

Daryl unloads the most necessary things from the car, Rick locks it with a ‘beep’ on the key and  they get inside the truck; Mila makes herself comfortable between her two companions and they backs out of the barn and hits the road. They head in the direction Rick drove before Daryl asked him to stop. The road is lined by green, lush forest. The sun has settled behind some clouds, but it’s still warm, a sticky moist heat that doesn’t really make Mila’s tiredness any better. She’s already drinked a whole bottle of water by herself and starts to feel her jeans push at her bladder. In the distance, she sees what looks like a very run-down gas station. 

“Should we check it out?” Daryl looks at Rick, who nods. “Might be some gas left.”

“Let’s find out.” 

Rick parks at the first pump and they get out of the truck. The gas station is a mess; debris everywhere, an abandoned jeep is parked outside and the black color of the roof has begun to flake and exposes the gray metal underneath. The store looks equally miserable. She strolls up to the doors and peeks through the dirty glass, but sees nothing else than darkness. On her right Daryl’s checking out a tipped-over vending machine, filled with soda and candy. Someone must’ve given up halfway through their attempt to move it, Mila thinks.

“Give me a hand with this.” Daryl says.

Rick, looking around the desolated place, turns on the spot and walks over to help. Besides her urge to pee, Mila’s struck by a slight sensation through her head, like nausea, just as she has been doing on and off the last two days. Heck, not now. 

“I just gotta- you know.” She makes a whistling sound, to signal that she needs to find a toilet, or just walk behind the corner of the gas station to pee, or vomit - right now she cannot decide which of them she needs the most.

“We’ll get this.” Daryl nods towards the vending machine.

Mila turns and walks towards the door of the gas station. She thugs at it, then pushes it open with force. It’s barricaded with a shelf and she creates a passage wide enough for her to get through  and walks inside the dark store, gun raised in front of her. She lets her gaze get used to the dark, then sweeps over the empty, chaotic store before she walks towards the back of it, towards the door with ‘staff only’, hanging on just one hinge. The back of the shop, a room that looks like something between an office and a storage, with walls clad in brown wooden panels, is also empty. She quickly finds the ‘staff only’-toilet that doesn’t look far too disgusting to sit down on. She closes the door halfway, to prevent herself from being in total darkness. While unzipping her jeans she curses herself for not bringing a flashlight. As she sits down, she promises herself to wash her whole body with steel wool as soon as they are back in Alexandria; the toilet stinks of urine and It must be a pure bacteria party in the small space. She closes her eyes, feels how the nausea calms down a bit, focuses to breath through her mouth to close out the acrid smell. She takes another breath and feels her bladder relax, happy to release the huge amount of water she drank. 

Despite the disgusting toilet, it feels better to go to the toilet inside than outside. Mila reluctantly remembers the time she had to pee in the woods, and a walker snuck up behind her. With her trousers around her ankles, Mila had to ward off the armless, dead man. It wasn’t her proudest moment for sure. 

Loud voices and thumps make her wake up from her thoughts. Mila almost falls on her nose getting up from the toilet seat with her jeans around her ankles. Swearing over the fact that she might have to repeat her unworthy pants incident, she makes her way out from the bathroom, thuggin’ on her panties and jeans to get them over her ass, to see what’s going on outside. Is there an ambush? She loses balance, while trying to zip her pants, when she makes her way out in between the gap in the door and drops to the pavement. While brushing her hair out of her face, Mila catches sight of Daryl and Rick standing out in the street. The truck is gone. 

“What the heck?!” She cries and gets up from the ground, fiddling with the zipper. “Where’s the truck?”

“Gone.” Rick hollers back at her. 

Mila lets go of the zipper again -whatever if she shows off her undies at this point- and holds out her arms, to show that she noticed that very well on her own. 

“I was gone for like, five minutes, and now you lost the truck?”

“He took it-” Rick continues. 

“He who?” 

“Some goddamn’ hippie.” Daryl scoffs angrily. “Crashed into Rick and then drove off with the truck, swiped the keys.”

“Wha- just like that?” Mila says, more confused than ever. What the hell happened?

“We talked to him.” 

“Okay… and?”

“Told us his name- called himself Jesus.”

“Yeah I’m sure that’s his name.” Mila laughs dryly; right, Jesus Christ would surely show up in the middle of nowhere and steal a truck filled with toothpaste, food and other supplies. “Jesus don’t steal trucks.” She says. “Jesus isn’t even real! And how on earth did he overpower both of you?” 

The two men in front of her transform into two ashamed puppies, that’s been caught peeing on the carpet, in the matter of seconds. Mila suspects that they weren’t overpowered but tricked; muscles and guns are no use for cunning, and she knows a lot about the latter.  

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Mila sighs, squats and ties her boots with an extra secure double knot. “Lets go.” 

“What?” Daryl looks at her. 

“We gotta follow the truck.” She replies and thanks her lucky star for not having eaten anything heavy earlier this morning. “I won’t let someone who believes himself to be Jesus just steal our truck. I went to church back in Russia when I was a child; stealing is a sin, which makes this Jesus a hypocrite. Come on.”

Mila starts to run. Had she known she would have to chase after a truck, she would have taken a pair of running shoes. They pass the vending machine after a few hundred meters, discarded in the middle of the road. Mila brakes and takes a deep breath, wiping sweat from her forehead. The sticky heat is killing her and the three of them drip with sweat. Rick’s shirt is several shades darker and Daryl looks almost freshly showered. Next to her, Rick doubles down and rests his hands on his knees, still hugging the gun.

“How far do you think he’d come?” She pants.  

“Dunno.” Daryl takes a crowbar from his backpack, shatters the display case of the vending machine and starts to stuff orange sodas and some snacks into his bag. He reaches Mila a can. “Here, drink.”  

She smiles, as to say ‘thank you’ and opens the can. The soda is somewhere between lukewarm and warm, but it’s better than nothing. She finishes the can quickly and wipes her mouth on the back of her arm.  

“Isn’t this the soda Denise wanted?” She asks.

“Uhu.” Daryl nods. “Special request.” 

He takes one of the cans, punctures a hole in its side and pours the lukewarm orange drink into his mouth. Very classy.

“Hey, whatever she wants. She saved Carl's life.” Rick replies and receives the can from Daryl. “If there's still people out here, and they're still people, we should bring 'em in.” 

“Still feelin’ positive, huh?” Daryl asks his friend. “Takin’ em in? Like this guy, stealing our truck?”

“No, not this guy.” 

Daryl turns and looks at her, the gaze wanders from top to bottom.

“Ya’ good to go?” The look is caring, protective. As if he was trying to say 'sorry ‘bout the bumpy ride'. 

Mila nods, feels a drop of sweat run down her lip, into her mouth. 

“Let’s get this over with.” She replies and collects her long, sweaty hair on the back of her head, ties it up with a hair tie. “I’ve ran marathons, remember.”

They set off again at a slightly faster pace, strengthened by the soda. Mila breathes calmly as she sprints over the concrete, counts her breaths as she used to do when she was an avid runner and used to go out for a long run for fun. The circumstances are a bit different from back then; no running shoes or comfortable running clothes in bright colors, no iPod filled with upbeat music and no fitness clock tracking her pulse and her route. The boots are actually horrible to run in, the same goes for jeans, t-shirt and denim shirt, plus a backpack and weapons. 

They follow the tire tracks until they reach a crest, where Daryl signals for them to stop. Carefully they ascend the hill until they can peek over the edge. In the hill down on the other side they see the truck, standing still. It has a puncture and Mila immediately sees a long-haired man with a beard, dressed in a long coat and a beanie, which in itself is pure madness. She’s dripping with sweat and would never in her life put on a long coat or hat now. 

“That’s him?” She asks faintly. 

“That’s him.” Rick nods at them to follow him into the woods to the left. 

They carefully make their way over the fallen leaves between the trees, without losing sight of the truck. The man walks around to the back of the car and they see their chance. They quickly get out of the woods, Rick takes the lead and throws himself forward, wraps his arms around the man from behind.

“Hold still and maybe we won’t hurt you.”

If Rick thought it would help, he was completely wrong. The man sends off an elbow into Rick’s stomach and is suddenly free again. He makes a move, kicks Rick in the guts and gets him down on the ground. It's obvious that the guy is a bit sharper than the rest of the knives in the drawer; Mila climbs out of the ditch just as the man is about to set off towards the driver’s door, but is stopped by Daryl. While the men fight with each other, Mila manages to get up on the road just as the bearded man slips out of Daryl’s arms, pushes him into the side of the truck, turns around and loses track completely at the sight of Mila, who -tired of running and still a little nauseous- has pulled out her gun and aims it at him.

“Surprise!”

The brief moment is enough for Daryl to get back on his feet. He sees his chance when the man turns and notices Mila and tackles him from behind, down into the ditch. At gunpoint, they finally have the upper hand.

“Thanks.” Daryl pants and looks at Mila.

“The power of surprise.” She shrugs and looks down at the man. 

He’s about thirty, long brown hair, beard. Yes, she sees the resemblance to Jesus; every time she sat in church and counted the icons portraying him when she was little. The serious man with sloping shoulders, blue dress, beard and well-groomed hair. The difference is that the Jesus in the icons didn’t have a knitted beanie and a leather coat.

The foliage behind the man in the grass rustles. A walker then announces its presence, by a guttural hissing sound.

“Do you even have any ammo?” Jesus looks at them.

Without answering, Mila raises her gun at the walker and shoots.  

“Okay.” Jesus nods, still with his hands raised in front of him. “You gonna shoot me over a truck?”

“There's a lot of food on that truck.” Rick says. “The keys - now.”

“I think you know I'm not a bad guy.” 

Once again, Mila suddenly feels that unpleasant, nauseating feeling, but this time it spreads from her head down to her stomach. She turns around, hurries away a few meters, bends forward and vomits into the ditch. ‘Is she okay?’ she hears Jesus' question, while she spits and feels how she shivers all over her body; fuck, she hates to vomit. But it actually feels better.

“Ey-” She hears Daryl scoff at the poor guy. “Eyes here, dude! The keys!”

“I’m fine.” Mila hollers and waves her arm at them, still folded like a pocket knife.

“You sure?” Jesus calls back.

“Oh shut up!” She shouts. “It’s because of you I’m throwing up.”

“Sorry.”

“Just-” Mila straightens her back. She feels less nauseated, a bit weak but otherwise much better. “Give us the keys.”

For some reason, Mila can’t figure out why, Jesus throws her the keys. It might be out of pity, or the fact that her two comrades are holding him at gunpoint; she nods at him, as a way to say thanks.

While Rick ties Jesus up, Daryl hurries over to her.

“Ya’ okay?” His eyes are worried. “Ya’ sick?”

“No I’m fine.” Mila nods averted. “Probably just too much running and too little breakfast. I’m good now.” She smiles. “Just, don’t kiss me until we’re back and I’ve brushed my teeths, okay?”

He doesn’t look completely convinced, but he grunts a little, caresses her cheek and places a kiss on her forehead instead.

“There’s toothpaste in the back of the truck.” He says, before returning to Rick and Jesus.

Mila gets into the truck, sits down in the middle seat and closes her eyes; maybe she should try to find one of those toothpastes, she has a foul taste in her mouth. She looks around the cab and finds a pack of spearmint gum. As she pushes a third gum into her mouth, Daryl and Rick jump on either side of her.

“Where is Jesus?” She asks.

“On the street.”

“What? We can’t just leave him?”

“Of course we can.” Rick replies, turns the key and starts the car. 

“So long, you prick.” Daryl shouts out of the window as they drive off.

Mila chuckles dryish; She has an underlying sense that something is going to happen. Karma. She takes out the case of cd’s from her backpack, picks the “best of sixties” album and pushes the cd into the stereo. The sound of Connie Francis “Tennessee waltz” crackles out of the speakers and Daryl hands out snacks from the vending machine. 

“Still worked out. Today still is the day.” Rick recalls while snacking on a chocolate-peanut bar. He then points in front of him. “Hey, look at that.”

The truck drives out of the forest, and Mila sees both fields and buildings.

“Yeah, a barn.“ Daryl says. 

As Rick turns off in the direction of the barn, something makes them all fall silent and listen; thumps, like something hitting the truck box, is heard even over the loud music.

“What’s that?” Mila exclaims. “You hear that?”

It’s inevitable what the noise is; footsteps.

“I think that son of a bitch is on the roof.” Daryl says. 

All three of them react at the same time; Rick stands on the brake pedal, the car stops with a howl and Jesus falls down in front of the windshield and tumbles to the ground. Daryl, swearing loudly, throws himself out of the car to follow him and Mila follows Daryl. She has no idea why, but her gut feeling tells her that Daryl won’t be gentle on him. It also tells her that Jesus probably isn’t dangerous at all, which isn’t in his favor if Daryl, who’s all muscles and pretty bad impulse control, gets a hold of him.

“Daryl-” She calls. “No- Stop!”

“I’ve had enough of ya’!” Daryl shouts at Jesus, not hearing Mila. 

This must look ever so stupid, Mila thinks as she sprints after Daryl and the hippy-dippy guy into the dry green field; like one of those silent films, except that the soundtrack in this case happens to be Helen Shapiro’s “Walking back to happiness” playing from the car. Mila running after Daryl, running after this odd long-haired man who seems to believe he’s Jesus. Why in the world would he otherwise call himself that? 

”No- no, stop it!” Mila shouts, as if she was scolding at a bad dog. 

She stumbles and falls flat on her stomach, while Jesus reaches the now stationary truck and throws himself into the driver’s seat. Daryl follows.

“Come here, you little shit!” He barks and starts to drag Jesus out of the car. 

At the same time a walker has snuck up behind Daryl. Mila gets up on her knees, gropes for her gun, but before she has managed to raise it to shoot, she hears Jesus call out ‘duck’; Daryl ducks just in time. A gun finds its way into the walker's skull and it falls back like a bowling pin. 

“Thanks.” Daryl pants, then sends off a punch into Jesus face. “That's my gun! Come here!” 

He throws Jesus out of the truck, onto the grass. He doesn’t remain there for long; instead, he lays hooks for Daryl, who stumbles, giving Jesus time to get up on his feet and set off again.

“Son of a-” Daryl roars and runs after.

“Fuck- knock it out!” Mila shouts and increases her speed, minimizing the distance between herself and her, frankly pissed off, other half. Before Daryl’s able to take another leap in his hunt for the handcuffed, longhaired karate kid, she tackles him to the ground with a thud. ”Stop this!” Mila climbs up on top of him, to prevent Daryl from getting up from the grass. ”This is stupid!” 

”Christ- knock it out ya’!” 

Crap, she doesn’t have time to argue. Mila climbs over Daryl and sets after Jesus, who has slowed down to watch the wrestling match played out in the grass behind him. A surprised expression spreads on his bearded face as he sees her approaching, faster than he imagined. Jesus turns and starts to run again, but he doesn’t get up to speed fast enough. Mila lunges for him and they tumbles to the ground in a bundle of arms and legs, and she starts to wrestle him. He doesn’t fight her, but he tries with all his power to get loose from her grip. Mila gets a sharp elbow in the eye and a cracked lip before hobo-Jesus is ripped away from her by Daryl, who looks like he’s boiling.

“Ey, that’s ma’ girl, ya’ scumbag!”

“Wohaa, jeez.” The long haired, ravaged man, flies like a raggedy Anne-doll through the air.  

Mila gets up from the ground, covered in dry grass and wipes blood from her mouth on the back of her hand. Her eye pounds and already feel swollen, a certain recipe for an upcoming, gorgeous black eye. Daryl pants loudly through his nostrils while holding on to the ravaged man’s coat, the poor guy can barely stand up straight.  

“I had him.” Mila glares at Daryl and spits blood on the ground in front of her feet.

“I’d had him if ya’ didn’t tackle me.” Daryl scoffs back, still holding on to Jesus' collar. 

“You’d kill that poor man if you’d catched him.” Mila replies, pointing at Jesus. “You’re not exactly sensible when you’re angry.”

“Oh yeah right, you’re the one to talk!” Daryl scoffs back. “What about that guy’s kneecaps-”

“I had every right-” Mila cries. “He sliced my guts with a fucking machete!” 

”You two are related of some sort?” Jesus doubtfully breaks in. 

”Married!”

“What?” Daryl sputters, looking both terrified and shocked at her sudden, out of the blue exclamation. 

“Feels like it!” Mila replies and spits more blood; they’re arguing like they were married at least. “Pridurok...” She mutters, eyes locked at Daryl.  

”Oh-” Jesus pants and looks just as confused as Daryl does, plus a bit tufted. “Right-”

“Shut up.”

Pow! Jesus falls to the ground. Mila rolls her eyes; why does he have to punch everyone? She snorts and turns, stepping through the tall grass in the direction of the car. Damn hypocrisy, she thinks to herself. She passes Rick, who walks in the opposite direction out in the tall grassy field, holding his bloody knife, but ignores him. She’s frankly grumpy and her eye hurts. But she halts when she doesn’t spot the truck.

“Where the fuck is the truck!?”

She looks around. It’s nowhere to be seen. As she lets her gaze sweep over the field she catches sight of something behind some trees, in the small pond.

“Shit.” Rick comes up at her side, eyes locked at the truck that’s sinking further down the pond. “He must’ve knocked it into neutral.”

“Now what?”

They both turn and start walking back towards Daryl and the man in the grass.

“Are you alright?” Rick looks at Daryl. “Let's go check them cars, get the hell out of here.”

“What about the guy?” Mila points at Jesus. 

“What about him?” Daryl asks. 

“Well, he was actually nice, saved you.” She replies. 

“Hm.”

“Did he ever pull a weapon on you?” Rick asks. 

“Fine.” Daryl sputters. “Fuck- fine. Let’s put him up a tree.”

“No. He’ll come back with us.” Mila corrects, giving Daryl a sharp gaze. “Enough of that grumpy attitude.” She nods at Jesus. “Come on, let’s find a car. Drag him with you.”

They find a working car about fifteen minutes later. Daryl throws Jesus into the backseat. Mila takes the wheel, Daryl calls shotgun and Rick takes place next to Jesus, who’s still knocked out and they start driving back to Alexandria. 

“He took a pretty hard hit.” Rick says and meets Mila’s gaze in the mirror, then looks at Jesus. “Denise needs to look him over.”

“Try to wake him.” Mila suggests. “See if he’s got permanent brain damages.”

Rick shakes the man, who grunts and starts moving. He blinks and jumps.

“You’re alive.” Rick says. “Good.”

“Yeah-” Jesus grunts again. “Why am I in a car? I heard something about a tree.”

“It was a joke.” Mila says, meeting his drowsy eyes in the mirror. 

“It wasn’t.” Daryl looks at her.

“You wouldn’t have gone through with it.” Mila gives him a sharp gaze. “You wouldn’t have left him.”

“I would’ve-” Daryl nods upwards. “Right up in a tree.”

“He’s a comedian.” Mila says, once again looking at Jesus in the mirror, not taking notice of Daryl’s irritated expression. “Or at least tries to be.”

”Where have you been all my life?” Jesus chuckles and looks at her in the mirror and sends off a radiant smile that tells Mila that he’s using mouthwash on a daily basis. 

”Ey- knock it out!” Daryl reaches back and slaps the man on his tied up hands. 

Mila lets out a faint laugh. Huh, look at that; a jealous Daryl Dixon. Jeez Louise, there’s nothing to worry about, Mila thinks to herself, but Daryl’s poor self-confidence doesn’t make it easy for him. She pats her jealous, southern knight on the back of the hand.  

”He looks like a hippy dippy orthodox priest.” Mila gives the surly, blushing archer a soft gaze. “Calm down, Dixon.” She turns to the rear view mirror and the hippy dippy man in the backseat. If papa was here, he wouldn’t have let him inside the car. Not in a million years. “No offense, but you do.” She says to Jesus.

”None taken.” He nods at her with a curious gaze. “What’s up with the accent?”

”Up and running, thanks for noticing.”

While steering the car with her knees, Mila once again takes out the case of cd’s, now missing the one with sixties-music, takes out a random cd and puts it in the stereo. She adjusts the volume-wheel on the radio and increases the sound of “The Chain” and starts to tap the wheel while singing along. 

“You’re a really good singer.” The man in the back calls after a while.

“Thanks.” Mila replies backwards. “I’m a dental nurse.”

“Did you sing to the patients?”

“To the kids, sometimes. Some terrified men before they, you know-” She closes her eyes and pretends to snore. “Put them down.”

“I’m sure that’s not what it’s called.” Rick replies.

“I made them sleep.” Mila shrugs her shoulders. “Right?”

“Not what it sounded like.” Daryl says and meets her eyes, with a slightly amused expression on his stern face. 

“Anyway I think it sounded beautiful.” Jesus says. 

”I like this guy!” Mila looks at him and Rick with an excited smile upon her face, nodding her head to the beat of the music. ”Can we keep him?”

“He ain’t a dog.” 

“But he’s quite fun!” 

”You see.” Jesus says triumphantly. “She likes me.”

That’s it for Daryl. He turns and once again starts to try and hit the guy. Mila hits the brakes and the car stops with such force that Jesus is thrown into the headrest of the passenger seat, and dozes off.

“Knock it off!” Mila roars. “Or I won’t drive an inch further.”

The angry mom-voice isn’t only effective on children, it works really well on adult men as well. Daryl mutters and returns to his seat. Mila steps on the gas pedal again and continues to drive. Outside, it eventually starts to get dark. The sky is clear and the stars look brighter than ever. When she brakes at the gate to Alexandria, it’s pitch black. Daryl gets out, opens the gate and she drives into the community; a sensation of calm spreads throughout her body. That’s when she remembers.

“Shit.”

“What?” Rick asks.

“Forgot to get marshmallows.”

When the gate’s closed and locked, Daryl gets into the car again and Mila drives up to the infirmary, parks and the engine dies. The three of them get out of the car and stretch. What a fucking day, Mila thinks to herself, while watching Rick and Daryl dragging the still unconscious Jesus out of the backseat. They carry him up the stairs to the infirmary, knock on the door and wait. Denise opens in a few seconds.

“Sorry to wake you up.” Rick excuses himself before Denise can say something.

From her spot at the car, Mila notices Denise’s confused expression as she notices the lifeless man. 

“Who is this?!”

“Come on, man, he's heavy.” Daryl says to Rick. “Oh, that thing-” He looks at Denise. “Uh, didn't work out. It's this asshole's fault. Sorry.”

While they bring Jesus inside, Mila leans up against the hot hood and looks at the stars. Juri has probably been asleep for a while now. She doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s late. Rick and Daryl walk out of the infirmary just as she catches sight of the pole star. 

“He’s taken care of.” Daryl says as he walks up to her. He examines her in detail in the faint glow of the infirmary. “Let’s patch ya’ up.” 

Mila doesn’t struggle. She’s tired and hungry. They go back into the infirmary and she sits down on one of the beds with clean, white sheets and exhales. There’s a mirror in the corner of the room. When Mila sees her reflection, she sighs even deeper; she has a pretty neat blackeye and a cracked lip. Daryl sits down on the stool in front of her.  

“A hell of a blackeye-” He squints at the look of her pulsating, sore eye. “Ya’ really took a few punches.” He takes the bottle with alcohol and a wipe and pours some onto it. “Like Rocky Balboa.”

“Yeah, but I won.” Mila replies. 

“Just like Rocky.” Daryl replies. “Still though- hell of a fight.” 

“Better me than you I guess.” Mila swears as Daryl, as gently as he can, wipes her cracked lip with the drenched wipe. “You’d kill him.” 

Mila nods over Daryl’s shoulder, towards the knocked out man lying on the narrow hospital bed, handcuffed to the bed frame. Daryl turns, looks at Jesus, then scoffs. 

“I’ll kill him if he ever puts his hands on ya’ again.” Daryl mutters and throws the wipe over the room, into the trash bin. 

“Don’t have to, I’ll do it myself.” Mila smiles, but grimaces; it hurts to smile. “I know.” Daryl replies. “Sorry ‘bout earlier. For yellin’ at ya’.”

“You gotta work on that temper.” Mila states. “It ain’t good for the blood pressure.”

With a grunt, as much of an answer as anything, Daryl puts his hand at the back of her head, brings it to his lips and kisses her on the forehead. 

“Ain’t gonna need to stitch ya’ up.” He says. “Come on, let’s get ya’ to bed, Rocky.”

“Yes, Adrien.” Mila grins wryly. “What about Jesus Christ Superstar?” She nods towards the other bed. 

“Yeah we’ll deal with him later.”

“You gonna tuck me in first?” Mila asks. “I’d love that, but honestly, I need a quick shower before bed. I think I might have caught every possible STD there is from that disgusting toilet at the gas station.”

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter three: take this longing

“your body like a searchlight, my poverty revealed. i would like to try your charity until you cry, ‘now you must try my greed’. and everything depends upon how near you sleep to me.” -“take this longing”, leonard cohen

The sun had dipped behind the Los Angeles skyline and in turn, the entire area was bathed in a blanket of bluish violet darkness. It was moments like that there in the northeastern side of the city that Sam realized she had missed it all. She peered out the windshield at the winding dim lit freeway before them: all the jacaranda and oleander trees tucked behind the brick walls that lined the road around them. Somewhere near there was the old neighborhood in Alhambra where her parents used to live at before she was born.

Chuck took the next exit to one of the side streets down below, past a small row of low palm trees off to the right. Beyond the trees stood a mural painted upon a wall of pale bricks. Sam couldn't exactly tell what the mural bore but she made out the sight of a series of bright colors there in passing.

“Did you see that?” Greg asked her.

“I did, yeah,” she said.

They rolled up to a stoplight and Sam glanced about the intersection before them. The darkening freeway to the left, the stretch of road right in front of them and all the mission style houses up that way as well, and to the right, the four lane parkway that took them into the heart of town and closer to that old neighborhood. The faintest of memories in mind and yet a memory nonetheless.

“Oh, god, the memories that are coming back right now,” she admitted.

“That's right, this is your neck of the woods, isn't it?” Chuck said as he raised his attention to the rear view mirror; even in the dim light, Sam made out the sight of the little glimmer in his eye.

“All of Elsinore and this side of L.A. in particular,” she said. “My parents lived around here when they first got married. They also lived closer to the beach, too—down by San Pedro.”

“Love San Pedro,” Tiffany declared.

“Oh, yeah, it's all cool down that way. San Pedro, Long Beach, Rancho Palos Verdes—it's all the real nice part of L.A.”

Sam thought about a walk on the beach at some point. So much she wanted to do while she was back there in California, that is if she could do it. Bill wasn't willing to let her out for any reason whatsoever.

Hell of a time getting back to New York if she so wished to do so.

In the meantime, she thought of her parents. Or at least she thought about Esmé and what she planned on doing following the divorce. The fact that her parents were splitting up left her wondering where it all went wrong when she wasn't looking. Her mother became an author and her father had his own things to deal with and yet she had no idea about either one of them.

Much like with her secret about living with Bill had to be kept away from Joey at all costs, she knew that she need not tell a soul about the divorce as well. As far as she knew, Bill had no idea about it, and he didn't need to know about it, either.

Within time, they reached the center piece of Alhambra, the vast stretch of dark grass nestled in between a series of scraggly but still fully shrouded oak trees. The grass made a little hillside near the middle of it all. And right near the sidewalk stood the dark brown wooden city sign: Sam peered out Alex's window to the stone sidewalk out there as Chuck searched for a place to park.

“We're just gonna be seeing them in a little restaurant,” he announced to them. “It’s another little baby thrash band, too, so it’s a humble restaurant rather than the sunset strip.”

“They’re not Poison or Ratt, anyway,” Alex noted in a low voice.

“Don't really wanna walk too far, though,” Chuck continued, “you know?”

“Right, right,” Tiffany said.

“Especially after all of the running we just did,” Sam pointed out. “And the fact I fell on top of Greg.”

Alex laughed out loud at that and Greg bowed his head at that.

“I saw that!” Chuck declared. “That was actually pretty funny—no offense, Greg.”

“Greggy,” Sam said in recollection of Zelda's nickname of him.

“Greggy!” Tiffany chimed in.

Chuck then swerved towards the curb and they took the spot closest to the corner, right across the street from a small bar in a brick building with a pink and blue neon sign in the window.

“We're seeing them in there?” Sam wondered aloud.

“Nah, next door,” Chuck told her as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Mr. Skolnick here isn't twenty one yet—neither are they.”

“Really?” Sam muttered but Chuck never replied as he climbed out first, followed by Tiffany, and they leaned the seats forward so she, Alex, and Greg could climb out into the impending darkness.

Chuck and Tiffany led the way to the warmly lit restaurant next door: on the far side of the room stood a doorway into a separate floor for a band to play. Behind them stood a long table with Death Angel shirts.

“Here just in time,” Greg remarked right as the lights turned low. The five of them were only a select few in a small crowd but it didn't seem to bother either of them up on stage. All five of them had that smooth Pacific Islander skin that seemed to glow with a halo under the dingy lights. All five of them were slender and svelte and their instruments seemed far too big for them.

“Band of cousins,” Chuck told Sam. “Each and every one of them.”

“I was just gonna say,” she started, “they all look related to one another. Like they're brothers.”

“All literal kids when they started out a few years back,” he continued. “About around the same time as us, but kids, though. Literally kids—you think Alex is still just a baby when you first saw him and also right now. I think Andy, the drummer, was fourteen when they dropped their first album. That was like a month after we officially changed our name to Testament.”

“Wow!”

“Hello, Alhambra!” the bassist declared into the microphone with a bit of a high pitch squeak of a voice. “We are Death Angel.” Indeed, they struck Sam as a five piece band out of a high school up there on the stage. But she knew they carried with them a bit of prowess from her secondhand experience with Mark. He then ran up to the stage with a portable microphone in one hand, and those long black dreads streamed behind his head. His slender little body was wrapped up in a big black Slayer shirt and baggy black jeans that appeared to be falling off of his hips.

To think Aurora had an encounter with him right before her wedding. The more Sam thought about it, the more she wished for Aurora to have gone with him rather than that harebrained Emile. But as far as she knew, Aurora never touched him once and she only did it to rile her up, especially after her behavior in recent months. He gave those dreads a little toss back with a flick of his head and he showed a big beaming smile out to the audience.

“This is from our brand new album—it's the kind of album you listen to in the City of Angels, too,” Mark said into the microphone head. “It's called Frolic in the Park.”

“What a name,” Sam joked, to which Greg and Alex burst out laughing at that.

“Exactly!” Chuck declared.

“Hit it—”

For a band of kids, they reminded Sam of the Cherry Suicides, just by their relentless nature, their tightness, and the high scratchy shriek that Mark sang in. They weren't nearly as akin to punk rock and they lacked that gory aspect as well, but they were definitely up there; his thick black dreads reminded her of Joey. She needed to call him at some point.

“Man, they just pull, don't they!” Sam shouted.

“They do!” Greg shouted back.

Mark lashed his tongue and threw his dread locks back so that he resembled to a sea monster up there. Andy kicked his drum so hard in order to get the crowd clapping: given it wasn't a very big room, Sam could feel the thumping right through the floor. Chuck and Greg also stomped along with them.

“Let me hear you guys!” Mark bellowed into the microphone. “I wanna hear this room come alive! Make the Philippines proud, Alhambra!”

He raised his hands up over his head as they plunged into a good long guitar solo. Sam thought of the Cherry Suicides in Boston, when they became a thrash band themselves for a few moments. The whole series of claps lasted about five minutes before they returned to the original flow of the song.

Death Angel played one more before they parted the stage, and Sam, Alex, and Greg treated them to applause.

“Hey, kids, you want a shirt?” Tiffany offered the three of them.

“Can get a whole bunch of shirts, actually, Tiff,” Chuck told her from behind them, “they’re all like a buck-fifty.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh at Bill’s complaint about a bag of crackers. Cheese crackers that were the same price as a handful of T-shirts she could sleep in that night and the one afterwards. But at the same time, she still shook her head at the very notion. And he was about to lose what income he had left; but Marla had the right idea to pressure him into finding a better solution for himself. Sam thought back to what her mother had said about things growing treacherous and sticky when kids were involved.

Greg bowed into the men’s room in the restaurant while Chuck and Tiffany strode outside into the night. Sam turned to Alex.

“You want something to eat?” she volunteered as she tucked her small bag of shirts under her arm while she put her change away.

“Nah, I’m not very hungry believe it or not,” he said, “Chuck also told me that he and Tiffany are going next door to bar for a drink.” To which he then eyed her juggling her things only to put her wallet away. “Here, let me help you—“

He took the shirts so she could put the change inside her wallet, and then her wallet back into her purse. Once she had it back against her body, he handed the shirts back to her.

“Thank you,” she told him.

“Wanna take a walk outside?” he offered her.

“Take a walk on the wild side?” she retorted, and Alex laughed, a big hearty bout of laughter. But he led her out to the front door of the restaurant, where the night had fallen upon Los Angeles: a hazy orange glow emerged from the downtown area, such that Sam could only see the stars in the sky if she turned her attention to the north, over the mountains.

Alex led her to the corner next to the bar, and they both peeked inside: Chuck and Tiffany were in fact in there and at the bar in anticipation of their drinks.

“Did Greg say anything about being in there?” Sam asked him.

“Nah, he just said he was using the bathroom and then he’d meet us outside.” Alex took a glimpse over his shoulder right then.

“I’m not seeing him, though.” He stood there at the corner of the sidewalk and she awaited right next to him there. Once they glanced about both ways first, he took a step off of the curb and she walked side by side with him to the opposite sidewalk, right near the car. But Alex himself kept on going into the darkness: the sole light came from the glow of the city, the neon lights behind them, and the sole street lamps on the corners up ahead.

“Would you believe that before I joined Testament,” he started at one point, “I never really had been to the L.A. area?”

“Really?” She was stunned by that, to which he nodded his head, even in the darkness.

“Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area my whole life,” he told her. “Never really felt the need to leave until I decided I wanted to be in a band. Sometimes I made visits to New York City or out to Vegas, but never the City of Angels. It was weird telling Chuck that, too, because he was born in L.A.”

They reached the street corner and he ran his fingers through his hair once more. Even in the nondescript light, Sam made out the sight of his deep eyes as they glanced off to their right. She was once again alone with Alex, and what better place than an area she called home for such a long time.

“I will say this,” he began again as he strolled along the sidewalk with her right next to him.

“What's that?”

“I'm glad that you're out this way,” he admitted: whenever he looked over at her, the ambient glow of everything made him resemble to a little porcelain doll. “Ever since we got together on New Year's over in Ithaca, I went home thinking, 'I was really wrong about Samantha.'”

“I feel bad about you overhearing at that conversation I had had with Aurora, though,” she confessed. Meanwhile, the sidewalk deviated away from the grass and gave way to pillars of pure concrete.

“Why?” he asked her as he stepped down in the barren storm drain.

“You saw a side to me that I didn't really want you to see.” She followed his lead into the storm drain, away from the concrete and almost into the street.

“Why? She was your best friend and she pretty much left you behind at this point.”

“And she made your day all about her,” she added.

“And she made my birthday all about her, right,” he echoed her.

They kept on walking around the concrete until they reached the next edge of the sidewalk. Beyond that something dark emerged from behind the pillars.

“Bit of grass here,” he pointed out.

“Grass, the trees, and the hill,” Sam added, and she turned to him. No moon out that night but there was in fact plenty of ambient light from the city near there and the very town of Alhambra; despite the dim light, however, she could make out the sight of that gradual hill side not too far from the concrete's edge.

“Remember during Kirk and Rebecca's wedding when you and Zelda rolled down that one hillside together?” he recalled.

“Oh yeah!” Sam snapped her fingers at that. “And you and Joey ran down it together with your shirts off like you were a couple of athletic boys.”

“I dunno about him but my suit was getting a little heavy at that point,” he pointed out with a shrug of his shoulders and a lopsided little grin. Through the darkness, she noticed his eyes pointed towards the other side of the grass. “Hey, there's the car.”

“Where?”

“Due north of us from here. Right over there.”

“Shall we frolic in the park?” she joked.

“At this time of night?” he pointed out.

“Yes.”

“There's no light, though, Samantha. We can't see the creatures and things that crawl about the grass beneath us.”

“Well, if we frolic about in the park, we gotta get closer at some point, though. So you can protect me from all the bad things that linger about down in the grass.”

“Well—you're technically married now,” he pointed out as they continued onward to the next corner. One more corner, and they were back at the restaurant and the bar, and of course the safety of the car.

“Yeah... but I don't have a ring, though,” Sam pointed out. “Sure, Bill made me sign some things but we don't have the things that make a marriage a marriage. Or at least so I think.”

“But you are technically married to Bill, though,” Alex insisted. “That means we can't fool around or do anything like that or anything that involves any kind of frolicking. Or at least that's what the Jew in me tells me.”

Sam giggled at that.

“Mr. Wandering Jew,” she joked.

“The Wandering Jew!” he recalled with a chuckle. “I think we gotta put a name on that at some point.”

“Who, you and me or you and Testament?”

“Testament! That could be a track for an album in the future. When I get back to my guitar, I'll throw around some licks and see what comes out of it at some point.”

“You are just—you are fascinating, Alex,” Sam remarked.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. There’s so much more to you than meets the eye, and I feel like I’ve just scratched the surface with you.”

“You really have, Samantha,” he told her, “you like barely made an etching on the surface of the little Skol-man.”

“By the way,” she began and a part of her shuddered at the phrase given she knew Bill likes to employ that onto her, “I know you're a guitarist for a heavy metal band—but are there any other genres you play?”

“Not really,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Most of my influences tend to be rock n' roll based. Most anyways. I saw Miles Davis in a concert on TV a while back, and ever since then, that's piqued my interest for the jazz world. I was raised by older parents compared to my peers. Where they grew up to things like Grateful Dead, I was exposed to like Sinatra and Dean Martin when I was growing up.”

“Who do you tend to be influenced by?”

“Well, my favorite band ever is the Beatles. I think anyone who knows what they're talking about when it comes to music they mention the Beatles at some point. They have to mention them, too, otherwise they have no credibility. The thing that got me into heavy metal was Kiss—I remember being eleven years old and literally begging my parents to take me to see Kiss. I actually cried to convince them.”

“Aw!”

“Yeah, my older brother Nate was like 'okay, Alex, if we can't get Mom and Dad to say yes, turn on the water works' and I did! So the Beatles got me into guitar, Kiss was what convinced me to go into metal—and then I found Van Halen and Eddie Van Halen, whom I think genuinely inspired me to be a lead guitarist. And then I started finding more and more guitar players like Randy Rhoads and Stevie Ray Vaughn. I also found a movie—you might find it the next time you go to a video store like near here or over in New York—that came out when I was nine years old, I think? I was nine going on ten. It's called 'American Hot Wax'—got people like Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Screamin' Jay Hawkins playing themselves!”

“'American Hot Wax',” she repeated, “I'm writing that down.”

“Please do! The last time I threw out that movie name to someone they forgot it in like three minutes and then I never saw them again.”

Sam stopped right on the sidewalk in search of that one piece of paper, the one with Chuck's and management's phone number written on one side, and a pen down inside of her purse. Alex stopped right before her with his head bowed a little bit before her. The neon from the bar across the street from there provided enough light for her to find it but she had to squint her eyes in order for her to adjust to the sight of the ink on the paper.

“Can you see?”

“Sort of.” She held the paper within the pink and blue glow of the neon and that proved to be enough for her.

“'American Hot Wax',” he repeated. “The story of Alan Freed, the disc jockey who introduced rock n' roll to the masses and even coined the term, too. It's a little obscure, though, I remember one of Nate's friends had a copy of it and I happened to watch along with them. So you might have to look around for it.”

“A little late movie night the next time I see Marla and Bel,” she said as she carefully wrote the words down.

“Do they still live in New York, by the way?” he asked her.

“Marla does—Belinda went up to Albany to work in a shop that specializes in stained glass.”

“Oh, wow, that's badass.”

“She tried to get me to take stained glass when we were in school but it went through twice.”

“Damn, that would've been awesome.”

“She showed me a few little tips and tricks on the whole world of glass. There’s just… so much I want to do. You know?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Absolutely.”

Alex then turned his attention to the sidewalk before them, to the car still parked there. Chuck and Tiffany were in that bar there while Greg appeared to be still in the restaurant.

“What shall we do next?” he asked her. “We kinda walked around in a big circle just now.”

Sam tucked the piece of paper and the pen both back into her purse, and she glanced up at the grass before them. They were close to the car and the sole light came from the neon across the street: he was too young to go inside there and she needn’t drink lest Bill ask her about it by the time she came back. As far as she knew no one would see them out there.

“We can lie here, though,” she suggested, and he giggled at that.

“Just lay on the grass?”

“Yeah, like star gaze. Just walking around here, I can tell that the sprinklers haven't come out yet, either. We're a ways out from the very center of L.A., so the light pollution isn't so bad out here in Alhambra.”

“Yeah, guess we sure can,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Just don't get too close to me, though.”

“Why not?” Sam laughed.

“Because when you get too close to me,” he started with a little gyration of his head, “it warrants a kiss from you.”

“I won't kiss you,” she assured him. Alex sighed through his nose and he ran his fingers through the piece of black hair on the right side of his head. That little glimmer of gray atop the crown of his head appeared even lighter against the soft neon glow near there.

Sam tucked her new Death Angel shirt underneath her arm, and then she led him onto the soft dry grass in the midst of the trees. It wasn't in fact entirely dry: a light dew already began to fall over their heads. She guided Alex towards a spot on the grass, the driest spot as far as she could tell there. He had rolled up that single bag of T-shirts into a tight bundle and, once Sam stopped right in place, he dropped down to the ground and he set the bundle down on the grass behind him.

“Oh, I see what you're doing,” she declared as he lay down flat on the grass and his shirt lifted a little bit up his body. Even in the darkness, Sam made out the sight of that little sliver of pale skin between the bottom hem of his shirt and his jeans, about the width of her thumbnail, but a sweet little sliver of his tummy nonetheless. She bunched up the shirts in her bag as well, and she followed his suit and lay down next to him there on the grass. A couple of inches separated them from the other.

“I won't kiss you,” she assured him for the third time in a row.

He shifted his weight there on the grass and folded his hands upon his stomach, which in turn made the sliver between his shirt and his jeans a little bit bigger. He swallowed and his neck appeared much more shapely than before. She thought of drawing that shapely neck at some point. It was a fleeting thought, but that thought in fact swam right through her mind at that point. The shape of his side profile and the soft appearance of his black hair as it sprawled over his shoulders even down there on the ground.

Sam then cleared her throat and he rolled his head over the makeshift pillow for a glance over at her.

“So if you write a song called 'The Wandering Jew',” she said, “will you credit me for inspiration?”

“Of course,” he replied with a slight chuckle. “I mean it only makes sense to do just that.” He showed her a sweet little smile and then he rolled his head back to where he lay flat on the bundle of the other shirts. “The Perseids are coming up here soon. At least I think they are.”

“Perseid meteor shower?” she asked him.

“Yeah. They're right in the middle of August—at least I think they are. That's my memory of them from when I learned about them in school.”

He fetched up a big yawn and then he stretched his arms up over his head. Sam rolled her head over her makeshift pillow for a look at the side of his face: the way in which his side profile had such a fineness to it. The prominent but gentle point of his nose. The full sensual shape of his lips. The smoothness of his skin and his chin.

She never thought of Alex as being so lovely, but laying there next to her, she recognized another side to him that she hadn't seen before there. She inched closer to the side of his face, much to his surprise. He gaped at her and raised his eyebrows at her.

His little body enticed her and she wanted him, and she wanted to kiss that little pearl of gray upon his head, now a little tuft the size of her index finger. She set a hand on the side of his face and she lunged in closer to his face.

“Samantha!” he gasped. “What're you doing?”

“I want to kiss you,” she whispered into his face; she showed him her tongue.

“Don't,” Alex begged her in a soft whisper and with a shake of his head.

“I want to kiss you,” she insisted as she gazed into those deep eyes and at those sweet smooth lips, as smooth as butter.

“Samantha—Samantha, please—you're legally married and you have a boyfriend, too.”

“So?”

Alex froze right in place at that.

“So?” she repeated, and he cracked her a smile and he laughed at that. He brought a hand to his mouth in order to stifle his laughter given they lay together there outside of the bar. She lifted herself up and then rolled over him: she suspended herself over him. He was right underneath her; Sam brought her face closer to his so she could smell the soft cologne on the side of his neck.

Decadent, like a little treat for her and all for her, all for being such a bad girl.

A bad girl with a good boy.

His chest heaved from her being right above him. The tips of her dark hair dangled down towards his chest and she ran her tongue around her lips to get him going as well.

“Samantha, I—” He could hardly talk. “—I—” She pressed a finger to those lips.

“You're just—you're so sweet and intelligent and funny and refined and just—everything totally different from what I'm used to.”

Alex swallowed but he never moved a muscle.

“I want to come closer to you,” she begged him as she touched his chest. With that free hand, she unfastened the bottom lip there at the top of his shirt. “I want to come closer to you, Alex Skolnick.”

Or at least that was what she thought would happen had she inched even closer to him. Instead she fluttered her eyelashes to rid of the daydream, and she just lay there on her back next to him and every so often, she peered over at him and the soft and smooth side of his face.

“I should tell you,” she began for real that time, “you have the cutest little lips.”

He snickered at that.

“You do! They're really cute and shapely, and I like how they kind of peel back whenever you talk, too.”

“I'm a mishmash,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Like one of those rag dolls,” she added.

“One of those rag dolls they piece together of all the scraps they scrape up from like the bottom of the barrel.”

“Nonsense,” she insisted.

“These lips under this schnoz and with these eyes and with the little tuft on my head? Yeah, it's bottom of the barrel, Samantha.”

“You are not from the bottom of the barrel, Alex,” she persisted. “I assure you.”

“I'm like something that the world likes to keep a secret, and by the time it comes out, it's already been said and done.”

He sighed through his nose and Sam frowned at that. And then it hit her, especially with Joey and Marla not around, and neither of her parents knowing about Alex himself.

“Speaking of secrets,” she began, to which he rolled his head back over the roll of shirts on the ground. “Can you keep another one?”

“I'll lock secrets up in a vault and never let them out,” he said in a single breath, “especially after Louie told Marla about your living situation. Can't believe he did that.”

“My parents are getting divorced,” she told him straight up.

“Aw, really?” He gaped at her.

“Yeah.”

“Well, why am I sworn to secrecy about it?”

“My mom doesn't want me talking about it with anyone. But she doesn't know about you, though.”

He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Really?” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah. So—could you?”

He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

“I'll put them in the proverbial vault, Samantha. Don't you worry about a thing.”

“Hey, kids!” Chuck called from across the street.

“I want you to be my secret, too,” she blurted out to him.

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yes. From my parents, from Joey, from everyone. I want you to be my best kept secret.”

“Sam?” Tiffany called from across the street. “Alex?”

“I’ll explain later,” she vowed, and he nodded his head and they both clambered up to their feet. Alex fixed his black hair and Sam straightened her top.

“Oh there they are, babe,” Tiffany pointed out from the shadow under the neon lights.

“Had a little fun on the grass?” Chuck joked as they headed closer to them.

“That’s for us to know and for you to find out,” Sam retorted, and Chuck erupted into laughter. She glanced over at Alex and the shadow cast over his face.

“Gonna be hell of a time getting you back home,” he said in a low voice. “I just think about how that man treats you, too.”

“That’s an understatement. I don’t even want to go back there.”

“You wanna hang out with us!” he exclaimed with a chuckle. “Next time we’re down this way, I’ll make sure you get a spot with us in the hotel room. I’d hate for you to go back to him.”

“Aw, Alex, that’s so sweet of you,” Sam said with a smile on her face.

“There’s Mr. Christian,” Chuck declared.

“Looks like he’s got some food, too,” Alex added. Indeed, Greg returned to the car with a brown cardboard box in one hand. The two of them awaited Chuck’s unlocking the doors as well as the folding back of the seats.

“Still not hungry?” Sam asked him as she took a whiff of whatever was inside there as Greg walked past.

“That might change,” Alex confessed to her before he climbed into the back seat behind Tiffany first.

[justahopelessssromantic]

I know u just posted another daddy angel request but I got another if u don’t mind , I was thinking of how daddy angel will react on how his little girl who’s in head start comes home saying she’s got a little boyfriend lol 😂 😂😂😂

A/N: Here it finally is! Thank you so much for the request girl and giving me more inspiration for our precious Daddy Angel! Like I said I got a little carried away, (something about Daddy Angel just does that to me lol) so it’s kind of long. I hope you all enjoy and thanks so much for reading! 💕

*gif not mine*

Warnings: Fluff and Smut 😏 18+ Only

Sitting on the floor of your living room you were folding the gobs of laundry you had while listening to your favorite true crime podcast through your ear buds. The host was just getting to the description of the grisly murders that rocked London in 1888. You listened intently, relishing in every detail as you folded the sparkly pink leggings of your four year old daughter, Penelope.

He was now onto the first suspect and you grabbed Angel's Romero Bros work shirt slipping it on a hanger and laying it flat across the sofa behind you smoothing any wrinkles out with your hands.

You then dug out the various change that littered the bottom of the basket. Angel always forgot to clean his pockets out before throwing a load of laundry in and it drove you insane. You now had a jar full of coins that you were calling your "vacation" fund. At this rate you'd be going on vacation any day now and you just might be going on your own.

Standing yourself up from your seated position that you had been in too long, with a bit of a struggle, you stretched out your back before rubbing your hand over your swollen belly. Smiling you felt the little guy kick at your hand from the inside.

He was either going to be an excellent soccer player or dancer. Or maybe even both, you weren't quite sure yet.

Setting the stacks of folded laundry into your empty basic you hoisted the thing up and was about to head to your bedroom when your front door opened. Slipping the bud out of your ear you smiled at your husband and daughter who just got back from school, "Hey baby. How was your day?" You asked your little mini me.

There was no response as Angel hung her backpack on the hook in front of the door. "Hey, P! You know the rules." Angel's voice stopped her as she attempted to storm past. She may be angry with him but he wasn't gonna let her get away with disrespecting the rules of the house. Whipping around she shot her Pops a glare before huffing and slipping her shoes off at the door. She then proceeded to make her way towards you, stomping down the hall and into her bedroom.

You looked to your husband who was clearly also not in the best of moods, "What the hell happened? What's up with your daughter?" You asked him, you were clearly missing something.

Slipping his cut off he hung it beside her backpack and slipped his own shoes off setting them nicely by the door.

He stepped up to you giving you a kiss on the cheek before taking the basket out of your arms to lighten your load. "Did you know our four year old daughter, our baby, apparently has a fucking boyfriend?"

"What?" You tried your best to keep in the snicker, you really did but you just couldn't keep a straight face.

That was what all this was about?

"Why the hell are you laughing woman? It ain't funny," He scoffed, licking his lips like he does so often, “You know what his name is? Anthony, our daughter is dating a boy named Tony. Fucking Tony!”

“Oh my god Angel he’s just a child.” Was he really so threatened about a four year old boy named Anthony?, “What are you going to do? Go intimidate a little preschooler?”

“He’s not a child,” He rebutted, “He’s a little punk who is gonna steal my daughter’s innocent years!”

“Wow, Daddy is so dramatic,” You remarked, looking down at your bump to the child in your belly. You looked back up at him with a smile on your face. “You know she’s just like you. That’s why you butt heads all the damn time.”

He knew that, that was the problem. As the days went by he could see himself more and more in her. There’s nothing like having a child just like you to make you feel bad for your parents.

He placed his large hand over your bump, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the cotton of your shirt, “You better be like your Mama little man. The last thing we need is for her to be stuck with three of us.”

You placed your hand over his, running your finger across the gold wedding band adorning his ring finger. It had been seven glorious years that you had been husband and wife.

“You know that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you looked just a little longer at the physical representation of your promise to each other, to love the other in the good and the bad, always. You returned your gaze back to those beautiful eyes that had you melting since the first moment they locked on with yours, “to be like you. Sure you are stubborn and selfish and hot headed and..”

“Hey, I thought you said it wasn’t all bad,” he interrupted you, setting the basket of laundry on the table beside you so he could have both his hands free. He stepped closer to you running his hands down the sides of your bump before resting them comfortably on your hips.

“And you have a terrible habit of interrupting me.” You teased grinning up at him as you continued.

“Right,” he chuckled, relaxing in your presence, “I’m sorry. Continue, mi amor.”

“But you’re also so loving. You have the biggest heart, Angel.” You placed your hands on his shoulders straightening out the collar of his shirt, “And you are always doing your best to do the right thing for your club, your family, even when it could put you at odds with those closest to you.”

You smiled up at him and it was one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

He leaned his head down, gravitating closer to you. You smelled of coconuts, shea butter, and vanilla. You smelled of home.

Stretching up to close what little gap was left you kissed his cheek, “And your smart,” then his jaw, “And loyal,” then the corner of his mouth, “And so incredibly sexy.” You purred.

He chuckled biting his lip, “I think you're losing your point here, mi dulce, but I don’t disagree.”

“And you are loved.” You finished with a passionate kiss. You pecked his lips once more before laying a smack to his ass, “Now go shower. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“God I love you,” he said, grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it before cupping your face with the other and kissing you once more. He ran his thumb across your bottom lip soaking in your features as he pulled away and headed into the direction of the bathroom backwards all while grinning at you, his stunning beauty. His hand was still entwined with yours until he got too far away and he was forced to momentarily part with you.

You two had been together for a decade now but still acted like lovesick puppy dogs.

Picking the basket back up you made your way down the hall and to your daughter’s room. Tapping the doorway lightly to alert her to your presence you stepped into the room to find her sitting on her floor playing with her favorite motorcycle Angel had brought home for her after a run.

Placing the basket onto the bed you crouched down next to her, “Hey baby, do you wanna tell me about it?”

She rolled the bike back and forth across the floor keeping her focus on the toy, “Why won’t Daddy let me have a boyfriend?” She pouted, “It’s no fair.”

“Look at Mama for a minute baby,” You said gently running your hand over her dark curls. She did as you asked looking up to you with her big brown eyes. She was so much like Angel it was scary sometimes, “Daddy just has trouble sharing sometimes. He doesn’t want to have to share you,” you ran your thumb across her cheek lovingly, eliciting a little smile from her like you always could , “But he’s gonna work on it. Everyone has things they can do better at.”

“Like I’m gonna have to learn to share once my baby brother comes?” She asked, glancing to your stomach.

“Exactly,” you smiled down at her, “You are so smart, just like Daddy.” You kissed her cheek straightening back up. “You can play for a little longer but then it’s dinner time.”

She nodded returning her attention back to her motorcycle making little revving and rumbling noises as she rolled the toy around the ground. You put her clothes away into her little purple dresser before picking your basket up once more. You stole one more glance at your beautiful girl before exiting her room and heading down the hall to Angel and your’s shared bedroom.

Setting the basket on the foot of the bed you looked up just as Angel stepped out of the connected bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. Smirking he watched you stare at him, "You like the view, mi dulce?"

"I'd like it better without the towel," you flirted biting your lip as your gaze lowered.

He shook his head sauntering over to you, "God pregnancy makes you fucking horny."

"I've never heard any complaints before,” You teased batting your lashes up at him. He cupped your face, kissing you slow and sweet.

“As much as I’d love to fuck you right now,” you murmured in his ear placing a kiss to his jaw. He groaned loving that foul mouth of yours, “You need to get dressed because dinner will be ready soon.”

With that you left him to it while you went to round up your daughter for dinner. She picked up her toys like you had asked before washing up for dinner and making her way to the kitchen with you. Helping her situated herself on her chair you placed a napkin over her lap.

Angel walked in shortly behind you, now much less distracting as he was fully dressed. He pulled you into him kissing you on the cheek as the oven timer dinged signaling your dinner was ready.

He pulled the lasagna out of the oven and set it atop the stove. Grabbing a spatula he cut the dish into pieces scooping out a small portion and cutting it up into little pieces to cool on Penelope’s favorite Toy Story plate. Next he scooped out a piece for you and then him, followed by some garlic bread to complete the meal with a scoop of sauerkraut spread across your toast just how you liked it. Carefully bringing them over to the table all at once, rather impressively, he set the meals in front of his two girls.

“Thank you baby.” You smiled at him. Licking your lips you turned your attention to your plate, mouth watering from the delicious aroma wafting from the food.

You gave your daughter a look as she pouted over her food clearly still holding a grudge against her father, “What do we say P?”

“Thank you Papi,” She grumbled rather begrudgingly before poking at her food with her little fork.

Angel took his place beside you cracking open his beer as he looked at his little world in front of him. He thought maybe she’d drop in by now and be all in his lap like usual but no she was a stubborn little thing.

“How about you tell us all about Anthony,” You suggested. Angel almost lost his shit as he looked at you wide eyed. She was already pissed at him, he didn’t want to add on to the fury.

She looked at you very suspiciously, not sure whose side it was you were on, her’s or her daddy’s. She took a bite of her lasagna as she stared Angel down, almost daring him to speak first.

You were starting to agree with Angel now and really hoped your second would be more like you. To say the atmosphere was tense would be an understatement.

“Daddy promises he will listen and be very understanding, right Daddy?” You looked to Angel with a smile plastered across your beautiful lips.

How could he say no to you? And you did put him on the spot, “Right,” he gave in. He would try his hardest, if only for you. He leaned back in his chair meeting her gaze and waited to hear all about this Tony kid.

You nodded giving her the room. Taking a sip from her sparkly cup filled with milk she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before beginning. “His name is Anthony,” she told you proudly with a smile on her face, ignoring her father’s gaze now.

“Yeah?” Angel spoke up and you prayed whatever came out of his mouth next would not set her off any more, “And what does this Anthony do? Does he work? How is he gonna provide for my baby?” He asked her, trying to throw her off.

“He’s Spider-Man, duh,” She said as if that should be common knowledge to him.

He tried to keep his composure but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face, “Spider-Man, huh? You can’t date Spider-Man baby. It’s too dangerous.” He tried to reason with the four year old across from him.

“But he’s a hero Daddy,” She furrowed her eyebrows at him before her features soften, “Just like you.”

His heart melted as he looked at his princesa. She knew exactly how to soften him up and he was a sucker for that.

“He’d protect me,” She continued on, “Just like you always do.” She added on to the sweetening of her father.

“I’ll make you a deal, Penelope,” He said, looking into those soft brown eyes surrounded by those dark lashes of hers as she batted her eyelashes at him. Now that she got from you. “I want to meet this Anthony the Spider-Man and then if he proves himself worthy of mi princesa I will consider it.”

She thought this proposition over for a moment in her head. It wasn’t exactly a win for her but she had softened him and she could soften him up some more, “Okay.” She agreed with a smug little smile on her face, “Can I be excused now?” She asked.

She had eaten a decent amount of food during the exchange so you gave her the go ahead. Picking her plate up she set it by the sink and walked off to go play in the living room.

“You know she just totally played you, right?” You grinned looking over at your husband. You expected there to be much more of a fight but damn was that girl good.

“I know,” He said flashing you a smirk, “But she’s not the only one playing this game, mi amor.”

You rolled your eyes mentally preparing yourself for the craziness that could await you in this next week.

—————————————————————————————————————

The next day your husband and daughter got home from school in a much better mood than the day before, thankfully. They were full of smiles as Angel hung her backpack up and they slipped their shoes off at the door like always.

“How’d it go?” You asked looking between the two. They exchanged a look and your daughter giggled. It appeared they were thick as thieves once again. “Did you meet Anthony?” You asked Angel.

“Nope.” He grinned at you, “Why don’t you tell Mama what you told me P?” He suggested proudly.

She shrugged nonchalantly, giving you a hug, “I broke up with Anthony. He tried to kiss me,” she scrunched her little face up in disgust, “It was icky.”

Angel chuckled at that, he’d never get tired of hearing her say that. Hopefully this phase lasted a while, “Yeah, kissing boys is very icky,” He agreed, “Right Mama?”

You shook your head letting out a laugh. At least the fighting was over, for now, “Yep, kissing boys is real icky.”

“And there’s only one hero for me,” She beamed at Angel before scurrying off to play in her room, full of energy.

“What about you Mama?” Angel asked, swaggering up to you, “Is there only one hero for you?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” You teased, “Superman is plenty enough for me.”

He smacked you on the ass playfully planting a kiss on your cheek before walking off to go clean up from work before dinner.

That night you tucked your little girl into bed and Angel read her two bedtime stories like always even though she was only supposed to get one, he couldn’t say no to her little pleas, before heading off to bed yourselves.

Crawling into bed together you turned your lamp off and waited for Angel to do the same. Instead he just stared at you with that look in his eyes and smirk upon his face, “I think you’re forgetting something, mi amor.”

“Yeah? And what might that be?”

“My goodnight kiss.” He grinned at you and puckered his lips.

“Oh is that so? But don’t you remember kissing boys is icky,” you teased giving him a grin back before turning around and snuggling into the bed facing away from him.

“Yeah well baby I’m not a boy, I’m a man.” You felt the bed shift as he settled closer to you.

“Really?” You teased some more, the smile still plastered to your face. You held your breath as you felt his hot breath against the skin of your neck, his large rough hand sliding across your stomach.

“I was man enough to knock you up twice now, wasn’t I?” he purred into your ear giving you chills.

He wasn't wrong.

Gently moving your hair from your neck he began kissing and sucking your sweet flesh, his hand wandering down your nightgown and taking hold of your breast flicking your erect nipple with his thumb.

Your breath hitched as you enjoyed the touch only he could provide you. He grinned into his kisses relishing in how your body responded to him and his yours, his stiff member pressing firmly against your ass.

Being the tease you were you wiggled your ass against him causing a low groan to rumble from within his chest. His hand wandered down hooking into the sides of your underwear before slipping them slowly down your legs.

Running his hand back up the side of your leg slowly he stopped at your thigh moving his hand in the other direction to tease between your legs. He kissed your jaw, then the side of your mouth, then your lips as you turned your head to meet his face. Running his hand back down your thigh he grabbed behind your knee pulling your leg up opening you further to him.

Yanking his boxer briefs down whilst never breaking your makeout session he grabbed his hard cock and teased the tip at your entrance collecting your sweet juices. You gasped at the contact and Angel took the opportunity to snake his tongue into your mouth before pushing slowly inside you.

You took him well, you always did and he stayed still a moment just relishing in the moment of your bodies coming together as one. Once you started to wiggle your hips, desperate for some form of friction he gave in to your needs, and his, and began thrusting at a slow sensual pace, his hand finding its place to rest on your bump.

He kept his pace slow and teasing. You felt so good wrapped around him, it took everything in him not to rush, but he wanted to prolong the both of your pleasure as long as he could.

It didn’t take long until you were pushing back against him meeting his thrusts and he knew you had had enough. Littering sloppy kisses across your shoulder he picked up the pace hitting all the right places. His hand traveled to your clit running circles around your most sensitive spot.

“Fuck,” you moaned out as your walls clenched around him.

“You close?” He murmured into your ear, “You wanna come?”

You nodded your head finding it hard to muster out any words as he continued his assault on your clitoris while simultaneously thrusting into you with such calculated movements of his hips.

“Say it,” he growled into your ear, ceasing his hand movements. He nibbled at your earlobe as he waited for the words he loved so much.

“Fuck,” you gasped out, desperate for him to return his touch, “Yes Daddy,” you gave him what he wanted, “Please.”

He smirked working his thumb once more as he pushed into you deeper, his thrusts getting sloppier as he began to twitch inside you, you both almost to your breaking point. He quickened the movements of his thumb and it wasn’t long before you came undone around him. Just a few more thrusts and he was right there with you filling you up as he moaned out face buried in your neck.

You lay there together, spent as he held your back close to his sweaty chest, still buried deep inside you. Kissing the back of your shoulder he mumbled into your skin, “I fucking love you, (Y/N).”

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[brideofcthulhu10]

I have another lame request if that's ok? Paul with girlfriend who is a member of rock band?

Oh I love it! There are no lame requests, hon. Don’t even worry about that. Personally, I’ve thought about that a few times before too

Paul with a Rock Band Baby

CONTENT WARNING: Offensive Language, Potential Triggers, Gore! READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

Oh that’s how he met you! Opening for a bad ass concert, he was sold the moment your cute butt stomped out with wildly teased hair, sporting shredded black nylons, biker boots, a leather skirt and a torn up black tank top with your band’s name crudely spray painted on. At first he thought you were a groupie that jumped on the stage- until you slung that gorgeous cherry red six string over your neck. One hand on the mic, taking in a deep breath before you scream

“HELLO SANTA CARLA! We are (Band Name) and we’re here to blow your BRAINS OUT!”

He thought a mermaid had just jumped on stage because your voice utterly hypnotized him. Paul wove through the moshing, dancing crowd screaming. It was a show for the ages, you owned that stage like it was your destiny. They way you shredded just hit him, he hadn’t even realized you guys finished until you bid the crowd farewell. Farwell? Wait! Merch in the back?! Cue him yanking Marko and Dwayne with him. He HAD to meet you! 

Star struck was a bit extreme, but that’s only way Marko could describe Paul. Oh boy, they lost him. Paul’s up in space just lost to your feminine charms. Turns out you guys were pretty damn good as a few teenage girls posed with their polaroid camera, eagerly buying up a few T-shirts and then it was their turn. 

“Dude, earth to Paul, man,” Marko nudged, snapping him out of it.

“Huh? Oh! Shit!”

“Sooo I’m guessing I should make it out to Paul, right,” you ask with a teasing smile. 

Paul has since shown up to every concert you played, always swooping back to speak to you. Eventually you caught on. Honestly, it wasn’t too hard. After all, this guy was always so slick around everyone else but once he talked to you he was tripping over his own feet, getting his bracelet stuck in his hair, nearly knocking over your stacks of CDs. As you help him pick up the scattered photos, he’s going on about what an ass he was when you cut him off. 

“Uhm, Paul, do you wanna go out with me this Saturday?”

Did he die? He swore his soul just flew out. Date. Date, a date, a mother fucking date with an angel of rock! Someone punch him he’s gotta be dreaming. Of course he says yes, and it is everything you could hope from a date with him. Schooling his ass in the bumper cars, sharing a big ol’ pink and blue cloud of cotton candy while browsing the music shop, he has to show off at the strength test. When the bell rings he lets you pick out an adorable, floppy armed, little purple elephant with sunglasses that read “Santa Carla Cool” on the lenses. When he kisses you on the Ferris wheel you don’t even realize the massive burst of summer time fireworks they’d launched- you just assumed they were the sparks flying. Well, one kiss wasn’t enough. You two ended up making out all the way to the end of the ride. 

You weren’t supposed to find out about him being a vampire, but that night he had no choice. It was after a gig at this club that just opened up on the boardwalk, you had gone to the alley way for a smoke while your boyfriend offered to help the band carry their gear back to your van. Some unhinged fan came up to you. At first he seemed sincere, just kind of skittish. You figure he was just another star-struck fan. Then he professed his undying love for you. Oh, uh...

“L-Look that’s really nice man,” you trail off, starting to inch away from him. “But, I’m sorry, I’m kinda already seeing someone. It’s really nice to meet you though-”

“-What?! No, no, no you’re not supposed to say no! Y-You can’t-!”

Okay time to run. He tried to grab you and you immediately kneed him in the crotch. That kept him for only a minute and he ran after you, snatching you by your hair before you could reach the crowded streets of the boardwalk. No one could hear you scream, you did everything to try and push him off. Kick, flail, thrash, the ominous drag of a zipper striking fear into your heart. Until he stopped.

Gasps, gurgles, then a spray of blood staining both of you. A hand was shoved straight through his stomach, he looked at the hand then back at you easily three times before it retracted yanking out his intestines. The lifeless corpse flopped over next to you and suddenly the air returned to your lungs inflating your screaming again. Holy shit! What the fuck?! Paul was standing above you trying to ask if you were okay. Nope. Not at all. His entire arm was dripping in that guy’s blood, sharp claws replacing his nails. The was nothing compared to his face. His brow and cheeks had raised with the rest sinking in, looking more like an animal than human. Blue eyes were glowing white with dark red circles detailing them, and two sets of fangs sticking out when he spoke. And cue faint.

When you came to, it was some weird old dusty cave filled with decrepit furniture, posters and dirty old paintings- and there was Paul! It was hard not to scream and panic at first. The whole vampire thing was a lot to digest. Of course he tried to excuse it any way he possibly could. You hit your head, the guy was dead when he found him, it was swamp gas! Anything he could to get you to stay. The information was just to much to process and you ran.

Paul is utterly heartbroken, waiting every night for you to show up. But instead you stayed home at your apartment for the next week. He was destroyed, just in a depressed funk the guys couldn't get him out of. David even suggested flying to your place and dragging your sorry butt back but Paul just turned him down.

"It would take two minutes tops, I'm tired of you moping all over the place!"

"What's the point. The music's gone, man. I can't rock out if I don't have my ride or die baby by me"

Meanwhile you had shut yourself in. A vampire. The though terrified you but... all you could do was think about your baby who saved you. You kept seeing not the gore he left behind, but his tear filled eyes every time you slept. You could still hear him screaming for you to come back. It was too much. Vampire or not you needed to see him.

The next time you two reunite its all love. Marko managed to haul his depressed ass out for a ride on the beach but Paul just sulked on the boardwalk. He was practically melting away on his bike when a familiar pair of boots walked up next to him as he stared at the ground.

"Hey rocker," she coos softly. "Is there room for one more on that bike?"

Paul just kisses you and hugs you, jumping off his bike and swooping you into his arms. It's the first time either of you had genuinely smiled in days. The guys leave you two to your dramatic reunion. After all, now you had come to grips with your new vampire boyfriend, they were sure you must have a lot of questions for him. 

Paul still comes to every night time concert you have. More so now that you only accepted gigs after dark. It played to your image so no one really questioned it. Recently you’ve been writing some very strange songs. “Bat out of Hell”, “My Dark Prince”, “A Vampire’s Ballad”. They seem to really hit with the teens so your bandmates are living for it. Paul is just ecstatic when he here’s your newest song, “Blonde Beast”. He gushes to the guys every night about his girl writing songs about him, to the point where David has started mimicking Paul because he’s said the same schpiel easily twenty times. Dwayne humors him. His buddy is happy, gush all you want dude, and Marko has started coming to your gigs too. They can’t wait for you to come to the hotel. Or rather, they’re eager for when you decide to join them. What’s more badass than a punk rock singer who’s a vampire?