#like i started the album when i started drawing and plastic dolls started right when i finished

[rillette]

government mandated jay portrait hours 

[heyiwrotesomethings]

Photos

ShinoMitsu Week 2023 Day Three

A/N: Modern AU for this one. I know they had photography in Japan by the time Demon Slayer takes place, but I had a very specific idea in mind. Hope you like it, thanks for reading! Word Count: 2,000

Mitsuri hadn’t meant to arrive so early, but her mom had sent her on her way because she was digging a trench into the floor with her anxious pacing. Now she found herself sat on the couch of the upstairs apartment where the Kochou family lived above their family pharmacy, stuck between Shinobu’s sisters with Shinobu herself nowhere in sight.

Apparently she was helping her dad with some sorting and wouldn’t be back up for a other hour or so, and that was how Mitsuri became the hostage of Kanae and Kanao, but honestly she was more so trapped by the older sibling than the younger who seemed content to simply watch her eldest sister cook.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you Mitsuri!” Kanae had smiled, pulling Mitsuri around wherever she saw fit, taking full advantage of Shinobu’s absence. “I was beginning to worry that Shinobu had made you up!”

“Ah, nope! I’m real. I’m sorry for not finding the time to introduce myself sooner.” Mitsuri apologized contritely, but Kanae would have none of it.

“Oh, it’s not your fault, I’m sure. I know how Shinobu is. She can be such a handful sometimes, always overcomplicating and overthinking and so, so stubborn.” Kanae took Mitsuri’s hands in a gesture of gratitude, “She is very thoughtful and sweet underneath all of the angst, so I’m very glad you gave my grumpy baby sister a chance, you really are a saint, Mitsuri!”

“I- I don’t know about that!” Mitsuri blushed, hoping Kanae couldn’t feel how sweaty her hands were becoming.

Then Kanae got an evil glint in her eye that Mitsuri had seen Shinobu herself have on occasion, usually when she was about to verbally destroy someone who absolutely deserved to be taken down a few pegs. But whereas Mitsuri grew to love that cunning look on Shinobu, on Kanae she felt a measure of fear. Mitsuri gulped.

“Speaking of my grumpy baby sister, I know just the thing we can do until she comes back,” Kanae grinned, pulling Mitsuri to sit on the couch beside her, “Kanao, could you bring over Shinobu’s photo album, please?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Kanao was right to be a little hesitant, but Kanae promised to take full responsibility for whatever happens. Whatever that means.

So that was how Mitsuri found herself in the middle the her girlfriend’s sisters, Shinobu’s photo album on her lap while Kanae shared stories and turned each page, making sure to point out the cutest and most embarrassing pictures as if Mitsuri hadn’t already been guiltily burning the images into her brain to forever hold and cherish. She prayed that Shinobu would spare her life for her transgressions.

Shinobu had been premature baby, and needed extra oxygen in the hospital. There were a couple photos of her with her head beneath a plastic dome that provided her with the extra oxygen she needed.

“I thought it looked like she was going to space,” Kanae chuckled, “so I started calling her the astronaut baby.”

Shinobu had been so tiny that her father’s arms nearly engulfed her in one picture. Her little hand too small to fully encircle her mother’s finger in another. Even in the arms of a four year old Kanae she looked like a doll.

A little further along was Shinobu at three in mud-caked overalls with the biggest grin, hands full worms and pill bugs.

“Shinobu has always liked bugs a lot, I see.” Mitsuri smiled, “On our walks, she always stops to put the worms back in the grass after a rainy spell.”

“Some things never change.” Kanae shook her head fondly, looking down at another picture of Shinobu chasing her with the same handful of bugs.

So many pictures, so many stories. Shinobu with her sisters, making a sandcastle at the beach, playing in the bathtub, cute Halloween costumes, first day of school, cute scribble-y drawings that Shinobu’s drawing style still matched to this day, missing baby teeth, friends and extended family, track meet ribbons, report cards, science fair projects, family camping trips, all the way up until the day of the science club’s first place win at the regional academic conference a few weeks ago.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. It’s been a lot of fun.” Mitsuri was positively glowing with happiness, “I feel like I know Shinobu even better now.”

“The pleasure was all mine. If you want, you could save any of your favorites to your phone.” Kanae offered.

“Really?! I’d love too, thank you so much!”

“I think you two are playing with fire.” Kanao cautioned, eyeing the clock.

“You’ve been enabling us, Kanao. You have just as much a part in this as we do.”

“Shinobu won’t get mad at me. She always knows who the true mastermind is.”

From the entrance hall they could hear the door begin the rattle before swinging open, a familiar tired groan followed the closing of the door soon after.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Kana-nee. It was nice to meet you, Mitsuri.” Kanao settled comfortably on her portion of the couch, watching the two older girls try to speed through the album while Mitsuri snapped several photos, unwilling to go without them even at the possible cost of her own life.

“It’s always like ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie’ with mom and dad,” They could hear Shinobu gripe as she kicked off her shoes, “They ask you to do one thing, and then another and another, there’s always something else! They have two other daughters sitting upstairs who aren’t expecting company, you know.

“Speaking of which, when Mitsuri gets here, you can make your introductions or whatever, but if you try to embarrass me in any way, I will…” Shinobu paused at the doorway to the living room.

Her eyes fell on Mitsuri first, how could they not? She wasn’t worried about Kanao, but long had she been exposed to Kanae’s terrible influence? For a moment, she stared back at the owlishly round eyes of her older sister and her girlfriend, before she heard a rustle. Mitsuri’s eyes flicked to her lap and Shinobu heard several clicks of a camera shutter before Mitsuri’s eyes darted back up to meet hers.

Slowly, Shinobu’s stare lowered to Mitsuri’s lap and she blanched when she saw the thick book resting atop her thighs. Her gaze then dragged upward to Kanae’s.

“Careful Shinobu,” Kanae chuckled nervously, “we wouldn’t want you to pop a blood vessel… again.”

“Start running.”

Kanae squealed, flipping over the back of the couch as Shinobu lunged for her. She crawled over the couch as Kanae ran to her room, Shinobu probably would have caught up if she didn’t stop to snatch the photo album from Mitsuri’s lap along the way. Instead she ended up running into the door just as Kanae closed it.

“You’ll have to come out of there at some point!” Shinobu warned, smacking the door with a threatening thud.

“Please, Shinobu, show your sister mercy!”

“The only sister I have is Kanao. You will be dead by morning!”

“Shinobu, please don’t kill her!” Mitsuri pleaded, “She was only helping pass the time until you could come back.”

“She could have suggested a game or turned on the tv! She deliberately chose to humiliate me!” Shinobu countered, now very red in the face.

Mitsuri jogged over to Shinobu, cautiously touching the shorter girl’s tense back, “You shouldn’t feel humiliated, Shinobu. I love every part of you, and being able to see so much of your life laid out so plainly for me to see is something so precious to me that I will treasure it until the day I die.”

A muffled ‘aww’ could be heard from Kanae’s room and Shinobu pounded her fist against the door in warning before slowly turning to face Mitsuri, though her eyes still fluttered over the ground and her cheeks were still beet red.

Mitsuri coaxed Shinobu’s gaze upward with soft fingertips to her chin and jaw. Then she kissed away the vein that strained so visibly against Shinobu’s forehead that it was borderline concerning.

“I am sorry that I looked at your photos without your consent. Could you ever forgive me?”

Shinobu bit the inside of her lip and nodded meekly softly after. She could never be mad at Mitsuri, try as she might sometimes to put her foot down. Mitsuri had a her wrapped around her finger since day one and she was lucky that Mitsuri seemed to use her power over her sparingly.

“It’s strange,” Kanae hummed, “It’s pretty quiet out there, but I swear I just heard the crack of a whip.”

Shinobu pivoted quickly towards the door, “You’ll be hearing the crack of your door getting pulled off of its hinges if you don’t shut the hell up!” She warned.

“Hey, Shinobu,” Mitsuri wrapped her arms around Shinobu from behind, tugging her away from Kanae’s door, “If you promise not to kill your sister, I’ll let you look through all of my baby pictures the next time you come over. That way we’ll be even, right?”

Shinobu exhaled, relaxing against Mitsuri’s chest. She would really, really, really like to see Mitsuri’s cute little round face…

“It’ll take a lot more than that to atone for all of Kanae’s transgressions against me, but I suppose this deal will stave off her execution a bit longer.”

“You’re a real life saver, Mitsuri!” Kanae praised, “When the time comes that you want to get married, you have my blessing.”

Before Shinobu could lunge for the door again, Mitsuri easily pulled her away, “Hey Nobu, why don’t you show me your room! I’ve been looking forward to meeting Fugu personally. Kanao told me about the caterpillars you guys are raising in there too, I’d love to learn all about them.”

“Yeah? Okay, let’s go.” Shinobu thought about it briefly before untangling from Mitsuri’s arms, taking her hand instead, she lead her to the next door that was her and Kanao’s room.

Once Shinobu had some cuddle time with Mitsuri to help her cool off, and the Kochou parents closed shop for the day and came up to make dinner, Kanae felt it was safe enough to rejoin the family. But she did use Kanao and Mitsuri as body shields just in case Shinobu got any ideas.

Mitsuri had a lot of fun getting to know all of Shinobu’s family over dinner and games. She was already looking forward to spending more time with them in the future. As Shinobu was getting ready to walk her home, Kanae sidled up to her and whispered in her ear,

“Next time I’ll bring out the home videos. Just wait until you hear what her first word was, you’ll just die.”

Mitsuri really couldn’t wait to be invited back and she would be sure to arrive extra early.

“Kanae didn’t say anything weird to you just now, right?” Shinobu asked, eyeing Mitsuri suspiciously as they walked down the sidewalk hand in hand.

“Nope!” Mitsuri squeaked, her tone and sweaty hand giving her away.

Shinobu groaned, bumping her head against Mitsuri’s bicep, “You’re going to owe me a lot more than baby pictures if I ever find out what she’s plotting.”

“Every bit of me is yours. You can ask for whatever you want from me as penance in return for whatever trouble Kanae gets us into.”

Shinobu smiled shyly before she sighed and shook her head, nuzzling Mitsuri’s arm, “Just remember that you owe me baby pictures. In fact, I think you owe me every cute picture and video of yourself that you can find.”

“I will have them all laid out for you tomorrow.” Mitsuri promised.

That night when Mitsuri had crawled into bed, she practically had to smother herself to keep her squees of delight quiet as she rolled around beneath her covers and scrolled through her phone, trying to decide which of Shinobu’s precious photos to change her home screen to.

[dreamescapeswriting]

Only Yours ~ JHS [M] [Request]

WORD COUNT: 3K

GENRE: Fluffy, smut, possessive Hoseok, fluffy ending,

PAIRING: Hoseok X Fem!Reader

A.N: Don't read if you're under the age of 18/19 depending on the law in your country/state! Love ya'll Hope this is okay for you doll

You stared out of the small window in your living room as you debated about going to work or not, Hoseok chuckled when he walked in to see you standing there. Pouting at the rain that seemed to be hammering down outside, it had done nothing but rain for the last two days. Luckily the roads seemed to be clear enough for everyone to drive on, no flood warnings were issued either so you didn't have to worry about not getting home. Hoseok knew how much you loved staying at home on rainy days, you would curl up on the sofa beside him and read a book or just watch TV. You loved listening to the sound of the rain hitting the windows and the roof of the house.

"You have to go out there sooner or later," He laughed as he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your body kissing your shoulder softly, you sighed to yourself knowing he was right but that didn't mean you were wanted to go. Work was dragging you in over overtime while Hoseok had the week off from work. The first time in months he finally had some time off and you couldn't even stay at home with him. The rainy season was the best season to curl up next to someone you loved and yet you were being pulled further and further away from your loved one.

"What if I call in sick? Tell them I have chickenpox or the measles or something." You whined your mind filling with a random illness you could tell them you had to stop you from going into work. The common cold was too easy so you had to go with something like the chickenpox, someone contagious to those around you. Hoseok just began shaking his head as he pulled you towards the front door or you would never leave. It was like trying to get a child ready for school who really didn't want to go or trying to get Jungkook up in the mornings.

"You're only there for six hours, it'll fly by." He laughed softly as he watched your face fall at the mention of how long your shift was. It wasn't like you hated your job because you didn't, you adored your job but the one thing you hated about it was being away from Hoseok all of the time. If he wasn't at work you seemed to be at work and if you weren't at work he was either on tour or at the studios all day until late. But that was your life together and you wouldn't change it for anything else in the world, Hoseok was the love of your life and you were his.

"Go, I'll be here when you come home. A nice home-cooked meal and hot chocolate waiting for you." He promised as he wrapped your scarf around your neck and tightened it up so you would be warm enough to walk to the car. The thought of Hoseok cooking on the brand new oven was alarming, he hadn't used it yet but the last time he tried to cook in the old apartment he almost burnt it down.

"Don't burn the house down? We only just moved in and the neighbours already hate us enough," You told him as you remembered your landlord telling you both about the complaints he'd received from the tenants next door. Whenever the boys came around to see you or Hoseok it always ended up with them being loud, the joys of being friends with seven crackheads. All of them hyped up from their days at work or from a concert. It wasn't your fault that the neighbours were all old and moody all of the time, 

"I'll give them something to complain about, we're not even loud." Hoseok chuckled as he bent down to give you a small kiss on the lips, you kissed him again...Then again trying to kiss him enough times so he would tell you to stay but it didn't work. He turned you around and pushed you out of the front door, standing in the door frame as he watched you pull out onto the road and head off.

As soon as you'd been gone long enough for Hoseok to know you wouldn't be coming back he went to make himself a hot drink and then head upstairs, he was going to be the nice boyfriend he always was and finish unpacking things for you. The two of you had been together for five years and this was your first big place together meaning there were boxes from the old apartment and your old home that needed unpacking. 

"Where to start?" He hummed as he walked into the spare bedroom where all of the boxes were being stored, he grabbed your clothes boxes and headed back to the main room unpacking everything for you. He thought it might have been a nice surprise for you to come home to since both of you had been too busy to do most of the unpacking after moving in a week ago. 

Hoseok had severely underestimated how much clothing you had as he finished unpacking the seventh and final box and took a couple of steps back away from the wardrobe. 90% of what was filling it was your clothes and he'd already unpacked all of his own.

"Damn babe how much-" Hoseok stopped speaking to himself when he found another box in the spare bedroom, it was duck taped tightly and had some love hearts drawn all over it. Smirking to himself he picked it up and carried it into the main bedroom to take a look at it. The two of you shared everything with one another so it wasn't as though he was doing something he shouldn't have been. He grabbed the pair of scissors from the bedside cabinet and slid the box open to reveal some folders and then more boxes.

"What have you been hiding Miss Y/l/n?" He chuckled to himself as he pulled one of the folders open to see a Yoongi poster inside of a plastic wallet, no big deal he knew you were a fan before you started dating but as he continued to flick through the folder it became more and more obvious that they were all pictures of Yoongi.

Next, he pulled out one of the smaller boxes to reveal every single Yoongi photo card that had been published with their albums, it must have taken you years and years to get every single one of only his cards. Then there was more items at the bottom of the box, every shooky item available in print. He knew he shouldn't have been growing jealous at the thought of someone other than him being your bias but he couldn't help it. Jealously was bubbling up inside of him at the thought of Yoongi being your bias, especially when he thought about how close you were to Hoseok as a friend. He knew that the two of you would never do anything to hurt him but the anger that was raging inside of him wouldn't let him see past the anger and the jealousy. The thought of you and Yoongi hanging out together and one day admitting to him that he was your bias hit Hoseok hard and he decided to pack the box up, leaving it on the box and waiting for you to come home from work.

"Hobi!" You cried out as you walked through the front door of your house, the warmth hitting you instantly as you shivered. The rain had started to turn to snow and you were freezing to the point where you could no longer feel your face. Hoseok had seen your car pull into the driveway so he headed up to the bedroom to wait for you, leaving the box in perfect view so you knew what was going to happen,

"Hobi?! I'm home..." You took off your layers of coats and scarfs and kicked off your shoes walking into the living room to expect to find Hoseok sitting there but he was nowhere to be seen, the lights were all off downstairs so you headed to the bedroom. 

"Hoseok are you taking a nap?" You giggled pushing the door open but stopped giggling the moment you saw the box sitting there, covered in hearts and drawings you'd done. 

"Hobi..." You whispered as you looked at the box but Hoseok wasn't in the room, at least not where you could see. He came up from behind you and pulled you back into his chest, arms wrapped around your waist.

"How was work?" He asked as he began to pull off the cardigan you were wearing, you looked at him out of the corner of your eye and bit down on your lip, you could sense that something was wrong with him. Normally you would come home to a nice conversation before he attacked you with kisses. 

"It was okay...W-Where did you find-" He cut you off with a rough kiss on the lips and you smirked against his lips, you knew how possessive Hoseok seemed to get in the bedroom but you'd never meant for him to find that box. It wasn't even supposed to come with you in the move, you were supposed to leave it at home.

"You're mine, you know that right?" He smirked as he began kissing down your neck, his voice muffled by your neck as he kissed and sucked on the exposed skin. You hissed at him while nodding your head in answer to his question. 

"I'm all yours Hobi," You confirmed as he continued to attack your neck in kisses, biting and sucking on every bit of skin he could sink his teeth into turning you into a whimpering mess. 

"You're not allowed to hang around with him anymore, you're mine." He growled turning you around to look at him, you whimpered, even more, when you stared into his eyes to see they were clouded over. Lust filled eyes as he stared down at you, biting his lip as he pushed you down onto the bed. You watched him from the bed as he looked down at you, biting on his lip as he waited for you to start talking to him.

"He's just a friend," You whispered but he didn't care, he ripped the trousers you were wearing as he tried to get them off you as soon as possible. He was going to do anything and everything he could to make sure everyone knew that you belonged to him, that you were his and his alone.

"Mmm look at you," He hummed as he looked at your exposed core, he ran his fingers up and down your folds as he chuckled to himself the small touches making you whimper. Whenever you and Hoseok had sex it was like he was an entirely new person and you loved it, no one could ever imagine the type of person he would become, 

"I'm the only one who makes you dripping wet like this, right angel?" He cooed as he continued to run his fingers through your folds, using his index finger to rub around your clit making you hiss out at the lack of contact he was giving to you. 

"Only you," You told him as you bucked up to keep the connection between you,

"So needy and I haven't done anything to you yet," Chuckling darkly he kissed your neck once again, moving his hands away from your heat and unbuttoning the blouse you were wearing. Ripping it open leaving your black bra exposed to him, 

"Take it all off, everything." He ordered as he sat down on the edge of the bed, it was now that you noticed he was dressed in nothing but his boxers. Palming himself through his trousers as he watched you get off the bed and slowly begin to strip out of the remaining clothes for him. Kicking them to the other side of the room as you got onto your knees and crawled towards him, running your hand up his thigh as you locked eyes with him.

"Nuh-uh, tonight is about you baby girl." He told you as he pulled you up from the floor and placed you back down onto the bed.

"Shall I bring Yoongi in? Make him watch you as I fuck you?" He smirked up at you as he kisses up your thighs, biting down on your skin softly, 

"Maybe I should call him right as your cumming around my fingers and you can let him know who you belong to." Your head was in a whirlwind at all the things he was saying but you shook your head at him, 

"Just fuck me," You begged him as you stared down into his eyes pleading with him with the look in your eyes, 

"Look at you, moaning and begging for me like the good girl you are," He chuckled coldly as he watched you bucking against his touch. You were desperate for him to touch you even if it was just a small one, 

"Please Hobi, need you." You knew how pathetic you probably sounded to him but you didn't care, all you wanted was his hands on your body. All over your body. He smirked looking at you as he used his thumb to circle your clit, pressing two fingers against your hole as he chuckled. 

"Are you sure you need me? Tell me what you want me to do, exactly what you want me to do." He stared at you, kissing softly on each thigh as he got dangerously close to your core but never giving you the contact that you desired the most. 

"E-Eat me out." You whimpered nervously as you locked eyes with him, you'd always been so nervous about receiving oral but tonight you were dying for it. You knew that when Hoseok was in a mood like this there was no holding back, he would be rough with you and within seconds of you asking his face was buried in your heat. Tongue gliding through your folds as he traced every curve he could delving into your entrance and moaning against you sending vibrations throughout your body. 

Moans and whimpers left your body as you cried out his name, he smirked against ou as he felt you clench around his tongue. 

"Hobi!" You whimpered running your hands into his hair as you pulled onto his hair pulling him closer to your core as you chased your high. Each lick of his tongue made you cry out louder and louder as our mouth fell open. 

"Close! So fucking close!" You hissed out as he continued to assault your core, eating you out roughly, 

"Cum for me baby," He mumbled into your core, pushing two fingers into you as he sucked and softly bit down on your clip. Your walls clenched around his fingers as your head rolled back against the bed. Legs shaking as you came around his fingers, 

"Y-Yes! Hoseok!" You cried out as you came around him, tears welling up in your eyes as your high faded away quickly from you. 

"Fucking love it when you tighten up like that princess...Do you want to do that around my cock? Huh?" He smirked as he kicked off his boxers, rubbing himself in front of you as your mouth watered at the thought of him being inside of you. 

"You want me to fuck you full? Stretch you around it?" You nodded desperately as you reached out to touch him but he just rubbed the tip of his cock around your clit. Hissing as he felt you buck against him for more than the small contact he was giving to you.

"Just fuck me already," You hissed at him and he slammed into you making you yelp out and wrap your legs around his waist, he smirked at you as he held himself in place, 

"You like that? Nice and rough?" He chuckled as he continued to thrust in and out of you roughly, hitting the right spot with every rough thrust. 

"Fuck!" You moaned out as your back arched away from the mattress and you rolled your hand down your body to rub your clit for him. Mind spinning as the orgasm built up once again, 

"H-Hobi-" You moans trailed off as you felt yourself getting closer and closer, the build-up getting more and more intense with each thrust of his cock. Your eyes widened as he continued to push into you, getting rougher each time. 

"I know princess, let go." He looked into your eyes as he smirked wider at you, watching the way your eyes rolled back as you tried to focus on nothing but the pleasure he was giving to you. 

"Fuck." You cried out as you rolled your hips up, 

"So fucking pretty stretching around my cock huh? Are you sure I can't show Yoongi?" He leant down as he continued to slam into you, replacing your hand on your clit with his own as he continued to rub you in large rough circles, 

"I want him to hear you cry out my name, 'cause you're fucking mine." He grunted as he continued to fuck into you, 

"Hoseok!" You screamed out as he hit into the one place that made your eyes water and made your world spin, you went over the edge cumming around him as you screamed out his name. Nails dragging down his arms leaving marks as you clenched around him over again but Hoseok didn't stop. His rough thrusts continued until he came into you, moaning out as he fell down into your neck. Kissing your skin softly as you both panted heavily together.

"You know I didn't mean it right?" Hoseok asked after you'd been laying together in silence for a couple of seconds, 

"Didn't mean what?" You mumbled turning to look up at him as you drew small invisible patterns into his skin, 

"When I said you couldn't see Yoongi, y-you can do what you want I just-" You kisses his lips as you tried to set his mind at ease a little, 

"I know baby, it's okay." You reassured him as you laid back down with your head on his chest just listening to his heart beating as he pulled you closer to him. 

Tagline: @lyoongx @mitzwinchester @fan-ati--c @kneel-begyourpardon @taestannie @rjsmochii @sw33tnight @bisexualmess007 @innersooya @sweeneyblue1​ @jin-from-the-block​

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Slipping Through My Fingers

Read here on AO3!

When it comes to his children, Bruce has very few regrets. He loves them completely, scars and all. He wouldn’t want to change a single part of them.

But he can’t lie and say that he doesn’t regret the timing with which each of these beautiful souls entered his life. Bruce has six children, but he’s never had a baby, and isn’t that wrong? Isn’t that a pity? He missed so much of their lives—so many milestones that every parent wants to remember forever but that he’s not even had glimpses of. He wasn’t there for the first steps or the lost teeth or learning how to ride a bike. He missed all of his children learning to talk, missed watching Sesame Street with them in the morning and making soapy mohawks in the bathtub. Bruce missed everything. He missed moments that he can’t get back, no matter how hard he yearns for a rewind. Take him back. Return to him the moments he lost without even knowing it until they’d already slipped through his fingers. Bruce has a few mementos to get him by, but they only grant him glimpses of the years he missed. Dick has a bin of old tapes from the Flying Graysons’ best performances that he likes to watch on bad days. Occasionally he’ll let Bruce watch with him. There’s something magical about watching the young boy in the tapes swing on the trapeze and pull gravity-defying moves, all the while knowing what a strong man that boy will one day become. Jason came to the manor with very little, having to travel light while on the streets. There’s a shoebox under the bed in his old room salvaged from his mother’s things, containing a handful of photos from Jason’s toddler years, a stuffed animal or two, some loose possessions. Bruce used to go through them after Jason’s death, just to give himself something to hold on to. Tim had more than Dick and Jason combined: plenty of photos, report cards, baby teeth, and coloring books all saved in storage. But as much as there was, Bruce still only had glimpses of the real Tim. Every family photo was stiff, like an assortment of plastic dolls. The papers and drawings that have been collected are too crisp, like they were shoved into a childhood folder and forgotten about without a second glance, not even making it to the refrigerator. All Bruce has of Cass’ childhood are videotapes of training sessions. He refuses to watch them, for both her sake and his own. Duke has a photo album he keeps in his bedroom, compiling plenty of baby pictures and family vacations. He’s only shown it to Bruce once. Otherwise, he keeps it in his bookshelf, untouched but for the handful of times he’s visited his parents, showing them old memories in case it will miraculously jog something and put the shards of them back together. The longer it doesn’t work, the less he’s willing to tell. The League of Assassins has an entire storage room of files on Damian’s development. Bruce has seen it. It’s like every move the boy made was monitored and catalogued, detailed without so much as a lick of emotion to remind anyone that this was a child being discussed. There were no shiny milestones to celebrate, only completed stages. No one commemorated his first word or first time seeing a butterfly, but his first time using a wakizashi sword earned five entire pages. If Bruce could go back in time, he would snatch up every one of his children and give them the lives they deserve, right from the start. No pain. No dead parents. No neglect, no heartache, no scavenging on the streets just to survive the night. He would wipe their slates clean if it meant he could stave off their suffering, just for a little while longer. He would do anything to go back.

Back when Bruce was a child and tragedy hadn’t yet torn his family to bloody shreds, there was one Fourth of July on which his parents took him to the circus. Alfred had an open invitation to accompany them, but, being a Brit, he politely declined from the day’s festivities. “I’ll have you know, young sir, that I served as a spy for the British forces and mentored Alexander Hamilton during his teenage years.” Bruce was ninety-nine percent sure that Alfred wasn’t alive during the American Revolution. That day was the first time Bruce had been to the circus. It was a local one, small with very few extravagant spectacles, but his father bought him peanuts and afterward the three of them watched the fireworks in Gotham Park. It was a day that imprinted itself on Bruce’s memory, sticking with him long after they were gone. So when he sees a flyer announcing that Haly’s International Traveling Circus is visiting Metropolis on the same day Bruce has an interview with Lois Lane for some column on America’s wealthiest men, how can he turn the opportunity down? The air is warmed by summer rays, the entire field radiating Metropolis’ natural brightness. The scent of peanuts and popcorn wafts from all sides and the classic tinkling circus music fills his ears. The show doesn’t start for another half hour, so Bruce settles on walking around, unsure of what to do with himself. He should get some photos to bring home for Alfred. He’s always had a fascination with jugglers. After some perusing, Bruce pulls up under a tree, shaded against the thick trunk. He’s just pressed send on the pictures to Alfred when he hears a voice from above. “Hey, mister.” Bruce looks up to discover a boy perched on a tree branch two feet above his head. The kid looks around six years old with black hair that curls around his ears. He’s wearing a bright red and green costume—obviously one of the performers. How a child his age came to be part of the circus, Bruce can’t begin to guess. He’s missing his front teeth and his skin, tan with a honey glow, makes his nationality hard to place. Bruce blinks up at the boy. “Hello.” The kid drops down and catches on the branch with his hands, dangling with his bare feet kicking in the air. “Whatcha doing here?” Now that he’s paying attention, Bruce can detect the slightest accent. Romani, perhaps? “Why does anyone come to the circus?” The boy laughs. “You don’t look like the kind of person who goes to the circus.” “Then what kind of person do I look like?” The boy thinks, swinging back and forth like a cartoon monkey. How his hands aren’t scraped raw from gripping the rough bark, Bruce doesn’t know. “A lawyer, maybe. Or a president.” The corner of Bruce’s mouth lifts. “I’m neither of those things, unfortunately.” “Well, I’m an acrobat.” “I can see that.” “But I do other stuff too,” the kid tells him, “like I know how to juggle and how to walk on stilts and how to throw knives at targets. I’m getting real good at that.” “Are you sure a kid your age should be playing with knives?” The boy laughs. “You think knives are scary? You should see it when they let me play with the tigers.” Bruce arches an eyebrow. “You play with tigers?” That can’t be safe. Maybe he should have a talk with the ringmaster and make sure someone is ensuring that no little boy heads are getting bitten off by mighty jaws. “Oh yeah, the tigers are the best.” The kid swings his body upward, letting go of the branch and pulling a heart-stopping somersault midair as he falls. He lands on his feet without a wobble. “I know all of their names and they’re huge, like they’re this big”—he stretches out his arms as far as they will go, which makes the tigers a whopping two and a half feet tall—”and sometimes I’m even allowed to ride them!” Bruce leans back against the tree trunk, crossing his arms with a smile. “Is that right?” “Yeah!” The kid then launches into a string of chatter, so fast that it takes all of Bruce’s focus to keep up. He tells Bruce all about the circus’ tigers: what breed they are, how many they have, what they eat, what their names are (their actual names and the names the kid gave them; Marshmallow is his favorite), and how his dad once gave him permission to hold a hoop while a tiger leapt through it. The entire time, Bruce can’t help but wonder, is this what childhood is supposed to be like? Swinging on tree branches and giving oral reports about your favorite animals to complete strangers? Is this what growing up is like for normal children? Bruce doesn’t know whether to be envious of this little boy or concerned. He’s so innocent; it bleeds from every grin. There’s nothing weighing this kid down—literally and figuratively—and Bruce finds himself silently praying to a being he doesn’t believe in that it never changes. Let this kid stay pure, untouched by the evils of the world. Let him go his whole life swinging on branches and talking about tigers without a single setback. After a good ten minutes when the boy’s tumbled into a handstand and has moved on to tell Bruce about his favorite elephant Zitka, a feminine voice rings, “There you are, Dick. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” A beautiful woman approaches the pair, wearing an identical red and green leotard. She’s got matching black hair and blue eyes—too spitting of an image to be anyone but his mother. “Come on, sweetheart, we’re supposed to be backstage.” “Sorry, Mom,” Dick says, turning right-side up, but he hasn’t lost his grin. Now that he thinks of it, Bruce doesn’t recall it waning once in the entire time they’ve been talking. She takes in Bruce, suit and all, and plasters on a stage smile, sticking out her hand. “Mary Grayson. You’ll have to forgive my son, he gets excited easily. He’ll talk your ear off for hours if you let him.” But the glimmer in her eye gives Bruce an inclination that she has no problem being an audience for her son’s happy rants. Bruce shakes her hand. “Bruce. I take it you’re the Flying Graysons I’ve been hearing so much about?” “The very same. I hope you’ll be seeing our show tonight.” “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He winks at the littlest Grayson, who beams. Mary ruffles Dick’s hair. “Well, this little robin and I should be getting ready now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Bruce.” “Likewise.” He leans down and shakes Dick’s small hand. “And if you ever come to Gotham, maybe you can tell me more about those tigers, eh?” Dick looks like he contains the sun itself. He’s sunshine incarnate. “Definitely!” He drags his feet when his mom starts leading him away, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “Bye, Mr. Bruce!” He waves his hand like a windmill of its hinges, and Bruce can’t help but return it. Bruce hasn’t felt this content in a long time to the point where he has to stop in wonderment of it. It’s unlikely that Haly’s will end up coming to a place like Gotham anytime soon, but Bruce hopes for it anyway. After all, Gotham could use some sunshine.

Here’s the rest of it on AO3 because I don’t feel like formatting all 7,000 words on here lmao.

[illfoandillfie]

Airheads

READ FUTURE MANAGEMENT

Pairing: Roger x Reader

Summery: Roger relaxes after a long day with a visit from his Doll

Warnings: Smut (18+), Bimbofication/intelligence play, hypnosis/trance, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected sex.

Words: 4144

A/N: Response to a request as part of my 1000 follower celebration. Title is from another song on Roger’s first solo album.

Taglist:  @laedymoon​​​  @dtfrogertaylor​​​   @ezmina98​​​  @vee-ndetta​​​ @atomic-watermelon​​​ @kellypenac​​​ @labessieisallama​​​ @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr​​​ @drowseoftaylor​​​  @hannafuckingsucks​

You heard the key turn in the lock, head flicking around as Roger closed the door behind him and entered the room. He sighed and dropped onto the couch beside you, head falling into your lap.  “Long day?” you asked, putting down the magazine you’d been reading so you could drag your fingers through his hair.  “Something like that,” he smiled up at you but it lacked something of his usual manic energy.  “Anything I can do?”  “Nah, just got a lot on my mind y’know. New album stuff.”  “Well, dinner’s already going in the crock pot. Going to be another couple of hours so if you want to take a nap or something you’ve got time. Or we could go for a walk? Might help you clear your mind.”  “‘m perfectly happy to just lie here with you for a bit.”  “Let me know if you want anything else. You’re always so good to me when I’m stressed out and need a break.”  Roger nodded and the two of you fell into an easy silence as you turned back to your magazine. A couple of minutes later you looked back down at Roger, double checking he was okay. He was unusually quiet and, aside from the lack of snores, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d fallen asleep. Instead you found him quietly contemplating something. His expression was one of thoughtful concentration, like he was working through some problem in his head.  “Actually, that might work,” he said suddenly as if there’d been no break to you conversation, “if you’re okay with it.”  “What d’you mean Rog?” It wasn’t the first time his mind had raced ahead in a conversation you were no longer having.  He sat up, shifting around to face you, “Think I could use a visit from my doll,”  “Really?”  “Only if you’re up for it. It’s your brain and stuff,”  “Rog I’d love to. Just didn’t expect you to want it is all.”  “Wasn’t really on my mind until you said that thing about how I look after you when you’re stressed. But, thinking about it, I find it really useful to unclutter my mind and relax too.”  “Keep talking like that and I might have to try making you the bimbo for once,”  “Don’t get any cute ideas,” he laughed, “I think it’s partly the control that I like.”  “Is something making you feel out of control?”  “No, love, nothing bad,” he took your hand, pulling your palm up to his lips, “Just working on this album and stuff. There’s always arguments and disagreements. We try to be as diplomatic as possible but it’s... well it’s different to making an album on my own that’s for sure.”  “I’ll go get changed then. Do you want high heels bimbo or barefoot bimbo?”  “What’s the difference?”  “I don’t know that there’s much of a noticeable difference in how I act or respond to stuff but they feel different to me.”  “Elaborate?”  “I didn’t pick up on it at first but the more we play with this whole dumb bimbo thing and the more comfortable I am with it, the more little things I notice when I come back to earth. I’m not entirely sure how to explain it but when we do it and I get properly done up in heels and everything I feel like... I guess it’s like a barbie doll bimbo. Like I was built to be played with and controlled. You tell me what you want and I can’t imagine not doing it because that’s what I was made to do. And when you aren’t telling me what to do, I know I have to look pretty for you. Chest out, lips parted, like a plastic doll.”  “And barefoot?”   “Barefoot is like... It’s not that I was made to be a toy, it’s that I found my calling. Like everything else, my job and my normal personality and everything, was just me playing pretend and now I’ve stopped and accepted the truth of who I am. I don’t follow your instructions because I was programmed to, I do it because that’s who I am and what I need.” you laughed, “it sounds ridiculous when I try to explain but I swear it’s true.”  “If you can feel a difference then you pick. Whichever you’d prefer tonight. Now go on, I’ll give you ten minutes and then I’ll come up, okay?”  “Okay,” you made to stand but Roger still had a hold of your hand.  “Wait,” he said, pulling you back towards him, “I love you.” 

You were still smiling when you closed the bedroom door behind you and began pulling off your clothes. You dropped your shirt and pants into the laundry basket and opened your draw, digging around until you found what you were looking for. A push up bra and matching thong you’d bought as a surprise for Roger. Not your usual type of undergarments. Certainly not something you’d wear to work or on a regular day. But you’d immediately fallen in love with them when you’d seen them, knowing they’d help you sink into your brainless state the next time you and Roger decided to play. Your work appropriate underwear joined your work appropriate clothes in the hamper as you tugged the new set on, already starting to feel looser and more aroused. You didn’t bother with shoes, not necessarily because you had a preference but because you’d spent a good chunk of the day on your feet and the idea of strapping yourself into a pair of ridiculously high heels made your toes throb. You did, however, take the time to apply some mascara and lipstick, picking out a bright shade of pink Roger had bought for you when he discovered it was named Bimbo. You took a look at the full effect in the mirror, feeling happy with what you’d achieved, and sat on the bed to wait.  

Roger inhaled sharply when he saw you, “Christ, love,”  “Do you like it?”  “Stand up and do a spin,”  You laughed and did as he asked, slowly turning so he could see you from every side.  “I love it. You look stunning,”  “I was going for whore but I guess that’ll do.”  “Didn’t let me finish. Stunning whore. You ready?”  “Yes,”  “Alright then, come sit on my lap,” he toed off his shoes and dropped onto the bed, leaning against the bedhead with his legs outstretched. You crawled over to him and straddled his lap, wiggling until you were comfortable. Once you were settled, he granted you a slow, soft kiss, his fingers drawing lines up and down your sides, encouraging you to relax. You hummed quietly as he pulled away, eyes still closed, waiting for him to kiss you again.  “Good girl,” his voice took on the familiar calm authority that you’d formed a Pavlovian reaction to, already able to feel the edges of your mind dulling, “Dressed so prettily for me. So obedient. Listening to my voice so well. Listening when I tell you to relax.” His fingers were still moving over your skin slowly, up and down and up again, making you tingle as you unintentionally timed your breathing to match the same pace and began to keep count of them in your head. “And I see we decided not to wear heels.”  “Yeah,” your voice sounded distant to your own ears.  “Because that’s natural, isn’t it? Feels natural to let your mind go blank and listen to my voice. Being a barbie doll is fun, being played with is fun. But that’s temporary isn’t it,”  “Mmhmm,” his voice was making it hard to concentrate on the number of breaths you’d taken so you started again.  “But we know that being a silly giggly airhead is your natural state. We know you only play at being sensible and in control. Nothing to lose by admitting it. This is you letting go. Giving yourself to me. Counting your breaths and sinking deeper, deeper, deeper into my voice, letting all the unnecessary thoughts go.”  You nodded though you’d lost count again.  “That’s right, doll, just let go. So hard to pretend all the time, feel lost all the time. Nothing to lose by letting go, sinking down, counting down. Ten. Nine.   You felt grateful that Sir was there to help you count. You knew how. You knew you knew how. But it was hard to think about the numbers properly, remember which order they came in. Came. Come. Cum. That was a good word. Made you feel funny. Made you want to giggle.  “Eight. What’s so funny, love? Seven. Was it something about sinking down, down, down, into your natural silly bimbo self? Six. Five.”  You knew something had been funny but you couldn’t place a finger on what exactly it was. Sir’s voice was so distracting, making you feel all fuzzy. Something else too.   “Four. I love seeing you like this. So happy. Happy to be a dumb slut for Sir. Happy to listen to my voice. Happy to be controlled. Three.”  You were happy. Happy and horny. That was the word. Horny. Another good word.   “Good girl. Almost there. Letting go of everything. Sinking down deeper. Two. Ready to be Sir’s good girl. A pretty, horny, bimbo slut. One.” 

You blinked your eyes open, readjusting to the light. Roger was watching you closely, his hands coming to a stop on your hips.  “Hi Sir,” you beamed at him.  “Hi Doll, what’s that smile for?”  “Proud,” you said after a moment’s hard thought.  “Is that right? And why are you so proud?”  “Ummmm.... Oh! I know!” you started giggling again, “I know two good words,”  “And what would they be?”  You screwed your eyes shut again, trying not to lose the words in the big empty space in your head. “Cum and Horny,”  “Those are two very good words to know,” Roger laughed which only set you into another burst of giggles, “do you know why you know them?”  You shook your head, pouting in confusion.  “You know them because you’re Sir’s good horny girl, aren’t you? And that makes you want Sir's cum, isn’t that right?”  It was so obvious now that he said it, of course that’s why you knew those words. After all, nothing was worth knowing unless it helped you be a good slut for Sir. There was no need for any pesky thoughts unless he told you to think them, no need for you to want anything unless he wanted it too.   “Love? Still with me?” he tapped on your leg to get your attention again, hands returning to your hips and holding you tight.  “Sorry Sir,”  “That’s alright. It can be a bit hard to focus when your head is so very empty. But I can help with that.”  “Help?”  “Give you something to focus on.”  “Liiiiike,” you dragged it out as you tried to think of the word you wanted. It was right there, just out of reach. It was another good word though. A word you liked. It made you think of Sir and it felt good to say, felt good on your tongue. And then it hit you, “Like your cock?”  Roger laughed, “Maybe. I do love how eager you are for it. But I had another idea in mind. Because I also love how obedient and suggestable you are when you’re like this.”  You didn’t understand what he meant by like this, after all this was who you were naturally, but you didn’t worry about it too much. There was a lot you didn’t understand.  “So I want you to lie back for me and listen closely okay?”  You nodded and climbed off his lap, briefly distracted by the small wet patch you’d left as you unconsciously tried to grind against his crotch.    “We’re going to try something a bit different, okay? But it’s going to be fun.” He hooked his finger into the top of your thong and began tugging it down your legs, “What I’m going to do is lick your pretty pussy, ten times. And You’re going to keep count, yes?”  “Yes Sir,”  “Good. Now there’s a trick to this. Because every time you say a number everything is going to feel a little bit stronger. Every time you feel my tongue on your pussy, you’re going to feel fuzzier. Anything left in your brain will drip drip drip away while your pussy drip drip drips for me.”  You could feel him stroking your thighs gently, and felt your eyes droop as his voice filled your head.  “All you have to do is count for me. Let it build and build and build. Making you want to cum over and over and over. But you won’t be able to cum until you finish counting. What’s that pout for? You want to please Sir yes?”  “Yes!” It was all you wanted.  “Then be a good girl and count down from ten.” 

“Ten,” you said, a little breathless, as Roger dragged his tongue along your slit. A long, slow, precise trail, collecting your noticeable wetness. It felt good and you sighed as he pulled back, wanting more. He gave you a few seconds and then leaned back in. The next lick felt better. Just as careful, just as slow, but better. Like you were a little more sensitive, a little more alert to the sensation even though your mind felt a little more foggy. A couple more and you were moaning out the numbers. It was tricky, remembering which number you were up to as Roger kept his methodical pace and you felt more and more sensitive, but you focused as best you could, determined to do what he asked. By the time you’d counted down to five you felt like you could have cum from the lightest touch, except that something was stopping you. You needed to be good. Needed to follow Sir’s instructions so he’d be pleased with you. You’d be happy if you pleased him. You felt his warm breath and moaned as his tongue met you again, still that same motion. One long swipe through your folds. If you’d been able to think properly and remember anything from before he kissed you, you would have realised it wasn’t his usual technique. On a regular day it wouldn’t have been anywhere near enough to have you anywhere near cumming, especially in such a short time. But he’d told you what he wanted from you and you listened, absorbed it, and obeyed. Though you couldn’t remember what number you were up to.  “Keep counting, love.”  “I don’t... what comes next Sir?” You could feel tears starting to prick at your eyes, overwhelmed by the growing need to cum and worry that weren’t being good enough, pleasing him enough.  “Four. You’re doing so well, almost there.”  “F-four.” His praise gave you some small relief as you bunched the bed sheet up in your fists and your desperation rose. Roger was holding you down, keeping you from bucking your hips to make him speed up. His touch alone sent waves of heat through you, though it was nothing to how his mouth made you writhe and twitch.  “Ummm...”   “Three, remember?”  You shook your head but you repeated him anyway. It was less of a moan and more of a cry.  “Just two more to go, Doll. Two and then One. Can you remember that?”  “Two.” You wanted to beg and scream but Roger didn’t give you a chance before...  “Oh, umm, one?” Almost as soon as you said it your toes curled and stars burst behind your eyes as you felt the climax you’d been waiting for hit you. Roger didn’t stop and pull away like he had between each other number. He kept going, his nose nudging your clit, making your continued moans catch in your throat as he prologued your orgasm. 

“How was that, love?” he asked softly, leaving small kisses over your thighs, “Was it fun?”  “Mmhmm, just like you said,”  “I had fun too.”  It made you happy to hear that and you couldn’t help but smile at Roger as he settled beside you, propping himself up on his elbow.  “How do you feel now?”  “Ummmm, more.”  “What d’you mean by that?”  “I don’t know,” you giggled, “just feel stuff but more,”  “Is more good?”  “Umm I think so,”  “And you don’t feel tired or anything bad?  “Should I?”  “No, I’m just checking, love.”  “Can I have your cock now?”  “Christ,” Roger shook his head but he was smiling, “Are you sure you’re okay? I want you to tell me if you’re not. I won’t be upset.”  “I'm very okay Sir. I’m your good horny girl.”  “You are,” he pulled you into another kiss.  His praise made you feel light and bubbly and you wanted to show him. You pressed yourself closer to him, lifting your leg over his so you could try to grind against his thigh.   “Alright, alright, just hold your horses,”  You pouted as he shuffled away from you and stood up.  “Don’t look so upset, I’ve got to take my bloody pants off and then you can ride me.”  “Really?” you almost shouted the question in your excitement, spring up onto your knees, drawing another laugh from Roger as he pulled his shirt off.  “Yes really. God you’ve got a one-track mind.”   “What does that mean?”  “Means you’re being a perfect bimbo for me. Now move over again, let me lie down. You’re going to do the work this time.”  “Yes Sir,” you grinned as you shuffled over, eventually settling between his legs. The sight of his half hard cock made your mouth water and instantly you dropped your lips to his tip. Roger cursed as you sucked him into your mouth, focusing every ounce of your attention on the task at hand, wanting to prove how good you were. You could feel him getting harder as you licked and sucked and pumped him in your fist, pulling back to let drops of spit fall over him or to give some attention to his balls. It made you wet knowing you were pleasing him, being able to physically feel it, but you didn’t stop. Sir’s cum was more important than yours, would make you happier than yours would and that knowledge drove you on. Every moan he made, every time his hips bucked up, every murmured word of praise had you dripping and eager. You let him slip deeper down your throat without any consideration for your comfort or enjoyment. You enjoyed it because Sir enjoyed it. It didn’t matter than you gagged and choked or that your mascara ran into your eyes and your lipstick smeared over your face. All that mattered was his cock and his cum and his praise.  

You whined when he stopped you.  “Keep going like that and I’ll be finished before I get inside your cunt,” he said as he crooked his finger at your, “C’mon, up here now. Ride me. And take that slutty excuse of a bra off, wanna see your tits bounce.”  You giggled as you dropped the bra beside you, crawling further up his body until he was lined up with your entrance. Roger watched you closely as you sunk down onto him, laying his hands on your thighs when you bottomed out to stop you moving.  “Feels so fucking good, Doll.”  “Mmmm, me too Sir. Good and full.” That wasn’t quite the right way to describe it but you couldn’t keep hold of the words for long enough to say them. You felt like a craving was being satisfied. Like you belonged there, stretched around him. Like you’d found your place in the world. But your brain was so fuzzy and empty it was a miracle you’d found the word full.  Roger let go of your thighs, resting his hands behind his head as you began to rock back and forth, building momentum. Before long you were bouncing up and down on his cock, panting and whining, even though the muscles in your legs were beginning to ache. Roger was true to his word, his eyes glued on your tits as you pulled more moans and grunts from him. You lifted your own hands to your hair and laughed at the sensation of it tangled around your fingers. It was enough to get Roger’s attention.  “You’re, fuck, you’re loving this aren’t you?”  “Yes Sir!”  “Such a dumb cockslut. All fucked out on top of being a silly bimbo.”  You didn’t know what to say so you just nodded your agreement.  “Just like I thought. Too fucking brainless to understand.”  Again, you nodded and Roger laughed, the sound quickly followed by a grunt as you clenched around him.   “’m close, love, but I want to feel you cum first okay?”  “Yes Sir, anything you want.”  “That’s my girl,” He moved one hand to your clit, rubbing you in fast circles as you fucked yourself on his cock, “be a good slut and scream.”  As soon as you had permission to be loud you found you couldn’t hold back. Every circle on your clit and shift of your hips sent a whine or a moan spilling from your lips, each one louder than the last.   “Just like that, love, go on, cum for me,”  Your whole world was Roger. You felt him deep in your pussy and deep in your head. He was every thought you could grasp, every desire you had. Your owner, your keeper, your Sir. You came for him, screamed for him. The wave of extasy that rolled through you was just a bonus. A side effect of his control. It was made even sweeter as he came too, grunting as he rewarded you. Proof that he was pleased with you, that you’d been good. The ultimate praise.  

Roger took hold of your arms and pulled you closer, wrapping you up in a sweaty hug as he rolled you onto your side and kissed you again. It was an unsuccessful distraction. You still whined as he removed himself from your pussy, still tried to plead for more.  “Please Sir? Please let me have your cock again.”  “Not right now, Doll. Need a break,”  He was right. Of course he was right, he was always right. But you couldn’t help feeling a little sad about it, “Maybe later? After a break?”  Roger laughed, “How am I meant to say no to that face? Yeah, alright, maybe later.”  “Thank you, Sir,”  “But you’ve got to lie here for a bit okay? Lie here and listen to my voice,” His fingers began tracing up and down your side again as he watched you. It was calming and you began to match your breathing to his pace, up and down in and out. “That’s right, just relax and close your eyes and focus on my voice.”  “Like this?”  “Just like that. Nice and quiet and still as you breath in and out. Good girl. Feels natural to relax and count your breaths in and out. Ten. Nine.”  You hummed as you felt your mind becoming less dull and fuzzy.  “That’s right. Eight. Starting to remember, to realise what’s temporary and what’s natural. Seven. Nothing to lose by remembering. Feels good to come back to yourself, feels natural. Six. Finding yourself, coming back to yourself. Five.”  With every word and every breath things became sharper. The fuzzy blankness faded, replaced with a calm content feeling. You winced as you shifted your leg, the ache in your muscles more pronounced. But it was accompanied by a deep satisfaction that made it worthwhile.  “Happy to take back control. Happy to find yourself. Four. Almost there. Three. Leaving the bimbo behind, letting go of brainless obedience. Two. Ready to be yourself again. One.” 

You blinked your eyes open again, Roger’s face the first thing you saw. His fingers were still dragging along your side but you weren’t breathing in time with them anymore.   “Hi Rog,”  “There she is. How was that?”  “Really good. Feel a bit sore now but it was fun. How do you feel?”  “A lot better. Less cluttered.”  “Good,”  “Thank you,” you were almost overwhelmed by the sincerity of his words as he shuffled closer so his forehead was pressed to yours.  “You’ve done exactly the same for me so many times now, I was more than happy to.”  “Yeah but you’re the one who has their brain messed with, I’ve got the easy part. Just means a lot that you trust me so much.”  “Course I trust you, Rog. I trust you more than anyone.”  You’d never felt quite so loved as you did when he kissed you then, bringing his hand up to cup your face, his thumb tenderly stroking over your cheek. 

[ravenvsfox]

rockband chapter 5 babey 😈🤘🏻

Neil tilts a record out of the stacks, and the sun catches the sleek surface and shows him his reflection.

“You’re not even in the right section,” Kevin calls. He’s two rows away flipping through rock-punk CDs, looking exhilarated when they fall towards him like dominoes.

The whole store is no bigger than a spacious bedroom, and the shop front is all boxy windows, letting in honeycombs of late-afternoon light. Kevin’s never looked so relaxed, dragging his fingers along the spines of albums, inspecting the equipment behind the till, smiling and chatting with the owner.

“There is no right section,” he mutters, sliding the album back into its slot. “It’s all music.”

“Right,” Kevin says. Neil glances up and finds him unexpectedly close, mouth pursed reluctantly with amusement. “Except we’re not here for all music.”

“What are we actually here for again?” Neil asks, distracted. He can see Andrew waiting outside with his back to them and his arms crossed, serious and stock-still as a bodyguard.

“Inspiration.”

Neil watches Kevin’s face. The crease that’s usually between his brows is only suggestion now, a slouchy, un-tensed line. He’s tolerable like this, Neil thinks, almost impressive, choosing music to feed his creativity.

“You love it here,” Neil accuses. “This is a vacation for you.”

Kevin scoffs. “Like you’re not the same.”

Neil shrugs. There’s an upright piano on the wall and he wants to squeeze the keys in his hands like fingers in a crowd. The sound of voices and tires on asphalt from outside spreads like frosting over the crumbling drumbeat from the stereo. The rusting brown of the wallpaper behind the counter looks almost orange with the full force of the sun on it.

He could live and die in a place like this, head down, hands full of bright new music and dark classics, never in silence, never alone.

"Come look at this,” Kevin says. Neil follows him to the far corner of the shop where there are picked-over alternative CDs and peeling tape labels. He plucks an album from the stack and wiggles it at Neil. “Old school Ausreißer.”

Neil squints at the cover art. “You look like a bad metal band.” The original four are caught in the middle of a set, dressed in all black under a red spotlight, mid-howl. The word Ausreißer is so stylized that it’s almost illegible.

Kevin rolls his eyes and puts the CD back in its slot. “Things change. When we found you you looked like you were on day ten of a bender.”

“I can go back to that, if it’s the look you’re going for. Wouldn’t want to stand out in a band full of junkies and burnouts.”

“Funny,” Kevin says flatly. “Just bring that smart mouth to song writing.” He gathers his little stack of music and a clear box of sturdy picks, and drops them on the front counter to be checked out.

Neil hesitates, swaddled in the darkest, warmest corner of the store, reluctant to splash back out into the cold. He can already see how it will play out: Andrew’s silence and Kevin’s focus, the way they take up so much of the sidewalk that Neil has to fall in behind them or walk in the gutter, the drive home like a never-ending commute to nowhere at all.

He’s listless without a stage, and Kevin won’t let him forget that he’s not a natural born songwriter. He’s waiting for inspiration like that second raindrop after you swear you felt the first one.

His eyes wander and catch on a lurid red flier stapled to the bulletin board above the stacks, and he does a double-take. Foxes. Township Auditorium. Friday, January 25th.

“Dan’s group is playing this Friday?” Neil wonders aloud, and Kevin looks at him over his shoulder, handing bills off to the cashier.

“Oh yeah, the Township gig. I think they’re hanging out in town for a week or so, too.”

“We should go.” He thinks of the way the girls had laughed about their public personas and plastic recognition. He wants to hear them for real, as magnetic and driven as they were at Abby’s, assuring him that they do pop like he’s never heard in his life.

“Waste of time,” Kevin says, accepting his bag with one of his frozen, ken doll smiles and making towards the exit.

“We’re not touring right now,” Neil argues, catching up. “We can take two hours off from the new album.”

“We can,” Kevin says, “but we shouldn’t.”

“And yet you find the time to drink six hours a day.”

“The creative process looks different on everyone,” he grits. They push out into the sunlight and Andrew looks vaguely in their direction, his face chapped from the wind.

“Great. Mine looks like going to local concerts and supporting our label, and you know full fucking well that Wymack would agree with me.” They start walking, Neil leading them in a frantic triangle down main street. Andrew doesn’t ask or care about what they’re arguing over, which is why Neil tells him, “I want to go to the Foxes concert on Friday.”

“Then go,” he says. He’d been chain-smoking while Neil and Kevin were in the shop, and he looks irritable and sick. His pallor has been almost bruised lately, like something’s wringing him out and leaving marks behind.

Neil flips Kevin off and walks further ahead of the group, buoyed by the opportunity to be part of an audience again. He loves the silky anonymity and sway of the crowd almost as much as being doused in lights and held up by a mic stand.

Kevin’s still talking about accountability and wasted talent, but he’s lost his audience.

Neil reaches the van first, parallel parked at a wicked angle. He waits for the muted click of the unlock button, then climbs into the passenger seat. There’s a parking ticket folded over the windshield wipers and Andrew sets them going so that it flutters down onto the street.

“It’s not going to be the same in the crowd as it is onstage,” Kevin says calmly from the backseat.

Neil turns his head. “I know.”

“The fans know who you are now, and I’m not sure you’re ready for what that actually looks like.”

“I’m pretty good at blending in,” Neil says, eyes narrowed.

“You’re not,” Andrew says, pulling jerkily out of the spot without looking and nearly catching a hyundai by the nose. “You’re loud.” Car horns blare on all sides like a chorus of agreement.

“You draw attention,” Kevin agrees grimly. “I’d rather you stick it out in the studio where you can’t get into trouble. And Wymack would agree with me about that.”

Neil watches pedestrians swarm and cars criss-cross beyond the window. “So what, I join a band and now I’m on full-time house arrest?”

“Shouldn’t you be used to keeping your head down, runaway?” Andrew taunts. His hands flash as he makes a left turn, ink spelling yes over no over yes. Neil gives him a look.

“You’re not talking about staying on the move, you’re talking about hiding. And in my experience, your problems catch up with you when you sit and wait for them to go away.”

“I’m not talking about your fucked up past,” Kevin says irritably. “If you want to stumble into the nearest concert, you can, but if you misrepresent us or pull some stupid shit to distract from the set, Wymack will kick your ass. If Dan doesn’t get there first.”

“Don’t worry Kevin,” Andrew says, glancing away from the road to fix Neil with a cool, knowing look. “He has winning impulse control. Right Neil?”

Neil clenches his teeth and ignores him. “I realize that you don’t trust me, but I need you to understand that I don’t care. I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it or not. I’m not going to live that way anymore.”

“You’re on a team now, and you have to care,” Kevin argues.

Neil scoffs. “Tell that to Andrew.”

Kevin looks pained. “He’s—“

“What? An exception? I’d love to know why I’m held to a higher standard than the person with concealed weapons and an unreliable drug dependency,” Neil says, fuming. Andrew pumps the brakes so that Neil topples forward into the dashboard, then he’s thrown back again when they accelerate. He grips the headrest and seethes, “you’re fucking psychotic.”

“You—“ Kevin starts.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, toneless, barely there, and Kevin stops short. Neil recognizes that easy power, that tongue-biting obedience.

They collapse into strained silence, Andrew looking infuriatingly tranquil, the air around Kevin vibrating with how badly he wants to speak.

Neil thinks about the corner of the music store and that old album, an Ausreißer from back when Neil was still lost in between hotel rooms, when his mother was alive, and she could change the course of his life with just the tips of her fingers. He thinks, things can be so easy and so ugly at the same time.

They get out at Palmetto, Neil wrenching doors closed behind him, trying to feel like he has a raft to himself for once, like he’s not always sharing, feeling for someone else’s shifting weight.

Nicky’s spread between two chairs when he gets to the studio, and Neil’s relieved to see the easy smile on his face. It fractures when he gets a good look at him.

“Oh no. Was it unbearable? I thought music shopping would mellow Kevin out, at least.”

“It was fine,” Neil says, rolling a chair towards the table where they left all of their notes and stray music. He sweeps everything off the table, feeling a vindictive shock when it all settles on the floor; every dangling idea, stagnating chord progression, and experimental piece of garbage.

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Nicky says sarcastically.

“Better,” Neil says, rummaging in the heaps of wasted work until his hand closes around a discarded pen. “I’m inspired.”

_____

The dye burns cold on his scalp. He paints the wispy place above his ears, and tucks it up into the rest of the gummy mess. There’s a dark streak on the porcelain of the sink, and he rubs it with one gloved finger.

Someone knocks at the door, and Neil reaches behind himself to open it. There’s a beat, and a flutter of movement, and then his eyes meet Andrew’s in the mirror. 

“Brown,” Andrew remarks.

“You wanted me to tone it down,” Neil says, focusing on smothering his auburn roots and pointedly ignoring the rest of his reflection.

“Don’t put Kevin’s words in my mouth.”

Neil meets his eyes again. “What do you want?”

Andrew doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then he starts to peel down his armbands. It’s like watching a snake shed its skin, and Neil’s so startled to see it happening that he turns around to watch him directly.

He’s expecting the thatch of scars, but it still knocks the wind out of him to see them, tender pinks and whites that nudge all the way up to the ink on his wrists and hands.

Andrew plucks the brush out of Neil’s limp hand and scoops up a mound of colour that looks black in the weak light.

“Head down.”

Neil complies, chin towards his chest, and feels Andrew smooth the dye from just below his ear up into the coil of loose, wet hair. He can feel the damp heat from Andrew’s bare wrists, smothered for most of the day.

“Who put you in a cage?” Andrew asks, and the hair on Neil’s neck stands up.

“What—“

“You said: I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it. I’m not going to live that way anymore.” He says it robotically, like an automated recording.

“I know what I said,” Neil snaps, starting to look up, but Andrew grips his neck and steers his head down again.

“Then you should be able to explain what you meant. Without lying to me.”

Andrew’s initiating one of their trades, he realizes, baring a secret and nodding at Neil do to the same. He closes his eyes, flinching when the brush makes sudden contact with his neck.

“My mother.” It’s an easier answer than the reality--a web of injustice too thick to see through. A childhood spent escaping from one cell block to another. 

The brush stops midway through a glide towards his hairline. “She hurt you?” Andrew asks, low.

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You know better than anyone that protecting someone can get bloody. Our circumstances weren’t--they were never good enough for us to have a decent relationship. But she kept us moving.”

A bare hand curls in his hair, and Neil’s eyes open. His breath catches when he recognizes the hateful look on Andrew’s face.

“Did she hit you, yes or no?”

Neil swallows thickly, trying to focus on the feeling of Andrew’s hand against his scalp. “Yes.” The hand tightens painfully. “But she’s dead now. My parents are dead.” He doesn’t know what drives him to say such a hasty, partial truth, like it has any bearing on the way it felt to be forced to the ground and pinned until his arm broke. Death gets rid of the person, not the memory. 

Andrew’s hand drops altogether. He moves into the space at Neil’s side, hip to hip, and rinses his hand under the tap. “If she was beating you, she wasn’t protecting you.”

“You don’t understand what people are capable of when they’re struggling to survive.”

Andrew steps slowly and lethally into Neil’s space. “Yes, I do,” he says, nearly whispering. Neil’s eyes hitch down to his destroyed wrists. 

He nods, and Andrew backs off. He feels a strange, remote disappointment watching him move away, like climbing out of a roller coaster and watching it take off without him.

“We’re not keeping you locked up,” Andrew says. “We do not own you.”

Neil shakes his head a little, running a hand over his hair under the guise of checking for dry patches, trying to reclaim the tingling, grounding feeling of Andrew’s fingers.

“Contractually, you do.”

“You’re with us,” Andrew says, “until the second someone abuses your contract, then you leave. We both know you could outrun me if you really wanted to.”

“Maybe,” Neil says, on the blunt edge of a smile. “But you might be able to outlast me.”

Andrew looks at him in the mirror for a long while. “You’re disgustingly stubborn,” he says. “And dense. I wouldn’t count on my ability to put up with you for that long.”

Neil shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I won’t leave. We have a deal.”

“I just told you—“

“Not the contract. You and I have a deal. And I’m not ready to give it up,” Neil says, and he means it. The tenuous promise of protection, the give and take, the lure of the stage. He’s only grown more and more obsessed with the whole thing.

Andrew wavers. He reaches for his discarded armbands, and takes his time rolling them back up. Neil feels a painful rush of recognition at seeing his scars swallowed up, and he reaches out impulsively to hold him by the wrist. Andrew’s fingers are still ruddy with dye.

“This isn’t a cage. You’re nothing like—it’s nothing like my mother.”

At Abby’s, he’d told Andrew he reminded him of home, the most nightmarish insult he could lay his hands upon. And for a jarring second, Andrew’s commanding relationship with the band had looked like the dynamic between himself and his mother, ceaseless authority meeting senseless devotion. He’s been stupid enough to mistake Andrew’s promises for Mary Hatford’s threats.

At length, Andrew tugs, and Neil lets go of him.

Long after he’s gone, and Neil’s hair is washed out and limp, wet brown, he can still feel the raised scars underneath the fabric of the armband, and beneath that, a curiously rabbiting pulse.

______

And “monster” does not begin

to cover bolts and stitches in my skin

sinew held with safety pins

but you made me

the creature not the man, right?

but this lab coat’s fitting pretty tight

and if you’re living out of spite

are you a person or a feeling,

and would it hurt to look at you directly?

gunshots speak louder than words

but the warning shots you heard

don’t work for people who’d prefer

to die than to live on their knees--

“It needs workshopping,” Kevin says, tossing the notebook onto the coffee table.

“I think it’s great, Neil,” Nicky says. “The Frankenstein stuff is cool, our fans eat that shit up.”

Neil shrugs, and he gathers his notes back up from the table, out of reach from prying eyes. They’re assembled in a loose square in the living room, with Andrew at the window, a cigarette burning delicately between two fingers.

“You call yourselves the monsters so— I don’t know.”

“It works,” Kevin sniffs. “They’ll get it. They’ll like it.” It’s a more generous response than he was expecting, and he knows it’s the most approval Kevin can bring himself to show. “How soon can you match it musically?” he asks Andrew.

“I already have a melody,” Neil interrupts. He stands, walks over to the keyboard Kevin insists they always keep on hand, and presses the ‘on’ button. “It’s not very complex,” he says, walking his right hand over a couple of keys until the power catches up and the notes start to voice.

He plays the song through once, low arpeggiated chords and a sustained, high tenor line. He sings when he can’t help it, crooning until it gets too high to sing softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Andrew’s fingers drumming against the windowsill.

“You’re right,” Aaron says when it’s finished. “It’s not very complex.”

“Downer,” Nicky accuses. “It’s just keys right now, we can amp it up.”

“Is it worth it?” Aaron complains.

“Yes,” Andrew says, leaning over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the couch. They all look at him expectantly, and he gets up, grabs the music directly out of Neil’s hands, and disappears into his room with it.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Nicky says, bemused. “Guess we’re going to that concert, Neil.” When Kevin opens his mouth to protest, Nicky says, “Wymack signed off on it. Plus we’re making headway on the b-side tracks, and Andrew’s actually working.”

“I’m not going,” Kevin says, crossing his arms.

“Me neither,” Aaron says. “Allison will have our balls if we pull focus from her.”

“So we won’t,” Nicky says. He ropes Neil in by the shoulder and tousles his newly dark hair. “No one will even know we’re there.”

______

Later, Nicky sends Neil to ask for the car keys, and he finds himself standing in the dusk outside Andrew’s room, delaying the inevitable confrontation.

Andrew comes out before he can knock, wearing boots and a black baseball cap, keys clenched in his fist. They nearly collide, and Neil staggers back a step. 

“You’re coming with us?” he asks dumbly.

“You and Nicky can’t be trusted alone,” he says. It’s an insult, but it hits Neil like warm water from a shower-head, like relief.

“Did Kevin ask you to do this?” Neil asks, but Andrew ignores him, brushing past into the living room, then the entryway. Nicky pushes off from the back of the couch where he’s been waiting, looking back and forth between the two of them nervously.

“We’re all going?”

“Apparently,” Neil replies.

“Cool. Weird. Shotgun.”

“Neil’s sitting in the front,” Andrew says, cranking the screen door open.

“Family really means, like, nothing to you when Neil’s around—“ Nicky’s saying as he follows Andrew out into the night.

Neil breathes out, lacing his shoes and listening to Nicky chatter circles around Andrew, who is steady and silent, already fixed in the driver’s seat.

He’s been picturing the Foxes concert as that same ambiguous darkness from before he joined the band, skulking in the back of bars and hoping to be caught. Now he imagines Andrew and Nicky propping him up like brackets, a drink he actually paid for, the hair-raising knowledge of what it feels like on the other side of the performance.

Wind shivers through the front door and underneath Neil’s collar. He jams his hands into his jacket pockets—the leather already stiff and unyielding from the cold—squares his shoulders, and opens the door.

______

They’re smuggled in through a door backstage, already late. Nicky clings to Neil’s sleeve so tightly that it pulls down over his hand. 

Renee comes to greet them, as unnervingly pleasant as the last time he’d seen her. Neil keeps expecting her even-keeled demeanour to clash against Andrew’s like icebergs meeting, but they only seem to thaw around one another. 

Andrew greets her, and she knocks her knuckles into his hand and smiles.

“I’m glad you guys came. Don’t tell her I told you, but Allison’s raring to show off.”

“I bet she is, competitive bitch,” Nicky says good-naturedly. “All you foxes are such a handful.”

Renee seems to be considering whether or not he’s joking when Dan appears at her elbow. “Walk in the park compared to your lot,” she says, smiling sharply. Her eyes flit to Neil and she softens. “Still doing okay, Neil?”

“She means, have we ruined your life,” Andrew says in German.

“Quick, tell her how saintly we are,” Nicky says.

“And lie?” Neil asks in exaggerated German, as if scandalized. “I’m fine,” he says to Dan. “Excited to see a Foxes set.” 

It’s a bigger venue than he’s used to, and the energy is intimidating, people whisking past them and calling instructions to one another.

Her smile quirks, and she lets her arm drape around Renee’s neck. “We’ll try our best to impress, then. As usual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says. “You’re a big deal, we get it. Don’t you have warm-ups to do?”

Dan snorts. “Time off is making you a little mean, Hemmick. You better watch him, monster.”

Andrew stares blankly back at her, and Nicky says, “you try living with Kevin 24 hours a day and tell me how personable you’re feeling.”

Dan winces. “Point.” Someone ducks close and whispers in her ear, and her face flickers through several shades of confusion and annoyance. “Okay, shit. One of Allison’s pegs came loose and her tuning is all over the place. Sound check’s in five, and Matt’s on the wrong side of drunk, but um. The show must go on, I guess.”

Renee ducks out from under Dan’s arm, excusing herself, and Dan squeezes Neil’s shoulder in parting. “See you out there. Try not to get into trouble.”

“Yeah right,” Nicky says, and she aims a kick at his shin. He falls back a step, laughing, as she jogs after Renee. “Hey, rock and roll, Dan,” he calls. “Or whatever it is you guys do.”

He’s still beaming when he loops his arm with Neil’s and steers them towards the door. Neil looks anxiously back at Andrew, but he’s a step behind them as usual.

They wait for a lull in passersby, and then they’re out in the thick of the crowd, pushing conspicuously from the front of the stage to the side of the room. Eyes linger on them and narrow, and his throat starts to constrict until he feels Andrew’s hand thread into the shirt under his jacket, keeping him tethered.

Nicky can’t resist dancing a little to the opener, as obvious as they already are, and he bobs through the aisles, shooting furtive looks back at Neil to see if he’s enjoying himself. The band on stage is too high energy for their low energy song, jumping and twisting to a half-time rhythm. 

Andrew’s hand tightens at the small of his back, and Neil glances back to see him eyeing the thrashing drummer with distaste.

“I thought you didn’t care about technique,” Neil tells him over the music, and Andrew tears his eyes away. He’s frowning, and Neil relishes that off-guard little furrow of emotion.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, “I also don’t listen to bad music if I can help it.”

“Guess we must be pretty good, then,” Neil says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Neil agrees. “You didn’t.” He knows that it’s true, though. Somewhere past the layers and layers of bandages that Andrew wears, there must be raw flesh. It’s just that Neil can’t tell if he’s healing or rotting underneath it all.

They come to a stop close to the stairs up into the stands, and Nicky gestures at an empty patch halfway up. Most of the crowd is standing already, chaotic, but they climb up into the mess and find their seats, Nicky on the inside and Andrew in the aisle, with Neil sandwiched in-between.

“Our fans are louder,” Nicky leans over to say smugly.

“That’s because they’re trying to keep up with you,” Neil says. “Decibel for decibel.”

“Fuck you,” Nicky laughs. His eyes are bright, and he grips the seat in front of him to get the leverage to see through the masses.

They ride the energy of the crowd to the end of the song, and then the group is hollering goodbyes and filing offstage, and people start to sit down or escape to concession. Nicky relaxes back into his seat and pinches Neil for his opinion.

“I don’t think we missed much,” Neil says.

Nicky shrugs. “Yeah, but we were like that once. You got to skip Ausreißer’s adolescence, Neil, you lucky shit. It was not pretty.”

“Kevin showed me your first album,” he tells him.

“Oh, Jesus,” Nicky groans. “Those were dark times. I used to wear leather biker gloves on stage, like a tool.” He rustles in his inner jacket pocket and produces his flask. “Drink to forget?”

Andrew reaches across to pluck it from his hand before anyone can drink. He unscrews the cap and points it at Nicky. “I know you’re already fucked, Nicky.”

He scoffs, making a messy grab for it that Andrew dodges. “Hardly.”

Andrew swallows a generous shots worth, then passes the flask to Neil. This is familiar by now, sharing space and booze and drugs as a means to an end. They get drunk like they’re grappling down a cliff-face together, connected by rope.

Neil hesitates. There are strangers on all sides and the sick smell of sweat and beer in the air, but there’s something about his back to the wall and a concert ahead that he trusts. This is how he spent the years after his mother’s death, anonymous and drunk, losing control in measured doses like taking medication.

He drinks, the mouthpiece still wet from Andrew’s mouth, and screws his face up at the tartness of the flavour—a salty, lemony vodka. Nicky tries to steal the flask halfway through his sip, so Neil pushes him away by the face.

He and Andrew share the rest of the liquor, and he puts the back of his hand to his face to feel it warming up. It’s a relief, to feel his edges shaved off. It’s like he’s less defined this way, less likely to be recognized.

Stagehands are fiddling with amps onstage and taping wires down, and the buzz of the crowd is suddenly deafening.

“What’s the deal with Renee?” he hears himself asking.

“What d’you mean?” Nicky asks.

“You like her,” Neil guesses, jabbing Andrew with the base of the flask to get his attention. “But she’s nothing like you.”

“She’s one of us,” Andrew says.

“But she’s not, though,” Neil says, half-frustrated and half gawking at his own lack of composure. He wants his curiosity back inside where it can fester and wonder in circles and die. “I thought Wymack only took in strays. Charity cases.”

“You have met her twice,” Andrew says coldly. “How well do you think you can judge a person’s character in that time?”

“Pretty well,” Neil says grimly. He thinks of the cross around her neck and the prim lace of her collar, attention-grabbing hair offset by dark, serious eyes. He saw Matt’s track marks and Allison’s rage before Dan had even whispered their stories to him, but he can’t read anything on sweet, prim Renee.

“Lucky she doesn’t care what anyone thinks,” Nicky interjects. “She’s waiting to be judged by God, I think. Everyone else’s opinions are just… noise.”

He can’t imagine anyone who was really like them believing in God like that, but he bites his tongue.

“Little orphan Neil Josten gets in some trouble and he thinks he knows what rock bottom looks like,” Andrew muses, and Neil’s stomach sinks. “You haven’t even hit it yet.” He looks unfocused, and it occurs to Neil that he might have taken something before they left.

“You’re right,” Neil says. “But you promised that you’d be there when I do,” he reminds him. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Nicky asks. “Neil?”

“Neil?” someone else says, and Neil looks over to see a woman and a couple of scruffy looking dudes frozen halfway up the stairs. His eyes drop to the shortest of the two, who’s wearing elbow-length armbands identical to Andrew’s. “Andrew! Nicky! Oh my god,” he says.

Nicky puts on a winning smile. “Hey!”

“I can’t believe you’re here—like, for real, there were rumours, but—oh my god— “

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” the woman gushes.

“Katie,” he hisses, and his friend shakes him good-naturedly by the shoulders.

“He’s afraid to say it, but—“

“Fuck off—“

“—every single album—“

“That’s very cute,” Nicky interrupts, cocking a flirtatious grin at the guy who’s holding his own cheeks, dismayed.

“We couldn’t believe you were just, like, changing your sound completely,” the taller guy says. “But Neil, man, I see why they’d take a chance for a voice like yours. It’s sick, dude.”

“Thanks,” Neil says stiffly.

“He’s not used to being recognized, yet,” Nicky says apologetically. “You’re taking his fan virginity.”

They titter, and the woman says, “we’re honoured.” She nudges her friend and widens her eyes meaningfully.

“We can’t really hang out though, sorry guys. Low profile tonight,” Nicky says. His smile is less believable by the second.

“Totally,” they chorus.

“I just quickly want to say, Andrew,” the first guy starts, breathless. “I know you get this all the time, but your lyrics saved my life. I couldn’t believe someone understood me like that, and—and you’re my--you inspire--I mean. I’m sorry, I’m so tongue-tied, I—“

“I didn’t write them for you,” Andrew says. 

The fan’s face crumples. Nicky looks at Neil, panicked, and then he forces a loud, incongruous laugh.

“Wow, good one,” Nicky says. “He doesn’t mean it, obviously.”

“Don’t I?” Andrew says.

“We appreciate it,” Neil interrupts. “But we can’t talk anymore.“

“Right, sorry, I’m so—“

They urge one another up the stairs, apologizing and thanking them, the one guy looking on the verge of tears through the bars of his friends’ arms, until they disappear up to the next level of seats.

“You could’ve pretended to be human,” Nicky hisses as soon as they’re gone.

“They call us monsters,” Andrew says. “What do they expect?” 

Nicky groans. “Please can we have fun, and not ruin anyone else’s night, especially our fans? People are gonna egg our car.”

Neil’s stomach squirms, and he crosses his arms over it. There could be well-meaning, invasive people like that everywhere, and now he’s tipsy and angry and stuck.

The house lights go down a few minutes later, and the whole crowd sucks in a collective breath before they plunge headfirst into cheering.

Neil’s arms loosen. Nicky stands up at his side, hooting, and everyone follows suit, craning towards the stage, wanting to be the first thing the band sees.

Dan comes out first, waving with both hands, and Matt follows, winking at the crowd and sliding his guitar over his head. Allison and Renee emerge from either side of the stage, Allison towering in high heels and glowing under the lights. Renee’s hair is wild, and her face is different, tongue caught in her teeth, almost cocky.

They fit behind their instruments like joints cracking into place, and they play their first chord in perfect unison, all of them operating different parts of the same body.

The crowd roars their approval. Neil sits upright. He’s surprised to feel Andrew standing up beside him, stepping into the aisle to watch. He follows without thinking.

The jangling, bopping drum line doesn’t wait for the strings to catch up, and Renee doesn’t need to watch to see that they’re following her. Her wrists are supple, and she’s lost to the music like she’s been playing for hours and not seconds.

The room goes up in flames when Dan starts singing, like the fans are all hungry, dry wood, and she’s a spark. She works the microphone free from its stand and starts running with it.

“Fucking excellent, right,” Nicky shouts, and Neil nods, mesmerized. The crowd moves together even separated by sections and rows of seats. 

It’s nothing like an Ausreißer concert, where boiling blood turns into wine, and everyone turns their desperate faces up to the stage like they’re waiting to be healed. Foxes sing like they’re in love and they fought for it. 

Neil can admit that they’re as musically proficient as the monsters, too, making up for lack of technical flair with a complete understanding of their sound.

Matt smiles dopily down at his guitar and then at Dan, like he can’t decide which deserves his attention more. When she floats towards him, he gets springy with it, teasing her with guitar licks, carving shapes into her oaky voice. Allison’s hand goes protectively to her tuning pegs whenever she has a break in the music, but her bass is rich and in tune.

They do an old-fashioned crescendo like it’s a classical piece, and Dan is almost conducting, hitting the air when Renee smashes the cymbals, gesturing for more when Allison starts a slippery solo, so fast that she laughs and tosses her hair, exhilarated.

Neil makes a hurt noise that gets swallowed in the din, but Andrew looks at him anyway. Neil looks back, studying his wide black pupils and wondering why he only bothers to pay attention when he’s stoned.

He remembers the wide eyes of the kid with the armbands, the agony of his disappointment, and he forces himself to look back out at the band.

One song finishes and another climbs on its back. People move and mill out of their seats towards the stage. He feels like he’s seeing double, like he’s watching a long pilgrimage that’s somehow been condensed or played back.

The first break in the music, Dan laughs her way out of the song, takes a swig of wine, and says “how was that?” into the mic, pointing out towards the place where the monsters are standing. Nicky puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

Her stage presence is unparalleled. She’s funny and a little hard on her audience, begging them to sing louder, drive her offstage if they can. Neil can see why she’s in charge, unofficially. She paces circles around the stage like she’s boosting morale. She barely needs the microphone to be heard.

They topple back into their set without warning, a trust fall of a count-in where Renee bangs out a few warning shots and everyone’s hands fly to their instruments.

Somewhere in the thicket of fans, Neil hears someone call, “Andrew!” He sees an incongruous flash, turned towards the audience and not the stage.

“Nicky, Nicky Hemmick! Nicky, over here—“

“Andrew,” Neil starts.

“We love you, Neil,” someone screams.

“Don’t—“

Neil’s jostled down a stair, and Andrew yanks him back up.

“Ignore them,” Andrew says viciously.

“Yeah,” Nicky agrees, but he’s clearly rattled. “What are they gonna do?”

Neil struggles to get his bearings. A few of them are still shouting, recording them with their phones or fighting their way through the crowd towards them. Nicky motions for them to stop, but a few people get close enough to beg for autographs or snap blurry photos of themselves with the band members in the background. He wonders if it was the fans from before, upset enough to tip off the whole crowd to their seat numbers. 

“Bet you didn’t think we were this famous, huh?” Nicky jokes nervously. 

Andrew has no problem with shoving people away, and Nicky frantically apologizes as many times as he can before he just starts shaking his head. Neil is forced painfully into Nicky’s side, and he can hear people in their row restlessly asking what’s going on.

Most of the audience is oblivious, still focused on Foxes’ raucous energy, but the three of them are surrounded for another ten minutes before people start to get frustrated enough to give up. The rest of them are shoulder-tapped by security, and the throng dwindles to nothing.

“You okay?” Nicky asks. Neil nods, but when he blinks he can still see pinholes of light from camera flashes. He knows that the photos will end up online where anyone can see him as he is right now, and they can guess at his habits or zero in on his location if they want to.

He’s been reckless for a long time, but standing pooled in stage lights feels entirely, chokingly different from wading down into the crowd and feeling the attention slither around him like seaweed.

Andrew crushes a hand to the back of his neck, and Neil inhales all at once.

“Kinda ironic that crowds freak you out so much when you sing for one every night,” Nicky says. He’s standing half in front of Neil, eclipsing the concert still unfolding in the background.

“It’s not the crowd.” Neil shakes his head to clear it. “It’s—they all know who I am.”

‘They think they do,” Nicky corrects firmly, fingers curling into Neil’s arms. The harpy tattoo peers out from under his sheer sleeve, a monster in a veil.

“They want to,” Andrew says, gaze tossed out to the back of the venue. His face is so blank and washed out under the lights that it’s like it’s been chemically stripped of colour. “You’ve caught their attention.”

Neil pulls free from Nicky’s arms and sits heavily in his seat. “I don’t want it.”

“You might not have a choice,” Nicky says, sitting next to him, smothering the distance Neil keeps trying and failing to cultivate.

“You always have a choice,” Andrew says, and when Neil looks up at him, he’s holding out his right hand with its painted yes. Neil accepts it gingerly, and Andrew drags him to his feet.

They watch the rest of the concert from backstage.

Andrew sits propped up on an amp, and Nicky alternates between trying to get the band’s attention from the wings, and mimicking Matt’s solos with vigorous air guitar. Neil suspects he’s trying to get him to laugh.

Neil has enough distance now to feel stupid about locking up during such a minor incident and proving Kevin right. The crowd has already forgotten them, or never knew they were there. The show goes on. 

They’re coming up on their encore performance when Neil feels a buzzing at his hip. 

He fishes an unfamiliar cellphone out of his pocket and stares uncomprehendingly at the message lingering on screen, sent from a number he doesn’t recognize.

A neat little ’60’ and nothing else.

[itad]

Tonight’s the Night(part7) TheDirt!TommyLeeXReader

Summary: You have been on tour for almost a year, event after event, mile after mile. Your uncle was Doc the manager of Mötley Crüe, one of you favorite bands. He pulled a few strings and got you on this tour for a late birthday present and for making up the lost time from when you didn’t see him much as a child. As he was one of the only ‘father’ figures you had. Recently found yourself thinking more and more of Tommy. Could you possibly be falling in love with the hopeless romantic? If you were could he possibly feel the same?

~ Not because of the event but because of the beautiful man, that was holding your hand.~

Words: 1533

Side note:// i know that as of rn it’s not tommy ik ik but this is drama for the future

  Stepping out of the Pontiac flashing lights, screaming fans, yelling reporters didn’t seem to bother you, the only thing that mattered was the one hand that was on yours. Holding your dress and walking, then stopping to take photos then being questioned ever now and then by the MTV “news reporters’. Honestly you liked every second, maybe it was because Tommy maybe it’s because of the flashing lights. Who knows. You spotted Nikki and the rest of the band not far away and pointed to them to get him to notice them. Continuing the stop for a few minutes then walking a 5 feet then stopping again, you eventually got to the circus of idiots. Vince took Skylar, his daughter to the event.

You bent down and she looked at you and smiled, running over to you.

“Y/N!” wrapping her small arms around you neck, you picked her up and spun her carefully. Vince told you out of all the band, you were her favorite, and you weren’t in the band. That same night Sharise and him asked you to be her godmother.

“Hi baby.” You smiled and then going civilizations, holding Skylar you talked to the band. You felt a hand creep around to the small of your back. Looking over it was Tommy’s, causing a red color come across your face. You tickled Skylar, making the heaven come down with giggles. Finally after some pictures and question you, Skylar, and the band walked in.

Taking your seats in the auditorium, which was in the front. The yahoos to your right, skylar to the left. Eventually everyone was sitting and the awards show begun.

Dave Mustaine and Alice Cooper walked out, neiling over the mick

“Alice, you know what hard rockers have in common?” Dave joked

“Well for one thing, we can’t dance.”

After a moment of hesitation. Dave opened the envelope, looked at it and joked “And the winner is MC Hammer, no Aerosmith!” Everyone clapped and shouted. Steven Tyler and the other walked on stage and made their speech. Taking the award and walking off, everyone clapped again. Dave and Alice walked off the stage and Graham Nash and Mick Fleetwood walked on the stage and staged the nominees for best heavy metal/rock band Album: dr. feelgood: Mötley Crüe, Flesh and Blood: Poison, and Aerosmith. After what seemed like forever the winner was anonounced and Mötley Crüe won. The boys stood up and clapped along with everyone and walked to the stage. Making all of their thank you’s. Then taking their award and sat back down.

Skylar ran over to Vince “Congratulations Daddy!” Vince smiled and picked his beloved daughter up and hugged her then sat back down.

“Congrats, dipshits.” You smiled at the band as they were like kid in a candy store. You went through the rest of the show then finally to the boys after party. It seemed like all of the members from Van Halen to Guns n’ Roses came. The booze, drug, and girls came in bunches. Cups were littered almost everywhere, a normal mötley party.

Holding one of the plastic cups to your lips, you stared out into the view that Vince’s mansion included. You had changed once you had gotten there, the boys took off their jackets and unbuttoned some of the bottons on the shirt. Everyone was having a great time, until Heather walked up to you eyeing you up and down, a smirk appeared on her face.

“Hi we didn’t have a nice introduction, I’m obviously Heather.” She smiled as politely as she could muster and stuck her arm out. You looked at it and smirked placing your cup on her hand.

“Get lost hun, this isn’t your crowd.” With that you walked away, finding Nikki lighting the sleeve of his leather jacket that I brought, as his request. You laughed and shimmied you body onto of the counter. Nikki soon got bored of the flames and ran cold water over it.

“Where’s your drink?” His voice loud but the question was stated.

“Gave it too the misfit.” You smirked. Nodding your head over to her and Tommy.

“That the new one?” He snickered and started pouring the both of you guys drinks, then handing you one of the cups the placing a free hand on your thigh.

“Yeah, Oh shit.” It seemed like the blonde told Tommy and he was fuming his way towards the two of you.

And fuming he was.

You threw the drink on him “How about you get you’re head out of her ass, when you do then talk to me like an adult.” You got off the counter, grabbing Nikki’s hand you dragged him away. Tears threatening to fall from your eyes, you wiped them away because big girl dont cry, as your mom always told you.

You smashed your lips to Nikki, him taking a second to realize what you did, but then kissed back. He was good. The two of you eventually pulled away, mouth agape and slightly swollen.

“Holy shit.” You both said at the same time. Nikki bent down and picked you up, you wrapped your legs around the bassist torso. Picking up where you left the kiss, you some how move to a open chair. You two both kind of fell into the chair, you now sitting there in a startle position. Both of you trying to get closer to each other, if it was possible. You were pulling on fabric, hair, skin. Nothing mattered to you in this second. You knew Nikki wanted this and had since Doc introduced you to him. The boy was very vocal about it. Sometimes he got handsy.

You pulled away and Nikki kissed down you’re throat, giving hickeys every time his lips traced you’re skin, you moaned as he found the spot behind you’re ear, this drove you crazy. Finding that your core was burning with a need for him, you started grinding yourself against him, earning a groan which tickled your throat causing you to giggle. He pulled away from the contact and smiled a smile you’ve never seen, you locked eyes with the bassist and slowly closed the gap between the two of you, not in a complete lustful way but in a gently way. Something you didn’t know Nikki was capable of, at first it shocked you then it almost melted your heart.

Nikki’s arms wrapped around you, somehow pulling you even closer to him. You’re hand found there way to his cheeks. You guys pulled away to catch some air, both panting almost like they were dogs. Want to go get a room, doll?” He smiled and looked at the hickeys forming on your neck.

Nikki got tired of looking for a room that wasn’t occupied and just unlocked one of the main bedrooms Vince had for the boys.

You bit your lip, and wrapped an arm around his neck, propping yourself on an elbow. Next you knew clothes were thrown in each direction and nikki was grabbing a condom and wrapping it over himself. He lined himself up at your entrance, then pushed into you. Both of you moaned.

“Fuck you’re tight.” He watched himself disappear in you. Speeding up his pace, but then went slow and deep, causing you bothe to moan.

“Fuck Nikki, fuckkkk.” You both we’re drawing close to your climax. Nikki must have felt it to as he pulled out, causing you to groan, but you seen his head fell between your legs and began his work on you. Moans and profanities fell from your lips, you have never fell this much pleasure before from any other douche bag boyfriends.

Nikki looked at you through his eyelashes and pulled away from you “you gonna cum for me doll?” he smirked and continued his thing. That sent you over the edge. Nikki liked up all of your juices. Now it was your turn to please him.

With wobbly legs you managed to climb off of the bed, Nikki now sitting on the edge of the bed. “Come here doll.”

You obeyed, sitting on your knees in front of him, your head was leveled with his hips. Looking at him through your eyeslashes, you grabbed the shaft and raised and licked a trail from the base of his length to the tip, when st the tip you swirled your tongue around it before kitten licking the slit. Nikki turned to a hair pulling, groaning, moaning mess. With every tug there was a hum with every hum there was a groan. You finally stopped teasing him and put his dick in your mouth, slowly letting your teeth graze upon the shaft, earning a loud yet husky groan from him. You began to bob your head, that is until nikki got tired of your slow pace and started face fucking you.

“Fuck like that babe, fuckkk. Such a naughty mouth for such a good girl. Fuck.” Nikki’s head fell backwards as he realesed his fluids to the back of your throat, in which you swallowed because momma didn’t raise you to be a little bitch. (lol sorry had to). It was warm and slightly salty, pulling him out of your mouth you sat back a little and looked up at him. “Come here.”

[onestowatch]

Q&A: Pale Waves Guides Us Through ‘My Mind Makes Noises’ Debut Album, Track by Track

Photo: Brian Griffin Pale Waves is a bit of a contradiction, and that is just part of what makes them such a dynamic act. They look like the disciples of Gerard Way and Joy Division, but sound like the offspring of The Bangles and Carly Rae Jepsen. They’re huge fans of modern pop acts like Charli XCX, but they could have easily shared a stage with Madonna in the ‘80s. They have amassed over 25-million Spotify streams since the release of their debut single, “There’s a Honey,” in Feb. 2017 and have played huge milestone venues like Madison Square Garden. Yet, they have just released their debut full-length album, My Mind Makes Noises.

Their meteoric rise based on a collection of singles solidifies that Pale Waves has what it takes to become the next big thing, and their success comes down to one simple fact: no one else is doing what Pale Waves is right now—nor as well. Not only has Pale Waves championed the difficult task of successfully walking the line between pop and rock, but they have introduced a universe of tender emotion with their lyrics as they wear their hearts on their fishnet covered sleeves. Combining elements of different genres, decades, subcultures, and emotions, they craft dream-like pop that still has two feet firmly planted on the ground. With their dichotomous existence and evocative lyrics, Pale Waves’ success ushers in the return of female-fronted pop-rock in an era that’s sorely lacking thereof.

After a year and a half of cultivating their rapidly rising fame, today marks the release of My Mind Makes Noises. The album is filled with enough diverse pop bangers and guitar-driven melodies to throw the Manchester-based outfit further into the spotlight, while drawing new listeners into their emotionally cinematic world. Frontwoman Heather Baron-Gracie’s lyrics entangle you in their strikingly raw nature as she presents her most vulnerable self, while the production of drummer Ciara Doran creates lush gardens of whirling melodies and skies of twinkling synth that makes this album one to be kept on repeat, or risk leaving their beautifully melancholic world.

Despite the fervor surrounding My Mind Makes Noises, as well as their accompanying headlining tour, Heather and Ciara are surprisingly calm as they make themselves comfortable on the sofa of the small lounge we’ve met in. “It’s kind of like a timeline of our band from basically three-and-a-half years ago to present day,” Heather explained as we begin talking about the debut album. “We started the band because I had all these songs on my acoustic and when I met Ciara I was like, ‘Can you put drums to my songs?’ We did performances where she was just drumming, and then we decided to just become a band.” 

Though they were the heart and soul of the band, when the duo met Hugo Silvani and Charlie Wood a year later, Pale Waves would finally begin to take shape as they began to plan for world domination—something that My Mind Makes Noises will undoubtedly help them achieve. “It feels pretty surreal. It feels like our whole journey’s been pretty fast and really exciting. A lot of people are really emotionally invested into our band at such an early stage, which is great because it means we’re really connecting with people. It’s just everything you could ask for and I want the album to be what people expected,” Heather stated.

In honor of the release of My Mind Makes Noises, we spoke about each of the 14 tracks on the album to hear the stories behind the music, and get a feel for what’s next for the band.

OTW: The opening track “Eighteen” is an absolute earworm that truly seems to channel what it feels like to fall in love. What can you tell us about its creation?

Ciara: “Eighteen” was written fully on tour.

Heather: Yeah, I wrote a lot of things to the instrumental and then in Denver I finally got it. Everyone we showed it to was like, “This is gonna be a big song” so, that’s why it’s first on the album.

Ciara: Lyrically, it’s really nice as well.

Heather: I had that first verse written for ages, and then Ciara wrote the music around it.

Ciara: That was actually a song that like I watched Adventureland and wrote to. Vibes from films can really give you inspiration for sound.

OTW: There are new recordings of your first two singles “There’s a Honey” and “Television Romance” making the cut. What was it about these songs that made them, as opposed to the others on your EP, essential for your debut record?

Heather: Well, “There’s a Honey” just had to be on the album because it was the first song that we put out there. It really made our fanbase, and it set something up for us. And then “Television Romance;” those two just sort of work together as a duo, and it felt weird to have one without the other.

Then when we were listening back to the demos it was pretty clear that we had to re-record them. We wanted it to sound like they were all recorded at the same time in the same studio and having the demos on the album just wouldn’t have worked.

OTW: “Noises” is undoubtedly one of the most powerful tracks as it tackles image insecurities and expectations. Did the track come from a purely confessional standpoint?

Heather: I thought about how the fans would react to it, but I knew I had to write it for me. I didn’t even think that much about how they’d relate to it until I got loads of messages thanking me. I feel it’s the most important track we’ve put out so far—we have quite a young fanbase and when you’re growing up that’s when you really think about what you wanna be and how you look. I’m just glad that I wasn’t too scared to write about that because it’s the song that’s now been there for so many people.

OTW: And what can you tell us about the video?

Heather: That video was a last minute thing but it was just so obvious that it needed to be a performance video from me. We spoke about having different Heathers that weren’t truly me: punk Heather is more exaggerated, the fashion look is stereotypically socially acceptable, and the doll look is a really sort of childish, vulnerable me. The one with the plastic sheet over my face, it’s basically like: what is beauty and who considers it? It plays on plastic surgery as well like, “Am I still beautiful under the plastic?” For the flashes of text between scenes, I wrote a paragraph of all my thoughts, and then we spoke about the ones that stood out the most. One, in particular, is “Does everyone feel this way?” I wanted to put that in because I wanted it to be like a sense of comfort for people who are really insecure as well, to know they’re not alone.

OTW: “Came In Close” and “Loveless Girl” are definitely two of the poppiest songs on the album. What inspired the tracks?

Heather: Those two tracks are really influenced by Ciara. I feel like we work so well together because I’m quite dark and she’s quite light so that’s how we get our sound. The lyrical content is quite meaningful and sad, but then Ciara sparkles it with pure pop elements, which you can really see on those tracks.

Ciara: “Came In Close” is really new. I was listening to Aretha Franklin’s “Jump To It,” and then I just sat down and wrote that bass line. It just turned out to be a really dancey song.

“Loveless Girl” originally sounded quite different, and I was so unhappy with it. I had to literally force myself to rework it cause it didn’t have the right vibe.

OTW: “Drive” is a larger than life track that smacks you with a guitar driven alt-rock sound and some truly dreamy synths. What can you tell us about the track?

Heather: We kept coming back and kept referencing The Naked And Famous, especially with the guitar sounds. I imagine when we play it live, it’s not going to take a lot for it to sound massive. It’s a really dramatic track as well; lyrically it’s like the sequel to “Noises.” Like “Noises” was when I was 16, and “Drive” is where I am now at 23. I do find writing songs about myself is hard, but I’m really glad we have tracks like “Drive.”

Ciara: You know that line “I drive fast so I can feel something?”

Heather: She would listen to that on repeat!

Ciara: Because I would cut it and put a delay on it and it made it like the best part of the album, I think.

Heather: Everyone we’ve played it to has been like, “Oh my god, this is something else!” We must be doing something right.

OTW: “When Did I Lose It All” is a breathtaking ballad that is just pure emotion. How did you approach writing the track?

Heather: Well, Ciara actually helped me write the chorus, and it’s about basically having somebody who’s “the one,” and you know that they’re right for you but you just don’t work in that moment. We were writing that chorus and Ciara came up with the “I want to marry you, but not now.”

Ciara: It’s the saddest thing.

Heather: I thought it was a really strong message. When I’ve shown the album to people, I’ve noticed that the older audience sway to that song.

Ciara: They find it really powerful; it’s a really powerful song. The guitar line was written on the tour bus. I feel like the next thing we do is going to be that vibe.

OTW: Similarly, “She” uses its power as a ballad to create a slow build into an absolutely epic guitar solo that has become a fan-favorite at your live shows. How did the track come to be?

Heather: “She” is quite an old song. I wrote, “My baby don’t touch me like they used to” first in my bedroom ages ago. It’s one of those songs that Ciara really just let me be all emo about. And the guitar solo—I love playing it live. A lot of the time I give all the lead riffs to Hugo but with this, I was like, “I can’t give you this, I’m sorry I have to play it.”

Ciara: I think it’s also the first song that I started doing a lot more of the music.

Heather: And now Ciara pretty much owns that whole area. I feel like the album has much more personality than the EP because when we did the EP that was all my really old synth songs except “The Tide.”

Photo: Danny North OTW: The following song “One More Time” seems to be the formers’ upbeat sequel that features an addictively timeless rock hook, making it one of the fullest sounding songs on the record. What shaped the creation of the track?

Heather: This was one of the moments where we were sitting down in the studio, but we needed more sort of “pop bangers.” We weren’t trying to write it for the radio but that’s just how we are.

Ciara: We just didn’t feel satisfied without it though, because we love pop so much. We wanted a song that was really just straightforward and would sound really good with Heather on guitar.

Heather: Really simple and dry all the way through, but you don’t really get a break in it. When Ciara showed me it musically for the first time ever, I just stood there and started singing the chorus.

Ciara: She sang that, and I was like “Fuck!”

Heather: Usually we’re perfectionists and we’re like, “If it’s the first thing it can’t be right,” but with this, we were like, “You know what? That’s it.” I feel like everyone goes through it when you break up with someone and you have that doubt in your mind. You like to know you could still have them—you want that power and that’s what this song’s about.

OTW: As we touched upon “Television Romance” earlier, let's talk influence. Considering how many of your tracks are cinematic enough to be suited for a John Hughes movie, and “Television” is a frequently used word lyrically—how much do TV and Film influence your songs?

Ciara: It influences us a lot, I mean that’s how we used to start off writing songs like “Kiss.”

Heather: Yeah like The Breakfast Club—I had to do this assignment for Uni and it was like, “Write a song to a film.” I caught a trailer of The Breakfast Club and that’s how “Kiss” became a song. So like I think it influences us a lot more than we think.

Ciara: Movies are like songs: like they all have a flow and a vibe and a story. So, like I feel like it can go hand-in-hand and just inspire you a lot. Especially when you can go, “I want to make a song that sounds like it belongs in that movie.”

OTW: “Red” is an incredibly modern pop-rock classic that seems to channel the likes of Taylor Swift and Bruce Springsteen. How did the track come to be?

Heather: “Red” actually started as an acoustic track. I love playing acoustic, and it was how we started the band, so I wrote “Red” acoustically to be that song. When I showed it to Ciara she was like “Oh my god that’s far too good.”

Ciara: It wasn’t right, the tone wasn’t right, the lyrics weren’t enough for an acoustic song.

Heather: It’s completely different now—the chorus is like a club track

OTW: “Kiss” is akin to a “Friday I’m In Love” moment that’s effortlessly feel-good. What inspired the track, and on that note, what was it like playing the Robert Smith-curated Meltdown Festival this year?

Heather: That was amazing, so good. We didn’t get to meet him but knowing he was the one who gave us that slot and kind of likes our band is pretty amazing. I think Robert Smith is an amazing songwriter and just a fantastic icon. I’ll probably dress the same when I’m old. “Kiss” is so old. It started with The Breakfast Club and that riff. It’s such a naive song, and I wasn’t half as honest as I am now. It’s a fun song to play live—the main thing about it is that it goes down really good live, and it’s just really energetic.

OTW: “Black,” your most recent single, is your most diverse. It plays with R&B beats and intensely catchy guitar riffs. What shaped this track?

Heather: “Black” we’ve had for ages. I actually wrote the first verse ages ago, then I showed Ciara and it always just stuck with her, so she was like “Please, please make it into a song.”

Ciara: That was written on tour as well.

Heather: It’s been the most problematic song that we’ve ever wrote. It just had a lot of different versions.

Ciara: When I stupidly put an R&B chorus in there we were like “Ugh, how are we gonna do this now?”

Heather: Cause like, when you listen to it the verses are really frantic and really rock, and then the chorus is relaxed R&B.

Ciara: It’s a juxtaposition.

OTW: Closing out the record is “Karl”—a deeply personal acoustic track that is beautifully haunting. What was it like writing the track destined to end your debut record?

Heather: Well, after I wrote “Red” and needed a new acoustic song Ciara was like, “You need to write an acoustic track about something a lot more personal… Why don’t you write it about your granddad?” I’d been trying to write about him for ages because he’s such an important person in my life, so then I sat down in the studio and really, really focused on him while writing. It took me a day to write the song and the next day we went in and recorded, so it’s as real and raw as it gets. Ciara cried when I first sang it to her. Everyone has nearly cried when they first listen to the song.

Ciara: You’d be a monster if you didn’t cry to that song.

Heather: I think that’s a track that’s really going to impact some people. I wanted it to be like a conversation more than a song so a lot of the lyrics are like if I could talk to him now the things I would say. It’s definitely the song that I’ve listened to the most. It’s my most vulnerable self, and it’s really quite scary, this going out into the world, but it’s as real as it gets.

[stydiasecretsanta]

HOLD ME NOW, TAKE ME HOME

Take my hand Take my whole life too For I can’t help falling in love with you

Playlist

@poehdameron

June 5th, 2002

Stiles Stilinski knows he loves Lydia Martin on their wedding day.

She’s wearing a white and blue sundress, a blue bow in her bright red locks and with one of his mom’s plastic sunflowers pressed between her small hands. His backyard is full of guests. All her teddy bears and Barbie dolls made it to the biggest event of the afternoon and keep Stiles’ Star Wars action figures company.

She walks slowly, both hands carefully holding the flower he attentively chose for her, smiling brightly towards him. Her eyes move ever so slightly to look at her mom’s encouraging smile before stopping in front of the seven-year-old boy wearing the newest T-shirt his mom had gotten for him.

He looks at his best friend and finds the softest smile on his face. Of course he’s right next to him, standing between Lydia and Stiles, wearing one of Sheriff Stilinski’s favorite ties. That particular one was chosen by Stiles for his birthday and it couldn’t be in better hands than Scott McCall’s.

“We’re all here today to marry Lydia and Stiles,” Scott says, loud enough for their parents and toys to hear him. He then turns to Stiles with an encouraging nod. “Stiles, you can say your vows.”

“I promise to always share my chocolate ice cream with you even when you ate all of yours,” he says, looking at her. “And to always hold your hand when you’re scared of the dark.”

“Now it’s your turn, Lydia.”

“Stiles, I promise to let you sing along to The Little Mermaid movie with me. And to never make you choose between me and Scott. I know you like us both the same.”

“Okay. Now you can put the ring on Lydia’s finger.”

Stiles takes a green plastic ring out of his pocket and holds Lydia’s hand carefully. He looks at his dad hesitantly and his father points to his hand, showing which finger the ring goes on. When the act is complete, he doesn’t let go of her hand.

Scott’s face breaks into a big smile, showing his missing teeth, before announcing:

“You are married. You can kiss now.”

Lydia, always the bravest out of them, takes a step further and kisses Stiles’ cheek. It’s quick and wet, but it makes him smile.

The adults applaud and Stiles looks at his mom. She’s smiling at her son, clapping her hands with enthusiasm as she sends him a look. But not any look. The one she only does when she knows Stiles is keeping a secret.

Stiles Stilinski loves Lydia Martin.

Claudia Stilinski knows.

February 27th, 2003

He’s eight when his mom doesn’t wake up anymore.

Stiles knows she’s been very sick for a long time and that she needs to sleep in the hospital now so they can take care of her, but he’s been patiently waiting for all those noisy machines to make his mom better. He always asks Scott’s mom when his mom will get better, but she never answers. Melissa only looks at him with the kindest eyes, the ones Scott has whenever he’s feeling sad, and holds him gently.

When he asks his father the same thing, he only says the doctors are doing the best they can to make her better. But Stiles knows something is wrong. She’s not getting better. Sometimes she smiles and listens to all his stories or helps him with his drawings, but there are other times where all she does is scream. Scream at people he doesn’t see. Scream at the doctors who are trying to give her the medicine she needs. Scream at him.

She never screamed at him before.

But tonight she isn’t screaming. She’s looking at one of her old photo albums with him. Stiles notices how sometimes she doesn’t remember things, so he gave his dad the idea to show her the pictures to help her with her memory.

The doctors can’t seem to make his mother better. Maybe he can.

“You look very handsome here,” she says quietly, pointing to one of the pictures. Her finger stays still for some time before she moves it to the person next to her son. “Who’s this little girl?”

“That’s Lydia. She’s my best friend, like Scott.” He looks at her, but Claudia doesn’t seem to know who she is. “We’re married, you know.”

“Oh, you are?” That seems to make her smile. “She’s very pretty.”

“She is. And she’s smart too!” he says proudly. “Lydia told me a teacher tried to make her go study with the older kids but she didn’t want to go to a different classroom than me and Scott.”

“Do you like her?” He doesn’t answer. Lydia is his friend and they’re married. But he knows he doesn’t like her the same way he likes Scott. Stiles knows he can’t like two people the same way and, like she promised in her vows, Lydia never made him choose who he liked better. But he didn’t like either of them better. Stiles just liked them in different ways. His mom seems to notice his pensive face. “It’s okay if you do.”

“I think I do. We made Valentine’s day cards for all the girls in my class and hers is the only one I wrote a joke at the end of.” The smile comes back to his face. “She thought it was funny.”

“That’s good, baby.” Her voice starts to fail, but her hand never leaves his back.

“Mom?” He looks at her hesitantly. Stiles knows he’s not supposed to ask, but sometimes it feels like his mouth has a life of its own. “When are you coming home with me and Dad?”

Her face softens, and he can feel her hand gripping his shirt harder — like if she holds him tight enough, this moment will never end.

“I don’t know, honey… I really want to. But the doctors say it’s not time yet.” He looks down, disappointed her answer isn’t what he expected. “But Dad told me you’re doing a good job at home.”

“I always remind dad to buy apples so he can eat them at work.”

“See?” She’s smiling proudly at him. “You’re already a big boy, helping Dad with the shopping list.” He nods, feeling a little better. His mom always knows how to make him feel better. “While I’m here, it’s important you and Dad take care of each other like I do.”

“Okay.”

Stiles knows she’s starting to get tired again, and soon enough she’ll fall asleep, so he closes the photo album and walks over to his backpack. He had decided to save it for when his father came to kiss his wife goodnight and bring him home, but he wants her to see it before she falls asleep again.

Claudia’s eyes take longer to focus on him than usual, but he waits patiently. When they do, he climbs onto her bed again and hands her a pink piece of paper and a red paper flower he made in art class.

The card has a poem he wrote by himself one night when he couldn’t sleep. His dad helped him write without any spelling mistakes and they both signed it at the end.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Mom.”

That is her last good day.

Two weeks later, her eyes close and the machines in her room makes so much noise that they bring doctors running into the room. It’s Melissa who pulls him out of there and sits with him until his father comes running towards them with a worried look on his face.

As he sees the coffin of his mother descending, tears fall from his eyes. He misses her already. Her smile, her eyes, her warm hugs.

He wants her to come back to him immediately. Seeing his father cry at night is too much for him. He cries too and she’s the only one who can make them feel better.

But Stiles knows she won’t. And he’s scared of how things will be without his mom to make everything better.

Lydia notices. She doesn’t let go of his hand the whole afternoon.

September 17th, 2010

They’re fifteen when she kisses him for the first time.

Lydia Martin is the most popular girl in Beacon Hills High School. That’s how it’s been since middle school, and nothing seems to change that. She’s the prettiest, smartest girl in the school and everyone wants to be her friend.

Stiles Stilinski, on the other hand, is not.

Even though he’s one of her best friends, Stiles isn’t popular by association. Or popular at all. People barely speak to him or acknowledges his presence, and everyone wonders why she is friends with him in the first place. They get why she likes Scott. How couldn’t they? Everybody does and he’s the co-captain of the lacrosse team, so it makes sense.

Stiles is also on the lacrosse team, but he doesn’t have the same abilities his best friend acquired over the summer. Even though he would like to be known as something other ‘Lydia’s weird friend’ or ‘the ADHD guy,’ he doesn’t mind that much. Lydia and Scott see him.

And that’s enough for him, if he’s being completely honest.

Except when he’s being dragged by her to one of her boyfriend’s stupid parties.

That’s when he wishes he was actually invisible. Or at least that he didn’t have social anxiety every time he attends a party. Whichever is easier to achieve.

“You have to go, Stiles,” she says, looking through his wardrobe, trying to find something she approves of. “It’s going to be fun, and Scott and I will be with you at least eighty percent of the time, I swear.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll hang with me until your second beer and then you’re going to make out with your boyfriend and I won’t see you until tomorrow.” She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree. “And Scott will have the most respectful flirting conversation with Allison for hoursbefore deciding to hold her hand and maybe, just maybe, dance with her. Do you have any idea how lame it is to be third wheeling those two?”

“According to my sources, they’ll do something a little more outrageous than holding hands tonight.” Stiles sits up straight at her statement, smiling widely. “You tell him and I’ll murder you.”

“I’m so proud of my boy. After everything he put me through to talk to her, I can finally say my job is done.” Lydia’s still not facing him, but he knows she’s smiling. “Can I at least tell him to be a little more… presentable? You know… not to show up covered in mud or something like that?”

“What are you going to suggest?” she asks, pointing to his wardrobe. “Something in the line of fifty shades of plaid?” He stares at her. Plaids are his signature look and it’s suitable for every occasion. Lydia is the only one who doesn’t get that. “Don’t worry about it,” she adds. I already went to his house and left something for him to wear on his bed. My problem here is what youare going to wear.”

“It’s sweet that you think I’m going to a party where I’ll be alone all night being judged by stupid teens who wonder if you’re my friend because of a bet.”

Lydia looks at him with a serious face.

“ What? Where did you hear that? Who said that?” She walks over to her purse and grabs her phone, already furiously texting. “I swear to God, these people…”

“Lydia, it’s fine.” He takes her phone from her hand and puts his hands on her shoulders, looking at her upset eyes.

“No, it’s not. It’s not fair the way they treat you.” She looks at him hesitantly. “You do know I’m not your friend because of a bet, right?” He smiles and holds her.

“Of course I know.” She relaxes in his arms. “You’re my friend because of my good looks and Star Wars knowledge.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m your friend because of convenience.” She looks up at him, smiling. “You know I was only interested in being friends with Scott, right? You just happened to come along.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, Martin.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night.” She bites her lip, looking at him expectantly. “Please come? I promise you’ll have fun tonight.”

He takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, but nods.

“Fine. But I’ll pick out my own clothes.”

It takes exactly forty-five minutes for him to be left alone in the corner of the living room. Scott and Allison moved their routine to somewhere quieter and Stiles had a hard time pretending he didn’t know what was going to happen by the end of his best friend’s night. Lydia hung out with him a little bit longer until her boyfriend required her presence and she left, with a promise it’d take just a minute.

He looks around the room, seeing the drunk people surrounding him as they dance, drink or make out with the person next to them. He’d love to be one of those people, but the probability of him making a fool of himself and, in the end, getting Lydia in trouble is too high.

So the corner of the living room it is.

“You look really bored,” someone next to him says. He turns in her direction and smiles at the brunette girl leaning against the wall, finishing her drink. “Which you shouldn’t be at a party. It gives a bad impression.”

“I’m not a huge fan of parties,” he answers, taking a sip from his red cup. It’s kind of surprising Cora Hale is talking to him in the first place, but he tries not to think too much about it. “Especially when I’m alone in the corner of a room and not even close to getting drunk or laid tonight.”

“Maybe if you stopped whining about being the only virgin left in the world, someone would be interested in doing you a favor,” Cora says, taking his cup from his hand and drinking the remaining beer on one gulp.

“Are you offering?” He asks with his brows up. “Because Danny already did as a joke and, let me tell you, I’m not sure how much more a guy can take it.”

“Let’s see how the night ends, Stilinski.” She winks, turning her back on him and walking towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is fuller than the living room, which overwhelms Stiles even more, but the music isn’t as loud, so he can concentrate on the girl in front of him without any problem. Cora fills his cup with more beer without taking her eyes off of him. Suddenly, his mouth seems dry and he feels the need to take a drink as well.

“Thirsty?” Her voice is low and, he notices, deeper than before.

“Well, yes. Some girl took my drink from my hands, so…”

“Somehow I think you had it coming.”

“Is that so?” he says with a laugh. “I wonder what I did to deserve it.”

This is new. Stiles doesn’t flirt often and he’s impressed he’s pulling it off this well. Maybe, he thinks, it’s the alcohol finally mixing with his ADHD medicine and turning him into a more confident person. Or maybe he is doing a poor job but the alcohol is making him think otherwise. Either way, it seems to be working.

Scott always tells him he and Lydia are constantly flirting, but he never believes him.

He thinks he’d notice if Lydia Martin flirted with him.

However, it feels different with Cora. She and Lydia are somehow alike: determined and beautiful, with a strong personality. But Lydia is his best friend and in a relationship. Cora seems interested in him and he can’t say he’s not interested in her.

The conversation goes on for a while and the alcohol makes them a little bolder. The touching becomes more explicit and the whispering in each others’ ears more frequent until he finds himself pressing Cora against the wall as they kiss fervently.

If he’s being honest with himself, Stiles doesn’t know what going on in his mind. He has no idea why or how, but as she kisses his jaw, he decides to open his eyes. They immediately meets Lydia’s for a moment. Lydia’s on the other side of the room, holding two cups and standing still with both her brows raised. She’s so drunk and he doesn’t miss the surprised expression on her face. But then it melts away as she smiles at him.

He blinks a few times. It’s not the same smile she always gives to him, it’s a weak one and Stiles wonders if it’s all in his mind, if he’s too drunk to be able to read Lydia right this time. He raises his brows, but she just nods, sending him a pointed look and turning around, going back to wherever she was in the first place.

A small hand pulls him inside of one of the rooms and he remembers the girl he’s been kissing for the past half hour. Stiles smiles at her and closes the door.

It’s past three am when he finally leaves the party, and Stiles is very proud of himself for actually leaving at a socially acceptable time for this one. He still can’t believe the events of that night. The drinks, the dancing, the kissing and Cora Hale .

Who would have thought Cora fucking Hale would be the one to devirginize Stiles Stilinski?

He’s so excited about everything and all he wants to do is talk to his friends about it. Preferably Scott, who would be much more interested in hearing about Stiles’ sex life than Lydia, but, at this time, he can only imagine Scott would be fast asleep or busy with Allison. He also hasn’t seen Lydia for a while now, so she probably is doing the same with her boyfriend.

Either way, he can tell them tomorrow.

As soon as he gets home, he’s relieved to see just his jeep in the driveway. His father is pulling another all-nighter at the precinct and he sure as hell doesn’t need to see Stiles at this level of drunkenness. His body is aching from all the dancing and his head is starting to become heavier after not drinking for a while, so all he wants right now is his bed.

“Just a few more steps, Stiles,” he mumbles to himself. His eyes are already beginning to close when he steps inside the house. “You can do it. You can make it to your room.”

He walks slowly up the stairs, being careful enough to not bump into any of the portraits of his family perfectly hung the wall. He looks at one where his mother is smiling brightly while holding him in her arms. What would Claudia Stilinski say, seeing her child in this conditions?

His room is dark when he opens the door. The only light that comes in is from the moonlight through his window onto his bed, which makes it easier to find. He takes off his shoes and throws himself on his bed, relaxing immediately.

And then the doorbell rings.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mumbles, shoving his face into his pillow, ignoring the constant noise. After a few minutes, the sound stops and Stiles feels his body start to relax once more, his mind already shutting down to his surroundings.

Until his phone rings.

He groans loudly, reaching for his phone.

“You better be in the middle of the forest, naked and bleeding to death,” he answers without checking the ID caller.

“I’m outside. Can you open up?” a weak voice comes from the other side before his phone goes silent once more. He finally opens his eyes and stares at his phone.

Lydia .

He doesn’t think twice before throwing himself out of bed and running down the stairs. When he opens the door, there she is, looking so small, so lost. Lydia looks at his eyes and relief splatters over her face. Stiles frowns, confused. What the hell is she doing, alone, at this time of night in front of his house?

“Lydia?” He steps back, giving space for her to enter. “What are you doing here so late? Are you okay?”

“Can I stay here tonight?” Her voice is slow and he can see how tired she is. But what gets his attention is her eyes. They aren’t focused or determined like they always are. They seem a little blurred. “I really don’t want to be alone.”

“Yeah, of course.” He put his hands on her shoulders, bringing her close as they walk up the stairs to his bedroom. The strong scent of alcohol invades his nostrils and he realizes how none of it is coming from him. Yes, he is still pretty drunk, but every inch of Lydia’s body reeks of alcohol. “Uh, do you want to take a shower before getting into bed?”

She nods, walking straight to his bathroom. Stiles sighs and grabs some clothes for her and a towel. As soon as he hears the water turn on, he enters the bathroom to leave everything she needs on the sink.

He looks to the closed curtains and stays still for a few seconds, wondering what he should do. It isn’t the first time he handled a drunk Lydia, but, for some reason, something feels off this time.

“Lydia, is everything okay?” he asks one more time.

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit,” he blurts out. She pulls the curtain back, sticking her head out of the shower to face him. “I’ve known you since we were six. I know when you’re lying.”

“You’re drunk. You’re imagining things.”

“And you’re keeping something from me.” She looks down before getting back under the water. He sighs. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. I just want to know how you are so I can help.”

He waits for an answer, but it doesn’t come, so Stiles just takes a deep breath and leaves the room, lying on his bed once more, hoping to fall asleep before she finishes her shower. A few minutes later, she comes out of the bathroom wearing just a long sleeve nightshirt that stops on her mid-thigh. Her hair is wet, dripping all over the shirt, and her skin looks like porcelain as it contrasts with the light color of his shirt.

She stands still in front of his door for a couple of seconds before closing it and walking towards his bed. The moonlight isn’t as bright as before, but it is still possible to see her features quite well.

One of the things Stiles loves about Lydia is how beautiful she looks without any makeup on. He can see all of her freckles around her nose and how small her eyelashes really are. There is nothing distracting him from the bright green of her eyes or the peach color of her lips. She always looks so pure, so raw without any makeup. He could stare at her all his life and still be amazed by her beauty.

But, this night, something else gets his attention. The sadness is so present on her face; it makes her look smaller than he’d ever seen her. The usual spark in her eyes is now a blurred shade of green and the red around them is so present that, if he didn’t know better, Stiles would think she was high or something.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

Their faces are turned towards each other, and Stiles can feel her breath on his chin. He can still smell the alcohol from both of them, but, this time, it’s weak enough to not bother them. Stiles’ bed is small, so much different from Lydia’s, but still able to fit both of them whenever they share it. That’s not the first time they’re sharing a bed. Growing up, sleepovers at each other’s house were pretty common and still sleeping in the same bed at their teen years felt natural, so her leg touching his, their noses almost pressing against each other, and their hands so close aren’t uncommon occurrences.  

Because of this, when she moves closer to him and their noses touch, Stiles isn’t alerted by the approximation. It’s only when her hand rests on his cheek and she closes her eyes that he notices what is about to happen.

She kisses him slowly. Her mouth moves delicately against his, burning his lips with every touch, every breath, every ounce of warmth she gives him. For some time, everything seems like it’s happening in slow motion. Like the universe has stopped so they can savor this moment, as if they have all time in the world to stay like this.

It’s his heart that brings him back to earth. It’s the only part of his body that isn’t working in slow motion. It’s almost like it wants to leave his chest, considering how fast it is beating. When he comes to his senses and realizes what is happening, Stiles moves his face from hers.

“Lydia,” he simply says.

And it is more than enough to make her eyes water.

Stiles pulls her closer to his body, holding her tight as she hides her face in the crook of his neck, starting to cry. He doesn’t know how long she cries, but it takes some time for her to start to calm down. When she looks at him again, her eyes are redder than before, but, for a moment, she looks relieved.

“I’m sorry,” she says weakly.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” He begs, but Lydia shakes her head. “Please. I can make things better.”

“No. You can’t.” She tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“I can try,” Stiles reassures her. “Did he do something? Did he hurt you? Did someone else? Tell me what it is.”

“Stiles…” Her voice trembles. He sighs, nodding. Him pushing the subject won’t do her any good. That’s not what she needs right now.

“Okay.” He brings his hands up to her face, brushing the tears from her cheeks. She rests her head on his shoulder as his hands return to the side of her body, moving up and down slowly.

After some time, he thinks she’s asleep. She’s not moving and her breath is not uneven from the crying anymore. His body relaxes a little, but his heart is still beating a thousand miles per hour.

“Stiles?” she mumbles, looking up to face him. He can see how she’s trying not fall asleep right away. “Do you remember when we got married?”

“Yeah,” he simply answers, surprised at what’s on her mind.

“You promised to always hold my hand when I’m scared of the dark.” The hand that is resting on his stomach moves quietly and holds his, lacing their fingers together. Her hands are cold against his. They are never cold, so he tightens his embrace. She looks at them for some time, and Stiles wonders for a second if she lost her train of thought. But then her eyes are looking at his once more. “I’m scared now,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry.” His voice is firmer than before. “I got you. I’m not gonna let go.”

He wakes up the next morning with half of his bed empty. The clock by his dresser tells him it’s almost eleven thirty and the pounding in his head lets him know why he’s waking up at that time in the first place.

It takes a second to see the note on top of his second pillow. He picks it up, holding it close to his face for a moment, waiting for his vision to stop being blurry.

In small, curvy handwriting, there are only two words in the middle of the paper.

Thank you.

Stiles sighs. His lips are still burning and his heart is warmer than it should be this morning. The only clear memory from the night before is sealed into his brain and heart, and Stiles knows that the feeling he has had for his best friend since he was seven years old never truly went away.

It only grew.

And there is nothing he can do but pretend it isn’t there.

July 8th, 2015

“I don’t understand why we can’t have this poster in our living room,” Stiles says for the third time in the last hour, holding one of his many Star Wars posters in front of her. “You said this is a shared space and that we could both decorate.”

“And we did. The kitchen? All you.” She points to the already finished space behind them. “The only thing that’s mine in there is the penguin magnet Allison gave to me when she moved in with Scott.” She looks around the living room. “And you have all of your DVD’s and a couple of Darth Vader and Han Solo dolls in here already, so I don’t see why we need a poster too.”

“ Action figures, Lydia!” he repeats for the third time this afternoon. “And I only got to do the kitchen because you can’t go in there without setting something on fire.”

“That’s not true! Remember when I made breakfast at your house last week? Nothing got burnt.”

“You made cereal. That’s not cooking, that’s you finding a way to not starve to death.” Lydia rolls her eyes and continues unpacking her box. “That’s so not the point, by the way. The point is that you have two posters and a painting on the wall, so why can’t I have one too?”

“One of the posters is a Game of Thrones one, which we both enjoy, the other one is a Paris landscape, and I painted that for you for your birthday.” She faces him. “Plus, we have at least six pictures of you and Scott in here, so your personality is present too.” He continues to stare at her. “Stiles, I’m looking out for you, believe me.”

“How?” he asks.

“You’re already living with me. That’s going to make it hard enough for you to bring someone home to spend the night. Having a Star Wars poster in the middle of the room will scare away the ones who actually make it to the apartment.”

“I can always say they’re yours.”

“ Please , like they’d believe that.”

“Maybe I’ll only bring home people who likes Star Wars then.” She raises an eyebrow. “We’re not in high school anymore! More people have an excellent taste in movies like me!”

“Of course they do.” She grabs the poster and he smiles victoriously. “But this still goes in your bedroom.”

Stiles sighs, defeated, and walks to his room. For all scenarios he imagined when she proposed them moving in together to escape share dorms, this wasn’t one of them. Knowing Lydia for his entire life made him think he could handle living with her. God, he was wrong.

He’s glad he accepted her offer, though. He openly admitted how hard and exhausting it was living in a small place with two other people he did not get along with. Luckily, the year from hell was over, and now he’s excited to share the next one with Lydia.

Scott isn’t thrilled with the idea when Stiles talks to him about it. Being the only one aware of the extension of his feelings for Lydia, which is the biggest lie in the world since pretty much the whole population of Beacon Hills but Lydia knows how he feels about her, Scott strongly suggests against it.

But Stiles is stubborn. He guarantees Scott he can handle living with her. They grew up together, had sleepovers all the time, and he has seen her in a bikini multiple times. There is no way this decision will backfire.

Of course it does. Three hours living with her has already proved Scott’s point. Stiles just won’t let him know that.

It’s been a month since they moved in together when Scott comes to visit. One of the downs of living with Lydia is that he isn’t living with Scott like they had planned for a long time. The worst part of it all is that Scott is still living in California, attending UC Davis while Stiles is many miles away in Massachusetts at Northeastern.

He misses him so much that he can’t hide how eager he is when he sees Scott walk into his apartment.

“Scotty!” The brown-skinned man doesn’t even have time to say a word before Stiles is hugging him tightly. “God, I missed you so much.”

“Me too, dude.” Stiles looks at his best friend with the biggest of smiles. “Where’s Lydia? Did you tell her I was coming?”

“Nah, somehow I thought it’d be a great idea not to, but now I think she may kill me for not being here when you arrived.” He grabs Scott’s bag and walks to his bedroom, Scott following behind him. “She went for coffee with someone she met in one of her classes before summer started, but I think she’ll be here soon.”

“So that makes… three people you two, combined, are friends with.”

“Yup. Two are hers.” He looks over his shoulder and sees Scott shaking his head, disapprovingly. “What? I socialize plenty. I went on three dates in the past three months, and went to parties with a friend of mine.”

“Yes, but you also brought Lydia to those parties.”

“So? She’s my friend and she likes going out.”

“Stiles, part of why I didn’t think you two moving in together was a good idea is because it’d be nice to see you two hanging out with people that aren’t each other for a change.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but Scott ignores them. “The other part…”

“Everything here is fine. Lydia and I are best friends exactly like you and I are. Nothing is going on.”

“So no flirting, no going to each other’s room in the middle of the night and cuddling, no being mistaken for her boyfriend all the time?” Stiles raises his brows, surprised Scott knows all that. “Girls talk. A lot. And Allison and I talk about you two all the time, so.”

“What does Lydia say about us? Or what do you and Allison talk about?” he asks. Both of them know about Stiles’ more-than-a-crush feelings for Lydia, and he finds it very annoying whenever a conversation like that comes up. Long ago he gave up on Lydia ever feeling the same for him, so he doesn’t see the point in discussing the subject any further.

Before Scott can say anything else, they hear the door closing and voices coming from the living room. Stiles looks at him and both of them go to the living room, where Lydia is talking to a black girl. As soon as her eyes land on Scott, she stops whatever she is saying and runs to his direction, hugging him tight.

“You’re here!” she says, looking at him. Stiles eyes Lydia’s friend and smiles politely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over?”

“I told Stiles,” he informs her, and she stares at him. “He’s known for like two weeks.”

“Well, before you start screaming and plotting my death, let me just tell you that Allison also knew and didn’t tell you. Neither did Scott. So… I mean, I’m not the only factor here.”

“Where’s Allison, by the way?” she asks, noticing her friend wasn’t there.

“It’s her mother’s birthday this week, so she went back to Beacon Hills to be with her dad. She said she’d call you.” And then, because it’s Scott McCall, he turns to the girl near the door. “Hello. I’m Scott.”

“Oh, right. Sorry!” Lydia says, looking at her friend as well. “This is Emma. She’s in one of my classes. Emma, this is Scott, he’s from California, and this is Stiles. He goes to Northeastern.”

“Nice to meet you two.” She looks over to Lydia. “We can reschedule if you want to spend time with your friend.”

“What were you two going to do?”

“We were planning on doing a movie night,” she answers. “But we can do it another time.”

“I’m up for movie night,” Scott says, looking at Stiles. “I’m here for a whole week, and I’m too tired from the flight here to go out, so…”

“Movie night it is then,” Stiles says, smiling.

There is something about Keira Knightley movies that makes Lydia melt. Aside from The Notebook, Lydia is constantly watching her whenever she has the time, and Stiles is more than familiar with everything she’s been in.

She chooses Atonement tonight, and it only takes one look between him and Scott to know how tonight will go. He sits next to her and tries to ignore the very pointed glare Scott gives him.

He knows the movie from beginning to end. How Cecilia is in love with Robbie, how Briony fucks everything up and tries to fix it the best she can. He admits, it’s a great movie. But his favorite part is how Lydia always finds comfort in him.

It’s not even in the middle of the movie and her legs are already on top of his. Her eyes are fixed on the TV like she’s watching it for the very first time, but her lips sometimes murmur along with the lines she knows by heart. It doesn’t take long, but, when Robbie is in the war, her head rests on his shoulder and his hands on her back.

He can feel Scott’s eyes on them, but doesn’t meet them. It’s not like what they’re doing is new. Lydia is a touchy person whenever she watches a movie. It is almost like she needs to touch someone to be able to concentrate on it. And yes, Stiles is always the one she does it to, but that doesn’t mean something more is going on.

As Cecilia and Robbie take a final look at the ocean before entering their dreamy blue house by the beach, Lydia is in tears, holding his hands firmly.

“God, that movie,” Emma says, looking at her friend. “Keira Knightley and Joe Wright did it again.”

“I don’t understand how you cry every single time,” Stiles says to Lydia with a soft smile. “We’ve watched this since we were fourteen and you have never not cried.”

“It’s sad!” she argues, cleaning the tears from her eyes. “You and Scott cried the first time you watched.”

“It’s sad!” they say in unison, making her crack up. Stiles kisses the top of her head.

“You two are adorable, you know,” Emma says with a soft smile on her lips. “I wish my boyfriend watched these kind of movies with me too.”

Both Stiles and Lydia freeze at her statement. The room is silent for a moment before Scott snorts.

“What?” she asks.

“Uh… Stiles is not my boyfriend,” Lydia says simply. “He’s my best friend and my roommate.”

“Oh.” She blinks a few times, blushing slightly. “Sorry… You two just seem to… Fit. With all the looks and touching and you talk about him a lot. I never thought he wasn’t your boyfriend, to be honest.”

“Okay, Emma.” Lydia stands up, smiling awkwardly and pulling her by the hand. “Why don’t we go to my room and grab you that outfit you wanted?”

As soon as the boys hear Lydia’s door close, Stiles looks at a smirking Scott.

“Remember when you said that you and Lydia are best friends just like you and I are?” Scott asks.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you realized, but no one makes as many mistakes about us being in a relationship as they do about you and Lydia.”

“Scott…”

“No, listen. I’ve known you two since we were kids, and I grew up listening to you talk about her none stop. I still do. You say you’ve moved on, but you haven’t. You’ve been in love with Lydia for years and it’s never gone away.” He frowns, trying to find a way to say the next words, like it’s been in his mind for a long time now. “I know you think there’s no point in you telling her about your feelings because she doesn’t feel the same, but she never acts the same with both of us. Everything I do with Lydia is no more than a sister would do with a brother. But you two… Isaac is uncomfortable watching you two and that’s saying a lot.”

“What are you saying, Scott?”

“I’m saying you need to make a decision about Lydia. You either tell her about your feelings and go from there or you truly move on, because you can’t be in this horrible middle you’ve been in for so long.”

After his mom died, Stiles started to have a hard time sleeping. He’d lay in his bed with his eyes closed until he was sure his dad was far away from his bedroom. For some time he’d read some of the books in his room until he got bored and tried to force himself to sleep, but it never worked as well as he planned.

Everyone said it was just a phase. That he was going through a traumatic event and, in time, everything would go back to normal, but he father should try to tire him out so he’d sleep faster at night. It never worked, no matter how tired he was. His body was exhausted and begging for a good night sleep, but his mind never gave in.

And here he is, twelve years later, still having the exact same problem. Sleep is a very known enemy to Stiles’ system. Scott, on the other hand, welcomes it with open arms. He’s long gone in Stiles’ bed, snoring lightly, but Stiles’ mind is too busy thinking about what Scott told him earlier.

He isn’t wrong. Stiles is well aware of how unhealthy it is for him to be pining after someone who wouldn’t take a second look at him. He loves Lydia with all his heart, and he always will, but he needs to move on for good. Truly go out with people and have an interest in them for a change. Give someone an opportunity to get to know him.

A noise coming from the other side of the door takes him out of his thoughts. Stiles stays still for a few seconds before hearing it again and recognizing what it is. Without making any noise, he leaves his room and walks to the kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lydia jumps at the sound of his voice and turns around to face Stiles. “Lydia, it’s two am.”

“I know. I’m making tea.” She turns her back to him once more, filling the kettle with water. “What are you doing up?”

“Apparently stopping you from burning down the apartment,” he says, taking the kettle from her hand and turning on the stove.

“I can make tea!”

“Your tea is always too watery.” She rolls her eyes but sits at the counter, watching him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just not sleepy.” Her voice is low and her eyes are focused on the kettle. “Hence the tea.”

“I wished this worked on me like it does on you.”

“The perks of sharing a room with Scott.” She smiles. “Guess you lucked out living with me.”

“Yeah. Who else would feed you and stop you from burning down the building in the middle of the night?” He looks at her. “I guess you lucked out.”

They stay in silence waiting for the tea to be ready. Once it’s done, Stiles pours it into two mugs and they move to the couch, taking small sips from it. They drink the tea silently and Stiles’ mind is back to Scott’s words. That is a perfect time for him bring up his feelings for her and hope for the best.

But, he wonders, what if things didn’t turn out okay? What if that is the beginning of the end of their relationship?

“About what Emma said earlier…” Lydia’s voice makes him snap out of it. She’s looking straight ahead, biting her lower lip as if she is considering what her next words are going to be.

“She made an honest mistake; don’t worry about it,” he says simply, putting his mug on the coffee table. “I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time that’s happened.”

“Yeah… It happens a lot, huh?”

“People have a hard time grasping the concept of people of the opposite sex being friends.”

“Yet, no one made that mistake when I hung out with Scott.”

“Well, that’s because he’s been dating Allison since forever, and the first thing he probably tells people when they meet is that he already found the love of his life, thank you very much.” Lydia laughs quietly and finishes her tea. “I’m just sorry that they always think you’re with me, though.”

“Why?”

“Well… Look at you. The fact that people don’t second guess we’re together astonishes me, to be honest.” He smiles and looks at her, but she’s not smiling. “What?”

“I hate when you do that.” She rests her head on the back of the couch and continues to look straight. “You know, we’re not in high school anymore. You’re not that awkward kid that falls everywhere. Stop thinking you are.”

“I haven’t changed that much, though.” He raises his brows when she rolls her eyes. “I haven’t! I’m the same spastic kid that follows you and Scott around and can’t seem to shut up to save his life.” He rests his head right next to hers.

“Yeah, but you see that as a bad thing. You choose to see all of that as a flaw, but that’s not what Scott and I see.” She looks at him this time. “You’re funny and smart. You won’t shut up to save your life, but what you’re saying is actually interesting. Plus,” she finishes, “you’re hot.”

“What?”

“Oh, please. Whenever I come to Northeastern with you, a lot of people are always eyeing you.” He’s looking at her with an expression full of surprise. “Also, do you know how many girls and guys approach me to ask if we’re together? And when I say no, they ask me for your phone number.”

“I didn’t get any calls.”

“Of course I never gave them your number.” She rolls her eyes. “The point is, you’re a good catch, and if something feels weird about people second guessing our hypothetical relationship, it’s the fact that they think I’m a good match for you.”

“What do you mean?” He faces her. “You’re literally a genius, you go to MIT and you’re graduating early, you’re gorgeous and can destroy anyone with just a stare.”

“All true, but look at you. You’re kind. You have a good heart and you give so much to everybody.” Her voice becomes softer and Stiles can’t stop looking at her eyes. “I might be all of what you said, but… I don’t exceed as a person. And, since I’m being honest here, the truth is: I’d be lucky to be in a relationship with you.”

He wants to fight everything she just said, but she’s looking at him in a way she never has before. It feels like she’s pouring her heart into those words, and that last statement is the most sincere words she’s ever spoken. So, instead, he chooses to focus on that.

“Lydia.” His voice is failing, but his eyes never leave hers. “What are you saying?”

And for the third time in his life, she takes charge of the situation. She leans closer to him, resting her forehead against his and brushing their noses softly. Stiles is breathing weakly, and he can already feel his lips burning from her kisses all those years ago. They come closer, lips barely touching, savoring that moment. Because they know if they do this, there’s no way of coming back.

“Lydia,” he whispers expectantly. When she kisses him this time, it’s not slow or soft. She’s not drunk or going through a hard time. They’re not afraid that the slightest movement will break the spell.

This time, her kiss is passionate. Is desirable. Lydia is not afraid of being vulnerable with him, he notices. She’s pouring her feelings into this kiss to let him know her completely. Every part of her soul is being put into it to let him know her like he never has. And it burns, Stiles concludes.

Lydia’s soul burns against him and he expects it to be overwhelming, but it’s not. Her lips are fire and he knows he can take it. He doesn’t want that fire to ever stop. He wants to drink from her mouth forever.

Stiles tries to do the same. To put all his feelings for her into that kiss. He needs her to know everything he has ever felt for her since they were kids. He wants her to know that there wasn’t a day he didn’t love her with all his heart. That his heart beat for her every day.

But it’s not enough.

She seems to notice the same, because soon enough she’s in his lap, pulling him closer to her and depositing small wet kisses on his jaw. He spreads his hands over her thigh and she shivers, feeling his cold hands against her burning flesh. His mouth finds her neck and starts to suck it desperately, addicted to how her skin feels pressed to his lips.

When her hips meets his, Stiles sees stars. It’s a small movement but it’s the best feeling in the world, so good that a low moan escapes his lips. She seems to notice him and repeats the act, moving a little harder to both of their pleasure. His hands move to hold her ass under her shorts, helping her to keep a steady pace.

Stiles captures her lips once more, kissing her harder, savoring her taste, her breaths, her body. It’s only when he feels her body start to tremble on top of his and hears her moans become sharper that he stops the kiss and looks at her.

“Lydia,” he starts when she opens her eyes. They’re so lustful, so full of desire that it takes a few seconds before he remembers what his next words are. “Are you… Is this what you really want?”

“Yes.” She touches his face kindly. “I do. Not only… Not only this, but everything.”

“Me too,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against hers. “Lydia, I’ve been in love with you since… Since I can remember. I want everything too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. His hands are around her waist, lifting her up when he stands up and walking to her bedroom. Her mouth finds his neck and starts working up to his jaw over and over again, making him crazy. When he lays her on her bed and lowers himself down on top of her, their eyes lock one more time before he drowns in her mouth.

They take their time, because this isn’t just some hook up or one night stand for them. No, this is so much more than that. It’s them giving themselves to the other, their heart, soul and body. It’s every I love you unsaid. Everything they wanted to do for a long time but never could.

This is Stiles and Lydia finally becoming one.

May 28th, 2016

“Where the hell is everybody?” Stiles asks for the tenth time, walking around his living room and looking at his watch every five seconds. “ We’re going to be late!”

“We’re not going to be late,” Lydia answers, flipping a page of her magazine. “Allison just texted me and said they’re parking.”

“Parking? Why are they parking?” He grabs his phone and starts to dial. “They don’t need to come up here, we’re supposed to meet in front of the building and go. I sent them the schedule. ”

Lydia takes a deep breath and stands up, taking his phone from his hands. He looks at her, outraged, but she twines her hands around his neck and kisses him slowly, which makes Stiles immediately relax. When they pull back, his forehead rests on hers as he looks down into her eyes. Even with her highest heels, she’s still so short next to him.

“Stop worrying. We’re gonna get there with plenty of time left.” He doesn’t move, but his eyes are still agitated. “I’m the one who needs to be there, and you don’t see me worrying.”

“I’m not gonna lie, it kills me you’re so relaxed,” he says. “But, Lydia, this is your graduation! I need everything to go perfectly. We need to find amazing seats, take tons of pictures with everybody, and I need to find the perfect light to film you getting your diploma.”

“We have time,” she promises and kisses him again. And he gives in, because how could he ever argue with Lydia’s amazing persuasion skills?

“I love you,” he says as soon as they pull apart.

“I love you too.”

“Aw, I love you too!” They look towards the door, seeing Allison and Scott with smiles across their faces. Lydia rolls her eyes and takes a step back from her boyfriend, walking to her best friends, hugging Allison first. “I can’t believe you two think Scott and I are the clingy ones.”

“Oh, you are. You two are absolutely disgusting with each other.” She kisses Scott’s cheek. “What you saw was me distracting Stiles so he wouldn’t murder you two.”

“For what? The ceremony isn’t for two hours.” Scott looks at his best friend and raises his brows. Stiles is at the same spot Lydia left him, looking at the group with his mouth open in shock. “What?”

“ You’re not even dressed yet!” he says, exasperated. “I had a plan – I had a schedule! We’re going to be so late now.”

“I thought it was a joke,” Scott tells them. “I mean… Who gets there before anyone else? What are we going to do until it starts?”

“Stiles wants us to do a photoshoot of the day. You know, all possible combinations of photos with and without people.” She grabs Allison’s bag and looks at her boyfriend. “Which we’ll do no matter what time we get there.”

“But the plan…”

“Plan A never works, Stiles,” Lydia says, kissing his cheek on her way to her room with Allison. “So get ready for plan B.”

“Lydia Martin.”

As soon as she steps onto the stage to receive her diploma, Stiles stands up, clapping, followed by the whole row of people who came to see Lydia’s graduation. On his left, Scott is smiling proudly at her and Allison is almost jumping excitedly for her friend. Her mom is tearing up on his right and his dad and Melissa couldn’t be happier seeing her there.

She shakes the hand of one of her teachers and as he hands her the diploma, she looks to the crowd applauding her. She looks at everyone, smiling thankfully at them for being there for her. But her eyes stops on Stiles and her face softens.

He’s so proud of her, and he’s not scared of showing everyone around him. Without a doubt, he’s the one clapping the most, and when he screams her name from far away, he doesn’t care if people are staring. His girlfriend is graduating two years ahead of everyone else with honors. This is her moment and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

He’s the first one to spot her from the hundreds of students all around campus. He grins widely when she looks at him and walks towards the group, hugging him tight.

“You made it, Lydia.” She looks into his eyes, and Stiles notices how bright they are. “You deserve this so much, you worked so hard to get here, and I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

She doesn’t get a chance to answer him because she’s pulled from his arms by her mother, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need an answer. All he wants is make sure that she knows.

June 5th, 2022

Stiles Stilinski is getting married to Lydia Martin for the second time.

The ceremony takes place at Lydia’s lake house back in Beacon Hills. Everything is decorated in light shades of yellow and white with flowers dotting the whole place. There’s nothing too fancy about their wedding, but it’s beautiful enough to make the guest sigh at the atmosphere of love.

For the first time that day, Stiles is completely still while waiting for Lydia. Scott is at his side, just like when they were kids, radiating happiness for his friends. He can see his father in the first row, smiling at him, and Lydia’s mom, already crying right next to him. Stiles looks at his friend.

“Do you think Lydia’s mom is crying of happiness or because she’s marrying me?” Scott just stares at him. “What? That’s a completely valid question. I’m definitely not her first or tenth choice to marry her daughter, right Mr-I-must-charm-every-single-mother-in-Beacon-Hills?”

“Are you nervous?” Scott asks, ignoring his previous words. Stiles thinks for a few seconds. He was nervous this morning when he woke up. He was nervous when his father told him how proud his mother would be of him. He was nervous ten minutes ago when Scott fixed his tie for the fifth time and they shared a look, remembering all those years ago when it all started.

But at that moment, as he’s standing at the end of the aisle, next to his best friend and waiting for the woman he loves to walk towards him, he decides he’s not nervous. Not even a little bit. Because when the song starts and everybody stands up, watching Allison walk in her yellow dress with watery eyes, all he can think about is how lucky he is to be marrying Lydia Martin.

And how absolutely beautiful she is.

It’s possible to hear a gasp from every single person when Lydia walks down the aisle. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat because Lydia looks stunning. Her hair, her dress, her eyes. He doesn’t know where to look first, everything about Lydia in that moment is too much for him.

The strapless tulle dress she is wearing makes her look like she had come out of a fairytale book. Her hair is down with a delicate crown braid and soft curls on the end of her locks. Her makeup is so soft, almost natural, with exception of her lips, which are painted in a light shade of red.

And, once more, she’s holding a sunflower bouquet.

She remembered.

“Don’t cry,” she says, eyes starting to water and voice already breaking. “You know I’ll do it too.”

“You look beautiful.” He takes her hand, squeezing lightly. “And the flowers…”

“I wanted her to be here with us too.” She touches the only plastic sunflower in the middle. “She’s my something old.”

“You kept it.” He looks at her, surprised.

“Of course I did.” Lydia brings his hands to her lips. “You chose it for me.”

The ceremony is beautiful. The words spoken about them are kind and it’s made to share their story with everyone at the ceremony. But it’s not until their vows that their love is completely known by every single soul sharing that moment with them.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I had a weak spot for fairy tales. The idea of someone finding their one true love was the epitome of happiness someone could find. But once life happened, I started to believe that none of it was true. That there was no Prince Charming, no one true love, no happy ending.” She bites her lip, looking at him. “And as skeptical as I became, the harder it was to see what was right in front of me. You. You were always there for me in times no one else was. You were the only person I told all my secrets, all my fears, all my dreams. You were the only one who knew my heart and soul, and loved me for it.” When her voice cracks, Stiles holds her hand tighter, even though he’s crying as well. “And still, I couldn’t see you were everything I dreamed of. And on this day, I promise you to be everything you need. To love you endlessly. Just like you always did for me. Because you are my Prince Charming. My one true love. My happy ending.”

When it’s Stiles’ turn to say his vows, he takes a moment to recompose himself, before looking at her, smiling.

“I fell in love with my best friend on June 5th, 2002. That day, we were a couple of seven-year-old kids who just wanted to do something special and a wedding was the best way to do it. And in front of our best toys and our families, we made important promises to each other and we never, not even once, broke them. I always held your hand when you got scared. I always shared my ice cream when you ate all of yours. You always let me sing along to The Little Mermaid soundtrack and never once made me choose you over Scott.” Stiles looks at his best friend for a brief moment before returning his attention to Lydia. “But on this very same day, 20 years later, I come before you and every important person in our lives to make you a final promise.” His voice fails for a moment and Lydia smiles, touching his cheek. “Lydia Martin. I promise you me. In every aspect of your life. To cherish and love you. To never leave your side. To never make you doubt, not even for a second, how much I love you. I promise you my love every day for the rest of our lives. And even after that. Because there’s nothing in the world that will make me stop loving you, my very best friend.”

He doesn’t hear the rest of the ceremony. The way Lydia’s looking at him is enough to make everything else disappear. And when they’re pronounced husband and wife, he kisses her passionately.

Stiles is finally home.

[projectalbum]

166. “Martinis & Bikinis,” 167. “Omnipop (It’s Only A Flesh Wound Lambchop),” 168. “Don’t Do Anything” by Sam Phillips

Sometimes blind-buying a record just pays off.

That was how I ended up with Sam Phillips’ 1994 release Martinis & Bikinis (#166), a slice of roots-pop gold and a gateway to a whole back catalogue. Her gritty barroom chanteuse voice carries shimmering harmonies with barbs of social commentary in the sugar pill. She takes aim at powerful hypocrites, environmental rapists, the spiritually hollow. "He wants to buy the things he doesn't understand / He wants all the credit / He wants the rights to the soul of every man,” is the portrait she draws of a particular soulless bigwig archetype in “Fighting With Fire."

T-Bone Burnett comes to her aid with his patented polished-jangle production, from the soul-lifting hook at the center of “I Need Love” to the rag-and-bone, chain-shaking dystopia of “Black Sky,” and Phillips' primordial, weary-toned take on John Lennon’s “Gimme Some Truth.” There’s a patina of Rubber Soul Beatles in the harpsichord-and-strings flavoring “Strawberry Road,” with yearning lyrics in a waltz time. “The things we’ve wanted, when we get them, are never enough, never what they seem / But they lead us to the road.”

There’s usually cause to worry when musicians start getting openly self-reflexive about the pop industry. To look at the cover of Omnipop (#167), from its winking title to the retro-futurist aesthetic of the cover photography, you’d be forgiven if you start having sweaty flashbacks to U2’s Pop or Madonna’s MDNA, where ventures into dance music come off as self-parodic clones of the real thing. And there are, for sure, lyrics in Phillips’ record where television is represented as a brain-sucking, false religious icon and the music industry as a plastic doll factory, which is pretty standard for this type of affair. But one could hardly accuse the tiki lounge vibes of “Zero Zero Zero!” or subtle menace of "Entertainmen” of trying to lure people into the discotheque.

It was worth another CD blind-buy (it’s the only one of her records not available on Spotify, which might've been a bad omen if I had checked there first). Unlike some other “message” albums, Phillips and Co. don’t lose track of her identity as an artist, preserving her voice even as she dons roles and disguises. "I think most songwriters have this urge to confess and it's just ... off-putting,” she said to Salon.com in 2002. “It’s not done with any kind of art. There's no humor. It's so serious and not interesting.” Her approach to lyrics is often elliptical and evocative, making the satire bite harder, as in “Animals on Wheels”: "Famous is fast / You don't have to be talented or do good work or be smart / It's perfect for me, but every time I go after it / My ideals run off with my heart."

T-Bone, her partner at the time, returns for production duties, and there’s some more surprising collaborators to be found in the liner notes. I’m pleased with myself for picking out the woozy tone of Jon Brion’s trademark Chamberlin playing on “Faster Pussycat To The Library!,” creating a sonic continuum with Fiona Apple and Aimee Mann. My biggest shock was to see the songwriting of the final track, “Slapstick Heart,” credited to Berry/Buck/Mills/Stipe/Phillips, an R.E.M. joint venture that I’d never heard about. It’s not a cover, and I can’t find more information about the exact nature of the team-up (the closest I can figure via Wikipedia is the Pat McCarthy connection, who produced several of R.E.M.’s records not long after engineering this one.)

Phillips and Burnett had split by the time they wrapped up recording 2004’s A Boot and a Shoe, so it came to be that 2008’s Don’t Do Anything (#168) was her first solo-produced record. I remember the titular lead single being released on the web around the time I had become fully hooked via Martinis & Bikinis, and was entranced by the combination of her clear, unadorned vocal floating above the burbling bed of transistor radio guitar, hypnotic drums, and rising, percussive strings. It’s an approach also used on the opening and closing tracks “No Explanations” and “Watching Out of This World," where you sense the musicians gathered in a circle, while the instruments themselves are distorted and melded as to be nearly impossible to identify as individual parts. Others are more urgently present, like the fiddle that tears through the bridge of “Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us,” or the ear-to-the-floor tom drums that drive “My Career in Chemistry."

Next up: the handful of Pink Floyd CDs on my shelf! Please do not be alarmed at any absences.

[resmarted]

i am golden embers from the oldest burnt out flame that somehow manages to stay alive well past the party. i don’t know how we got here, but i’m drawing little cartoon skulls on the back of your hand and ruminating on death culture and our historical fascination with it, not to mention this modern day obsession. wake up, i’m worrying at you. i know, it’s been a long time since we’ve talked like this, in this house with all the windows open for anyone to be able to look in and see. me, a shameless blubbering idiot and you, an omnipresent interdimensional being that changes names and faces depending on what time of day it is. i wish we could be friends like normal and not these shapeshifting spaces that descend and disappear before they can even get a chance to form. i’m out of practice, but shall we? i am the cutest boy in school, (get over it, i just am.) and you are my closest friend. at least you were when we were kids, before puberty made things weird and gender norms influenced the politics of our relationship. back when life was endless summers in a treehouse and i was the only dude in your life besides your dad, and then even more significantly when he left. we were such pure vessels of innocence, or at least i was, you were more of a terrorist in an young girl’s body. we spend our days playing with your barbies, one of many secrets we take to our graves, and we have intricate plot lines for each of their relationships. i make scenery for them out of legos, a lawn to lounge on and a clunky castle to sleep, they even had a hot tub. we have an entire world that nobody knows about and eleven thousand inside jokes based within it, this galactic sandbox that goes on for miles where nobody can hurt us. in seventh grade two boys from our school come over and spot the dolls laying in the corner of the treehouse and they give me hell for it, and i mean it gets really bad. they carelessly pull apart their tiny clothes, some of them handmade by your aunt, and hold them up like torches made of naked plastic flesh. it is startling and i know fighting them will only make it worse, will only turn them into even bigger deviants, so i don’t provoke them any further and take all necessary precaution to keep it from happening again. admittedly, this is where shit starts to hit the fan with us. i tell you the next day you can’t bring them in here anymore, and that this is not a storage facility for your girl stuff, to which you respond with a look only the demon possessed child that you are could invoke. we don’t talk for what turns out to be the longest week of my life, and i try to compromise because i miss you terribly and all of our stories, how are all of our characters (ripped directly from episodes of 90210) even doing right now? i ask what if we just, yknow, not use the dolls anymore, but still play the game. we finally come to an agreement and spend the rest of the year lounging around telling stories in the air, playing without the physical evidence, just these long sagas that never get written down or repeated or acted out with dolls of any kind.

you’re growing up faster than i am, your body is developing first and you got a nice set of big naturals before we even get to high school. and what am i supposed to do, not notice? i try not to. i try to act like it’s totally not making me feel any type of way when you start to experiment with makeup and of course i’m not jealous of the boy band members you secretly fawn over when no one from school is around to make fun of you. what do all these meatheads got that i don’t got? besides muscles and money and matching wardrobes with dope harmony skills. i magically take up guitar the next summer and whenever you start to talk about another hollywood hunk i am just like so anyway, here’s wonderwall. you never seem to catch on, never showing to have the slightest clue, and over time our stories become fewer and farther between because you’ve got new daydreams now. you’ve grown tired of the dramatics in our pretend romances and you want a real one. you want jake who has a mustache and works at gadzooks in the mall or bryan who is always hogging the pinball machine at skate country. i call him a dweebmunch and you just drift further away from me. by high school we barely know each other, you can hardly even remember i exist as you join all these teams and squads and athletic girl gangs, and i still haven’t lost my baby fat. you’re dating marcus who plays defense on our school’s football team and at some point the new normal becomes this sort of familiar strangers vibe where we barely acknowledge each other when passing in the halls but wave to each other’s families when passing them in real life. we don’t actually talk again until prom night when you show up drunkenly to my backyard like the last four years never even happened. your mascara is running and your dress is torn, your pretty hairdo that took hours at the salon that day is all disheveled, and you hold a bottle of wine to your lips like it’s water. you are barely able to steady yourself long enough to climb up into the treehouse where you find me choking on a hit of weed with a look of terror like i’ve just seen a ghost. technically i have. you slur your words and ask me for a hit and i’m terrified of you, just take whatever you want, you monstrous beauty queen. you tell me that you hate your boyfriend but don’t go into detail, that prom sucks and your friends suck and everyone is fake and nobody will even be able to outgrow this version of themselves because their parents never did, and at one point you’re holding up the bottle yelling with burgundy stained teeth that nobody in this town cares about anything other than football. which is true, it’s just one of those towns where our whole identity is based on touchdowns and score boards because that’s all anybody’s got to live for. you curl up in a corner, finding a couple of your old dolls safe and secure and you smile at me, saying you thought they weren’t allowed up here anymore. i don’t even look back at you when stating that obviously abby and olivia don’t count since they are notorious rule breakers. you hold one up to sit atop my shoulder and talk in one of your stupid voices, requesting a live rendition of wonderwall. don’t be silly, i’m eighteen now, i’m too cool for oasis and have upgraded to strictly radiohead, the bends album specifically. we start to argue like we are ten all over again when you insist i am just being pretentious because i can’t acknowledge the obvious golden child that is karma police, and without thinking i retort that i’d rather be pretentious than pretend i’m dumb just to fit in with those who are. you knock me square in the jaw with your trusty right hook and i land harder than you expected. you’re not even concerned, and why would you be? you’re three sheets to the wind and screaming things like you think i wanted things to end up this way? you gave up first, if you would have just been a real friend to me none of this ever would have happened. you’re crying hysterically now like all good prom nights end, and i am rubbing the sore spot on my face.

i don’t fight you though, i know better. instead i just bundle you up and put you to bed like the little trainwreck that you are, and in the morning when the birds chirp and the sun fills this tiny space, you can’t remember how you got here or why your head is pounding so hard now. i am sitting up reading a burroughs novel because i’m cultured and mysterious now, with a thermos of coffee already waiting for you. you lean over to puke outside and it lands twenty feet below, and you hate when i tell everyone this story because i always say that’s the part where i knew i loved you. but it’s true, i had never been more certain of anything in my life than when i saw you hurling out this red river across the yard and thought how nice it was to have you back around, if even for a very delirious moment in a state of great confusion. we get breakfast at a diner we used to fantasize about being old enough to go to without our parents someday, and somehow that manages to be the beginning of the first of many best summers of our lives. now we’re old enough to go all kinds of places without our parents, and it’s still very novel for us to hold hands in public and be out past curfew. somehow we manage to stay these wild eyed teenagers no matter how old we get, and i wouldn’t want to grow young with anyone else.