How I’m Imagining You.

Diet Mountain Dew.

I’m posting a few pieces I’ve posted before that are safe to post. I’ve also got new stuff in the works, but I am writing new content. It’s just taking time. I write slow these days. :) But I do have a bodyguard mini series planned.

1.2k words.

Tagging; @terry2227 @e-dubbc11 @aoi-targaryen @snowkestrel @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @danzer8705 @firexfate

x

It started where you’d come by, and help give him tools, “Here, Mister Russo.” You’d say, sweetly.

And if he said he didn’t imagine you calling him Mister Russo in different circumstances, he’d be lying.

You smiled, pushing up your large glasses, as though you knew, twirling the tools in your hand, and blowing bubbles with your gum, and changing his radio station to country music of all things.

He turned it back to rock, and you popped another bubble. “I was listening to that.”

“I don’t care. My garage, my music.” He said, lifting the hood of the car.

“You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?”

“Took you long enough to figure it out.” He smirked over his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes.

One day he was getting ready to leave when you popped your gum, blowing another bubble, waiting for him to take you home in the cold weather. You often popped into your neighbor's work to chat with him, while you waited for him to get off work. His business was near the bookstore where you worked, and he’d drive you home every day so you didn’t have to walk home with your bad knee, especially with winter right around the corner.

He wiped his hand off of the grease on an old cloth, “Need a ride home?”

You smiled softly, “Yes, Mister Russo.” And then popped your gum again.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. “You pop that gum one more time, we’re gonna have a problem.” He said, baring his teeth.

You blew a bubble, popping it.

The audacity.

He growled, kissing you hard, pushing into your mouth, knocking your glasses askew, and making you gasp. He pulled back, with your gum in his mouth, and spit it out in the trash.

“I wasn’t done chewing.” You said indignant.

“You are now, sweetheart.” He smirked, closing the garage down.

You followed him with your cane, “Asshole.”

Billy watched you apply your chapstick that was root beer flavored while he took a wheel off a car. “That actually work, or does it just taste good?”

You huffed, “It works.” You blotted your lips. “Wanna taste, Mister Russo?” You teased, puckering up.

He held up his can of soda, “I’m good.”

You sighed, “Too bad. I would have given you a kiss for a few dollars.” You teased lightly.

“Jesus, in my day it was fifty cents.” He teased back.

“I’m expensive.” You laughed.

Billy huffed, “Clearly.”

You stood in the hall outside your neighbor’s apartment with your cane, knocking on his door. Your leg ached.

He opened it, “Yeah?” He asked admiring you in your sweater dress, the way your hair was done up nice. He wanted to brush it, and play with it.

“My stove won’t work.” You said softly. “Can you come look at it?” You asked, pushing your glasses up, your sweater sleeves too long for your arms, and hung over your hands a little.

“For a few dollars.” He grinned, laughing, when you hit arm.

You ate chocolates, while he bent over your stove, looking at it and mumbling to himself.

You admired him in his tight dark jeans and green sweater. You may or may not have found things around your apartment wrong, just so he’d come over. So you wouldn’t have to be alone. Always alone, friends were hard to come by being disabled. You slowed them down.

You were too shy to ask him to have a movie night or something. And sometimes you just wanted to sit and read a book with your feet in his lap, while he read his own book, enjoying each other's company.

And he caught you at it, too. “You want me to come over, sweetheart, I will. Don’t need an excuse to see a pretty girl.”

Your cheeks heated, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You sat there in his work garage watching him work on some old Chevy or something, you were terrible with cars, admiring how his sweater slid up exposing his naval and the little patch of hair there, you twirled a wrench or whatever it was, in your hand itching to touch him.

You pressed your thighs together, as he slid out from underneath the car, hands looking greasy, his sweater pulled up around his elbows. You imagined him staining your thighs with his handprints as he kissed you.

You imagined running your fingers through his soft hair, always slicked back and faded on the sides, before pulling on it while he kissed you, probably tasting like the soda he drank. And then you imagined pulling on his hair for an entirely different reason.

He looked over at you, smirking as he sipped his soda, fingers stained from working on the car. Uh oh. He must have noticed you gawking. He rolled over to you, sitting at your level on the thing he’d rolled under the car with (you were at a loss for the terminology), in his maroon sweater and black jeans.

“Want somethin’, pretty girl?” Billy asked, looking cocky.

“No.” You said, shyly.

“No?” Billy asked, smiling growing. He leaned closer, and you instinctively leaned in too. “Gotta be a good girl and ask for what you want.” He teased you.

“Mister Russo, you’re being an asshole.” You whined, seriously considering whacking him on the head with the wrench-thingy.

He laughed; “I think we both already know I’m an asshole.” He said, booping you on the nose with his dirty fingers.

“Can I have a kiss?” You asked, sweetly. “I helped give you tools all day. Froze my leg off here.” You said, patting your leg.

“For a few dollars.” He smirked.

You glared, “Fine, I’ll just kiss Paul down the hall.”

Billy huffed, “You think mama’s boy can kiss you right?” Billy asked, rolling closer.

God, he was being an asshole, but Paul was a mama’s boy. He did nothing without his mother’s help.

“Mister Russo.” You whined, “Don’t you wanna taste the root beer on my lips?”

“C’mere.” Billy hummed, and you leaned into him eagerly. He kissed you this time, making your insides melt, his fingers touching your thighs making you sigh. He gripped them, and yanked you closer, careful of your bad leg.

You gasped into his mouth, tasting Diet Mountain Dew on him. The feel of his tongue sliding against yours had desire licking at your insides.

You pulled on his hair roughly, making him groan into your mouth, and an ache built between your thighs.

He pulled back kissing you once, twice, three times before nudging you with his nose. “You taste real sweet, sweetheart. Better than root beer.” He husked.

And then you looked down to see your legs stained with grease, and oil. You grinned inwardly, that had been your intention all along.

“Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.

You giggled, “Next time I bake, I’m getting flour all over you.” You threatened.

Billy grinned.

God, you made work go by easily.

Later after he drove you home, you shyly invited him into your apartment, and you both ended up on your couch, you laying back, with him laying between your thighs, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair, listening to an audiobook.

He looked like a lazy cat, enjoying petting from his favorite human. His eyes were hooded as he watched you, feeling wanted after a childhood unwanted in the group home.

For the first time, you didn’t feel like a burden, alone with only the characters in your books to keep you company.

You didn’t know what you and Billy were, but you were content to let it unfold.

drink your coffee & read your books. It's chaos out there

Being a nurse is such a difficult job. Thank you for doing what you do, even though it’s often thankless. Nurses are so important. My aunt was a nurse. 💜 And thank you for tagging me, this was a huge compliment, and I appreciate it so much. 💕

Side Note To Fan Fic Authors

Here’s the thing.

I read a lot of scripts.  A lot.  From professionals to aspiring writers to complete newbies.  Features and pilots.  Specs and treatments.

And 8 times out of 10 the fan fic that I’ve read over the last, oh, 15 years is leagues better than this stuff.  It’s more inspired.  It’s more compelling.  It’s genre bending and creative and heartfelt.  It’s well-paced and intense and funny and sexy and meaningful.  It’s smart and thoughtful and good.  It’s novel-quality.  Better than, sometimes.

Rare is the script I don’t want to put down, but how often have we stayed up until 3am to get to the last chapter of a 100k fic? And it’s not even a fan fic author’s day job.  This is what they do on the side.  In their spare time.  For free.

So my point is, fan fic authors, you’re good.  You’re good writers and great storytellers.  I know it doesn’t always feel like it, especially if you’re one of the authors who’s not a BNF and doesn’t get the notes/hits that a few do.  And  because some people still view fic as “not real writing.” You guys know the shit that gets made into movies.  You’re better than that.  So be better than that.  If writing is what you think want to do, then just know you’re already doing it.   You’ve already started.

And you’re more talented than you might think.

—my flower, withered between pages two and three.

The smell of coffee and the patter of the rain against the window on an early morning

Can I be added to your billy russo tag list please 🙏

Absolutely! 💜

Ben Barnes

things to do when your day's been bad

lie down on the floor beside your bed

take a shower, use the good soap

listen to a song you liked ages ago

write your thoughts out in all caps

draw a head and then 'decorate' that head however you're feeling (I drew a man with a hole for a face. It worked)

listen to a song and try to focus on one (1) instrument at a time, baseline, drums, guitar, another guitar, repeating sound effect

wash your face

take a nap or go to bed early

call someone. tell them about your horrible day or let them talk about theirs or both

go through your camera roll (specifically the screenshots folder)

go through your saved instagram posts / tumblr likes

watch That One Really Great Live Performance of That Artist You Love, then read the comments of everyone having great taste like you do

cry a little about it

remember that this day will end and another will begin. it'll be all new, never experienced before, no bad things will have happened, and you'll be okay.