#Travel & Events | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

covid-safer-hotties · 1 month ago

Text

Also preserved in our archive

by: Beck Levy

“Maybe now vocalists will finally start bringing their own mics,” I tweeted in the first days of March 2020. My virtual audience was mostly friends I met by participating in subcultures in and adjacent to the DIY tendency of hardcore punk rock. In those early days, we on the cultural fringes shared a sense that the pandemic, in its capacity as a social intervention, could meaningfully disrupt the oppressive ruling order.

When I booked and played shows before COVID-19 hit, I tried to harness energy and rally when crisis arose. Touring band is lost on the road? I was ready to DJ to keep people from leaving between sets. No one came to unlock the club? Let’s play in the parking lot. The last show I’d played, just weeks earlier during Mardi Gras, was on a trailer being pulled by a dump truck. We’re responsive to shifting circumstances, right?

I couldn’t get a clear look at the new terrain through the brutal haze of my first-wave infection. I was disoriented, waking up breathless, fevered, delirious from nightmares about drowning in my own blood. I could not fathom taking any action that would contribute to COVID-19 circulating, and my symptoms made me believe I would be a risk to my community. With home tests scarce, every flare had me conceiving of myself as though I might be a biological weapon.

Friends texted their fears to me frantically: “Is music over? Are shows done?” I thought back to informal and unconventional gigs, the freedom and potentiality those moments held, and reassured my friends, sequestered in our separate biomes. I said and believed: “Music always finds a way, youth culture always finds a way, underground culture always finds a way.”

Slowly, reimagined, remote, and socially-distanced events returned. In lieu of Jazz Fest, New Orleans radio station WWOZ charmed us with “festing in place” on the airwaves. I did a solo set in a virtual anniversary showcase for my old record label. Another friend live streamed a show from a cavernous church. I’d guessed performances mediated by technology might salt the wound, but desperate for connection, I treasured those experiences.

I watched my place in the world creep away from me. There were rumors of scandalous secret shows during lockdown. But the first real sign was pictures on Instagram of people traveling and touring again. Scroll to that last image: a row of COVID-19 tests, all negative, smug. Or positive, chagrined but only a little; a mismatch to the scale of: “For fun I traveled as a disease vector and personally participated in the proliferation of an airborne pathogen that can kill or maim.” Was it a character limit? A limitation of character?

The world passed me by, carouseling through normalization phases, like COVID-19 tests phasing their way out of tour posts. I watched scenes regroup from my new vantage point in biopolitical exile. Pandemic gloom catalyzed a spate of reunions, which is wholesome and beautiful except for the fact that at least one band knowingly toured with a member who tested positive.

Was I overreacting? While COVID-19 left me with an immune system that attacks my body, my mind attacked itself with this question. I’d traded amps for this mental feedback loop. The counterargument was implicit: people need unfettered access to music more than we need safety.

Live music came back. It just didn’t bring me with it.

I didn’t see a critical mass of bookers, venues, or bands advocating for COVID-19 safety with measures like outdoor shows, improved ventilation, livestream options, or just adding tests and masks to the earplug bin at the door. Some hand disinfectant; a little hygiene theater at conventional venues. The will just wasn’t there. I thought our deal was fuck the state, we’ll do it our way. I found myself slipping through the subcultural safety net that exists for outcasts who are slipping through the cracks of mass culture and late capitalism.

Of course, punk was already inaccessible to some. And I actually believe a certain amount of gatekeeping is necessary to protect punk from posers, jerks, and cops. But among the nebulous community clustered around shows, the sexism and racism people have experienced has always been very real, to the tune of entire zines, books, films about that exclusion. I monitored my heartbreak, critically. Resource-scarce, informal, and underground operations often exist at a quagmire of conflicting access needs. Was the sting of betrayal just this painful because it affected me, directly? Can the subaltern mosh?

There was a brief period where my baseline had plateaued, and I enjoyed medium-functionality between flares. Clinging to my modest recovery, a memorial service was my first congregant risk. That was the last time I tried to play guitar. I got the twisties, psychic vertigo from grief and from the contradiction of my setting and my experience, but the band played on, complete with a brass section. And at that otherwise beautiful event, I was ceremoniously reinfected by an asymptomatic tuba player. My health has been steadily deteriorating ever since.

Isolation is hard: it can feel like rejection, it can feel real personal. I struggled to adapt. I know I can have a persecution complex, but I also know I’m materially being made surplus. So what do I tell the complex? Are people being thoughtless, or do they explicitly not give a fuck about immunocompromised people like me?

Life is never totally safe, danger is often exciting, sometimes risk is the point. I know that. I’m not (just) a joyless scold. In the era of potentially deadly airborne pathogens, we’re playing with other lives when we make “individual” health decisions—I thought we’d learned that, but there was no such reckoning.

Punks accepted the sociological production of the end of the pandemic, moving in lockstep with the state, sacrificing medically vulnerable people on the altar of pleasure, just as the state had sacrificed us on the altar of capital. I thought our ingenuity would create new forms of shows. Instead, it exposed our limits under duress. To quote the band Allergic to Bullshit, “If this is what we’re for, this is what we’ll get.”

Maybe my shock seems naïve—after all, there’s a difference between “subculture” and “counterculture”—but there’s a reason I expected better. There are visionaries with love, passion, and fearlessness who organize shows in strip malls, caves, skateparks, churches, parking garages; shows with immediacy like distributing free Narcan, and conviction, like benefits toward Palestinian liberation. I await, with diminishing faith, the eruption of that tendency in the bioethical arena.

Since immune ableism is hegemonic, congregating is a question of building a realistic threat model, making decisions with people who are directly impacted by your actions, and taking all possible precautions. I’m encouraged by radical formations with accessibility modifications, particularly those connecting social abandonment, climate crisis, and genocide. I see this reflected in art book fairs that require masking, outdoor Shabbatot, test-first leftist reading groups. Queer and drag events are making adjustments. Mask blocs and clean air clubs collaborate, with limited resources, to make spaces more accessible. These are people who insist on collective health, demanding freedom to live and breathe clean air.

For those of us with severe Long COVID, exclusion from live music represents a profound loss of humanity. This disconnection feeds into my daily despair; in medical terms, my depersonalization/derealization. Having hoped this crisis would push us closer to communism than complacency, I feel whiplash, what Naomi Klein calls “political vertigo.” Millions of Americans with Long COVID have disappeared from the workforce. Data on the underground music scene are unavailable. It’s hard to count ghosts. I’ve wanted to ask: Have you noticed that some of us are gone? Do you ever miss us?

Four years later, I still can’t even make it to a well-filtered show. My last recreational outing ended in hospitalization from merely ascending a steep hill. I hear about shows from my roommate, the only person I see, who is also the only masked person at them. I tell myself I could try to go to an outdoor gig one day, maybe, if my governing health planets aligned. Instead of being an active musician, I pretend I’m like Jandek, a reclusive genius, but really I’m too clumsy and unfocused to play at home.

I do what I do with everything: act like I’m in a different world. It’s not difficult, because I am. The Well do their thing out there, I do mine in here. I moved across the country in search of better healthcare and, homebound, routinely forget I’m not still in New Orleans. Either way I am inside. I gave up and I don’t fight the world leaving me behind. I am back here, rolling the boulder of my body up steep hills.

In spite of everything, I’m glad shows continue. It’s bittersweet comfort knowing freaks are getting raucous in basements, with noise made by other freaks, sprayed with wet yells, aggressively jostling with teens; in a reprieve from control, experiencing music together. I’d die for your right to do that. And thanks to you, I just might.

#mask up #public health #wear a mask #pandemic #covid #wear a respirator #covid 19 #still coviding #sars cov 2 #coronavirus

59 notes · View notes

bisexual-horror-fan · 1 year ago

Text

"Not What I Planned." Rusty Nail X AFAB! Reader.

Well hello! It is the amazing and fantastic @eggsandbeer birthday so, so soon! But I am meeting Matt and Skeet tomorrow and my brain is gonna be all on Billy and Stu post that, so you get this now! This is my first time writing Rusty, I watched Joy Ride 2 six times while writing this. I love Riri, she is so fucking awesome and I adored doing this. She has a more personalized version but gave the go ahead to post a reader insert version for you all! So let's go!

---

Rating. Explicit. Length. 7.7K (I Know.) Rusty Nail X AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Customer Service Work. Asshole Customers. Murder Mentioned. Drinking. Making Out. Man Handling. Fingering. Masturbation. Blow Job. Cum Eating. Vaginal Sex. Riding. Taunting. Teasing. Dirty Talk. Praise. Pet Names.

---

You hate your job, it is exhausting, mentally and physically, a total drain, but you do all you can to not let it get you down. You focus on the little things, good customer interactions, great coworkers and the times you are truly able to get away from your work. It isn’t like it’s what you wanted to do for the rest of your life anyway, far from it, in fact one of those vital lifelines that helps keep you sane is a local news internship, it gives you some good experience for what you hope to actually eventually do with your life along with giving you purpose.

Today is not good, though, off to a less than ideal start. This is decidedly not the way you wanted to spend your birthday. Rolling into the grocery store to do a closing shift, apron in your grip and bag over your shoulder, half-hearted waves to co-workers as you strolled through towards the area you could safely stow away your stuff until you are allowed to clock out. You do just that, drop your stuff in the usual place, get your uniform situated and punch in, ready for another day of God knows what bullshit.

Your mind was at least slightly occupied, where you work is en route to the Burning Man festival which meant that you were busy as fuck with people loading up on supplies before they arrive to their final destination, it kept you busy. As for what kept your brain whirring, your internship had tasked you with writing a piece on the crowd that is rolling through on their way, meaning you are watching and listening intently. It looks like you aren’t from the outside, hands stacking a fruit display, but ears open, all sorts of talk about events the Burners were amped up for, how much further they had to travel, what snacks were the best and would keep in the desert heat.

You did some actual work naturally, finding yourself crouched and cleaning out a stubborn drain, the process thoroughly annoying and honestly degrading, and not in the fun way you usually liked. It was your fucking birthday, for Christ’s sake, you should be indulging in the fun kind of calve burning, not the bent over and unclogging kind. Still, you try to stay in higher spirits and certainly not show it outwardly, if someone squinted hard enough, they might be able to pick up on it.

Later on, you had just finished making a new display, standing back and looking at the gorgeous display of apples you’d spent longer than you cared to mention on, hands on your hips. The first genuine smile that had graced your face since clocking in and wasn’t tinged with a single hint of perfectly practised customer service fakeness. This is one of those moments you felt genuine pride in your work, a glimmer of nicety in all the bullshit.

It lasted for two whole seconds.

A customer’s cart hits you in the hip and wrist simultaneously because of how you were standing, the action both painful and shocking, completely unexpected. It makes you step to the side, grip your wrist with your other hand, the pain is throbbing and dull, it isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever experienced, but it still sucks and should have never happened in the first place. The customer doesn’t apologize. Worse still, they stride forward, pick a single apple from the middle of the display, causing half of it to tumble over. The customer scoffs with a roll of their eyes, they drop the apple into their cart to look around, seeming to notice you just now for the first time, only then acknowledging you. They give a pointed look from you to over their shoulder, a motion of their head as they criticized your work, “Not very sturdy.”

Your mouth falls open, and they tut as they walk away, leaving you dumbfounded with fifteen some odd apples scattered on the ground that you had to clean up and a display you had to rebuild.

Later still, you are sweeping, trying to get these damn onion skins up, but they aren’t moving. You are half focused, conversing with one of the Burners, they are asking for your opinion on what kombucha is best, and you are humouring them and getting a few questions answered along the way.

Throughout all the regular work crap, you’d been having small conversations with people, writing brief notes for your project, and it was nice getting some serious stuff down about it, served as a half decent distraction too.

His initial thought is that it was reminiscent of a zoo, upon greater thought while attempting to park the Peterbilt he decided swiftly that it was worse than that, a fucking circus. He manages to park and decides that getting in and out as fast as possible would be vital to maintaining his sanity. He was aware that Burning man was happening, naturally, but still the place was crowded as all Hell, more than he had been anticipating. Rusty didn’t like large crowds of people, but he needs some supplies, he needs to eat.

It isn’t any better inside.

He is making his way around, hat pulled low, basket in his grip, grabbing a few drinks, some favoured snacks that he knew kept well, he was passing by the produce, almost ready to get the fuck out. He goes into your department, he is grabbing bananas and thinking about getting some of those pre-cut carrot and celery sticks. Rusty is trying to be a tad more health minded, not like it would do much with how much he enjoys a good smoke but better to do something than nothing he supposed.

His train of thought is broken when he hears a loud exclamation of, “I can’t believe how fucking stupid you are!”

Rusty’s head turns, he catches sight of you, standing there, trying to look apologetic as some older lady is verbally ripping into you, “I’m making lemon chicken LEEK stroganoff, right?”

She is looking at you expectantly, your eyes wide, and with that half customer service forced smile you nod and say through gritted teeth, “Right.”

“So tell me, how. Am I. Supposed. To make. Lemon, chicken LEEK stroganoff without LEEKS?” The way she said it was infuriating, the halting, pausing way of it, so condensing, as if you were the cross between an idiot and a child all rolled into one.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I guess you can’t. I’m very sorry.” You admit it reluctantly, knowing she won’t like your response, and she does not. She goes off on you, “Well I’ve had this menu planned for WEEKS, I have company coming tonight! You have to make this right!”

Rusty was listening in, brow pinching, this woman was off her rocker, what a complete bitch. You were trying to calm her, smooth over the situation, and she was being worse and worse to you. No matter what you say, she wouldn’t stop freaking out.

“I really am very sorry. I could call another store nearby and ask if they have any leeks?” You offer up, and she scoffed with a laugh, “So I can make ANOTHER stop? Do you not remember? I am hosting a dinner party tonight, I’m busy! I have other places to go, I can’t be here fighting with you over this all night!”

And yet she was still here, doing just that.

He had turned, wasn’t watching quite as subtly as he was previous. You were doing your best and none of it was measuring up to this crazy, impossible standard that was being set out. He was looking at you, and he could see that you were taking it hard, your customer service face and voice were holding strong, but your eyes? They looked so sad.

You reminded him of a kicked puppy, as the woman finally had enough of being a raging cunt and stormed off. Right after that, someone else in uniform walked by, a manager? And on their way, they said, “Happy birthday.”

You gave a small, “Thanks.” along with half a wave as they strode past. You were not only working on, but getting treated like that, on your birthday?

It got to him, hit him square in the chest, shot to the heart. A sigh and he looks over, he makes a note of the asshole who mistreated you so, he has a little time before they check out before he can go dispose of them in the parking lot for being so unreasonable and rude to you. It might be too far for some people but not for him, people like that, there is no changing them, not at her age, some people don’t deserve to live.

First things, first though, he saunters over to you, a small clearing of his throat before he asks, “Got a date tonight, there a drink you’d recommend?”

You turn towards the low and smooth voice, you have to turn your head up to look at him properly, he was taller than you. The way he was standing, the angle, and how he wore his hat you couldn’t see his face, brim pulled too low, standing a few feet away.

A small inhale and your smile turned more genuine before you reply, “Oh, our Pink Champagne is my favourite. I get that on special occasions.”

Well, how fucking perfect a find were you? Kind, respectful, hardworking, and you have good taste.

“Thank you.” He said it easily with a wave of his hand in acknowledgement and broke away. You watch him go and think to yourself that he is cute, in that particular way that strikes you when an older guy catches your eye just so. The interaction doesn’t stick with you however, you turned and saw more fucking onion skins that needed sweeping up.

Hours later, you finally get off of work, messed up apron in one hand and looking forward to getting the hell home. You had two days off ahead, you were intent on a bath and partaking in some drinks in your fridge with a good record on when you get home. You are walking through the dark and now very empty parking lot, your mind only focused on reaching your car, sliding behind the wheel and getting home as soon as possible, when you hear a voice calling out. Your car keys are in one hand, the keys between your fingers, sticking out and ready to punch a would be attacking if you need to.

Hearing the voice makes you put your head on a swivel, initially scared, you look and then see it is that older gentlemen you helped out earlier. You pause, and he comes a little closer, again in the dark and with that hat you can’t make out much except for the orange glow of the end of his cigarette, partially illuminating the lower half of his face. He calls out your name, following it with a question of, "-right?”

“Hi, yeah it is.” You were still sightly on edge until he is holding up the very same bottle you suggested earlier, “Wanted to say thank you for your recommendation, properly.”

Your brows raise up, you saw him in the store hours ago, meaning he should in theory be long gone, and you ask, “I thought you had a date?”

“I do. I was just waitin’ for her to get off work.” Even though you couldn’t see it fully, you could hear the smile in his tone, and it makes one spread to your own face. “Oh, my apologies, I didn’t realize that was you asking me out.”

The tone you said it in was very light, and he seemed equally amused, “Sorry bout that, terrible manners on my part, truly.”

There is a beat of silence, and you say, “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

“So you’d be willing to join me?” He asks, you nod, you felt endeared to him very quickly, the confidence he displayed, the boldness, you were charmed and figured why not? You had the time tonight, nothing wrong with enjoying a birthday drink bought by a courteous man.

“Where are we going to go?” You ask, and he gestured over to the large shiny black Piterbilt towards the back of the lot. “Was thinking my truck, if that’s alright with you?”

When he asks in that delicious tone of voice, you think that yes, it is very alright with you. “Lead the way.” You prompt, and he does, you fall into step beside him, apron is thrown over your shoulder, and you asked, “So you’re a truck driver?”

“How’d you ever guess?” He asked on an exhalation of his cigarette with a glance over to you. Now you can catch the half smirk on his face, unable to make out his eyes completely, but it didn’t bother you, honestly you kind of dug the mysterious kind of thing, not even fully knowing what he looked like. If anything that communicated how into him, you were, hadn’t even seen his whole face but his voice and how he carried himself was more than enough to convince you to this odd kind of unexpected date.

“I’m real intuitive. Call it a gift.” You mused, and he liked you, even in how you joked, there was no real meanness to it, could tell that it was all in fun and that inherent niceness shone through. “Giving me gifts when it’s your birthday? Isn’t that what M’ supposed to be doing?”

That gives you some slight pause, how in the fuck did he know that it was your birthday? Before any serious question could be made, you were next to his truck on the passenger side. You look it over and say honestly, “Nice truck.”

“Thanks, do my best to take real good care of it, s’ seen some rough times.” You look a little closer, scrutinizing, if it had, you couldn’t tell, the thing looked clean and not a scratch on it. You turn and lean against it, you realize he had gotten some cups that were also sold at your work, he holds them out, “Mind holding these while I open this?”

You nod and take them out of his outstretched hand and watch as the last remainder of his cigarette was dropped and ground under the heel of his boot. He uncorks the bottle with ease, doesn’t spill any or cause it to overflow, which mildly impresses, you hold out the cups and he fills them. The bottle is set aside on the ground and after passing him his cup he asked “Any words to share?”

“Here’s to the weekend?” You offered up after a moment’s thought, and he said, “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks yours and his cups together, and you take a sip of the sweet and familiar fizzy alcoholic drink.

“Seriously the shift I had today was rough, so this is really nice, thank you-” Then you realize you don’t know his name, he clearly picks up on this and says, “Name’s Rusty. Rusty Nail.”

Immediately you figure it must be his CB handle, you wonder if Rusty is his real name, but also you don’t think it matters much, you don’t press, “Well thank you, Rusty, really.”

“S’ my pleasure. Heard how that woman was going off on you earlier, some people can be so rude.” Is that what prompted this? The total bitch who was freaking over leeks? If so, you think that maybe her being such a raging cunt wasn’t such a bad thing if it led to this.

Little did you know that Rusty had taken care of her, she was currently stuffed in the trunk of her own car, way, way on the other side of the lot, body long since gone cold.

The conversation then turned to you both complaining about a shared distaste for rude and unreasonable people, he let you vent about your day and previous horrible customers at your job. As the conversation went on, you find yourself enjoying his company more and more. You also find yourself standing closer to him, half the bottle gone, he’s had another smoke, and you are leaning on him much more than the truck, he doesn’t mind, you sigh to him, “I cannot believe the crap you have to put up with, it’s so unfair!”

“Some people have some really unsavoury and outdated views on people in my line of work.” He admits with a nod, and from what he’d shared it seemed like. There are people who say the meanest shit, make horrible assumptions, treat him like dirt or worse, a feeling you know all too well at your own job. You relate to Rusty.

You’d been talking for an hour, and it was even later, darker, and a shiver unexpectedly ran up your spine, “You cold?”

You were a little, you were in a t-shirt and after standing in one spot for so long this late the chill had somehow set in. “Yeah, surprisingly I am a bit.”

Then he made an interesting offer. “You want to get in my truck, warm up?”

You think you really did want that. “Yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

He moved back then and so did you, he opened the door for you, and you looked up, Christ it was big, how were you supposed to get in while in your slightly buzzed state without looking like a total clown? You feel him against your back, he asks, “Need some help?”

You nod, unsure of what he means or how he is going to help but trusting him all the same, it’s then that you feel his hands on you. He turns you, and then those same hands find your waist with ease and grip. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you realize to him, you probably do, as he helps hoist you into the passenger side of the truck. Rusty sits you on your ass in the seat and your face feels much hotter, he just scooped you up and set you down so fast, one simple and fluid motion as he stepped one foot up on the running board, and then there you were. You are side-saddle, legs dangling down and far off of the ground. His hands leave you quicker than you’d like, sliding off your waist and stepping back down. You are a bit dazed, his hand touches your ankle, and you jump, he laughs at your surprised, “What?”

“You wanna get your legs in, so I can close the door?” You nod and do so, swinging your legs in, and he shuts the door. Your hand, that had been clutching your bag and apron, dropped them on the floor by your feet. You look down into your cup, you hadn’t spilled any even when he picked you up, the cup is raised, you tip it back and swallow down the remainder. A sigh and you pull the cup back, hand still clutching it, comes to rest on your thigh as your thumb on your opposite hand swipes a stray drop from the corner of your mouth. He had come around to the other side, he has the door open and is sliding in beside you into the driver's seat, he’d picked up the bottle on the way, and you were contemplating asking for more.

As if reading your mind he gestures for your cup, you lean over, holding it out, and he pours you some more, you asked him, “So before, you were talking about all the bad stuff about truck driving, but what about the stuff you do like?”

The question seems to surprise him if his tone is any indication, “The stuff I do like?”

He has pulled the bottle back, he isn’t pouring more for himself, you respond to his question with another of your own, “Yeah, what makes the job worth it? Other than the money.”

Rusty considers the question for a moment before he says, “I like seein’ the country, like being by myself most of the time but most of all? Probably seems obvious, but the freedom of it.”

You nodded, it made sense and asked, “Can go anywhere, do anything?”

“S’actly.”

The silence is as surprisingly comfortable as the passenger seat of this truck is. The thought hits, and you say it without thinking, “I dunno how you do it.”

“What? Truck drivin’?” He asks, and you say with a turn to him, “Yeah! Like, the actual driving it.”

He laughs, and you press on, one hand holding your cup and the other making like you are gripping a steering wheel that was comically large, pretending to turn it, “Seriously! This thing is massive, it’s a beast! How can you control it?”

“Ain’t that hard really, just gotta be the right mix of careful and confident.” He assures, and you laugh, “You make it sound so easy, I’ve never driven anything this big, that-” You point out the window to your much less impressive ride, “-is my car over there.”

“Yeah, don’t quite measure up, does it?” He teases and you grin, “Nope. But I don’t think I could drive anything like this.”

“I think you could.” A small pause before he asks the big question, “Wanna try?”

You nearly choke on your sip and pull the cup back, wiping at your mouth, “What? Me? Drive the behemoth? You want to write it off that bad, Rusty?”

“You cannot be that bad a driver.” He scoffs.

“Rusty, you barely know me, I dunno-” He insists, “C’mon, I’ll help.”

“Help?”

You were curious enough to allow it to happen, you’d not counted on his idea of help being putting you in his lap. He’d moved the seat back enough and encouraged you to climb on, emboldened by both the drink and his encouragement, you slide on into the space he made. He moves the seat forward enough to do the pedals, and he places your hands on the wheel, his hands covering yours. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Nerves were setting in, you’d been drinking, not a lot but also all the close contact with him was getting to you, his attractiveness was apparent during your brief meeting earlier but now that you'd’ been getting to know him? He was becoming even more appealing, being sat in his lap, your back to his chest, his hands on yours, you felt flustered. Sounded by him in both touch and scent, it could be enough to make your head swim if you let it. In your current position, his voice is over your shoulder, “Positive. You’ll be fine.”

The tone of voice he says it in, the conviction, he makes you believe it.

One of his hands leaves yours briefly to start her up, the truck rumbles to life, and it makes you jump slightly, Christ it was loud and is vibrating like all Hell. “We’ll just do a lil’ loop, alright? M’ doing the pedals, you just steer her real easy.”

He had to speak louder to be heard over the hum of the truck, and you pitch your own volume up to be heard, “Yeah, real easy, can do.”

His foot comes down slowly, and he eases it forward, you grip the wheel tightly and let him lead. He talks you through the process, and it helps, you focus your eyes forward and your ears on listening to his smooth voice praising you, “Uh-huh, around the pole, use it as a guide.” You swallowed and nodded, brows knit together as he keeps talking, “Oh good job, see? You’re doing it.”

His hands squeeze yours reassuringly, your mouth feels dry, you nod and say quieter than you should, “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, you’re doing most of the work.” You feel that isn’t truthful but again, he talks, you believe.

“Almost all the way around, a little further-” Both his hands leave yours, sliding down your arms and choosing to come to rest on your waist again, letting you fully be in control. It makes you tense, rushing out, “Rusty, wait-”

Another flex of his hands, another show of comfort, he says easily, drawling out, “Calm down, you’re doing it all yourself.”

You aren’t fully convinced until you’ve made the full loop, and he lets off the gas, he turns off the car and your shoulders slump, what he says next, makes you melt, “I told you. You’re perfect.”

That does something, makes a particular part of you break, or is it wake up? Either way, a certain section of you, somewhere aside, comes alive, and instead of wanting to run from it, you chose to grab onto the live wire of sensation with both hands. The truck has stopped, but you keep moving, the urge overcomes, and you turn in your seat and in his lap, one hand comes up, meets his cheek, feeling the rough stubble. He’d already gotten you the champagne, but you think you want more still, and you ask, “Can I be selfish?”

“S’ your birthday, be as selfish as you want to.” You take that is more than enough of an invitation. You lean up and in, push the brim of his hat up enough to give yourself the appropriate access, and you kiss him.

He had a feeling it was going this way, but thinking and experiencing are two different things. You choosing to take the lead was better than he could have been hoping for, though. Your mouth was so fucking soft, you felt warm, he tried to take it easy, but this is the kind of thing he can’t help getting swept up in. Chances like this don’t come around often, the urge to rush is present, he manages to ignore it, preferring to savour it, or rather, savour you. He lets himself relax further into the seat, returning your affection immediately.

The scratch of his facial hair against your skin feels better than you’d hoped it would, you let out a soft exhale, a sound on the precipice of a moan while still falling just short. His hands are still on your waist, he nudges you closer, you lean in more, your head tilts, his lips part, and he tastes more like cigarettes than he does the champagne, but it’s there. Your tongue makes the first exploration and sticky sweet fruit is unearthed from below smoke and ash.

One of his hands slides down, a brief pass over your thigh, and you wonder where it’s going, you realize in short order when the seat you are both on moves back, giving you more space, making it, so you aren’t quite as locked up against the steering wheel. Heat is sparking inside, your hand moves from his face, slipping to rest on his neck, your other hand comes up to his shoulder, fingers grip the jacket he has on and the want becomes too much. You grind down on him.

The shifting and adjusting allows you to feel how hard he was growing, a harsher inhale, and you begin to scramble, you want more contact, you move to be fully straddling him, no more twisting partially around like you currently were. You are seated just right soon enough, ass firmly planted, and you think fleetingly God he had some solid thighs, strong, you felt very well-supported.

The making out was only paused briefly while you changed position, you’d gotten right back into it, your mouth slotting back against his with a hum that sounded like his name. You grind again and this time he returns it, rutting up into you, and the friction makes you actually moan this time. The taste, the feeling, and two minutes more of making out is all it takes for you to break, pulling back once his touch had gotten bolder, one having slid up your body, palming one of your tits through your work shirt easily with how large his hands were. You arch into him, breaking the kiss you beg, “Fuck, Rusty, more.”

You are close enough now that you can see his smile as opposed to just hear it, his hand moves and starts to go under your shirt, rough fingers on bare skin and steadily moving up, brushing the edge of your bra. Not quite a laugh but more than an amused releasing of air, he asks, “More?”

A frantic nod, another squirm of your hips and he asks, “How much more? C’mon, tell me.”

He wants you to say it and you want it desperately enough that it’s no issue, far from it, if anything him making you say it, makes you want it more, makes you feel hotter. “Fuck me?”

“I like your directness.” Thank God for that. “Just have a lil more patience with me, alright?”

When he asks in that tone, you think you’d do just about anything. A small nod and he needs to get his fill of you just a hair more. Hands explore, groping, feeling, it teases both of you, trying to get a sense of your body before the clothes come off, mind running over just how you’ll feel with nothing in the way. You remain good, you let him feel, minimal squirming on your part, even when he starts kissing your neck as the hand that isn’t up your shirt kneads your ass. Only when you feel your underwear literally plastered to you and your cunt ache incessantly do you whine his name again.

He mercifully acquiesces, “Okay, okay, I hear you.”

He eases up, a gesture of his head for you to move to the passenger's seat, “Gonna need you out of those clothes for what you really want.”

You rush to comply. Once in the passenger's seat, sitting sideways, still facing him, looking at him, your hands catch the bottom hem of your shirt and as if anticipating that you intended to frantically tear it off, he stops you. One hand out and that sweet but firm tone, commanding, "Do it slowly."

Your face feels hot, and you do as instructed, slowing your movements right down, pulling the shirt up, exposing your stomach and then your bra. Higher and higher until you have taken it off, tossing it in the direction of your bag and apron. Next you have your thumbs hooked in the waist of your pants, arching your hips you start to slide them down, you watch him, try to gauge his reaction, but it’s hard in the low lighting. He gives a nod to show he’s pleased so far, encouraging you verbally too, “Go on.”

Shoes removed, pants follow, soon you are in just your underwear, and he speaks, a small gesture of your body, up and down, “S’ a good start but keep going.”

You reach behind yourself, start to unhook your bra, and he is still talking, “Dying to see the rest.”

You swear you can feel his eyes raking over every exposed inch of your skin. A small thought strikes, you follow it, slipping your arms out of the straps but holding the cups to your chest, an indulgent smile, a rise of your eyebrows, and he clicks his tongue, you play dumb and ask, “What?”

“You’re being a tease.” He states, and you ask in a tone of mock innocence, “Am I?”

He says more seriously. “Drop it.”

Unsure if he means your bra or the act, you chose to abandon both. You let the padded fabric slip out of your hands, a spread of your legs, you wonder if he can tell how wet you are from here. He moves too now, you weren’t expecting it, he falls to his knees in the space between your seat and his. Hands come to your hips and the sudden contact makes you jerk with a sharp inhale. His mouth catches yours in another kiss, you return it and moan, his mouth doesn’t stay on yours for long, trails down, jaw and neck, one on your shoulder and lower.

He is confident, he’s taking what he wants and you more than let him, you enjoy every rough scrape of his well worked hands, pass of his lips and nip of his teeth. His warm breath fanning over your chest is welcome, one hand has moved again, over your hip and now on your inner thigh, his thumb is close enough, and he runs it up you, swipes up your clothed slit. You sigh, eyes falling closed, relishing the contact, you are sure now he can feel how wet you are. He runs it back down and then up again, a press just right, and you moan between the friction on your clit and his mouth now on your chest.

He found it so easily and judging by the smile you can feel against the curve of your breast, he is just as pleased. Rusty abandons the current pleasant task, fingers hooking in your underwear, “I got a feelin’ it’d be a fight to get these off you too, an’ I just can’t wait.”

You couldn’t either, not anymore.

Assisting with a move of your ass up, he gets them off, and now you are naked in his semi-truck. You want to jump him, but he is holding you down by your thighs, taking in the view of you unobstructed, totally bare. “Fucking gorgeous.”

A hand reaches out, catches his jacket, and you tug as you tell him, “I feel really exposed right now, you wanna lose some of these?”

“S’ only fair.” He agrees, he removes his jacket and asks, “Wanna give me a little show while I fix myself?”

It is a request, but you take it like it’s an order. Hand between your spread legs, fingers trace up, catching ample wetness and spreading it up, circling sensitive tissue, making your thighs tense and a small moan fall from your lips. “There you go.”

The praise helps, you increase the pressure, and he hums in approval. Shirt is gone, belt is opened more and more revealed until he is in a similar state of undress. The view of him stripping all for you is insanely helpful. Pleasure is filling you easily and once he is ready he asks, “You mind if I-?”

“However you want me, please.” It leaves you needy and breathless. He steps in, he moves your hands away from yourself, and starts to adjust you to his liking. You like it, you think he can be rougher honestly, you are put on your knees, facing the passenger window, a hand on your back, adjusting you more, hips tilted up, and you feel him against you. The bump of his shaft between your thighs and over your clit is already very good. “Ready, yeah?”

A shaky nod, “Please Rusty-”

The one word and his name is all you are able to get out before he is lining up just right, you hold your breath in anticipation, he spits into his own hand, strokes himself, the extra lube as courtesy is appreciated. He slides in, and you let out a gasp, he doesn’t do it easily, taking you in one firm stroke, hand on your hips as his come to rest against your ass. He revels in you, the tight, soaked heat of you, his head tips back slightly as he soaks it before he starts to move. Pulling out halfway before driving forward, your hands scrabble for the window’s edge, you hold onto it like a lifeline as you gear up for what is already promising to be the ride of a lifetime.

His thrusting is firm, just like him, steady and sure, a good and even pace. It leaves breathless, not caring about being overheard, not like anyone could in the empty parking lot. A heavy breath from him, “Fucks sake, you’re soaked.”

You were moaning, incoherent pleas, along with his name, you were more than warmed up, each drag of his thick shaft in and out increasing the feeling. Fingers dig into the meat of your hips, he pulls you back as he drives forward, and you move too, rocking backwards to meet him. “Tight as Hell, can barely fit myself in here.”

“Keep talking, never, ever stop talking.” Is the one thought in your brain as you moan dumbly. You aren’t thinking much, unable, but you are feeling. Rusty was so kind to you, was totally turning your birthday around, making you feel incredible, spoiling you, and you want to do the same. His hands are roaming and that won’t do, you need to stop him before you are fucked into total submission and wrecked. Another minute, just another minute, you tell yourself, eyes are half open and brain hazy. The glass is so fogged up you can’t see out of it, could write your name but if he asked you doubted your hands would be steady enough. Could you even spell your name right now with what he was doing to you?

Finally, you reach back, hands on his hips, “Ru-Rusty, please, stop-”

“Something the matter?” He asked, holding deep, all the way to the hilt inside you. His hands smooth up your sides, fingers trace the curves of your chest before coming back down again, and you shiver, clenching on his shaft.

“Gotta, fuck, do something. Pull out?” He listens, he does so, “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

The pet names, fucking Christ the pet names, you are forcing yourself to move. It happens quickly. You turn, and then you push him, so his back is against the seat of the driver's side. He takes the hint, sits up on the seat sideways, and then you are the one on your knees. Between his spread thighs, you lean down, a hand locks around the base of his shaft and you lick. He lets out a surprised groan, soft and sounding too good. You start to blow him in earnest, careful of your gag reflex as you work. Your hand slips up and down his slick shaft as you suck on the head, his hand comes down to your head, fingers twist in your hair, “Like tasting yourself?”

A nod as you moan against him, tongue swirls around the tip, and he watches enraptured, his hips buck slightly, and you gag almost immediately. He inhales through his teeth, “Sorry there.”

You brush him off, a gesture that it is fine, as you redouble your efforts. He seems to be enjoying it immensely, he is encouraging you further but soon asks, “Can you handle some more?”

For him, you want to try. You nod, and he guides you, does it slowly and easily, “Breathe through it-”

You do and the pace, his voice, it somehow works, and you’re able to take him deeper, “Pretty birthday girl. Takin’ it so well.”

All you wanted to do was please him, you continue the work for only a minute more, however because then he tells you, “I want you back up here.”

You jump at the chance. Same as before, you climb up him and straddle him, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see where this is going. “You didn’t have to do that.” He comments, and you have your hands on his biceps, currently sucking a hickey into his neck and teasing your dripping hole with the tip of his dick, “I know. I wanted to.”

“Could tell you were into it. You always wanna taste yourself like that?”

“Not always but it is-” You move your hips down, start to slide him inside with a moan, once he is buried inside of you again you finish the thought, “-a favourite.”

“Dirty girl.” He coos it like a compliment, and it hits you just like one, too. You start to ride, his hands on you help along with upward rocks of his hips. You bite and suck along his throat in between broken moans, the salt of his skin is a tad too addicting, as is the stretch of him inside and the way he brushes all the right spots inside of you at this angle.

Apparently it still isn’t good enough for him.

He tugs you closer, presses you so that way your clit is getting friction and ground with every thrust and bounce, your moans increase in volume in pitch along with the sensation. You had no clue this is how your day would shake out, if you did, maybe your shift would have been more bearable.

His hands are on your back, holding you close, fucking up into you as you are slamming down, and on a particularly good hit you are gasping. For two people fucking for the first time and relative strangers, you’d found a frighteningly good rhythm. Your body is moving on instinct, just chasing what feels good but still, thoughtlessly tinged with doing your best to please him, thankful for the moment that what seems to be getting him off is feeling incredible for you. It isn’t quite enough, though, and he seems to pick up on that.

“Lean back.” His voice snaps you out of your pleasure induced stupor, and you nod, separating yourself from him, the one point of contact still remaining your ass on his thighs and him stuffed deep inside. He directs you further, his hands help, and you find yourself with one hand on his knee, the other braced on the roof of the truck, feet on the seat on either side of him and with a confident nod you start moving again.

It’s good, you are able to hit spots inside yourself that are even deeper, using all your leg muscles as well as your hands it becomes more of a full body effort, minute adjustments can be made so too much strain is never on one part of your sweat slick frame. Soon as you are just right in the groove of it, he surprises you, why he wanted the change in position becomes all too clear. His hand is between your bodies and his thumb presses down, swirling over your clit, and it makes your pace falter, “Oh my fucking God-”

“Don’t stop now.” The way he says it makes a shiver run up your spine and again makes you clench down on him. He says it in the dominant tone of voice, but it’s light, that smug fucking half grin on his face, unable to tear his eyes away from your body. You shake your head, choking out, “Wo-won’t stop.”

“No, course you won’t, you’re so good at listening.” The praise washes over you with another sharp jolt of ecstasy. His hand that wasn’t working your nerves into a frenzy was on your thigh, sliding up, gripping your hip, “This workin’ for you?”

Fuck, was it ever. You nod frantically, focusing on breathing and not stopping riding him, but in short order, your movements were getting increasingly sloppy. It was like he didn’t have to ask, didn’t rush it, just let you work it out and helped carry you along. You were getting dangerously close, the edge creeping up at a blinding pace, everything you’d experienced so far this night was piling up and threatening to make you break apart at the seams. There were no real words, just hurried breathing and pitched moans, head back, nails digging into the fabric of the truck cab’s roof, the sound of skin on skin and his encouragement.

A soft call of your name, his hips moving up, grinding into you as his hand works and him asking in a mind meltingly hot tone, “I wanna see it, give it to me.”

And something about that, whether it is what he said or how he said it, causes the reaction inside to finally make it happen, like it clicks into place just right, and you go from a weak and barely audible strained whisper of, “I’m almost there!” To holy fucking shit, I’m, “-cumming!”

Riding as much became not an option, legs almost giving out, but he takes over, grip on your hip is bruising, hip strength impressive, and he drives up into you over and over. Your hand isn’t able to stay on the roof, caught midair, body tense as your climax rockets through your body, you think your hand on his knee might be drawing blood with your nails, but you can’t stop it nor can you care.

You jerk as it peaks, and he slips out, his fingers don’t stop until you are crying out and pushing him away, still trembling through the aftershocks. Your eyes were closed, you were panting and not even remotely down from his high when you feel the hot splatter on your tits and stomach with your name staining his tongue. Peaking back open, you see him, hand around himself, and he’d cum all over your torso. The pretty pearly white is sliding down, and his own breathing is very laboured. Your hand trails down, still shaky, skating through the mess he left, and then you're bringing those same fingers back up to taste him.

Your body relaxes against him, you get into a more comfortable position, and after you stop shuddering so much you are telling him, “That was pretty fucking great.”

“Oh, are you all done?” He asked as he looks up at you, hands are resting lazily on your thighs, tracing patterns absentmindedly. “I mean I thought we were but are we not?”

“We don’t gotta be. I’m in no rush.” The thought of that is extremely pleasant.

“Another drink till you’re ready to go again, old man?” You asked with a smile, and he laughs as he reaches over to where the bottle was left on the floor of his side of the truck. Thankfully it hadn’t been knocked over, “You get that one and only cuz you were so good.”

“Only one old man joke or one joke overall? Because I was gonna make one hoping that you aren’t passingly along tetanus to me Rusty, but if you’re planning to be a buzzkill-” He shuts you up with a hand on the back of your neck and a kiss that you end up humming into. Yeah, you think this has been a pretty solid birthday.

#Rusty Nail x reader #slasher x reader #BHF writing #HAPPY BIRTHDAY RIRI #MWAH #LOVE YA #ENJOY

319 notes · View notes

knickynoo · 7 months ago

Note

What do you think doc’s reaction to the trashed amp was?

This is a very funny question, anon, thank you.

I'm trying to figure out when Doc would have seen it. He left for 2015 immediately after dropping Marty off at home, then came right back from 2015 to the McFly home. So, I guess he didn't return to his garage until he came from 1885 to pick up Einstein, right?

From his perspective, it'd been almost ten years since he was last there, so I'd like to think he stood there flabbergasted for a while. Maybe worrying, "Oh no, something else has gone wrong with the timeline. This place is still a wreck like it was in 1985A!" Then he dug back through his memories and was like, "Ah. I must have been too late warning Marty not to hook up to the amplifier."

And honestly, after everything they've all been, through, I don't think Doc would have cared but I still like to picture him standing there waving his arms dramatically at the mess, at a complete loss for words.

The real question, though, is: did the amp still get trashed in the Lone Pine timeline? I mean, I know we're to assume most of the events leading to the time travel played out exactly the same, but come on. There had to have been some differences, right?? You're telling me that LP Marty did every single thing the same as TP Marty? Walked in at the same time, plugged in the amp at the same time, etc? And Doc called at the exact same time?

I think it'd be extremely funny if the timing of the morning was shifted just enough that Doc called before Marty could play. That way there could be a future conversation where Marty (with his Twin Pines memories) goes, "Oh, hey, Doc...ah, I'm really sorry about the amp."

And Doc's just like, "What??"

Thanks for the ask!

#back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly #doc brown #asks

90 notes · View notes

wonderlesch · 7 months ago

Text

Can’t Miss July 2024 Events

Welcome to the ultimate guide to the most exciting Can’t Miss July 2024 Events across the United States. If you are a music lover, beer enthusiast or a sci-if fan, this is your go to resource for planning your summer adventures. Read on to immerse yourself in the world of live music, craft beer, and the fantastical realm of science fiction. Without further ado, let’s dive into the most…

View On WordPress

#A Few of my Favorite Things #Amazing Travel Adventures #Can&039;t Miss July 2024 Events #Dragon Con #Idaho Horror & Pop Con #New Blog Post #Oregon Trail Brewfest #Pitchfork Music Festival #Smithsonian Folklife Festival #Summerfest #Things to do in July #Travel Adventures #Travel Destination Guide #Trip Planning

1 note · View note

californialifehd · 9 months ago

Photo

Episode 26 of Coast to Coast: Exploring The Thermal Club’s $1 Million Challenge & the Top Cocktails for Spring!

0 notes

sunnikos · 1 month ago

Text

Day 6: Royalty AU

Hello! I am participating in Sskk Week 2024. I swear I can write a proper royalty AU with more time to figure out the loreeeee! But yeah I’m proud of this piece sooooo this is day 6, enjoy!

Content Warnings: Non descriptive siege and minor character death

Word Count: 1.3k

| Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 |

Atsushi is so different from his father. A shrewd, proud man. But Atsushi, is warm, kind. Perhaps because his father was always traveling, and so Atsushi could only learn by the example of his maid. Atsushi had never shown up at an actual event before, Akutagawa would’ve met him a lot sooner if he did. No, this man, he is radiant.

He was taken in by Dazai, an advisor of Akutagawa’s adoptive father. Akutagawa has a feeling Dazai would be in Akutagawa’s position if he wanted. Anyhow, his new guardian is likely the reason he’s here today. He was never taught how to be a merchant like his father, so upon the mans death, there was nothing he could do to keep his status. This is likely why Dazai took him in, despite him being 18 years of age. That, and the mans own intrigue.

Point is, Atsushi is a sight for sore eyes. So, can you really blame Akutagawa for looking for him everywhere after seeing him for the first time? And asking everyone in the palace about him? And maybe pestering Dazai until he set up a “play date” only for Atsushi to get sick and then they meet each other for the first time in the gardens completely by accident a few days later and Akutagawa… Akutagawa is far too smitten over a man he just met.

After stumbling through some awkward introductions, they sit on a stone bench.

“So.. I heard you wanted to, uh, see me?”

“Uh yeah, sorry, I—” Akutagawa sighs, “—I don’t know what I was on about.”

Atsushi looks over at him with a kind smile, “Oh, I’m fine, just.. curious, that’s all.”

“Right,” he looks up at the sky, “I can just, tell that you’re different. From the court, I mean. It’s refreshing and… I want to know you, I guess.”

“That makes perfect sense.” Atsushi nods and looks to the stars.

Akutagawa looks over at him, bewildered by what he said, “You think so?”

“Mhm, I wanna know you too.”

“Many have tried, you know.” Akutagawa chuckles humorously.

“Yes but…” Atsushi looks off to the side, then steels his mind and says, “none of them were me.”

He is seeing Akutagawa. Not just looking at him, Atsushi is beginning to know him. It’s an arduous task, but he gets the feeling Atsushi won’t see it that way.

How beautiful is that?

Akutagawa spends most of his free time with Dazai’s pet project after that. They meet up in many places across the palace, the courtyard, the gardens, the hallways… Anywhere. Sometimes coincidence, sometimes not. Being with Atsushi is like looking at himself in a jelly mirror, then being pulled inside. He is looking at himself, but he’s clearly different. Everything is… sweeter. It all feels like a dream. Akutagawa is used to nightmares, haunting and complex. But this is arguably simple, pleasant, new.

Atsushi has a fresh point of view to offer on most situations, it makes Akutagawa feel like he’s becoming a better man. Someone the people can truly look up to, and say, “That’s our prince, he’s come a long way. One day, he’ll lead our kingdom to greatness”

Okay. Maybe that’s a bit… much. But still, one can hope?

Akutagawa can feel Dazai’s eyes on him lately. Must be all that time he’s spending with his “protege”. Still, it feels like every time he sees the man lately his eyes are ripe with interest. Like he’s trying to figure out who Akutagawa really is, in his heart. It seems like, Dazai wants to teach him something, guide him into a true ruler… And isn’t that something?

Dazai has never taken interest in him. It’s odd. Akutagawa always wanted to learn from him, but now… he’s not sure he really cares. Then his life… goes back to how it was. It appears Dazai is keeping Atsushi busy, and Akutagawa’s responsibilities have been amped higher than they’ve ever been. Turns out, there’s been some skirmishes on the boarder, and they’re only getting rowdier. Mori sends troops on Dazai’s guidance, his strategies appear to work at first. Then, things go terribly wrong.

The rebel forces, that Akutagawa had no clue were even an organized group, took siege of the palace. Akutagawa was prisoner for two weeks until Atsushi, soaked in crimson, found him and took him to a secret underground hiding place in the forest. Akutagawa could not see at first, that Atsushi was outraged. But he can see it now. As they hide, in a dark, gloomy bunker; Akutagawa can see his heavy breathing is not just exertion, but anger.

Akutagawa does not know how to make Atsushi feel better. He does not know how to comfort a single person in this blasted kingdom. But he knows he can distract Atsushi. Whatever is going on, does not need their focus. It is their job to hide. Akutagawa wearily grasps at Atsushi’s hand and pulls it to rest over his heartbeat.

After a few moments, Akutagawa can only see fit to mutter the words, “We’re alive.”

Atsushi sighs deeply, and leans back. Akutagawa takes this as his sign to lay against Atsushi’s chest. They’re cuddled up like that for hours. It’s glorious, but also worrisome. Just what is going on out there.

Then, the new comes. They’re woken up and helped out of the underground hole. Akutagawa learns he is to be the king now. The rebels killed the ruler, and now he is to take his place. It’s surreal.

Akutagawa doesn’t feel like anything is real until he’s getting ready for his coronation. All this royal garb is heavy, it’s status. It’s not him. It’s what he represents. One minute he doesn’t feel real, and the next; everything is all too real. Atsushi, he’s there. Akutagawa doesn’t know when he got there, if he was there the whole time, anything. But Atsushi is there, and he crushes Akutagawa’s head to his chest. The steady thump, thump, thump brings him back to. Just as it did when they were safe together, under the forest floor.

Akutagawa is crying, his warm tears and falling to the ground and while he’s calmer now, he’s still scared. This room is empty, it’s just him and Atsushi. He’s not sure when that happened, but he’s grateful. As he looks into Atsushi’s eyes, he is terrified, but he is not alone. Atsushi must know this too. Whispering sweet nothings, wiping away his tears. Atsushi kisses him, because they both know. Nothing will ever be the same.

When Atsushi pulls away, his hands are still caressing Akutagawa’s face.

He says, “When you feel alone, or afraid, think of me.” a shivering breath leaves him, “I’m right here.”

Then that’s all.

They call in the servants, finish getting him ready, and pronounce Akutagawa king. He appoints Atsushi as his advisor, and Dazai never fails to give his opinion, of course. One day, when things have settled, Atsushi asks Akutagawa to speak in private. They take a stroll in the gardens, then have a seat at a stone bench. It’s nostalgic. Akutagawa feels the wistful breeze and thinks things will really be alright.

“I noticed things have been settling down in the kingdom lately.” Atsushi sneaks a glance at Akutagawa.

“No need to be coy.” Akutagawa grins at Atsushi, then pulls him into a kiss before saying, “I know I’m doing a good job, at least, good enough.”

“Of course, my king,” he looks away, “I only mean to mention something now that the matters of import have been taken care of.”

Akutagawa pauses, he’s puzzled by the sudden change in atmosphere, “Go on…”

“I’m quite sure… that Dazai knew what would happen.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think he knew the rebels would strike. I think he let your…” Atsushi sighs, “I think he let the late king die.”

#sskkweek #sskkweek2024 #bsd fanfic #bsd fic #bsd fanfiction #sskk fanfic #sskk #shin soukoku #atsushi x akutagawa #bsd atsushi #bsd akutagawa #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs

10 notes · View notes

tea-with-evan-and-me · 10 months ago

Text

man about town interview | spring/summer 2014

for the tweam! click through for my best attempt at deciphering this (maybe impossible to find?) throwback interview

‘’I don’t think I’m scary at all. It was kind of funny watching myself being scary. Because I’m not scary.’’ Says Evan Peters, the up-and-coming up-for-anything actor best known for his extreme roles on American Horror Story, the prestige television series that treats social taboos as map points. For three seasons, Peters has excelled at playing against his offbeat boyishness by amping up his young Malcolm McDowell intensity, with results that fall somewhere between ‘’teen dream in strangler’s gloves’’ and ‘’terrifying Michael Cera.’’ He most recently appeared in American Horror Story: Coven as Kyle Spencer, the good-natured university student who is decapitated and then reanimated with the body parts of his Kappa Lambda Gamma brothers as a temperamental Rocky Horror who beats his sexually abusive mother to death with a trophy.

Over a bold chai tea with stevia, at a restaurant in Venice, California, Peters is lighthearted and dryly humorous, like a young Michael Shannon, with whom he should costar in a successful disturbing family sitcom. He wears black jeans, a well-worn t-shirt under a plaid flannel, and a necklace with a toy dinosaur pendant. He drives a 2004 Pontiac Vibe that he correctly describes as ‘’vintage’’; says that he just feels like growing his longish blond hair into a ponytail, and has a red thumbs-up permanently inked onto the to pof his right hand, that was traced over a nightclub door stamp. At one point, he raises his forearm to show off a temporary tattoo that he received the night before at the castle park family entertainment center in Sherman oaks. ‘’This is a Belle tattoo. It’s not real,’’ he explains playfully of a small portrait of the beautiful young heroine from the animated Disney film Beauty and the Beast. I tell him it’s very pretty. ‘’Thank you. She’s gorgeous,’’ he responds. I ask if Belle is his favorite Disney princess. ‘’Well, I picked her out. There was also Jasmine, Ariel and Cinderella. My other buddies got those.” ‘’What about Belle appeals to you?’’ ‘’She likes the Beast.’’ Peters says.

This summer, Peters appears as the teenage Mutant speeder Quicksilver in X-Men: Days of Future Past, the sequel to 2011’s X-Men: First Class, which has proven to be an eventful ??? movie. In October 2012, director Matthew Vaughn – who relaunched the franchise with much needed style and a new cast of young, indie + credible actors – left the film to be replaced by original trilogy director Bryan Singer. As such, fans were already touched when Singer announced that he would retell ‘’Days of Future Past,’’ the seminal X-Men time-travel storyline from 1980, an ambitious plan turned wild when he revealed that both franchises would merge into one. Cut to the 2012 San diego Comic-Con whereby unthinkable feats of scheduling – the sprawling casts of the modern-day first series and the 60’s era prequel (that include expensive names like Jennifer Lawrence, Hugh Jackmon, Halle Berry, Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellan, Michael Fassbender, and so on). Convened with ??? new additions like Peters to unhinge popular culture. ‘’You think to yourself, ‘’wow, people really, really love this stuff.” And it makes you appreciate it more. It makes you work harder at it.’’ he says about the experience.

Peters’ role in the films is crucial but concise. ‘’It’s a huge, huge opportunity but I always make sure to tell people it’s just one scene. Easy, it's just one scene.’’ Peters says, as if talking down a rearing horse. Quicksilver has already been the subject of film industry chatter regarding lawful usage of the character, who is both the son of Magneto and a colleague of the Avengers, making him fair game for inclusion in both Days of Future Past and the 20n5 Avengers sequel (in which he will be played by Aaron Taylor-Johnson of Kick-Ass). An Empire magazine Preview of Quicksilver’s costume design was greeted with comparison to Kid Vid, a ‘90’s cartoon form of the Burger King ‘’Kid’s Club,’’ and the news that Peters had been saddled with the Halle Berry “rough wig’’ role. But his fan’s enthusiasm for the project—in which desperate X-Men from a dystopias future try to stave off mutant genocide by altering the present day—is undimmed. ‘’I think it’s the best film of the francise yet,’’ proclaims Peters. ‘’It’s pretty dire. It’s a pretty epic situation. But there’s definitely some humor in there. Its’s just badass, man.’’

Quicksilver is a departure for Peters in some ways if not others. Both X-Men and Horror Story are tight productions that take extensive precautions to protect story lines. Peters says that he did not receive the full script for X-Men until arriving at the Montreal location days before shooting. Horror Story pages are often delivered the night before a scene. The short lead time can demand a ??? almost improvisational acting process. ‘’The minute we get the script, plans are cancelled, dinner is cancelled,’’ he says about working on Horror Story. ‘’Some of it you’re like, ‘Oh shit, I have to do that?’ Screaming and crying, realizing that my whole body is pieced together and I’m not myself? I’ll probably have to work on that.’’

Peters owes his career to television. ‘’I was watching a lot of TV and I kind of wanted to be on the TV and in movies. I love movies and TV,’’ he says, and cites inspirations like Joaquin Phoenix, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, George Clooney, JIM Carrey, Chris Farley, Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump, and the millennial teen comedies Even Stevens starring Shia Labeuof and So Little Time with Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. ‘’That sort of stuff. I just really wanted to be a part of it and loved acting and performing.’’ He moved to Los Angeles with is mother when he was 15 years old, and steadily won work in television, on shows including Phil of the Future (2004) and One Tree Hill (2008), and in movies like the independent films Clipping Adam (2004), his first big break, and later Kick Ass (2010). Being cast as Tate Langdon in the first season of American Horror Story in 2011 was his tipping point, playing a Skull Boy-faced high school shooter in a latex catsuit who rapes his girlfriend’s mother to please a ghost. He has since become one of the five main players to appear in all three season of the series, sterling company that includes Jessica Lange, Sarah Paulson, Lily Rabe and Frances Conroy.

Now the world gets to enjoy a lighter side of Peters, like when he appeared on a 2011 episode of the G4 networks Attack of the Show and blithely volunteered that he was working a a rap song called ‘’I’ll Tap That Fucking Ass.’’ He laughs off a request to recite a verse. ‘’I can’t. That never materialized. I tried but it was too much pressure. It was just a concept. I was just trying new ideas,’’ he says, and then volunteers a different musical direction. ‘’It’s called ‘Natch Snatch.’ Like all natural snatch. Big bush. Snatch. Cause it’s nice. You know, ‘girl, you’ve got that natch snatch.’ It’s another nice concept. Probably on the same album.’’ Peters laughs in agreement at the suggestion that he is a kook in the best sense of the word. ‘’I get called a weirdo sometimes,’’ he admits ‘’But it’s like, I don’t feel that weird. I don’t feel that different. I look at everybody else and I’m like, ‘’you’re a fucking weirdo, too. You like all of your shit. I like my shit.’’ Why does one have to be weird and one have to be normal? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’’ Meanwhile, he seems to be successfully negotiating his public and private persona. ‘’I’ll try to be myself as much as I can but you obviously can’t be who you are at home in your skivvies eating donuts. You can’t be that.’’ He explains, before confirming that guy exists, with his tongue sort-of-in-cheek. ‘’You bet he does. Yeah, definitely watching New Girl. Crying.’’ But while Peters seems fairly comfortable in the public eye, fame no longer interests him. The development is not unrelated to his intense, closely-watched relationship with fiancée and two-time costar Emma Roberts (on coven and in the 2013 ?? Adult World) ‘’When I was younger I was like, ‘’That would be awesome!’’ now I don’t particularly love it,’’ he says ‘’Emma gets paparazzi a lot, and because I’m with her we get paparazzi, so it’s kind of a weird thing that I don’t love. But it’s so small in the big picture of all the positives that come with this job that I can’t really complain about it.’’ he may be surprised by the attention he and Roberts receive, but he is hardly self-ptying. ‘’Honestly, it’s not that bad. If you don’t set up a Google alert on yourself and go out searching for it then you’re not going to see it. So I don’t see it.’’ Roberts has already endured the Hollywood learning curve that Peters is now experiencing. ‘’She gives me advice, like cut your hair. She likes my hair to look nice,’’ he says, and laughs. ‘’She’s been around and knows the ropes and how to play the game very well. And she has incredible social skills. She can talk to anyone and everyone loves talking to her. I’m not that good at that stuff so she kind of helps me out with that.’’ I wonder what guidance she offers him. ‘’You’ve just got to be personable and talk to people, even if you don’t want to. Put on a happy face and buck up. Grow a pair of balls. Don’t be a little wuss.’’ Petersa says, and laughs. ‘’I mean, she doesn’t say that, but you know what I mean.’’

Next for Peters is Lazarus, opposite Olivia Wilde, Donald Glover and Mark Duplass a 2015 feature from director David Gelb, known for the documentary Giro: Dreams of Sushi. Peters describes the project, about a team of brainiacs working magnanimously to reanimate the dead, as a “contained Sci-Fi horror thriller” as it mostly takes place in one laboratory setting. He plays the party animal scientist. Peters encouraging sidesteps the questions of his involvement in the next season of American Horror Story, to be set in 1950 and the present day, for which Jessica Lange is practicing a German accent. ‘’I don’t know what I’m allowed to say so I’m going to say no comment,’’ he says.

‘’At the end of the day it is acting. You want to go with the biggest, weirdest, boldest shit and see if you can actually do it and go there,’’ Peters concludes, ‘’I’m very curious about everything. I feel like I don’t know that much. I’m trying to learn it all and figure it all out.’’

#i did my best #i strained my eyes #typos are mine and i put question marks where i couldn't make out the words #evan peters #evanpeters #tate langdon #american horror story #kai anderson #kyle spencer #ahs

36 notes · View notes