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hockeyboysiguess · 4 years

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planez | v. dunn

a/n: someone said vince dunn and the song planez by jeremih and j.cole and now here we are. i took it like a hair less literally because someone wrote a killer blurb about vince dunn and joining the actual mile high club (shoutout to whoever wrote that), so i got a little more metaphorical with it. who am i kidding, you’re not reading this. i need some holy water and so do you. enjoy your filth.

warnings: entirely smut. language.

I can put you in the Mile High Club, what's up? Let's take a trip Have you ever read "The World Is Yours" On a blimp?

“Vince,” you breathed out as his mouth moved to your neck.

Your legs around his waist tightened as you tried in vain to get some friction. If Vince wasn’t giving you something, he didn’t mean for you to have it. Everything he did when you were together, especially like this, was planned and calculated, designed in his mind to bring you exactly where he wanted you exactly when it wanted. Damn it if it wasn’t the best sex you’d ever had. That’s why you were always showing up at his place and you didn’t see yourself looking anywhere else.

Vince grabbed the bottom of your shirt with one hand and pulled up, exposing your chest to him. He pulled back from your neck to look at you, letting out a low, steady whistle. His hand moved to gently pull back on one of the straps of your bra, letting it snap back against your skin. He looked so unbelievable with his hair tousled, dark curls going in different directions, and his lips slightly swollen from your teeth earlier.

“Mm, this is new,” he muttered more to himself than to you.

“I went shopping,” you said breathlessly. “Thought it looked good.”

“Oh, it looks good,” Vince chuckled softly. “You know it looks good. You look good.”

Without warning, he pressed you harder against the wall just long enough to yank your shirt off over your head. He immediately dropped his mouth to one of your exposed collarbones, sucking on the thin skin there. Your collarbones had been consistently littered with small bruises since the first night you came over to Vince’s. Tonight wouldn’t be an exception.

His mouth lazily trailed down your sensitive skin to the swells of your breasts as one of his hands came up to gently squeeze one of them in his large hands. You hummed in pleasure and tugged at his curls, encouraging him to increase his pressure. Vince didn’t listen. Instead, he secured his hands under your thighs and crashed his mouth back to yours. He shifted your weight towards him so he was supporting your weight and carried you to his room. His mouth didn’t stop working against yours as you walked, his tongue massaging yours and pulling small noises from deep in your throat.

Vince dropped you softly onto his bed, his blankets practically swallowing you up. Vince’s hands never left you, sliding from behind your legs up to the tops of your thighs, then up your stomach. His large hands spanned over your skin across your stomach to keep you pressed into the mattress as his mouth worked across your breasts He took one cloth covered nipple between his teeth gingerly and you let out a whimper as you arched high off the bed. Vince’s strong hands pushed you back down almost instantly, a reminder of exactly who was in control right now. He lifted his mouth inches from your skin, his hot breath dancing across your skin and you tried to pull him back to you with a hand on his neck, but he wasn’t budging.

“Trying to join the mile high club, eh?” Vince’s joked, but his voice was low and steady and it went straight to your already wet core.

“Shut up,” you managed to get out as your fingers tangled in his dark curls. He chuckled as his mouth moved back to you, taking the other nipple in his teeth, your thin bra mitigating some of the sensation, but not enough to stop you from desperately tugging on his hair. “You know, you can take my clothes off.”

Vince paused before lifting his head up, shifting onto his hands so his face was level with yours. He was absolutely beautiful, especially this close up. Despite the dim lighting, you could seen the brown and golden flecks in his bright green eyes. They had to be one of his best features, not that he agreed when you’d told him that a few weeks ago.

“Can you just trust that maybe we’ve had enough sex that I know exactly,” one of his hands suddenly moved to your denim covered core as he shifted his weight over to his free hand, “what I’m doing.”

Vince pressed down firmly on your core with the heel of his hand, giving you your first taste of the friction you were craving. Your hands flew to his shoulders, digging into his skin. You couldn’t recall when he’d lost his shirt, but you didn’t really care to try to spend the energy to figure it out. Your mind was focused in the present.

“Let me take you on a trip, babygirl,” Vince breathed out as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck.

All you could do was nod as he turned you into a mess beneath him. No one else made you feel like this. You knew you were in deep trouble with him, but you weren’t sure there was a level of trouble that could make you stop seeing him at this point. No one else mattered when you were with him. Hell, no one else mattered even when you weren’t.

Tell her be free, baby, spread your wings Got your legs in the sky like a plane Let me guard that, I'm the pilot

Vince’s hands trailed down to the waistband of your jeans, stopping just long enough to unclasp your bra and toss it somewhere in his room. He popped the button of your jeans open with practiced ease and started to pull them down your legs. His mouth pressed lazy, wet kisses onto your exposed hip bones as soon as they were in his line of sight. Vince seemed to pay no mind to your hand in his hair tugging on it, trying to pull him left and towards your center.

“We have a rule,” you groaned when your jeans hit the floor somewhere to your right. “Same amount of clothing in the bed.”

“Mm,” Vince hummed against your hip, “rules are rules.”

He pulled back from you and stood up off the end of the bed, giving you an absolutely amazing head to toe view of him. He smirked at you with a confidence that made your head spin as he pushed his sweatpants to the floor. The cocky grin was firmly on his face as he did a little spin for you, making you laugh lightly.

“Satisfied I’m following the rules?” he asked you.

You nodded, even though the question was mostly rhetorical. Vince’s smirk shifted into a soft smile. His eyes scanned over you from head to toe almost impossibly slowly, taking in every inch of you. His tongue darted out between his lips, swiping along his bottom lip to wet it before taking it between his teeth.

“Goddamn, you’re so gorgeous,” Vince breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head softly as he bent down to pull his phone out of his sweatpants. He quickly started some playlist you didn’t quite recognize, but felt in line with everything he normally chose, before tossing his phone onto a nearby chair and focusing back on you. Vince dropped to his knees in front of you at the edge of the bed. His large hands reached out to grab the backs of your thighs to pull you forward so your hot core was right in front of his face.

You could feel his warm breath on your center and it made you squirm on the mattress, soundless begging for contact. Vince’s hands gently rubbed up and down your legs, his fingertips lingering on the insides of your thighs which always made you gasp. Vince suddenly dropped a kiss right over your cloth-covered clit, pulling a whimper from you.

“Please, Vince,” you groaned out, letting your fingers card through his curls as you softly begged for what you needed from him.

Vince chuckled. He loved being in control, you loved it too, but he wasn’t in the business of denying you what you wanted. His index fingers looped into the sides of your lace panties and pulled them down your legs. They joined the collection of his and your clothes on the floor.

“So fucking perfect,” Vince signed happily when he saw how wet you already were for him, his green eyes partially glazed over as he looked at you.

Without warning, he placed his hands on the inside of your thighs and pushed to spread your legs wide open for him as he dropped his mouth to your slit. His tongue ran one smooth, steady line up your slit and you practically cried out when the tip of his tongue ran over your clit. Your back arched off the bed again. One of Vince’s heavy arms looped over your stomach, making you settle back down onto the bed.

His tongue circled your clit slowly and lightly at first, drawing small noises from you as your fingers stayed where they always were whenever he ate you out, threaded among his dark curls. You liked his hair a bit longer like it was now, more to hold onto in these moments.

Vince could feel you as you shifted, trying to get more pressure. His arm held you in place, but he pressed his tongue down harder on your clit and you hummed in appreciation, giving his hair a gentle tug to say thanks, a communication system you’d worked out many times in his bed ago. He was gently speeding up at just the right moments. He knew exactly when you needed more and when to hold steady.

One of his hands that had been kneading your thigh slowly inched up your body. His green eyes locked with yours as he pitched one of your nipples between his index finger and thumb. You gasped, your eyes rolling back into your head at the sensation. Vince chuckled against your clit, the vibrations making you whisper out his name like a prayer, “Oh my god, Vince.”

Vince took the note, he was always paying such careful attention to your body, and purposefully hummed against your clit with his tongue flat against it. It had your vision going hazy and you were starting to see stars. Vince’s free hand switched to your other nipple as he pressed his tongue hard against your clit and gently shook his head back and forth against your slit for a second, before immediately switching to swiping up and down on your clit with the tip of his tongue. You moaned his name as your fingers fisted in his hair. Your orgasm was building. It was probably closer than you thought. Vince knew just how close you were though and exactly how to get you there.

His hand moved from your stomach to your hips to try to keep your core right against his mouth. You were shifting constantly as he let you, made you, teeter on the edge of your orgasm for what seemed like forever. His tongue moving as just the right pace on your clit to make you painless close, but not bringing you over the edge. You whined and Vince lifted his eyes he’d let droop closed to enjoy the moment to meet yours.

“Please, Vince,” you begged for the second time that night and definitely not the last.

He listened. His tongue switched to quick, tight circles on your clit as he pinched your nipple hard. Your back arched off the bed without his arm across your stomach to hold you down, as your first orgasm of the night hit you. Your eyes screwed shut as the sensation washed over your, hitting you in waves. Vince let his pace slow, milking the moment gingerly, letting you ride out your orgasm on his mouth.

“Fuck,” you managed to get out as finally came down.

Your back settled into the blankets again and your eyes lazily flitted open. Vince turned his head slightly and started places gentle kisses on the insides of your thighs. He worshiped you in moments like this and no one else had ever made you feel like he did. You slowly untangled your fingers from his curls, leaving one hand on the top of his head to slowly stroke them instead.

“Want another one?” he mumbled against the soft skin of your thigh.

“I want you inside me,” you replied breathlessly, “right now.”

I got you in the air, your body in the air How it feel up here? You can scream as loud as you want, loud as you can And ain't nobody gonna hear it

Vince sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth at your words. He couldn’t control himself well when you said things like that, but he tried to. His hands were shaking a little as he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to his dresser. You watched him closely, watched the way the muscles in his bad tensed and relaxed in a symphony that created each one of his movements. He grabbed a condom from the top drawer before making his way to the bed. He dropped his boxers to the floor and you watched with hungry eyers as he tore the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on slowly.

“Your knees good after the other day?” Vince’s asked softly, his voice hoarse as his hand gripped the base of his shaft

The other day referring to when you got on your knees for him in the living room and gave him the best blowjob of his life, but got rug burn on your knees in return.

“Yeah, they’re good,” you told him as your eyes journeyed up and down his frame, taking him all in with a deep hunger.

“Then you’re on top,” he countered smoothly.

On top never meant in charge with Vince. It just meant he really wanted to be able to see all of you as he fucked you from underneath. You swallowed hard and your legs squeezed together as you thought about what was about to happen and how good it was going to feel. You bit your lip as you shifted to give him the middle of the bed. He dropped down into the spot you vacated and patted his thighs gently.

“Up you go, babygirl.”

You weren’t sure if he knew exactly how much that particular nickname made you wet. It’s was Vince though. He probably knew, which was why he used to sparingly. You chewed your bottom lip, an anxious habit, as you slung one of your legs over his until your slit was against his shaft. You took the only second you knew he would allow and ground your hips down, letting your body rock forwards and backwards.

“Oh, fuck,” Vince said through closed teeth as his hands flew to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin harshly and you knew there would be some light bruises tomorrow. He couldn’t handle this for very long. He could handle you being in charge for even less time than he could handle this feeling. He gripped your hips harder and pulled you up until you were in the air before saying, “No more teasing.”

You nodded softly, a coy smile on your lips. The few seconds he let you be the one to tease him we’re few and far between, but some of your favorite moments. Watching him lose control because of something you were doing was powerful and incredible. One of the two things that was better was the look on his face when you guided him into you for the first time that evening. You let your body sink down, fully taking his length in you.

“Jesus,” Vince breathed out before letting out a loud, long breath. “You feel so fucking tight, baby.”

Baby. Babygirl. Reserved exclusively for the bedroom. Your entire relationship was excluded to the bedroom, occasionally the kitchen counter, but that was good for now. Having this, feeling him inside you, was worth the small sting every time you left.

Vince pulled you out of your thoughts by grabbing onto the backs of your thighs and pulling you up just enough that he was almost out of you, before he bucked his hips up to slam into you roughly. You couldn’t stop the groan that came from deep in your chest. Your nails dug into the skin of his chest, making him hiss and he slowly and steadily started to fuck you from underneath.

“Fuck, Vince,” you moaned as he found his rhythm.

He hit a particularly good angle, going deeper into you, and you bit back a scream at the feeling.

“Scream as loud as you want,” he grunted, “as loud as I want you to scream.”

You didn’t need him to tell you twice. You briefly thought of his poor neighbors, but when he hit that same angle again any thoughts of them immediately left your mind. You screamed his name as loud as you could and he moaned when you did. He loved hearing you say his name, loved making sure you knew exactly who was making you feel this good.

“Touch yourself.”

Vince didn’t have to tell you anything twice in bed. You did exactly as he asked and whimpered when your fingers touched your clit. You started rubbing smooth circles with two fingers as Vince increased his pace.

“God, that’s a fucking sight,” Vince groaned as he looked at you. His green eyes were studying you, taking in every movement, every breath, trying to commit you deep into his memory so he’d never forget this feeling. “Faster, babygirl, for me.”

Your hand started moving faster before you could even process the request. Vince moaned when you did. He’d hit that amazing angle as the same time you picked up the pace. Your walls had tightened down around him and you were both in a shared bliss.

“Vince, I’m so close,” you breathed out as you get your second orgasm start to build.

“Me too,” he groaned. “Cum with me.”

His breathing was ragged. You watched as his eyes screwed shut and his face contorted in pleasure. His mouth slowly parted and his eyebrows raised up. You rubbed even faster on your clit to push yourself over the edge with him. Vince moaned your name as you started to orgasm, your walls squeezing down on him, pulling him over the edge with you. You screamed his name as you finished with him.

“Fuck,” Vince breathed out as he slowly came down from his high.

His hands came to the small of your back, securing you in place as he slowly sat up to be face to face with you in his lap. Vince started placing open mouthed, wet kisses on your shoulder and neck. Your fingers ran gently through his hair and you hummed in pleasure as you both took a few moments to let your breathing come back to normal.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You’re pretty nice to look at yourself,” you laughed lightly.

Vince chuckled in response before pulling back from your throat to place a tender, short kiss on your mouth. His hands gave your ass a light tap, your signal to slowly raise off him. He hissed a little as you did so, already missing how it felt to be inside you. Vince slowly rose off the bed and headed into the bathroom. You heard the sink run and a few moments later, Vince appeared with a warm, damp washcloth for you. You thanked him and cleaned yourself up as he headed back to the bathroom to take care of himself. He always made sure you were taken care of.

“Well, that was fun,” you laughed a little.

“Definitely,” Vince replied as he emerged from the bathroom. He grabbed his boxers off the floor and slid them on. He also found your panties and his t-shirt and tossed them to you before he climbed back into bed. “You want to stay tonight? I’m not going to the gym in the morning or anything.”

You paused as you slid your panties up your legs. Vince has never asked you to stay before. You tried to cover your pause by quickly pulling your panties all the way on, but Vince noticed anyway.

“You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “No pressure.”

“No, I want to,” you said firmly as you yanked his black, soft t-shirt over your head.

“Okay, cool.”

Vince was giving you a lazy smile when you turned to look at him. His eyes where looking you over steadily, drinking you in.

“What?” you asked, a laugh edging at your voice as you let yourself fall onto the bed next to him.

Vince just shook his head a little, a lazy smile on his face, and stuck one arm out and encouraged you to slid into him with a wave of his hand instead of answering. You obliged and curled yourself into his side, placing your head on his broad chest. Vince’s hand shifted so he could rub up and down your back. You sighed as you relaxed into him, letting yourself get lost in the moment with him.

“Pretty sure my neighbors might hate me now,” Vince joked to you as his fingers gently ran through the ends of your hair.

“You asked for it,” you reminded him. Your fingers started tracing small circles on his chest. “I can be quieter next time if you’d prefer.”

“Don’t you dare even suggest that,” Vince immediately replied. “I fucking love it and you know it.”

“Mm, then don’t complain, mister.”

Vince smiled as he dropped a quick kiss to your forehead.

“By the way, is joining the actual mile high club on your bucket list?” Vince asked you, a playful smile on his face. “Because I can probably make that happen for ya.”

It hadn’t been on your bucket list before tonight, but it definitely was now. He’d already made you feel like you were floating thousands of miles above the rest of the world, where nothing else mattered. What could he do if you were already that high up and there really weren’t people around to hear? You fell asleep on Vince’s chest, your mind thinking about repeating tonight’s activities at thirty-thousand feet, or maybe even just right in his bed tomorrow morning.

#vince dunn imagine #vince dunn imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl writing #hockey imagine #hockey writing #hockey fanfiction #vince dunn

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haloud · 5 years

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prettiest thing i ever stole

A malex outlaw au --- ao3 --- rating: m

shoutout to @seeaddywrite and @christchex for the beta!

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Jesse Manes was a mean bastard, and the whole town knew it. A military man down to his bones, he got shunted to the side for every single promotion after it came out he was hitting his wife. The years went by, and the man got meaner. Their mama left, and none of those boys of his grew up quite right, people said, and the town was glad to see them ship off too, one right after the other.

No one blinked an eye the day Manes turned up dead on his kitchen floor, a bullet in the back of his head. They turned up at his graveside and said he was a hero, then they turned up at the bar and said it was only a matter of time.

Alex Manes disappeared that same night, and people talked on that too. Either he was the one who did his old man in, or whoever did it did him in too; but that talk faded fast. Nobody was interested much in gossip about the littlest Manes boy, a subject all kinds of played out around the watercoolers of Roswell ever since word got around he was kissing on boys out behind the school.

So the Manes family legacy went like that. If Alex had been around to see it, he would’ve wished Jesse wasn’t dead after all, just so he could’ve watched it happen. Or maybe he would’ve made the town pay in blood some more for forgetting the ugliness they let go on right in front of them for all those years, thinking it wasn’t any of their business.

Alex wasn’t there to see it, though; he was busy leaving his family name behind for a boy in a beat-up pickup truck.

----

The gun came from foster number seven, a prepper freak with so much artillery he never even missed one little 9 mm. Michael locked it in the glove box, and it made his safe place feel a little more safe, made him a little more on the level with some of the ways the world wanted him hurt. He waited in the dark that night for the man to come after him with even more firepower, but the sun came up with him still alive, still armed.

That man had an accident while cleaning some other gun a few days later; Michael heard about it on the radio, since he hadn’t been back to that house. At sixteen, Michael had stopped caring where the foster system might put him next--at this point, it barely even mattered. Besides, who could care that a man was dead when that was the day Alex Manes actually noticed him in pre-calc? Their eyes locked as they jostled to beat each other for the one good desk in the back of the room, Michael’s ringed in a greening bruise, Alex’s ringed in heavy liner and concealer a shade or two too pale.

They split the desk after that; they split the textbook more often than not, because everything Alex owned was military-grade tidy, and Michael mostly lost things or just never had a chance to have them at all. They shared other things, too; food, homework, headphones, just once, when Alex followed Michael to his truck, crowded him into the bed, and held his legs in his lap so he couldn’t run away.

Then they started sharing words; then they shared a tool shed, and hands and skin and eager bodies..

Jesse Manes came to take that from them, and he took. He stole it, stole the most precious thing either boy had ever held, ripped them apart like it was his god-given right. He left Michael mangled on the dusty floor, and he dragged Alex out by his hair, back to the house he kept so clean and gleaming and pure.

But Michael stole for a living; stole to feed himself; stole to keep gas in his tank and clothes on his back. And he never got caught. And he’d never shot the safety he stole, but it turned out he didn’t need two hands to do it.

Alex stood in all that mess, blood and brains decorating the salmon-colored tile, sprayed high up on the gleaming stainless steel appliances, on the white walls. Looking at Michael like somebody who cared might’ve named him after an archangel, he wiped down the kitchen of fingerprints and evidence, quick and methodical, then he vaulted himself into the driver’s side of Michael’s old truck without even asking permission.

The only reason that house didn’t burn was because they couldn’t find the matches.

They cleaned up at a rest stop with soap and gauze Alex lifted from a Walmart that sat alone and hulking by the highway, and with Alex holding him it was okay, a little, for Michael to shake apart from the killing, for him to gag and howl and almost piss himself from setting and binding his hand the best they could.

Throughout it all, the whole horrible night, Alex stood sentinel beside Michael, who succumbed quickly to exhaustion and delirium, and he thought about the war he wasn’t going to fight anymore, and he relived again and again the crushing smack of the hammer, and the ringing crack of gunfire, and he held Michael’s head in his lap, and he smiled.

“Who taught you how to shoot a gun? Because you kind of suck at it.”

“Taught me? Nobody taught me, but you can learn an awful lot just by lookin’.” Michael smiled a lazy smile—he’d took some painkillers a while back, and without the hellfire in his hand and up his arm, he almost felt good. He glanced aside and let his eyes travel the length of Alex’s lean body, and he thought about how under all that black he looked like the boys in the magazines.

“Well, someone ought to. Teach you. Otherwise you might kill somebody someday.”

The light pleasure in that voice, the prom-night twinkle in those dark, dark eyes: it made Michael shiver.

Michael shot Alex’s daddy dead, and it felt good, felt so good he knew he couldn’t do it again or else he might never stop finding men with loud voices and heavy hands to put down in the ground.

Michael shot his daddy dead, and now Alex lounged against the cracked leather of his truck’s bench seat with his knees spread wide apart and his lips all smeared with sticky clear gloss, and he held that gun unloaded in his lap. That gun that was still hot the first time he touched it, when he eased it out of Michael’s shaking hand, when he fumbled on the metal and let it burn them both, brand them both at the very same time.

Over the years, in placement after shit placement, Michael had learned the ways men die and left them for dead too, quiet ways and loud ways, damn tragic and damn deserved. They choked on vomit in bar back rooms; they slipped away on the streets when winter came down. They huddled behind laundry machines that roared like trucks on the road, that shook like the whole world was ending, until the man stopped yelling and the screaming stopped and only, only silence followed, ringing, and his crying was broke so when he slipped out the back the night was quiet too.

He’d been quiet too long, now, so Alex filled the silence for him.

“Actually, don’t learn,” he said. “You should leave that bit to me. I was taught, after all.”

“You don’t have to—"

The words cracked out like a question, Michael’s voice flinching and young as he kept his eyes trained on the crumbling gray asphalt instead of on the beautiful boy beside him. If he touched the gun again, he might do something awful, like cry like a little baby. But he already made a choice with no going back. With Jesse Manes dead, Alex’s options were unlimited, the whole world big desert-sky blue, and Michael’d drive him anywhere he wanted, anywhere at all, for nothing more than a look from those dark, dark eyes.

“I know I don’t have to. Most people will give up anything at the threat they might get hurt. No bullets needed, just the suggestion of them. But you should leave it to me anyway; I’ve got steady hands.”

One of those steady hands touched Michael’s knee, light at first then, when Michael didn’t pull away, solid and hot and heavy, thumbnail worrying at a thick ridge in the stitching. They flashed past a faded green sign: fifty-two miles ‘til Farwell and the state line. They had three nights’ motel fare in change and small bills stuffed underneath one of the back seats and all else Michael owned in a fraying duffle bag.

In a couple hundred miles or more, they’ll be out of the desert proper and out of gas and out of money, and they’ll coast into a rickety dead-end gas station where Alex will swing his long legs out of the truck and hop down off the seat, and his too-small t-shirt will flip up at the back and reveal the gun tucked in his waistband. But the attendant will be passed out in a puddle of Jack, not even coming to when Michael shoves him over out of his seat just to check if he’ll pop up swinging. Alex will linger over the counter, hand behind his back, and when the man stays still he’ll lick his lips and keep his hand on the gun regardless.

Michael will clear out the till, and someday they’ll call it a beginning.

But before all that, Michael tipped his head back and closed his eyes until Alex’s stroking hand put him to sleep. It was less comfortable than what Michael wanted, which was to pull off under the stars and zip them both into his sleeping bag, knocking knees and breathing each other’s breath and trapping himself in a cage of vinyl and muscle and bone. It wasn’t what he wanted, but Alex let him sleep ‘til Texas, and the nightmares never came.

When he woke they were stopped, the truck wedged into a parking spot in between a nondescript sedan and a busted-up camper in front of the Ala-mo-tel. Alex had the gauze mitt of Michael’s left hand cradled in his lap, just where the gun was sitting hours and hours back.

“I didn’t mean it like that, about your hands,” Alex said as soon as Michael’s eyes rolled open, before he could even make them focus on how gentle Alex held him. He must’ve been waiting for who knows how long that he couldn’t stop the words from falling out as soon as he detected the tiny rhythm shift of Michael’s breathing.

“’S fine,” Michael managed through his gummy throat, and he groped with his fingertips for the water bottle by his foot so he could snag it without moving an inch away from Alex.

“It’s not. But we’re going to be. We’re going to be okay.”

They got a room from a guy who didn’t even glance at Michael’s shitty fake ID, a room with a shower and no roaches they could see. They sat on the bathroom tile and let water get all over the floor so they didn’t have to be apart for even a single second, not even to get clean. Alex curled his elegant hands in the hem of his black t-shirt and stripped it off slowly, stomach and chest flexing in the washed-out fluorescent light, and the collar raked through his hair and made it stick up in the back. Michael watched, mesmerized, as Alex popped the button on his jeans next, slid them down his legs and slid his briefs down at the same time, until he was standing there naked and raw in a way he hadn’t even been their first time.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Alex said, face half-turned away as he checked the heat of the shower instead of looking Michael’s way, and Michael reached out for him, wrapping his fingers around Alex’s ankle, making him jump when Michael touched a gentle kiss to the delicate skin behind his knee.

“I’ll only need a picture if you’re saying you’re not gonna be mine from now on,” he said, following the kiss with the tip of his tongue, tasting salt and the slightly coppery tang of water out of old pipes.

“Oh, I’m yours, alright.” Alex stayed staring in the middle distance, but he smiled then, and reached down to twine his fingers in Michael’s hair. “Finders, keepers.”

Once the water got hot enough, Alex held Michael’s head under the stream and scratched his chipped black nails over and over again through Michael’s curls; he soaped them both up with his shirt, careful, so careful not to get Michael’s dressings wet. Michael kept his eyes open the whole time, and let them sting.

“D’you think they’re looking for us?” he asked, right after they turned off the lights and both their heads hit the pillow, so close he could feel the leftover heat from the shower radiating off of Alex’s skin. He shifted closer on the scratchy sheets, until their foreheads rested together and he could press his lips to Alex’s damp cheek instead of waiting for an answer.

“We’ll know soon enough if we start hearing about a murder or reading it online, but I’m not scared.”

“You’re not?”

“Nah. He was gonna kill me anyway. Either right there or by letting somebody else do the job in basic. At least this way I’ve got you.” Alex’s hand closed around Michael’s good wrist, and he whispered, “Let me show you, let me show you how you don’t have to be scared.”

Alex could have told him all about the plans his mind ironed flat and neat while Michael slept, haloed in evening sunlight with his cheek mashed against the window. He could have fetched the gun and stripped it right there on the stained bedspread and showed Michael everything his daddy taught him about killing. There were a hundred different practical ways Alex could have spent what could’ve been their last few hours, but he spent them another way instead.

He threw his leg over Michael’s hips and bore him down, down onto the squeaking box spring, steady hands slipping on his skin to touch more of him, all of him, rolling their hips together and holding Michael, his Michael, holding him tight with his hand splayed all across Michael’s freckled back while Michael shivered and shook and spent between them. And then he kissed them back to sleep again with lips that were sore and bitten and chapped, but he couldn’t stop smiling, because he knew that he was holding on to Michael’s wrists, and the hands that killed his daddy, and only kisses would bruise his mouth ever, ever again.

---

“I’m not scared,” Michael said two weeks later, in the bed of the truck while Alex knelt up behind him to cut his hair. “We make a good team, don’t we? I thought—but I’m not scared anymore.” And regardless of the scissors in Alex’s hand, Michael settled back against his thighs and tipped his head back to nuzzle into his stomach.

Yeah, Michael thought. He thought about futures; he thought about consequences. He tried to get Alex to go outside of Canyon, tried to leave him the truck and all the money and just one kiss for the road—he laid out a whole road map he saw for Alex’s future, a future where Alex left him behind, a future without him in it. And when he spoke he spoke with shining eyes and shaking lips and his hurt hand cradled to his chest, right over top of his heart.

But Alex watched him; watching him was the only habit Alex had left. He flinched at slamming doors; he flinched at sirens in the distance, and Alex watched and Alex knew him, as well as he knew himself. So when he offered every night to turn himself in so Alex could get back home and graduate and get his life back to any kind of normal place—every night they were at a motel Alex would walk out the door, and every night they were in the truck he walked down the road. He walked away and he counted to one hundred, and then he turned around and walked back, to the sound of televisions blaring behind cardboard-thin walls, to the sound of cicadas screaming.

Every night, Alex walked back, and Michael would collapse against him with red-rimmed eyes and only one hand that could clutch his shirt like a scared little kid, and every night, Alex said, “This is all that’s going to happen if I go home or if you run away. Me coming back to you.”

And Michael folded into Alex’s chest like a collapsing star, like a branch on a rushing river caught against a rock.

In the early evening, Alex kissed Michael’s forehead and set the scissors aside in favor of draping them both in the battered old sleeping bag, making them cuddle up tight so it fit around both their shoulders. The sun was starting to set, but it still looked high off in the distance with the world laid out flat and gold and swaying as far as the eye could see but for the violet smudge of the mountains on the horizon, and for a moment Alex pretended he had no idea where they were.

They talked all through the deepening blue and into the lavender dusk. They talked of how to go about stealing a guitar next, and the songs they would play for each other. The bottoms of the clouds caught fire, and Alex practiced chords on the inside of Michael’s thigh, and Michael said that if Alex wrote him a song, he’d steal the money and get it tattooed, right there.

The stars came out, dizzying and bright.

They kissed in the cold night, Michael’s shoulders naked against the icy metal, a sharp counterpoint to the feverish pounding of his heart. They kissed until they couldn’t anymore, too shivery and sensitive to go on, and then they made up their bed in the back of the truck and found themselves kissing some more.

They slept out in the open; they slept in each other, all closed in; and they called it home.

Jesse Manes was a mean bastard, and his boys were too busy being war heroes to come to his funeral. If they’d been there, someone might’ve cared enough to ensure the investigation went right, that justice got served—for a Manes definition of what justice might be. But the town buried him instead, and then they moved on a little happier, all around.

Michael and Alex moved on too. Alex started reading crime statistics reports, but the needle didn’t shift at all. The gun stayed in the glove box, except when somebody just needed to see reason. Michael’s hand got better, though it never set quite right, and sometimes Alex would kiss his crooked fingers and have to go off on his own for a while.

He always came back to kiss Michael’s crooked hands again.

---

Once every year, Michael and Alex came home to the desert, to sit under stars just unlike the stars anywhere else in the world, and Alex would play music, and Michael would hum along.

And Michael would say, “I bet I could build us a house here; I bet I could do that for you.”

And, every time, Alex would reach for their almanac, and find their next destination, with stars they’d never seen before.

#malex #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic #guns cw

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morinover · 4 years

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Tagged by @trensu

Rules: Answer 20 questions, then tag 20 bloggers you wanna know better

1. Name: You know that joke, “Nice name, did your mom pick it for you?” My given name was actually the only one chosen by my mom. I do like my nickname/chosen name better, though. Now I can be like “Thanks, I picked it myself!” It’s a very unusual name, spelled the very usual way, and I like it that way. I still have to spell it out sometimes(???)

The Hebrew version of it means “My friend”, which I like a lot. (Shoutout to Public Universal Friend)

2. Nickname: Technically my chosen name is my nickname on official forms. “Morin” has been my online nickname for 20 odd years, with all sorts of variations. It was the last name of an author of some paper I found interesting and I just chose it when I had to pick one. I never thought it would stick around for so long.

3. Zodiac sign: Hufflepuff. Kidding, it’s Taurus. I don’t believe in it, but my BFF likes it. I still think Hogwarts house/HDM Dæmon etc tell you more about a person.

4. Height: 163 cm

5. Languages: Fluent: Hebrew, English; almost conversational, or used to be but aren’t anymore: Romanian, Spanish; Used to have basic vocabulary but lost even that: German, French, Latin.

6. Nationality: In the process of changing

7. Favourite season: Winter, mostly bc I’m always hot. Also, no bugs. Snow is still a novelty. 4 distinct seasons are still a novelty - I moved from the California-style climate of wet season/dry season to a place with 4 actual seasons. So I guess I love all of them except summer bc too hot. Summer rains are nice though.

8. Favourite flower: Wildflowers, growing wherever they please. Not indoors.

9. Favourite scent: Until recently I was anosmic - that changed with hormones - so I’m still figuring it out. I love the smell of my spouse, I like the smell of frankincense, I like the smells of various flowers and foods.

10. Favourite colour: Cyans: turquoise, aquamarine, teal, etc. Not sure if I have a favorite shade.

11. Favourite animals: I love cats but I’m allergic; Love dogs. Mostly love the others from afar - I’m not educated enough for in person interactions, and I live in a city.

12. Favourite fictional character: Depends on time of day 😂

13. Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: Tea, preferably English Breakfast, black or white but not green. Camomile infusion also acceptable.

14. Average hours of sleep: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I think I manage to keep 8 a night usually

15. Dog or cat: Either one as long as they’re chill and I’m not allergic.

16. Number of blankets you sleep with: usually one; when very hot, just a sheet; when cold, sometimes a throw over the blanket

17. Dream trip: My parents are really into travel and dragged me all around the globe to see both natural and human-made wonders. I like the city, I like exploring neighborhoods I haven’t been to and coming back home. The only reason I travel now is to see friends/family.

18. Blog established: 2014. I started @paramorin as a fan blog and then started befriending tumblrites, and needed a non-fandom blog to post other stuff. My actual main blog is technically my side blog.

19. Followers: about 300 for @paramorin, about 200 for @morinover.

20. Random fact: I’m usually reading 3 books at a time: one in bed before falling asleep; one for subway/bus rides, waiting etc; and one in the living room. Books get chosen based on how engrossing they are, how likely they are to make me cry etc. (like my father before me, I cry because of songs on the radio and other minor provocations; it’s not sobbing, just a few tears sliding out. I assure you it’s very manly. Healthy masculinity or something)

Tagging whoever wants to, no one has to.

Would be cool if these people will do it, but no pressure: @stillnotanonymous, @impishtubist, @aturinfortheworse, @theragnarokd, @badwolf109, @tehanulilac, @iofthebunny, @bricrocodile, @mama-bop, @verasteine, @amit-rider, @zelenybish, @angelchrys, @not-a-lizard, @princefuckyouknickers

#about me #sure why not

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thisiskatsblog · 5 years

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Soup, Sex and Sun Salutations

Fixed it!

[Note: all it took was some copypasting - just the italics are mine]

“We had the chance to sit down over some miso soup with Harry Styles. We didn’t talk about his new album at all but were charmed by the way he challenges gender norms and by what he had to say about sexuality, his female fans, feminism, while male privilege, toxic masculinity, his publicity relationship stunts, and how meditation and yoga have helped him deal with it all. ”

Challenging gender norms

He’s got a white floppy hat that Diana Ross might have won from Elton in a poker game at Cher’s mansion circa 1974.

His nail polish is pink and mint green.

He’s also carrying his purse — no other word for it.

He hosted the Met Gala with Lady Gaga, Serena Williams, Alessandro Michele, and Anna Wintour serving an eyebrow-raising black lace red-carpet look.

He is the official face of a designer genderless fragrance, Gucci’s Mémoire d’une Odeur.

Harry said in his speech (note: for Stevie Nicks). “She knows what you need: advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl.” He added, “She’s responsible for more running mascara — including my own — than all the bad dates in history.”

Refusing to put a label on his sexuality

Harry likes to cultivate an aura of sexual ambiguity, as overt as the pink polish on his nails.

He’s asking questions about culture, gender, identity, new ideas about masculinity and sexuality.

He’s dated women throughout his life as a public figure, yet he has consistently refused to put any kind of label on his sexuality

On his first solo tour, he frequently waved the pride, bi, and trans flags, along with the Black Lives Matter flag. In Philly, he waved a rainbow flag he borrowed from a fan up front: “Make America Gay Again.” One of the live fan favorites: “Medicine,” a guitar jam that sounds a bit like the Grateful Dead circa Europe ’72, but with a flamboyantly pansexual hook: “The boys and girls are in/I mess around with them/And I’m OK with it.

He’s always had a flair for flourishes like this, since the 1D days. An iconic clip from November 2014: Harry and Liam are on a U.K. chat show. The host asks the oldest boy-band fan-bait question in the book: What do they look for in a date? “Female,” Liam quips. “That’s a good trait.” Harry shrugs. “Not that important.” Liam is taken aback. The host is in shock. On tour in the U.S. that year, he wore a Michael Sam football jersey, in support of the first openly gay player drafted by an NFL team. He’s blown up previously unknown queer artists like King Princess and Muna

His worst fears

“While I was in the band,” he says, I felt so much weight in terms of not getting things wrong. I remember when I signed my record deal and I asked my manager, ‘What happens if I get arrested? Does it mean the contract is null and void?’ ”

About Rainbow Direction

“Now, I feel like the fans have given me an environment to be myself and grow up and create this safe space to learn and make mistakes”

“It’s a room full of accepting people.… If you’re someone who feels like an outsider, you’re not always in a big crowd like that,” he says.

At one of his earliest solo shows, in Stockholm, he announced, “If you are black, if you are white, if you are gay, if you are straight, if you are transgender — whoever you are, whoever you want to be, I support you. I love every single one of you.

What do those flags onstage mean to him? “I want to make people feel comfortable being whatever they want to be,” he says. “Maybe at a show you can have a moment of knowing that you’re not alone.”

“To me, the greatest thing about the tour was that the room became the show,” he says. “It’s not just me.”

About vulnerability, toxic masculinity, and meditation

“I’m discovering how much better it makes me feel to be open with friends. Feeling that vulnerability, rather than holding everything in”

“I feel pretty lucky to have a group of friends who are guys who would talk about their emotions and be really open,” he says. “My friend’s dad said to me, ‘You guys are so much better at it than we are. I never had friends I could really talk to. It’s good that you guys have each other because you talk about real shit. We just didn’t.’”

“I was such a skeptic going in,” he says. “But I think meditation has helped with worrying about the future less, and the past less. I feel like I take a lot more in—things that used to pass by me because I was always rushing around. It’s part of being more open and talking with friends. It’s not always the easiest to go in a room and say, ‘I made a mistake and it made me feel like this, and then I cried a bunch.’ But that moment where you really let yourself be in that zone of being vulnerable, you reach this feeling of openness. That’s when you feel like, ‘Oh, I’m fucking living, man.’”

Doesn’t this ambiguous sexuality clash with his public image?

He’s dated [a string of high-profile] women throughout his life as a public figure, yet he has consistently refused to put any kind of label on his sexuality - [and] he never gets caught uttering any of their names in public.

We’re off to the pub,” he tells his mom. “We’re going to talk some shop.” She smiles sweetly. “Talk some shit, probably,” says Anne.

“It’s not like I’ve ever sat and done an interview and said, ‘So I was in a relationship, and this is what happened,’” he says. “Because, for me, music is where I let that cross over. It’s the only place, strangely, where it feels right to let that cross over.”

So how does he feel about the industry?

“Only a city as narcissistic as L.A. would have a street called Los Angeles Street,” he says.

About his female fans, and about feminism

He’s always had a fervent female fandom, and, admirably, he’s never felt a need to pretend he doesn’t love it that way. “They’re the most honest — especially if you’re talking about teenage girls, but older as well,” he says. “They have that bullshit detector. You want honest people as your audience. We’re so past that dumb outdated narrative of ‘Oh, these people are girls, so they don’t know what they’re talking about.’ They’re the ones who know what they’re talking about. They’re the people who listen obsessively. They fucking own this shit. They’re running it.”

“To me, the greatest thing about the tour was that the room became the show,” he says. “It’s not just me.” He sips his tea. “I’m just a boy, standing in front of a room, asking them to bear with him.”

He doesn’t have the uptightness some people have about sexual politics, or about identifying as a feminist. “I think ultimately feminism is thinking that men and women should be equal, right? People think that if you say ‘I’m a feminist,’ it means you think men should burn in hell and women should trample on their necks. No, you think women should be equal. That doesn’t feel like a crazy thing to me. I grew up with my mum and my sister — when you grow up around women, your female influence is just bigger. Of course men and women should be equal. I don’t want a lot of credit for being a feminist. It’s pretty simple. I think the ideals of feminism are pretty straightforward.”

About white male privilege

“It’s not about, ‘Oh, I get what it’s like,’ because I don’t. For example, I go walking at night before bed most of the time. I was talking about that with a female friend and she said, ‘Do you feel safe doing that?’ And I do. But when I walk, I’m more aware that I feel OK to walk at night, and some of my friends wouldn’t. I’m not saying I know what it feels like to go through that. It’s just being aware.”

I’m aware that as a white male, I don’t go through the same things as a lot of the people that come to the shows. I can’t claim that I know what it’s like, because I don’t. So I’m not trying to say, ‘I understand what it’s like.’ I’m just trying to make people feel included and seen.”

On tour, he had an End Gun Violence sticker on his guitar; he added a Black Lives Matter sticker, as well as the flag. “It’s not about me trying to champion the cause, because I’m not the person to do that,” he says. “It’s just about not ignoring it, I guess. I was a little nervous to do that because the last thing I wanted was for it to feel like I was saying, ‘Look at me! I’m the good guy!’ I didn’t want anyone who was really involved in the movement to think, ‘What the fuck do you know?’ But then when I did it, I realized people got it. Everyone in that room is on the same page and everyone knows what I stand for. I’m not saying I understand how it feels. I’m just trying to say, ‘I see you.’”

Heartbreak and loss

As Stevie starts to sing “Landslide” — “I’ve been afraid of changing, because I built my life around youuuu” — Anne walks over to where Harry sits. She crouches down behind him, reaches her arms around him tightly. Neither of them says a word. They listen together and hold each other close to the very end of the song. Everybody in Wembley is singing along with Stevie, but these two are in a world of their own.

[Note: I doubted a bit whether to include that last part, but then I did, because this HS2 is apparently an album about sadness, and the description of that moment reminded me painfully of the real heartbreak and sadness Harry and Anne have had to deal with in recent years. So here’s a little shoutout to Anne who lost Robin, so recently still. Wishing her all the courage to continue building her life without him at the center of it. We love you.]

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positivisea · 7 years

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100 Questions That Nobody Ever Asks

So apparently you can’t edit a post anymore so instead of reblogging and filling in my answers I have to DO A WHOLE NEW POST so below is copy & pasted oaky thank.

While I have been on Tumblr for a while I’ve never really posted on her before and I decided why not kick it off with a Question Tag.

1. DO YOU SLEEP WITH YOUR CLOSET DOORS OPEN OR CLOSED?

Open, I’ll take my chances

2. DO YOU TAKE THE SHAMPOOS AND CONDITIONER BOTTLES FROM HOTELS?

Gimme

3. DO YOU SLEEP WITH YOUR SHEETS TUCKED IN OR OUT?

Tucked out what the fuc

4. HAVE YOU STOLEN A STREET SIGN BEFORE?

No?????

5. DO YOU LIKE TO USE POST-IT NOTES?

Not often...

6. DO YOU CUT OUT COUPONS BUT THEN NEVER USE THEM?

No why would I cut them out if I’m not going to use them come on now

7. WOULD YOU RATHER BE ATTACKED BY A BIG BEAR OR A SWARM OF BEES?

Bear

8. DO YOU HAVE FRECKLES?

Yes they reside on my nose

9. DO YOU ALWAYS SMILE FOR PICTURES?

Usually. I do not have a good sultry look, so

10. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST PET PEEVE?

FUCK I had this the other day and now I can’t remember. I’m gonna go with when people think they’re opinion is the only correct opinion and treat everyone with other opinions as crazy

11. DO YOU EVER COUNT YOUR STEPS WHEN YOU WALK?

No I never learned to count

12. HAVE YOU PEED IN THE WOODS?

So many times. Shoutout to Mulgrave’s yearly camping trips for that one

13. HAVE YOU EVER POOPED IN THE WOODS?

Yep, welcome to nature kiddos

14. DO YOU EVER DANCE EVEN IF THERES NO MUSIC PLAYING?

Not usually, but if there’s music I’m GOIN

15. DO YOU CHEW YOUR PENS AND PENCILS?

Nope

16. HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH THIS WEEK?

None oops

17. WHAT SIZE IS YOUR BED?

Double bed

18. WHAT IS YOUR SONG OF THE WEEK?

Shape of You - Ed Sheeran

19. IS IT OK FOR GUYS TO WEAR PINK?

Of course

20. DO YOU STILL WATCH CARTOONS?

Yes!!

21. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVOURITE MOVIE?

Somehow, 2001 A Space Odyssey beats out The Exorcist

22. WHERE WOULD YOU BURY HIDDEN TREASURE IF YOU HAD SOME?

Are you trying to trick the answer out of me? Nice

23. WHAT DO YOU DRINK WITH DINNER?

Water or juice - I like cranberry/raspberry the best rn

24. WHAT DO YOU DIP A CHICKEN NUGGET IN?

Nothing??? Don’t taint the nugget?/?

25. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD?

Starches. But if I have to choose, pasta

26. WHAT MOVIES COULD YOU WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND STILL LOVE?

Forrest Gump, Hercules (the Disney version), Murder by Death, Love Actually, any Wes Anderson, any musical... it goes on

27. LAST PERSON YOU KISSED/KISSED YOU?

Guy at a club

28. WERE YOU EVER A BOY/GIRL SCOUT?

Nope was not about that wilderness life

29. WOULD YOU EVER STRIP OR POSE NUDE IN A MAGAZINE?

I’d consider it, depends which magazine

30. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WROTE A LETTER TO SOMEONE ON PAPER?

A couple months ago

31. CAN YOU CHANGE THE OIL ON A CAR?

Nope

32. EVER GOTTEN A SPEEDING TICKET?

Nope

33. EVER RAN OUT OF GAS?

Nope

34. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE KIND OF SANDWICH?

Mmmmm either chicken/brie/cranberry/avocado, or a really good grilled cheese

35. BEST THING TO EAT FOR BREAKFAST?

I’m a breakfast minimalist. Maybe some toast and an apple

36. WHAT IS YOUR USUAL BEDTIME?

12-2am

37. ARE YOU LAZY?

Very

38. WHEN YOU WERE A KID, WHAT DID YOU DRESS UP AS FOR HALLOWEEN?

Lots of variation... everything from princesses to a dalmation to a renaissance woman

39. WHAT IS YOUR CHINESE ASTROLOGICAL SIGN?

Year of the Ox

40. HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK?

English fluently, used to be fluent in Spanish but now I can just pick up bits and pieces

41. DO YOU HAVE ANY MAGAZINE SUBSCRIPTIONS?

Food Network Magazine

42. WHICH ARE BETTER: LEGOS OR LINCOLN LOGS?

Legos what the fucc kind of question is this

43. ARE YOU STUBBORN?

At everything, yes

44. WHO IS BETTER: LENO OR LETTERMAN?

Could not care less

45. EVER WATCH SOAP OPERAS?

Rarely

46. ARE YOU AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?

Nope

47. DO YOU SING IN THE CAR?

Always

48. DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER?

I cannot deny my adoring crowd

49. DO YOU DANCE IN THE CAR?

Still working on that one

50. EVER USED A GUN?

Nope

51. LAST TIME YOU GOT A PORTRAIT TAKEN BY A PHOTOGRAPHER?

Probably at some dance

52. DO YOU THINK MUSICALS ARE CHEESY?

NO THEY ARE MY FAVOURITE

53. IS CHRISTMAS STRESSFUL?

Not enough to rob it of it’s joy

54. EVER EAT A PIEROGI?

Yes mmm starch

55. FAVOURITE TYPE OF FRUIT PIE?

Apple

56. OCCUPATIONS YOU WANTED TO BE WHEN YOU WERE A KID?

Lawyer, singer, vet

57. DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS?

Not even a little

58. EVER HAVE A DEJA-VU FEELING?

Yep

59. DO YOU TAKE A VITAMIN DAILY?

I take several

60. DO YOU WEAR SLIPPERS?

How would my toes enjoy the floor?

61. DO YOU WEAR A BATH ROBE?

Not a lot

62. WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO BED?

PJ shorts & a tshirt

63. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CONCERT?

Shania Twain!

64. WALMART, TARGET, OR KMART?

Walmart but I don’t love any of them

65. NIKE OR ADIDAS?

Nike

66. CHEETOS OR FRITOS?

CHEETOS WHO ARE YOU

67. PEANUTS OR SUNFLOWER SEEDS?

Peanuts mm

68. EVER HEAR OF THE GROUP TRES BIEN?

No??? Is this a promo??

69. EVER TAKE DANCE LESSONS?

For like 10+ years in ballet, jazz & hip-hop

70. IS THERE A PROFESSION YOU PICTURE YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE DOING?

I don’t think so

71. CAN YOU CURL YOUR TONGUE?

My best talent

72. EVER WON A SPELLING BEE?

Yes, grade 6. I must thank ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’

73. HAVE YOU EVER CRIED BECAUSE YOU WERE SO HAPPY?

Yes

74. OWN ANY RECORD ALBUMS?

Nope, no record player

75. OWN A RECORD PLAYER?

Nope

76. DO YOU REGULARLY BURN INCENSE?

Never, but candles yes

77. EVER BEEN IN LOVE?

Yes, once

78. WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IN CONCERT?

Would love to see Watsky again

79. WHAT WAS THE LAST CONCERT YOU SAW?

Probably whoever played O Week last year at my uni

80. HOT TEA OR COLD TEA?

No tea

81. TEA OR COFFEE?

Hot chocolate, please

82. SUGAR COOKIES OR SNICKERDOODLES?

Sugar cookies

83. CAN YOU SWIM WELL?

Yes I am a fish and would happily live in the ocean

84. CAN YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH WITHOUT HOLDING YOUR NOSE?

Yes. Can some people not do this?

85. ARE YOU PATIENT?

Not at all

86. DJ OR BAND AT A WEDDING?

DJ, but that’s a tricky one

87. EVER WON A CONTEST?

I think so, but I can’t recall which at the moment. I definitely won a guess-the-number-of-candies contest in middle school

88. HAVE YOU EVER HAD PLASTIC SURGERY?

Nope

89. WHICH ARE BETTER: BLACK OR GREEN OLIVES?

GET THOSE OLIVES OUT OF MY FACE PLS

90. CAN YOU KNIT OR CROCHET?

I can knit, and got really into it for awhile back in high school, but don’t anymore

91. BEST ROOM FOR A FIREPLACE?

The family/living room

92. DO YOU WANT TO GET MARRIED?

Yes

93. IF MARRIED, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN MARRIED?

Been married to books for about 18 years

94. WHO WAS YOUR HIGH SCHOOL CRUSH?

I had several in junior & middle school, and then dated my high school crush from grade 10 until graduation - Colin

95. DO YOU CRY AND THROW A FIT UNTIL YOU GET YOUR OWN WAY?

No... what

96. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?

Nope

97. DO YOU WANT KIDS?

Nope

98. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE COLOUR?

A nice green

99. DO YOU MISS ANYONE RIGHT NOW?

Micaela & Sarah - my children. And my parents

100. WHO ARE YOU GOING TO TAG TO DO THIS TAG NEXT?

Anyone who sees this text is now legally bound to do it sorry I don’t make the rules

#my post #tag

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