#Missouri Wines

[mapsontheweb]

Map of Missouri wine regions as defined by law.

[thingsifoundongeoguessr]

the horniest deli of all time

[goldkirk]

I am in a hot bath, I’m reading LotR fanfiction, I’m drinking wine out of a steel camping cup, I’m laughing out loud, I cried this week, I’m flourishing, thriving, moisturized, in my lane

[ari-starsss]

CHAPPEL ROAN!!! // fanart upload!!!

THE queen oml <333

[yu-gi-oh-slavia]

"I never think of Missouri as a wine destination"

we were THE wine destination of the United States until those Californian upstarts came along 😤

[n00h]

They saved us in this year's midterms

They were almost able to defeat Lauren Boebert

With democrats seats Ohio,Montana,West Virginia at risk and now Sinema slashing our chances in Arizona

Our only hope is that the wine moms can become powerful enough to defeat Josh Hawley by 2024 and flip Missouri

[samconcepcion]

Closet Recessed Panel St Louis Large traditional women's walk-in closet idea with recessed-panel cabinets and a dark wood floor

[luveline]

Missing my zombie!steve husband 🫶🏻

quiet day at the camp… hope something bad isn’t brewing… zombie apocalypse au <3 fem, 2k

Steve loves the sound of the river, but he only allows himself a moment to lay down on the riverbank during laundry hours. 

You stand knee deep in the water with your pants and sleeves rolled up, the corrugated metal of an old shed roof that’s been repurposed into a washing board held to your chest. It was pointless to roll your sleeves up, you’re soaked to the bone, even your hair, but the summer sun keeps you warm. 

“Don’t get too hot!” you call. 

“I’m fine,” he says, unwilling to shout. 

“He’s fine!” Robin shouts from beside him. “Numbskull.” 

Steve stares at you, locking you in, so to speak, the nice shape of your hip and stomach, the mess of your wet hair. Tonight, he’ll help you fix it, but there’s no rush and no hurry to dry off while the sun is out, and the fences are up. He turns onto his stomach. Grass tickles his cheeks. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Robin asks quietly. 

“Fine. Can you tell me if she needs help?” 

“Sure.” He listens to the sounds of her moving, likely pulling the slim lengths of her legs against her chest to hug herself, the tan leaves of a book spread out just in front of her. 

Steve could really go for a cigarette. You swapped the last box you found for toothpaste, isn’t that how it always goes? You and Robin found a cheat code in the apocalypse, nicotine with a capital ‘N’. You swap Arctic chewable for socks without holes and boxes of Marlboro’s for the bathroom essentials. Everybody wants them, and you’re great at finding them. Steve never thought he’d crave a cigarette again considering he wasn’t addicted, having smoked for a couple of months in high school to feel cool with his friends, stopping when his mom asked him to. He doesn’t remember why. She’d asked, and he’d listened, as he used to do. Swim team, cross country, basketball, lifeguard training, mowing the lawn, not upsetting his father, taking out the trash, vacuuming, no drinking and driving; task after task after task. Some of it was easy. He liked doing the dishes, and he loved taking care of his mom even if she didn’t feel the same. 

Not that it matters now. Does it matter now? He’s never gonna see her again. She’s a memory. She’s a bad memory, most of the time. 

The more he reflects on it, he decides. She was a bit shitty, but she’s his mom, and she’s likely gone, so he’ll try to remember the cookies they made together and the way she’d smile at him after she tied his shoelaces before school. And also the mean fucking bitch she’d turn into when she drank two glasses of wine. 

“What are you thinking about?” Robin asks.

“That’s the wrong soap,” you say from the river. Your voice floats over the breeze. 

“Fuck off, soap is soap,” Eddie says, your not-so-new friend, Steve’s sworn enemy. 

“I’m just saying,” you laugh. “Look, I’ll wash, you rinse.” 

“I’m thinking about that time,” Steve begins, holding his hand out toward her, open but not expectant, “when my mom and dad came home early from his business trip in Missouri and found us sleeping together.” 

“I’d never heard your dad laugh before,” Robin says. 

“My mom really didn’t like you after that.” He smiles as she takes his hand. They were a lot more touchy, pre-apocalypse. He misses that sometimes. 

“I don’t even think she thought we were dating.” 

“She was disgusted.” 

“She said we were being weird teenagers.”

“I guess we were. I never had a friend like you before so maybe I can’t blame her,” he says. He has something special with you, you’re a best friend because you’re half of his heart, but Robin was his first proper best friend, and remains it. “I missed you a lot when we were stuck in Indiana. There were a ton of times where shit would go wrong and I would get mad at you because I knew you’d know how to fix it, but you weren’t there.” 

“You’d get mad at me?” Robin asks, squeezing his hand. “You jerk. Be mad at yourself.” 

“Can you wait for me next time?” he asks.

Robin’s quiet, then she laughs, “I’m nodding but you can’t see.” 

He wonders how she’s feeling. He admits to not doing that much in the past. Not that he didn’t think about how he made others feel, he was always worrying about that after Nancy, but he can’t say he thought of it in the moment. Steve forces himself to sit up and offer his arms for a hug, which Robin gladly accepts, her frazzled laugh on his neck as he pats her back. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

“You know Y/N says I’m possessive?” 

Robin leans away, fingers curled around his elbow. “You’re fighting?” 

“No, just. She says I’m possessive, that I get mad about, you know, my people.” 

“Right. Isn’t everybody?” 

“I never thought I did. I’m not, like, too proud most of the time.” 

“Steve, this is super introspective,” she says, frowning, smiling, a weird expression somewhere melding in the middle of happy and concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? It’s fine if you’re not.” She laughs shrilly. “I woke up the other day and cried and then ten minutes later I felt fine. I’m far from okay.” 

Steve glances past Robin’s head to watch you in the river. You’re sitting down amongst the stones. It really isn’t too deep, water to your ribcage washing suds down to Munson, who’s smiling at you kindly, not smarmy or flirting, just smiling. 

“Why did you cry?” he asks quietly. 

“I missed my cousin, I think.” 

Steve curls his arm behind her head and encourages her in for a fiercer hug. 

“Think we should probably go help them,” she mumbles. 

He takes it for the brush off that it is; sincerity is too much to take, sometimes. If she wants to be evasive about it that’s okay, she already took the leap and admitted to getting upset. 

“I cried thinking about Y/N’s hands the other day,” he says. 

“Steve.” Robin rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. “I don’t even know what to tell you.” 

“What? I’m trying to show you I’m pathetic so you don’t feel bad.” 

“I know you’re pathetic, and I don’t feel bad.” She climbs off of the ground and brushes broken grass off of her legs. Steve climbs up next to her, nudging her with his elbow. “You’re mucho pathetic. It’s kind of crazy.” 

“I think I might try and drown him,” he says conversationally. 

“Why now?” 

“Why do you think?” Steve asks, toeing off his shoes and peeling off his socks, nearly pitching forward on the wet bank closer to the river.

You and Eddie look up as they approach from different spots of the water. Your smile at seeing him winds him for the thousandth time, just so happy to see him, so in love with you he doesn’t even know what to do for a few seconds. “Hey, honey,” he says, “can I help?” 

“Now you wanna help?” you ask, gesturing to your soaked front. 

You’re messing with him, and he doesn’t care anyways, you can talk to him like crap if you want to. He shuffles down from the mud of the riverbank and into the water, cold and wet like a shock against his ankles, softer as it climbs to his knees. You’re sitting where it’s more shallow, opposed to Eddie on his knees and almost drowning further down. He puts his hand on your wet shoulder and kneels down in the water beside you. “Wanna hug?” you tease. 

Steve hugs you. Doesn’t care that you’re soaking or that the water is freezing against his crown jewels, though he shivers by your ear, prompting your laugh like bubbles in his own. “It’s cold,” he says. 

“Freezing!” 

Not to be a freak, but he can feel your chest pressed to him, and he knows you get achy in the cold. He wraps his arms doubly behind your back and rubs at your sides. “How much laundry’s left?” he asks. “We’re gonna get hypothermia. Again.” 

“You didn’t get hypothermia,” you remind him, folding into his space. “Steve… is everything okay?” 

“Do I look mopey today? Robin just asked me the same thing.” 

“You don’t look mopey, but you’re being touchy. You’re cuddling.” 

“How am I not supposed to cuddle you, dummy? I’m keeping you warm enough to function right now. Without me you’d be an ice cube floating down the river.” He leans back to hold your face in one hand, your cheek under his thumb, water racing down his wrists and your neck. 

You push against his hand gently with your cheek. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“What for?” 

For lots of things. “I didn’t realise how cold the water was. I would’ve come to help you.” 

“It’s fine. I scrub everything and then Eddie catches it. We’ve only lost one pair of underwear,” you say. “The river’s like a long washing machine.” 

“How much do you have left?” he asks. 

“Nothing. I was just about to get out.” 

“Couldn’t have told me that before I came to get you?” 

“No,” you say, lifting your chin. Not challenging, but close. It’s an offer, Steve decides, kiss me or don’t kiss me. You don’t seem to realise he doesn’t decide, he needs you. If you always wanted to kiss him, you’d always be kissing, all the time, everywhere. 

Steve gives you a quick peck. “Come on, let’s go set up the line.” 

You somehow, together, make your way back to the tents without freezing to death after throwing your clothes on a drying line between trees. It’s warm enough that stripping down to your skivvies is mildly pleasant (away from the eyes of the other campers). You get dressed in the softest clothes you own upon Steve’s insistence, sweatpants and a dark hoodie, three pairs of socks and the tent door left open, before he lays you down on the sleeping bag, and settles between your legs, his full weight bearing down on you, his face nestled in the damp crook of your neck. 

“I couldn’t kiss you the right way,” he confesses. 

“Why?” You pull mildly at the ends of his hair. 

“‘Cos I always want more than one kiss.” 

“That’s a strangely romantic way to say you wanted to make out with me,” you whisper. 

“It’s not like that,” he insists, even though he does want to, and he did in the river, and he does all the time.

“You’re getting kinda heavy, Steve,” you mumble. 

“What?” 

“It’s a good thing.” 

“How dare you.” 

“We got sorta frail for a bit.” You wrap an arm around his head, tip of your nose to his forehead. 

“Yeah. Lucky we’re in camp Eddie now,” Steve says. 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” you murmur, so close to sleeping Steve can tell. You just need a feeling of security to nudge you over the edge. 

“Lucky we’re together.” He climbs off of you slowly so as not to rouse you too much, kissing your slack cheek as he settles on your shoulder. “You and me. I don’t care where we are.”

He ends up falling asleep not long after you, lulled by the rhythm of your light snore. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 2: Story Of My Life]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, cryptic song lyrics, tattoos, motorcycles, pretentious veganism, the return of the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.”

Word count: 6.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Under the stars, under the canopy of incandescent string lights, you tilt a Salty Dog against your lips: clinking ice, rosemary, a wedge of grapefruit, salt on the rim. The indigo wind raises goosebumps on your arms. From the speakers flow notes muffled by car horns and ambient conversation: Coldplay, Life In Technicolor ii. The Missouri River is a snake in the distance, twisting and glimmering, silver scales built of reflected moonlight. It is one year before you fly to Rome. It is the prologue of a book you never thought you’d write.

“I hope you’re not cheating on anybody,” you say to Aegon. Your voice has that drowsy, unguarded honestly that follows good sex with someone you might have the capacity to love under the right circumstances. His does too.

Aegon snorts and shakes his head. There is sunburn on his cheeks like a stain of spilled wine; summer in the Lower Midwest doesn’t agree with him. It’s too hot, too primal. It’ll bite you if you’re not careful. “No. There’s no one.”

“Is there ever?” you ask. “I remember seeing paparazzi photos of Jace and Luke with their girlfriends, Aemond with Shelby, Cregan with…plentiful, interchangeable Victoria’s Secret models. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you attached to anyone.”

“Look, can I be honest for a second? I mean, I don’t want to offend you. But you seem cool, you seem like you might get it. Can I be real with you?”

“Yeah. Be real, I’d like that.”

“I love what we’re doing right now,” Aegon says. He takes a swig of his Salty Dog, your suggestion. His blond hair, nearly shoulder-length, whips in the night breeze. There’s something about Missouri that feels old, prehistoric almost, and you know because you’ve left it and come back: untamed, unrefined, brown recluses and black bears, copperheads and water moccasins, droughts and floods and tornados, humid and buggy like the earth the dinosaurs knew. “And I loved what I was doing last week in Boston and Philly, and I’ll probably love what I’m doing a few days from now in Houston. But if I knew I had to do it, I wouldn’t love it anymore, you know? That’s just how I am. It’s not a reflection on anyone but me. I can’t handle obligations, commitment, chains. I feel the weight of expectations settling on me and I run.” He rests his chin on his knuckles as he gazes at you like a distant constellation. “I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either. I think there are sluts who are angels and virgins who are demons. And I think to believe otherwise is not just archaic or puritanical or ignorant. I think it’s deeply, catastrophically harmful.”

You’re smiling; tears brim in your eyes. “Thank you, Aegon,” you say softly.

He is mystified. “For what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Coldplay recedes from the speakers. Next—for no less than the fourth time this evening—is the Weeknd’s Starboy. Aegon groans and drums his Salty Dog on the tabletop. “Oh my God, this song again?!”

“They’re obsessed!”

“They really are.”

“It’s for you,” you tease. “You’re the big star. The boy band star. The Starboy.”

He takes your right hand, flattens your palm, and lays it against his chest. Through his t-shirt—Nirvana, grey, short-sleeved, from Target—you can feel muscle, bone, rushing blood. “Starboy,” he tells you, grinning. Then he presses his own palm to your heart, beating calm and slow beneath your dress the color of emeralds. “Stargirl.”

“Oh no. Wrong. I’m definitely a nobody.”

“You’re not,” Aegon says. And then again, to make sure you’ve heard him: “You’re not.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So I only have to talk to two people?” Rhaena says suspiciously, like she’s waiting for you to pull the lever of a trapdoor.

“Exactly.” You take another bite of your carbonara, an Italian invention that would be at home in the Midwest: heavy, cheesy, lots of pork products. “At the meet-and-greet before the show tonight, I want you to pick two people. Just two. And they can be anyone you want. 13-year-old girls, frat boys, soccer moms, grandmas, whoever. And I want you to chat with each of those two people for two minutes. That’s four minutes total. And then you’re done!”

“I’m really done? You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Two people, two minutes. I can do that.” Rhaena turns to Luke, who has bits of lasagna all over his shirt and one wayward shred of a noodle in his dark curly hair. “I can do that, right?”

He nods encouragingly. “You can totally do that.”

Aemond is watching; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, short blond hair and a black t-shirt. He wears a lot of black, few accessories, like he’s trying not to be noticed. You look across the table at him. The band is enjoying a late lunch—everyone sleeps in until at least 1 p.m.—on the patio of a restaurant that overlooks the Palatine Hill. Intense midday sunbeams stream, in threads like tinsel on a Christmas tree, through the gaps in the pergola of grapevines, climbing roses, and ivy. In the daylight, Aemond’s scar is jarring—red, wrathful—and his sightless blue dreamscape of a left eye all the more peculiar. He fixes his gaze on you, daring you to flinch away, to be disgusted, to wilt like something parched and dying. You stare steadily back. Aemond sips his white wine, half-smiling, and twirls spaghetti onto his fork. You have white wine too. You keep choosing whatever drinks he does.

“You came all the way to Rome only to order the most basic, fifth-grader version of pasta imaginable?”

“It has marinara sauce,” Aemond replies. “I’m a vegan.”

“Uh oh,” you say. “For health reasons or the environment, or…?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “I just feel that the world has enough suffering in it already without me contributing to the mass torture and execution of sentient beings.”

“Okay. Pretentious.”

Aemond chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand so he can chew his spaghetti with dignity. “What do your parents do in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct, like a reflex.

“I know, it’s so confusing,” Aegon tells him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a salmon-colored tank top that matches his sunburn. “It’s Kansas City, but apparently it’s in Missouri, not Kansas. But there is a different, smaller, much worse Kansas City in actual Kansas.”

“It’s confusing for your little hamster brain,” you say.

Aegon holds up a dark green bottle of olive oil that he’s been drenching his salad with: lettuce, tomatoes, black olives, skinless boneless chicken. “This is healthy, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really good for you. Antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties.”

Jace snickers. “Dude, that has like 100 calories per tablespoon.”

Aegon frowns dejectedly down at his salad. “Fuck.”

Aemond asks you: “So what do your parents do in Missouri?”

“They have a farm just outside the city.”

“Oh. Nice.” Some apprehension now. “What do they raise?”

“Beef cattle.”

The rest of the table bursts out laughing. Aemond’s cheeks—one smooth and pristine, one cut in two by a rust-colored cord of bitter corporal memory like barbed wire—flush pink. He is happy in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time; you can see that in the warmth that glows on the others’ faces. He is alarmingly, breathtakingly beautiful. He has the sort of features that belong carved into marble, in myths, in museums. “I mean…I’m sure they do a great job.”

“You should visit one day. You can help brand the herd.”

“Absolutely,” Aemond quips.

“Nothing gets one’s deepest, darkest revelations flowing like hard labor.”

“I’m not interested in therapy.” He peers around the table for the basket of bread. “Jace, can you pass me some of that?”

Jace picks up a piece of crunchy Italian bread and lobs it through the air. It goes sailing right past Aemond, at least a foot from his fumbling, futile hands.

Aegon is exasperated. “Jace, bruh, you know he’s got no depth perception!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says quickly, like he wants the conversation to be over.

“It’s not fine.” Aegon stands up and leans across the table to jab his index finger menacingly at Jace. “Have some consideration for anyone besides yourself. Have some fucking respect.”

Jace is more entertained than intimidated. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that I outrank you now.”

“Yeah. And how’d you get there?” In the uneasy quiet that falls over the table, Aegon—quite tipsy already—lurches inside the restaurant to use their bathroom.

Daeron slides the basket of bread over to Aemond. Luke studies him sympathetically without knowing what to say. So much of what settles in us—accumulating like radiation, cooking malignancies into our bones—are things we cannot speak of. This is the great supposition of therapy. It’s what first inspired Sigmund Freud to get that fateful ball rolling in the latter half of the 1800s, before television or radio or record players, before airplanes, before Alaska or Hawaii were added to the Union.

Criston sighs loudly and stabs at his carne alla pizzaiola. Cregan stares indifferently out over the Palatine Hill: the Palace of Domitian, the House of Tiberius, the Temple of Apollo, ruins of gods and men. He slips a minibar-sized bottle of Absolut Vodka out of his sweatpants, empties it into his San Pellegrino, and gulps it all down. Jace has one arm slung across the back of his girlfriend Baela’s chair. She whispers something to him, clearly irritated. He replies briskly back. They have the look of a couple that has spent more time trying to claw their way back to a good place than they ever spent happy to begin with. Jace steals a glimpse of you, smirking. He turns away as soon as you notice him watching. His arms and chest, visible through his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, are a mosaic of tattoos: the Eiffel tower, cherry blossoms, Christ the Redeemer, an alligator, a pair of dice.

After a few minutes, Aegon returns to the table, noticeably more peppy. He starts collecting everyone’s silverware and piling it on a plate for when the servers clear the table. He sorts the utensils by type—forks, knives, spoons—and then by size.

“What is on your face?” Criston demands.

Aegon feigns innocence. Badly. “Huh? What? Face? Huh?”

“Your face. What the hell is all over your face?”

Aegon touches his fingertips to his nose. They come away dusted with white residue. “Um. Donuts.”

“What?”

“Powdered sugar donuts.”

“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom? Eating donuts?”

“…Yes.”

“Aegon,” Criston says sternly.

“They’re called zeppole here.”

Criston claps his hands together and rises from the table. “Okay, time for soundcheck!”

There are groans and complaints, but the band obeys, mopping stray sauce from their lips with cloth napkins and then heading for the black Escalades parked outside the restaurant…everyone except Aemond. He sips his wine leisurely, like he hasn’t heard Criston. You don’t leave either.

Criston regards Aemond with fatherly concern, a hand rested on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“Really?”

“If memory serves, you don’t need me for this part anymore.”

“Right,” Criston admits awkwardly. “Well one of the Escalades will be waiting out front whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Criston and the rest of the band vanish towards the front of the restaurant. You can hear the slamming of doors and Criston shouting: “Get in the car…get in the fucking car…put your seatbelt on…Aegon, right now, put it on—!”

Aemond takes a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, puts one between his lips, ignites it with a small square metal lighter—vintage? heirloom?—and then throws the glittery gold pack onto the table. “Okay. Go ahead.”

You smile at him, bars of shadow and sunlight across both of your faces. The restaurant speakers, breaking the spell of the ever-ancient Roman mirage, are playing Foster The People’s Pumped Up Kicks. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.” He exhales smoke like a dragon. “So go on, ask your questions so I can theatrically unburden myself and emerge from the wreckage like a phoenix, all shiny and redeemed.”

You gesture broadly. “How did this happen?”

“This?”

“You getting kicked out of Comet. Daeron being added to the lineup, Jace being promoted.”

He speaks nonchalantly as if discussing ancient history or the weather, like that’s just the way the world works, a morally ambiguous eventuality. Every once in a while a tsunami or a mudslide comes along and gobbles up a couple thousand lives, but the planet keeps on spinning. “The label made the call. An executive decision, they said. A boy band is a fantasy. It has to be light, fun, erotic without being scandalous or threatening. No one wants to watch some mutilated, half-blind guy strutting around a stage trying to reclaim some long-gone, better version of himself.”

You are at once immeasurably vengeful on his behalf, but you can’t show this. “That must have been difficult. To be treated mercilessly when you were vulnerable. To realize that something you poured your heart and soul into was so transactional.”

He shakes his head, smoking, not looking at you. He gazes out over the Palatine Hill instead.

“Aemond?”

“What do you want me to say?” he answers abruptly. “That I’m angry? I am. That I wish the accident had never happened? Yeah, I wish that. I wish it every goddamn day. But there’s nothing I can do about any of it. Of course I’m furious. Of course I’m resentful. I built this band. I got us together, kept us together, wrote virtually every hit we ever had. Comet was mine. It was my whole life, my past, my future, my legacy. And they took it from me. You want to know how I really feel about that? I couldn’t tell you in words. I’d have to hit something until my knuckles split through the skin.”

He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray with trembling hands, then he drags his fingers—long, uncalloused, dexterous, though you wish you could stop staring at them—through his hair. He glances at you, embarrassed. You look calmly back.

“Jesus Christ,” Aemond says shakily. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“The band was yours,” you agree. “So you’re the one who named it?”

“Yeah.”

“Comet Donati. The first comet ever photographed. 1858.”

He is impressed. “You’ve studied astronomy?”

“Well…I Googled it,” you confess, and he laughs. He’s relaxed again, he’s sunny like the sky. “But I really like it. A disproportionate number of astronomers are from the Midwest, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because there’s nothing to do there, so people watch the stars instead.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Better than livestock farming or teen pregnancies, I guess.”

“What is it about the comet that inspires you?”

Aemond lights himself a fresh cigarette. His last name is etched into the side of the steel lighter, you see now: Targaryen. “It has an orbital period of 1,740 years. That last time Comet Donati clipped by Earth, Abraham Lincoln was watching it from the front porch of his hotel. It won’t come back until the late-3000s. I’ll never see it. You’ll never see it. But it’s always there. And to me, there’s something really beautiful about that. So many things in life are invisible, silent, unspoken, unacknowledged, unknown, misunderstood. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

You recall the woman you’ve seen standing beside him in countless paparazzi photos: an actress and influencer, 20 million Instagram followers, California blond, Ibiza clubs and Met Galas. “Where’s Shelby?”

“Not around anymore, obviously.”

“She left you or you left her?”

He flicks away ashes, vague, evasive. “She couldn’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, that’s clear. It’s marked him somewhere deeper than the flesh.

“No, Aemond.” You reach across the table to take his free hand, his left hand, in your own. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He’s watching you, but he isn’t just watching; he’s a little bewildered, and little captivated, a little impishly proud like he’s won a bet. When you release his hand, he says: “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want someone who’s repulsed by me. Or worse, someone who can only see me as something damaged and pitiful. I don’t want to be fucked out of pity.”

Oh no, you think, gazing helplessly at his face, his fingers, his wrists, the slope of his throat. Oh no, I don’t think pity would be anywhere in my mind, not even a whisper of it, not even a ghost.

Aemond notices. His lips pull up at the edges into a sly smile…and then he grows solemn again. “Are you going to ask me about what happened at the Budokan?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I think what happened to you was horrible and senseless and unfair. And the worst part isn’t that you look different. It’s that you are different. You can’t ever unlearn how people treated you afterwards, what their true motivations were. People who discarded you, people who forgot about you. You didn’t deserve that. You were worthy then and you’re worthy now. I don’t want to talk about your past. I want to talk about where you’re going next.”

“I have no idea. When I said the band was my whole life, I meant it.”

“You’ll figure something out. And maybe I can help.”

“Maybe.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, intrigued. “What made you want to be a therapist?”

That nervous drop in your stomach; a sensation like falling. You disguise it expertly. “No no, I’m asking the questions here. I’m the one with the master’s degree.”

“Now who’s pretentious?”

You’re giggling, and then Aemond is too, like mirror images of each other: sipping white wine and averting your eyes—those so-called windows to the soul—towards the Palatine Hill before they can reveal too much.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Comet Donati performs now, Aemond isn’t on stage. But he never misses a show. He paces around with a black notebook and a white gel pen—Luke learned that from him, you realize—jotting down suggestions and critiques to share with the others afterwards. You follow him, trailing soundlessly like a shadow, through hallways and down aisles and across sky-high catwalks like ancient aqueducts. You’re wearing the only dress you brought from home: short, black lace, cold shoulders. Unconsciously, Aemond takes your hand to make sure you don’t fall behind. Wordlessly, he points out things that make you laugh: Aegon repeatedly slipping on a puddle of beer that he spilled, Daeron’s improvised dance moves (the Mailman, the Beached Whale, the Reckless Uber Driver, etc.), screaming middle-aged women flashing Cregan, Luke giving little crochet stars and planets and comets—handmade by Baela and Rhaena—to children in the audience. But Aemond rarely acknowledges Jace.

As you and Aemond lurk just offstage, the band is performing A Song I’ve Never Heard, the lead single off their first album and an enduring fan favorite.

“If you disappear, I’m going under

Telling you right now, there is no other

Who could ever replace you, no need to wonder

Your name is a song I’ve never heard before.”

“They’re really good live,” you shout, barely audible over the noise. You stand on your tiptoes and lean against Aemond’s shoulder so he can hear you. You are struck by the dormant power beneath your palms, his tense muscles, his radiating heat. You can’t help but imagine what sort of rhythm you might fall into together.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly.

“They’d be even better with you.”

Aemond turns, startled, then smiles. He passes you his notebook and gel pen so you can read his comments and add any of your own. You skim through his scribbled, pearlescent observations.

Cregan – Good smolder. Pay attention to every fan in the crowd, not just the fuckable ones. Thumbs up and high fives for kids. Fist bumps for dudes. Wear less clothes, maybe? If you’re cool with that.

Luke – Don’t be afraid to move around the stage more. Weave. Prowl. Pretend you are a shark.

Aegon – Wrong lyrics during Space-Time Continuum. And Lake Effect. And A Girl Named After A Car!! And The Worst Way To Be!!!! Please for the love of God the words are on Genius.com if you don’t know them.

Daeron – Really great overall. Missed verse during If You’re Summer I’m The Rain. Beware of handshakes with crowd, they could pull you in. Invent a new dance move, something inspired by Kansas City. The Tornado Watch? The Oppressed Beef Cow?

You write at the bottom:

Aemond – Cultivate at minimum one (1) hobby not directly related to Comet Donati. Or pretentious veganism.

You hand the notebook to him, and then he scrawls back:

Already have it. I’ll show you later.

When the concert ends, Aemond leads you backstage to reunite with the band, along with Baela and Rhaena who spent the past two hours dancing and shrieking in the front row.

“I did it!” Rhaena trumpets when she sees you, eyes alight and hands waving in the air. “At the meet-and-greet before the show! I talked to people for four whole minutes and then I got to sit in the corner and drink champagne all by myself and it was amazing!”

“That’s so great!” you exclaim, hugging her. “See?! We knew you could do it. But next time you have to talk to people for ten minutes.”

“Ugh,” Rhaena says, but she’s still beaming. She knows she’s capable of it. It might hurt, but it won’t kill her. And that’s true for a lot of things, isn’t it? The trick is figuring out which of our brains’ frantic doom-signals are misfires, exaggerations, genetic malformations…and which are warnings of something actually lethal.

Everyone piles into the Escalades for the short journey back to the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel. You and Aemond end up sharing a car with Aegon, Luke, and Rhaena. Luke sits right next to Aemond, wants to see all his notes, wants to rehash every detail of the night with him: Did you like this little move I came up with? Was I too extra when I did that? Am I too low in the harmonies? Did you see how psyched that one kid was when I gave him a stuffed comet? As you watch them, streetlights passing by overhead like miniature suns, it occurs to you that Luke is the only person who still treats Aemond like he’s an essential part of the band, not a progenitor to be paid occasional pennies of homage but a heart or a spinal cord, something that can’t be excised without killing the host.

Aegon is lying on his back across the floor of the Escalade and scrolling through his phone. “Oh my God, guess who else is in Rome right now!” he gasps.

“Who?” Rhaena asks, but she rolls her doe-like eyes in a way that tells you this happens a lot.

“Selena Gomez!”

“Great,” Aemond says. “I don’t think she wants to see you.”

Aegon is typing manically with both thumbs. “We’re about to find out.”

Back at the hotel, a force like gravity—stringless, unthinking—pulls everyone towards Jace’s suite. The lights are low, the air smokey, the drinks misty with condensation, the balcony door open as people—friends and roadies and label executives—drift in and out of the starlit night breeze, the music loud and rumbling, lots of bass, Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous by Good Charlotte. Crowded together in one corner of the room, illuminated by an end table lamp, are Jace, Baela, Daeron, Cregan, and Criston, who is observing with arms crossed over his chest and an exhausted, long-suffering sort of disapproval. There is a tattoo artist getting set up on the coffee table, laying out the needles and ink cartridges, latex gloves, sanitizer, a squeeze bottle of green soap.

“Get the Pantheon!” Baela is telling Jace. She’s sitting in his lap on the white leather couch, his arms locked around her waist but his eyes roaming around the room. “Or laurels, maybe. Or an eagle.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron says.

Baela grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Get the Colosseum!” Luke says as he hurries over to join them.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“He gets a new tattoo for every city we play in,” Daeron explains.

“Some are better than others,” Baela adds. “There were so many gorgeous possibilities for Miami and you chose an alligator?!”

“Every single city, huh?” you say to Jace. “You must have a lot of tattoos.”

He grins crookedly up at you through locks of dark, messy curls. He’s wearing a black and white striped shirt that is mostly unbuttoned. Aemond’s gaze flits anxiously between you and Jace. “I do. But believe it or not, we’ve never been to Rome until now.”

“Get the Leaning Tower of Pisa!” Aegon says.

Criston snaps: “Really? The one that’s in Pisa? Which is a completely different city? The one that’s four hours north of Rome? That Leaning Tower of Pisa? That one?”

“Well fuck, don’t let me inconvenience you with my presence!” Aegon thumps a fist against Cregan’s brawny shoulder and they disappear together, peering down at their phones, faces painted by the white-blue glow of the screens.

“What should I get?” Jace asks Aemond. It sounds like a loaded question.

“Julius Caesar. A usurper.”

Jace winks up at him, arrogant and taunting.

Baela rubs Jace’s bare, ink-adorned chest. “Baby, don’t.”

“I want the Pantheon,” he declares suddenly. “Right here on the back of my right hand. Prime real estate. I won’t be able to do anything without remembering this city, this show.” He turns to Aemond, victorious. “They were filming, you know. They’re going to make it a Netflix special.”

“I’m aware,” Aemond replies, flat, cold.

The tattoo artist is nodding agreeably at Jace. “Si signore, I do the Pantheon all the time. Tourists love to have a picture to take home with them. Nessun problema. You want it on this hand? You are sure? Va bene, place it here on the table. Si, si. I will clean the area and then we will begin.”

Soon the needle of the humming tattoo gun meets the skin: metal, blood, Jace hissing in pain as black lines spring to life across his metacarpals. Baela passes the time by chatting with you. She is clever and kind like Rhaena, but louder, tougher, beautiful yet barbed like a lionfish. She can talk to anyone and never drops her eyes. It amazes you how siblings, built of the same genetic Legos, can grow up to be so different: Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, Aegon and Aemond and Daeron.

When Jace’s tiny Pantheon tattoo is complete and his hand bandaged, he goads you: “Now you’re getting one too, right?”

“Sure,” you say, and you are delighted to see the shock leap into his face.

“What?!” Baela cries.

“You’re joking,” Aemond says uncertainly. “She’s joking.”

“No, I really want one.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron bellows, jumping on top of the couch and flexing his muscles like Hercules.

“Get my name on the side of your face like Post Malone,” Jace says. And then, when Baela and Aemond glare at him: “What?!”

“I definitely don’t want that. But I do want something.”

“I will do whatever you like, signora,” the tattoo artist says, changing out needles.

“You’re actually serious?” Aemond asks. And what he means is: You don’t have to do this. It would be reckless. It would be permanent.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. “I want to remember this little adventure. When I’m back in Kansas City…in a few weeks, or a few months, or whatever…I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that it wasn’t all something I made up. A fantasy, a dream.”

“You should get Comet lyrics,” Luke says excitedly. “Aemond’s lyrics.”

You tap Luke’s notebook: black paper, white gel pen, just like Aemond’s. “Absolutely. Help me choose them.”

Within ten minutes, you’ve settled on a design that Luke has sketched in starlight-colored ink and a location: upper back, equidistant between your shoulder blades, someplace you can easily conceal it when you’re working. It will be a small, minimalist comet—nucleus, coma, and tail—with cursive lyrics from a hidden gem off the band’s most recent album encircling it like the rings of Saturn:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

Somewhat clumsily, you manage to unzip your dress, shimmy the top part down to around the line of your bra strap, and then lie on your belly across the couch. Baela and Rhaena giggle at the way the men bashfully avert their eyes…all except Aemond. He is speechless, blinking, fascinated. He shakes it off and turns away when he realizes he’s been staring.

“I’m sorry, is this too unprofessional?”

“No, you were perfectly clear,” Daeron says. “You’re a therapist, but not our therapist. So feel free to walk around in just your bra anytime.”

“For real,” Jace adds.

Baela shoos him away: “Go, get us more drinks. Go! Bar! Now!” And Jace reluctantly retreats.

Using Luke’s rough sketch as a reference, the tattoo artist begins working once he’s thoroughly cleaned the area of perfume, shining perspiration, invisible fingerprints, tobacco, other remnants of life’s general untidiness. The pain is bad but not overwhelming, worst when the needle nears your spine. Aemond sits on the floor beside you and observes thoughtfully, sipping a rosy-pink Bramble. Aegon and Cregan wander back into the suite—white powder on their palms, more on their shirts, their pupils dilated and glassy—and are extremely amused by this turn of events. They stay for a while and then are gone again, forever both here and there, comets zooming around their elliptical orbits, Schrodinger’s cats.

“How’s it look?” you ask Aemond as he studies your back. You can’t see anything; you can only feel it.

“The tattoo, or…?”

You laugh and shove him away with your very limited range of motion; then, when you wince at the stinging pain, Aemond grips your hand in his. “I know I’m being pathetic. I know it’s not that bad.” Not compared to what you endured: blunt force trauma, partial blindness, your face stitched back together, your life’s work stolen from you.

“You’re not that pathetic. Louis Tomlinson probably would have cried.”

You laugh again, louder, and the tattoo artist scolds you: “Signora, per favore! Stay as still as you can, I beg you. We are almost done.”

Aemond’s iPhone rings and he glides it out of his pocket with his free hand. His ringtone is Mr. Brightside. “Oh. I should take this.”

“Go ahead,” you tell him. “Go, I’m fine.”

“Who is it?” Criston asks Aemond with curiously intense interest.

“It’s my mom.”

“Does she want to talk to me? To see how the tour is going?”

“No, Criston.”

“Fine,” Criston says testily. “I’m gonna go make sure Aegon isn’t on the roof or something.”

He departs from the crowded suite, momentarily parting the miasma of cigarette and cigar smoke like Moses split the Red Sea. Aemond goes out onto the balcony. Baela and Rhaena take his place next to the couch, fawning over your almost-finished tattoo and showing you their own: Baela has a ring of roses around one ankle, a quote from her grandmother across her ribs, and a compass on her forearm; Rhaena has a tiny L behind one ear for Luke. Even over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the reverberating music, the chattering of new friends and perfect strangers, and the backdrop of traffic noises outside on the winding streets of Rome, you can hear chaos: yelling, banging, the pounding of sprinting footsteps.

When your tattoo is completed and bandaged, you fix your dress and follow the commotion out into the hallway. Several doors down, you find Criston in Aegon’s suite. He’s standing on top of the mattress and attempting to handcuff Aegon to the bedpost. Aegon, thrashing and yowling and shirtless for some reason, rips away from him.

“Give me your hand!” Criston roars. “Give me your fucking hand! You want to act like Motley Crue, you’re gonna get treated like Motley Crue.” He finally clicks a cuff around Aegon’s left wrist, fastens him to the bed, and then doubles over gasping for air.

You say from the doorway: “This is not what I, personally, would call effective conflict resolution.”

“Oh good, you’re here.” Criston wipes fat beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. “You talk to him. Meditation, yoga, hypnosis, a lobotomy, read him bedtime stories, get him a shock collar, I don’t care what you do, just give me fifteen minutes of peace. I need a goddamn San Pellegrino.” He stomps out of the room and is gone.

Aegon sighs listlessly. “I’d like to say I don’t deserve this, but I probably do.”

“Hey, Aegon?”

“Yeah?”

“What was up with your salad at lunch today? And the skinless boneless chicken?”

He smirks, an expression you can’t quite read. Nervousness? Cynicism? Shame? “I’ve gained like twenty pounds since last summer.”

“So?”

“So almost none of my tour wardrobe fits.”

“Can you not afford new clothes? Have you snorted that much coke?”

He chuckles, but his large blue eyes are sad, defenseless, watery. “The label doesn’t want a chunky popstar. Girls won’t spend thousands of dollars on tickets to see me anymore.”

“Yes they will. And I would too. In a hypothetical alternate universe where I was rich.”

He smiles, for real this time. “You wanna stay? I still have one hand free.”

“That’s a super tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

He blinks up at you with groggy, drunken realization. “You got your eye on someone else, Stargirl?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He’s grinning, toothy, playful. “You didn’t have to.”

There is a knock against the doorframe. When you spin around, Aemond stands there. “Hey,” he says. “Found you.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine. Do you want to see something?”

“…Okay?”

“It’s outside.”

“Oh, no way,” Aegon tells him, still handcuffed to the bed, cackling. “No way is she gonna be down for that.”

“She might be,” Aemond replies evenly.

“You still got a second helmet?”

“Of course.”

“Helmet…?” you venture.

Aemond smiles, nodding towards the hall. “Let’s go.”

Aegon waves goodbye with his free hand. “Good luck, Stargirl. Hope your last will and testament is in order.”

“Like I’d leave you anything.” You set several bottles of water and a box of Nutella snacks on the end table where Aegon can reach them.

“Wait wait wait!” he cries when you are about to depart. “Bring me a trashcan too.”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

“So I can piss in it, obviously.”

“You’re an animal.”

He howls like a wolf, rolling around on the mattress. You supply him with a trashcan, as requested, and then follow Aemond out into the hallway.

“Stargirl?” he asks once the two of you are alone in the elevator and headed down.

“It’s a the Weeknd reference. It’s hard to explain.”

“And you and Aegon are…” Aemond raises an eyebrow, the scarred one, the one that’s cut in two. “Friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.” You’re worried your voice will squeak, but it is traitorously steady. Aemond seems mollified. And is that really such a lie? What would be closer to the truth? Yes, Aemond, your brother and I are friends. But we’re less than that, and we’re also more, because I’ve fucked him but somehow that was the very least of it. He looks at me and I feel understood like a language the rest of humanity has forgotten. I look at him and I see someone who I care for deeply, irrationally, who I could fall in love with in a slightly different world. But that’s not the world we live in. And in this world, the real one, you’re the person I’m falling in love with.

Aemond takes you all the way down to the ground floor and then out front to the entranceway, fountains, cobblestones, taxis, Ubers, stars. He speaks to the valet and within minutes, they ferry it out of the garage for him, growling and puffing like some kind of mythical beast, a dragon or the Minotaur or the Cerberus. The valet lowers the kickstand and then hands the keys over to Aemond.

“What is that?!” you exclaim.

“It’s a 1960 Gold Star, made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company.”

“Alabama?”

He is amused. “No, the English Birmingham. The original one.”

“Oh. Right.” The valet brings two helmets and two jackets. “You travel with a motorcycle?”

“It fits on the jet,” Aemond replies casually.

“You are so freaking pretentious.”

Aemond offers you a helmet and jacket, and he’s trying to keep the fear from his face but it’s there, because he keeps waiting for the spell to break, for the illusion of who he thinks you are to shatter like glass and reveal that all along you’ve been disgusted by him too, that you misunderstand or patronize or pity him. He surveys you with two eyes, one wary and clear and searching, the other a cloudy planet of misty blue like Neptune. And he waits for you to ask one of those fateful questions—Can you really drive this? Is it safe? Can you see well enough? Can I trust you?—and look at him with bleak, sympathetic skepticism.

Instead, you look at the motorcycle. There are extra mirrors on the left side, you notice, capturing angles that he would otherwise miss. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his maiming. He couldn’t forget it for a second. You don the helmet and jacket and say: “Are those leather seats, Mr. Vegan?”

He beams and straddles the motorcycle. “Shut up and get on the bike.”

You climb on behind Aemond, your arms around his waist, your lungs capturing pieces of him to absorb into your bloodstream: smoke, cologne, hair gel, gin, molecules that become your own. He starts the engine, flicks on the headlight, and steers his Gold Star out into the late-night traffic.

You fly through a nightscape of car horns and streetlights and babbling tourists clustered together on the sidewalks like prey animals, ancient landmarks whirling by like comets: the Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain, the Arch of Constantine, the Pantheon that Jace now has inked irrevocably to his flesh. The sky is freckled with constellations you couldn’t name. The moon is full and brilliant. There is a black limo cruising nearby full of hooting, half-naked frat boys and blaring Coldplay’s Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. At stop signs and red lights, Aemond reaches down to rest a palm lightly on your bare thigh, just an inch or two above the knee—his wrist brushing against the black lace of your dress—but enough to pillage your mind of anything else, enough to rip the door to your skull off its hinges and build a home there in the web of neurons and flashbulb surges of electricity that we call memory, emotion, instinct, desire. When you close your eyes as the wind rushes by, you can imagine that you’ve always known Aemond and that you always will. When you press yourself against him as hard as you dare to, you can feel everything else dissolving away: pasts, futures, doubts, every other person on this planet, scars that mar the soul with jagged rifts and knots as red as blood.

In the abandoned, golden halls of the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, Aemond walks you back to your suite. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, his steps swift. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Your thoughts are deafeningly loud with clattering impossibilities: Me? Aemond? Lust? Love?

You arrive at your door, swipe your keycard, and open it. You stand at the threshold, but you don’t vanish inside. You don’t want to be apart from him. You gaze up at him, dazed with longing, resting your head against the doorframe, fresh ink burning between your shoulder blades.

“Hey, Aemond?”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you out of pity.”

There’s satisfaction on his face, there’s pride, there’s hunger, but there’s trepidation too. He hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I, uh…” He sighs, resigned, perhaps warring with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t leave.

“Are you lost? Need a map back to your room? I can try to draw one for you. We could get one tattooed on the back of your hand.”

He laughs, marveling at you. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He makes it halfway down the hall, glances back, shakes his head to himself, keeps walking until he’s disappeared.

You shut the door and say to your empty suite: “I don’t even like him that much.”

But I do. I do, I do, I do.

“Oh no,” you moan, covering your face with both hands. But you can’t stop smiling.

You take a shower, pull on an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, then crawl into your hotel bed: scratchy comforter, a mattress that’s too firm, pillows that are too squishy. You turn on your laptop, open YouTube, and start searching for Comet Donati performances before Aemond left the band, scenes from a different lifetime under the same stars.

[kelcemenow]

Touchdown - Chapter 11.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 1825

Warnings Little bit of strong language, some sexual references and some fluff for good measure!

CHAPTER 10.

CHAPTER 11.

Travis had called you both a taxi. One for him to the airport and yours to take you back to your hotel. You were glad, as you weren’t keen on walking wearing last night’s clothes. 

“So, I’ll call you.”

Your instinct was to roll your eyes. You’d heard that before, but you stopped yourself. You had exchanged numbers during breakfast but you weren’t holding out for anything. This situation would be easy for you to leave as a memory, no commitment, no problem.

Travis reached for you and pulled you closer, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand, “And you know, if you’re ever in Missouri?” He laughed.

You reciprocated, “Watch out if I am.”

He smiled and bowed his head to kiss you. A closed mouth kiss, but with pressure and you could feel his hand squeeze yours, as if he didn’t want to let go. Once he released you, you climbed into the back of the taxi, flashing him a smile as you pulled away.

You sighed, as if you had been holding your breath. Your heart was pounding and you could almost feel it in your throat. You reached for your phone and sent a quick text to Hannah to let her know that you were on your way when you were interrupted by a call from Jess.

“Hello?”

“Oh, so you’ve prised yourself away from the beautiful man?”

Giggling, you opened your bag to find some lip balm, “Yes, yes I did.” You said proudly.

“Y/N, how on earth did that happen?”

“I really don’t know. But Jess, it was amazing. He is amazing. God, I can’t stop smiling.”

“Good! He’s hot! So, I would imagine you’re exhausted.”

You had found what you were looking for, struggling to open the cap with one hand, “No, no…nothing happened.”

“Nothing at all?”

You wedged the phone between your ear and shoulder, “Well…not nothing at all. Something…but not everything.” You were aware that the taxi driver probably didn’t want to hear all of your details so you tried to keep your side of the conversation a vague as you could. Slicking on the lip balm, you continued, “Look, I’ll tell you later. I’ll be home in a couple of hours maybe.”

“I’ll get some wine in.”

_______________________________________________

You had arrived home, tired and ready for sleep but you knew Jess would have other plans. She wanted to know everything and was practically waiting on the edge of the couch for you to get back. You had managed to get a quick shower at the hotel before Hannah drove you both back home but after the endless talking in the car, you knew you had to do it all again with Jess.

“Okay, tell me everything!” Jess’ eyes lit up when you walked into the living room, two glasses of wine in her hands.

You smiled meekly, “I’m so tired!”

“I don’t care! You kept me in the dark all night and then sent me that photo!” She shifted to make more space of the couch for you, “Come on, explain yourself.”

You sank onto the couch, taking one of the glasses, “He is…just…gorgeous.” You closed your eyes as you spoke, “And…he actually wanted me. Like, I didn’t feel like I was pushing anything or trying too hard. He just wanted to be with me, and even though it was all very respectful…it was so hot. We didn’t have sex; I didn’t even give him a hand job or anything like that. But the kissing, the feeling of his body on mine. Honestly, all it would’ve took is for us to be naked and we would’ve been fucking, that’s how close we were. And he’s so nice, like really really nice Jess, so gentle and kind but at the same time, he’s rough and I just know he would be an incredible fuck. Like, throw me around the room kind of fuck.” You opened your eyes to see Jess smiling from ear to ear, holding her glass up to her mouth. You sighed, “But he’s in Missouri, I’m here.”

“I know, that really sucks. But you can message and call and what not.”

“I don’t think I want a long-distance thing. And who’s to say he does?”

“Well, did he say anything along those lines?”

You pursed your lips, “He said something about a bye-week? And that he would see me then.”

Jess nudged you, “There you go, he’s already making plans to see you again.” She took a sip of her wine, “That’s a good sign.”

Your mouth flickered into a small smile.

“Just enjoy yourself Y/N. This is perfect, you’ve got a gorgeous, successful, sweet guy who wants to spend time with you but you don’t have all of the annoying traits of a boyfriend that is constantly in your pocket all of the time.”

“I’m in the next room, I’m not deaf.” Will’s voice shouted through from the kitchen.

Your head lifted like a flash towards Jess, “Will’s here?”

“Yeah, I heard everything…you little slut.”

You groaned loudly and sipped your wine.

Jess leaned forward and stroked your hair, “Aww babe, it’s fine. I showed him a picture of Travis last night, I think he’s just jealous.”

There was a pause before Will’s voice rang through to the room again, “Yeah, I am a bit.”

Your phone beeped and you picked it up from where it was resting on your leg. It was a notification from Instagram, a direct message from Brittany.

‘It was awesome to meet you last night, you’re so sweet and kind and we had so much fun. We’re about to board our flight and don’t tell him I told you this but Travis can’t stop talking about you!’

You smiled as you read the words on your screen.

‘I really hope we see each other again, you’re always welcome here if you ever want to have a little KC holiday! Kisses!’

“What? What is it?”

You quickly typed a reply as you spoke, “I’ve got a message from Brittany Mahomes.”

Jess looked blankly at you.

“She’s married to Patrick Mahomes. The Kansas City Chiefs quarterback.”

Jess blinked and took a sip of her wine, “Well, don’t forget about me now that you have famous friends.”

You laughed as you finished your reply before tapping send.

‘I had the BEST time! You guys are all awesome and made me and Hannah feel so welcome. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your night. And I don’t even want to think about what Travis is saying…it’s probably only half true! So much love to all of you and same to you! Although I don’t know if my tiny flat in London could compare! X’

_______________________________________________

Your eyes felt heavy as you grasped the cup of coffee. Somehow, even though you had managed to have an early night, you felt as though you needed another four or five. You had agreed to meet Hannah before work at a nearby café for some breakfast but she was running late as usual.

You took a long sigh as you waited for her when your phone let out a loud buzz as it vibrated against the table.

Facetime call. Travis Kelce.

Your heart began beating a little faster as you swiped to accept the call. His grinning face filled your screen.

“Hey you!”

You smiled back at your phone, “Hey! How was your flight?”

Travis groaned, “Long. I’ve been home for a while but I wanted to wait until it was the right time for you.”

You squinted your eyes, “What time is it there?”

His eyes flickered to the top of his screen, “Uhh about 4.”

“In the morning?” You voice raised in volume and in pitch, “Travis! That’s crazy, go to bed!”

He lowered his head as he laughed, “Nah, I wanted to speak to you before I slept.”

“That’s sweet. So, what are you doing today.”

He rubbed his face as he thought, “Ehh, sleep. And then I’m gonna call my Mom, maybe eat.”

You smiled as he spoke.

“Probably meet up with the guys and then tomorrow it’s back to Arrowhead for practice.”

“No rest for the wicked, ey?” You took a sip of your coffee.

“Are you working today?”

“Yeah, I’m meeting with Hannah for breakfast and then we have to go into the office this afternoon.”

Travis’ eyes creased into a smile, “Awesome, tell her I said hi. I could call you later?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Travis rubbed his face again, “Well, I gotta go.”

You saw the café door open and Hannah waved at you before heading to the counter to order her coffee, “Yeah, Hannah just got here. Sleep well, Mr Kelce.”

He bit down on his lip and gave you a wink, “Bye, beautiful.”

You smiled and hung up the call as Hannah sat down. She was out of breath with an excited expression.

“I knew I should’ve told you an earlier time to make sure you wouldn’t be late.” You rolled your eyes as you grabbed a menu.

“I’m sorry but I was spending all morning reading an article in US Weekly.” She spoke as she quickly scrolled on her phone.

“And that’s important because?”

She sighed before reading the title of the article aloud, “Chiefs tight end star Travis Kelce celebrates game win in London club with British journalist.” Your eyes grew wide as she continued, “Kelce, Patrick Mahomes and fellow Chiefs players enjoyed a night out in London nightclub with ITV NFL Show presenters. Kelce cosied up to Y/N and looked very intimate sparking rumours amongst fans that a new relationship in on the cards for the Kansas City star player.”

She turned the phone around and your eyes landed on two photographs. The first one was of Patrick and the rest of the group posing for the camera and the second was of you and Travis. Your head was lowered into his chest, your hand covering your mouth in laughter and his hand was on your thigh. His eyes were deeply on you and it made your skin tingle; your cheeks were becoming warmer and your mouth moved into a smile that you almost couldn’t control.

“Look at the way he’s looking at you is…something.”

You paused for a second, “It’s…like…I don’t know.”

“I think he’s got it bad for you.”

You looked away and focused on your menu, “Brittany messaged me last night and said he can’t stop talking about me and then just FaceTimed me before you came in.”

“Oh, Y/N. He likes you!”

You were scanning your breakfast options, “Maybe he does, and maybe I like him. But he’s in Missouri. Can we all stop forgetting about that?”

Hannah pulled the menu away from your face, “Maybe you need to forget it. Relax, enjoy it!”

You rolled your eyes, “I think…I’m…going to get the eggs.”

Hannah sniffed a laugh and looked down at her own menu.

_______________________________________________

I think I'm going to get another chapter out tomorrow! I want you all to get to the juicier bits! If you're enjoying this and you don't want to miss a chapter, just let me know and I'll add you to my Taglist!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1928 Tudor in St. Louis, Missouri has been renovated and updated into a bright, interesting home. 5bds, 8ba, $6.850M.

Sometimes the only way that owners know how to brighten up an older home is to paint the wood white. Sometimes I like it, and sometimes I don't know what to think.

The thing is that even though I like this room, knowing that it's not original is disturbing. I would like the decor in a new home. I wonder if they'll leave that lion. It's the focal point of the room.

Wow. This dining room looks nothing like a Tudor, no matter how sharp it is.

The hall of wine.

I don't understand how owners can spend a fortune renovating an older home and still make money. The only thing I can think of is that it's already paid off and they bought it years ago for a low price.

The kitchen looks like it may have a hint of the original cabinet style, at least with the upper ones.

Very high end appliances and plumbing fixtures.

Very roomy eat-in kitchen area.

Off the kitchen is a lovely family room, but it just doesn't belong in a 1928 Tudor.

Large pantry.

The primary suite has a sitting room.

They had to have taken a bedroom to make this big closet in an older home.

This bath is so huge it has a sitting area.

This bathroom is as big as my apt.

The rec room has games, a bar and a new fireplace.

The billiard room.

I wonder what this room was before it became a home gym. It has the terrace and wood paneled walls.

They even replaced the railings and stairs.

One of the secondary bedrooms has a new fireplace and en-suite.

Another rec room with a kitchenette.

The home theater.

They put in a beautiful back yard and pool, too. I really like this house, but I can't wrap my head around the fact that's supposed to be a 1928 Tudor, and it's not anymore.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/9948-Litzsinger-Rd-Saint-Louis-MO-63124/2774669_zpid/?

[exitrowiron]

Final Farewell

My mom passed away last October and my father in November, 2021 - both were cremated but Catholics aren't allowed to have their ashes spread, they must be buried. As a matter of fact, a Catholic may only be cremated after the funeral mass. The rules seem silly to me, but my parents were faithful Catholics so we followed the rules.

The burial in Ste Genevieve, MO, my father's home town, was originally envisioned as a very small affair, but we learned that many people who hadn't been able to travel to the funerals in Evansville, IN wanted to attend the burial. Thirty people attended the burial which included a bag piper and military honor guard (my Dad was an Army officer); the whole affair was presided by the local priest.

Ste Genevieve, located ~ 90 miles south of St. Louis, is Missouri’s oldest permanent European settlement. The village of Ste. Geneviève was settled by French Canadians around 1735 on the west bank of the Mississippi River. It is a small town and the Koetting family name is well known. When I introduced myself to the cemetery caretaker, he mentioned that he had been a classmate of my father, as were two members of the honor guard. The ceremony lasted 30 minutes, ending with the military salute and playing of taps, followed by the presentation of flags to my sister and me, perfectly executed by two, young active duty women.

We hosted a luncheon after the burial in the town's 'fancy' restaurant - the buffet was simple but tasty and I offered a short toast to my parents. My sister brought more wine glasses and other textile crafts of my mother and everyone had the chance to take a remembrance.

As I said in my toast at the luncheon, it is a bit odd to have the burial so long after the funeral but in some ways it is helpful. The funeral comes so quickly after the death and there are so many practical decisions to be made, one doesn't really have the opportunity to fully digest the passing. Now, six months later, my memories of my parents have distilled and crystallized a bit. Now I'm left with the very best of our relationship, the sugar and salt so to speak. They were excellent spouses, friends and parents and even their flaws were instructive to me. I was very fortunate to have them as parents.

I'm happy to have completed this final step for my parents and I believe they would have been happy and proud.

[licially]

Reminisce

// I'm no stranger to writing canon characters, but writing one with little to no material is something I've been trying. Have my rendition of Atlas May, a very short one.

The man stood silently near a footpath, near a bunch of buildings that closed off the street from the main road. He’d been here multiple times before, the same spot with the same corner with the same exact pose. His cane almost denting the stonework beneath him, as cars drove across every aspect of the busy main road. His focus for the roads diminished as much as his awareness for the time; after all, the clock that was up ahead were just off by a few seconds. Amidst the burning fuel and rubber, he stood still with an unexplainable expression. It was neutral, but with every passing moment he seemed more and more mysterious. Untethered to his consciousness, but rather absorbed in his subconscious.

The traffic didn’t seem to help him out of it either. He had been standing out in the street adjacent to the speakeasy with the specific intersection being near the bridge that turned towards street just by the Little Daisy Café. A lot of traffic from Illinois towards Missouri goes through here, and he observed vehicles like birdwatching. Sometimes, some trucks with his supplies will turn at his road without hesitation. Other times, he’d watch the busy road towards St. Louis as passersby go on with their lives, unaware of the person whose hobby is to observe.

Although he indulges his time alone, inevitably something will come up that will distract him, and tether him back to reality. It’s only a reward for what he’d done for the business he’s keeping alive with his partner, and his wife. Work, however tiny it is, had been his focus for all the times he’d been here, and he’s not letting anything stop it. As the traffic slowed, his hearing picked up two pairs of footsteps that walked towards him, his ears slightly twitched as his eyes reeled towards the source of the sound.

“Atlas!” A more than excited, gruff voice came up behind him. He immediately turned around, and saw his companion walk up to him with a glass of sparkling wine in his hand. “Where’d you been? The party inside is much warmer than out here!” He puts his hands on his shoulder that had him holding his cane, nothing too rough so that they lost balance. Atlas quickly looked at a brightly smiling Asa, alongside a concerned Mitzi that he turned his attention to. 

“Let’s go back inside, darlin’. You’ve been out here for too long.” She spoke up, reaching out for Atlas’ free hand and holding onto it. Her hand, however, showed a different warmth in comparison to Asa’s. 

To Mitzi, her hand on his was a way to show her love to him. Normally at events like this, Mitzi wears gloves to not let her hands be dirtied by anything. This time around, however, he saw her other hand had the glove that she took off. Her white dress was dimmed by the night’s light outside, and for her to dredge through the dirty roads and footpaths was dedication. She held her hand out to him, and his reluctant hold turned into a much more assuring one. 

Yet Asa felt cold. His voice reeked of alcohol, foods, and everything in between that contradicted his surname. Although they both helped each other to achieve this status and where they are now are held together by their alliance, his breath was shaky at best, and his hands didn’t have the same amount of togetherness that he had thought. His smile didn’t seem genuine either, it’s as if he only wanted him to be back in there for his benefit and showing off instead of letting him be.

Although both had intentions that were the same, the sincerity of each of them was a massive difference. He didn’t want to say much – as if he had much to say – so he nodded, taking Mitzi’s hand and slightly batting away a tipsy Asa. Mitzi smiled at him, as they all turned back into the street towards the speakeasy. His observations, however, lingered in his mind. He’d never been wrong about anything that he’d suspected before, and this time he’d still be right. 

Albeit it’s the last truth he’d ever find out.

[warnersister]

First Date - Blink 182

Javy ‘Coyote’ Machado x Reader

Inspired by the song ‘First Date’ by Blink 182

Find the request here (@fxngsfxgxrty)

Javy sat in the car, driving to your house to collect you for your very first date. You’d first caught his eye when he was at the beach with the rest of the Dagger Squad; while they were enjoying their day, you were working as a lifeguard. You��d agreed to move over for a little while with your aunt, Penny; having just finished law school and wanting a fresh start away from Missouri, she offered to take you in for the summer.

And then when he’d noticed you’d picked up a shift or two at the Hard Deck, he was convinced it was fate telling him to just ask you out; he could imagine his guardian angels face planting as they watched him helplessly pine over you from across the bar. Needless to say, Jake was sick of it. You were hot and if he hadn’t been Coyote’s best friend, he’d probably have wined and dined you himself by now.

Jake shook his head, taking the two now-empty bottles of beer back to the bar and requesting another round. You handed him the drinks and he passed you a slip of paper. “What’s this?” You ask with a small, questioning smile and he shrugs, almost unnoticeably nodding his head to his companion watching the ordeal. “His number” he says, leaning closer to you, then taking a napkin and scribbling something else. “And if things don’t work out with you and Coyote, gimme a call sugar” he winks and you roll your eyes “his names Coyote?” You ask and he smirks. “Called Javy, it’s his callsign” he tells you and you try to hide your smile, tucking the small letter in your pocket.

Later that evening, when Javy was getting ready for bed he heard his phone buzzing from the countertop as he brushed his teeth. “Hello?” He answers and there’s silence for a moment “Hi.. is this Javy, or Coyote? That’s what your friend told me to call you” the voice said in response and Javy froze, that was your voice. Quickly realising he hadn’t responded, he was fast to reply “hi! Yes, yes this is he” he says then cringes wondering why he said it like that. “Oh thank god” he hears mumbled and you quickly give him your name “im-” “Penny’s niece?” He asks and you nod, forgetting he couldn’t see you “yeah, that’s me” you say and before you could say anything else he quickly blurts “would you like to go out for dinner? Tomorrow maybe?” You were silent for a little while and he heard a small, almost relieved sigh come from the other end of the line “I’d love too” you answer and he smiles “great! Pick you up at six?” He asks “it’s a date” you confirm “I’ll text you my address” you tell him, before you both hang up and you shoot him your address.

Now here he was, speaking to Jake through the car phone “I’m in the car, I just can’t wait” he begins “to pick her up for our very first date” Javy tells him and Jake laughs “finally. Where’re you taking her?” He asks “that restaurant on the front, one with the beach deck” Javy confirms and Jake hums. Javy pads his fingers against the steering wheel, mulling over things in his mind “is it cool if I hold her hand?” He asks “what are you, twelve?” Jake asks and Javy rolls his eyes.

“Is it wrong if I think it’s lame to dance?” You ask Penny as he finishes the final touches on your hair and she shakes her head “just go with the flow” she answers, smiling at you. “Will he like my stupid hair?” You ask, as you’d asked your aunt to do a lovely up-do which you now realise makes you look slightly silly. “Of course he will. The boy made heart eyes at you when that guy puked on you” Penny said, jokingly and grimace; remembering the evening when a sailor got a bit too ‘sea-sick’ and couldn’t get to the bin.

“Will she guess that I didn’t know what to wear?” Javy asks and Jake hums “probably not, she’ll be as nervous as you.” Jake replies and Javy relaxes “yeah, probably” “but if you do look stupid I’ll make sure she sends me pics” typical Jake. “Yeah, thanks man.” Javy grunts, jokingly but it did ease his tensed shoulders slightly.

“I’m just scared of what she thinks”

“I’m just scared of what he thinks” you tell Penny and she smiles at you, hugging you close. “He looks at you like you hung the scars, baby” she comforts, giving you a big hug “yeah and if he hurts you I’ll kill him” maverick says, walking in the room and you jokingly laugh “thanks, Pete” you say and he nods “anytime, kiddo.” “Where’s he taking you?” Penny asks “that restaurant on the pier. Supposed to be nice but he makes me nervous so I really can’t eat.” And there’s a knock at the door, maverick opens it. Javy’s eyes widen but he nods at his instructor. “Mav” “Coyote” he replies and points at the boy “home by eleven, no later” he tells him with a stern look as Javy gulps “shut up Mav” you say, laughing and pushing your uncle, coming into Javy’s view.

“Wow.” He says, looking you over and you smile nervously “you look incredible” he says and you giggle “not too bad yourself, Javy” you reply. “Shall we?” He holds his arm out and you take it. “Let’s go” you reply, turning to your aunt and uncle “don’t wait up” you say, not wanting them to stay up longer than necessary “we will” Penny says, knowing she won’t be able to sleep until she knows your home safe. “You kids have fun!” Maverick says as Javy opens the car door for you and you smile at him, a light blush on your cheeks and he walks to the other side. The two watch you pull out and drive away.

You pull into the restaurant parking lot and grimace “can I be honest?” You ask as he takes the keys out of his car “of course” he says “I’m really nervous and feel sick I don’t know if I can eat a full meal” you say and he smiles “can I be honest too?” He asks and you nod “same.” You laugh “did you want to get drinks or something?” You suggest “how about we share an entree and then go? Don’t want you drinking on an empty stomach you’ll make yourself sick” he says and you try to hide your smile as you look the other way “sounds good” you reply as he watches your blush grow in the wing mirror. You head into the restaurant and end up getting a seat outside on the seafront, sharing a basket of garlic bread as the conversation flows.

Eventually the conversation lulls into a comfortable silence and you look out onto the horizon, watching the sun set “wow, this nights almost over” you say, seeing the watch on your wrist ticking faster than expected, eight at night. “Wish it didn’t have to end so soon” you continue and he replies “it doesn’t” “honest?” “Honest, let’s make this night last forever.” He says ordering a few more drinks for the two of you.

“Golden hours making you glow” he says, the drink making him almost too honest. You laugh “if I was pregnant I’d take the compliment” you say, jokingly and his eyes darken a little, stomach twisting. “Still, you look beautiful.” He says and you blush darkly, grinning as you thank him and watch the sun go down “when you smile I met inside” he says, eager to make you blush more; to which he’s successful. You ask about his work and he responds with the information he’s allowed to tell you of his current mission: detailing when he’d chosen to join the navy and the path it took to get him into the pilots seat.

You wow at his tale, hung on every one of his words “god and I’m just a law school graduate working in a bar and volunteering on a beach” you say, taking another sip of your drink to empty the glass “I’m not worthy of a minute of your time” you shrug and smile, as he shakes his head in denial “I’m not worthy of yours. God knows how I even managed to get you to humour this evening.” He tells you. “A lawyer? That’s a great job” he continues and you shrug “I don’t know” you sign “honestly,” you whisper, clearly slightly tipsy as you motion for him to move closer so you can tell him a secret “I don’t even know if I want to be a lawyer” you say, then visibly relax as if that statement is a weight off your shoulders. “That’s why I moved out here for the summer with Pen and Mav” you go to continue “my parents are pushing me to try get placement and start my own firm, but that their dream, not mine” you say and sigh “what do you want?” He asks and you look at him, slightly puzzled “me?” You ask and he nods “no one’s ever asked me that” you say and he takes your hand in his, stroking the back of it gently with his thumb “well I am. What do you want to do?” He asks and you speak without missing a beat “I want to be an elementary teacher.” You say with a small smile. “But there’s no money in it” you admit and purse your lips and he almost has to force himself not to say that he makes enough money to comfortably support the two of you if you wanted to take that path.

He looks around the two of you, the occupant number in the restaurant and outside slowly growing larger “I really wish it was only me and you” he says, annoyed that people had the audacity to crash your date by enjoying their own evening. “Really?” You grin and he nods “I’m jealous of everybody in the room” he says and you cock your head to the side in confusion, a smile still present on your face “and why’s that?” “Cause they all get to see how gorgeous you are, too” he admits. You blush again, eyes wide as they darken slightly, lids heavy as you look back at him “please don’t look at me with those eyes” he groans, running his hands over his face “what eyes?” You laugh “the eyes that’d get you very far in my bedroom” he replies and you smirk “they’re the only eyes I’ve got” he chuckled “m’kay, baby Maverick.” He jokes.

“If this is what our first date is like, imagine the second!” You state and he shakes his head “please don’t hint that you’re capable of lies” he begs and you shake your head no “no, I want to see you again, Javy” you say, leaning forward slightly to tell him and he victoriously celebrates in the comfort of his own mind. He looks from your eyes to your lips and back again “I dread the thought of our very first kiss” he admits and you crease your brows “and why’s that?” You ask as he leans ever closer “cause I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.” He mutters “tonight, a target I’m probably gonna miss” he grumbles and you smile widely. “Well you miss all of the shots you don’t take” you inform and he smirks, following your eyes as you watch the sea lap onto the beach.

“Let’s go” he says and you raise a brow, “what? Don’t like a little sand between your toes, Missouri girl?” He teases and you narrow your eyes “and you do, flyboy?” He laughs and you stand up, the two of you determined to race to the beach. “Can I pay our tab please?” You ask the lady at the bar who smiles and nods, heading to grab the card reader. Javy follows her without you noticing, only returning with the receipt “where’d the lady go?” You ask, confused with your card in hand. Javy just hands you the receipt and smiles victoriously. You look at him with wide eyes and slap his chest lightly “ugh Javy!” You scold “you didn’t have to do that!” “What, is chivalry dead?” He asks “no but I didn’t mind paying” you say and he holds his hands up “I suggested the date” he says “I suggested the drinks” you challenge but sigh as he wins the conversation “fine, but next time I’m paying” you say. (You don’t)

You head outside and he looks at the beach from the decking “I’ll race you” he says and you offer him a challenging look at he prepares to run “wait wait!” You say frantically and he creases his brows as you lean to remove the heels from your feet. “Oh we’re getting serious now?” He asks with a smirk and you give a determined glare “c’mon ‘Coyote’,” you tease his callsign “let’s see how fast you can really go” you threaten and he swallows the lump in his throat “oh I can go forever.” He says and you connect eyes with a knowing look.

“3.. 2..” he begins counting but you break of running and he sprints after you “hey! No fair you chested!” He shouts and you laugh loudly “you snooze, you loose; petrol pigeon!” You reply but feel hands wrap around your waist as you’re pulled to the grounds, but your fall is cushioned by a hard chest and a pair of soft, but strong hands. You laugh but it quickly quietens as you lay on top of him, hands on his chest, faces close and eyes connected. “Honest, let’s make this night last forever” you beg him and he shakes his head “Let’s make this last forever” he corrects and you giggle “forever?” He nods “and ever” he confirms, pulling you up and offering you a hand to hold as you walk along the beach, toes getting wet from the salty sea water every now and then.

“I really enjoyed this evening, Javy. Thank you.” You say and grin, approaching his truck and he nods in response, turning to you and placing his hands respectfully on your hips. “The pleasure is all mine, pretty girl” he replies, your hands moving to his chest as he pulls you ever closer. The sun is set now, the only light; the moon illuminating your face as your wide, expectant eyes look up at him. “You’re glowing.” He whispers and you smile “and you still haven’t kissed me” you whisper back, as he finally leans down and captures your lips with his own, a gentle yet deep embrace lasting for a little less time than either of you would liked.

“Forever and ever” you say quietly and pull away “let’s make this last forever” he says, opening the passenger side door to allow you to sit inside, walking around and getting in the drivers side to return you safe and sound to your aunt and uncle’s home, you look at the clock. ‘10:58pm’ it reads as you pull into the driveway. The lights are still on.

Your heels never got back on your feet and you pad back to your house bare-footed, waving at him as you knock and Maverick comes to unlock the door and lets you in. His instructor looks at Coyote and nods with a thumb up and Coyote mirrors his action; waiting for the door to fully shut until he drives back home.

“So.. how was that?” Penny asks “where are your shoes?” Maverick asks at the same time as they both look at you expectantly. You only look star stuck as you stand there in disbelief. “I think I’m gonna marry him”

[astralbulldragon13]

Arrigo Makes a Mistake

(This is a fanfic using an original character insert for the listener in Escaped Audio's 'New Jersey Rats' Series. Warning, there is some implied racism in this story, if that does not jive with you, feel free to skip. I completely understand)

Skyla Ghost Bear the Intern half-way listened to the conversation between Jean and Tricky Ricky, talking about the logistics needed to complete the job with the gold. It had been about a week since the incident with the Feds, and they were invited over again to 'talk shop', with the gold. Jean still was insistent on no one, not even the Bada Brothers knowing about that little incident.

Jean seemed a bit nervous when it came to inviting Skyla along, but she wouldn't say 'no' to some, really good, home-made Italian food. Even if it was in the company of the Cosa Nostra.

The only time she even got to have Italian food back home was when her Lala would take her and her siblings to the Olive Garden by the mall. This food was so much better, like comparing Taco John’s to authentic food from a real Hispanic household. 

‘But Taco Johns has potato ole’s,’ she joked mentally as she took a sip of the dry red that Ricky provided them to drink, trying not to scrunch her face at the taste. She was never a fan of dry wines, not even when they use them in church. ‘And Olive Garden has breadsticks and really fucking good salad.’

“Tell me, young intern,” Tricky Ricky spoke, looking up from his plate. “You know some about me, I don’t know some about you. Tell me about yourself.”

Jean glanced at his Intern with a fair amount of concern, hoping this wasn’t some attempt to dig up dirt to hold over them. 

Skyla offered him a calm, polite smile. This was a businesswoman’s smile, like a dagger wrapped in velvet, and Jean was able to decrease his heartrate at that. “Not much to me, sir. I’m from the midwest, came to New Jersey with hopes of experiencing a new life and seeing the ocean instead of the Missouri River. I will be receiving my degree shortly.”

“What kind of blood do you have in you?” 

Skyla’s business-smile tightened and her jaw tensed. Badabing and Badaboom looked at each other nervously, while Jean was almost worried that she may jump the table as Skyla had been very private about her ancestry, but she just picked up their wine glass. “I’m Plains Native American on my mother’s side, yes. We… aren’t particularly close

“What about your father?” Giovanni asked, eyeing the young individual.

She returned the look, her blue eyes unwavering, something uncommon amongst most who look the consigliere in the eye. “I never knew him. I know that he was an Irish exchange student, and that I have his eyes. That’s really all I know about him.”

Tricky Ricky nodded, finishing a bite of his food. “A shame, truly. He doesn’t know he has quite the intelligent child.”

Skyla laughed polietly, nodding in agreement with the old man’s words. “I thank you for your words, sir. I truly appreciate it.”

As dinner was wrapping itself up, Skyla excused herself to the restroom. After she washed and dried her hands, she reached into the inner pocket of her blazer to apply a fresh coat of her favorite red lipstick. It wasn’t some designer brand, but simple Maybelline New York #333, Hot Chase that she found in Wal-Mart at the age of seventeen. She popped the top off and twisted the tube up and paused, looking at the color, then her reflection with the faded color still on her lips and thought to her poor, scruffy superior. Skyla didn’t know why, but their mind went to him, his hair wild, his business-shirt un-tucked, and his pretty face covered in kissmarks in this shade of red. 

With a girlish giggle, Skyla applied the lipstick leaving a fresh and shiny coat. She twisted the spiral back down and re-capped her lipstick, sticking it back in their pocket. She undid her hair and retwisted it, pinning it again with her barrett, then walking out the door. 

To her surprise, she found Arrigo waiting outside the door, waiting for her. She drew up short, letting the door to the restroom close behind her. “Oh, Mister Belardi! You caught me a little by surprise there. Is there something I can do for you”

The so-called ‘Mafia Prince’ gave a smirk that Skyla supposed was meant to be seductive, but in truth it just made her skin crawl. “Yeah, uh… what are you doing after dinner?” 

His question sent up so many red flags it could have been used to decorate a rescue boat. Skyla returned to her business smile and tried to move past him. “I have some matters to attend to when I return to my apartment. Now, please excuse me, I do believe dessert was about to be served and I’ve been looking forward to that semifreddo all evening.”

“Or,” he said quickly, caging them with his arms on either side of her body. “You could, uh, come with me? I’m having a yacht party at the marina tonight.” Arrigo reached up with one perfectly manicured hand and stroked her cheek.

“I’ve, uh… never been with a girl like you. I mean, I’ve been with Indian girls before but not your kind of Indian, you know what I mean? Come on, why don’t you… try me on for size? I bet I could do better than that loser Jean. Come on, don’t you want a chance to really have some protection from the family?”

Skyla blinked and tilted her head down to look Arrigo in the eye. The young Belardi heir only stood at five feet, four inches, five foot, six with the help of the lifts in his shoes, while Skyla, being half Lakota, stood at five foot, nine inchest. Pair that with the fact she always wears four inch heels, she was towering over him, and he knew it. 

In response, the Intern decided to use the greatest power in their arsenal, the only gift her father gave her. She glared at Arrigo’s hazel eyes, and to him, looking into Skyla’s eyes was like looking into a stormy sea. 

A chuckle bubbled up from her lips, and she shook her head, almost incredulously. She looked up, and noticed Jean looking around the corner, his brown eyes burning. So, in response to the Princeling’s offer, Skyla place a hand on the arm that was caging her, and gently moved it out of the way, before moving aside and walking away from him, still chuckling, while adding a little sashay to her hips. “Hey, Unch, is everything alright?”

Jean blinked, trying to clear his head. This was something different, she usually called him something different in her mother-tongue, but it sounded similar to what they just called him. 

“Wh-Wha? Oh! Oh, right I, um, was coming to find you. I know how excited you were to have that semifreddo.”

Skyla just giggled and took his arm. “Come one then, let's go.” And they walked off back to the table. Jean glanced over his shoulder to look at Arrigo, who looked offended and rather confused, and just gave the little brat a shit-eating grin. 

[the-trans-folk-witch]

The Green Devil of the Ozarks: The little green fairy of... moonshine?

It was 2005. I was with my grandfather in an old shop similar to "dick's 5 and 10" outside of Branson, Missouri. This is where The Green Devil caught my eye.

My grandfather frequented little old fashioned stores like this. He loved collecting all kinds of gadgets. Old movie posters, salt water taffy, and soda parlor paraphenalia. It was heaven on earth to him in this little corner of the world that was stuck in an older Ozark time. His house wasn't too dissimilar to a crackerbarrel gift shop. All kinds of wooden toys and dolls. He loved his little knickknacks. But on that day he found it. A copy of an old French absynthe poster with "the little green fairy" smirking at the viewer. He had to have it. It was being sold for $8! frame included! If only the seller knew the true value of it. Or how it's mere existence was breaking so many copyright laws.

Maurin Quina, as it's named, is a French apéritif advertisement painted by Leonetto Cappiello in 1906. The drink was made illegal soon after its creation. But this poster is now being reused today. It was not well known in the US at all back then. Not even in the 2000's. but my grandfather being a moonshiner, absynthe fan, and art history drop out, knew all about it.

My grandfather was not as religious as the rest of my family. But he sure prayed to God when he was trying to avoid the law. He was selling homemade moonshine without any sort of license or proper knowledge of sanitary practices. It was an arte form he learned from his father that I never had the pleasure of learning.

He decided to hang this new poster up in his storm cellar where he kept his aging bottles of various liquors. Over time it developed A life of its own. My grandfather would kiss his hand and place it on the poster of the little green fairy after every jar was sealed or sales were made. I Don't think he saw this as devil worship so much as just a simple good luck ritual. Not too disimilar to his high school basketball team kissing the image of their mascot before a game. He always practiced these superstitions even though he didn't seem to really believe in them.

Fast forward to today. I'm an Ozark trad witch. So of course I now work with this image as if it is the devil himself. He is a devil that rules spring and summer. Drunkenness, poison, lunacy, fairies, and nature. He is associated with law breaking, alcohol, healing, harming, and fertility. With Easter coming up He is on my mind heavily. A time I feed him red dyed eggs symbolizing the blood of christ and the blood of good Christians. I feed him this with intentions of causing those which share the eucharist to lust. Poisoning the church so to speak. I attend mass in spirit form and dip my blessed turkey wish bone down in the communion wine. The turkey is symbolic of love in the Ozarks. And the wishbone is horned like the stang, and my devil. Midnight mass on Easter is filled with drunkenness and sex. Those consuming this spiritually poisoned wine are consumed with lust for others in the church. An orgy ensues in the great house of God. Only for all members to awaken Easter morning with no memory of the incestuous rituals performed with their brothers and sisters in christ. To do such things in the house of God and not confess them (due to not remembering) is damanble. This is my goal as a witch. To bring the witches Sabbath to the church and to pervert the souls of good men.

By turkey wand and lustful stang I complete my work in the devils name.

A call to the Green Devil:

"Envy is his name. Drunkeness and poisoning are his arte. He is Lord of the little people and plants alike; come little green fairy and bring your lust and your lunacy. Green devil rise from the roots below like a serpent. Green devil come down from the tree tops like a booger in the night who takes its flight. Join me in this witching hour oh beast of the green and hear my call to the wild. By my witches flame may it be so."

Look out for a post on the black and red devils later this year. Our horned one changes with the seasons