The others – Fan’s story – episode 1
Dec 09, 2025
Late afternoon light bleeds through the blinds in glowing strips, illuminating the glitter dust settled into the floorboards. The air in Laine’s flat is a thick soup of skunk and hairspray. We’re scattered around Laine’s livingroom—a fearsome foursome in shredded fishnets and too much eyeliner. I hunch over my nails, dragging the brush in strokes of cosmic black.
Tia slithers into a second skin of sinful black mesh. Next to her, Shell fights her way into a constrictive sheath, hissing sharply as the fabric catches on her boobs before fiercely fisting it down over her hips. Once her god-given gifts are safely encased, she turns to face us with a triumphant grin.
“No more Aldi for a week,” she declares, beaming like she’s just won the Euro lotto. “Halle-fucking-lujah.”
“You doing anything special for your hols?” Laine asks, perched at her vanity, etching a savage wing of eyeliner with the steady hand of a surgeon. She doesn’t even blink mid-wing.
“Going to Angus’ cousins’ wedding in Troon.”
“Oh, very exotic. I bet that’ll be a hoot and a half.” Laine chuckles dryly.
“Nah, it’ll be tedious AF. But I’m only going for the free booze and to piss Angus’ old dear off.”
“She still treating you like dogshit?”
“Aye, snobby auld cow. Thinks I’m some sort of parasite attached to her son’s arse.”
“Charming.”
“Don’t really care to be honest. Can’t see the long-haul with Angus anyway. He’s nice enough… sorted. But dull as a dishcloth.”
“A bit like Vic then,” Laine snorts.
Angus and Vic—the two incompatible boyfriends who think our band is a silly wee sideline. Shell’s been with Angus for eight months and he’s only been to a couple of our gigs. Vic is Laine’s childhood sweetheart, who’s hoping she’ll stop dreaming about world domination and join him on the lemming trail.
“Angus’ only redeeming quality is that he’s an absolute machine in bed,” Shell says. “But the post-shagging patter is pretty shite.” A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face. “It’s his birthday tomorrow, so I’ll be giving him a pelvis-pounding he won’t soon forget. He’s gonna be needing a walking stick by sunrise.”
We roar, the sound bouncing off the walls. Shell’s eyes catch the light, I can see the excitement spark in them.
“I endorse the idea of a pelvis-pounding,” Tia says, her voice assertive. “I’m definitely on the prowl tonight.”
I drag the brush across another nail, creating a black, glossy shield.
“Have you got someone in mind or will you be lucky-dipping it?” Laine asks Tia.
“Definitely lucky-dipping. Getting a bit bored with the same old zygotes on rotation.”
Zygotes—that’s what we call our fans. They are a glorious, kohl-smeared tribe. Devotees who scream our lyrics like scripture; groupies who cling on for a hit. Our band, Seccelles, is already legendary on the underground scene. We spit venomous tracks that shake venues with destructive magnitude. Loud and brassy is in our DNA.
Tonight we’re playing The Black Box, sharing the bill with two alt-metal bands: Bad Faith and Coitus.
I catch Tia’s reflection in the mirror. The afternoon sun licks her hair, turning it a luminous, oil-slick black. There is something predatory in her gaze, and her smirk carries an obsidian edge.
“When I booked the gig,” she murmurs in a husky tone.. “Sally told me the Bad Faith lads are all highly beddable…”
“Sally’s lesbian,” Shell interjects.
“Aye, so I reckon they’ve gotta be high-grade man meat to get the seal of approval from someone who favours the flange.”
“Good point.”
“And… I’ve heard a wee rumour bandied about that their guitarist is hung like a butcher’s window. That’s gotta be worth a wee pounce, right.”
Shell blinks, then lets out a low, incredulous whistle.
“All I can say is, hopefully he’s got the personality to match. So you don’t end up with an Angus situation. Ace shag, zero patter.”
“Och, I don’t care about the after-chat if they can deliver during the main act.”
Laine and I look at each other, shaking our heads. Tia and Shell are grinning properly now.
“What about you, Fan? You on the prowl?” Laine asks me.
“Always,” I say. “Can’t be ruining the band’s reputation by taking robes all of a sudden, can I? I’ll see what’s on the menu.”
“That’s the energy,” Tia cackles. Her eyes catch mine in the glass, full of mischief. “As long as we’re all getting laid tonight. That’s the only metric that matters.”
We finish getting ready in our usual riotous fashion. Stage outfits are our armour and we always suit up for battle. Laine laces her studded boots. Tia applies a final layer of vampire-red lipstick—the colour of a fresh kill. Shell freezes her hairdo with half a can of spray. I finish my nails, blowing on the black varnish.
By six, the last of the light has haemorrhaged from the sky, burying Glasgow in star-strewn darkness. Outside, the sharp orange glow of streetlights acts as a stand-in for the absent sun. We pile into the van—a riotous tangle of mesh and leather mixed with perfectly coiled amplifier leads. Laine takes the wheel, Shell rides shotgun, while Tia and I are wedged in the back among equipment cases that reek of grimy gig perfume.
The engine coughs and catches as Laine pulls us away from the kerb.
When we arrive at the venue, Bad Faith are about to launch into their sound check.
I get back from the toilet, clock the guitarist, and then I clock Tia’s eyes widening with approval. I look back at the guitarist and think: you’re for it, pal. Then Tia turns to me, grabs my arm hard enough to bruise, and says—
“Wait till you see the singer,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna fucking die.”
He steps onstage like a cigarette being flicked onto petrol—pure lethal.
It should be illegal for one human to possess so much right stuff.
He opens his mouth and a smoked velvet Dublin growl pours out, seeping into my ears like a triple brandy.
He adjusts the mic stand like he’s undressing it. Hair tossed back, lips parted just enough to ruin someone’s life.
Even in the Box—this wee delicious doom pit where the walls sweat along with you—he carries himself like a bleeding god in a battered leather jacket. His outfit is artfully distressed with rips in places that make my brain short-circuit.
Every shift of his hips says: touch me and die.
Every flick of his fingers says: go on, touch me anyway.
By the time he launches into the first verse I’m viscerally salivating.
He sounds like molten chocolate with razors underneath. Pain dipped in honey. It hits me in the chest and slides lower.
I drift closer to the stage, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze is firmly rooted on the lead singer of Coitus. She’s all impossibly sharp cheekbones and a sneer like a switchblade, possessing the kind of effortless magnetism that makes you feel invisible even in an empty room. She’s not a woman you compete with—unless you are a sucker for humiliation.
My ego shrivels. I know when I’ve lost a battle before I’ve even walked onto the field.
Bad Faith open the night, and they detonate the room. Chucking a metaphorical Molotov into the mosh.
He owns the stage like he was born on it—all sweat-slicked and dangerous. Grinning at his own power.
After our set, I sidle up beside him at the bar, pretending it’s pure chance.
“That was a belter of a gig,” I say. “Should be proud of yourself.”
“Sound,” he says, eyeing me like I’m edible.
“You lot hobbled my eardrums, in a good way,” he grins and offers a hand.
“Michael—Milo to me mates. Know who you are, though. Got the crack on you from Sally.”
He flirts like he has a PhD in it—reckless and sharp. He’s the kind of man who’ll slice you open, then apologise so charmingly you’ll let him do it again.
“So, when’s your next gig?” I ask, trying not to look like I want to crawl under his skin and live there.
“Terminal 22. Twenty-third. You in?”
He winks. A proper filthy one.
“Aye. Maybe. Need to check my diary, eh,” I say, fumbling for scraps of composure.
“When’re you guys playing next?”
“The Riot Rooms, next Thursday.”
“Sound. I’ll clear my diary,” he smirks.
Coitus launch into their opener. I lean in to tell him I’m leaving, getting close enough for a sniff—he smells heavenly, all musky and feral. Then he turns. My lips brush his cheek, sending a violent electric shock straight to my sacrum.
He mouths, catch you later, before devoting his full attention to the throaty goddess on stage, who’s gyrating around the mic stand like a top-tier pole dancer.
The girls and I pour out into the chilly Glasgow night and head to the Bunker for a proper dancefloor debrief. I anesthetise myself with tequila slammers, the lemon echoing my sour defeat. But as I catch my reflection in the bar mirror, a slow, wicked smile begins to spread.
I’ll have him one day. I close my eyes, replaying the moments—his teasing patter, the scratch of stubble against my lips.
That first encounter wasn’t just an encounter.
It was ignition. And sparks?
Sparks can burn the whole fucking house down.
