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mqrrstarr · 2 months ago

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Gladiator Headcanons! (1/?)

How the Characters would act if you: Had A Cold!

Character x GN! Reader

Warnings: s3x implied

Characters Featured: Maximus, Lucilla, Commodus, Acacius, Caracalla, Geta, Lucius, Macrinus (edited: I never actually wrote anything for him but I did now)

A/N: First Tumblr post in a while, and I'm actually writing things too! This is the first time I've written elaborate headcanons, so please forgive if they seem a little off. I apologize for any historical/character innacuracies, and I hope to get better!! xoxo -mqrrstarr

Summary: headcanons!!

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Maximus would immediately notice something is off. You kept complaining about a headache that didn’t seem to stop, and your temperature was high.

“Darling, I don’t think you should fight today…”

You could only cough in response, and the guards wouldn’t let you rest. As the day’s challenge was fighting in pairs, he rapidly volunteered to fight with you. Maximus protected you from the other gladiators, and killed them as fast as you could sneeze. By the end of the day, Maximus gave you his blanket and other amenities, ushering you to a more comfier cell. (He had placed a bet with another gladiator.)

“There darling, rest up nice and easy.”

I can also see Maximus getting the other gladiators to create a soup/stew sort of mixture. Not good. But he’s very fatherly, if you can get that?

- - - - - - - -

Lucilla knows everything. After taking care of Lucius as a child, she can rapidly tell when you’re not feeling well.

“Sweetie? Do you feel alright?”

She’d do the mom thing, put her hand on your forehead and try to figure out what was wrong with you. Your head was practically boiling, so she’d get her servants to make tea, lay you in her triclinium and keep you company.

“The servants will prove useful sweetie. You’re a strong warrior, so keep hanging on.”

She’d hum a lullaby, read poetry (the same she’d read to Lucius) and tell stories until you fell asleep.

- - - - - - - -

Commodus was rarely comforted growing up, so he knew how to handle sickness easily. Growing up semi-independent, he knew homemade tricks and tips to feel better.

“Y/N, are you not feeling well? Just get some herbs and drink an elixir. You’ll be fine.”

He realizes that he sounds a bit harsh, and reminds himself that he never wants to treat you how he was treated; with solitude and no gratitude. Commodus gets you all the snacks and food you want, and even hugs you for as long as you want.

When you question him after it’s been a whole afternoon of him on your chest, he simply says,

“Y/N, do not question the Emperor. I wish to lay with you, and I do not fear sickness. The Gods can protect one of their own.”

He keeps hugging you and falls asleep, and the next day you’re both coughing and sneezing.

- - - - - - - -

Acacius has been through so many battles and massacres, yet he’s never truly encountered a cold. The soldiers that cough, are usually dead. Coughing up their own blood, that is. He really doesn’t know how to help you properly, but he’ll try his best.

“Angel, can you tell me what’s wrong? I’m not really sure what to do. Should I get a doctor? Are you feeling a certain way?”

and as he says this, Acacius would use his hands to caress yours, and treat you even more like a princess/prince. He’d lay you in his own bed, and give you massages until you’d feel better. He’d also do a little more if you’d want. Iykyk. You’d fall asleep quickly, and you’d wake up to Acacius either next to you, or on a chair by the bedside and he’d be all sprawled out. His soldier senses would wake him up though.

“Angel? Angel? You’re all right now, that’s wonderful. My lovely Venus, you’re all healed.”

And his words, he would seal with a forehead kiss. GOD HE’S SUCH A SWEETHEART I NEED PEDRO PASCAL

- - - - - - - -

Caracalla had his own sickness, the one of syphilis. His wild mentality usually was what kept him going, and the love of ruling over Rome. Yet the Emperor cared for his significant other, and refused to let anyone else; even his closest servants touch you.

“My Wife/Husband, the most holiest of them all, I shall take care of you. Please tell me what your most vivid desires are? Allow me to assist you.”

He’s such a sweetheart, and he’d definitely tell you so many stories of him and Geta in their childhood, Roman mythology, and anything to keep you entertained. As he also has mommy and daddy issues, he also do a Commodus-esque move and lay on your chest and probably fall asleep first haha. When the both of you awake, he'd hear your stomach rumble.

“You’re hungry? Well then I shall feed you. Anything for you my love.”

He’d keep you filled with food and him to help your weak state. (CARACALLA COME HOME THE KIDS AND I MISS YOU)

- - - - - - - -

Geta was always stressed. Getting much more to do as Emperor, as Caracalla had his own “duties” to fulfill. When you started coughing and sneezing as you strolled in the palace garden, he’d send the servants away to prepare a room where you could quarantine. As much as he loved you, he’d refuse to get sick. (Rome needs a healthy representation.) So you’d be alone the first few days with the occasional knock on the door. When you seemed less sick than before, he’d spend all the time with you.

“My love? I’m here for you. The Gods have finally allotted time for our get together. It will be only the finest in Rome for the night; us.”

He’d definitely turn the situation into a fun (fucking) night and then the days after that would be a cycle of laying together, fine dining meals, and caressing. (your bodies, of course.) When he has to return to his Emperor duties, he’ll leave with a long romantic and passionate kiss, one that made your entire body warm.

“Won’t be long. I’ll be back in the night.”

(if you couldn't tell i love the idea of geta as needy all the time)

- - - - - - - -

Lucius knew what it was like to feel sick and tired constantly, so he took care of you. Like a shepherd tending to his favorite sheep. Both of you grand warriors and gladiators, so there was no time to feel bad. He reassured you he could fight without you, and vowed to come back every time.

“Dearest, I promise to return safely. I couldn’t leave my soul with you, it has to be me truly here always. I vow on our love to fight for freedom and the peace of Rome. I will also fight for you.”

You trusted Lucius, (WHO WOULDN’T WITH THOSE BLUE EYES) and he is a man of his word. Day after day, you slowly healed and was able to rejoin Lucius and the others again.

“See? I knew you’d heal. The Gods give power to those who are great. And you are great.”

You fought as usual, but he’d still protect you a little more to ensure you were actually okay.

- - - - - - - -

Macrinus would see you and get together some gladiators in your presence, hoping they would entertain you and help you ignore the pain.

“Sickness is nothing but temporary Y/N. You can and have the power to move on.”

You’d take his advice and eventually keep doing your work as his assistant, and he’d make sure you were well taken care of.

“Y/N? A true warrior does not dawdle. Good job keeping up with your tasks.”

Surprisingly, you were able to keep up with work and healed faster than expected. (THERE I WROTE FOR MACRINUS)

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foundtherightwords · 3 months ago

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🏛 👑⚔️"Gladiator II" thoughts 🏛 👑⚔️

Before I start, I have to say that (and please don't throw me into the Colosseum for this) I think the first "Gladiator" is just okay. A solid epic historical/action flick, sure, but to me it's no more than that. And... well, "Gladiator II" is more or less the same, but with a less tight script and therefore less emotional resonance.

It's my biggest issue with the movie. The spectacles are great and the action sequences are solid, but I'm not interested in any of the characters (with the exception of the emperors and Macrinus.) They're all very one-note. To be fair, Acacius doesn't require a lot of dimensions and Pedro did a good job with the character, but Lucius and Lucilla... meh. For a movie that is 148 minutes long, it feels oddly rushed; I felt like I never had the time to get to know the characters or become invested in their fates.

On to the good parts: like I said, the emperors and Macrinus. The review that says Denzel is acting on another level and Joe is the only one that comes close to matching him is spot-on. Out of all the characters, Geta and Macrinus are the only two with some depth. Denzel is amazing, affable and gregarious one minute and then chilling and menacing the next. As for Geta, maybe I'm just biased, but it's so easy to make him one-dimensional too, except Joe imbued the character with nuance and subtlety, so although we don't get to spend a lot of time with them, we understand these two emperors and their dynamic very well. Fred also did great with Caracalla - in fact, if his character wasn't so deranged and erratic and Fred didn't play that to perfection, Geta wouldn't stand out as the sane one as much as he did. They really were the perfect double act.

OK, so those are my spoiler-free thoughts. If you haven't seen the movie, click away now! It's going to be all spoilers from here! This is your last warning! (Oh and I'll start posting my Geta fic next Tuesday. Here's a preview; if you want to be tagged, drop me a comment!)

Now if you don't mind spoilers, read on...

When we found out that Ridley Scott had done a switcheroo and made Geta the elder brother (interestingly, the subtitle at my theater has Caracalla as the elder, which suggests the translator did more historical research than Sir Ridley and his writer!), I guessed that the movie would still follow a bit of historical facts with Macrinus manipulates Caracalla into killing Geta (OK, the bit about Macrinus manipulating Caracalla is not historical, but Caracalla killing Geta is), and then Macrinus would kill Caracalla to take the throne. Well...

And Geta's death is... my God. I gasped out loud in the theater. The head afterward was a bit goofy, but I can't say it's not effective. Poor Joe. Not only his characters always get killed, they often get killed in the gnarliest ways too.

I'm very annoyed at those early reports saying that the emperors have about 20-30 minutes of screen time though. It's more like 10! This video?

That's basically all of Joe's scenes! (Fred gets more, obviously, but not by much.)

And again, I wish they would stop using cut scenes as promo (like with AQPD1), because this still?

Never happens.

The final fight between Lucius and Macrinus is weirdly anti-climactic. Macrinus is never set up as a great fighter anyway, so there is no tension in Lucius facing him.

Also, I know I complain a lot about the lack of historical accuracies, but the ending particularly annoys me because it makes it seem like Rome is finally getting better, except it wasn't! After the terrible reign of Caracalla, we get the even worse reign of Elagabalus, and then Severus Alexander, which is basically the calm before the storm that is the Crisis of the Third Century. So if Sir Ridley is doing "Gladiator III", I'd like to see how he wriggles his way out of that!

#gladiator 2 #emperor geta #joseph quinn #fred hechinger #paul mescal #pedro pascal #denzel washington #connie nielsen

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years ago

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Hey, Cee!💗Congrats on your amazing milestone!👏I’m rather new to the family, still making my way through your master list and I enjoy it a lot😊 For the sleepover I’d like to request a micro drabble if you’d be so kind - Roommates Au with Dieter Bravo 🙌 What a nightmare!😅

Hi lovely! I'm so glad you're here and I hope you're having a good time with my Pedro boys 😘 So this one ran away from me, I'm very sorry if this wasn't what you were hoping for, but I've been itching to write for a younger Dieter, and this is what came out.

Dieter Bravo x Roommates AU

Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 1000ish words (sorry) | warnings: mature themes but not explicit, mentions of drug use, angst, hopeful ending

You're not sure how you ended up sharing an apartment with Dieter Bravo.

Honestly, calling this dumpster fire of a studio above a laundromat/dealer's den an apartment is a kindness it does not deserve.

You tried in the beginning. You painted the walls a soothing buttercup that has long peeled off in patches. You fixed the table with the crooked leg so it doesn't wobble when you eat discounted sandwiches on it. You even bought potted plants, dotting trellises of green throughout the small space to give it some semblance of life (that quickly expired from lack of daylight).

But then one day, your college boyfriend, your supposed ride-or-die, left for an audition and never came back.

The next morning, Dieter Bravo showed up on your doorstep, a beat-up weekender bag at his feet. He looked bored even then, wearing an unaffected nonchalance like he does his favourite green robe. 'Some dude I met an an audition yesterday said there's a cheap room for rent?'

Except there's not really a room. There's a bed in the corner with a privacy curtain around it like a fucking hospital ward, and there's a fold-out couch on the other side of the tiny space.

Dieter lets you take the bed.

You don't bother getting to know your new roommate, too wrapped up in the cotton wool of your heartbreak and a blind determination to make it. Honestly, you'd struggle to pick him out from a lineup.

All you know is that he's messy, but he consciously contains that mess to his side of the studio. It's like there's a glass wall holding back his dirty clothes and mismatched shoes from spilling into the shared kitchen. He's also bad at clearing out the fridge, always forgetting the discounted Cheddar he seems to have a fondness for, but always leaves rotting at the back of the dairy shelf.

He doesn't complain when you throw his shit out though, and you don't mind cleaning up after him.

You're ships in the night, each pulling as many shifts as possible in between auditions to stay alive in this money-guzzling, soul-crushing city.

By the time you come home well after midnight, the only sign that another person lives with you is the occasional Chinese takeout he leaves out on the (still wobbly) table if the buffet place he works at gives him leftovers.

In your rush to leave for your first shift one morning, you accidentally make too much coffee, which you leave on the counter for when he returns from his graveyard stint. A few more accidents later, you start making enough for two out of habit.

The first time you actually share space in the studio is maybe five months into your not-quite-cohabitation. It's been a tough day - two rejections after third-round auditions, and a drunk customer spilled Jack and Coke onto your favourite white top, which will definitely leave a stain.

You let yourself into the studio quietly, not bothering with the lights. Stripping down to your underwear, you're about to head into the bathroom when you hear it.

Just above the thumping bass of the illicit nightclub across the street, and the whirr of the industrial-sized washing machines under your feet, is the unmistakable squeak squeak squeak of old springs in the fold-out couch.

You freeze. Someone else is in the apartment with you.

A breathy, distinctly female moan reaches your ear, but a vicious blare of a car horn promptly drowns it out.

Holy fuck. Dieter is fucking some girl not ten steps across the studio, with nothing but the flimsy curtain around your bed separating you.

Suddenly hyperaware, you hear everything. The heavy, loaded slap of skin on skin. Shallow breaths muted in the curve of a neck. The low timbre of his voice, whispers of words that you can't make out - but you know that it's filthy by the way the fold-out creaks under the motion of quickening thrusts, and the desperate cry from the woman, quickly muffled.

You know exactly the moment he cums - there's a sudden stillness, a suspension of time, like everything is on tiptoes - and then three long, drawn-out thumps of the couch hitting the wall.

Then all goes quiet.

You can barely open your eyes the next morning when you trudge to the bathroom in just a threadbare sleep shirt and underwear. The door opens without you noticing, and you walk nose first into a broad, wet chest.

You open your mouth to apologise, but no words come out as you tip your chin upwards.

Dieter Bravo has brown eyes, hooded by deep set lids. He will change a lot in the years to come, as fame and drugs take hold - but one thing that does not is the way your breath hitches when he looks at you. Really looks at you.

His curls are long and unruly when dry, but wet and slicked back, the contours of his profile are more pronounced, and your eyes slide down the strong bridge of his nose and linger on the plush lips under a moustache that seems almost fastidiously tidy compared to the rest of him. It's the one constant when everything else in his life is anything but.

Dieter Bravo will be many things to you over the next fifteen years. Lover, boyfriend, ex, stranger, co-star, friend, friend with benefits, fiancé, ex, fiancé once again -

But he was your roommate first. And that morning, in the doorway to the tiny shower, your tits inadvertently pressed up against his bare chest, the wet towel wrapped around his narrow hips brushing your bare thighs, he smiles at you for the first time.

And when things get difficult down the line, because by god, do they get difficult - you hold on to that smile.

You hold onto him. Sometimes you have to, literally, wrapping your whole body around his through withdrawal shakes, and you whisper in his ear to remind him of how far you've both come from that dumpster fire of a studio above the laundromat/dealer's den -

Which you're kind enough to call an apartment.

#fuckyeah2222sleepover #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fic #roommates AU #dieter bravo angst

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heartbreakgrill · 2 years ago

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soo, i've an idea for an one shot if you would like to write it.

I was thinking about a Pedro Pascal x reader where the reader is making dinner while is listening some music, and it comes Pedro that wants to "help" them, but the two end up dancing and singing instead of cooking or something like that; yk just Pedro being all flirty and cheesy as always.

Idk if that sounds good but that's what i was thinking about.

dancing in the kitchen; pedro pascal.

a/n: i really hope you enjoy! not super long, but very fluffy <3

"what's on the menu this evening, esposa?"

pedro's voice from the doorway caught your attention. you looked up from the recipe your phone, focused expression growing into a grin.

"hi, baby," you replied as you set down your phone and shuffled over to him.

pedro slid his arms around your waist, and yours came to rest over his shoulders, fingers tugging at the hair curling down his neck. pedro pushed into you, bending you backwards with kisses to your neck, face, hair. you giggled into his shoulder, pushing back until you were straightened in the air.

"stooooop," you complained, though you didn't actually mean it.

pedro groaned in satisfaction that he had you back in his arms. "never! i missed my beautiful woman."

after all these years together, you couldn't help but blush. "oh, i missed you too, baby. however, my stomach is already screaming at me, and i've got to get this recipe going."

pedro squeezed you tighter to his chest, pressing another kiss to your forehead. then, he left you go, "alright, alright. i'm gonna go get showered."

"good, you stink," you jested and poked his side.

pedro gave you a warning look, finger pointed towards you. "watch it, esposa."

raising your hands in a playfully defensive stature, you giggled again, before turning back to the counter. you heard him shuffling up the stairs as you refocused on the recipe.

with a shuffle to your playlist, you began gathering the ingredients needed. just when you finished chopping up the vegetables needed, pedro padded back into the kitchen, shaking out his wet hair with his hands.

you grinned, “feel better?”

“i do,” he rounded the kitchen island, socks shuffling against the floor, and wrapped his arms around you. pedro nuzzled his nose into your neck, peppering kisses to your skin. cornered against the counter, you shoved all of the vegetables into a bowl.

“honey,” you whined and pushed your back begrudgingly against his chest. “i’ve gotta get this going.”

“here, let me,” he quickly took the bowl from you and placed himself at the stove.

“no, go relax!” you turned after him in an attempt to steal back the bowl.

pedro held it above your head, wagging a finger in your face. “i don’t think so, pretty girl. go work on something else.”

“whatever,” you rolled your eyes. before you could walk away, he grabbed the waistband of your apron with two fingers, tugging you back against him.

he smashed a kiss against your cheek, and you giggled at the ticklish display. pedro squeezed you, tight, and let you go. you did as he said, working on another portion of the food, swaying the music playing on your phone.

pedro sang under his breath from his station at the stove. you hummed, too, more so focused on your dancing. soon, his voice carried closer to you, “yeah, get it, mama!”

his chest pressed against your back, and he swayed side to side with you, singing loudly. you giggled and your head landed on his shoulder. he peered down at you and sang sweetly, pointed finger keeping your chin back.

you let go of the spoon in your hand, grabbed his, and kept dancing. pedro spun you around to face him, pulled you close. he held your waist, and your other hand, while your other landed next to your chin on his shoulder. pedro’s left leg intruded your own, ensuring your hips stayed on his, as you moved side to side.

you laughed as his terrible singing filled the kitchen. soon, the song trailed off. you thought you were done dancing until your guys’ favorite slow song ramped up. pedro pulled you back against him, a happy grin growing out of his surprise.

“oh, esposa,” he murmured.

you giggled, pulling your head back to look at him, “what?”

“i just can’t wait to marry you,” he shrugged, a silly expression on his grinning face.

you blushed, deeply, “well, what are you waiting for?”

pedro tugged you back to him, a pep in his step. “oh, just wait. i have…plans.”

the oven started beeping then, and you stepped away from one another to plate dinner. as you were sitting down at the table, glass of wine to your lips, you hesitated from taking a drink.

you looked to pedro, drawing your brows together, “why haven’t you ever said anything?” pedro stabbed a piece of broccoli and paused before it reached his mouth. you continued, “ i mean, i’ve always known. but…we’ve just never realistically talked about it.”

pedro shrugged, a nonchalant frown on his face, “i call you esposa everyday. and it means wife, so…it was always realistic to me.” you sat there stunned, a pleased smile on your face.

it was always realistic to you, too.

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedrostories #pedro pascal x oc #pedro pascal x you #pedro #pascal

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prolix-yuy · 3 years ago

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So I was having a watching music videos but doing stuff around the house day today.. And one of my comfort/childhood Trace Adkins songs came on.. It was Swing ( I know I'm an odd one for it being a childhood song, my mom raised me on his music and just all around more adult music.. 😆 ) Anywaysssss! It made an idea pop into my head cause I subconsciously have been on the look out for ideas to send ya after you posted your last part to the wonderful Frankie story saying you were open to ideas and such. 🤗💞

Enough of my rambling, on to the actual idea.. 😆🤣🏃💨

So maybe since they are in full cuteness of being a relationship, that Frankie would want to teach reader how to do something he loves doing.. And or her doing the same with Frankie.. 🤔🤔 Since their lives are definitely officially merging together now ( in the cutest way cause they are couple goals,lol). 💞🤗

Idk why watching/listening to swing made that kind of idea pop into my head, but it did.. 🤣🤷‍♀️

You can have full ideas of all of it, whatever kinda active they wanna teach,etc.. 💞 I just had some of small baking ingredients to gift you if you wanted to make the meal.. 😆💞 idek where that analogy came from but oh well, lmao.

But I hope your day/week has been amazingggg! 💗🤗 And no worries whatsoever if this idea does not work with you, etc. Just wanted to pass an idea on if you wanted it. 💞😊

Comfort hugs and extra sending of loveeee if you are in need of them. 💞🤗😘 ( Adorable handsome Mr. Pascal and Morales to make you smile maybe too) 💞🤗

You just unlocked a bunch of foundational memories with this ask! I grew up listening to a lot of Grateful Dead and bluegrass music (thanks Dad), so I know what you mean when your childhood songs don’t line up perfectly with when you were a kid.

Hmm, Frankie or Ms J teaching each other things…

I was trying to think of what might come up here. Frankie has a lot of interesting talents (that Ms J has definitely been privy to). But then I was contemplating your musical inspiration…and I remembered Pedro is going to play Joel in The Last of Us…and I figured out where this should go. If you’ve played The Last of Us 2, you’ll recognize a bit of where I’m pulling this from.

This one got away from me a little bit, I hope you enjoy!

Takes place after Something More.

Future Days

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish" Morales x F!Reader "Ms Jackson"

Summary: What have Frankie or Ms J taught each other?

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, past Sex Worker!Frankie, watch me make up shit about sex work, The TF boys being too fun for their own good, Santi singing needs its own warning, descriptions of male and female bodies, breast play, unprotected PiV sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), some minor cum play if you squint, me only knowing the smallest amount about playing guitar.

Cross-posted on AO3

Sex Worker!Frankie AU Masterlist

It was at another one of the Miller’s barbecues, much later in the summer when the oppressive heat of the day kept everyone in lightweight clothes and the night brought out camping blankets, that Frankie found out you still had your share of surprises.

The sun had set, leaving you around “another fuckin’ great bonfire” according to Benny, when Santi disappeared into the house. When he returned with a shit-eating grin and a guitar in one hand, everyone but you groaned.

“Santi, if we have to listen to your caterwauling one more time, I’m going to put that guitar right into the fire,” Will complained, though it sounds good-natured. Santi scoffs and sits in the chair next to yours, giving you his full attention since no one else seems to want it.

“Don’t listen to them, they’re just jealous I’ve got an instant in with the ladies,” he whispers, strumming a few chords and raising an eyebrow at you. You smirk and nod, feigning an impressed expression as he prepares to serenade all of the grimacing boys. Frankie is walking back to sit on your other side, placing a fresh Corona in your hand.

You push the lime through the tight neck of the bottle as Santi does a not-half-bad rendition of “Dancing in the Moonlight,” which despite their moans gets the boys’ toes tapping. Santi’s voice is clear and lifts on the breeze, a light vibrato on held notes and breathy exhales on the low dips. He’s all smiles and winking at everyone watching, just as engaging a performer as a singer. His energy is infectious; you even join in on the verses, Will adding an overly high falsetto at times that makes you all laugh. He’s warmed up to you more over time, growing from the silent brother to your favorite person to confide in when the party gets rowdy. Silent smiles and rolled eyes are your language.

Santi waves his hands for a smattering of applause, yours the loudest. He dips his head in mock modesty.

“I’m glad someone here appreciates my musical talent,” he jokes, and you try your hardest not to break into the silliest grin. “You enjoy the guitar too, Ms Jackson?” You nod, eyeing the mahogany curves and the onyx neck of his well-loved looking instrument. Santi notices with a sly smile.

“You ever play?” he asks, and he’s walked right into your not-so-subtle trap.

‘Yeah, I’ve dabbled,” you say, earning a surprised look from Santi and, you assume, Frankie behind your shoulder. Santi holds the guitar out to you.

“Care to grace us with a little tune?” Before you can answer Benny whoops and shouts, “Yeah Ms J, show him how it’s done!” You shake your head but take the guitar, scooting up to rest it on your knees. It’s a little bigger than the one you’re used to playing, but you adjust your position around it. Taking a peek over at Frankie, his eyes shining in the firelight, you catch a surprised smile gracing his face.

It’s exciting to think you can still surprise him.

“What would you like me to play?” you ask Santi sweetly, testing a few chords.

“Whatever inspires you, I’m beyond intrigued now,” he says, turning his chair to face you more fully. “Fish, you never told me Ms Jackson can jam.” Frankie huffs out a laugh and you beat him to an answer.

“Hasn’t come up before, Santi,” you reply coolly, looking back at Frankie and giving him a smile. He’s looking especially rumpled and adorable, barefooted in khaki shorts and a red jean jacket half hiding a tattered Fleetwood Mac t-shirt that definitely has a hole in the armpit.

“Anyway, here’s Wonderwall,” you joke, strumming the first few notes to a chorus of groans. “Ok jeez, tough crowd.” Instead you begin thumping your foot against the ground, plucking at the strings with the nimbleness of practice. You hear Will’s, “Oh shit!” from across the fire as you get through the intro and stop for two beats, all the boy’s faces breaking out in smiles as you jump into the first lines of “The Chain.”

Frankie’s bellowing cheer tells you this was a good pick. Benny and Santi start clapping along with the beat, Santi’s clear voice pairing with your airier one and adding strength to the melody. He even harmonizes with you, making your hair stand on end at the major chords. The chorus has all of the boys joining in, Frankie’s growly baritone speak-singing the lyrics next to you. Benny and Will air-drum through the interlude, you plucking through the bass section. The music peters off as you strum through the ending.

“Holy shit Ms Jackson! You’ve been holding out on me!” Santi cheers, taking the guitar from you and slapping you on the back.

“Anytime, as long as the boys don’t get tired of listening to me,” you reply. Santi slings the guitar strap over his shoulder and saunters to the other side of the fire, playing the beginning of another song that has Will and Benny practically running from him. You get up to toss out your bottle but Frankie snags you on the way by, pulling you down into his lap with a squeak. Warmth surrounds you, big arms wrapping you into Frankie’s body as he beams into your face.

“You trying to get me riled up?” he growls playfully, to which you tap him on his strong nose and weave your fingers into the base of his curls.

“I know your weaknesses, Frankie Morales,” you tease, scritching at the place on his scalp that makes his eyes close. He hums and squeezes your hips with his large hands.

“You’re gonna have to teach me that sometime,” he says, pressing a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. You sigh, giggling when you hear Will threaten, “If you sing that stupid hippo song one more time I’m going to shove that torture device so far up your ass.”

A few days later, Frankie surprises you right back.

“I would actually like to learn,” he brings up out of the blue. He’s got your feet in his lap, tucked at the end of his couch as you lounge across it. His thumb makes circles in the pad of your foot, gentle but also…nervous?

“Learn what?” you ask, sitting up to see him better. His smile is a little sheepish.

“How to play guitar,” he says a little quieter. He’s keeping his eyes trained on your feet, which makes your nose crinkle. Does he think you’d laugh at him for that? When it might be the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?

“Of course, Frankie. I can dig up my old one.” The smile that creeps onto Frankie’s face settles into your heart like so many of his other emotions.

“It’s okay? I don’t want it to be a hassle,” he concedes, but you’re shaking your head and scooting closer to him.

“I would love to teach you.” Frankie scoffs for a moment, lifting his cap to comb back his hair. You grab the brim and toss it over onto his coffee table, replacing it with your fingers instead. He melts below your touch, leaning back and looking at you with that strangely sheepish expression again.

“I, um…” he starts, pausing to look in your face before continuing, “I’m not always the most…patient learner. So if it gets to be too much you just…give me a slap or something.” You hum at this admission. Frankie could be impatient in some aspects, but most times it had been to your benefit.

“We’ll have to see how good of a teacher I am,” you settle on, and Frankie’s gentle eyes couldn’t be more adoring.

Frankie was not kidding. For someone who could be so patient and take so much time in some aspects of his life, learning a new skill frustrated him to no end.

You’d started small, showing him how to hold a few major chords on the long neck of your old guitar. His hands dwarfed the wooden column, jaw clenching when his thick fingers pressed down on too many strings, dulling the note. He frequently shook his hand out, complaining of cramping. It reminded you of when you tried to learn piano, your hands too small to reach a full octave across the keys and how frustrated you were when you undershot a note that was so easy for others.

These lessons, spread out over several months and no more than a couple times a week, showed you a side of Frankie you’d never seen before. Your sweet, thoughtful boyfriend became more focused, serious as he tried to memorize progressions. His teeth clenched, mouth turned downward when he struggled, no matter how much encouragement you plied him with. Low curses lingered under his breath, and on more than one occasion you asked him if he wanted to stop.

“No,” he grunted out, dropping the guitar on the couch beside him and leaning back, hands coming up to scrub at his face. “I’m just feeling…slow. I hate feeling slow.” You took his hand in yours, massaging your thumb along the delicate muscles. It took a long time for your hand to feel comfortable on the strings too. You’re not Frankie’s therapist (his name is Ben), but when he gets quiet and tense like this you encourage him to speak those simmering feelings just to let them into the air.

“Want to tell me about it?” you ask. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.

“Maybe I’m just an old dog who can’t learn a new trick,” he grumbled, head tilted towards the ceiling. Actively trying to relax his jaw, you continued working the tight muscles in his hand.

“If it’s not fun, you don’t have to do it,” you replied. Frankie brought his face back to yours. “It’s not a job. You’re supposed to enjoy it.” That granted you one of your favorite Frankie faces, sweet eyes and a gentle smile with a tilt of his head. It always bloomed warmth in your chest.

“How did you not give up on it?” he asked. You contemplated that, pulling your lower lip between your teeth before breaking out into a grin.

“I’ve got an idea.”

The next time Frankie sits down to practice, the defeat already in his shoulders, you place a few pieces of paper down on your coffee table. They’re chord progressions written out in your hand, no musical notes or bars. Frankie’s forehead wrinkles as he looks at them.

“You have to guess,” you say, sitting in the armchair across from him. “You know the song, but you gotta figure it out. I’ll give you a hint when you’re getting close.”

Frankie’s face smooths, a smile coming to his lips. Your excitement is thrumming in your chest. This is what he needs, a puzzle to solve, a game to play that engages both his body and his mind. He was a pilot after all, you’re surprised you didn’t think of this sooner.

He studies the chord progression, full focus on the sheet and his fingering, as he gets through your written directions slowly but accurately.

“Okay, a little faster this time,” you say, and Frankie nods with a sharpness that looks like it would be followed by a, “yes ma’am.” That flash of obedience sparks something primal and deep in you, but you push it down for another day. He stumbles, puffing little annoyed breaths out when he makes a mistake, but soon he’s getting the hand placement right, moving through the eight bars with more fluidity. His grimace starts to morph into a smile, and you look at him expectantly.

“What song is it?” you press, waiting for him to work through the chords again before he beams up at you.

“Well I guess it would be nice…” he rasps out, more speaking than singing, but you point at him and nod, “If I could touch your body, ‘cause I know not everybody has got a body like you!” You clap at his rendition of “Faith” by George Michael, strumming becoming more confident as he recognizes the rhythm and melody of the song he was unwittingly playing.

This is what finally gets Frankie excited instead of the single-minded goal to “be good” at guitar. Every little lesson is a game now, ranging from practicing the songs he enjoys playing (Faith has become a favorite) to new ones you write out for him. From “Kokomo” to “I Wanna Know What Love Is,” he’s starting to really get into the groove. You pretend not to notice that he folds up all the scraps of paper into his pocket at the end of the lesson, or the little pile on his bureau that bears your messy handwriting. Instead you start adding a little heart to every sheet.

Your favorite session by far was one where Frankie got the chords quickly, but was puzzling through what song it was. After almost ten repetitions he shakes his head with a stumped expression.

“You finally got me babe, I’ve got no idea.” You try not to break out into laughter immediately, instead nodding to play it one more time. As the cue comes, you start making a loud exaggerated saxophone noise with your mouth, air-playing it as well. Frankie’s head shoots up in surprise, then the laughter bubbles up from a chuckle to raucous hyena shrieks, your own breaking through and making you gasp for air.

“You taught me Careless Whisper?!” Frankie tries to say between frantic sips of air, putting the guitar down and flopping back on the couch. His chest shakes violently with the force of his merriment, and you crumple onto the living room floor as you try to overcome your giggle fit. As you finally get control of your diaphragm, Frankie slides off the couch and hovers over you, a halo of curls that the light seeps through.

“I love you, you know that?” he says, placing a ticklish kiss in the crook of your neck. You release another delirious giggle, your head light from lack of oxygen, as Frankie crawls over and cages you in. Your hands come up to stroke along the tight muscles on his back, his curved nose bumping against yours.

“I love you too,” you reply, lifting your chin to give him a sweet kiss that is still punctuated by a few giggles. “Love you even more if you let me get off the dirty floor.”

“It’s vacuumed, you’re fine,” Frankie mumbles into your neck, the twin brushes of his lips on your skin making you dig your fingers into his back. “Let me love on you for a little bit,” he adds, chasing the paths his lips left.

“You can love on me all you want in a more comfortable spot,” you shoot back. Frankie’s head pops up, fake contemplation on his face, before he concedes and continues his gentle worship in the softer cushions of your couch.

It was a cooler Friday afternoon, sunlight welcome on your back as you moved through your house, when Frankie surprises you yet again. He arrives at your doorstep per usual, but with two bags of groceries on a Friday afternoon. You’d both gotten out of work early, you because of a holiday, him because he asked his boss if he could leave when he was done working on his last car. Now, with a mountain of supplies you recognize but don’t understand in this context, Frankie is giving you a shy look.

“I thought I’d make you pernil for dinner,” he says, and while you’ve never heard of the dish you immediately agree to Frankie’s bashful request. He was a decent cook, whipping up quick tasty dishes when you stayed at his apartment. Your cuisines didn’t overlap at first, but you’d come to love many of the South American flavors he cooked with, and he’d treated you to many whispered, “oh shits,” at the French and Mediterranean food you were partial too.

As he chops and stirs at your kitchen island, letting you help with the prep but nothing more, he tells you this slow-roasted pork shoulder is something his mother makes only at Christmas due to the length of time it has to cook and the penchant that the young boys in the family had of barely letting it reach the table. You can understand why; the smell coming from the oven is savory, spicy, warming you all over.

“So what did you do to get the great honor of your mother’s recipe? I’m still trying to convince mine to give me a few of hers.” Frankie smirks, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He’s preparing rice and pigeon peas for a side dish, and the way his arms flex as he mixes, a tiny patch of sweat at the center of his chest, makes you want to abandon this meal for other activities.

“Came back alive,” he says simply. The words drag you into the moment. You hum in acknowledgement, your finger tracing the edge of your wine glass, rubbing away the lip print on one edge.

At first, Frankie’s matter-of-fact attitude had been a little jarring, a refusal to candy-coat his experiences or the dark moments of his life. You’ve come to understand it better as his way of removing emotion from those memories. It still makes you want to hold him when he says things like that, but Frankie carries a reserve of strength beneath his frame and you respect him too much to baby him. Instead you spread out those desires into the little moments you share every day.

The shoulder needs to roast for several hours, so you retire to the living room and move to pull up something on Netflix. Maybe you can binge a few episodes of some new show as the sun starts to inch towards the horizon.

“Uh, there’s another thing,” he says, still standing in the entryway. You put your hands on your waist and cock an eyebrow at him.

“Full of surprises today, Frankie,” you tease, getting your favorite nervous tic of his. He smiles and lifts his hat, combing the hair away from his forehead before resettling it. You teased him about wearing hats in the house but he looks so damn sexy in them it’s always half-hearted.

“I’ll just…go get it,” he says, turning to leave before spinning back. “Sit in the armchair. And…don’t look just yet, it’s kind of a surprise.” Then he’s out your door and ambling to his truck. You close your eyes, trying to fight a smile and failing. Your home smells wonderful, spiced and clean with hints of Frankie caught in the couch cushions, in your clothes.

The door creaks open and you make a show of covering your eyes with your hands, grinning at Frankie’s soft chuckle. His boots thump by the door, socked feet padding over to your couch and sitting across from you. You hear a twang, familiar but not quite identifiable when you’re in darkness. Then the strum of a guitar. Your eyes fly open.

Frankie is sitting on the edge of your couch, a new guitar more suited for his frame resting on his lap. The wood is dark walnut along the curves, lightening to amber around the strings. His head is turned down, brim of the cap hiding his eyes and nose, but his lips, those wonderful lips, are still visible as he plucks out the first few notes and chords.

“If I ever were to lose you, I'd surely lose myself. Everything I have found dear I've not found by myself. Try and sometimes you'll succeed To make this man of me. All my stolen missing parts I've no need for anymore.”

You can barely move, afraid to break the spell of Frankie’s large hands wrapped around the neck of the guitar, fingers that frustrated him before now plucking nimbly, if not a little messily, at the strings. His voice is far-off thunder, half still in his chest like he’s afraid to be louder. Your hands are clasped in your lap, eyes shining at your beautiful boyfriend showing you how hard he’s worked to play this for you.

The lyrics keep flowing, the melody pausing sometimes when a particularly tricky part comes. He pushes through it, his head still downturned. It’s probably for the best because you can feel tears starting to dampen your lashes.

“I believe And I believe 'cause I can see Our future days Days of you and me.”

You’re crying to Pearl Jam being sung by the most gorgeous man you’ve ever had the chance to love and he’s rumbling the lyrics out so softly but each digs into your chest and makes a home there.

“All the promises at sundown I've meant them like the rest. All the demons used to come 'round, I'm grateful now they've left.”

You hear Frankie’s throat bob with a swallow, taking an extra measure to get to the last verse.

“So persistent in my ways. Hey angel, I am here to stay. No resistance, no alarms. Please, this is just too good to be gone.”

You know there’s a final verse lingering behind Frankie’s lips, but you stand and wrap your hand around the neck of the guitar, pulling it from his hands as he finally turns his head to look up at you. Your hands fly with frenetic energy, placing the guitar by the end of the couch, knocking Frankie’s cap off his head, and putting both hands on his face to capture him in a kiss. He lets out a surprised grunt that you swallow, pushing him back as you straddle his lap. You card your fingers through his soft curls, stroke your thumb along his scruffy jaw, and devour his mouth. Arms wrapping around you, he pulls you tight as he returns your heated kiss, dragging his tongue against yours, licking into all the little places that make you moan. His hands fist into the fabric of your shirt as he pants below you.

“Love you,” you gasp out, letting your lips part just enough to say it. “Love you so much, Frankie.” You feel a tear slip out, curving down to the corner of your mouth where Frankie kisses it away.

“You liked it?” he whispers, making you nod furiously, your noses bumping. “I’m still a little slow but…” You silence him with another kiss, settling your body tight against Frankie’s lap as he shifts his hips up to slot between your thighs.

“It was perfect,” you say, pulling back enough to look at Frankie’s dazed face. You let your fingers dance over his lips, soft and wet from your frenzied advance. He sees the trail of the tear down your cheek and wipes it away, cupping the side of your face with his warm palm. Tracing the edge of his beard, the dark crescents of his eyebrows, the proud line of his nose, you press back against his mouth with sweeter, slower movements this time.

Frankie indulges you in languid slips against his tongue, one hand splayed on your lower back, the other cupping the back of your head. Suddenly your head is spinning, your back coming down on the couch as Frankie flips you. He sits back on his knees, fingers making quick work of the button-up you hadn’t changed out of yet. Once he’s popped every button open and bared your chest to his hungry eyes he folds over you, dragging his lips against the hardened bud of your nipple. Your back arches at the soft sensation, giving Frankie just enough leverage to drag your sleeves and straps down your arms.

“Oh, babe,” he chokes out. Those fingers that frustrated him now deftly unclasp your bra, baring you to his wandering mouth. Frankie’s hot breath fanning across your sternum is a precursor to the tip of his tongue gently tracing around your nipple. Sparks ignite where his mouth closes around your breast, his hand cupping the neglected one and stroking the rough edge of his thumb over it again and again.

“Frankie, fuck,” you gasp out as he swirls his tongue around and over, dragging his teeth softly against the flesh to make you bury your fingers in his hair. When you start keening less he lets your nipple fall from his lips, replacing it with your plush mouth. His cock is hard and straining against you, your work skirt rucked up your thighs and panties damp with your arousal.

“Wanna give you my cock, baby, wanna make you cum,” Frankie garbles into your chest as he moves his devious lips to your other breast.

“Yeah Frankie, want to cum with your mouth full?” you tease back, the groan against your skin making you lift your hips against him. The groan becomes a growl as one of Frankie’s large hands snakes between you and thumbs at your clit.

“Please can I fuck you, baby?” he all but begs and your hands join his in unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans. He pulls your panties to the side and swipes his thumb through your messy sex.

“Want me to…” he starts to say, but your legs wrapping behind his thighs, pulling his weeping cock flush with you, cut off his next thought.

“Now, Frankie, need you now,” you moan, rocking your hips to drag him through your folds. Frankie curses and grips the base of his cock, guiding the thick tip into your cunt and rolling his hips to fill you achingly slow. When he bottoms out with a snap you shout hoarsely, his eyes flashing concern for a moment before you follow it with a debauched groan and a thrust back.

“Fuck, baby, yeah. Your pussy is so fucking good,” he squeezes out, one hand palming your ass and the other propping himself up on his elbow. You take a hold of his face again and guide him back to your breast, your breath hitching when he teases your nipple with the same talented strokes he puts to use between your legs.

“Frankie, honey, you’re gonna make me cum on your cock,” you murmur, sneaking a hand between you to rub dizzying circles on your clit. Neither of you have the patience or the brainpower to draw this out. You just want skin and pleasure and mouths and love love love.

It’s almost too much to bear when Frankie curls down into you, gathering you in his arms and scraping his teeth and lips behind your ear as he slams into you. The couch groans comically at the debauched pounding you’re experiencing.

“Love you, sweet girl, love you so much. Love everything about you. Fuck, love this tight pussy, you’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard. I’m gonna…fuck, I didn’t…baby, where…?” Frankie’s pace is quick and deep now, barely pulling out before pressing hard inside your cunt, punching his hips up to angle his cock against your g-spot. He’s moaning long and loud and you love hearing him falling apart.

“Cum on my panties,” you purr, squeezing Frankie as his hips falter.

“Oh fuck, fuck, shit yes, baby-” he tries to say, pulling his cock out and stroking himself, quick wet passes aided by your slick coating him. He pulls your panties back over your cunt, your hand still working under the cotton. “Fuck. Fuck! Yes, fuck!” Frankie grits out as he cums hard, coating the fabric in his spend as he jolts against you over and over.

“That’s it baby, look at you, so fucking sexy,” you croon as you feel the fabric dampening over you. You’re almost at the peak yourself, Frankie’s fucked-out face and rapt attention pushing you there quickly.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so fucking hot. Let me make you cum,” he pleads, but it’s less of a request than a demand when he pulls your wrist out of your panties, yanks the fabric to the side and dives down to suck your clit into his mouth. His tongue is fast and merciless against you, and being so close to the edge it barely takes a moment for you to shatter on your boyfriend’s tongue, his own cum smearing against his cheek in his eagerness.

You lay half-naked on your couch for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath. Frankie slumps against the back of the couch, shirt rumpled up, cock softening in the V of his hastily undone jeans. A silvery smear of cum on his cheek glistens until Frankie lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe it away, treating you to a gorgeous view of his stomach.

Once you have enough wherewithal to pull your panties back over you, sliding your skirt down to cover them, you hold your hands out for Frankie. He smiles, that quick, amazed one that both lights up your chest and gives you a pang of heartache. One day you think he’ll realize he deserves all of the love you give him.

Frankie crawls down your body, snuggling down beside you and resting his head on your chest. One heavy arm drapes over your stomach, fingers lacing with yours. He slots his thigh between your legs, and with your free hand you stroke at his fluffy curls. Post-orgasmic bliss was dragging your eyelids closed, and you could feel Frankie’s breathing evening out against your collarbone.

“Thank you,” you murmur into the top of his head, pressing a kiss there. He sighs, and in it is all of the comfort and satisfaction he feels in your arms.

“For the sex or the song?” he slurs against your skin. You huff out a laugh that makes him smile into your skin.

“For being everything,” you answer. His fingers tightening in yours speak louder than anything he could possibly say.

The pernil is delicious, and needed with both of your ravenous appetites. You thank Frankie, loudly and enthusiastically, as he blushes at your unabashed happiness. Conversation turns where it often does - work, plans, what you want to do this weekend - but towards the end of the meal Frankie just reaches over and takes your hand. It’s nothing new, but the way he holds it so tenderly makes your whole body feel full to bursting. You meet eyes, share smiles, and in Frankie’s brown ones you see all those future days perfectly promised.

END

The story continues in Frankie Finds Your Fanfic

#frankie morales x you #frankie morales fic #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales x f reader #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fanfictions #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #catfish morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader #sw!frankie

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bearpillowmonster · 3 years ago

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Kenobi 3+4

So, he has a brother huh? I wonder who. Also a Quinlan Voss cameo?? And a "that's not how the force works." line.

I like that they didn't just do the same thing and have Kenobi just about to fight Vader and then end up leaving, I appreciate that they got to fight. They're also doing a sort of underground railroad but for Jedi which is an interesting take, not sure what I think about it yet though because, well, we don't really know where they go or why they end up on this particular mining planet in the first place, it's not exactly a safe spot. Also, fun fact, Indira Varma who plays Tala was in Game of Thrones as Pedro Pascal's character's wife.

It might also be the proper start of the Rebellion. I always assumed that it just always was since Order 66 but I guess it makes sense that they stayed in hiding, especially with Bail talking about how he's still a Senator despite being an advocate for the Rebellion (perhaps now in secret but definitely later on) and Leia being the start of that. A means to a "war".

I guess Obi-Wan has become uncivilized in more ways than one if you know what I'm talking about. And I'm sorry, Inquisitorius? That can't be real right? That's not the real name, there's no way-

🤦‍♂️Whatever. I could complain about remarks from people on the show too but imma pass. Anyway, the tomb is sort of odd? I first thought it was all the lost Jedi of Order 66 and I sat straight up in my chair but that doesn't seem like it at all, I have no idea why those people are there unless they're test subjects to house Palpatine's power.

That girl in the picture gave me an idea though. What if she's like a Tico ancestor? And Wade was their father/grandfather? There could be another bloodline throughout the series that doesn't have to do with the Jedi. It says in the credits that his name is Wade Resselian and on the wiki, it says hers is Sully, just Sully. That's obviously just a big conspiracy but it's a good fanfic in my head.

Also that water scene was super similar to Fallen Order, it kinda just made me mad.

#star wars #sw #kenobi #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi #episode 3 #episode 4

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sayruq · 3 years ago

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there was a girl complaining to me the Martells weren't black or brown but olived skinned, which can be tanned skin. Then, another one said there weren't any black or brown people from Westores but the only ones there were in Martin's story were from Essos and Summer Islands. Is it true? I always thought Ellia was brown and though Pedro Pascal is white-skinned, he's not white in the political context of the US.

What do you think of it? Is it a problem regarding GRRM'S worldbuilding in itself or anything else?

no the dornish are people of colour. grrm said that the rhoynar were inspired by the 'moors' who come from north africa and in certain parts of europe black people were referred to as moors. grrm also got inspiration from palestine. and also wales but only wales' historical resistance to english conquest, not welsh people. in addition, grrm has used actors and models of colour as basically 'if i could cast them to play the characters i would' (i don't know how to describe this. what's a fancast if the author is the one doing it). he also referred to them as people of colour in the comments of one of his blog posts. i'm not even getting into the books where their skin is described as brown, compared to dung, we're told they have dark nipples (sigh), etc.

anyone who is denying this is simply racist.

#Anonymous #house martell #anti asoiaf fandom #song of ice and fire #fandom racism

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crearionofsociety · 7 years ago

Conversation

I hope you enjoy this Percy Jackson Fanfic I wrote. CONTAINS SPOILERS ABOUT HEROES OF OLYMPUS.

Death Wave of love. By: Pedro aka Crearionofsociety

I was in the bottom of the beach. Just thinking of all that has happened lately and I had a horrible head ache. You see, things around here haven't been... Calm and quiet lately. Oh wait, I bet you're really confused. Who's this weirdo talking to imaginary friends? And how on Hades is he in the bottom of the ocean and still be able to talk to himself? Well that's because I'm a demigod, half human half god. I'm a son of Poseidon, the ruler of the seas, that's why I'm able to breath underwater, I can also do lots of freaky stuff with it too. Not freaky freaky just manipulate it and heal people and move complete water bodies without even breaking a sweat.

But enough about me. Let's talk about my problems. Since I found out who I was I've been fighting against greek and roman not-so-mythological creatures. In all my journeys I've met many people. One of the most important is my beautiful girlfriend Annabeth, she's a daughter of Athena, and a quite stubborn one. We've been together for a while and even though it hasn't always been like a day at the beach we're there for each other. The thing is that in our last battle I found out something I didn't even imagine. Another of the important people in my life, Nico, a son of Hades, told us he is gay. Not only that, I found out that he liked me. Apparently everyone knew except me. I really love Annabeth, but Nico is also really important for me and I'm not quite sure if I like him only as a friend.

Oh gods, I've been thinking so much about him that I can almost hear him. That wonderful voice. Low and silky. It carries so much feelings although he tries to hide them. "Percy, you can't hide down there forever!". Holy Hera, I could hear him so clearly, is this a sign? "gods damn it Percy, don't make me go down there, you know I hate water". Wait what? I looked up and there he was, all blurred because of the ocean's waves, in the beach side. It was Nico. I've been avoiding him for a while and since no one else could get to me down here I made the sea my not-so-secret hiding place. Ok! I'll go up and face the facts. I love Nico diAngelo.

"Hey water boy, do you think you can avoid me for ever?"

"No, Nico, I've just been thinking..."

"Let me finish Percy. Now you know that I liked you, but now I'm with Will and you're with Annabeth and we're all happy together..."

"Nico, there's something I want to tell you..."

"Percy, shut up. What I was saying is that I really like Will and he makes me happy. There's no reason for you to feel like you've hurt me or anything..."

"Nico SHUT UP!"

"What?!"

"I want to tell you that I've been thinking, and I think I like you as well. I really love Annabeth, but I also love you" and that's when it happened. I leaned in and kissed him. His lips felt so soft. I could've stayed in that kiss for the rest of my life and not even complain. I put one hand in the back of his head so I could kiss him harder, with the other hand around his waist I pulled him closer. But he just pushed away. He was crying, seeing him like that broke my heart.

"Percy, I'm sorry, but I could never do this to Annabeth or to Will. Our opportunity is long gone, it just wasn't meant to be. We could still be friends". the tears in his eyes made me break inside and I could feel the sadness in his voice. I started to cry also, I didn't even try to hide it. I could feel a wave of emotions going through my own body. Fear, love, sadness, anger, all of them at the same time.

"Nico..." My voice started to tremble, I could fee all the emotions at the same time, and I let them all go out through my voice "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE WORLD, I DON'T CARE ABOUT OUR COUPLES, I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE GODS. I ONLY CARE ABOUT YOU AND ME. ABOUT THE LOVE I FEEL FOR YOU AND THE ONE I KNOW YOU FEEL FOR ME. CURSE THE STUPID LOVE GODDESS APHRODITE FOR PLAYING TRICKS ON US BY MAKING OUR LOVE SO DIFFICULT." I couldn't handle it anymore, I felt something weird running through my head. Lots and lots of sick love. The kind of love that's so extreme that, I think, it's what people feel before killing their couple so they can't be with anyone else and then killing themselves so they'll be together. I felt the sea rising, I saw the fear in Nico's eyes. All that rushed through my mind was "he needs to be suffocated, the same way your loge for him suffocates you." But this wasn't me. I wasn't doing this, I would NEVER hurt Nico.

"SHOW YOURSELF GODDES OF LOVE, AND STOP PLAYING WITH MY EMOTIONS"

Then a bright pink light bursted and from it emerged the figure of a beautiful lady with color changing eyes. Her voice was like silk, but like metal at the same time, a melodious eco came with every word she said.

"How dare you, a simple demigod, defy me, Aphrodite. How dare you question my decisions in couple making and even curse my name. Do you have a death wish my love? Because believe me, killing you would be the most sweet thing I do to impertinent souls that defy me. What you're feeling, this kind of childish love, can be lethal, you know."

"I don't care if I have your approval or not, I love Nico and I will fight for our love". I grabbed his hand and hugged him. I felt him crying into my shoulder and the way he was hugging me tightly. I loved the way he smelt, the way he felt. I loved this boy and nothing would ever change that.

"I've talked to the other gods and goddesses about this child's play of yours. They won't let me kill you for your insolence or make you go crazy, all because of what you've done for us. But I had a better idea and they approved, it all starts by changing one minor detail. NOW FEEL MY WRATH YOU STUPID DEMIGOD"

I was scared, I hold Nico's face by both sides and said to him "I love you", then I kissed him, pouring all my love into that one only kiss. It felt pretty awesome. Warmth ran all over my body. Suddenly all started to glow and Nico disappeared.

I was in the bottom of the beach. Just thinking of all that has happened lately and I had a horrible head ache. I looked up and saw my beautiful girlfriend Annabeth, together with my best friend ever Nico and his boyfriend Will. I was happy that at last we could have a little peace, the wars were over for now. I don't even know why I came to the bottom of the ocean.

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