thatdeepandlovelydark:

marmalated:

thatdeepandlovelydark:

@marmalated @me-fish 

ficlet snippet for the motorcycle GBU ‘verse, cos once I thought of it it wouldn’t go away :)

“…that’s too many oranges,” Blondie says finally. Still with dignity, but it looks as though he’s struggling to maintain his composure. “Even for you.” 

Keep reading

Bahahaha!! Awwwh. :’)

I love how they immediately jump to the conclusion that it must have been Tuco himself in a drunken fit - Angel is far too sensible to have done something like this - except when he’s totally not. And Tuco’s transition from “…. that’s a lot of oranges”, said in disbelief, to “that’s a lot of oranges…” said with curiosity…

And Angel’s little mouth twitch. <3 nyheh. I’m so glad this spin-off exists. :’)

:))) yeah, it does me good to have one super sweet verse. Also Angel, blesss…he’s all “why not?” Here.

“…gift, hell,” Blondie says. “You wanted to watch this.” 

Angel’s mouth twitches. “There is that as well.”

(via believerindaydreams)

thatdeepandlovelydark:

@marmalated @me-fish 

ficlet snippet for the motorcycle GBU ‘verse, cos once I thought of it it wouldn’t go away :)

“…that’s too many oranges,” Blondie says finally. Still with dignity, but it looks as though he’s struggling to maintain his composure. “Even for you.” 

Keep reading

Bahahaha!! Awwwh. :’)

I love how they immediately jump to the conclusion that it must have been Tuco himself in a drunken fit - Angel is far too sensible to have done something like this - except when he’s totally not. And Tuco’s transition from “…. that’s a lot of oranges”, said in disbelief, to “that’s a lot of oranges…” said with curiosity…

And Angel’s little mouth twitch. <3 nyheh. I’m so glad this spin-off exists. :’)

bleak-nomads:

you let it

After this piece of poetry, six prose-poems from our out-of-time trio, on each other. Order is chronological, hopefully you can pick out the voices.

****

It’s a contradiction, that you would never call it a Fall. You caught love, and sometimes you’ll think of that as a sickness. If you’d knocked back honesty with that stolen shot of tequila you’d have known yourself feverish long before then.

If there’s one lie you can’t make true even when it slides lazy and sensual on your lips, it’s that you’d ever want to be cured of him.

(he Saved you, is the truth of it).

*

Fall, you figure, is a damn right way of talking about love. A stumbled two-step, hardly a tango, but then when have your feet ever been able to fill those shoes? No, and what’s more you wouldn’t have them, because he needs you to provide the levity, he’s got no damn sense of comedic timing.

Have you ever told him you love him for that?

Well, best not to, might trip him face-first into one of those kisses that get the both of you in trouble.

Best not to. Bastard might let it tumble like ash from a cigarillo.

Besides, he’s always caught you when it counts. You figure that’s enough.

*

Innamorato, not to fall insomuch as to be immersed.

Breathing in the taste of cheap cigarillos, wrapped up by knot-bone fingers that you forget to check for weapons, gasping for air as the immersion comes up to your neck.

And here you thought you were at arm’s length. And here you were all but disarmed.

It’s still your choice, to dip your head in his lap, drown in the even wave of his pulse. An ocean, so cool and inviting, what would it matter to be a body that washed up on it’s shores like an enigma?

It’s the enigma you’ll call love, until you realize just how much you’ve no idea how to swim.

*

Oh and this, the foil, the folly, Eden and all of its trappings.

You never let yourself know; you wanted damnation with such a hunger for flesh, Lucifer made flesh and you can take it all by raw handfuls just for him to look at you with such barren gratitude.

It’s your Word made flesh, this time, and that’s easier to take as reason than the truth of the matter; it’s the man you love first, and his story with him second.

Better to ask; how does this man exist? Than to answer; what does it matter, if he needs you just the same?

*

Okay, you’ll say this much: the fact that he’s got everything and is nothing you ever thought you’d want scares you. Of course, he scares you, he did, does he still?

It’s the same sense of slippage as trying to write him letters, you almost reached for Creo que me siento más seguro contigo que con nadie. – that ink bled out too much, your words are damn close to all you’ve ever had to offer, and a handful of almonds from your pack –

– no, you forgot. Those were from him.

Thing is, he probably knows how to tango, would take you by the hand if you asked, you’re afraid to ask. What would that mean, to have that?

Dip, catch, there’d never be a fall. Not with him.

(it scares you too, to half-believe that).

*

Oranges, by halves.

“Eres mi media naranja!” so ill-fitting in more ways than one, but it is rather that his entire being, devoid of nothingness, slips into an absence you’d tried to name for years, and with all the sweet nectar with it.

Is the fit so natural, by sacred threes, or is it cut so?

If so, will you ever see what’s been cut away? Was it your blade that you unconsciously let skip over his surface?

Will you ever know? Or is it enough just to take the slice that’s offered, let it nourish you in ways you hardly believed possible?

He would, and that might be exactly what makes you name it as love.

This has done decadent things to my heart and I thank you for it.