#does this count as anti content 😭😭

[joosthead]

touch tank || j.k. f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ prompt(s): 16S) the classic “oh, let me help you put some sunscreen on” but then the little massage turns into something more

part 2 of just too soft for all of it — this is a standalone fic but both of these are set in the same universe if you want some more : )

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader, gets referred to as joost’s girlfriend. notfamous!reader. if you are a person who does not tan/burns—pretend that you can tan easily for this fic😭 exploration into joost and normal!reader’s dynamic. little bit opposite aesthetic reader

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 7.7k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (oily massage, f!receiving oral+eating from back, unprotected piv, outdoors [but still private] sex, creampie), perfect world w perfect temperatures and pools, quite sappy lol didn’t know i could top jtsfaoi but here we are, google translate dutch. note: ice lolly/popsicle in mind. yes this is important. idk if they have these in nl but they do now < 3

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “touch tank” by quinnie, “love is strange” by mickey & sylvia, “pink in the night” by mitski

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: i really wanted to combine this with prompt 14 but i couldn't make it work : ( i do have requests for that that i’ll fulfill so stay tuned teehee !! sorry this took so long, i am a perfectionist and absolutely adore this prompt so—here you guys go !! enjoy : 3

₊˚⊹⋆translation: "Kun je me hier voelen, diep in je?" - "Can you feel me here, deep in you?"

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

Because your life is so perfect, the day after your meltdown and subsequent putting back together (courtesy of Joost), your area gets hit with the worst heatwave of the summer. 

You guess that this is some cruel tactic of the universe to make its stars align for you in any way it can. The unbearable beams of sunlight beaming down upon you the moment you exit Joost and your shared home into the backyard. “Are you sure we should have a day outside?” you call back behind you, putting on your sunglasses. “Shouldn’t we just chill inside and watch something?” 

Joost comes up behind you, arm snaking around your waist, lips planted on your cheek in a second. “Some sunlight will be very good for you, you’re always holed up in the office or library,” he mumbles into your shoulder, covered by the baby-blue cotton fabric of one of his button ups. “You can bear it.”

You shake your head, but keep walking forward down the steps anyways, sandals slapping against the small wood deck. “I think the heat might kill me.” 

“It won’t—I won't let it!” Joost exclaims proudly, letting you go and going ahead of you. Even without seeing his face, you know how big of a smile he’s got on his lips. 

The pool sloshes on its own, the aqua blue water spilling over the sides and darkening the gray pavement next to it. On one of your loungers, Joost sets down the tote bag he prepared of towels, sunscreen, the change of clothes you’ll wear when you go back inside. You woke up to it this morning, along with a butcher paper wrapped breakfast sandwich and a glass of water. A text accompanied it—he would be out back, taking the cover off the pool and setting everything up. 

Usually, you're the one setting everything up, preferring to have it your own specific way, but—you chose peace last night, going straight to bed after taking that bath together  After these few years together, Joost may not be as Type A as you, but he can certainly hold his own now around the household. 

Your backyard is a quaint sight: the fence lined with various flower bushes, clean cut grass all around. A tree stands in the corner, roots surrounded by a ring of decorative rocks and pink carnations—there isn’t much either of you have done to upkeep any of it, but somehow, they bloom year after year. Your loungers are baby blue, covered in the towels that Joost has set out, the tote bag spilling over on the left one. 

It's almost like you’ve taken an outing to the beach and you're not in the little old house you’ve lived in for the past few years. Any day with Joost is that extravagant, he makes it that way. Already, you can relax, your shoulders lowering as you sit down on the edge of your lounger and watch as Joost squats, running his fingers along the surface of the water in silence. 

Low on his hips, Joost’s swim trunks are black and needlessly designer, just the way he likes them. He’s shirtless, the expanse of his back to you—his own name is tattooed on his right shoulder in some sans-serif script he must’ve liked before he ever met you, and in this sunlight, you wish in secret to see your own next to it.  

“You’re staring, lieverd,” Joost remarks over his shoulder, giving the water one final splash as he stands up and you smile. 

“How could I not?”

“I’m just too beautiful, aren’t I?” He comes over to you, standing in front of you and shielding you from the sun. “You ready to get in the pool?” 

Behind your sunglasses, you squint up at him and nod. “Put on some music and I’ll go.”

Goofy as always, he salutes to you and marches away like some Supreme swim trunk clad soldier. As he sets up the speaker on the far side of the pool, you unbutton your shirt, get ready to slip off your flip flops, but in your pocket, your phone vibrates. 

You check it—it’s an email from your supervisor, asking you to look over a few files for her. Regardless of your big day out taking up your time…it’s a Saturday. And yet you still find yourself about to respond, about to start typing when Joost places his big hand over your phone screen, saying, “We can look at that later, yeah?” Your grip on the phone loosens; he’s right, you can look at that later. There’s still a part of you that wants to reply, scared of what the consequences will be if you don’t, but—“Today will be great.” Taking your face in his hands, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Come, now.” 

You stand up and he slips off your button up for you, dropping it on the deck chair. You adjust the strings of your bikini; white and blue and flowery, patterned like a delicate porcelain vase, so pretty on you and Joost tells you such.

Turning to him, you hold your hands out to the side, showing yourself off. Joost’s hand comes up to your collarbone to fidget with the matching necklaces you both have that you wear now—pearl pendants in dainty silver cages attached to short chains and these green and tarnished (“well-loved,” Joost calls them) old halves of a “BEST FRIENDS FOREVER” heart-shaped necklace from a Claire’s you both visited on a trip to America. He wears them both today, too, chains intertwined and tangled as always. 

“Do you realize how pretty you are? Zo mooi mijn liefste,” Joost says, taking your hand and twirling you around for a better look—he wolf whistles, and it makes you laugh, cheeks warming with his eyes on you. 

“With how much you tell me, I think I’m starting to realize it.” 

“Very glad,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll tell you more then.” 

Grinning, you pull away and make for the pool steps, but not before Joost taps you on the ass; you act scandalized, dropping your mouth open, narrowing your eyes at him, but it’s lighthearted, and just makes you want to finish what you started last night. “Smokeshow!” he whisper yells through his cupped hands around his mouth as you walk forward and to the side of the pool—it’s still morning, and your neighbours are weird about noise. This is his version of being considerate of that. Too bad for them that you moved Joost Klein into your once quiet home. 

Dipping a toe into the water, you immediately suck in a breath through your teeth at how cold it is. Even with the tarp and the sun shining down upon it for hours, the water still nips at your skin, something in your brain perceiving it to be freezing and impossible to step into. “Ew,” you mutter, and Joost snickers from behind you. 

“Baby can’t handle it?” he teases. 

“Not true,” you mumble, going down the second step, ankle deep, and immediately scrambling out of the water. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck?” 

“You’re surprised that water is supposed to be cool?” 

“It’s not supposed to be that cool.” 

“Come here.” You turn around, walk right up to him. Even without shoes, you still have to look up at Joost, and he smiles right down at you—you know that’s going to happen. “C’mon. Jump, schatje,” he says, tapping the backs of your thighs, so you do—he can carry you with ease, all the times he’s brought you upstairs this way, all the drunken piggybacks he’s given you. You wrap your arms around his neck, wrap your legs around him tightly, while he has his hands under your ass. “Good, baby.” 

He takes the opportunity to press a kiss to your neck, then starts forward down the pool steps, slowly so you can adjust. “Agh!” you yelp softly as he moves further into the pool, the cold water coming up around your body, engulfing you. The temperature is a shock to your system, though the way it cools your hot skin is so, so welcome. It isn’t as cold like this. 

“Is it okay?” 

“I’m okay,” you say, though you hug him closer to get any sort of warmth on you. 

“Are you sure?” he laughs, and you nod, still clinging onto him like a little bear. “You’re so cute. I think I deserve a kiss for that.” 

“One for carrying me,” you say, kissing him on his soft lips. “Another for setting all of this up.” You kiss him again, and Joost deepens it, somehow squeezing your body even tighter to his, tongue teasing at your mouth as he squeezes your ass, as you rest your hands on his chest.  “Have we ever done it in a pool?” you ask once you pull away. 

“Never.” Joost gives you one last peck, one last kiss on the jaw as he smiles at you. “Do you think today is the day?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” 

—

After around an hour of wading around—you’ve both decided that today is not the day to do it in a pool. It’s too hot, even with the cold water you’re situated in. Not even your house or the tree in the corner of the yard provides good shade for the water as the day gets later, the sun beating down on your shoulders; it would turn into a burn if you were that unlucky, but you, however, are not. 

In the morning when you first stepped out, the pool was still shaded and you and Joost could do whatever you wanted: breath holding contests, Joost trying (and failing) to do a handstand underwater, racing each other across and back several times like this was some backyard Olympics. After a bit, you floated on your backs together, laughing about what the water feels like in your ears, laughing about how terrible he is at floating. Finally, you felt all of the worries from the past month melt away and into the water as you gazed up at the blue sky above you. 

You heard it before it came—Joost swiping the surface of the water, making a large splash that drenched your face as you floated. You exclaimed, “You dick!” and freed yourself from your float to splash him back in the face hard, then he feigned the hurt and sorrow that fills one’s heart after chlorine fills their waterlines, rubbing at his eyes—you weren’t not going to come over and dote on him, but then he splashed you back as you looked over his red eyes, and it made you splash him back even more. 

Noise be damned, you were both laughing and shrieking and splashing for around an hour—in the midst of your splash war, you noticed how pink Joost’s shoulders were, the beginnings of a nasty sunburn afoot with the afternoon sun shining down on both of you. You shooed him out of the pool and into the refuge of the umbrella covering your lounge chairs, and started to rummage in the bag before he sprung up from his seat. 

“Wait, wait, wait! Before I forget—” Joost exclaims, running back up the stairs and into your house. A minute or two passes, and he comes back with his hands behind his back, closing the sliding door shut with his foot. In front of him, he holds out a twin popsicle—two sticks encapsulated by sweet red syrup and already melting in its package. “Ijslolly!” He presents it to you as he comes down the stairs, then bows to you deeply and dramatically, which makes you laugh. “Here you go, m’lady,” he says, then tips his imaginary fedora to you because. Because of course he would—anyone else, it would make you cringe, but it’s Joost. Perfectly goofy, perfectly sweet, perfectly Joost. 

You laugh as he opens the wrapper and splits the popsicle in two—one for him, one for you. “Thank you, kind sir,” you giggle, playing along. “Where’d you even get this?” you ask, taking your half and licking at the melting syrup already dripping onto your hand. 

“I went to the store while you were sleeping,” Joost says proudly, biting into the popsicle. “It’s strawberry, do you like?” 

Walking forward, you nod and get up on your tiptoes to give him a kiss. “I love.” 

He beams at you, sits down, chomps at his popsicle while you eat yours; he puts his hat and sunglasses back on and you do the same, and you sit together as the music plays for you. 

A new Charli xcx song, Joost and Käärijä’s recent collaboration, an incredibly sexual recent Ski Aggu release that you make a note of texting him “???” about later. 

Before you know it, you’re left with a red-stained stick, a red-stained mouth, a satisfied sweet tooth. “Okay, Joosty. Sunscreen time.” He gives you an exaggerated grumble but sits down at the edge of the lounger nonetheless, and you stand between his legs, taking the sunscreen from behind him and uncapping it. “You need it more than I do.” 

“Shush,” he says, but lets you take out two fingers worth of sunscreen, lets you take off his sunglasses and spread the sunscreen on his cheeks, rubbing it in. You can’t resist him and his pretty face, dusted pink cheeks, ocean blue eyes looking up at you through long blonde eyelashes. 

You’re so distracted by his face that you don’t pay attention to where you’re going—“Oops,” you giggle. “I got sunscreen on your mustache.”

“Oops,” he repeats. “I don’t mind.”

Hands on the backs of your thighs, Joost pulls you close by them and presses a kiss to your stomach, then hugs you tight around your waist. Automatically, your hands come up to play with his hair, combing your fingers through the strands. “All of your sunscreen is going on my stomach, Joost.” 

“Don’t care. You think if I lay out in the sun for long enough, it’ll bleach my hair more?” 

You snicker, “The heat will singe you to pieces before it can even bleach your hair.”

Sighing, he presses another kiss to your stomach. “You’re lucky. You get to tan today.”

“I ran out of my oil in Cuba, Joosty, I can’t.” A couple’s vacation with Appie and Alanis in Havana, feels like so long ago even though it’s only been two months. Fruity cocktails on the beach (and in your hotel room, and at the bar, and in the club, and…), running down hallways, fussing over Joost’s sunburned cheeks, Joost ogling you sunbathing but unable to do anything out of respect for your friends right next to you. You should have picked up another tub, but you weren’t exactly expecting to be tanning back in Amsterdam anyways. 

“You can't, or you won't? Look in the bag,” Joost mumbles into your tummy. You lean over behind him and reach into the tote—most of the other things have already spilled out and onto the lounger behind him: your sunglasses, two droom groot caps, the wrapper of your popsicle, a cheap film camera, and…a brand new tub of coconut oil. Your favourite brand. He must’ve picked it up on his trip to the store this morning, and you laugh, “You're so sweet.” 

“Mm-mm,” Joost hums. “That’s you, lieverd. You should lie down, I’ll put the oil so you can tan your back.”

Cocking an eyebrow at him, you snort, “Feels like you have something up your sleeve, Klein.”

He grins a toothy smile up at you—“Maybe I do.”

Joost gets up and moves all of the things to the other lounger, allowing you to lie on it on your stomach. You wiggle around a little on it, settling into the soft cushion, your back already stretching with your position. 

“I will be a great masseuse, schatje, don’t you worry. “ Careful not to put too much weight on you, Joost straddles the backs of your thighs. 

“Should I be worried?”

“No.”

“I feel like I should be worried.”

“Don’t be.” From behind you, he gets up, and you turn around to see what he’s doing—he gets your/his button up from the other chair and slips it on. “No more burning today for me.” 

You nod as he settles back on you, and you hear the sound of your little coconut oil tub being opened, the safety seal being ripped off, the clicking of his tongue at it ripping off unevenly. The air is a comfortable blanket of warmth upon you now, your worries melting away with it as you wait for Joost. 

“Can you untie the string around my back?” you ask before you forget. 

A few beats of silence pass until Joost finally says—“What?” 

“Is there a problem?”

“Why untie?” 

Joost’s voice has deepened an octave—almost grave, the tone of his voice is, because all of the possibilities in his mind floating around. Just your bare back and its expanse in front of him.

“I don’t want a tan line,” you explain. “Untie it and I won’t get one.” 

“Okay,” he affirms, though sounding uneasy as he undoes the tight strings of your halter top, the strings around your torso. He swipes them out of his way, and you assume the pause in his movement is to dip his fingers in the coconut oil and warm it up for you. 

Your assumption is right. In a minute or so, Joost’s big hands smooth across your back, firm yet gentle—he knows exactly how to handle you. The oil provides a lovely glide for his palms against your skin, and it smells so great; the pressure he’s applying is perfect on you, and you let out a little mewl of pleasure. The knots in your back are melting away with every swipe of his hands across it and you have to ask—“Where’d you learn to give such a great massage, Joost?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” 

Even if you tried, you couldn’t deduce how he learned to do this; maybe you’re just super tired from the last month (very likely) or he was a masseuse in his past life, but you’re already less tense with his hands on you. He digs his thumbs into the small of your back and rubs circles into it as you sigh in contentment at how it feels.

“I like this song,” Joost mumbles as it changes to this one you found years ago, some song about baby blue shirts, how pretty he looks going down on you.

“Mhm,” you hum.

“Seems very appropriate for the situation, right?” Eyes closed, you smile with his fingertips hovering just above your skin, a pause now in his treatment for you. “Can I…you know…” with his finger, Joost writes a small J, one, two, three times, on your back and sliding with the oil waiting for your response. 

“Massage me for a little more, I’ll think about it.”

“Fine,” he breathes, then gets back to work. 

Joost smoothes his hands over your back muscles; first over the top, over your trapezius, then up to your shoulders. He pinches a little around the shoulders, gliding over the smooth skin there. Hands sticky with oil, the solid melts with the sun-warmed dip of your spine, the valley of your back before him. The dip is perfect to smell, perfect to kiss; perfect to put a light hand on in public and a harsher grip on in private. With every movement of his hands, it smells more like coconut, smells less like you, and Joost has to resist the urge to bend down and nose at it to get your scent back. Every movement is accompanied by a little—a little breath. A little happy sigh from you, and it makes him go insane with every press of his hands against you. 

You’re much more refined than he is, more able to keep it together; if Joost was in your position, he knows he’d be a mess under you, quick and fast and easy. You’re his favourite person—the wave of your hand could bring him to his knees. Taking care of you comes so easily to him, even if he’s so commonly doted upon by other people. This feeling—no wonder you like taking care of him as much as you do. 

Today is so happy, a day that’ll get him through weeks and shows to come without you, long days on the tour bus wishing you could be by his side. Joost got through yesterday, his flight, the ride home using the prospect of you, seeing you, to get by. Then he got home, and seeing you was all he could look forward to after being away for what felt like forever, and he finally did, and he was so overjoyed and then—then you were crying, and he felt so sad that all he could do was hold you. He wants badly to understand why. 

“Can I ask…can I ask why you cried yesterday, lieverd?” Joost adds in a soft voice, still running his hands firmly over your sore muscles, “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it right now, I understand. But I’d like to know sometime, so we can help you feel better.”

You’ve known since the moment you started crying that you’d have to talk about it sometime. Sharing everything with each other is the way your relationship is, how it always has been—you thought about it in the bath with him, his chest against your back, deep and tired voice reverberating with it. How to word it as he played the first track on the new album, so crazy experimental and unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him before. Thought about it in the pool, thinking about it now. 

“I just…I’m probably the most mundane part of your life. There’s this little voice in my head, maybe it’s what I think people are saying about me—‘You’re telling me Joost Klein couldn’t find someone more interesting?’” You think back to an offhand Tweet you saw come up on your timeline, 10 angry quote tweets already defending you, no likes, but it still sticks to the back of your mind like some aggravating super glue: “‘His girlfriend doesn’t even do music or anything special and she still can't show up for him.’ I don’t travel like you do, I’m not always making music or doing things. And still, I couldn’t be there for you. 

I watch you at your shows and you’re this…enigma, you’re amazing. I want to be as good as you, I wanna show you off like you show me off. But there’s always something in the way. My schedule, or university, or work.” It’s truly difficult now not to feel like you overshared, dumped something on him that maybe you weren’t prepared to dump on him—a cloud shadows the sun, just at the right moment, and the parts of your skin not already touched by the umbrella’s shade are cooled momentarily. “Or maybe I’m just not trying hard enough for you.”

“I’m not flashy,” you say softly, settling on your forearms. “My way of being flashy is the way I love you, and I don’t know if I’ll ever think it compares to how you do it. I feel bad, that’s all. Like I could be doing more for you in every way.” Whatever it is, whether or not you were prepared to say it—it’s out now. “‘Cause you deserve it, you always do.” Blindly, you reach behind you and hold your hand out for him to hold, and he does, squeezing it tightly. Your cheeks warm, and it’s certainly not because of the temperature outside anymore. “I’m sorry I killed the vibe.” 

From behind you, you hear a sniffle, and you raise your head and look back, alarmed. Joost wipes a tear away with his other hand, laughs a sniffly laugh as you laugh, “Joooost. You’re gonna make me cry.”

“No, no, no vibe killing in this house.” You crane your head back again, pursing your lips, and he leans forward so he can kiss you, then peppers kisses until your shoulder, mumbling, “I should be comforting you, lieverd.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Don’t really need to be comforted, just need to get it through my head that it’s not like that. I’m just sad that you’re sad.” 

Joost rubs your back, though it seems like he needs that more than you do if you’re judging by his sniffles and wavery voice alone. “I never knew you felt that way.”

He wraps his arms around your torso, hugging you close and continues, “If it’s any consolation, which I hope it is—you could never be careless. You set out my favourite sleep clothes for when I got back, favourite snacks, plushies on the bed, a place in the dresser for new stuff.” You have to admit—you were pretty proud of that last idea when you came up with it. “You’re thoughtful, and you’re kind, and I’m so lucky to have you. I love you, I love you. I love you.” 

With every “I love you” is a kiss upon your skin that you can’t see, but feel wholeheartedly anyways. “My muse, my saviour,” he says, and you have to laugh a little. “I mean it, you know I mean it.” And you do, you know it—how could you not when it comes from Joost? “You’re the most extraordinary part of my life, schat. Every show, your presence is there with me, even if you feel you aren’t.” 

“Not true,” you say, voice teasing. “That would be impossible, wouldn’t it?” 

You can feel the roll in his eyes from here, even though you can’t see it. “Yeah, yeah. But you know what I mean, right? Best friends forever, that’s what our necklaces say. Always there for each other. You’re always there with me.”

He kisses your shoulder. The oil is strange on his lips, but he doesn’t mind—it’s you. “Nothing compares to you, everything we have together…I hope you know how I feel now.” Pausing, Joost rests his forehead on the back of your head, breathes you in. “I’m obsessed with you, I think,” he whispers into the nape of your neck, then kisses it, and you laugh with the tickle of his lips, his facial hair against your sunwarmed skin. 

“You are? I didn’t know,” you tease, perking your ass up against Joost on top of you because—somewhere in your conversation, he’s gotten hard, and it’s poking against your thigh now, making you bite your lip. Stroking each other’s egos has gotten you both excited, it seems.  “What’s up with that, hm?” 

“You should know. I’m telling you right now, I’m obsessed with you. And this?” Joost grinds his crotch against you just lightly, kissing the side of your neck as he lowers his voice, “This, I like talking about you too much. You can’t blame me for it, you’re gorgeous.” 

“I don’t think I know how obsessed with me you are yet. Tell me more?” 

“Do I have to tell you, schat?” he says, gentle and low, fingering the delicate ties on your sides and the sensitive skin of your hips under them. His fingers drag down the column of your spine, tease at the edge of your bikini. “I don’t think I have to tell you, right? That I love you, need you?” 

“You don’t? Have to tell me?” 

“I’ll show you.” 

You imagine what he looks like behind you—burnt shoulders, rosy cheeks, dark sunglasses, chlorine dried blonde hair all messy and the tips dripping with water still upon the billowy cotton of his button up. Those blue eyes, blown out at the sight of you underneath him, wandering every lovely curve of your body. Slowly, he unravels the ties that hold both sides of your bottoms together, the nylon springing back against your skin, and you fight the urge to smile in anticipation of Joost all over you soon. 

“You don’t want any tan lines down here?” he asks, fingers already underneath the damp fabric of your swimsuit bottoms. You shake your head no. “Ok, then no tan lines.” 

Joost slips the fabric off of your skin; the dampness makes it cling to you still, though it’s easy enough to take off completely. You hike your leg up for easier access, turn your head so you can get a good look at him. In a sort of headband, his sunglasses are perched atop his head; the button up wrinkled and a bit stained with oil; rightfully, his eyes are half-lidded with want, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his trunks.

“What do you want to do?” Teasing him, you run a finger down his bulge and he smiles at you. Truly, you haven’t a single idea about what Joost wants to do with you next, and it looks like he doesn’t either—until his eyes light up, and you figure that tugging gently at his trunks for him can help expedite the process.

“Can I try something?” 

“Go right ahead.” 

You lie in wait as Joost lowers his shorts, erection springing out and his hand coming to wrap around it and give it a few pumps—you reach behind, running a finger down the slit, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as he strokes himself, then settles his cock on the soft cleft of your ass and glides it against, between it. 

You laugh, “You’re such a dog, Joost,” but as he ruts gently against you—the little moans he’s doing in your ear, already rambling about how good you feel and he’s not even inside yet, one hand gripping your hip and keeping his cock in place and the other on the back of the lounger so he can keep his balance; this is your personal paradise. 

“Fuck,” Joost whispers, biting his lip. You love a show, and he’s ever the showman—but you’re outside, he’s outside, he’s very aware of your cranky old neighbours, and he loves you and your house. One day, you’ll share the lease together, so he tries and stays quiet for the sake of that dream, so you both won’t get kicked out for verbal indecency today. 

“I know how much you like it, Joost,” you purr from under him, voice muffled by your arms. “You can tell me.” 

From Joost’s point of view, you look like a line in his song, the notes in the margin crafting and tailoring the work to his perfect vision; you look like the fully realized final draft of something he’s been working on for months, trying to find the sound of for years. 

If he could write something about this moment, it would probably result in entire sagas, but for now—keeping you like this close to his chest is a gift only he has. 

“I can’t be eloquent like this,” he laughs, and you have to agree; whatever goes on in that head, he short circuits before he can say it in this state of pleasure. 

Joost pauses his small thrusts, catches his breath. “Go on,” you encourage, but he breathes a quiet, “No. If I go any more, I’ll cum early and that would be so lame, schat.” 

“Not lame. I would personally love to see it.” 

“Mm-mm. We are not doing that today,” he laughs, and the sound makes your heart warm. 

“Put it in,” you say softly, trying to convince him to keep going—it’s so cute how far gone he is already, how hard he’s trying for you. 

“No, no, no. Let me taste you first.”

You cannot argue with that. 

In an instant, you abandon your bikini top, abandon the bottoms too in a crumpled mess on the ground laying on your sandals and his flip flops. “Hands and knees, lieverd,” Joost says, and you follow his direction, settling so you’re on your elbows and your ass is hiked in the air. 

A few moments pass as Joost sits behind you, and you have to ask—“What are you waiting for?”

“Just enjoying the view,” he says, then gives a kiss to your ass cheek, making you giggle. “So impatient today, schat. Is it because I was gone for so long?” Joost moves your knees so they’re spread even wider, giving him more access to you. “How much did you miss me?” A kiss to the back of your thigh, right near your center, your stomach caving in with the deep breath you take in anticipation. 

“I missed you a lot,” you whisper, looking back at him focusing his dilated eyes on your pussy, and your cheeks grow hot at the sight. “Missed you more than you know.”

“Did you?” He licks a tentative stripe up your slit, up even higher over your hole—so sensitive, your knees could shake with only the tip of his tongue teasing you. “Show me, let me hear it, lieverd.” 

“Joost,” you scold, though your arching back reveals your true feelings about what he’s doing.

“Sorry, can’t resist.” He presses a kiss atop it before coming back to your pussy.

So exposed, so vulnerable, so open, Joost’s fingers parting your folds. He spreads them gently so you’re even more open to him and licks in between, drinking from you. The smacking of his lips against you—it’s filthy. You’re so cognizant of the sound; is it unmistakable from outside, Joost’s tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers rubbing circles on where he can’t reach? You hope the sounds of the city outside your flat cover the mewls that spill out of you as he lays his tongue flat against it and laps up your wetness. 

“I think we should get you more tan in the front, too, right, schatje?” Joost says, breathless, and you flip over, laying on your back for him. Before he can get back to business, you cup his chin, pinching it gently between your fingers. His lips are covered in your wetness, glistening with it in the sunlight. You pull him to you, bringing his lips to yours, the salty taste of yourself on your tastebuds, on your chin as well now. 

This all makes you realize—you weren’t wrong at all for missing him so terribly. 

When you pull away, Joost pauses, gazing at your face, brushing your hair out of your eyes. On top of you, lying partly on you, he cups your cheek, silver chain resting on your chest, the pearl pendants and the halves of one heart of the matching necklaces you own together right next to each other. 

“Zo mooi,” he says quietly as he lowers down, kissing your chest right next to your pendants, kissing down between the valley of your breasts, maneuvering so he can graze your nipple with his teeth, flatten his tongue over it. His hand comes up to cup your other breast as he sucks at the bud, then sucks at the skin next to it; that will leave a mark tomorrow, a sweet reminder of your time together. 

Finally, he’s satisfied with his work on you and starts down your body, kissing your stomach, your hips. Before you can even process it, he folds you in half, hands on the backs of your knees; licks one long stripe through your folds, then attaches his lips around your clit, sucking it, forcing a loud and choked moan out of your mouth as he alternates between licking hard at your bud with the tip of his tongue and sucking.

Joost is a fiend for it, devilish look in his eyes, smile on his mouth even when it’s pressed up so close against you—his fingers tease at your dripping wet hole, then his middle fingers are inside you, and then he’s there to the knuckle and petting at your g-spot incessantly. 

Joost knows you inside and out; can already tell that your pretty hands resting on the back of his head and holding him there will result in your fingers tangled in his hair and tugging lightly; knows that a few more seconds of his curling fingers and his tongue on you will make you try and push against his hand still holding you open with your thigh, you’ll fail to do so, and be happier for it. 

You’re too lost in your pleasure to look at him like he wants you to. No matter—you’re a beautiful sight coming undone for him, eyes closed, chest heaving with your breaths, a slight sheen to your skin. “Joost,” you sob quietly as he continues pumping his fingers in and out of you, continuing to lap at your pussy like he’s trying to quench an unquenchable thirst. 

“Mhm? Do you like it, schat?” Joost says against you, the vibrations of his deep voice making you twitch. You nod, and there it is—he pauses to smile when he realizes you're holding his head in its place, burying his face in your center. Who is he not to give you what you want? He drinks you in, and it makes you moan louder. “Keep quiet,” he mumbles. “We wouldn’t want the neighbours to hear, now would we?” 

You’ve come back to reality enough to nod, quiet down a little, but after a few more seconds of him sucking your clit, pistoning his fingers in and out of you, you cum, saying his name over and over again, then whispering it once you realize that yes—you’re still outside. Joost presses one last sloppy kiss against your overstimulated bud, and you nudge his face away with your fingertips, laughing breathlessly. 

Joost laughs too as he settles his cheek on the inside of your thigh, peppering soft kisses to it as he gazes at you; the look in his eyes is so tender, you almost want to look away, but you don’t. You’d take a picture if it wasn’t so glaringly obvious what you were doing before. You cup his other cheek, and he nuzzles further into your thigh, eyes closed. 

For a few moments, you stay like this, catching your breaths, basking in the afterglow of your orgasm together. After a little, Joost wipes his mouth and his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Owie,” Joost winces, reaching back to rub over the spot on his head where you pulled on his hair. “You really enjoyed that, schatje,” he smiles, climbing up over you. 

“I'm sorry,” you say softly, putting your hand over his as he lies down on you, head on your chest. “I shouldn’t have tugged so hard.” 

“It’s okay, it was worth it.” You pet his hair—Joost is so warm, the air is so hot around you, but you’ve never felt better. “I’m so hard it hurts, schat,” he mumbles, and you laugh as he shifts around on top of you, erection through his shorts poking your thigh. 

“Let’s fix that?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

With quickness, Joost is up and off of you, straightened on his knees and parting yours, but you sit up. Hooking your fingers on the waistband of his trunks, you pull them down slightly, pulling him in to kiss you as you pull them lower, letting his cock spring out as you kiss sloppily, strawberry stained tongues meeting. You wrap your hand around his thick shaft, run your thumb over his weeping pink tip to spread around the precum, which makes him groan into your mouth, makes your teeth knock together. 

You stroke him a few times, Joost’s hand resting at the base of your neck. It’s like time slows down when you pull away from him and watch him and his furrowed blonde brows, the way his lips are dropped open, the pink blush of his skin creeping down his neck to his chest with all of this exertion. 

Joost opens his eyes, catching you gazing at him intently, and he brings his forehead to yours as you keep jerking him, and holds your face in his hands. “Catch me if I fall?” he asks, and you laugh. 

“So dramatic.”

“You don't even know, dude.” A few more kiss-filled seconds pass until Joost finally calls it—“Enough, baby, I need to be inside of you now, please.” 

Nodding, you lie back, opening your legs for him. He sits back, stroking himself. “No crying today, hm, schat?” Joost says as he takes his place between your legs. “No crying unless it’s out of pleasure, of course. Or if you want to cry out of sadness, that’s okay, too.” 

“I’ll take note of that, thanks,” you smile as Joost lines up with your entrance, lying over you. You slip your hands underneath his shirt, fingers running over Rayquaza, his skin piping hot on yours. The pool still sloshes, the sun is much higher, he's inching his cock inside of you and saying something in Dutch that sounds like whatever is equivalent to “fucking Christ,” his face screwed up in pleasure. 

“So warm,” Joost practically whimpers, and you both know that he certainly didn’t mean to say that in such a whiny tone. “So warm,” you laugh, making an exaggerated moan to tease him as he covers his face with his hands and laughs with you. 

“Shut uppp.” Another inch inside you, so deep. “I wish you could feel how it feels, it’d change your life.” Every vein and ridge on his cock, you can feel as you envelop him fully. “You changed mine,“ he says, and it makes your heart soar. “Over/under, 3 minutes, schat?” 

“Under. Over/under 30 seconds?” 

“Under. Maybe. Jesus fuck, you feel so good,” he laughs, breathless. “So tight, you’re amazing.” Joost goes silent as he fully bottoms out in you, but a few moments pass, and he states like he’s been thinking of it the entire time, “Lowkey, I wish we had one of those squeeze bottles,” he makes a disturbingly good squeeze bottle sound with his mouth, “Pfft-pfft. We could be oiled up super quick if we did. Maybe for next time I give you a massage.” 

You give him a puzzled, amused look—you know him like the back of your hand, but where his mind wanders sometimes, you aren’t sure. “I just don’t know,” you laugh. “Maybe we can workshop that idea.” Joost grinds himself against your clit, and you moan into his mouth as he comes down and kisses you. 

Joost fucks you like you both have all the time in the day to be here—as far as either of you are concerned, you do. Long, languid thrusts that you both watch as his cock disappears inside of you, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your clit. The wet, hollow slaps of his hips against your ass are filthy music to your ears; you pant into each other’s mouths, close enough to touch, but not wanting to for the sake of watching each other, eyes open. 

You snake your arms around his neck, bringing him closer as his thrusts become shallower, quicker, erratic, punching into your g-spot. Without warning, Joost straightens up, exiting you fully, then lifts your hips up to meet him where he is, his shaft rubbing against your clit. 

“Ik hou van je, lieverd."

“Ik hou van je, Joost, I love you so much.” 

Joost’s face lights up then melts once he hears you speak Dutch—it’s so cute, like a little surprise for him even though you try to speak it with him regularly. Since it’s easier for you to express yourself in English, he'd rather you just speak Dutch at work and school like you already do, but the excitement in his expression when you do speak it is priceless. 

He sinks inside you once more, a loud shared moan between you two; this angle allows him to be deeper inside you than before. You tighten around him, and he sighs in pleasure. Joost splays his fingers out on your belly. “Kun je me hier voelen, diep in je?” 

“Ja, je voelt je zo goed, schat,” you breathe. Your praises seem to incense him to thrust into you firmly, out, in, out, in, sloppy, though you can’t blame him. Still, the head of his cock hits your spot with every seat of himself in you. He smoothes his tattooed hand over your chest, your erratic heartbeat probably felt through to his palm; he moves up to put his thumb in your mouth, and eagerly, you suck as he fucks you. Anything to quiet yourself, anything to have more of him inside of you. “I’m close, Joost,” you say once he moves his hand to your shoulder for leverage. 

Nodding, he says, “Me too,” keeping the pace, smearing more of your wetness over your clit so his fingers slide over it better as he rubs it for you.  

A few more reckless thrusts, your arms flying up around his neck for support, lips catching each other’s, swallowing each other’s moans. That familiar tugging feeling in your stomach grows and grows until you can’t ignore it anymore, your core tightening, your pussy tightening around him as you gasp out his name over and over again with your climax, and he gasps out yours. He’s not finished yet, but his hips have lost the rhythm they once had, his control over his impending orgasm with how you’ve constricted around him. 

“Schat, hold on for me a little.” 

“I should be telling you that,” you say, though you understand—the overstimulation of his cock dragging against your insides is getting to be a lot. You hug him close, your lips right next to his ear, his panting breaths right in yours as he ruts into you. “Cum inside me, Joost,” you whisper, and with one last deep thrust inside of you, he cums with a groan, with a breathy moan of your name, clutching your body tightly in his hands as he shoots inside of you, cock pulsing; so warm, being filled up like this, no space between you two, his stuttering hips fucking back into you for a few final thrusts.

In each other’s arms you lie there, panting—sweaty skin on sweaty skin, music still playing from the speaker, him softening inside of you. Joost kisses you deeply, kisses your cheeks, your chin, and you smile. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted and more, schat,” he says into the side of your neck. “Don't forget that.” 

thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) - juno

[eliounora]

The anti ship debate is pointless at best and genuinely harmful at worse. It's a group of people that spend all their time saying that if you explore themes or works they personally find uncomfortable, that you are an immoral criminal that needs to face justice. This often comes in the form of exclusion, harassment, and call outs.

It seems like a perfectly reasonable response to say "I don't support people that engage with pedophilia or incestuous content", but they twist the definitions to include things like shipping a 2 year age gap or """sibling coded""" pairings (aka a ship they don't like but argue they're "like family", because people can't just be friends, and therefore it's morally incorrect to ship it). And even if these same arguments can be applied to their own preferred pairing, it doesn't count. It's very rules for thee, but not for me, and no amount of arguing or thoughtful discussion will make them see differently. These examples seem niche but I was on the wrong side of twitter for too long and can tell you this stuff is a dime a dozen these days. 💀

There are some valid comments on both sides of the argument, but the plot has officially been lost. It's just weaponizing discomfort as an excuse to bully people they don't agree with. Dhip and let ship, tag the freakier stuff and use discretion about where you put it, and then leave each other alone. It's not that hard. 😭

oh yes, the dark side of twitter... the behaviour you describe is not cool! I have seen some posts about the age gaps and minor characters and it does sometimes seem like common sense and practicality has completely evaded these discussions (like a 2 year age gap being called pedophilia or viewing teenagers as completely nonsexual until they turn 18, which, granted, I think is not connected to the pro/anti-shipping discourse alone). I do sympathise if it comes from fear for children and/or their own traumatic experiences, but harassment, call outs, and other malevolent actions towards people who haven't caused any actual harm to real-life people is not the way to go (and if there was, for example, an abuser, even then there should be a more constructive way to go about the problem and helping people who have been hurt).

you worded it really well there at the end, tag the freakier stuff and use discretion about where you put it! thankfully most people have a good head on their shoulders, I believe.

[cryiling]

can we get revali And link for the today's fictional subject post thingie

(ask game from here)

OMG YES OFC OOMFIE ty for requesting it 🤭

i just love him sm ;w; it's funny when ppl clown on revali bc tbh yeah he said a lot of dumb things 😭 but when they start legitimately hating on him and actually calling him evil that's when im like ⁉️⁉️🤺 sooo yeah. revali antis dni ✋

does it count as making content related to him if it was one fanart that I haven't posted? 😭😭 in my mind I make a lot of content for him so I'm gonna count it AJSBAJDJ

ok moving onto link

I love his design and what canon gives the fandom to work with for his backstory but tbh fan hcs are a little more interesting than canon 🤭 also yes I find his androgynity attractive. sue me idc

link is absolutely a little shit and commits criminal behavior on the regular (stealing etc. also some of the things he cooks.. definitely criminal to be eating that). I read a fic recently where he goes around licking things to see if they're edible and honestly. yeah that's canon I don't make the rules sorry

MY SELF PROJECTION ONTO HIM IS SO BAD like I have a little bit of a problem 😇 also just love seeing him suffer in general. I have a list of traumas I want to give him 🫶

anyway,, THANK U AGAIN FOR THE ASKS 💗💗

[sscrambledmeggss]

Hc Artie has a alpha male podcast

[jeonqkooks]

i love all ur works sm!! for the drabble request: things you interrupted me to say + tongue tied couple</33

watermelon gelato | jjk

pairing: jungkook x f!reader

rating: PG

genre/warnings: friends to lovers, neighbor au, fluff, kissing, swearing

word count: 1.6k

note: a tongue tied drabble. dear anon i'm so sorry that this took so long and i hope you're still here somewhere 😭

series masterpost | taglist

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

Wear something nice.

When Jungkook sent you these texts nine hours ago, he should’ve known that life wouldn’t be this kind to him. As he stands here, in the talk-of-the-town restaurant that just opened a month ago, he should’ve known that there was no way he could reserve a table that easily at 10AM on the day of.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the hostess apologizes in earnest. “I don’t see your reservation for tonight.”

“Can you please check again?” he asks and shuffles on his feet nervously. “It should be under Jeon Jungkook.”

You can tell that she feels bad as she takes in the expression on his face, big doe eyes pleading her to somehow save him from this misery. He looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Still, she puts on a polite smile and tells him to wait so she can run his name through the system again, a task that you know will probably be in vain.

Earlier today, when he disturbed your slumber at the unholiest hour possible, you hadn’t expected him to ask you out. After you went back to bed and woke after a few more hours, it took you a minute to process the short conversation between the two of you at 4AM. You weren’t sure if it really happened until that text came but even then, you had no clue how the date was going to go, and how you were feeling about the whole thing.

Jungkook is cute—you’ve told him as much—and he’s a good kisser. No, scratch that. Jungkook is a wonderful kisser. You’re attracted to him, and you two get along well. It’s nice and easy, with minimal thinking required because you’re just two friends, young and single, ready to mingle but not necessarily looking for something serious.

Well, at least you aren’t looking for something serious. It isn’t like you’re anti love or anything. The last time you were in a relationship was two years ago, and though it didn’t end on bad terms, it was… a lot for you.

People around you have always put heavy emphasis on commitment and you know it’s not a bad thing, but it’s scary. The pressure is too much. You haven’t really thought about if and when you would unpack all of your uneasiness regarding the matter. Right now, you just know that you’re content with being single and having fun. 

And what you have with Jungkook is fun. A dinner couldn’t hurt.

The hostess speaks up after a moment, looking genuinely sympathetic at the two of you. You reckon this kind of occurence isn’t uncommon, and she must have built a tolerance for people looking like kicked puppies whenever this happens; though, even that indifferent and monotonous attitude falls apart before the Bambi eyes of Jeon Jungkook.

“Sir, you made a reservation for this day next year.”

You purse your lips as you glance at him. Color drains from his face as she shows him the screen and the mistake he made while jittery in the middle of the night. “Is there any way you can–”

“Jungkook,” you call and tug on his arm because people in line after you are starting to complain, “let’s just go.”

He looks at your stiff expression and internally winces, his eyes apologetic. He nods solemnly then, thanks the hostess and leads you out the door.

Once you’re outside, he gives you a strained smile. “Well,” he says, an attempt to distill the awkwardness, “this is embarrassing. I guess tonight’s a bust…”

Jungkook flattens his mouth into a thin line and stuffs his hands in his pockets, dropping his gaze to the ground. He really does look so sad, and you know he’s probably beating himself up for his mistake.

You poke at his chest playfully. When his eyes meet yours, you smile.

“We’re already dressed up,” you say, gesturing between the both of you. Although you’re only in a simple dress and he’s wearing a blazer over a button-up, it’s the most formal you’ve ever seen one another, having been accustomed to raggy t-shirts and sweats and casually lounging on each other’s couch. “Might as well make the most of it, yeah?”

Jungkook chuckles humorlessly. He appreciates you trying to salvage this, but he wanted to take you out to a fancy restaurant, be the perfect gentleman, woo you with his charms like they do in the movies. Though right now, he just feels like a dweeb, really living up to the affectionate nickname you gave him.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really,” you confirm.

You look hopeful, so he acquiesces. He takes his hands out of his pockets and steps closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “Wanna go to that diner you like?”

One hearty burger (and an unholy amount of fries to share) later, you’re walking through an empty park, with Jungkook’s blazer around your body to shield you from the slight chill.

Dinner was nice, although he remained relatively quiet while you were waiting for your food. The kicked puppy look returned. You had to turn to your trusty folder of memes on your phone to coax him out of his mental ditch. By the fifth picture of animals holding knives that you forced him to look at, he was already giggling, regaining some semblance of his usual dorky self. And by the time the waitress placed two cheeseburgers on the table, well, it’s like nothing ever happened. Food—his great love, you suppose.

Food, and Overwatch.

Throughout the meal, you kept forgetting that it was supposed to be a date. Every first date that you’ve been on was awkward, some less than others, but still awkward. Because you’d been conversing with strangers and going through the list of boring questions that everyone asked while trying to get to know someone, and sitting in uncomfortable silence when you realize you have nothing in common.

But you know Jungkook. You know what he likes to do for fun and what pizza toppings he likes. You know that he plays the guitar and that he’s been trying to learn the drums. You know that he’s shitscared of microwaves and that his kisses taste like orange candy.

So yeah, dinner was nice. You didn’t overthink things like you tend to do with romantic interests. You don’t think he knows, but Jungkook—or just his mere presence—has a way of making you not get lost in your own head.

When the wind breezes by, you snuggle further into the warmth of his blazer, too big on your body. He notices, and drapes a tentative arm around your shoulders. He seems shy but you welcome it anyway. As you lean into his side, he gives your arm a gentle squeeze. Ten more minutes pass, and you’re once again greeted with the sight of streets bustling with cars, a contrast to the mostly empty and quiet park.

“Ooh! Let’s get some ice cream.” Pointing toward a gelateria around the corner decorated with pretty neon lights, you grab his hand and tug him in that direction before he can even say anything. It’s dessert, for heaven’s sake. Jungkook would never turn down dessert.

He gets hazelnut chocolate and you get watermelon.

“Woah, I’ve never had watermelon gelato before. I didn’t even know they made this,” you say, eyeing the treat in your hand. When you scoop some onto the small wooden spoon and bring it to your lips, your eyes nearly roll all the way back into your skull. “Oh my God, it’s so good. Here, try it.”

Jungkook looks bashful when you offer him some of your ice cream, but he accepts it anyway.

“Is this the first date you’ve been on, Jeon?” you joke. 

He blushes, the tone of his skin on the way to matching the color of your gelato. You like seeing him flustered. It’s cute; you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling.

“Obviously not,” he mutters, honest and not very playful in response to your efforts. His thumb reaches out to wipe some of the ice cream from the corner of your mouth that you didn’t realize was there, and he puts it directly in his mouth to lick off the sweetness. You gulp, blanking on your teasing jabs as he locks eyes with you. “Just the first one that I wish goes well enough to get me a second date.”

To the outside world, you two must look like a disgustingly sweet couple. Feeding each other gelato and doing whatever the fuck Jungkook just did to you. It’s saccharine in that cheesy romcom way that you normally despise but now? You don’t mind it that much.

When you don’t say anything, he tenses, thinking he might’ve scared you a little. He opts for a lighter conversation, somewhat self-deprecating but hopefully a topic that you two can laugh about.

“I still can’t believe I made a reservation for next year,” he mutters with a cute pout. “I swear I checked the confirmation like ten times and–!”

Your stomach does somersaults all of a sudden, and something possesses you to pull him down by the collar of his shirt for a kiss. A trail of chocolate runs down the side of his ice cream cone. Jungkook thinks love must taste like watermelon gelato and cherry-flavored lip balm.

It’s far from the first time that you’ve kissed him, but somehow it feels like the first time.

When you pull away, he short-circuits, pink tongue unconsciously darting out to lick his lips where you had been just seconds ago. With that dazed look in his eyes, Jungkook swallows, not knowing what to say and if he should even say anything. See? It’s very cute.

“It’s okay, dweebus,” you laugh lightly and pinch his cheek. The words roll off your tongue without much thought. It's easy. “We’ll go next year then.”

— all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted august 12, 2022]

— permanent taglist: @mi55delulu @fan-ati--c @highly-functioning-mitochondria @bruisedscrewedandtattooed @morauvmi @jeonjcngkook @shownusshoulders @jungkooksseuphoria @yoongukie-ff @curioughts @taegismochi @libra04 @hrts4kook @jeonsorchid @here4btsfics @mytearsriscochet @lvoekook @btsstan12

— series taglist: @moonchild1 @takochelle @bids97 @nadzzzblog @golden-thv @misohime @parkethereal @taestrwbrry​ @yoongimentita7 @jensbttrfly @angelarin @jjkrinvgs @koobsessed @cherishoshi @llashn

[mcnuggyy]

i reblog “anti” ao3 stuff at least like once a week so there’s no way anon is just noticing how critical I am of them 😭 I’m not even against having a website to host original and fan made stories but ao3s refusal to properly tackle the constant racism, pedophilia, and other actively harmful content on their website while making soooo much extra money from donations that could be going to like idk… people and organizations that actually need it… like idk man I think there are more important things than wanting to read about two straight men playing out gay stereotypes written by some cishet white woman who has enough money to go to Disneyland once a month 🤨

And any one who’s like boohoo free speech boohoo queer expression 1) hate speech does not count and it never has and you know it 2) there is a clear difference between exploring difficult subjects which I am ALL for like ofc, but the shit on ao3 is more often than not just straight up child porn, some of it including porn written about real child actors mind you… 3) there are a million and trillion other ways to express queerness that doesn’t also give pedophiles the tools to groom and harm kids, or allow impressionable young kids and teens access to potentially harmful and traumatizing content. And I say all this both as someone who had access to stuff like that as a kid, got groomed and tricked into doing shit I didn’t want to, a victim of csa, and someone who experienced harassment and racism through fandom spaces at a very young age.

All most people are asking for is some moderation… the bare minimum in any space that is accessible to younger audiences.

But also so so so serious if you donate to ao3 but then don’t even reblog or share someone’s donation post or at the very least donate a dollar to some form of charity or something then there is something deeply deeply wrong with your worldview and your relationship to the marginalized communities around you…

[heartsgallery]

i feel like i’m in a parallel universe rn antis are saying the same thing as usual but reversed now lmfao?&;&: before it was ricky will never like gina now it’s ricky likes gina but she doesn’t like him and is in love with ej so they won’t happen 😭😭 or saying his feelings don’t make sense like they were saying about gina in s2 like omg…. AND being called a homewrecker is starting for liking her but he’s always getting homewrecker so idk if that counts 💀💀

nooo like i’ve realized no matter what rina does they’re gonna create a whole new narrative that goes against everything they said before just to hate on them it’s crazy. at first rina was a problem because ricky made her suffer! he doesn’t make her happy! so he goes and makes her happy. it’s a problem. it was ricky has never had feelings for gina! (blatant lie if you rewatch s1), so he goes and has feelings for gina. it’s a problem. ricky needs therapy! he needs to work on his issues! ricky sings about being free of his oldself and is happy and respectful to gina’s relationship completely different to s1. it’s also a problem. like nothing will ever be good for them and they will always have something to say 🤷🏻‍♀️ but idc because at the end of the day the show, the canon content, is giving us the right so

[antiloreolympus]

10 Anti LO Asks

1. once the trial plot line is finally wrapped up (at best maybe itll end in december) we still have to deal with apollo, and leto, and thetis, and eros and psyche, AND kronos, oh and you know, the actual hymn to demeter and even just hxp getting together, which is both rushed and dragged out. like how has it almost been four years and still so little has happened and we still have way too many plots to deal with?

2. i see one excuse for LO is "well its free content! dont critique it!" like girl, we know she's making a lot of money just off fast pass alone, not counting books, merch, etc, also she's being paid by the company too as well as ad revenue, so its not really free, is it?

3. LO Persephone is Veruca Salt from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory.

4. lets be very frank here. if rachel was a woman of color pulling the shit she does in comic and on social media, shed be so hated as a regressive person with conservative ideas who is selling a horrible story and messages to her young fans, but because she's a white lady they hold her up as the goddamn messiah. theres so many better BIPOC creators who know what to do with this mythology and make it fresh and interesting and yet shes held up as the authority on it and coddled? sounds about white.

5. i dont get where lo fans claims antis are "apollo apologetics" bc literally none of us like him, we like actual mythology apollo and hate rachel took an interesting and diverse god and made him That Way to push her badly written romance along. No one is excusing him and idk where they're claiming thats from?

From OP: Exactly! I have no clue they got that from. Plus, every “Apollo Apologetic” I’ve seen so far likes LO and/or is active in the fandom.

6. that other anon hit the nail on the head. persephone isnt a character dictating the story like she should be, she's just being pulled along by everyone else or just rachel forcing it, all so persephone cant be held accountable for any action, good or bad, it just happens to her. this wouldnt be a problem if it werent for the fact it claims it's about "empowering" persephone and giving her agency to make her own choices, yet she doesnt even have that in this story, even less than the myths, IMHO.

7. does rachel know having hades be a threatening dick towards his pseudo son thanatos actually makes him less qualified to be a father? you cant tell us his biggest dream is to have a family yet when given the chance to care for a child he mentally and emotionally abuses and threatens them with physical violence over any little temper tantrum hades has. how is demeter seen as the abusive parent when she clearly doted and spoiled persephone, but hades is held up as the one "deserving" of a family?

8. hades' whole 'you should be grateful that i raised you FOR FREE and mentored you' is literally verbatim something my physically and emotionally abusive father said to me. that, PLUS him flinching away from hades/shivering, PLUS hades' constant anger at thanatos. just really rubs me the wrong way.

9. im also confused? bc persephone clearly isnt comfortable with how violent and angry hades is, yet she never pushes back on this, and even if she tries he does nothing but a momentary "apology" at best but goes right back to it, and seems to have only upped it recently much to her discomfort. it's (hopefully unintentionally) like how we saw rhea and kronos, where she only dealt with his anger with her body. idk why but rachel is making a strong case their eventual marriage won't be a happy one.

-----FP Spoilers/Mention-----

10. fp spoilers

dude 😭 i dont have words. badly written characters be like: barely 1 minute in we have perse all “*is forced to share her trauma due to fear*” meanwhile hades: “*has a temper tantrum* *2 seconds later* you should not be consoling me” trash can fire comic.

[sscrambledmeggss]

anti hardin scott i know what you’re dreaming about

I know what I’m dreaming about 😫😫

Also this is me linking you to your own post because it’s beautiful and very fitting