#which is half sambuca and half tequila | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shitouttabuck · 1 year ago

Text

this could be the year for the real thing

buck/eddie | 1.7k | 7x06 coda(ish)

Eddie can count on one hand the number of times he’s been this horrifically hungover. His pre-teenage-pregnancy body bounced back blessedly quickly from tailgate parties and keg stands and beer pong tournaments, but after that? His cousins threw his bachelor party before he married Shannon, which involved a lot of mixed liquor, and then there were a couple miserable nights out after she left him, and now, last night, him and Buck the sole bachelor party members standing after Chim didn’t show up.

This is his worst hangover, because at least all the other times he wasn’t seized with worry about one of his closest friends and regret that he and Buck hadn’t noticed the empty hotel bed the night before. The nausea from hell doesn’t help, either.

Chim’s safe now, under the careful monitor of Cedars hospital staff and Maddie no more than three feet away from him at all times. The relief is a palpable thing, and Buck offering him a steaming paper cup of green tea soothes the churning in his gut a little bit, too.

He takes a sip and sighs gratefully, slumping against Buck in the hospital waiting room chairs when he takes the seat beside Eddie.

“Still queasy?” Buck asks, voice a rumble.

“Mm,” Eddie says, “back-to-back shots of tequila and sambuca are not it.”

Buck shudders beside him. “Don’t,” he begs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “I’m still very much in range of hurling.”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Eddie’d only managed half a banana when he went home to shower and change, but he knows Buck’s been with Maddie most of the day, and when it comes to taking care of other people, he sometimes forgets about himself.

“Had a granola bar,” Buck says, eyes still closed. “Can’t—don’t wanna think about food yet.”

His stomach chooses then to grumble audibly, with traitorously comedic timing, and Eddie snorts. Buck opens one eye to grin at him.

“Don’t listen to her,” he says, patting his belly. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“She doesn’t, huh? Then I guess she’s not interested in stopping by the juice bar on Sunset on the way home? Some sweet, sweet smoothies, all that fresh fruit and hydration, don’t even have to chew…”

Buck’s stomach rumbles interestedly and they both laugh.

“That sounds—so good, actually,” Buck admits. “We can pick up the peanut butter one for Chris, he’s always hankering—”

He breaks off as Hen appears at the end of the hallway, looking around and hurrying over as soon as she spots them. Eddie doesn’t think anything’s wrong—she’s beaming—but he and Buck sit up quickly in their seats anyway.

“Ugh,” Buck says, and Eddie’s dizziness at the sudden movement wholeheartedly agrees.

“We’re having a motherfucking wedding,” Hen grins, tugging them both to their feet, uncaring of their delicate dispositions. “Right here, right now.”

“Hospital wedding?” Buck asks, eyes wide. “Holy shit, okay, what do we need—who do we call—fuck—”

“Calm down, Buckaroo,” Hen smiles. “Just get friends and family over here, Karen’s gonna pick up Maddie’s dress, I’m gonna call Bobby, and we’re having a wedding.”

Buck’s already pulling up a copy of the guest list on his phone, squinting at it and muttering names under his breath.

“You boys got this?” Hen asks while dialling Bobby.

“Yep,” Eddie gives her a mock salute. “We’ll split the list and make some calls.”

He types out half the names Buck reads off to him in his notes app, and the two of them work through them methodically, calling Chim and Maddie’s nearest and dearest for this impromptu ceremony.

“Chris will kill us if he misses it,” he says suddenly, and Buck looks up at him, mid-text.

“He’s with Isabel, right? Pepa’s place is only a ten minute drive from here.”

Eddie nods. “I don’t have my car, though. You drove me.”

Buck tosses him the Jeep keys. “I’ll finish calling people, you go get them.”

“Cool,” Eddie says, and nearly bodies himself with the instinctive urge to lean over and kiss Buck on the cheek as he stands. It’s surprising, even though it shouldn’t be, because it’s an urge he fought and failed about thirty times last night, Buck’s sweaty skin pressed to his, salty under his mouth every time he dropped an innocuous, friendly kiss to his face with nothing but alcohol in his veins.

It hadn’t seemed out of place then, everything shiny and bright, Buck leaning right back into him.

Now, under the fluorescents of the hospital, organising a makeshift wedding for their family? Eddie doesn’t think it would land quite the same.

“Back in twenty,” he tells Buck instead, and has to physically tear himself away from the smile Buck turns his way, warm and golden under the harsh lights.

Chris and Abuela are delighted to be included, and, true to his word, they’re back at the hospital as the rest of the guests begin arriving, too.

Eddie’s—okay, he’s not going to say he’s not a crier, it’s just that his best friend is Buck, who cries at anything remotely tearjerky, so in comparison, Eddie’s not a crier. Now, though, they’re both very much damp-cheeked, much like everyone else crowded into this hospital room, watching Maddie and Chim exchange rings and vows with little Jee between them.

They’re a family, have been and would still be even if they never got hitched, but the fact that Chim refused to wait another few weeks, another few days, another minute before marrying Maddie? Eddie’s chest aches in the best way, and he slings an arm around Chris, and, before he knows he’s doing it, he looks for Buck.

The ceremony’s over, and Buck’s grinning at his phone, and Eddie pats for his own automatically, anticipating a goofy text.

But Buck’s edging backward, slipping out of the room, still grinning at his phone, and the ache inside Eddie spreads like an inkstain, blotting his insides.

And then Buck reappears with Tommy, which Eddie knew he was going to do, because who else would have Buck smiling at his phone like that, leaving his sister’s wedding even for a minute. Not me, Eddie doesn’t think. He doesn’t.

He’s not ready to make sense of the churning inside him—he doesn’t think he can blame the hangover for this one—when he clocks Tommy’s soot-stained everything and the way Buck’s own smudgy face matches like a puzzle piece.

He sees the way Chim notices, and Hen and Karen, Bobby’s eyes going wide and then soft. He sees the way Margaret Buckley doesn’t even attempt to school her face into anything but distaste and he hates her, but Buck’s not even looking at her. He’s looking at Bobby, and then he’s looking at Chim, and he’s smiling, this wide, guileless spread of happiness across his face.

Eddie’s helpless to smile too, the churning too complicated to parse beyond easy joy at every step of Buck’s sexuality journey, and this second-hand relief he’s not sure he’s got any entitlement to—he doesn’t, does he? Sure, he can be relieved that Buck doesn’t feel like he has to stay closeted, that everyone who matters loves him just the same, but he doesn’t get to feel like any of the relief belongs to him. Not now.

Not—yet.

Tommy’s made his way to Chim’s bedside to congratulate them properly, and Buck’s squeezing through the guests to get to the Diazes.

“Hey, bud,” he says to Chris. “Hi, Isabel.”

His face is still a smear of soot, and Chris giggles. “Buck. Your face.”

Buck frowns in confusion and Eddie steps over to him, hand already reaching to wipe the soot off his face, just like he has a hundred times at work. Except Tommy’s already there, licking his thumb and rubbing firmly at Buck’s chin, a gesture so familiar to Eddie that watching it happen separate from him feels like getting punched in the throat.

And beside the joy and the second-hand relief, there’s—this sense of profound loss. This emptiness, a space inside him he didn’t realise Buck had been occupying all this time. And now it’s like Eddie’s entered the room, finally, but the door is swinging shut on the far wall and Buck’s footsteps are echoing softer and softer as he leaves. Eddie’s late, he’s missed something he didn’t know was waiting, much less had a timeline on it.

The room empties out slowly, everyone giving the Buckley-Hans some space to rest, and Buck disappears down the hall hand-in-hand with Tommy.

“Y’all ready to go home?” Eddie asks Abuela and Chris. “We can get take-out.”

“Is Buck coming?” Chris asks.

“Uh, I don’t think so, mijo,” Eddie glances down the hall. “Although—” he pats his pocket, retrieving the Jeep keys, and startles when Buck appears by his shoulder.

“You have my keys,” he informs Eddie, stretching his hand out for them. Eddie drops them in his palm dutifully. “Juice bar? The fancy one on Sunset.”

Chris whoops excitedly, and Eddie smiles, even as his brow furrows.

“You’ve not got a hot date?” he asks Buck quietly as they walk to the exit.

“I drove you,” Buck shrugs.

Eddie rolls his eyes, stopping Buck with a hand at his elbow. “I think we can manage getting a cab.”

“I seem to recall you promising me a ‘sweet, sweet smoothie,’” Buck says, raising an eyebrow at Eddie. “You tryna stiff me, Eds?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eddie lifts his hands in surrender. “Uh—do you wanna ask Tommy along?”

“Nah,” Buck says easily. “Maybe another time. He’s just gotten off shift. I’m seeing him tomorrow, anyway.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods slowly, ache bittersweet. “Just us, then.”

Buck beams. “Me and my boys,” he crows, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and tugging him forward so he can wrap the other one around Chris. Isabel makes a noise of offense, and Buck hastily amends, “Me and my boys and Abuela. Dream team!”

Christopher groans at the very public embarrassment and Abuela smiles indulgently at Buck and Eddie lets himself get pulled along, safe in this room in his heart that won’t ever be empty, even if Buck’s not filling it in the same capacity as Eddie’s getting ready to allow himself to want.

It doesn’t matter. The door on the far wall’s not quite swung shut after all; it sits ajar, crack of light and Buck’s love spilling through. Maybe one day he’ll come back through it. Maybe one day Eddie’ll follow after him enough to ask.

#i got too excited after the episode at 5am and tired myself out so much i fell back asleep at 8am lol #buddie #911 #buddie fic #911 fic #writing tag #mine #also i agreed to go out for drinks with high school friends tonight and im going to be so badly behaved because they’ll want to catch up #and all i want to do is think about these damn firefighters

286 notes · View notes

winterromanov · 7 years ago

Text

high voltage in her lips [bechloe fic, part 2/?]

read part one here | on ao3

Beca wakes up to two bright blue eyes staring right at her from the side of the bed.

“Dude!” she exclaims, pulling her duvet tight around her, “What the fuck?”

Chloe smiles like it’s a totally normal thing for her to be doing. To. You know. Just be watching her sleep. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Beca rubs her eyes and her hands are streaked with black from last night’s mascara. She can feel the hangover thrumming at the back of her brain, her mouth dry and tasting faintly of wine she doesn’t remember drinking. “How long have you been perving on me?”

“Not long,” Chloe chirps. It’s then that she realises that Chloe is completely put together, like they weren’t screaming on a dancefloor just a few hours previously, hyped up on Sambuca shots. Her hair is newly washed and blow-dried and her face is bare, yet somehow still flawless, freckles dusted across her cheekbones. She’s wearing a neat top-and-skirt combo. Beca’s still wearing her clothes from last night. “Your ass was drunker than mine so I put you up in the spare room.”

Beca properly looks around the room, finally realising she’s not in her own flat—it’s way too clean and ordered, with a floral colour scheme that’s been carefully designed rather than thrown on the walls last minute. The duvet smells like honeysuckle. God, it couldn’t be more Chloe Beale.

“Thanks. Sorry to, uh, put you out?”

“Not a problem,” Chloe grins. She stands from her position crouching by Beca’s bedside, rubbing her hands together. “I’ve left you a coffee and some aspirin. I’ve got a meeting in the city so I’ve got to head out, but feel free to use the shower and stuff before you go. The door locks on its own so don’t worry about leaving it open or anything.”

Damn, this bitch is organised. Beca stretches out and tries to put together memories from last night—it’s all pretty vague, glimpses of fire-red hair and intense music, Amy running over before they leave and telling her that some dude called Juan was taking her to the Bahamas for a bit so not to wait up for her—

Okay, so she’s going to have to handle that at some point, but that point doesn’t have to be now, right?

“I had a great night last night, by the way,” Chloe says, smiling, “You’re great fun. I haven’t let loose like that in a while.”

It would help if Beca could actually remember clearly what exactly happened last night, but the sentiment warms her anyway. She smiles back, genuinely, vaguely recalling how her heart thudded like it was about to break out her ribcage. “I had a great time too. As far as I’m aware I didn’t leave with a minor assault charge, so. A win?”

Chloe giggles. She does that a lot. Giggling. Beca’s never giggled. It doesn’t match her image. “Definitely a win. I’d like to do it again sometime.”

“Well, we’re going to be spending the next three months on tour together,” Beca says, still not quite believing it. “I’m sure I’ll be able to haul you off the rails at least once in that time period. If your manager doesn’t kill me first.”

“Aubrey doesn’t control everything about my life, as much as she’d like to. I make my own decisions.”

“Awesome,” Beca replies. Her eyes linger on the coffee Chloe’s thoughtfully left out for her and it stings, a little, because it reminds her of stupid Jesse and the stupidly Nice Things he used to do for her. And maybe Chloe is another Nice Person she doesn’t deserve in her life. It’s why she hasn’t fired Amy yet. She’s just as fucked up as Beca is.

“I’m going to head off,” Chloe says, making her way towards the bedroom door, “So I’ll see you later?”

“Sure.”

She flashes Beca one last smile before disappearing, and Beca’s touched that the girl seems to trust her enough to leave her alone in her apartment after meeting her once. It’s a naïve choice, perhaps, but sweet all the same. She reaches out and takes a swig of the rapidly cooling coffee and pops two of the aspirin then just sits, wrapped up in the duvet, everything silent other than the hum of the air conditioning.

Yeah, she’s still not sure how this whole tour thing will work, but she kind of wants it to work? And maybe that’s the point.

-x-

THE PRINCESS AND THE REBEL – CHLOE BEALE AND BECA MITCHELL SPOTTED IN DOWNTOWN LA

Los Angeles seems to be the hotbed of the billboard’s newest collaborations, a factory of number one hits and Grammy awards—but a sighting of two of music’s seemingly polar opposites has us here at Glitz dot com totally stumped. That’s right. Notorious bad girl Beca Mitchell (of Where Do You Go? fame) and pop’s hottest starlet Chloe Beale were papped together outside the Luna club last night, looking very comfortable in each other’s company indeed.

It’s true that there’s been a small fanbase on social media hoping that the pair would eventually collaborate, but it hardly felt like a realistic goal. After all, Mitchell’s just dodged another felony whilst Beale is climbing to the top of her game. Their interests don’t seem to overlap, but there’s definitely a friendship we’ve never heard about there.

Whether this club night is just two friends meeting up or the beginning of a potential collaboration, it has got us pretty excited. Mitchell’s sultry, no-nonsense sound mixing with Beale’s simultaneously romantic and empowering girl-power anthems will be a guaranteed eargasm which we’re TOTALLY here for. But—it begs the question whether these two artists will actually be good for each other. It’s no secret that Mitchell’s been a bit off the rails recently while Beale is pristine, role-model material; will Beca drag Chloe down or will Chloe bring Beca back up again? Only time will tell.

Keep up to date with everything Beca Mitchell and Chloe Beale by following us on twitter: @glitzmag

ARTICLE BY DAISY FULLERTON

-x-

“Hey bitch! You’ve reached Fat Amy, only you haven’t reach Fat Amy, because I’m totally boning a really hot Spanish dude in the Bahamas right now while drinking a shit ton of Tequila Sunrises. Sooooo… Leave a message if you want, but I probably won’t get back to you for several days if it all. Adios!”

“For fuck’s sake, Amy, you are literally the worst manager ever and I’m firing you as soon as your ass is back in LA. Ok. So. There’s been some—articles, which I’m sure you’ve seen, because despite never answering my calls you’ve uploaded about sixty videos to your snapchat story of you on a speedboat, you monster. Anyway. I’m sick of the media painting me as some fucking criminal out-to-corrupt-your-children type when I’m really not, and yes I do have a tattoo I got when I was off my face on pot but that was years ago and really, that’s literally the only regrettable thing I’ve done that wasn’t a product of you. Please just tell someone, anyone, that I’m actually pretty rad and I’m probably not going to drag Chloe Beale’s impeccable reputation through the trash. As my manager that would literally be the bare minimum you could do for me right now. You’re an asshole. Ciao.”

-x-

queenbeale just uploaded a photo to Instagram

got to hang out with the amazing @becamitchell on Saturday!! can’t wait to tell you guys what we’ve got in store for y’all xx

chloebealer commented: oh my god???? OH MY GOD???

jaydababe34 commented: MY TWO FAVES ARE UNITED I’M SCREAMING

chloefan789 commented: not sure how this will work… I’m not a beca mitchell fan at all

becamitchell commented: I look so drunk in this photo and I hate you for uploading it :)

queenbeale commented: @becamitchell you look like a dream

madisonbealer commented: @queenbeale @becamitchell *whispers* GAYYYYYYY

-x-

It takes another two weeks of meetings and contracts and publicity before the tour dates are released to the public. They’re visiting thirty-two cities across North America in the space of two and a half months: it’s wild on a scale Beca’s never seen before. Yeah, she’s had three tours across the same area in the past, but the venues were smaller and not so extensive, and not all of the dates were sold out. The tickets for this tour sell out in a grand total of eleven minutes.

The tour also generates a tidal wave of interest across every single internet platform available. Her old songs are repeated alongside Chloe’s on the radio, her follower count on Instagram sky-rockets and their names are trending on Twitter. The last time Beca saw her name in that bar was when she was arrested for the coke incident (fuck you, Amy). And the support, surprisingly, is unreal. Like the unsavoury articles that emerged after she was papped outside Luna with Chloe earlier in the month, she’d expected people talking shit about her past, wondering if Beca’s razor sharp edges would rip Chloe to shreds—but there’s been an overwhelming amount of positivity, like the curiosity of what they could produce together overshadows what could potentially go wrong.

Her return to mainstream media ends up alerting people she thought she’d left in the past of her presence again, but she’s still surprised when Jesse ends up leaving her a voicemail on the Thursday after the announcement. It’s been five months of total radio silence between them. She’d kind of anticipated that it would be longer than that. After all, she did end a seven-year relationship on his fucking birthday, which she’d completely forgotten about.

Maybe she does owe him one.

Beca meets him for lunch in a small restaurant a twenty minute walk from her apartment—a neat, little kitschy place she doesn’t often visit, but they serve ciabatta and paninis and squashy cooked tomatoes still on the vine, and that’s the kind of thing Jesse loves. She gets there fifteen minutes early but of course he’s already there, sat on the long bench by the window and overlooking the street. She pretends she hasn’t seen him from the outside, even though he’d clocked her half a block away.

He still looks the same. Clean-shaven, dark hair cropped, clean t shirt and pants and sneakers like they’d never been worn before. He leaps off his stool nervously when the door shuts behind her.

Oh. Wow. She’s never known Jesse to be nervous before. He’s usually annoyingly confident. All through high school she’d hidden behind his infectious smile. At least the last two months have allowed her to just be her, even if that means she’s been stuck in a fucking prison cell once or twice. Or thrice.

“Becs,” he says breathlessly, taking her in. She half-smiles tightly. “Hey. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Beca shrugs, pulling her bag strap tighter around her shoulder. She’s nervous too. “Not in prison, depressed or dying, so not all bad. You?”

Jesse relaxes and his mouth softens. She’s still the same old Beca. “Same. It’s…uh, it’s been a while.”

“It has.”

“I kept meaning to… well, call, I guess, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to. In the end I just bit the bullet.”

“It’s cool. We both needed space.” Beca drops her bag on the floor and jumps onto a barstool and he copies, their seats inches apart yet somehow miles away. It’s weird, considering how close they used to be. Used to be. “For the record… I kept meaning to call too. But I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

Jesse smiles, biting his lip, before looking back up at her. “I always want to hear from you. I think that was probably the issue.”

He’s not wrong, he’s really not, because Beca’s terrible at keeping up with messages and most of the time just didn’t bother replying, leaving his I love you’s on read and not giving it a second thought. She didn’t think that would hurt him for some reason, even though she’s well aware that Jesse’s actually a good, thoughtful person who cares about her and wouldn’t mind some of that care back. It was alright when they were in high school and when they regularly shared an apartment because she’d always be there in person to offer that reassurance. That wasn’t so easy when she was away on tour.

And it broke him. But it broke her a long time before that. Believe it or not, she’s not totally emotionally void.

Jesse grabs them both coffees and ham paninis and they sit in silence for a bit, looking out across the city; the one she’d forgotten they shared. He takes a deep breath before talking. “I saw you were going on tour. With Chloe Beale. That’s amazing, Beca.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool. The management is manic, but. I’m glad to be out there again.”

Jesse takes a sip of coffee. “Does that mean there’s going to be some new music out soon?”

Beca withholds an eye roll, because that’s been the question on everybody’s lips—Chloe’s on a high from a newly released number one album and she’s still utterly clueless, wondering if she can get away with singing mostly her old stuff on the tour. It begins in less than six months. That’s not enough time to write, produce and release at least ten songs worth of new material, especially seeing as the deterioration of her last relationship and moving out and all that stress hasn’t been particularly good for her creativity. “Probably not. Song-writing is apparently not my forte anymore.”

“Well, you never know. You might find some inspiration soon. I know you, Becs. You just pull amazing tracks out of thin air like it’s nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow sceptically. “As much as I appreciate you massaging my ego, that doesn’t really help me right now.”

“I’m not worried,” Jesse says calmly, “I once watched you write a whole album while high, remember?”

“Your Love Fucking Sucks Balls, Dude?” Beca says, and Jesse laughs, clinging onto the bar for support. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s going to be breaking the billboard top one hundred. Yet… stellar tracks like I Really Like Your Dick and Smash Me Good might be my only hope. Like, if I go another year without making music my label might drop me, even with the tour, so…” Beca doesn’t want this to turn into a pity party so she turns, resting her chin in her palm, back to Jesse. “What have you been up to? Anything exciting? Scored any Oscar-noms?”

Jesse laughs with an eyeroll, looking down into his coffee cup. “I wish. No, still doing ad work, but you never know. As soon as Pixar put an ad up for a composer on Craigslist, I’m there.” He pauses. Drums his fingers on the tabletop. Beca knows what’s coming. “Look, Becs—“

“No, Jesse.”

“No, no,” Jesse shakes his head, “No, this isn’t… I don’t want to get back together.”

Well, that’s a relief. She can feel her stomach shift back to its normal location. “Oh. Okay. Good.”

“This is more about… It is about me and you, but five months without you in my life has been hell, Beca. We were together for seven years. That doesn’t just fall away into nothing, even if the romance isn’t there anymore.” He coughs, clearly nervous. “I still love you. Of course I do. And I want you to be happy, like, more than anything in the world. And I know you’re not going to be happy with me, and that’s fine. But I’d still like to be part of your life.”

Oh. His sincerity stuns her, for a second, because maybe this is the kind of reaction she should’ve expected all along.

“We don’t have to talk every day. We don’t even have to talk regularly. I’d just like to be, you know—someone who is there for you. Your friend Jesse who just so happens to be your ex. We can grab dinner when our schedules don’t clash and watch movies and maybe text every so often. Or we don’t. Whatever. Just… I don’t want to lose you, Becs.”

She smiles, suddenly nostalgic for a time when everything was easy: when Jesse would pick her up from work in his beat-up Civic and he’d leave stupid romantic notes in her locker (which she definitely didn’t keep in a scrapbook under her bed, by the way) and they’d drink lukewarm cider and make out under the stars on the football field. It was all achingly simple back then.

But then she thinks of her life now, and how slowly and surely it’s coming back together, and how most of the time she doesn’t miss Jesse’s beat-up civic and his stupid romantic notes and the lukewarm cider, although she does kind of miss the making out and she does kind of miss him. He’s proposing a zero-commitment friendship, a no string attached deal, someone she can turn to and will always be there.

Like the tour, she’s not really in a position to turn it down.

“Sure,” she smiles, “But no movies. I’ve not got girlfriend status anymore, so you can’t force me to watch fucking Star Trek—“

“Star Wars, Beca, I’ve got no interest in Star Trek whatsoever.”

“Okay, weirdo, Star Wars. Whatever. But the point still stands. I’m under no obligation to sit through your ridiculous commentaries.”

“That’s cool,” Jesse nods, “I’m not saying it’s going to happen, but that’s cool. And anyway. I don’t actually want you to be my friend. I just want you to fill me in on every single detail about what Chloe Beale is actually like. Does she really own a poodle that’s naturally fluorescent pink?”

-x-

BECA MITCHELL SPOTTED WITH OLD FLAME AND EX LONG TERM BOYFRIEND JESSE SWANSON – IS ROMANCE BACK ON THE CARDS?

-x-

“Beca, I really don’t want to intrude, but I’ve seen those pics on twitter of you and your ex-boyfriend,” Chloe rubs her hands excitedly, “And are you, like, back together? Because that guy is a total cutie.”

Beca’s not actually seen Chloe beyond a professional capacity for over two weeks as their schedules are so hectic, but the girl texts like she’s running out of time and for some reason, she actually replies to her strings of emojis and exclamation marks? In addition, her lengthy paragraphs of information are usually incredibly intrusive, so it comes clear to Beca that Chloe doesn’t really have any boundaries or filter when it comes to asking the potentially difficult questions.

“Oh, no,” Beca answers straight up, her reflection staring back at her. She hisses in pain as the hairdresser burns her scalp with the curling iron, who then hastily apologises. “No, no, no. That’s definitely not a thing that’s happening.”

Beca’s sure that Chloe looks pleased, which sets off some weird emotions, but she somehow manages to fight the blush taking over her cheeks. “What happened there, if you don’t mind me asking? Your Wikipedia said you’d been together for, like, seven years. Which is a pretty long time.”

The shameless way Chloe admits she’s definitely stalked her ass online is actually kind of funny but Beca doesn’t laugh, because maybe then she’d be forced to admit that she’s done the same thing. The hairdresser—who is called Katie, or Kathy, or something, Beca’s not that good with names—wraps another one of her locks tight, like she’s going to pull it clean off her scalp. “It’s—really not exciting. We’d been together since high school. He went to UCLA while I tried to break onto the music scene and when I did we kind of just… drifted apart.”

(She was also an utter ass about it, but this is not something she’s going to admit while sober.)

“Oh. That’s sad.” Chloe smiles sympathetically. Her stylist has straightened her naturally wavy hair so it hangs in a scarlet red sheet, framing her cheekbones and eyes. She’s not even airbrushed or photoshopped within an inch of her life yet, goddamn, and she already looks fucking flawless. Totally unfair. “Drifting apart just comes with the territory, I guess. My last ex dumped because I didn’t have enough time for him. Which is fair. It’s not easy.”

Beca’s not sure if she feels totally comfortable going into it with an audience of stylists, especially with one who seems to hate her hair as much as Karen does. Chloe seems completely at ease, but she gives off this edge of being totally confident with herself—something Beca’s not blessed with, as much as she likes to pretend she doesn’t care.

“He also kept trying to persuade me to do a sex tape on several occasions,” Chloe unnecessarily elaborates, “And I kept telling him no, mostly because I was scared that if we did break up he’d try and sell it to TMZ or something. For the record, I’m not against sex tapes. I think they can be very fun and intimate representations of cinematography. But I’d only make one with someone I could trust inside-out and back-to-front, so to speak.”

Oh. Wow. Beca grits her teeth, but there’s a smile there. “That’s… good to know, dude.”

“I know! And I’ll have you know my sex life is far from vanilla. I have a very long list of kinks and some of them are pretty unconventional. Like, this one time, Mark made me try this thing with ginger—“

“And that’s enough!” Beca laughs awkwardly, mainly because the stylists are having a fucking field day and Beca doesn’t want it on record that she and Chloe were discussing figging while getting ready for a shoot.

“Oh,” Chloe says, looking briefly behind her before grimacing at Beca. She mouths I forgot we weren’t alone.

A few minutes later the lady who is coordinating the shoot calls them through to an office with a wall covered in white tarpaulin, the lights all the brighter for it. It’s a pretty low-key thing for Teen Vogue, but it’s the first shoot they’ve done together since the tour announcement, so Beca’s kind of bricking it. Chloe takes everything in her stride. She struts over to the tarpaulin and Beca quickly follows.

She thinks that the costume department might have gone a bit overkill on the rebel and the princess thing that’s been coined for them, because Beca’s dressed in a black mini-dress, leather jacket and doc martens, whilst Chloe is wearing a glittery pink off the shoulder number with white leggings, her feet in ballet pumps. Beca’s eyes are smudged with charcoal black whilst Chloe’s are pearlescent, and she looks every inch the twenty-first century pop princess. Beca’s not sure what she looks like.

The photographer is a young guy, maybe a bit older than she is, wearing a fake waistcoat attached to a t shirt and skinny jeans. He ushers them together, keeps saying to act natural, which in mainstream media terms means attempt to look sexy and maybe pout a bit.

The pictures actually turn out pretty good. Beca gets more element as the shoot drags on, sticking her tongue out for the camera and laughing and trying not to cringe as she tries the sexy hair-flick, smouldering the camera over her shoulder.

It’s the pictures of them together that turn out the best, though. There’s this beautiful shot of the pair of them caught off guard, Chloe’s hand slung over Beca’s shoulder as she laughs, hand over her chest. She looks fucking ecstastic, just to be there, they both do; like they’re ecstatic to be together. It’s almost typical that that one doesn’t make the cover (they go with one of them both straightfaced, stood side by side, like they’ve never met in their lives). The picture doesn’t even make the article. But later on someone from the magazine sends her the unedited rough-cuts, and she saves that one photo to her hard drive.

(Eight months, two weeks and three days later that photo is her desktop background.)

Two hours later and the magazine has all the photos they need so they’re allowed to leave and Beca can keep the leather jacket.

(“I like it on you,” Chloe says, smoothing the leather out with her fingers, “You look super edgy.” Aka, it’s a real turn-on.)

On their way out from the building, Chloe pauses in the middle of the street like she’s suddenly had the best fucking idea. “Hey—my apartment is about a five minute cab ride from here. Do you want to head over there if you haven’t got plans? There’s something I’m desperate to try.”

Beca’s way too intrigued to possibly say no to that.

#pitch perfect #pitch perfect fic #fanfic #fanfiction #bechloe #bechloe fic #beca mitchell #chloe beale #beca x chloe

75 notes · View notes

moviemuncherao3 · 2 years ago

Text

TW: alcoholism

I used to be a binge drinker, and I worked in a bar at the cinema I worked at a lot, (I think it's fair to say I still struggle with the drinking, but I am definitely not several days a week until I pass out anymore). A bottle of vodka (thank you co-op 1 litre vodka for getting me drunk in my poor student days) stretched from pres (6/7pm start) to when you left for the club (after 11pm closer to midnight) was do-able but you were drunk.

Then I'd drink a lot in the club, mainly shots, sambuca is the devil but jaeger was grand, and some spirit mix (usually rum and coke for me), but you need so much energy (atmosphere too) to maintain any semblance of a good time. You do not need to drink that much, ever, and I highly regret a lot of it. I don't think I ever left a club before 3am, and if it was Heaven til 7, I was fucking going.

2+ bottles of vodka was a bender that usually lasted from when you started drinking until the birds were singing, the sun was up and you knew you fucked up. Those were not good nights and definitely mistakes.

(Also, best mixer for vodka is a mango monster and top it up with ice. If you don't want to use lots of energy drink, do half and half with lemonade. If you don't like fizzy mixers, hefty squirt of lime juice and top up with cranberry. Citrus will cut through clear/white spirit taste and prevent some of the harshness.)

3 tall glasses of spirits/liquor in what an hour or two the scene may cover? Yeah that's nearly passed out for even a moderate to heavy drinker. Someone with a normal level of tolerance? Night buddy, see you the morra.

Vodka tastes like nail varnish remover on an open cut feels when it's cheap (I'm looking at you Glenn's vodka). Expensive vodka can be quite smooth and pleasant but it's a strong taste.

Tequila is one I like personally, but also super strong tasting especially without salt and lime, it's like a slow kind of burn rather than quick heat to me.

Whisky tastes great to me provided it's Jameson's or Glenfiddich, it's warm and sharp but overall a smooth sensation, it is not sweet. This is an acquired taste, my sister says it burns and makes her think of how petrol smells.

Brandy is sweeter than some, but I wouldn't describe it that way. To me it's like burned honeycomb, it was probably meant to be sweet, but something was off.

Gin, strong and sharp again, a bit more fruity than vodka, even without additional flavours. Still not sweet when it's just plain gin, oddly would relate it more to bitter but not really. Think aniseed (and juniper) but very, very mild on that flavour.

Getting drunk on beer will more than likely leave you bloated, as will cider which is almost always alcoholic in the UK unless it specifically says non-alcoholic, but they are great casual drinks for a bar where you might cluster round a table and talk.

Guinness is a very creamy, smooth and always reminds me of dark roast coffee, but it is a "heavy" drink. You might want to not drink this if you're aiming to get drunk, and you might want to avoid if mildly sweet, creamy stuff doesn't sit well with you.

Wines are too varied to list, but wine drunk is lethal. It hits fast if you don't take it easy but if you leave it and dance it off a bit, it will fade somewhat fast too (at least for me), but if you keep drinking prepare for the headache.

Just some basic choices but if you don't drink and want some sort of insight into how it tastes/tolerances (of an admittedly recovering heavy drinker), this might help. Also if you're ever concerned about your drinking, I promise you, it's okay to talk to someone, and you can even talk to me if you want. I replaced a lot of my drinking with video games and cooking to keep my hands busy, but the mental stuff is still ongoing.

i love when fic writers who have clearly never tried any kind of alcohol in their lives try to write someone drinking bc they're always like

"he ordered a tall glass of hard liquor. after three large glasses he was feeling tipsy" like babygirl i can't be sure but i think u just sent this man to the hospital

89K notes · View notes

thelarryficrecplace · 8 years ago

Text

Personal but I feel really shitty right now. Like don’t even read this, it’s just for me to offload somewhere!

Sorry for this being on your dash, I’ll start doing recs tomorrow

I’ve been with this guy, let’s call him H - on and off since first year of uni. So it’s been what like 2 years now, since we’re in 3rd year. And like we’ve got our ups and downs but there’s just something so addictive about him.

We spent the better half of second year not talking to each other as he got a girlfriend for the summer and then told me they had broken up and got with me on a night out. Turned out, they hadn’t broke up and I felt bloody awful about it, literally spend weeks not eating cos I felt sick to my stomach. Worst thing is, he is in the same friendship group as I am, so I had to see him all the time for 6 months.

I believe it was on the night after our finals in second year, when we finally talked it out and said we should try and be friends. And it worked, cos I went home for the summer and he stayed here so it was fine. And then for the first month of uni it worked us well.

But then it was my best friend’s birthday, and there was no getting with each other in the club or anything but when we called it a night, it was like an unspoken agreement he would come home with me. So he did. And stuff happened.

And it was fine. There was no drama, no anything.

And then he started snapchatting me and texting me. And it felt great. We’re complete opposites, like polar opposites. But he’s just hilarious, a bit immature, but just so funny. He makes me laugh and yeah he’s never going to be an Abercrombie & Fitch model but he’s attractive in my eyes. Thing is, my best friends think it’s purely physical. Keep saying how I am too good for him. And whenever I bring up the fact that I really I’m gone for him they laugh it off.

Anyway.

I’ve gone back to his place a couple of nights since.

But then a few weeks ago, I was really pissed off with him about something that I can’t even remember. And I was out with this flatmate of mine called R who absolutely hates H cos he thinks he’s been playing me. So R decides he’s gonna play matchmaker and tells one of his friends, L, that I fancy him.

Bearing in mind it was on a night out. I had a bottle of prosecco, three shots of tequila, a shot of sambuca and a drink one of my friends offered me, which I found out later that it had a couple of strong drugs in it. So I was absolutely hammered. I was off my head.

And I got with that guy. As in, I kissed him. And apparently that was an invitation to come home with me. Which ok. So he came home with me. And I’m not gonna play innocent, we did things. We didn’t have sex, but we did do things. And then the next morning, he was being creepy - asking ‘is it too soon to call this dating’ and ‘can i take you out on a date’. So I freaked out and more or less kicked him out.

I got a message from him on that same day saying ‘I miss you like crazy’. Which really freaked me out. And then I was more or less bullied into going on a date with him by R. I made it completely clear to R that I was not interested, even less so when I found out that the guy had never had sex before, as he had major appearance and confidence issues and was just looking to lose it. So, heck no I was not gonna be his guinea pig. But I did go on the date.

It was a movie and then drinks. I insisted to pay for myself but he had already booked the tickets for the theatre. So we got to the movies, was completely awkward with me, sat stiff for two whole hours. Then we went for drinks - I paid for mine - and he just would not talk. I was the one asking questions to avoid awkwardness. He kept insisting to come back to mine, and I was very firm, declining every single time.

At this point, I want to say. I was not playing hard to get. I don’t have an issue with having sex. I know some people do, but I do not consider it as a massive deal. If I feel like it, I will have sex. If not, I won’t. But in his mind, that was me being classy and playing hard to get.

He messaged me straight after he dropped me off at home. Saying just how much fun he had and looking forward to next time. I replied that just to be clear I am not looking for a relationship and if he wants to go we can be friends, but it’s never going to go anywhere. His reply to that was that there’s definitely ‘something’ there and he is willing to wait. I replied that nothing is going to happen. So I thought that was that.

In the meantime, I carried on seeing H. Who, even 2 years later, he is still a fuckboy that is messing with both my head and my heart and I hate it but I love it.

Then this past week, H was ignoring me. He was seeing my snaps, opening them but never replying. And then today, L - who I’ve not spoken to since the first week of October as I thought he would get the hint if I stopped replying - started ringing and texting me, asking if there is a reason I’ve not been speaking to him and saying how much he misses me. So I’m completely freaking out at this point cos it’s just really creepy.

And then H started talking to me today. And he is being flirty but a bit off as well. And I just really don’t know what to make of it.

And my period is about 3 weeks late and I’m too bloody terrified to take a pregnancy test.

That’s all. Feels good to finally get things off my chest and not feel like I’m being judged.

#personal #not rec #triggers #relationships #boys are confusing #and complicated #any advice is appreciate #although my whole life is a joke #so feel free to ignore it

12 notes · View notes

newssplashy · 7 years ago

Link

SOCHI, Russia — The bartender at the restaurant here flipped a liquor bottle stylishly around his back and laid out the ingredients for a cerulean, absinthe-based cocktail that he garnished with a golden berry.

It was not so long ago that far different, far less palatable, concoctions — urine, coffee grounds, table salt, to name a few choice ingredients — were mixed inside this same building, mere steps from where he stood.

The restaurant, La Punto, is a Sochi gastro pub recommended to fans on the World Cup website that just so happens to be in the same building that housed the notorious anti-doping laboratory at the center of one of the most elaborate cheating schemes in sports history.

Here, Dr. Grigory Rodchenkov — the chemist who ran drug-testing in Russia for a decade, including at the 2014 Sochi Olympics — spent the overnight hours of those games tampering with more than a hundred urine samples to conceal the widespread use of banned, performance-enhancing drugs among Russia’s top athletes.

This month, as another major international sporting event rolls through this city, the structure can be seen as a lingering symbol of the shadow from which Russian sports are still trying to emerge, a discomfiting monument to the dark art of doping.

But Tuesday night, as fans packed the restaurant to watch Russia pound out a win over Egypt, the building that placed a pockmark on Russian sports suddenly became a venue to celebrate it.

“It is an extremely positive thing,” said Artyom Zhuk, 35, a sailor from Novorossiysk, when asked about the building’s transformation at the World Cup. “We want people to come here, have fun, and see that Russians are friendly.”

Minutes later, as if on cue, a nearby table with a dozen Panamanian fans started a chant of “Russia! Russia!” to acknowledge the home team’s surprise lead.

Children ran around the dining room, stopping only to get their faces painted white, blue and red by a restaurant staff member. Half a dozen drivers from the taxi stand outside craned their necks through the window to watch the action as the volume inside the restaurant intensified.

The only allusions to the building’s dark past are embedded deep within the restaurant’s extensive cocktail menu, where tipplers in the know might notice the B-Sample — tequila, sambuca and Tabasco sauce — the name of the supplementary urine sample required in Olympic drug testing.

“Is the B Sample yellow?” asked Richard McLaren, who spent much of 2016 investigating what happened at the Sochi lab, said. (It is.)

“It effectively acknowledges some of the things that went on, but at the same time it trivializes it,” he added. “I get the humor in it.”

La Punto has two swank dining rooms connected by dank, dimly lit hallways, the very ones Rodchenkov surreptitiously roamed at night while executing the elaborate scheme to swap out dirty samples for clean ones. On Tuesday those hallways echoed with the pulse of dance music.

Most diners, even those well versed in the ins and outs of the melodramatic scandal, seemed unaware of the building’s sketchy past.

“I didn’t know that was in here!” said Karla Espinosa, a soccer fan from Panama City. “I’m going to take a picture so I can show my friends.”

World Cup fans this month have descended upon the restaurant in droves, drawn to the numerous large televisions, eclectic menu and friendly waiters, who were zipping around the room on Tuesday wearing full soccer uniforms, even down to the high socks.

They shuttled diverse plates around a packed room: heaps of grilled meat; solyanka, the thick Russian soup, served “Olympic style;” clams from Sakhalin, a Russian island near Japan, and oysters from Crimea. There were pub classics, too, like cheeseburgers, served with a pair of black latex gloves (a recent Russian dining trend) supplied to protect diners from gushing beef juice.

The absinthe-based cocktail was called Meldonium, which happens to be the name of the banned substance that led to Maria Sharapova’s suspension from tennis.

Rodchenkov four years ago proudly formulated a cocktail known as the Duchess — a blend of three anabolic steroids mixed with Chivas Regal whiskey for men and Martini-brand vermouth for women.

“The irony,” said Richard Pound, the founding president of the World Anti-Doping Agency, who led an early investigation into Russian doping. Pound said he thought the doping scandal had cast a shadow over the World Cup, though “probably not as big or as dark a one as would be appropriate.”

The restaurant can joke about the building’s history, but Russian sports officials have had less humor about the scandal, for which the nation paid a $15 million fine early this year. Russia’s track team remains barred from global competition, and the country’s anti-doping operations have been decertified by international regulators.

In a moment that Russia is trying to ingratiate itself back into international sports community, some darkness lingers.

“I do think there is a shadow, still,” said Fernando Camacho, 24, a Mexico fan visiting Sochi from Chester, New Jersey. Camacho said being reminded about the ongoing scandal had a “sobering effect” on the otherwise cheerful festivities.

The drinks at the restaurant, judging from the wild cheers and celebrations that met the final whistle on Tuesday night, had the opposite effect.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

via NewsSplashy - Latest Nigerian News Online,World Newspaper

#IFTTT #NewsSplashy - Latest Nigerian News Online #World Newspaper

0 notes

improvandroleplayblog2017 · 8 years ago

Text

Character 2 - Roy

His name is Roy and in his own crazy and deluded mind still believes that he is a boy, he lives in his own dream world of Balamory where he loves going hiking with his best friend Corey before slumming on the sofa to watch his all-time favourite classic Finding Dory, so what else is there to know about Roy. Plenty

But in reality, Roy is a forty-year old drunk and disorderly man who hails from Tobermory which is the only burgh on the Isle of Mull in the Scottish Inner Hebrides. Roy’s living arrangements have been on a downward spiral since events from two years ago where at the time he was living in a down and derelict estate where no money was coming in because of his inability and laziness to find a job, events took a drastic turn which saw him getting evicted from his apartment after getting retribution against his neighbour by vandalising his car with paint and while highly intoxicated he gave half a bottle of vodka to the neighbours’ cat which led to it getting induced in a coma and passing away the next day.

Now Roy finds himself back at the same place at the same time that he has been living for the past two years, passed out at the bottom of the port with a bag of empty spirits ranging from vodka, tequila, sambuca, scotch and Roy’s particular favourite which is whiskey, he always carries a bottle of whiskey everywhere he goes but what he fails to notice this time that he has carelessly left the bottle open leaving the liquid to make its way into the river.

Roy has always tried to figure out what the meaning of life is. The way Roy sees it, is non-stop drinking and getting himself into awkward situations, he is a cheeky chappy who is always up for a good laugh and likes complimenting people in the most flirtatious way because he generally wants people to like him, he tries his very best to flirt with everyone and I mean everyone, bringing his extremely high charisma to make the women fall head over heels for him not realising he is making a total fool of himself but does not cross over well with the public who actually know him well for all the wrong reasons. Roy decides he needs to change the public's view on him and become a respectable member of society.

Roy does not have any connections left to any members of his family or friends, his mother, father and all of his brothers and sisters have cut all contact from him as they could not stand to see what he was doing to his life, seeing him create this massive bravado around himself, being someone that he is not meant to be and not wanting to see him drink himself to death. Roy’s only connection comes from his lady in red, Helga who has been his drinking partner for years, Roy and Helga met while on a pub crawl and discovered that they have many similarities which sparked a sudden flicker of passion between the two of them, Roy started to develop sexual feelings for Helga and tried to show these by failing several attempts to create a very romantic atmosphere, feeling that Helga did not feel the same way about him that he felt about her.

Roy starts to see Helga in a new light where he thinks of her as an inspiration, someone he can look up to and seek support and advice to get away from his drinking problem while hoping that a romance would soon bloom thereafter.

0 notes

newssplashy · 7 years ago

Text

Opinion: The infamous sochi drug-testing lab is now a gastro pub