Lindsey Buckingham was not fucked up.
He absolutely was not fucked up.
He was a rock star, sure, but he didn't sit around doing drugs (that much). He did have a tendency to binge drink and usually that was because of her and it never ended well.
But he was not fucked up.
She was the fucked up one.
She was the one who paraded men around in front of him. He hated that.
Still, he was not fucked up.
He had a girlfriend he really, really loved. Yeah...of course he loved her. If it made her jealous that he had a girlfriend, he got no satisfaction out of that. That isn't why he kept his girlfriend around. She most definitely was not a shield from all the feelings being thrown at him.
Because he wasn't fucked up.
He did not have anger issues. She just knew how to press his buttons. So even when he was being thrown against the wall by someone who was supposed to be his friend, it was still her fault. There was never anything for him to take the blame for. She left him.
No, that hadn't fucked him up at all.
She hadn't spoken to him in over a week, except for the one time she picked a fight with him during rehearsals. She only did it because his girlfriend was there and she liked to show off that she could still get under his skin. God, he hated her.
It was just as well that she had stopped speaking to him. They didn't need to talk or be friends or even acknowledge each other (even though they had to see each other everyday).
That was completely normal and not fucked up.
Now when she grabbed his hand one night after rehearsal; after it had been two weeks since they had spoken, and she dragged him into her room....well that had been fucked up.
She was the one fucking up though.
She was the one who was crazy. She pushed him against the door and knocked the wind out of him. She grasped his face between her hands and kissed him. She wrapped his...okay, no. It had been him who had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer; up against his body.
That wasn't fucked up, though.
It was fucked up that these days she always wanted it hard, fast and dirty. She wanted to make her raw wounds bleed again and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to re-open his too.
"Not like this," he said.
She made quick work of his jeans and they were around his ankles before he knew what hit him. "Shut up," she said.
Her eyes met his briefly and he could see the fire in them. She wasn't looking to get high tonight. She wouldn't go seek the drugs she had been living off of every waking moment they hadn't been speaking (he noticed, he always noticed). She always kept clean when she wanted this because she knew he'd never, ever fuck her without appropriate consent. Sometimes she used that against him. She had this way of saying if you give me what I want then I'll be good tonight.
That was pretty fucked up of her.
It was not fucked up of him to give in. He didn't want her going out and doing god knows what with god knows who. That wasn't safe. He could distract her from her cravings and the withdrawal that would hit her like a ton of bricks for one night, couldn't he?
That wasn't fucked up.
Was it?
It didn't matter because she had this way of giving so she could take. She was the fucking master of that.
She was a master of manipulation.
He wanted to open his mouth to tell her that things didn't have to be like this, but the words didn't come because she'd already put her mouth on his cock and dug her nails into the back of his thighs.
"Stevie," he groaned.
She smiled when he gave in. Yeah, she may have been the master of manipulation, but that only made him the master of being manipulated by her.
That was pretty fucked up.
They were both fucked up.
The most fucked up part was how neither of them really cared.
