#this sounds beautiful on vinyl I could nut

[the-teddy-bear-butch]

hey there demons. It's me, ya boy. And by demons I mean the common cold, I've contracted the common cold. Lo I don't think I've missed breathing out of my nose so much in my entire life. I can't even greet you with the usual cute little nickname my head's so cloudy :(

In theory I like layering but in practice my sensory issues get the best of me, so the closest I get is like an open button up and a t-shirt.

the book is called Bridge to Elsewhere by many different authors since it's a collection of short stories! Fustercluck is from one short story called Whose spaceship is it anyway? by John Chu, and is one of my favourites in the whole book because at heart I am a theater kid. The whole book has amazing queer and POC rep in and out of the book!(there's a story about lesbian space birds!!!)

I love The Hobbit and Hunger Games too! There's also Sal and Gabi break the universe by Carlos Hernandez, yes it was released in 2019 and yes by then I was probably too old to read middle grade novels but that did not stop me. I have an old french encyclopedia called le petit larousse illustré, it has so many beautiful illustrations! It is reprinted every year but my copy is from 1924 so it's kinda falling apart and the part of me that worked in the library for years just wants to tape it back together but I need to buy better tape so I don't ruin it. Of course i'm a hopeless romantic so i've read pride and prejudice like a million times, it's just a really pretty book don't judge me. I really like Salt To The Sea by Ruta Sepetys it's a bit bleak but I listened to the audio book while painting the guitar and really enjoyed it.

OUTLAW ROBIN I am foaming at the mouth. if you ever finish a story like that i'd love to read it!

I really don't think you understand how red my face gets every time you call me darlin' it's not even funny.

If you want you can send me more songs and I can tell you what colour they sound like to me.

I don't get how some pretty flowers simply do not match in scent, like you look beautiful you should smell like rainbows and unicorns. it's unfair.

I only have three piercings (two on my left ear and one on my right) but like I said I need more.

asdfghjklkfj back home is also a farm for me. There's 2 dogs, 3 cats, an assortment of chickens(demon spawn), 5 ducks(my babies), and an ancient beta fish. I've always wanted a fluffy cow too! and a mini donkey 😂

I am not from the us. I really thought I already gave it away with my rantings about Alvvays not having canadian tour dates.

I am but a simple Canadian who wears tuques, listens to the vinyl cafe, and drinks maple syrup by the jug. fr the funniest thing is debunking people's Canadian stereotypes it's hilarious

your damsel under the incredible duress of her cold

-el

Oh no!!! That is terrible!! I hope you feel better soon, lovely! <333 Drink lots of water and take medicine! I wish I could make you some soup.

Is it just me, or is the whole Ronance side of Tumblr falling ill? What’s with that?

Understandable! There are some days I get like that, but for the most part I love layers. My main issues lies with long sleeves that are too loose on my wrist. Drives me nuts.

I’ll have to check that out! It’s been a while since I last read a short story collection, and I’m always down for good representation! Lesbian space birds? Sign me the fuck up.

I haven’t heard of that one! Definitely also going on the list. I’m also not above reading middle school books at my age. Sometimes they’re just that good, damnit. You’re never to old to enjoy something like that. And the encyclopedia? That is the absolute coolest thing!! Antique books are so beautiful and you gotta love the old book smell. 😌 1924, damn that’s old. Getting close to a whole century old, wow! P&P is one I know but haven’t read. I’ve never been much into period pieces, but the amount of times it’s popped up in conversations recently is feeling like a sign that I need to read and watch it.

I hope I will! It’s a future project since I’ve got too many already, but outlaw Robin lives in the back of my mind rent free

Then I will continue to do it, darlin’, because that sounds cute as hell ☺️

Ooooh, okay, I’ll give you three. “Late Bloomer” by Mereba, “Linger” by The Cranberries, and “honey” by Coastal Club (that one is a personal favorite!!)

For real! It’s so sad when you see a cute flower and go to smell it and it just,,, stinks. Bradford pears are definitely my least favorite though. They make the whole campus smell bad every spring ahdkskkw

That’s so cool! I hope you can get more! I just know they look sick as hell

Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! I love animals so much <33 And mini donkeys, you say? Well let me introduce Hope and Brayleigh—

Here’s where you figure out I’m kind of a dumbass because I definitely remember you saying that and it definitely went riiiiiiight over my head. At least I’m cute! Canadian, that’s so cool! What’s your favorite stereotype to debunk? 😂

Wishing you speedy healing and love,

- Max/Lo

[freddie-mercury-rising]

Day 16 “The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke” from Queen 2

 I know I say this about every Queen song, but this side of the Queen 2 album is sublime. Like, if I was my 1970s teenage self, I’d have played this “black” side of the album so many times it wouldn’t even play anymore.

This song is genius. I could listen to it every single day.

The beginning is so brilliant.

“He’s a fairy fellaaahhh” (insert this whimsical whistle noise). I think it sets the mood for this song being just the most quirky, whimsical, irreverent, cheeky thing ever. But the music behind it is superb. I mean, Brian is bringing his A-game.

“The fairy folk have gathered ‘round the new moon shine.” Then Freddie goes into this fucking amazing falsetto “to see the feller crack a nut at night’s noon time”. HELLO I have to repeat this song 78 times because I love it so much.

“As he climbs he dares to DELIVAHHHH” (and in the background, the backing vocals are Freddie singing “the master stroke!” Give me Freddie with Freddie backing vocals any time of day or night.

Freddie’s voice is so young and it makes me want to die a thousand beautiful deaths. It’s so beautiful, I can’t describe how much this song epitomizes my love for Freddie and his ability to do whatever the fuck he wants, no matter how crazy, and make it so incredibly amazing that everyone just has no choice but to love it.

“He’s a dilly-dallio.” – Okay! If you say so.

“And a satyr peers under lady’s gown.” –cheeky dirty boy! “Dirty fellow. What a dirty laddio.” Indeed!

“Tatterdemalion and a junketer”—(I think Roger himself was like OKAY where TF did you get these lyrics, Freddie…I’ve never seen you read a damn book and you come out with this?)

“He’s my heroooo” (big fucking sexy sigh from Freddie here at 1:02 or so. Listen closely and you’ll hear it).

“Fairy dandy, tickling the fancy of his lady friend.” – So I know I keep quoting the entire song, but this is so cheeky, isn’t it? I mean this is Freddie in a nutshell. He’s just sooo naughty, in such a tongue-in-cheek, silly way. I love it. I just love it!

“What a quaery fellow.” Hmmm, interesting, Freddie. Interesting. Quaery, like a hybrid of fairy and queer. Classic Freddie.

“Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, PLOUGHBOY… waiting to hear the SoUnD!”

Okay, my daughter thought he was saying “Soldier, sailor, Roger Taylor, ploughboy” and I refuse to believe that that isn’t a better lyric than the original. Sorry Freddie. Although I’m sure he would agree if he had thought of it.

The part that is freaking amazing—and The Queen Pod, in their episode about this side of the album, described it actually quite a lot better than I could—is about at 1:58, when the tempo changes a bit and there’s a little bell sound, right before Freddie says “Oberon and Titania…”

In the QueenPod, they actually describe why it sounds so amazing, based on the actual tempo, blah blah. It made a lot of sense when they said it, because I have no clue about music, but I know it sounds freaking incredible in the song. Basically, Freddie starts singing on the beat that you didn’t expect him to, so it fucks with you in the most incredibly positive way.

Freddie’s voice, man. This man was too much for this world.

Also, the outro to this song, with the piano, and how it fades PERFECTLY into the next song, has my whole heart. LIKE do yourself a favor and listen to this album in order, like preferably on vinyl, but if not, through a music service that lets you hear each song without a pause in between.

[waywardnerd67]

Star Crossed: Shining Star

Summary: Between filming and conventions, Jensen Ackles hardly has a moment to himself. During a panel one weekend he learns that his favorite band’s lead singer is a fan of his. Encouraged by his best friend, Jensen steps out of his comfort zone and reaches out to her on social media. That one decision throws his entire world into a whirlwind adventure. Pairing: No Pairing Rating: E - Everyone Warnings: Fluff Word Count: 1595 A/N: None

Check out: Star Crossed Masterlist

Jensen Ackles walked into his apartment kicking off his shoes by the door. Thankful to be done filming for the week and looking forward to not having to travel too far for the convention this weekend. He loved meeting fans and performing on Saturday nights. There were some weeks where he wished he could relax in his apartment and not have to worry about traveling.

Deciding a night of Netflix and pizza was in order, Jensen took a quick shower then put on some sweats with a t-shirt. He had settled in with his pizza with The Witcher series pulled up to watch when his phone started buzzing.

“No Jared, I don’t want to come out.”

Laughter came ringing through the speaker, “Jackles, it’s only a few crew and myself chilling at our normal spot. Come out for a little while.”

“What part of no don’t you understand? The N or the O?” Jensen rubbed his forehead hearing everyone behind Jared chanting his name, “Buddy, I’m showered and in for the evening. I’ll make it up to y’all tomorrow night.”

“Fine old man, see you tomorrow.”

He groaned, ending the call and no longer interested in the show on Netflix. Turning off the tv, he walked over to his record player turning on the band he had been listening to on repeat. He discovered Wayward Stars a few years ago when a fan gifted him their cd. They were a hard rock, alternative metal band with lyrics that spoke to the soul. Also, the lead singer was drop dead gorgeous.

There had been late night shoots he would turn on one of their albums listening to (Y/N) (Y/L/N)’s voice letting it seep into the far reaches of his mind. As he sat in his apartment alone, he allowed his mind to wander of singing with her on stage one day. Making a mental note to talk with Creation and Rob Benedict about getting her to come to Vegas for SNS. For now, he let the music flow over him well into the night.

The next day, Jensen slept in until he heard Clif knocking on his door. Twenty minutes later, he was walking down to the lobby where Jared was sitting with his eyes closed.

“Hey Jared!” He yelled.

Jared jumped falling off the chair he was on. Jensen and Clif started laughing as he mumbled curses under his breath getting off the floor.

“Not funny and I will get you back.” Jared’s eyes narrowed on him.

“I’m sure you will, big guy. Now, can we get on with our day?”

They had a few interviews at the studio and some meetings before they had to get ready for the concert that night. Since the convention was in Vancouver and there was no traveling, Jensen had agreed to sing that night. He was excited to perform new songs and to be in front of the fans. As they pulled into the studio parking lot, he sighed knowing it was going to be a long day ahead of him.

It was near six o’clock when Jensen arrived back at his apartment to get ready for the night. Once again, he turned on his favorite Wayward Stars song, A Light in the Dark. It was a slower song with beautiful lyrics and then a killer riff in the end. He was in his room, singing when he heard his door open. Only two people had a key to his place and he only needed one guest to know who was walking in.

“Really? Wayward Stars again?” Jared flopped down on his couch.

“I can’t help it that you have horrible taste in music.” He chuckled.

“I like the band… just not 24/7 like you.”

He rolled his eyes, shutting off his record player, “Don’t judge me. Now come on and let’s go hang out with the fam.”

Saturday Night Special was exactly that, special. Especially when they were in Vancouver. The cast and crew seemed to cut loose a little more backstage. He was catching up with Matt Cohen when they called him to get ready to go on stage. Jared and Misha were standing by the stage to watch as Rob called him up on stage.

There was nothing more exhilarating than being hit with a roar of an audience. An electric current steady ran down his body over the next fifteen minutes as he performed. When he walked off stage, as promised, he celebrated with Jared, Misha and others until the early hours of morning.

Their early morning panel was rough as the coffee worked through knocking out the whiskey from his system. The last question of their morning panel came from a young lady wearing a Wayward Stars shirt.

“Love your shirt.” Jensen smiled.

“We get it Ackles, you’re their biggest fan.” Jared jokes.

The fan laughed, “Actually my question is about them. SPN family loves this band since they are fans of the show. Wondering if you ever had a chance to meet them or if they could be invited to a SNS show?”

“Go on fanboy…”

Jensen rolled his eyes, “I would love to meet them one day and have them come perform during Saturday Night Special. I’m forever thankful to the fan who gave me their cd a couple of years ago. Many, many a night their music has kept me sane during shooting. So yeah, definitely would love to meet them.”

“I would love for Jensen to meet them so I can film it and post it on social media for everyone to see him fanboy all over (Y/N).”

The crowd ohhh as Jensen glared at Jared, “Alright, alright… I think we have to get going now. We will see y’all later.”

Waving as they walked off the stage. As soon as they were on the stairs, Jensen punched his friend in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“You deserve that.” Jensen could hear Jared laughing all the way to the green room.

The rest of the convention went without a hitch. Monday morning brought a whole new week of filming. Jensen was in his trailer when his phone buzzed seeing a text from Jared.

He pulled up his app, seeing a few friends tagging him in a post from a girl named Addy. Clicking on the YouTube link surprised to see (Y/N) watching him sing from SNS.

“I can’t help it. He’s gorgeous and talented and the perfect man.” She threw her arm over her eyes dramatically pretending to faint.

Text flashed on the screen, “#1 Jensen Ackles Fangirl”

He sat there stunned for a moment watching the video again. He could not wrap his mind around that she was a big fan of his. He knew the band liked the show, but to think he was perfect? His heart thumped against his chest as his shaking hands typed a message back to Jared.

Jensen took a few deep breaths before typing a Tweet then deleting it. He typed another one and deleted it. The third time he hit post and immediately regretted it, sounding like an idiot. Within minutes he received a notification from (Y/N) on Twitter.

Before he could reply, Jared was calling him, “Are you freaking out?”

“N-No… maybe, yes.” He stammered.

Jared’s laughter filled his ear, “Oh my god I wish I could see your face right now. This is your chance to make all your dreams come true.”

“I’m hanging up now, Jerk.”

“See you in an hour, Bitch.” Jared was still laughing as Jensen ended the call.

He watched the video a few more times and sent another Tweet out to (Y/N) after following her page. He went on all his social media making sure he was following her before realization hit that it seemed stalkerish.

“Jay, calm your roll.” He muttered to himself.

Putting his phone down, he tried to go over his lines for the next scene they were shooting. When he could not concentrate then he buckled, putting in his earbuds and turning on Wayward Stars. His hands were still trembling as he tried to control his fan moment.

Over the next several weeks, Jensen and (Y/N) were chatting all over social media. He posted a picture on Instagram tagging her in holding up her vinyl record.

Finally, he gathered the courage to ask for her number in a DM to chat with her more in private. Since their fans were going nuts over their new friendship. Now they would text each other everyday like they had known each other forever. She would tell him about her shows and cities she was in. He would chat about filming without spoiling anything for her. The only thing he wished could happen was their schedules to sync up so they could meet.

That thought ran through his mind everyday especially when he was at conventions like the upcoming weekend in his hometown. Thursday night, he was on a plane heading to Dallas when a notification popped up on his phone from (Y/N) posting on Twitter.

“Not next to me.” He mumbled snapping a picture of himself before replying to her Tweet.

He knew where she was off too after they had talked earlier in the day. They were still a thousand miles apart but closer than they had ever been since their friendship had begun. Settling back into his seat, he enjoyed listening to Wayward Stars newest song released that week.

If you enjoyed this story then check out my Masterlist!

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[imagine-loki]

What About Trust, Chapter 9

TITLE: What About Trust CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 9 AUTHOR: fanficshiddles ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki owns a bookshop on Midgard. He had to do something there to try and avoid getting any attention. But he’s not fond of having customers, is rather grumpy and guarded. But then he meets a bright, bubbly and trusting young woman who doesn’t recognise him. To his dismay, he finds himself becoming rather fond of the mortal.  RATING: M

  Cleo wasn’t sure why she felt so nervous. She had never felt nervous about being around Loki at all before, so why now?

She paced back and fore in her flat again, making sure it was clean and tidy enough for a guest. But she also didn’t want him to think she always lived like this, so didn’t go completely nuts with putting away her books and vinyl’s, most of them were spilled out onto the floor around her record player in the corner of her living room.

‘God, I hope Luke doesn’t think less of me when he sees this place.’ She muttered to herself and nibbled on her nails.

His apartment had really surprised her with how large it was, it was stunning. She was obsessed with his den though. But in comparison, her flat was… small and boring. Though she loved it, or she thought she did until she saw Loki’s place.

But she was also thinking about the kisses they’d shared those three days ago… The development in their relationship just from that morning. If it could even be called a relationship? She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t seen him since then as she had been working, but she had tomorrow off so thought it was a good idea to invite him over for dinner so she could cook this time.

Now she was wishing she’d asked him out somewhere instead.

The buzzer going off alerted her that it was far too late to go back on now. But when she rushed over and answered through the comms, hearing his voice instantly put her at ease and made her feel fuzzy inside.

‘Come on up.’ She said happily as she pressed the unlock button for the door.

By the time she got to her door, Loki was just coming up the stairs. He surprised her by giving her a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates.

‘Aww, you big softie.’ She grinned up at him.

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips, making her heart flutter. ‘I can be soft when I want to be.’ He smirked, making her laugh.

‘Come on in.’ She stepped back and motioned him into her flat. ‘It’s uhm… Nothing special, especially compared to your place.’ She said sheepishly.

Loki shook his head. ‘Nonsense, darling. It’s perfect. So homely and cosy.’ He grinned as he looked around, loving how compact it was. It felt secure. The only reason he had a larger place by choice was to try and impress Thor, which did the trick.

While Cleo put the flowers into a vase, Loki took the time to have a nosey through her books and records. He also found a drawer that was filled with photographs from over the years, of her with family and friends. It made him smile to see.

‘Oh god, you found the dreaded drawer.’ She laughed as she brought a drink through from the kitchen for them both.

Loki grinned as he continued looking through some of them. He found some baby pictures and cooed over how adorable she was as a baby, while she just hid her face behind her hands the entire time. Then to her relief he finally joined her on the sofa. She had music playing, she’d set the record player up earlier before he arrived.

‘Who’s this playing?’ He asked curiously, rather enjoying the poppy type of music. It was annoyingly catchy he thought.

‘It’s Maroon 5. They’re one of my favourites.’ Cleo grinned. ‘Do you like them?’

Loki shrugged nonchalantly. ‘They’re alright, I suppose.’ Making her laugh.

‘I hope home-made pizza is ok for dinner. I’m not the best at cooking, but I have been told my pizzas are the bomb.’ Cleo said when the timer went off in the kitchen.

‘Sounds wonderful.’ Loki assured her, then a mischievous smile broke out. ‘I’m sure it won’t be any worse than the pizza from the takeaway in piccadilly gardens.’

‘Hey! That place is abysmal and should not be allowed to remain open.’ She growled at him as she headed through to the kitchen.

Loki chuckled. There was a place that was well known for how bad its pizzas were. How it was still even open was a complete mystery to everyone.

His eyes widened when he went through to the table to sit down and he saw the pizzas. They looked amazing, and smelled even better.

‘The tomatoes and onions are home grown.’ She said proudly as she passed Loki a plate and napkins.

‘I’m impressed. But let’s see what the taste test does.’ He teased her and cut a bit off to try.

She waited with bated breath to see if he would like it or not. His face was rather passive as he savoured the taste and evaluated it. But he went over the top, just taking his sweet time and humming now and then. Eventually he swallowed it, then made smacking noises as he continued to ‘taste’ it.

‘Now you’re just being a dick.’ Cleo grumbled at him, glaring across the table at him.

His face broke out into a large grin and he laughed. ‘I couldn’t resist… But wow, this is one of the best pizzas I’ve ever tasted, honestly. It’s delicious!’ He said and tucked straight into more.

Cleo beamed in delight as she started on hers as well.

‘I made the tomato sauce for it myself too, again with my own tomatoes.’

‘Very impressive indeed. But there is just one, little bad thing…’ He said before quickly eating a bit more. She felt her stomach drop. Oh no…

‘You are going to need to make me pizza on a daily basis now, because this is far too good for a one off.’

Cleo laughed and felt relieved that that was the only bad thing.

‘I’m not sure about daily, but I could certainly try weekly or fortnightly at least.’ She suggested.

‘Pizza date night sounds a delightful idea for a weekly occasion.’ Loki winked at her, making her blush.

‘Only if you do waffles weekly for me?’ She asked innocently and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’ He purred. ‘Do I take it that means I can stay the night?’ He chanced asking, wolfing the last bit of his pizza down with a moan.

‘If you want to… of course you can. I don’t think I have a spare toothbrush though…’ She trailed off when Loki reached into his suit jacked and pulled out his toothbrush, a cheeky glint in his eye as she burst out laughing.

‘Ok, you’re prepared.’

‘Always.’ He grinned, then his eyes landed on her plate. She hadn’t touched her last bit for a few minutes. ‘Are you going to finish that?’

Cleo laughed again and slid the plate towards him. ‘Be my guest.’

-

After dinner and a glass of wine, Cleo took Loki down to her garden plot to show him what she was growing.

‘I thought you said it was a small plot you had?’ Loki nudged her playfully with his elbow.

‘It is!’

‘It’s quite substantial in my eyes.’

It was a good size. She had two rows of carrots, a row of onions and three rows of potatoes. Along with some strawberry plants and a raspberry bush. Surrounding the paved area where the greenhouse was, she had some potted flowers and borders with some perennial shrubs in it as well as some annual flowers at the front, it was really beautiful. The vegetable plants were covered with netting to stop the birds getting them. She had a small greenhouse where her tomato plants were growing, along with a few cucumber plants as well, that were slowly starting to grow.

‘What are these?’ Loki asked as he pointed to a tray with lots of tiny seedlings just sprouting.

‘Marigolds. They’re one of my favourite flowers. I bought a window pot for outside my bedroom, the sun always hits it for most of the day. So I plan to put them into there once they’re ready.’ She said excitedly.

‘Are these lava pebbles?’ He asked as he scooped up some of the light, small, pebbles that layered the shelves in the greenhouse.

‘Yep. They hold the heat really well and some moisture, they’re perfect for when everything is in early stages of growing.’ She nodded.

‘I really wouldn’t have taken you for much of a green thumb, being honest.’ He smirked. ‘But this is all incredible. My mother would’ve loved you.’ He blurted out.

‘Did she enjoy gardening?’ Cleo asked as she leaned against the shelf, feeling warmed inside that he thought his mother would love her.

‘She did enjoy tending to her gardens.’ Loki nodded and smiled fondly as he thought about her. ‘Especially flowers… You would’ve loved our gardens we had at home.’

Cleo reached over and lightly touched his hand with the tips of his fingers. He looked down and smiled as they tangled their fingers together.

‘She sounds like she was a lovely woman. You speak really fondly of her, it’s really nice.’ Cleo said quietly.

Loki felt a little tight chested, but he focused on Cleo. ‘I… I really miss her.’ He admitted. ‘I didn’t exactly do her proud when she was alive.’

Cleo frowned and squeezed his hand. ‘She would be proud of you now. Owning your own bookshop, with an amazing apartment.’

Loki smiled at the way she was trying to make him feel better. He wished he could open up to her properly, that she knew…

He turned more towards Cleo and tucked her hair back behind her ear, then he cupped her cheek and leaned down to kiss her. Their lips moulded together slowly, tasting each other. Loki slipped his other hand around her to her lower back, he gently pressed her into him so their bodies were flush together.

When they parted, she was rather flustered and so was he. He rubbed his thumb up and down her cheek and smiled. Then she started laughing a bit.

‘What is it?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s just… You’re too tall. I was on my tiptoes there and still could barely reach you, like out of a movie.’

Loki chuckled and simply kissed her again. Making sure to lean down even further this time for her.

They went back inside after sharing a few more kisses in the greenhouse. Loki plucked one of her books from the shelf and sat down on the sofa to read aloud to her. She loved his voice, so was in utter heaven when she lay down with her head on his lap. He couldn’t resist stroking her hair while he read, it was such a peaceful position to be in with the woman he wanted to be with. Neither of them could imagine a better evening, or better company.

Cleo was definitely starting to see a real soft side to him, that she had known was there from the start really. Though she would always love his mischievous and snarky attitude, too.

The two of them stayed up quite late, reading books and listening to music. Talking about some songs and the meanings of certain lyrics. Bickering playfully about some of it, too. When it was time for bed, Loki assumed he would be on the sofa.

But when Cleo got into her pjs she went to the living room and saw Loki in his boxers, sorting out the cushions on the sofa. Her breath was caught momentarily as she looked at his body, she knew he was strong but she never realised how fit he truly was under his clothes.

‘Uhm… You uh, can share my bed if you want? There should be room. The sofa isn’t exactly the comfiest.’ She said a little shyly.

‘Are you sure?’ Loki asked, surprised but pleased she asked.

‘Of course.’ She nodded a bit over eagerly, making him grin as he walked over to her. ‘Though you are warned, I am a fidget while I sleep. So I am not responsible for any injuries that may occur to you during the night from possible kicks or punches.’ She said as she headed into the bedroom and got into bed.

Loki threw his head back with laughter as he followed her though. ‘Well, there is only one solution for that.’ He growled and leapt into bed with her under the quilt, she started giggling when he grabbed her and pulled her back flush against his front and he playfully, and lightly, bit her shoulder.

‘I will just keep you locked in my arms for the night… For my own safety, of course.’ He hummed and nuzzled his nose into her hair.

‘Of course, for safety.’ She giggled. Though she had a feeling that he was big on affection, it seemed, once he got to know and trust someone. And she certainly didn’t mind that, at all.

She went to sleep with the biggest smile on her face as she was encased in his protective and warm embrace. Though it took a little while for her racing heart to calm down enough for her to sleep.

[theficplug]

Can I Come Home {Atticus (lovecraft country) Fic}

Atticus Freeman x Black Reader 

Warnings: smut (21+)

(Ayida-Weddo is a loa of fertility, rainbows, wind, water, fire, and snakes)

(Atticus wants to come home after his little adventures. Reader isn’t having it.)

The incessant knocking at your door pulled you out of your concentration on rolling the last bit of your hair. It had been a week of perms and presses. You were more than ready to listen to your vinyls and relax by yourself away from the troubles of whatever was going on in this hell of a country. 

The person at the other end of this door had other plans for you apparently and as an adventurous woman living alone you weren’t about to take any chances.

You grab the small pistol out of your brown fur coat on the rack and closed your eyes as your fingertips begin to spark little flames. 

As you slowly creak the door open, Tic lowers his glasses and his face comes into view. 

You let out a deep sigh of relief as you lower the pistol to the ground and the fire simmered down. 

“BOY! You play too much knocking on my damn door at this hour of the night! I almost blew your ass clean to Mississippi, Atti !  I figured you’d drag yourself here after you finished parading around God knows where else with Miss Letitia Fucking Lewis.” you say reluctantly unlatching your screen door to look at your ex boyfriend face to face. 

Even in the moonlight you could still see the bronze glow cascading from his sculpted cheeks, to his beautiful broad nose, and down to his cupids bow. He was standing there biting at his plump bottom lip nervously while awaiting you.

“Whoa . HEY. HEY . HEY!” He yelled with his hands up as he ducked down. 

“Now, baby look, i-” Tic stammers across his words trying to plead his case as you press the cold bottle of Cola to your reddened lips as you give him the cold shoulder. 

You shook your head and closed your eyes to summon snakes around his ankles as he hopped side to side kicking off the illusions.

“Town is small, Atti. Everybody talks. A postcard to know that your knucklehead ass is still alive would’ve been nice. But to hear from Betty with the uneven bob at the salon that you’re back in town running around with Leti of all people. You know good and well we haven’t seen eye to eye since junior high. I know we broke up but that don’t mean you had to disappear on me like that. Your triflin behind ain't no good Atti-. Why are you even here?” You ask him pointedly instead of going off on your tangent. 

The audacity of him to show up after months of barely 3 postcards from him and a few dodgy and quick calls in the middle of night spewing all types of things about monsters and shapeshifters and both kinds of wizards. 

He grabs you gently around the arms and presses a soft kiss to your lips while holding your chin between his fingers. 

“Just wanted to see you, that’s all.” He says simply in that tone he uses when he wants you to let him inside. Granted, you knew you were gonna let him inside and come inside but you wanted to watch him sweat. 

“I should summon rain over your head...You hungry?” 

After huffing and puffing you decide to ease the screen door open fully so that he could embrace you properly.

You turn your head and his kiss lands on your cheek instead. His gaze fell upon you intensely as he caressed over your cheek where his lips had been moments before. Atticus’s gaze falls from your warm oak coloured eyes to your neck, to your collarbones, and down further where your robe was slightly open and the neckline of your silk red gown had fallen lower. 

You lean in to breathe into his long black coat. The Chanel Pour Monsieur that you gifted to him before he left for the war evaded your senses. You hiss softly before smiling against him, feeling his large calloused and frigid hands run up the back of your thighs to cup under your butt and lift you onto him. 

“What, you run around all summer and come back here in the winter when you're cold and lonely and realize that she wasn’t gon’ stick around? Is that it? Your summer fling is back on the road?”  you question with a huff and a roll of your eyes. 

He chuckles deeply and shakes his head as he walks with you still wrapped around him into your small quiet little cozy candlelit home with Ella Fitzgerald , These Foolish Things playing softly in the background. 

“Town talk goes both ways, baby. I heard you were playing backseat bingo with Martin Thompson, the preacher? Really?” he questions as he licks over your neck and jawline pressing kisses along the way.

“And what is there for a lonely young woman to do when her man writes her a letter trying to rationalize falling in love with a goddamn ninetail fox. I saw Letitia coming. Seen that a mile away. I knew there would be women and men along the way for us. But, a fox, well baby you had me beat on that one. A descendant of Ayida-Weddo herself wasn’t enough? Bible Boy was good to me. He would make sure I made it home safe and sound every night from the shop. Bought me that fur coat and everything.” you say and he drops his head with a chagrined expression. 

Atticus sits you down on your own two feet and looks at you for a moment. Both of his hands on your hips.

“And what did you do for him, hmm?” He asks tracing his hands over the ties of your robe letting it fall open in one swoop.

“You really wanna know?” You scoff and swat at his hands for asking such a witless and invasive question. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” he whispers before lowering to his knees. He places one of your shea butter lathered feet in his hand kissing it softly before moving to the other.

Atticus wraps his strong arms around your waist and kisses your belly button. 

You push his mouth from suckling open mouth kisses onto your clothed mound and saunter away from him and over to the record player.

You search through the collection until you reach Big Mama Thornton. You laugh to yourself as “Hound Dog” starts to echo throughout the room.

“You’re ever the jokester ain’t you?” Atticus says with a laugh of his own as you sway your hips to the music and dance over to him.

“Dance with me” you call out to him as he comes up behind you and you gasp at the feeling of how hard he is just from caressing you moments before.

He meets your movements grinding with a shimmy of his own as he matches your movements of doing the twist and you sway your hips flush against him. His hands ghost against your thighs again and up your body. He takes note that you’re not wearing anything under your silk nightgown. 

Atticus  caresses over your breasts carefully massaging over the almond coloured buds as you let out a soft moan and place your hands over his.

You turn your head to kiss him again this time less innocently than before as you guide his hands in yours and slide them down your body while never losing the beat of the song. 

Goosebumps begin to pepper your skin  and your breath hitches as his hands settle between your thighs. He brings his fingers to his mouth before moving between your legs again.

Atticus’s nails drag softly up your left thigh as he grips it and brings you closer to feel how he’s already hardening for you. You ride his hand for a moment trying to control your temperature that’s already too high for the average human body. 

The flames of the candles dance as your excitement and wetness heightens and you tap against his thigh to warn him. 

He laughs deeply as he works over your clit skillfully and methodically. “I remember” he says simply and your eyes roll back as you utter the word “out” assertively. 

All of the candles burn out instantly and you revel in the feeling of his fingers treating your body and your flower like a Shenzhen Nongke Orchid. 

“You’re two seconds away from making me nut in my trousers like we’re back in your dorm all over again.” he mumbles while nipping at your neck and your deep dark chestnut eyes slowly fade to a golden hue to a soft glow of scarlett red.  

You nod giving him your consent as you lay over the couch. You wiggle your ass in the air , knowing that he’s watching while working his boxers down too.

He slowly works his way into you before slowly pulling out and watching his member glisten fully saturated by your nectar as he works his length up and down you before entering you again. 

The little gasp you let out echoed through the room and the candles were lit again momentarily with the flames dancing around as you bury your face into the couch pillow.

He gripped your hips firmly bringing you back and down onto him as his other hand gripped your silk gown. 

“Mhmmm, hmmph.” was all that left Atticus’s mouth as he sinks into your warmth the second time. 

“Careful. Slowly, I don’t want to hurt you.” you rasp as he circles his hips finding the right rhythm for both of you as the little pants and shrieks fall from your lips when he pushes deeper into the right spot.

“All the times I’ve made love to you and you haven’t hurt me once. I won’t mention the time you singed off one of my eyebrows though. That was my fault, I shouldn’t have tried to wake you up like that.” he soothes as he moves your silk gown up further to massage over your back and cheeks.

His large hands soothing over and kneading the knots and kinks from standing on your feet most days doing countless amounts of roller sets and bang cuts. 

“I know.” you whisper to him with a small laugh of your own. You drop your head slightly and arch your back when his hips finally rests flushed against your cheeks.

Your mouth goes slack as he picks up his pace but then pulls out.

“What the hell was that?” you question as you turn to face him. 

“Just wanted to see that’s all. Wanna look at this pretty face all glossy eyed and reciting my name like a poem.” he teases as he leans in to connect his lips to yours again, this time letting his tongue glide over your bottom lip until you’re suckling it softly.

He’s massaging his dick against you slowly as you pout and huff against his lips. Your legs begin to shake slightly and you can feel yourself heating up more.

“Shh shh shh, what do you want? Use your words.” he asks as his fingertips ghost over your breasts up to the sides of your face. The chill of his hands feeling like bursts of fresh air against you. 

Atticus lifts you once more to set you on the edge of the couch, his fingers tracing over your inner thighs. 

“You’re really going to tease me after I’ve already waited months to feel you. I really don’t want to get Martin to finish the job especially when you have the best d-” you let out a muffled moan as he places his fingers into your mouth and thrust into you again. 

You suckle his fingers, envisioning something else much bigger as he leans you on the edge of the couch and gives you what you’ve been missing for months. 

Resting your forehead on his shoulder you close your eyes enjoying the feeling of being full of him. 

You can feel him twitching inside of you as you begin to work down onto him, bouncing and coating his dick with you. 

You caress your own body letting your hand wander to your clit , skillfully massaging as Atticus watches on.

Both of your moans and sounds of him pounding into you flows with the music as you both cry out into each other’s mouths as your orgasm rocks through you both. 

Your fireplace goes out abruptly as you throw your head back and let out little uh uh mhhmmms.

Atticus leans down to place tender kisses between your breasts as he cums inside. 

You slowly continue your rhythm riding out the little waves of aftershock as his hips stutter and he lets his own praises of you fall from his lips this time. 

He slowly pulls out and swipes his thumb over next to your lips trying to fix your lipstick.

“Leave it, I was getting ready for a shower and the bed anyways. . . I’m sorry Atti.” you say to him softly as your fingertips trace his soft skin now donning a purple deep burgundy colour after being pressed against you for so long. 

“You’ve made me feel the best I've felt all damn year. You ain't got a thing to be sorry for. I’m the one that came to apologize. I was just too bullheaded  to realise that everything isn’t about just me. I regretted it the moment I got there. . The war. Ji-Ha. You finding out about Leti the way you did. It wasn’t like that in the beginning. I was supposed to go off and figure all out on my own. Somewhere down the line after you see enough crazy shit together. Things get all mixed up.. I’m sorry for all of that too.  I just wanna come home. Tired of all these things that don’t make no sense when everything that makes perfect sense has been here the whole time.” he explains and you nod along listening to his words, mulling them over. 

“Well you definitely scared the shit outta me… I checked that mailbox everyday for months waiting for a letter from you. And I think whatever you were searching for out there scared the shit outta you too. I think all of this made us both realise that we don’t really wanna be without each other..But next time if you’re gonna go off, play detective, and uncover some great family mystery,the smartest decision would be to take  the walking fireball with you. Yeah? And who’s Christina? ” you ask him as he carries you off with him towards your bathroom. 

“The dreams. I was wondering why I kept seeing snakes every day for a week. I ain't going nowhere. It’s gon’ take me all weekend just to explain all the shit I’ve seen in the last 6 months as it is-” 

(not my best but i still hope yall enjoy! i’m knocking the writing rust off after a few weeks of not writing new stuff. seasonal depressive be hitting different. alright my boos x ) 

[zmediaoutlet]

(read on AO3)

Sam’s cast comes off in Youngstown, Ohio. Dean offers to buzz it off with a chainsaw and Sam rolls his eyes. They go to an Urgent Care instead. Dean sends Sam inside with a fake insurance card that says Scott Smalls and idles in the lot for a while, watching the sliding glass doors. It’s cold and he doesn’t want to be here. There’s nowhere else to be. He wants to be sitting in there with Sam making fun of him for getting his arm fucked up by some co-eds ghost. He wants—

A motel. Two beds because—two beds. He orders pizza, extra mushrooms and sausage, and walks to the liquor store next door, and the clerk is one of those guys who looks at Dean’s mouth before he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean adds a bag of chips from the impulse rack to his pile and smiles with lots of teeth.

He has a drink. He refills his flask. He sits on the bed with his bags on it and looks at the other bed, and then he gets out his shotgun and cleans it, trying to focus: there’s the barrel in his hands and the smooth sweep of the brush, and the oil that needs applying here, and there. The heavy action of the trigger. He points the barrel at the purple carpet between his boots and pulls the trigger, feeling it, and makes the pew gun sound to the empty room. He lets the barrel sink down to the floor and lets his head sink, too, his shoulders tight and his spine feeling like it’s slotted wrong into his back, somehow, like from the base of his skull all the way down to his tailbone it’s an inch off. How long since he slept well? He can’t remember. That haunted hotel—

The pizza arrives. He tips the kid a ten and asks for extra parmesan. First slice hot enough that he burns the roof of his mouth like always. He eats it fast, anyway, and then sits back in the weird vinyl bucket chair at the table, tipping his head back. He’s tired. Tired, tired. The ceiling has a stain like a coffee spill, a pale brown lake spread on the popcorn, and he looks at it. Imagines a lake of coffee to swim in. Imagines adding creamer, sweet’n’low. How it’d swirl through the seaweed. Caffeinated fish. Fuck, he’s tired. He’s tonguing the blister forming behind his front teeth when his phone beeps. Out in two minutes. Dean presses his tonguetip up into the tender spot where it aches, sits there and looks at the phone screen for a while, and then goes to get his brother.

Sam takes a shower when they get back, ignoring the pizza. “Getting cold,” Dean says, but Sam’s throwing off his big brown coat onto the same bed that Dean’s bags are on and he says, “I know, but—ugh, I forgot how weird this feels, I need to—” and he’s pulling off his shirts over his head so Dean doesn’t quite hear what he needs but there’s Sam smooth tanned back and his hair all ruffled up around his head before he finally makes it into the bathroom, and the water crashes on, and Dean turns his face away from Sam stripping all the way down and thinks, screw it, and has his share of the pizza while he’s waiting.

Sam smiled when he saw the car, even if Dean left him standing out there by the entrance for ten minutes. He waved so Dean could see his freed hand, and he'd blown into the passenger seat in a billow of cold air and the smell of antiseptic, and he'd sighed like it was a relief. "Doctor didn't cut my arm off," he said, with a smile like he was sharing a joke, and Dean found his mouth tugging up, like it hadn't done in, what. Six hundred miles. Since Massachusetts. It still worked. Imagine that.

Sam’s always fast in the shower, because he doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life. The water shuts off when Dean's uncapping a beer to wash down his half-a-pizza and so Dean uncaps a second and sets it on the other side of the table. Rattle of the shower rings, and then through the open rectangle of the doorway Sam's arm appears, weird pale flash as he yanks the purple towel off the rack above the crapper. Dean swivels his chair around to face the doorway and drinks his beer, stretching out in hopes that somehow his spine will align right if he gets long enough, and so he's watching when Sam reappears—same old boxers tugged on, white undershirt, rubbing his hair dry uncareful and fast. Dean swallows a too-big gulp of beer and coughs. Sam, hunched over the toilet, white shirt and sweat in his hair. A secret clanging in Dean's throat. But—no—Sam walks out into the room bringing the smell of pine-fresh and damp and he says, "Man, I needed that," and he says, "I'm starving, did you get—" and Dean pushes the extra parm packets toward him, and Sam drops down easy into the other stupid bucket chair like he hasn't got a care in the world, like everything's hunky-dory because he asked Dean please to kill him, if it weren't any trouble, if things got too bad. Cast off and hair clean and food in front of him and his world seems to be spinning right. He slept, all the way through Pennsylvania. There aren't any dark circles under his eyes.

Plenty of cold pizza in their past. Sam eats and makes a surprised sound at the second, third bite. "Actually pretty good," he says, through a half-full mouth, and Dean nods. Feels too hard to form a sentence. He tongues the blister, watches Sam. "You check the news?" Sam says, and the remote's right there on Dean's side of the open pizza box so he finds a channel. The volume's so low he can't make out the words as the anchor-lady's mouth shapes them. The caption below says Robberies Continue. Sam squints at the television and shrugs a shoulder, and sips his beer, and they sit there quiet while Sam finishes his dinner and watches the news, and Dean sits and watches Sam.

He's been bulking up. Dean doesn't see his shoulders bared like this, not enough. Not nearly enough. His shoulders, and his arms swelling out of the short sleeves of that undershirt. Tan, still, somehow, even when it's been so cold and half the time they're both bundled up under coats—except for his healed-up arm, skinny and pale, the hair on it dark enough to look black. Sam's wrist is white, so that the veins stand out thick blue when he lifts the beer bottle, and Dean's thinking, blueblood. Blood. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. Where did he read that? Somewhere. A romance novel, maybe, or maybe somewhere else, but now that he's thought it it's stuck in his head. Sam finishes his beer and Dean's just sitting there, tired, and his back still hurts, and Sam's shoulders are beautiful, and those bones, they're Dean's, aren't they? The bones that make his shoulders that broad and that make him that tall, the ones in his wrist that healed up finally, the long solid bones of his thighs and his shin and his sharp knees that get Dean, sometimes, in the night, if they fall asleep somehow together. How could he ever think that Dean would. How could he make Dean make that promise. When it'd be like breaking his own arm. His spine.

He's had—a gulp of whiskey, a beer. Two beers. Not enough booze to be thinking about this. Sam pushes his better hand through his hair, settling messy and half-dry around his head, and holds his beer with the pale hand, and flexes his fingers around the brown glass, closing them again. Dean pushes his tongue hard around the hard ridge of the roof of his mouth and says, "Hey, Sammy," and it comes out brittle, weird. Sam looks at him. Mild furrow, mouth soft. The TV-light on his cheek. Dean licks his lips and Sam's eyes drop, like they do, when Dean licks his lips, when Sam sees his mouth and isn't thinking about other things. Dean wants not to think. It'll do.

The move to his knees isn't graceful. He sort of slumps out of his chair. Sam's already spun away from the table to watch the newscast and Dean can get right up inside the spread of his legs, and he grips Sam's shins and drags his hands up and Sam says, "What," startled, but just at the speed Dean thinks rather than at the action. He slides his hands up over Sam's knees and gets his thighs, ropy muscle rather than thick, and he squeezes up there where Sam's boxers end and Sam says, quiet, "Dean?" but Dean doesn't—he just doesn't want to talk about it, at all.

"You're killing me, Smalls," he says, a joke that's barely a joke so Sam'll just let him do it. And Sam huffs, and touches the back of his hand with the fingers of the hand that was hurt, and Dean ignores that and slides up and up inside the leg of Sam's boxer shorts until he finds—the warm heavy weight of his nuts, and his dick, soft now but warm, warm. Sam pulls in air above him and Dean kneels up higher, ass up on his bootheels, sliding his other hand around to Sam's hip, to his ass. Leaning in, over Sam's lap, and Sam's up above him and touches the back of his neck instead, inside the leather collar of his coat, his finger sliding underneath the cord of Dean's amulet, his nail scratching a little while Dean squeezes, feels. Warm—the surge of blood—and Dean knows how to do this, always has, and he switches his grip to underhand and pulls, feeling Sam lengthen, thicken up, the head bumping the inside of his wrist. A squeeze at his shoulder and he shifts, grips the sloped arm of the chair with his free hand instead. Sam's legs spread wider and Dean pushes up the leg of the shorts to see—Sam's dick, full and flushed, the rosy-red head and the weight of it, the ropy vein along the underside that Dean runs his fingers along, feeling. The heavy shape of his sack still caught up in the thin cotton, warm and full, and Sam's fingers curl against the back of his neck, his hips tipping flat in the chair, his breath—against the back of Dean's ear—and Dean dips, licks his mouth wet and sucks the head in, and Sam says, "Fuck," soft but meaning it, meaning it. His hand slides from Dean's shoulder to his back, between his shoulderblades, and Dean tips his head and bolsters Sam's dick up and slides down, filling his mouth. Tasting. Clean, but still that bite of salt that makes it—Sam. That familiar taste, curling up under his tongue, making his mouth water. Making it right.

Sam's quiet, mostly. Lets Dean work. Dean sucks slow, doesn't use the tricks he knows. Slicks his tongue fat against the sweet soft ridge there at the head and feels Sam's thighs clench, and sits with his lips broken-open and lets Sam pulse thick and needing up against his soft palate. He slides his hands back down Sam's thighs and grips under Sam's knee, feels it tip in and dig into his side. He hums and Sam says, "Jesus," quietly, and then he laughs a little and says, "You're killing me, man," and Dean pulls off and looks at him, holding the fat pole of his dick warm in one hand, and Sam's looking at him—dark red pooled in the hollows of his cheeks and streaked down his throat, and his hair all fluffed and dry, and his eyes dark, bright. Lips red. Dean reaches up, drags his thumb over them, and Sam lets him—lets Dean's thumb drag his lower lip down, so Dean can see the white of his teeth—and Dean pumps Sam's dick wet in his fist and then ducks back down and sucks it in, meaning to finish the job this time, and it's not long really before Sam's clenching and gripping at him and lifting his hips helpless and pumping into him, his thighs shaking, his hands greedily tight at the back of Dean's neck and then soft, apologizing. When the bruise is already there. Dean swallows, keeps his mouth there. Sam's thighs jerk and close around his shoulders and Dean holds his balls through the thin barrier of the boxers and sucks, steady, making Sam shudder and say, "Too—too much, jesus—Dean—" but he doesn't shove Dean off and so Dean doesn't stop, taking everything he can until Sam's soft, heavy and sore inside his mouth, and only then does Dean pull back, and tuck his forehead down against Sam's leg, and breathe, slow.

His lips feel fat, tender. He's got his hands curled around Sam's hips but they're loose, and his legs have gone to sleep from kneeling so long but—he doesn't feel like moving, so they can just stay that way. He lets his head tip and Sam's fingers touch the little hollowish spot right at the very top of his spine. "Can I…?" says Sam, but Dean shakes his head as much as he can caught there in Sam's lap. He's hard, sort of, but it feels distant. Sam's thumb slides behind his ear. Dean sighs. He realizes, after a while, that his back doesn't hurt.

"You going to stay there all night?" Sam says, later.

Dean lifts his head. The room feels bright although he knows it isn't. Sam's dick has gone small, curled against his thigh, and Dean tugs his boxer-leg down so it's hidden again. A snort, above. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and his lips smear, tacky. He needs water. Sam's taste—bitter, but not as bitter as he could be—caught up in his mouth. He sits back and Sam sits forward, almost too fast, and he catches Dean's head between his hands and kisses him, shocky-quick, so Dean's still blinking and surprised when Sam lifts up, and looks him in the eyes. Dean licks his lips and it still tastes like Sam.

Sam thumb drags along his cheek. "C'mon," he says, and stands up, and pulls Dean along. Oh—rush of blood, pins and needles. Dean staggers and Sam catches him, steadies him. Even the thin arm with its fresh-healed bones, strong and sturdy. How does he manage it, Dean wonders. He's dizzy from the change in elevation, from being so tired. From taking Sam and yet never, ever being able to—to make Sam see—

"When did you sleep last?" Sam says, and drops Dean on the empty bed. Sam's bed. There's a glass of water, then, and Sam says, "Dude, take your boots off at least," so Dean drinks the water and takes off his boots, and his leather coat too, and lays down off-kilter. The mattress is softer than he thought it'd be. Sam sits next to him, backlit by the lamp, and Dean looks at the ends of his hair caught almost bronze, and the way the hairs on his arm gild the line of it, and how his body—his bones—

"Sorry," Sam says, but he doesn't sound sorry. Dean turns his head the other way on the pillow and squeezes his eyes closed. "I'll get you back in the morning. Will you even remember?"

I'll remember, Dean says, or maybe he only thinks it. Sam's weight sinks the bed at Dean's side, and he's just about to fall asleep when there's a shift and it's gone. He dreams of lakes, dark, and a cast on his arm dragging him down into the deep water.

[collecting-stories]

Creedence - JJ Maybank

Request: omg imagine y/n plays the guitar & sings and JJ is so in awe of her. AHHH 🥰💓💞💗💖

A/N: The song y/n sings is Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival. There is a truly beautiful version done by Imaginary Future. 

Creedence Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

///

You were stretched out on the couch on John B’s porch, waiting for him to get back from his date with Sarah. It was meant to be mandatory pogue hangout night, an invention by Pope in ninth grade when he claimed that you all weren’t spending enough time together, as if every waking second wasn’t enough. Now it didn’t seem like the stupidest idea in the world, considering John B was always with Sarah and Pope was always disappearing to wherever Kiara was and the only person you saw on a consistent basis was JJ.  

JJ, who was sitting across from you on the arm of the loveseat, boots making an impression on the sofa cushion as he attempted to play the guitar that Big John kept in his office. Every pluck of a string sounded like nails on a chalkboard as JJ tried to sing the baby shark song.  

It was cute when he sat on the living room floor of your older sister’s house, singing it with your niece and doing all the hand motions but it was less cute as he jarringly strummed the guitar and sang off key the same verse over and over. Was there something worse than off key, you were sure that was where JJ’s voice lived.  

“You know that’s not tuned right?” You asked, rolling your head to the side to look at him.  

“How would I know that?”  

“Here,” you sat up and got off the couch, crossing the small space to take the guitar from JJ’s hands, “put me outta my misery.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, I have an amazing voice.” He replied as he handed over the guitar. “Bea always says so.”

“Bea is four, she’ll tell you anything you want to hear...especially because you carry contraband in your pockets when you come over.” You said.  

Your sister was health conscious and insisted everything that be fed to her daughter was organic, sugar-free, locally purchased, and fruit or vegetable based. Just to spite her, you were sure, JJ had taken to carrying animal crackers in his pockets, a favorite of Bea’s and a band snack in the house. He’d baby-sat once with you last summer and since then it had become a regular occurrence. If you were babysitting JJ offered to come over. He was making his way through Disney movies, most of which he had never seen as a kid.  

“You’re just saying that cause she likes me more.” JJ replied, watching as you picked at the strings, twisting them looser or tighter as you tuned the guitar.  

“Okay.” You rolled your eyes.  

“How’d you learn to do that?” JJ asked, nudging your thigh with his boot, no doubt getting dirt on your shorts.  

“Big John.” You replied, “I was over one time when he had a party and he was playing some old Cash song Miss Lana asked him to play and I told him I wanted to learn the guitar.”  

Your own parents had both passed away when you were little and you’d grown up living all over the island. Sometimes with your sister, sometimes with Miss Lana and Scooter, sometimes at John B’s. The Cut took care of its people, as Big John was want to say, and you certainly agreed.  

“Play me something?” JJ asked, sliding down the arm to sit on the sofa. One leg hung off the couch while he bent the other, pressing his shin against your side.  

“While you take my rib cage out with your knee?” You asked, glancing over at him.  

When John B apologized for ditching you and JJ the week before you’d laughed and claimed that he wanted to torture you but you couldn’t deny that the more you spent time with JJ the more you were happy that all your friends were coupling up. He drove you nuts sometimes but afternoons like this were becoming less and less rare and you were never happier than you were spending a day entertaining JJ.  

“Barely,” he rolled his eyes and leaned his back against the couch as if it would help him stretch out more.  

“What song do you want me to play?” You asked, strumming the guitar to be certain you got the tune right.  

“Whatever. Anything.”

“Okay,” you started the opening chords of a song, trying to refrain from the urge to sing something that might give away the crush you had on your best friend, though JJ was pretty oblivious unless you literally spelled it out for him.  

“Some told me long ago

There’s a calm before the storm

I know, it’s been coming for some time

When it’s over, so they say

It’ll rain a sunny day

I know, shining down like water,”

JJ sat surprisingly still as you sang, watching the way you watched your hands, the quick lick of your lips as you prepared to sing the next part. It was a song that sounded familiar and he was sure he’d probably heard at your house before. You had an unending collection of vinyls that you’d inherited from your dad, the last piece of him before he passed away and JJ knew how much you loved that music collection. He thought maybe that was why you’d asked Big John to teach you how to play guitar, so you could play all your dad’s favorites. Your fingers moved along the strings with a practiced ease and JJ tried to concentrate on the lyrics and now the way you looked so beautiful sitting on the porch with the sun coming in.  

“I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain

Coming down on a sunny day,”

You avoided looking at JJ while you sang. Outside of your niece you never sang for anyone, shower head included, but JJ had asked and you obliged.  

“Yesterday and days before

Sun is cold and rain is hard  

I know, been that way for all my time

Til forever, on it goes

Through the circle, fast and slow

I know, it can’t stop, I wonder,”

JJ smiled, the song finally clicking in his brain. He remembered helping you move all your belongings into the downstairs bedroom that sat off the kitchen in the house your sister and her husband bought before Bea was born. He’d lugged in box after box and then passed out on your bed, closing his eyes and declaring that he was never helping you with anything ever again. You’d ignored him as you sorted through your record collection, pausing to play put on an album. It was your favorite, as much as they got a cheesy rep, but you played it for him.  

“I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain

Coming down on a sunny day.”

You finished, strumming dramatically before smiling at him, “ta-da.” You laid the guitar on the other end of the couch and shifted so that you were facing him, “better than baby shark?” You asked.  

JJ nodded absentmindedly as he tried to regain some sense of composure, “I mean, I think my rendition of baby shark is pretty spectacular.” He finally replied, smiling at you.  

“Only when you do the hand-motions too.”  

A car engine came into ear shot and you stood up, going over to the window to see who it was that had arrived at John B’s house. JJ was staring at you when you looked back but you brushed it off as him being interested in who was here. “It’s John B and Sarah.”  

And just like that the guitar was left forgotten on the couch as the two of you walked outside to see your friends.

-

taglist: @maplelattes22 @poguesrforlife  @freckled-and-daydreaming  @chasefreakinstokes @millie-753 @fangirlwithme @alex12948 @howdyherron @katherine097 @tangledinsparkles @tragicmisfits @carbonated-beverage @mariofgreengables @damonsalvawhore27 @ssprayberrythings @dopedoodes @dolanfivsosxox @belledutchess @poguelifeeee @jjsthumbring @faded-blue @parkerpetertingle @thebookwormlife @jolomez @timotaychalabae 

[searchingwardrobes]

Self Promo Sunday

I have honestly really enjoyed going back to my older fics and making picsets for them to post here on tumblr. This one is a cute little one shot that came to me because I did a brief stint in direct sales and was HORRIBLE at it! (I sold - or tried to sell - scrapbooking supplies). I know Killian is good at charming his way out of trouble and using his charm to steal things, but I imagined that being a salesman wouldn’t be as easy for him. You see, I was horrible at sales because I don’t like talking people into buying something when they clearly don’t want to. Killian Jones is very passionate about choice and free will, so I imagined the following story!

Words: 2k and some change

Rating: G for silly, sweet fluff

Also on Ao3

Tagging:  @snowbellewells​​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​​ @kmomof4​​​ @let-it-raines​​​ @teamhook​​​ @bethacaciakay​​​ @xhookswenchx​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​ @shireness-says​​​ @stahlop​​​ @scientificapricot​​​ @welllpthisishappening​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​ @thislassishooked​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @kday426​​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​​ @nikkiemms​​​  @optomisticgirl​​​ @carpedzem​​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​​ @branlovestowrite​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​​​ @vvbooklady1256​​​​ @hollyethecurious​​​​ @winterbaby89​​​​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​ @snidgetsafan​

Emma Swan really hopes Killian Jones has a second job. Because she’s never seen a worse salesman. The first time he comes into the diner, the last thing she would have pegged him as is a salesman. All mussed hair and black leather with piercings and a tattoo. The heavy black vinyl bag leaning against the booth next to him that says Buy the Book: Direct Sales is out of place.

He’s so bad at it that it takes him forever that first day to give her his sales pitch. Until his second cup of coffee, to be exact. That’s when he hems and haws as he gives her his business card. She stares at it, wondering how she can politely decline as he scratches behind his ear and slides a glossy catalogue across the table. She normally wouldn’t have any qualms at turning down either a sales pitch or a pick up line with a gruff not interested, but he’s so adorably nervous. He starts pulling sample inventory out of his bag, and that’s when she’s in trouble because Henry sniffs out the books like a bloodhound. Her son hops from his stool at the counter where he’s been doing his homework, and eagerly starts looking through the books.

“Look at this one, mom!” Henry exclaims, holding up a pirate sticker and activity book. “It’s not for babies. It’s got cool facts about the history of real pirates.”

Yes. Emma Swan’s son is not your typical ten year old. He’s both a bookworm and a history nut. And she loves him for it. Which is why she buys it. Not because salesman Killian Jones has killer blue eyes.

She pulls a twenty from her apron pocket, hands it to him (because there’s no way she’s giving a guy she just met her credit card information), and tries not to swoon when he smiles. It’s killer, too. She’s his first customer, he tells her, and she can’t help smiling back. He frowns, though, when he realizes he doesn’t have change for a twenty, and then Emma rolls her eyes because, really? It’s just a nickel. He smiles again at that and, well, crap. That smile!

She rolls her eyes later when she sees the ten he left for a tip along with a note telling her she’s “bloody amazing.” The fool went and gave the majority of his profit right back to her. Yeah, he really sucks at this.

*********************************************************

The second time he comes into the diner, he wisely comes in the afternoon again, ensuring Henry is there doing his homework. But this time, he tries (and fails) to chat up fellow customers to get a few sales. They seem skeptical of a salesman who looks more like a biker/rock star than someone who peddles used cars. Emma almost laughs when the only single woman in the diner’s face instantly falls when Killian Jones produces his business card and a catalogue. Seems his blue eyes and his smile are powerless against a woman scorned. She huffs as she tosses her tip on the table and exits the diner post haste, leaving a clearly baffled Killian behind.

When Emma approaches his table, he smiles half-heartedly and she feels sorry for him. Once again, he doesn’t try to sell her anything until she fills his coffee mug a second time. That’s when he pulls out a book he thinks Henry might like, all about knights and castles of the Middle Ages. Henry eagerly peruses it, and Emma is a sucker once again. She buys it because Henry loves history so much he’s the only ten year old Emma has ever heard of who was pumped about a weekend trip to Gettysburg. It’s not because of the way Killian Jones swipes his tongue over his lower lip when he’s nervous.

*****************************************************

The next time Killian comes into the diner, Christmas music is playing and a garland of evergreen hangs in loops over the counter. It’s mid-morning, so Henry’s at school. After his second cup of coffee, Killian admits he came when he knew Henry would be at school because he was hoping . . . and then he’s hemming and hawing again, rubbing at his neck and scratching behind his ear. Emma thinks for a split second that he’s trying to ask her out until he pulls his company’s Christmas catalogue out of his bag. She tries to ignore her disappointment when he asks if she’s finished her Christmas shopping yet.

She ends up buying a “Daily Inspirations for Teachers” desk calendar for Mary Margaret and Nicholas Spark’s newest bestseller for David (a guilty pleasure she loves to tease him about). For Granny she gets a book of knitting patterns. Killian pulls out a book he thinks Henry would like: a leather bound book of fairy tales with the title Once Upon a Time embossed in elegant script across the front. Emma knows Henry would love it, but gasps at the price. A forty dollar book is way over her budget, and like the horrible salesman he is, Killian doesn’t push it. She orders two graphic novels for Henry instead, and when she places the order she slides her credit card across the table.

Killian tells her it’s his biggest order to date and smiles so wide Emma is able to confirm her suspicions. There are dimples underneath that scruff. She begins to second guess her assertion that he’s a bad salesman. Because she’s pretty sure he could sell beachfront property in Kansas with those dimples.

*************************************************

In January, Emma is alarmed when a dejected Killian Jones enters the diner and slumps in his usual booth, his head in his hands. Emma decides to stop the charade when she approaches his table.

“You don’t have to wait till your second cup of coffee.”

Killian lifts his face to hers and quirks an eyebrow in confusion, “I’m sorry, love?”

“You know,” Emma says, gesturing with her order pad, “selling me books. What do you have for Henry this time?”

Killian sighs and leans back in the booth, “Alas, Swan, I am no longer in the business. I’m pretty much the worst salesman in the world.”

Emma hates that she chuckles, but she can’t help it, “Yeah, you pretty much sucked.” Killian, thankfully, laughs as well. “I’m glad I was your best customer, then. While it lasted.”

Killian winces, “Actually, love, you were my only customer.”

Emma’s jaw drops at that and her sympathy grows exponentially. She never bought that much, really. She glances around for Granny as she slides into the booth across from him. Although, based on Granny’s reaction to the knitting book (Why don’t you kiss the man already instead of buying all his books?), she doesn’t think she’ll mind.

“Are you okay? I mean, you don’t seem like you’re starving and destitute, so I’m assuming you have another job.”

“Several, actually,” Killian says, drumming his fingers on the table. “My brother and I do seasonal work on the Cape with a boat charter we own.”

“Cape Cod?”

“Aye. The Cape is beautiful in the spring and summer, but in the winter it’s downright depressing. So I like to come here to Boston once we winter the boat. The hustle and bustle is a nice change of pace, and I love city life during the holidays. Plus, like your boy, I’m a bit of a history buff. I work seasonally at the bookstore down the street.”

“So why the direct sales?”

Killian sighs, “A foolish notion. The bookstore only hires me through the end of December. I thought with this second job I could stay in the city until spring,” he shrugs. “Turns out convincing a customer in a bookstore to buy J.M. Barrie’s original Peter Pan instead of the abridged illustrated version is a mite different from selling books all on your lonesome.”

Emma’s heart drops at the implication of what he’s saying. “So what will you do now?”

“Slink back to the Cape with my tail between my legs and help my sister in law at the ice cream shop, as usual.”

So he’s leaving Boston. He’s leaving, and Emma is surprised at how much it disappoints her. “An ice cream place on the cape can make it through the winter?” She almost face palms. Can she sound any more desperate to convince him to stay?

Killian doesn’t seem to pick up on any subtext, thank goodness. “Elsa inherited the place from her aunt. She and her sister helped out there since they were kids. They know how to make it through the lean months. Dull as tombs, though. Yet, as they say, spring will come again!”

Emma tries to smile, but she knows it’s half-hearted. Killian reaches into his bag and pulls out the leather bound book of fairy tales she couldn’t afford at Christmas. Emma arches an eyebrow, “Still trying to make a sale?”

“Oh no, Swan, this is a gift. To thank you.”

“Killian, I can’t accept that. You need to sell off your inventory, or you’ll lose everything you invested.”

Killian chuckles sardonically at that, “Too late for that, Swan. Besides, you’re the only one who ever bought anything, and you know it wasn’t for the books. You felt sorry for me.”

Emma’s face flushes, and she wishes she could tell him that wasn’t it. She’s always despised pity and vowed she’d never doll it out. But how can she explain that while still guarding her heart? Instead, she accepts the leather book and hugs it to her chest, mumbling a soft “thank you.” Killian smiles in return and exits the diner without ever ordering a thing. And she hates the finality of his departure and the possibility that there could have been a them, but now she’ll never know.

She looks down at the book in her hands and notices a little rectangle of cardstock poking out of its pages. She pulls it out, expecting it to be Killian’s Buy the Book business card. Instead, it says Jewel of the Realm Charters with the names Liam and Killian Jones and a phone number. Emma’s heart flips in her chest when she sees that Killian has jotted a note on the back.

I owe you and Henry a free day of sailing. – Killian

The fool still knows nothing about making a profit.

********************************************************

In February, Emma Swan walks into Any Given Sundae along the shores of Cape Cod. She convinced herself there was nothing stalker-ish about her showing up here, but now that the bell is jingling above the door and the blonde woman behind the counter is smiling at her, she’s having second thoughts. Killian had mentioned his sister-in-law’s name, so it’s not like she had to be a private detective or anything to find the place. Still, who drives all the way from Boston to Cape Cod just to visit an ice cream shop? In February?

“May I help you?” asks the blonde, and Emma fiddles with the end of her scarf. She was kind of hoping Killian would just be there when she walked through the door.

“Um . . . I . . .” and she almost laughs thinking of the way Killian would hem and haw when selling her books. She glances around the store. It’s one of those tiny places that beach goers walk in and out of on hot summer days. There are no tables or chairs anywhere in the place. But in the corner a display table has been set up. A display table of books. Emma walks towards it. “You sell books?”

“Oh,” says the blonde – Elsa, she assumes – with a dismissive wave of her hand, “that’s a failed business venture of my brother-in-law’s. Please buy one. I need to get those out of here before tourist season.”

Emma reaches out and runs her fingers along the edges of the books.

“Swan?”

Emma turns to see Killian standing behind the counter with a large tub of ice cream in each arm. He deposits them quickly into their slots behind the glass then comes around to face her. They stand there staring at each other for a few moments, grinning like a couple of idiots.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Swan?” he stutters, and she swears he sounds more nervous than he did when he was trying to sell books.

“Guess it’s too early for that day of sailing, huh?” she teases with a shrug.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” he teases back, “there’s a foot of snow on the ground, Swan.”

Emma bites her lip and fiddles with her scarf again, “Actually, I came to tell you thank you. For Henry’s book. He loves it.”

Killian raises his eyebrows, “You drove all the way out to Cape Cod to tell me that?”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes Emma blush, and they just stare at each other again like goofballs. She sees Elsa laugh and shake her head out of the corner of her eye, and she thinks that she couldn’t possibly embarrass herself any more than she already has. So with a roll of her eyes and a screw this, she grabs him by the shirt collar and kisses the living daylights out of him.

He dives back in for more when she finally pulls away, and when Elsa tells them, “Easy there, tigers, you’re gonna melt all the ice cream,” they laugh against each others’ lips.

************************************************************

Two months later, Henry brings his book along when Killian takes them sailing. He reads parts of it out loud to them when Killian lays anchor, and Emma finds that it’s modern versions of classic fairy tales. Snow White is a bandit with a bow and arrows, Red Riding Hood is a werewolf, and Captain Hook is a hero who falls in love with a princess. And Emma thinks that she really likes this story. A pirate and a princess.

But she likes theirs better.

A salesman and a waitress.

Make that a horrible salesman and a waitress.

[astrocassette]

oc aesthetic - seren

tagged on this one by @undyingembers​, thank you!!

mostly under a readmore cause i was feeling poetic and found myself writing!

Bold for always Italics for sometimes

COLORS

red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. cobalt blue.

the green of the forest and the blue of the sky are the colors they chose to adorn themselves with, colors they could drink in for as long as they could want to. but they are not the only colors that follow them. the earthy browns of their horns and their fur, the shiny wheat yellow of their hair, the vivid green that’s wrapped around their body and shines in their eyes all trail after them as well. and the twinkling blues and purples that surround them as they watch the night sky, dipping to cascade over their shoulders in a cape made of starlight. all of these are the colors that follow this watcher.

-

ELEMENTS

fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. magic.

seren is a child, born of the earth, but knowing only the sea and the sky. they take joy in the rushing of waves underneath, the salty breeze through their hair, the feeling of sunlight on their skin, all of the colors that paint and dapple the sky when day turns to night. this is what they know, but when this adventure is over, they will find themself again in the sound of rustling leaves, the feeling of dirt under bare feet, the softness of lying in a clover patch. these are their elements, earth, sea, and sky.

-

BODY

claws. long fingers. fangs. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. sweat. tears. feline. scales. fur. chubby. curvy. short. tall. average height. muscular. lean. piercings. tattoos. lithe.

they look so small, so unassuming at first glance, small horns, floppy ears, and freckle-flowers, wandering around the ship barefoot, smiling as easily as the sun shines. they are themself, of course, always, but even still it’s enough to give pause when they strip at the bathhouse, seeing the bruises and scrapes and scars of battle that decorate their skin, and the hints of lean muscle underneath. they are small, maybe, and sunny, but that does not negate how dangerous a foe they are.

-

WEAPONS

fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. venom. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. pyre. teeth/fangs. rifles. words.

seren has known many weapons in their lifetime, wielded and suffered, but not all remembered. wands and rifles fit easily into their hands, and somehow the weight of a mace did too. really, though, all of those came second. they could do so much with a thought, crush, splinter, pierce. use peoples’ phantasmal insides to break their tangible outsides. it was... rather unnerving when anyone else thought about it for too long.

-

MATERIALS

gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

seren’s mind makes itself out of wool and paper, out of iron and cloth and clay. it comes out in the weaving of wool, the scratching of lyrics on paper, the rush of breath through an ocarina. they collect rocks with their hands and dirt with their feet, and their days are segmented by iron weapons and cookware alike. the watcher is made up of many things, but most of all, themself.

-

NATURE + WEATHER

grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. sunflowers. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky. rain. storm. sunny.

a child of the earth, a child of nature, they appreciate everything they can get from it. plants, trees and flowers and crops are petted as seren passes by. barefoot, they dig their toes into grass and dirt and sand alike, reveling in the texture. they lie on beaches and meadows, watching what the sky has to offer at any time of day.

-

ANIMALS + MYTHICAL CREATURES

lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles + tortoises. bugs. spiders. doves. robins. ducks. vultures. whales. dolphins. fish. octopus. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. rabbits. hares. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. tigers. panthers. deer. foxes. bats. bears. crocodiles + alligators. coyotes. seals + sea lions

seren knows of many animals, but only has experience with a few. they know stories of falcons and snakes and turtles and panthers, but does not remember learning them. caring for cats and rabbits and chickens is much the same, during the few occasions they help a local corral their livestock. the one that always makes them light up, though, their favorite, were bats. as dusk fell, they’d watch the diminutive shadows flitting from tree to tree, grinning and pointing them out to whoever was with them.

-

FOOD + DRINK

sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. soda. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries.

fruits and meats and grains are their favorites, preferring savory and sweet. humming happily at the taste of honey glazed hen, sharing orange slices with whoever happened by on deck, flapping their hands at the spiciness of fire kelp but going back for more, crunching on candied nuts as they peruse the shops of queen’s berth. to them, food is very much a joy, and something to be shared.

-

HOBBIES

music. art. watercolors. gardening/growing plants. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electric guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. flight. climbing. running. swimming. healing/medicine.

they like everything surrounding music and the fiber arts, but there are other things, too. sparring with friends is something they enjoy, light fare to make days sailing more interesting. reading books, both fiction and non to pass the time in a gentler way, card games similarly when they want to spend that time with people. neither they nor their crew puts on theater, but in ports, seren loves stopping to watch, enjoying the story and the questionable acting skills in equal measure. being the herald of berath and the hound of eothas does not allow excessive room for hobbies, but they make time anyways.

-

STYLE

lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform.

a brigandine and cape, forest green, sky blue, and white, are their battle armor, heavy but maneuverable. it is what they choose to wear for the necessity of it, but outside of battle it is not something they’d choose. they favor light shirts and tunics, open necklines and half sleeves, pants cut at the knee, secured with a sash that flutters after them when they run. an item cherished is their cape, the cape of the fallen star, that surrounds them in the beauty of the night sky and makes them a sight to remember on the few occasions they wear it.

-

MISC.

balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. mental health problems. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge.

seren is kind. kind, and light, and optimistic. their task is a heavy one, tense, and worrying, and precarious, so they do what they can to bring light, to show kindness against the uncertainty of the world.

[justanoutlawfic]

I Belong With You (You Belong With Me): Go Ask Alice

Summary: Lacey & James get to know more about each other. Turns out they're both nerds, just for different things.

Also on AO3

Storybrooke, Maine (October 28th, 2011)

 James attempted to peek through the newspaper that covered the windows but could only see the stories splashed across the pages, rather than the contents inside. He didn’t quite understand why the library had been locked up for so many years, but it bothered him to no end. He loved books. He could spend his lunch break, his evenings alone and the weekends getting lost in numerous adventures. From Jane Austen to George Orwell to Mary Shelley, he was never far from a novel. However, he was limited to the ones he had in his personal collection and what he could order off the internet. The mail system worked strangely in their little hamlet and it took forever to get anything in. If there was a library, at the very least it would be easier to borrow a huge stack and return them for more.

 The last time he asked Regina Mills about it, she said that there wasn’t anyone interested in running the place. According to her, the last librarian had died long before he was born and no one else had been interested in the job. It was such a shame too. He knew he wasn’t the only one that longed for a library. His eyes glanced towards Henry, the mayor’s son. The young boy was looking longingly at the building as well. A large leather-bound book was tucked under his right arm and he had a frown on his face. His head tilted up towards the clock expectantly. James looked up towards it as well, but couldn’t tell what was wrong. Everyone had been abuzz about the clock being fixed, but it didn’t seem like Henry was happy about it.

 Before James could move to say anything to Henry, the latter took off in the direction of a yellow Volkswagen bug. James shook his head. He had heard all about their town’s newcomer and the trouble she had been causing the mayor. On the one hand, he understood the appeal of wanting to get the child you gave up. On the other, Regina never lost. Even his own father was careful around her. Emma Swan had no clue what she was up against.

 Then again, if she was this determined, maybe Regina didn’t know what she had coming either.

 James turned to head back home; he had a long walk ahead of him. As he was doing so, he found himself face to face with Lacey. She was out of her waitress uniform and wearing a black sports bra along with matching leggings. Her auburn hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, showing off her sharp facial features. God, she was so beautiful. James had been in relationships before, but they never lasted very long. Albert made sure of that. No one was ever good enough or even if they were, Albert found something wrong with James. Sometimes he’d pick women for his son, only to say that he had changed his mind. As a result, James found himself a stuttering mess most of the time. He knew that there was no way Albert would ever approve of Lacey French. Yet, he also didn’t care.

 “We just seem to be running into each other everywhere,” he managed to give her a nervous smile.

Lacey shrugged, jogging in place. Her ponytail bounced along with the rest of her body. “I guess so.”

James stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You headed to work?”

“No…just on a run.”

He could’ve smacked himself. Why would she go to work like that? “Of course, right…”

“Look…I’m sorry about the other day. Just please don’t tell your dad, the last thing I need is Albert Spencer up my ass again.”

James’ brows furrowed. “Why are you sorry? And why would I tell my dad?”

Lacey frowned as the jogging slowly came to a halt. “I was a jerk to you. And I mean, your dad is one of the biggest assholes in Storybrooke…”

“So, you thought I’d just rat you out.” James bit his lip. “Not that I actually wanted to talk to you or anything.”

“Well, I mean…yeah.”

 James ducked his head. Of course. A pretty girl like Lacey and all she could think about was his scary father. God, why did Albert have to ruin everything for him?

 “I didn’t plan on saying anything to my dad. I didn’t even care how you talked to me, I thought it was funny. I thought…” He trailed off, not wanting to embarrass himself further. “You know what? Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

 He started to walk away, ignoring the burning embarrassment in his stomach. James only made it halfway down the block when he heard Lacey calling for him. When he turned around, she was jogging his way.

 “I guess I’m an idiot. I tend to see myself and not much else,” she admitted. “It’s not a great flaw.”

“You’re not the only one in the world with it.”

“Still something I should probably work on.” She rubbed her forearm. “Look, I feel like I owe you a drink.”

“Oh, you don’t have to…”

“James.” Lacey gave him a Look. “A girl like me is offering to take you to the Rabbit Hole and buy you alcohol. Think about if you wanna turn that down.”

 James didn’t have to think twice. He offered her his sweatshirt since they were going to be heading into an establishment which made her do the cute head tilt. Ultimately, she accepted it, though she left it unzipped.

 “It is just the Rabbit Hole, after all,” she said.

 James had never been inside the bar in question. The last time he even had a drop of alcohol was to celebrate getting his undergrad and that was just a bit of champagne. The minute he stepped into the place; he knew it was different. It reeked of sweat, beer and nuts. AC/DC blared over the jukebox. The place was crowded with people. Some were around the tables, most settled by the pool tables. James was definitely the most overdressed of the bunch. The girls wore mini-skirts and tank tops, while the guys were in jeans. He had been walking home from work and was still in a burgundy sweater, corduroy pants and his dockers. As a waiter bumped into him, he worried about his glasses breaking.

 God, you are such a dweeb.

 There was that voice again. Where did it come from?

 Lacey lead him over to the bar. “What do you drink?” She asked, finding them two stools.

“I um, I don’t.”

She gave him a weird look. “You’re kidding.”

The tips of his ears turned pink. “I mean…I’m just not a bar guy. My brother and I had a six pack on our 21st?”

Lacey let out an intoxicating, adorable, vibrant laugh that absorbed James’ soul. “That is precious,” she said. “We’ll start you off easy.”

A guy dressed in a leather jacket with messy brown hair approached them from the other side of the bar. “Lacey,” he smirked at her. “The usual?”

“You know me so well, Keith,” she said. “And for my new friend, a rum and coke.”

Keith glanced in James’ direction and frowned. “Alrighty then,” he mumbled, before walking away.

 James felt even more out of place. Keith was clearly Lacey’s type. What was he doing here? Was this some kind of sick joke? Maybe he should think up an excuse and leave…

 “So, you were stalking the library,” Lacey interrupted his thoughts. “You like books or something?”

James blinked a few times. “Oh, um…yeah. I love them a lot actually. My minor was English Literature.”

“A college man.” Lacey let out a low whistle. “Very nice. Who’s your favorite author?”

“Probably Mary Shelley. Frankenstein is just one of the best books of that era. The responsibility of the doctor, the monster attempting to fight his nature but ultimately failing, the romances in the book too and the parental dynamics…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Sorry, I probably sound like a nerd right now.”

Lacey shook her head. “Nah, I think it’s cool you’re so passionate about it. I used to love reading when I was younger. My mother and I had a book club for a bit. Well, I don’t even know if you could call it that. We’d give each other book recommendations and then talk about them.”

 James watched as a haunting look overtook Lacey’s eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but he had never seen her so serious. Keith placed the drinks down and she quickly took a sip of her Jack Daniels.

 “Anyway, I don’t have much time for reading now but I probably get like you do about books, when music is involved.”

James tilted his head. “Oh really?” He picked up his own drink and took a big sip. The rum burned his throat and he nearly choked on it. Lacey smirked a bit.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he set the drink back down and plucked out the cherry instead. “Guess I’m just not as good as you are with the liquor.”

“Takes years of practice and an alcoholic father, trust me.”

“Your dad is…”

“Moe French. He owns the flower shop.”

“Game of Thorns, I always loved the name.”

“I picked it. He wanted to call it “Rosie’s” or something stupid like that. We don’t even know a Rose” She rolled her eyes. “Told him people would be more attracted to a pop culture reference.”

“It was definitely the better choice.”

“Anyway, yeah, music. I have actual vinyls. My mom left me her record player.”

James grinned. “Seriously? I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“You know there’s this great record shop on Third, Dante’s. I’d probably spend all my check from Granny’s there if I could.” She took another swig of her drink. “I found a signed copy of Surrealistic Pillow that I’ve been saving up for, for months.”

“That’s…”

Lacey’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “White Rabbit.” He must have still looked confused, because she grabbed hold of his hands and shook them. “Jefferson Airplane, they pioneered psychedelic rock.”

“Oh…”

“You don’t know what that means, do you?”

“Do you know what iambic petameter is?” Lacey’s mouth formed a thin line. “Then we both have something to teach the other.”

Lacey giggled. “I guess we do.”

 James felt something buzzing in his pocket and reluctantly pulled his hand away from Lacey. He fumbled around for a bit before finding his phone. His father’s name lit up the screen, causing a lump to build. He slid the green bar across and held it to his ear.

 “Hey Dad,” he tried to be heard above the noise of the bar without shouting. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Albert repeated incredulously. “Where are you?”

“Just uh…with a friend.” Lacey gave him a puzzled look. “I’m gonna be home a bit late tonight…”

“You need to get to the hospital. Something’s happened.”

James could feel his heart beat faster. “Is David okay? Did he have another scare?”

“No, he’s awake.”

James blinked several times before the news registered. “I…I’ll be right there.”

 He hung up the phone before his dad could say anything else and then stared at the lock screen. It was a picture of him and David before everything went wrong. They had dinner after the latter left Kathryn. He was happy. Everything was going well. Who would’ve guessed days later, his brother would be found unconscious in the woods?

 “Is everything okay?” Lacey asked.

James looked up, catching her appearance of genuine concern. “That was my um…my dad. My twin…he woke up from his coma.”

“Holy shit.”

“I…I have to call a taxi to get to the hospital…I um…I don’t have a car.”

Lacey tilted her head. “Your dad is Albert Spencer and you don’t have a car?”

“He doesn’t want me to have one.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Okay, I’d say we’d take mine but I jogged here. We can just borrow Ruby’s Camaro.”

“Lacey…”

“I only had half of one drink. I’m fine to drive, and Ruby and I borrow each other’s stuff all the time.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t. I’m still going to.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James and Lacey raced into the coma ward, both nearly out of breath. He lead her into David’s room and came to a pause in the doorway. His brother sat up in bed, the tubes still in his nose. David’s blue eyes were open wide and he was looking around at everyone. Albert stood off to one side, looking disappointed. Mary Margaret, the schoolteacher, was still in the corner. Emma was with her. He didn’t quite understand that either.

 “David,” he said, softly.

David looked in his direction and a small smile came over his face. “Hi,” he whispered.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Albert said, gruffly. He stormed over to his son. “What took you so long?”

James immediately ducked his head. “I’m sorry, there was a lot of traffic on Main Street…”

“It’s not as if it matters,” Emma cut in. “It took us time to get him back.”

“Get him back?”

“Your idiot brother woke up from his coma and decided that was the perfect time to take an evening stroll.” Albert threw his hands in the air. “I got really lucky with my sons; I tell you that much.”

“Oh yes, they were far blessed to be given you,” Lacey mumbled.

 Everyone in the room turned to the woman who wore James’ sweatshirt. Albert looked between her and his son, his eyes narrowing.

 “And you are?”

“Lacey French.” She took a step forward. Her chin jutted outwards. “Your son and I were hanging out when he got the call, and I gave him a ride.”

“Right, Miss French.” Albert looked her up and down. “I thank you for getting James here, but this really is a family matter.” He looked back at Mary Margaret and Emma too, as if to communicate the same message. “Surely, the three of you understand.”

 Mary Margaret looked hesitant but nodded. She walked out of the room with Emma following behind her. Sheriff Hubert was waiting not far out the door to ask them a few questions, in no doubt about David’s disappearance. Lacey stood firm, her eyes on Albert for a few moments. Finally, she turned to James and began to shrug off his sweatshirt. He held up a hand to stop her.

 “You can keep it,” he whispered. “It’s chilly out.”

Lacey nodded. “I’ll see you at the diner tomorrow. We’ll make sure to have your order ready.”

 Sparing Albert one last glare, she left the ward. David and James were left with their disapproving father who stared at the eldest twin. James simply moved closer to his brother and ran his fingers through his hair, mumbling questions to him about him waking up, where he had gone, etc. Even so, he wasn’t stupid.

 Albert wasn’t done with the topic of Lacey French.

[cost-of-chaos]

All You Need Is Love (Chapter One)

Roger Taylor x OC

Summary: Ronnie is an art student who’s friendship with Freddie Mercury has turned her life into one of fun and constant adventure. Life with a famous drummer boyfriend has been amazing so far but what will happen when backs are turned?

Note: This is my first Queen fic, so uh please be nice?

Words: 1.6K+

“Don’t go! Come with me on tour love, I’m gonna miss you so much!” The words echoed into the room from what must be our small kitchen down the hall. I was currently wedged between the bed and a small suitcase which was resting against our set of drawers in the fruitless endeavour of packing. I was surrounded by my whole wardrobe, and some of Rogers, as I attempted to pack clothes which wouldn’t add to the already mounting disappoint from my parents. The packing, however, was stalling as I tried to negotiate a clingy cat sitting I my lap nuzzling my arm for more chin scratches. I leant back against the wooden bed, groaning in frustration.

“Rog, you know I don’t want to go, but it’s Beatrice’s wedding, I need to go to it, I have no choice. You know I’d prefer to go on tour with you guys”

Roger appeared in the doorway cradling two steaming hand-painted mugs. After battling the messy room, he wedged himself beside me in the cramped space.

“I brought you a cuppa, that’s another thing they don’t have in lousy America, there’ll be no good tea over there!” He says, only half seriously, handing me a mug. I leant into his chest and the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne combined with Marlboros filled my nose and a wave of sadness washed over me.

Taking a sip, I took up at him, he was looking rather adorable with messy bed hair and a three-day growth of stubble, and it made it even harder to go.

“Babe... Do you think they’d disown me if I abandoned my maid of honour duties to follow my rockstar boyfriend on tour to Japan?”

“How about we forget about the stupid wedding, we have...” he quickly glanced down at his black leather wrist watch, “ 6 hours until we need to leave for Heathrow, let’s make some fun memories for you to remember me by” he said with a wink, a cheeky grin rapidly growing across his face.

“ Hun, I’m only going for a wee-“ I was cut off mid-sentence by Rogers lips colliding with mine with such force and passion that a spark of heat instantly lit inside of me.

After a moment, I pulled myself away from his lips once I felt him start to deepen the kiss and unbutton my shirt. “I’m gonna miss you soo much, promise me you’ll miss me too?” I ask hating how whiny I was sounding. It was the first time I wasn’t accompanying the boys on tour and I knew how flirty he got after a good show, I mean that’s how we got together for god's sake!

-Flashback 1969-

“Alright love?” Roger flashed me the first of many cheesy grins, his eyes sparkled in a way that drew me in. He was pretty fit behind the drums during the show but now he’s standing in front of me his beauty shone.

His eyes slowly trailed over my body and I suddenly felt very subconscious in the short mini skirt and sheer blouse Freddie encouraged me to borrow from my roommate. “So Fred, care to introduce me to your friend?” He said, leaving his mouth slightly open in a way which made me wonder what they felt like.

Freddie turned back from the group of people he was talking to, bringing his attention back to the two strangers undressing each other with their eyes. “That’s just the most talented artist you’ve ever met! She’s making all of my work look like absolute shit in all my classes, her name is Veronica”

“You can call me Ronnie” I correct him, “and I’m not that amazing at art, really!” I force out a laugh, feeling awkward.

“I’d love to see your stuff sometime… Ronnie”

We were interrupted by Brian and John also wanting introductions to Freddie's new friend. The topic of the conversation quickly changed to one revolving the things which went wrong in the gig and new song ideas. Although I tried to keep up with the technical jargon I was hopelessly distracted by the gorgeous specimen in front of me enthusiastically talking about a new drum beat he’d made up the previous day. He was wearing an open vest and had necklaces adorning his neck. It was the type of outfit that would look ridiculous on anyone else but on him he oozed sex appeal. I couldn’t help but picture what it would be like to kiss that chest, to pull that soft looking hair as he did whatever he wanted to me. As he was standing there listening to the other guys, with his mouth hung open and his eyelids partially closed, I thought he was the prettiest man I’d ever seen before. It was while I was imagining kissing him that he finally looked up, noticing I was staring at him.

‘Fuck. Smooth Ronnie’, I mentally kicked myself. He gave me a cocky smile and I could have sworn he winked, but I started backing out of the little circle. “I’m just gonna get a drink!” I said quickly before running away to the bar.

Standing at the bar, I berated myself, 'how do I always embarrass myself like this? He’s going to think you’re pathetic'.

I turned around, leaning my back on the bar and watched as two beautiful women walked up either side of him. They were all over him, like cats in heat and I felt silly for even being interested in him. Of course, he's not going to be interested in me.

“Miss what will it be?” I tore my eyes off of the scene that was beginning to make me feel nauseous.

"A large Gin and Tonic please!" As I took a handful of nuts to occupy myself with as my drink was prepared, the couple next to me started bickering. Great! Even though I'm single I still get to listen to couple fights. What fun! I tried listening in to pick a side but my attention was drawn from them as I felt someone touch my bottom.

"How are you doin' love?" I heard a raspy voice in my ear.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I yelled, slapping the handsy offender.

I felt my jaw drop as I turned around to see who it was, "Oh Roger, sorry I hit you!"

"Are you saying you want to be touched by me, Ronnie?" The sound of my name coming from him was intoxicating.

"Well, let’s just say you're a lot better than some of the guys who've hit on me recently." His face lit up with this, “Whatcha drinking Ronnie?”

“Just ordered a G and T”

“Make that two mate!” Roger yelled over the crowd to the barman.

"I thought you were talking to those two leggy blondes," I said, not being able to keep the judgement from seeping into my tone.

"Nah, I don't think either of them could even keep a conversation going... you, on the other hand, you seem interesting". I couldn't help but smile at his comment, "Why do you think that?"

"Well there is the obvious reason that you're a total fox, but I've also heard Freddie talk about how you're always reading, so you must be pretty smart, and on top of that, you have a bit of a personality, you actually stand up for yourself. You're different, and I like different."

He looked at you, his blue eyes twinkling, he looked so innocent and sincere. So different from the man with the groupies draped off his half-naked body a few moments ago.

"Well, you know how you wanted to see my artwork... do you want to come and see them now?" I asked in a moment of boldness.

"You know what? I'd love that Ronnie." He finished his drink in one gulp and took my hand in his, leading me through the crowd to the front door.

With the vinyl playing Fleetwood Mac softly in the corner of the room. Laying on our now unmade white linen in post-coital bliss, our legs intertwined and my head was resting on Rogers' chest as his breathing slowed down, this was the best goodbye I could’ve asked for. He looked boyishly handsome with his hair a mess and a rather large hickey now adorning his neck as my goodbye present to him. As he took a long drag of his cigarette, the sun came out of hiding behind the clouds and the sunflowers I’d painted on the window reflected on him making him look almost transcendent in the soft yellow light. He passed me the cigarette and I took a drag, blowing a smoke ring up in the air. I climbed off the bed and started to walk back to the packing pile but was pulled back onto the bed before I even made it halfway. I couldn't help but let out a squeal as Roger pinned me down onto the bed by my wrists, stealing back the cigarette and placing it in his mouth.

"Rog! I need to pack!" I argued, wanting nothing more but to stay in bed with him all day.

He put the cigarette out on the ashtray on the bedside table, "Just pack everything love" He said, nuzzling into my neck as he trailed kisses down my chest. "They won't like any of our clothes, we're too rock n roll for them" His kisses had now made their way past my belly button. He pulled my legs apart and kept going further down until he reached my wetness.

"Good idea" I stuttered out. It was going to be a miracle if I didn't miss this flight, but boy were we going to have a fun time being late.

[klimtandbencbatch]

Sounds Like a Deal

I promise PROMISE I’m gonna get back to answering prompts, I’ve been in a bit of a writer’s block funk lately, but this came to me in the shower and I had to write it

Hey, I’ve got some new specs on some tech I’m making for you. Come over. TS

There’ll be wine if you say yes ;) TS

Stephen read over the texts again and again as he rode up in the elevator towards Tony’s new penthouse - the man had gotten it a few months back, and had apparently already wheedled and begged and bribed his way to an extension on the apartment (read: bought the ones underneath it), and had tricked it out with a smaller version of his workshop at the compound. He’d invited Stephen over almost completely out of the blue. And while Stephen had initially been ready to say no, he fixated so hard on the winky-face emoji that he found it impossible to decline.

Winky-face. That meant something, right?

Their relationship had shifted from Iron Man and Doctor Strange to something more personable, a bit more intimate. Stephen Strange and Tony Stark hung out occasionally, now. Which, Stephen guessed, it was led to this. Wine and tech specs on a Thursday evening.

He stepped off the elevator as the doors opened with a quiet tinkling of chimes, walking right into Tony’s living room. He smiled, some of his nerves melting away. The man really had an eye for interior design. The place was spacious, but somehow still homey, the modern-ish furniture not too new-age to be alienating. The couch looked especially inviting, but Stephen could already hear music coming from down the newly-installed (according to Tony) spiral staircase.

He headed down, his hands tucked in the pockets of his pants as he made his way towards the sound. He chuckled quietly to himself as he began to recognize it, humming along as he caught sight of Tony’s hair bobbing about behind some holoscreens and projected blue prints.

“Chuck Mangione,” he said as he came in, pointing up towards the ceiling. “Nice choice.”

“Hey, yknow, rock usually does it for me, but this isn't exactly a big - rockets and stuff project, so I figured I’d tone it down. Something more your speed,” Tony answered with a smile, nodding over towards a nearby table. “Dum-E’s got the wine, if you can wrestle it away from ‘im. You’ve got a problem, mister!” he called after the bot as it wheeled across the floor, whirring excitedly and swinging a bottle of shiraz dangerously by the neck.

Stephen laughed, jogging over after the bot and politely working the bottle from its grip. “An even nicer choice,” he murmured, glancing over the label.

“Oh, don't act all sommelier on me,” Tony said, tweaking a few more things with some quick gestures of his hands. “Just pour me a glass. It’s got alcohol in it.”

They began to look over Tony’s plans that he had - a new set of stabilizing gloves for Stephen to use in combat. “I’ve got it so it’s sort of like that Copperfit stuff, or whatever. The Brett Favre commercials.”

“Yeah,” Stephen agreed, looking more closely at the sketch floating in front of him.

“You put it on, and it'll amplify your body’s energy signature. So you'll be stronger, and it’ll help steady your hands in the meantime.”

Stephen made a sound of disbelief, looking over at Tony as the other man sipped from his glass, swirling it and making a face of mock contemplation. “How long have you been working on this?” he asked.

Tony flushed slightly, though Stephen had to scrutinize him pretty hard to pick it out. “Oh, yknow. About a month. Just - everyone else has some sort of stupid tech thing from me. Didn't want the new kid to feel left out.”

“He doesn’t," Stephen assured. “This is - Tony, this is really incredible.”

Tony nodded, his eyes glazed over as he looked at the plans. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, gesturing up. “Herbie Hancock.”

Stephen paused, listening before a smile broke over his face. “Yeah. Very good.”

Tony looked smug, exaggeratedly holding out his pinky as he downed the rest of his wine. "Well, when you appreciate fine jazz as much as I do…”

——————————

Neither of them were sure how it happened, but another bottle of wine later, they'd made their way upstairs, looking over Tony’s vinyl collection and plopping record after record onto the old player that Tony had in his lounge.

“Oh, wow,” Stephen breathed, pulling one out of the collection with an air of reverence, holding it carefully in his trembling hands. “‘In A Silent Way’. Is this - ?”

“An original, yep,” Tony said, smiling. God, Stephen was cute up close. Strip away all the magic and robes and belts (why so many belts?) and he was a kid in a candy store. Tony could practically see the memories flitting across his face.

“This was the first record I ever bought with my own money,” Stephen laughed. “Damn. It’s in beautiful condition,” he said, sliding it out of its jacket, his mouth slightly agape in awe.

“You got a collection somewhere in that madhouse you call home?” Tony asked, looking around to see where their third bottle had gotten off to.

“…I had one, yeah,” Stephen answered, slowly putting the record back. “I, um. After my accident, I sort of… Lost it. I went nuts looking for a doctor to fix me, any surgeon that would - take me on and make me whole again.” He shook his head, looking down at his hands as they shook slightly, his scarred fingers spread wide. “I sold everything I owned. Most of my watches, all my furniture, my suits, my - my record collection, too. A few of them had been my dad’s, the ones he - managed to buy when he scraped some extra money together.”

Both men were silent for a bit. Tony let the information sink in, making sure to file it away for later. Just before the silence got too awkward, Tony cleared his throat, pulling the album back out and holding it out to Stephen. “Take it.”

“I can't do that,” Stephen said immediately. “It’s an original, Tony, it’s worth - “

“Take a look around you, sweetheart,” Tony said, gesturing to the rather plush lounge they were standing in. “Does money look like it matters to me? I want you to have it. Consider it an investment in your new collection. Something to start with.”

Stephen smiled, laughing a bit. “I - don’t know what to say,” he admitted, his hands closing around the record as he admired the cover again.

“Say you'll come over for a wine night again,” Tony offered, reaching out to place a hand on Stephen’s arm, squeezing gently.

“Do I get to walk away with another record?” Stephen teased.

“Hey, if you play your cards right.”

They shared a laugh for a moment, their eyes holding one another's gaze. Stephen broke first, looking down to appreciate the album in his hands again.

“Thanks, Tony. Seriously. For - the gloves, and the - honestly, for the best night I've had in years,” Stephen sighed, offering Tony a small, genuine smile.

“Hey, any time,” Tony said, finally locating the third bottle. “Ah ha! Now, help me finish this little bastard, and then I'll let you go home.”

Stephen grinned, slipping his new record out of its sleeve and placing it on the player, standing back as the music began to play. "Sounds like a deal.”

[vroombroomzoom]

Comprehensive review of the Ducati Monster 620 (2002 and thereabouts)

Over recent years I have been a very lucky motorcyclist, having ridden a number of very different bikes from across many different categories and amongst this wonderful mix of crotch-rockets, I have owned three Ducati Monster 620IE/620SIE Italian masterpieces. 

How I came to love this particular model is explained in one of my previous posts so I won’t bore you with the details, but in summary, I fell in love with the beauty and pagentry of this little air-cooled naked.

I’m going to attempt to cover all aspects of this bike as best I can in the following ramblings and musings as I recollect my time with the Ducati Monster 620SIE. 

RIDING IT (because really, that’s where it’s at)

If you speak to any honest Monster owners, they will tell you that these particular bikes are a bit of a love/hate relationship. If they tell you they love riding these things, they are lying. They might like THE THOUGHT of being on top of these Italian pieces of artwork, but there is plenty to dislike (and some things to like) about the ride. 

To start with, the 620 has an excellent seating position. A slightly agressive reach to the bars is “just right” and of all the porridge I’ve sampled, this one is an excellent overall compromise. Some like to take things a little futher and put on clip-ons, but then again, they probably aren’t riding more than 50km at a time. 

Wind buffering is shit, and especially shit if you decide to get rid of that tiny fairing that you get on the S models. But of course this bike isn’t a tourer and it reminds you of that fact every time you sit on it. The seat is absolutely attrotious. It’s hard and although it doesn’t push your nuts underneath you like the newer ones (which I will write about at a later time), it scores about a 4/10 for comfort. It’s bearable in small bursts under an hour or so, but the padding is too firm for anything longer. Event to this day the foam hasn’t softened and the extra padding I have involuntarily put onto my arse over the years hasn’t improved it enough either. 

Riding it in the hills, the Monster is at home. The uniqueness of that off-throttle compression means you can sometimes go for quite a few twisty kilometres without even using the brakes. It feels nimble enough with the right tyre, but it’s only when you hop off a newer bike that the deficiencies in the dynamics becomes more evident. Still, it’s responsive, but in an early 2000s kind-of-way. Riding it back-to-back with my next gen Monster 796, the two are on completely different planets in terms of weight distribution, turning circle, rake and responsiveness. Is it bad? Well no, but it’s not the type of bike you’d turn into a track weapon. 

Riding it in the city, which is what it’s supposedly made for, the 620 actually struggles a little. That low rev putt putt putting around that you end up often doing becomes painful and you end up riding the clutch to be smooth. Once you’re used to this, it’s not a problem, but it’s definitely no Ninja 300. To add to the annoyance is the air cooled engine, which, after sitting at the lights, becomes rather hot and starts to splutter and pop, which I actually didn’t mind, but must not have been too nice for the combustion chamber. 

When I felt my arse was up to the task, I took these bikes on 500km+ rides a few times. As you’ve read above, this is not a tourer and I was ready to kick the bike over at the end of each of these rides. My arse was sore. My hands were so numb and fatigued, I actually experienced cramps following the rides, but that could have been partially down to me death gripping the bloody useless grips. There is a significant amount of vibration in the 620, especially with any pipes outside of the restrictive factory offering, but it’s a compromise we make for that wonderful sound eminating from the desmo.

Oh yes, that sound. There is not much else out there that comes close to the thunder-god Harley/sportsbike mix that you get with a Desmo, especially with the right pipes. With factory, there is a little gurrgle, but with a new set of less-restrictive pipes, your machine becomes a fire breathing dragon faster than you can say “I will pay anything, just give me those god damned cans”. 

The big boofy white elephant in the room is the power produced by the 618cc fuel injected engine. It was a very simple update from the 600 and a quite early version of injection that gave you 57 HP when the bike was new. This puts it into a no-mans land in terms of modern bikes, since it’s not quite learner power and it definitely will not set the world on fire either. So you’re stuck in an in-between place of useful but somewhat lacking ponnies. It’s good for hitting 180kph, but it does not really like being there. There is plenty of torque for take offs but it starts losing out very quickly once the first gear change occurs. The Monster was my first bike and I found it excellent to learn on, but, in Australia anyway, it doesn’t meet current LAMS requirements so no one will be learning on these bikes anymore.   

MAINTAINING IT/BUILD QUALITY

My first Monster was immaculate. My second one I didn’t do enough kms on to have to worry about maintenance. The third one, I dropped the oil, replaced the filter and troubleshooted a few items along the way. 

You’re probably aware of the reputation of older Ducatis and service intervals. This particular series was the first to employ slightly updated internals from the first series 600s, which meant the intervals were pushed out a little further, but still a pain. The desmo valve adjustment still requires the sale of a kidney. 

In terms of build quality, the frame and plastic fairings/cowls were of a very high finish. However, there continue to be some deterioration in the use of cheaper plastics in the indicators and their design on a vibratory motorcycle means they often break/disintegrate. Unless the owner is meticulous in their upkeep, there will be some rusting on chrome bits and most bolts, as well as the instrument cluster on SOME of these having the dreaded moisture entry which is annoying. The seat material can be worn quite easily with a somewhat slippery vinyl material being used that doesn’t stand up to the harsh Australian climate. On one of my bikes I also had a cracked rear hugger. 

These bikes are getting somewhat aged now. As such, there are a number of gremlins. The main one I came across is sub-par wiring which lead to other problems. Unfortunately, to get that sexy design to work, a lot of the wiring had to go near the cylinders and after years and years of functioning in that hot environment, I think the wires finally just pack it in. I have made a comprehensive video here about how I ended up troubleshooting a somewhat complex issue (finding a workaround). They do cook rec/regs as a result of this poor wiring, but apart from these little niggly issues, they are quite easy to maintain. Note that aftermarket OEM parts are starting to be hard to come by and tend to be on the expensive side. The Chinese have made little effort to re-create identical/close to identical replacements, and unfortunately you won’t find indicators that are a straight fit for the 620. For this reason, the obligatory tail-chop (which involves actually hacking into the frame) is almost a must-do.

DROOLING OVER THE DESIGN

Where this bike shines, even today, is the aesthetic design. That tank. The exposed trellis. The retro round headlight. The way it sounds.....OMG. An annoyance though is the shitty zip-tie job on the frame which is just kind of bizzare. I can see the design meeting now, “So, team, we just spent countless hours on the design of this motorcycle. HANG ON A SECOND! WE FORGOT THE ELECTRICS!!! FUCK! Never mind, just zip tie it to the frame.” Seriously Ducati....WTF??? But yes, she is typically Italian with plenty of thought to make this bike look a bit like a charging bull with that humped tank, as well as keeping it retro with the simple round headlight. Well done Ducati. 

So iconic is this design that may have copied it. In fact, if you squint your eyes a little, the Honda VTR250 is basically a smaller version of this design. The Hyosung GT650, Cagiva Raptor, older Suzuki SV650, the Gladius, MV Augusta Brutale and some of the Honda CB series bikes all owe their design cues to the Monster.

IN CONCLUSION

In all my years of riding bikes I have only ever seen a handful of 620IE in the wilderness. I don’t think they sold too many here in Australia but I would assume that a large number of these are down in Melbourne and Sydney where they’re home to collectors. The world, and Ducati, and I, have definitely moved past these bikes but I dare say there are still a few hundred proud owners out there, grumbling about the valve clearance costs, but passionately loving their little Monsters none-the-less. 

[chrisgoesrock]

The Orange Alabaster Mushroom - Space & Time (1998)

Elusive Canadian psych-garage-pop-cult mastermynd Gregory Watson falls into the category of those who have definitely had "too much to dream last night". He has allowed his especially analogue recordings as The Orange Alabaster Mushroom to be re-combined in the digital realm. A collection of eccentric 60s pop-alchemy and exquisite psychedelic lunacy, mystical melodic songs and assorted hallucinations culled from nearly a decade of recording. The mind-expanding sounds of dirigible guitars, overdriven organs, helium-pitch vocals and a Ringo drum fill falling down the stairs… The OAM is influenced by Sid Barrett's Pink Floyd, Donovan, The Rain Parade, Electric Prunes, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Dukes Of Stratosphere, The Soft Boys, 13th Floor Elevators, and Love, and what we imagine are loads of oddball 60s and 70s psychedelic obscurities. Fans of the psych-pop-mod-freakbeat sounds of the incredible 'Nuggets' Boxsets will find plenty to drool over, The Orange Alabaster Mushroom is indeed cut from the same paislied, technicolor cloth.

There are thousands of them out there. The people who toil away the hours by setting up mics in the hallway, bouncing track after track of sound on their four-tracks, ensuring that independent music can never die. On one hand, it's very easy to romanticize this kind of thing: musicians who do their work with no guarantee of ever being heard are sort of like monks, practicing their arts far away from civilization, completely at odds with what the material world would have them accomplish. How noble, to stick so closely to their ideals, that they would work so hard for no apparent reward other than hearing the sounds in their heads played back.

On the other hand, theoretically, anyone can do this. Go pick up a recorder, and sing and play and bounce to your heart's content. As Milhouse said, "Fun is fun," but some of us have to listen to the stuff, too. It would be nice if everyone who was taping themselves made good music, but often (and I can personally attest to this), the music is like an inside joke only understood by the teller, and perhaps a few of his best friends.

Of course, sometimes people are forced into this method due to circumstances. In other words, if you don't have the cash or label support to record in a big, fancy studio, how else to make music but by recording at your house or garage? In a perfect world, the Music God would automatically give the most visionary musicians record contracts, but as it is, the kids will have to make do with what they have. I imagine Canada's Greg Watson is one of these types, masterfully producing his own stuff because nobody else will.

Watson's virtual one-man show, the Orange Alabaster Mushroom, plays amazingly well-crafted psychedelic pop, generally from the British angle. He started recording in 1991 under this moniker after working with a band called the 14th Wray. His first music was actually issued under their name, despite being almost entirely written and recorded by Watson. He did eventually end up recording in a proper studio in the late 90s, though the results retained his DIY aesthetic and only emphasized how spot-on his psych arrangements were.

As for the music, I'd say the Dukes of Stratosphear have nothing on this guy. I don't generally go out of my way to listen to anything that resembles a genre exercise, but the Orange Alabaster Mushroom is so amazingly precise in its depiction of '66-'67 era British psychedelia I'm drawn into the stuff by its sheer persistence. And to top it off, these are very good tunes-- what's the value in copying anything verbatim? Watson's music would sit well on a shelf next to Nuggets, and that's the best compliment I can give this release.

Space & Time: A Compendium of the Orange Alabaster Mushroom is a compilation of material released from 1991 through 1998. Watson recorded most of it on four-track, but a few tracks, as mentioned earlier were done on eight-track in a studio. "Your Face Is in My Mind" is actually one of the few American-flavored tracks, recalling bands like the Seeds or ? and the Mysterions with raging Farfisa organ and raucous garage-grunge guitar. The opening organ exposition, which actually reminds me of Iron Butterfly more than anyone else, is alone worth the price of admission. And check this: "Your face has left impressions/ Deep inside my cranium/ And when those thoughts are realized/ It's here I find/ That your face is in my mind." That's a lyric, my friend, which Watson delivers with whiny, crass sincerity.

No great psychedelic band could exist without its own title song. Watson's "We Are the Orange Alabaster Mushroom" fits the bill here, and is prime Small Faces, circa Ogden's Nut Gone Flake, with its anthemic chorus and aggressive drumming. "Sunny Day" is a tart slice of music-hall, while "Tree Pie" gets by on sheer aggression and hyped up soul power, courtesy of harmony vocals in overdrive and a guitar solo so of a different era that I wonder if the Seeds' Jan Savage wasn't beamed in for the occasion. (By the way, Jan, where are you?)

Other tunes take the softer approach: "Another Place" features a rather beautiful guitar line, and telling lines like, "I don't belong here, though there is another place I can go." Watson's vocals are still in trebly, whiny mode, yet he manages to bring out some inherent sweetness in this music. Another charmer is "Valerie Vanillaroma," featuring nice Byrds-y twelve-string guitar and relatively smooth harmony vocals. The bridge's guitar and organ hits are classic, and if there's a fourth "Austin Powers" movie (as if I had a doubt), they need to get Watson to write the love theme.

If psychedelic isn't your thing, then obviously this album isn't for you. Furthermore, if hearing vinyl ticks on a CD (this collection is a re-release of a vinyl set from 1999, and they apparently just took the old records and transferred them to compact disc), then you might get annoyed with this. However, you can only dog on addictively catchy, well made psych-pop for so long before giving in to the groovy sounds. No, this record isn't a major statement, but it is almost flawlessly executed. Chalk one up to the bedroom musician for keeping this music alive.

01.Your Face Is In My Mind 02.(We Are) The Orange Alabaster Mushroom   03.Tree Pie 04.Crazy Murray 05.Another Place 06.Rainbow Man   07.Ethel Tripped A Mean Gloss 08.Valerie Vanillaroma 09.Space & Time 10.The Slug 11.Sunny Day 12.Aim the Vimana Toward the Dorian Sector 13.Mister Day 14.Gone 15.Sydney's Electric Headcheese Sundial

[rilenerocks]

I have a podcast library on my phone. It’s a mix of politics and current events,  personal stories and interview shows. On occasion, I listen to one. A lot of people I know, my kids included, listen to them almost every day.  And I don’t think it’s just a generational thing. My peers recommend what they think are good, or even essential podcasts to me, on a frequent basis. I just can’t seem to get with the program. I feel like I might be missing a lot. But my head is stuffed with thoughts all the time. And I read constantly. How many more voices do I need – that is, ones who are speaking? When Michael and I took long road trips, we primarily listened to music, but changed things up by adding in history books or humor. I remember a number of our choices which were really great when you were driving on a two week long trip.

Title: Mornings on Horseback Author: David Mccullough, DAVID MC CULLOUGH Binding: Paperback ISBN: 9780671447540 Publisher: Simon & Schuster Published Date: 2003 448 pages. Top back corner of cover and page block bumped. Back cover creased.

But interestingly, music was always our first choice. Whoever was driving got to choose whether we’d listen to a random playlist or specific artists off the iPod. The passenger usually read or just enjoyed the passing scenery. Often we were silent for hours, drifting along in the comfortable rhythm of us and whatever was playing.

Back then there were still CD players in cars. Last year, I rented a car for a lengthy trip to the East Coast which was a mom-son deal.  I spent a lot of time at the library, choosing a widely varying selection of books on CD, figuring we’d take turns picking genres. Imagine my surprise when the brand-new car was player-less. I guess everything’s on Audible or Sirius radio or whatever. Miraculously, the first generation 30-gig IPod that was loaded with 2500 songs from Michael’s iTunes was picked up by the sophisticated technology of the car so we had good music.

During this quarantine time, I’ve been spending as many hours as I can, weather permitting, outside in my garden. The work out there is endless, my attempt to create a beautiful habitat and natural space while dueling with the weeds and the uninvited creatures who laugh at my efforts to contain them. At least I think they’re laughing – I know I would be if I was one of them. As the line from Jurassic Park goes, “life finds a way.” When I’m out there, I have earbuds in and I’m listening to Pandora, usually set to random play. I like to hear old favorites and am also happy to hear something new. I’ve been led to hearing new artists and feel like I’m not getting totally stale as I age. One of the things that really annoyed me about my in-laws was that they called big band music from their youth “our music.” I thought then and still do, that having one small segment of all the art that was available in your life, define who you were forever, was not a good thing. I still feel that way. So here are some of my station choices on Pandora. I don’t include classical music or my new age options on these as I prefer those as my indoor nighttime sounds.

 I get a lot of variety out of these. The music keeps me moving and sometimes I just have to stop and dance. Having let go of caring what I look like as I’m enjoying myself is a plus during these episodes. The only time things get a little weird is when I’m working in the front yard and can’t hear when I’m being greeted by a neighbor. Or when someone is trying to get by me on the sidewalk which I’m dominating with my moves. But here’s the thing that’s been driving me a little nuts in this already bizarre time. When I hear a song from long ago, my mind prepares itself for the next cut on the album. And of course, that doesn’t play. I still have so many whole records tucked away in my brain. I’m sure there’s not a single Beatles album I couldn’t sing by heart. Those are still going strong in my memory as I inch closer to the end of my seventh decade on this planet. I think I heard my first Beatles song when I was twelve in 1963. Lucky for me, I was ahead of their curve because of having a penpal from Liverpool in 1962, when she told me about a “boss” local band called the Silver Beetles. That’s a real thing – you can look it up. Anyway, back to the albums.  I know vinyl album collecting is again a “thing”  in the music world. Just months before he died, Michael sold our massive collection to an independent store in St. Louis. I miss the album covers,the feel of them and the sorting of them, in our house in alphabetical order by artist, not genre. But they took up a lot of room, our kids didn’t need them and his expert knowledge was necessary for the sale. I still have a few here and I also have a turntable. Perhaps that’ll be a collector’s item some day. I even have a machine that converts vinyl into CD’s but in today’s world that’s a technological dinosaur.

I still have my Beatles CD’s, classical CD’s, Michael’s Grateful Dead collections, his house favorites compilations and many more. A tiny portion of the amount he amassed in 27 years of being in the music business before becoming a teacher. But it’s still plenty and I’m not ready to part with them. In the past few days, as I’ve been mulling over my daily choices, music, podcasts, reading and other ways to stay busy and relatively sane, I zeroed in on my early years with Michael, when our lives were low key and we could spend hours lying around together, listening to albums and just staring at each other in amazement at our good fortune at finding each other. Some who know me well would have doubts about my ability to spend hours without saying a word. At least one that was anything other than vocalized. But I was actually talking to Michael with my mouth shut, as he was to me. May is my hard month – in a few days my birthday will be here, while my wedding anniversary is already gone. Then it will be three years since Michael’s death. So hard to assimilate when he’s still so alive to me. And so polite of him to not die on my birthday which would’ve been just awful. So. I was thinking of all that music and those tunes which roll through my mind every time I hear one of them from Pandora, waiting for the next one.  Those albums still fill me with the same thrills they did back in the day. So here’s a selection of some memorable ones. There are just too many choose from.

Some other day, I’ll talk about the ones that caused total melting for a lifetime. I’m going to stop thinking about this topic for now.

About the Music I have a podcast library on my phone. It’s a mix of politics and current events,  personal stories and interview shows.