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[undermycitadel]

Hi would you write for Aerosmith?

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SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN

Will be getting back to other lost projects and ripped up messages with the 🌟 recent🌟 inspo in the universe... So yes, i do write for Aerosmith.

☁️

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Also Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Bowie, The Doors, to name a few.

Looking for all ideas so dream on!

[undermycitadel]

@oldschoolimagineblog is my favorite. Check out the work!

Hii, do you have any mick jagger fanfics recomendations ?.

Anything @undermycitadel is lovely, she writes amazingly and most of it is Mick! So check her outtt

[undermycitadel]

It’s Dark Up Here

Mick doesn’t love me. I know he doesn’t. But when he needs a bed for the evening I have to let him in and when he needs a lover for the night I must give myself to him. He knows that I will always open my arms to him and keep him satisfied so he keeps coming back. I can’t make him stay. If he compliments me on my loyalty and looks then he must he love me one night then throw me away. When he’s under the influence or wants for me to join him for a night of coke and fun he feels so free but can’t express more of what needs from me outside of that. I suppose he must keep up with his image. I’m the practice he needs when he feels things are slipping is searches for his mojo in anyone he can find, but I’m doubtful that he isn’t genuine in our conversations. He is a sort of friend with added benefits- unintentionally that way. I haven’t got any proof besides the couple of letters he has sent. I know he doesn’t love me, but when I read them in my room of reticence I think otherwise. The thought of him wanting me is overwhelming.

Nobody wants to see me. I deny myself the gorgeous things of life in hopes what I’d really like to come my way will but I don’t quite understand what they are yet. Voices in my head put me down constantly and I try not to listen but the sounds always find ways to get through and break me into isolation. Ever since the eve of my seventh birthday, they’ve stuck with me. I’m now twenty and they’ve yet to relent. It makes me believe I don’t deserve this life but he makes me feel so good for the few hours we spend together. He throws me away but I’m holding onto how I made him feel so good. I have a problem that I’ll never fully understand.

I hear my telephone’s spattering so I fly out of bed to answer. I feel awfully lightheaded and sit on the desk with my legs folded over and my head in my hand. It’s about twelve in the afternoon and I haven’t yet had a bite of anything to eat since yesterday. But Mick is ringing. Oh, sweet Jagger. Butterflies in my stomach go crazy as he says “Hi, Karis. How are you doing this evening?” and I couldn’t care less about food.

“I’m doing alright, thank you. There’s a bit of rain today... Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. What are you doing today?”

“Um...” I turn back at my messy spread, “I’ve been in bed about all day. I’ve got nothing really keeping me.”

“That works out just perfectly, doesn’t it? I’d like to see you sometime today. I’ll make it worth your while.” His smile is evident through the line. It’s too dark up here to tell if I truly want this. I want to protest and make up a story about what I’ll be doing for the day but  I can’t bring myself to refuse his visit. I miss his touch and tell him that my door is wide open only for him and he likes that. He’ll be around within the hour.

I don’t eat before he comes. Instead, I change my sheets for the first time in ages and prepare a pot of coffee. Then I go into the bathroom and stare into the mirror. I’ve left my makeup from the day before to rest on my face overnight. I don’t wash it off or brush my teeth yet because I’m distracted by the hollows of my collarbones. How they could house several dollar coins. I try my hardest to look anywhere in the mirror other than myself when getting ready. I’m wearing very little and consider covering up before Mick shows up. I don’t see a point in wearing something just for it to end up draped over the rug later on so I try not to change until he comes and make use of my nakedness but crack and throw a brown shirt over my head once back in my room. I can feel his strong knock on the door and feel jittery. I feel so powerful as I kiss him hello and watch him hang his raincoat on the rack.

“Don’t mind that lay of clothes over there,” I call softly over to Mick who is next to a pile. “I was planning to do wash later.”

“I won’t,” he struts towards me and gets close enough for me to smell the last girl around his neck. His eyes lower to my bare legs then up to my eyes, still glazed over with tired. “I want to fuck you,” he tells me in a kind tone and snakes his hand around to hold me close. I come to him, knotting my arms around his neck and resting my head on his neck. He kisses me longingly. Mick’s hands are steadily sneaking under my shirt to the upper end past my shoulder blades where he massages and tells me it’s where he’d like to kiss the most. I let out an audible sigh as he brings me to the bed and I sit on the edge while he stays standing. He gives me the look he always does when he wants more but says nothing as I unbutton his trousers, never making eye contact until he lifts my chin and leans in for a tender kiss that lasts a while.

I stroke him through the fabric. He’s growing before me and I can’t help but feel the tingle in my private parts spread to my nipples. I want him to touch me but the kiss is too lavish for me to end this soon. I rub myself through my panties to intensify the sensation. I want my hand to be his, and they soon are after he breaks the kiss to have a look at me. I look into his warm eyes and grant him my smile. He smirks and rubs harder, going past the fabric of my underwear to the main source. My breathing quickens and cuts off unexpectantly at moments. I feel waves rocking me back and forth into his hands. A truly sexy feeling I’d like to have with me on lonely nights without Mick. I place a hand on his neck and let out a moan, asking for more. I draw him in for a hasty kiss. His tongue brushes over my teeth and tangles with my tongue. I taste cigarettes and strawberry candy. He takes his hand away from me to place in my mouth for me to taste myself. My womanhood goes crazy for him. I feel imaginary hands all over my body’s most sensitive area. Craving any sort of touch, I pinch my nipple as I taste myself on his fingers and he later does the same.

“You’re so darling,” I tell him.

“Turn over.”

I support myself on my elbows and arch my back until my backside is high in the air. I feel his hands peel back my panties and massage, slowly moving into my womanhood with his finger briefly before replacing with his tongue. I didn’t mean to gasp as I did, nor did I want to bury my head into my folded arms as he fucked me with his mouth but it sort of happened that way. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and I cry out silently, pushing back against his lips asking for more. I rise for a moment to glace at him. I can’t for too long. I’m overcome with a feeling I can’t ignore and groan in agony. I feel accomplished to finally have him taking care of me. It’s all I ever wanted.

Suddenly he’s away from me but not too long. Only long enough to take off his clothes and plop them on the floor. He grabs my backside and begins positioning himself at my entrance. His breathing is heavy and I can hardly catch my own before he pushes into me. He gives me little time to catch myself before he fucks me at his own pace. His hands grab my waist and pull me onto his cock. I sob, letting him have his way with me. Sensation overwhelms me and I can feel already my climax peeking through each time he pounds into me. I tell him how close I am and he says nothing, only going faster in response, bringing me closer.

He asks me if I’m close. I’m only able to respond in orgasmic murmurs and spuddles. “Are you close, love?” he asks in a breathy cluster. I shake my head, hair flinging about, clinging to my back dampened with his sweat. He takes a fistful and tugs forcefully. His thrusts grow colder and needy. I can tell he’s as close as I am but I don’t want things to end so soon. Before I realize, I’m unraveling underneath him. He’s satisfied once I’ve cum on his cock, rocking about to milk the last moments of pleasure out of myself before he collapses over me. I feel myself filling with his love and I feel at ease. He’s then away from me, laying on a spot on the bed next to me. How I wish he’d stay.

I’m curling up into a ball when he prepares himself to go about his day. “Would you like a cigarette?” he asks, pulling up his trousers.

“I’ve got my own,” I say as I catch my breath. But he tosses me a stick anyway. and continues dressing.

Soon enough, he’s out the door and I’m left with the shadows of our collective orgasm. I touch myself, longing for him to come back to me. He doesn’t so I smoke my cigarette in the nude, watching coils escape my lips. I’ll only see him once more this week before he goes away to record a new album. If he calls afterward I’m lucky because he never does. I’m still allowed to wish for him while he’s gone.

[undermycitadel]

MY FAVORITE

Belong (oneshot)


Written by: musicandkink Rating: M for smut, SoloF, SoloM, bondage, sex toys 
 Fandom: Real Person Fiction

A small glimpse into David and his girlfriend relationship. Total smut. There is no specific Bowie mentioned so it is more to your imagination. 
Current one shot but may be extended into a longer series with an actual narrative.

Keep reading

[undermycitadel]

One of my favorites

Imagine Mick Jagger moaning as you run your tongue down his cock, keeping him tied to the bed helpless. He looks down at you with yearning in his eyes. “Just sit on my cock already, sit on my face, anything darling–oh god!” He groans deeply, cutting his whines short as you start pumping his cock and rubbing his balls.

[undermycitadel]

Brenda

my girl brenda out here straight stuntin

[undermycitadel]

You over me - Ray Manzarek

Pairing: Ray  Manzarek x Reader

Words: 1200+

Request:  Can I have a Ray Manzarek fluff please? +  For the Ray Manzarek fluff you have on your list, can you make it where Ray is stressed before a show and the reader is trying to relax him? 

Category:  Fluff

A/N: Bless your patience  (creds go to @undermycitadel​)

The birds continue to sing when the day turns low. I sit at my desk with the same book in my hand as the evening prior. It’s a different story every day around this hour but as of late I have felt a stronger attachment to things than I would normally. Items may vary, but this past week has glued an Oscar Wilde to my hands that I can’t put down. The book is thick and rich with words and makes me think about average things as I shouldn’t. I agree that it is complicated to analyze, but I like the book, so I continue to read from the line I read last. I read in a whisper, “Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.“ I acknowledge the quote and move forward with the passage.

 I cannot save myself from the pages. I need to get to around to what needs my attention before the clock strikes ten but it’s too addicting to put down. I assume that if Ray were to scoop me up from this chair then I would have no choice but to leave but until that happens I won’t move anything except for my fingers and the pages. What doe is my sudden cringe at a thunder at the organ across the hall. In contrast to the Arcadian music that flows daily from the piped instrument, this was a sound of venom, unlike what I have heard before. I put my book down and turn to the noise and it is the fault of Ray. I’m not angry with him. “You okay?” I ask he who slumps over the keys. He doesn’t answer, instead, he sighs almost dramatically. 

I know Ray, so I know there is something locked away under this. That this means something that, even if it is the smallest of things, needs never to be where it is and thrown away for good. This gets me to move more than my head, fingers, and the pages. I put my book down carefully and go to him. He is tracing his fingers over the same five keys in this pattern over and over again, his hunch is still there, and I straighten him out. I drape myself over him and cross my arms over his chest. “What’s up with you?” I ask him softly. 

Ray presses his hands down on the organ that makes a beautiful final note that I doubt was what caused him trouble. “This simple note- it shouldn’t be twisting me up like this but it’s cool.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I mean…” He turns around on his bench. I am on his lap, latching my hands around him. “What’ll happen is that I’ll get it down eventually and go to bed. Then, I’d kiss you goodbye, drive to the venue, get fucked by the weather, and have to deal with whatever happens when we get to the show.”

 “I’ve never been to one of your shows,” I smirk. 

“Then you’ve never seen how nasty it can get,” he chuckles, my smirk fades. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“…I don’t think you’d want to hear it.” 

“No, I’ll listen, I promise. I don’t want you to hold onto anything.” 

“Nah, it’s groovy. Don’t worry about it.”

 We don’t talk for a moment. Instead of arguing over what will be shared the silence and instead of talking I’m thinking. I’m thinking of ways to get him to cool down. It doesn’t take long for it to come to me. I stand from his lap and take his hand. 

I lure him by the hand and heart to the bedroom. He is hesitant and requires a greater force to pull him into me but luckily I have the strength and Ray looks particularly fair as the night grows. The house lights have been dimmed and they create shadows over the hollows of his face. He looks so defenseless, so warm that at this moment it would be worse to leave him as he is. Ray smiles and shakes his head. “What are you doing?” he asks me, “I have to get this solo down for tomorrow,” I say nothing and keep true to the bedroom.

 “You need a break, let’s have a break.”

 I open the door and swing Ray to the bed. He sits at the edge and I walk to the vanity and remove my jewelry. “You know, I really must-” he starts to say before I go to him. I guide his back to the bed and straddle him. I pat my kissed at his neck. My hands are tracing lines at his jaw and cuddling his head. A spot where the creases lay is where I spend the most time, nipping and sucking until I hear him make the sounds I like and a purple mark is left in the wake of the moment. His hands find their way up my back and lull below my blouse. I go lower with my love bites until I touch the buttons of his shirt. I make it a point to undo them all. Ray looks at me and I see a sliver of him as I am halfway done with the secondary task. He tries to pick himself up from the sheets.

 “No, no, no, I’ve got it. Stay there, please.” I kiss him. He goes back down. I finish off the last button and continue where I left off. His skin is so warm. Surprisingly warm inside when outside is so chilly and cold. “I want you to be cool, baby….” I lean into him and kiss his mouth and as he finally gives into me I feel his hips grind against mine and his body dip further into the soft surface of the bed. I ask him, “can I do more to you?” 

Ray leans backward and smiles. “Do you really have to ask?” He sits himself up and kisses me back harder than I had.

 “I guess not,” I say in between kisses, “but you know how I am by now…” He kisses lower and lower. “Always feeling the need to- oh… ask,” he nips at my neck. Ray’s hands caress my waist and pull me closer. He holds me closer and kisses me harder and leaves me speechless. My guard is down, this is no longer about him but I don’t want it to be about me. He is between my legs, kissing my navel. I can tell that he is ready to venture off into bigger and louder events. “No, no,” I feel myself wanting to yell out and reverse the roles, “don’t make this about me,” but this attention can be easily diverted. I let him move where he wants and do what he pleases. It is too dark to see but we can still feel each other. Every curve and every arch is defined. Ray sounds so sweet. I don’t believe his mind is anywhere else but here, and as we spend our last moments of sunlight together I remember all of the things that had to be done as merely things that have gotten in my way.

[undermycitadel]

Writing with Color: Description Guide - Words for Skin Tone

We discussed the issues describing People of Color by means of food in Part I of this guide, which brought rise to even more questions, mostly along the lines of “So, if food’s not an option, what can I use?” Well, I was just getting to that!

This final portion focuses on describing skin tone, with photo and passage examples provided throughout. I hope to cover everything from the use of straight-forward description to the more creatively-inclined, keeping in mind the questions we’ve received on this topic.

So let’s get to it.

S T A N D A R D  D E S C R I P T I O N

B a s i c  C o l o r s

Pictured above: Black, Brown, Beige, White, Pink.

“She had brown skin.”

This is a perfectly fine description that, while not providing the most detail, works well and will never become cliché.

Describing characters’ skin as simply brown or beige works on its own, though it’s not particularly telling just from the range in brown alone.

C o m p l e x  C o l o r s

These are more rarely used words that actually “mean” their color. Some of these have multiple meanings, so you’ll want to look into those to determine what other associations a word might have.

Pictured above: Umber, Sepia, Ochre, Russet, Terra-cotta, Gold, Tawny, Taupe, Khaki, Fawn.

Complex colors work well alone, though often pair well with a basic color in regards to narrowing down shade/tone.

For example: Golden brown, russet brown, tawny beige…

As some of these are on the “rare” side, sliding in a definition of the word within the sentence itself may help readers who are unfamiliar with the term visualize the color without seeking a dictionary.

“He was tall and slim, his skin a russet, reddish-brown.”

Comparisons to familiar colors or visuals are also helpful:

“His skin was an ochre color, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.”

M o d i f i e r s 

Modifiers, often adjectives, make partial changes to a word.The following words are descriptors in reference to skin tone.

D a r k - D e e p - R i c h - C o o l

W a r m - M e d i u m - T a n

F a i r - L i g h t - P a l e

Rich Black, Dark brown, Warm beige, Pale pink…

If you’re looking to get more specific than “brown,” modifiers narrow down shade further.

Keep in mind that these modifiers are not exactly colors.

As an already brown-skinned person, I get tan from a lot of sun and resultingly become a darker, deeper brown. I turn a pale, more yellow-brown in the winter.

While best used in combination with a color, I suppose words like “tan” “fair” and “light” do work alone; just note that tan is less likely to be taken for “naturally tan” and much more likely a tanned White person.

Calling someone “dark” as description on its own is offensive to some and also ambiguous. (See: Describing Skin as Dark)

U n d e r t o n e s

Undertones are the colors beneath the skin, seeing as skin isn’t just one even color but has more subdued tones within the dominating palette.

Mentioning the undertones within a character’s skin is an even more precise way to denote skin tone.

As shown, there’s a difference between say, brown skin with warm orange-red undertones (Kelly Rowland) and brown skin with cool, jewel undertones (Rutina Wesley).

“A dazzling smile revealed the bronze glow at her cheeks.”

“He always looked as if he’d ran a mile, a constant tinge of pink under his tawny skin.”

Standard Description Passage

“Farah’s skin, always fawn, had burned and freckled under the summer’s sun. Even at the cusp of autumn, an uneven tan clung to her skin like burrs. So unlike the smooth, red-brown ochre of her mother, which the sun had richened to a blessing.”

-From my story “Where Summer Ends” featured in Strange Little Girls

Here the state of skin also gives insight on character.

Note my use of “fawn” in regards to multiple meaning and association. While fawn is a color, it’s also a small, timid deer, which describes this very traumatized character of mine perfectly.

Though I use standard descriptions of skin tone more in my writing, at the same time I’m no stranger to creative descriptions, and do enjoy the occasional artsy detail of a character.

C R E A T I V E  D E S C R I P T I O N

Whether compared to night-cast rivers or day’s first light…I actually enjoy seeing Characters of Colors dressed in artful detail.

I’ve read loads of descriptions in my day of white characters and their “smooth rose-tinged ivory skin”, while the PoC, if there, are reduced to something from a candy bowl or a Starbucks drink, so to actually read of PoC described in lavish detail can be somewhat of a treat.

Still, be mindful when you get creative with your character descriptions. Too many frills can become purple-prose-like, so do what feels right for your writing when and where. Not every character or scene warrants a creative description, either. Especially if they’re not even a secondary character.

Using a combination of color descriptions from standard to creative is probably a better method than straight creative. But again, do what’s good for your tale.

N A T U R AL  S E T T I N G S - S K Y

Pictured above: Harvest Moon -Twilight, Fall/Autumn Leaves, Clay, Desert/Sahara, Sunlight - Sunrise - Sunset - Afterglow - Dawn- Day- Daybreak, Field - Prairie - Wheat, Mountain/Cliff, Beach/Sand/Straw/Hay.

Now before you run off to compare your heroine’s skin to the harvest moon or a cliff side, think about the associations to your words.

When I think cliff, I think of jagged, perilous, rough. I hear sand and picture grainy, yet smooth. Calm. mellow.

So consider your character and what you see fit to compare them to.

Also consider whose perspective you’re describing them from. Someone describing a person they revere or admire may have a more pleasant, loftier description than someone who can’t stand the person.

“Her face was like the fire-gold glow of dawn, lifting my gaze, drawing me in.”

“She had a sandy complexion, smooth and tawny.”

Even creative descriptions tend to draw help from your standard words.

F L O W E R S

Pictured above: Calla lilies, Western Coneflower, Hazel Fay, Hibiscus, Freesia, Rose

It was a bit difficult to find flowers to my liking that didn’t have a 20 character name or wasn’t called something like “chocolate silk” so these are the finalists. 

You’ll definitely want to avoid purple-prose here.

Also be aware of flowers that most might’ve never heard of. Roses are easy, as most know the look and coloring(s) of this plant. But Western coneflowers? Calla lilies? Maybe not so much.

“He entered the cottage in a huff, cheeks a blushing brown like the flowers Nana planted right under my window. Hazel Fay she called them, was it?”

A S S O R T E D  P L A N T S &  N A T U R E

Pictured above: Cattails, Seashell, Driftwood, Pinecone, Acorn, Amber

These ones are kinda odd. Perhaps because I’ve never seen these in comparison to skin tone, With the exception of amber.

At least they’re common enough that most may have an idea what you’re talking about at the mention of “pinecone.“ 

I suggest reading out your sentences aloud to get a better feel of how it’ll sounds.

“Auburn hair swept past pointed ears, set around a face like an acorn both in shape and shade.”

I pictured some tree-dwelling being or person from a fantasy world in this example, which makes the comparison more appropriate.

I don’t suggest using a comparison just “cuz you can” but actually being thoughtful about what you’re comparing your character to and how it applies to your character and/or setting.

W O O D

Pictured above: Mahogany, Walnut, Chestnut, Golden Oak, Ash

Wood can be an iffy description for skin tone. Not only due to several of them having “foody” terminology within their names, but again, associations.

Some people would prefer not to compare/be compared to wood at all, so get opinions, try it aloud, and make sure it’s appropriate to the character if you do use it.

“The old warlock’s skin was a deep shade of mahogany, his stare serious and firm as it held mine.”

M E T A L S

Pictured above: Platinum, Copper, Brass, Gold, Bronze

Copper skin, brass-colored skin, golden skin…

I’ve even heard variations of these used before by comparison to an object of the same properties/coloring, such as penny for copper.

These also work well with modifiers.

“The dress of fine white silks popped against the deep bronze of her skin.”

G E M S T O N E S - M I N E R A LS

Pictured above: Onyx, Obsidian, Sard, Topaz, Carnelian, Smoky Quartz, Rutile, Pyrite, Citrine, Gypsum

These are trickier to use. As with some complex colors, the writer will have to get us to understand what most of these look like.

If you use these, or any more rare description, consider if it actually “fits” the book or scene.

Even if you’re able to get us to picture what “rutile” looks like, why are you using this description as opposed to something else? Have that answer for yourself.

“His skin reminded her of the topaz ring her father wore at his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades.” 

P H Y S I C A L  D E S C R I P T I ON

Physical character description can be more than skin tone.

Show us hair, eyes, noses, mouth, hands…body posture, body shape, skin texture… though not necessarily all of those nor at once.

Describing features also helps indicate race, especially if your character has some traits common within the race they are, such as afro hair to a Black character.

How comprehensive you decide to get is up to you. I wouldn’t overdo it and get specific to every mole and birthmark. Noting defining characteristics is good, though, like slightly spaced front teeth, curls that stay flopping in their face, hands freckled with sunspots…

G E N E R A L  T I P S

Indicate Race Early: I suggest indicators of race be made at the earliest convenience within the writing, with more hints threaded throughout here and there.

Get Creative On Your Own: Obviously, I couldn’t cover every proper color or comparison in which has been “approved” to use for your characters’ skin color, so it’s up to you to use discretion when seeking other ways and shades to describe skin tone.

Skin Color May Not Be Enough: Describing skin tone isn’t always enough to indicate someone’s ethnicity. As timeless cases with readers equating brown to “dark white” or something, more indicators of race may be needed.

Describe White characters and PoC Alike: You should describe the race and/or skin tone of your white characters just as you do your Characters of Color. If you don’t, you risk implying that White is the default human being and PoC are the “Other”).

PSA: Don’t use “Colored.” Based on some asks we’ve received using this word, I’d like to say that unless you or your character is a racist grandmama from the 1960s, do not call People of Color “colored” please. 

Not Sure Where to Start? You really can’t go wrong using basic colors for your skin descriptions. It’s actually what many people prefer and works best for most writing. Personally, I tend to describe my characters using a combo of basic colors + modifiers, with mentions of undertones at times. I do like to veer into more creative descriptions on occasion.

Want some alternatives to “skin” or “skin color”? Try: Appearance, blend, blush, cast, coloring, complexion, flush, glow, hue, overtone, palette, pigmentation, rinse, shade, sheen, spectrum, tinge, tint, tone, undertone, value, wash.

Skin Tone Resources

List of Color Names

The Color Thesaurus

Things that are Brown (blog)

Skin Undertone & Color Matching

Tips and Words on Describing Skin

Photos: Undertones Described (Modifiers included)

Online Thesaurus (try colors, such as “red” & “brown”)

Don’t Call me Pastries: Creative Skin Tones w/ pics 3 2 1

Writing & Description Guides

WWC Featured Description Posts

WWC Guide: Words to Describe Hair

Writing with Color: Description & Skin Color Tags

7 Offensive Mistakes Well-intentioned Writers Make

I tried to be as comprehensive as possible with this guide, but if you have a question regarding describing skin color that hasn’t been answered within part I or II of this guide, or have more questions after reading this post, feel free to ask!

~ Mod Colette

[undermycitadel]

Edie Sedgwick and Andy Warhol, 1965

[undermycitadel]

Commonly Used Words and their Synonyms!

Instead of using… You can use the word…

Looked — observed, peered, gazed, glanced, explored, glimpsed, stared, eyed, viewed, noticed, watched, inspected, examined, and peeked. 

Said — told, stated, replied, phrased, announced, articulated, reported, expressed, voiced, mentioned, communicated, uttered, spoke, and vocalised.

Shouted — yelled, roared, exclaimed, hollered, cried, called out, squealed, wailed, screeched, squawked, bellowed, shrieked, screamed, and howled.

Laughed — chuckled, smiled, giggled, grinned, snickered, cracked up, hooted, roared, snorted, howled, erupt into laughter, and burst into laughter.

Good — great, pleasant, wonderful, positive, awesome, rad, splendid, worthy, superb, superior, marvellous, stellar, excellent, and super.

Bad — awful, atrocious, terrible, negative, unfortunate, rough, dreadful, dismal., poor, appalling, lousy, unpleasant, crummy, and miserable. 

Nice — polite, kind, respectable, friendly, well-mannered, admirable, wonderful, affable, lovely, nifty, pleasant, inviting, enjoyable, and fine.

Mean — nasty, evil, unkind, vicious, cruel, wicked, bothersome, spiteful, unpleasant, hateful, malicious, harsh, uncaring, and insensitive. 

Tried — weary, burned out, sleepy, sluggish, exhausted, drowsy, fatigued, heavy-eyed, beat, lifeless, drained, lazy, worn out, and droopy.

Scared — frightened, worried, afraid, anxious, fearful, timid, startled, suspicious, alarmed, apprehensive, petrified, shaken, terrified, and panicked.

Happy — glad, ecstatic, joyful, jovial, delighted, merry, content, elated, blissful, gleeful, cheerful, thrilled, pleasant, and overjoyed.   

Sad — unhappy, disappointed, miserable, blue, depressed, sorrowful, gloomy, melancholy, down in the dumps, dismal, heartbroken, down, and full of woe.

Mad — angry, outraged, grouchy, fuming, furious, frantic, irritated, cranky, annoyed, irate, livid, enraged, infuriated, and heated.

Excited — eager, wired, enthusiastic, simulated, thrilled, jubilant, hysterical, jumpy, charged, anxious, awakened, fired up, nervous, and on edge.

Pretty — beautiful, charming, attractive, elegant, handsome, gorgeous, dazzling, captivating, nice-looking, glamorous, lovely, stunning, appealing, and memorising.

Ugly — unpleasant, gruesome, horrid, gross, dreadful, beastly, grotesque, deformed, appalling, plain, unsightly, loathsome, hideous, and homely.

Little — small, young, tiny, mini, petite, short, minute, slim, pocket-sized, slight, pint-sized, minor, miniature, and wee.

Big — humongous, ginormous, gigantic, hefty, large, jumbo, huge, massive, enormous, oversize, vast, great, giant, and abundant.

Funny — humorous, whimsical, hilarious, eccentric, amusing, side-splitting, comical, lighthearted, witty, jolly, nutty, hysterical, jokey, and droll.

Fun — entertaining, interesting, pleasurable, a blast, exciting, captivating, enjoyable, fascinating, engaging, gratifying, action-filled, lively, amusing, and enchanting. 

Smart — keen, intelligent, clever, cunning, screwed, knowledgeable, brilliant, sharp-witted, wise, scholarly, bright, gifted, canny, and brainy. 

Like — love, care about, adore, value, fond of, treasure, cherish, appreciate, admire, enjoy, passionate about, crazy about, and devoted to.     

Hate — loathe, detest, dislike greatly, despise, execrate, feel revulsion towards, feel hostile towards, be repelled by, be revolted by, regard with disgust, be unable to stomach, find intolerable, shudder at, and recoil from. 

Hot — sweltering, fiery, overly warm, heated, burning up, stuffy, sizzling, spicy, blistering, humid, boiling, blazing, scorching, and scalding. 

Cold — chilly, very cold, icy, bitter, frigid, arctic, frosty, nippy, crisp, harsh, wintry, biting, freezing, and polar.

Fast — quick, speedy, sudden, hurried, abrupt, rushed, rapid, instantly, brisk, dashing, hasty, accelerated, swift, and prompt. 

Slow — unhurried, inactive, leisurely, slothful, sluggish, passive, gradual, snail-like, slack, time-consuming, stagnant, decelerate, delay, and losing speed. 

[undermycitadel]

could you please do “Now, not to be forward, but I love you.” with brian jones?

Summary: “Could you please do “Now, not to be forward, but I love you.” with Brian Jones?”

Word Count: 1,376

Pairing: Brian Jones x Original character

A/N: Bless your patience… I rather like this one.

Lovely little girls never chased Brian. It was always the other way around. For the bulk of his boyhood, Brian saw no problem with hovering over the admired like a news chopper over the latest coverage. He would nearly stalk the apple of his eye until eventually she would come around and found great fun in the sport. But as of late there were no girls to chase, there was no time for the chase unless he took time out of his job to do so, less and less fun came out of it. Groupies chased Brian as he did his muses. But instead of ending with pregnancies and her moving away in shame, this love ended in satisfied customers and him moving away to the next venue to perform. The fun lessened, and Brian questioned how he could find the same spark he once did before the responsibilities overthrew the mischief.

This time around he found himself in a creative drought, having nothing to do with his futile love life, but in the process of merging. Brian couldn’t seem to escape the changes happening in his life that he didn’t feel ready for. He could stand the live audiences at the beginning of his career in the Rolling Stones, yet, as time went on and the purge of the sixties was closer than he could accept, Brian unironically couldn’t find his satisfaction in his commercial success in music. And of course, that bled into his love life as all things did at one point or another. Already it was June, just last month the Stones released Beggars Banquet and he could not be bothered to show up. The music wasn’t working like it used to. Like he was used to.

If he wanted a high it was easy. The process was simple: make a phone call to the magic man and wait for his arrival with the bills in his hand and prepare for a trip. Then, once his high is through, Brian would crash into a depression paralyzing himself from facing the world’s sanity. Sadly, he burns the ash of his cigarette for a lack of better things to do. And if not better, than certain of his interest than tending to his responsibilities of the career path he regrets choosing but you can’t always get what you want. Brian could have listened to his dear old dad and got a job after getting the first girl pregnant, but after the second and third time, the concerns and wise advice were white noise to him. He neglected the advice and turned to music, and after that indulged in the perks of his success in music. Music soon became another burden after the perks overthrew the place of music in his life but it wasn’t completely out of the cut because the women love it when you swoon them over with a good record before a good lay.

Brian stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray beside him on the arm of his couch and sighed. He felt like he’d been sitting in the same spot for hours, which he had, but most times the time passed rather quickly. However, recently he realized the passing of the hours more. He was no longer content with ignoring work for alone time with the poison of his choosing. Brian was dissatisfied with his unproductivity. Perhaps he’d surpassed the urge to disembark? After all he was only twenty-seven. Don’t we all go through changes? He frowned at the thought of wasted time. Brian knew he put hard work into earning this leisure time. For him to want more would be a waste of his talent! There is only so much of that a person can take.

But there was a she in the equation. And she was the scared doe in the abundant wilderness that was Brian Jones. And she could never escape, no matter how hard she tried to run from and fake emotion for the blonde bobbed disaster of a man. As he was the hunter, she was the prey that went in and out of season, as there were plenty of livestock to keep him good and full throughout the winter and enough acres for her to run free and get lost in to eventually lose place and find herself back in the shed of the armed offender. Brian had his ammunition at hand at all times for when the occasion called for a swindle of heartthrob. The words were the bait, but once the line was reeled in the rest was lure. His choice cuts once spotted enough, grew patience for his eye and learned to duck him. She was seen less as of late and as a result, Brian’s spunk was at an all-time low. If anything, he knew the constant in his life would be the girl and the band. Now that the band was a miss the only other constant in his life was gone. He was destined to regain it to hold it as the one thing he could control in his life. Brain craved it because before he took advantage and it for granted.

He repeated her name over and over. “Candy…Candy…” Her name was too sweet to bear the bitters of broken promises he gave to her when she stood for such treatment. She was an angel and he didn’t know if it were a sign of changes or the Sativa kicking in that glorified her awesomeness. The contours of her face her especially soft in the pink light in his imagination. The way the apples of her cheeks, the way her caramel-colored hair glistened in the pale moonlight. He heard her voice echoed in the room to accompany himself as he was by his lonesome. Only himself and the density of the air which was quite thin. She told him to be careful of his intentions of her because she thought more of herself than a cheap thrill. He nodded his head when she told him of her day. He paid more attention to her than he’d ever before. Because there was something about her tone than drew him in. Like a gossip tabloid, he had to stay tuned for every juicy detail in store for him. “Is there anything…you’d like to say to me, Brain?” A hand stroked his hard stubbled cheek gently.“Now, not to be forward, but I love you,” said Brian as he tilted his head to the right and tried to face the air that spoke to him. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t held by the voice until he opened his eyes wide enough to realize there was no one with him.  He drew a breath. The sad reality of his loneliness depressed him and he only ever indulged like he did do rid himself of it, even if it only lasted a few hours. Brian sunk into the sofa.

The doorbell echoed throughout the living room in spacious waves intertwining as it faded. This caused the room to brighten and the floor to set stepping stones for his feet to carry his weight to answer to whoever may be visiting him at this ungodly hour that felt like forever. He treads carefully to the door because the slipping of the potted plants and wall fixtures were out of control and Brian didn’t want to vomit. The thick aroma of rubbing alcohol and marijuana tickled his senses, so thick he could taste the rolling papers. To put it plainly, he was stoned. But he didn’t care. Only would he care the day after tomorrow when he would be reminded of his mistakes as he regains consciousness and is forced to look at himself in the morning and face the droopy-eyed, crease faced monster he permanently became since the habits ruled over his routines to transform into addictions. These addictions easily became his lifestyle, and Brian knew his lifestyle would be the death of him. Brian was as high as his record sales. Frankly, he didn’t care, but what scared him was not his demise, but how he didn’t care about how he was killing himself. Off and on he cared. But not now. And he hoped, not ever again.

[undermycitadel]

The Hollow Living Room

Summary: “If you do xreader requests, can I request one where Mick meets the reader, a young American heiress, and is low key crushing on her but she is wary of his intentions. So he writes her a song.”

Pairing: Mick Jaggerxwhoever

Word Count: 3,054

A/N: God bless your patience, and enjoy.

And I still remember her well from that dull and tedious day. The glaze in the air was warm and damp, perhaps a rain had fallen the night before, and the hot air was soaking up the dewdrops in the grass. In the prime of the room where the blinds let in enough light to shed shine into the entire room. I could see the dust floating midair apart from my cigarette smoke in the light that poured through the scarcely parted blinds. The hardwood was an ash color and brought me back to my cigarette’s draw every time I went to take a puff but was cool unlike it, yet, as unwelcoming as such. And the walls were still fresh with paint. A walnut oil mixture of white we painted over the yellowed worn in white from the house’s previous owner. Other decorations were hardly acceptable for what I thought my guest deserved; dark baroque fireplace, long glass coffee table atop a long fur rug, a embroidered couch, again, blessed with great length, and two wooden chairs opposite the couch embroidered with texture. Was I supposed to have shipped mountains of furniture, fixtures, and fittings the moment I bought it or was I to foresee the visitor days before her arrival to prepare as best I saw I should? I should have, should I have? Because I was the one who invited her, however, I did not she would, understanding her social class versus mine.

I woke up earlier than usual. Once every blue moon, when the Fall made everything chilly, my alarm clock would sneak around my schedule and wake me with its unrelenting clashing of two metals but I would somehow wake before it and stammer to deactivate the alarm before ever ruining my mood. But three-thirty seven was a far cry from six-thirty, so what was I to do in my spare three hours before the day starts for every person around me? My tired gait pulled me past the light switch of my bedroom, through the narrow hall, over ice-wooded floorboards, down the metal stepped staircase that felt like hours of stairs, and to the hollow living room. There, over my lack of furnishing lay a packet of ground beans to last two servings. Coffee. I made a cup with the warm water of the tap. I brought it with me to the couch in the living room where I could barely see the cup in front of my face. Luckily I had the sense to light the gladly working fireplace pre-supplied with wood fit for burning. From there, it was a bunch of sitting. Sitting and waiting for three hours to pass. There were no clocks around. I hadn’t bought any yet but I knew that around six that the sun said hello, so I would wait for the sunlight to replace the need for the fireplace.

I went back to bed after the coffee and was rather disappointed by its false advertisement on the packaging. “’Guaranteed to wake your eyes’,” I remembered the packaging’s claim after waking up four hours later. “’Guaranteed’ my ass,” I grumbled, wiping the sleep from my eyes. My fingers raked my itchy top and laced easily through the tangles near the ends of my hair almost overdue for a trim. Had my fringe pass my lips, I would have tended to them the moment I noticed, but to the media, it was a very ‘rock and roll style’. Whatever that meant. In the way of my peripheral lay a stack of crumbled neatly folded papers and notes. There were others as well, such as boxes taped tenderly, bubble wrap over unpackaged items of the miscellaneous category that could have easily peaked my interest as to what stood underneath the coating but another odd paper stood out. I rubbed my eyes a final time before breaking the bed to pick up the paper and remember when I’d jotted whatever on it. I couldn’t comprehend why I wrote down with a scratchy pen the telephone number of a girl named Jolie. I thought nothing of it, even scrunched my face over the responsibility of another slip of paper with the phone number belonging to a girl I would not remember in two weeks. Figuring it was another part of the job, I crumbled the paper up and tossed it aside anywhere on the floor before climbing back onto my space in the bed. My lack of clothing, that being underwear, was compensated by the thick blanket on the mattress. It felt like the pressures of everything was away. The remaining drowsiness was massaging my shoulders, and for a while, I felt good. Then I remembered where she came from and was jolted from a sudden sleep. I couldn’t explain why my heart was racing but I felt an urge of fear. That feeling drew me to my knees on the hardwood where I looked through nothingness to retrieve the paper. Once the slip was in my possession I rushed to press and flatten it so I could read out the entire name.

The number became more familiar as I read and reread it over again in my head. “760-588-8633,” I read aloud. My eyes tread up the paper a bit and I followed suit with the name that was causing me the utmost stress. “Jolie Quar-Quar, what the fuck? Qurratul Ann- Ayn?” My hopelessness was close to pathetic. Besides the first name, the only other part of the entirely too long name was the surname; Preity. Realization overpowered by drowsy, eventually clearing a path for some train of thought. It came clear. Preity, she was, and pretty, was she. I remembered at once her Preity-ness from our most recent encounter, almost one week past this morning. I went back deeper, father to remember that month we’d first met eyes. But I couldn’t. Pulling back to deeper concentration, I pulled my knees under my chin and held them together with the glue that was my overlapping arms. In that fetal position, although comfortable, was doing nothing for my memory. I set aside the paper and rose from the bed, because what good would it do me to hold onto something I was probably too in over my head to reconcile with? A number of occasions of which this happened were far too often. Girls came and went, most of them were often basic looking girls with undeveloped blossoms for their age. Jolie is like all the rest, I thought, trying to convince myself before I fell into the trap was I warned about many times by my dear friends and apparent  ‘experts at the game’. I wouldn’t allow myself the strain of another Chrissy Shrimpton. The day already commenced, and I was past it, or, I had to be past it because past my foggy remembrance of Jolie’s distant features, I did remember the date of my studio sessions that were to take place less than two hours from now. I raised my arms over my head and stretched them over my head until I felt the satisfying pop of my joints. If I had the sense to throw out the paper, I would have. But unfortunately, I was too stubborn to let go the mystery that was Jolie, But I could only go so far.

The day wouldn’t wait for me to remember the woman from whenever before that morning, so I pushed aside my hesitation and took care of my hygiene ritual. I had to lump it for a cold shower because no phone calls had been made yet, brush my teeth with peroxide because ‘where were my things?’, and wait for my hair to air dry and get poofy because that’s just how it came to be. Somewhere in a box marked ‘Snazz’, I plucked out my outfit. I chose a gray turtleneck, khaki trousers, and my puffy coat for the walk to the studio not far at all from where I lived. My only concern was not getting pneumonia from the few blocks I would pass and the terribly strong wind raping the air, I slipped on my shoes, and the slip of paper into my pocket before leaving. I would be sure to ask my mates if they had any recollection of her to spare.

We had great fun that day. I remember because not an ounce of work had been done. We were not in a hurry to record, no deadlines were needed to be matched. For once we had free time to do what we pleased. Practicing covers were the easiest, as you may tell because there was little to no thinking involved. Sure a bit of pizazz and a little change to your vocals were necessary so you wouldn’t be considered a poser, but that time was much too far into the future to worry about, I could have gotten drunk and made a mistake but instead, I wanted to pick the brains of my companions. Jolie was burning a hole in my pocket, practically begging the question, ‘Who am I?’ I was resting easily on a foam padded rolling chair by the mixing tables, tempted by the important looking buttons that lay scattered on the surface. To the left of me was the door that enclosed the recording area that I often locked myself in to get just the right sound or record mimicking vocals of Little Richard, and one time, record Andrew’s Blues. Not a soul passed by there that day, Not even to light a joint in privacy. And to my right was a very narrow Keith Richards. He was not occupied, rather, he stood at the replica platinum albums on the wall just staring. Staring at nothing but the thin layer of dust overtop the faux vinyl. There was no point in waiting, then, we were due for another seven hour day, and so I popped the question.

“Keith,” I established my ethos, “c’mere for a bit,”

He stayed fixed to the wall for a while, and I began tot think he’d dodged my attention entirely at his lack thereof, but not to my dismay, he came eventually, sporting an easy smirk. Obviously, he’d partaken in the grass that had been passed around. And about the only thing fun about the boring day was the herb. “What man?” he asked, extending his vowels. “I was just checking out that paint dry. Fucking fantastic,” he held up an ‘okay,’ gesture with his hand calloused from the day before. I knew his tolerance was high enough for me to pick his brain. So I did with as much care as a friend desperately seeking out information.

I groped inside my pocket for the paper and held it before his eyes. He blinked one time, then another, then pulled my hand closer into his peripheral, his hand nearly scraping mine clear to blood. “Hmm…,” he ingested the name and number, probably remembering where he’d seen it before. “…I think…isn’t this…Jolie?” ‘Duh,’ I wanted to say but refrained. It was good, though. He was onto something, and it was good. So I let it be.

“Yeah, but, but do you know where you know her from? You have a good memory. Sure you can bring up a date.”

“Hmm… From what I can recall, we met the bird last week at that fucking art auction or whatever the fuck it was Robert Fraser hosted.” I waited for him to continue but he stopped as if the bit of information he told was all he had memorized. He looked satisfied with his answer.

“…and?” I beckoned my hand in my lap.

“…and?” he mimicked.

“Do you by any chance remember how-” I plucked the paper, “this fell into my possession?”

“How could I forget it? That party was a gas.”

“Tell me about the girl, then. I could care less about the bloody party.”

Keith shifted his weight after taking the paper in his palm. And he told me the story, of which I had no recollection of ever being present in the fictional tale of how I supposedly met Jolie. The day would not last forever, and though I could definitely waste the day in the studio, it was too much of a bore for me to stay past due. I walked home. And it wasn’t until fifty-seven steps in the direction of my house that I was caught dead in my tracks. In the center of the concrete tile, I stood paralyzed with realization. Suddenly it was all clear to me, the picture, the number, the girl, everything was vivid in my head and once again, I knew.

She was at the art auction and I’d spotted her. it was the second floor of the venue where the sculptures and such were poised for our viewing pleasures. In her hand was a sparkling cider, and on her body was a cream colored silky opulent wrap dress. Her features were dewy and soft and the lips I saw painted the purest red drew me in. I acknowledged my own attractiveness and knew she would be open to talking to me. I was no stranger to the crowdś reactions at our performances. Iḿ a ladies man, and if the trait is something out of manipulation then you are not a very good one. I was the manipulator, the operator behind the grand scheme of my image. Every move was calculated, every word carefully placed, and every glance was littered with the boyish charm that would come to sexualize me later.

I followed her to the balcony where I found her looking quite dramatically out into the night stars. She turned around almost as my first foot made a tap onto the marble. I didn’t expect for her to speak. She may have walked away in embarrassment and I would have been okay with that, but for some odd reason, she had the audacity to give me the time of day. Her hands move from her front, interlocked, to the ledge of the balcony, smoothing over the surface. “Hi,” she said. And like a breath of fresh air, her voice fed me. “Aren’t you that Jagger fellow I’ve been hearing on the radio so often?”

“In the flesh… And who might you be?” I invited myself further beyond the golden arches of the doorway for an easy conversation with the pretty thing.

“You haven’t heard of my family?” she asked, raising a brow. “Obviously I must show my face more often,” she sprouted a grin with her lips full of collegian. By then, word went like a revolving door about my pump kissers, and hers were well over mine in size. The thought came where she may have come from, as I never saw the average groupie with lips as vivacious as hers. But then again, she was no groupie, but apparently of an importance by her word.

“I can’t say that I have. What may I know them by?”

“Um…” she swirled her tongue in her mouth, “have you heard of Frank Lloyd Wright?”

Dumbfounded, I said, “no.” Luckily, she didn’t mind.

“He was a famous architect and created a bunch of them. My mom married his son and was drew into a fortune. I don’t know how it works, honestly, but I’m not exactly supposed to worry about that right now.”

“How old are you?”

“Just turned twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“I should know that by now. My littler sisters are actually obsessed with you.”

“Really?” I didn’t care. Only about her, and wanted nothing more than to hear her.

“Yeah, I don’t see why, though.” The tease in her soubrette voice was enjoyable despite the playful puncture in my side. Still, I didn’t want a dry conversation.

“Why is that?” I continued with the questioning.

“Oh, please. Don’t be so coy, Mick.” Jolie dipped her head back to laugh. “You’ve grown a bit of a reputation for yourself there.”

“Oh please,” I mirrored, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But I did. I was no stranger to the media, as she probably was no stranger to chunks of change in the purse of her mother. But anything to on the talk. “What harm would it do for you to be my girl?”

Her eyes widened. Taken aback was she, and folded were her arms. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you! Do you know what that could do to my family’s reputation? To meddle with yours? I’m sorry Jagger, but I already know your intentions.” And I have to say, those beautiful words stuck to me. And as she handed me the slip of paper out of mid-air, she whispered another phrase that once I remembered burned through me. “Call me when you’ve got your act together.”

Many nights I spent since then awake, thinking of a way to redeem myself. I had no form of talent besides music and business talk with older Americans, and I knew my verbal skills would lead me to no avail. Instead of talking her into being with me I opted for what paid the bills and the space for the venues some nights. I would write to her from my heart a song from what I thought of her. What little I knew of her, I wrote carefully, skillfully on an ink blotted notepad. Many times I restarted in order to get it perfect and left it untitled, for I did not know how to spell her last name and did not think of peeking at the paper to copy it down. When I was satisfied with my poem, I phoned her to invite her for a cup of tea. I did not tell her of my intentions, although she may have assumed so as the night of our first meeting, however, I was not fibbing about the promise of tea and flowing conversation. That is if I could clear my mind of doubt and grit. And once that day came, I sat in my bare living room to meet her once again. To prove to her that I was not some bloke with a sly smile and bad boy moves. Because that was a strict rule. The one I was never to ignore until after our final goodbye.

[undermycitadel]

[undermycitadel]

What artists do you write for?

You can ask for any member of the Stones, I write for members of Zeppelin, Doors, and maybe Pink Floyd. The bands I write for are the ones I dig. I also do Bowie, too. If you want to request anyone else in the future there should be no problem, I’ll get into that with no trouble. All I’d have to do is a bit of research so that I could get a sense of who the band member is as a person, because if you’re familiar with him/her then I don’t want to tarnish their personality because I’m not.

My goal is to create a figment of what you would like them to do, not a complete fabrication of their personality. 

[undermycitadel]

Mick Jagger and Billy Preston

[undermycitadel]

Evangelina//Request//Part 3

I aroused that next morning from my dreamless slumber by the strong aroma of rose perfume. My eyes barely peered through the sheets to protect my eyes from the sunlight illuminating what seemed to be only in my direction. Where was I? Why did I have a wicked headache? Why was I in a mysterious room? The warmth of the blanket was like an oven cooking me underneath, burning me into the bed, bound by the sweat of my brow. I was opposite a bed with another snoring body under its velvet blankets like how I slept, on my side. If I paid close attention to my surroundings the night before, I would have known but It hadn’t dawned on me that I woke up in the place I resigned last night. I turned in the blankets, away from the world, and to the wall, groaning into the cause. Wherever the clock lay, it was too early for me to care. Later when I’d had enough, my legs took to the vanity mirror. The mirror was very beautiful. Like an object, my mother would plastic and never let me breathe on. Carved by the gods, the wood frame was a rich, chocolate brown, and if I squinted, I could see through the crusts in my eyes the delicately carved flowers in the wood. Marvelous. Unlike the vanity, I was horrid. My makeup was smeared, hair was weathered. You’re only as old as you feel, I thought aloud. I winced at the thought of finger-combing the knots out of my hair. “Fuck,” I grinned because no one could hear me. My skin was so horrible it was hysterical. If you squinted then you could detect some scarce pimples on a bad day. Crust under my eyes and dried up saliva on the corners of my dried lips. The classic example of a wreck. Maybe I giggled a bit louder than I’d like to and caused a stir from the other bed.

“Mmm...No, pas bon, Gaston. Oui, pas bon…” muttered the dead body.

“Oui?” I repeated, not knowing what language she was dreaming in.

Without waking the other body in the room, I slipped a towel from my bag and snuck into the bathroom down the hall. Before noon any sound I made was loud. The tiniest toe on the floor boards would wake my parents in a frenzy. On that Saturday morning, the clock struck ten and my steps were comparable to those of an elephant. Unlike the night before, I cared. Therefore, I made an effort not to wake up the house. My manners.

I was fine, finally. My long hair was tamed with an elastic, my wardrobe made an effort to brighten my mood; rose gold silk skirt, flat shoes, and a white blouse. No black, nothing black for my sake. With an outfit as sweet as this there had to plan for the evening. Brigitte would think of something. She had a million things in her mind scrambled. Even without plans, we’d walk around Dartford past the ugly bits where craters melted into the grass fields from the war. Strawberry bushes where we’ll pick from the earth and eat till we hate them. I needed a distraction from my rituals because I’d go crazy sitting down when I have freedom to do what I please. What I could never do in NYC.

When I opened Brigitte’s bedroom door I should have known to knock. She was in her undergarments, pulling a teal jumper over her gray mop of hair. She wore nothing to cover her pubescent breasts but the sweater she was tending to. Her legs were shaved and I was jealous. Mother never let me shave. But I also never saw an undressed girl before; Dad hid his Playboys. I dropped my bag, eyes wide in her glory, and my mouth was parted slightly as I failed to muster any words in my defense. Brigitte was only startled by the sudden plop of fabric on the floor. She turned, ready to shield her modesty but she let her guard down once she says it was me. Her furrowed brow eased and her squinted eyes squinted even more because she was laughing. “Oh my god,” she giggled. “You scared me half to death.”

I responded with a nervous laugh. “Sorry.” While I was relieved that no boundaries were pushed, I was still on edge. An ounce of myself still thought I would be in hot water after Brigitte signaled things were cool. I’ll blame Mother for that.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Evangelina. No shame in a bit of skin, eh?” She continued to dress. There certainly was no shame in her nudity. She was beautiful and had no reason to feel ashamed for other people watching. Maybe that’s why she didn’t mind getting close to her friend, Mick. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I didn’t have her confidence. I nodded in agreement as I got the bag up then set it down on the bed where I sat Indian style. I watched her open her dresser and pull out a folded pair of black hot pants and dress.

“What do you want to do today, Angie?” She asked as she put her left leg in.

“I haven’t thought about it much, really,” I lied.

“Good.”

“Good, why?”

“Because I know what we’re going to do today, silly,” she snickered.

I loved her laugh.

“Remember Mick? The sonofabitch you met yesterday, right?”

“It’s only been one day. That’s entirely too short of an amount of time to forget a face.”

“Well after you fell asleep, he called. Said he was going to a bonfire with some of his friends and we should come.”

“Okay...so are we going?” My excitement blossomed. I’d always wanted to participate in a bonfire, however, you do so. The urge to jump out of my skin and prance around submerged me. The best I could do to suppress it was to tether my hands under my thighs.

“Obviously, Angie. He’ll be over at around six.” Her sarcasm didn’t bother me like it should have. “I think he likes you,” she gossiped.

My heart dropped. No boy ever had the hots for me in school. Boys would never approach me either. Often when a boy in my class came up to me the purpose was to either ask for answers to an equation or to poke fun at my thick eyebrows. I’d only known of Mick Jagger for less than twenty-four hours and he thought I was cute? Likewise, but I wasn’t going to protest. I supposed every girl would love to steal a kiss from him.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

Brigitte giggled,”With the way, he was staring at you yesterday, anyone would believe me.”

“He wasn’t staring!”

“You weren’t looking!”

I shot her a look of confusion. One to say, “elaborate,” and she did, giggling all the way.

“Mick’s always been so obvious to me when he was interested in the opposite gender...And he’s always told me.”

“...He’s told you?” My cheeks began to flush through my seemingly calm demeanor. Who would I be out of character if I were to flake out over an alleged love interest? But my face was on fire, and smiling like a toddler with sweet would only cool it. Brigitte saw me and caught the drift and was quick on her feet to interrogate.

“...You like him, don’t you Evangelina?” She scurried to my bed. Bless her,

“I don’t know,” I blushed, “I mean, he is handsome-”   

“Of course he is,” she shouted after suddenly covering her mouth. She was surprised by her outburst of excitement and so was I. She giggled in spite of herself. Crazy girl, yet she continued. “He’s such a sweet lad, he even has a band- oh, and he’s loyal, too! He never tried anything on me and was always there for me when my boyfriends broke up with me.” As she came to the close of her lecture I could barely make out the words because she sped up due to the overpowering excitement. “A band” was what I heard over everything. The power of one-thousand strongmen was the only force to stop myself from sputtering with laughter but I was all ears. I was listening to the potentially valuable information about Mick.

I wanted to know more about him because If I was found attractive by him I wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass to get closer and perhaps spare a date. I could never do this at home. Never, but I wasn’t there and far away from it, too. He did look good. I could be bold this one time… She continued.

“He’ll be at the bonfire and you two will have plenty to talk about,” she strutted to the mirror to check herself out. But I still had questions to ask her. And I told her of my concerns. “Nope,” she declined any further interrogation, “you’ll have to ask him yourself, love.”

Bonfires were off limits back home. My school friends would often invite me but I had to decline because of the consent of my parents. Mother saw it unladylike to burn literature and dance with boys to rock and roll music bursting from the radios. Dad didn’t want his precious daughter’s mind corrupted by a bit of communal gathering. The last time I asked to go he made the argument that a lady should have more pride than to make her parents look bad. I could never make my parents look bad. But they’re far away. I can do what I please.

The simple pleasures were what I lived for. To pass time, Brigitte and I walked around the hollow melodies around the streets and telling old stories and made up tales. It felt nice to connect with another girl my age, again. Yesterday was so corrupt. Brigitte must have noticed my moodiness and made it a priority to make me smile at every other word she giggled or emphasized. Her Brothers, again, were out looking for work and playing sport, and her parents were out to work. We saw Mick down the block near 5:20 p.m. dressed rather dapper for a bonfire. Sort of mod; striped sweater and slacks. I’d never been to one, but my school friends talked it up to be fun. Anything fun was bad.  Brigitte and I sat on the stoop of her house making up for lost time. When she saw Mick, she went ballistic. As if Mick was her husband coming home from war and she was his troubled housewife. Then, I doubted he even liked me and preferred Brigitte instead. And he greeted her with open arms. How sweet. How friendly. You could never be as friendly in New York. I couldn’t hear their brief conversation, as they were farther down the block, but innuendo concluded I was the topic of gossip. On the stoop, I sat patiently while they conversed. Brigitte’s neck turned around to my attention every so often, peaking my curiosity, and the creases on the older boy’s face showed when she’d crack a joke, or he’d smile or react whenever something was said at my expense. I appreciated the little things about his face that I could observe from afar without him catching my peering eyes. The way he could bust a gut, yet, find the composure to transform into a serious state. Our relationship barely reached a ‘hello’ but already I felt a familiarity between us and my feelings towards him. Schoolgirl crush, I suppose. I felt at home, where my parents would chatter about my progress in school or how little I ate every day. They judged me and I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like those figures gleaming through the two teenagers who were supposed to be like me and not like my parents. I rest my elbows on my bare knees, risking the pink pressed color if put too long and allowed my shoulders to dip a bit. At least while they talked of me I could be comfortable. Maybe the chat was of the fun at the bonfire. I’d never been to a bonfire so I wouldn’t know. I must stop assuming things. It’ll only depress me to believe a loved one would suppress your good name.

A bit of laughter cluttered my post. No male voices. Only Brigitte supported by a Mick embarrassed to be seen with such a mess. I was polite so I stood to greet them like Mother taught me. A strange feeling came over me when my eyes met his. A pit formed in my stomach and a clam in my throat forced a cough into my elbow. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” I chuckled nervously. Brigitte was still coming down from her fit, and Mick didn’t seem to be upset by the supposed impoliteness on my behalf. He sprouted a few chucks, himself. Mom would have smacked me if I pulled something like that in front of my Grandparents. Even worse if she’d seen the bonfire.

“Hi Evangelina,” he greeted me. “I hear this is your first bonfire, is that right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it is. I feel as though my trip will be full of firsts and this is just the first one.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he chuckled. “I’ll be sure to stick around long enough for most of them… You look nice this evening, Evangelina-”

“I thought I looked rather lovely, too, Jagger,” pouted Brigitte.

“And you do, love, but I do think Evangelina’s skirt is very pretty.” And I blushed and Brigitte agreed with him. “Don’t mind Brigitte, she’s a bit off on some things. Doesn’t know when to recognize a true beauty- can you believe her?” And I giggled modestly.

“Oh, piss off, Mick,” Brigitte smacked the base of his neck.

“Evangelina, do you now see what I have to put up with? I-I can’t get rid of her!”

“Unfortunately-,” I nodded, head slowly tilting to the ground, “and you don’t have to call me ‘Evangelina’. I know it’s kind of a mouthful.”

“How would you like to be addressed then?” he smirked.

“Everyone calls me Angie but that’s been so overused- I think. Few people at school call me ‘Lina’.”

Brigitte smiled, “That’s pretty Angie, I wanna start calling you that too!”

“No,” Mick mocked parents enforcing a rule, “That’ll be my name for her while she’s here.”

For a second my eyes looked past Mick to the winking Brigitte standing in the back of him. As if she’d planned for him to get defensive over me. God, if she planned this then she was much smarter than she led on.

Jagger’s eyes squinted as he sized me up, probably silently testing the name to see if it matched my exterior. Lina is most commonly used with girls with curvaceous bodies, alluring voices with long golden-blonde hair and cigarettes. I wasn’t too far off. I was quite thin, had curves for a girl my age, I didn’t smoke, and although my hair wasn’t blonde it was long enough and had my mother’s volume. And I loved her hair. So maybe I did have a chance. He saw the name fit and nodded his head.

“Lina…” the name lingered on his tongue. “I rather like it.”

Brigitte checked her watch. “Mick, who’s supposed to be there again? I remember Monica, Edgar, and Petra but I’ve forgotten who else.”

“Um, I believe Dolores was bringing Abel- and probably Giselle...” he started to walk forward, Brigitte followed next to him and I trailed close behind while he listed the friends to show up.

The prolonged walk to the designated area for flames took an hour of our time. After arriving I was no longer concerned about his early arrival because we’d arrived on time. Usually, I didn’t like walking for too long but I didn’t mind it once smothered with conversation. Like an Oreo cookie, I was sandwiched between them as we walked down the sidewalks, passing streets, and stepping stones to cross ponds. Brigitte held my hand the entire time. “You’ll get lost without me,” she reasoned, “hold my hand, love,” and I didn’t protest.

“Okay Mum,” Mick answered for me, causing Brigitte to break open the Oreo cookie bond to hit Mick, fulfilling the Mother character bestowed on her.

“I wonder how much you two go at each other,” I smiled modestly, giggling because Brigitte and Mick were too entertaining.

“Just a bit of fun, eh Brigitte?” Mick upped the intensity on his posh accent.

“Yes, Mr.Jagger, fun indeed,” she agreed, continuing the gag. Personally, I saw this as an attack to make me laugh. I did what I could to prevent any wheezing and snorts from escaping my mouth, and it was quite difficult when every other word Brigitte says is joke bashing Mick Jagger’s lips.

Walking wasn’t bad at all and we were to the scene in no more than thirty minutes just in time to meet the setting sun and flickering of fireflies. The fireflies in my stomach erupted again during the voyage. Every joke he made caused me great joy, every interesting fact he told us was extra interesting, and every detail on his sweater was clearer to me than a solution to an arithmetic equation. Obviously, the normality of my feelings was crushed and more frictionally driven. And the dimmed scene and fresh air certainly contributed. I was deprived of this joy elsewhere. Unlike the attention I’d receive back home I felt Mick was genuine and funny. I’ve felt this way before in elementary school over another nice boy in my class. I didn’t want it to be the same feeling, though, Mick had to be different. My first real crush.

However, my anxiety was the instrument of my demise. As more kids came to the bonfire I felt less of the good fireflies and more bees in my chest. I knew none of these people and were intimidated by the lovely looking girl with painted lips and shaven legs. I’d began to rethink my choice of hairstyle. Hours in, I tried to absorb the beautiful sight of the blazing flame, ombre sky, and glittery lake but I couldn’t bring myself to fully commit. So I sat on a log by a rich apricot tree facing the water, hoping to cool my pink face but then I heard his voice again. “No, no, no, you can’t fool me twice!” I heard Mick laugh. I turned around on the log to trace the voice only to see him close with a friend who wasn’t my cousin. Was I not good enough? I contemplated for a bit whether or not I should hang around or split and find my way back home. I wouldn’t be missed. And so I fled the scene, and sure enough, no one noticed my absence.

Isn’t it sad of familiar the night hours are? There I sat, on the stoop again, my head slung over my shoulders and blinded by the waves in my hair. Nights prior, I would do the same when my parents worked overtime or left for business trips while I stayed home on breaks. I was supposed to have fun. I was supposed to forget about what troubled me and now I felt the hurt more than ever. But I didn’t even make it to the damn fire. What the fuck? Feeling neglected was familiar already but something about being left out by someone you admire leaves a pit in your chest, unlike the whole in your heart that is left from parental neglect. felt right at home. Home was what I was trying to get away from but I wanted to go. Reader, understand how my hormones may have affected my internal conflict. Picture a teenage girl, practically flooding with estrogen and hopes too high for her own good. I’d always been this way, why had I felt any different-thought-I would feel any different? Those night hours were haunting. Where I sat, by my lonesome, a ghost of nightmares shadowed over me. I shielded my eyes in my palms of my hands. Just then I heard drunken chatter from my right side fading closer. I didn’t care to look up. I didn’t care that Brigitte had a few drinks and was stumbling up the stoop with Mick’s assistance. “Lina! We missed you,” I heard her slur, but no trace of a face was seen. I didn’t dare look up. The front door closed shut. I heard that, too. I removed my hands when Mick joined me on the concrete. I felt the footsteps and the eyes on me.      reminded

“What happened?” Mick asked tone stalled on the now calm night.

I sighed and rested my head on my folded arms. As I looked up at him, his eyes gleamed in the moonlight. I could only imagine the sparkles I would have seen had I been to the past event.

“If there’s anything I did-”

“No, you did nothing wrong, Mick. I just… I don’t know. I wasn’t feeling it tonight.”

“What’s upsetting you then? I know you’ve only you a few days but surely you can tell me a wink of your problems,” his head draped over folded arms, mimicking my pose to face me.

I couldn’t speak.

“...I see. Do you want to go for a walk to clear your mind?”

I nodded.

We stood up and clicked our heels to the right of the street. The moonlight was beautifully sprawled on the stone street. I didn’t know where we were going at first. We walked in unison. Our feet hit the stones in perfect sync and I blushed at the thought of my doing anything as together as this with a handsome boy. My blush did not mask my original annoyance with myself. Inside I felt a variety of colors: blue, red, dirty brown. Mick was probably on the rainbow side of the rainbow. Brigitte was fucked up, even he’d agree, so his time at the party was not entirely spent on my problem. Whatever it may be. This was a first for me. Walking about after midnight, being with a boy on top of that, and being so in love with the willingness of a “stranger”. Mick shouldn’t be a stranger for much longer, though.

We walked over bridges, skipped stones, and watched frogs jump in ponds until he finally found where he wanted to take me. One would think him to be a Casanova because the place was too beautiful. By the water, grassy field, apple trees… The finest jewelry couldn’t have taken my breath as quick. It took very little to impress me, actually, so I appreciated the gesture. I looked back to him next to me. Mick’s face was cursed with grin. As much as I wanted to stay hurt and play victim I had to give him credit.

“Where did you find this place?” I asked. I trotted forward, wanting to drink in the summer night.

¨I always come here. Never had a girl up here. You’re the first,” be kicked dirt into the sweet air.

I took what he said into consideration with the nod of my head. He stepped past me to sit on a textured brown and green log that must have fallen off the thick oak tree it laid dead next to. He looked so beautiful as the wind blew back his fringe. I wanted to find the lie but the night was so sincere. “I don’t believe you,” I told him as I went to sit down next to him.

“I’d only take a girl up here if she was worth my while.”

“So you’ve taken Brigitte up here then?”

“No, she’s different,” he shook his head. “She’s like my sister. I couldn’t be up here with her. You’re different…”

My cheeks grew warm. And although the same breeze that made Mick mesmerizing to look at flew past, it did nothing to calm my growing anxiety, and for once I didn’t mind it. He pulled down the rolled up sleeves of his striped sweater and made eye contact with me. I feared awkwardness so I tried for another meaningless conversation, or what I thought would suffice as ‘meaningless’. “How so?” I smiled modestly.

“Well, um… Sort of…” he looked to his shoes, stuttering a bit. “I don’t even know how it happened, but I’ve sort of fancied you since the sweet shop.”

I didn’t understand the regional slang. “Fancied?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

Mick chuckled, then looked at the moon. “I forgot you’re not from this area for a moment. “Fancy means ‘like’, and that’s been my place with you for the past day.” His eyes fluttered from my own and to the floor, deciding which to focus on.

“Oh,” I nodded, “I get it, yeah.”

“Mhm.”

Was I dreaming? Mr.Confidence was shy! I couldn’t believe that for once an interest of mine was in the same place as I was of him. When Brigitte told me of his fiend for me, I was very hesitant to believe her. Because he was such a doll, I was sure he could get any girl and then toss her when he was through but his regular teenage play with my cousin showed me a side of him more to my liking, rather than what I assumed him to be. One would call this a dream and I would agree. Right there, with the night just right and nature around us, it was too good to be true. Already I could see our children playing in the lush yard of our Manhattan mansion near the flowers of blue and magenta. Our wedding venue would be lovely: a private affair atop a deserted hill. My eyes were glossed over with a hope of a lust I would encounter. I suppose I fancied him, too. Him and most of the habits of his that I’ve encountered over my stay so far. The butterflies transformed to wasps and the familiar tingle returned from the day I first saw him bother the owner of the sweet shop. The night hours weren’t as bad. However much I “fancied” Mick, I couldn’t slide past our familiarity with each other. As familiar as I was with my joy, it was the opposite with him although it felt like much longer than a few days. I felt goosebumps prickle up the exposed skin on my arms.

“I think I could say the say the same,” my mouth twisted, “but it’s crazy how we’ve known each other for a couple of days, right? To me, it feels much longer.”

Mick looked up to me, relieved almost. I must have reacted cooler than he had in mind. “Yeah, I normally don’t act so fast… But you’re different,” he said once again. “And you’ve hardly spoken three words to me it's been driving me crazy,” he half smiled.

I giggled, tucking a stray strand of golden brown behind my ear. “How am I different?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged as he stood up, using his knees as leverage before walking around the grassy plain. “It’s, like, when I saw you, you stood out to me. You looked so pretty and shy. I kept talking to Brigitte about you.”

“She told me about that earlier-or, yesterday, I suppose.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” I nodded, “got real excited about it too. Told me ‘bout your band…”

Mick’s face drew a smug grin. Must be proud of it. “She tends to brag whenever I tell her such things that could impress. I dunno… There are many girls my age around who act so rebellious and misleading like they only want to piss off their parents. That’s nice and all but those girls aren’t the type you’d put effort into, much.”

My face turned a shade of red. “What are they like, then?” I asked, genuinely curious. Because you never know, girls in the UK could be different from the ones back home.

“You know…” he walked further away from me and towards another towering tree, “the girls who get bad reports in secondary school and talk don’t clean their rooms and become a nuisance after some time-”

“So unhygienic?”

“Not as much ‘unhygienic’, more so ‘unmannered’. The girls have no idea who they are themselves, yet, they want to change a boy ‘for the better’,” he leaned against the tree as he picked the silk petals from another rose picked fresh from the earth. The clover was tucked behind his ear safe and sound. “I didn’t want to make too many assumptions about you but by the looks of it, you don’t seem very much like that at all. I mean, you could barely hurt a fly, could you?” Unintentionally, my eyes were innocently looking at him in place of my verbal response, still answered the question sufficiently. I was as green as the grass below me. I was so underexposed to the mature things in nature that supposedly come naturally for those of my demographic. The girls of Mick’s description were similar to the mean girls who attend my school. Those girls talk back to the teachers, get no consequences, but do receive anything they want from their parents from dresses to makeup to the latest fashion magazine. I was proud to have his assumptions be true because I didn’t favor the girls too much and wasn’t similar to them. Personality wise, I was much too forgiving and empathetic to be accepted into their social groups. Mick obviously dealt with those time wasting girls in the past. I could tell from the virtue in his tone as he spilled his guts to me. He didn’t deserve that treatment and wasn’t a skirt chaser from what I saw in his efforts. He wouldn’t have that with me, certainly.

The silence gave my mind enough time to scurry. Of the possibilities of things to go wrong, my parents were the forefront of all worst things. The little things that could slip through the cracks like receiving a surprise call and I’m not around to answer because in a grove with my new boyfriend or my parents, for some reason, flying up to Dartford to see how I’m doing away from home. Mother and I never had the conversation about the birds and the bees. She only told me that if it were to happen without her consent, she never had a daughter in the first place. Just thinking about it made me uneasy. But I also knew how my mind worked at this point; i’ll think of a ludicrous situation-purely fictional at that, and scare myself straight into doing anything put stepping out more than a few times a month. For me to have a first here, I would have to listen to what I wanted rather than what I was tricked into thinking I needed.

He turned in a circle while still glaring at the floor. He hadn’t made eye contact with me for a while.  Finally, he picked a four leaf clover from the abundant grass. What luck, I thought to myself. Out of desperation, he came to me. I could thank him at least for taking the initiative to talk to me after I bailed on the bonfire. Rather selfish on my part, but at that point, I could do nothing about it.

“Do you like compliments?” We made eye contact. For once it wasn’t awkward, rather, it was surprising. I wasn’t mad at it.

“Not particularly, no,” I tucked another loose strand behind my ear. Part of my humble character was to discourage any confidence boosting calls. I never did like compliments. Probably because whenever I felt beautiful or even remotely, I’d see another youthful, slimmer, prettier girl than myself. He’d probably seen prettier than me, too.

“Well, I’m going to give you one.”

“Um, okay,” I giggled, embarrassed. How could I decline now?

Mick laid his hands out in front of me, to which I carefully took hold before he pulled me to my feet. I stood a few inches away from him. There I was able to see the smooth surface of his skin, a better version of his baby blues, the light brown of his hair under the moonlight, and each and every wrinkle of his kisses. I drew my lips between my teeth as I waited for his words. I paled, I was so nervous.

“You have the most beautiful hair I’ve seen in some time, Lina,” told Mick with a boyish, yet, determined tone. “ And I want you to be with me-at least for the time you’re here. I don’t want to see you and let you past. There’s something here worth my while and I want you to see the same in me.” Mick kneaded my hands between his fingers. I wanted to kiss his hands all over. My eyes met his and I noticed the involuntary pout of his lips. After his hands, I wanted to kiss his lips all over, make it another first. Still, through the goodness, the bad elements still stood tall.

“I don’t know,” I simply said, looking away from each little pore and wrinkle.

He came closer. “What can I do to make you stay?”

“I don’t know,” I said, knowing nothing else to say to him. I honestly knew nothing of how to maintain a healthy relationship as this would be my first. I was growing tired but didn’t want to move a muscle without him being with me. The wasps calmed down to dainty butterflies and I wanted nothing more than to be held by Mick Jagger. I came closer to him and hugged him at the nape of his neck. He held me at my waist, locking his hands in place at my lower back. I rested my head on his shoulder and together swayed to the baseless tune of the wind and chirping magpies. I inhaled the scent of his musk and he did the same with my lotion and perfume.

“Will you me my girlfriend?” Mick asked, voice hardly above a whisper.

[undermycitadel]

Performance, 1970