MM/OFC
Her love is his pain. It makes him feel in a way that he never intended. He sees everyone as mechanical. She sees everyone for who they really are. They're polar opposites but fit together like matching puzzle pieces. Follow along through the...
"You took it better than I thought," Marilyn remarks as he gazes at my reflection in the mirror, admiring my first tattoo.
I grin, feeling proud of the ink. "I can't wait to show Bowie. He's going to flip."
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It's been a couple of weeks since we arrived in L.A. Marilyn has been busy in the studio late into the night, so today he surprised me with a visit to a tattoo shop. While he was already getting inked, I succumbed to the encouragement of everyone in the shop and decided to get one too. With Bowie's music playing in the background, I chose a lyric that resonated with me.
I won't deny that it hurt because it did. But seeing how perfect the tattoo turned out, it was totally worth the pain. Marilyn opted for some green one-eyed gremlin on his arm, a choice I'll never fully comprehend, but hey, it's his life and body.
"Let me see," he says, stepping closer.
Turning toward him, I allow him to inspect the tattoo. "Badass. Do you really know Bowie? I mean, I know your dad does, but..."
"I met him when I was a kid. He's pretty cool and loves it when his fans get his lyrics tattooed. Maybe I'll get another soon. Something from Labyrinth," I fib a little, still admiring the fresh ink in the mirror.
I hear him chuckle behind me. "Now you're hooked. Your dad was right."
"Shut it..." I playfully retort, sticking my tongue out at him. "Thanks for letting me hold your hand."
Yes, I did need a bit of comfort during the process, and I have no shame.
"Thanks for holding mine," he replies with a tug of his lips. Then, his growling stomach interrupts, making me laugh. "I'm starving."
Reaching out, I take his hand and suggest, "Let's go to the grocery store. I'll make us a good dinner tonight."
His eyes light up at the idea. "Sounds perfect."
We leave the tattoo shop and head to a nearby grocery store. As we walk through the aisles, picking out ingredients for dinner, Marilyn's hand never leaves mine. It's a small gesture, but it means the world to me.
Back at the apartment, I set to work in the kitchen. Cooking is one of the few things that help me relax, and today is no exception. Marilyn watches me with a mix of amusement and admiration, occasionally helping out when I ask.
"What's on the menu tonight, chef?" he asks, leaning against the counter.
"Spaghetti carbonara and a side salad," I reply, concentrating on chopping the vegetables. "It's one of my favorites."
"I can't wait," he says, stealing a piece of bell pepper from the cutting board.
I swat at his hand playfully. "Hey, those are for the salad!"
