#mere... years away from the real shit

[talesfromthecrypts]

Followers’ Favorite Vampire Countdown

15. Akasha - The Vampire Chronicles

She is the Queen of the Damned, and the Damned can't live without her.

[lottiies]

LIKE A LITTLE PIECE OF HEAVEN

→ Sneaking around with your grandparents’ ranch hand during the summer!

CW: x Fem!reader with she/her pronouns, starts with fluff and turns into smut, switch!Leon, dry humping, cowgirl, butterfly (i think that’s the position name?), fingering, short hold the moan snippet, reader wears a sundress at one point, mention of a palm injury via a cut

WC: 1.8k

NOTE: written just for fun to entertain myself during an excruciatingly long car ride, sorry that it’s fast paced </3 title lyric is from ‘tulsa jesus freak’ also i tried my best at a southern accent for him okay

MASTERLINK

You always complained whenever your parents sent you on your annual trip to your grandparents’ place. Mosquitoes ran rampant and a prayer whilst holding hands was mandatory before every meal. Summer was supposed to be a break so you could be lazy in bed all day, but now you had to go help tend to the animals.

Sure, farm animals are cute and all…but gushing over how adorable they are is much different from actually taking care of them. So much for that ‘Charlotte’s Web’ childhood dream of yours, none of the pigs are like Wilbur!

But you had a change of attitude when you went the summer after your freshman year of college. Upon your arrival, your suitcase was hauled by strong skin-kissed hands, like if your packed belongings weighed a mere pound.

Looking up, your eyes met irises that rivaled the beauty of the ocean.

Oh.

You almost had to physically lift your jaw back up to introduce yourself. Then you ran upstairs to bury your face into your pillow.

Leon Kennedy. Would his last name suit your first name? Or vice versa? Jesus.

That first summer was full of fleeting glances and flirtatious conversation. There was something romantic about being in a space far away from civilization. Like you were in your own little universe with him whenever the two of you snuck around. During dinners, you always nudged at his leg with your boot to mess with him, liking the way he cleared his throat to ward off a smile.

And maybe you relied on silly methods to see if your feelings for him were reciprocated.

Pluck.

He likes me.

Pluck.

He likes me not.

Pluck.

He likes me.

Pluck.

He likes me not.

Pluck. Last one.

He likes me!!!

Childish excitement coursed through you, an instantaneous smile on your face. You thanked Mother Nature for giving you the answer you wanted.

You also thanked the Sun every day for gifting freckles to Leon. One day, you held onto his face and tried to count them all. Squinting your eyes, you counted aloud, missing the way he looked at you with nothing but sweetness in his gaze.

The world around you was muted, as if the cows standing behind the fence had stopped mooing just for the sake of your concentration.

“Sure this is gonna work? Listen, I’ve always been an optimistic fella but—“

“Shh, you’re distracting me.” After a beat, you groaned. “Fuck I lost count. Okay, hold still for real this time.”

“Sure, doll.” She’s real cute, he thought to himself.

Or that one time when the Sun’s beams were too hot and made Leon take his hat off so he could pour a fresh bucket of water on his head. You felt so betrayed at the sight.

“You’re shitting me!”

“What?”

“Your roots…” Not very polite, but you pointed at his hair. “I thought you were blonde. Like, born blonde.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He hid his amusement with a shrug, lowering his head to give you a better look. “Haven’t had time to dye it.”

And of course, you owed the Moon some gratitude for being an audience member to a memory you cherished. If said memory could be physically stored, you’d keep it on a frame so you could rewatch the moment your relationship blossomed.

The confession came when two heartbeats aligned, two bodies snuggled against each other on top of the roof. Leon gazed at you as if you hung up the stars and moon that were beautifully assorted in the sky, the same ones he had admired all alone prior to you coming here. He never thought he’d have a pretty woman wanting to get to know him.

“This is crazy…I can actually see the constellations out here.” Your words were a murmur, the glimmering dots above reflecting in your pupils.

“And ya couldn’t back at home?”

“Pfft. With all the pollution in the city? Not a chance.”

“Yeah? Mus’ be a special night for ya, then.”

It was. But not because of the view, rather, because of the handsome guy holding you close like you were his girlfriend.

“Yeah, it is.”

A hat was placed onto your head. His hat.

You broke your admiration of the stars, turning to look at him instead. The tip of his nose brushed against yours, suddenly his hand was cupping the side of your face. His skin was scarred and calloused against yours, a physical manifestation of how different his lifestyle was from yours.

Books always made it seem like butterflies would be swarming in your stomach at moments like these. But you felt calm. This was fate, it was supposed to happen. And who were you to deny the universe’s pull and Cupid’s arrow?

Leon was a gentleman first and foremost. “Can I…?”

“Mhm.”

Your first kiss was witnessed by the moon.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

You kept in touch through letters. Leon was old fashioned, and very rarely did he pick up his cheap flip phone when you tried giving him a call. Something about his phone always being stored away, he hardly used the thing anyway. He already had the task of picking up the mail, so it wasn’t like your grandpa or grandma would get it.

You didn’t mind much. There was something endearing about sending letters, running to the mail like you were a dog fetching the weekly newspaper. It was hard to imagine his voice sometimes when reading his letters because he wrote all properly, it didn’t match his accent.

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to send another letter. I accidentally cut my hand when fixing up a fence and it took a while to heal, it left a scar. I’m okay though, promise. Just don’t want you to think I forgot about you or anything like that. Your grandpa was real nice about it, he gave me some time off, he’s got a kind heart. And your grandma kept cooking up some soup…said it would help me heal quicker. Not sure if it’s true, but it left my stomach happy and that counts for something.

The entire time I was resting, I found myself thinking of you. Would you have patched my hand up if you were here? Kissed my pain away?

Every time I look at the moon, I wonder if you are too.”

You always traced over his handwriting with an unclicked pen before proceeding to leave a kiss mark on the corner of the page and putting it in your stored pile.

Summer became the highlight of your years. You actually packed cute clothes now, flowy sundresses and some matching undergarments you wouldn’t mind Leon seeing. Of course, you also bought some riding gear, wanting to partake in his hobbies too.

The instant you were back at the farm and the two of you were alone, Leon grabbed you by the hips and pressed you up against the outdoor wall of the house, smiling at you all coyly.

“Missed ya. Shoulda jus’ stayed here with me.”

“Thought you liked me for pursuing a higher education?” Your grin matched his. Maybe after you got your degree you’d join him more often.

“Mhm.” God, that intellect of yours was sexy. He could listen to you ramble about your ambitions for ages. “Wish that college of yers was nearby, though.”

“That makes two of us…I missed you too, by the way.” Your lips inched closer to his. “A lot.”

His cheeks turned roseate, his heart thumping as fast as the hooves of a bronco at a rodeo. “…Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so unsure! Need me to show you?”

“I’d appreciate that, y’know how I am.” Leon wasn’t the most self assured, having been worried you’d find some college guy to get with.

All it took was some more sweet talking and daring touches on your end before he hoisted one of your legs up with your permission, the fabric of your dress lifting and bunching around your hips, the plush of your ass pressed against the weathered down paint of the walls.

He let you set the pace, keeping you steady as you bucked your hips against him, your panties soaking from the friction of his rough denim jeans. Your mouths clashed messily out of pent up desperation.

It didn’t go farther than dry humping, though.

Leon made sure your first time with him was more planned out, not wanting it to be in some confined space or rushed. You rode him until dawn, your knees meeting the soft blanket he laid down against the grass with each roll of your hips.

“Ah ah ah. Slow, sweetheart, slow.” He pleaded in a throaty voice, you were killing him, milking him over and over.

“Fuck…okay.” You slowed your pace, your breaths mingling when you rested your forehead against his.

“That’s it. Like that.”

And after that, there were more spontaneous times.

You wanted to get dicked down on your mattress so that’s what Leon gave you, if only your bed wasn’t so fucking squeaky. He had to put pillows behind your headboard.

“Shh…gotta be quiet f’me.” His hand covered your mouth, muting the moans that almost spilled from your mouth.

Leon wouldn’t live to see another day if his boss found his sweet granddaughter’s ankles hugging his neck and her toes all curled.

You ran your nails against his scalp, turning his hair into a mess, taking advantage of the fact he didn’t have a hat indoors. He bit down on his lip harshly to prevent himself from groaning aloud. Yeah, he had to climb out your window after that.

You almost got caught once inside one of the rundown abandoned stalls that was in need of some fixing. You were sitting betweens Leon’s spread legs, his hand down your pants. His palm gently smacked your clit with every push of his fingers inside your cunt. Open-mouthed kisses grazed your neck, making you loll your head to the side.

If only your granddaddy hadn’t interrupted.

“Son, ya in here?” Some incoherent grumbles before he got to the point, thankfully giving you some time to smack Leon’s hand away, snickering at the expression on his face — like he was about to be put six feet under. “Need yer help with the pipe I was tellin’ ya about earlier.”

“‘m on it.” Leon called out after pecking your lips, but there was a crack in his voice that left you silently giggling as he got up and wiped his fingers on his pants. He seemed so embarrassed, sparing you an apologetic glance and then tipping his hat down to hide his flustered expression from his boss.

But who knows, your grandparents adored Leon. One day he’d muster up the courage to tell them he was sweet on you, or maybe they’d catch the two of you holding hands under the dinner table.

Either way, you were no mere summer fling, and he let that be known by adorning your finger with a shiny promise ring.

[noistanaccount]

Ryoko Kui Does Not Believe in Epiphanies (or: why Marcille and Mithrun's endings are great actually)

I have seen a couple of people who are upset about the way that Mithrun and Marcille's stories were resolved so I'm writing this to clear some things up. Ryoko Kui does not believe in epiphanies. An epiphany is a sudden and usually brief realization, an "aha" moment. Epiphanies are emotionally powerful moments. Both Marcille and Mithrun have powerful moments of realization, epiphanies.

Whether or not you like these resolutions, there's something you need to understand, Ryoko Kui does not put that much stock into these moments. Immediately after Marcille has her realization, Tansu responds like this:

While this is mostly his own opinion, what he is pointing out is that epiphanies are brief, they are singular moments that do not define a life. Life is long, and epiphanies do not sustain you. Marcille might feel like this now, but what about tomorrow? what about nex year? ten years, a hundred years, five hundred years from now? How often have you felt a sudden understanding? a burst of inspiration, or perhaps a realization that everything is pointless? It generally passes quickly, and you make dinner, and go to bed.

Think about the best meal you have ever had, it was probably a special occasion, maybe it felt like something magical, in the moment you might have felt like your life was changed. Then, in the morning you were hungry, so you ate breakfast. You cooked, you did the dishes, you went on with your life. What "meaning" did that meal have if you were hungry again the next day? Mithrun has to rebuild everything, every day he has to come up with new desires to do the very basics. None of it comes naturally, he has to find a reason to eat beyond being hungry, a reason to want to do anything when he doesn't want anything. Ryoko Kui tells us outright, that there is no magical solution:

The same thing applies to Ryoko Kui's representation of racism in dungeon meshi. Around when the orcs appeared in the anime I saw people gripeing about the way racism is treated. They seemed to think that Laios's party having dinner with the orcs was presented as them "solving" racism. Once again people misunderstand, they did not solve racism in a single moment. A few people, understood each other a little better, came to an arrangement and then parted. This was merely a moment in their lives. The characters continue to do micro-agressions, hold stereotypes, and have implicit biases. In dungeon meshi, characters don't suddenly stop being racist in the course of an evening. Life is a process, learning about others is a process, it's about the accumulation of experiences through the meat and potatoes of life, the daily activities that we actually fill our lives with, not the sudden realizations. Once you make learning about and living with other people into part of your routine, once it is embodied, then it is part of your life.

This is the real conclusion: life is not lived in a state of epiphany. Life is about chores, cooking, eating, shitting, working, and sleeping, it's everyday. Life is about doing simple things and doing them well. An epiphany is a useful tool for telling the reader that everything is going to be alright, we love to read epiphanies and be swept up in them. They can also be a breaking of a pattern, an escape from a spiral.

This is the other take away, it's about the people you do those things with, the way they rub off on you, the way they help you be human. For Mithrun and Marcille their paths would be impossible without other people pushing them back on the path as they stray. Mithrun literally would starve to death except for the thought that kabru and others don't want him to. Eating is a communal activity, so is living, you can have an epiphany on your own; you can't live on your own.

[aenramsden]

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

[emmyrosee]

 Hiiii, I have a request. Imagine a highschool AU where reader has a massive crush on Sukuna but she thinks he has a thing with Uraume, but he actually likes her. Ok ok, so hear me out. Reader is childhood friends with Yuuji and Sukuna and she notices how Sukuna and Uraume have been hanging out a lot. So she asks Yuuji if Sukuna is going to prom and he says yes, and that he is probably going with Uraume. So reader is sad and doesn't want to go to prom anymore even after already buy her dress. Buttt, the day before prom, Sukuna and Reader end up talking and she mentions how he and Uraume are going together and he is confused.  Then they both confess and end up going together. Pleaseeeeee make this as angsty as possible, I love me some good angst😫

THIS IS SO CUTEEEE-

Bro this is so long yaLL GET A SNACK- I never had a senior prom this is my venting PFFFFF-

I do want to make a disclaimer! To make this fic work I had to go and use an American based school system, where traditionally seniors are 18, can drive, and eat in cafeterias. For those about to comment my inaccuracies, thank you!

—-

Sukuna has been a little more than preoccupied lately.

He, who once would spend every afternoon driving you and yuuji home, who would blast your favorite music and take you to McDonald’s for a soda, has been more than busy with someone new.

You don’t know where she came from, hell you’ve known the two of them for years, yet this is the first you’ve ever really heard of the being known as Uraume.

“They’ve actually been friends for years,” yuuji had told you. “I’m surprised you never really met her- though she’s pretty shy. Only close with sukuna, honestly.”

Yeah. Real close.

Within just a few weeks, Uraume has snagged your place as Sukuna’s number one. No longer does he stand outside your class to carry your books to the next. Your front seat privileges go to her. He plays her favorite songs. He drops you off at home before taking her to god knows where to do god knows what. And yuuji is blind to this change, merely glad his best friend is sitting in the back seat with him, all the while it tears you up on the inside.

And it isn’t until you catch a beefy hand shift to hold Uraume’s that you realize it’s over. Your heart shatters, your lip wobbles, and you turn your body to face away from the disgusting sight.

“You okay?” Yuuji asks, gently nudging you with the tips of his fingers, and when you look up to peek at Sukuna’s frame once again, you catch his eyes looking at you in the rear view. You sigh and turn your gaze away.

“What’s wrong, brat?” He asks, and you could throw up when Uraume turns in her seat to look at you too.

She looks genuinely concerned, and you could punch her for it.

“Just… take me home, Sukuna,” you murmur.

“But we’re getting pizza!” Yuuji whines. “I don’t want you to miss out!”

You smile and gently pat his leg, “don’t worry about me, yuuji. I’m just getting car sick.”

Car sick enough you don’t car pool with him anymore.

You’re back to taking the bus, curled on your seat to stay out of other people’s way, leaving home about 45 minutes earlier than you would’ve with Sukuna. It makes you skip breakfast and washing your face, barely giving you enough time to get into clean clothes and head off onto the day.

But it’s better than seeing them interact, a crush and potential romance brewing right in your eyesight. You never told him how you were getting to school, either, not in the mood for his attempts to change your mind or force you otherwise.

Until-

“You’ve been taking the fucking bus?”

There’s a loud bark that rings through the halls of school, people moving out of the way for the one and only sukuna to come barreling down it, some looking in worry, others with their eyes rolling in their skull.

You sigh and close your locker, leaning against it, “did yuuji finally tell you?”

“No, and I’m going to beat the shit out of him for not telling me,” he snarls, leaning in close. “Do you know how fucking dangerous the bus can be?”

You roll your eyes, “people take the bus every day, Sukuna.”

“Yeah. Not you. Not anymore. I drive you. You know that.”

“Not anymore,” you grumble. He cocks a brow in challenge and you roll your eyes, “I have no interest in being in a car with you.”

“Who fucking shit in your oatmeal this morning?” He snaps. “You’ve had a punk ass attitude for the past two weeks, what the fuck happened?”

“Maybe im just not into being babied anymore?” You lie. He furrows his brows and licks his lips as the bell rings.

“This isn’t over. We’re not done.”

“I am!” You sing.

You’ve never had a day at school drag like today has.

Classes have never felt longer, teachers have never talked slower, and the clock has never ticked drowsier. It physically causes your head to pound and your stomach to become nauseous, and agony courses though your veins as the lunch bell rings.

It’s only lunch.

You manage to shuffle your way out to the cafeteria to meet your friends, two who cheer happily at your arrival and one who offers you a nod of acknowledgment. You plop down next to Fushiguro and rub your temples.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuji asks, and you flash him a small smile.

“I just don’t feel well.”

“You haven’t felt well in days,” he points out, “I hope you’ll be alright for tomorrow night!”

Tomorrow night.

Prom is tomorrow night.

You scrub your face with your hands, “I’ll feel better once I eat, yuuji. Don’t worry,” you say quietly.

The drumming of Nobara’s nails on the table don’t help the growing migraine in your skull, and you try your best to drown out the noise of so many people and so many thoughts and so many feelings about your argument with sukuna that you feel like you could throw up straight on this table.

Kugisaki grimaces, “I told your brother to be here today to talk about prom,” she says, poking her juice open with a straw. “He’s late.”

“He’s not late,” yuuji says, pointing a finger at a table just a few down. “He’s over there, with Uraume.”

The minute every vowel passes Yuuji’s lips, a shiver trails down your spine, filling your entire being with heaviness and hatred. You don’t dare look over your shoulder, instead you grab a grape from Fushiguro’s lunch to munch on. He nudges the small container closer, and you take another green grape from him.

“Besides,” Yuuji continues, taking a bite of his lunch, “I’m 98% sure Sukuna’s going with her. Something about her friend group and car pooling, I figured we could catch a ride with someone else.”

Your heart stops completely.

The man you’d assumed you were going with, the man you’d been in love with for years, is taking someone else, the day before prom.

“He WHAT!” Kugisaki snaps, and next to you, Fushiguro laces his pinky finger with yours, squeezing softly to keep you grounded. “Oh! The fucking nerve! I knew he was a piece of shit, but THIS?! Oh, Itadori, why couldn’t you have your license!”

“Hey! Why don’t you!”

“Kugisaki,” Fushiguro says softly. “Him being a scumbag is nothing new. But,” you feel blue eyes focus on the side of your head. “Let’s be a little more gentle about this, okay?”

From behind you, there’s a set of laughter that eases its way over the cafeteria, and you wish it was literally anyone else’s, anyone’s other than Uraume’s, and you hate how light and airy it sounds.

How pretty.

“I know for a fact Sukuna’s not that funny,” Kugisaki grumbles, but all you do is pick at your food and silently pretend to agree with your friend.

Sukuna is funny. Sukuna is so funny it hurts, it brings tears to your eyes and your sides and stomach to hurt, and even though you share him everyday, it hurts now to share him with her.

“Man, she’s laughing real hard,” Yuuji says, taking a sip of his water, his head turned to watch his brother interact with his friend. “Wonder what he said.”

“Yuuji,” Megumi warns.

Yuuji chuckles to himself, “it’s almost like they’re feeding off of each other, it’s kinda sweet.”

“Yuuji.”

“-and I mean, Sukuna’s usually not so open and friendly, let alone cracking jokes. It’s cute-“

“ITADORI!”

Megumi snaps hard enough at his friend to make him shut up, and when yuuji finally turns back to face you, your bottom lip wobbles and you play more with your food. Tears pour down your face, as Kugisaki reaches over to rest a hand on yours, sympathy in her gaze. “Yeah,” you sniffle. “It’s cute.” The hand not being cradled by Kugisaki comes up to wipe your tears, and before you know it, your legs stand up and carry you straight to the bathroom, locking yourself in a stall where you’re able to finally let it go. You cradle yourself in comfort, eyes screwed shut as you sob every fiber of your soul out.

Kugisaki calls your name once, twice, then she sighs, “come on. Let’s talk this out, okay?”

“I’m not going to prom,” you confess. “Not if he’s going with her.”

“You don’t know if he is, though,” she argues, leaning against your stall door. “And if he is, and he fumbles the best thing that ever happened to him, he doesn’t deserve your tears.”

There’s another person that enters the bathroom, and you hear Kugisaki scoff. “You’re like, a thousand percent not supposed to be in here.”

“Bite me,” the voice snaps, and it doesn’t take long to decode it as Sukuna’s. Your hand claps over your mouth to silence your tears, not wanting him to hear you. “I thought she was crying, I wanted to check on her.”

“She’s fine. Shoo.”

“Kugisaki-“

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” she snaps, and you close your swollen eyes as she defends your honor. “Because we’re not. Don’t act like you care at all about me or her, or her peace or her business. So fucking beat it, before I snitch you out to the principal, then no one’s fucking happy.”

You hear sukuna exhale in annoyance, “just… text me, okay?” He says, and you know he’s talking to you.

“She’ll think about it,” Kugisaki growls. Once the big footprints are out of earshot, you slowly ease your way out of the stall and straight into Kugisaki’s arms, “I know honey, I know,” she soothes, hugging you tight. “You deserve so much better, babydoll. Fuck him.”

“He led me on for months,” you wail. “And he tossed me to the side like a fucking piece of trash. For her.”

“And that’s why you should go to prom,” she argues, pulling back to look at you, eyes soft in understanding. “You don’t need him to have fun- you’ve got friends who are dying to go with you. And you want to make him real jealous?” She asks, and you quirk your brow in intrigue.

She smirks, “go with Fushiguro.”

You sniffle and shake your head, “I cant do that to Fushiguro. Im not going to use him as a pawn to make Sukuna want me again. It’s not fair.”

Kugisaki nods and clicks her tongue, “why don’t you get a note from the nurse and go home for the day?” She encourages, and you ponder the idea in your head.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea… to go home and process the day, figure out what to do about prom, maybe even return the dress for your money back. You sigh shakily and nod your head before the bathroom door bursts open again, emerging a yuuji whose hands are clasped over his eyes. “Just wanted to bring you your backpack!”

You snort and wipe your nose, “thank you, Yuuji.”

“You’re welcome!” He shifts his fingers to peek at you, lifting the middle one to make eye contact, “so… sorry we didn’t get to talk about prom.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, ushering them both out of the bathroom. “I’m… I’m probably not going anyways.”

“WHAT!” He whines, his hands coming down to his sides in a saddened pout. “But! It’s senior prom! We have to go!”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I haven’t felt up for it since we made the plan to go. Maybe I’m just not supposed to.” When Fushiguro appears from the men’s bathroom and approaches the group, you flash him a sweet smile, “but I want you guys to still go!”

“Well if you’re not going, I’m not going!” Yuuji proclaims.

Fushiguro shakes his head, “if this is about prom, I won’t go either. We can chill at our houses instead-“

“EVERYONE IS GOING TO PROM!” Kugisaki barks, causing more than a few heads to turn in the hall. Then, she sighs, “we’re all old now. This is it. Our last chance of good memories from this shit fuck of a school. Everyone is going. Period.”

“But-“

“We’ll talk it out later,” you say quickly, noticing the duo of Sukuna and Uraume heading to the vending machines together. “I’m going home. Someone take notes for me.”

“Will do,” Fushiguro calls out for you. You feel three pairs of eyes boring into the back of your skull, but you couldn’t care less.

Not when you’re left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

Getting out of school was easy enough. Working up an excuse that you’re dizzy and need to be rushed home. It’s getting home that sucked.

Before, Sukuna was your ride home when you were sick, cutting classes to get you back to your home so you could take care of yourself and get plenty of rest. Now, you stand at a public bus stop, earbuds in your ears, and you wait. You’ve done this route plenty of times by now, courtesy of Sukuna’s front seat being taken by her.

The ride is quiet enough, your head resting against the cool glass of the window as your phone buzzes violently.

sukuna 💪🏻 Where the fuck did you go?

No seriously wtf

This shit with Fushiguro taking notes for you? The fucks up with that?

Why’d you even leave?

You think you can ignore me?

This isn’t over. Once this bell rings?

I’m hunting you down.

You ignore his threats and let the bus carry you home, your exhausted legs finishing the trip up and into the familiar confines of your house. You’ve got at least two hours before sukuna makes good on his word, and you decide to take that time to take care of yourself- something your heart has been too tired to do since Uraume came into your life uninvited.

After a hot shower, some skin care and topped with some pretty perfume, you make your way to the living room, stopping briefly for a snack from the kitchen.

You put on a movie, but your phone won’t stop buzzing. It’s Sukuna, it’s always going to be Sukuna, and you merely turn it on Do Not Disturb.

If ignoring his texts wouldn’t get him pissed, that certainly would.

But you don’t care. Not anymore.

There’s a ferocious knocking on the door that snaps you out of your zone, and it doesn’t take you long to render the intense energy as Sukuna’s. You pause your movie and shrug your blanket off, making your way to the front door.

Your hands tingle and your heart pounds at the idea of confrontation, but you figure you have nothing to lose as you open the door, revealing an annoyed Sukuna, foot tapping impatiently.

“You think you can hide from me?” he snaps, and you roll your eyes and try to close the door. Sukuna merely jams his foot in the frame to stop you. “Stop fucking around with me, and talk to me. And what’s this bullshit of Yuuji telling me you’re not going to prom?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” you say blankly, but all that does is aggravate him more, and he uses a big hand to force the door open more. The act would be attractive to you, had your heart not been torn into pieces by him. “Don’t break my door.”

“Don’t ignore my goddamned texts!” He barks. You scoff and step back inside your house, where he swiftly follows you. “You’re acting like a fucking child.”

“IM ACTING LIKE A CHILD?” You screech, loud enough where even Sukuna’s eyes widen. “Me? After this entire week where you’ve picked your new best friend to cling to, IM THE CHILD?”

“Yes!” He snaps. “What, I can’t have other friends?”

“You seemed pretty content with the one,” you chuckle. “Certainly didn’t need me to keep you entertained.”

“It’s not my fault that Uraume’s been hanging out with me more,” he says, crossing his big arms. “You just can’t handle sharing me once in a while? Are you that insecure?”

This, has you wincing back, his words making you nauseous and tears bite at your waterline, stinging painfully as you finally blink a line down. He takes a deep inhale and cards a massive hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean that-“

“Fuck. You.”

“Look-“

“No, you look, Sukuna,” you growl, hands coming up to shove him hard. “You don’t get to gaslight me into thinking I’m being dramatic, after you’ve completely thrown me to the side and neglected me for the week. You don’t get to make me feel like the bad guy after you led me on for months on end, only to chase after another girl. You don’t get to break my heart, and demand me to piece it back together, only to try and guilt me for protecting my peace! FUCK! YOU!”

“Led you on for what?” He asks, confusion replacing annoyance, but aggregation still in his tone. “The fuck are you spewing?” You reach up to shove him again; this time, he grips your shoulders to make you steady, “are you out of your fucking mind? There is no other girl!”

“Oh, yeah,” you scoff, your voice tight with tears. “You just hold every broad’s hand in front of me. You just rest your hand onto every girl’s thigh, clearly. My bad, Sukuna.”

“I never held her hand, I moved her hand from my thigh, you weren’t fucking paying attention!”

“Yeah? What about not walking me to class anymore? Not carrying my books for me? Not sitting next to me anymore, instead going to be with her?”

His brows furrow, and there’s nothing you’d like more than to smack the expression clean off of his face. “Doll, Uraume is a friend. That’s it!”

“Yeah? Then what does that make us?”

“Everything!” He yells, the plates rattling and doors creaking from the force. The tears in your eyes still as you stare up at him, whimpering and shaking in his grip.

“What…?”

He sighs in exhaustion, “are you so dense you don’t notice just how obsessed with you I am? The minute someone else comes into my life, you’re blind to that?”

“Sukuna-“

“I’ve fought Fushiguro over you,” he continues. “I’ve argued with teachers for being late to walk you to your class. I’ve gotten pulled over speeding to your house to be with you. I’ve fucking been here, wanting you, but I was waiting for you to be ready.”

“Well, you’ve sure had a hell of a time proving it,” you snip, and he grits his teeth to ground himself. “Talking to another girl, taking her to prom-“

“I’m not taking her to prom, I’m taking you!”

“Then why have you been ignoring me!”

Your words are silenced as he grabs you by the chin and pulls you in for a kiss, the broken bits of your soul and heart snapping back together. Your brain stops and your stomach swirls, but your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, keeping him close. He tastes like orange soda and feels comforting like a freshly washed blanket, his band tee getting fisted in your hand as your other one plays with the hair of his buzz cut. He shivers, his arms hug around your waist, panting into your mouth before hesitantly pulling back.

He leans down to your ear, “listen carefully. I’m not taking Uraume. I’m taking you. Uraume is a friend. That’s it. Once I tell her we’re together, she’ll back off, and we’re going to be fine. I’ve been ‘ignoring you’ because I figured you wanted space, but I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Got it?” You sniffle and burrow your face in his chest, letting his big arms wrap around you and keep you safe. He presses another kiss to the crown of your head, and you feel your mind go fuzzy at the moment he cradles you close.

“Missed my annoying brat of a crush. Driving to school was so fucking boring,” he says, and you scoff against him and wipe your nose on his shirt. “Ugh. Ew.”

“You’re supposed to find me pretty no matter what,” you sniffle. “Even if I use you as a tissue.”

“Maybe, just don’t use me as a tissue?” He snickers, and when you loosen and laugh yourself, he gently pulls back to look at you.

“C’mon. Show me your dress. Need to know what color tie I’m getting.”

“You want to match with me?” You whimper.

He smirks, “Kugisaki already hates me. You think she’s going to let us not matching slide?”

“You’re so right.”

[moonlight-prose]

FIRST LOVE IN THE LATE SPRING AIR

a/n: guess who is back on her joel miller shit again. i had the image of young joel possibly in love and just starting out and had to run with it. after not writing for him for some time, i really did miss this grumpy man. i do have a few fics in the works for him so hopefully this fixation lasts some time. this is an unedited jumble of words so enjoy! divider by the incredible @saradika-graphics.

summary: in the late spring air with summer setting like the sun, life with joel suddenly becomes clear.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, fluff, domesticity, she wrote something without angst y'all, allusions to possibly an apocalypse but not really, mentions of pregnancy (don't worry), joel miller being a fucking softie, they're just so in love it's sick.

His sheets clung to your already warm body, molding to the bare skin that scratched along the wrinkled cheap cotton. You asked why he never bought something better, he claimed he didn’t mind how it felt. Of course, that’s how it usually went. Your questions, answered with sarcasm layered in anguish. He never bought more because he never thought he deserved it.

You ignored it for his sake—never pushing further than necessary; he felt like a stone wall at times, and you were the person searching for his cracks. A place to set your hammer into place and swing.

The sun cast shadows in the darkened room, his curtains pulled away to expose the already open window. He was helping his mom fix the air conditioner; you were sweating beneath his covers. The dichotomy felt wrong—too domestic for you to swallow. Yet you drank it down like cold water straight from the tap, already addicted to the way it chilled your insides and pooled in your stomach.

It never occurred to you that the things you did for love would feel silly in ten years time.

But that was in ten years. And this was now.

“I can feel you,” he mumbled into his crushed pillow squished between his arm and cheek. 

You’d been scooting away from him for the past ten minutes. Not because you desired distance—quite the opposite—you couldn’t fathom the way his skin gave off heat. He was a fire waiting to burn you, singe the hair on your arm and beg for more to consume. You were merely asking for reprieve from the suffocating way he felt atop you in the middle of the night.

Spring in Texas was promised to be cool. Sunny air, bright dispositions, and weather you’d find in a luxury brand’s catalog. The kind his mother kept around for you when they arrived in the mail. Yet as soon as May set in, welcoming humanity with open arms and blooming flowers, the heat shoved its way forward. Settling into the air with a vengeance. A promise that you’d suffer through the next few months until you felt defeated enough to beg for winter.

“It’s hot,” you whined, shoving the thin gray sheet off your body. “I need a cold shower.”

“Mm.” His arm slid beneath the covers, tanned skin and already rough fingers reaching out to find you. “Sounds like a good idea.”

You bit back your smile and scooched even closer to the edge of the mattress—your leg halfway off and nearly to the floor. “I meant for me.”

The mess of rumpled brown hair shot up from his pillow, hazy brown eyes catching you in the snare of their web. “You’d leave me outta that?”

“Joel—”

“Cold water and you naked?” He shook his head, flipping onto his back and sitting up before you could get both feet on the floor. “Sorry darlin’. Ain’t happenin’.”

“You’ll distract me.”

He smiled all lazy and warm. Enough to have you considering your chances of braving the overheated bed sheets that still clung to your thigh. Joel in the morning wasn’t a sight to forget so quickly. He looked like he’d been dragged from sleep roughly, as if he’d rather spend hours more in the unconscious state than out with the real world. But when he gazed at you like this—eyes glassy with sleep and lips curled into a soft smile—you finally understood why people died for the ones they love.

“That’s the point.”

How could you argue? When he practically pleaded with you through his gaze alone. His hand grabbed ahold of your upper thigh, fingers digging into the warm flesh in order to yank you closer. Fighting his strength was no use when you were lazy with sleep yourself. Still halfway past the waking point and a dreamland that housed an image of a man who looked oddly like Joel.

Just a few years older.

“What time do you work today?”

He grunted. Awake enough to comprehend you naked, but still far too delirious to realize he’d have to be up in an hour to make it on time. He slept less than he wanted, but on days where the sun was warm and spring beckoned life forward, he didn’t mind so much.

Tommy being away didn’t help the loneliness that had settled on his shoulders within the past few months. His younger brother—the troublemaker. More fuckin’ trouble than he’s worth. Were words Joel was spouting two months ago the night before Tommy’s leave; you caught the pain in his eyes, the dull emptiness that chewed away in his chest.

Despite the multiple jests and bickered words that never quite stuck like they used to—now that they both knew there’d be no time to make up with cheap beer snuck into the backyard and cigarettes Joel claimed weren’t his—Joel would miss his brother.

“Two hours,” he mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

“Then go back to sleep.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re gonna have to get back in.”

“Why?” You rolled your eyes, already reaching for his t-shirt tossed to the side last night when silence gave way to heady looks and soft promises beneath the light of the moon.

“Can’t sleep when you’re not here,” he huffed, falling back into the mess of sheets. “Need to feel you.”

An ache pricked at your heart, barely a nick in the fleshy organ, but you knew you’d feel it in a year's time. When life looked different. When life shined a bit brighter and Joel finally started up his business. When those promises came with a feasible future.

Wordlessly, you climbed back underneath the too warm sheet that immediately settled over you like a muggy cloud. But Joel’s hands sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, appeased whatever discomfort that attempted to push through. As if his touch was a promise of protection against the weather’s strange antics. A warning to be careful not to fall in too deeply. Lest you wind up left with a broken barely beating heart and a hollow space where he once occupied.

“What are you doin’ today?” he breathed, his leg sliding between yours, ankle hooking around the back of your calf.

Your hands found their way into the tendrils of his hair that stuck up in the back—curling with the heat. “The diner opens at ten.”

He hummed. “I’ll be there for breakfast.”

“Mr. Miller, what on Earth will people think of us?”

“That you’re my fuckin’ girl.” His eyes fluttered open, lashes longer than yours yet still dainty against his face. “Besides. We always have breakfast together.”

You hummed, bliss soaring in your heart as you shifted closer. Life with Joel must resemble this. Simplicity in such a small bubble of privacy you already created together. Mornings filled with coffee over a shared newspaper, lunch on the phone, dinner in a kitchen that always needed cleaning. Nights on the couch until one (or both) of you fell asleep, until Joel eventually woke, leading you to the mattress that would engulf your hopes and dreams with open arms.

The promise of domesticity with the knowledge that it would always be more.

“I have a question,” you whispered.

“Uh oh.”

An audible groan echoed in the room when your elbow met his stomach lightly. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Then shoot darlin’.”

“Romantic. Cowboy,” you scoffed. “What’s our life gonna be like in five years?”

He stilled. The hand sliding gently along your hip in soothing motions suddenly a heavy press against your waist. And you could feel the weight in your chest begin to sink like an anchor, settling in your stomach with force. Lead, cannonballs, the pain of intestines twisting and twining. It all hit you like a hurricane rushing to the shore, wiping clean every bit of life in its path. There was no swimming away from it, no catching the path of the torrential waves that sucked you under.

You could only wait, breaths measured and heart racing, as he processed your words.

“Got somethin’ to tell me honey?”

The gravity in his eyes nearly floored you—his meaning slamming into you with enough fervor to make you lose your breath. “No! Fuck. No, no, no, no—”

The solemn way he watched you never wavered, even as you breathed a laugh in the hopes of moving on quickly. “Definitely not that.” You sucked in a breath, lighter than before. “I just meant…what will we be in five years?”

His lips twitched, hand sliding even lower in order to cup your ass. “Hopefully that.”

“Joel—”

“I love you darlin’.” Something familiar—warm like the soothing balm of the sun caressing your skin in the afternoon—bloomed in your chest. Enough to make you nearly tear up. “That ain’t gonna change in one year or five or ten or even twenty.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, curling in so close your lips brushed his. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

He huffed, lips capturing yours briefly as his eyes slid closed. “Can’t get sick of somethin’ I’m addicted to.”

You laughed into the kiss, eyes daring a glimpse at his serene expression. “I’ll hold you to that in twenty years Miller.”

“Good.” His face dug into the crook of your neck, body wrapped around yours. “Means you’ll be around.”

The sheet lay above your heads, forming a haven you had no desire to leave. A space that breathed whispers of a future you could finally form a picture of. What once existed in a dreamscape you often habited on nights spent grasping for more than simply one spring and summer, now turned physical. Slowly shaping that malleable past that led you to right here.

[urhoneycombwitch]

heated touch

foreword: “but Lulu it’s not even summer yet how come you wrote a pool fic” okay first of all global warming. it’s absolutely summer rn. hush up and eat up. 👼

cw: R wears bikini top + skirt, Eddie is Down Bad™️, and is also touchstarved, brief use of the awkward miscommunication trope, R’s baby hairs mentioned but no color or texture, weed mention (Robin is a stoner canon change my mind u can’t), R uses sunscreen (no skin color mentioned), implied plus-sized reader

wc: 3.4k

___

It’s the first real, normal, non-apocalyptic summer that anyone can remember having in a long, long time. 

With the heat index at a sizzling 97 today, various members of the Party have taken over Steve’s half-shaded, half-pool extravaganza of a backyard. The kids are jumping in and out of the bright blue water, splashing and cackling, while you and Robin stretch out like house cats in a sunny patch of grass nearby.

You, mere yards away, in a swim top and sweet little pleated tennis skirt. All that lovely skin on display, glistening in the light. 

And Eddie is sulking, indoors, frozen with lovesickness. There’s condensation dripping from the forgotten can of beer in his left hand; through the window above the kitchen sink, Eddie observes the scene in mournful silence.

“Christ, you really are a pussy.”

Eddie whips around with a glare that would level a normal human being, shushing Steve with a panicked fierceness that only makes the guy chuckle harder at Eddie’s expense. 

“Y’know,” Steve continues with the insults, dipping into the fridge and reappearing with a Fanta and a shit-eating grin- “You might want to try leering like a creep from the garage window. That way no will hear you jack off-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Harrington.” Eddie interrupts with a grade-A scoff and eye roll combo, rivaling Steve’s own bitchiness. “Wasn’t your last successful date back in high school, like, six years ago when you had better hair?”

Steve doesn’t even flinch. With condescending sympathy, he sighs and shakes his head of (beautiful-even-when-wet, damn him) hair, snapping the soda can tab with a flourish. “Might wanna hurry up and make a move. Can’t suppress my charm forever just ‘cuz you’re too chicken to man up- it’s not natural to keep all of this hidden away.”

Steve gestures to the broad expanse of his golden chest, dark thicket of hair sitting proud, the scars that he seems to have no qualms over showing off criss-cross along the flex of muscle at his sides. 

Realistically, Eddie knows Steve wouldn’t go after you, not even as a joke. It would defy the honorable and unmentioned Bro Code they’ve lived by ever since Eddie almost died in an alternate hell dimension and Steve valiantly pulled him back topside. 

Teasing, though? It’s Harrington’s godgiven right- especially since Eddie’s so hopelessly in love. It’s almost too easy to get him riled up, to light a fire under his ass to maybe finally get the situation some forward movement. 

Flames lick at the kindling. Steve walks backwards, shooting Eddie one last finger gun and wink before rejoining the boisterous outdoors crowd. Through the crack Steve’s left in the sliding glass door, Eddie can hear that asshole’s cheery voice ring out- “Lookin’ good, ladies!”- and your subsequent peal of laughter. 

Eddie can feel the heat through the black denim at his ass, sweat rushing to prickle at his pits underneath the light layer of tanktop- the one with a high-necked collar and sides long enough to conceal most of his scars. 

Not that he’s trying to hide ‘em, perse... they’re just sensitive to the sun. Plus his black jeans have holes in them, so they totally count as summer attire. He’s basically wearing shorts right now. Steve can suck it.

“Suck it, Steve,” Eddie grits out to no one for good measure, before taking a steadying gulp of beer and stepping bravely out beyond the glass doors. 

It’s shockingly bright, sun bouncing off the surface of the pool and rendering Eddie momentarily blind; he shields his eyes with his free hand in time to catch the tail end of Sinclair’s mid-air somersault.

“Five,” Max calls out, lounging safely out of the splash zone, waves from Lucas’s cannonball lapping at her pink donut pool float. Thick black prescription sunglasses take up half her face, expression unmoved even as her boyfriend splutters in the deep end.

“Are you kidding?” Lucas is indignant as he huffs and treads water. “Gimme at least an eight. Did you even see the flip?” 

“I saw it.” Unimpressed, Max shrugs a freckled shoulder. While Lucas devolves into swearing out his complaints (already with one elbow planted on the concrete to get out and make another attempt at a higher score), Max zeros in on Eddie, one brow arched high in searing appraisal. “You gonna swim with your boots on, too?”

“I’m- shut up, Red. Nice donut.”

Max’s triumphant smirk confirms what Eddie already knows (he totally bombed that comeback), but if there’s one thing in the world Eddie’s good at, it’s Pretending. A trait forged and perfected over the years of being reigning Dungeon Master; it’s served him well during D&D sessions, and when running from the law. 

And it’s coming in handy now, too, as Eddie walks past Steve (half-snoozing in a lounger) and the table of Baby Byers and Wheeler Jr. (playing an intense game of Slapjack), pretending to be totally Normal and Chill as he approaches you and Robin, a ways off from the bustling pool.

Go with what you know, Eddie tells himself, because if he focuses for more than two seconds on the fact that you’re stretched prone, sunlight filtering through the big tree overhead and illuminating the soft curves of your thighs just visible under the Spandex hem of your skirt, he’s gonna have a pressing issue that will be anything but pretend.

Robin’s lying on her back on the beach towel next to yours, a tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice held up close, obscuring her field of vision. Using this to his advantage, Eddie crouches on his haunches, then leans in to press his cold can of beer to the tender arch of Robin’s bare foot.

She yelps, kicking out on instinct (which Eddie was expecting). He manages to take the brunt of the hit with a forearm block, but doesn’t see the paperback coming until it’s hitting the side of his face.

“Ow, christ, Buckley,” he moans, slumping to sit on Robin’s towel, hamming up the victim act for your sake and sympathy while Robin snatches up her book and gives him another solid thwack, pages fluttering.

At the commotion, you’d lifted your head from your arms, leaning into them now with the weight of your upper half. Eddie tries really, really valiantly to not stare at your swimsuit top (practically a bra), and instead distracts himself with the fact that you were giggling. At him. 

Give the boy an inch and he’ll take a mile, Wayne is wont to say of his nephew. Never been truer than now, as Eddie gets drunk off your attention and humors, crowding familiarly and rudely into Robin’s space just to piss her off more and to keep your twinkling-eyed focus.

“Yech.” Robin gags. “I’m not gonna sit here and watch you two flirt up close. I just ate lunch.”

Eddie’s worried that comment will embarrass you into pulling away but apparently, you’re not shying from the accusations of his affection anymore. 

A snort and a sardonic eye roll is what you dish back, and Eddie latches on, delighted to have a Shit Starter in Crime, pushing an honest hand to his chest in faux-shock- “Flirting? Me? I’d never. What an accusation. You’re getting crazier by the day, Buckley.”

The peal of laughter that ripples from you is like a song, vibrating the frequencies between Eddie’s ears, scrambling all the channels with its aching beauty.

Goddamn addictive, he thinks, as the white-out of his hearing fades back to normal. A light, warm wind rustles through the big oak overhead, leaves shushing together; allowing himself a glance at your stretched form, Eddie’s (un)luckily close enough to see the smattering of goosebumps rise on the skin of your arms. 

To observe the way sweat curls the baby hairs near your temple, at the nape of your neck. To see the little creases near the corner of your eyes as you close them, turning your face into the wind, a quiet expression of summer bliss on your face.

Eddie could sit here for hours like a (happy) creep just taking in every minute detail, but Robin starts bitching at him about the weed he still owes her from ages ago, poking her cold toes into the holes of his jeans, mischievous and irritating.

Eddie smacks at her ankles until she pulls them back, matching her argument point for point; it’s not about the weed, of which he’d gladly give- it’s about keeping that smile on your face even as you sit up to start digging through your nearby tote bag.

“And plus,” Robin’s saying, sticking a finger into the dimple of Eddie’s left cheek like the obnoxious little sister he never asked for, “You scratched the everliving hell out of my bike last month when you insisted you were sober enough to ride it home.”

“What’d you want me to do, drink and drive? Not very Just Say No Club of you.” Eddie is operating on autopilot with his responses, absorbed in the way your delicate fingers move inside the canvas of the bag. 

“I wanted the same thing that I currently. Want.” Two more ice-cold prods of her toes into the same spot of his exposed knee. “Three grams, pre-rolled, plus an apology.”

Eddie is about to give in with the promise of the rest of his sizable stash and a bike waxing regimine with his own spit thrown into the mix to get Robin off his case, when the sound of your voice cuts through the bickering. 

In your hand, held aloft and out between the three of you, is a bottle of sun lotion. Your focus is fixed on shaking displaced items back into your bag, not looking as you make a request:

“Babe, would you do my back?”

Eddie moves on instinct before he even has time to process the ask, reaching out towards the palm tree-printed plastic- but for some reason, Robin’s hand collides with his mid-air. Goddammit, Buckley. 

His annoyance at Robin quickly gives way to confusion, then roiling embarrassment as two sets of eyes whip to him, your mouth slightly parted in an o shape and Robin making a squeak of awkward alarm.

You were talking to Robin. Obviously, you were talking to your girl friend to rub you down with lotion. 

Jesus christ, Munson, get a grip.

Eddie lets go at the same time Robin and you draw back, the three of you stammering half-sentences over the thunk of the bottle hitting the ground.

“I meant- sorry, god, sorry, I meant Robin-”

“Fucking- jesus, of course you meant Robin, I’m sorry-”

“Oh god! I can do it! It’s fine!”

There’s a brief pause where all of you stare down at the bottle, as if it holds some great mystery of the world. Or is perhaps concealing a time-bending device that will let Eddie go back twenty seconds to kick himself in the head.

He’s just about to make some lame excuse to fuck off forever when Robin beats him to it, jumping up with a spastic, nervous energy. “Um. Steve’s calling me. So I gotta… see what that dingus wants. You’re good?”

This last part, directed at you; with a quick, reassuring nod, you say “I’m good.” 

Seemingly recouped from the whole debacle, you squint up at Robin- “Eddie’s got it,” and then fixing Eddie with a disarmingly beatific smile- “Right?”

It’s like looking into the sun. Eddie is pretty sure his neurons haven’t been firing properly ever since he caught a glimpse of your thighs earlier. By some miracle, he manages coherence- “Uh-huh. Yep. Right.”

“O-o-kay.” Robin lets the word expand, then gives a dorky two-finger salute and makes for the empty pool lounger next to a snoring Steve.

Then it’s just you and Eddie, blinking at each other from your seats on opposing towels, until you lean to pick up the bottle, this time handing it directly to him. 

An invitation, paired with a smile that still pulls at the corners of your mouth.

Someone jumps noisily into the pool, a few scattered cheers accompanying the crashing water. Red’s distant “Nine-five!” echoes through the backyard and this, of all things, spurs Eddie into unfreezing.

He takes the proffered lotion, shifting to kneel in the strip of grass not covered by either of your towels, waiting and watching for your approval. 

Like something out of a dream, you lower yourself face-down again, hands tucking themselves sweetly into the space between the hollows of your shoulders and the ground. Eyes half-lidded as Eddie scooches closer.

“Just on your back?” He asks, soft, like you’re a deer about to spook (although based on the way his hands are trembling, Eddie’s the more likely candidate for chickening out and running for the hills).

“Mhm. Please.”

Fumbling under your sidelong gaze, Eddie wiggles all the rings from his fingers, stuffing them into his pocket. 

“Too cold,” he explains, feeling fidgety from your eye contact, rubbing his hands together briskly to bring out the warmth and give them something to do other than shake.

Eddie pines for a cigarette, a quick burst of nicotine to steel his nerves. Instead, he picks up the sunscreen, squeezes a quarter-sized puddle into his left hand, and shifts to kneel close as he can without actually bumping his knees into your side.

The sunscreen is already warmed from being out in the heat of the day, so Eddie starts on your left shoulder. Dips his fingers into the puddle, spreads a thin layer on the blade of your shoulder, and rubs it in. 

At first, his touch is gentle and apprehensive, but when your eyes drift shut on the second pass of his fingers, Eddie gets a bit bolder. On your right shoulder, another layer of suncream goes on, but this time, Eddie lets his thumb slip into the grooves under your shoulder blade. 

He runs his thumb along the stripe of muscle next to your scapula, still with pressure light enough to feign keeping to his task, thrilled when you make a soft noise of satisfaction.

“I would’ve asked you, y’know.” 

Eddie pauses, hand resting at the top of your spine, the skin of your neck freshly glistening and tacky from his work. “Asked me what?”

“To do this.” You shrug a shoulder, pointing in a roundabout way at your back. “I just… I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Why the hell would I say no to this?” The words are out before Eddie can bite them back and find a much more cool and normal thing to say. He can feel your chuckle, the vibrations of it, the way it causes the muscles in your upper back to move.

Eddie tries to cover his lameness by refocusing on the mission he’s been given, like a heroic knight bestowed with a great honor by a fair maiden… on second thought, he’s got to cut out the fantasy metaphors. This situation is wild and tempting enough as-is without adding a potentially very horny layer to the mix.

“You can get under my top, if you want,” you murmur, lashes dark against your cheek in profile, voice all honeyed and fair-maiden-like. 

Eddie swallows hard. Distributes the rest of the lotion between two palms, rests them just below the black fabric, and then slides up. Underneath the top, your skin is the same- smooth and pliant and sweet. 

“Feels nice,” you whisper, eyes still closed in reverie, sounding sleepy and relaxed.

Eddie is entranced with the way your muscles move under his touch. He applies a bit more pressure to the mid-back area of your spine, dragging his thumbs down on either side. You make another noise, this one closer to a moan, and Eddie’s really glad he’s practiced at the skill of Boner Killer On Command because he wouldn’t dare sully the atmosphere with ill-timed arousal (though his limits are certainly being tested today).

“Sorry about the callouses,” he says, a bit of self-deprecation to fill the air because he’s gotta focus on something other than the way his hand fits perfectly in the center of your low back.

“S’okay. I like them, actually. You’re good with your hands.”

Not for the first time, Eddie is relieved that you’re not looking at him- his ears are burning, on their way to bright pink. Same with his cheeks. “Cool, yeah. That’s good. Um. I play guitar, y’know so… I get around.”

After cringing at himself, Eddie watches the apple of your cheek round upwards with a smile, a sharp flash of your teeth as you say, “I can tell.”

There’s an amiable quiet that falls over the two of you; in the background, splashes and chattering from the pool group float in the air, muted by the warm winds shushing through overhead branches. 

At one point, Eddie realizes he’s covered your whole back in sunscreen and is now just trailing his fingertips over the notches of your spine, starting low and ending near your neck, following the path down again in a loop. If you mind, you don’t say anything, seemingly sated by his touch. 

There’s an aching behind Eddie’s ribs. It squeezes at his heart, makes his next breath pinch- he wants to touch you like this all the time. He’s already hooked. 

All too soon, you’re peeling yourself from the blanket, sitting up with a sheepish smile. Eddie can’t tell if you’re getting shy on him from the touch alone, or if it’s the fact that he’s the one that’s been touching. 

Either way, if Eddie could find a more chill way to say “I’d like to do that every minute for the rest of my life if you’ll let me,” he’d say it to appease any worries you may have. 

Bare knees pulled to your chest, you gesture at the bottle still in Eddie’s hand. “I could… do you, if you wanted?”

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, through the heated curtain of curls. “Nah, that’s okay. My abs won’t be ready to debut until the end of summer. 1993.”

He’s expecting at least a chuckle out of you, but instead, he’s fixed with a kind, all-knowing look. 

The two of you are face to face, your shin close enough to brush Eddie’s ribs as you state, “Not a fan of the heat, are you.”

“What gave it away?” Eddie gestures animatedly at the humidity-fed frizz of his hair, then shakes his head like a wet dog. 

When you catch one of his curls between two fingers he freezes, heart slamming to a pause as you loop it around a knuckle.

“I have some deep conditioner at my place. Could help you out if you wanna come by some time.”

Mere inches from his cheek as you lean in, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, trying to memorize how you smell- coconutty from the lotion, a bit sweaty, a faint hint of deodorant and the vanilla perfume you spray in the mornings. 

He’s never been this close before. 

He feels electric. Or more accurately, like he’s been electrocuted, and he’s waiting for you to restart his heart. 

“Does that sound good, Eddie? You, me, some hair care… maybe a movie? I can steal some from Family Video. I know a guy.”

At his ear now, your voice is low as you wrap a hand around the inside of Eddie’s arm- it’s his turn to break into goosebumps. “Oh yeah? Willing to steal for me already?”

This earns him a stellar laugh, head tipped back to show the curve of your perfect neck. You shove at him playfully, and he’s about to snap up your hand to bite as payback when your name is yelled from across the yard.

“Come on, we need another unbiased judge!” Max waves urgently from the pool as Lucas and Dustin get into an increasingly loud argument over the Olympic grading system. 

“Goddamn kids.” This comes out much more growly than Eddie intended; you just chuckle and squeeze his arm before pulling away to stand.

Eddie mourns the loss of your body heat until you extend a hand towards him, saying, “Let’s go humor our goddamn kids, and we can talk about dinner afterwards.”

It’s like your hand is made to fit inside Eddie’s. He follows close on your heels, heart thudding a steady, overjoyed rhythm once more. 

[xlovellydreams]

Reuniting

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 ⟡ ☾ ⟡ 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Pairing: Rhysand x Reader

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Summary: Reuniting with Rhysand after Under the Mountain

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Word Count: 4.7k

Note: Hi guys! So, as you can see, this is my first work here – and the first one that I do post fully in English (mhm, as you can guess, English is not my first language, so let me know if you find any mistakes so I can correct them quickly). Anyway, I hope you will like it, and let me know if I should maybe do a part 2?

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 ⟡ ☾ ⟡ 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

It had been fifty years. Fifty years since you last saw Rhysand. You slowly started to begin thinking that you’d never see him again. That you’d never touch him again, hear his laugh, see his smile. You were drowning yourself in expensive wines, just for distraction between mourning his absence and taking care of the Night Court.

The morning was rough for you. Waking up early after drinking so heavily with Cassian last night made your head spin, and your eyes dry and red. You decided to wake yourself up a little. Wrapped in one of his robes you walked out of your room, right into the balcony.

And then, so suddenly he appeared in front of you. Just like that.

You and Rhysand just stared at each other in silence.

His skin was so pale, nothing left from his beautiful tan. On top of that sickeningly pale skin, the dark shadows underneath his dull, violet eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept at all for the last centuries. Those violet eyes, that you knew so perfectly didn’t shine like they used to. No spark in them.

You didn’t know what Rhys had endured Under the Mountain. Didn’t know what Amarantha had forced him to do. You were just standing there, shocked.

“Y/N…” Rhysand finally broke the silence.

You took a small step back, shaking your already spinning head. Your eyes were wide, and you needed to blink rapidly as you just could not believe it.

Rhysand took a step forward. You could see that he was trying to hold back his emotions. His eyes looked pained, so so pained.

“Don’t run from me, please… it’s me. It’s really me…” his voice was shaky.

“Gods” your voice cracked as you shook your head again. You did not even care about that headache anymore. “I shouldn’t have drunk with Cassian. Gods, I am hallucinating.”

Rhysand chuckled under his breath. It sounded hollow, humorless. He took another step closer. He was standing right in front of you now, his tall, lean body mere centimeters away from you. He was so so close to you. You could smell him. He smelt the same. Just like you remembered. Citrus and sea, and you were slowly breaking.

Rhys reached out a hand, carefully taking one of your own.

“Does this feel like a hallucination?” His voice was soft like silk. The voice that you had always known.

You choked out a small cry, tears in your eyes already building. “Holy shit, that wine was freaking strong” you mumbled, brushing your fingers against his. Not believing that you were touching him again. After so long. You honestly were not sure if you were not hallucinating.

Rhysand laughed. That same warm, rich sound that would melt your insides. He took another step closer, his body against yours and he wrapped his lean, strong arms around you, crushing you against his broad chest, burying his head into the crook of your neck. He breathed in your scent and sighed deeply.

“Gods, I thought I would never get to hold you again.”

You shattered.

 A loud sob escaped your lips as you immediately wrapped your hands around his neck. Hugging him, holding onto him as your knees buckled and you were sure you would have fallen to the floor if he was not holding you. But he was real and he held you up, not allowing you to collapse.

He was real. Not a hallucination. Not a dream.

Rhysand’s arms tightened around you as you began to cry. He held you as close as he physically could, and he had to bend down so he could bury his head into your shoulder. He pulled you even closer, his body shaking with emotion as he breathed you in. You felt his mouth on your shoulder, his lips pressing into you, a silent apology.

“I missed you, I missed you, I missed you…” Rhysand repeated over and over again between ragged breaths.

“I won’t drink with Cassian again. It feels too real” you sobbed into his neck, holding onto him for dear life.

He laughed.

A weak laugh was huffed against your shoulder. “Please refrain from drinking with my brother if it’s going to affect you this much” he sounded so much like Rhys you knew. Gods, you had missed that so much.

His body was shaking violently, his emotions overflowing. But it was as if he was desperately trying to appear strong. He slowly pulled his head away from you, pulling back far enough that he could look at your face. His hands came up to gently cup your face, his fingers wiping away the tears that were still falling down your cheeks. He examined you with his violet eyes, taking in your face, your eyes, your hair. He was drinking you in.

“You’re more beautiful than I remembered.” Rhys breathed.

Those words snapped you back into reality.

Rhys was really here. He was really back after fifty years, after disappearing so suddenly.

Within seconds you feel the same anger you had felt that day. You gathered your strength, pulling yourself to stand straight and free yourself from his arms. Without thinking twice, you turned, reaching for one of the pillows from the small armchair you were always using while sitting on the balcony. And you threw it at him, hard.

Rhysand had relaxed the moment he saw recognition in your eyes. Then, before he could register what was happening, you’d freed yourself from his arms and swung a pillow at his head. Rhys stumbled backward as the pillow smacked him right in his face. He let it fall to the stone floor of the balcony, looking at you surprised, a small frown appearing on his face.

“What in the Cauldron was that for?”

“What in the Cauldron was that for?!” You snapped angrily, reaching for another pillow, throwing it at him again.

Rhys managed to catch the second pillow you threw at him before it hit his face. Again, he dropped down the cushion looking back up to you.

“You couldn’t have just said ‘welcome back’ like a normal person?” He sighed when he saw you reach for ANOTHER pillow. “Come on, put the pillow down.”

“Idiot! Prick!” You threw that pillow, the one he told you to put down.

Each pillow that hit him, Rhys caught with ease. And each time he caught a pillow he looked at you with a scowl on his face.

“Idiot? Prick? Bit harsh, don’t you think?” he grumbled before another pillow hit him in the chest.

But you were too angry, your eyes filled with tears, as you kept throwing pillows. You were a little glad, that you had spent a lot of sleepless nights on that balcony, buried in blankets and pillows, talking to the stars, praying for him to be back.

“How about you stop throwing things at me and we talk?” He tried to reason with you, but you were having none of it.

“Stupid. Selfish. Thoughtless bastard…” you muttered as you picked up another pillow.

“That’s it. Enough is enough.” Rhysand growled and he stalked towards you.

The next thing you knew, he had wrapped his arms around you and he picked you up as if you weighed absolutely nothing. He was now carrying you off the balcony and into your bedroom. He walked over to the bed and flung you down on it, your body landing on the soft mattress with a thump.

You groaned softly, immediately sitting up, and reaching for a pillow from your bed but his hand stopped you.

Rhys quickly straddled your thighs, using his hands to push you back down onto the bed so you couldn’t get up and grab the pillow. His knees on either side of your legs and, with his hands on your wrists, he pinned your arms above your head. He was above you, looking down at you with an intense expression.

“Do I have to tie you down?” Rhys threatened, narrowing his eyes.

Looking up into his violet eyes you slowly calmed down, taking a deep breath, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Let me sit up” you murmured softly after a few minutes of silence.

Rhysand watched as your breathing started to level out, your chest slowly rising and falling. He still held you pinned to the bed, your wrists still in his firm grip. He didn’t respond right away, he just silently took you in. He could feel you calming down beneath him, the anger and frustration that had been in your chest earlier now starting to ease.

Finally, he released your wrists. “No more throwing pillows at me,” he told you firmly.

Instead of throwing a pillow this time, you threw yourself, burying your face in his neck, letting out a small sob again.

Rhysand’s arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He felt you bury your face into his neck, your tears staining his shirt. He held you against him closely, his arms like a vice as he practically crushed you to his body. He buried his face in your shoulder, his own body still shaking from emotions.

Rhys was finally holding you again after fifty freaking years.

“You are so pale” you sniffled into his neck, not letting go of him.

Rhysand chuckled at that, though it was humorless. “Fifty years in the darkness of the mountain will do that to a person” he tried to joke, but the humor seemed to be lost when he spoke.

He held the back of your head with one of his hands, his other hand resting on your lower back. Pulling you even closer if it was possible.

“I’m sorry-”, he whispered into your shoulder, his lips pressing against your skin. He repeated it over and over again like a mantra. His body shook with emotion as he continued to hold you tightly to him. After fifty years of hell, he was finally home. He could finally hold you again.

“Don’t apologize” you tried to stop him, but of course, he was not listening.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Rhys’ words were a whisper. He was breathing you in, his nose buried in your shoulder. “I’m so sorry you had to spend fifty years not knowing what had happened to me. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to hold you or comfort you or laugh with you or dance with you or do any of the things I was supposed to do…” Rhys’ words caught in his throat and he shook his head slightly.

Rhysand didn’t listen when you kept telling him to stop apologizing. He had spent fifty years in the darkest hell possible. He had missed you so much. Had thought about you all the time. Wished every single day that he could be free, that he could come home to you. He continued to whisper his apologies into your shoulder. His apologies for disappearing without a trace, his apologies for taking so long to get home to you.

“Stop it Rhys” you begged softly, pulling his face away from your shoulder, your cheeks red from crying. “You are home. Thank you for coming home.”

Rhysand reluctantly let you pull his head back from your shoulder, his body still shaking. He met your eyes, his own filled with tears, though he was fighting to keep them from falling. When you thanked him for coming home, his throat tightened and he swallowed. Felt another wave of guilt and shame wash over his body when he saw the tears streaming down your face and he had to hold back a whimper.

He didn’t deserve the warmth and kindness in your eyes, not after what he had done while he was under the mountain.

You brushed away the tears from his pale cheeks, as you still sat in front of him, wrapped tightly in his robe.

“You look awful,” you said without a hint of hesitation.

For a second, a hint of a smile appeared on Rhys’ lips. There you were, blunt, sarcastic, honest… He had missed you so much.

“Don’t hold back on the insults, please,” he said sarcastically back, his eyes meeting yours.

“You deserve it”

A small, huff of laughter escaped Rhysand’s lips and he shook his head slowly. He supposed he did, after everything that had happened.

He winced a little as you brushed the tears from his cheeks so softly, so tenderly. He didn’t deserve your softness. Didn’t deserve your kindness.

Rhysand was supposed to be tough, the most powerful High Lord in Prythian. But under your watchful eyes, he felt weak, broken. He felt raw.

“I feel awful. Physically and mentally, I’m exhausted” he took another deep breath, his eyes not leaving yours. There was so much he wanted to say to you. So much he wanted to confess. But he was tired. Too tired to talk about it all.

You didn’t answer, biting your cheek a little harder as you kept running your fingers against his cheeks, trying not to burst into tears again. Later, you promised yourself to ask him later, not now.

Rhysand’s breath caught in his throat as he watched you brush your fingers against his cheek, the sensation shooting straight to his heart. He could see you biting your cheek, could practically feel the tears building up in your eyes. He knew you were trying to hold back your emotions. He didn’t want you to hold back.

He could barely remember the last time someone had touched him with such care, with such tenderness.

His heart ached in his chest as he looked at you. He hated himself for what he had done. Hated himself for leaving you, for making you worry for fifty years. “You can scream at me,” he spoke quietly, “Go on. Scream at me.”

You were trying desperately to keep it together. This was the first time you had seen him since he had disappeared. You had no idea what had happened in the mountain. You had no idea what he’d endured for fifty years. Just looking at you was already killing him. Rhysand just sat on the bed, letting you sit on his lap, his hands resting on your hips. He sat quietly as you touched his face, his eyes flickering over your, taking in your small little movements, your actions.

He wanted to say something, wanted to keep talking to you, but he couldn’t find the words. All he wanted to do was keep holding you close to him, to bury his head in your shoulder, to hold you and never let you go again.

“You left us” you whispered, your thumb still against his cheek. “Just like that. You left your city, you left Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Amren…”

You left me.

Rhysand heard the pain in your voice, as you spoke. Your eyes weren’t looking at him anymore, your gaze was fixed on your own fingers as they touched his cheek. He slowly brought his hand up, gripping your wrist, forcing you to meet his eyes.

Yes, he had left his friends. He had left his city. But he had also left you. You. His mate. His own beloved. He hated thinking about it. Hated himself for leaving you.

“I had no choice,” he said quietly, reopening his eyes and looking at you.

“We would have found another way!” You snapped at him softly, a few tears rolling down your cheeks.

Rhysand reached up with his hand, gently wiping away the tears that rolled down your cheeks. His fingers, which had always been so gentle with you were now trembling slightly.

“There was no other way, you know that as well as I do.” He spoke, his voice quiet and resigned.

He wanted to fight with you, he wanted you to lose your temper. Gods, he wanted you to snap at him. He didn’t deserve your softness. Did deserve your anger, deserved your rage. He was more used to you shouting at him, swearing at him, throwing pillows. Wanted you to shout and yell and curse. He didn’t want your soft voice and your soft touch.

But Rhys also knew you too well. He knew that you would have fought tooth and nail, and risked your own life if you had to, in order to find another way to get rid of Amarantha.

He knew you would fight for your friends, your family.

“You would have gotten yourself killed” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then opened them again and spoke quietly. “You’re smarter than all of us, you know that… But you wouldn’t have found a different way”

“So what” you huffed. “If it meant saving you, I would have done that.”

Rhysand’s heart ached at that response. So casually saying that you would have sacrificed yourself. You would have gotten yourself killed. Willingly sacrificed your life if it meant finding another way of getting rid of that monster... He wouldn’t allow you to do that. Wouldn’t allow you to get yourself killed.

“You are an idiot,” he told you simply.

You were his everything. The light in his darkness.

“One of the stupidest people I’ve ever met,” he continued, his voice getting a little louder as his annoyance with you grew.

“You just said I am the smartest” you huffed, your eyes softening a little at the hint of annoyance in his voice.

Rhysand looked at you, a small smirk appearing on his face as you huffed. His eyes quickly darted down to your hip, where his hand was still gripping you tightly, keeping you on his lap.

“Smart? Yes. Stubborn? Definitely. Idiotic? Abso-fucking-lutely”

You couldn’t help it anymore, letting out a small chuckle.

“Says the prick himself” you pushed his shoulder gently.

His heart skipped a beat at the sound of your chuckle. Gods, he’d missed you. He’d missed your fire, missed your temper. He’d missed listening to you swearing at him.

“Still calling me a prick, aren’t you?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“You deserve it” you mumbled softly, resting your forehead against his. Still sitting on his lap, in his robe as he did not let you go for even a second.

Rhysand couldn’t help but close his eyes as you rested your forehead against his, the gesture so incredibly intimate. His face so close he could feel your breath on his lips. He hummed in agreement as you mumbled that he deserved it. Gods, he did deserve it. He deserved all the insults you wanted to throw at him.

He had dreamed about this so many times under the mountain. So many days and nights of wishing he was at home, with you. Wishing he was holding you instead of being the monster’s plaything.

His grip on your hip tightened again as you continued to sit in his lap. The smell of you, the feel of you… it was driving him crazy.

Closing his eyes, he savored the feeling of being close to you again. “Perhaps I do deserve it” he muttered, a slight edge to his voice. “You still won’t throw a pillow at me again, will you?”

“I should be throwing more pillows at you” you murmured almost against his lips. “Hell, something heavier.”

“Like one of those books on your shelf, perhaps?” He teased, his eyes still closed as he held you. Relishing in the feeling of you against his body, the soft scent of you filling his nose and he inhaled deeply, trying to commit the moment to memory. He never wanted to forget what it felt like to hold you, never wanted to forget the sound of your voice or your soft laugh.

“One of my daggers, perhaps” you teased him back, running your fingers through his hair.

“Mmmhm” He hummed lazily, a shiver running through his body at the feeling of you running your fingers through his hair. The touch so gentle, so careful. It felt so good, so soothing. Like you were trying to soothe all the pain and trauma away. “Are you threatening your High Lord, darling?”

“I am threatening my mate” you whispered looking straight into his violet eyes.

His mate.

The word mate coming from your lips felt like a jolt to his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as he heard you say it, the word wrapping around his heart and squeezing it tight.

He exhaled a shaky breath, his smirk fading and his expression changing to that of something more vulnerable.

Rhys didn’t think he’d ever become tired of you saying that. The fact that you were his mate, that the Mother had bound you to him in such a beautiful, special way. He was a High Lord. A powerful immortal. But here he was, sitting in your bed with you on his lap, your legs on either side of him. So vulnerable, a side he didn’t let others see.

“Say it again,” he spoke, his voice quiet and firm.

He had to hear you say it. Had to hear that word roll from your mouth once more. He needed confirmation. Needed to hear you say it again and again, over and over, just to remind himself that this was real. That he wasn’t still under the mountain, trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

You moved your fingers from his hair, to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his pale skin.

“My mate. My High Lord. My soulmate. My other half” you whispered softly, tracing the lines around his face.

As you repeated the word, his breathing hitched slightly. He could feel his body getting warmer, his chest aching and a lump forming in his throat.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

The word was running through his head over and over again, as if it was the most important word in the world. Rhysand felt like he could cry at the way you were speaking, the way you were touching him.

He’d spent fifty years in hell. Fifty years he was stuck under the mountain, being forced to become that woman’s plaything.

And here you were. Touching him, caressing his skin, calling him your mate. After everything.

“Again.” He knew you didn’t know what he had endured and he hated that. He made sure to keep his shields up, to keep you away from his mind even now. Hated the fact that he couldn’t pull down his mental shields, couldn’t allow you to see what that witch had made him do.

But he was so damn scared you would hate him if you ever found out.

You chuckled a little, snapping him back.  “Later, I will spend the entire night whispering it to you, but now, others are waiting for you too. I bet Cassian and Azriel will be here any second”

Rhysand almost whined as you said you’d whisper it to him later. He wanted you to say it right now, to hear it again and again until he was sure it was real.

But he knew you were right. The idea of seeing his brothers again, of seeing the looks on their faces when they saw that he was home made him smile a little. You mentioning Cassian and Azriel brought a brief sense of relief that flooded his chest. They were alive. They were okay. His family was safe.

Then again, later, you had said. Later. A promise of tonight.  Of lying so close to you all night, in his bed, whispering those words to him over and over again.

He let out a breath, reluctantly accepting the fact that you wouldn’t say it again. Not right now.

“You are cruel, you know that?” He grumbled. “Making your mate wait.” He took a moment to take you in, you sitting in front of him on his lap, your skin almost glowing in the sunlight as the light streamed through the windows. You were beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered. “How do I look?”

You burst into loud giggles at his question.

Rhysand watched as your body shook and your laughs filled his ears, and for a moment, he just stared at you in utter disbelief. He couldn’t believe the sound of your laughter. The sound he had missed so dearly while he was away.

When he finally found his voice, he spoke, a sly smirk on his face. “Is that your way of telling me that I look terrible?” His grip on your hip tightened.

You kept giggling softly, nodding your head as you just couldn’t even speak.

Rhysand feigned hurt at your response and your nods, a dramatic sigh leaving his lips as he spoke. “You are insufferable, you know that?” Hearing you giggle at his question, and seeing the gleam of pure happiness in your eyes. He felt as though he could get drunk off the sound and sight of your joy.

Letting out a small fake gasp, cupping your cheek “Here I am, finally returned home after fifty years stuck under the mountain, in order to be greeted by a giggling, stubborn mate of mine who is insulting my appearance.”

You only giggled more, making his heart melt, “I am sorry!”

“Apology not accepted,” he said, feigning sternness. He gave your hip a little squeeze. “Say something nice to me, then I’ll consider letting you off.”

Instead of saying you leaned, capturing his lips in a soft and gentle kiss.

Rhysand froze for a moment.

Your lips, soft and gentle against his, filled him with a feeling of warmth he’d not felt in years. He’d had fifty years of Amarantha forcing herself on him, fifty years of being touched by an unwanted hand.

But your touch, your soft, gentle lips against his own, suddenly filled him with a sense of calm. A sense of being home.

He reached up with his other hand, letting go of your hip, to place it on the back of your neck as he kissed you back.

Before he could have even deepened the kiss, before you could have fully lost yourselves, you pulled away, breaking the kiss.

It had been fifty years since he’d felt the feeling of your lips against his own. Fifty years since he’d kissed you, held you. It was agonising to have to stop the kiss so suddenly. Rhysand couldn’t help but let out a small, almost whiny sound of disappointment as you pulled away from him. He could feel his mind going fuzzy, already addicted to the feeling of your lips against his own. He just wanted the moment to last longer. Wanted to keep kissing you until he couldn’t breathe. Wanted to keep kissing you until you were breathless.

“Why’d you stop?” He was not done kissing you, “Come back here.”

“You need to change” you murmured.

Rhysand huffed, but begrudgingly removed his hand from your cheek.

“Fine,” he mumbled, a hint of annoyance in his voice. But his eyes were on your lips again. “Can I expect that I’ll get to taste those lips again once I’m done changing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

You smiled, so softly as you shook your head. “Later, for the night I am all yours. But now I want you to just, take a bath, relax a little and then come downstairs,” you pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek “because your family is waiting.”

There was that word again. Later. You were really testing his patience here. Rhys stifled the urge to pout as you pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering on his skin for a moment longer.

Even though he really, really just wanted to stay in your embrace, his family was waiting for him.

He huffed again, the sound turning into a small chuckle. “You are cruel to me” he murmured, begrudgingly letting go of you. His family were waiting, he knew that. He could sense his brothers close; could sense their worry and eagerness. And that’s why he didn’t want to leave you, to leave this room. He didn’t want to leave this bubble that was just you and him.

“Rhys?” You whispered softly, before he could disappear in the bathroom.

Rhysand heard you whisper his name. His name, spoken in your soft voice. Gods, he had missed the way you said it. How you’d say it like a prayer, like a promise.

He looked up at you, his eyes locking with yours as he responded. “Yes, darling?”

“Welcome home”

[sister-lucifer]

can we get gross pervy dom toby content 🙏

Some Gross Pervy Dom Toby Content 

Toby Rogers x Gender Neutral Reader

Genre: NSFW 

Summary: There is really no plot to be summarized, Toby’s just a horndog and he chased you down. good fuckin luck  

Content/Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon elements, implied stalking, horror elements, Toby being creepy, Toby smells you and touches you in the weirdest manner you can possibly imagine, NSFW with minimal (mostly implied) plot, no real sex happens just fucked up shit, no seriously this is nasty as fuck i’m getting put on a list for this 

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out 

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

A/N: Just to avoid confusion, in my headcanon Toby has a stutter as well as but separate from his tourette’s; i’m writing his stutter, not his tics! thankies!

also READ THE FUCKING WARNINGS THIS ONE IS NASTY

Staring down the barrel of a loaded gun would fill you with less dread than staring up at the lanky boy who’s currently towering over you. 

You don’t have to look at him to know there’s a twisted smile filled with crooked, chipped teeth spread across his face, hazel eyes scrunched at the corners as he grins like a madman. You don’t want to look at him, really, but you can’t stop yourself before you’re slowly craning your neck to see. Slowly his face comes into view, and it’s even more unsettling than you could prepare for. 

His messy brown hair flicks up in all directions and partly obscures his eyes, and yet they seem to glow in the dim light of the sunset. One of his arms is above you, folded against the wall, while the other cages you into the corner. Besides his fingers drumming restlessly, he’s not moving, but his entire body is trembling with….excitement? His chest is heaving like he’s struggling to breathe, and the uncomfortable feeling of his warm exhale fanning over your face makes you shudder, and…oh god, is he drooling over you? Shit—

You press yourself hard against the wall, face burning hot against the cool air of the drafty abandoned building. Something tells you you shouldn’t take your eyes off of him for too long, but in your peripheral vision you can see through the broken windows. There’s nothing but trees in all directions, and the sky is rapidly darkening with each passing second. You’re watching any chance you had of escaping in the daylight slip from your fingers. Everything is becoming much too disorienting much too fast, thoughts racing and overlapping and screaming at you to do something, but you can’t. All at once you’re trying to figure out an escape plan, how to appease your captor for long enough to execute an escape plan, and how you even got here in the first place. 

The last thing you remember is running from him, the branches of the thicket grabbing at your pants and arms as if trying to hold you back. You had no choice but to run into the old hospital, but now you’re wishing you’d simply kept going. 

You must’ve moved too much for Toby’s liking, because he suddenly grabs onto your arm with a grip that feels strong enough to snap the bone in two. You yelp in pain, a second gloved hand quickly clamping over your mouth. The echo of your cry rings loud in your ears, and for a moment you wonder if it’ll ever go quiet again. 

“You…you…” Toby stutters, and your eyes widen at the sound of his voice. You aren’t sure what you were expecting to hear, but he just sounds so…normal, like any other nineteen year old boy, except if it were anyone else in any other scenario a mere couple of syllables wouldn’t strike such fear into you. 

“You ran a loooong t-time…” He scolds, but his grin doesn’t falter. He brings his hand away from your mouth to shake a finger at you, seemingly trusting you not to scream. 

Not like it would matter. You made him chase you pretty far in. 

In an instant his hands are on your waist, slipping under your shirt and eagerly grabbing at the soft flesh he finds beneath. You have to bite your tongue to hold back another yelp. 

“Oh, ooohh but it w-was worth it!” Toby slurs with a drawl, “I’ve f-finally fooouund yooouu, aha…” 

He sounds so proud of himself. Something about his tone is almost childish, deceivingly so. He truly thinks he’s done something amazing. 

Your heart skips a beat when he suddenly freezes, face going void of all emotion, and you wonder if you’ve truly angered him. If you did, would that be the mistake that ended it all? 

Fortunately, it seems he was just changing gears. You panic when you realize he’s leaning in towards you, but he moves past your face to practically bury his nose in your neck, taking a long and deep breath. He lets out a faint laugh as he breathes out, and it feels like a horrible sensation crawling down your spine. The only thing you can do is grab onto his arms, nails digging into the dirty and worn fabric of his hoodie. It’s practically caked with dried mud in some areas and you can feel the dry cracking beneath your hands. 

“I m-missed your…your s-smell…” Toby whispers. You’re confused for a moment, and it takes a few seconds for it all to set in. 

‘Missed?’ 

He’d…smelled you before? 

He ‘missed’ you… 

“I-I should have…should have visited m-more…I-I got ssso busy, b-but I didn’t forget you, I-I promise…” 

He keeps talking, but it starts to fade out. Only a few words matter, anyways. 

There’s an incredibly brief moment of clarity that flashes through your mind, a split second flicker of understanding that you hadn’t just been misplacing or losing things, that you weren’t imagining all those noises or shadows that you told yourself were childish things to be afraid of, and it nearly floods your brain before it disappears as quickly as it appeared. Maybe you purposefully pushed it out, at least for now. There was too much going on to process the past. If you were lucky enough to get out of this alive, you could reflect then. 

You’re frozen for a few moments as Toby’s idle hands begin to wander, as they always do. He’s at least considerate enough to feel you up through your clothes, but that doesn’t stop you from sucking in a harsh breath through your teeth when he roughly gropes your ass. It forces you to push yourself into him as you try to get away from the aggressive grip. You can feel him laugh with his chest pressed flush against yours. 

He takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you, and it’s become painfully obvious that he’s much stronger than he looks. You’d never expect someone so skinny to be able to manhandle you like this. 

He sways slowly from side to side as he holds you, one unsteady hand toying with your hair in a gesture that, on Toby’s end, seems as though it is meant to be sincere. 

“Th-There’s so much I want t-to do to y— to do with y-you…so little time…” He goes on muttering to himself over something or other, but you can’t understand him as he trails off. 

He seems preoccupied with his own thoughts, distracted enough that you begin to squirm. He doesn’t react, continuing to quietly rant about nothing while stroking your head. You struggle again, a bit bolder this time. Nothing. 

Maybe you actually had a chance, you just had to slip away. Hell, maybe you’d get lucky and run the right way on the first try; for all you know you’re only a mile away from a highway, that could be your lifeline. You just had to slip away— 

“Stop it! Stop doing that!” 

…Easier said than done, it seems. 

Hearing Toby yell, seemingly allowing a genuine flash of anger to overtake him as he slams you back against the wall, chills you to the core. He was unpredictable, bouncing back and forth between the extremes of whatever emotion he was feeling, making it impossible to plan around his potential actions. 

His hand splays out across your chest to keep you pinned to the wall. He’s applying much more pressure than he needs to, and he knows it. His smile twitches as you struggle to recover from having the wind knocked out of you. 

When he reaches back for his pocket, you expect him to pull out a weapon; maybe a knife, or even a small handgun you somehow hadn’t noticed. 

But no. He returns with something much smaller, and your brows furrow in confusion as you struggle to make out the shape among the shadows that have quickly taken over your space. 

“What’s t-the matter?” Toby asks, “Never seen a-a condom before?”

He snickers cruelly at the way your mouth hangs open in reply. 

“Whaaaat? I-I’m trying to be nice…don’t be a bitch.” 

“N…Nice?!” You choke out in reply, and this time Toby’s jaw drops. 

“Oh, it does speak!” He exclaims with genuine excitement. “Good, good…s-so good…” 

He holds the corner of the wrapper in his mouth so that his hand can be free to fumble with his belt. The sound of the buckle clanking as he slips it off makes your stomach flip. Your gaze flicks quickly back and forth from his pants back to his eyes, and he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You haven’t even seen him blink. 

His tongue runs over his glistening teeth as he prepares to speak again: 

“I h-hope you squeal for me, pretty thing…When we’re done here, I’m t-takin’ you with me…” 

[frankieunscripted]

My reasons to hate Drake

First things first, I'm the reales- wait, wrong theme. First of all, I would like to say this is NOT an unbiased recap, this is literally just me listing things I've hated about Drake for years. You might as well join in on the hate train. Go watch some YouTube video essays on this if you wanna know more!!! You'll find plentyyyy

Certified Pedophile ("allegedly"): Texting teen girls until they're of age and then go and date them. ew.

Cosplay Gangsta: disrespecting the culture as a whole, but especially what hiphop is about. Flexing money, cars, girls, drugs, clothes bc he never understood hiphop was never about flexing, but about being heard bc you're oppressed, about revolution. Now we got his die-hard fans running around acting like this is true rap. no. "You don't know nun bout dat!"

Culture Vulture: jumping from trend to trend in order to make it "his own", faking accents that he has no business playing with and dropping them as soon as he's done with this specific type of genre bc it's not trendy anymore. Adapting whole "personas" around this, instead of just merely collabing with other artists. Jamaican and African accents are just 2 examples here.

Blackness: Drake never really got out of his acting career. Back on DeGrassi he was acting as a high school jock. Now he's acting like a tough black guy who's from the streets and knows what it's like to be down bad, when this was never his life. Lil Wayne warned him to never change and act tough just bc he would sign to Weezy's label where the rappers were predominantly "gangsta type dudes". And what did Drizzy do? He's acting all tough and "outta dem streets". He's clearly overcompensating for not feeling black enough (I've already reblogged 2 posts about this, pls see these for further context). Drake's mad for not being referred to as a rapper who speaks on being black, when in reality the black experience was never of topic in any of his songs. He also doesn't give back to the community.

Lil Wayne: Drake had relations with fellow rapper Lil Wayne's gf (she actually was of age, ayoooo!) while Wayne was away in prison. Wayne got word of the fact his gf was cheating on him with the young guy he signed under his label and was pissed. Drake, in an effort to smooth out the situation, got Wayne's face tattooed on his arm. Say what you will about portrait tattoos, but this story is just so fucking typical Drake. How the fuck do you think this is gonna help anyone?

Validation: Drake donates money in the music video for God's Plan, only to earn more money with that video/song than he donated in the first place. He felt good about donating and then never did that shit again.

Numbers: As a great man once said: "Crack fiends bought 10 million rocks, that don't mean it's good. It don't mean nothing." (As you can imagine, that man was 2Pac). And with that I say that proving your worth in the industry by numbers don't mean a lot. It means you and your team figured out the market and started producing stupid, vapid, but terribly long albums to maximize streaming numbers, automatically bumping up your place in the industry. This is about quantity, not quality - good rap/ hiphop was never about that. Drake actively validates his music and status with his fame, money and streams and neither him nor his fans seem to get that says nothing about the artistic value of his music. "Numbers lie too, fuck your pride, too!" (I mean really, Baby Shark has 14 Billion views on YouTube - you think that's REAL artistry, Mister Aubrey?)

Cocky Ass Bitch: I would be okay with a lot of his music if Drake just knew his fucking place. He went pop ages ago, but still people (including himself) refer to him as a rapper - no even, as THE rapper, placing him in the Top 3. Sometimes I feel like y'all do this, just to piss me off personally. Apart from everything else wrong with Drake, there's nothing wrong with liking music like his persé. Not everyone likes conscious/ deep stuff and sometimes, when you with the homies, you just wanna chill and listen to something "mindless" - MIND you, I'm not looking down on "non-conscious" rap, I'm just saying not every artist has to be woke/ deep all the time and some "empty" party anthem about girls, fashion, cars and alcoholism is fun at times. These party anthems deserve their place. And a child actor turned rapper turned POP STAR is valid in my books - just not if it's Drake. Apropos cockiness: The dude compares himself multiple times to Michael Jackson and while that got a few good lines out of him, I believe it's close to fucking blasphemy. Drake and MJ on the same pedastal. I mean sure, questionable stuff happening with kids, both of them wildly successful in their industry (mind you, streaming like today wasn't around back then and many of the numbers cannot be compared), but one of them a real talent and the other one some guy who more or less made it as an industry plant. "I can dance like Michael Jackson? / I'd argue your skills really lack, son!" (okay sorry, I know, that was corny as fuck xD) Dude is flexing with numbers instead of poetic abilities -

About the art itself:

Ghostwriters: "What poetic abilities?", I hear you ask - Yeah, don't think I forgot! Best believe I been cooking this one. There's evidence for Drake having ghostwriters - which on its own is fine, don't believe every star writes every single bar on their own. My problem with this is, that Drake keeps his cocky attitude, even though many of his hits aren't really Aubrey-written and also many ghostwriters never get their credit (this is why they're called "ghostwriters", I know that this is not something specific to Drake, but slapping one more name on the credits ain't that hard, when you're worth a billion bucks already). This is the rap equivalent of flexing your homework when you know DAMN WELL copied it off of your best friend and did nothing for that success. I guess his song Right Hand wasn't about a romantic interested after all, but the dudes who been writing it!

STOLEN SHIT: Why in hell is no one mentioning this on here? Drake is KNOWN for stealing other artists' verse metres (referred to as "flows", y'all tumblr, idk how much you guys do know, okay?), melodies, whole beats, samples or verses in general. In no other studio would you see mentions of a "reference track" concerning songwriting. They take a song as reference and build around it as they construct a beat. There's PLENTY of evidence for this happening, one story really had me baffled, where a young indie-rapper met Drake in the early 2010s, gave him his CD to listen to and a whopping 5 years later the indie-rapper realizes Drake just fucking stole his entire song (a really personal one at that) on his latest album back then. Being indie, of course the guy had little to no means of fighting back with lawyers or anything, man's was working a 9to5 job and had other stuff going on. Before you wanna argue with me though: YES. There is a difference between stealing and paying hommage. One famous example is Drake biting Eminem's Superman flow on Chicago Freestyle: "But I do know one thing though/ Bitches, they come, they go/ Saturday through Sunday, Monday / Monday through Sunday, yo/ Maybe I'll love you one day/ Maybe we'll someday grow". The only good thing Drake ever did was changing Em's "Bitches" to "Women" on his song. Other than that: exact same few bars. This is a hommage. Why? Because Eminem, that's why. You can pay hommage to great, well-known artists with good bars. It takes a common ground of knowledge from artist to audience to make a hommage like this work. That can go well. Kendrick copies the flow of a Kanye West song on HiiiPower and it works just fine because you listen to either of the song and think: "Ah yeah exactly, that one part, okay, I see you." You don't pay hommage to a small, unknown, indie-rapper by copying his whole verse about his Mom, when you would never say stuff like that on your records before. You don't, because it wouldn't work. None of your listeners would understand the innuendo at all, because no one ever heard of the "great guy you'd be paying hommage to". So shut up.

Music: It's just not that good. Like yeah, he had a few bangers, but let's not exaggerate. Artistically Drake does not offer anything. If he ever did, he probably left all of that on the first few albums he still rapped on. His delivery sucks, his singing voice sounds like he's tryna be The Weeknd at times but isn't. The lyrics aren't special. What the fuck?

Euphoria: Even before getting deeper into hiphop, I've always hated the way Drake presents himself. When Kendrick said: "I hate the way that you walk, talk, dress" I felt that. I hate the way he "raps", the way he drags his words, the way he laughs, the way he "sings". Just a whole lotta shit I dislike about the guy.

Sneak Dissing: If you want beef then get in line, don't just kinda allude to it, you weak ass bitch

SENSITIVE ASS BITCH: I love a man who's in tune with his feelings but Drake being the cosplaying gangsta clown he is, acts like he's all tough when in reality, you can't really say shit to him, cause he "can't let this shit slide, ay".

Kendrick's Control Verse drops - a verse calling out multiple rappers saying Kendrick will come for them in friendly competition for the crown of being the best. Drake was mentioned. Everyone thinks it's kinda cool and goes along. Drake is mad. In an interview he basically said he found it fake because the next time he saw Kendrick "it was all love" and that he wanted it "to be real. Let it be real then". Okay crodie, next time you get called out in a fair rap competition, best believe I'll sock you in your fucking throat, I gotchu.

The Weeknd doesn't sign to Drake's label OVO after working with Drake for a while. Drake is mad again and feels betrayed. Why you gotta be like this?

Kendrick says that he doesn't wanna collab with Drake because their music is too different, not because of anything personal. He just doesn't see it happen in the near future because it would not match artistically. Drake gets mad.

Drake stopped beefing with Pusha T back in the day. Probably because he exposed his son. But still, if you want beef, then clean up your plate, bc you eat what you order and dont't just start to "let this shit slide, ay"

("allegedly") being involved in XXXTentacion's passing back in 2018 over beef. This beef started because of the flow of X's popular song Look at Me!, which Drake stole shortly after letting X know his management would contact him about a possible collab. As you can imagine, X was never contacted by Drake's people. The kid was 20 years old, man. He said some outrageous shit at times, but no one deserves to go out like he did.

Also, the famous DMX ("Y'all gon make me lose my mind!") once said in an interview that he'd like to punch Drake in the face and I support that. Kendrick and his homies laughed at the clip - as did everybody else, cause it's hilarious if a beast and a legend of hiphop hates Drake. Drake was mad at Kendrick laughing about it and not taking it seriously. What did he expect? Should Kendrick have went after DMX and made him apologize for what he said about lil Aubrey? How old are you? 5?

Drake gets mad at a lot of shit - bottom line. I could go on and on, but I've been writing this for hours, it's half past 3 am and I wanna sleep after uni and work, y'all.

DURING THE DISS-ERTATION: this section is about shit Drake did during the beef with Kendrick.

Saying Kendrick's Like That verse was weak af. That's your core response? Someone flames you and people are already throwing ass to the mere sound of it and you think: "Huh, that sucked anyway." Pathetic.

Calling Kendrick short (over and over and over again) as if his height is under his control/ his fault? - as if that takes way from Kendrick's skill, Kendrick's allegations againt Drake! - as if that means ANYTHING AT ALL to people over the age of like... 12?

Going after anybody's family in the first place. I know nothing is really "off-limits" in a rap battle like this, but please have the fucking decency. Don't mention my Momma, my kids, my dog, my fam, my friends who ain't got nothing to do with the fact that I hate you. I will say I am not proud of Kendrick for getting down on that level himself - but I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy Meet The Grahams and the sheer panic it induced. And sometimes I gotta be a little childish and yell "But Aubrey started ittt!"

Hitting on Whitney in The Heart Part 6. Don't go for another man's treasure, you absolute dog. Accusing Whitney of being unfaithful. My friend, this beef is about us (the Culture) hating you and the things you do. Stop trying to shift this into something it is not.

Reacting to diss tracks via instagram stories and memes, like he's that one popular girl in 7th grade who's gotta clap back to something someone said in school on her IG. Shut up.

Calling The Weeknd and his manager gay. Are we not over homophobia yet? Being queer is not an insult. Also falsely "accusing" people of being gay is uncool as fuck - but oh "You don't know nun bout dat!" bc false accusations are basically everything you do - and also possibly outing someone like that is fucking hurtful as shit. I know the people involved are probably not queer at all, but if they were - period.

Using AI in a song at all. Drake, you already proved you suck. Don't force it down our throats. What part of you thought it would make you look good? What part said it would be good to do in a diss track, when the world knows diss tracks are even more a show of capability than other songs. Nah, you go and use AI. Idc about your "mind games": Using AI Snoop Dogg is just weird as fuck cause the Doggy is still well and alive - if you want him to feature on your song, call the legend and ask hi- oh wait, you knew he woulda said "Aww hell nah!" cause everyone hates you? Huh. Snoop probably woke up one day, hit a blunt and asked "When the FUCK did I collab with Drake?". Anyway, using AI 2Pac is straight up disrespectful, when you know damn well the guy would've hated you if he knew who you'd become. Just doing this because it's 2Pac, because you can and not even asking for permission of Pac's people is crazy. Glad the shit was taken down anyways.

The 8 Mile "Airing Out Your Dirty Laundry"-Trick before the big battle does NOT invalidate future claims on you diddling kids. No. Not even if 2Pac says it first. Nah.

His Damage Control Effort in post to make it seem like/make us believe that he's in control, when Kendrick has been bodying him is hilariously embarrassing. Anyone can claim the mole was fake "all along" after it happened.

Making fun of Kendrick for his verse on Taylor Swift's Bad Blood is just stupid. Look at all the features Drake does. Rihanna, BadBunny, DJ Khaled, Future, PartyNextDoor, Lil Wayne, Diddy, Nicki Minaj, Wizkid, ..... the list is so fucking long (I'm just picking at random songs at this point, cause I do not want my browser/spotify history to be associated with Drake's music. I don't wanna go out of my way to say he NEEDS these people to stay relevant but let's face it: His discography and his success would be different if it weren't for them

Acting like he's so great for "finally making Kendrick rap again" - Sir, you don't write your shit on your own, stfu. You don't invest time and effort into your vapid albums. YOU should be thankful for Kendrick destryoing you, giving us the best few lines out of you in a long time.

Not addressing important shit. We been over the allegations, I will not repeat them in this post cause this is already long enough. BUT y'all on the same page as me, aight? Instead of addressing EVERYTHING, he just responds with diss tracks that aren't terrible but really not THAT good, yk? Not going into the shit that we want to se addressed.

Acting like disstracks need replay value. Idk if this is a Drake or a fanbase problem, but people really act like Drake's tracks were better, bc you can listen to them more casually. "Kendrick basically made a whole song about Drake" - THIS IS WHAT A DISS TRACK SHOULD BE! Notice how we don't call every song containing a diss immediately a "diss track"? That's why. Diss tracks were meant to hit your opponent in the stomach with witty bars, double entendres, nice delivery and good production. Diss tracks weren't meant to be club bangers - bonus if they do end up being some though, looking at you, Like That and Not Like Us.

Not reading into stuff properly or just not listening. This is a small one, but ngl I hate the fact they got the Mother I Sober reference wrong (The song is NOT about Kendrick being abused, BUT about Kendrick not being abused and his Mom NOT believing him and passing her sa trauma onto him, even though he didn't experience that). Also Kendrick explicitly says "DOT, the money, power, respect / The last one is better" on Like That and Drakes response (again) is "Huh, I have way more money than you and in the industry, I'm way more powerful than you. Also, you so short tihhihi." BITCH he SAID respect was the most important of the three and you disrespect him, not by calling him out by his wrong doings but by picking on physical features the man cannot change like a 5th grade bully.

Anyways. phew. If you made it this far... wow. I'm impressed. I'll keep updating this. Thanks for coming to my beef talk.

EDIT: Thank y'all for the positive reactions on this post. If you seek more info/ want me to further explain stuff/ have even more dirt on Drake, let me know and we can work something out. -Frankie out

[alyswritings]

Creep

Sturniolo Triplets x sister!reader

Summary: Y/N runs into a creep at the store.

Warnings: creepy dude

(gif not mine)

Y/N is visiting her brothers in L.A. and the four are currently shopping after having gone to see a movie. Y/N separated from her brothers to find some clothes, the triplets going to the men's section, promising to text each other when they were done.

Y/N has a few clothes in her arms, already trying them on. She continues to look through the racks, seeing if anything else grabs her attention.

"Hey, sweetheart." She turns at the voice, finding a man, definitely in his mid 30s, if not 40s, standing there, a predatory smile on her face. The 18 year old tenses up a bit, but tries not to make it obvious.

"Hi." She mumbles, not wanting to be rude in case that were to go the wrong way -- even though whatever she does, it's 99% a lose/lose situation for her no matter how she reacts.

"What you doing here all alone?" He asks, walking closer, eyeing her up and down.

"I-I'm not alone, actually." Y/N nervously clears her throat. "I-I have brothers -- three of 'em." She quickly informs, praying that those three brothers could show their faces at the moment.

"I don't see 'em anywhere." The guy chuckles. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't ya?" He grins. Y/N merely hums, turning her attention back to the clothes for sale. Maybe if she ignores him, he'll leave.

"What, not gonna talk to me now?" He leans down, getting too close for comfort. "C'mon, honey, I'm not a bad guy. You wanna go get something to eat?"

"N-no." Y/N mumbles, shaking her head, taking a few steps away to create distance, but he only follows.

"You sure? I know a really good place." He persuades.

"I'm 15." She lies.

"So?" He shrugs causing Y/N's stomach to churn, her throat closing up. "C'mon, pretty girl." He puts his hand on her waist, sliding it around her back to her other side, pulling her closer.

"I don't-- no. I really don't want to." She meekly replies, her breathing picking up at how he has her trapped.

"You'll love it. I promise." He smiles, leaning down so he's in her face.

"Could you, please--" Her voice cracks. "I really don't--"

"Hey!" Y/N's protest is cut off by a very familiar voice that makes her sigh in relief. "The fuck you doing?" Nick questions.

"Just having a conversation, man." The guy shrugs, loosening his grip enough to let Matt pull Y/N away, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He turns away from the guy, tucking Y/N into his side.

"You okay?" He mumbles, loud enough for only her to hear. Y/N's breathing is shaky, her hands shaking. "Breathe. Breathe." He quietly instructs, demonstrating the breathing exercise she always follows when she needs it.

"Uh... didn't look like a pleasant conversation." Chris comments, glancing at Y/N who Matt shields from the man.

"We were having fun. Who the fuck are you guys, anyway?" The guy rolls his eyes at the three boys who look the same.

"People who aren't putting up with your shit." Nick replies. "Next time you try to touch someone, make sure it's consensual, creep."

"Fuckin' perv." Chris grumbles under his breath, sending the man a disgusted look.

"Hey, girl, can I get your number?" The guy asks.

"No." The triplets immediately answer, glaring at him until he's out of sight.

"Y/N/N. You okay?" Chris asks, lightly patting her on the head. The girl weakly nods, starting to calm down now that the man's gone.

"Thank you." She mumbles.

"No need." Nick says, ruffling her hair. "Should've gotten here sooner." Y/N shakes her head, silently insisting it's not their fault. They couldn't have known.

"Here. You guys go out to the car, we'll pay real quick." Chris offers, taking the items from Y/N's arms.

"Okay." Matt nods. "C'mon." He mumbles, leading Y/N out of the store. He keeps his arm around her all the way to the car, opening the door for her and shutting it after she gets in.

"Sure you don't wanna sit up front?" Matt asks, glancing back at her. Y/N nods. "You sure you're okay?" He asks, reaching back and rubbing her knee.

"Yeah." Y/N nods. "Not the first time I've had to deal with creepers."

"Yeah, I know." Matt grumbles in annoyance and disgust, hating how Y/N, and all women, have to deal with guys who refuse to respect a simple wish. "Fucking stupid asshole pervs." He huffs.

"Can we get Cane's?" Y/N asks.

"Yeah." Matt nods.

"Do you guys have ice cream?" She asks.

"We can stop and get some." Matt promises.

Chris and Nick get to the car, Chris climbing in the passenger seat while Nick puts the shopping bags in the trunk before getting in next to his sister.

"Where now?" Chris asks, glancing between his three siblings.

"We're gonna stop to get ice cream and then Cane's." Matt informs. "You guys need anything?"

"Nope." Nick shakes his head, getting on his phone.

"I'm good with that plan." Chris nods. While Matt starts to drive, Chris takes the aux cord, putting his music on, but makes sure he doesn't play any songs Y/N dislikes too much.

Nick gets on his phone, immediately going to TikTok. He waits until he finds a funny video to show Y/N, the girl quietly laughing at it. He continues to scroll while Y/N scoots over to the middle seat and buckles up there. She slouches a bit, leaning against Nick, her head on his shoulder while they watch the videos.

---

The four get back to the triplets' house, going up to the kitchen and getting the food out, Matt putting the ice cream in the freezer.

Y/N digs into some of the fries, taking a sip of her drink.

"Come here." Chris walks over, his arms held out to her. He pulls her into a tight hug, his head resting on top of hers. Y/N accepts the hug, hugging him back with almost as much strength. She knows it's his best way of comforting and he probably wanted to hug her earlier, but didn't get the chance.

"You guys don't have to give any special treatment cause I was preyed on, you know?" Y/N comments as she pulls away. Chris keeps a hand on her shoulder, moving his fingers to play with her hair.

"Mm. You still seem kinda out of it." Chris points out, the girl still a bit quieter than usual.

"You did pretty much have a panic attack. Definitely on the verge." Matt reminds.

"Relax. We weren't treating you that special." Nick says. "But, if you insist." He chucks a few fries at her.

"Nick!" She complains.

"What?" He innocently shrugs.

[tremendouscreationperson]

Part 2 of this

Next part here

Stan hadn't been able to help it. He had asked for your address to keep in touch.

He was able to now.

Able to send and receive letters. There had been a few instances when he was on the road that he dialed your number and your ma or pa answered, he had pretended to be a wrong number for them.

He was too chicken to talk to Ford why did he think he could talk to you?

But letters were different.

He could do letters.

You'd explained how you moved to California for college and loved the area so much you decided to stay. He had known you wanted to go to college but the three of you had always said you'd stay near New Jersey.

He wished so much that he kept in touch but his life was shit. He made things shit. He was shit.

His dad had been right.

He wasn't even worth turning up to a funeral for.

Stan paused mid sentence. Maybe he shouldn't be exchanging letters with you, maybe he should just stay away.

But a letter couldn't hurt.

He wouldn't have to change his voice or wear gloves or pretend he had smarts.

He could relax.

If something seemed off in the letter he could restart it.

And so the correspondence continued.

~~

It took a year and a half before you suggested coming down to see Mr Mystery himself.

Ford explained that his Uni grant had stopped so he was relying on good ol' fashioned tours of his labs to make money, only the real science didn't interest the resistance so he had to be creative.

You were sure he bored his patrons to death by explaining the rays and dials and tubing he had before coming up with the idea to sell to his clientele.

If only Stan was here. He'd be able to come up with good monsters and ghouls, just like in school.

You were able to find some sketches he gifted you (from a comic he was determined to publish) to send in your letter. Hopefully Ford could use them for ideas. It was a little bittersweet to part with them but ultimately it was for the greater good and you could always ask for them back.

So, now, here you were merely proposing a meet up but it felt... Well it felt wrong? Yeah, Ford and yourself were mates but Stanley was always the glue that kept you together.

Despite the mixed emotions you pushed on and signed your name before shoving it into an envelope and sending it off.

~~

The journey to 'Gravity Falls' - brilliant name - was not awful.

It took a solid 6 hours of driving but you knew it would be worth it. Knew it had to be done.

You would keep your friendship with Ford alive for Stan. You'd be the honorary sibling.

Once you were in Oregon you pulled up the map he had sent and followed the instructions he scratched onto it. 'Don't turn by the Horse Scarecrow go further to the Pig', 'There's a big boulder by the town sign be careful, I swear it moves', 'left by the tree that looks like Dolly'.

They were odd instructions but they were perfect. The town was definitely unique.

It was 9 when you finally made it to the 'Mystery Shack' and you had to admit it was cute. There were homemade arrows pointing in all directions and a copious amount of question marks dotted about.

The sign on the door read "closed" but you could see at the back there were lights on.

Climbing out of your car you twaddled over to the back door, rucksack slung on your shoulder, the soft sounds of a TV wafted through the door as you knocked.

The TV stopped and you could hear wood creaking as Ford approached. The door opened and revealed him wearing a suit with a large question mark tie.

He smiled down at you, gesturing for you to enter. "Hi."

"Hey." Your eyes scanned the room, mostly homemade wooden furniture with the odd trinkets or pop of colour. There were a few sciency looking gadgets but otherwise this was a humble home. "It's really cute in here."

Ford scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks."

The silence was slightly weird but you anticipated that it may be a bit weird at first. Just have to push through it.

"Have you eaten?" He asked.

"No but to be honest I'm zonked." You chuckled. "Long journey."

Ford clasped his hands. "Of course, well, you can have my room. I'll take the couch."

"Uhm, I can't kick you out of your room." You didn't realise that he would have to vacate his bed for you to visit. "I'll stay on the couch."

"You take the bed, I won't hear anything else about it." He added the last part as your mouth opened to argue.

~~

Staying with Ford was odd.

He was more casual than you remembered.

Gave fewer lectures.

But otherwise your stay was pleasant.

You helped him in the Shack; printing t-shirts, manning the register, flicking the lights on and off, making spooky noises when needed. It was fun.

You enjoyed your time here because it was silly. You were able to let loose whilst watching some suckers gape at a wax figure or a crudely put together unicorn.

After leaving it really didn't take long to decide on coming back.

Spending every other weekend up in Oregon became your routine. Yeah, the drive was shitty but it was worth it.

Ford loved it. Or well.. if he didn't he didn't say anything.

Eventually you were gifted a cot upstairs and you considered staying for longer.. perhaps even for an indefinite amount of time. It was quite conflicting wanting to stay with Ford.

You still loved Stan. You'd always love him but you saw so much of Stan in Ford it was ludicrous.

The way he'd swindle and trick, his Mr Mystery persona, and whenever a patron was a little handsy, the way he'd threaten them.

Ford never did that. He outwitted people. He was the brains.

But maybe that changed in the time you spent apart. His father had made the two of them box and from Ford's ears he'd kept up the sport.

~~

Through all your time at the shack there was only one thing that truly bothered you. It was a teeny tiny detail but it drove you insane.

Ford never removed his gloves.

He was always wearing them.

Everyday, every night, every meal, everywhere.

You'd seen his hands before.

Everyone back home had.

They were just hands!

Maybe he didn't want the town to think they were real, wanted them to think he was a fraud because being a freak was worse?

It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things but it was agitating you.

~~

"Put teeth on it." You suggest, sitting on the floor with your back leaning against the wall.

Ford made a face but nodded, prying the crows beak apart. He wandered around the shop, opening cupboards and drawers. "I'm sure I had som-"

"The blue cabinet." You pointed.

Ford opened it and voilà he produced a jar of teeth. You didn't bother to ask if they were real, either of the answers would be weird. Yes = weird. No, where did he get such realistic teeth? = Weird.

You observed Ford positioning the teeth, he waited for your approval which you gave and began gluing them.

It was late in the evening and he had promised the town and its tourists something big. So crow with teeth and a skunks tail it was.

He was precise with the glue gun but still stopped to talk with you, ever the gentleman. How had their father made them?

You hated their dad with a passion.

He was an absolute asshole.

You'd tell him that, too.

He didn't even come to the funeral. You'd assumed he had passed but Ford told you he didn't want to come. His parents were starting afresh with Shermie.

No, you wouldn't include Caryn on that. She was lovely but Filbrick...

Filbrick was something else entirely. In fact, you remember first meeting him, he glanced up at you over his newspaper before returning to the words. Stan had reassured you that that type of behaviour meant he liked you but you knew differently. You knew, even at age 10, Stan was covering for his father.

Ford hadn't experienced that. He never knew what it was to disappoint his father and you felt for Stanley. You were even present once when Ford tried to explain that Stan seemed to take short cuts and maybe that was why Filbrick was disappointed. It was later in the week when Stan confessed that he had to take short cuts, of course he did, because how else could he possibly keep up?

"Ah shit!"

Your eyes shot back to Ford who was shaking his left hand. Quickly standing to assist. "What happened?"

"Just a burn, it'll be fine." Ford brushed you off, resuming the task at hand.

You scoffed. "Ford, take the glove off, you idiot."

"It's fine." He insisted.

"You're sticking to things!"

Ford grumbled but didn't reply.

"I've seen your hands before. There's no one else around. Why are you being weird?"

"I'm not weird." He huffed turning away from you. "Don't look."

You rolled your eyes before turning away. "Fucking hell, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were Stan pretending to be Fo-"

It hit you.

All the stupid chats, all the late night beers, all the jokes, the lame costumes, the zero science talk, the scams, the lies, everything.

Your body had turned without your brain catching up and you were face to face with a Stan. Not 100% sure which one.

Stan's eyes were wide, gloved hand clutching his ungloved one. You took three steps to him, invading his personal space, to place your own hand on top of his. Slowly you tugged on it and revealed the five digits.

Wh-what did this mean?

This was Stan?

Stanley?!

Where was Ford?

Why?

Why did Stan need- what was he doi- where wa-

His palm gripped yours. "I can explain."

.

.

.

Part 3

@breadandbiscuits @aratheegreat @sp00kyfr0gs @doggosnoodles12 @50shadesofwinchesters @living-in-a-veil

[mediumgayitalian]

Will knows who it is at the first light brush on his shoulders.

He tips his head back back, bumping his boyfriend’s hip, leaning into the hand on his trapezius, his scapula, the base of his neck.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Hi,” Nico says, leaning down to press his smile onto Will’s forehead. His hair tickles his cheeks, and he smells like woodsmoke and citrus, and Will slides his hand across his jaw and tugs him closer.

“Errand done?”

“Yep.”

“Lord Hades pleased?”

“As much as he ever is.” Nico shifts, kissing the corner of his mouth, the curve of his chin, the shape of his jaw. “My ears are ringing from five days of quiet. Even the echoing sound of lost souls cannot compete with your constant blabbing; I hardly knew what to do with myself.”

“Oh, shut up. You love my chatterin’.” He smacks the side of Nico’s head, but it’s hard to play mad when he’s smiling, shameless, wide enough that his teeth nick Will’s cheekbones, that his snickers are muffled into his skin.

“If I wanted to be stuck with someone who yaps nonstop I would’ve stayed down with Cerebus. In fact he might shed less, and he doesn’t drool when he sleeps.”

“…I do not shed.”

Nico plants both hands next to Will’s head, heaving himself up, and scans his camp shirt. Within three seconds, he locates a strand of hair, pinches it off, and flicks it at Will’s face.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, for the love of — get over here,” Will demands. Laughing, Nico goes where Will tugs him, curling up next to him on the bench. “You’re such a shit. Normal people are much kinder to the significant annoyances they leave behind for five days, you know.”

“Are they.”

Nico lifts his arm in offering and Will accepts with relish, tucking himself under it and making certain to drag his curls down Nico’s face in the process.

“Yep. In fact I was expecting hand-written letters by day two, honestly, telling me how much you missed me and how the distance was physically painful, et cetera, et cetera. Maybe a sonnet or two. Italian, preferably, Elizabethan are not my favourite.”

“You’re very picky.”

Will sniffs haughtily. “Well, I’m a catch. You have lots of competition, you know. I was fighting them off while you were away but now that you come back and insult me upon reunion, I shall reevaluate my options.”

He feels more than hears the quiet laughter Nico presses in his hair, thumb brushing his collar, dipping onto bare skin.

“Is that so.”

“Indeed. My suitors have even offered a dowry quite handsome. I’m worth twenty-seven goats, didn’t you know.”

“Oh, well then. I might as well return what I brought for you, since I’m not sure I can outshine two dozen goats.”

The cool thing about being a son of Apollo is that Will has range. His dad is the god of arts, generally, up to and especially the dramatic ones. Will knows how to school his face into the perfect mask, how to smile on command and cry as desired, how to deliver a line and bow with a flourish. Playing a part comes as naturally as breathing, as naturally as healing.

“A present?” he asks, checking his nails as if the mere thought bores him. “That’s interesting, I guess.”

Nico doesn’t even bother to indulge him.

“Here, you massive dweeb,” he snorts. He hands over a small paper box, hand-folded and thin. “I can practically feel you vibrating.”

There is only one thing in this world, quite possibly, that Will likes more than proving Nico wrong, and that is letting his boyfriend spoil him. In all honesty it’s a real challenge sometimes, because Nico is really very good at being everything Will has ever wanted even if he has wrong opinions on most movies. Truly Will’s life is a joke at which the gods must howl with laughter.

Eagerly taking the box, he holds it up to his face, carefully inspecting every corner. The paper is regular printer paper, slightly waterlogged (from the Big House printer, then, ‘cause Will was carrying a giant bag of saline in from storage when he was eleven years old and tripped on the shipment of office supplies that someone had left, for some reason, in the middle of the fucking hallway, and the bag had exploded on impact all over four boxes of printer paper holding one thousand pages each) and carefully bent into shape. He recognises Nico’s handiwork from the dozens of origami paper sculptures he’s been gifted over the past few months.

“Open it.”

“What is it?”

Nico rolls his eyes. “What did I just say.”

“No, I mean — it’s not my birthday or anything.”

“So?”

“So you’ve wrapped me up a present! I want to know why before I open it.”

“Just because,” Nico mumbles, pressing a kiss to his temples. “Not everything needs a reason, nosey.”

“If nothing had reason then we would still be premordial soup,” Will mutters, but pops open the lid anyway.

He gasps.

“Oh my gods, Nico, you —”

Nico’s smiling smugly, but Will barely notices. Inside the box is a black chain darker than shadow, so dark it doesn’t even glint in the heavy sun, and dozens of little charms, from polished obsidian to a ball of slowly flickering flame.

“You like?”

“It’s gorgeous!”

He makes a triumphant nose, pumping his fist, and says, “Fuck those suitors, I fucking win,” and the funniest part is that he’s damn serious. There’s a glint in his eye identical to when he wins a sword fight, to when Connor loses a bet to him, to when twenty-odd bets are stacked against him and he’s got a full house. Something dangerous and wild and superior and Will is not an enabler, okay, he is not, but he is only so strong and there is only so much he can do when pretty boys wrap their arms around him and smirk at him and bring him bracelets they made in the Underworld. He’d like to meet someone who wouldn’t fold, actually.

“There were no suitors, you loser,” he says, but he’s flushed, pleased smile stretched wide across his face, and Nico’s grinning that too-wide grin and tilting Will’s face closer with the edge of his thumb, like he barely had to try. And there’s always a little bit of shadow leeching off him when he comes back from a quest, an aura surrounding him like he’s squaring off to the sun, and of course the wild churning in Will’s stomach has nothing to do with that but what’s he to do, really? What is a warm-blooded person with eyes that can see to do when faced with such a look?

“Of course there aren’t. They know I would reap their actual souls.”

“Possessive, much.”

“You’re literally going red.”

“Shut up.”

And he does, but only because Will makes him.

Although judging by the hand he shoves in his hair, he doesn’t seem to mind.

[for-a-longlongtime]

Guilty Pleasure (3/7) - dbf!Joel x reader

Sunday dinner with your parents and Joel is... weird. But also hot.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, mdni Series warnings (tba): Age gap (reader is 22, Joel is 42), masturbation (f), use of sex toys, oral sex, PiV, anal, hair pulling, dirty talk, getting caught, playful use of 'daddy' (no real daddy kink), outrageous flirting, groping, reference to m/m, Joel's arms should always come with a warning. No outbreak!AU. Word count: 1.7K A/N: I told you part III would follow soon! I had initially planned this for tomorrow, but then I figured I might as well turn dinner with da-- I mean, dinner into a Sunday meal, because why not. 😈 Thank you so much to everybody who has been commenting, reblogging (I appreciate you sharing it with others!!) and liking this fic so far! Things get messy today... let me know what you think. Is reader playing this right, or...?

< part 2 | series masterlist | main masterlist

Surprisingly, it's Joel who is late for Sunday dinner.

Not your father; he’s home early even, looking tired and stressed but trying to put on a front - which is far from the first time you’ve seen him do so. When you were younger, you once asked your mom why he never was more upfront about having hard days. Since he frequently appeared on tv to talk about new ventures or collaborations, you knew that his work wasn’t exactly easy breezy, but whenever you had asked him about it as a kid, he would brush off those concerns. “Somebody’s gotta do it,” or “I’ve got the experience to pull it off”, or any corny variation of that. 

You used to love joining him at his office, something you got away with when you were still in primary school - which you realized later probably had to do with the sizable annual donations your father made to your school. Either way, it was exciting. The massive building where he worked, the technology, all those people looking extremely important in their outfits, swiping access cards in order to get into secure areas, so many meeting rooms, and not to forget the press room. You were in awe, determined to work there when you’d grow up, to follow in your father’s footsteps.

Until things came crashing down. 

The missed plays, PTA meetings, and staying up late weren’t so bad initially. What started bothering you the most was how everybody seemed to give him a pass. Most of all your grandmother. She spoke about how your grandfather used to be in charge, many years before your father took over, and how good he was. How your father was so much like him. Responsible, in charge, a leader, ‘such a good man’. 

And see - that was the problem. Because no matter how well you did at school or with the things you loved to do, it always felt like you were merely in his shadow. You’d never be respected the way he is - because you weren’t like him, or them, which everybody seemed to expect. 

So you decided to not care. Absolutely zero fucks. You didn’t need his approval, or anyone else’s. You were going to do whatever you wanted to do. 

This summer, that meant doing Joel. A lot, preferably.

Joel, sitting at the table with you and your parents, looking all broad in his green flannel, almost having missed dinner this evening - which of course you would’ve gotten shit for if it had happened to you. “Issues at the construction site, damn Tommy couldn’t handle it on his own,” he grouses as your dad puts a beer in his hand, while your mom assures him it is no problem. 

Aside from Joel being so damn distracting with his presence, it’s weird to all be seated at the dinner table on a Sunday. It’s not just that this hadn’t happened since you moved home for the summer; it actually was something that hadn’t happened in many years. While your father is talking to Joel about his work day, you get up and wander over to the fridge to grab a beer, grateful for the hoppy refreshment as it hits your taste buds. Liquor would be better, but this will do for now. You watch your parents and Joel talk, not even being aware of you having stepped away from the table. You finish the rest of the beer and put the empty bottle aside, then grab a new one from the fridge to take back to the table. 

The drink helps you feel a little more comfortable in your own skin, tune out the chatter that you’re not too interested in, and rather take advantage of the opportunity to watch Joel. Perhaps his mouth and hands in particular, as you imagine them on you, feeling that stubble against your own decidedly softer skin; your cheek, or between your thighs, or elsewhere. He doesn’t seem too aware of your eyes on him, talking with your mom about some pergola or something. 

Meanwhile, your father does seem to be paying attention to you, which almost catches you by surprise. But unsurprisingly it takes just a couple of moments until he’s irritating you again. “Were you able to stop by at the DMV to get your license sorted out?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll get it done, just let it go - okay?,” you sigh, annoyed that he’s bringing it up for the fourth time in a few weeks. “A rideshare to the nearest one is just so expensive. If I could just use mom’s car…”

Your mom pauses her conversation with Joel as she shakes her head. “Without a license? I don’t think so,” she says resolutely. “You’d better figure it out, because I don’t have any time soon to take you over there.”

“Now there’s a shocker,” you mutter to yourself, shaking your head when your father’s voice cuts sharp as he asks if there’s a problem. “No, there’s no problem. I’ll take the damn Uber, if I can….”

“I can take you. Tomorrow afternoon.” Joel’s voice barely interrupts you as he doesn’t lift his eyes from his plate, spearing a little cherry tomato with his fork. “Will that make you stop whining? Need to stop at Home Depot after, though.”

The comment thrills you unexpectedly, though that is tempered a lot by the grin you see on your father’s face, no doubt because of the whining comment Joel made. Asshole. “Can’t make any promises,” you respond breezily. “I’m good company in the car though, as long as I control the aux.”

Joel almost snorts at that, shaking his head. “Over my dead body, kiddo.”

*Kiddo*. It stings, you realize, as you hold on tight to your second beer that’s already half empty, your fingers pressing too hard on the chilly glass. You thought that you two had moved past that now - that being around him, and admittedly dropping some not so subtle cues, would have made it clear to him that you are anything but a kid. 

“Well, you’re getting up there in age just like he is,” you say much too casually, leaning back in your chair as you take a long drink of your beer while you nod at your father. “So maybe that won’t be that long from now?”

Your mom hisses your name immediately, looking mortified, but Joel isn’t bothered one bit as he continues to eat his dinner. Meanwhile your dad remains quiet, but the look on his face speaks volumes. You give him a challenging look in return, then finish your beer as you get up from the table again. “Who else wants another drink?”

“I think you’ve had enough for now.” Your father speaks as he takes off his glasses, rubbing his temple as if he feels a headache coming on. “Just finish your food.” You consider ignoring his comment or pushing back some more, but then you get momentarily distracted as the kitchen lights seem to flicker.

“I’m headed out tomorrow at 10 am,” Joel suddenly interrupts your thoughts, now finally looking at you as he reaches for his glass of water. “Don’t be late.”

“For you? Never.” You manage to not bat your lashes as you sit back down and continue your dinner, but your dad is still looking not too amused. He’s easy to ignore though, and as you chew you listen with half an ear to what your mom is saying about some party. It’s not long before your eyes wander back to Joel again, wondering what you could say or do that actually would get under his skin. 

He’s sitting right across from you, and without thinking too much about it, you slip your right foot out of your sandal, slouching down a little in your chair. Your heart is racing as you try to calculate the odds of getting it right, but then in an opportune moment when your dad leans over to Joel to talk to him about something, you extend your leg under the table and check whether you can reach Joel’s leg with your bare foot.

When Joel pauses his conversation for a moment, seemingly to gather his words, you know that he most definitely feels your foot against his calf. His eyes flash to you for a quick second, and you innocently smile at him as you slowly run your foot up a little higher, to his knee, while considering how far you could slide it against his thigh without it being noticeable to anyone else.

Meanwhile your dad reaches for the bread basket between him and Joel, taking out a dinner roll, and your heart beats faster when you feel Joel’s leg twitch against your foot. “Could I have the bread basket, please?”, you ask your dad, who nods as he picks it up and hands it to you. 

You take the basket from him, picking one of the rolls - and as your dad looks over at your mom who is telling him something, you bring your glance back to Joel. He’s staring right at you now as you’re still rubbing your foot against the inside of his calf, and you see his throat work as he swallows.

“Thank you, Daddy.” 

Joel immediately flushes and clears his throat, shifting his chair back a little so your foot can’t reach him anymore, and he reaches for his water so fast that he almost knocks the glass over. You can’t help but giggle, sinking your teeth into the soft bread as you’re feeling pleased - so the man *does* have a weak spot. It just takes the right approach to hit it.

“Think I’m gonna go clean up from work,” he announces as he pushes his nearly empty plate back, giving your mom an apologetic look. “Been a long day. The food was so good, though.”

“The food’s wonderful.” Your dad nods in agreement as he takes the last bite of his bread. “Did you still want to hit up the gym?”, he asks Joel as he reaches for their plates as he gets up from the table. “I’ve got about an hour now before I need to head out again.”

You dig your nails deep into the palm of your hand under the table as you watch the men leave the room, your eyes following Joel’s every step. Fuck, he’s hard. Or at least has a semi in those jeans. It makes you feel giddy and accomplished, and you can’t wait to tell your friend about this latest development.

next: part 4 >

series masterlist | main masterlist

🚨 Follow @longlongtime-updates to be updated when the next part drops!

[david-talks-sw]

The OTHER type of Star Wars fan

We've already covered (through this longer post and this addendum) that research shows George wasn't that involved or interested in the derivative material of the Star Wars franchise, also known as the Expanded Universe (EU). Aside from approving a few points, he let Howard Roffman and Lucasfilm Licensing handle it.

He is the first to say that he ain't as knowledgeable about Star Wars lore as we fans are.

Thing is... he's also not as passionate as we are.

Recently, I was watching some Q&A videos of George R.R. Martin, the author of Game of Thrones... and it occurred to me:

Martin is what most Star Wars fans wish Lucas was.

Think about it.

He's a talented writer who likes to focus on morally "gray" characters and complex political plotlines,

who created a series of novels for a mature audience in which his narrative merely asks questions and lets the reader draw their own conclusions,

knows and engages in the lore behind his creation and will often respond to those lore-heavy questions, and has gone on record stating that canon is the glue that holds a story together and keeps it coherent.

Contrast that with George "continuity is for wimps" Lucas, who:

Wrote a movie franchise which is also, partially, political... but he makes it for kids, and he's explicit about how this is thematically a clear-cut story about how the conflict of "good vs evil" is really about "compassion vs greed",

with flat dialogue, boring cinematography,

and whose approach to lore and canon can be summed up in his answer to how Anakin got his scar:

"I don't know. Ask Howard [Roffman]. That’s one of those things that happens in the novels between the movies. I just put it there. He has to explain how it got there. I think Anakin got it slipping in the bathtub, but of course, he's not going to tell anybody that." - Pablo Hidalgo’s set diary, August 2003

And as a Star Wars fan, I will admit that some of his casual retcons felt disrespectful, growing up.

"Boba Fett is NOT Mandalorian?!"

I had the same reaction when I saw an interview of Kathleen Kennedy stating she was a fan of Star Wars... from a filmmaking perspective. That seemed like such a finagling cop-out for me, at the time.

"Just say you're not a real fan, God!"

And it's easy to divide it in two camps, like that. You have 1) the fans, who will delve into deep lore, and you have 2) the average moviegoer.

But looking back on it... holy shit, that is actually a completely valid way of being a Star Wars fan.

Yes, Star Wars is a transmedia franchise, it's books, it's video-games, it's deep lore, it's lightsabers and Jedi and Sith and bounty hunters and Ewoks and Jabba and High Republics and Tython and Revan etc.

But before it was that, Star Wars was a filmmaking revolution. A juggernaut of innovation for the silver screen that inspired most of today's filmmakers.

So, sure, George Lucas isn't an avid lore-loving Star Wars fan like you and me. But he is a movie fan.

"I'm not that passionate about this story. I like it, it's fun and I enjoy doing it. But it's definitely not my life. I'm a bigger movie fan than I am Star Wars fan. I like making movies. At the end of nine years of making Star Wars, I was not ready to continue it. I was completely burned out on it. I was more passionate about raising my kids than making movies and especially making Star Wars. So I made other kinds of movies and TV shows and advanced the technology I needed. It's not a matter of passion. My passion is for filmmaking. I'll go and do filmmaking that is easier to do, where you can realise your ideas better. And nine years is a big part of your life, and to commit to another nine years, I didn't wanna do that right away." - EMPIRE, 1999

And you can tell this, when you watch the Star Wars films.

There are honestly so many homages and interesting filmmaking techniques, peppered throughout the six films, which only a nerd for cinema history like George would know how to implement.

C3-PO being based on the droid from Metropolis (1927) is a perfect example of this.

And that's interesting.

Because there's essentially this entire other dimension to the films, where it's not just the story unfolding, but to filmmakers it's also a series of techniques that make them go "I wonder how they did that!" or homages that make them go "OH! I know where that's from!" like we do when an comics characters appears in live-action.

Here's other examples:

CINEMA HOMAGES

All of Star Wars is absolutely littered with homages to cinema history.

I mean, you may already know this, but Flash Gordon is what George originally wanted to shoot, but the copyright holders said they only wanted Fellini to direct it (ironically, George wasn't artsy-fart enough for them). So he decided to write Star Wars instead.

As such, the inspiration from Flash Gordon is also present visually and spiritually throughout the two trilogies.

"It was like a Republic serial, a 1930s-style matinee adventure. The idea was that you came in, saw Episode IV, had missed the first three episodes, and wouldn't get to see the rest of it." - Starlog Magazine #300, 2002

The dialogue that a lot of people refer to as "campy" and "flat" is actually a mix of George being an experimental filmmaker who doesn't give much of a fuck about dialogue (and is by his own admission, not the best at it)...

"I'd be the first person to say I can't write dialogue. My dialogue is very utilitarian and is designed to move things forward. I'm not Shakespeare. It's not designed to be poetic. It's not designed to have a clever turn of phrase. [...] I just wanted to get from point A to point B. This film doesn't lend itself to that sort of thing because it's not about snappy one-liners.  I think that Lethal Weapon-style dialogue is overused, it's a necessary aspect of high action films where you have to have the smart retort. You have to say "I'll be back baby" and stuff. It's not my style. It takes away from the integrity of the movie. [...] I'm aware that dialogue isn't my strength. I use it as a device. I don't particularly like dialogue which is part of the problem." - EMPIRE, 1999

... which is convenient, because it helped him simulate the dialogue of 1930s matinee serials, such as Flash Gordon.

"Let’s face it, their dialogue in that scene is pretty corny. It is presented very honestly, it isn’t tongue in cheek at all, and it’s played to the hilt. But it is consistent, not only with the rest of the movie, but with the overall Star Wars style. Most people don’t understand the style of Star Wars. They don’t get that there is an underlying motif that is very much like a 1930s Western or Saturday matinee serial. It’s in the more romantic period of making movies and adventure films. And this film is even more of a melodrama than the others." - Mythmaking: Behind the Scenes of Attack of the Clones, 2002

But beyond that, literally it's everywhere.

The scene where Palpatine ascends to being Emperor as Anakin slaughters his political rivals parallels the final scene in The Godfather, where Michael becomes the Don while his goons do the same thing.

This video compiles all the tributes beautifully. Check it out.

Even The Clone Wars has whole episodes that are direct homages to cult classics. The Zillo Beast episode is a clear reference to Godzilla, the episode The Wrong Jedi is inspired by The Wrong Man, etc.

"CINEMA VÉRITÉ" CINEMATOGRAPHY

I've already written a whole post (one of my favourites) showing how his fascination with cinéma vérité documentaries is reflected in the cinematography of all six Star Wars films, and it's part of what makes the entire franchise feel so immersive.

You can check it out here:

KUROSAWA

We've gone over how he's a big fan of Akira Kurosawa, and how big an influence Hidden Fortress was on both the Star Wars trilogies...

... but so is the mise-en-scène and the way George approaches production design. The reason Star Wars feels so "lived in" is also a lesson George learned from Kurosawa, which is that by making everything just a bit off-kilter, a bit dirtied-up and imperfect...

... and yet keeping it all consistent, in a way, you manage to make the film feel grounded and immersive, no matter how alien it is.

"[It] may sound odd in a movie like this, but credibility and realism, even in the most unrealistic situation… to sorta create that sense of realism is very important to making the story work and making you feel like you’re actually in the environment that transports you and gives you the suspension of disbelief that you need in order to enjoy a movie. [...] Kurosawa used to call it “immaculate realism” which is to make it slightly off-kilter, slightly eccentric, like things are in real life. Even if it’s a very predictable situation, give it that little funny edge that takes it away from that and makes it realistic. And I had to struggle very hard, in the Star Wars films, to make them appear to be realistic, even though they’re totally fantasy." - The Phantom Menace, Commentary Track #2, 1999

POST-PRODUCTION & VFX

Another one of the more impressive aspects of the first Star Wars was the dogfights and the trench raid of the Death Star. The camera pans with the spaceship, the dynamism of the cuts. The space battles is what made George creat ILM in the first place.

He was determined to do the opposite of what 2001: A Space Odyssey had done with that opening scene where the space ship moves into frame slooooowly...

... so he gave the team a collection of WWII dogfight footage to give them ideas.

(note: this was the same approach he would take years later with Dave Filoni, when teaching the latter how to edit and craft dogfights in The Clone Wars)

The attempt to film the trench run eventually led to the creation of the first motion control camera dolly.

Best analogy I can think of, when describing George's approach to Star Wars, is the following:

An avant-garde esoteric contemporary artist - y'know, the type who puts a blue dot on a white canvas and calls it art - creates a comic.

Why? Because he wants to make this one art installment for a gallery exhibition. After that, he intends to move on to other things.

But the comic is really good! And like, its audience quickly expands beyond just gallery visitors, no, everyone likes it.

Suddenly, the comic develops a cult following, and the entirety of comic book geek culture has zeroed-in on the artist and they're all asking him to make more art! And he makes more! And more!

Then he stops for two decades, moves on to other art projects, raises his kids. Years later, he discovers new ways of drawing, and he's like "I'm making a Prequel to the comic, y'all wanna see it?"

Everyone cries out gleefully: "Oh God, yes! Finally! Show us!"

But this motherfucker makes a manga.

Why? Because he feels like it.

And of course he does, he's just creating art, right? He discovered the graphic tablet, so he's having fun with it, because he's always innovating and pushing the envelope with his art.

And the movies are fine, by manga standards. But by comic book standards, they obviously suck! The comic book audience is mad. They wanted another comic book, not a manga. Why is it in black and white? Why is read right-to-left? This comic sucks!

(And arguably, they have a point... as a savvy businessman, he's made a whole lot of money off this comic, he built a media empire out of it, and instead of giving them what they want, he made something else)

But again... this guy isn't a comic book illustrator, and has been very explicit about saying this.

He's an artist who - for a very specific project - drew a comic.

Many things can be true at once:

the fact that these creative decisions didn't always hit their mark for the average moviegoer, or fans of "Star Wars, the space fantasy movies and expanded universe" (usually the lore-loving geeks like myself)...

... and the fact that they were meticulously and carefully crafted in a way that fans of "Star Wars, the revolutionary film" (aka fans of cinema and filmmaking) can appreciate.

There's a spectrum of the fandom, and there is a spectrum in the way we can appreciate Star Wars. Which kinda reminds me of that scene in Chef (2014) where Carl goes on a rant explaining the intricacies of making his chocolate lava cake to a food critic.

It's not just undercooked chocolate.

It's molten.

Conversely, it's not just flat, campy dialogue. It's an homage to the 1930s matinee serials à la Flash Gordon.

It's not just boring cinematography. It's a reproduction of cinéma vérité documentary-style camera work which effectively grounds the film.

Having considered all this, when I hear that Tony Gilroy or Kathleen Kennedy were more in the latter camp, I go "fair enough".

First of all, because like it or not, so was George. He clearly didn't give a single crap about the comics and books, besides signing off on minor plot points. He's not a "sci-fi movie director", he's an experimental filmmaker who makes movies set in space.

But secondly, because - aside from children - it's clear the audience he was targeting was these cinema-savvy folks who'd get his references and would be inspired by the filmmaking techniques.

Not the fans or the critics.

[bellawoso]

bags.

aitana bonmati x reader

desc: aftermath of falling for your bestfriend …. anddd its short and angsty at the start ☹️

shit. this was bad right? realising the longing glances you had been sending to your bestfriend were not strictly platonic. you dont think you would have minded this much if it was anyone else, but aitana was your closest friend, and a girl.

you hated it.

you hated the way your body betrayed your mind as your cheeks flushed red when aitana turned back around to give you one last wave goodbye.

you hated the way the rest of your drive home was clouded by thoughts of aitana, haunted by her sweet melodic voice which always was accompanied by a strong accent when she insisted she spoke english for you, which she had learnt just so she could communicate better with you.

did she learn it for you, only?

did she feel the same way? the thought disgusted you. if it was a one sided thing on your behalf then you could get rid of it quickly, but if she felt the same way? what could you do? aitana would never shy away from her feelings, always rambling on about embracing her sexuality and welcoming new feelings with love.

aitana would tell you, and if she did - god.

things would become real, you would have to reject her, though the thought of saying no to her made you tense up, would you be able to resist? or would you push her away, pushing away your five year old friendship with her?

even worse - what if you confessed to her?

the night after finals were ones to be celebrated with drinks and dances, even alexia ignored her no drinking during season rules for these nights.

you were the only one in the team not drinking, terrified that if you even looked in the direction of the ‘liquid confidence’ at the bar then it would fuel you to tell your bestfriend how you really felt.

except, what would you say? what did you actually feel for her? was it actually love, or just mere confusion?

does everyone feel like this towards their best friend?

hell - you didnt even know if aitana would feel the same way; thoughts of her leaving your house in silence ate away at you, forcing you to bury every romantic feeling you felt for her.

how could you not feel this way? after sleepovers that felt a bit too domestic to be platonic, and kisses on your cheek that lingered too long to be considered friendly, and the hugs where hand slipped lower than they should have between two friends.

———

aitana came round to your house a few days ago. each time she shows up uninvited you cant help but imagine this being what it would be like if she was your girlfriend, would you greet her with a kiss? a kiss between two girls.

you think you have gotten over the whole sexuality thing.

you spent an entire night last month doing those little sexuality quizzes, and after three hours of choosing the straightest answer for each question, you had actually started to choose answers that were real to you.

progress is progress right?

a week after that you went to a gay bar with your friend. you dont like to think about the part where you walked straight back out,

the next night you went back, forcing yourself to stay there, however you spent most of your night hiding in the toilets, too scared you would encounter someone from the team.

two weeks after that, you phoned your dad. he still lived in england, you honestly didnt know where this internalised homophobia came from, your dad always supporting pride movements back home in london. you could just blame it on a lack of exposure, but you werent really sure.

as you tried to tell him, your throat suddenly became dry and closed up, tears pooled in your eyes, threatening to spill as you spoke the words. it was the first time you had actually admitted it out loud; it felt nice.

aitana was moaning about her lack of love life again, you really hoped she hadnt noticed your glances at her lips, movie night went on, and as usual you fell asleep on your bestfriends lap. because that what bestfriends do, right?

———

the girls were at the club yesterday, mapi and ingrid joint by the hip as usual. you wish you were as comfortable about everything as they were.

you were sat down next to aitana when it happened, some man making a snarky comment about two girls being together, you felt aitana tense up next to you, you held her hands in yours, softly whispering in her ear that it was okay as alexia and irene berated this man about his words.

you excused yourself to the bathroom, needing to think for a minute. splashing your face with water as you looked in the mirror, muttering the words “your fine as you are” repeatedly to yourself, wishing that the more you said it the more it would sink in.

it never did.

a girl walked into the bathroom behind you, you recognised her as being someone that patri was talking to earlier, she looked confident and fearless, and you couldnt help but wish to be as content with who you were as she was.

locking eye contact with the girl in the mirror, she offered you a small smile which you returned with an excited grin, the new spark in your eye at the thought of going back to your bestfriend, as you were going to do something. hold her hand. kiss her cheek. you werent sure yet, but you knew it would just happen.

you rushed out of the bathroom back to the table, about to slip into your previous spot next to aitana, who was deeply engaged in a conversation with patri, alexia, mapi and lucy. until some drunk person knocked into you, causing you to lose balance and stumble onto your bestfriends lap, who gripped onto your hips to stabilise you on her lap.

now, it was common for people on the team to sometimes sit on their friends lap, but the wolf whistle from patri made you tense up as lucy laughed and joked that “you and aitana looked like a couple” you missed the blush coating aitanas cheeks and now only feared that your fellow lioness had caught onto your crush.

pushing yourself off aitanas lap and missing the newfound frown on her face, you rushed out of the bar, needing some fresh air to hopefully cool your face and regulate your breathing.

lucy followed you out, making sure you were safe by your self, and came to sit next to you on the curb.

“you alright y/n?” she asked, “do you really think me and aita looked like a couple” you questioned hopefully.

“it was just in the moment y/n, you were on her lap and her hand were on your waist, its no big deal, honestly, im sorry if it made you uncomfortable”

“no, it is a big deal, for me at least, i- i just, im confused, okay? im making myself uncomfortable because ive decided im into girls at 24 years old!”

lucy, to your surprise, didnt look too taken aback by your admittance “well that was the boldest coming out i think i have ever seen, but im proud of you y/n, okay? just know we all accept you.”

“i- i think i like aitana, but, does she feel the same? i dont want to lose her.”

lucy however, was distracted by something behind you, noticing the sound of the club door opening, you turned around to be met with aitana walking over to you two, lucy stood up, giving you a comforting nod as she walked back to the club entrance.

looking at your bestfriends face as she rambled about how stupid lucy and patri were, as you mindlessly played with the rings adorning her hands which rested on your lap.

except this time when you glanced at her lips, you knew if you two kissed then you wouldnt pull away, too in your thoughts to realise her voice trailing off. until you felt a soft pair of lips on your own, as she grabbed your jaw in her hand, tilting your face to how she wanted.

one of your hands went to her soft brunette locks, and tangled in her hair, playing with the short baby hairs at the nape of her neck.

when you two broke apart, you settled on resting your foreheads on each others, panting due to the restriction of oxygen.

until aitana spoke up “go on a date with me?”

except for the first time, you said yes to a romantic activity with a girl.

———

a year later

yourinstagram

♥️ liked by aitanabonmati, lucybronze and 29,857 others

caption: movie nights turned to living with you amor, happy 1 year 🤍

tagged: aitanabonmati

———

aitanabonmati: cariiii, te amo muchooo

-> yourinsta: i love you

-

lucybronze: no credits to me?

-> yourinsta: im telling leah on you

-> lucybronze: kid! for what?!

-> yourinsta: being annoying.

-

user1: they are so cute together

user2: friends to loversss

———