#and his face is p much replaced by tights and parts of socks

[izzymalec]

ruined a perfectly fine day by almost fully burning my favourite teddy bear to a crisp in the microwave

[misssquidtracy]

The Sweet Smell of Manly Pride

Written as part of @gumnut-logic SensorySunday: Smell. Set just before the boys re-enter Earth’s atmosphere in the Zero-XL after rescuing Jeff from the Oort Cloud. Being stranded in deep space for eight years without even a can of deodorant must have left the Tracy patriarch smelling pretty ripe xD.

Raw humour. Sorry not sorry.

Starring Gordon, because he’s the husband and I loves him <3

-x-

Gordon’s tolerance for body odour was surprisingly high.

It had to be.

Considering the aquanaut spent a good portion of his life two to three thousand meters below the ocean’s surface, he’d become intimately familiar with a variety of fruity nasal cocktails. His habit of skipping showers in favour of re-watching seasons one through twelve of Into the Unknown didn’t help either.

Eh, what the heck. Being sandwiched inside a tight suit and at the mercy of Thunderbird Four’s air conditioning would leave even the most fastidious person smelling a little ripe.

Plus, it wasn’t like Lady Penelope could smell him at the bottom of the South Sandwich Trench anyway.

Of course, there was body odour and then there was body odour.

“Eugh!” Gordon clamped a hand over his nose and glared accusingly at his brothers, “Okay, who just let loose?”

Four pairs of eyes locked onto Alan, who quacked in outrage.

“Why are you all looking at me? I’m trapped inside a pressurised suit over here!” the youngest snapped, his face the same colour as Thunderbird Three.

“We all are, Alan,” John countered, his eyes narrowing to turquoise slits, “Gordon, can you be a bit more specific? An unpleasant odour could be an indication that the charcoal filter needs replacing.”

Gordon elevated his nose and began to scent the air like a bloodhound, “Whatever it is, it’s pretty nasty. Seriously, am I the only one getting it?”

Over on Alan’s right, Scott shrugged, “Apparently. Care to elaborate on what exactly ‘nasty’ smells like?”

On guard in case anyone dared to throw the ‘he who smelt it dealt it’ line at him, Gordon spent the next three minutes offering a variety of olfactory diagnoses for the unknown smell. The options ranged from ‘donkey’s armpit’ and ‘skunk’s butt’, to perhaps the most insulting of all, ‘Virgil’s socks’.

Of course, Virgil was thoroughly offended.

Just when had Gordon sniffed his socks?

He would never sleep again.

“Ugh, man! It’s getting worse!” Gordon wheezed, wafting the air frantically with his hand, “Alan, how long until we’re home?”

“About forty minutes, depending on turbulence,” Alan replied, absently flicking a button on the dash, “I’ve just requested clearance from orbital patrol.”

Gordon’s eyes widened in alarm, “I won’t last that long. John, can you pull up my will? There are a few things I need to change before I become unsound of mind.”

While John was preoccupied with ignoring Gordon in favour of cataloguing a few nearby asteroids, a new voice piped up.

“What you’re smelling is me, Gordon. Sorry for the trouble, but there ain’t a whole lot I can do about it at the moment.”

Virgil sighed before throwing a playful glance over his shoulder, “Dad, you just sit back and relax. I swear, we can’t smell a thing.”

Gordon begged to differ. After unclipping his safety belt, the aquanaut pushed himself free from his seat and drifted over towards his father. Indeed, the stink intensified the closer he got.

“Ugh, dad!” Gordon turned his face away before pinching his nose, “You reek! When was the last time you had a shower?!”

Jeff’s blue eyes twinkled in humour, “About eight years ago. Unfortunately the Oort Cloud doesn’t offer its residents indoor plumbing. Reckon I went noseblind after the first five months,” Jeff smiled as he extended his arms above his head in a fake stretch, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you rate me, son?”

“Thirty!” Gordon gagged, groping desperately for the oxygen masks the Zero-XL was equipped with, “Seriously dad, I’m amazed you’re not the epicentre of a fully functioning ecosystem!”

Jeff smiled proudly, “Jeff Tracy Vintage, available at select stores only,” the Tracy patriarch hesitated for a second before offering Gordon his armpit, “Take a whiff, son. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Scott shared a look of amusement with John, Virgil and Alan as their father snaked an arm out and yanked Gordon in for a hug. The aquanaut made a sound of muffled distress as he whacked fruitlessly at the arms enveloping him.

“Careful, Gordo,” Virgil warned with a laugh, “We just got him back, don’t break him yet.”

Gordon made no indication he’d even heard Virgil, his energy focussed on trying to escape the noxious grip he was imprisoned in.

“Seriously, I can’t smell anything,” John declared, sticking his nose in the air and sniffing for emphasis, “It must have something to do with the direction of the air circulation.”

Brains adjusted his glasses before swivelling to face Jeff, “I must say I’m incredibly p-proud of your suit’s durability, M-Mr Tracy. It managed to keep you warm in the Oort Cloud’s f-freezing temperatures for over eight years and hasn’t suffered any m-major damage aside from the t-tear on your thigh.”

Jeff inclined his head in gratitude, “You build things to last, Brains. I knew my suit wouldn’t give up until I did.”

Enveloped in the stinky wonderland that was Jeff’s armpit, Gordon felt very much like giving up.

“You done teasing your old man yet?” Jeff asked, affectionately rubbing his knuckles across the aquanaut’s scalp, “Because we’ve still got thirty minutes of flight time remaining if you haven’t.”

“Please!” Gordon begged, his tone pitiful, “At least let me amend my will!”

Jeff was about to reply with something smart about Gordon’s lack of valuable possessions, but was stopped by a weird smell assaulting his nose, “Hold up, something pongs around here. Gordon? Have you been forgetting to floss?”

Almost on cue, a can of easy cheese rolled out of the storage compartment above Gordon’s empty seat and clattered onto the floor. The aquanaut’s caramel eyes widened as an idea hit him.

“No dad, I take great pride in my oral hygiene,” Gordon replied, twisting his face towards Jeff and taking extra care to exaggerate his a’s and h’s.

“Eugh, Gordon! Your breath!” Jeff rasped, holding his son at an arm’s length before glaring accusingly at the can of cheese rolling innocuously past John’s foot, “Don’t tell me you still eat that junk?”

“It’s his go-to deep space snack,” Alan informed, “If you think the cheese breath is bad, wait until the cheese farts start coming. We’ll all be amending our wills if one of those escapes.”

Jeff grimaced as Gordon blew in his face, “Maybe we should confine him to the airlock for the remainder of the flight. Brains? Can we rig up a safety belt in there for him?”

“I’m s-sure I can organise something,” Brains replied, before unclipping himself and drifting towards the rear hatch, “J-John, could you kindly give me a hand?”

“F.A.B,” the redhead replied, freeing himself from his shoulder restraints and floating across the control deck, “Dad, you get Gordon inside. I’ll help Brains stabilise the door.”

With Gordon tucked under his arm like a roll of carpet, Jeff nodded and pulled himself through the airlock’s doorway. He was just preparing to release his hold on the aquanaut when the door suddenly slammed shut.

“John?” Jeff called, his brows knitting together in confusion, “Brains? Open up! You locked me in as well, you fools!”

Back at the helm, Scott shared a look of relief with Virgil, “Ah, thank goodness. I couldn’t have kept that up for much longer.”

“Tell me about it,” Virgil muttered, reaching into the compartment above his head and retrieving a can of air freshener, “Things were going so well until Gordon opened his mouth.”

“It was the right thing,” John exclaimed, pointedly ignoring the bangs and screams that were starting to emanate from the sealed airlock, “Dad may be medically stable, but we won’t know the exact state of his mental health until we’re back home. Until then, it would be wise to refrain from making direct comments about his physical state.”

“Agreed,” Alan replied, before twisting around to gaze in amusement at the airlock door, “Think they’ll be okay in there?”

“Of course,” Virgil replied, popping the top off the air freshener and spraying a liberal amount around the chair Jeff had been sat in, “What better way to bond after eight years of being apart than being locked in an eight foot by eight foot airtight room together?”

John cringed as he made the final preparations for the Zero-XL’s atmospheric re-entry, “I think I’ll stick to a catch up over coffee.”

-x-

[sushiandstarlight]

Kintsugi

Read this story on AO3

Inspired by the Japanese art of Kintsugi: " repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique.As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.” and the fact that Aziraphale seems to limp when he's temporarily discorporated and sent back to heaven.

Crowley had written it off as a figment of his imagination the few times he thought he had noticed it: the slight limp in Aziraphale’s walk.  Angels didn’t really get hurt and, if they did, they could heal themselves.  If it was bad enough, they could go to one another for healing.  No, there was no reason for Aziraphale to have a limp.  And, every time Crowley thought he saw it in the next blink it would be gone.

In the days leading up to (what was to be) the failed end of the world, he thought he saw the limp with increasing frequency.  Maybe it was stress on his own part: the ever-present worry that they wouldn’t be able to save the world, that they would be parted, that one of them (maybe both of them) would be destroyed... Really, there were a lot of stressors.  Maybe he wanted to see something he could actually put his hands on as a problem.  Or... maybe the strain was living in Aziraphale and he was having more difficulty hiding his physical ailment.  Crowley couldn’t decide because, again, as soon as he would be sure there was something amiss he would take a breath to address it and then the evidence would be gone.  They would be off chasing the doomed apocalypse or arguing over the merits of running away from it.

As they walked back to his flat after dining at the Ritz he noticed the limp again.  Aziraphale was a couple steps ahead of him, talking about his favorite part of the meal and there it was: a slight lopsidedness to his gait.  Crowley could kick himself.  He was inside that corporation just hours ago.  He could have checked for himself.  But, he had been too busy trying to save Aziraphale’s whole self.  It hadn’t occurred to him to give the angel a physical once-over.  And, really, wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy?

He caught up quickly enough, taking in the angel’s face and finding no distress there.  He couldn’t just ask, could he?  “Hey I’ve known you 6,000 years and I’m just now noticing that you limp on one leg... what’s that about, eh?”  There was no decent way to ask.  It might be something that Aziraphale didn’t want to discuss.

Only now they were at his door and he hadn’t heard much of anything Aziraphale had said the whole way here.  He hardly remembered putting one foot in front of the other.  He had just followed Aziraphale like a puppy, worrying and fretting and trying desperately to figure out how to bring this up.  He wanted to know that Aziraphale was okay, that was all.

Yet, somehow, his mouth was running.  Which, wasn’t really a good thing, since he wasn’t in complete control of it.  It was meandering on about something.  Ducks, it seemed, and methods to make them less buoyant.  How had they gone from talking about dinner to discussing the buoyancy of water fowl?

Aziraphale was giving him the most peculiar look: head tilted and a soft smile on his face.  It was only interrupted by the occasional glance at the door beside them.  The door that was still closed.  Because Crowley couldn’t stop talking about ducks while he thought about asking him why he limped.

And then Aziraphale’s warm, soft hand was on his cheek and his lips- somehow even warmer and more soft were on his own.  Whatever Crowley had been about to add to the duck discussion (for the curious: he was about to propose the idea of finding something equally as buoyant as a duck and strapping the duck to the thing to see if the duck would spin perpetually in the pond) died on a gasp.

“Could we go inside?”  Aziraphale’s face was still close to his, the soft smile from before tugging harder at the side of his mouth.  Crowley nodded dumbly and snapped the lock open.  “There we are.”  Aziraphale had hooked his elbow in Crowley’s and was leading him inside.

Brain still stalled out completely from the kiss, Crowley stood in his own entryway while watching Aziraphale venture further into his flat.  The sounds of a kettle being put on (did he even own a kettle?) and mugs being set out on the counter drifted his way from the kitchen.

Aziraphale had kissed him.

Aziraphale had kissed him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aziraphale had kissed him while he’d been having a serious thought.  But, that thought was gone now.  All that existed in Crowley’s head was the feel of Aziraphale’s lips on his own.  The gentle breath that tripped over his chin as the angel had pulled away and smiled at him.

And Crowley hadn’t had a chance to respond to that kiss.  He wandered into his own kitchen in a daze.

“I hope you don’t mind... I miracled over my own kettle and mugs.  You really have nothing in here, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, “I figure... well, I figure I won’t be getting any more memos about frivolous miracles from upstairs.  Not for a while, anyway.”

Crowley found himself standing directly behind Aziraphale now, close enough that he could feel the heat of him.  When the angel turned he startled.

“Crowley!” a hand went to his chest, “I’m glad I wasn’t holding the mugs... what a mess!  Really, though, if you’re going to have a kitchen you should at least make an attempt to stock it- mph!”

He hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.  Really, no fretting at all had occurred.  Aziraphale had kissed him in the hallway which meant that it was okay for Crowley to kiss him in the kitchen.  a + b = b + a

Aziraphale’s hands wasted no time finding the waistband of Crowley’s too-tight jeans and untucking his shirt.  Those hands that had been on his face mere minutes ago traced over his belly and then his sides on their way to his back where they clawed him closer with always-well-manicured, blunt nails.  Crowley pressed him harder into the counter top, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it.  The angel made a sound deep in his chest, one of his hands dipping beneath Crowley’s waistband to grab a handful of Crowley’s ass.

Crowley broke the kiss off abruptly, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s and sucking in some deep breaths even as he rutted against him.

Suddenly, the kettle went off on the stove beside them, causing them to spring apart and spin wildly, looking for whatever danger had found them.  They both looked from the still-whistling kettle to one another at the same time and laughed as the tension in the air eased.  Aziraphale took the kettle off the heat and turned off the stove.

“Maybe we can have tea later.”

“Something you’d rather be doing right now, Angel?”  Crowley would argue that his voice never “purred,” but he was perfectly aware that it just had.  He took a step toward his bedroom and then looked back at Aziraphale in invitation.

“Tempting me, serpent?”  Aziraphale reached out a hand and Crowley took it.

“As I recall, you kissed me first.”  Crowley pulled him down the hall and into the bedroom, tugging him closer once they got there.

“Well, you would not stop talking and I’m afraid I p... I pani... cked.” 

Crowley had leaned into his space, trailing his nose along the angel’s jaw in an almost nuzzle as he breathed him in.

“Perfectly good way to shut me up, Aziraphale, bravo.”  And then Aziraphale was left with cold air in the space in front of him as Crowley knelt at his feet.  “May I?” Crowley paused, hands over Aziraphale’s trouser fastenings.

Aziraphale nodded and was about to say more, but now his trousers were in a pile on the floor at his feet.  Crowley suddenly remember what he had been pondering before they got to the door of his flat.

He found himself face to kneecaps with Aziraphale and got a partial answer: the knee to his right looked like any ordinary human knee.  The one to the left, however gleamed a bright gold.  The gold spread in patterns almost like spiderwebs- or sealed cracks- up into his thigh, disappearing under his pants, and down into his shin, leading to his sock. Crowley reached out a hand to touch, but thought better of it and glanced upwards for permission.  Aziraphale didn’t so much look embarrassed or upset as he looked caught out and vaguely concerned.

“You can touch.  You won’t hurt me, darling.”

Crowley looked back at the patterns before him, tracing the cool metal replacement kneecap downwards to where it mixed with warm flesh then back up again, following the same lines up Aziraphale’s thigh until his fingers stopped just under his pants.  He felt Aziraphale shiver.

“I wanted to ask.”

“You knew?”

“Angel, there’s little about you that’s escaped me in 6,000 years,”  Crowley leaned forward and kissed his golden knee, “I just wasn’t sure you’d want me to know.”

“I want you to know everything about me... but this, well...”

“Wouldn’t they heal it for you?”  Crowley was proud of himself that his voice remained level.  The idea that heaven would let Aziraphale suffer, even after what he’d seen of them when he wore Aziraphale’s body as a disguise... It made his blood boil.  He could feel the yellow expanding in his eyes as he vied for some kind of control.

Aziraphale sat heavily on the bed behind him and Crowley immediately filled the space between his knees again, stroking his fingers along the newfound lines.

“I was afraid to ask them to.  Afraid they would think less of me or cast me out for my weakness.  It was all about casting out then, you know.”

“Yeah, I know... So you healed it yourself.”

“As best I could.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Aches sometimes.  If I’ve been on my feet too long or if I’ve been back to Heaven.  It’s so very cold there.  It seeps in and lingers.”  Seemingly without thought, Aziraphale flexed his leg under Crowley’s hands.  “Not to mention they don’t seem to believe in chairs.  What marvelous inventions, chairs.”

“You hid it from me.  Why?”

“My dear serpent,” Aziraphale reached down and caressed the side of Crowley’s face, tilting it upwards so he could meet his eyes, “I didn’t want you to worry.  You worry enough.  There was nothing you could do.”

Crowley gazed up at him, rubbing his hand up and down Aziraphale’s shin and knee.

“I suppose not.”

“And I don’t want you worrying yourself about it now, either.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean it.  I’m not made of glass.  You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I hear you.”  Crowley walked his fingers around the back of his knee and found flesh there, making Aziraphale jerk and laugh. “Hmm, been hiding a ticklish spot, too, I see?”  Crowley tickled the spot again and Aziraphale tried to pull away, but the demon had his ankle in a strong grip.  He sprawled backwards, pulling at the bedspread trying to get away from the merciless fingers.

“Foul fiend!”

Crowley took the moment of distraction to divest him of his socks and shoes and finally completely remove his trousers.  Then he released the angel’s ankle and climbed up the bed to face him.  Aziraphale was doing the best he could between deep breaths to look put out, but the crinkles around his eyes gave away the smile he was hiding.

“I suppose I only have one more question, then,” Crowley drawled as he traced the edge of Aziraphale’s pants with his fingers, watching in satisfaction as shivers raced up the angel’s body.

“Only one?  You?  Surely not.”

Crowley traced him through his pants, just a barely-there touch.

“You got anything else that’s gilded?”

“I’ll gild you in a second if you don’t touch me properly!”

[capriswritingnartshenanigans]

Snapshot: First Time (F!OC/Negan) (Explicit)

Snapshot one of Carrie's Snapshots. Carrie/Negan, explicit work. 2,400 words roughly. AO3.

Carrie and Negan finally get time outside of his prison cell together and alone, letting them make up for lost time and find comfort in each other.

I give Negan a shy smile as I pull him by the front of his shirt into my bedroom. He grins in response, his eyes dark. Something about the way he gazes at me the entire time causes my entire body to feel hot and needy for him. Only him. 

He closes the door behind him and locks it. He looks around the room for a fragment of a moment before his eyes are locked back onto me, the candle I left burning making their normally hazel color seem like dark pits. His tongue lightly traces over his bottom teeth as those dark pits look over me. “I had been thinkin’ I would have to drag you into a bedroom sweetheart, goddamn don’t you have some surprises up your sleeves.” I chuckle softly, leaning against his chest, my hands knotting into his grey t-shirt.

I shiver when one of his hands brush under my shirt along the curve of my spine. I lean into the other hand now cupping my cheek. “Well, I’ve only had, what… four years to build up the balls to do so,” I joke. My words cause the hungry, hot look spreading over his face to pause. It’s interesting to watch the emotions play across his features: from that dark hunger to thoughtfulness to softness he started to show around me about a year into being his daily guard. 

Seeing that softness war with his wanting for me… well, hot doesn’t really do it justice. His thumb runs along my lower lip, and in a warm whisper he murmurs, “Yeah, something like that.” I lightly kiss his thumb’s pad, the rough skin there pulling at my lips. 

“What’re you waiting for?” I ask him, trying to keep a playful, lighter tone in my voice while more deep and warring emotions make my chest tight. 

But emotions can wait. I’ve waited too long, far too long to be able to love him with my body and to feel his arms around me without anything to keep our bodies apart. 

He seems to think the same, as he almost has to force a smirk on as he tilts my chin up and moves to kiss me, but as my eyes slide shut in anticipation, his lips meet mine in an oh so gentle touch that leaves me more breathless than any passion could do. I melt into his touch as he gives me more of these soft kisses, slowly deepening into something more ardent and heated that causes my mind to spin. 

His hands run through my hair, over my skin, my hips, everywhere he can reach, and I reciprocate with the same growing need, feeling his scars and the flexing of his muscles. The image of his hips moving between mine and my hands splayed out over his tan back, feeling the strength packed into his lean form bringing our bodies together… It rips a moan from my throat, one he answers with a deep, rumbling groan in his chest. His kisses grow in their fever, ravaging my mouth at first, then my neck upper chest until I pull him back to my lips. 

When he fully pulls away, panting, I whimper and pout, and without even meaning to stomp I foot lightly. He laughs, a genuine laugh, joyful but with a raspiness that sends a wave of heat into my stomach, coiling like a spring, eager for more of his attention. “Impatient, are we?”

“Negan-” I let out a little squawk when he suddenly lifts me and tosses me lightly onto the bed. He grins down at me, moving my legs apart with my feet flat on the bed and knees bent, then places his hips in between them. 

“What? We had to get to the bed some fuckin’ time, shit.” He takes in how I look, pulling his lip lazily between his teeth and releasing it in a way that causes my blood to sear in my veins. “You can’t be the only one with surprises, darlin’, that’d be unfair as fuck.”

“Oh, so now you’re all about fairness?” I ask, my voice edged in exasperation. He nods and hums in agreement, before undoing my boots and removing my socks, massaging each of my feet in turn (with a little side eye and smirk each time), before slipping out of his own. 

“Oh, absolutely.” I sit up just as he shrugs off his jacket and sheds his t-shirt. My breathing sharpens at the sight of his lean chest being completely open to my gaze for once. My mouth watering in want, I lightly run my fingers over his scarred and tattooed skin, shivering when the curls of his chest hair tease my fingers. He hisses when my pinky grazes his nipple, and his hand whips out and grabs my wrist so fast I didn’t even see him move until it’s just there. 

Part of me had forgotten just how capable Negan can be. But his grip is gentle, not hurting. He leans in to me, his nose running along mine, his eyes hooded as are mine, our eyes peering into each other’s. It’s intimate, close, warm. He’s warm. His lips meet mine again, heated and wet, his beard scratching my skin in a way that sends chills all over my body. But, all too soon, he’s pulling away again, and… he somehow got my shirt unbuttoned in the time we were kissing. I hadn’t even realized he let go of my wrist. 

“That a talent of yours? Keeping someone so occupied with your mouth they don’t realize anything else happening?” I tease as he helps me slide out of my shirt before flinging it onto the floor. He chuckles darkly, biting his lip and leaning close.

“Oh, darlin’, you want me to show you everything my mouth can do to keep you busy?” he asks, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. The tone he uses makes my thighs try to squeeze together, but they only press against him more fully, causing his breathing to shudder for a moment. 

“I, um…” He tsks.

“That’s not an answer, baby girl,” he murmurs, one hand lightly brushing over my throat before cupping my chin. “And I do need an answer. Got to make sure you’re wantin’ this ‘n’ all.” The predatory gleam in his eyes makes my sex pulse more eagerly for him, demandingly, wanting what we’ve been missing out on all this time. 

“Yes,” I answer breathlessly, my mind beginning to fumble with words. He grins wickedly and easily undoes my bra and adds it to the growing clothes pile on the floor, then uses his body (especially his hips against mine) to move me further up the bed some. His lips meet mine for another scorching kiss, his tongue no longer teasing and patient, but demanding and his kiss is just as so. I can’t keep up with him, but before I can try to get myself on track to him, he’s moving on, leaving a trail of wet kisses and nips down my jaw, my neck, my collarbones. He gives a particularly sharp nip right on the bone, causing me to yelp and drawing a short chortle from him before his lips sooth the spot. 

I lay back down when he reaches my chest, wanting to enjoy his attention to my breasts. My hips jerk when he bites my nipples, then they grind against him when his motions become suckles, pulling whimpers and moans from me so easily. My hands play in his short hair, and one errant thought manages to pierce the heat clouding my mind: I’m so glad his hair is long enough for this again. 

But it leaves as his mouth moves further down, and it’s definitely gone when he undoes my gun belt and it crashes to the floor with a loud thunk!, and then my regular belt and pants. He bites my hip bone in the same moment he pulls my pants and underwear down in one motion. With my legs free of constraint, my feet hover around his shoulders, my eyes locked on him as my breaths come in pants. His eyes meet mine, and he holds my gaze as he lightly runs his beard over my inner thigh, the sensitive skin there coming alive under the scraping. I shiver with each brush, and his kisses nearly drive me insane.

“Negan, please,” I beg, my fingers knotting in my own hair. “Please, please, please, I can’t take it.” He sighs, but can’t hide his smile. One of his hands move from my thigh to cup my sex. 

“Mmm, that’s what I like to hear,” he replies, one of his fingers lightly pressing into my slit and rolling the small throbbing nub there slowly, causing my legs to shudder violently. “How close are you, sweetheart? Am I gonna just be gettin’ started and you fuckin’ tap out?”

“P-Probably,” I half whimper out as my hips try to press towards his hand. He watches my body arch and shake for a few moments, before his hand moves away is replaced with his mouth. He places my legs over his shoulders, then proceeds to thumb my slit open, and with a groan, his lips seal over my clit, working and rolling and suckling it wetly. My inner walls squeeze together as his mouth works, my back arching, my breathing sharp and fast. I mewl and whine and moan and struggle against him, unable to handle the intense pleasure but not wanting it completely gone, either. When I can’t stop squirming, his hands become like vices on my hips, keeping me still to him. 

“Aaagh, Negan, oh my God,” I whimper, and he answers with a dark chuckle, and as I edging close to the end, he slows for a few moments, but when I kick his back in frustration, he growls and keeps on, faster than previously, so much faster it takes only a few seconds for light to pop behind my eyes and my body both try to keep struggling and lock up at the same time. My ears deafen with a warm buzz. 

A few moments of intense pleasure pass, before I weakly push Negan’s head away. My legs and body go slack, a laugh bubbling out of my chest as my arms lazily flop onto the mattress and across my forehead. He lightly kisses my thigh before rising, placing my legs gently on the bed. I give him a lazy smile as he undoes his pants, letting them and his boxers hit the floor before climbing into bed with me finally. He easily lifts me and shifts how I’m laying so he can pull my side against his chest. “You look happier than a fuckless fuck on Free Fuck Day, sweetheart.” 

I snort, then gasp softly when his member presses against my hip stiffly. “Negan, what the hell does that mean?” 

“It means exactly what I said, shit,” he answers, acting offended. “Sweetheart, you not listenin’ to me?” I ghost my hand down his cheek, smiling when his lips press a soft kiss into its palm.

“I was, but even in all these years, I have not learned Neganese fully,” I answer ruefully with a dramatic sigh, nuzzling his shoulder. He huffs playfully, playing with my stomach. 

“A damn shame. A real fucking damn shame,” he says gravely, stuttering on the end when my hand lightly wraps around his member. He… hadn’t been lying, he is big. A flutter in my stomach and a spasm inside of me makes my breathing stutter too. He eases my hand away from him with a soft hiss, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “As much as that feels fucking amazing, I want to be inside of you far too fucking much to let you continue,” he says in such a gruff voice it gives away just how eager he is for that exact scenario. I flutter my lashes at him before turning on my side with my back to him, bending my leg to give him easier access. Then, I lay one of my arms along my side, playing with the skin of my hip. 

“Then let’s get going,” I purr, wiggling my butt against him. He groans so deeply it’s almost a growl and one of his hands cup my ass, squeezing softly. But he stills, his other hand tracing the scars, both aged in the years and some fresh, and the even fresher stitches on my back carefully with his other. 

“Will it hurt you if I do?”

“No.”

“You sure, darlin’? I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.” His breathing shudders as he says the last word, causing my heart to hurt. I reach back and cup his cheek, gently nudging his head forward so I can press my cheek against his. 

“I’m sure. Don’t think about it right now,” I murmur soothingly, pressing myself fully against him. His hand skates over my hip, up the length of my body, to cup my head and gently move it to where he can give me a gentle kiss that both melts me completely and causes my heart to clench. The other hand works its way under me and then lightly brushes my still sensitive clit, causing me to jump. 

“Will you lead me in?” he breathes against my lips, a ghost of a grin steadily slanting across his lips. I nod and lift my bent leg, then wrap my hand around his throbbing part. He grunts and his hips jerk, but he lets me move him to where its head lightly presses inside of me, and with a slow thrust, he begins to fill me, leaving us both to sigh and gasp against each other’s lips.

My hand leaves to knot in his hair. A rush of nervousness fills me at the thought that maybe he’d realize my inexperience by this, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it. And while there is some pain, it’s nothing like what people always said it would be.

He doesn’t get rough, he stays easy and slow, holding me against him the entire time, leading me to a slow-rising but intense second orgasm, and then his own finish on the sheets. After, he gently holds me to his chest, his hands holding me by my shoulders and hips. Careful to avoid the marks left in my flesh. Holding me like some precious, fragile treasure. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, Negan… It was amazing,” I answer honestly, nuzzling his chest. “I was worried it’d be more painful, but… it wasn’t. I only felt it for a little bit, and while I’m kinda sore… it’s not bad at all.” He lightly kisses the top of my head.

“I noticed when you tensed; I was worried as shit that you were wanting me to back off, but you didn’t say anything and kept pullin’ me in you. I’m glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart. First times shouldn’t be fucked up.”

“And mine certainly was not.”

[imaginedisish]

Heroes (Stefan Butler x Reader) (Bandersnatch)

A/N: Alrighty...here it is...the long awaited Stefan x Reader fic...the last imagine of the weekend! I LOVE DAVID BOWIE SO AN ANON REQUESTED THIS AND I ACTUALLY SCREAMED NGL. Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for the love so far. I’ve written fanfics before, but never like this. I don’t feel forced to put out things…and I feel much better getting requests as opposed to having to think of everything on my own. Tumblr has a much different vibe than fanfic.net and wattpad, and I love it sooooo much. Stefan x Reader was heavily requested so I figured I needed to feed da people. While I’m super into writing for Bandersnatch, and love writing for Bandersnatch the most, my next two fics will most likely be two anon requests: one  about Donnie Darko, and another about Alex Turner. (DON’T WORRY MY FELLOW BANDERSNATCH LOVERS, I’LL WRITE HEAD CANONS TO KEEP YOU ALIVE…and i have an idea for my first multi-part Bandersnatch fic sooo…get ready for a “BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGE”….) For now…enjoy this Stefan x Reader imagine, guys…

Summary: Your an art student, and you have chosen to paint a portrait of Bowie for your final project. However, things go horribly wrong…that is until Stefan is there to help :)

Warnings: Panic attacks, minimal to medium angst, lots of language, fluff!

Word Count: 1,688 

Your brush dances ever so carefully across the bright, white canvas. David Bowie’s “Heroes” blasts throughout your flat. 

Outside your window, the rest of South London decided it was time to turn in for the night. You imagine small children crawling into bed, begging their mothers or fathers for one more story…just one more. 

But not you, you wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Your eyes struggled to stay open as you began to add more shading to your portrait of David Bowie.

You fell in love with Bowie’s music and his entirely fantastical persona at a young age. Maybe it was his voice, or his lyrics, or perhaps his message of artistic integrity and being yourself regardless of what others say that made you so obsessed with the Starman. 

Regardless of what exactly made you love Bowie, he was the reason you had the confidence to make your move to the UK. He was the reason you decided to apply to art school in the first place. 

So, when your professor announced that your final project of the year would be a portrait of someone that has impacted your life greatly, Bowie instantly came to mind. 

Without Bowie, where the hell would you be? You most likely would be back in the States, going to a university you had no interest in, pursuing a major you hated, in a relationship with a boy you could never love as much as you love…him. 

Oh yes, him. Stefan Butler. Without Bowie, you couldn’t have ever met Stefan. He was your Moonage Daydream, your Modern Love, he was yours. He was so kind and soft and caring. 

When Stefan needs you, you’re there in an instant. He needs you quite often, to be completely honest, but you never mind. You understand that his past traumas plague him, and you want to help him more than anything else in the world. And, naturally, without Bowie, you would never be able to do so. You owed so much to that magnificently talented man. 

And yet this painting of him was slowly becoming a pain in the ass. 

I need to get this done, You remind yourself. Tomorrow is just hours away. 

Unfortunately, you feel as though your hours of painting have led to absolutely nothing. You step back from the painting in an attempt to see it better. However, the more you step back, the more wrong things seem to be. 

“This…this just isn’t right,” you mutter under you breath. A feeling of distress creeps under your skin and eventually pushes itself into every part of your body. You reach for the grey paint, and apply it forcefully to where you think you need it. 

You don’t realize it isn’t actually grey paint until you remove the brush from the canvas. 

“What the fuck?” Now you’re fuming with anger. “This can’t be happening…no no no no no!” You fall to the ground sobbing, your head smashing into your hands. 

A large, vibrant, pink slash of paint displays itself in the middle of your grey, “Heroes” album cover painting. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, and you know that. You simply sob on the floor of your flat, as the creativity you had earlier in the day leaves, and replaces itself with total and utter sadness and disappointment. 

Then, for some reason, you decide to look over to the alarm clock next to your brass, queen bed.

2:00 am

“Oh no, god no!” You shout, expecting your neighbors to be at your door any second now to complain about all the noise. 

Your throat quickly begins to close up, and your heart beats out of your chest. You haven’t had a panic attack since you left the States, but the feeling was familiar nonetheless. You try to scream, but you just can’t. 

A million thoughts race around your mind at once. Every bad experience, relationship, argument, and situation you’ve ever gone been in or gone through resurface in your mind. You simply don’t know how much you can endure before you fall apart, or worse…

“No, no I can’t think like that, I just can’t,” you whisper to yourself.

Before your old, depressive thoughts begin to come back to haunt you, you reach for your phone, and dial the number you know will fix everything.

“(Y/N)? It’s two in the morning, is everything all right?” Stefan’s voice is hurried and panicked. He knows something is wrong. 

“I fucked up, Stefan, so terribly terribly bad,” You’re voice is unsteady and hoarse. You struggle to get your words out as you sob to Stefan.

“(Y/N) tell me what happened.” Stefan was beyond worried now. 

“It-it’s my p-painting. I-,” you take a deep breath before continuing, “I n-need you, n-now.” You sniffle audibly. 

“H-hold tight, k-keep breathing. I’m on m-my way.” Stefan hangs up. You try to do as he says, but it’s no use. You feel your depressive, almost suicidal thoughts begin to push through the barriers you worked so hard to put up. 

No, stopping thinking like that! You think to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut in attempt to free yourself from your intrusive thoughts. You throw your head back into your hands. 

Less than five minutes pass by, when a soft knock echoes through your studio flat. 

“C-come i-in,” you croak. Stefan slowly pushes the door open. His fluffy brown hair is a mess, and his dark circles highlight the emerald-ness of his wide, puppy dog eyes. He’s wearing black shorts and a baggy black sweatshirt. His long, bright yellow socks pop out against his black converse. 

You obviously woke him up, and now you felt like you were being a bothersome girlfriend. You are the one who is supposed to help him. It isn’t supposed to be the other way around. Guilt begins to fill your stomach. 

“(Y/N), m-my god,” he paused, looking at your beet red face and puffy eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks. He rushes over to you, and holds you tightly in his arms. “I’m here now, let it out, it-it’s okay.” 

You sob violently into his chest. You don’t know what else to do. In fact, you realize there is literally nothing else you can do. 

You separate from him for a moment, and nod towards your now adulterated painting. 

“L-look at it. I’m going to fail, Stefan. It’s due tomorrow. It’s worth 70% of my final grade and I’m going to fail,” You say in a soft, factual whisper. He shakes his head. 

“I see nothing but amazing artwork, (Y/N),” Stefan replies. You grow angry again. 

He’s just lying to you, you think to yourself. It’s absolute shit! Anyone could see that. Yell at him, scream!

“Bullshit!” You cry out in a rage, scooting away from him and getting up. You want to punch something, a wall maybe. 

“(Y/N), s-stop,” Stefan pleads softly, getting up from the floor as well. You ignore him, and start to pace the floor. You can’t stand yourself now. Your hands begin to shake. You wish everything would just disappear. 

“Fucking hell I hate thi-,”

“I said STOP!” Stefan screams this time, cutting you off. Stefan was usually so soft, so timid. In this moment, he was the opposite. 

You stare at him with wide eyes. He nervously reaches up to pull on his ear lobe. His emerald eyes become glossy. 

“I-I’m sorry I-I didn’t m-mean t-to-,” Stefan starts to apologize, but you quickly cut him off. 

“No, n-no I am. You were just trying to help and I screamed at you. I’m just so sor-,” the second half of your “sorry” is muffled into Stefan’s chest as he rushes towards you and captures you in his arms.

He smells like peppermint and roses. His scent relaxes you and you practically fall limp in his embrace. He kisses your forehead lightly, and rubs your back gently. You stay that way for what feels like hours, even though it was most likely only a few minutes. 

“We can figure this out, things are going to be fine, I’m going to help you,” Stefan coos in your ear. You melt to the sound his voice. 

Feeling much more calm now, you and Stefan separate. Stefan makes his way over to the painting staring at it for a few seconds. 

“Aladdin Sane,” is all that comes out of Stefan’s mouth. 

“Hmm? What about it?” You weren’t sure what he meant. 

“The pink streak it reminds me of ‘Aladdin Sane' record cover,” Stefan states rather factually. 

Then, it hits you. 

“Stefan, you’re a genius! An absolute genius!” You scream, but happily this time. You run over to him, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a kiss.

“I should be a genius more often then,” Stefan says smiling widely, blushing intensely. 

Stefan stays with you as you continue your painting, watching you, making sure you don’t overwork yourself. He checks in with you every now and again to see if everything is okay. Of course, now that he was with you, everything was completely fine. Your confidence and inspiration was back. 

Around four in the morning, the painting is finally complete. You step back and smile as Stefan joins you by your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder. 

“Its absolutely, stunning, (Y/N),” Stefan says, his eyes twinkling even in the low, poor lighting of your flat. 

The painting was a fuse of the “Aladdin Sane” and “Heroes” album covers. You felt fulfilled and happy with your work, and it was all thanks to Stefan, your hero. 

“I love you so much,” Stefan says, pulling you closer to him. 

“I love you more,” You say in return. 

Stefan simply shakes his head.

“Impossible. It would be impossible even in an alternate timeline, in-, in an alternate universe, (Y/N). That is infinitely and eternally impossible.”

[melyaliz]

“We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk.”- Tim Drake

@werewitchling Can maybe I get 132 for Tim??? I think he would be funny to write this prompt for. “We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk.”

Fandom: DC / Batman 

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader 

Notes: Still ticking them off my list! But I may take a break tomorrow :P 

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive​

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

“Game night!” you sang pulling him into the living room. Tim couldn’t help but smile as you danced around him. He knew just by the look in your eye that something was up.

You were scheming something. And he was about to find out what.

Tim’s suspicions were confirmed as you pulled him into the living room of your apartment where there was a blanket replacing the coffee table. The only thing on the blanket was a deck of cards and some poker chips.

“What are we…”

“Strip poker.”

“Wait, what?”

“You told me how much you wanted to play because you didn’t understand the appeal.”

A hazy memory of him mumbling about different “sexy” games floating into his memory. Part of him had thought that was a dream… guess not.

“We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk.”

“A verbal contract was made. Are you really going to break that contract?”

“No” Tim sighed taking a seat on the blanket. “I’ll deal” part of you wondered if he meant just cards or maybe something else as he shuffled the deck.

“YAY” you squealed sitting down cross-legged dancing back and forth in your seat with excitement.

The excitement that slowly faded as you sat next to both your shoes, left sock, and hoodie. Tim was creepily good at this. While you still had one sock and your bright yellow beanie with the large smiley face on it, it was time to take action.

You had one sock left but you also had an ace up your sleeve as the term goes.

“Full House”

“Shoot” you mumbled grabbing the hem of your t-shirt.

“Wait, you have other…”

Tim’s voice was cut off as you placed your shirt next to the pile of clothes you had next to you. “What?” you asked giving him a coy smile as his eyes fell down to that lacy bra you had just gotten.

It was all over from there.

He couldn’t focus, face slightly flushed as he squirmed in his seat. He coughed trying to act all cool like it didn’t bother him.

But oh did it bother him.

You guys had been friends for so long but Tim had always liked you as more than a friend. At first, it had been because he had a girlfriend then you had a boyfriend. Then you were both so deep in your friendship it was like you both couldn’t make it out.

That was beside the fact that Tim knew it wouldn’t work. You were so out of his league. He was this nerdy kid who spent more time with his face glued to a computer screen than breathing while you…

You were the most amazing girl he had ever met.

He pulled his legs closer to himself praying you wouldn’t notice. Prayed he could make it out of this game alive.

You won three rounds.

Tim was barefoot and hadn’t looked you in the face since you had taken your shirt off.

Doubt was slowly filling your mind. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe he didn’t like you the way you liked him. It was possible after all he was so cool. The self-made robin not to mention probably the best detective that was never born.

And you were just you.

You had this grand plan in your mind where you would both play this game and he would see how hot you were and confess how he loved you. But now you were just sitting there in your bra feeling like an idiot.

“I… we can stop” you mumbled looking away.

“Wait… what?” Tim mumbled breaking out of his own thoughts.

“This was a dumb idea, plus I’m cold.”

Tim stood up grabbing you a blanket from the couch handing it to you. That was when you noticed how tight his pants were.

Oh, fuck it.

Getting up as well you reached for the blanket then decided it was now or never. All in. show your hand.

Leaning forward you kissed him.

And to your delight, he kissed you back as he wrapped you in the blanket pulling you closer to him.

-GET TAGGED!-

Tagging: @royslittleharper  @the-shadow-of-atlantis @coffee-randomness @daisyboobear @werewitchling @guns-n-lilies  

[poofiemus]

A Box To Make History: Kirito-what-will-be-Yuuri

(This post is backdated. To see how he turned out, check out his makeover.) Kirito-What-Will-Be Yuuri. . . Or "Yuurito", as I sometimes like to think of it. But yes, today, after waiting since May, THIS finally showed up at ten-to-five:

BOX OH GLORIOUS BOX

It had much bubble wrap. I had fun stepping on it while I unpacked him.

He's got one of them slider boxes, and this one has a nice pearly finish to the cardboard.

Forgive me, but the dolly plastic wrap always kinda cracks me up--it reminds me of how bouquets of flowers are wrapped in cellophane. "Yes, I'll take one dozen Dollfie Dreams, please. And throw some baby's breath in there for contrast."

And unwrapped! His mouth is actually not nearly as close to his chin as Volks' photos made it look, but he does have a pretty big forehead--gonna have to be careful when I buy/make his slicked-back skating hair.

I was surprised that I actually like his default eyes--and then was struck by the irony. Could I have liked Fate's, Nanoha's, or Miku's, where I wanted to keep them as those characters? Nooooo, it had to be the one I wanted to change to someone else right out the gate. Also, his eyelids are a bit deep, albeit not as deep as Miku's; he'll probably do better with lighter-colored eye options because of that.

I heard some people want to turn him into a girl, so here he is in Agatha's hair for s***s and giggles. You're welcome.

OOOH STUFF! . . .by the way, those instructions are nigh useless. That lovely "booklet" in the bag with his grippy-glove hands? Yeah, that's not a booklet. It's one sheet, and only the back actually has instructions on it. It basically only helps for putting his swords on his back, and that's it.

Starting to get him dressed. Do he got the booty?

Hm. . . .we need more data. . .

HE DO!

Shirt opens all the way down the back with teeny tiny black snaps. At least you don't have to take his head off? You do have to take his hands off for this thing though.

Pants are. . . interesting. For one, the fly uses that infuriating hook-with-a-bit-of-thread closure Volks loves so very very much, while the belt gets a much saner snap. And the fly is. . . on the left hip, not the front. Yeah. I don't know either. Also note that the belt doesn't have the buckle on it. I spent a while combing through bags wondering if I was missing a part.

"What is this? Why am I dressing like an early 2000's middle schooler?" Yeah, his pants turn into low-riders if you don't tuck his shirt in.

The "hard goods" came in these clamshells inside a white box. Seems to have done its job fairly well in keeping the swords secure.

Sheaths hid underneath the swords. And. . .hold on, what's that little bit up there??

AHA! THERE is the belt buckle! Incidentally, the belt buckle is supposed to just sort of clip to the belt, but when I tried it was so tight that it started tearing at the belt rather than going on, so I basically said "screw it" and just dressed him without it.

"Look Ma, no hands!" The coat is run through with wires, but the wires are thinner and softer than the ones Fate and Nanoha have in their outfits. I honestly think this is an improvement, because sometimes getting their stuff to lay right is a fight, and this is much easier. (FYI, he did not come with those socks. I put them on him because who the hell wears boots without socks?)

And speaking of the boots, I can now officially confirm that his boots are actual, y'know, boots, instead of replacement foot parts. I had kind of thought they were, but couldn't tell for certain from the promo pics. In this case it works pretty well, and keeps me from having another pair of disembodied feet cluttering my dolly drawers when I decide it's badassery time.

Downside of the boots is that they have virtually no tread, so getting him to stand in them is pretty tricky. They just slide on many surfaces.

Volks, why did you put just one hand in one bag, and then stick the bagged hand and an unbagged hand in another bag? Did you hire Yzma as a consultant??

YAY, HAIR! I'm low-key in love with that little tuft on the top that sticks up. I'm pretty sure it's deliberately styled that way, and even if it isn't, it's staying, because it's adorable. That said, his wig was super tight, as tight as Miku's even though it's not as stiff. So, that was an adventure.

And now, SWOOOOOOOOOOOORDS Seriously, these are cool. Crisp molding, pearly paintwork, love these things. (I kinda feel like I need to get some hooks and make a mini weapon rack for my wall, because between these, Nanoha's Raising Heart staff, and some odds and ends I've picked up, I've got some fun stuff that I feel sad just leaving in a drawer when not in use.)

Standing next to Agatha (DDDY-II in fairly high heels). So, he's reasonably tall--comes up to the same height as Ags even when she's rocking heels. Unfortunately I found at this point my individual Kirito has loose elbows, and even looser glove-hand wrists, so he's gonna need some screws tightened and some thin coats of superglue added to things. So, that's why he's just kind of. . .stabbing the furniture.

And now Abby joined the party! She wants to be the healer, but honestly, with her ADD she'd probably be better on DPS.

I am so thrilled with his face, 1000x better in person than in Volks' shots. Yes, mine could use a bit of a tune-up in the arms and wrists, and his default outfit is a bit baffling, but the face is what counts in the end, and I am more than happy with that! Now to plot his ice-skater-ization. . . Also I almost forgot to show pictures of the aftermath.

Terrifying, isn't it? Wait a sec. . .

Toothless!? What are you doing??

Toothless: purr Pancake's gonna be mad you beat him to it. How are you even comfy in there? If you fits, you sits, I guess. http://www.dollfiedreams.com/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=16435&p=221879 Read the full article

[writinggeisha]

Your first mental image when thinking about lips or mouths might be a passionate kiss. Percy Bysshe Shelley said “Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.” However, lips and mouths are more than kissing (or eating) machines. This post provides hundreds of ways to describe them in creative writing and poetry.

Emotion Beats

The way people move their lips and mouths reflects overt or hidden emotions.

Pouting might indicate agitation, aggravation, confusion, contemplation, disapproval, disbelief, dislike, exasperation, flirtatiousness, impatience, irritability, nervousness, pessimism, resentment, sadness, skepticism, suspicion, wariness, worry, et al.

In fact, pouting can imply so many emotions that it’s probably best to consider alternative body language.

A few more emotions mirrored by lips and mouths include:

Adulation, arousal, flirtatiousness Parted lips Running tongue over the lips

Anticipation of a delicious snack or entrée Smacking the lips Watering/salivating mouth

Determination Pressing lips into a thin line

Dislike Pressing lips into a thin line

Fear Bad taste in the mouth Chewing on lips Clenched mouth Dry mouth Gaping mouth Gulping huge mouthfuls of air Licking the lips Trembling lips

Impatience Pinched lips

Repressed hatred Pressing lips into a thin line

Shyness Pinched lips

Skepticism Biting the lips

Stubbornness Tight lips or mouth

Uncertainty Forceful exhalation through pursed lips

Adjectives (1)

Adjectives such as haughty save words by telling about a character’s motives or personality. Use sparingly. They function well in flash fiction or third-person omniscient point of view, and when you want to speed the pace.

Several adjectives, when describing lips, may suggest something different when describing mouths.

Provocative lips might indicate a seductive tone, but a provocative mouth might be aggravating.

Demanding lips evoke a sexual image, whereas a demanding mouth implies an overbearing character.

Generous lips might be large, or they might be yielding and responsive. Provide context if necessary.

Rather than modify lips or mouth, a number of the following words could refer to faces, expressions, or motivations.

Many skin attributes also perform well as lips and mouth descriptors.

A Active, adulterous, adventurous, affectionate, aflame, aggressive, alluring, amorous, amorphous, ample, appealing, ardent, audacious, avid, awkward

B Barbarous, belligerent, bewitching, bitchy, bitter, bloody, bone-dry, bony, Botoxed, boyish, brash, brutal, busy

C Cadaverous, callous, capable, capacious, careworn, carnivorous, caustic, cautious, cavernous, chaste, cheerful, cheery, childlike, clumsy, coarse, coherent, cold, complacent, conspicuous, contemptuous, corrugated, critical, crooked, cruel, crumpled, cynical

D Dainty, dead, delectable, delicate, delicious, demanding, demure, desirous, desiccated, determined, devilish, disdainful, dispirited, disrespectful, dissatisfied, doll-like, dour, downcast, droll, dry

E Eager, effeminate, elastic, electric, eloquent, energetic, enigmatic, enthusiastic, evil, expectant, experienced, expressionless, expressive, exquisite

F Fascinating, fevered, feverish, fine, firm, flaccid, flat, flawless, fleshy, flexible, flirtatious, foolish, forceful, formless, foul, fragile, fragrant, frigid, frothy, full, furrowed, furtive

G Generous, gentle, girlie, girlish, glassy, glib, glossy, gnomish, goofy, grave, greasy, greedy, grim, grotesque

H Hard, haughty, heartless, heavy, helpless, heretical, hesitant, honeyed, hungry

I Icy, impassioned, impassive, impatient, imperious, impertinent, impetuous, implacable, impudent, incoherent, inflamed, inflexible, innocent, insatiable, inscrutable, insubstantial, intractable, inviolate, irreverent

J Juicy

K Kissable

L Lax, leathery, lecherous, lewd, libelous, libidinous, licentious, lifeless, loathsome, loose, lopsided, lovable, luscious, lush, lustful

M Malicious, manly, masculine, masterful, meager, meaty, merciless, merry, mischievous, misshapen, moist, motionless, mute, mutinous

N Narrow, nasty, naughty, nervous, numb

O Obstinate, oily, oversized

P Passionate, pathetic, pebbly, perfect, perfumed, petulant, pinched, piquant, playful, pliable, pliant, plump, practiced, prim, prodigious, profane, proficient, prominent, proud, provocative, puffy, pugnacious

Q Querulous

R Randy, rapacious, ravenous, raw, relentless, reluctant, repulsive, resolute, responsive, restless, reticent, reverent, rigid, ripe, rough, rubbery, ruthless

S Sacrilegious, sad, sarcastic, sardonic, sassy, satirical, saucy, savage, scabrous, scaly, scornful, scurrilous, seductive, sensitive, sensuous, serious, sexy, shapeless, shrunken, silent, silky, sinful, skillful, slack, slick, slippery, sloppy, smooth, soft, sore, sour, spicy, stained, starving, stern, sticky, stiff, stony, strong, stubborn, submissive, succulent, sulky, sullen, sultry, sunken, sweet, swollen

T Talented, tense, tentative, thick, thin, thirsty, tight, timid, toothless, tough, traitorous, tremulous, truculent

U Uncertain, uncooperative, unrelenting, unresponsive, unsatisfied, unsmiling, unwilling, unyielding, upturned

V Vacuous, virgin, voluble, voluptuous, voracious, vulgar

W Wanton, warm, waspish, waxen, well-cut, wet, wide, willing, winsome, wistful, withered, witty, wormy, worshipful, wrinkled, wry

Y Yielding, youthful

Adjectives (2): Upper Lip

Although some of these adjectives might suit lips or mouth, they excel for describing the upper lip:

A to Z Bifurcated, bushy, clean-shaven, furry, hairless, hairy, long, mustachioed, naked, perspiring, short, stubbly, sweaty, whiskered

Adjectives (3): Lower Lip

Likewise for the lower lip:

A to Z Droopy, exaggerated, floppy, generous, missing, non-existent, pendulous, sagging, soul-patched, split, square-cut

Adjectives (Misc.)

Besides describing lips and mouths, writers can:

Describe the teeth, or mention missing teeth

Describe a person’s smile.

Similes and Metaphors

When creating comparisons, familiar animals are a good place to start. Readers know what they look like and will conjure an immediate image of the lips so compared.

Some of the following act as adjectives, while others function best in as or like similes. For example:

Fred had horse lips.

Fred had lips that looked like they belonged on a horse.

A to Z Angel fish, apish, baboon, baboon’s butt, bestial, bovine, camel, Cheshire cat, chimpanzee, chipmunk, dead fish, duck, frog, giraffe, goldfish, horse, largemouth bass, leeches, lizard, porcupine’s back, raw oysters, reptilian, serpentine, simian, squirrel, toad, twin slugs, zebra

Other comparisons could include:

A to Z Ancient prunes, angel’s cheek, blow-up doll’s maw, bread dough, cherries, embers, glue, lily petals, overstuffed sausages, pincushion, pinecone, plum, pomegranate blossoms, raspberries, raw liver, rose petals, rosebuds, rubies, sandpaper, satin, suction cups, twin cacti, velvet, vise grips

And here are a few more thought starters:

Awkward as a newborn trying to find his mama’s nipple

Bigger than his ego

Deader than a slab of cement

Dry as the Sahara

Foul as an overflowing cesspit

Fragile as butterfly wings

Large as Texas

Like a cow chewing its cud

Moist like morning dew

More brutal than a pounding sledgehammer

Smelly as an old sock

Colors

Foods excel as color substitutes. Words such as cherry, bubble-gum, and tangerine capture color, scent, and taste.

In a modern novel, lipstick and stage makeup allow lips to be almost any color. Not so much in a Victorian-era piece.

A to F Anemone-pink, ashen, bloodless, bubble-gum, burgundy, carnelian, cherry, colorless, coral, coralline-red, cotton-candy, crimson, flamingo, florid, freckled

G to Z Golden, grey/gray, licorice-twist, pale, pallid, pasty, peach, pink, purple, red, rosy, ruddy, seashell-pink, sunburnt, sunset-scarlet, swarthy, tangerine, vermillion, wan, wine-red

See also 1000+ Ways to Describe Colors.

Shapes

Many of the following words function well in similes or can be converted to adjectives by adding suffixes such as –like, -ish, or –esque.

A to Z Apical, asymmetrical, bleeding heart, blimp, bow, cherry pie, cinnamon roll, cinnamon-heart, doughnut, fishy, goldfish, heart, inner tube, O-ring, peaked, petal (name specific flower), shapeless, shapely, sharp, stop sign, unsymmetrical, toilet boil, urinal, watermelon, wedding ring, yield sign

Verbs

Some verbs relay feelings or senses of the POV character, while others are appropriate for secondary players.

Consider antonyms. Rather than belittle, a mother’s lips might praise her child. Instead of relaxing his lips, an uptight worrywart might tense them.

You might prefer to pair many of these verbs with characters themselves rather than their body parts. Listen to your writer’s voice and choose what works best for you.

A to F Belittle, blister, burn, caress, clamp, clench, close, coax, coerce, compress, contort, crack, crimp, criticize, curl, denounce, deprecate, dribble, drool, entice, force, fuse

G to R Gossip, graze, heal, insult, kiss, loosen, lure, meld, open, perspire, practice, press, pucker, purse, quirk, relax, respond

S Salivate, scrunch, seal, slaver, slide, slither, slobber, smart, smooch, sparkle, spasm, spit, squirm, squish together, sting, stretch, suck, sweat, swell

T to Z Tempt, throb, tighten, tingle, turn down, turn up, twist, ulcerate, unlock, yield

Nouns

Inventing nouns to replace lips or mouth can lead to silent snickers while you hunch over your keyboard or pore through your favorite thesaurus. Try some of these:

A to L Bazoo, blower, bragger, cakehole, chops, doughnut disposal, doughnut hole, flycatcher, flytrap, food vacuum, gob, hatch, hot-air vent, jabberjaw, kisser, laughing gear

M to Z Maw, motormouth, mug slit, mush, muzzle, nagger, oral cavity, oral orifice, phiz slit, pie hole, puss, skull cave, soup sucker, trap, woofer, word hole, yap, yapper, yodeler

Props

Add humor, suspense, or atmosphere with well-chosen props.

Does your protagonist notice a roll of duct tape on the counter in his apartment—then whip around to see a face-masked intruder with a gag in hand? Duct tape + gag = kidnapping. Or maybe an amorous encounter. Or__________?

A to O Acne, asthma inhaler, baby bottle, blueberries, chewing tobacco, cigar, cigarette, coughing fit, dirt, duct tape, electric razor, facemask, flute, gag, glitter, handkerchief, intubation tube, kazoo, lipstick, mouth guard, mouth organ, mud pie, mustache, muzzle, nebulizer, oboe

P to Z Piercings, pimples, pipe, razor, scar, scuba regulator, sneezing, snorkel, soot, soother, spit, spit up, stain, straw, teeth, thumb, tic, tissue, tongue, toothpaste, toothpick, trumpet, veil, wart, whistle

Clichés and Idioms

Some narrators might warrant trite phrases, but it’s usually best to avoid them—except in dialogue.

All mouth and trousers: arrogant, brash, brazen

Born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth: born privileged or wealthy

Button one’s lip: hush, keep quiet, shut up, stop talking

By word of mouth: orally, verbally, via gossip

Down in the mouth: dejected, depressed, glum, sad

Foam at the mouth: fume, rage, rant, seethe

Give some lip: disrespect, sass, speak rudely

Have a stiff upper lip: display fortitude, exercise restraint, remain resolute (in the face of adversity)

Have one’s heart in one’s mouth: be afraid, alarmed, apprehensive, or terrified

Leave a bad taste in one’s mouth: nauseate, repulse, disgust

Live hand to mouth: barely get by, eke out an existence, subsist

Lock lips: French kiss, kiss, smooch

Look a gift horse in the mouth: be ungrateful, find fault with a gift

Mouth off: rant, sass, sound off, spout

On everyone’s lips: popular topic of conversation, trending, widely discussed

Pay lip service: agree in public while personally dissenting, pretend to agree

Put one’s foot in one’s mouth: blurt, say something tactless; blunder

Seal one’s lips: keep a secret, keep classified

Shoot one’s mouth off: boast, brag, talk indiscreetly

Slip of the lip: inadvertent mistake (while speaking)

Stiff upper lip: fortitude, resignation, stoicism

Straight from the horse’s mouth: from a reliable source

Talk out of both sides of one’s mouth: contradict oneself, lie (usually to please the most people)

Through word of mouth: orally, person to person, verbally

Zip one’s lip: hush, say nothing, shut up, stop talking

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [899]

Ellana’s doing her best to hold back her yawning, and failing spectacularly at it judging by the way that Largo is yawning for her where he's lazily lying on the end of her broom, when she notices a splotch out of the corner of her eye. She turns to watch as the air several yards away seems to ripple and shiver before another witch flies out of the darkness. Ellana nudges Largo who lets out another magnificent yawn of teeth and whiskers before he turns his gaze on the new witch pair.

Largo’s tail flicks back and forth for a moment before he lets out one loud, unworried meow, sitting up on his haunches and beckoning with his paw.

There’s a flicker of faint purple light from the other broom and it starts to drift closer. Ellana nudges her own broom to fly close, putting a little more energy into the little witch light lantern that hangs off the end of her broomstick.

“Dorian!” Ellana exclaims as soon as she can get a good look at the figure in immaculately hemmed black and gold robes. Dorian tosses back his hood, smiling at her. “Goodness. And here I thought one couldn’t get you out of bed before nine!”

“Time zones,” Dorian drawls, “Wretched things. I should move back down here permanently. But it would be too much like giving up and I don’t want to make anyone think I would ever do such a thing. Either I’m going to win the damned assembly over back home or the old bastards will die and I’ll have them replaced with competent people who aren’t clinging to some forgotten ideal. Hello Largo.”

Largo meows loudly, leaning across the distance between their brooms as Dorian tilts his broom enough that he can reach the cat to give him a scratch under the chin. Dorian’s own partner gracefully leaps between the broomsticks, landing right on Ellana’s lap as she opens her own cloak to receive him. Ellana wraps her arms around the sleek beige and brown cat, her bright blue eyes sharp in the night as she sniffs at Ellana’s pockets.

“Adora, you look as lovely as ever,” Ellana says. “Are you the reason why Dorian’s awake before midnight?”

Adora preens, pushing up underneath Ellana’s hands before she turns and goes to greet Largo.

Adora is the sort of cat Ellana had wanted to be her partner years and years ago, when she first got Largo. Adora is unique, captivating, mysterious. Beige body with dark chocolate socks, ears, face, and tip of the tail. She’s sleek and graceful with an air of elegance and snooty indifference that leaves you dazed.

Largo, on the other hand, is common as dirt — another black cat with green eyes. A little fluffier than most, perhaps, but otherwise the textbook image of what one expects from a witch. Lazy and prone to little fits of clumsy bafflement when startled or under pressure that cause him to fall off of chairs and miscalculate jumps. A really goof. But Ellana’s grown to love her partner and she wouldn’t trade him for the world. Largo might be a bit lazy, but he’s seen her through some of the worst times.

Dorian reaches over and pulls on the edge of her cloak, pointing into the distance. Adora jumps back to Dorian’s broom, blue eyes glowing violet as Dorian’s irises gain a faint ring of purple.  Ellana squints her eyes, channeling her powers with Largo as they look into the night. More ripples signaling the arrival of other witches flying in from parts unknown.

“How many of us were called, exactly?” Dorian asks.

“I don’t know,” Ellana sticks a hand into her pocket, p pulling out the summons, turning her eyes down to read it again. “It just said that we had to meet up at Haven.

Adora’s hackles suddenly rise as she hisses, Largo joining in a moment later.

Ellana and Dorian turn to follow their partner’s gazes onto the snowy — supposed to be abandoned — mountainside below them. The hand not holding onto the summons from the Witch Council goes straight towards her wand. Dorian’s ahead of her, spell book and wand already out.

“Is this a trap?” Dorian asks as they stare down at the campfires below.

“How could it be a trap? There’s no way that the Council’s seal could have been faked,” Ellana says, unease roiling in her stomach.

Ellana extends her senses, and below them she can feel — yes. The numbing feeling of Templars.

Dorian makes a shocked sound, broom coming to a stuttering halt and he points his wand out further. Ellana turns her senses towards the direction Dorian’s pointing and gasps.

Mages.

“Qunari this far south?” Dorian whispers. “Impossible. How would they have gotten past Tevinter? I would have known — the Magesterium would have known!”

“I can’t imagine a kind of trap that has Templars on one side and Qunari on another,” Ellana says, tasking Largo with scanning the ground below them for anything else. She reaches out and pulls on Dorian’s cloak. “Come on. We need to meet up with the other witches. If this is a trap I’d rather we have more numbers on our side — as much as I have faith in you and Adora, this isn’t something the two of us can face down on our own.”

“Agreed,” Dorian replies, stowing his spell book but keeping his wand grasped tight. “Perhaps Evelyn will know what’s going on. She’s got a cousin or something with the Templars, yes?”

“We’ll see, but she’d have written to us if she knew something, right?”

“I would hope so,” Ellana bites her lip. Largo stands tense on the end of her broom, spine arched, ears flattened as he stares into the darkness and the pinpricks of fire down below. Ellana shudders and urges her broom forward and up. She hates flying into cloud cover, but she’d rather the clouds than the possible gaze of those below. “Let’s hope that this isn’t as bad as it looks. Maybe they’re here to make friends.”

“Oh, Ellana,” Dorian sighs as he follows her up into the clouds, “Never change.”

[jawllines]

OKAY THIS IS WHAT  I HAVE OF THE FIC SO FAR

NOW YOU CAN SEE WHERE IM GOING WITH IT, IF THERE’S ANYWHERE SPECIFIC YOU’D LIKE ME TO TAKE IT, HE L  P ME IM IN A RUT

i.

Y/N didn't want to do this.

She blames her reluctant willingness on just being a damn good friend and an even better worker -- honest to goodness, she doesn't think Jeff pays her enough for all the mire he forces her to sludge through. Growing close to the Azoffs in the short time of knowing them hadn't seemed like the worst possible idea she's ever had, but after the first few sticky situations she probably should've weeded herself out before she became to entangled in the warm, cozy feeling of belonging that they bestow upon her (which was nice, especially since she was so far away from home). From having to soothe a very angry, very pregnant wife of a client with saltwater taffies she'd gotten as a gift (she was still very bitter), to running around the entirety of LA trying to find a replica of a gold trimmed, rose broach Jeff had accidentally broken of his wife's grandmother's.

Doing it all with minor complaint, Y/N must've lead him on to believe she loves terribly tricky tasks.

However, sailing across the sea last minute to find a replacement for the Swedish model that was meant to be apart of Jeff's upcoming projects wasn't particularly her idea of a great time. Neither was packing up and hitting a jet with a pop star still buzzing from interviews, album releases, and promos, but since the curly haired, green eyed prodigy was already headed that way, had a vision in mind for what Jeff was looking for, and happens to know quite a few people at the modelling agency she was meant to visit. Nor was the short notice of doing it tomorrow morning, catching a 6AM flight out to the UK.

Yet here she was, watching with a despondent slump of the shoulders as he booked two rooms for her and Harry Styles, who had agreed easily on the other line of the phone.

Jeff took a look back at her, before rolling his eyes, "Don't look so shattered, Babe. Really it's like m'sending you on a vacation while I leave the brunt work to myself."

Y/N huffs, sinking in her seat and her dress rides up a bit but she pays no mind to it, "Can't I just go to your sister's wedding as a stand in? Heard I'm great at impressions."

Snorting, he clicks the bright red BOOK NOW button to seal her fate, spinning back around in his chair, "Yeah, just reconstruct your face a bit and I'm sure that'll totally pass over well." He leans forward and straightens out a stack of papers, patting them down on the table in a heap, "You'll be fine. 'sides Harry'll be there, and he knows his way around London well, so you've nothing to worry about."

Y/N doesn't know how to tell Jeff that Harry going might actually be the  worst part.

Harry and Y/N have a -- well, a weird relationship. While they don't hate each other, Harry takes to teasing her relentlessly and Y/N fires back whenever he does. He seems to love getting her all grumpy and flustered and pokes at everything he can to just rustle her feathers, which is better dealt with in small doses, but a two week expenditure of constant jabs, was enough to make her shudder.

Believe it or not, Y/N had been a big fan of Harry before this. When she met him she was all jittery and wiggly and squeaky but somehow managed to place herself on his shit list, without doing  anything.  . .okay! Okay, maybe she accidentally spilled a tray of drinks on his lap and ruined his suit, but in her defense it was a heavy tray. Though she didn't think that warranted his tireless taunts for the rest of forever. Surely the loved by all, sweet guy could turn around and show her some of that soft side, right?

Wrong.

So the mere idea of more than 168 hours with Harry makes her want to scream a bit, especially when she has no time to mentally prepare.

"With how you're reacting, you'd think I'm sending you off to war." Jeff jokes with her, but Y/N pouts at him, beginning to gather up her things, "Just don't stress it."

"Stress it? What's stress? Why would I ever do that?" She rambles off, shoving papers into her large tote quickly and nearly crumbling them, "Just have to go home, cram two weeks of life into a suitcase, call someone to watch my cat and water my plants, have someone collect my mail, and now I definitely won't be able to take any meditative soaks in the comfort of my own home -- yeah, what does the worst stress even mean, Jeff-y Babes, why worry about anything ever at all!"

He's holding back his laughter, she can tell, but she's too disgruntled to think much of it, "God, who knew you could be such a frazzled lil thing? Don't worry about your cat or your plants or your mail, I'll be round to do that. As for the bath, the hotel I booked you has a nifty Jacuzzi tub and Harry's got stellar vanilla lavender bubbles, he'll probably let you use." He soothes her, "Now get home and pack up, you've got an early flight tomorrow! A car will be there at 4:30AM."

That was that, Y/N supposes, as she stands up and pivots on her heel with a small goodbye.

"Hey," Jeff calls just before she's out of the door, and for a glimmering moment she hopes he's about to say he was pranking her; an elaborate trick to mess with her. However, he merely says, "Play nice."

Y/N snorts -- she's not the one he should be worrying about.

                                                                            .                         .                       .

Y/N comes heave hoeing her luggage to Harry's private jet's terminal, at 5:40 AM, with sleep puffy eyes and hair mussed to a fair degree. Waking up at 3:50 for a shower really did her in, especially when she wasn't able to sleep the night before. So now she's sulking towards Harry Styles himself, who is waiting for her patiently at the stairs, leaning against them and scrolling through his phone. It takes him a minute to catch the sound of her baggage's wheels on the concrete, but once he does he looks up, a sly smile pulling at his mouth.

"G'morning Sunshine," Harry greets her, with voice clear of any rasp and looking as good as he always does, which is infuriating, "Ready for our romantic getaway?"

"Am I ever?" She answers grumbly, starting up the stairs. Y/N's been in a few private jets in her days thanks to Jeff, so the wonder of it has wilted some as she shoves her things in the overhead compartment before tugging her, soft, plushy comforter out of her duffel and throwing it around her body, a ball of yarn taking up the seat besides her as she settles and tries to suffocate pre-flight anxiety with the dream of making at east 3 pairs of socks in the time she has on the plane.

Harry snorts at her as he walks by, "Could you be more like my Nan?" He questions, plopping down in his seat across from her, sliding his phone from his pocket. He's got that smile that he only pulls for her -- like he knows that he's Jeff's favorite, and he knows how much he can get underneath her skin -- it's really annoying, "Jeff tol' me you were a bit reluctant on coming, 'cos you're scared of big cities by yourself --"

"I'm not scared." Y/N answers a little to quickly, frustration with Jeff making her miss the loop she was trying to crochet into, "I just don't like impromptu fly outs when I haven't had a chance to check the city out first."

Rolling his eyes, Harry continues, "--but I know this place like the back of me hand."

"Are you trying to comfort me?"

"No," Harry leans back and shuts his eyes, "I'm letting you know if you piss me off, I'll take you to the middle of the city and leave."

Y/N doesn't know if it's a bluff or not, as she digs into her duffel for her phone and sends Jeff an all capital message.

YOU ARE THE WORST!!!!!!!!

Harry is -- well Y/N has seen Harry be the nicest guy in a building with thousands of other people, and turn around to sneer at her. She's seen him hold the door open for Grimmy, and let it swing shut in her face (or, if he's feeling really passive aggressive, shoving it open with a fake smile and ushering her in). Y/N's had to sit and listen to him compliment each and every person up and down, left and right, then completely skip over her with a small passing glance.

So sure, she spilled her drink on him, but that'd never been vindictive in anyway. Y/N guesses Harry was just set on hating her from the moment he'd got a look at her -- their stars must not align, or something of the sort, because that'd be the only reasonable explanation.

While Jeff doesn't have an inkling of an idea of how terrible it could be (Harry is his pop star and long time friend, Y/N wasn't about to drag him into something, especially when she knew very well who's side he would pick), Cal has noticed. Told her not to worry about it, and that how he's teasing her seems to match up with how someone might taunt the person they like, but Y/N knows better than that. Has seen him with the girl's he's dated or pursuing, and none of them are greeted with a sly remark and a mischievous grin, nor does he manage to make them look like the bad guy for defending themselves.

Y/N's learned to just keep quiet and leave it be, however, because he's Harry Styles -- the world's sweetheart to everyone apart from her -- and she knows how to pick and choose her battles.

This is not the battle to pick.

About halfway into the flight, Y/N had pulled out her tablet to watch a movie -- and she had thought this would go unnoticed, but Harry clears his throat and when her eyes flicker up, his flicker down towards the ipad in her hands, nodding towards it, "Wha' movie, you got?"

"Robin Hood." Y/N answers, readily prepared to go back to the movie, but he keeps going.

"Oh, that crummy 2010 remake? Y'need better taste, Babe."

Y/N rolls her eyes, "What you're in one movie and now you're a modern day Hitchcock, is that it?" She shuffles in her seat, "'Sides, m'not even watching that one. Watching Robin Hood: Men in Tights."

With a grunt, Harry goes back to his phone, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

She ignores this in favor of fantasizing about a young Cary Elwes.

                                                                       .                        .                         .

It's rainy, as expected from London weather, so Y/N had her head hidden beneath the hood of her coat as she tried warding away shivers from the chilly air. If not for the thick, faux feathered filled cloth, everyone within a miles radius would she was hardcore nipping, and the goosebumps only furthered the fact she got too lazy to shave her legs the night previous. She'd prepped for the chilly weathered though, which was good, though she can't say the same for Harry, who is casually strolling from the airport to the car waiting to take him to the hotel.

Absently had she wondered why he didn't just go stay at his London home, but she figured Jeff coaxed him into the hotel life so they'd be within close proximity of each other, which also might've been for her benefit. Y/N had never visited London before and she presumes Jeff doesn't trust her not to get lost, or to try and hitch a ride back home without the model in tow (which she can't fault him on, really, it's not that far of a stretch). This meant that Harry will either be his regular, moody self towards her, or he'll be even snippier that she's the reason he must live in a hotel for a while.

"Oi, would like a minute without paps on me tail, so stop shiverin' like that, you're making a spectacle of yourself. ."

"And you're not?" Y/N grumbles at him, "Your pants are brighter than the sun today, but m'shiverin' is really doing us in, innit?"

"We've been here for little over five minutes, and you've already garnered that London attitude." Harry slips around to the driver's side, taking the keys from the man adorned in black before nodding, smiling his thank you, "Hate to see what it must be after a week here, already a little firecracker."

"Bite me." She shoves her bags into the trunk, along with her folded up blanket.

Harry tosses his duffel into the backseat, "Don't tempt me, Sweetheart."

                                                                            .                        .                      .

Just as Y/N's luck would have it, upon arriving at the hotel, they find that Jeff didn't book two rooms, he booked one room with two beds, and there were no other rooms left where they could switch to due to several conventions (including a model scouting one they might become privy to) going on. This meant a week and a half of non-stop Harry, unless he went out, but he'd always have to come back -- whether it be drunk or hungover, neither she particularly wanted to deal with. This also meant she would have no peace nor time to collect her thoughts without something going on in the background, especially since this was strictly a bedroom with a TV -- no extension of living room like some might have.

"Well, this is shit." Harry mutters to himself, setting his duffel down at the bottom of the bed he'd chose and huffing as he collapsed back onto the bed.

"What? You're not stoked to spend day and night with me?" She says sardonically, sat on the edge of the bed as she kicks her shoes off. The room is nice enough, aside from the glaring problem with their situation, but at least the comforter felt soft enough and the carpets were pretty cozy on the toes. Maybe if she just keeps her eyes closed and music in her ears she'll be able to enjoy her stay here.

Harry, however, seems to be pretty peeved, "Was gon' go out, invite people back for a spell, do some wooing. . ." he trails off, "You're oddly quiet about this. With how uptight you are, I figured you would've blown up at that guy."

"M'not uptight." Y/N decides to say first, "And I'm tired, is all. Just want to eat and go to bed. 'Sides, maybe me being here will do you some good -- no use getting all rowdy with models at the bar, especially with this new solo stuff out."

"What does that matter to you?" He asks, propping himself on his elbow and turns to face her, head tilted, "So what if I get rowdy?"

"Rowdy equals media problems. Media problems are Jeff's problems. Jeff's problems are my problems."

Y/N knows he wouldn't -- despite his question, and a small kiss of his teeth, she knows he isn't stupid. Knows how to work his way around the media -- it's how he's ended up being America, England, France's, Spain's -- just about every country's damn Sweetheart, when he could be such a grade A jerk (if you ask her). Though it's realizations like these that irk her. What had she done to make the "sweetest boy alive" be so cruel to her?

[torentialtribute]

Manchester United Treble hero Sheringham admits: ‘I didn’t want us to win it without me getting on!’

Teddy Sheringham comes directly from Camp Nou. Not the stadium. His house in Essex.

Twenty years after

You have to call it something and Camp Nou seemed very appropriate, & # 39; Sheringham smiles. his heroic deeds in Barcelona and the former Manchester United striker is clearly happy to surrender to a little nostalgia

<img id = "i-d3c90b4cee4a838d" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M0QUnZ" height = "445" width = " 634 "alt =" Twenty years after the Treble heroism of Teddy Sheringham, he sits down to talk with Sportsmail Sheringham & # 39; s Treble heroic acts, sits down to talk with Sportsmail "

Twenty years after Teddy Sheringham's Treble exploits, he sits down to talk with Sportsmail

The former striker scored the tying goal in the 1999 Champions League final in Barcelona

<img id = "i-eea54f9797cd8195" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQcpu" height = "423" width = "634" alt = "Sheringham rent way to th and thousands of United fans who made the trip to Spain "

<img id =" i-eea54f9797cd8195 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2V7xoKx 21/11 / 13756354-7053111-image-a-3_1558432906601.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham runs to the thousands of United fans who made the trip to Spain "class =" blkBorder img-

<img id = "i-1ae04b4cbfb4bf84" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQe0A. jpg "height =" 414 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-1ae04b4cbfb4bf84" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M3dtZ2 -7053111-image-a-5_15584329177 29.jpg "height =" 414 "width =" 634 "alt =" United States of America United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States United States Champions League-winning side-lift trophy up on a famous night in Barcelona "

<img id =" i-1ae04b4cbfb4bf84 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2V7xoKx 21/11 / 13756352-7053111-image-a-5_1558432917729.jpg "height =" 414 "width =" 634 " alt = "United & # 39; s Champions League-winning side-lift trophy up on a famous night in Barcelona

This weekend he won the trophy on the famous Barcelona trophy

This weekend, he will come to Old Trafford with his former teammates to defeat Bayern Munich in a re-run of that memorable 1999 Champions League final.

& # 39; I have had a bad knee and I did it. & # 39;

Sheringham does not look like he has been outdated since childhood or has endured a weight since. I tried to arrange it before the game so that I didn't embarrass myself, & he says. & # 39; Normally my calves go if I give a little too much and play three tennis games. I'm falling to pieces.

The anniversary game will be an opportunity to relive former glory with old friends that I don't see as often as you might think.

Surprisingly enough

Theirs was one of the most infamous fallouts in the history of the Premier League. A pondered light when Cole made his debut in England as a replacement for Sheringham against Uruguay in 1995 and a bust-up over a goal conceded in Bolton when they were teammates three years later, meant that the pair did not swap the word United. Treble in & # 39; 99.

<img id = "i-48d0ca1a842fd141" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQf4E image-m-12_1558433462956.jpg "height =" 478 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-48d0ca1a842fd141" src = "https://dailym.ai/2J2OwKp /21/11/13756666-7053111-image-m-12_1558433462956.jpg "height =" 478 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham will shake hands with Andy Cole who buried the hatchet on a long feud "class = "blkBorder img-share" Sheringham will shake hands with Andy Cole who buried the hatchet during a prolonged feud

Sheringham will shake hands with Andy Cole who is hitting the hatchet at a long feud has buried

& # 39; We never came to the players … we just didn't click, but we made peace & # 39 ;, says Sheringham. & # 39;

<img id = "i-2138ec1fdbf750b" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M3dvA8 11-image-a-13_1558433521749.jpg "height =" 479 "width =" 634 "alt =" & # 39; We have never been to the players … we just didn't click. found peace, & # 39; says Sheringham & # 39;

& # 39; We have never been to the players … we just didn't click. & # 39; We chose it for peace & # 39 ;, says Sheringham

& # 39; I simply abhorred him personally for 15 years & # 39 ;, Cole wrote in 2010.

players, & # 39; admits Sheringham. & # 39; You go on with some people in the workplace, but some that you don't like and don't want to be around.

& # 39; That was the case with me and Andy. We just didn't click. But we have made our peace. "

But still, Sheringham didn't really know what to expect when Cole approached him at a nightclub. Would his old teammate bury the ax or give a blow?

& # 39; I was out with my friends and he was with his wife Shirley. I saw him walking towards me and I thought to myself "wait a minute", "Sheringham remembers."

& # 39; flat face. There was no big smile.

He came to me and I could see Shirley looking at me, thinking, "damn hell, what will happen?"

& # 39; He held out his hand and said, "Let past times be over and leave everything behind." I said, "Wow, I didn't expect that. No problem."

While Cole enters into a dynamic partnership with Dwight Yorke, Sheringham and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer Sir Alex Ferguson offered a very effective plan B that had paid off spectacularly in a tightness in Barcelona

The ribbons in the colors of Bayern were already on the trophy and the German players thought they had won it, much to Sheringham's annoyance when he warmed up on the sidelines so desperate to get on the field that he didn't. I want the comeback to start without him .

<img id = "i-8f0ef3d4d42ecda1" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WigJny image-a-15_1558434038756.jpg "height =" 421 "width =" 634 "alt =" The ex-England international was forced to wait patiently on the couch, to his annoyance "class =" blkBorder img-share "

The former England international was forced to wait patiently on the couch, to his annoyance

& # 39; It was a good casual walk down there. & # 39 ;

& # 39; I think that (Mario) Basler was a corner kick and he screamed out to his fans in the corner. "Everything is going well, we are in control"

& # 39; I was warming up right in front of them. It made me angry. Cheeky f ***. It was a little naughty that.

Fergie told me halfway through & # 39;

When Fergie told me that I would continue, it was time that if the score stayed the same I would continue after 10-15 minutes. That is probably my lasting memory, thinking "let's hope the score doesn't change."

& # 39; It wasn't jealousy, but I wanted to be part of the winning show. I didn't want to make a comeback and win the game without going any further. & # 39;

United & # 39; s No. 10 got his wish. He replaced Jesper Blomqvist after 67 minutes and equalized a minute for injury time, leaving him just behind Ryan Giggs to Oliver Khan & # 39; s shot.

Sheringham (right, red shirt), swept the ball past Oliver Kahn in injury time to make it 1-1

Sheringham (right, red), swept the ball past Oliver Kahn in injury time to make it 1-1 <img id = "i-df138ab94db11553" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M3QLA3 7053111-image-a-16_1558434527409.jpg "height =" 414 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-df138ab94db11553" src = "https://dailym.ai/2OTvk2r /05/21/11/13757386-7053111-image-a-16_1558434527409.jpg "height =" 414 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham (right, red) shirt, swept the ball past Oliver Kahn in injury time 1-1

& # 39; Giggsy & # 39; s hit some lightning bolts with his right foot, but he also took a lot of bad photos & # 39; s. This happened to be a bad one.

& It stumbled towards me and I turned it off. I tried to hit it as hard as possible on the turn, but it missed my foot and put the sock around my ankle. I made it a bit. & # 39;

After being omitted from the starting line-up, Sheringham and Solskjaer – a replacement for Cole for the 81st minute – enjoyed the prospect of extra time before the Norwegian winner changed everything

After I had scored, I and Ole were enthusiastic about extra time. 40 seconds later, he won a corner …

& Ole went back to the half line after I scored. "Fantastic, we still have half an hour in this incredible arena on a special evening, let's enjoy it." Forty seconds later we are on the other side and Ole wins a corner.

<img id = "i-1387e06231848e3d" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQgFK image-a-17_1558434592440.jpg "height =" 411 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-1387e06231848e3d" src = "https://dailym.ai/2J2OwKp /21/11/13757404-7053111-image-a-17_1558434592440.jpg "height =" 411 "width =" 634 "alt =" Seconds later, Sheringham was the first in the corner of David Beckham and pressed it "The corner of David Beckham and tossed it up

Seconds later, Sheringham was the first in the corner of David Beckham and turned it on

<img id = "i-b5d724b9e593fe05" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M3dcW0" height = "395" width = "634" alt = "Ole Gunnar Solskjaer then stuck a leg and closed off the most famous goal in the club's history "

<img id =" i-b5d724b9e593fe05 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2uS4u1n 1s / 2019/05 / 21/11 / 13757424-7053111-image-a-18_1558434648617.jpg "height =" 395 "width =" 634 "alt =" Ole Gunnar Solskjaer then stuck a leg and struck down the most famous goal in the club's history "

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer then extended a leg and closed the most famous goal in the club's history

<img id =" i-b6ad606297466c19 " src = "https://dailym.ai/2WenYgf" height = "423" width = "634" alt = " Sheringham and Solskjaer hold three fingers up on each ha and to mark the famous Treble "

<img id =" i-b6ad606297466c19 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2CYdfvj 2019/05/21/11 / 13757406-7053111-image-a-19_1558434713354.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham and Solskjaer hold three fingers up on each hand to hold the famous Treble "class = to mark "blkBorder img-share"

& # 39 Wait a minute, we have the chance to win this. I like angles. I'm good at getting people across the corners. I am fresh, I am buzzing, I can jump 10 feet long.

& # 39; I got up a little early and felt that if I had gone there, I would go over the bar because I was coming down.

& # 39; The only thing I could do was let it go into an area and hope that someone was there. That is exactly what I did and Ole took the opportunity with joy.

I have never seen the game. I once sat on the couch watching it and that was enough! We were not the best that night.

& # 39; How often have I not looked in the last few minutes? Probably about 20.

& # 39; But did it revive? & # 39; More so. I recently did a number of Q & A & # 39; s. Twenty years is more than 7,000 days, and I think I've talked about it since those 7,000 times since that night. But I don't mind.

It sealed a historic Treble and was the perfect riposte for all Tottenham fans – and Arsenal who Mocking Sheringham because they left North London in search of trophies to end up empty handed after a disappointing first year at Old Trafford.

There was little sign of success that would follow in his second season, or because I struggled with injuries to both knees.

Sheringham should have been working in Manchester on his condition for the Champions League group that tied up to Barcelona, ​​while

Typically, Ferguson came erac It took a week's wage for the striker and the chance to play at the Nou Camp for at least another six months.

Was it the only time that Sheringham fell from his manager? I have a smile.

& # 39;

& # 39; Play golf with Yorkie on a Thursday afternoon. Wednesday is good, but two days earlier? It is just like going out on a Thursday evening. One of those things.

& # 39; We won the following weekend and both played well. Fergie came to us in the dressing room and asked if we were playing golf on Thursday. I know and you know it.

& # 39; We also walked. & # 39; It was not like we had golf carts. We were in shorts and had to buy long socks to play, so we looked like a bunch of idiots and then got a fine of a week.

Ferguson's visionary look helped Sheringham through a difficult season. & # 39; I sometimes struggled with injuries and in shape & # 39 ;, he recalls.

& # 39; Perhaps the lasting reminder is that he comes to me at the end of February and says: & # 39; I know you have a rough make sure you are fit before the end of the season, because I think it will be a big end of the season and I want you to be part of it. "

Yet Sheringham did not realize how unpredictable the end of the season would be when United won the Treble in the 11-day period.

He was surprised to start against Spurs on the last day of the Premier League season, but was replaced midway by Cole, who scored the overall goal.

<img id = "i-729d9efe7ad0ff0c" ​​src = "https: // i. dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/05/21/11/13757680-7053111-image-a-21_1558435052474.jpg "height =" 411 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham was addicted to the last day of it season for Andy Cole, who scored the winner "

<img id =" i-729d9efe7ad0ff0c "src =" https://dailym.ai/2HutmDB 13757680-7053111-image-a-21_1558435052474.jpg "height =" 411 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham was hooked on the last day of the season for Andy Cole, who scored the winner "

Sheringham was addicted to the last day of the season for Andy Cole, who scored the winner

& # 39; In the beginning I was as & # 39; f *** it, I've blown my chance & # 39 ;, says Sheringham. & # 39; But we still won the game and I felt part of it. I thought maybe I would start the last cup on Saturday.

& # 39; But Thursday I was told that I would not play. That was my comedown. Deflated. That's the end of my season then.

& # 39; Three players begin to prepare themselves & # 39; to go on the sub. Fergie turns to me and says, "Ted, get ready, you go on."

& # 39; I leaned forward as if I wanted to say & # 39; but that's Keaney, I'm not a midfield player & # 39 ;. Then I thought, "What am I doing to discourage him – shut up!"

Sheringham scored United's opening goal five minutes later and adjusted the second for Scholes to complete the second part of the Treble.

<img id = "i-1da1dbfd024f28e5" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQkW0 Sheringham_was_called_intocore_after_six_minutes_of_FA_Cup_fi-a-14_1558533913145.jpg "height =" 371 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-1da1dbfd024f28e5" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GW1CHV /22/15/13757788-7053111-Sheringham_was_called_intoب_after_six_minutes_of_FA_Cup_fi-a-14_1558533913145.jpg "height =" 371 "width =" 634 "alt =" Sheringham was called FA Cup final after six minutes and made a meaningful impression after six minutes of action minutes FA Cup final and a significant impact "

Sheringham was called into action after six minutes FA Cup final and made a meaningful impression. He passed Steve Harper to give United the lead and became the man of the contest called "

] <img id =" i-2c808093bf7783e8 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2M3dBru image-a-25_15 58435355522.jpg "height =" 495 "width =" 634 "alt =" He passed Steve Harper to give United the lead and was called the man of the match "

was named man of the match

& # 39; Man of the match in the FA Cup final, and it was like & # 39; wow, I have to have a chance to play in the Champions League final now. "

& # 39; But I now know that he had his regime worked out for whom he rested because it was a huge game. I thought I had enough to win against Newcastle because Keaney and Scholesy were out were the Champions League final.

& # 39; On Tuesday, deflation came again.

& # 39; I think it's great that all 29 of the team have a different story to to tell what happened in that group 11 (19459007)

<img id = "i-432f49212b4892bc" src = "https://dailym.ai/2QhCRci 11 / 13756348-7053111-image-a-6_1558432924304.jpg "height =" 417 "width =" 634 "alt =" It was a famous season for United, who also claimed the FA Cup (photo) and Premiership "

It was a famous who also claimed the FA Cup (pictured) and Premiership season for United, who also claimed the FA Cup (photo) and Premiership

Sheringham told the story heard Ferguson felt reassured because he had signed him so late in his career because he noticed the lack of body fat on his father Paul, an East End police officer.

It was a wise call.

In West Ham, he became the oldest ever outfield player of the Premier League's at 40, and retired 18 months later after a spell at Colchester.

Long-term management has been more difficult to obtain. Sheringham was fired after eight months by Stevenage, a decision that led to his return to the disguised League Two club to watch the next home game.

<img id = "i-5abe2b3d20255454" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M36Whc image-a-26_1558435827919.jpg "height =" 449 "width =" 634 "alt =" In West Ham, he became the oldest ever outfield player of the Premier League at 40 "

In West Ham, he the oldest ever outfield player of the Premier League at 40

& # 39; To get an idea of ​​it, it was better without me there.

An even more powerful move to Kolkata Athletics in the Indian Super League followed and was briefly.

& # 39; Virtually all the cities where we went to play, Jamshedpur or Mumbai, I would get a bike while the boys slept in the city

& # 39; They are in no way the safest roads in the world. You could drive on the road and there could be a metal gate to stop you in a lane. No signpost at 500 meters away, you just have to turn around.

& # 39; If it wasn't, a herd of cattle could end that particular job. Are you serious? Cows are walking towards me. Health and safety are going out the window in India. "

Lifetime was more difficult in management. He was fired by Stevenage after eight months

<img id = "i-23c5ae6fc13c01a" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WkQlt2" height = "438" width = "634" alt = "He then went to Kolkata Athletic, but his stay there was just as short" class = "blkBorder img-share

Then he went to Atletico de Kolkata, but his stay there was just as short went to Kolkata Athletic, but his stay there was just as short

You feel that Sheringham is in no hurry to run back to management. He enjoys living at home with his stunning wife Kristina, 33, and their three children George, 7, Lucy, 5 and 11 month old Ruby. Teddy is older and Charlie, 31, is a striker for Dartford.

& # 39; I have done twice and I am glad I did & # 39 ;, he says. & # 39; I'm not saying I wouldn't do it again if something incredible came out.

& # 39; Before I tried to do it as a manager, I found it easy. Just get your team and tell them to pass it on. It is not that simple.

& # 39; Even if you don't want it, it takes over your life. You constantly think about how you want to do things right, what you will do with your squadron, agents you talk to. It is so time consuming. Everything else stops.

& # 39; I have another family life where I like to be around.

& # 39; I like bringing the children to school and being close to them every day. If you are a young man, you don't see that, but I like seeing the children every day. "

Talking about what duty calls are. Being a father also has its demands. Sheringham must go because he is needed back at Camp Nou, after all these years still a happy place.

<img id = "i-2e6a42faf1b4bacc" src = "https://dailym.ai/2M0QUV1" height = "441" width = "634" alt = "<img id =" i-2e6a42faf1b4bacc "src =" https://dailym.ai/2WhMpcr -image-a-9_1558432939189.jpg "height =" 441 "width =" 634 "alt =" You get the feeling that Sheringham was not rushing back into management – he enjoys life Sheringham will not be rushing back in management to come – he enjoys life "

You get the sense that Sheringham is in no hurry to get back in management – he enjoys life

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[iamnotthedog]

MORRISON TO MINNEAPOLIS: SUMMER 1997

When I got my hands on that Oldsmobile at the age of sixteen, I wanted nothing more than to drive. I drove all the time, out past the high school and out through the hills just south and west of Morrison, out past the Cross Creek Country Club and then up to Garden Plain Road that would take me back to Highway 30 and back into town. Once Mom and Don were confident enough in my driving skills to let me take longer trips, I started heading east, where I’d cut around Chicago and blow up the coast of Lake Michigan to the Warren Dunes State Park. I’d sit up there on the sand dunes and get sun burnt and smoke weed and people watch. There were some crazy fuckers from rural Indiana and Michigan who went to those dunes, just to hang out. Get a little nature in the big-nature-deprived Middle West.

One warm summer weekend, I talked Mom and Don into letting me drive all the way up to Minneapolis to visit Jim.

I woke up before dawn on the morning of my departure, got dressed, ate a bowl of cereal, and went out to the Oldsmobile. It was still dark outside, and I remember feeling a little nuts as I sat in the Olds and pulled the door shut softly behind me, trying not to wake up the parents who were still sleeping soundly inside. My backpack was in the backseat, packed with some toiletries, a few t-shirts, socks and underwear, a bag of weed and a pipe, and an extra pair of pants. I had a shoebox full of cassette tapes in the front passenger seat. I put on a Bob Dylan tape—Highway 61 Revisited—and smoked a bowl. Then I took off. I crossed the Wisconsin border before the sun even came up, and made it to Minneapolis by noon.

Jim’s place in Minneapolis was pretty sweet. It was a big old house, and though it was right in the middle of a busy neighborhood with a lot of shit going on all around it, it was set back from the street a little bit, and blocked from view by some big trees and dense bushes.

I parked the Olds in the beat up and overgrown eight-car parking lot next to Jim’s house, then walked around to the front and hopped up the stairs to the huge front porch. I knocked on the screen door.

“Jim?” I yelled. “Jim, it’s Dan!”

There was some rustling around inside, and then my big brother appeared in the doorway. I hadn’t seen Jim in a long time. He still had his glasses, but he had shoulder length hair and he wore some cut-off shorts and a flannel shirt. He looked like a grunge type, and he was doing a better job of it than I was. “Hey brother!” he said, pushing open the creaky door. “Come on in.”

The house was spacious inside. All wood floors and white walls. A spider plant hanging in one corner. The front living room area had a large couch, an old black trunk for a coffee table, a shelf of books and records, a tweed chair, and a television on a little stand. The room opened up into a similarly-sized dining room, with a large dining table surrounded with chairs. An espresso-stained buffet with a mirror above it was built into the far wall.

Jim handed me a record jacket—brand new—on which was a sepia-toned picture of young man sitting in a wooden chair with his back to a large mirror that was covered with graffiti. The man had a smug look on his face—a sort of half-smirk, and he was smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a Heli-Jet trucker cap on his head of black hair, and a tight, short-sleeved t-shirt on which was a caricature of a man in a cowboy hat. He had a tattoo of some sort of animal on his bicep—a bull, possibly, or a horse, which was standing on a circle of grass, its head over a daisy. The back of the record jacket was simply a photograph of a chandelier, all in white on a black background, and in white type in the font of an American typewriter it said either/or on the top center, above the chandelier. In the bottom right corner was the track listing, and in the bottom left corner it said “Kill Rock Stars,” with an actual star replacing the word “Star,” and the address: “120 NE State Ave. No. 418, Olympia, WA 98501.” 

“Have you heard of Elliott Smith?” Jim asked me. I shook my head. “This album is great,” he said. “Lo-fi, recorded mostly in people’s houses on four-track tape recorders, and Elliott plays all the instruments himself.” He put the record on, then sat in the tweed chair, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette with a match. “Do you smoke?” he asked, offering me the pack.

“No, no. I’m good,” I said. He put the pack in his shirt pocket.

We listened to the whole first side of the record without speaking. It was sad folk music, but so beautiful. So honest. It really was good, and I told Jim I thought so.

“I know, right?” he said. He stood and flipped the record. “What time is it? Do you want a beer?” He laughed, as if the idea of having a beer with his little brother just killed him. I hadn’t really been drinking all that much beer around that time, especially not in the middle of the day. I really just smoked a lot of weed. But I of course said yes, and Jim got me a Killian’s Irish Red out of the fridge. Then he asked me if I liked brats with grilled onions, and said he was firing up the grill out on the back porch. We drank our beer and listened to the rest of the record, then went out on the porch with some brats and sliced onions. Jim turned on a little battery-powered radio on the porch. There was a baseball game on.

“What’s going on in Morrison?” he asked, putting the food on the grill.

“Not much,” I said. “My band’s basically broken up, but I brought you some tapes that we made.”

“No shit?” Jim said. “Why are you breaking up?”

“We got the apartment taken away.”

Jim laughed. “How the hell did you do that?”

“Smoking weed. Drinking beers. Throwing parties.”

“Oh, yeah. Same thing we did. How’d Don take it?”

“Pretty well, considering. I just got yelled at and grounded for a while. And of course he won’t let us ever go back up into that place again.”

“What’s he going to do? Rent it out?”

“I don’t know. He should. But there’ll have to be some serious cleaning up if he does. The entire back room is full of graffiti. The front room reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer. And after he locked us out of the place, one of the windows we broke and replaced with fiberglass blew out during a thunderstorm, and a bunch of pigeons got in and shit everywhere.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. It’s bad.”

“What else is going on?”

“Not much. My girlfriend broke up with me. She dumped me for my friend’s little brother, who she says she’s going to marry.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jim said, smiling. “Plenty of girls out there.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Jim pushed the onions around with some tongs. “How’s Adam?”

“He’s good. Playing the saxophone like a motherfucker. Too bad he’ll never get the apartment.” We both laughed at that—the misfortune of the youngest. Jim flipped the brats on the grill and they sizzled. Something happened in the baseball game that sent up a big cheer.

I loved that Jim talked to me like I was just a buddy or something, and not his little brother. It made me feel pretty damned good about our relationship. Pretty damned good about him as a person, as well. After our lunch and a couple more beers, we walked around a bit before he had to go in to work. He was just making pizzas at the time, but he said he was getting paid a ridiculous amount of money to do it. He laughed about that, too. We walked around his neighborhood, and stopped in to a corner coffee shop to grab a cup. Jim pointed at the circle of couches in the middle of the room—huge, comfortable fuckers with pillows and everything, surrounded by dim lamps and thick wooden tables engraved with the initials of a thousand forgotten souls.

“Pretty sweet place to while away an afternoon,” he said. He told me he sat there pretty much every day and read for a few hours before work.

“You’ll have to write down some books for me to read,” I said. “I’ve been getting into a bunch of new shit lately.”

“I’ll definitely do that,” Jim said. He handed me a cup of coffee. “But right now, I’ve got to go make pizzas.”

So Jim went to work and I went back to his house and listened to his records and drank coffee and got stoned. When he finally got home, long after midnight, he had a bottle of whiskey with him and we had some drinks. I have this pretty vivid memory of sitting on his couch, and him lying on the floor in front of me, bathed in the light of the television. We were watching M*A*S*H, and I asked him if he wanted to smoke a bowl with me. He said he didn’t smoke any more, and explained that after smoking pot for the better part of a decade, it had started making him freak out.

“I’ll be in a room with some of my closest friends, and I’ll all of a sudden be thinking that I’m doing something wrong, or that they’re all out to get me,” he said.

“Weird,” I said, lighting my pipe. I had never heard of that happening before. The weed was really dry and not very good, and it sizzled and crackled, and the cherry lit up my face as I drew in the smoke. Jim sat up and watched me intently, then said, “Well, what the fuck,” and reached out for the pipe, which I gladly handed to him. He leaned back against the tweed chair and took a small puff, then handed the pipe back to me and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He smoked the cigarette and watched me while I finished the pipe. Afterwards, he just kind of laid there on the floor in silence for the rest of the night, watching television and sipping on whiskey.

The following morning, I awoke on the couch to the sounds of Jim’s roommate, Barry, making breakfast in the kitchen. I smelled coffee and toast, and heard the radio playing softly—a soothing baritone saying something about rain. I rolled over onto my side and grabbed a hardcover book from the coffee table. The book was On the Road by Jack Kerouac. I had heard of it before, but only through its influence on other cultural icons that were more familiar to me as a teenager: Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Jim Morrison, Hunter S. Thompson, Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda, Johnny Depp.

Jim had either checked out or stolen the book from the Minneapolis Public Library—it had that thin plastic lamination around the cover that most library books have, and a typed number on a little piece of white paper stuck to the binding. Under that lamination, there were two handsome men with dark hair and strong jawlines, their meaty arms draped over one another’s shoulders, one of them in a dirty sweatshirt and khakis, the other in a casual button-up tucked into black jeans. Neither of them were smiling, but both of them were quite obviously in love with one another.

I cracked the book open to page one:

“I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life that you could call my life on the road.”

I didn’t stop reading until Jim came out of his bedroom hours later, his greasy brown hair twisted and standing on end, his eyes cupped by dark circles. He put on his glasses, coughed, flopped in the tweed chair, and smiled at me.

“That’s a great book,” he said.

“I can’t really believe it,” I replied. “I’ve been trying to figure out why it’s so fucking good. I can’t put it down.”

“It’s timeless,” Jim said. “The exact same shit happening in that book in the 1950s is happening today.” He smoothed back his hair with the palm of his hand, then lit a cigarette. “Want a cup of coffee?”