#living like jim Morrison

[rocketqueen1989x]

𝒥𝒾𝓂 𝓂ℴ𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓈ℴ𝓃 ♥︎

[lilabearr]

[daisyrandoneisme]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

mine from pinterest !!

[miss-worldddd]

anyone else feel like their soul is connected to jim morrison and they might be going insane ?

[asurrogateblog]

learning about the doors is a really funny process because at the surface level you'll hear the usual "jim morrison was a dionysian sex god sent to teach us the ancient mysteries and burn down the pyre of sanity" and then you'll go deeper and people will be like "🙄ugh I hate how he's been so romanticized he was literally just a normal guy 🙄 real fans know better🙄" so you'll start mentally correcting yourself but then when you actually go to read his poetry all of it is "I am a dionysian sex god sent to teach you the ancient mysteries and burn down the pyre of sanity"

big difference between being doomed by the narrative and being aware of being doomed by the narrative. you know who was aware? jim morrison. no one is matching my freak like him NO ONE. like he gets it. he understood The Themes. he understood The Themes so hard he self-fulfilled his own prophecy for the poetic value. even the other members of the doors are like "yah he died because he saw himself as the protagonist of a greek tragedy and leaned into it too hard" and you'd think that's an exaggeration but no that's 100% what happened. you can't even interview him without him starting to talk about shit like "trespassing the bounds of art and reality". he's making a bad name for all the other martyrs to the music industry that weren't jerking off to the abstract concepts they were afflicted by

[macrolit]

The 100 Best Books of the 21st Century.

As voted on by 503 novelists, nonfiction writers, poets, critics and other book lovers — with a little help from the staff of The New York Times Book Review.

NYT Article.

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

Q: How many of the 100 have you read? Q: Which ones did you love/hate? Q: What's missing?

Here's the full list.

100. Tree of Smoke, Denis Johnson 99. How to Be Both, Ali Smith 98. Bel Canto, Ann Patchett 97. Men We Reaped, Jesmyn Ward 96. Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments, Saidiya Hartman 95. Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel 94. On Beauty, Zadie Smith 93. Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel 92. The Days of Abandonment, Elena Ferrante 91. The Human Stain, Philip Roth 90. The Sympathizer, Viet Thanh Nguyen 89. The Return, Hisham Matar 88. The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis 87. Detransition, Baby, Torrey Peters 86. Frederick Douglass, David W. Blight 85. Pastoralia, George Saunders 84. The Emperor of All Maladies, Siddhartha Mukherjee 83. When We Cease to Understand the World, Benjamin Labutat 82. Hurricane Season, Fernanda Melchor 81. Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan 80. The Story of the Lost Child, Elena Ferrante 79. A Manual for Cleaning Women, Lucia Berlin 78. Septology, Jon Fosse 77. An American Marriage, Tayari Jones 76. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, Gabrielle Zevin 75. Exit West, Mohsin Hamid 74. Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout 73. The Passage of Power, Robert Caro 72. Secondhand Time, Svetlana Alexievich 71. The Copenhagen Trilogy, Tove Ditlevsen 70. All Aunt Hagar's Children, Edward P. Jones 69. The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander 68. The Friend, Sigrid Nunez 67. Far From the Tree, Andrew Solomon 66. We the Animals, Justin Torres 65. The Plot Against America, Philip Roth 64. The Great Believers, Rebecca Makkai 63. Veronica, Mary Gaitskill 62. 10:04, Ben Lerner 61. Demon Copperhead, Barbara Kingsolver 60. Heavy, Kiese Laymon 59. Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides 58. Stay True, Hua Hsu 57. Nickel and Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich 56. The Flamethrowers, Rachel Kushner 55. The Looming Tower, Lawrence Wright 54. Tenth of December, George Saunders 53. Runaway, Alice Munro 52. Train Dreams, Denis Johnson 51. Life After Life, Kate Atkinson 50. Trust, Hernan Diaz 49. The Vegetarian, Han Kang 48. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi 47. A Mercy, Toni Morrison 46. The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt 45. The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson 44. The Fifth Season, N.K. Jemisin 43. Postwar, Tony Judt 42. A Brief History of Seven Killings, Marlon James 41. Small Things Like These, Claire Keegan 40. H Is for Hawk, Helen Macdonald 39. A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan 38. The Savage Detectives, Roberto Balano 37. The Years, Annie Ernaux 36. Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates 35. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel 34. Citizen, Claudia Rankine 33. Salvage the Bones, Jesmyn Ward 32. The Lines of Beauty, Alan Hollinghurst 31. White Teeth, Zadie Smith 30. Sing, Unburied, Sing, Jesmyn Ward 29. The Last Samurai, Helen DeWitt 28. Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell 27. Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 26. Atonement, Ian McEwan 25. Random Family, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc 24. The Overstory, Richard Powers 23. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage, Alice Munro 22. Behind the Beautiful Forevers, Katherine Boo 21. Evicted, Matthew Desmond 20. Erasure, Percival Everett 19. Say Nothing, Patrick Radden Keefe 18. Lincoln in the Bardo, George Saunders 17. The Sellout, Paul Beatty 16. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon 15. Pachinko, Min Jin Lee 14. Outline, Rachel Cusk 13. The Road, Cormac McCarthy 12. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion 11. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz 10. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson 9. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro 8. Austerlitz, W.G. Sebald 7. The Underground Railroad, Colson Whitehead 6. 2666, Roberto Bolano 5. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen 4. The Known World, Edward P. Jones 3. Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel 2. The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson 1. My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante

[ghastlyfilters]

Hi! Saw you were taking Lost Boys requests...

I have a lot of silly concepts or ideas but my favorite is poly!Lost boys with a partner (I usually prefer fem reader but whatever ur comfy with is all good) who loves stealing some of their older clothes. Like, reader is smaller than them so the clothes are really comfy. Especially the older stuff cus decade+ old fabric is so soft.

reader stealing the lost boys’ clothes!!

pairing(s): implied poly!lost boys x fem!reader

warning(s): aside from paul and marko definitely paying attention to your curves, none!!

(now if i was the reader here i know damn WELL i would be stealing their clothes too. each one of their styles is literally perfection and to see that shit on vampires? HELLO? also i may have gotten a bit too carried away with thinking about all their clothing designs.. but thanks for this cute request<3)

gifs not mine! (if you know the original owner please tag them!)

HEADCANONS

• Stealing your boys’ clothes is by far the EASIEST thing anyone could do. The reason being? They quite literally never change out of the fits they’ve had on since 1987.

• The boys don’t have much of a scent, seeing as they’re all undead. So a washing machine doesn’t exist in their little world anymore. Which means they will now forever be outfit repeaters.

More fun for you. 

• All of the boys have the most random shit scattered around the cave. They’re the worst hoarders you have ever encountered. Cough cough.. Paul.. cough cough..

• But the amount of clothes they have laying around is shocking. Boots, band tees, jackets, jeans, leather trousers, gloves, shirts, man you name it. They have it. Every fucking decade.

• The band tees are by far your favourite thing to run around with. Paul has a shit ton of Môtley Crüe tees, and Dwayne has so many shirts with The Doors on them. (Jim’s face is literally everywhere in the cave now. They sure as hell ain’t Christians, so if they’re selling their souls to anyone it’s the horned god below or their icon Jim Morrison.)

• They did let you away with wearing their old band tees until Marko told the boys about EBay.

When Paul found out a vintage Mötley Crüe tour shirt was going for over a grand, the mf was ecstatic..

So much so, he decided to put his own vintage Mötley tees up for bidding.

“Two thousand… three thousand.. FOUR THOUSAND… FIVE THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS!!!”

Poor Paul’s bubble was burst however when David told him there was absolutely nothing they could do with the money aside from unlimited Chinese food for the next few months.

• David’s old clothes are much different from what the others have. He was the first to be turned, therefore he’s lived throughout the most eras.

• He’s got a LOT of leather jackets and trenchcoats. Paul and Marko always joke about him being Jack the Ripper, but you see a different side to his style. There’s been many nights you actually sat down with him and asked where he’d gotten the majority of his old items. Some were by Spanish designers that had been gifts from Max whenever he’d provided David with different clothing, others were from when David had fed off multiple store owners and casually picked out what he fancied afterwards.

• It saddens you that he doesn’t wear any of these anymore. The only reminder he ever gets of them is when you put on the soft wool Trenchcoats that go right down to your ankles, almost looking like a cape. Marko makes mini conspiracy theories that maybe you’re the real Dracula.

• Dwayne’s load of clothes is FILLED with leopard print designs. He’s been a 70s boy even all these years later, and he misses that era so dearly.

• There’s this one satin leopard print shirt that actually fits you quite well in his eyes. It’s still a little baggy.. yet oddly attractive to him. You’ve claimed it as your own now, wearing it like a pj set.

• Aside from the satin shirt, literally nothing else Dwayne has fits you. He’s a muscular guy.. and a vampire. So trying to get his baggy ass clothes to even have a slight loose fit is not for the weak 😭

• Marko however, this is where the real fun begins. You can borrow anything from Marko.. ANYTHING.. and it’s guaranteed to fit.

• He was a big crop top collector. When he used to find a good shirt that wasn’t cropped however, he’d cut it up and make it into a crop top himself. And these are what he adores you wearing. They cling nicely to your curved body, and whenever you wear them you can never get both Paul and Marko to stop staring at your breasts. Assholes.

• Marko’s clothes are by far your favourite pieces out all the boys. Much like the crop tops, he really enjoyed designing all his other outfits when he wore them. And he was pretty damn good at it too. Marko can be a crafty little thing when he wants to be. He’ll even help you design your own outfits too! He’ll cut, sew, stitch, glue, draw, paint, anything you want Marko to design, he’s down. He took so much pride in his unique outfits back in the day. And if you want yours spiced up, Marko’s your man.

• You wear his old belts a lot. One time, you were rummaging through the boys’ old stuff again, and immediately fell in love with this black latex belt Marko had. He’d drawn on perfectly shaped skulls with a white acrylic pen, and added different studs around the buckle. Ever since that day, Marko pretty much customises everything you own now.

FIRST TIME WRITING FOR THE LOST BOYS!! hope you all enjoyed these headcanons and my requests are open for any lost boys related ideas you may have!! <33

[rollerderbytrash]

lizzy grant myspace profile 2009

“We have the technology now to live beyond the monetary system by which we are bound.

Our reliance upon money to survive is a means of modern day slavery. it is a means of entraping almost everyone so that a few will benefit.

It is easy to see how this has happened-

The illusion that we are all seperate from each other is at the root of our problem society. .. because we are born into different bodies and assigned different names it is hard to understand that what we do to another, we do to ourselves.

But Scientific Law shows that we are extensions of each other.

With the continued advancements in technology we will come to find that that there is no right or wrong religion- there will only be the technology t surpass what we are programed to call human nature and bring us to a Global understanding.

When this happens we can be free of the drudgery that we call humanity today. and free to finally go beyond the limitations that we have set upon our own minds.

We set these limitations in order to be able to perform in our society which is based on scarcity rather than abundance

Our Children will ask us why we created weapons of mass destruction rather than weapons of mass creation when we had the technology to do it (don’t know)

We are ready for a social transformation,

a shift of consciousness.

As of today most of us are our jobs-our occupations. We live to work~

But because of this, the general public has developed a severe neurosis in the last century. It is a sign that we have outgrown our current social (dont know) Remember:

Money is created out of thin air.

Money = Debt.

Only a global boycott on the entire system.

If you want a new direction:

thezeitgeistmovement.com”

copy and pasted from the photo so idk how accurate this is. sounds like a cult introductory lol. seems very jim morrison inspired

[northopalshore]

Any insights on Lilith in Leo placement?

Lilith in Leo or the 5th house

"Life is a stage, and I am the Star"

In my opinion, this is the "Star" archetype placement. Normally you'd see this manifest in the charts of a lot of larger than life characters, or artists with a peculiar attachment to fame. If you've seen the movie Chicago, Roxie Hart displays a lot of this archetype i.e the self indulgent, and self obsessed individual. They have this special fire within them that yearns for adoration, to have this captivating appeal that nobody else has but them. To be this one and only figure everyone loves. They have a strong sense of individuality and a character that naturally stands out amongst the crowd.

That's why this usually manifests itself in people who revel in the artistic field; song, dances & performance arts in general. They know how to gain attention, through their charms, sexuality and brazen persona.

Many native Leo/5th house Liliths have gone through somewhat difficult childhoods, where their individuality or creativity has been outright denied by those around them.

They are prone to portray narcissistic tendencies, and that lust or hunger for recognition (if not fed) can lead to a lot of self destructive habits (even when pursuing fame they are usually willing to do anything).

I can say this because I have Lilith in the 5th house lmao.

Like every placement, there are two sides of this coin. It's not going to be as intense as a placement for everyone. It also comes down to your life purpose i.e the rest of your chart.

Lilith symbolizes your greatest desires & your deep seated insecurities but she's also rebellious and confident. She knows her worth, her wants, her needs and she doesn't give a crap to all those who oppose her.

If people tell her she's too much then she will act even wilder than before.

Sex, creativity and sensuality are their strong suit, that being said they may feel great fear surrounding the idea of love. Sex without meaning may leave a dark hole left in its wake. Some may even stay away from sex all together, which applies more to Lilith in the 5th house specifically. There is this "guilt" that comes with having "fun" or indulging in hedonism. If they do fall into this pit, then they tend to double down on their faults until it comes to bite them in the ass sometime in the future.

Another downside would be that these individuals are usually the ones who will be left rather unsatisfied when living a mundane life. Always searching for meaning or a grandiose sense of destiny.

" I can't just be stuck doing this, am I ?"

A mundane life may feel like purgatory for these individuals.

I'm sure a lot of you are already familiar with celebrities who have this placement:

Rihanna (Lilith in 5th house Leo), Marilyn Monroe (Lilith in Leo), Brigitte Bardot (Lilith in Leo), Catherine Zeta-Jones (Lilith in Leo funnily enough), Jim Morrison ( Leo Lilith), Frank Ocean (Leo Lilith), Harry Styles (5th house Lilith), Katy Perry (5th house Lilith), Megan Fox (5th house Lilith), Tom Cruise (5th house Lilith), Prince (5th house Lilith), Tyler the creator (5th house Lilith), Camilla Cabello (5th house Lilith).

@northopalshore

@northopalshore lilith 2024 all rights reserved.

[ultraviolets333]

No one's gonna take my soul away

I'm living like Jim Morrison

[1warpspeedch1c]

i’m living like jim morrison.

[daisyrandoneisme]

from my pinterest <3

[dstryvampres]

Come On Baby(Light My Fire) - Neil Lewis x Reader

MINORS DNI !!!!!

inspired by this song.(Light my fire by the doors)

Pairing: Neil Lewis x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: weed use, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, sex while high, reader likes the doors sorry I forced that on you

Summary: Neil always comes after his shift to visit you on your late night shift, today he decides to bite the bullet and finally buy a CD from the store, and also ask you out I guess.

A/N: I've been on a huge doors kick recently and I really just wanted to force it onto you guys, and also neil because I love him. love my two male wives neil lewis and Jim Morrison xoxo

Exactly on time, 9:06pm, is when Neil Lewis prances into your store. The ding of the bell on top of the store’s door, every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, close to the exact same time of 9:00pm to 9:10pm, was always Neil Lewis. He got off earlier on those days, having one of his friends and co-workers able to cover the last three hours until midnight that Gumshoe was open. You, unfortunately, were stuck until past midnight at your family owned music store, which Neil seemed to take advantage of as much as possible.

“Hello,” Neil greeted you coyly, walking up to the cash register where you stationed yourself for the night.

“Can I help you with anything?” You ask Neil, knowing you absolutely cannot.

“Nope.” Same answer as always.

Neil seemed to have no interest in music at all. Possibly only ever coming in here for a brief chat with you, then a quick stop by the soundtrack area of the store, then the discount area, all while still trying to hold a conversation with you. He would leave around 10 to 10:30pm, only to be back again the next day he could. Sometimes, you enjoyed his company, the jokes he cracked were funny, and he understood your struggles of working at a very niche sector of business. Other times, you wanted to beg him to get out of the store as soon as he came in. Possibly the latter is the case tonight, his big ass head is blocking your view of The Doors: Live at the Bowl ‘68 currently playing on the TV.

“How’s work been going for you?” Neil asks.

“Slow.” Tonight you’ll entertain his presence.

“Really? It was quite busy for a Monday at Gumshoe,” Neil gloats, smiling to himself, far too pleased that his store was doing better than yours.

“Oh yeah? All five of the movie nerds in the city came over today?” You tease, rolling your eyes at Neil’s gloating.

“Actually, it was mostly new people today,” Neil says, turning around to look at the TV now.

“Oh great, just what this world needs, more Gumshoe regulars.”

“You say that like anyone who frequents this store is any better. All that TV plays is music for pretentious losers, like yourself.” Neil glares at you from the corner of his eye, annoyed, but the smile on his face makes his expression more teasing.

“Atleast people know The Doors. Everytime I walk into your store the TV’s always playing something no one’s heard about,” you retort, going back to focusing on the performance instead of Neil.

“I’ll have you know every movie I play at Gumshoe holds importance, and is something everyone should know, even if they don’t,” Neil sighs, “I’m looking to educate the public.”

“How noble.”

Neil scoffs at your comment before walking off to the discount section of the store, leaving you to watch the TV alone. Even on your busier days the store seemed to slow down at this time. Usually it is just you and Neil when he comes in, maybe an additional straggler present who came into the store knowing what they wanted already. Now that Neil’s at the discount section, you know he’ll be busy for a little bit and decide to step out from the cash register to do some cleaning for the night. Mindless work to help you go home quicker when the store finally closes its doors to the public at 12am. Your boots thump on the concrete floor as you walk around the store to put everything back to normal. Letting Neil do his rounds around the store.

Ding.

Turning around to the noise, you find Neil smiling in front of the cash register. Tonight, he’s finally buying something. You never thought the day would come. Neil, a paying customer, and not just a window shopper. You rush over to the cash register to ring him up, excited to see what he finally thought was good enough to buy here.

“Woah! Slow down, you’re acting like I’m robbing you instead of buying from you,” Neil laughs, putting the CD down onto the counter.

It’s The Doors self titled album. You look at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“The performance on the TV persuaded me,” he smiles, looking away from your gaze.

“You always striked me as a vinyl guy,” you take the CD in your hands and open it, making sure the CD isn’t scratched before scanning it.

“I am, I just wanted to listen to it in my car. I was actually hoping that – uh – you’d come listen to it with me after your shift ends,” Neil gulps, wringing his hands out.

“Sure. Why not?” You hand him the CD, “That’ll be 20 dollars and 65 cents by the way.”

“Really? I mean– great. What time do you get off?” Neil slides you the money, you can feel how sweaty his palms are just from the money.

“12:30am, sorry for the wait,” you respond, now leaving the change on the counter to avoid another sweaty palmed encounter with Neil.

“No problem at all! I’ll see you at 12:30 then!” Neil exclaimed, waving a quick goodbye to you, CD and change in hand, before exiting with a huge smile on his face.

୨ৎ

The last three hours of your shift went quite smoothly, a lack of customers allowing you to do most of your closing tasks before the store actually closed and at your own pace. You couldn’t tell if you it was because closing was so easy today or because you were seeing Neil after your shift, but your body felt weirdly tingly with excitement. Neil’s car was parked right outside of the front door of the shop, it was hard to miss because of this, and also because Neil rolled down his window and as soon as you stepped out of the shop he yelled your name and then motioned over. Quickly you lock the door to the shop and open the door to Neil’s car, sliding into the front passenger seat.

“Thanks again for coming out tonight,” Neil said, giving you a soft smile. He then reaches over to the glove box to pull out the CD he just bought and hands it to you. “Will you do the honours?”

“Of course,” you open up the CD’s jewel case and carefully slide the CD into the cars slot.

Neil started driving as the CD whirled around without any noise, before finally the sound of the soft percussion started the album off. You let the song settle into the car staring out the window as Neil drives around, seeming to drive around aimlessly.

“You want to go anywhere in specific?” Neil asks. He had let it get to the second song of the album before saying anything.

“Not really no…” you muse, biting your lip in thought for a couple seconds, “you know for my first time experiencing this album fully, I was high. If you’re not into that it’s no big deal, but, if you are, I have some pot back at home.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Neil sighs out, “Lead me there.”

You lead Neil through a stream of winding roads and suburb strips until you guys reach your apartment complex. Allowing Neil to park in a guest spot, he pops out the CD and puts it back into the jewel case. You lead him into the building, and up the elevator. Fiddling around with your keys at your door, before pushing it into the lock and letting the both of you in.

“It’s a little messy, didn’t know I’d have a visiter tonight,” you apologized, closing the front door behind you with your foot and putting the keys on the wall.

“Oh, it’s no worries. You should see my place,” Neil jokes, kickings off his shoes waiting for you to lead the way.

After working off your shoes you lead Neil to your kitchen. Squating down and rummaging through the back of a bottom cupboard until you find your stash in an air tight container. You pull it out of the cupboard, a couple prerolls and some edibles sit in the clear container. Good enough for tonight.

“Shall we?” you ask, standing up and grabbing your lighter.

“Take me away,” Neil says, you take his hand and lead him out to your small balcony.

Your CD player is still out here from last night, you were in a rush to get to the store after sleeping in and forgot to put it back inside. Luckily it didn’t rain and the player is in the same condition it was as before. Neil hands you the CD and you pop it into the player, in return you hand him a joint.

“Let me tell you, this album is amazing sober, but I dare say it’s even better high.” You light his blunt before lighting your own.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Neil says, settling into the lawn chair.

The album starts up once again, ringing out between the two nof you. This time, you feel ths silence is less awkward.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while,” Neil admits, out of the blue.

“Really? How long?” You look over at him, a blunt in his hand as he stares out into the city.

“Yeah, about half a year now. I don’t come into that store because I like music, y’know?” Neil looks at you now, only you.

The lighting from inside your apartment behind him lights up his beautiful bone structure, the light of the fire of the blunt lights up his eyes, and the brief light from the city allows you to catch all the high points of his face. You didn’t realise just how beautiful Neil was until now.

“I mean I could tell you didn’t care for the music, but I just thought you were bored,” you take another hit.

“I mean the first couple of times sure, but I don’t know, there was just something about you that intrigued me. You’re funny, and hot, and so unique,” Neil admits, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he blinks slowly and then looks bacl out at the city, continuing, “What don you like about this album?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, laughing, “I had a weird Doors phase at some point in highschool and, I guess, the album stuck through even afterwards. What, do you not like it?”

“No, it’s great. I just want to get to know you better,” Neil says, shaking his head.

“Well, what music do you like?” you ask.

“Soundtracks, but you know that one. I really liked grunge in high school, I guess that stuck with me too a little bit,” Neil purses his lips together, coughing a little.

“Never pegged you as a grunge fan,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m full of surprises,” Neil jokes, sending you both into a fit of laughter. Something like that usually wouldn’t set you off like that, but for some reason, it was the funniest thing tonight.

The winding chords to Light My Fire started to hit when you both calmed down from the laughter, and when you’ve both started to reach the end of the rolls.

Neil reaches out his hand to you, “Want to dance?”

You nod and take his hand, putting out your blunt as you stand. You both push the chairs off to the side, before setting off into a weird unnatural dance together. It was barely together, the only thing connecting you is the brief stints in which you guys hold hands, maybe Neil spins you around when your hands come together. At some point you guys get so close that when you look up to Neil your face to face with him. He looks at you for a couple seconds before slowly kissing you on the lips, it’s soft and welcoming, allowing for you to reciprocate. Both of you break away quite quickly, another beat, your lips are pressed together again with his. This time the kiss is hungrier, you bite at his lips softly, and he slips his tongue into your mouth. 

“Do you, uh– Want to take this further?” Neil asks, breaking away from the kiss. His pupils are huge, and his hair is messy.

“Yeah,” you respond, before going back into the kiss.

Both of you stumble through the apartment and into your bedroom while kissing. You feel the back of your knees hit your mattress before Neil gently pushes you backwards onto the bed. You look up at him, he’s breathing heavily, blue eyes scanning over your body hungerily. His lips are on yours again, tongue searching your mouth, he fondles your breasts through your shirt. You could feel wetness pool in your panties as Neil started to drag his kisses down to your neck. His fingers grazed your clothed stomach before coming to toy with the hem of your shirt teasing pushing it up slowly, fingers ghosting over your stomach making you whine out. You lightly grab at his hair, tugging it to edge him on to take off your shirt already. Neil takes the hint and pushes you shirt upwards exposing your breasts to him.

Neil smiles looking up at you before taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking the bud and rolling his tongue over it. You moan out at the sensation, staring up at the ceiling, focusing on the pleasure Neil is providing you at the moment. Your body is hot, you want him to hurry up and fuck you. Alas, Neil takes his time with your breasts, toying with both of them using his mouth and fingers. It’s both agonizing and feels so good. He watches you the whole time, taking pleasure in watching your face contort in pleasure and frustration. 

Finally, Neil captures you in a heated kiss again, before breaking off and taking his own shirt off. He places your hands on his chest, allowing you to feel his body’s heat as well as his heartbeat. His heartbeat is fast, mimicking the rise and fall of his chest. You run your hands over his chest and down his arms to his hands, placing them at the top of your jeans, basically begging him to take them off. He unbuttons your jeans, slowly, like he’s done almost everything tonight. Pulling them down with your help to expose your panties, soiled with you wetness. He stares at the wet patch on your panties for a second. Grinning the whole time.

“You flatter me,” Neil says, sliding his own pants down his legs, erection glaringly present. He lets them fall into the pool of pants at the edge of them bed.

Sliding a finger up and down your clothed heat, Neil climbs back into bed with you. Diving back in to kiss you. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms are his neck. His erection presses up against your heat, and he grinds against you. He only lasts about a minute teasing you this way before he’s discarding your panties and positioning his fingers outside your cunt.

“Please,” you whimper out, and within the same breathe his fingers have entered you.

It’s slow at first, a rhythmic in and out pace, stretching you out as best and he can, but your moans fuel him to move his fingers faster. Soon enough your gripping the sheets just at his fingers as they push on your gummy walls deliciously and feverishly. His other hand rubs up and down your thigh, watching as you twitch and moan on his fingers, watching as your pussy takes his fingers in so easily. You clench around his fingers, back arching at his work, and all the sudde his fingers are gone. You look at him with a look of betrayal, which is quickly settled when you see him slide his underwear off, exposing his cock.

“Can I fuck you?” Neil asks, like his swollen tip isn’t already pressed against your entrance.

“Yes please.”

It’s all Neil needs before he’s sliding into you, stretching you out so nicely as he pushes in. When he bottoms out he’s pressed up against that sweet spot inside of you, almost like his cock is made just for you. Both of you sigh of as Neil stays still for a few seconds before pulling out of you slowly. 

“Oh baby, your pussy ‘s so good,” Neil slurs, pushing back into you.

His hands find your waist as he pushes in and out of your pussy. With each thrust Neil’s speed increases, his once calculated and rhythmic thrusts becoming wild and irregular as he continues to fuck you. You scratch his back as he fucks into, moaning as your eyes roll back.

Who knew movie nerds were such good fucks?

“Can I flip you around baby?” Neil pants out, his grip on your waist tightened.

You nod and he slips out of you, allowing you to get on all fours before pushing back into you. He’s hitting further back in this position, stretching out and reaching parts of you that you forgot felt so good.

“Fuck, baby, you look so good, you feel so good,” Neil babbles as he resumes his pace.

You don’t think you can last much longer in this position, with Neil fucking a specific spot in you consistently. He reaches over a hand and starts toying with your nipple again, and thats when you feel the slip happening.

“I’m gon’ cum, Neil, gonna cum,” you whine, arms giving out and face getting shoved into a pillow by Neil’s thrusts.

“Oh– fuck, me neither, cum all over my cock for me, fuck please baby, god please, cum all over my cock,” Neil speeds up his thrusts, reaching his hand down from your boob to your clit.

Neil rubs quick fast circles into your clit. Steadily, but roughly fucking you into your own mattress.

For a moment everything goes black as all you can feel is the knot in your stomach come undone and a shiver run up your body. 

When you return Neil is slumped over beside you, both of you laying down beside eachother. He strokes your hair softly before kissing your forehead.

“Thank you,” Neil whispers, bringing you into his chest.

You decide to stay like this for the night, too tired to move. Neil covers up the both of you letting you fall asleep in his arms.

[lilyinmysoul]

Sleepwalkin’ I

Note: This is a Joel slow burn that I’ve had in my drafts for a while. Tags are at the bottom—though, there aren’t many for this one. This chapter isn’t long, it’s kind of like a little preface. Let me know if this is a concept you like, tell me what you think!

Series masterlist (+ summary)

——————————————————

There is low chatter around you, small strings of words and hums that ring softly in the air. The booth in which you sit in the corner of the Tipsy Bison is as nestled away from the others as you can get, and it earns the spot as your favorite table due to the old—but still functioning—record player that rests on the surface.

You come to the Bison for two reasons: drinking beer and listening to music. The best part is that for whatever reason, the people of Jackson don’t properly appreciate a good song. Therefore, there is no scramble for the seat with the turntable, so it is yours nearly every time you come.

There are many positives to living in Jackson; a guarded and safe community. One with sustenance and food, adequate water. But of them all, you would accredit most of your joy to the music selection. Records had been found sitting in homes when the town was first cleared, or dug out from collapsing buildings while scavenging, eventually making their ways to the shelves of the town’s only bar. You were free to pick through them as you pleased, play whichever records you saw fit. You recognized quite a few of them from your limited years before the outbreak, either by their covers or the first few notes of their songs. You’d listen to new albums, from artists unknown and times long before yours. There was something so magical about their melodies, and their abilities to either invigorate you or fill you with sorrow.

Aside from your official job as an assistant at the greenhouse, you found some sort of responsibility in curating the sound of the bar when you were there. On a cold, drizzly morning, you might come in to drink a coffee. You may also play a slower record, something soft, jazzy. On a night like tonight, when the bar is half-packed and you’re on your third beer, you would rifle through the albums on the table for something peppier, rockier, heavier.

The Doors spins on the turntable, the staticky sound of ‘60s bass rings through the room, partnering with the homely lighting to make you feel warm inside. Warm, yet still empty; a little less so when you hear the songs’ notes. You contemplate putting on something else, but you leave it for now. You feel as though it encapsulates the spirit of the tavern—a handful of men drinking, a couple dancing, a few lone drinkers settled at the bar.

Tomorrow will be a bleak day, you presume. You don’t have work, so you can stay here longer, sit in this booth as the night eventually bleeds into the early morning. It’s particularly pathetic, you think; budgeting your time to spend as much of it at the bar as possible. And while it’s true—you drink too much—you aren’t here for the alcohol. The only thing that comforts you as of late is the sound of music—shit, that’s another movie you’d kill to see again. There are many things you’d kill to see again.

Your hand grips the brown bottle, dripping with condensation and dampening your fingers. You don’t pull away, instead bringing the glass rim to your lips and taking a drink of the bitter liquid. It doesn’t taste particularly good; you aren’t sure why you drink it. Compared to other drinks, it doesn’t numb your mind particularly well. It feels more like a harmless pastime, but it’s safe to assume that your liver does not agree. You’re not oblivious to the fact—you just don’t care.

Jim Morrison’s rich voice croons over the keys of a piano and you thank the forces of the universe for the preservation of this record player. Your bottle is half-empty, and rather than succumbing to drunkenness, your mind has taken to scrutinizing itself. You contemplate the general direction of your life.

-

Across the bar, Joel sits on a stool, whiskey glass in hand. Scratch that—he wasn’t sure what type of alcohol it was, only that he would need a refill soon. It was a wonder that he hadn’t been banned from the establishment by now, for all of the drinking he did here. He didn’t know why the town’s supply of alcohol seemed so endless, but his only choice was to be incredibly thankful.

For Joel, patrols could be either a blessing or a curse. On one hand, each shift seemed to account for hours lost—days, even. He felt as though he was losing time, rapidly. Sometimes, a sense of despair would creep over him, and he couldn’t help but feel as though his life was slipping through the fingers of a figurative set of hands, and being lost to in infinite well of darkness. It wasn’t a pleasing thought, but it was an unavoidable one—especially in times like these.

On another, Joel suspected that it might be nice to waste his time. Policing the premises of town in an often silent excursion alongside a fellow resident might be a grueling experience, but it effectively distracted his mind from other pressing matters. Ones less physical and far less significant; like the numbness of his mind or his sudden bouts of sadness.

It was almost pitiful to him; how could he complain about his spells of anguish when there was no terror around him? He once lived day-to-day, faced with the mangled atrocities that are infected, and the cold truths of the world. He didn’t seem to be affected at all, then—only haunted by an occasional and fleeting dream of his blue eyed girl. There was none of that now; only an empty house and a bustling town, and there was no barbarity in the streets, or in his heart. It was completely irrational.

In his numbness, Joel came to the Bison. To drink away his sorrows wasn’t the plan—it was to wait them out. But in his gloom, he would sit up in his house and pass time. He would carve—intricate figures of wood and polish—he would play guitar—old songs from times before, or original series of strings that were rarely any good—or, in fact, he would build his own. The guitars themselves took hours; a long damn time, but wasn’t that the point? He needed to cut the faces perfectly, hollow out the sound-hole, and glue it all together with precision because filling his hours with whatever he may was what he did most. The tunes in the bar were nice, but he had a player in his house. It was the only thing that drowned out the sounds of his mind.

Joel hadn’t spoken to Ellie—not a single word, not even one muttered greeting—in almost a year. He believed he had exchanged a few nods of acknowledgement in passing over the last few months, and hopefully it wasn’t in his head; but, that was it. That was all, because, like most people he had come to love, she had passed along too, like a memory. However, she wasn’t one. She was alive, real, and wanting nothing to do with him. That crushed him, he thought, more than anything.

It was often that Joel found nothing to think about, the buzzing thought of his mind giving way to something like numbness or serenity—he wasn’t sure which. Joel hadn’t been a fan of large crowds since that last father-daughter dance before the outbreak, and loud chatter always seemed to bother him. Regardless, in the warmth of this bar, under the low humming of a record as its creator sings without a care, he doesn’t mind the noise at all.

Joel downs the rest of his drink, setting the chipping shot glass down on the table. It reads, ‘That’s Wyoming!’ on the front, and he wonders what kind of guy would ever buy such a mundane cup. Maybe he would’ve, back in the day, if it instead read something about Austin. Or maybe Sarah would’ve bought it for him for Fathers’ Day at the corner store with her allowance, reading: ‘Don’t mess with Texas!’ No, don’t… he pushes the thought away.

That’s enough, he thinks, standing up from the old bar stool as it creaks with the pressure, putting an end to a night of utter futility. He gives a preoccupied wave of thanks to the bartender, unsure of whether it landed or not. His boots step against the old floor, the sound a little softer than wood ought to be, on account of its age. As he pushes open the double-door, the final notes of ‘The End’ play and Jim’s voice comes to a halt. Perfect timing—Joel always loved that song—and he walks out onto the rainy street, the laughter and gossip of the bar vanishing from his earshot. He tells himself he won’t, but he will most certainly be back tomorrow.

-

It must be a self-fulfilling prophecy; the way he doubts his willpower. It leads him right back to the Tipsy Bison, the very next day. It’s an early evening and the sun looks golden as it reflects on the sidewalk, and when he pushes open the bar’s door, he is met with silence. There is next to no one inside, and a glance at the record player confirms that there is in fact no music playing. It is a peaceful moment, one in which he can relish a cold beer and think. Contrary to his usual decision to occupy one of the barstools up close to the taps, he seats himself in the booth, the far corner table on which the sacred turntable is resided.

It is unoccupied, which is certainly unusual, but Joel won’t pass up the chance to spin his own record for once. Playing the music reminded him of an old throwback diner he’d go to as a kid, a big clunky jukebox in the corner. Other than that, he’d never seen one—he had been a bit too young.

The vinyl sleeves are scattered on the table’s surface and Joel fishes through them, scanning each cover for an image or title that he recognizes.

Beside the booth, there are shelves storing even more music, and he’d consider donating some of his own found albums had he been a bit more generous. For now, he fans out a few and puts on a record—an old rock album he used to keep in his truck—and lets it start to spin. Watching it is mesmerizing, and he figures that the longer he loses himself in the turning black disk and the sound of electric guitar, the longer he will put himself off from ordering alcohol—a distraction seems to be what he needs.

-

You slip your arms into your jacket and hug yourself as you leave your house. Even this—your second thickest coat—did not prepare you for the cold air outside. You grew up far from here, nowhere near Wyoming, and the cold got to you a little more than you’d like to admit; physically, of course, you weren’t used to it—but mentally, as well. Gloomy weather makes you sad.

Your feet set a steady pace, and the tired urge to walk in a stroll mixes with your restless need to feel Stevie Nicks’ preserved and feathery voice in your ear. Maybe you’ll play Belladonna, or put on some Fleetwood—possibly Kiln House. You tell yourself to focus; all of this thought is slowing your step. You wonder what you’ve come to; how your only fantasy regards what album you’ll hear next. This either frames your life as impossibly peaceful, or impossibly sad. It seems, to you, like a mix of the two.

The closer you get to the heart of town, the nicer the sidewalk gets. There are less potholes in the road and not as many weeds overgrowing the asphalt, a pointless detail you can’t help but pick up. The evening light is golden, families and children beginning to retreat into their homes, concluding their days’ activities—yours are just beginning. In fact, your trip to the bar is often a highlight of your day. God, that does sound pathetic—but, it really isn’t what it looks like.

You pass stores, some empty and others occupied as you trek toward your destination. From the looks of it, the Bison isn’t too full, your heart almost speeding up with anticipation, and you sometimes wonder if your ears have minds of their own, urging you constantly and distracting your focus from tasks at hand. If you had many friends, they’d probably joke that you were addicted. To music, to that damn record player, to the Tipsy Bison. However, you don’t, but you really do wonder if you have some type of unhealthy dependance. You don’t think much of it, though—most things you do are quite destructive, more so than a couple of hours at the bar.

You’re welcomed by the warmth of the room, pushing open the doors as your cold cheeks thank you for coming inside, sparing them from the (surely freezing) weather. The relief doesn’t last long as you turn your head to the booth—your booth—and find it occupied.

You knew vaguely of Joel Miller, seeing him around town occasionally and lounging at the bar as he nursed a glass of gin—or whatever else he drank. You often noticed people, catching their names and registering their faces, but you paid little mind. It seemed like a waste of time to decide whether you liked them or not, but, although illogical, you weren’t too pleased with Joel now.

Taking a deep breath, you calm yourself as you glance around the bar. Most of the other seats are empty, and you could settle there for now, waiting for him to leave. But looking around, there is nothing appealing about it. You no longer feel the warmth and invitation that you usually do as you stroll into the Bison, and Levon Helm is singing to you, but you wanted Stevie. You feel disappointed, irritated. A bit territorial. You inhale again before turning and pushing open the door, stepping back out into the cold. Maybe tomorrow.

-

It’s an entire week before you work up the strength to return to the bar. The weather is especially excruciating as its temperatures dip further and further down, dustings of snow beginning to fall.

Icy or powdery, snow is beautiful. You love to watch it fall, coating tree branches and falling poetically atop roofs. But as mesmerizing as you find it, you cannot bring yourself to love it. Trudging out into the white expanse, boots crunching on chunks of slippery ice has not ever been preferable. So, naturally, you haven’t been to work in a week. You have not left your house in a week. You have lost out on an entire week of social interaction, of sunlight (what little there is) and of music. You haven’t felt the weight of rigid and smooth vinyl in your hands, you haven’t spun a record… you have hardly gotten out of bed.

Although you haven’t done it, you’ve thought about it. At many intervals, you nearly slipped on your boots and stepped into the wintry air. You had assumed that the rigid wind would whip against your face, dry your eyes, stiffen your joints… hopefully one day you would become accustomed to such weather. Now, your brain saw it as nothing short of torture.

It was the seventh day, and you decided to stick it out. You would walk six minutes to the Tipsy Bison, and you were gonna like it. You would march right in, take your seat, and play your songs. You had been fantasizing about Fleetwood Mac for an entire week, and today was the day that you would hear the opening notes of Songbird—hopefully. Assuming that Joel hadn’t made a habit of stealing your booth.

Your walk is determined—you’ve mustered the energy for it, you’ll make the best of it. It’s a Saturday, so people are outside. Despite the snow, the sun is out and it reflects across the ground’s dusted surface. You watch kids play, kicking up cold white powder and attempting to pack it together into snowballs that quickly fall apart. There isn’t much on the ground, but it’s a sight.

The streets are a little louder today. The fun thing about Jackson is that nobody drives—there’s no need—so, people walk in the middle of streets. There are families and children, couples holding hands as they stroll. In summer, you might feel lonely at the sight, but the winter months make you enjoy the isolation. They often made you feel like you’d never spoken to anybody and you’d never need to again.

You’d pushed the bar door open by only a few inches when you see Joel’s form sitting at your table—again. There is no registry that endows you ownership of the table, but it pisses you off that somebody else wants it.

What’s worse than someone else in your seat—that you’d waited a week for—is the fact that he’s playing Billy Joel and there’s nothing you can do about it. You want to hear Lindsey Buckingham play guitar, damn it, but this time you don’t turn and leave; it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. You decide that you need a beer, and since you’re here, it won’t hurt. As you approach the bar, you contemplate taking the bottle for the road, drinking it down as you walk home, but you take a seat anyway.

You wave down Seth and when you get your bottle, you pop it open and take a sip. Your eyes flit around the room, glancing at framed photos and drunken guests. Winter seems to be the town’s preferred drinking season, even though booze is year-round. You wonder if the rain hits everyone else as hard as it hits you.

Your eyes land on Joel’s messy head as his chin rests on his hand. He’s got an empty plate in front of him—no drink, and he’s tapping his fingers on the table. You never liked Billy Joel, but he does, and you wish he’d do it somewhere else.

You contemplate asking him to switch it—that would be pettish. You remember being asked once to turn off your Iron Maiden—you had said no. In fact, you’d spun the record again just to piss them off. Because, just like it was your turntable then, it’s Joel’s turntable now, but despite your logical mind’s reasoning, you slip off of your stool and step towards Joel’s booth. Your booth—your booth that Joel happens to be sitting in—and you stop just a few steps short of him.

His gaze rests on the floor, but when your worn hiking boots enter his view, he looks up and his eyes meet yours. Your hair is only the slightest bit disheveled, but you flatten it nonetheless, your sweater pulled tightly against you as your arms rest crossed over your chest.

You put your hands in your pockets and say, “I’d like you to play Rumors, please.”

He doesn’t argue or comment, only looking at you for a few more moments, one hand moving toward the needle. “Alright.”

Billy’s voice cuts off abruptly, and is moments later replaced with Stevie’s.

Tags: Many music references (anticipate many more), again, extremely depressed MCs, Sarah is referred to as ‘blue eyed girl’, I chose to picture game Sarah so as not to confuse her with Ellie who also has brown eyes, you could argue that both reader and Joel are alcoholics, reader is a tad bit entitled but don’t give up on her yet, proofread a little but not fully, lmk if there are errors.

[queenofthemagazines-stp73]

no one's gonna take my soul away

I'm living like ♡Jim Morrison♡

[scalene-4]

when i was 19 years old living in boston as a fresh college dropout (and as i would find out 6 years later, an egg) i tried heroin so that i could tell my friends about it. drugs had played a pretty central role in my day to day life since high school and like any other kid that age i tended to take anything with the right blend of danger and insight and make it my entire personality — eventually i’d learn to channel that obsessive nature fully into music and generally Being Alive but that was quite a ways away.

i got off work one night at about 2am and headed to my dealer’s house. he was the younger brother of another student i was somewhere between friends and acquaintances with — a burly paranoid typhoon of a human who wanted to be jim morrison almost as badly as i wanted to be kurt cobain. i usually would buy coke and weed from him and take whatever random pills he happened to have lying on the table; today the proverbial super mario box sporting a “?” contained something new.

“you see that bag on the table that looks like brown coke?”

“yeah.”

*laughs* “that’s heroin.”

this was it. with no shortage of shame i must admit i was really excited and had been fantasizing about this moment since age 14, walking around my high school campus nursing some heartbreak or another and listening to 40oz to freedom by sublime.

my dealer instructed me to rack out a little bump no bigger than my pinky nail (which since i bite them is even smaller than normal), and wait till i felt it before taking any more. naturally when it didn’t kick in immediately i insisted on doubling down. also as much as i’d love to leave this out i made a decisive point to put on something in the way by nirvana, which to this day sends a seismic cringe rattling down the length of my spine.

we went outside to smoke a cigarette, and immediately a new feeling washed over my body. i can best describe it as the comfort of a loved one putting a blanket over you, coupled with a really intense head rush. i sat down on the curb laughing.

anyone that’s done heroin before will tell you that it’s pretty normal to throw up. i maybe got to enjoy the initial feeling for 5 minutes before nausea took ahold — by this time we’d gone back inside and i’d found a literal blanket to lay on the couch under, but nature was calling.

i’m not sure if this was 15min or an hour, but most of my remaining memories of the actual high consisted of puking into my dealers bathtub while chugging blood orange pellegrino sparkling water in between bouts of nausea. eventually i began to come down and decided to go home, making my way downstairs to his living room. my dealers house was always directed by david lynch, the dialogue jumpy and the atmosphere thick with a decidedly bizarre dread. this entire incident his brother had been sitting in the corner of the living room spiraling out into the singularity of a xanax black hole, and he was still in position when i made it downstairs. while no one was looking, i stole two pills off the top of their fridge that i never ended up taking and they lived in the pocket of jeans i no longer own for quite some time after the fact. i never found out what they were, i think i just swiped them to feel guilty about something.

the part about this story that always sticks out to me is the visual component — they don’t tell you that heroin has a slight psychedelic component to it. everything looked like the first bit of the wizard of oz, sepia toned and monochromatic. a drug experience that had taken me straight to kansas as if it was the land of oz itself. i didn’t trust the wizard here (he was scary) and it was time to leave.

the oz comparisons don’t end at the light brown tinge to reality — i opted to walk home to my apartment as the sun was coming up, and as i navigated the boston streets still in an opiate haze my dealer rolled past me on his bike. cackling like the wicked witch herself as he disappeared into the fading summer darkness. one day i’m going to put that into a music video or something, it’s funnier the more i look back on it but at the time it was really strange and freakish and amplified my urge to get home to safety. eventually i made it to my mattress on the floor at 54 burbank street, and passed out as the sun came up.

it would take another 5 years for me to stop using hard drugs and another after that to quit drinking alcohol. i’d write sober shortly after the latter, a song about missing fucked up adventures such as the one above despite knowing all roads containing such mishaps tend to lead to the same destination. these days i find a lot of joy in seeking out strangeness without having to take a pill or snort or smoke or inject something as a cover fee, strangeness that since i’ve moved to new york city has been in no short supply. after using heroin that first time i made a point to tell everybody i’d done it, expecting shock and awe and pats on the back for some reason. i regret being repulsed and disappointed at my friends’ concern, like they were yawning at a trapeze act i’d spent months perfecting. i think i’m still learning to reckon with the piece of myself that feels as if she has to put herself in mortal danger and spiritual agony for attention — hopefully at that point i at least get a half decent song out of it. don’t do drugs kids :) or do, it’s none of my business

2 things to add:

-said dealer texted me like 5-6 years after this saying i owed him money and after responding in a panic asking what for, he said “just kidding lol” and i haven’t heard from him since. he might be dead

-i’m aware that there’s a deeply rooted and kind of beautiful irony in my posting this story for attention