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@3chob0y
On the Rocks
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“It’s a little of both.Denying it is futile.” Zexion chuckled, running the tip of his tongue absentmindedly over the sharp point of his canine. The playful wink headed his direction tugged up at the corners of Zexion’s mouth until a smirk had begun to bloom across his mouth, flushed by alcohol and wet from an eager tongue darting out to catch the last bits of alcohol clinging to the flesh.
//I completely relate so you’re all good. We can start a new one though. Like that one could be past now. They’ve established a connection at the very least.
[Alright, that sounds wonderful then :) ]
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“No, no. I don’t do Mr. anything. Somebody calls me mister and I have to vehemently question how old I am.” Zexion grinned, a breezy laugh flowing effortlessly over his lips now flushed a lively pink from the alcohol beginning to course through his system.
Zexion downed the shot after that, shaking off the biting retaliation of the strong alcohol. “So, you work here every night? It seems you’re pretty popular from where I’m standing. A lot of people eye you up, and not just for your fancy drink work.” He brought a hand up to neaten the beanie that had gone lopsided in his overzealous shot taking, flashing Axel a sly grin. “Face and accent like that must make you a centrepiece behind that bar.”
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“I’m not trying my hand at anything. You’d laugh at how pathetic I am at accents. If I’m honest, I’m struggling to keep down that nasally New York City pretentiousness that used to cling like a parasite to my vocal cords.” Zexion laughed as he watched the redhead’s hands create the alcoholic concoction; flicking his eyes between his hands and his face.
Zexion easily let the drink take up residence in his hand once it was finished, flashing a cheeky smile at the bartender. “Forgive me? You should be thanking me. All those people dancing are going to get thirsty being on that floor, and they’ll flock to you. You bar sales will be higher than they ever were, especially with the mediocre energy this guy’s putting out.” Zexion chuckled again in spite of himself. “I take it you’re not used to talent in that booth, huh? For what I’m making tonight alone, and the fun I’m having doing so, I’m hoping Mr. Big Bossman of this place invites me back for a second round.”
Zexion, in a swift action, brought the glass to his lips and knocked back the drink. The delicious burn raced playfully down his throat, splashing in his stomach and sending a shuddering warmth around his body. He set the glass back on the counter, reveling in the rush of an imminent buzz. “And speaking of second rounds, be a dear and fix me another?”
On the Rocks
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Green eyes so acidic, deliciously potent, swept heavily over the rolling ocean in Zexion's eyes; dropping his stomach with anticipation to talk to him. His hair was aflame with dye- there was no way that burning shade was natural -and very few people could pull it off as well as he could. But the icing on hot guy cake was the thick accent. Irish, no doubt, and it turned Zexion's insides soft the moment those words fell so prettily from his pink mouth.
"Not from around here?" He asked in a teasing voice above the thick chatter of the club patrons and the regular DJ's set. Resting his arms against the bar top, he willed his body not to ooze to the floor under the thick Irish cream of this man's words. If Zexion had a weak spot for anything, accents hit him right square in the chest. "If you would, fix me a Black Russian. I could use a little pick-me-up."
3chob0y replied to your post “//so would anyone like a starter? it can be small or lengthy just…”
[raises hand]
//friend!
which would you like? or would you like to continue the piercing thread that we had awhile back?
[Oh, lordy, I can hardly even remember that one it’s been so long since I’ve been active on here. :’) Would you mind starting another one?]
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Pulse, sweat, sexuality, vitality. Zexion felt it all in every fibre of his being, coursing up the pads of his fingers as they contacted with the various dials, buttons, and the ribbed platter of the vinyl on the turntables. His heart threw itself against the cage of his ribs, demanding he feel, in explicit detail, every thrum of energy that wrapped its grip around the club and its predominately intoxicated denizens. He loved it all so unconditionally; the energy, the sexual aura that glazed honey-thick infatuation over everything, and the music produced over sleepless, nicotine-fuelled nights. Reveling in everything, Zexion felt his face brimming with a grin that exposed his boyishly crooked teeth, a singular sweat bead racing eagerly down his temple.
The hum of the energy pulled at him, and he resigned his control to the beat. The sharp angles of his hips drew intricate patterns around his booth, the beanie situated comfortably on his head bobbing as he nodded in time to the beat. Everything fell into place in these moments, and Zexion lost himself completely. He was no longer hollow, no longer the young kid sitting absently in his apartment and wondering why he felt as lonely as he did. None of that really even mattered now. What was important right now, was the kingly rule over the stage that sent his blood coursing through his veins.
Finishing with the set, Zexion sighed pleasantry as the last note played, and the crowed echoed with a bellowing cheer. Giving a hearty salute to the club-goers, he timed in the stand-in DJ with a nameless earworm while he yanked his headset from the control panel, draping the headphones around his neck, and made space for a taller male to occupy the booth. Zexion was one hundred percent underground, and having been recently discovered for the talent he had, he’d found himself thrust into a busy life that welcomed him openly. Even so, he was still human, and needed a break for a drink.
Wiping away the sweat droplet that began to hang precariously on his chin, Zexion made his way through a sea of bodies towards the bar. He slid up to the counter easily--being the DJ had a few perks he made use of, especially when other people willing let him through. A redhead that dwarfed him by at least half a foot was the first person he saw, and Zexion felt his innate desire to be around attractive men kick in tenfold. Hello, bartender. He mused to himself, lips pulling up in a slight smirk.
“Excuse me,” he called loudly enough the bartender would catch his eye. The others behind the bar seemed to be preoccupied with other patrons, and while he was dying for a buzz, he didn’t want to butt in on a conversation that may lead to some x-rated encounters after the bar went down. “You free to make me a drink? It’s hotter than hell in the booth.”
Catharsis
But happiness is defined as satisfaction, and satisfaction is comfort, contentment. Zexion knew neither of these things as they were meant to be. Comfort was so foreign, his association with the word meant a stranger’s indifference after a one night stand where he’d fucked his stresses to the deepest recess of his mind; lost until tomorrow when he’d wake up and be forced grip the toilet bowl alone with his tormented mind. He’d spill last night’s undigested high, yesterday’s nonexistent dinner, wondering in anguish why his body continually tried to force out what wasn’t even there. He’d gag on the bitterness, spitting the involuntary drool into the bowl when his body stopped trying to force his inner organs out through his mouth like a catharsis of the broken boy trapped beneath layers of denial and self-assured bullshit.
Comfort was not home to him. He was a stranger in his own home, surrounded by superficial objects that provided nothing more to him that basic human necessities. The walls were hollow and whispered with drafty winds carrying sounds of forlorn abandon, like a prelude to the reoccurring nightmare that’d plague his mind to poignant sleeplessness. His bed saw more hours of tossing and turning, hours of silent tears racing down flushed cheeks from tired, bloodshot eyes to sting his chapped lips with the bitterness of abandonment. He chose the path estranged from relationships above a shallow friendship, isolating himself in a desperation to protect his fragile armor. The transparency of his defenses frightened him enormously, and he pushed anybody who so much as left the fog of breath on the surface.
Contentment was a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The noxious smoke dancing around him, tainting the air above his head. White smoke blackened him from the inside out. White smoke replaced meals, white smoke replaced sleep. White, noxious smoke replaced panic with calm, replaced anger with anxiety, and anxiety with another cigarette to feel calm. Inhales and exhales were a labored task as the count of each square package lessened by the day until by tomorrow when he’d be forced to begin anew with a full set. It was like a corrupt deck of cards he shuffled with each drag; the outcome of the hand drawn based on the chance appearance of malignant cells in his lungs, or throat, or mouth.
His hands would sometimes roam his own skeletal figure, but not in touches of pleasure. Instead he’d self-examine through a series of prodding pokes, and subjective pinches. Examining his paper skin, frail looking, feeling like a strong wind could blow his outer covering to shreds. His hands, marred with transparent scars from rebellious teenage anger ignited by a short fuse, would cascade down his sides; the crease in his brows growing deeper with the feel of each protruding, offensive bone. His hips, the sharp points of his elbows, the clavicle, his obnoxious ribs all repulsed him; his reflection a trigger for self-hatred. With each meal ignored, each week’s food bill cost efficient, he thought what it’d be like to not ignore the wind hollowing through his empty stomach. Though not on purpose, his habits to decline meals and opt for nicotine and caffeine pulled on him like a weight, especially when he’d wake from a restless sleep to the sound of his stomach pitifully crying out for anything solid to sate it.
Generally, he watched from the discomfort of his bed with somber eyes meant to be a pristine ocean as the sun woke the world in a languid yawn. Hues of oranges, reds, pinks, and yellows threw shadows around, making the demons locked in the Alcatraz of his mind escape in a flurry of exhaustion too extreme to be considered fatigue. Too weary to fight, he’d close his eyes and only pray if his demise was to be struck upon him that it’d be a swift end.
He’d pull himself from the bed when the shadows passed, finding no comfort in sleeplessness, and lighting himself a cigarette before the hands on the clock indicated six a.m. was upon the world. The armor was polished, his self-hatred at a maximum level for exploitation as his false happiness poisoned him until he had one foot in the grave.
Physically speaking, a detoxification would do him wonders. Mentally speaking, Zexion needed a full catharsis of the mind before he’d even grasp a comprehensive understanding of stability.
Maybe then he would realize happiness isn’t poisonous.
Fuck a shot. I need a bottle.
(via hollyywoodwhoree)
3chob0y is offically off hiatus
Today was the unofficial last day of high school for me, and after two exams next Tuesday, all I’ll have to do is wait until the 28th to graduate. I’m back now, and ready to reply or write starters or whathaveyou.
ELECTRIC
Roxas knows plenty about the underground scene. It’s not his number one hot spot but he’s no stranger. The common club goers know his face and the bartenders knew what he meant when he asked for the usual. The underground scene welcomes him with open arms and a drink.
Currently in a deep conversation with a girl who can move her body, they talked about her schooling. He offered her a drink out of respect. Mostly because he never went to school but wore an old USC sweatshirt every Sunday. Truthfully he didn’t talk to her first but was introduced by a friend. She was high the second she got her hands on a blunt and he was nice to make her laugh so they got along. But because he was nice he was struggling to get to the glowing counter with the drinks aligned on the wall. Rudely pushed from the back, Roxas’s upper body was practically on the counter. Smiling sheepishly up at the bartender he then asked for a drink consisted of strawberries. Girls liked strawberries. Girls liked the color pink. He had no idea what girls like to drink.
Sticking with the strawberries he pushed away from the counter but kept one hand on the edge of the counter. Taking the time to listen to the DJ he was then nodding his head to the beat. The DJ was really good tonight, better than the previous DJ even.
On his toes to look over the sea of people dancing to the music he finally spotted the DJ on the stage. They had a unique look to them and if Roxas was being perfectly honest they looked intimidating.
Not like that ever stopped him from wanting to to talk to a person.
Turning to the bartender he changed his order to a beer. With a wink he handed him the beverage. Back to waiting again he waited for the song to end and made a beeline to the stage. If he was a second late he might have missed the blue haired DJ.
He presented the beer to them with a smile.
“Monroe. Roxas Monroe.”
Zexion, endowed with hair no box could produce after literal years of mixing colours to find that particular shade of periwinkle, was often greeted by club goers in an eager attempt for him to spin their favourite earworm; even when he’d specified that this particular set on the turntables was closed for discussion. In a display of godly patience and somewhat snide disdain, he almost expected this.
Almost.
Micro-Hiatus Warning
I’m winding down to the nitty gritty of my high school days, and because of the accursed IB testing today and into tomorrow, I’m somewhat behind on all of my other core classes at the time being. I have to bust my ass for the next nine days and hope to god I can go out with a bang; meaning straight A’s.
I’m not an unproductive student at all, I’m just an incredibly busy individual who stresses needlessly about stress that isn’t actually there. I have a major case of imaginary stressitis, and will be pretty absent the next few days.
Forgive my absence while it’s implemented, and I will be back as soon as possible.
[ 3chob0y ]
ROXAS WAS MAKING HIMSELF INVISIBLE, trying to blend into the crowd outside of the club. He was sure that if he just kept his head down and pretended like he belonged, he’d be able to get in. Roxas didn’t exactly have a formal I.D on him. No driver’s license, passport, not even a shitty school I.D. Making it into clubs like this was always a bit of a gamble for him. And today, it seemed like the cards just weren’t in his favor.
He was inches from the door when he felt a rough hand clamp down on his shoulder and pull him back. He stumbled backwards, catching his balance on the sidewalk. “—-Come on man! I’m with them!” He motioned vaguely to the crowd of people entering the club. The bouncers weren’t buying it. “My date’s in there,” he was lying straight through his teeth. “—–You just gonna keep me from my date?” He pointed to the person nearest the door, “See? There he is. Ask him yourself.” God he hoped this work. He’d been saving up work money all week for a night of drinking to forget.
Zexion could pass in and out of the club as easily as the alcohol passed through the bodies packed inside like stale sardines, glistening with a sheer layer of sweat and sexual energy. It wasn't as if he could deny the rush of heat to his abdomen, or the mind numbing tingling of the wanton desirability at his grasping, selfish fingertips. He desired for alcohol, and following a suitably shameless intoxication, sociability was on his to-do list.
Barely aware of all that transpired to the back of him, Zexion was more annoyed than startled when the bouncer stopped him dead in his tracks; his sole focus so close, and suddenly, so far.
“What is it now?” He asked,not forgetting the debacle last week when the same bouncer had nearly stopped him from entering the club that just so happened to be his place of employment. “You should be very aware of who I am.”
The bouncer, gruff and strong of stature, nodded towards a blond with the look of a puppy left out in the rain; his sparkling eyes pleading. Zexion had to reign in a sarcastic laugh, biting his lower lip expectantly. He was so accustomed to sneaking others in on the pretense they were this night’s arm candy, but he had no quarrels about the situation. While most people might awkwardly stammer and ruin the night for both parties involved, Zexion would easily lash a silver tongue and work his charm like an oiled body around a slick pole.
“Oh, right, right. Sorry, darling, I was so caught up in the lively conversation of our friends I nearly left you out in the cold.” Without hesitation, and without due warning, Zexion took a few strides to the blond, putting two thin digits below his jaw. Drawing the other in for a breezy kiss, he pressed his soft lips to the blond’s, savouring the taste of a pair of unfamiliar, yet pleasant lips on his own.
Pulling away with a boyish grin, he laced his fingers between the blond’s, nodding snidely at the bouncer before pulling the other through the door to the club. The heady atmosphere fell heavily over their bodies; both males swallowed up in a pulsating mass of lights and bass.
Withdrawing his hand to run easily through his dyed locks, Zexion flashed a wide, toothy grin at the blond. This wasn't how he pictured his night starting out, but what was a night at a club without a little surprise.
“I hope you don’t mind my kissing you, but that bastard is one not easily convinced.” He shouted to the blond over the thumping music and static buzz of conversation electrifying the air. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me your name, or I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me to fuck right off. I don’t mind either way, but respectively, I should atone for the kiss.”
Mike Suh – Bonfire
So excited to share this new single with you guys! It’s coming up on a year since I wrote this song, and it feels really great to have a version that’s so much more fully realized than back when it was just me strumming an out-of-tune acoustic guitar into my iPhone mic. Thanks to all those of you who’ve supported me since day one, and keep on dancing.
Bandcamp | Soundcloud
Joshua, oddly enough had found himself entranced by the movement on the dance floor. No concerned with individuals, but the mass of bodies moving in drunken unison and pretending like being in a tight, dark, and overheating room like this was actually fun. Many of them had a dulled over gaze brought on by what he assumed was enough alcohol to get a small army drunk for a night. It was…detestable in his opinion. Seedy, grimy, and dirty in all he worst kind of ways.
He had to down whatever the hell was in his glass just so that he could tolerate the electric environment he’d thrust himself in to. The drink burned the back off his throat and Joshua steeled his eyes shut to ward off the sting. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of a blue haired stranger who he could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. He knew he was in no means a heavy-weight in terms of drinking, but hell. he couldn’t be drunk enough to be imagining things.
His worries, however, subsided when the stranger spoke. Joshua had to blink a few times just to remind himself that this sort of behavior was actually normal in clubs. While he was no stranger to—well—talking to strangers, Joshua never really made the effort to try and communicate with people in places like this. He couldn’t understand them half the time anyway.
“—–Zexion.” He repeated with a small smirk. Either his parents hated him, or it was some sort of nickname. Joshua was going to guess the latter. “Hardly a surprise. I don’t exactly frequent places like this.” He leaned back against the bar, turning his head so that he could just barely see the blue haired stranger he was addressing. “Much too noisy if you ask me.”
“I have to admit, you don’t fit the part of desperation for intoxication like most others who frequent this place.” He observed, letting his eyes wander the other’s thin frame. Much like his own, Zexion was no stranger to the art of shrugging weight off of his body, and he couldn’t stop his thoughts from touching on the pressing amusement of alcohol toleration. Zexion himself as an experienced consumer who’d paid his dues years ago, and it was some kind of sick fascination with amateurs that put a smirk on his lips.
”You didn’t tell me your name either.” He added after a moment, pausing to bring the shot glass to his chapped lips, throwing the strong drink like water. It burned deliciously down to his vacant stomach, sending a shuddering warmth upwards, ripping through each pointed disc in his spinal column. “Tell me a fake one, for all I care. I simply prefer to address you with something other than the ever-popular and morbidly distasteful ‘blondie.’”
