#every hipster photo ever looks like this

[gimmethatagustd]

wanna make a movie | kth

The one time you fucked Taehyung was a fluke, and it will never happen ever again in a million years. Never ever ever. Right? RIGHT??

» pairing: taehyung x reader (from "wanna fuck on camera")

» genre: BTS | 18+ | frenemies to lovers | smut | a bit of fluff kinda

» wc/date: 3.7k | september 2022

» warnings: i meannn they're making a sex tape soooo | cunnilingus | unprotected vaginal sex | fingering | tae's pull out game strong 💪🏽 | cumshot | tae is Annoying but Hot | i definitely didn't edit this LOL SORRY

» notes: shoutout to this person for the video, we owe them big time 🤪 i recommend reading "wanna fuck on camera" first, but this can work as a standalone

» masterlist | ao3 | send me ur thots 👅

» what was jai listening to? movie star - cix

The Wannabe-Photographer Chronicles (mini-series) Masterlist

“I already told you I’m not posing for nudes, asshole. Is the one you took of me not enough for you? Hmm?”

Taehyung grinned as he popped out the flip screen on his camera. “I don’t want to take photos of you. I want to film you.”

He was such a piece of shit. He really was. Since your ridiculous entanglement with Taehyung during Hoseok’s birthday party, Taehyung hadn’t left you alone. It was worse than before; he suddenly believed fucking him gave him a free pass to get on your nerves even more than he had to begin with. 

You hated it and you hated him. That was all there was to it. 

Crossing your arms against your chest, you glared at the man as he fiddled with the camcorder. This was infinitely worse than the film camera debacle. You didn’t even want to consider what he’d done with the photo of you cumming on his fingers. The thought of him having it made you shiver. 

“Film me doing what?” You immediately regretted the question when it left your lips and Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up. The smug, shit-eating grin on his face was almost unbearable. 

“Well, babe-” 

“Do not call me that.” 

“Well, Y/N.” He gave you a pointed look. “I need to diversify my portfolio and the only thing I’m missing is erotic art.” 

You scoffed and crossed your legs. At this point, you were a pretzel sitting on the edge of Taehyung’s couch. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Thank you,” he said with a sweet smile. “But I promise what I have planned isn’t as ‘disgusting’ as you probably think.” 

You didn’t trust him for shit, but you liked the idea of hearing what he had to say even if only to shut him down. You were looking for every reason to shit on his massive ego, maybe because you were embarrassed that you gave in to him when you said you wouldn’t. 

It was a fluke, though. A moment of bad judgment. You were thinking with your pussy. But not anymore. Nope. 

Fool me once, shame on you.

“What are your twisted little plans then, TaTa?” You shifted slightly when Taehyung moved to sit down next to you on the couch, forcing you up against the arm of the couch and giving you very little room. 

“Have you ever done a striptease before?” 

“I fucking told you I am not doing nudes.” 

Taehyung swiftly grabbed your jaw and turned your head to face him. The forced action made you gasp quietly, just enough to release a breathy sound when you exhaled. He watched you for a moment with the tip of his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “Fucking listen to me, yeah?” 

You could do nothing but nod, your eyes glued to his parted lips. 

“I don’t need you to be naked. I just need some shots of you taking off your clothes.” You opened your mouth to protest, but Taehyung squeezed your jaw tighter. “Headless shots, okay? Nothing identifiable. No nudity. Think of it as like an OnlyFans teaser, but make it hipster. Slap on a grainy, sepia filter. Or maybe a soft pink glow. I haven’t decided yet.” 

You were barely listening to him, most of your focus on how his hand had slowly let go of your face and migrated down to your throat. Your heartbeat spiked beneath his fingers. 

“Why are you asking me to do this?” 

Taehyung pulled away and returned to examining his camera settings. “Everyone I know who’d be down to do this would try to fuck me. Considering the theme, and everything. It would be so distracting.” He looked up at you through his fluffy bangs with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “You’re hot and would never fuck me, as you’ve made very clear.” He paused for a moment, tapping his finger against his lips. “Well, not a second time.” 

And there was that stupid fucking boxy grin again. 

“Oh shut the fuck up.” You were tired of playing games. “How much are you going to pay me?” 

“Depends on how good the shots are.” 

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with,” you huffed. 

Taehyung hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t make a move to get up. His fingers brushed along the outside of your thigh until he reached the waistband of your leggings. You fought the urge to squirm in your seat, instead doing your best to mindfully breathe and keep your fists squeezed against the couch cushions. 

“What are you wearing under here?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You challenged him through gritted teeth. 

Taehyung leaned forward until his breath caressed the side of your face. “I’m about to find out.” 

With that, Taehyung stood up and held his hand out for you to take. You swatted him away, perfectly capable of getting up on your own and following him into his bedroom. To say his bedroom looked like a porno setup was no exaggeration. A large studio light stood in the corner, the head pointed toward the bed. Another camera sat on a tripod on the opposite side of the room, though it was pointed away from the bed. LED lights wrapped around the high ceilings cast the room a soft lavender glow. 

“Are you kidding me?” You stood in the doorway with your hands on your hips. 

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Do you see how small my apartment is? I have nowhere else to store my equipment when I’m not using it. Relax and come here.” 

Grabbing you by the shoulders, Taehyung positioned you in front of a standing mirror that stood against the wall directly across from his bed. He took a step back to examine your placement, making a few adjustments until he got you where he wanted you. 

“Satisfied?” Your skin was tingling from his firm touch as he shuffled you around. It was just your body reacting to skin-on-skin contact. That was all. It was just… nature. Science. Whatever. 

“Very,” he said with a wink that you did a poor job of brushing off. The burning heat of embarrassment creeping up your body only intensified as you watched Taehyung sit at the foot of his bed. With his camcorder in hand, he leaned back far enough to get the angle he wanted. It was harmless, really. He was just a struggling artist trying to make his mark in the world, that’s all. And you were half-heartedly helping him. 

So if that was the case, why was watching Taehyung’s biceps flex as he held the camera and his thighs spread making you wet? 

You cleared your throat and looked away from the man splayed out on his bed like he was the one being filmed, not you. “What am I supposed to do now?” 

Taehyung reached up to run his fingers through his hair and flip his bangs to the side. All you could think about was how you knew tugging on those wavy strands would make him moan. 

“Start with your shirt. Wait, no, not like that.”

You had one arm out and froze. “Like what?” 

“Do it sexier.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

“Oh, come on. Stop relying on that silver tongue and seduce me.”

Was it possible to feel like all your blood had drained out of your body and that all the blood in your body had gone to your head? 

“Fine,” you snapped, readjusting your shirt. The positive side to all of this was that as you slowly lifted your shirt over your head, you could revel in the fact that you knew Taehyung wanted you and he could never have you. 

Well, never again. 

But maybe that made it even better. He got a taste and you were denying him more. You had all the fucking power! 

You put in a little more effort to be sensual as you let your shirt fall to the floor. The red lace bra you wore lifted up a bit, exposing the underside of your tits, but you didn’t move to fix it like you normally would. Instead, you ran your hands over your exposed skin, even your own light touches causing goosebumps to form all over. It didn’t help that it was cold in Taehyung’s apartment. You wondered how high quality his camera was. If it was even half decent, it would pick up on how see-through the fabric was over your tits. It left little for the imagination, but Taehyung had already had your nipples in his mouth. 

The little asshole was leaned back again, shifting slightly to capture your best angles as you reached for the waistband of your leggings. You made the mistake of looking at his face rather than the camera lens. His tongue swept over his bottom lip as you slid your leggings down; you quickly looked away. 

This was just a favor. A favor for an art project. That was it. 

Bending at the waist meant you exposed the fact that you were wearing a rather skimpy thong - red lace, just like your bra. Adjusting your stance made your thighs rub together and you fought the urge to look down for fear that your underwear would be stained a dark red from how wet you were. 

A quiet groan from the bed made you look up at your photographer once again. His bottom lip was bitten between his teeth, but he immediately released it when he saw you looking. The two of you locked eyes as your bodies froze. 

“Why are you fucking wearing red lace?” 

You opened your mouth to speak but your brain couldn’t think of any response aside from the truth. And there was no way you were telling him the truth. There was no way you were telling Taehyung that you’d worn a matching set just in case something happened. Because nothing was supposed to happen.

Instead, you deflected. 

“Why are you hard right now?” 

You both looked down at the very prominent bulge that had grown in Taehyung’s jeans. He used his free hand to palm his cock and attempt to adjust it into a more comfortable position. 

“Why are you wet right now?” 

Now it was your turn. You finally dared to look at yourself, not surprised but still horrified to find your arousal soaking through the flimsy material of your thong. 

Taehyung lifted slightly so he was propped up on his elbows, the camera still positioned on you. You really prayed he wasn’t planning to use any audio for this video. Like as if that’s what mattered at the moment. 

“You’re so into this,” he said smugly. 

“No, I’m not.” Your rebuttal was weak, so weak it felt foreign coming from someone with a “silver tongue” like you. But when you watched Taehyung get up from the bed, your rebuttal wasn’t the only thing about you that was weak. 

“You’re not?” Taehyung pointed the camera toward your thighs as he reached down to press his thumb against your clit through your thong. You let out a shaky moan and felt more of your arousal soak your thong. “Sounds like you are. Feels like you are.” Taehyung fully palmed your pussy, pressing his fingers against your entrance. The action made your legs tremble and you squeezed his bicep for support. 

“Fuck you,” you hissed and dug your nails into his skin. 

“Heard that one before.” He shot you a wink. “And to think you got mad about the photo I took of you. If I’d known you’d get this wet for me so quickly, I would have brought this with me instead.” 

His taunting reminded you of the camcorder he still held in his hand. It was pointed downward as Taehyung hooked his finger into the waistband of your thong and pulled it down just enough for his fingers to dip inside your wet folds. 

“Taehyung,” you moaned when he thrust two fingers inside of you. The squelching sound your pussy made was sure to have been picked up by the camera. 

“Yeah, baby? You like that?” He pressed hard into your front wall repeatedly, the fluttering sensation making you reach for his shoulder with your other hand to stabilize yourself. “Like being my little movie star?” 

You wanted to cry when he pulled his fingers out of you, and your entire body shuddered when you felt him wipe his fingers on the inside of your thigh. The worry that he was only going to tease you to rub the whole thing in your face flashed into your mind, but it was quickly squashed once Taehyung was pressing the camera into your hands. 

“Like this.” He positioned you to point the camera downwards. 

“Wha-” 

Ignoring your confusion, Taehyung dropped to his knees, dragging your thong down your thighs as he went. The camera shook in your hands as he threw one of your legs over his shoulder. You could have came just from the way he looked up at you from between your thighs. How many times had you imagined this moment? More than you were willing to admit. And for all the fantasizing, you were lucky that it was even better than what you could have come up with on your own. He brushed his bangs out of the way and tilted his head so you had a clear view of his face as he ran his tongue flat against your lips. 

“Oh fuck,” you moaned. 

Taehyung reached up to grab your hand, stabilizing the camera. “Hold still for me, okay baby? You gotta hold still.” When he spoke his lips brushed against your skin, causing your arousal to stick in thin strings to his glistening mouth. 

Once your shaking subsided, Taehyung’s hands slid down to grab your ass. With his grip on you tight, he pulled you against his mouth. A hard suck to your clit made your hands tremble. By the time Taehyung began swirling the tip of his tongue around your clit in tight circles, you were shaking again. He had to reach up to hold your hand to stabilize the camera again. 

“I-I-I can’t,” you began to sob and shake your head. You had to wrap your fingers in Taehyung’s waves to focus the pressure of your building orgasm into something other than squeezing the fuck out of the camera in your other hand. Of course, each tug of his hair made Taehyung’s lovely baritone voice moan into your pussy, the vibrations pulsing through every nerve in your body. 

“Yes, you can.” The words came out breathy and hoarse in between hard sucks and kitten licks against your clit. You were close to believing in his faith in you until he slipped two fingers into your soaked pussy. 

“I’m…” You paused to suck in a deep breath as he pumped a mind-numbingly fast rhythm against your g-spot, “I’m gonna fall over.” 

“Nuhh uhh.” Taehyung scooted forward, pushing you backward until your back hit the mirror. 

You leaned against the mirror for support as your orgasm ripped through you so violently you would have dropped the camcorder if it weren’t for Taehyung holding it up with you. He kept his eyes focused on you as he licked one final stripe up your lips, cleaning up your arousal until he was the one messy with it all over his face. 

“God, I wish you’d let me record your face when you cum,” Taehyung groaned into the back of his hand as he wiped his mouth. He reached out to take the camera from you and laughed at the way your hands shook. “You have no idea how fucking beautiful you look.”

You should have been upset. Taehyung now had footage of himself eating your pussy. Sure, no one would be able to tell that it was you, but still… That was something very intimate. 

Yet you couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered when he’d called you his movie star. Hearing “beautiful” come tumbling from his filthy lips wasn’t too bad, either. 

“No chance in hell, creep.” You crossed your arms against your chest to punctuate the statement. You didn’t have a chance to say anything more; Taehyung quickly shut you up with his lips slotted against yours. You allowed him to lick at your mouth and swirled your tongue against his, humming at the taste of yourself on him. 

“Always so difficult.” He tossed the accusation at you as he pulled away. Using his free arm, Taehyung scooped you over his shoulder. “Y’know, the meaner you are to me the more I want to rearrange your guts.” 

You let out a gag as Taehyung tossed you onto the bed, bouncing into place in the middle. “You did not just say that.” Whatever else you wanted to insult him over died on your lips as you watched Taehyung strip. 

“Come on, Director. Take a video. It’ll last longer.” 

He gestured to the camera still recording as he unbuttoned his jeans, his taunting parallel to how harsh you’d been to him at Hoseok’s party. You were mean to him, but only because he could take it. And maybe, just maybe, you had the hots for getting him riled up, just as he did for you. 

It felt unbelievably dirty recording Taehyung as he stood at the end of the bed with his thumb rolling precum around the tip of his cock, but something about it made your pussy flutter to life once again. It didn’t help that he shot the camera a wink as he did one final pump before he was kneeling on the bed in front of you. 

“Turn around,” he commanded, twirling his finger around to direct you. 

“I liked you better when you were crying and begging for me like a good boy.” 

You glowered at him as you turned around. Taehyung’s hand quickly came down to press down your back, forcing your upper body into the mattress and keeping you on your knees. He spread you out as far as he could, the mattress muffling a groan when you felt him hook a finger in your pussy just to make you shake. 

“I can still be a good boy for you like this,” he whispered against your skin as he bent down to kiss along your spine. You shivered in response, biting your tongue to keep in your moans as you felt Taehyung swish his cock around your slickness. “But since you don’t want me documenting your gorgeous face, your fat ass will have to do.” 

Before you could snort another insult towards his disgusting behavior, Taehyung sunk his cock so slowly you could hear the gushing sound when he bottomed out. 

“Fuck, you sound so good, fuck.” Taehyung moaned as he began thrusting into you, each wet slap of his hips colliding with your ass fueling his desire to speed up. 

You twisted around to watch him lift the camcorder to the perfect angle to capture the way your pussy sucked him in with ease, each pullback evidence of how tightly you gripped him. Throwing your dignity to the wind, you decided to play the part. Hooking your legs with his, you ground against him as he thrust into you, forcing your bodies against each other even harder as you established an equal rhythm. 

“Shit, just like that,” Taehyung moaned, removing his hand from your waist and leaning back slightly to let you take over. “Fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Fuck, yes.” 

“Touch me, Tae.” As much as it was a moan, it was most definitely a demand. 

And like the good boy he promised to be, Taehyung quickly brought his free hand around to play with your clit. The stimulation was enough to push you over the edge a second time, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t purposefully scream a little bit louder than necessary just because you were on camera now. If Taehyung knew, he seemed to not care. 

If anything, it made him even more vocal. And maybe he was putting on his own show because instead of releasing inside of you, he quickly pulled out of you to pump his cum all over your ass. 

“Y/N…” Taehyung slowly got up from the bed to get a washcloth to clean you off. You tilted your head to watch him, smug with the satisfaction of seeing that he wobbled a little bit as he walked. Even his hands shook when he worked to clean you up. 

“What?” You sat up once he was done, wincing at the slight ache of your thighs from how hard he’d pounded into you. 

Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed with the dazed look of a man who’d just gotten the soul fucked out of him. “I think I’m in love with you.” 

You snorted, but Taehyung leaned forward to cup your face. 

“I’m so serious right now.” 

“You’re just fucked out.” 

Taehyung pouted, eyebrows deeply creased. “This is post-nut clarity. I know what I’m about.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the seriousness of his expression, especially as he sat with his softening cock and his messy hair, cheeks and lips still pink. It was so unbelievably endearing and you fucking hated it. 

“This isn’t funny, Y/N.” 

All along, your (alleged) goal was to damage Taehyung’s ego. And now that you had the opportunity to, the little creep was tugging at your heartstrings in a way you hadn’t expected at all. 

“You don’t have to love me back,” he said with a sigh. “I just needed to get it off my chest.” 

Reaching for his hair, you tugged Taehyung mid-moan into a slow kiss that meant less about being sexy and more about taking away the stressed look on his face. Your fingers skirted along his jaw, holding him in place as you deepened the kiss. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” You kept a hold of his hair even after you broke the kiss. 

“Yes, thank you.” Taehyung grinned and you felt your stomach flutter once again. 

Pulling him close, you pressed your lips against the crook of Taehyung’s neck. The feeling of his strong arms holding you close made you tremble. “You’re lucky I’m into guys who are assholes.”

Maybe it wasn’t the “I love you” someone else would expect, but Taehyung understood you better than you knew.

The Wannabe-Photographer Chronicles (mini-series) Masterlist

all rights reserved © gimmethatagustd on tumblr & ao3

do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my work  

@taegiblr @aislinnstanaka @bbtsficrecs @coffeebooksandromantics @confusedbansheee @ekjalxd @fan-ati--c @furryfortae @haliiimede @highly-functioning-mitochondria @jeanjacketjesus @jjkeverlast @jlm-ykhw @jwlmnbt @klitklittredge @koobsessed @lemonadecandycandy @mishahs @miss-jupiter @moonchild1 @moonleeai @nch327 @nonbinary-demonbrat @notbotheredtho @notsooperfect @parkdatjimin @polipiper @reliablemitten @rjsmochii @saweetspoiled @seoul-soul-127 @stillinedwardcullenera @sugarwithtea @unsureofwhathappens @veronawrites @wobblewobble822 @xjoonchildx @yoongukie-ff @yu-justme @taerifin

#taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung fanfic #bts smut #bts x reader #bts fanfic #gimmethatagustd #jai writes #wmam #wfoc #the wannabe-photographer chronicles #thanks for 1k 🥺 #thanks for 2k 🥺

[captain-lessship]

Phase One-Seven with 2D, Russel and Murdoc

Note: For 2D and Russel, the reader in gender Neutral (pan and bi kings) and for Murdoc, it’s fem reader (I am sorry but I can’t see him dating a man imo but you can simply read over the gendered head cannon if you want <3)

Phase One 2D-

You were a waitress at the diner where Gorillaz always got breakfast and he was smitten with you almost instantly and always tried to look his best when they went there, leading Murdoc to make fun of him for “preening like a lanky rooster”

Is a little shy and still shocked you even agreed to go on a date with him in the first place ( Having your eyes knocked in by a bastard bass player who shouldn’t be allowed to ever drive might put a damper on your dating scene)

Has a small amount of trust issues but slowly and steadily, he opened his heavily romantic side to you.

His love language is words of affirmation. He compliments you a lot and genuinely means each and everyone.

Is a classic man when it comes to pet names but when he gets drunk and such, he breaks out a special one: Painkiller. (Must be heavily intoxicated and has only happened once. He later yelled “Swiper, No Swiping” at a picture of a fix while walking home later that night)

Speaking of painkillers, you make sure he never takes too many at once and he won’t argue with you about it.

Phase Seven 2D

Twenty one years later and still going strong.

Has gotten to the point where he can’t sleep unless he’s beside you. 

He just feels so loved and protected by you.

Although he still sings your praises, he’s developed a taste for gifts he’ll know you will like. 

Has kept mementos from every one of your dates: movie ticket stubs, Photo Booth slips, receipts from dinners, little souvenirs from trips and key cards from hotels. They are stored in a converse box. He had made it his mission to protect it because it is essentially a time line of nearly a quarter of a century spent with you.

When he took you to Hollywood, you and him had a great time. Until you realized that you’re loving boyfriend was about to get sacrificed. That really killed the vibe of the getaway.

Phase One Russel-

You were the instrument repair person and he often stared at you while you were fixing his drum set. 

He asked you to watch a movie and the rest is history.

You both shit talk Murdoc in the privacy of your rooms. 

You two pretty much keep everyone else alive. (Which means you cut the crust off 2D’s and Noodles sandwich and don’t let Murdoc suffocate in his own smell while lounging in the Winnebago) 

One time you and him went on a weekend get away and came back to a kitchen with a scorched ceiling,    a broken water pipe and one less Murdoc eye brow.

He is definitely a Quality time guy. 

You and him have a ritual where you make your breakfast and sit in complete silence.

At the start of the relationship, you thought the silence was his way of showing irritation but really it was the opposite.

You’ve come to love the lack of words but surplus of radiating love from him.

Phase Seven Russel-

The relationship has gotten tough as of late due to his new hobby: staring at TV Static.

You get into arguments about it when he finally looks away

You are trying your best to kept it together 

You still spend a lot of time with him but you hate the feeling that you need to compete with fabled answers in blurring white, gray and black. 

After the events of the cult incident , he slowly started to return to normal, much to your joy.

Slowly but surely, your relationship got back on track.

Phase One Murdoc-

Heard you doing spoken word one night at a “weird hipster whacko bar” (his exact words) he was scoping out to potentially rob and thought you’d be a great song writer 

Talked to you about it, caught feelings after a month or so

attempted to kidnap you but you dropped a piano out the window on his head.

Just kidding.

It was a keyboard. 

After a week of shame and plotting, he did what only Murdoc could do: Try again.

You escaped being kidnapped once again but at this point, you had kinda gotten a crush on him. So you moved into his ‘house’ of Kong Studios to work on the song writing process with his magnum opus of a band called Gorillaz.

You became a hit with all the band members. 2D because you kept Murdoc from hitting him, Russel because you were great to talk to and cook with and Noodle because she was happy to have another girl around, even if you were a good twenty years older than her.

You and Murdoc are a surprisingly easy going and comfortable couple. Everyone has their quirks and it just so happens that yours doesn’t irk him and his doesn’t irk you. 

Sure there’s things you don’t like about him (the abuse of the singer, the kidnapping/ attempted kidnapping of people, Attempted Murder, Drug Possession, Driving Law Violations.) but you love him anyway.

Life has not been kind to Murdoc, which doesn’t give him an excuse but it gives an element of understanding. 

He is trying to change for you. He’s trying to be calmer, a tad nicer and more pleasant to be around and the effort is all you ever asked for. 

Alright happy time people, happy time.

Is very affectionate in the comfort of his home.

Prone to just laying a random one of his limbs on you while sitting down. 

You have matching upside down cross necklaces. 

Is a physical touch kind of guy, but on his own terms.

No very romantic in the regular but when he tries? Yup.. Mr. Darcy Material (Pride and Prejudice is the only movie that he doesn’t fall asleep during)

Phase Seven Murdoc-

Welp… When your lover of twenty one years starts a cult to take a demon to bed, there’s only so much you can forgive.

This caused a rift and you are very angry with him at the moment. 

But then, you got called to the hospital (You are 2Ds and Noodles Emergency contact) 

Of course you showed up.

What you then saw was the tipping point.

You and Murdoc are currently on a break. (Will resume after detailed apology and if you decide to do so.) 

#fanfic writing #fanfic #romance #x reader #headcannons #cuddling headcanons #gorillaz fanfiction #russel gorillaz #gorillaz #2d gorillaz #murdoc gorillaz #gorillaz fan fic #gorillaz fandom #relationship headcanons #request #murdoc niccals x reader #murdoc x reader #murdoc niccals #stuart pot #russel hobbs #2d x reader #stuart 2d pot x reader #russel gorillaz x reader #russel Hobbs x reader #gender neutral reader #fem reader

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Beauty In the Blood - Part 6

Summary: One day your friend convinces you to join a dating website that matches people based on their search histories, and when you match with Loki Odinson, a handsome, intelligent coroner who’s a fan of your murder mysteries, you’re absolutely thrilled. But there’s something off about Loki, and as your relationship progresses, you discover that his dark side is even darker than you could ever have imagined…

Pairing: Serial Killer!Loki x Writer!Reader

Read part 5 here!

A/N: I’m really sorry for how long this update took. Life has been crazy and I’ve been crazier, but I did my best! Please let me know if you’re still enjoying the story. :) And thank you, truly, to anyone still interested in my writing! It means a lot more than y’all realize. :) (Also, WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT!)

Moving was never easy, especially in a city like New York. When you’d first moved into your quaint little brownstone, you’d hired a team of movers for this very reason, but even then, you hadn’t been able to escape the ordeal without a massive headache and a stubbed toe from a dropped box full of books.

So it shouldn’t have been such a surprise to see your partner in his current state – dressed the most casually you’d ever seen him, sweating through his simple white t-shirt, breathing heavily as he lugged box after box into his home with his hair pulled back in a man bun that he’d given you a death-glare for giggling at.

“I didn’t take you for such a hipster,” you’d joked, laughter only growing louder when Loki levelled you with a stare as cold as ice.

“If I catch you taking any photos of my current hair style,” he’d grumbled, “I’ll not only steal your phone but leave you to move all of this in by yourself.”

You’d felt your face heat up, knowing that a candid photo from that morning was already saved to your phone’s gallery and hoping he wouldn’t ever find it. With a smile, you’d leaned up to peck his cheek before grabbing one of the last boxes left.

“I would never take your picture in such a state of vulnerability.”

“Oh, come now, love. You know I can always tell when I’m being lied to.”

Despite the tedium of moving box after box into your new home, though, you were able to finish things up fairly quickly. You’d already stored your biggest items of furniture in a storage unit not too far away, so once the boxes were all inside and delegated to the rooms their contents would be going in, you found yourself sitting on the kitchen floor with Loki by early afternoon, enjoying the cool tile beneath you as you sipped tall glasses of ice water.

“Well,” he finally smiled, setting his empty glass on the counter behind him, “I suppose now I can officially welcome you home.”

You paused mid-sip, suddenly realizing that you were, in fact, home now. Looking around, you took in the space that you’d be sharing with the man who’d entered your life so unexpectedly, feeling a mix of apprehension and excitement that you’d since become familiar with. When you’d told your friends and family that you’d be moving in with Loki, you hadn’t been surprised by the warnings you’d received.

You knew it was fast; you’d agreed to move in with Loki just two months ago, making it only half a year since having first met him. But none of them could understand – you had never felt this way with anyone before, and after looking for so long, you didn’t want to waste any time sharing your life with him. And, miraculously, he felt the same way. You’d never once had doubts that you were the only one between the two of you to feel so strongly, and while you knew there would be arguments and stressors that every relationship would encounter at some point, you had complete trust in Loki. The two of you would work it out, no matter what came up.

“I know that look,” you suddenly heard from beside you, and you jolted upon realizing you’d been staring into space for the last several moments. Loki had scooted closer to you on the floor, and you gave him a small smile as his eyes searched your features.

“You’re not having second thoughts, now, are you love?”

“No,” you were quick to reassure him. His eyebrows were furrowed, a line forming between them as he considered you, and you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips.

“I promise,” you sighed, setting your hand on his. “I’m right where I want to be. But it’s still so fast, you know? Six months ago I sincerely thought that I’d never find someone I wanted to be with. And now, here I am.”

“Here you are,” he echoed.

A pale hand reached out to grab yours, entwining your fingers as he leaned forward for a kiss deeper than the last. Shivers ran up your spine as you felt a cool tongue glide over your lower lip, and you opened up to him readily, drinking in his kiss eagerly as you pressed yourself against him.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself laid out on your back, skin naked and chilled against the floor as Loki’s tongue found another home between your legs. Fingers clenched in his hair, head thrown back in pleasure, you ground your hips upwards, the entire house filling with your moans and cries as you got closer and closer to your peak.

Until he pulled away, lips glistening with your juices, leaving you right on the precipice. A loud groan escaped your chest, frustration making you clench your teeth as your orgasm evaded you. Looking down, you saw Loki smirking as he watched your chest heave with gasping breaths; you knew he loved teasing you.

Ever since that first night together, it was like Loki had made it his personal mission to know your body inside out. It hadn’t taken him long, either, to be able to read you just like the books you wrote. He knew what it meant when your thighs clenched together, could hear how close you were in every breathy sigh you released. And he used that knowledge against you at every chance he got.

He would make you cum – he always made you cum – but he took his time getting there, especially when all you wanted was that sweet, blissful release you knew only he could give you. And most days, you would play right along, begging him the way you knew he liked, pleading with your words and eyes for his cock, his fingers, his tongue – anything that could give you what you wanted.

But for some reason, today was different. Maybe it was the exhaustion from moving, maybe it was from residual agitation from thinking about the doubts your loved ones had had about your relationship. But whatever the reason, the part of you that always submitted to him was replaced by the same part that had gripped his throat and rode his cock the very first time you had sex.

When you saw him smirking from between your legs, you moved quicker than your thoughts could, hands pressing at Loki’s shoulders until he fell backwards on the floor. Straddling him, your lips twisted upwards at the surprised expression on his face as you crawled up his body.

“No, Loki,” you purred, knees bracketing his chest as it began to rise and fall faster. “You’re gonna give me what I want today.”

His eyes narrowed immediately, studying you with a calculating stare that would have made you immediately stop and question what you were doing were it not for how his posture slowly began to relax. Laying back flat, he arched an eyebrow and set his hands on your thighs, wrapping his fingers around them to tug you closer by the back of your knees.

“Is that so, darling?” He licked his lips, eyes trailing up and down your naked form as you shifted your weight to come closer. “And just how do you plan to do that?”

With a grin, you grabbed his hair and tilted his head back, admiring his handsome features for a second before speaking.

“I’m going to ride that mouth so you can’t take it away from me again,” you purred, and god, did that elicit a reaction you weren’t expecting.

His pupils dilated as soon as you spoke those words, and with a growl he lunged upwards, greedily lapping once again at your pussy, focusing directly on your clit. You let out a surprised cry as your hips stuttered forwards, pressing down so he wouldn’t have to lean up as his tongue traced patterns against your bud that had your thoughts turning into white noise.

Gripping the lip of the counter behind him, you rocked your hips and closed your eyes, moaning his name over and over as you quickly reached that peak once again.

“Right there, right there- fuck, Loki, yes, yes, yes-!”

Your orgasm took you off guard, washing over you from head to toe as you screamed his name one last time, hips slowing gradually. His tongue, though, was still insistent as it moved against you, making the muscles in your legs jump as you tried to pull away.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so, love.”

You heard a growl from beneath you before the entire world was spinning, and you found yourself pushed down onto all fours as Loki positioned your knees apart, pressing down between your shoulder blades until you were resting your weight on your elbows.

“You wanted my mouth, and now you’re doing to get it.”

Holding your hips firmly in place, you glanced over your shoulder to watch as he leaned in again, making you jolt and try to press your thighs together as his tongue once more assaulted your sensitive clit. With a high-pitched wail, you grit your teeth and squirmed, the pleasure both intoxicating and too much all at once. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to pull away or press back against him, though you weren’t left with much of a choice with the way his hands were gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

It didn’t take long, though, before your overstimulated mewls became moans of pleasure once more, feeling another wave about to crest as he teased your cunt relentlessly. When two long fingers were abruptly pushed inside of your drenched pussy, you clamped around them tightly, rocking your hips back once, twice, before your body stiffened again. You felt your toes curl and your back arch as you came again, biting the back of your hand to muffle the scream that you let out.

“That’s it,” Loki cooed, finally relenting with his tongue but keeping his fingers inside of you. “My girl wanted to be greedy, didn’t she? But what was that old saying about getting exactly what you wish for?”

You didn’t have the presence of mind to answer him, and you heard a tsk before a hand came down hard against your ass. He spanked your other cheek for good measure, and a whimper escaped you as you glanced over your shoulder at him.

The look in Loki’s eyes was absolutely feral as he met your gaze, and a wicked grin spread across his face as he rose up onto his knees. As he unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out, you realized for the first time that you were the only one between the two of you that was naked, and another hot wave of lust came over you at the thought.

“As much as I adore those brave little moments where you take what you want, love,” he murmured, leaning down to plant a kiss to your spine, “I need you to know, at the end of the day, that you’re mine.”

At that, he gripped his shaft and guided his cock into your cunt, both of you letting out a groan at the sensation. Even after cumming twice, your pussy gripped him tightly, almost like it was trying to pull him in. Never once had Loki felt so much pleasure while having sex; never once had he felt such a possessive need to claim and mark and own before, but he’d learned a while ago that there was no comparing you to any past partner or experience he’d ever had.

Setting out with a fast pace, he squeezed your hip in one hand and used the other to wrap around your throat, pulling until you were up on your knees, back pressed to his front as he desperately sank into your wet heat over and over again. You cried out when you felt teeth biting into your shoulder, but the pain mixed with the pleasure in an addictive way that you couldn’t get enough of. Loki was typically respectful of where he left marks on you, keeping them in places where they could be easily covered up, but now you felt his lips getting closer and closer to your neck, leaving a purple trail of hickeys across your collarbone that you were already proud of.

You knew he was getting close when he moved his hand from your throat to your clit, tracing tight, fast circles until your head spun, leaning back against his shoulder as your third orgasm rose up.

“Are you going to cum again, greedy little thing?” His voice was a breathless purr against your ear, and you whined, only able to nod in response. “Good girl; cum again for me. And scream my name to let the neighbors know who you belong to.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you wailed his name, repeating it over and over with every surge of pleasure you felt as your orgasm left you boneless and limp in his grip. It didn’t take long for him to follow, stilling inside of you as his cum filled your pussy. You were grateful for your birth control as your head lolled back against his shoulder, enjoying the claiming warmth of his seed as it spread inside of you, a smile coming to your lips when he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

Both of his arms came up to hold you against him, pulling out slowly before leaning back against the cabinets behind his back. You laid with him, not caring that you were naked and leaking cum out onto the kitchen floor. There would be plenty of time to clean up later. For now, you looked up to find blue eyes already studying you, and your chest ached with how much you loved him in that moment.

His thoughts must have been straying in a similar direction, because when he kissed you, it was slow, and languid, and you could swear you felt him pouring all his love for you into it. You were both smiling when you parted, and you just sat there enjoying the quiet, intimate moment until Loki broke the silence.

“I suppose we can count the kitchen as christened, then.”

Your giggles turned into a surprised gasp when he suddenly stood up, carrying you with him bridal style as he turned towards the stairs.

“Next up, I think, is the shower.”

____________________

Humans are remarkably adaptable creatures, but it still surprised you how quickly you settled into living with Loki. On his work days, he would leave early to go to the gym first, always leaving you with a kiss and a promise to text you when he got to the hospital. You would spend your days either working on the edits to your newest novel or unpacking your boxes, though that task was completed after the first week of being there.

Lovecraft was a surprisingly sweet little companion. Loki had been afraid it would take her some time to get used to sharing him, but she seemed to enjoy your company. She still didn’t want to sit in your lap and cuddle like she did with Loki, but she would twine around your ankles as you typed at your computer, letting you pet her and lending a listening ear when you needed to talk out what you were working on.

The only thing that you missed about your old home was your office. Loki had offered to convert his spare bedroom into one for you, but you’d felt bad at the thought of Thor having to get a hotel when he came by to visit. You’d asked about maybe setting up an office in Loki’s basement, but he’d quickly waved off the idea, saying that it was too cluttered with storage to be feasible. You’d thought it odd at first, considering that all you would need to do was some rearranging to make space for a desk and office chair down there, but after spending just a few minutes in the room and finding the cold, dark space even creepier than the morgue your partner worked in, you’d agreed and set up your computer on the dining room table instead.

You didn’t want to seem spoiled, and lots of people could only ever dream of getting to be a full-time writer, so you swore up and down that you didn’t miss your office and that you were perfectly fine with your current setup, thank you very much. And you did get used to it after just a few days, continuing to make great progress with your novel at a personal record-breaking pace.

Only a month into your new life living with Loki, you found yourself meeting with your publisher to see the first rough-draft, bound copy of your book, finally tangible and printed out in paper-back. It wasn’t the final edition; there were still small grammatical errors and the cover art to sort out, but it would at least show a rough idea of what the final product would be. Several of the rough copies would be shipped out to various authors, literary magazines, and bookstore owners to get feedback on the story and to gather some complimentary quotes for the back of the final cover, but for once, you didn’t find yourself nervous about the feedback that would be coming your way from other professionals.

No, as you walked up to your new home, palms growing sweaty as they held your book to your chest, you were only nervous about your biggest fan’s thoughts as you quietly unlocked your front door. You hadn’t told him that you were getting the advanced copy today, and since it was one of his rare days off during the week, you’d wanted to surprise him with it, knowing he’d immediately want to drop everything he had planned for the evening to devour your words. He’d been trying to sneak glances over your shoulder as you wrote for months, intensely curious about the story of Olivia the killer coroner, growing as impatient as any of your other dedicated readers to see what your story held.

And now, as you crept silently through your house to find and surprise him, you could only hope his wait would be worth it. But, as you made your way from the first floor to the second, your nervous smile was quickly replaced by a frown. He was nowhere to be seen – the first floor was completely empty, save for Lovecraft as she snoozed in Loki’s favorite armchair. And the second floor was similarly vacant.

“Loki?” you called out, knocking on the guest bedroom door before opening it to find…nothing.

There was one last place to look – the basement. As much as you didn’t particularly enjoy the room, you knew there was nothing to actually be afraid of down there. And so you held your head high as you climbed down the stairs, quickly flicking on the overhead fluorescent lights as you stepped into the cold concrete space.

…and promptly found nothing. Not a single black hair to be seen. Letting out a huff, you put your hands on your hips and turned the light back off, once more ascending to the first floor and peaking out the window. His car was right out front in its usual spot; maybe he’d gone for a walk in the neighborhood? It was possible; there was a bougie specialty tea shop a few blocks down that he got his earl grey from. Or he might have decided to go for a jog; he’d mentioned wanting to get back into running a few days ago.

Shrugging it off, you sent him a quick text asking where he was before heading to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, setting your book down on the counter as you did. However, before you could even take a sip, you heard the unmistakable sound of a door being opened downstairs, followed by a familiar set of footsteps heading your way. Nearly spilling your water, you quickly grabbed the book and held it behind your back just in time to see Loki appear in the doorway, pale cheeks flushed from running up the stairs.

“Oh, hello, darling,” he smiled, stepping closer to peck your cheek. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Blinking rapidly, you looked from him to the space behind him, not understanding where he’d appeared from.

“Where were you?”

“In the basement,” he answered. “Just moving some stuff around, sorting through old boxes. How did-“

“Wait,” you interrupted, letting out a huff of laughter. “Are you pranking me or something? I just checked the basement, and you weren’t in there. The lights were off and everything.”

Without missing a beat, he shrugged, reaching past you to take a sip from your water.

“You mean you don’t ever get the urge to arrange storage in the dark?”

You let out another awkward laugh at his joke, not buying it for a second. He could see your skepticism, evidently, because he smiled and leaned back against the fridge, boxing you in against the counter.

“It’s a surprise, love. Trust me. And try not to wander down there too much until your surprise is ready. Now, are you going to tell me what you’ve got behind your back, or do I need to guess?”

You’d momentarily forgotten the reason why you’d wanted to find him in the first place, and with a jolt you straightened up, scooting away from him when he tried to peak over your shoulder.

“I think if you’re keeping surprises from me, it’s only fair you need to guess,” you sassed, lifting your chin defiantly.

“Ohhh, I see,” he chuckled. “Alright. Is it-“

But before he could begin his question, he suddenly lunged forward, grabbing your waist and spinning you around, fingers tickling up your sides until your grip on the book slipped. Letting out a shrieking gasp, you pulled away and turned back around, but not before feeling a strong grip grab the book and pull it from your hands in surprise.

“Hey!” you shouted. “That’s cheating!”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, “but you never listed the rules, so how…”

He trailed off as he finally saw what he was holding in his hands. The temporary cover art would change with the final, published edition, but for now there was a simple picture of a dagger slicing a human heart clean through the center resting on top of a steel examination table like the ones he used at work. The title you’d finally settled on was The Killing Coroner, and it was sprawled across the top in bold black font, your name printed just below it in smaller letters. You didn’t like the initial look of it, but if the first draft of the final cover art that your publicist had sent you was anything to go by, it would look much more gothic and refined before hitting shelves.

Loki, though, seemed enthralled with it, tracing the letters of your name with a slender digit before reverently opening to the first few pages. When he saw the dedication, though, you watched his breath get caught in his throat, and for the first time you saw tears spring to his eyes as he read the words on that page out loud.

“’For Loki, with all my love. You inspired every word.’”

He bit his lip, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting yours. You couldn’t even begin to describe the depths of the emotions swirling inside of them, but you knew that above all else, there was love. Strong and scary and deep as the ocean, you saw how much he loved you in that moment and knew you’d made the right choice to dedicate your book to him. Really, you couldn’t picture it being anyone else. He’d believed in you and your writing since before you’d even met, and though you couldn’t tell who reached for who first, soon you were standing in the middle of the kitchen, clutching each other close and kissing one another breathless.

“I wish I could go back and show this to my past self,” he sighed, cupping your cheeks. “You have no idea how much this means to me, love.”

“If I didn’t have some kind of idea, I wouldn’t have dedicated it to you,” you assured him. “I know my writing has meant a lot to you, but you don’t realize how much you reading my stories has meant to me. We were helping and supporting each other even before we met; isn’t that strange to think about?”

A small, genuine smile crossed his face, and he let out a sigh as he held you to him.

“Strange, yes, but in the best possible way.”

You were content to simply stand there, holding each other and reveling in having found someone so perfect. But even when Loki pulled away and declared that he was taking you out for a celebratory dinner, even when, later, he laid you down on the bed and showed you exactly how much your gift had meant to him, you still couldn’t help but come back to the same nagging question that stuck out in your brain like a sore thumb.

What had he been doing in the basement?

_________________

A week had gone by, and yet here you were, stood in the middle of the basement with your hands on your hips and your bottom lip between your teeth. Despite what Loki had said about spoiling your surprise, you couldn’t help but wander back down to the lowest level of your new home, pulling your cardigan tighter around your body to ward off the chill.

You’d obsessed over it quietly for the past several days, wondering where he could have been and what he could have been doing. Though the space was much more cluttered than the rest of the house, there weren’t any obvious places he could have been hiding. You peaked behind the tallest stacks of cardboard boxes just to make sure, but no, you were positive there wasn’t any other place he could have been hiding.

Unless.

As crazy as you knew it was to suspect, a passing thought had come to you late last night that, maybe, there was a hatch you hadn’t seen – some sort of trap door or crawl space. There were plenty of basements that had one, especially in older buildings like the brownstone you now resided in, and as unlikely as it was, your curiosity wouldn’t rest until you could figure it out.

And so that was how you found yourself walking slowly through the basement that evening while Loki was at work – creeping along with your eyes glued to the floor to find some sort of irregularity that might hint at a secret room. You didn’t really know why it was so important to you; you truly didn’t want to ruin any surprise Loki might be trying to set up, but the child in you couldn’t help but feel intrigued at the prospect of finding a secret, extra space inside your new home. You were reminded of Harry Potter’s cupboard beneath the stairs, and you felt like it was some sort of adventure, trying to find the hidden compartment that may or may not be there.

Though, as you did a second sweep over the space, you were beginning to lean towards the latter option. The entire floor was one smooth slab of concrete, and you couldn’t find any blemishes or cracks in it whatsoever. With a sigh, you leaned back against one of the bookcases pressed against the back wall, turning your head to the side to absently read the spines. They were all pretty dusty, since they weren’t the sort of books one would revisit and read for pleasure. Most of them were medical journals or textbooks from Loki’s time in college.

But you perked up when you saw one spine that was less dusty than those around it. Actually, as you straightened up and examined it closer, you realized that it was an edition of Shakespeare, and it hardly had any dust at all on it. With a frown, you reached out and slid it off the shelf, turning the heavy volume over in your hands curiously. Opening the front cover, you smiled when you saw Loki’s handwriting along the top of the first page, though it was written in a much clumsier hand than that of the man you knew today.

“Property of Loki Odinson, age 12”

With a grin, you went to return it to its place when, suddenly, your eyes caught on something along the inner wall of the shelf. Something that looked like a keyhole…

“I take it you never read the story of Bluebeard’s wife as a cautionary tale.”

A shriek escaped your lips as you spun around, finding Loki standing directly behind you with an arched eyebrow and his hands in his pockets. Pressing a hand against your suddenly-pounding heart, you gave him a sheepish smile as you held the volume of Shakespeare against your stomach.

“Jeez, Loki, you scared me half to death,” you chuckled, though his lips didn’t so much as twitch as he watched you. Recalling what he’d just said, you licked your lips and shifted your feet, for some reason feeling inexplicably nervous. “And I don’t think I’m familiar with that one. Bluebeard, you said?”

“Bluebeard,” he nodded. Taking his right hand out of his pocket, he revealed a small, black key, holding it out to you until you took it with shaking fingers.

“Bluebeard was an old retired sailor who lived in a quiet town, and rumors swirled for years about him and how he might have come into his fortune,” Loki recalled, taking a step towards you. You, in turn, went to step back as well but found your back pressed against the shelf, trapped between him and its hard edges.

“Eventually, despite the rumors, a young lady from the town agreed to marry him,” he pressed on. “And she found herself thrust into the lap of luxury, wanting for nothing as her husband granted her every wish. Her first day as mistress of his estate, he gave her a ring with all the keys to his home on it, but he showed her one specifically, saying it went to the basement, but that she was to never open it.”

He nodded towards the key you now held, and the buzzing anxiety in your chest grew louder in your ears as he gripped your shoulders and turned you around to face the shelf.

“But, of course, curiosity got the best of his little wife sooner rather than later. It wasn’t enough that she had a beautiful new home, a loving new husband… No, she wanted to see. She wanted to look. And so she took that key,” he continued, guiding your hand that held the key and manipulating your fingers until it was held outstretched between them, “and she opened that basement door. And do you know what she found inside?”

You shook your head, suddenly unable to speak as he made your hand slide the key into the secret lock. His breath was warm against the back of your head as he slowly, slowly twisted your hand, and you gulped when you felt the lock click away.

“Loki-“

“Do you have any guesses as to what Bluebeard’s wife saw, love?”

Once more, you shook your head, and you held your breath as his other hand came up to grip the shelf and pull, revealing a hidden door on secret hinges that began slowly opening outwards…

“She saw what had happened to his other wives, who had also been too curious to leave well enough alone. Or, rather, what was left of them.”

Your anxiety bloomed into outright fear as the door was opened fully, revealing-

“BOO!”

You yelped, stumbling as Loki’s hands seized your sides, squeezing them so suddenly that you jumped forward, into…

Into the most perfect office you’d ever seen.

Your previous nerves died, and you let your lips turn upwards into a grin as Loki laughed behind you. Soon enough, you were laughing too, spinning around to take in the entire room. The walls and floor, like the rest of the basement, were concrete, but Loki had set up a few floor lamps that cast warm light on the space. A plush rug was laid out on the floor and tasteful artwork of old books and typewriters had been hung up at various points along the walls. One entire wall had a bunch of pegs in it, and you imagined that it used to be home to various power tools that had once hung on them. Now, though, there were small potted succulents attached to them, adding a fresh touch of green to the space that brightened everything around it.

And in the center of it all was the most beautiful, antique writing desk you’d ever seen. It was made from dark wood, and a cozy rolling chair was stationed dutifully in front of it. There was even a small plastic mat on top of the plush area rug that would allow you to roll the chair as you pleased without losing traction against the carpet. All of it was complete with two armchairs and an empty bookshelf in the far corner, and as you took the space in, you felt Loki come up behind you to wrap his arms around your middle.

“Do you like your surprise, love?” he murmured, and you were quick to turn around and fling your arms around his neck.

“I love it!” you exclaimed. “Loki, this is… You are… I can’t thank you enough!”

He laughed, taking in with pride in how happy you were.

“Enough to forgive me for giving you a bit of a scare just now?”

“Just barely, but don’t do that again,” you giggled. “You really had me convinced I was gonna open that door to a pile of corpses.”

He laughed particularly hard at that one, shaking his head as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Never, love. This is your space now, to write or read or do anything you see fit in.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, and you leaned up to press a lingering kiss to his smiling lips. The scare he’d given you melted away into something else entirely as you thought of everything he’d done for you, and so when you pulled away, you grabbed the tie hanging from his neck and tugged on it, walking backwards towards one of the armchairs.

“I think,” you grinned, “I should show you just how grateful I am.”

There was no mistaking the lust that entered his gaze upon hearing your words, and he allowed you to turn him around and push him down into the chair. His eyes never left yours as you sunk down onto your knees, placing a hand on each to spread his legs wide enough for you to kneel between them.

And for his part? Loki closed his eyes and let you unzip his pants, surrendering control to you as he basked in the situation he found himself in.

He’d known as soon as you’d agreed to move in with him that he would need to take his “hobbies” elsewhere, and when you’d refused to take Thor’s guest room (despite his secret hopes that you would, solely to force the big blonde oaf into a hotel during his stays), he’d known the perfect space for your new office. After all, how delicious was it that your stories of gruesome murders would be created in the very room where he’d crafted his own? He thought back to the barista and abusive mother that had met their demise not so far from where you now knelt before him, pleasuring the very killer who’d taken inspiration from your words without you even knowing, and he let a wide grin spread over his features.

It had been hard to part with his “murder room”, as Thor had termed it, but right now? He couldn’t find it in him to regret his decision in the slightest.  

#loki x reader #dark!loki x reader #serial killer!loki #beauty in the blood #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #dark!loki #loki odinson x reader

[trunswicked]

As per your twitter I am here to ask about your modern!lyon

OH MY GOODNESS. Okay, so, I PROMISE I haven't been ignoring this ask..... I just had to put together something a little special for it!! I said I've thought about modern!Lyon a LOT, and after reading this list... you can be the judge of that.

First of all, artwork of the boy!!

Next...... everything else. This one is for you, Lyon fans (warning for a wall of text; I normally don't talk this much on this blog, but this is ABSOLUTELY a special occasion. You asked, and I deliver!!)

Firstly, our boy is – and I cannot stress this enough – a TOTAL fashion buff. His wardrobe is huge and he has an outfit for basically any occasion ever.

He wears a lot of loose-fitting stuff that kinda gives hipster/tumblr user, especially with the tattoos and glasses (lmao) but he can pull off any style if he tries hard enough. you can ALWAYS tell that he knows how to dress no matter what he’s wearing.

I don’t really have anything specific in mind that his tattoos represent – it’s a random collection of things that tapers off around the end of his forearm. There’s like, roses and thorns and swords and maybe even a dragon in there somewhere. He also has one separate tattoo on the back of his hand.

Dude’s got the round glasses, too! I’m 50/50 on whether he actually needs them to see, but I think it’d be cute if he did. Makes him seem a bit more nerdy hehe

He collects pins as well (most of which are pinned to his schoolbag). An ongoing list of them would be:

Mogall: a monster from his favorite video game (that happens to be on the GBA, perhaps).

Rose: a reminder of the twins, Eirika in particular because she gave it to him.

Sword: specifically the FE logo from Smash.

Bi heart: You Know.

Wolf: reference to Garm (Grado lore)!!

He’s also got total rich kid & city boy energy. He lives an extremely lavish life (I’m talking, like, chilling in an expensive bathrobe after a rose-petal bath, while sipping on a glass of red wine) because he’s dramatic like that.

And THAT’S because single-father!Vigarde makes some massive amount of money doing whatever business he does. He supports his son like the cool (if a little distant, because he works so much) dad he is. Lyon’s not completely reliant on his dad’s money, but he’s never had to scrape by, if you know what I mean lmao

Vigarde also contributes to his son’s college fund (we’ll come back to what Lyon is studying later) and helped him finance his own solo apartment.

Speaking of the apartment, it’s pretty spacious and has a modern look, w/ red brick walls and big windows overlooking the city (exactly the kind of interior you’d expect an art student from some crowded urban area to live in). He also manages to keep the whole place surprisingly tidy despite being kind of a shut-in lol.

The most important thing about his living space, though, is the indoor plants. you can barely even SEE through all of the plants he owns in certain places. It’s like a jungle in there.

And he dotes on every single one of them!! Instead of becoming a crazy cat person, he just became a plant parent instead…….. He is visited by a moody black cat (named after Fomortiis) sometimes, tho.

His place also has a good amount of art displayed around. Photos he took of the twins throughout the years are pinned on the wall next to his bed…. he likes to keep them close while he sleeps :)

And about the photos – he’s great with a camera, and I like to think he’s got a job in photography (it’s maybe also what he’s studying in college)! And not just that, but I also think the twins work with him regularly – it’s related to what they do for a living.

Eirika & Eph are his childhood best friends who temporarily moved out-of-country when they were all teens, btw. They later reunite with him in their 20s and it’s super sweet!!

True to character, he’s always had gigantic crushes on both of them; as an adult he’s still too shy to ask either of them out though lol. Especially because they work together. As it stands, all he does is admire them from behind his camera.

Eirika adores all of his plants – and cat!Fomortiis too 🥰 she visits Lyon as much as she can, and they bond over their fashion knowledge (Eirika is a cosplayer for SURE) and love for the same music/books/movies.

Lyon has a dozen of her books laying around his house (her recommendations). She leaves little notes in them sometimes, and it REALLY doesn’t help him think about her less.

He & Eph don’t share nearly as many interests, but they also hang out constantly. Eph is the one who drags Lyon out of his house to go do stuff together, which he appreciates (in hindsight).

Lyon’s always wanted to be athletic, charming & comfortable in his body like him, and regularly mistakes Eph’s attempts at flirting for him just being an asshole (affectionate).

But anyhow, everything else related to his character is basically straight from canon. He's a complete bookworm, knows a bit more about first aid than the average person, has a pretty weak immune system, struggles a LOT with his self-esteem, is introverted like his dad but likes making friends, and so on and so forth.

The "knows how to dress" part is probably the most important thing to emphasize here. He's one of the best-dressed guys in Magvel, I PROMISE that's true (but dw, Joshua is up there on the list as well).

So that's all I have to share!! I think more and more about him as time goes on, and will probably come up with more stuff, but this is just about every headcanon I've been rotating in my brain thus far. Hope you enjoyed this - and I hope I've convinced you into some of these concepts (like photographer!Lyon...... I want to believe 😳). He's pretty fun to imagine as a modern guy doing his silly modern stuff, but I'm sure you already knew that. This boy deserves all the love. <3

#answered #fire emblem #the sacred stones #fe8 #lyon #modern au #fe #keylime-cat #long post #WHEW!! #can you tell he's one of my faves?? well. you can now. #brb gonna think about him some more

[dollarbin]

Shakey Sundays #6:

Neil Young and Promise of the Real's The Monsanto Years

Somehow this album is cursed in my biography. Every time I try to listen to it something goes deeply wrong. And it's no wonder: in the silly recording session photo above it looks like Neil is casting an evil spell on all of us. Monsanticus!

When the record came out in in the summer of 2015 I was suspicious; Neil had just released Storytone, and it sounded like he'd focused on painting the record's cover and washing his hogs rather than writing good songs. Plus I'd never even heard of his new backing band with their too terrible to be ironic name. Crazy Horse was alive and well; what was Young up to now?

But 20 years previously I'd been equally suspicious when Young got spooked by the Horse and buddied up with a different group of young hipsters to make Mirror Ball, and that record turned out to be awesome. And so I knew The Montsanto Years deserved my open-mindedness in spite of its clunky title and fairly gross cover art.

So I turned it up loud for the first time with my buddy Matt. It was a beautiful day and we had an open road with two hours of drive time ahead of us. Maybe we'd listen to it twice!

But halfway through the album's third song, People Want to Hear About Love, with its inspired-by-Stephen-Still's-very-own-Joe-Lala bongos, and its gather about me young squires chanting, not to mention Young's crankiest grandpa vocal stylings to date, Matt and I simultaneously announced that the song sucked. We put on Zuma instead.

Even so, People Want To Hear About Love, stayed annoyingly in my head all day, and that day was dedicated to attending our friend's younger sister's funeral. I couldn't shake crusty grandpa Neil off at the graveside as my friend's 20-something little sister was lowered into the earth, her life cut short by cancer that came with touches of abhorrent irony: she'd been a nurse; her dad was a cancer doctor. You're wrong Neil, I angrily thought, no one wants to hear about love. Nor do they ever want to hear your song again.

I've given the record sporadic second chances since then. And every time I get to the fourth track, Big Box, I perk up. After all, it opens with Neil alone, playing a demonstrative and churning, here's how it works kids, follow my lead, riff that sounds like it's lifted straight from Mirror Ball.

But before you know it Neil croons "Too Big To Fail" in overdubbed fashion and rhymes "excited" with "Citizens United" (you know, the Supreme Court case that gave corporations the power to essentially buy our elections) and, despite some pretty exciting guitar interplay whenever Young shuts his trap, rather than echoing Mirror Ball the whole thing sounds like Young is hanging out with Kai Ryssdal or David Brancaccio on Marketplace. Come on Neil, that's my least favorite show on NPR.

Yesterday I gave the record yet another try: but again, no dice; my 15 year old ipod (no, I don't own The Monsanto Years on vinyl; I got it in true Dollar Bin fashion by checking it out at the library) played me the first two songs, the lyrically regrettable opening track, which isn't amazing but does not suck, and the pretty lovely, quavering Wolf Moon, before the device (it's the kind with a dial on the lower half; there are 22 thousand songs on the thing, and around 1600 of them are Young's), perhaps disgusted by my choice for this week's Shakey Sunday, cried uncle and died in what appeared to be the very real Steve Jobs kinda fashion.

I was able to resuscitate it eventually but I'm unsure whether or not to risk resumption of the album. After all, it's cursed! And when the terrible day comes, and my ipod refuses to wake back up no matter how many times I pressed down all the buttons at once while cursing, will I need to find another way, either through a very nonDollar Bin purchase of the vinyl or through Neil's old timey, betamax website, to listen to The Monsanto Years ever again? Or can I just stick with Zuma?

Well, let's find out the answer. It's a Shakey Sunday and I'm about to roll my ipod's dice, press play, and go song by song through the rest of Neil's far too long screed against agrobusiness.

The fifth song, A Rock Star Bucks a Coffee Shop, is a big No vote for the record. Yikes. I'd rather drink a big cuppa GMO than hear Young rhyme GMO with Mont-san-to ever again. Whoever is responsible for the whistling in this song needs to never purse their lips in my presence again.

I suspect POTR (I refuse to ever type the band's terrible name out again; I wish they'd named themselves Promise of the Real Sausages instead) are big fans of Young's live bender record Time Fades Away. Working Man's got that vibe but it's slick instead of shakey. Yuck.

In Rules of Change Neil gives us yet another version of the story he's been telling over and over again for the whole record: the farmers have woes; climate change is real; we're doomed unless we get on Uncle Neil's groovy train of love. Look: I'm an environmentalist already. I do what I can to eat sustainably; I ride my bike to work alongside my sweet daughter as much as possible; and I've got a bootleg gray water system already running out the back of my house as we speak, watering my trees with our laundry water. The simple truth is that I never needed this concept album, or any of Young's too numerous to count environmental anthems. I already know this stuff. I'm already angry and I already vote and if Trump gets elected next fall I'll lose my mind a second time. Frankly, Neil, I'd much rather imagine sleeping with Pocahontas.

But it's when we get to the album's title track that I start to wish my ipod was indeed broken.

The song is a terrifying double to Danger Bird: it's slow and brooding with caveman vocals. But the guitar is mostly sickening instead of life changing and everyone's chanting "Safeway" instead of telling me about Carrie Snodgrass sleeping around with some still unknown famous enemy of Young's and ruining his life in 75. I guess Neil's right, people do want to hear about love. And Marlon Brando. And the Astrodome. And me.

I haven't got much to say about the final track, If I Don't Know. It occurs, and it sucks less than most of what we just sat through. What I fear is that Young is letting some young hipster solo at the end of the song while he stands by, contemplating corporate sin. Jimi Hendrix is dead, Ira Kaplan is busy, Richard Thompson isn't interested and Stephen Stills sucks; no other man on earth should be allowed to solo on a guitar while on stage with Neil.

(But I'd be more than happy to have any number of women do so, however, from Leslie Feist to Myriam Gendron to the recently resurgent Joni Mitchell herself.)

Okay folks we did it. We made it through The Monsanto Years. You have my permission to never listen to it again.

Me? As of this moment, while I hit post, I'm already half way through the record for the second time today, and I'm kinda digging my time at the Big Box store. Looks like I like the record anyway.

Neil Young: even his garbage swings.

#Youtube #neil young #the promise of the real #stephen stills sucks #shakey sundays #feist #myriam gendron

[charliespringverse]

iwbft — thursday: a brief summary of my annotations

all highlighted quotes: 135

· ouch/ow/owie: 7

· real/felt/relatable/so true: 0

· aroace: 0

· ☹/☹☹/☹☹☹: 3

I like knowing that I've been there since the beginning. — lol hipster... me w BiT tho

I can't stop myself laughing, trapped under the cape, and I catch a glimpse of Lister grinning at me, a soft smile, one that reminds me of years ago, back when this was all new and exciting and fun, back when we really were children. — god i love this bit . it is so gentle and tender

People are coming up with some hilarious explanations for the Jowan photo and the Rowan/Bliss reveal, such as it's a ploy by their management, out to stir up some extra publicity to keep attention on The Ark [...] — devastating phrasing for rpf shippers everywhere

it didn't destroy me in the way I thought it would when the news eventually came that Jowan, love itself, wasn't real.. Maybe I sort of knew it was a lie all along. — 10 points for recognising that rpf ships aren't real, -2 for the nihilistic depressive worldview . get therapy x

Unpleasant phone call? Yesterday morning? I heard nothing about that. — well u definitely heard Hints but i'll let u off due to the autism x

Playing our songs when the entire audience is empty is always a laugh, because we're just playing for ourselves, and we can deliberately get stuff wrong and play games like Lister trying to get us out of time and Rowan adding in harmonies where there aren't normally and me changing the lyrics of our most famous songs. — i'd die for them fr LET THESE BOYS HAVE FUN MORE OFTEN

every time the laughing stops his expression drops and he looks like he's about to cry. — me when i leave my friend's house & the mental illness comes back

He just leans in and kisses me. My stomach lurches. Not because I'm excited, but because I'm shocked and I'm getting flashbacks of the last time I did this. Never my idea, is it? I want to, I want to kiss a boy in some dramatic way but I don't too, not when it doesn't feel right. — ☹ bad parallel

You think you've got it all sorted but you don't! You're just the same as me. You're both just as bad as I am. — ,,,,, he's not far wrong tbf

'You don't have to... like me back,' he says, and his voice breaks but I can't tell whether he's laughing or trying not to cry. 'But please don't hate me.' — AGONY (note: this is written in huge letters)

I thought the three of us would be friends forever. I can't deal with these unsaid feelings. I don't want to know about them. I don't want to think about them. — kick me in the cooch it'd hurt less

'Everything's bad.' 'Nothing bad is going to happen to you.' But it feels like it is. 'I am not afraid,' says Rowan softly. 'Remember?' — KILL ME OFF (note: this is written in huge letters)

I'm gone, I'm already gone, I'm up above the three of us and gazing down at the three bodies and wondering who on Earth decided that these three pathetically flawed human beings deserved so much worship. — i wanna write an essay on depersonalisation in jimmy's narration

Jimmy's smile is so wide - a youthful, dreamlike grin - as he gazes over the crowd — to the tune of the maybelline jingle: maybe it's a youthful dreamlike grin, maybe it's dissociation

There is something inexplicable tying them together. — it's trauma

Most fans would defend them until their last breath, form an army to keep them from harm or discomfort. — can't speak to how deliberate this was but . army in the bts sense is a fun connection

I didn't get to meet The Ark. I didn't get to tell them anything. — give it a day luv x

I am dragged into the flood. — BORN TO SURVIVE THE STORM BORN TO SURVIVE THE FLOOD

He doesn't look like himself without the airy smile that I always see in the photos and videos. — false! he looks more like himself then you've ever seen!

Of course he looks impossibly beautiful too. I desperately want to hold him. — NOT THE TIME

He's afraid of me. Me. Me. The human embodiment of a caterpillar. — something something self perception vs other ppl's perception, parallels the fandom vs celebrity experience something something

His eyes are wide and fearful. The beauty that I'd admired there has gone. — he's becoming real...

It just makes me feel like I'm really here. Holding this piece of me in my hand. — depersonalisation & grounding .......

God, I want to hug him. I want to hold him and let him cry gently into my shoulder. — not the time for a wattpad self-insert y/n imagine queen

I just stop registering what's happening around me. It's not really happening to me. It's all just happening to this body that people call Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. — depersonalisation!!!!!

It's funny because it's true. — TORI?

'I'm not in here any more,' I say, pointing at my chest. 'This is all happening to someone else.' 'Are you... okay?' I laugh at him again. — depersonalisation (note: this is in big letters and double underlined)

I'm sure that when The Ark arrive, I'll feel happy. I know that when The Ark arrive, I will feel happy. — ow . it's almost like relying on external factors to fix ur mental health is like a plaster on a bullet hole

I'm sure that when we start playing, I'll feel happy. — they're so nsync

Why do I feel like he's died when he's right there in front of me? — because you loved a fantasy and now reality has kicked in amen

I just turn back and stare up at them, waiting, praying for something good to happen, something good to make me feel okay again, just as it always has until today. But I don't feel anything. — yeah yeah the emotional void we all know it

— future college/uni essay idea: religion vs fandom with a specific focus on the osemanverse/hstv fandom w iwbft & rs as backup

#posting this at 4am friday bc i was toddler sitting all afternoon and then Wiped Tf Out w a pain & fatigue wave all evening #but heyyyy to those of u that check the tag like the morning paper #iwbftreread #side note i should've added a counter for how many bastard times i reference depersonalisation #a job for a future reread i think #also that final one isn't tied to a specific quote i just find it interesting . bc the way the exact fandom toxicity alice has been — #— exploring in their work for years has started playing out in (some parts) of the hs fandom is so interesting to me #also infuriating . but also i find the most interesting things tend to also be a fair bit infuriating

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

Title: Carry (2022 rewritten)

Verse: ROTTMNT

Summary: A visit to a local convention goes wrong when Donnie gets overstimulated. Now it’s up to Leo to get to him and get him home

For: Helle.Horse who helped me proofread all these!

Characters: Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, Michelangelo, Splinter

Pairings: LESS THEN NONE

Warnings: Overstimulation, Meltdown

Leo is undeterred when he turns from the novelty drink booth and sees the snack court filled with cosplayers, hipsters, and exhausted parents. He’s been going to conventions since before he could blink, so Leo quickly finds a path between the giant catbus, the five stormtroopers, and twelve vloggers talking into their phones. He weaves his way through the crowd until he catches sight of Raph’s waving hand at a corner table. “Nice spot, hermanos! Upwind of the nerds and the least amount of stains,” Leo exclaims before dumping the hotdogs, nachos, sandwiches, food, and drinks all over the table. He snatches up the large novelty cup that looks like an upside-down Jupiter Jim helmet before Donnie can take it, “Nope, sorry, Don-Tron. I called dibs.”

“Fine, whatever, I hope it was expensive.”

“Oh it was! Thanks for treating me by the way!” Leo tosses Don’s wallet back to them. They juggle it between his hands before glowering at Leo as he takes his place by Donnie. “Did you get your autograph from the Rupert Swaggert Celebrity Impersonator of the Rupert Swaggert Celebrity Impersonator,” Leo asks Mikey.

“Yeah! Just before he got into a fight with the original Rupert Swaggert Celebrity Impersonator! It was awesome!’ Mikey hugs his new autographed (slightly torn) photo to his chest before he takes out his autograph binder and places it in its new slot. While not part of the official circuit, New York Not Comic Yes Con was a pop-up convention they had heard about a few years ago. With no warning or flyers to announce it.

The con would randomly appear in back-alley hotels and convention centers and draw in nerds like moths to a flame. How they managed to have any vendors at all with such short notice (Donnie's convention algorithm gave them five hours notice at best) was beyond him, but it was full of reclusive celebrities and rare items that made Leo drool in his sleep. Finally, Raph stops chugging his walking taco and, after choking a moment, gasps for air. “Alright, men, we’ve hit the Sci-Fi Alley, the Fantasy Alley, and the Sci Fi Fantasy Alley. What’s next on our list Dee?”

Donnie, who had been counting through his wallet and shooting glares at Leo, pulls up his tech gauntlet, “Well, there’s always the Fantasy Sci-Fi Alley. And the Science Fantasy Fictional Alley. There are a few celebrities I signed up for ahead of time, you’re welcome, but there’s also Artist alley, and the Hot Gazpacho and Cold Soup live show cook-off in three hours.”

“They’re doing that again,” Leo asks. “Last time they let those two in the same convention, they-”

Before he could finish, Mikey put a hand over Leo’s mouth, “We don’t speak of it.”

“ANY WAY, it's a full schedule. We have time for a quick bite, but we gotta get back to the floor again. So, men, consume!”

With the ferocity of middle-aged coyotes attacking a pre-black Friday sale, the brothers dived back into their food. It was only after Leo tore into his fifth Korean hotdog that he noticed a distinct lack of movement from Donatello. Instead, his brother had pulled off his headphones, twisting the ear clasp and making minor adjustments. ‘You ok, Dee,” Leo asked, “Are your headphones on the fritz?”

“Yeah, they’ve been acting up ever since Yokai Mart,” Donnie looks them over, “I've fixed them in every way possible, but they keep malfunctioning at the worst time.”

Leo sits up more, looking back to the convention and its sea of noise and overstimulation, “Um, do we need to head home or..?”

“Don't you dare. New York Not Comic Yes Con only pops up once a year, and I’ll be Splinter's hairy elbow if I miss it.” Donnie gives the headphones one more twist and puts them back on. He must have noticed the concerned look on Leo’s face since he rolled his eyes, “If you’re really concerned, you can rub my shoulders. I got shoulder-checked by a Boba Fett cosplayer an hour ago, and I’ve lost feeling in my neck since then.”

“No problem!” Leo stuffs the last of his food in his mouth and scoots closer, his fingers already set to work on rubbing Don's neck. Despite Don’s nonchalant attitude, the soft shell visibly sighs and relaxes more, which is enough to let Leo know he’s doing a good job, and he focuses on that for a few minutes.

Until Mikey suddenly spits out his milkshake and points back into the convention, “THE DIRECTOR OF JUPITER JIM SAILS THE SEVEN GALAXIES IS HERE!!!”

“WHAT NO WAY!” Leo turns to see a Convention helper putting up a new sandwich board. He immediately jumps up, picks up the signal (despite the worker shouting after him), and runs back to the table to read it better. “Steven Stephen Steinburg is doing autographs in five minutes?! He never shows up to conventions! Last I heard, he was sky diving into volcanos to do research for his next film!”

“I heard he was going undercover as an undertaker for his next big movie, Undercover Undertaker!” Mikey reaches over and yanks the sign for him to show Raph, “We’re going, right? We have to! No one has seen him in public in twelve years! Not since he got into that fish slapping fight with Marcus Moncreif!”

As Raph goes to answer, there's a loud and distinct “A-HEM” that comes from the other side of the table back to Donnie. Who reaches up and waves off Leo’s message, “In case you forgot what I told you exactly twelve minutes ago, we have a packed schedule. That is when the line to the Jupiter Jim screenings opens up. They're supposed to be showing the entire Jupiter Jim prequel movie with two minutes of never before seen footage that will forever explain the toe sock debacle. And I warned you before we got here that every time you break the itinerary, I get to pick the next movie we watch, and so far, I get to pick three,” Donnie says with a smirk so villainous Draxum would be proud.

The three looked at each other in a mild panic, knowing Donnie had just bought the “science of socks, a twenty-part series” he was dying to watch. But, as usual, in a true crisis just like this, Raph and Mikey look to Leo desperately for a solution. Leo, always having a plan, gives them a grin and a wink, “How about this, Don, two of us wait in line for the screening, and the other two go meet the director?”

Donnie gave him a hard look. Despite his grin, Leo felt bad for breaking the schedule so often. Conventions were not always the most manageable landscape for Donnie to traverse. Especially one that gave them no real time to prepare for, and breaking the schedule only added to that stress. Finally, Donnie lets out an overly dramatic sigh, “Ok, fine. I know this is important to all of you, and whoever stays with me with will complain, looking at you Leo, so how about I’ll hold our spot and you three can go-”

Raph hops to his feet, “THANKSDEEYOU’RETHEBEST!! Mikey! Periscope mode to find us the most direct route to Steven Stephen Steinburgh!” Mikey scrambles up Raph’s shell and holds his hands to his eyes as binoculars.

Leo looked at his brother, “Remember Dee, if you need us, text us. Ok? Let us know if something goes wrong with your headphones.”

Donnie rolls his eyes and brings up his tech gauntlet, “Puhlease, even fritzing, my headphones are at 76% performance capacity. But if you don’t bring me back a cool gift I’m picking out the next eight movies-”

“Thanks hermano,” Leo yells as he stuffs his souvenir cup back into his backpack and runs after his brothers, barely managing to wave back at Don before he hurries not to lose track of the others.

~~~

One thing to be said about conventions was that no matter what was going on, there was going to be a long ass line. But, thanks to Mikey’s expert periscoping, they could find the fastest route through the convention and see the new ‘Stephen Steven Steinbugh’ sign just as it’s set up, putting them only twenty places in line behind the front.

But Leo quickly sidesteps to keep another stormtrooper from stepping on his foot, ‘OW! Hey Mikey, you think you can share the perch or-” But Mikey had already given him a devilish grin and laid across Raphs shoulders like an evil cat, ‘Ok, you brat.” Leo says with no venom but smacks at Mikey’s foot.

“Hey!” Raph gives him a light elbow jab, “He got there first. So suck it up like a big turtle.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Leo tilts around to peer at the time, then back to the line, “Do you think we’ll make it back to the movie in time? It wouldn’t be fair to Donnie to hold our spot the entire time.”

“Yeah, if he gets inside before we get back, he should see it without us. But we have an hour, so it should be ok?” Raph glances at him with an expression Leo recognizes a mile away, “I mean, I know he’s capable, but-”

“As long as he has those headphones, he’ll be ok.” Conventions had always been a big source of family fun in their family because they didn’t need disguises. Splinter had taken them to conventions ever since they were little, but because of the noise level, Don hadn’t always gone with them. During those times, Leo would stay home with him and have their own fun (or Leo would bug him so much that Donnie would beat him up with a pillow). But Don’s noise-canceling headphones allowed him to enjoy the conventions to the fullest without being stimulated or overwhelmed.

As the line shifts forward, Leo feels his phone vibrate in his fanny pack, but it’s already stopped by the time Leo pulls it out. Flashing the screen to see three missed calls from Donnie and frowns, “Hey guys, check your phones real fast and tell me if you have a missed call from Dee.”

The two of them look at him, confused, before they do as they are told, ”Yeah, from a minute ago,” Mikey says, holding it out for Leo to see. Raph has the same thing. But, of course, it wasn’t exactly a secret that conventions didn’t have the best cell service, and it could have easily been a buttdial.

But….

Without hesitation, Leo steps out of line, “Guys, I’m going to go wait with Donnie and check on him. If you can, get Stephen Steven to sign my Jupiter Jim Gym Towel,” and he starts at a quick pace. Ducking and dancing around cosplayers, his phone vibrates again, but before he can answer it, the call drops again, and he doubles his speed. He recounts the path back to the screening section and picks out the long line. Usually, it wouldn’t take too long to pick out a giant, green, soft-shell turtle, but come on. They were at a sci-fi convention. They had seen twelve turtle cosplays on the way to get pretzels. Thankfully, Leo saw his brother near the front of the line, before a teenager with gauges that would make the turtle tank tires jealous, and behind Eda, the Owl Lady cosplayer. His brother was jabbing furiously at his gauntlet, his headphones hanging off his forearm. His eyes were drawn in a panic that would have sent Leo spiraling if he hadn’t taken a deep breath and taken Donnie by the shoulders, catching his attention, ”Don, what's going on? What’s wrong?”

“Hey,” the guy behind him snaps, “No cutting!” But Leo ignores him, and thankfully Don does too. His brother’s gaze was a mile away, wrapped in stress lines, and at first, Leo was not sure if Donnie even noticed him when he went back to jabbing at his gauntlet.

But he started stuttering a response, “S-something went wrong. I-I tried adjusting the-the volume, t-trying to fix them, but-then they started letting out this loud noise and I-I couldn't take it. N-now there’s nothing but noise and-and-and-and-,” Donnie desperately tries to blink away his now rapidly filling tears, “I can't breathe-”

Leo opens his mouth to say something, anything of comfort that he knew would be hollow against Donnie’s now overstimulated mind, when the guy's voice speaks again, “Hey spaz, if you’re going to cry, get out of line.”

The red slider pivots hard, his fist twisting the teen’s shirt up tightly and yanking him close so that the now terrified teen could only see into his eyes. “If I ever see or hear you talking about my brother with anything lacking the same dignity you would give someone without a disability, I will send you so far into the earth, not even the Devil will be able to find you.” Leo released the teen. In his panic, the guys already white complexion fades to ghost-like. Once Leo drops his front, the guy takes several steps back out of line before turning and taking off like he expected Leo to chase him down.

It takes Leo a moment to come back, and he takes a single deep breath. He turns his attention back to his trembling brother, who now has his hands clasped on the sides of his head. It's then Leo notices that the headphones hanging around his neck are faded. After a moment, Leo realizes they’re giving off a high-pitched noise that immediately makes him wince and hover his hands by his head. Before Leo can try and discern what's wrong with them, they give off a flicker and an audible electric spark. Leo quickly reaches forward and takes them off Don’s neck, not that Don notices. The blue brother is unsure how to turn them off and stop the noise, so he wraps them up in one of his convention t-shirts. Leo quickly puts them in his bag before they can hurt anyone. “Dee come on, let's go,” he says as he raises his hand, but Donnie shakes his head furiously.

“NO. I said I’ll wait, and I’ll wait-”

“You matter more than a stupid screening, Don.” Leo tries to recount himself and forces himself to take another breath before stepping back to Donnie. He gently puts his hands on Don's shoulders to ensure he has his attention, but not necessarily his eye contact (which he knows can be difficult for Don in situations like this). Unfortunately, Leo is more than painfully aware that Donnie is shaking so hard he could pass out. “Dee, I won't make you go. I won't take that autonomy away from you. But if you want to go, it's ok.”

He doesn’t rush Donnie for an answer. Instead, Leo forces himself to have patience through willpower alone. He had made the mistake of taking the decision away from Don regarding his mental health and meltdowns and promised not to do it again. Even if it hurt to see him struggle. Thankfully no one behind them in line is complaining or trying to move around them. Whether out of respect for the situation or fear, Leo was going to threaten them, too; he didn’t know. But Don finally looks up to him again and gives a small, barely noticeable nod.

Leo tries not to look too relieved. “Ok, bud, let's get you some air,” he says, wrapping his arm around Don's shoulders, who in turn leans heavily against him. It was far quicker to get out of the convention than it had been to get to Don in the first place, despite the fact they were not going against the tide of conventiongoers. But when they finally reach the cold New York night air, Leo first moves Donnie off to the side and out of the way of people entering the convention. As soon as they're out of the way, Donnie drops so fast Leo’s afraid he’s actually passed out. But instead, Donnie is now in a crouched position with his hands rubbing at his face. Leo quickly squats next to him, “Don, hands, hands. Remember what Dad said. Do something with your hands.'' Leo puts his hands out instinctively but stops himself from restraining Don’s hand. Thankfully Donnie starts fluttering his hands instead. When Leo’s phone starts ringing, Leo moves to kneel in front of his brother. If only to shield him from the scrutiny of people passing. He presses the back of Donnie’s head, so his face is safe in the crook of Leo’s neck as his free hand pulls his phone out and answers, “Raph?”

“Hey, what happened? Is Dee ok?”

“Don’s headphones are malfunctioning and he’s having a meltdown.” Leo gives Don a small, supportive half-hug.

“Should we come to you? We can meet you.”

Leo goes to answer but feels Donnie shake his head. Question answered. Leo starts rubbing Don’s shell, “No, Donnie wants you guys to stay and have fun. I’ll take care of him.”

There's a pause on the other side. Leo can only imagine Raph’s crestfallen face looking at Mikey's. He knew how much Raph struggled to let someone else take care of his brothers, and he knew there was a good chance Raph would ignore him. But after he sighs, Raph says, “Ok. Keep me up to date, and just look out for him. Ok?”

Leo allows himself a smile for the first time since Donnie’s failed phone call. “Of course,” he says before hanging up.

“Why?”

The voice is so alien and unlike Don that, at first, Leo is sure it’s someone else watching. But the voice came again, “I-I was so careful. I checked th-three times. B-But it still failed.” Don’s body tenses, his shoulders trembling like weakened floodgates before a hurricane of emotion, “I was careful,” his voice cracks as he hides his face again. Seeing his usually boisterous, loud brother so small was painful. Leo takes a few minutes to simply hold him and comfort him before he tips Donnie’s head down to rest his forehead on Leo’s shoulder and speaks quietly, “Dee, is it ok if we go home? We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I'll do whatever you want.”

Don nods quickly, which is more relief than Leo wants to admit. He takes Donnie gently by the shoulders and guides him back to his feet. Don’s movement is so slow, but Leo doesn’t have the heart to rush him. “Do you want to ride on my shell,” he asks. When Leo gets another nod, the blue turtle turns, crouches down, and waits for Don to climb up with his forearms wrapped around Leo’s collarbone. Had Don been more aware of what was happening, he would have beaten the back of Leo’s skull for robbing him of his dignity. But when Leo stands back up, he feels Donnie curl up with his face hidden by the back of Leo’s neck as a small sob escapes him.

Leo tilts his head back to touch Don’s for a moment before he sets off.

~~~

The walk home doesn’t take nearly as long as Leo expects, but it is still too long for his liking. The sooner he got Donnie home to a more familiar space, the better. Through creative thinking, Leo can slide down the ladder by placing a foot on either side of the ladder and using one hand to hold one of the sides and go down. (Actually, he would have been more impressed if he hadn’t been so intent on getting Donnie home.) Halfway home, Leo feels Don squirming and takes it as a hint to set his brother back on his feet carefully. He waits to see what Donnie will do, but when nothing happens, he reaches around and wraps one arm around the purple turtle’s shoulders, his other hand holding Don’s, and Leo guides him along.

When they reach the lair, they see Splinter at the entrance with one of Donnie’s hoodies and a worried look on his face (Raph must have called him ahead of time). When they’re in eyesight, Splinter hurries forward and takes Donnie’s free hand, “Purple, are you alright?”

Donnie looks at their father, and his eyes swell with tears again. He falls on his knees and presses his face into Splinter's robes, weeping long held-back pain. Splinter looks at Leo and hands him the hoodie. In turn, Leo kneels to wrap it around Don’s shoulders. Despite his desire to be more active, Leo steps aside and heads to the kitchen to ensure he’s not an audience member of Don’s low point.

He starts setting up tea, and as he waits for the water to heat up, he sits at the kitchen table. He pulls out his souvenir cup and looks over Don’s headphones. He didn’t have the trained eye that Donnie did with electronics, but he was good at picking out details. Before he could discern anything, the headphones spark, and a jolt shoots up Leo’s fingers forcing him to drop them in shock (pun intended). “Hey,” Leo snaps, looking at the headphones as though the turtle expected them to retaliate again. ”That's NOT what you’re designed to do,” he snarls. Leo picks up the novelty cup and washes it out just as the kettle starts whistling. He mixes some tea, and it's not until he pours the water into the cup that Leo notices his own trembling hands. The turtle flexes his fingers and lets out a small sigh before heading back towards Don’s room, where he had seen Splinter guiding him. He steps to enter when he hears, “Dad, I said I didn't want to.”

“I know Donnie, but I thought after tonight you might reconsider.”

Leo blinks. He knew better than to eavesdrop, but unfortunately, it was in his nature to snoop. So, he leans closer to the doorway and listens, “I thought you said you wanted to give me a choice in the matter,” Donnie questions with a bit more hint of his sass, but not enough to cover the pain in his voice.

“It is still your choice. I will never force you to do something you’re not comfortable with or ready for,” Splinter pauses, “Leonardo, stop being the busybody and get in here.” Oops. Too tired (and too ‘Leo’) to feel shame, Leo steps in with his tea. Donnie was sitting on his bed, wrapped in a weighted blanket, wearing his hoodie as Splinter sat by his side, holding his hand. Splinter looks to the cup and turns back to Donnie, guiding his face to look at him, “Please rest. If you need me, let me know. I love you,” and he gives him the smallest of pecks between Donnie’s eyes before standing up, “I’ll let Red and Orange know you two made it home ok.” Double oops. Yeah, Leo had forgotten to do that. Now that his adrenaline was fading, his sense of humor was coming back in full swing. As Splinter passes him, he pats Leo on the forearm, “You did good, my son. Thank you.”

Leo, who typically survives on validation alone, can only manage a weak smile as he pats his father’s hand in return before Splinter disappears towards the kitchen. The two were now alone.

Donnie quickly scrubs his eyes on his sleeve, but Leo does not indicate that he saw the movement as he sits on the edge of Donnie’s bed. “Made you some tea, bud,” he hands the cup to his brother, to which Donnie gives him a puzzled look, “I cleaned it out, and I owed you a souvenir, right?”

Donnie looks at it again. “I mean, I did pay for it,” he says before sipping from it, “Thanks.”

“No problem. Is there anything else you need? I can leave if you want,” Leo offers, though he’s hoping Donnie will tolerate his presence a moment longer. Donnie sips from his new souvenir cup, thinking, “Um, actually, the weighted blanket isn’t helping, can you..” he lets it drift off.

With a smile, Leo squirms around until he’s sitting behind Donnie. “Tell me if I squeeze too tight,” he says as he hugs Donnie tightly from behind. Though Donnie was the most touch-intolerant brother, it was discovered early on that pressure was one of the main things to help him lose stress. It worked the same way a massage worked for Leo, or a warm blanket worked for Mikey. And even now, Leo feels Donnie lean back against him, and some of the tension leaves his body. “How are you feeling,” Leo asks.

“Tired. Drained. Embarrassed. The usual.” Donnie sips from his tea, giving his new Jupiter Jim Novelty Cup a slight smile that Leo pretends not to notice. “Sorry, you had to leave the convention because of me.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Leo says, tucking his chin over Don’s scalp to further his role as a pressurized armchair, “There were way too many Bakugo cosplayers this year anyway.” He pauses for a few seconds, waiting to see if his weak joke had any effect, but Donnie just sips from his cup, and Leo decides it's time to ask, “What were you and Dad talking about?”

“He,” Don pauses, “He wants me to go to therapy.”

“I…” Leo pauses as well, “oh.”

“He thinks I’ve been having a harder time lately and that talking to someone who isn’t as close to our situation might help. He was going to ask Hueso if he knew any Yokai therapists I could talk to, but….” If Donnie is trying to hide the resentment in his voice, he’s not trying very hard, “What no one seems to get is that it’s been a rough couple of months. And I’m not ready to lay on a couch and pay someone to tell me I have superiority issues or drug me up.” Finally, Donnie twists to meet Leo’s eyes, “You think I should go,” he says in a tone that dares Leonardo to agree.

“I didn't do anything! I’m just trying to be a living weighted blanket!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I’m not-” Leo takes a deep breath. Then, to buy time, he squeezes Donnie tighter and rests his chin on Don's shoulder, “At least he’s giving us a choice.”

Donnie blinks back at him in surprise, “Us?”

“Yeah, Dad's been trying to talk all of us about going to some sort of counseling of some sort. He thinks it has something to do with, you know, the never ending insomnia. And the anxiety might have something to do with it, but I don't know. He might be reading too much into this. He only raised us and sees things about us no one else sees.”

For a moment, the two sit in silence. Leo hugs Donnie an inch tighter and rests his head against Donnie’s, who does the same. “Dee,” Leo starts, “I’ll make a deal with you. A twin pact. I’ll think about going to therapy if you think about going to therapy. Is that fair to you?” Leo’s not sure what to expect as an answer, but Donnie nods the best he can with his head leaning against Leo’s.

“Yeah fine, we’ll get a professional to tell us which one of us is more screwed up.”

Despite himself, Leo smiles, hugging Donnie as tight as he can, saying, “Deal, but it's definitely Mikey.”

#rottmnt fanfiction #hurt/comfort #overstimulated #donatello #leonardo #raphael #michelangelo #splinter #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtle fanfiction #rottmnt #brothers #undercoverwizardfanfiction

[notthatangry]

I was bored :)

1.Favourite Slipknot era?

vol3 subliminal verses and self titled

2.Favourite song/s?

The virus of life The shape prosthetics the nameless me inside iowa scissors purity Everything ends spit it out diluited

3. Have you ever seen them live? If so what was your experience like?

It was brutal literally I almost die and im 99% sure that corey saw me throw up

4. If you could spend a day with any band member who would it be and why?

Corey bc im almost 100% sure the we would love each other or hate each other no in between and i wanna know

5. Favourite lyric/s?

-SUCK DEEZZ NUTZZ

-I am not a dog but im the one you’re dogging

-You won’t bother me if you let me bother you

-Keep in mind, I watch you Never leave my side, never leave me, fucker

6.When and how did you discover the band?

When i was like 9/10 I downloaded a song and had the all hope is gone album cover and i was so curious about it i look it up and they where Slipknot i loved the masks and I found it kinda halloweenish what i loved but until 13 I didn’t actually hear their music

7.A song that means a lot to you?

Everything ends helped me to accept my rage and actually let me be mad at things

8.Favourite album/s?

Self titled ofc

9.Out of every mask each member has had which one do you like the best and which one do you like the least?

I love mick jim and joey masks those are top tier i like craig and corey masks too i like almost all of them my least fav is that bandage clown mask

10. Favourite Paul Gray photo/s?

11. Favourite music video?

Duality and psychosocial classics

12. If you could choose any artist/band to

collaborate with Slipknot, who would you

choose?

Man idk MGK lmaooo nah mmm chino moreno

13. Ever been to Knotfest?

yes again brutal i loved it

14. How do you feel about the newest members?

They’re good I don’t like to compare, very different vibes tho

15. Favourite group picture?

16. If you could make the world listen to one Slipknot song which one would it be?

Dead memories or snuff bc those are pretty chill

17. Favourite gif?

18. Do you have any band merch? If so what?

I have like an obsession with band shirts so yea

19. What do your friends/family think of the band?

That they scream a lot and my mom says that she likes the “jason masks”

20.What's your dream setlist?

Purity,Scissors ,The virus of life,The nameless,Vermillion ,Prosthetics,Me inside,Nero forte,Everything ends,Disasterpiece,Get this,(Sic),Eyeless,Liberate,Snuff,Gehenna,Killpop,Spit it out,Yen ,The shape,Metabolic

21. Tag your favourite Slipknot blogs

If i follow you you’re my fav

22. Name a song that gets you pumped

Nero forte get this people = shit

23. Favourite Corey Taylor quote?

“I can’t take full credit but i will”

“Pay attention to ME!”

“Lust gets me in trouble so wrath”

24. If you could be any band member for a day who would you be?

Sid bc I would jump everywhere like crazy (i have both feet fucked up too) or mick i like how scary he looks

25. Favourite song that's been performed live?

(Sic) the blister exists purity

26. Use one word to describe Jim's beard

HIPSTER

27. Any songs that have helped you through tough times?

Everything ends snuff

28. First impression of the band?

HALLOWEEN BOIS

29. What do you think of the newest album?

Good but the old vibes is on top always

30. Ever heard of the tribute band Knotslip? If so what do you think?

They r better than Slipknot lmao

31.Did you discover any other bands through

Slipknot? If so which ones?

Stone sour murderdolls

32. You're feeling angry which song do you put on?

People = shit nero forte everything ends

33. You're feeling happy which song do you put on?

Me inside the shape vermillion spit it out custer killpop yen

34.Have you met any band members?

Sadly no hopefully corey someday

35. What song would you love to hear Slipknot

cover?

The summoning by sleep token if you know what i mean ;)

36. Got any Slipknot related tattoos?

No but i want the knot

37. First song you heard?

Psychosocial

38. Vermillion part 1 or Vermillion part 2?

Part 1 aghh

39. Got any cool pictures you've personally taken of the band that you'd like to share?

40. Your chance to say anything you want about the band.

Sometimes I would like to have been born earlier or they would have been born a few years before me ;(

#slipknot asks #slipknot shitpost #shitpost #slipknot

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: May

May Ch. 5: You look good. What happened?

May Prompt: Who Are You?

AN: I thought I’d already posted the May chapter?! Whoopsie. 🙊 Italy photos mine. Btw in case it was established too far back in the story for anybody but me to remember, the phrase ‘eye caterpillars’ = bushy eyebrows. 🐛 TW: Outdated references to hipsters. Use of bips. Irishisms. 2015. Picky eater. Fic rewrites. Utter lack of sex.

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan || Prev: April || Next: June

————/-/————

May Chapter 5: You look good. What happened?

————/Billy/————

"You came!” I’ll admit I’m amazed to see Simon Lewis emerge from the depths of the Naples train station blinking at the full force of the Mediterranean sun. It was only just last night he decided to come back and here he appears before me less than 24 hours later. I pull the muppet in for some back-thumping. “What’d you do, y’madman? Drive straight to the airport?”

“Yeah, basically.” He’s grinning, and I can hear the giggle barely contained by his words. “Walked up and bought a ticket right there at the counter, just like in a movie. I am both a baller and a shot caller.”

Billy and the baller/shot-caller.

I can’t help but chortle. “Obviously.” Certo.

“It was iconic. Sexy. I am a sexy icon of bad-assery with balls and shots called. On two continents.” He holds up two fingers, unconsciously forming a symbol that could potentially be misconstrued in Italy. It definitely would be misconstrued back home. But no one’s paying us any mind.

“Look at your man now. Aren’t you just the sexiest Simon ever to have a bad ass.”

“I know, right?” He presents his fist. In a news announcer’s voice he announces, “We fist bump because we’re men, the moment calls for it, and the enthusiasm is infectious.”

“Em, Simon. I think you’re thinking out loud again.”

“Whatever. Don’t care. Too psyched to be here to berate myself for cringey habits.”

This fun Simon is a little different to the one I’ve been texting. He’s a bit more loquacious, this one. Less Hemingway and more, em, I dunno, Simon Lewis I suppose.

“And no more crying chibi Simon,” he declares, as if he needs to be very clear on this point. “I drowned him in the East River – purely figuratively, of course, but it does count. So he’s not along for the ride this time. He cannot steal my bad-ass thunder.”

I can’t help snorting, but before I can give him proper grief for his ass thunder, he stops me with his hand up. “No, no. Don’t bother. It’s true. I didn’t think that one through.”

Tossing his bags in the boot, I feel honor-bound to point out, “I never had you down as a murderer. Plot thickens.”

————/Simon/————

“So where to, mate?” Billy changes the subject to our more immediate, practical concerns.

“I don’t really care, as long as it’s not the hotel. I want to do something. Any thing will do, as long as we have to actively go do it.”

“Right,” he says.

“So where to, mate?” I ask in return.

“Sorrento. Nah-bip-bip-bip I’m not finished. The actual town of Sorrento — or at least the marina. That’s where dinner’ll be.”

“Aren’t you working?” I whip out my ol’ faithful suspicious-side-eye expression. Yeah it’s a predictable choice, but I’m suspicious, so I’m looking at him from the corner of my eye with suspicion. It’s how it’s done, how else am I supposed to do it?

“Nah, man. I took the night off. And anyway, pickin you up is a job all its own, innit,” he teases. He’s teasing.

“That’s all I am to you, a job, isn’t it.” I sniff back my hypothetical tears. “No, but seriously, thanks Billy. For the ride. And for taking the night off. Appreciate you, man.”

“Well, I figured you’re not likely to have a girl already. So it was safe to assume you’d be free for dinner. And I wanted to get you down to town. You can’t be eatin every meal at the hotel.”

“Don’t want to, anyway. I’m here to do it right this time,” I promise him.

Heaving a sigh of relief he says, “Thank Christ,” in the general skyward direction of God on high.

“Thanks, Billy.”

“Acourse, mate.”

“No really. Thanks, Billy.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

————/-/————

“Oh look, he’s back. Where’d you go?” Billy asks me with amusement. He’s amused.

Eloquently, I inquire, “Huh?”

“You disappeared. You do that a lot, mate.”

“Don’t you need an amulet for that?”

“Funny.” Apparently it’s not.

“Y’know, if I could have worked hit points into the books, I totally would have. It just wasn’t the right tone.” I put on a dreamy voice. “Not all dreams come true, Lewis, not all.”

“What are you on about?”

“Books. I write,” I qualify, just to clear up any confusion.

He turns to look at me (taking far too long without his eyes on the road in my opinion). What, is he trying to decide if I look authorly? “That's great, man,” he says. “Where’d you post them?”

“Post them?” Um. “Oh, you mean putting the chapters up online?”

Billy nods. I’m forced to assume I don’t look authorly.

“What kind of stories do you write?” he asks as he skirts a delivery truck driving in reverse down the middle of the road. I decide that it’s best to pretend it’s not actually happening and stare at the view instead.

“Paranormal Urban Fantasy. Never Suburban Fantasy, though, just so you know,” I offer. “I leave that to the experts. Write what you know, you know?”

He chuckles. One of those real ones, despite my not even remotely deserving it. “Cool man,” he says. “Send me a link.”

“Um, ok.” I mean, he could just google me, but whatever.

————/-/————

“All right, mate?” he asks.

“Yeah! Of course!” I say brightly (maybe a little too brightly). I look around me at the bustling noon hour in the center of Sorrento with only the tiniest hint of hesitation. Because, really, it’s just the tiniest hint of a town. He doesn’t notice my case of nerves, thank God. I could not be more embarrassing.

Sorrento; Marina Grande is at bottom right

“All right, then,” he says with a nod, followed by an arching eye caterpillar. “But hear this, Simon. If you get gelato before I get back, that’s it man, we’re not friends.”

“Wow. That’s a little extreme, Billy. On the upside, does that mean we’re BFFs forever if I wait for you?”

“That’s redundant,” he points out.

“What?!” I fix the pointy fucker with my very best shocked-and-offended face, and clutch my figurative pearls. “I am not redundant and I never will be. How dare you.” (The groaning you’re emitting from your throat is ok with me. Really.)

“Ah, go on man, that’s two forevers. It’s excessive, innit. Are yeh really expectin me to serve two consecutive life sentences of best-best friend-friend?”

“Yeah, ok. I’m good with that. We’ll be BFFs forever twice. Like Outkast – forever-ever.” I’m sorry Ms. Jackson, I am for reals.

“I give up,” he says, rolling his eyes. Which offends me. Because I’m the eye-roller. He’s the head-shaker. And he’s stealing my gig.

“So that means I can go ahead and get gelato without you? I mean, you said you give up.”

“Fucksake, Simon, but you’re a pain in my arse.”

“You love it,” I grin at him. “What’s gelato?”

“Fucksake, Simon!” He repeats (redundantly!) and commences the head shaking.

“And how do I find it?” I continue, undaunted.

“All right, look,” he sighs. “The tourist shops are up thatta way. Walk round, buy some shit. Then be back here by half twelve, and wait for me gettin off the bus.”

“Bus? I thought you were parking the car.”

He looks as though he’d like to strangle me.

“No, seriously,” I assure him. “I thought you were just parking the car.” I shoot him a combo of the I’m-about-to-get-in-trouble puppy face, and the but-you-love-me-anyway puppy face. It’s all in the eyes. Make ‘em huge and glisten. Works on Ma every time.

But not on Billy, it turns out. Tough crowd. Instead, he just laughs and laughs. Which is actually quite a thing to behold. And whoa, he’s just walked over and I’m being wrapped up in an actual hug. Like, a real one. Right now.

“I’m glad you’re here, mate,” he says warmly. “It’s good to see yeh.”

I don’t remember the last time somebody really hugged me. Apart from Ma, obviously. Certo. I kinda want another one. But he’s back in the car and pulling the old Mercedes out into traffic.

OK, so…

I’ve got some alone time on my hands. I clap, all ready to go, but then I notice how weird I am and shove my hands in my pockets.

So I hang out on a park bench a bit and watch Billy get stuck in a traffic jam — while the drivers of two cars stop in the center of their respective lanes, for the express purpose of double kissing each others’ cheeks in greeting. I’ve just decided that I need to start an “Only In Italy” list. Which means I need a pad of paper and pencil. Don’t judge my medieval writing implements of choice.

————/-/————

The pencil and paper-finding mission takes over an hour, because I keep asking people for “llaves.” Which, it turns out, means keys. In Spanish. Dios mio, I suck at Italian.

I mean, can you blame me? I never bothered learning more, cuz I didn’t plan to come back anytime soon. Cuz, you know, painful. But then I realized I actually missed Italy. In all senses of the word, but most especially in the wistful, nostalgic sense of the word. And I guess that’s a pretty normal reaction when it comes to people thinking about their trips to Italy.

Plus, I actually know someone who lives here.

————/-/————

Ok, so I’m back where I’m supposed to wait for Billy.

I had hoped for an I heart Italy pen, but apparently that’s only a thing in the US. Here, it turns out they have taste.

And I still don’t know what gelato is. But at least now I do know how beautiful this town is. And how great the Italian people are. At trying not to laugh at you to spare your feelings.

While the entire city looks like burnished yellow gold when seen from a distance, up close there’s more variety. Like the chaotic good mix of blaringly bright tiled roofs. I’ve taken pictures of everything so I can practice my wistfully-nostalgic face again at a future date.

Chaotic good, no?

I’ve chosen a pretty cool spot for people-watching. Everywhere I look, life is happening there. Big, boisterous aliveness. It’s so weird. And also instantaneously addictive.

Ok, so:

Only In Italy

The sky turns lavender. I remember that from last time.

People park their cars at home and take a bus. (Ok, I suppose bridge and tunnel people do that, too. But the vibe is so much more ‘tiny Italian village’ here than in Brooklyn.)

There is only one road. The bus drives back and forth on the one road. For the entirety of this coastline, to get to any of the towns. No, seriously. I don’t think I’m adequately expressing this concept. (And my writer ego is taking a hit because of it.) From Naples (huge industrial port city) directly to Salerno (the next huge industrial port city wayyyyy down the coast), there is a big highway. But that highway doesn’t do shit for you if you want to see any of the seaside towns in-between. For every last one of the tiny towns lining the Bay of Naples, then down and around the whole Sorrentine Peninsula, and aaaall the way to the end of the Amalfi coastline, there is one road. One. Which means that anyone living in the town of, say, Sorrento, has one road – one road!!! – to get the fuck out of town. You either turn right, or you turn left. Your only way in, your only way out. That is nuts. Right? That’s nuts!

Locals have no problem with interrupting all traffic on that one road, by stopping their cars in the middle of their lane and getting out, just to double air kiss the oncoming driver who is now holding up traffic in the opposite direction. And no one (no one!!!) is offended by this. No one seems to realize they have a horn they can honk at precisely these moments. I am mentally horn-honking so hard rn.

Lines painted on the road are purely suggestions. Especially when there are cars idling in the middle of the road for cheek kissing purposes.

I don’t even know what to say about delivery trucks driving in reverse on the one road.

————/-/————

I look up from my Only In Italy list, startled by the squeal of the wheels on the bus trying to stop going round and round. And now I’m watching the bus disgorge a few tourists, a bunch of locals, and an Irishman.

You know, we really are an unlikely pair to form a friendship under unlikely circumstances. But I think I actually needed Billy in a way. I can be a pretty miopic guy, and Billy managed to pull me out of my tunnel vision, preoccupations, and woe-is-me’ing. And he’s done it more than once over the course of our acquaintance. All via text, which I find quite impressive. That is some potent friending.

I need to figure out how to thank him for that without making it weird. Cuz, I mean, things got pretty weird over the last several months, but neither of us is acting uncomfortable or hesitant now. He’s too laid back for that. There is one thing I can say without reservation: Billy Delaney is a good human being. A mensch, in other words.

I think I needed him in order to get over myself, and that is a bizarre thought.

“Look at the state of yeh. Writin away with your nose buried in a book, right where I left yeh. When you should be lookin about. Unbelievable you are, man.”

“My nose — which cannot write, by the way — is buried in a book precisely because I’ve been looking around. I’ve started an Only In Italy list. Submissions welcome.”

That earns me a Billy snort. Among the best snorts out there, actually, is a snort from Billy. How can he be so smooth yet still be such a dork? A dork who got lucky and grew into his – I surreptitiously look him up and down — well, his everything. Bastard.

And that’s not even why everybody loves him! He’s just a fuckin cool dude. Who likes people. And the whole Irish thing doesn’t hurt.

“So where to, man, where to?” he asks with a wide smile, interrupting my thoughts.

“I dunno. You’re the Italian. Let’s do Italian stuff. Like maybe get an overly caffeinated coffee beverage.”

“I am an Irishman, and you could be a tourist if you ever figure out how. You tourist first, and write about it after. Not during. How can you be so self-aware and so clueless?” Billy asks.

My breath catches in my heart. He thinks I’m self-aware?

“You think I’m self-aware?” I can tell I’ve got glistening eyes and they did it all on their own without prompting by my brain. I’d feel like king of the world if I was in Bushwick right now, and everyone within earshot heard him tell me I’m self-aware. And he doesn’t even know what kind of cred he’s just awarded me. “Thanks,” I hiccup.

“Why’re yeh lookin at me with love heart eyes? I just insulted you,” he asserts.

“Did you?”

“Called you clueless, didn’t I.”

Big, breathy sigh. “Didn’t notice. Don’t care. Can I hold your hand right now? We can go have a nice, romantic stroll thru the Italians. You can show me this gelato I’ve heard so much about.” I flutter my eyelashes, and take his hand in both of mine.

“Get off, you muppet,” he laughs, as he tries to extract his hand from my strong and persistent hand-holding.

Not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but a laughing Billy Delaney is something to see. His whole face splits into the widest grin and it lingers long after the laughing’s stopped.

“Oh my god, they are so hot together.” It’s a young woman’s voice coming from somewhere close by. “Oh my god, look at them.”

We both must share a brain because we both swivel to see who the hot people are. I mean, it’s the Medi/Tyrrhenian. It’s an innately sexy place, and people are just kinda generally super-hot here, and remarkably comfortable with being almost uncomfortably sexy.

“So unfair,” moans her friend. I agree completely.

Not finding the hotness they’re referring to, Billy and I both discreetly turn toward the shops to see who’s talking.

“Do you think we can turn them?” another female voice asks. They both dissolve into giggles.

I’m not spotting them. “Can you tell who-”

Billy says under his breath, “By the lemons.”

Guest starring: Two fangirls and lemons the size of your head.

As he and I both lock eyes with the girls, they spin into each other and start giggling as they stare at their phones comparing their stolen shots.

Billy’s caterpillars try to meet in the middle. “Aren’t they a little young to be lookin at us like-” he begins.

“Oh my god!” I stand bolt upright. “That’s where the gelato comes from!!! Billy. Billy, can we please, Billy? I will embarrass you if you don’t stand up immediately and show me which thing I should be pointing at when I ask for it.”

“How do you plan to embarrass me? What, you’ll start jumping up and down while clapping?” he challenges me.

In all seriousness I turn to him. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.” I give him an arched caterpillar of my own, attempting intimidation-and-impending-threat face.

The two girls are squealing to each other, hiding behind their hair.

“To the gelato man!” I point boldly and decisively. “Let’s do this.”

Billy’s caterpillars are trying for a second kiss, as he rises slowly. He’s distracted.

“Why are you not running at the gelato man with me?” I hold my hand out to him. His caterpillars have graduated to blatant frowning at the girls after another particularly sonic squeal.

“Come on, Billy. That’s got to be too young for you,” I tease. “I hope.”

“How could you even suggest-” Ladies and gents, I give you horrified-face, Billy Delaney style. I give him a playful push to reassure him I’m just teasing, and that snaps him out of whatever bizarro universe he was temporarily trapped in.

His eyes snap up to see me laughing at his surprised, blinking eyes. “Come on, sweetheart, buy me a gelato. Honey, you promised.”

Head shaking follows, of course. Certo. As we approach the stall, he keeps sneaking glances between the girls and me. “What the fuck, Simon?” he whispers, while surreptitiously watching them over my shoulder.

We’ve reached the gelato man. Billy offers to order. “What kind?”

“The biggest kind,” I shrug. He snorts and turns to the gelato man. I decide to put the girls out of their misery while Billy is focused on purchasing whatever it is.

“Oh my god, it’s him! It’s really him!” one of the girls hisses, then they look away quickly as their cheeks turn strawberry in mortification.

“Excuse me, um, sir?” the blonde girl squeaks, while progressing from strawberry straight to raspberry. It’s always endearing. I can’t help it. I know what it is to belong to a fandom. Like, being the fan, so I get it.

“Hi,” I approach, and awkwardly raise my hand in greeting.

“It’s really you,” the brunette whispers.

“I can be only one. Y’know, cuz, like, Highlander? No? Ok. Well, hi. I’m-”

“Simon is Simon,” whispers the brunette.

“The one, and the same. Both of us.” I am so embarrassing right now. But they are equally horrified at themselves. So, its a party.

“Can we have a picture?” They turn their pleading puppy eyes on me.

I have to admit, “Your puppy eye game is strong, girls. Practice, grasshoppers. Keep at it, and one day maybe you’ll be pro level like me.” This gets them giggling again. But they’re relaxing the adrenaline a bit.

By the time Billy returns with his booty, the three of us are comparing which of the puppy eye shots should go on Instagram first. I’ve already made my preferences for #2 known, and I’m ready to disengage.

I look up. “It’s ice cream?” I stand and give the girls hugs again.

“Thanks, Simon! We love you so much,” they sigh. Then, looking down at their phones they charge into the street, nearly walking right into an old lady carrying a salami so long that it’s an obscene parody of itself.

“Tag me!” I shout after them.

Mental note: “Only in Italy #7. Old Lady with huge salami that she didn’t buy at Katz’s.” Instead, she’s clearly coming from a shop with “Salumeria” over the door. A frickin salami store. I love this place and never want to leave.

“The deli?” Billy asks, shocking the shit out of me.

“How do you know about Katz’s?! Send a salami to your boy in the army? I’ll have what she’s having?”

“You talk in your sleep, mate,” he replies, straightfaced.

“But- I mean. Cuz like, we’ve never-” I stutter. Great. I’m stuttering.

He’s laughing at me. Which I’m ok with.

“Ow!” he barks, after I slap him in the arm. “Is this how you treat all your dates? Just shush.”

My mouth snaps shut. I am just as surprised about it as he is.

“On your first night in Italy – now don’t interrupt, your last trip never happened – I am honored to introduce you to, nay, expose you to the most Only In Italy thing for your list. The ‘passeggiata.’”

“The what now? Passage otta?”

“Close enough. La passeggiata happens every single night, tourist season or not. Big city or tiny village. Before dinner, everyone en masse decides to go for a walk in town. A lazy, amblin sort of people-watchin activity. Everywhere, the whole country. Late afternoon before dusk you stop and buy a gelato and eat it slowly while the world walks by.

“Passage otta,” I like the sound of that. In Manhattan we call that Times Square at 5pm. But without neon green milk-based product melting down your fingers. But then again, in Times Square you never know. “What the hell neon green thing did you buy me?”

“The biggest one,” he answers, passing it over with a bunch of napkins.

“Why is it the color of Mike Wazowski?” I demand in horror.

“Who?”

“Mike Wazowski! Mike Wazowski! Mike Wazowski. A triple Mike Wazowski: Bucket list, check.”

“Simon.”

“Mike Wazowski. But more importantly, why is it neon green? Doesn’t that mean it’s poisonous? Neon green is nature’s helpful way of warning us about impending doom. Like, did you know one tree frog contains enough poison to kill ten men?” Thanks, BBC. “So where do we go?” I ask.

“Let’s sit a spell over there. Ideal spot, really. Great view down the cliff to the Marina Grande on that side, and the high street shops over here.”

“The tiny tiny baby automobiles are sooooooo cute.”

“I’m partial to the Vespas,” he asserts.

“I want a tiny adorable Vespa so hard right now. Can we get a Vespa, Billy, please?” I plead. “But no, really. What’s with the green ice cream?”

“Simon. It is not ice cream. Say that within range of an Italian and you’re looking at prison I won’t know how to rescue you from.” He points at the cup. “Pistachio. One of the most iconic flavors. And a favorite of mine. Which means that if you hate it, which you won’t do, but if you do, this is a flavor I like enough to eat ‘the biggest one.’”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a very thoughtful person,” he promises with a sly smirk, which I assume people find sexy. Cuz it kinda is.

I elbow him in the ribs and he giggles. Billy giggles? This is new information. It’s kinda musical, like an arpeggio up the scale. Now I’ve got do-re-mi-fa-so stuck in my head from Sound of Music. Gross.

But I like this, sitting here watching the passage of people as they make their nightly parade. This is why people live here. It’s that big, boisterous aliveness I was thinking about earlier.

“Only in Italy #8: People take walks, not for exercise or the subway.”

Billy Delaney sighs. It’s true. He just did. Then guess what he says next. “Fucksake this is romantic.”

“I know, right?” What, it is.

“First time out of the United States?” he asks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel like maybe I need to be offended.

“It just seems like, you know,” and he waives his hand at me as if that’s all the explanation necessary.

“I’ve been to other countries.”

“Oh yeah? Did it require leaving the North American continent?”

“Shut up. And stop laughing, you asshole,” I grouch at him, because I have been overseas — just not alone, is all. “But you know what you can talk about? How awesome and totally not ice cream this stuff is. It’s so creeeeeamy, and so light, and fresh, and not heavy at all, but still creeeeeeamy. And the Mike Wazowki flavor is really intense.”

“See? What’d I tell yeh?”

“Not much at all, actually,” I observe. He rewards me with the bark of a laugh.

After a few minutes watching la passeggiata in companionable silence, Billy prompts, “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask yeh. You talk a lot about writing. What’s that about?”

“I just love it. Never gets old. Hope it never does. But I can’t really see myself writing more than five or maybe six, tops. Tops,” I assure him.

“Five or six what?”

“Books.” Are we participating in the same conversation? “I’m late with the fourth because the fans want one featuring way more Simon Lewis with way more love story. And that can only be the case because the author, Simon Lewis, wrote himself into the story in the first place. There’s a hashtag for it #SimonIsSimon.” I heave a sigh as if the pressures of the world are far too much for little ol’ me to handle. Actually, “They get really into the whole #SimonIsSimon thing. People get tattoos! I’ve seen it online! Insane.”

“Simon is Simon,” he pauses. “Isn’t that a band?”

I shrug. “Could be. I guess.” I should look that up.

“So,” I continue, even though I’m already sick of the sound of my own voice. (I secretly fear that I might actually be kinda boring.) “Other Simon is this fictitious shoegazing hipster vampire, who lives in a book. Me Simon, is the author. It helps that we are a lovable dork,” I gesture at all of me to prove my point. “And in a love triangle. Dude. I even have my own #teamsimon. Which is super cute. It is also super weird, being a fan favorite.” Especially at the cons.

Billy sits forward. “Hang on, hold up. There’s a fan favourite?”

“Several fan favorites. All the main characters have their Big Moments in the series. Now I have to just suck it up and come up with the right romantic destiny for Other Simon. Cuz right now, there are two girls crushing on him. It just took until book 4 before I’m finally willing to let that happen.”

“Is this online somewhere? Like a blog or something?”

My first instinct is that he must be ‘taking my piss,’ or something gross like that, so I shoot him a glare. But now he looks so earnest that I feel like maybe we really aren’t in the same conversation.

I can feel my glare turning confused. My mother says this expression makes me look like I’m sucking lemons and don’t know why. She calls it Confused Sourpuss. I have yet to come up with a polite, respectful way to say, “Shut up, Ma.”

“Online? Well, yeah. I mean- There’s the fan wiki. But honestly, I’d just recommend starting with the blurbs on my website if you want to decide if it’s worth your time.”

Apparently Confused Sourpuss is not conducive to conversation. He stretches, and stands, then bumps my shoulder. “Come on, mate, let’s get outta here. Day’s marchin on, and you haven’t been down to the marina, yet. La passeggiata happens down there, too.”

————/-/————

No. I’m not afraid of heights. No, really. I’m not!

It’s more like I’m afraid of stairs. Especially stairs like these.

The Hell Stairs. Simon is overreacting.

Billy’s way ahead of me, because of course he is. Just trotting down them, every switchback. Meanwhile, I’m pretending I’m actually trotting when really I’m clinging to medieval stone walls rising vertically like the face of a cliff.

Sure, there are handrails. To keep you alive and all, but just like, one continuous wobbly pipe to hold onto all the way down. And there are at least 100 switchbacks. At least.

I guess it’s a tourist thing. “You have to take the stairs - at least do it once,” he said. “And it’s the fastest route down to the marina.”

He said “marina,” and I pictured lazily strolling around, some restaurants, some shops, stop a couple times for too much caffeine. “Good sunset, too,” he promised. So I was all up for it, and now I’m breathing rapidly and sweating – for anxiety reasons, not physical exertion reasons.

It gets chillier the farther we descend.

This could actually be a really frickin cool setting for a scene with the vamps. Why climb the stairs when you can scale the old medieval walls, am I right?

Billy’s voice hits me, and I swear I almost jump out of my skin and die. And have an asthma attack. (Fuck Other Simon for not having asthma. Bastard.)

I have no idea what he’s just said, because the sound of his voice is bouncing unintelligibly off the walls.

Attempting not to be a Loud American is a major fail, because I’m shouting, “Buongiorno!” and, “Arrivaderci!” so I can listen to the echo ricochet. And it’s awesome how the faint sound of passing cars way below lends a sort of staticky background noise as it travels up the height.

Billy stops laughing at me and tries to muster the balls to shout. Irishmen. Feh. Sometimes it’s useful to be an American. Especially when absolute dickheadery is necessary. Good thing I’m here.

“Just shout something, already! We can pretend you’re American, if that makes you feel any better!” I shout down to him.

All I get is a thousand rebounding “What???”s in return.

When we finally get down to sea level and emerge from the Hell Stairs, we find our way over to the Marina Grande. I want to kiss the ground now that I’m back on it, but determine that it might cause some concern amongst passersby.

Billy looks grimly at me. “You, my friend, must prepare for some of the best seafood of your life. An orgasm on your tongue.”

Um, “Hey now. That’s a little too visual, thanks.”

“Just don’t go makin yourself sick with too much cappuccino.” He scratches at the five o’clock shadow on his chin, looking thoughtful. “Will it deter you if I threaten to get really mad at you if you ruin your appetite? Or are you more likely to get too much cappuccino just to spite me?”

I gasp. “You get me, Billy. You totally get me.” I wipe away my imaginary tears. “It’s so nice when someone totally understands me and everything about me. Come on, buddy. Bring it in,” I say with my arms outstretched for a hug.

He unceremoniously declines.

————/-/————

Billy knocks back the last of his cappuccino. I’m still only two sips into mine.

I feel like I might hate biscotti. They seem like a thing I would hate. Mine’s just staring at me from its plate, looking all rock-like, with pebbles of almonds and whatever greenish nuts get put in biscotti. Are you supposed to suck on them til they finally soften? Dunk ‘em? No thanks. I push them across the table at him.

“So what’s it like, trying to be an author?” he asks.

I’m kinda amazed that he’s remotely interested. But he still doesn’t seem to get it. “Um, I am.”

“You ‘am’ what?” he asks.

“An author. Like, a published one.” His caterpillars arch upward in a rather gratifying fashion. Even if that makes me an asshole, I’m still an asshole who just wants people to be impressed with how awesome I am at all times. Just because I’m not 15 anymore doesn’t mean I’m not 15 on the inside. Especially as I get older, but Other Simon stays the same age.

“What’s that like?”

“Um…” Now I kinda feel like I’d be dishonest if I let him continue to think in the wrong scale. “Ok, so I’m just going to level with you. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“Nah, man, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re really good.” He’s looking at me with fondness and with pity. That’s a pretty advanced level facial expression. And it’s infuriating.

“Billy? Don’t try to be nice, just shoosh.” Am I a terrible person for enjoying watching his trap swing shut?

“I am the author of three novels so far, in an open-ended supernatural urban fantasy series.”

“Hang on, hold up. How old are you?! You can’t be old enough to have written three whole novels.”

“Started writing the first one when I was 15.”

“Oh, right? That’s great man, really ambitious for a kid to have a big dream like that. And you’re still at it?”

“Billy, I swear to God. If you don’t stop prematurely trying to make me feel better I’m going to kick you in the shin. So yeah. Three books. That have been published. In roughly 30 languages.” I’m not really a fame whore, but I have to admit to enjoying watching his eyes bulge, his mouth purse, and his face turn pink. Now it has turned thoughtful.

“Did you- Wait. Did you write The Shadow Instruments?”

I grimace.

“My cousin loves those books! Has done since she was 15,” he declares.

“Sounds about right. I’ll sign a copy if you think she’d like that.” Then it hits me. “Ugh, I sound like such an asshole.” My red forehead feels cool against the marble table top where we’ve stopped to enjoy one of those overly caffeinated beverages they invented here.

He’s been silent a little too long.

Oh. That’s why. He’s googling me. I want to die. I’m leaving everything to my sister. My forehead returns to the table top. It’s less embarrassing there.

“Fuck me,” he says.

“No thanks,” I mumble. “We’ve only just met.”

“That’s not true,” he says absentmindedly, his attention still 99% focused on what he’s reading.

“It’s called artistic license. And you’ve only just met the new and improved Simon Lewis. Crying chibi Simon Lewis drowned the other day. Memorial donations go to the charity of your choice.”

“Huh?” Then he goes silent.

“There’s something fundamentally wrong with you being quiet. It’s unnatural. I don’t trust it.”

“Just thinking, that’s all,” he answers.

“You’re thinking thoughts. Great.”

“Do you narrate everything in your head? The way you talk it sounds like you’ve got a running commentary goin on up there. At all times.”

“Accurate.”

“Is that what makes you a good author?”

“Who says I’m a good author?”

“My formerly 15 year old cousin,” he says with a smirk. He’s smirking. Great.

“She would know,” I say, nodding. “Everybody loved the thought of a 15 year old writing about young people his own age. ‘Such an original voice,’ they said. ‘A breath of fresh air in a genre full of middle-aged women writing for tweens,’ they said. Nevermind that YA is not for tweens. They’d know that if they bothered to read one. My characters are underage killers! Of people and things! And when they get older, I’m going to make them swear. And maybe there’ll be sex scenes. I’ve been researching.”

“You had to do research for the sex scenes?” He looks disbelieving and confused. It’s very squinty.

“Well, they’re sorta…I dunno…I mean- cuz there’s kinda, like, these two boy-” Yeah, and that requires some research.

He’s not even listening. He’s back to googling. When he finally looks up again he says, “I’ll take that signed copy.”

————/Billy/————

The sound of doors openin makes me glance up at the cafe, and there is a proper stunner driftin out like an apparition. Actually, I see her more as a Mata Hari, in all her floatin, gauzy scarves she’s wearin as a cover up for her bikini. And they’re not doin a damn thing to cover her up. She looks Italian, all tanned olive skin and dark hair, but there’s just something different to her. In her manner maybe.

Her fingers are flashing big bits of rock, her eyes are hidden by absurdly oversized black sunglasses with a logo I’m supposed to recognize, and she’s sportin a huge black hat with a brim so wide, it’s a miracle she’s got a tan at all. If I could guess, she’s off one of them yachts out there in the deep waters beyond the marina.

And she’s makin straight for me. Hmmmm. What can I say? It happens.

“Simon Lewis,” she purrs.

Oh. Right.

“Sabina,” he answers drily. I must say I’m surprised. Seems Simon’s got some game.

He stands and they air kiss each other on both cheeks. “Now,” he says, gesturing outward as if he’s indicating all of Italy, “I get why you’re always kissing everybody.”

So she looks Italian, kisses like an Italian, but doesn’t sound at all Italian. It’s a weird accent I can’t quite identify. And I’ve a pretty good ear.

“Why are you in Italy?” she asks.

“Why are you?” Game on, Simon!

“Oh, you know how it always is,” she sighs in boredom. “I’ve got a couple gigs here and there.”

“On the Amalfi Coast?” he asks.

“Oh, you know,” she trails her fingertips along our table, “some people, some parties, Capri, Naples.”

I stand and pull out a chair, finally remembering my manners. “Will yeh join us?”

The way she pulls her sunglasses down her nose and scans me from top to toes, I’ve never felt so much like man meat — at least never with my clothes still on. “Hello,” she says. “Haven’t you got good eyes. And a good face. And-“

“Sabina, this is my BFF forever, Billy Delaney. He’s Irish,” Simon qualifies, as if that explains something. What’s that supposed to mean?

I hold out my hand, but she’s already turned all her attention back to Simon, giving him the same up and down appraisal as she’s done me. “You look good, Simon. What happened?” she asks.

I don’t think I’m takin much of a likin to her. Her compliments sound a mite like insults.

“Nevermind,” she cuts him off. “No time, they’re waiting,” she says, gesturing toward the marina. “You should come to my show this weekend in Naples,” she says, taking Simon’s new notebook and writing something inside.

“Is there a venue the right size for you guys?”

“No no. Not with the band. It’s just a tiny little gig I’ve got spinning at an underground club no one is supposed to know about. You know the ones. Come.”

“Maybe,” he says blandly. Stone Cold Simon Lewis, ladies and gents. Who knew?

Her eyes bounce back and forth between Simon and me. “Billy,” she says, dismissively. I don’t think a girl has ever spoken to me like that in my life. Before I can speak, she’s turning to Simon and kissing him full on the mouth. “Ciao, Simon,” she purrs again. Then she floats off in a swirl of gauze that barely covers her assets.

I don’t think I’ll be missin her company overmuch. And yet, as a consummate wingman I still find myself asking, “Why didn’t yeh get her number?”

“Oh, I already got her number,” he says. “And she already shot me down.”

————/Simon/————

Just a short walk beyond the marina, the restaurant is on the water. Literally. I can hear the sea sloshing peacefully against the foundations at our feet.

They’ve seated us at a table against a wall of windows that runs the entire length of the restaurant. Even if the food isn’t orgasmic the way Billy promised, I could sit here for hours just looking.

Billy sees the rapt expression on my face, and says quietly, “Just wait til you see the sunset.”

And suddenly we’re ordering. Billy has chosen some really unappealing stuff. But for me he immediately orders a lobster, and smiles to himself as if he knows something I don’t. Which is likely how to speak Italian. Or how to cook.

While we’re waiting on our Neapolitan style sardines (which I am really not looking forward to), Billy asks, “You wrote yourself into the book and y’didn’t let yourself get the girl? What’s the point, if you don’t win in the end?” He’s looking at me as though he’s never seen me before, or at least has never mistaken me for an amoeba before.

“Oh, we won in the end.” Pfft, did we. “Yes. Yes, we did. I am very proud of our having won that war, by the way. It was close, til Other Simon mans the fuck up. Vamps the fuck up, really. And oh my God does he. Big displays of courage. And facial tattoos. But whatever.”

“Right. Now stop speaking in inside references and get on with it, man.”

“Dude, don’t ask the impossible. I was born a hipster. You can’t just unhipster at the drop of a hat. Seriously, it’s a lifestyle.”

And yes, fictitious audience in my head, you might be shocked and dismayed to discover that hipsters actually do refer to themselves as hipsters. Out loud. Without irony.

“So yeah,” I continue. “We won in the end. And I kinda sorta got the girl. The wrong one. For like 5 seconds.”

The waiter appears with olives, bread for dipping in very expensive oil virginally pressed from local olives, and the Pinot Grigio Billy requested. He didn’t just choose the wine. He selected it. From roughly page nine in the wine portfolio. They didn’t call it a portfolio, but I feel like they should have. Sounds vaguely Italian and schmancier than ‘wine list.’ The waiter assures us that the sardines will be ready shortly.

————/-/————

Oh my god I can’t eat them, they have eyes. And tails, and everything in-between. And they’re way bigger than the tiny ones in tins they stick on Caesar salad back home. They’re, like, actual fish-sized, if a little smaller than the usual dinner fish. And there are like twelve of them. WTF?

“They’ve been gutted,” Billy says, seeing my horror. As if that’s reassuring. “And the bones are tiny — they just add a little crunch.”

“Ew, gross!”

He’s laughing at me. “Simon. When in Italy…”

“When in Italy you eat fish whole? I’m going home.”

“Pull it off the bone. It’s delicate, so it’ll be easy. Like me to do it?”

“Yes, please. Then you should eat it.”

Billy sighs, and along comes my old friend, the shaking head. I roll my eyes quietly to myself.

He’s whisked away my plate and started a very careful, not at all easy-looking minor surgery on a small fish. For my benefit. “Thanks,” I say warily, when he hands it to me. I try pushing it around my plate to make it look like I’m eating it. “Yum,” I say.

“Simon, just stick the little grubber in your mouth.”

“And that’s supposed to make me want to eat this stuff? What’s a grubber?!”

“Simon.”

“Billy.”

“Please?” he says. “For me?”

Oh my god, does that work on people? Yes, because it works on me.

“Wow. It’s actually good.” And now that I’ve tried it, for him, I stop trying it. Because I’m no less grossed out, just cuz it tastes good.

Unfortunately, there is still the meat of ten sardines still left sitting on the plate. Not my problem, “I’ll just enjoy my Pinot Grigio. Holy shit is it good.”

Oh no. The waiter is heading this way with a very concerned look on his face.

“You are not liking the dish?” …of fish, I want to end the sentence for him like Dr. Seuss. But “merp” comes out instead.

“No, no Tomaso,” says Billy. “It’s lovely. He’s just American.”

“Hey!” I shout at him in my head. In real life, I nod in agreement.

“Ah. Si si si, certo,” says Tomaso, as if that explains everything. Which it kinda does. “Soon I bring to you il piatto secondo,” he assures me.

“But that’s not what I ordered,” I whisper to Billy when Tomaso walks away.

Billy’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “Second plate, that’s all, mate. Main course.”

My lobster arrives. Now this I know how to take apart and still want to eat it afterwards.

Guest starring: Mini fish and lobster. The sardines were awesome, btw. But there was freaking out about the ‘whole fish’ thing.

“Aw! They don’t debone the mini fish, but they’ll split the lobster? It’s the one thing I know how to eat with my hands, and they take that joy away from me? That is so not normal.”

Billy’s laughing. It’s a good sound. Makes me happy that he kinda seems to get me. And my humor. And he gets how to take me — with like a whole bunch of salt thrown over one’s shoulder.

“Respect the chef,” Billy says, raising his glass. “And to Poseidon, who gave us these frutti di mare. Fruits of the sea.”

We’re toasting-slash-praying to Poseidon now?

I pose the question, “Did you know that chicken of the sea is actually a fish?”

“Em…… Right, so it’s wise to toast Poseidon, mate. He has much power on this coastline. Ancient rocks full of Greek magic.”

But all rocks are ancient. Whatever. “Ok,” I raise my glass. “To the sea god. Also, are you like a closet mythological sea god fetishist?”

“Shut up and take a bite,” he commands. Frickin commands! I shiver.

I decide to play along and follow his command. “Oh my-“

“Stop there!”

Rude.

“Like wine, the very first taste is your first exposure to how the entire dish should taste at its very best.” Ohmygod he is so pretentious right now and I am loving it. “And with each bite, your mouth grows a little more accustomed to one or another part of the larger flavor, so that first bite is the fullness of what the chef intended you to experience. What do you taste?” he asks.

“Oh my god, Billy. Stage fright much? How am I supposed to follow that?”

“Simple question. What does it taste like?”

“Tomato…..that tastes really bright. Like sunshiney. Is that weird?

“That’s perfect. Keep going,” he encourages.

“But it’s not, like, tangy at all. It’s….velvety?”

He nods, “On the tongue.” It’s just a statement of fact, not sexy.

“And kinda more like a gravy. No, that’s totally wrong, cuz it’s not at all a gravy, but it is. I guess it’s rich. How can these tiny little tomatoes taste sunshiny and like gravy velvet.” I groan, “Why am I like this?”

“Nah, man. You’re just doin it right. What do you see on your plate?”

“There’s lobster. That’s part of the flavor, too, but not the loudest part. The silky sauce clings to every surface of the noodles. And these noodles are almost obscene. Who sells noodles like this?”

“Pasta, mate. And nobody sells it. The make it. Just saving you from unintentionally speaking inflaming remarks near a chef.”

“Thank you,” I nod. “It’s like you know me. Also, is it weird that I might have gotten a stiffie during all the food talk? Or maybe it’s the food itself….that you won’t let me eat.”

“Go on, man, go on,” he waves.

“Now you’re like, beckoning me to eat. Stop that. My dick is confused.”

Billy just says, “What did I tell you, mate? Next bite is the orgasm. You’ve already done the foreplay.”

“Stop it!”

He does. But, “You’re still smirking, so it’s like you’re still talking food porn.” Down, dick! Bad boy. Sit.

“Nah, man. You were the one talkin pornographic descriptions.”

“Oh, good,” I sigh a breath of relief. “So it was me that gave me wood, and not you. I’m less confused now.”

“It was four ingredients givin you a horn, man. Four total. What is visible on the plate and the oil in the pan at the start.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Apologies, Poseidon.

“Welcome to campania, the fertile, bountiful, fruitful.”

“Now my dick is confused by you being so over the top. Stop.” I take another bite and just roll the pasta around in my mouth. On my sophisticated palate. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I jump. “No! Wait. I’ve dined and gone to heaven.”

Billy is groaning loudly, but not in an appealing, sexy way. More like a way reflecting his complete disbelief at the quality of my punmanship. He’s heaving a sigh, as if I’ve pained his brain and sprained his sterling image of me. Nah, he knows me well enough to lack illusions about the varying quality of my puns.

“Lord, Simon.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Billy snarfs wine out his nose. Which makes me feel both good and sorry for him. “FUCK, not again!!!” he moans, holding his napkin to his face, and rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Again?” I have to know.

“Red wine is not quite as bad as vodka.”

I pull back sharply and hiss in sympathy.

Who hisses in sympathy?! Kill me now. Someone. Please.

“Where was this vodka incident?” I have to know.

“In a minute. First, put some food in yer mouth,” Billy directs me.

“Yes, sir!” I wink at him. But then I’m back to the potential for an orgasm on my tongue. “Oh, my god. What the- How- How is it even better than my short term memory of it?” The food has rendered me incoherent. God, I hate it when other people are totally right. It’s a character flaw. Whatever. “I just want to roll it around on my tongue for the rest of time.”

“Have yeh tried that line with a girl?”

Oh my god, I think I’m blushing. He just made me blush! How old am I? “Pishhh,” is the entirety of my answer, because sometimes Yiddish speaks louder than words.

“Don’t be embarrassed, mate. An orgasm on yer tongue, yeah?”

“Oh my god,” is how brilliant at speaking I am right now. “Yes, I can feel my panties getting wet as we speak. Oh! And I’d like to bathe in this. Do you think they could arrange that? I’ve always wanted to bathe in pasta. And being that this is the best pasta on earth, I really do deserve the very best bathing experience, too.”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Simon.”

“Ouch! And yeah, baby. Come to daddy. You beautiful lobster, you.” I am not flying my fork around like an airplane at a fine dining establishment. But I did consider it. “Y’know it’s funny. It never occurred to me that there might be lobsters outside of Maine.”

Billy slumps (theatrically, I might add), then empties the rest of the bottle of wine into his glass.

————/Billy/————

“You cold?” Simon asks, then tosses the shirt he’s had tied round his waist at me. “You shivered.”

I must not have heard whatever he said next, cuz Simon is asking. “What?” And his eye caterpillars are creased together. Now he’s laughing. “You should see your face!” It’s said with humor, but I must have flinched. The smile has begun a decided slide as if gravity had something to do with it.

“Thanks, mate,” I manage, trying not to show how much that simple observation has affected me. Nobody ever notices stuff like that with me. Or actually pays attention after they ask how I am. I’m used to it. But here comes this lunatic in front of me, and he bothers to notice that I’m cold. I don’t know what to do with it. I am at a loss.

“Sure, whatever.” He leads us through the door and back to the street.

“Wait.” He’s stopped in his tracks. “We’re not going back up the hell stairs. No fucking way.”

I raise my hands and shrug, because yeah, “That was the plan.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. No fucking way.” He makes me watch him put his foot down.

“What, man, are you scared?”

“Yes!” he splutters.

“Don’t want to break a sweat? Or worried about a fall to yer death?”

“No and yes, in order. Asshole! And here I thought you were this big-hearted guy, but you’re just a tall, handsome, Irish, Mean Girl. I thought you were better than that, Billy.”

“I’m still stuck in the beginning part where you think I’m handsome?”

Simon gives me a dramatic shocked-horrified look.

Now this is the part where I start wondering again… “Theatre school, Simon. Admit it.”

“Dammit! You asshole,” he says, raising a finger to make his point.

“What did I do?” I demand. “Yeh needn’t be very embarrassed about the theatre school. It’s only really just a wee bit embarrassing. Just a wee bit,” he reiterates.

“You wish you went to theatre school,” he sneers.

“And there it is, ladies and gentleladies, the truth. Theatre school.” I’m laughing, I mean Jaysus, what else am I supposed to do with that?

He rolls his eyes. “Imagine you at theatre school. You’d prolly get a movie like the first thing you tried out for. That face, Jesus. Sometimes I kind of hate you. I mean, not like, a lot. Just enough to thumb my nose at God and say, ‘He could be better, y’know, God. Somewhere is a flaw, I know it.’”

Now he’s eyeballing me. “Your turn to look for it, God. I need a break.”

Now Simon is turning to me with a discomfiting curiosity. “Have you ever been shot down? Like by a girl.”

I’m speechless. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? It’s not like he wants to hear the truth. “What the fuck, Simon. What’re yeh on about? What’s gotten into yeh, man?”

“You’re avoiding, redirecting. That means you’ve never been shot down, have you?”

The good thing about this idiocy is that we’ve reached the stairs, and he still hasn’t noticed.

“I’ll tell yeh this, mate. Your girl, Sabina – she had no eyes for me, man. If I’d have tried it on with her, she’d’ve definitely shot me down. It was rather an emasculatin feelin, all told. I hope to never repeat it.”

He’s smiling and keeps climbing.

Until, “And you asshole! For making me climb these fucking stairs!”

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan || Prev: April || Next: June wip!

————/-/————

#simon x billy #year of otp #year of otp 2023 #may chapter #chapter 6 #you look good what happened #robert sheehan #simon lewis #billy delaney #robert sheehan character fic #simon is simon #pin #pinned post

[bittersweetlikecoffee]

Random photo dump for 2023...

Those outdoorsy and hotel pictures were taken on a planned trip to Portland, OR. It is everything you've thought about when the word "hipster" comes to mind. The majority of the food that I consumed was amazing: fresh, intentionally selected ingredients, so many food trucks and restaurants that were birthed from food truck conversions.

Seattle was weird to me. It IS weird. It also is suffering deeply from the struggles of the unhoused and temporarily displaced. But there is still beauty in her cracks. I have to separate my line of work from the city because she is so much bigger than my 12 hour shifts.

Portland is like this. Go and see it. Put it on your bucket list and budget for it.

Amarylis is a beautiful girl, and she has impending appointments to be made. She screams at me for attention and never says "no" in cat to affection from her parents. It's more like a "not right now" in cat, where she appears affronted that you'd so much as touch her and then sashays as she turns away from you and starts preening and grooming. Diva...

She's been a great source of comfort to me, though. Amarylis never fails to curl up at the foot of the bed while I go to sleep or just nuzzle my legs and sit beside me when I'm relaxing at home. She is the chillest of cats except for when it's close to the hours of 5am and 4/5pm, her feeding times, and then she becomes this feigning, wild-eyed, desperate, whiny little thing practically prostrating at your feet.

But other than that, she's wonderful. 10/10. Would clone another of her for sure!

That. Coffee. Bar.

I made that. 🥹😭

It's very Magnolia Home and Pinteresr-inspired. Did I nail the modern farmhouse look? Yes? I'm going to say I did. Emphatically. The bar was ordered off of Amazon and is really good quality. It took like 2 hours to install with my partner.

The knick knacks: mugs, coffee stirrers, canisters, and storage jars, and what have you are from Fred Meyer (local grocery store chain out here that's like this regional part of the country's answer to Wal-Mart. It literally has everything, even jewelry and engagement rings), Wal-Mart, Amazon Fresh (that cute pop of orange from that mug in the left corner? A free promotion giveaway and thank you gift from the associates at the Amazon Go in my apartment complex. I have two.), and Target.

In a few months, I will be visiting my parents' homeland of Jamaica. My home away from home. My other place. My Caribbean heritage. I am quietly excited and celebratory but also personally struggling so...

I'm peac-ing out for now. I'll lurk on here and probably won't post like this for another few months. Expect the occasional random reblog. Maybe I'll post vacation pics to Jamaica. Sans family. Just me and my boo.

But, before that, I have to deal with some personal shit: work stress, life stress, my stress...and all the effed up mess, and then I need to love on my man. He's been holding me down since day one and never ever stops. Of course, I support and cheerlead him 200 percent all day every day. That's Bae. I know what I offer and what my value is. He meets and matches that exponentially and without question or complaint. 10/10. Bitch, get you a cis- or Trans or nonbinary or asexual or whatever and however they want to be identified as- Grade A Patrick. Or I could just clone him.

Alright, ya'll, let me shut up cuz I know this shit isn't getting read to the very end.

Until next time, lovelies... ✌🏿

Xoxo💋

#personal pics #personal photos #my face #me my face and i #self portrait #at home #cozy aesthetic #my cat #my kitty #my rants #rant incoming #tldr

[theteej]

Step by Step

In December of 2021, at the advice of a friend, I started walking as an off-gym day exercise, as promptly lost my goddamn mind.

Those first few walks weren’t very remarkable, just two to three mile jaunts down Adams Avenue, the street I live on.  I walked from Normal Heights to Kensington, past grocery stores, hipster cafes, aging apartments, and the like.  Nothing auspicious.

I seriously didn’t plan to walk so damn much, but it quickly became intoxicating.

There was suddenly for me, a project I could undertake with relative ease and lack of practice, and see relatively rapid results. Two miles could become three, which could become five.  And there was something particularly amazing about feeling your body just moving through space.  

As I walked, I felt keenly about what theorist Sara Ahmed first described about taking up space:

Each time I move, I stretch myself out, trying this door, looking here, looking there…It is a process of becoming intimate with where one is: an intimacy that feels like inhabiting a secret room that is concealed from the view of others.

Walking suddenly did this for me.  I could feel each step on the pavement, as I wandered down residential streets, and later across broad avenues and narrow lanes.  I could just exist for two, three, four hours. I just heard the music in my ears and the feel the sun on my face, and feel my body moving.  And yes, it was exercise, but ultimately it was this body taking up space, moving through places, figuring things out, that felt so right.  

As someone who is frequently anxious, I find that my mind gets tied up on a repeating track.  It’s like a computer virus scanning program that’s gone horribly awry; it will keep scanning for dangers, threats, analyzing, endlessly repeating. Everything is to be checked or underlined, or double-scanned.  My brain seeks so frequently to keep me safe, ever since I was a little kid dealing with a violent father and an uncertain day to day.  My anxiety has kept me safe, but more often than not, it keeps me tired.  I am always on the horizon, searching, checking, double checking.  Is this pimple actually monkeypox?  Is this a sniffle or covid? Do I have cancer? Are people mad at me? Have I fucked it up so badly that everyone thinks I’m a piece of shit?

Walking helps short circuit that.  I feel the soft impact of my feet on the ground as I push past each house or tree or concrete marker.  I hear music and feel air in my lungs and rejoice in my body’s responses.  I move and breathe and triumph. My lizard brain relaxes.  The scanning recedes into the background. I feel grounded.  When I was at my most overwhelmed and struggling in rural Virginia, my therapist would encourage me to go outside and feel my feet on the ground. “Feel how rooted you are,” she said softly. “Your body is connected. You’re not floating away, you’re not being sept along the current. You are here.”  Each step takes me a bit closer to that, and I love it.  

Of course, I couldn’t help but make it a competition. By late January and early February I was trying to walk as much as possible.  The long winter break combined with the omicron surge meant I had limited interactions, and my body yearned for more. I began walking six miles, eight miles, ten miles.  I planned my grocery or pharmacy or bank errands around them and left the car at home. I walked to restaurants five miles away---City Heights, Old Town, Little Italy. I walked at one point forty-seven miles in one week.  I began to feel badly if I didn’t reach my target distances, like I’d failed.  I’d taken the joys of walking, and turned it into something to surveil or challenge or threaten.  

I sighed, picked myself back up, and remembered that wasn’t the point.  The point was the exploration, to see the city in new refractions.  I began challenging myself to take ten photos on every walk, just to make the experience palpable.  I shared them on Instagram.  My friend LaKedra jokingly started calling them #talliethemiles, and so an absurd hashtag was born.  Then when I went for walks in Fiji and Aotearoa this summer, the requisite #talliethekilometers also had to join the fun.

To my surprise, people really reacted to these walking posts.  Friends around the world started taking their own walks, and sending me photos.  I became increasingly delighted at the idea of allowing my eyes to look for new creative outlets.  How might a simple leaf or an errant sign or a slant of light be a cause for attention and recording?  It allowed me to feel part of something bigger and more fun, and allowed me to decrease my weird obsession with competing.  Occasionally I’d run into people here in San Diego while walking. They’d look at me and then conspiratorially whisper, “wait, are you on one of your walks now?  I’ve been watching them,” they’d say, as if I were some brand name influencer instead of a beefy professor wanting to find moments of peace and beauty while also enjoying his body and the space around him.  Honestly, these walks, and the weird community formed around them, has sustained me more than anything else this year.  And it’s beautiful to feel like it’s something simple, free, and healing.

I think my favourite song this year for my walks was Heart of My Own by Basia Bulat. It’s a guitar driven folk song, and I like her aching voice as I walk, step by step out of my constantly humming mind and into the future.  If I can hold the thinking at bay for a bit, my heart and lungs can keep pace, and who knows? I might find something else new and beautiful.  Maybe I’ll run into you.

If I go, what do I hold? It is work to be dancing out here If tomorrow I'm mending the empty bones There are roses that come without seeking

#tallie2022stories

[mybloodyfamousprophets]

walking up the stairs into the city lights, warm in the tube but it’s cold out tonight, the red leaves are falling and the blue ones are skating, into the city the trolley is racing,

past that old park where we all got drunk, pass by the shop where i buy that skunk, riding the train just never gets old, just a silly little wonder i hold,

signs flashing by as the sun gets higher, i’m out feeling streetcar desire,

love in the 6ix, do you think it exists? do you believe in something, could you tell me a myth?

give me a story for the morning glory, there's nothing you’ll say that'll ever bore me, late night chats on the 506, me and my bestie just talking the shit,

answer the universe 'fore our stop, feeling it now that i sent her off, downtown lights and city life, flected all in starstruck eyes, the photos on billboards are fake, a lie like the cake, a lure, if you sent me one i'd fall for, i'm sure, get a robot to sell me coffee, caffeine fuels the dead man walking, looks like the cafe door is closed, you're not open, nowhere to go

i stood in that spot like my 12 year old self, childhood wonder flown off the shelf, everything changes, broke my glasses, stop and smell the flowers while life passes, hit the cartridge won't quit but you say it, phone's distorted i cant hear what you're saying, rogers 5G subway quit complaining, st george to kipling station i'm changing, new train just one destination, go the place that stops my mind racing, sit on the hill feel the trains pass by, high school down the street no school now just high, find the spot i became myself, eggs cracked, come out the shell, quiet kid got a little loud, city changes everything around, new faces and places, trying to find my spaces, strange city no lights like las vegas, wall street on bay spot exchanges, queen west hipsters, gentrification, head east to the beaches, day in the city see the stars must be dreaming, no ID card robarts I can't sneak in, annex photo negative stayed peaking, the photos from last night i am seeing, but your face is nowhere to be seen in the crowd

towards your home i’m racing, flowers in hand heart’s pacing, no flower on hand im not faded, cedarvale line 1 delayed it, your favourite perfume i sprayed it, no smelling like smoke, not like lost hopes, and dreams and memories, more like cherry blossom breeze, galão by the ocean sun is on me, you’re someone’s son and you’re on me, and my mind, think about you all the time, why else do i write these line by line, every song ends up about you, talk about nostalgia there’s that word “you”, i just end up thinking about things i dont think i can have

[readjthompson]

Happy Halloween, people. Here’s an all-new short story (© me, now), free to read.

Bayou Ma’am

by Jeremy Thompson

“Those bitches!” Claude exclaims. “Those lyin’, stinkin’, blue ballin’ whores! Makin’ us the butts of their jokes! Gettin’ us laughed at by everyone! We oughta find ’em and stomp their fuckin’ skulls in!”

“And how would we even do that?” I respond, focusin’ on my composure, compactin’ the shame and heartbreak I now feel into a teeny, tiny ball that I’ll soon entomb in my mind’s deeper recesses. “They said they’re flyin’ back to New York City tonight, to that precious little SoHo loft they wouldn’t stop braggin’ about. They wouldn’t have done what they did if they thought we might see ’em again.”

Andre says nothin’, unable to take his eyes from the iPhone he manipulates, alternatin’ between the Instagram profiles of two hipster sisters, to better appraise our debasement.

#bayoumen is the hashtag they affixed to photos they’d taken with us just a coupla hours prior, at the one bar this town possesses, which we fellas have yet to leave. They’d flirted and led us on, allowin’ me to buy ’em drink after drink and believe that maybe, just maybe, one or more of us would be blessed with a bit of rich girl pussy for a few minutes…or twenty. They’ve got relatives in the area, they claimed, and had just attended one’s funeral. Some black sheep aunt of theirs. A real nobody.

Finally, Andre breaks his silence. “Look at this, right here. They used some kinda special effect to give me yellow snaggleteeth. I go to the dentist religiously. Look at these veneers.”

Barin’ his teeth, he reveals a mouthful of perfect, blindin’-white dental porcelain.

“Yeah, and they made Claude’s eyes way closer together than they really are and gave ’im a unibrow,” I say. “And they gave me a neckbeard and a fiddle. Look pretty real, don’t they?”

“Look at all the likes they’re gettin’. Thousands already. Everyone’s crackin’ jokes on us, callin’ us inbreds and Victor Crowleys, whatever that means. Look, that bitch Marissa just replied to someone’s comment. ‘Those bayou gumps were so cringe, we’re lucky we didn’t end up in their gumbo,’ she wrote. Fuck this. I’mma give ’er a piece of my mind.” A few minutes later, after much furious typin’, Andre adds, “Well, now she’s blocked me. Probably never woulda told us their real names if they knew that we’re on social media.”

Indeed, outlanders often make offensive assumptions when learnin’ of our bayou lifestyles. Hearin’ of our tarpaper shacks, they assume that we do naught but wallow in our own filth every day and smoke pounds of meth. Earnin’ a livin’ catchin’ shrimps, crabs, and crawfishes doesn’t appeal to ’em. They’d rather work indoors, if they even work at all. Solitude brings ’em no peace whatsoever. They care nothin’ for lullabies sung by frogs and crickets. Ya know, maybe they’re soulless.

I wave the bartender over and pay our tab. Nearly three days’ earnings down the drain. “Let’s get outta here, fellas,” I say. “It’s time for somethin’ stronger. There’s blueberry moonshine I’ve been savin’ at my place. It’ll drown our sorrows in no time.”

“Your place, huh,” says Claude. “We ain’t partied there in a minute.”

* * *

The roar of my airboat’s engine—as I navigate brackish water, ever grippin’ the control lever, passin’ between Spanish moss-bedecked cypresses that loom impassively, fog-rooted—makes conversation a chore. Still, seated before me, Andre and Claude shout back and forth.

“Bayou men aren’t fuckin’ rapists!” hollers Claude. “We’re not cannibals neither! I can whip up a crawfish boil better than anything those stuck-up cunts’ve ever tasted!”

“Damn straight!” responds Andre. “Bayou men are hard-workin’, God-fearin’, free folk! If they should be scared of anyone around these parts, it’s Bayou Ma’am!”

“Bayou Ma’am?!” I shout, as if that moniker is new to my ears. “Who the hell’s that…some kinda hooker?!”

“Hooker, nah!” attests Claude. “She’s a…whaddaya call it…hybrid! Half human, half alligator, mean as Satan his own self!”

“I heard that a gator was attackin’ a woman one night!” adds Andre. “Then a flyin’ saucer swooped down from the sky and grabbed ’em both wit’ its tractor beam! Somehow, the beam melded the gator and his meal together all grotesque-like! The aliens saw what they’d done and wanted none of it, so they abandoned Bayou Ma’am and flew elsewhere!”

“I heard toxic chemicals got spilt somewhere around here and some poor teenager swam right through ’em!” Claude contests. “She was pregnant at the time! A few months later, Bayou Ma’am chewed her way right on outta her!”

“Damn, that’s fucked up!” I shout, well aware of the grim reality lurkin’ behind their tall tales.

* * *

Bayou Ma’am is my cousin, you see. As a matter of fact, she was born just seven months after I was, in a shack half a mile down the river from mine. Her mom, my Aunt Emma, died in childbirth—couldn’t stop bleedin’, I heard. Maybe if they’d visited an obstetrician, things would’ve gone otherwise.

My aunt and uncle were reclusive sorts, and no one but them and my parents had known of her pregnancy. There aren’t many residences this far from town, and none are close together. It’s easy to disappear from the world, to eschew supermarkets and restaurants and consume local wildlife exclusively. Uncle Enoch buried Aunt Emma in a private ceremony and kept their daughter’s existence a secret from everyone but my mom and dad. Even I didn’t meet her until we were both four.

One day, a pair of strangers shuffled into my shack—which, of course, belonged to my parents in those days, up ’til they moved to Juneau, Alaska when I was sixteen, for no good reason I could see.

“This is your Uncle Enoch,” my dad told me, indicatin’ a goateed, scrawny scowler. “And that’s his daughter, your cousin Lea.”

Though itchy and bedraggled, though dressed in one of Uncle Enoch’s old t-shirts that had been refashioned into a crude dress, Lea sure was a cutie. Her eyes were the best shade of sky blue I’ve ever seen and her hair was all golden ringlets. Shyly, she waved to me with the hand she wasn’t usin’ to scratch her neck.

The two of ’em soon became our regular visitors. I never took to my perpetually pinch-faced Uncle Enoch, with his persecution complex and conspiracy theories shapin’ his every voiced syllable. Lea, on the other hand, I couldn’t help but be charmed by. She had such a sunny disposition, such full-hearted character, that I was always carried away by the games her inquisitive, inventive mind conjured. Leavin’ our parents to their serious, sunless discussions, we hurled ourselves into the vibrant outdoors and surrendered to our impish natures.

“I’m a hawk, you’re a squirrel!” declared Lea. Outstretchin’ her arms, she voiced ear-shreddin’ screeches, and chased me around ’til we both collapsed, gigglin’. “Whoever collects the most spider lilies wins!” she next decided. “The loser becomes a spider! A great, big, gooey one! Yuck!”

We skipped stones and spied on animals, learned to dance, cartwheel and swim. We played hide-and-seek often, with whichever one of us was “it” allowed to forfeit the game by whistlin’ a special tune we’d improvised. It was durin’ one such game that Lea made a friend.

“I’m comin’ to get you!” I shouted, after closin’ my eyes and countin’ to fifty. Our environs bein’ so rich in hiding spots, expectin’ a lengthy hunt, I was most disappointed to find my cousin within just a few minutes. There she was, at the river’s edge. Behind her, towerin’ cypress trees seemed to sprout from their inverted, ripplin’ doppelgangers. So, too, did Lea seem unnaturally bound to her watery reflection, until I stepped a bit closer and exclaimed, “Get away from there, quickly! That’s a gator you’re pettin’!”

Indeed, we’d both been warned, many times, to avoid the bayou’s more dangerous critters. Black bears and bobcats were said to roam about these parts, though we’d seen neither hide nor hair of ’em. Snakes flitted about the periphery, never lingerin’ long in our sights. We’d seen plenty of gators swimmin’ and lazin’ about, though. As long as we kept our distance and avoided feedin’ ’em, they’d leave us alone, we’d been told.

“Oh, it’s just a little one!” Lea argued, scoopin’ the creature into her arms and plantin’ a smooch on his head. “A cutie-patootie, friendly boy. I’m gonna call ’im Mr. Kissy Kiss.”

I studied the fella. Nearly a foot in length, he was armored in scales, dark with yellow stripes. Fascinated by his eyes, with their vertical pupils and autumn-shaded irises, I stepped a bit closer. Mr. Kissy Kiss’ mouth opened and closed, displayin’ dozens of pointy teeth, as Lea stroked him.

“Well, I guess he does seem kinda nice,” I admitted. “I wonder where his parents are.”

“Maybe his mommy and daddy went to heaven, and are singin’ with the angels,” said Lea.

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” I mockingly singsonged.

Suddenly, a strident shout met our ears: my mother callin’ us in for lunch. Carefully, Lea deposited Mr. Kissy Kiss onto the shoreline. He then crawled into the water—never to return, I assumed.

Boy, was I wrong. A few days later, I found Lea again riverside, feedin’ the little gator a dozen snails she’d collected—crunch, crunch, crunch. A week after that, he strutted up to my cousin with a bouquet of purple petunias in his clenched teeth.

“Ooh, are these for me?” Lea cooed, retrievin’ the flowers and tuckin’ one behind her ear. “I love you so much, little dearie,” she added, strokin’ her beloved until his tail began waggin’.

Their visits continued for a coupla months, until mean ol’ Uncle Enoch caught us at the riverside as we attempted to teach Mr. Kissy Kiss to fetch. Oh, how the man pitched a fit then.

“No daughter of mine’ll be gator meat!” he shouted. “Sure, he’s nice enough now, but these bastards grow a foot every year! By the time he’s eleven feet long and weighs half a ton, you���re be nothin’ but a big mound of shit he left behind.” Seizing Lea by the arm, my uncle then dragged her away.

When next we did meet, a few days later, my cousin wasted no time in leadin’ me back to the riverside. “Where are you, Mr. Kissy Kiss?” she wailed, until the little gator swam from the shadows to greet her. Sweepin’ him into her arms, she said. “Let’s run away together, right this minute, so that we’ll never be apart.”

“Oh, that’s not such a great idea,” a buzzin’ voice contested. “Little girls go missin’ all the time and their fates are far from enviable.”

“Who said that?” I demanded, draggin’ my gaze all ’cross the bayou.

“’Tis I, Lord Mosquito,” was the answer that accompanied the alightin’ of the largest bloodsucker I’ve ever seen. Its legs were longer than my arms were back then. Iridescent were its cerulean scales, glimmerin’ in the sun.

“Mosquitos don’t talk,” I protested.

“They do when they were the Muck Witch’s familiar. Now she’s dead and I’m free to fly where I might.”

“I ain’t never hearda no Muck Witch.”

“And she never heard of you. That’s the way of southern recluses. Still, such is the great woman’s power that she grants wishes even now, from the other side of death. The Muck Witch’ll ensure that you never part with your precious pet, little Lea, just so long as you follow me to her grave and ask her with proper courtesy.”

Well, I’d been warned about witches and the deceitfulness of their favors, so I attempted to drag Lea back to my shack, away from the bizarre insect. But the girl fought me most ferociously, clawin’ flesh from my face, so I ran for my parents and uncle instead.

By the time the four of us returned to the riverside, neither girl nor gator nor mosquito could be sighted. We searched the bayou for hours, shriekin’ Lea’s name, to no avail.

A few weeks later, after we hadn’t seen the fella for a while, my parents dragged me to my uncle’s shack, so that we might suss out his state of mind and offer him a bit of comfort.

“I found her,” Uncle Enoch attested, usherin’ us into his livin’ room, which was now occupied by a large, transparent tank.

Atop its screen lid, facin’ downward, were dome lamps that emanated heat and UVB lightin’ from their specialized bulbs. Silica sand and rocks spanned its bottom, beneath a bathtub’s wortha water. At one end of the tank, boulders protruded from the agua. Upon ’em rested a terrible figure. If not for the recognizable t-shirt she wore, I’d never have surmised her identity.

“Luh…Lea?” I gasped. “What in the world has become of ya?”

Indeed, though Lea had wished to always be with her beloved gator, I doubt that she’d desired for the creature to be merged with her, to be incorporated into Lea’s very physicality. Patches of scales were distributed here and there across her exposed flesh. Her beautiful blue eyes remained, but her nose and mouth had stretched into an alligator’s wide snout, filled with many conical teeth. And let’s not forget her long, brawny tail.

After our initial shock abated and dozens of unanswerable questions were voiced, my parents took me home. Never again did they return to my uncle’s shack, but a dim sense of familial obligation had me comin’ back every coupla weeks, to feed Lea local muskrats and opossums I’d captured, and help my uncle change her tank’s shitty water.

The years went by, and Lea moved into a succession of larger tanks. Eventually, she grew big enough to wear her mother’s old dresses, seemin’ to favor those with floral patterns.

Finally, just a coupla months ago, I arrived at the shack to find Lea’s tank shattered. Torn clothin’ and scattered bloodstains were all that remained of Uncle Enoch, and my cousin was nowhere to be seen.

Not long after that, the Bayou Ma’am sightings began, which vitalized increasingly outlandish rumors and the occasional drunken search party. Luckily, no one has managed to photograph or film Lea yet, as far as I know.

* * *

At any rate, back in the present, I cut the airboat’s engine, leavin’ us driftin’ along our twilight current. It takes a moment for our arrested momentum to register with Claude and Andre, then both are bellowin’, askin’ me what the fuck’s goin’ on.

Rather than voice bullshit answers, I whistle the special tune my cousin and I improvised all those years ago, again and again, to ensure that I’m heard.

Moments later, Lea bursts up from the water, wearin’ a floral dress that had once been red-with-white-lilies, before the bayou muck spoiled it. In the fadin’ light, blurred by her own velocity, she could be mistaken for a primeval relic, a time-lost dinosaur of a species hitherto unknown. But, as her nickname had been so freshly upon their lips, both of my passengers, nearly synchronized, cry out, “Bayou Ma’am!”

Whatever the fellas might’ve said next is swallowed by their shrieks, as Lea tackles Andre out of his passenger seat while simultaneously swattin’ Claude across the face with her tail. The latter’s nose and mouth implode, spillin’ gore down his shirt.

Attemptin’ to gouge out Lea’s eyes as she and he roll across the deck, Andre instead loses both of his hands to her snappin’ teeth. Blood fountains from his new wrist stumps as he falls unconscious.

Claude tries to dive off the side of my airboat, but Lea’s powerful mouth has already seized him by the leg, its grip nigh unbreakable. She begins shakin’ her head—left to right, right to left—until Claude’s entire right calf muscle is torn away and swallowed.

“Ah, God, that hurts!” he shouts. His eyes meet mine and he begs, “Help me! Kill the bitch!”

“Sorry,” I respond, comfortably perched in the driver seat, an audience of one, watchin’ Lea’s teeth tear through the fella’s arm, as his free hand slaps her snout.

After Lea’s mouth closes around Claude’s skull, my friend’s struggles finally cease. Not much is left of him now. All of his thoughts and feelings have surely evanesced.

Groggily, Andre returns to consciousness, only to find himself helpless as Lea tears away his pants and consumes his right leg, then his left. She takes special delight in dinin’ on his genitals, as is evidenced by her waggin’ tail.

Blood loss carries Claude’s soul away, even as Lea moves onto his abdomen.

* * *

I’ll miss Claude and Andre. Friends aren’t easily attained in the bayou and they were the best ones I’ve ever had. All of the memories we made together will be carried only by me now. When I’m gone, it’ll be as if those events never happened.

Perhaps I should say a prayer as I push what little is left of their corpses into the dark river, but all I can think to say is, “Farewell, cousin,” as Lea swims away, glutted. Does she even care that I sacrificed chummy companionship to help keep her existence unknown?

It’s tough as hell to fight a rumor, but I’m sure gonna try. I’ll say that Claude and Andre hitchhiked to Tijuana, cravin’ a bit of prostituta. No need to further enflame the Bayou Ma’am seekers. If many more of ’em disappear, it’s sure to spell trouble for Lea.

Perhaps my cousin’ll be captured one day, for display or dissection. Or maybe I’ll discover the Muck Witch’s grave and attempt to wish Lea back to normal. Is Lord Mosquito still alive? If so, can it be persuaded to help?

Whatever the case, I wasn’t lyin’ about that blueberry moonshine earlier. Lickety-split, I’ll be drinkin’ my way into slumberland, and therein escape familial obligation for a while.

#horror fiction #indie author #am writing #indie #horror #horror stories #horror reads #short stories #short story #free short story #free story #october #october horror #halloween #halloween story #autumn #scary stories #happy halloween #Jeremy Thompson

[bathtimejournals]

I had devoured Giovanni’s Room on our first day in Venice. The next day I was left bookless. Though there are many days I don’t read, there is never a day I don’t have a book that I’m lugging around, or that lies tauntingly on my night table. Call it accountability, call it guilt, call it hipster signaling, call it the capitalist compulsion to order something on Amazon, call it whatever you want really. It’s my pet, my comfort object. I’ve given up vaping and my hands require a smooth square familiar object that represents social reprieve and externally identifies me as a sexy mysterious intellectual etc. 

One of Venice’s best qualities is its arrogance to such American conveniences as wheeled transportation and doorstep delivery. It seeds out the awful gauche tourists who rely on Uber and electronic maps to navigate European streets made specifically for strolling, judging and smoking. So while my family had grown utterly exhausted from this lifestyle of leisure and sulked home to snore holes through our linoleum AirBnb walls, I split off with a singular mission in mind. I took like a fish to water and dove into the nearest canal, with perfect form from my days of competing in diving contests adjudicated by my oldest cousin on hot summer afternoons. It turns out the pencil dive is much more suited to a body of water deeper than 4 feet, and so after a sprained ankle and a few shocked (admiring?) looks, I flounced out on the slimed steps and lounged on the Ponte to dry off, in a perfect leaned back mermaid posture. 

Once my pesky mermaid tail had shed and I had regained most of the feeling back in my feet, I set my sights on a book store that was supposed to have an English selection according to a quick Google search. I was still in high spirits, grateful for the ease with which I shirked off my family and had the afternoon to myself to feign melancholy, thoughtfulness, and exasperation, miming the Italian attitude. 

The first two bookshops I had pinned were simply non-existent, unless perhaps in a secret passage way that required me to tap three times on the third brick and wait for a pidgeon to poop on my hand. It was charming, in a way, that updating Google on the the coming and going of stores was not a priority. The pre-modern, village simulation was an uncanny. Yet I had an itching suspicion some devilish medieval sprite was playing a trick on me, because there was really absolutely no remnants of a store where indicated. The second time it happened I was left very untrusting of my phone’s directions, so I popped into a quill and stationary store to ask the clerk if she had ever known a bookstore to be right in front of her establishment. She nervously laughed at my predicament, and kindly directed me towards a bookstore that was supposed to have a few English books. 

Still hopeful, I continued on my mission and walked about 10 minutes until I arrived at the Libreria Alta Acqua. I might as well have stumbled upon the gates of heaven. There was a 6 foot stack of vintage tomes that looked like the kind Shakespeare might have written. Upon entry, my eyes ricocheted off of every surface so as to create a quasi stroke like effect. It was delightfully colourful, and with each new step, a gemlike book niche sparkled -- vintage Italian postcards, 1950s collage cards, bins of your uncle’s basement film photos, first edition comic books, records, movie poster matchboxes-- leaving me in a state snake charmers probably spent decades training to induce. I Though there were an abundance of lowlit dusty corners that any cat would sacrifice their 7th life for, the main salle orbited around a black Venetian canal boat that stored whatever couldn’t fit on the walls.

Not only had I found a shop that tickled everyone of my depraved senses, I tripped on an Italian version of The Little Prince, a childhood book that my best friend and I have always had a soft spot for. 

at the register... ozzy, bookmark

[thesmallestconstellation]

The only perk of staying up until sunrise is that i get to see my walls in all their golden glory

#my art #i guess #every hipster photo ever looks like this #and i hate myself #sunrise #golden hour #uwu soft mornings with the love of ur life aesthetic #hashtag waking up with you

[ceruleanchillin]

Honeymoon Headcanons: Mayans Edition

Characters: Angel, Coco, EZ x F!Reader

Miami (Angel)

It wasn’t difficult at all to decide where the two of you would take your honeymoon. When you weren’t gonna be naked, Angel wanted you in sundresses and bikinis. You wanted him in linen shirts, and to feel him up in a club. Couple that with you both wanting a tropical environment, and Miami it is.

Angel letting you handle the accommodations, because you seem to know more about what you wanna see/where you wanna go than he does. He only cares about a bed and shower for when he’s not taking you in the inappropriate places. He just hands over the cash, though he complains about his hurt wallet.

Angel hard as a rock when he sees your new name on your plane ticket.

The two of you nearly missing your flight because your husband needs to “show his wife he loves her”.

You babying him on the flight, because Angel has never flown anywhere before.

“Mami, it’s perfectly valid to feel like a flying toaster can’t safely get you anywhere but a casket. Which they can’t even put you in, because you’ll be everywhere!”

Cue you distracting him with kisses and dirty words in his ear, which gets you initiated into the Mile High Club

Barely making it into the cute little condo before the two of you are at it again, collapsing in the late hours to jet lag and mutual satisfaction.

Your first official day is spent dragging Angel around the humid streets. Knowing he stresses easily if you plan things too tightly, and wanting to wing it yourself. It’s surprising how well you to fit in, it almost feels like home.

Angel switching from being jealous, because your tiny cotton sundress is attracting more than just his attention, to him kissing all over your dewy skin because so much of it is visible.

You getting as jealous as Angel, because it seems like each place you drag him to has openly interested ladies. It’s the white linen shirt that he won’t fully button no matter how many times you try to make him.

Angel basking in the attention, and even playing it up to force you to be the one to initiate inappropriate public sex.

Smirking when you break after a woman pays for his (and unintentionally yours) order at a small cafe you stepped into and you snap and drag him to a hidden place.

“I only love you querida, mi alma.” he whispers in your ear when he bottoms out inside you.

You two are a beautiful couple. Photogenic as all hell. Alone, neither of you have a problem attracting interest, but together, you make people want to be seen around you. That’s why you have no problem club hopping to all the exclusive places.

Angel taking photos and videos of you dancing because he’s so enthralled. He can’t wait to show your kids one day when they ask why he fell for you, and he explains how full of life you are.

Getting enough liquor in Angel to get him dance somewhere away from the club, especially since he (lies) and says he can’t.

You and Angel competing to see who can get the most people to buy your drinks + the two of you losing track because you both get drunk.

A quickie in the coatroom is the prize, Angel fucking you to the hypnotic beat.

Spending a few hours apart the following day, only to still keep texting and FaceTiming each other until you met up, touch starved, at a small restaurant.

Deciding to spend the rest of the day at your Airbnb laid up under each other after Angel scores weed. Teasing Angel about his monetary complaints when you spend all night enjoying the small backyard pool.

Angel thanking God for getting an adventure loving woman as his soulmate when you wake him up the next afternoon to inform him you rented jet skis for the day.

You being impressed when, while jet skiing, Angel silver tongues your way into an invitation to a nearby yacht party out of the host.

FaceTiming Gilly to make him jealous that you two are doing Hookah and drinking Casamigos in a hot tub.

Angel ramping up the mockery when EZ and Coco appear on screen, attracted by Gilly’s whining. Everyone looking overworked and salty, while you and Angel are living your best non-sober lives.

Slipping away from the party to one of the rooms on the boat, because once again, you and Angel never know when to stop teasing each other before it ends up in sex.

Feeling bold enough to suggest that since Angel’s been documenting so much of the trip, that maybe he should film this too.

The aftermath being a surprisingly sweet series of kisses and confessions where the two of you express how thankful you are to have found each other. How you can’t wait to build a forever together.

Marfa + Roswell (Coco)

No one knew how you got Coco to agree to travel for your honeymoon until you finally revealed where you were going. Splitting a week between Marfa and Roswell.

You and Coco are that “weird” conspiracy, incense, and weed couple, so it makes sense.

Giving Coco an edible before you leave, because like Angel, he doesn’t fuck with air travel like that.

“They got me with that bullshit in the military, but that was out of my control. You askin’ a lot right now, you’re lucky you’re cute mujer.”

Coco getting progressively handsy during the flight as the edible hits. Eventually, you stop fake-fighting his neck kisses and forward touches.

Also like Angel in that he’s unafraid to become a member of the Mile High Club.

The ride from the El Paso airport, to the car rental place, to Marfa takes far longer than Coco would like.

He’s used to long stretches of trip on his bike, and when you notice him becoming antsy, you distract him with interesting facts about Marfa.

The entire time, Coco can’t help but think that you’re the perfect road trip co-pilot, only to realize he actually meant his life in general now.

Coco proud as hell when you fall in love with his accommodations choice like he did. The colorful airstream trailers of the El Cosmico hotel are the two of you through and through.

You both trying to be responsible adults and refresh after travel, but continuing to get lost in each other during the whole process.

Shower sex -> Making out while drying off -> Touching while searching through your bags for something to wear -> bed sex -> repeat

Looking thoroughly mauled when you finally manage to get Coco off of you and into the car in search of food the next afternoon.

Coco being happy you can’t cover up due to the heat, while you wonder what superpower he and his boys have that let them wear flannel and long sleeves in the heat.

Dragging Coco to a cute cafe you saw on instagram, and him knowing, by the hipster design of it, that his wallet is about to cry.

Stealing food from his plate, and laughing at him sucking his teeth and whining when he catches you.

“You’re stuck with me forever now Johnny sooo….get used to this.”

“Small price to pay for that I guess.”

Finding small shops to go to and being Siamese twins in every one. Coco showing he has good taste in a lot of things one might think he wouldn’t. Him opening up his wallet at everything you 'ooh' and 'aww' at. He can’t help it, he likes you happy, and your kisses and adoring looks are addicting.

For almost everything you get, Letty gets something too. Neither of you wants that tantrum when you get back.

You fighting yourself to avoid the art supply store, and Coco not having it.

“I have so many supplies already, it’s an addiction at this point.”

“So? Get some more. It’s our week, we shouldn’t stress about shit.”

Coco bragging on your talents and successes to the art shop cashier when you checkout.

“Cocoooo.” you murmur hiding your face in his shoulder, arms around his waist.

“Don’t be shy ma, you’re fucking amazing. I love your skills.”

Cue the cashier swooning at the two of you.

Finding unique liquor stores and getting tipsy on samples. It becomes twice as fun when locals, and other tourists alike, start discussing the Marfa lights with you, and you and Coco impress everyone with your ideas.

Being invited to a bonfire smoke session with the other El Cosmico guests when you get back.

Sketching Coco by the firelight, because he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in that moment, and now he’s officially yours.

The sex being on another level of intimate that night, because all day you and Coco have been engaging in your respective love languages, and it culminates in mutual need for each other.

The drive to Roswell being more tolerable for Coco, but he still misses his bike. Your excitement about AlienFest is so palpable however, he quickly forgets.

Your hotel being more conventional, but the people you meet making up for it. Finally, you and Coco aren’t the weirdest ones in the room.

Taking the time before the festival starts to check in with friends and family and accumulate odd souvenirs for them. You believe Coco is intentionally getting them stuff they’ll hate.

“Taza won’t wear that baby, he has better taste in jewelry than UFO earrings.”

“Ok, but can he bitch about us not getting him anything? Plus, you can guilt anyone into anything.”

Doing cute edible pastries at the festival.

“You know Aliens are demons right? Jack Parsons and L. Ron Hubbard were doing summoning rituals in the Mojave in 1946, and Roswell was the following year.”

“Word?…Shit. Tell me that again when we’re not rolling. I wanna read about it………you’re so smart mami.”

Coco realizing between every snack stop, every dance he shares with you, every trinket you pick up, and every little conspiracy tidbit you share, that you’re his wife now. That the peace he’s been feeling all week, that he thought he’d never have, is going to be his new normal.

New Orleans (EZ)

You and EZ both enjoy engaging with history and culture, and felt that your honeymoon should be built off of your shared interests. During your meticulous wedding planning, it was decided New Orleans would be the honeymoon destination. It didn’t hurt that you missed your southern roots too, even if you weren’t from New Orleans.

Traveling with EZ is a dream considering you’re both pretty organized, together people. He’s not afraid of flying, but you’re always a little nervous.

EZ being Best Husband™️ and soothing even the most minor of your stresses by turning your attention to the excitement of your trip and your new relationship status.

Teasing EZ in-flight won’t get you Mile High Club initiated, because he finds it much more entertaining to punish you by letting you work the both of you up, and making you stay that way for the duration of the flight. He’s got enough will power to suffer through it, because your soft whines make it worth it.

The airbnb is everything it was promised to be, and you’d appreciate that later, but all you can think of is your husband when you step through the door. That’s the other half of why EZ likes to leave you waiting. Your aggression and exclusive desire for him gets, and keeps, him hard.

It rains the following day, which is just as well, because neither of you are quite ready to stop physically expressing your love for each other. The day consists of ordering food, falling out of your clothes and onto each other, separating to read, falling back on each other, and quick naps.

Angel sending mocking texts in your Reyes group about how you’re trying to turn his brother bamma like you, only to stop when you threaten him with no souvenirs.

EZ and you taking responsibility for your own tour because let’s face it, you both know exactly what you want to see, and can plan a more satisfying tour for the both of you. You take turns deciding where to go next.

When it’s his turn, EZ picks an art museum, and can’t quit smiling about it. You think it’s because he picked a place he really wanted to go to.

“Babe, I have a surprise for you.”

“What?” your excitement always makes EZ’s heart race with his own.

He hands you the guide brochure he picked up at the door, folded to the section he wants you to look at.

“Faith Ringgold exhibit?!”

He hums and nods, grunting when you knock into him with a hug.

“Thank you for thinking of me. I love you.” you look up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears and he just kisses you, afraid he’ll cry if he says anything.

The two of you avoid the tourist trap spots for lunch and find a cute family owned cafe. You order for the both of you based on what you know about southern cuisine and both of your tastes.

You love watching EZ fall in love with the food as he keeps asking “Can you make this?” about everything he eats.

The two of you walking through the Garden District in the evening. Hands swinging between you with no plans but to admire the beautiful homes and foliage.

EZ noting how awestruck you are, and you describing what you love about the historic, towering homes.

He catches that when you describe what your dream home in the area would be, he and your future children are mentioned frequently, and it makes butterflies dance in his stomach. He can picture your family in the yards around him.

The two of you almost make it back to your Airbnb, but give into your baser urges after all the domestic conversation. EZ pulls you into an alley for a quickie, the two of you fighting to silence the other’s vocal expression.

You teasing EZ after that he’s more like his brother than he thinks. Him teasing back the two of you would’ve been caught and arrested if he was like Angel.

The following day is relaxed and less planned. The both of you getting thoughtful gifts for each member of your family, blood and otherwise. EZ scores major points for the gifts he suggests for your mom and dad, and you kind of want to jump him again.

EZ is glad you’re impressed, but it’s nothing to him. It all comes naturally because he loves you so much, and refuses to be anything other than the husband he knows you deserve.

AN:

I didn’t want to add this, cuz I wanted to end on a sweet note, but you just know Angel would accidentally send that vid to one of his boys.

Personally, I lose it for shit like this. Anything domestic in writings is my jam, so I decided to make these headcanons.

- Fun fact: Jet Ski is kind of like Bandaid in that it’s become the generic term for “personal water vehicles”, but it’s actually a specific brand’s name for their PWVs. I learned this while writing this enjoy💀.

#mayans mc #mayans imagine #angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #coco cruz #coco cruz x reader #ez reyes #ez reyes x reader #reader insert #angel reyes imagine #coco cruz imagine #ez reyes imagine