#i just had the urge to share this old art of them they make me a bit emotional

[smokbeast]

"When we met alone, Did you make disease? And the Diamond blue? Or did it make you, and destroy you too."

[confused-pyramid]

Breaking Point

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: You and Art were hitting partners (and a bit more) in college, so when you run into him a decade later at the U.S. Open, old sparks reignite...

word count: 3.4k

warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral (fem!receiving), slight marking, drinking

a/n: I watched Challengers last night and then wrote this whole thing in one sitting. Nothing in this is really canon other than Art being a major simp lol so no spoilers for the movie! I usually make playlists (or at least find a few songs that get me in the zone) when writing, so I thought I'd start sharing them here too if people are interested!

You should've known he'd be here. You've been following his career for the last decade since you graduated, and ever since he won Wimbledon last year, he's been tennis royalty, but a small part of you still thought you wouldn't run into him here. At the fucking U.S. Open.

Stanford was a lifetime ago, and you haven't kept in touch with anyone from the college team, but there was always something about Art Donaldson that stuck with you. Ten years later, that hasn't changed.

"It's been so long," he calls out when he spots you from across the practice courts. "I didn't think I'd see you."

You didn't either, and you still haven't decided how you feel about it yet, but when he jogs over to your side, you just shrug. "Guess it's your lucky day."

He smiles, and his teeth glimmer in the bright sunlight. "It certainly is."

The loud thwacks of tennis balls hitting rackets echo around you, but you can't seem to focus on anything but the man standing in front of you. He looks good.

He was beautiful in college too, whether he was training across the net or slipping into your bed, but it feels different now, with so much time apart. He looks like a man now.

"Anyway," Art says, jerking you back to reality. "We should get a drink sometime. To catch up."

He adds the last part almost as an afterthought, but it doesn't escape your notice how his eyes have been trailing up and down your body since he walked over.

A drink could mean almost anything with Art Donaldson, but you're too curious to refuse. "Sure. This weekend, after the semi-finals."

He nods, his eyes glinting with amusement, and you grab your bag from the bench beside you before looping the strap over your shoulder.

You walk off the practice courts after one last glance over your shoulder, and you feel his eyes following along until the doors swing shut behind you.

***

He should've expected this. You were a firecracker in college, and you kept him on his toes every single day you were together, so he really should have known what he was getting into when he met you for drinks that weekend.

Instead, he's one too many beers in, and his buzz is only enhancing the glow of your beauty in the hazy bar light. Your dress isn't even that low cut, but something about the shadows glancing over your strong shoulders reminds him of late nights in the Stanford dorms after a hard practice when there was only one thing he wanted more than sleep.

"You played really well this morning," he says genuinely as he sets his beer back onto the table. "After that first set, Mueller didn't stand a chance."

You flash him a dazzling smile as you shrug, resting your chin on your palm. "I had her after the third game, but thanks. It was a quick match."

Art hasn't taken his eyes off of you since you sat down, and while prolonged eye contact usually makes you nervous, you find that you're actually enjoying the attention quite a bit. Attentiveness was never an issue with him, and you would normally give in to your urges, but there's just too much history with him, and you can't afford to lose focus. Not when the title is so close you can taste it.

"I hear the networks are eyeing you for a commentator post," you say, trying to change the subject.

You trace your finger around the rim of your nearly empty margarita, before lifting it to take a final sip, and you don't miss how his throat bobs as you lick the salt off your lips.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "It was just some chatter, but I'm not looking to retire anytime soon."

You frown. "Is that right?" He's playing better than ever, but he definitely hasn't been himself out on the court in years.

He glances down, clearly trying to avoid the scrutiny, and when his eyes land on your empty glass, he changes the subject again. "You want another drink?"

You shake your head, knowing that another will lead to a less than fun morning, but he isn't done yet.

"You sure?" His eyes find yours again, and this time the eye contact feels primal. "It doesn't have to be here."

Your eyebrows lift and you tilt your head with a knowing smile. "Where were you thinking?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, before his lips curve up into a cheeky grin. "My room's nice."

You saw it coming from a mile away, but it still pulls a laugh out of you. "Oh, I'm sure it is, but this isn't college anymore, Art. You should get some sleep...focus on your match in the morning."

You push your glass forward and stand up, nodding at him as you turn to leave, but then you see him stand too out of the corner of your eye.

"I'll walk you to your car."

He looks at you with a hint of amusement in his expression, and you can't help but want to play along, even though Art Donaldson was nothing but trouble for you.

You don't respond, instead just stepping out from around the table and walking out the front doors of the bar. You don't have to turn back to know he's right behind you, and when you reach your car, parked in the center of the nearly empty parking lot, you spin around.

He doesn't stop walking until he has you practically boxed in by your driver's side door, his face less than a foot from yours as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

He had pushed his sleeves back at some point in the night, from the humid summer heat of the bar, and you can see the veins on his forearms now, under the dim light of the street lamps.

"This is me," you say jokingly, tipping your chin at your car as he looks at you with an expression you can't distinguish. "I'm good from here."

He doesn't move.

It's not that you expected him to give up so easily; you had just forgotten how persistent he could be.

Art's mouth stretches into a slanted smile. "Do you remember the Davis Invitational? Junior year."

Speaking of his persistence...he had been pursuing you for months, not in any tangible way, but you always knew what he was thinking.

After the invitational, where you and Art had been the respective men's and women's champions, you had gone back to his dorm to celebrate. Three hours and just as many vodka shooters later, he had finally gotten you in his bed. Not that you were complaining.

Art knew his way around your body, and even that first night, he had managed to get you off more times than you can remember.

"What about it?" you shoot back, your eyebrows raising at the insinuation.

"Nothing," he says with a shrug, but you don't miss the humor glinting in his eyes. "You just used to be a lot more fun to celebrate with."

"Fuck you," you spit out, shoving his shoulder harder than you mean to. He barely budges, instead grabbing your hand and tugging you a few inches closer, and suddenly a wave of lust washes over you, making your breath hitch.

You press your thighs together under your dress, hoping he can't feel the heat spreading across your skin, but then his smile turns to a smirk and you know you're done for.

"What do you think?" he whispers, leaning in so close that his lips brush over your earlobe. "Want to celebrate?"

Molten lava pools in your gut and you are only peripherally aware of his hand sliding down your hips to the flowy edge of your dress. His fingers glide over your skin as his hand goes under the loose fabric, before rising up to grab your ass, drawing your hips flush with his.

Your arousal is already starting to soak through your panties, but the feeling of his hard bulge pressed up against you sends you flying back to reality.

You lift your hands to his chest and push him back so that he's a few steps away from you. It's not far enough, but at least you can't feel him from there. "I'm not fucking you, Art."

He shrugs, his smirk only slightly shaken. "Who said anything about fucking? I just wanted to talk."

You huff out a laugh. "You're funny. Besides, I'm too tired for this. I need to rest up before my match."

"What about tomorrow night then?" His lip is still curved up in a smirk, but there's an earnestness in his gaze that surprises you.

"What makes you think you'll still be here tomorrow?"

His mouth spreads into a wide smile. "I always win."

You snort. "Fine. Win your match and we can talk."

You don't miss the grin on his face as you climb into your car and leave.

***

You win your next match in straight sets again, so by the time you're out of the locker room, Art's match is still in play. Driven by a mixture of curiosity and intrigue, you head over to his court and find a seat halfway up the stands.

He has won two of three sets, and he's leading the fourth, so with the prospect of the match ending soon, you use the time to observe him from a different angle.

His form is much better than it was in college, and you've seen him play countless times on TV, but you haven't really let yourself see how good he looks out there. The sinewy muscles rippling in his arms as he lifts them to serve. The rugged sturdiness of his legs as he races back and forth across the court.

You wish you could be down there with him, running your hands over the smooth lines of his abdomen, tasting the drops of sweat as they roll down his body-

The crowd erupts in cheers, and you are thrust back into reality as Art throws his arms into the air with a loud whoop. The scoreboard confirms his victory, and you clap along with the audience as he shakes his opponent's hand and heads over to his chair.

People around you stand up to leave, but you stay in your seat, watching as he grabs his bag and stuffs his rackets inside. When he wipes a towel over his face, his head turns up and his eyes immediately go to you, like he knew you were here the whole time.

Your stomach does an involuntary flip and he flashes his eyebrows at you as you bit the inside of your lip, trying to hold back a smile.

When he ducks back down to grab his things, you stand up quickly to avoid letting him see your blush and follow the rest of the crowd off of the stands.

***

You hear it late that night. Three little raps on your hotel room door, just before midnight.

You're in the finals, and you don't have any friends here to celebrate with, so you were sipping a beer and watching old match recordings when you heard the knock.

There's no one else who would come to see you this late, so you're not surprised when you open the door to find Art, dressed in a tee shirt and comfy-looking pajama pants.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Art just looks at you, his pupils already massive. "You said if I win, we could talk." He shrugs. "I won."

"Okay," you concede, opening the door wider to let him in. "Just talking then."

He nods, before following you inside and shutting the door.

"You want anything to drink?" you ask as he trails behind you.

He shakes his head. "I'm good."

You grab your beer bottle from the side table and sit down on the floor, crossing your legs beneath you.

Art sits across from you, his feet in front of him and his elbows on his knees. You were assigned to a modestly sized room, but for someone as tall as him, the space must feel cramped.

"How did the match feel?" you ask, taking a swig of beer.

He thinks for a moment. "It was close at first, but once I shook my legs out, it became a breeze."

"Your legs were never the problem," you say, leveling him with a serious look. "It was always your attitude. Or your confidence."

He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching slightly. "I'm plenty confident."

"You are now," you tell him as you swirl the bottle around in your hand. "You won Wimbledon, you have a reason to be confident."

That makes him smile. "So you're saying my legs are fine."

"Yeah," you say before you can process what you're saying. "You looked good out there."

His smile turns to a smirk so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. "You think I look good?"

You let out an exasperated scoff. "At tennis."

His grin doesn't falter so you roll your eyes at him before lifting the bottle to your lips to take another swig. When you tilt the bottle back down to swallow, his hand reaches forward to take it from you. Your grip on the beer doesn't loosen, so the motion sends you pitching forward.

Your mouth parts with a small yelp as his arm wraps around you, tugging you closer, and before you can process what's happening, his lips are on yours.

If you let yourself think too hard, you would realize that there is way too much shared history and way too much baggage here for this to be a good idea...so that's why you don't.

Instead, you let him pull your body flush against his and when his tongue slides over the seam of your lips, you grant him access immediately. Your shirts come off in quick succession and you gasp as his hands run up and down your body, his strong, calloused fingers grasping at every inch of purchase they can find. Yours reach up to tangle in his messy hair, and when his lips move down your neck, your grip tightens, making him moan quietly against your skin.

Something about being on the floor takes you back to your college days, when you'd both be so worked up after practice that you couldn't even make it to the bed, but that feels too real right now.

"Art," you whisper as he runs his lips and teeth over your neck, before replacing it with his tongue to soothe the quickly blossoming marks. "Art, the bed. Now."

It takes him a second to process your words, but when he does, he loops an arm around your waist and lifts you up and onto the bed in one motion, before pushing you back onto the covers.

By the time your head hits the bed, he's already pulling your shorts and panties down, exposing you to the cool air. His lips follow the path of his hands as they trace up your legs, making you squirm under the hot touch of his rough fingers. He presses wet kisses to the insides of your thighs before spreading them apart and dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you.

"So wet for me," he whispers, almost to himself, before he dives in, his mouth making lewd noises as he licks a thick stripe up your core. "You taste so good."

He lifts your legs over his shoulders to give himself some leverage as he makes a mess between your thighs, licking and sucking your clit into his mouth before fucking you with his tongue.

His grip on your thighs is the only thing keeping you pinned to the bed as you writhe beneath him, trying to not squeeze your legs together from the heat spreading up your core.

His mouth feels amazing and it takes only minutes before you're already nearing the edge. You don't want to come until he is inside of you, though, so you yank his hair, pulling him up and off of you.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and he looks ethereal with his disheveled hair and his chin wet with your slick.

You, on the other hand, look like heaven itself with your eyes half-hooded from pleasure, and he can't help the grin that crosses his face as he licks his lips and climbs over you onto the bed. He lets you taste yourself as he kisses you again, and he lets out a low groan when you bite his lip just hard enough to sting.

"Fuck me," you gasp, your voice too breathy to be actually authoritative. "Fuck me the way I like."

Art grins at your desperate tone and the wild lust in your eyes, committing this image to memory for a later time when you're much further away.

He kicks his pants off as he lifts you both further up the bed, and after covering himself with a condom from his back pocket, he lines himself up and slowly pushes forward.

He gives you a few moments to adjust to his size before slowly pulling out nearly all the way and then thrusting in again.

The slight pain turns to pleasure almost immediately, but he keeps his pace steady so as not to hurt you. You need more right now, so you wrap your legs around him for leverage and flip him over so that you're straddling him.

He groans as his head hits the pillow, and when he tries to sit up, you press your hands to his chest, pushing him down as you ride him. This position gives you a lot more control, and you use it to your advantage as you bounce yourself on his cock, feeling the way he fills you up so fully from this higher angle.

His fingers dig into your hips as he helps lift you up and down, and his eyes are practically feral as he watches the spot where his cock disappears inside of you.

He's the perfect size to fill you up completely, and with each swivel of your hips, you get closer and closer to your climax, which is approaching so fast you can taste it.

You cry out when he hits exactly the right spot deep inside of you, and his eyes fly to yours as your movements start to stutter from your impending release.

Needing to see the look on your face when you come, he pushes your lower back forward so you fall against his chest, before lifting himself up to meet you halfway. With one arm locked around you, he brings his other hand down between the two of you to rub quick circles over your clit. The new angle lets him thrust up into you, and the increased pace of his movements mixed with the speed of his fingers sends you flying over the edge.

Your mouth falls open with a loud cry, and you squeeze him so tightly he's practically seeing stars. You look so beautiful when you come, like a goddess sent down here just for him, and when your eyes meet his, he finds his own climax.

His body jerks forward with the force of his release, and you let him thrust a few more times as he finally finishes inside of you.

After pulling out, he tugs you down to lay next to him, and at first you let him, but the emotions warring inside of you don't stay quiet for long.

You know that whatever this was isn't going to go anywhere. You didn't work in college, and you won't work now, and you don't want anyone to get hurt again, so you have to make a choice. Now.

"I need to get some rest," you say quietly, a tiny part of you hoping he doesn't hear you. "Before the next match."

"Yeah," he sighs after a beat. "Me too."

You let him hold you for a moment longer, before he unwraps himself from your body and sits up, tugging his shirt and pants back on. You tug the sheet back and wrap it around your torso as he stands up and walks to the door.

You're not sure what you're expecting as he goes to leave, but what you get is a silent nod as the door swings shut behind him.

[gutsby]

Abstaining Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: The only thing worse than an anti-sex retreat is an anti-sex retreat with your former fuckbuddy and dad’s best friend. Especially when sharing one cabin.

Warnings: 18+. IF HE AIN’T GRAYIN’ I AIN’T STAYIN’ 🗣️ [Age gap]. Unprotected p-in-v. Forced proximity. Joel making you fuck just his middle finger when he’s mad. Daddy kink. Overstimulation. First-time squirting. Angst.

Translations: ‘Don’t piss down my back & tell me it’s raining’ is a fun Southern phrase for, ‘Cut the bullshit’ or ‘Don’t lie.’

Sequel to Waiting Game & Hating Game (last rhyme I swear)

October 26, 2024

Dear Joel,

Roses are red,

We’re a couple of sluts,

Abstinence camp is awful,

I miss you rearranging my guts.

You were just about to put your pen back down to paper and add the finishing touch, signing an equally lascivious farewell, when the letter was snatched out of your hands. A tyrant in khaki capris and an artichoke-colored polo eyed over your words with a pointed look and frowned.

“Letters to the boyfriend have to be G-rated,” Marlene said, crumpling the thing in her fist before chucking it.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you returned shortly. Then, “That was actually meant for my dad’s friend.”

You sat tight a moment as the dots came to connect in the woman’s parochial and prudish mind—waiting for the wince of disgust to twitch at the corners of her eyes when she put two and two together. Once it did, you grinned. Even when she plucked the pen out of your hand and told you to sit outside, if you can’t participate in this one simple activity, you smiled bigger and strolled at a comfortable pace out the canteen door.

Anti-sex ‘summer camp’ wasn’t bad at all when you didn’t give a fuck what your counselors told you to do.

It was ridiculous, really. Absurd. Tommy Miller catching you sucking his brother’s dick under the table at your father’s birthday dinner, losing his shit with you both, then threatening to tell your dad everything if you didn’t agree to this stupid retreat and stop seeing each other. You’d barely been trapped in the shithole for twenty-four hours, and you already knew this angle wouldn’t work.

What many of your fellow campers affectionately called the ‘Firefly Fuck-Free Zone’ or the ‘Federal Dickriding Response Agency’ (F.E.D.R.A.) was in fact a secluded enclave south of Austin where khaki-clad monsters forced you to reckon with your sexual urges like one might treat a mutated strain of the Cordyceps fungus. You weren’t meant to keep them for long, and if you did, someone like Marlene would surely shame you for it.

Frankly, Tommy was dumb as shit if he thought this anti-boinking boot camp would have an effect on either one of you—Joel wouldn’t ever bang you again after what happened that night, but it wouldn’t be because of some arts and crafts bullshit he did out on a FEDRA ranch.

He just didn’t want your dad to find out and kill him.

That was a fair concern to have. You didn’t blame him.

Presently, you kicked your feet up on the porch outside the cafeteria, where the rest of the group was finishing up letters to their loved ones—this latest activity was meant to be ‘making amends’ to the people in your life—and you tipped your head back to survey the landscape.

Nothing but sweetgrass and gently rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Somewhere across the plains there was another cluster of cabins, though you couldn’t quite see it, and someplace within that minuscule cluster, you knew there was a middle-aged man. Dark grey eyebrows furrowed in concentration and chest heaving gently. Likely hunched over an old oak desk about five sizes too small for his frame as he gripped a pen and scribbled:

Dear Tommy,

Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

Sincerely,

Joel

You grinned again just thinking about it.

If anyone had a reason to be ticked off and terrified, it was Joel. And you, you guessed. You still hadn’t gotten your period—but that wasn’t due for another few days.

For now, you’d settled on worrying yourself over what would happen after the retreat had ended; what would you and Joel do once you went back to school? What would become of his life back in Austin with a supremely pissed off brother and a best friend who didn’t know his kid had been fooling around with a man twice her age?

Silently, you thanked your lucky stars Joel’s part of the camp was kept separate from yours, because you didn’t think you’d be able to keep a straight face if you saw him.

The whole thing was sickening, if not slightly funny.

You slipped Joel’s old pack of American Spirits out of your boot and fished in your back pocket for a lighter.

Then you crammed both back when you heard a boom:

“LAKESIDE GUIDED MEDITATION STARTS IN FIVE.”

The tinny intercom rang a deafening pitch in your ears. You clamped a palm over the left side of your head and winced, having forgotten this exercise in mindfulness was supposed to be the last event to wrap up your day. You just wanted to slink back up to your cabin and sleep. Or eat. Or slip your fingers between your aching legs and indulge in some much-needed Joel Miller reminiscing.

Then you recalled how masturbation was also off limits to all would-be sexaholic campers—if there was any time to sneak off and get busy by yourself while your counselors were otherwise occupied, now would be it.

Just as you cast a glance over your shoulder to see if a stealthy exit was even possible, a voice trilled overhead.

“On your feet, skank.”

You looked back fast, and damn did Tess look smug.

Your bunkmate crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe, seeming to feel your thoughts before they’d even been fully processed.

“If you skip meditation, I think Marlene’s gonna take you behind the rec and shoot you in the head,” she added.

“How kind.”

“Yeah? Certain death?”

“Better than the dick deprivation,” you grumbled, only half-kidding as you dragged yourself back to your feet.

Theresa Servopoulos was no avid fan of penis herself—she much preferred women when she had her pick of it—but she grinned all the same and clapped a comforting hand over your shoulder before the two of you started walking down the mess hall’s front steps. Then she only laughed a little bit when you almost ate shit treading down the winding rocky trail to the lake and cursed your present lack of intercourse for causing your clumsiness.

“You realize it’s only been, like…a day, right?” she said.

“Might as well be a million,” you muttered, “I feel like I’m never getting laid again.”

“Oh?”

Tess gripped your elbow when a root protruding from the path nearly sent you flying again. She tried not to smile.

“Well…my fake brother’s mad at me for going behind his back and fucking his brother,” you explained, coolly.

Stupidly.

“Wait—you fucked your brother?!”

That stopped Tess in her tracks. The two of you were approaching the cusp of a clearing, just feet away from where the forest gave way to the shoreline of the lake. Folks were already congregating at the water’s edge.

“Any day now, ladies,” Marlene called through cupped hands. Tess was still regarding you with eyes the size of saucers as you traipsed across the way to that voice.

“Not my brother,” you hissed.

“You said your brother’s brother. That makes this guy your brother, too,” Tess whispered—still far too loud.

“Not my actual brother, he’s just— fuck—”

Suddenly, two scraps of red fabric were catapulted in your direction. Tess caught one. You caught the other.

“Tie ‘em over your eyes.” Marlene ordered.

“The fuck?” you mumbled, but ventured nothing more as you were ushered to join the group sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of you. Everyone else was tying bandanas around their eyes like all of this was normal.

“Another trust exercise,” Tess’s voice was low as you dropped your asses one after the other on the sand. Speaking like a seasoned veteran of the anti-sex retreat, she helped you get yours on and shot you one last ‘You-better-not-have-actually-fucked-your-sibling’ look before letting you help her secure her blindfold, too.

Just as Marlene began describing in great detail what this blind, guided meditation in self-love and elemental trust was meant to look like, your friend opted to give voice to her concerns the second the opportunity arose.

Still seated side-by-side, still blind, Tess leaned over.

“Please tell me you’re not here for bangin’ your brother.”

You had to stifle a laugh.

“I am not.”

“Then explain, Cersei!”

Just then, a throat cleared behind you. Evidently another camp counselor at your rear was telling you, wordlessly, to shut the fuck up and listen to the instructions. You and Tess just scooted closer and lowered your voices.

“So this guy, Tommy…he’s been like a big brother to me for years. Worked with my dad and always had my back for the wild shit I did back in high school,” you began.

“Uh-huh.”

“His big brother, Joel, is like…old as shit, but wildly hot.”

“Dangerous combo.”

“And Joel’s my dad’s best friend. Drove me back from college over fall break when he was visiting Boston, we took a little motel detour on the road trip home, and bam—” You snapped your fingers for effect, “We fuck, right?”

“Right.”

“—imagine you’re standing at the edge of a waterfall—”

Marlene couldn’t be serious with this hippy dippy shit. You tuned out the rest of what she said and continued:

“It’s incredible. But the condom busts open at the end—”

“Oh shit.”

“—deep breath in…and release…and again, we—”

“Freak the fuck out, right? I’m poppin’ Plan B like candy.”

“As you should.”

“—hold that breath in right there—”

“A week later, me and Joel hook up at my dad’s birthday party. Only we fuck up, ‘cause Tommy catches us, and—”

This time, the counselor who’d cleared their throat to shut you up took to nudging you both in the back with the toe of their shoe. You straightened up, tilted your head back, and scowled at them through your blindfold.

“Do you mind?” you said, turning in place but unable to see anything behind you. You imagined whoever had just butted in on your conversation was probably frowning. They said nothing in return, just huffed like a child.

“Anyway.” You pivoted back to Tess, “Tommy flips his lid, tells us he’s gonna snitch on us to my dad if we keep fucking around like that, and then he…sends us here.”

You heard your friend fight back a chuckle beside you.

“And abstinence camp is supposed to cure you of this awful disease? Wanting to fuck daddy’s best friend?”

Oddly, you wanted to giggle too. You weren’t sure what was so funny, or why Tess’s tone made you want to say something equally out of pocket and lewd, but then you were leaning over before you could even think twice:

“That old man’s dick is like a fuckin’ drug, dude.”

You wished you could’ve seen her face when you said it. But you didn’t need to catch a single glimpse to know she was grinning big and dumb when she whispered,

“Prehistoric cock must’ve been pretty nice, huh?”

You choked. She snorted. You returned, next, shortly,

“Best senior citizen schlong I’ve had in my life.”

You weren’t sure which one of you burst out laughing first. Maybe Tess. Probably you. Either way, both of your sides were splitting in seconds, as the ridiculous and just marginally offensive descriptors for Joel’s dick trembled at the tips of your tongues. You felt like a teenager again, telling your friend your filthiest desires for the DILF-next-door—except this time, you’d actually fucked him. Small perks to seeking out middle-aged men in your twenties. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth to rein in the peals of laughter as Tess wheezed quietly beside you.

Then you felt hands.

Two palms under your armpits, yanking you up.

You stumbled back, graceless and still staving off half a laugh as your back struck the counselor’s chest.

“Just…take her back up.” You heard a female’s voice to your left, low and not sounding particularly amused.

Take you where? Was this the part where Marlene dragged you behind the rec and shot you in the head?

About damn time.

Whoever had grabbed you grunted in acknowledgment. You swayed in their arms, trying to regain better footing, but the grip tightened up in a second and thrust you sideways. You staggered, cursing your captor.

“Fucker,” you hissed.

Fucker said nothing.

Their hands slipped from your pits to one of your wrists, leading you away from the lake in long strides. You were moving so fast you scarcely had the chance to pull the blindfold back, so you just kept walking. Marching.

“Can you slow the fuck down, please?”

You imagined the face of the person leading you forward might’ve twisted in a scowl. Their lips didn’t stir, though.

In a matter of minutes, your feet were crunching on the flat, gravelly terrain you knew to lay under the cabins. This person was leading you back. Likely to throw you off to your room in the next several moments—but not before ripping you a new one for disrupting the peace back down at the lake. You weren’t stoked to hear it.

“Alright, just—” You tripped as you were led up the rickety steps, cursing again, “—just leave me right here.”

A set of knuckles at your spine thrust you forward.

“No? Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

You shook your head as you entered the cabin and heard footsteps follow you in. It occurred to you then that now was probably a good time to take off the blindfold.

Before you could, though, it was ripped off for you.

“Pack your shit.”

Dude.

You spun on your heels.

“DUDE!”

Your eyes moved up the very khaki shorts you despised, the puke-colored polo, the neatly embroidered camp logo, and a nametag strangely labeled ‘Lucien Flores.’ Everything in the ensemble screamed ‘camp counselor.’ But the face above it—it wasn’t one of their own at all.

It was far too lax. Fresh with an easy, shit-eating grin.

“Sweetheart—”

He started to speak, only to get the wind knocked out of his chest when you threw your arms around him.

The barrage of kisses came without you ever really intending to place them at all. You were just so stunned, practically overcome with joy to see Joel Miller in all his ruggedly handsome glory, then confused. What was he doing here, and why was he dressed head-to-toe as a counselor? And why were you so into that on him?

You doubted you could even ask the questions, and he was barely more able to answer the longer you stayed latched to his neck, kissing him everywhere your mouth could get to. You’d just stood on tip-toes to press your lips to his when you realized he wasn’t reaching back.

His hands hung limply at his sides. Still, he smiled.

“Abstinence camp ain’t taught ya much, has it?”

You parted your lips to drag your teeth along the grey-spattered scruff on his cheek—biting but not quite. Begging him to kiss you back, grab your ass, anything to quell this anguish twisting low in your stomach at the lack of contact. Joel didn’t seem keen on answering to it.

“I’ve learned plenty, Miller,” you panted against his jaw, before moving below it to sink into the skin of his neck, “Lemme show you all the stuff FEDRA told us not to do.”

Yes, you sounded desperate. No, you didn’t really care. You were much too busy fiddling with the front of Joel’s shorts to concern yourself with anything but his cock. It made it all the more gut-wrenchingly horrific and disconcerting when you felt his hands push yours away.

“No,” Joel said, simply. Then, nodding to your luggage at the foot of your bunk, “Pack your stuff, sweets. C’mon.”

He was seriously trying to break you out?

You admired the cojones on the man, but you wanted to fuck real quick to get it out of your system. Needed it.

“Joel, I—” You swallowed thickly, shaking your head.

What your mouth couldn’t finish, your eyes said clear as day: I want you to take me right here. Quick and dirty. But, again, Joel seemed completely impervious to your pleas. Almost callous in the face of such a desperate request made from your eyes to his. He moved over toward your suitcase when you didn’t want to budge.

Luckily for you, you’d never unpacked. All that was left were the clothes on your back and a water bottle on the nightstand. Joel grabbed the latter and turned around to snag the suitcase on his way to the door, when he was met with you. Obstructing his path and frowning a little.

“Joel?” You raised a brow.

“Mm?”

The man in front of you straightened up, rolling a nonexistent kink from his neck before regarding you.

His gaze was alarmingly sedate.

“Y’know, you’ve got quite the knack for makin’ shit difficult—”

“Just a quickie, Miller—”

“I ain’t fuckin’ you here!”

The sudden boom of his voice should’ve startled you. But then a broad, warm palm came to rest on your shoulder, and Joel’s expression dropped immediately. There was still a tightness to it, somewhere deep within, and you couldn’t quite work out why he seemed so…off.

Then you caught sight of something steely in his gaze.

It just might’ve clicked if Joel didn’t reach for your face and elucidate things for you himself, eyes narrowing.

“I know my old man dick is like a fuckin’ drug and all…”

Shit.

Cheeks squished between his two big hands, you had only to stare. And blink. And silently regret being so loud when you were talking to Tess before. It didn’t look good.

“Joel—”

“No, no, my senile brain must be mistaken—it was actually that prehistoric cock that did it for ya.”

Your face heated with shame. You blinked again.

But just as you tried to shake your head between Joel’s hands, he pressed his palms tighter and drew you closer.

“Senior. citizen. schlong?” he intoned, painfully slow.

“Joel, I just—”

“Need to fuck someone your own age, it sounds like.”

The man in front of you released your face just as fast as he’d grabbed it, and when he stepped back, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of desperation. That wasn’t what you’d meant! It sounded so puerile and cruel coming out of his lips like this, but you had to tell him it was a joke.

“It was a joke.”

No time to mince words now.

“Real fuckin’ comedic genius,” Joel snorted.

He rolled his eyes and tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored the movement. When your hands flew to his chest to keep him from moving, please, just listen to me, Joel, he pretended not to hear it, or feel it, against him.

“Alright. Enough,” he muttered, “‘S’time to go home.”

“No!”

“No?”

“No.”

For the first time, you saw Joel’s nostrils flare. You pressed into his sternum again, hoping to hold him in place so you could explain yourself, but it seemed he wasn’t planning on staying stationary. Joel dropped to your bunk—or Tess’s, technically—and situated himself comfortably on the bed before shooting you a look. You barely had had a moment’s time to contemplate your next move when he yanked you onto the cot with him.

Joel didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t attempt to remove one article of clothing from your body or his. He just sat there, staring, while you straddled his hips staring back.

“If you wanna fuck me so bad, go right ahead,” he said, motioning indistinctly in front of him, “Be my guest.”

When you stilled, he added, “That is all y’want, right?”

With your palms laying flat on his chest and a head full of conflicting thoughts—you did want to bang him, obviously, but not before you’d gotten a chance to set things straight, not when he was looking at you like this—you chewed your bottom lip. Certainly you couldn’t continue while Joel still believed you were embarrassed by his age, his lips downturned and humorless as ever.

“C’mon,” he tried again, a touch more venom laced in his words as he spoke, “Show me how much ya want it.”

You needed time to think.

“Why are you…dressed like this?” you said, stalling.

But Joel wouldn’t be kind enough to give you that time.

“Stole the uniform so I could sneak out and over here and get you out. Are we gonna fuck now or what?”

His hands moved over your own to guide them to his lower half, just above where your clothed core was touching his. Your fingers moved mechanically, almost reluctantly, to undo the button and zip of his shorts.

Was that a flash of hurt you saw in his eyes?

You’d never been good at this communication bullshit. Neither had Joel. The two of you would probably just have sex now to hash out your feelings, as was par for the course for a pair of emotionally stunted individuals. It still pained you to see him look at you like that, though.

“Tess and me were just kidding, baby.”

You palmed the bulge in his boxers and heard him grunt. When you nudged his cock out of the fabric to stroke him, his eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath.

“I would never say those things to hurt you,” you added.

“Didn’t hurt me none,” Joel returned instantly. Then, feeling you flick the pad of your thumb over the head of his cock, he exhaled and held his face firm in place. Like he didn’t want you to see the effect you had on him.

You let go of his cock to take off your socks and shoes. Then your top. Then your shorts. Then you slid down his body a little, unsure if this was the time to be trying something new. Or even doing this kind of stuff at all.

At first, you just sort of lowered yourself to Joel’s groin, his dick resting comfortably between your tits. Then you started to move, and your hands were cupping either side of your breasts to push inward on his member. Before you even fully knew what you were doing, you were squeezing Joel’s dick with the soft, supple flesh and stroking him gently. Gaze glued to him all the while.

His eyes cracked open to catch you watching him. Evidently, Joel couldn’t contain all of his reactions, because he audibly groaned when you got going.

Sliding your tits up and down his shaft, feeling him pulse between them. Sensing a warmth pool in your own lower half but being too focused, and slightly ashamed, to act. You just wanted to make Joel feel good, even if your words weren’t able to do the trick with apologizing.

“Come here,” you beckoned him with just one finger as you slid off the bed, to the floor. Joel sat up, and you kneeled obediently between his legs. The two of you shared a tense, sexless look for a second before you lowered yourself back down and resumed the position.

This time, Joel could—and did—stir his hips to create some friction between your tits. His brow pinched inward with a muted concentration, and you wanted to say it looked handsome on him, that you were sorry for saying those stupid things to Tess and making him doubt your affection for him, but you kept your mouth shut. You had to remind yourself that emotions had no place between two needy, unfeeling people who just wanted to fuck.

Maybe that was how it should’ve been from the start.

But watching Joel’s face twist and contort in pleasure nearly wiped the thought clean out of your brain forever.

You felt many things for him, whether you liked it or not.

You really wished you hadn’t said the things you’d said.

Joel braced his hands at the edge of the bed on either side of him, hips working a steady pace to fuck your tits. He was staring mostly at the spot where the head of his cock was poking up through your cleavage with each thrust, entranced by the sight, and in a second, a full-throated moan was fighting its way out of his chest. He spit in his hand and paused to smear the stuff on his shaft, on your tits. Spit again and rubbed even harder.

Seeing him so cold and detached, you wanted to apologize again. Maybe beg him to say something kind.

Instead, you mumbled, “I love it when you fuck my tits.”

Joel scarcely acknowledged the remark, just letting you work yourself over him, meet his shallow thrusts, look sweet and wait patiently for him to cum all over you. When it seemed he might be ready to do it, though, Joel withdrew from you the next second and moved back on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, straddling again, but this time situated over the side of the bed—him sitting up, you perched on the flat, sturdy expanse of his thighs facing him. In the space between your bodies, Joel slid a quiet and almost careless hand to your heat, flicking the sheer fabric of your panties to the side in one go.

The moment his fingers made contact, you flinched.

It wasn’t that you were opposed to his touch, you just felt unfairly balanced in this situation. Joel appeared so stoic; you, a complete and utter wreck. Fighting fifteen different emotions at once and feeling unusually vulnerable spread open to him now, you almost didn’t register what he was doing—or what his hand might find.

Joel’s groan brought you back, though. When he rubbed his knuckles over the seam of your cunt and practically choked out twice his lung’s capacity, you had to look.

Aloof as he tried to be, the man’s desire was painted all over his expression. And his crotch. And his hand.

Well, actually, that last bit of arousal was yours.

“Fuckin’ soakin’ me, sweetie,” Joel breathed.

You perked up at the term of endearment. Watching one glistening fist of his make its way back and forth against your body, smearing sticky wet pleasure all over your mound and your folds, you found yourself gnawing your lip once more, this time for entirely different reasons.

Joel seemed to soften—even if only for a glaring carnal need, you didn’t care. You sank into this gentler touch.

“Khakis kinda suit you, Miller,” you said, off-handed.

Really, Joel looked almost as comical as he was sexy in that camp counselor getup: tan shorts stretched tight over even tanner legs, polyester top sitting pretty on wide, hulking shoulders, that silly stitched logo for the camp emblazoned over his left pec, and, of course, the nametag that didn’t belong to him but to Lucien. The whole thing was so alien to his lumberjack-chic demeanor that he nearly seemed boyish. Endearing. Some spearmint-scented hottie you might’ve had a crush on at camp years ago. You couldn’t help but smile.

Joel tried not to hold your gaze for too long.

“Don’t go pissin’ down my back and tell me it’s rainin’.”

When he slid one finger to your entrance, you tensed again, but smiled just the same and let out a breath. You felt him prod at the warm, wet skin and thumb at your clit, and something told you that he’d wanted to grin too.

“I’m serious,” you said, “Scout’s hon—ohfuckfuckfuck.”

Joel pushed one finger inside you. In spite of the ease with which he slipped between your walls, that gentle sensation made it wonderfully snug. He gripped your hip and started moving his single digit in and out, and in spite of yourself, you squirmed a bit. Joel never failed to call you out for doing that; today would be no different.

“Easy, sweet pea,” he hummed when you jumped again.

But you couldn’t help it. Your hands quickly anchored themselves to Joel’s shoulders, your legs spread wider, and your hips started stirring—bucking, really—against each teasing touch. It was still just one thick finger of his.

You glanced down and saw that it was his middle finger, in particular. The double meaning wasn’t lost on you.

“Another,” you pleaded.

“Nuh-uh.”

“You’re a mean ol— mean man.” You tried to correct course when you felt a mention of ‘old’ slip back into your vernacular, and inwardly, you cringed at your words.

Joel had already heard it. He cocked one eyebrow.

“Mean ol’ man?” he scoffed, still fingerfucking you softly. When you bucked against it, he nodded as if to say ‘fair enough.’

Then, before you could chime in, he nodded some more.

His expression was hard.

“Fuck my hand,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You weren’t quite sure what he meant for you to do. When he nodded a third time, the gesture was accompanied by a quick dart of his eyes to the place where your cunt was being penetrated by his one finger. He curled the finger inward, and when you twitched at the hot throb of pleasure that followed, he grunted.

Fuck my hand.

Nails still searing tiny half-moons into his shoulders, you acted more out of impulse than by command. The look from Joel sure didn’t hurt, though. The second you started rolling your hips, he nodded again. Holding onto his praises for now and simply showing approbation.

“Like that,” he murmured.

All you were doing was rocking back and forth over his finger, whimpers percolating quietly in your chest, but the act alone made you feel desperate. And Joel smug.

It was like he wanted to see you getting off to this one, comparatively smaller part of him without being filled. Bucking plaintively to find that fullness and coming back empty every time. Your whimpers turned into whines.

“Need more,” you keened.

“Yeah?” Joel replied gently.

“Yeah.”

A beat, then:

“Tough shit.”

But he said it so goddamn sweet you had to do a double take to make sure you’d heard him correctly. When you met Joel’s eyes, you saw a hint of amusement lingering behind them. Then he squeezed your hip again and started helping you move into his hand, up and down.

“Only givin’ more fingers to good girls, y’hear?” he said.

“What about your cock?” You couldn’t help it.

Joel just breathed out through his nose. In a second, he went from camp counselor to disapproving father figure.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?”

That was all he needed to say, but the firm plunge of his middle finger certainly put a finer point on it. He curled the digit again and, upon grazing that spongy surface inside you, saw another desperate plea in your eyes.

And pleasure.

The pleasure ran almost as intense as the desperation.

Your head fell back when Joel got to making those ‘come hither’ motions again and again, thumb circling your clit, eyes trained on your figure with a marked concern. Like the prospect of not drawing an orgasm out of you in the next two minutes might very well ruin the man’s night.

“‘S’alright, honey,” Joel said quietly.

Then, finding your gaze when your head tilted back,

“Be a good girl and let go for me. Let go for daddy, hm?”

Fortunately for him, that one low hum and another flick of his middle finger and thumb were all you needed to find your release. You came on his hand with a sharp, pitiful cry and a ‘Fuckthatfeelssogooddaddyplease,’ hips working feverishly against his hand as you rode out your high. The sight of you bouncing up and down on his open palm and the way your eyes rolled back, begging him to fuck you full of his cock next, felt wildly obscene.

Joel loved obscene. Needed obscene. Hot. Febrile. Raw.

He nodded again.

Before you’d even descended fully from those staggering heights, his finger was moving too—joined by two more. Joel stuffed his index and ring fingers inside your still-pulsing hole and pretended not to hear your soft cry.

After all, you’d asked for more before. Joel was just sating your desire; your overwrought body would be fine.

“Joel,” you hissed, seizing his wrist.

“Too much?” he returned.

You tried to verbalize some answer but were cut short by a punishing stretch—all three fingers plunging in and out of your sensitive, drooling cunt and making it full of him.

“Too soon?” he tried again.

“I—”

“Too fast?”

“N—”

“Too…old?” Joel pressed after a beat.

There was an air of feigned condescension in his tone as he took on a faster pace gliding his thick, calloused fingers between your walls. You might’ve screamed if you hadn’t found your forehead pressed to his and the warmth of his irises boring into yours while he did it all. At this distance, you could discern a trace of hurt again. Something needing to be soothed inside Joel Miller.

You rutted your hips and shook your head, skull still stuck to his as you did so. Whimpers coming low.

“I didn’t…mean it,” you managed at length.

“What? That I’m ‘old as shit but wildly hot’?”

Joel wedged his fingers straight down to the knuckle and nearly tore a shriek out of your body. His eyes were surprisingly soft. Making sure your pleasure was all there.

“Hyperbole,” you choked, voice hoarse.

Then your jaw grew lax when a hand cupped your chin. All you wanted to do was melt into Joel, but you sensed something brewing again behind those honeyed eyes. Blinking was all you could do to keep your composure.

“You’re right, darlin’,” Joel said, “I am too old for you.”

Right after a clench in your tummy, a hurried word leapt up to your tongue, ‘NO!’ and you had to swallow a moan to keep from succumbing to the pleasure Joel was bringing with his fingers. Sandwiched between two orgasms was no time for a serious argument to take place, but there you were, fighting against it anyway.

“N-No,” you stammered. Stupid.

“I am.” His voice came softer somehow, more resigned.

When outright rejection of the claim seemed futile, you tried to pivot. Climax still closing in as fast as ever.

“I don’t care about that,” you hissed, exhaling hard when the first ripples of bliss crept up toward your stomach.

Joel watched you with careful eyes.

“Yeah? And Tess?”

“Joel—”

“Or Tommy.”

“I don’t—”

“Everyone else?”

Almost against your will, those minuscule ripples turned to waves of full-blown euphoria, and then you were clenching again on Joel’s hand and crying out in climax. You willed your gaze not to stray from his, but it was tough. Especially when the eyes beneath your own seemed so fucking morose and removed from you.

Don’t do this to me, Miller. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

In the wake of what should’ve been consummate satisfaction, you found yourself retreating to a place more akin to starvation—suddenly eager to get your mouth over his and start kissing, tonguing, and scraping your teeth like you’d missed out on a full week’s worth of meals. Feeling selfish but also uncertain how else to proceed—was Joel Miller breaking up with you here?

You couldn’t be sure, because he kissed you back. Joel kissed you and cupped your cheeks, then chased your frame all the way down to the coarse, scratchy sheets of the bed, where he was quick to climb on top of you.

Hell, it seemed breathing was too tough to accomplish with your frenzied pace and the continuous stream of open-mouthed kisses placed anywhere and everywhere. A groan from Joel trembled between your lips as you helped him get his shorts and boxers the rest of the way down his legs—all but dragging them with your heels—and he tightened a fist in your hair when they were off.

“I shouldn’t’a come here,” he mumbled.

“But you did,” you panted.

Both of you got lost in another onslaught of kisses, and you tried not to sigh. Joel was still battling something.

Even as he peeled your panties off and lined himself up with your entrance, he seemed resolved to stay quiet. Holding your gaze and not saying what had to be said.

He was a lot like you in that way.

You kept kissing him anyway.

The events that followed seemed to you little more than fleeting, happy scenes from a film you’d always wanted to see—an eager Joel, a caring Joel, an I-don’t-think-I’m-physically-capable-of-holding-you-any-closer Joel. The weight of his cock a welcome friend and the kisses somehow far too intimate to be considered friendly at all. You’d almost forgotten you were at a camp designed to prevent this very thing from happening between two stupid, impulsive people like you, and you didn’t care.

All you knew was a yawning stretch—that aching, empty void filled to perfection by Joel’s member—and the shockwaves of pleasure that vibrated in bands all the way down to the balls of your feet. You felt safe and secure caged between two muscular arms, and you reveled in a warmth that spanned every inch of your body touching his. The weight suffocating and somehow not oppressive; Joel cradled your head to make sure of it.

“Ain’t…hurtin’ ya, am I?” he said when you winced.

You shook your head against his sweaty palms to say that he wasn’t; you were just adjusting. He scanned your face for any trace of insincerity but found nothing.

In this tender position, your brain was ready to burst—whether from guilt, shame, ruthless self-loathing, or a sobering sense of closeness, you weren’t sure. All four seemed to form the impetus for the words that came next, which were soft, repeated apologies against Joel’s mouth. He swallowed each one without a second thought.

“Quit sayin’ it,” he rasped, low.

“I’m sorry, Joel, I’m sorr—”

Soft lips again. ‘S’okay, honey.’

You weren’t sure why, but your face felt extra hot.

Joel pressed his thumbs on either side of it while he kissed you and went deeper. Then he squeezed even more, and your breath hitched quietly in your throat.

Aw, shit, he could probably feel your heart running amok in your chest and thrumming like crazy right now.

“Ain’t nothin’—” Joel paused to send one measured thrust along your cervix, “—to be sorry for. Nothin’.”

Your legs tightened at his sides when his hips started to snap in quick, stuttered motions, desperate for more friction and depth. He got both, and he groaned feeling you tighten around him as he filled your cunt to the brim. The silky warmth of your walls drawing him in was almost too much, and every now and then he’d have to slow to mutter some, ‘’S’fuckin’ chokin’ me, honey, ya feel that?’ or ‘This pussy’s just made to take me, huh?’

Joel asked like he actually needed the reassurance. As if the slick, dripping arousal coating his length and the sounds of your whimpers mixed in with those wet slaps weren’t enough—as if he had to have deeper consolation.

He was splitting you open and looked guilty as he did it.

Still shaking with each thrust, you helped him slide his shirt over his head and bring him bare, chest-to-chest with you. You couldn’t ignore the tension any longer.

“Joel, I fuckin’ love— I need you inside,” you managed.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

His face softened.

“‘S’mine, isn’t it?”

He said it so fast you couldn’t make out if it were really a question or a simple statement of fact. His balls routinely smacking your ass, eyes searching yours, always gentle.

“Say that you’re mine.”

No, Joel—don’t do that, don’t say it like that.

Your visceral reaction was to recoil. You couldn’t because he had you pinned, but damn did you want to—not him, not this, not now, Joel, why would you fucking say that?

The look in his eyes now surpassed the hurt from before. It was open and aching, even as he drilled your body in two at a near-ruthless pace. Asking you so sincerely.

The obstinacy inside you was almost laughable. Damn near sent your head spinning in a fit of hysterics at how much you wanted to say but wouldn’t; how much you sensed lay waiting to fly off Joel’s tongue but couldn’t. If you were any more emotionally pent-up you might’ve ruptured a blood vessel and lost all ability to think.

It didn’t help that you were both about to cum.

Or that Joel’s right hand was fumbling for your clit.

His expression was steady as ever when you jumped, made a whining noise below him, and grabbed his wrist. You looked down to where your bodies were joined and got a dizzying glimpse of that sight: cunt swallowing Joel’s cock repeatedly, pleasure pooling between your two bodies, then a digit at that little bundle of nerves.

He kissed your hairline and hummed.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Whose pussy is this?”

His thrusts sped up, along with his thumb.

“Don’t.” Not an answer but a warning: tread lightly, Joel.

He kissed your forehead again. And again. For a second you thought he might stay that way until you both came, but then his lips were finding yours, mumbling softly,

“Say no one’s gonna fuck you but me.”

“But—”

“None of those pencil-dick douchebag Delta Sigma whatever-the-fuck ya call ‘ems—” Joel continued, unfazed, “—not your lab partner, not your hallmate—”

His cock was gliding in and out of you at a punishing pace now. Wonderfully slick with sounds obscenely piercing to your ears. You could feel Joel digging in the depths of your tight, throbbing cunt, could see his expression contort with much the same pleasure you were experiencing yourself, and could very well smell the faint aroma of American Spirits still staining his breath. Joel Miller was a sick fuck for what he was doing to you, and he knew it. You nipped at his lower lip in between tender kisses and quietly-spoken words, and whimpered.

“—not your TAs, not your professors—” he pressed on.

You opened your mouth to let a lewd moan escape when Joel lifted his hand to shove a thumb inside. Instinctively, you sucked the whole thing straight down to the knuckle.

“Nobody but me, y’hear that?” Afforded better leverage with his finger wedged between your teeth, he shook your head a little as he fucked you. Watched you bob and nod a wordless ‘yes’ in doe-eyed complaisance while his cock drove shockwaves of pleasure straight through you.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth, and you let him.

You drooled all over that man’s finger like it might’ve been supplying oxygen to your lungs, and when Joel leaned in and said, ‘Ya like that, sweet pea?’, you answered in the affirmative. Or at least as close as you could get while Joel was filling up his two favorite holes.

Your orgasm was maybe two strokes away from shattering bones, it seemed. Now was his chance.

Swiftly, Joel retracted his touch just far enough to drag a string of saliva out of your mouth—then deliver a taut but gentle slap to your cheek. The soft thwack, combined with the sounds your bodies were making down below, served only to elevate the pornographic pitch of your moan:

“Joel!”

“That’s right.”

Joel’s mouth hovered an inch over yours, half-smirking, as if waiting to suck the words clean off of your lips. You whined when his thrusts got quicker and the mouth that was grinning got to kissing your own again. Talking dirty, too.

“Show me who this cunt belongs to. Say it,” he grunted.

You clenched, kissed him back, were just barely aware of the words you were trying to form when you stuttered some unintelligible, ‘Y-Y—ohfuckdaddyjustlikethatoh—’

Oh.

Your eyes widened to Joel’s, and before you could even begin to process what was happening to your body, his name just snapped off your tongue like a shot. A shriek. Some blissfully half-strangled moan that Joel captured between his teeth as he fucked you into the mattress and held your body tight to his own. His palm was wet.

Your legs were wet.

The soft, heaving juncture between your bodies was wet.

You were only dimly aware of the sensation as you dug your heels in Joel’s back and let out a series of cries and moans, but then that fluttering feeling inside made you flinch. A pulsing between your thighs and a…warmth.

You were still blinking through a post-euphoric haze when you felt a soft heat simmer and sink within you.

Did Joel just…cum inside you? Again?

“You dumb motherfucker,” you hissed without hesitation.

You’d just managed to shove him away—not far, but away—when you scrambled into a sitting position and slapped a hand over your stomach. Expecting to feel a churning and an awful pinch as you came to make out some vague sensation of Joel’s seed painting your insides, you were surprised when you didn’t get it at all.

In point of fact, Joel had just sprayed a full Jackson Pollock onto your stomach and was blinking, still fisting his cock as you quickly made your way back to your feet.

Where was that wetness coming from?

You stood and stared down at your stomach. Your legs. The translucent, trickling something that had paved a clear path between your thighs and all over Joel’s front. It didn’t make sense, unless—

“You fuckin’ squirted!” Joel cheered.

Your first instinct was to make a face.

That shit only happened in poorly produced pornos and movies based on books by Colleen Hoover, not real-life human beings. What the hell was this man on about?

“Be fucking serious,” you scowled, reaching for a stray shirt on the floor. Before realizing it was even yours, you hastily swiped several big globs of Joel’s cum with it. Your face grew even more enflamed, and yourself, oddly…ashamed. You couldn’t quite make sense of why Joel was grinning so big, or why you felt so embarrassed by what appeared to be a natural bodily function, but you suspected it probably had something to do with the state of sex education in Texas. Those fuckers definitely skipped squirting in favor of abstinence-only rhetoric.

Still weird. Still gross. You wished Joel would stop smiling.

“Lose the look or I’ll slap that fuckin’ grey off your head.”

Admittedly, neither aftercare nor communication was your métier. You started throwing on clothes, annoyed.

Meanwhile, Joel was swiping moisture off his abdomen three thick fingers at a time and wiggling the residue up for you to see—‘All it is is a sign of good lovin’, sweets, ain’t nothin’a be ashamed of!’—and you gave him just one finger in return. You were sliding your shorts up your legs and attempting to scrap the jizz off your FEDRA top when Joel started shrugging on his stolen clothes, too.

Your back was turned to him, eyes scanning the almost too-calm outdoors through the window a minute later, when you felt an arm snake close around your waist.

“Tastes a little like honey,” Joel crooned in your ear, doubtlessly smirking as he swayed you, “Only sweeter.”

You rolled your eyes. No cunt tasted like a honeycomb.

And you tried to say as much when he stroked over the strip of exposed skin between your shorts and the hem of your shirt, squeezing you tighter, but Joel was too good. He spidered a teasing touch over your tummy and yanked you back into his chest when you squealed and tried to break free. Then your sides, your ribcage, your shoulder blades—anyplace Joel could tickle, he tried to—and most spots, you were squeamish as hell. You clamped a hand over your half-open, giggling mouth, and when you felt him flip you around, you didn’t protest.

Suddenly, Joel’s hands were on either side of your face. He wasn’t smiling quite so big anymore but nevertheless maintained a kind glint behind his eyes. They were soft.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

Then, pausing as if to consider his words, he said,

“You did great.”

He stopped again to press a kiss on the tip of your nose.

“So good.”

When he saw another smile twitch at the corners of your lips, as though asking him for more, he kissed those too.

“If that was your first time with…that…I’m, uh…”

“What?”

Another beat. Another stupid, stubbled grin.

“The luckiest…senior citizen sonovabitch, I guess.”

At the tail end of that, and once Joel had punctuated his sentence with another tender peck, you met his gaze again. Somehow, it had only gotten softer. His thumbs were searing the gentlest of imprints in the apples of your cheeks, his breaths were even and warm, and if you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought the man was contemplating saying something else to you then.

He didn’t.

The bridge to an old Billy Joel song made sure of that.

“And when she’s walkin’, she’s lookin’ so f-i-i-i-ine.”

You heard gravel crunch outside the cabin.

“And when she’s talkin’, she’ll say that she’s m-i-i-i-ine.”

Footsteps bounding up the half-rotted, cedar steps.

“She’ll say I’m not so tough just because I’m in love wi—SHIT.”

Tess’s face went blank the second the door swung open.

Thankfully, both of you were clothed. You and Joel leapt apart like she’d just caught you in doggy, though. And Tess looked like she might’ve seen an asscheek or two with the way she was staring at you both, letting the screen door slam shut, and a wordless ‘what-the-fuck’ caught somewhere in the tepid air between you three.

You stared at Tess, and Tess stared at you. Joel peered over her shoulder for the arrival of any more onlookers or folks just wanting to sing ‘Uptown Girl’ in your general vicinity. Fortunately, no one else appeared behind her.

But Tess looked awestruck enough for fifty people. She blinked and visibly swallowed as her gaze shifted to Joel.

“So FEDRA does dick appointments now?” she hissed.

“No!”

“I’m not—”

“He’s from the other camp.”

“You’re shitting me. Absolutely shitting me right now.”

You brought both hands to your face in a stifling, quiet desperation, unsure what to do. Joel just blinked back.

“I’m—we’re—” he started.

“Fucking!” Tess bit back, “You are so fucking. Raw.”

She wasn’t wrong. Her sixth sense for knowing who was having clandestine sex in her bed was kind of insane.

But, where you expected a look of horror to crawl into those taut, too-smart-for-her-own-good features, you found your bunkmate starting to raise her eyebrows.

Then laugh.

Tess threw her head back and laughed because she thought you were boinking a FEDRA camp counselor.

Joel shared a similar look of surprise but didn’t laugh.

“Yeah, I’m uh…J—” Again, he made as if to speak, to introduce himself, but Tess cut him off. About to wheeze.

“Lucien Flores, you dirty dog!” she cackled.

Joel glanced down at his nametag, started to shake his head, and probably didn’t anticipate Tess smacking him on the shoulder in a semi-congratulatory sort of way. Given a little more muscle to the playful punch, she just might’ve knocked him over. Joel was then trying to pry the pin off his polo just as you stepped closer to her.

“Tess, he’s…” You considered spilling the beans en masse but quickly decided against it. You’d have to stick to the barest of bones if you had any hope of escaping this place. So, resuming, you squeezed her arm and just said:

“Flores is gonna bust us out. Get your shit and we’ll go.”

Theresa Servopoulos didn’t need to be told twice.

And when she scrambled over to her sex-stricken bunk, inquired with a hurried but patently grossed out expression about who the fuck had wet the bed while she was gone, Joel didn’t hesitate—he said it was him.

“FEDRA man with a piss kink. I like you already, Lucien.”

[sojumamii]

˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧always a brat ˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧

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summary: no matter how hard he tries,megumi is always gonna be a spoiled brat that hates to share, especially when it's you he's sharing.

tags: megumi x fem/afab! reader, childhood friends to lovers, slight slight angst mostly cute fluff, flustered pining megumi, jealousy (cute), dad gojo, nanami is so cool (derogatory) this is me wanting cute megumi content bc i miss him too much. Honestly I gave a huge backstory about you and megumi's childhood LMAO enjoy

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It wasn't so long ago that a neurotic white haired lanky man showed up at your doorstep, alongside a bored, odd-haired child to explain curses, and the art of jujutsu sorcery.Yadayada some bad people were looking for you because you have a powerful gift yadayada Gojo can help nurture your talents and keep you from being caught by those bad people because he's a big strong guy who supposedly ruined the world (idk the freak kept yapping for so long) yadayada you may or may not die but you'll be helping people, and not have to be around mean family members who think you're weird for seeing scary monsters they don't believe are real. (showed them)

The whole time this child-highjacker was talking you couldn't help but stare at the young boy about your age hiding behind him, not really out of fear but of disinterest, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Gojo catching on concluded his speech and gestured towards Megumi,"Ah! This little handsome punk right here is Megumi Fushiguro another cute stray i've taken under my wing! You're probably about the same age, first grader? Sooo! I'm sure you're gonna be best friends in no time!" he yelled animatedly, smile wide and mischievous.

Megumi scoffed in response, turning and walking away to a nearby car. You gasped at how so blatantly rude he was to your face, your face painted with obvious irritation. At your reaction Gojo chuckled and reached down to ruffle your (h/c) hair presenting you with a thumbs up.

"Don't mind him, I've come learn he's naturally moody, like is that kid really six years old,..but i'm sure he'll come around...I mean he really has no choice as you two will be a team from now on. Anyways! Let's get you two something to eat..y'like kikufuku?!" Shiny blue eyes peaked from round black sunglasses, you simply shrugged and walked with him to the car with your silly little backpack and your new future.

Growing up with Megumi was a slightly mixed bag, but instead of growing irritated of him, he fascinated you. Despite his more shadowy personality, you were rather fond of him right away,finding his hot temperament and need to be serious rather endearing and cute much to his open and endless dismay.

You wondered how this could be someone your age, as Megumi was much more composed than the supposed adult now taking care of you. He was indifferent to both you and Gojo, only ever interacting with his elder step-sister Tsumiki, who urged him to be kinder and more approachable especially since you two were in the same predicament. Megumi would scoff and tell her to leave him alone and that he didn't wanna make friends just because they're stuck together. You never took offense but it would annoy you that you had the decency to be kind but he wasn't discreet with his attitude.

"Right..like I know i'm the adult but it's kind shooting down my pride that this kid doesn't like me yet, i'm not above bribes..." Gojo had whispered to you after you secretly inquired about the other child, having a difficult time adjusting to your new living situation, the young boy's attitude towards you was not welcoming and though you did your best to leave him alone, you would still extend an arm out as gently as possible. Although, you were also not above checking Megumi's attitude which would result in some major clashes that would make Gojo fret over household repairs.

After walking you guys home from school Gojo would figure out what to feed you before training and homework, allowing you to snack as he stressfully lamented over what to feed the three of you. You're all seated at the table with your homework laid out, peckish from a long day of being an elementary aged child. Tsumiki sat primly in her chair sipping on a pink carton of strawberry milk, a staple in the gojo-fushiguro-(l/n) household. Excitedly you ask her if there were anymore boxes of the heavily worshipped beverages left.

She nodded sweetly, soft brown locks swaying,"Yeah (y/n) there's one more left with your name on it!"

You beam happily out of your seat, ready to grab your treat and announce to your guardian that more strawberry milk was to be added to the grocery list. Until...

.

.

You fall face first onto the firmness of the tatami mat and hear the rapid stomping of feet fleeing to the cabinet where your sacred treasure lay. Furious you look up at Megumi who was now indifferently drinking the last carton, that you had so openly claimed, a claim that was co-signed and notarized by Tsumiki. The absolute audacity of this bratty spoiled motherfu-

"Meg-" Tsumiki began to scold right before you exploded.

"You bitch!" you shrieked, you hear Tsumiki gasp at your profanity, but your anger was at boiling point with this broom haired kid. Megumi retained his look of indifference which furthered enraged you. Megumi expected you to get mad and yell at him but what he didn't expect was-

"OOF!" Megumi fell backwards roughly on the floor, as you tackled him, strawberry milk carton flying out of his hand, destination unknown. You're on him pulling as harshly as your tiny fists allow on his hair, he yells pushing you back but you're relentless!

"Calm down what's your deal you freak it's just strawberry milk!"

"You tripped me to get it you selfish brat! Even though you knew i wanted it!"

"You obviously didn't want it that bad! Should've been more alert!" he successfully gets you off of him, shoving you to the living room.

"Guys please!" You both ignore Tsumiki

"Ugh! You're such a whiny little bitch!" You lunge at him again with your fist ready,unbeknownst to you there's glowing flames of energy coursing through it,he narrowly evades it by moving his head. Making impact with the sofa, it splits in half, wooden floor below absolutely destroyed.

Megumi grunts in anger, his fist glowing as well ready to make impact with you, quickly you push him off and he blows a hole through the television and the wall behind it. Stubbornly you both make way to each other with powered filled fist ready to collide.

"ENOUGH! What's the matter you two!" Gojo catches both of your fists,pulling you two off the floor, holding the both of you in each hand, he angrily looks back and forth between you and the destroyed living room. "How did this happen! Why are you two trying rip each others' heads off and why is the living room a-oh?"

A lightbulb flickers over him," Well I'll be damned! You two finally managed to produce cursed energy,how exciting!" The older man hugs you both tightly, crushing your lungs.

"Too bad it took you guys trying to kill each other...which reminds me we need to have a little lesson on teamwork, and household construction you absolute demon children!" He gives a preview of your 3 hour long lecture by throwing you two into the hole you just punched in the floor.

.

.

.

After that incident you understood how someone so deceptively calm like Megumi was to be a sorcerer, he was crazy, a an absolute psycho you'd say. Gojo's words from a previous time replay in your mind:

"You have to be a little crazy to handle being jujutsu sorcerer."

Through a lot of exposure therapy, Megumi eventually got used to your presence, and actually began to enjoy it, seeking it even. Once you were both a little older and still around each other, he figured he may as well get along with you. It's not that he didn't like you (anymore) or found you annoying (anymore) he realized he was just used to Tsumiki, and didn't care for any more than that and was surprising to himself very combative to any sort of change. But he was making the effort to fix that immature side of him and be more receptive and open to you and gojo.

Despite that, the more missions you two shadowed, the longer you lived together and went to school, the closer you became and the tighter your bond felt. You became an inseparable pair, hanging out outside of sorcery and schooling, in your rooms, sharing hobbies and tastes in music, constant laughter and smiles were consistently heard and shared between you two. Witnessed fondly by Tsumiki and Gojo who had their own little gossip circle over mochi and tea. Strawberry milk was no longer allowed in the household.

This unshakable bond was like concrete, no matter the circumstances, no matter how terrifying going out on missions became and the atrocities you experienced, you guys relied on each other, minds and hearts in perfect synergy the older you became. Getting to your first year of jujutsu tech was something you both couldn't believe finally came around, now almost 10 years later, and your relationship was still thriving! Yuji and Nobara blending in perfectly to your small shared circle!

But now one person has began to shake that bond and making Megumi's possessive bratty habits rear their ugly head.

It's making Megumi regret coming to this stupid sorcerer school with the stupid handsome suit wearing ex-salarymen sorcerers who have stupid sorcery knowledge and wisdom. Who are stupidly caring and kind with cute quirks like loving bread, fuckin loser (yet megumi hates red bell pepper)

This thought process was pissing him off, and so was the existence of a specific grade 1 sorcerer.

"Nanami is so strong! His ratio technique is so cool!"

"Nanami is helping me with my precision and aim! He's so kind!"

"Nanami is such a gentleman, he tucked me to sleep in the car on the way home from a mission! A sweet handsome guy like him must have no problem getting da-"

"Alright! I get it Nanami is so great and awesome! You know it's a little inappropriate to have a crush on your superiors!" Megumi grumbles as he slams his hand on the table,eyebrows raised at you. What's so great about a guy who wears a suit to exorcise curses? fuckin weirdo

Your eyes widen as a flush takes over your cheeks, "Gumi don't be mean! I don't have a crush on Nanami, I'm just saying how kind he is and how much i've learned from him!" your lips form a pout.

"Really? Then why is your face red? Why are your eyes sparkling when you talk about him?What's the point in calling him handsome if you're not crushing on him! You sound like a love sick school girl!" He bites back.

You raise your brows and cross your arms,"You know your bratty attitude wasn't cute when we were kids and it's definitely not cute now! So what if I admire my mentor or compliment his looks! Yuji's complimented my looks and I don't see you calling him a love sick school girl!"

Internally he's kicking himself, he doesn't understand why hearing about Nanami from you is making him react this way. It feels like someone else is piloting his brain right now (or maybe his six year old self) especially when he utters his next words,"Maybe you should start hanging out with Nanami since he's so cool and special!"

"'You like me or something huh? Can't stand me looking at someone else!"You stand up, fists on the table, you lean your body over to Megumi's side of the table, face to face your (e/c) eyes give him a heated glare.

Now it's Megumi's turn to flush red, breaking his neck to look away from your intimidatingly beautiful eyes, his heart snaps.

"Are you jealous Gumi? Is that it? You want me to look at you only?" You inch closer, calling him out on his bluff.

'WHAT! Oh god.. no no no, awe shit...god damn it what am I thinking, beautiful eyes? I mean she does have beautiful eyes, and she's beauti- oh my god? She asked if I like her? I think that's what this is...heart pumping? Am I jealous of Nanami? Idiot. Why did I have to run my mouth like that? Since when do I lose my cool this bad nowadays?!" Megumi's thoughts race 100 miles per hour, body running hot from the interrogation.

"J-Jel-Jealous? What the hell would I have to be jealous of Nanami for!" His delicately pretty face twisted in confusion and irritation.

"I don't know gumi, how about you enlighten me" You smirk, cornering him like he's a feral possum, he's not getting out of this one unscathed.

He never really got into the specifics of his feelings for you, of course he liked you, or else he wouldn't stick around. You guys were so close it was honestly concerning to others and himself, you were his most treasured person (sacred one would say) He has been through major life experiences, and struggles with you, you grew up together. You had a domestic routine, a result of living together for years, even in the same house you guys slept in each other's rooms (and still do even though the dorms prohibit it) watched tv together, read together, cooked for each other, studied...went on outings... had matching rings ... matching sweaters.. and oh god is he already dating you?

That's not all, his shikigami adored you, you were there when he summoned his first ones, the divine dogs that he appropriately named shiro and kuro, and boy you were so excited to see them, the dogs took an instant liking to your adoration, and eventually you bonded with them they look out for you on missions. As a child that cemented for Megumi that you were someone he held dear and was 100% certain you had truly kind and pure heart if his shikigami were so trusting of you.

Same thing happened with his other shikigami; Nue would nuzzle into you despite his ever growing body whether it was after a successful mission or as soon as it was summoned for training, excited rust colored wings and a happy screech flocked your way. Gama and rabbit escape jumping on your shoulders in greeting or to rest.

When he lost Shiro and Orochi, you made him a pretty silver charm necklace with a snake and pretty white wolf, letting him mourn his fallen companions in the comfort of his bed as he sobbed heart wrenchingly in your arms and expressed his deep appreciation that you allowed him have something of them to carry with him

That memory is specifically one he holds so dearly, he remembers how much you reassured him that it was okay to mourn his shikigami and Yuji and that it wasn't his fault they died, and that this situation shouldn't make him jaded in making bonds with others; reality was that you guys were all still so young so to see one of you die was heartbreaking no matter how normal it was in your world.

looking back he feels that's when he began realizing his feelings ran deeper than initially imagined. It was instinct for him to protect you, comfort you and even just care for you in any way possible. Always making sure you were fed and hydrated, well rested, not overstrained, comforting you when missions you went on without him went awry, carrying you to bed when you fell asleep in the common room at the dormitory, or in the car on the way home.

If it was cold he made sure you had a sweater on before just in case or disregard his coldness by taking off his sweater and tenderly putting it on you (whilst grumbling and nagging for you to bring one, though Megumi would never admit so brazenly he loved seeing you in his clothes, that's his secret to keep.)

From across the way, Yuji and Nobara watch the spectacle going on at your table, it was very rare for you and Megumi to fight, you guys bickered for sure, you all did, but Megumi never lost his cool with you in those instances like he did with them. Usually if you fought it was over very serious things, like injuries on missions, mahoraga... the drawbacks of your technique on your body.. but never a serious argument on something so...stupid? Plus it wasn't in either of your introverted natures to display such a spectacle.

"What are those two screaming at each other about? I could've sworn I heard Fushiguro saying Nanamin's name a few times?" Yuji glances back at Nobara, his brown eyes curious as to what his favorite mentor had to do with your squabble, he takes a handful of fries while Nobara looks directly at her phone to take a photo, oblivious to her lack of fries.

"I'm thinking Fushiguro is jealous that his sweet little (y/n) has her eyes on someone else for once, but for him to throw a tantrum over a harmless crush on a mentor is a level of pathetic I never expected him to be on." Kugisaki stifles her laughter, brushing her auburn hair back, not so subtly eavesdropping on the argument.(not like she could help it, she's nosy plus you guys are hard to ignore right now)

"I could see why someone would for fall for Nanamin! He's a really a gentleman! Strong too! I'd feel threatened too if I was him. But doesn't he know (y/n) really likes him? They're super close like that" The pink haired boy states like it's a simple answer as any. Nobara rolls her eyes, annoyed at the men in her class.

"Fushiguro is emotionally constipated, he may not really understand that he has feelings for her because they've always been close, but because (y/n) is girl she's smarter and knows better! She's trying to get it out of him, twenty bucks says she gets him to confess by the end of today?" Nobara sticks her hand out to Yuji, he smiles a look for determination on his face as he shakes her hand.

"You're on! Twenty bucks says she gets him to confess here and now!" They both nod to seal their deal.

"What are you guys betting on?" A voice in their booth asks. The students squeak as Gojo makes his presence known, his face inquisitive and sly.

"That (y/n) is gonna get Fushiguro to confess his feelings! It's bound to happen!" Itadori explains.

Gojo sniffles at the response, sighing dramatically while putting a hand over his heart,collapsing wordlessly into the booth end face planting on the table, Yuji softly pats his teachers back for comfort,while Kugisaki rolls her eyes at the ridiculous scenes in front of her, she turns back to your table and gasps, phone falling out of her grip.

Gojo and Yuji immediately look up, jaws dropping in shock at the scene in front of them.

Megumi and you were standing away from your table,his hand on your waist, the other holding the side of your face as both your lips were gently pressed together, you on your tippy toes and arms around his neck. They witness the gentleness of the moment, both your eyes full of fondness,and affection as your lips separate. A pretty blush overtakes the atmosphere.

"Oh my babies! They're growing up too fast! One day they're destroying the house and trying to kill each other over strawberry milk then before you know it they're getting married!" Gojo babbles through escalating sobs, accepting the tissues Yuji's offered him and cries into said student's shoulders.

Nobara and Yuji share a questioning look on the qualifications of gojo being a parent and the nature of your childhood, Yuji comforts his sensei again,"Fushiguro and (y/n) are always gonna be your babies gojo! Honestly I'm j-just s-so I'm so proud of Fushiguro being so honest about his feeheeeliiiings" the pinked haired boy chokes through tears, wiping his runny nose on his uniform

Kugisaki looks at the two emotional men in disgust, opting to watch the romantic soap opera in front of her as a live studio audience member, smiling softly to herself, as though she wouldn't be as foolish as her sensei and friend to openly admit it, she was full of pride for you too! You'd been pining over Megumi for forever even though you weren't aware of it and you always described how you used to feel lonely until you met him and no matter what you guys go through you're always there-

"Those two are finally together I can't believe it!! I'm so happy!" the hazel eyed girl joins the huddle of Yuji and Gojo, tears flowing out her eyes. All of this goes ignored and unbeknownst to you and Megumi.

You smile brightly at the black haired boy, playing with the hairs behind his neck,"See Gumi, was that so hard to admit?" You tease him, he grunts, eyes squeezed shut in embarrassed annoyance.

He softly flicks your forehead, an old habit from middle school," Shut up... I didn't really know that's what that was...but now that you're mine, that means no more Nanami talk right? Or anyone that's not me for that matter.." pretty red flush stains his fair skin.

You giggle and kiss his cheek,"Hmmm I don't know Okkutsu is a reaaaaal cutie.." you pretend to ponder tilting your head in thought.

Megumi groans and kisses you again, more confident and stern,"You're an absolute pain."

"Don't worry Gumi you're my only and favorite one. I've always been yours silly." You wink, a pink blush dusting the both of you again. Megumi presses a chaste kiss, holding your hand and grabbing both your bags to get ready to leave for training after your longer than intended lunch, you're interrupted by a deep,polite voice.

"(y/l/n),Fushiguro, my apologies for bothering you both, I just wanted to quickly speak to Miss (y/l/n), here this is research I found on techniques similar to your own and information about its users.. I hope the information is helpful to you in your journey as a sorcerer." Nanami hands you a few books with various note tabs sticking out of them. You stare at it wide eyed, stunned and excited to learn more about your technique... and how much time and effort it took a busy man like Nanami to do...Seriously, what a gentleman...

You bow in appreciation,blush reappearing, "Thank you Nanami, I'm sure this will be very insightful!" the man smiles back and nods,"Of course, be sure to let me know what else you may want to know.That being said I've taken enough of your guys' time, goodbye for now."

Megumi scoffs, irritation palpable at his senior,"Tch. Whatever womanizer."He tugs at your hand and drags you away quickly to the exit and as far away from the dashing gentleman of a sorcerer. Damn...he's good.

As you're walking you smack his shoulder in reprimand,"gumi that was rude! you're always gonna be brat who does whatever he wants!" you're scolding him but it's in between giggles and the most loving soft gaze he's used to seeing in your eyes, now that he knows what it is, it makes him shy. He kisses your face as a distraction to your lecture (fat chance.)

And what could Megumi say, you make him crazy, he's always gonna put his foot down for what's his. He silently kisses the back of your hand like a guilty puppy.

he'll apologize to nanami soon

.

.

.

Taken aback Nanami blinks in confusion,"Womanizer?" he repeats. Megumi's vengeful words replay in his mind, unable to figure out an explanation.

He looks back at Itadori's table when the sound of rambunctious laughter invades the dining hall, confused hazel eyes hidden behind his opaque lenses.

"Why are you laughing?"

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I hope you guys liked my first work on here!! This was written on a whim with no specific outline (explains the inconsequential lore dump as this is one shot or who knows!!) hope you guys love jealous and bratty Megumi. As calm and collected as he is I imagine when hes in love so many emotions come up he doesn't know how to define them or properly communicate them so he says the first thing his brain tells him even when he himself knows rationally its crazy to say or think.

[breannasfluff]

Do you ever feel the urge to just delete something you've written? Because you suddenly feel embarrassed about it? Or because no one would care anyway?

Oh boy anon, do I have a meme for you

I think everyone feels like this after posting. Even things that I think people will like, I still get nervous. Content out of my wheelhouse? New AUs? Oh yeah, I worry I’ll be the only one interested.

Things that help: friends! Writing friends, tumblr friends, discord, etc. I have some people I know I can rely on to cheer me on and even if something doesn’t do well, as long as one person likes it that’s what matters. Of course, the dream is that lots of people like it haha.

If you are missing this…see if you can build it? Comment on the works of authors you like. Chat in reblogs. Ask them questions about their writing process or tips. I did a bunch of that when I was learning and everyone had something different to share. I also met some really cool authors!

Usually, authors loooooove to talk about their work. I am no exception, haha. We put a lot of time, effort, and thought into stories and get very attached! It’s also why lack of response can be hard. Art is like that. We put ourselves out there and it’s daunting!

Improving writing skills is hard work, but does help. You can’t get better if you don’t write. A little while I ago I shared some lines from old things I wrote and they are SO cringy and bad. At the time I thought I was a literary genius.

If you worry about writing something original, try doing a fan work drabble of someone’s character if they are okay with it! Or, if this is LU, do a little scene with the boys. Make the reader care just as much as you do 💜

I hope it helps and good luck!!

[usagifuyusummer]

Family Dinner Night!

Congrats Peri(winkle) for finally getting the Godparenting license!!! 🥳🥳🥳 - from your loving parents and godbrother 💖💖💖

More concept art and as usual my insane ramblings below.

I NEED TO GET THE CREATIVE URGES OUT OF MY HEAD!!! It has been bothering with my motivation to finish my gazillions of homeworks lmao. I have so many ideas I need to let out!!! It's suffocating. I hope this will satisfy my creative urges for a while... Or not I will yap about my FOP AU on a separate post (when I'm able).

I can't stop being sad thinking about this family lol. Timmy 😭😭😭

I am not kidding when I say that my head is just filled with so many things that I want to contribute in the FOP fanworks lol. There's a lot I want to do, but so little time...

For now, I've decided to practice my take on the FOP artstyle. I wanted to do something simple as drawing and coloring practice. That's why the coloring this time is flat with no shadings. I think the show doesn't focus on shaded colors too much (except on scenes where there's a heavy implication of day/night, for shock value, etc.).

Just wanted to draw something cute because I haven't been feeling so swell lately. Nothing too poetic or detailed this time.

Other than that, two of the outfits this time is actually inspired by @suki-na-kumo for Peri and an image I found floating around in Twitter/X (sorry I don't remember who shared it) for Timmy's design. Suki-na-kumo's FOP family redesigns are so cool and adorable! I like that they always include flowy attributes in Peri's outfits lol. It makes him look like a pampered brat (which he kinda is seeing how his family coddles him), an otherworldly prince and also a Twink TM (that is unavoidable lol). I kinda want to draw their other FOP redesigns, but I'll just go with Peri's first.

I am not sure where that 18 year old Timmy design is from, but it kinda can be his design for those who theorise him on becoming a lawyer as an adult. There's a lot of instances where Timmy is wearing a suit in the show, but this design is one of my favs due to the hairstyle change. My adult Timmy designs in the future will be influenced from this piece of official art. I wonder if there are more Timmy designs in the wild wild west out there that I haven't seen... It is certainly an interesting find (Teen AJ is also there, and his design also looks cool to me).

Cosmo and Wanda's oufits are something that I cooked up. I don't think the coloring looks good... I just did this on a whim, and for about 13 hours. Damn, I am procrastinating on my work lmao.

Still, the context this time is, that they've had a family dinner to celebrate on Peri's achievement on finally obtaining his godparenting license!!! Good for him!!!

This is an AU if Timmy somehow was able to find a loophole in the "losing your memories of your fairy godparents after you become an adult" rule. Because of that, he continued his life as normal (as Timmy's chaotic life can be), but this time he is able to keep in contact with his fairy family even if they're not contractually obligated to stick together. Timmy does live with the Fairywinkle Cosma's around his college to early work years, but he eventually was able to move out and live on his own at where he works as a lawyer after a while in his adulthood. (His birth parents eventually went on a lifetime vacation without him or just went away for too long that Timmy just lives on his own a lot after he is 18 and above...)

Despite living on his own nowadays (In a New Wish context), Timmy does keep in contact with his fairy family and visits them when he's not busy with his job. Cosmo and Wanda still took a long vacation in this AU, first due to, yeah, Timmy is no easy feat as a godchild lol, and second, they actually want to take their time to raise BOTH of their children (even if Timmy is no longer a child/godchild) and guide them until they're stable adults. Timmy during college years actually only stays with the Fairywinkle Cosma's on holidays, so when Timmy's busy with college, that is when Cosmo and Wanda take their time relaxing lmao.

Sometimes when they really want to have some time alone or when Peri wants to see his bro, they will send Peri to Timmy's college for a day or more. Timmy babysits Peri so much during his college years lol. They both had fun though! With a lot of Peri newfound nuclear fairy power shenanigans at Timmy's college lmao. Studying law and taking the bar exam has never been more chaotic with babysitting a nuclear powered fairy child.

There's a lot more on this AU that I've been thinking, but I'll stop here for now. I need to gather my AU ideas in one post sometime later.

Also, Peri and Timmy are both adults here, Peri's around his 20's here and Timmy is on his early 30's I think. Cosmo, Wanda, and Peri are in their human disguises here, because they want to learn more about human culture (A New Wish context) while also having the desire to be more in Timmy's life.

I headcannon Timmy to be kinda short in his adulthood. This is also a nod to that episode when his fairy family used imperfect human disguises, even Poof/Peri was taller than Timmy in his human baby disguise lol. And also hey, wearing braces during his teen years paid off! (his big teeth are visible only when he opens his mouth lol)

As usual, here's some concept art and a png lineart pic if you want to use it to color it better than I did lmao. (that was a long yapping session... thanks for reading)

[the-colourful-witch]

Hello everyone!

Did you miss me? Nah, it’s alright if you didn’t. I’m glad to be back on the socials :) I really needed that break. I went through a bad art block for a while and I’m slowly getting my mojo back, so unfortunately, I’d didn’t make tons of new pieces like I’d hoped I would. BUT! I did one project that I am so so so thrilled about! I just need to do some final touch-ups and then I can share it. You guys are going to love it, I’m sure!

I did draw the next teacher and I will post that piece today. I like this one very much… 🌱

Being away from my phone was more challenging than I’d hoped it’d be. The first week was toughest. I kept reaching for my phone, only to realise I had nothing to do on there. Then I’d kick myself for giving in to scrolling urges… it was tough. I even dreamed about Instagram four times that first week! That was an eye-opener, let me tell you.

But it got better and I started to enjoy the quiet. Because that’s how it feels. It feels like a rush of noise and chatter has suddenly gone quiet in your head. Very weird, but oddly nice :)

To stop myself from scrolling, I started to read more again. I read five books in four weeks and I loved all of them! I also took more time to cook, looking up recipes in old cookbooks and playing around with them. I had a lot of fun with that and my family appreciated it as well :)

Now, I am happy to be back on the apps. And I’ve been catching up with all the comments and messages I missed. Thank you for all the kind words, you guys are so nice to me, it’s amazing.

Hugs,

Fleur ✨

(Ps: that seal is so cute, I can’t-)

[ohblackdiamond]

bite the hand that bleeds (ace/paul, pg-13)

Summary: Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

Paul gets an unexpected art collector at a gallery show, and ends up entertaining his old bandmate for tea.

Notes: Part of a fic swap with @elrohare (prompt: afternoon tea). Please check out her lovely Whenever You're Ready (I'm Here) for a beautiful take on the same setting.

“Come now, gentlemen Your love is all I crave You'll still be in the circus When I'm laughing, laughing in my grave” -“Memo from Turner,” Mick Jagger

Forty meet and greets, that’s the evening’s agenda, with room for maybe five or six impulse buyers at the tail end.  Christian, Wentworth’s president, sends him a hard copy the morning of, with notes, though he usually only glances over it. He only really keeps an eye out for the special requests, so he can remember they’re coming up– maybe someone with cancer, or a whole family wanting a picture with him, or a video message to a kid barely out of basic training and stationed overseas– but the bulk, the very bulk of the meet and greets are simple, easy to handle. A couple signatures, a couple pictures, and a smile, and they’re mostly on their way. It takes so little to make them happy, so little. The kids never really changed– they just went from piggybanks to 401ks. 

Forty meet and greets. He likes doing these much better than the ones for KISS. He likes not sharing attention with Gene.  Most especially, even now, he likes the girls, not for anything carnal, but just that small, secret pleasure of still being wanted at the tender age of seventy-two.

He scans through the list, though he never remembers the names, just some of the faces. The names give their age  away anyway, Generation X’s finest crop of Lisas and Erics and– hm, a Paul, too. A Paul Daniel. 

It’s just coincidence. He sets his agenda down on his hotel bedside table and tries to think no more about it. He’s got four hours to kill before he needs to get down there, anyway. Maybe he’ll order something on his phone. He taps the screen, checking his messages first. One from Erin he’ll answer later. One from Gene from about a week ago he still has no intention of answering.  The phone vibrates in his hand as he’s just about to set it aside– a call, not a text. Christian.

“Hello?”

“I hate to bother you, Paul, but it’s about the event,” Christian says. He sounds a little scattered. Paul resists the urge to snap back at him– of course it’s about the event– letting him go on. Sometimes it’s hard to summon up the energy to respond much. Sometimes, even four months out from his last show, it still hurts to talk. “One of the people on the guest list.”

“If you’re thinking there’ll be some trouble, then you can handle it.”

“It’s not the usual trouble.” After ten or more years of this, Christian ought to know the usual trouble well enough by now. The stalker types, the seriously unhinged ones that believe that buying a painting entitles them to his true friendship, or more. The expectant ones, the oversharing, desperate ones, the nuts that have to be escorted out.  Usually the high price of admission keeps them away, and usually, Paul doesn’t get told they even tried to make an appearance. He has people for that. He should have people for that. “All I can say is that I’m sorry.  We had one of our new consultants– she just started two weeks ago, and she– well, you know how it is, she’s only twenty-four, she had no idea–”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you had a buyer you may not want.”

“Please don’t tell me Eddie Trunk got his fat ass over to D.C.”

Christian actually manages a snort, but the next words make the breath catch in Paul’s throat. 

“No. It’s Ace Frehley.”

– 

Paul tells Christian he’ll call him back when he ought to tell him to issue Ace a refund.

He hasn’t seen Ace in six years now. Oh, he’s seen Ace– in a parade of humiliating Tiktoks and Youtube shorts, slurring interviews, horrific concerts– but he hasn’t seen Ace. He’s heard from Ace– the occasional, completely unanswered text– but the last time he listened to him on the phone was months back. Ace’s Hail Mary, his final, desperate attempt to get let onstage for MSG. Ace had fumbled it. Ace fumbled everything. 

Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again. 

“Have you contacted him? When did this happen?”

“Not since the purchase. That was two days ago.”

“And no one checked until now?  You had Ace Frehley buy a painting and nobody noticed for two days?”

“It was on his girlfriend’s credit card.”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Cancel it. Refund it. That’s what he should be saying. “He does that shit to people. Uses them for whatever favors he can. Uses them all up.”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paul exhales.

If it was refunded, Ace would go to the press. Ace would tell every damn news website in the world that Paul Stanley wouldn’t sell him a painting. He’d get all sorts of publicity. The avatars had gotten bad press, not that Paul gave much of a shit anymore, but if Ace capped it all off, had someone else spin it just right… fuck. It could go so well for him. Ace could play it off like a spat-upon peace offering, and he, Paul, would come off like a bitter asshole, denying him not just the band, but five minutes of his time. He couldn’t win. He wouldn’t be able to win. 

“Call him up. Tell him he’s not coming to the gallery.” 

“All right.”

“But tell him he can meet me in an hour in Entyse.” Paul doesn’t even question if they’ll get him on the line. Or if Ace’ll show. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Okay. Paul, again, all I can do is apologize–”

“What for? I was headed there anyway.”

He hangs up. His phone’s buzzing within ten minutes, texts, this time, and then a call, but he doesn’t so much as glance at the screen. He knows who they’re from. 

– 

Paul walks into Entyse without a reservation and gets seated immediately. It’s not much of a power play; there’s not been any satisfaction on his part in things like that for, oh, forty-five years now. Especially not when Entyse is just the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant, and he only had to head downstairs from his suite. 

They offer him the menus, but all he takes is a Coke and a water. He’d half-expected Ace to get there before him, half-wanted to see him wandering in, all stupid bravado, looking around for the front of house, aware that he’d cheated himself out of every rockstar perk Paul’s going to have the rest of his life. But five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Paul’s just about to get up– he can feel a couple eyes on him at this point, wondering, probably, why he’s alone, with a solid half of them not knowing who he is, probably more– and then he sees Ace out of the corner of his eye, getting led to his table like a pensioner to his nursing home bed. 

That’s not fair. It’s not, unfortunately, even true. Ace is walking about as well as he ever did, which isn’t well at all, struggling against his own instinct to pigeon-toe. He looks fine. He’s lost some weight over the last couple years. He’s in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cheap Hello Kitty button-down. And sunglasses, which he yanks off as soon as he sits down, pushing them aside on the table. 

“Hey, Paul,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s not the start he wants. The waiter’s given Ace the drink menu– Ace flips it over immediately and hands it back– and goes into the lunch options, but Ace interrupts him.

“How about tea?”

“The afternoon tea, sir?”

Ace points over to the table across from theirs, where six or seven teenage girls in puffy pastel atrocities are giggling over some tiered tea trays.

“Yeah, what they’ve got.”

The waiter seems completely unruffled. Paul narrows his eyes, looking at Ace– specifically, he’s looking for Ace’s phone– but if he’s got it on him, it must be in his pocket. The waiter pulls out the afternoon tea menus. 

“We have two options for tea.  The afternoon tea, and the royal tea. Your selections of sandwiches and sweets are completely customizable. The royal tea does include a glass of rose wine and–”

“Paulie, he’s trying to upsell you,” Ace says with a snort. 

“I don’t remember saying I would pay.”

“You invited me. And I did buy your painting. That’s how it works, right?” Ace turns to the waiter after a quick glance at the menu. “Gimme the afternoon tea. Uh. Darjeeling. Don’t gimme any of the cream puffs or mousse, all right? Just, uh, substitute in more of the scones.”

“And you, sir?”

Paul had been about to get a salad just to spite him, just to show how little time he wants  to spend entertaining him here. Afternoon tea– God, it’s comical. Ridiculous. His youngest had that at her birthday party about three years ago. What the hell is Ace doing? What’s he trying to accomplish?

He doesn’t know. 

“I’ll take the upsell. And jasmine tea. No substitutes on any of the stuff on the tray.”

The waiter nods, heading off at that brisk pace. Ace pushes his hair back behind his ear, and smiles. 

“You got a good crowd coming?”

“Yeah. It’s a good crowd.”

“’S good. I used to sell my art, too.” Ace is so matter-of-fact that Paul can almost feel his own blood pressure start to rise. He can’t ever outright call out arch meanings with Ace, the way he can with Gene, for all he’s sure they’re there. Ace doesn’t have those tells that Gene does. “It was all on the computer. I used to really like to tinker with it. Now all you gotta do is click and put a filter on it.”

“Not very tactile.”

“Nah. I got settings on my– on my webcam now, for when I do interviews. Barely even gotta put on any makeup with how well that filters out all the imperfections.” Ace peers at him. “I could show you sometime. I guess now that KISS is done you–”

“Cut the crap, Ace, and tell me what you want.”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap.”

“What’d you get the upsell for, Paul? Since when do you gotta have a drink to deal with me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just grabs his Coke and takes a long swig. He used to be able to do Gene this way. Silent treatment him for hours and hours. This last tour– the last tour– it had gotten unbearable for both of them. Each show another nail in the coffin, a relief as much as it was an agony. Another shaving down of whatever was left of their friendship. 

He hadn’t even seen Gene since the last show. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. 

Ace takes a couple sips of his water. He’s not looking at Paul. His gaze is towards those teenage girls. 

“My fiancee’s got a girl about that age,” he says quietly. “She’s got a friend that dresses kinda like that, real frilly. She brought her over to the house once. Call themselves Lolitas or something. I don’t get it.”

“It’s Japanese.” Two words more than he’d meant to give him. 

“Oh.” Ace nods, glancing briefly at his own shirt. “I’d like to get back over there someday. I dunno that I will.”

Probably not. Ace can’t afford to tour outside of the States. Paul tries to swallow his next comment, but he doesn’t manage.

“I’m not touring again, Ace.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not helping you tour.”

“I’m not asking for that, either.”

“Then what are you–”

The waiter reemerges, first with their teas and then, immediately afterward, with the trays, laden with tiny sandwiches and sweets. Ace’s grin only widens, and he immediately snatches the smoked salmon sandwich from his tea tray and sticks the entire thing in his mouth. One bite. 

“Fuck, that was good. Are you still on the vegetarian bit? Can I have yours?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul takes his own salmon sandwich from his tray just to spite him, eating it more slowly. But three bites and it’s just as gone as Ace’s. Pretty good. It occurs to him, briefly, that Ace probably thinks Olive Garden is fine dining at this point in his life. It would be sad if he hadn’t done it to himself.

Ace moves onto the quiche. This one, he cuts up into raggedy thirds, stabbing each with his fork. 

“Caramelized onions on top. Y’know, my manager, he’s something of a chef, but–”

“Tell me what you want, Ace.” 

Ace pulls out his phone. Paul stiffens before he realizes Ace is just checking his texts.

“You never answered me. I didn’t think you would.” He lifts his eyes from the phone, setting it down on the table, face up. Ace’s got the font set as large as he can get it. Same as him. “What I want is company, Paulie. I want your company so damn bad I’ll pay you for it.”

“Like hell. You want an in.” The salmon feels like it’s about to come back up in his throat. “You want me to endorse you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You want a photo with me. Maybe a soundbyte for Youtube.” Paul forces himself to exhale. “Your album barely sold. KISS is gone and you’re still out there in the clubs. So you want a little more buzz. Maybe I’d help you get ten more butts in the seats at those fucking dive bars you play–”

“I’m not at fucking dive bars.”

“When was the last time you sold out an arena? I’ll wait. No. I know.”

Ace’s mouth is pinched, face just a little flushed. He eats the pieces of his quiche in rapid succession, then starts savagely on the remaining sandwiches, just grabbing them off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth. Then he starts on the tea, taking a quick swallow without the cream and sugars Paul remembers him always adding in. 

“Same as the last time you didn’t sound like shit.” He grabs the tongs, dropping in three sugars, then the cream, stirring them, eyes full on Paul’s face, daring him to get up, daring him to leave. “Gene told me what happened to you, back when we toured Australia together. I know all about that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You ruined yourself and then you blamed him with it. And he believes it, too. That’s the funny thing.” A swallow. “He was about in tears when he told me. Gene’s a snake, but he’s better than either of us. All he hasn’t sold off yet is his conscience.” 

The tea trays never looked so comical. Silver tiers, pastel sweets, bright-colored sandwiches. He’s focusing on them because there’s nothing else to focus on. Only that Ace wants him to go. Ace wants him to go so that he can feel like he’s won. But Ace hasn’t won anything. His whole life he’s given up everything he ever had like a goddamn fool, then begged the whole world for their scraps. He can’t get front row. He can’t get the Ritz Carlton. He’s lucky he got fifteen minutes of Paul’s time. 

“Gene’s a liar.”

“Not about that.” Another swallow of tea. Paul expects another sharp accusation, but Ace just swaps tactics like credit cards from a billfold. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just like it doesn’t matter what I play like when I go out there. You… you and Gene took me to see James Brown, for my birthday that time. I remember seeing that old man out there, seeing them put all the capes on him, I thought, they should put him to bed, don’t put him out there, he’s a-a fucking dinosaur, now– but they did. ’Cause he didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he could do was sing all the old songs. Put on the capes. Be a joke.”

“You’re the only joke here.”

“We both are.” Ace keeps eating. Almost all the sandwiches are gone from his tray. He’s onto the scones. “I don’t want an in, Paul. I just want someone I can talk to.”

“Talk to Gene.”

“I can’t.”

“Talk to Peter.”

“He won’t.”

“Why me?”

Ace finishes off the scone. There’s a little butter smeared across his lip.

“You know why.”

It’s the music business. The music business. I don’t owe you friendship. I don’t owe you anything. Doc’s adage, the one he’s scrawled on one of his paintings, there in the gallery, burns somewhere in his heart: quality time remaining. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. Like someone’s subtracting his last breaths down. Quality time remaining and in just a couple hours, he’ll be spending that time doing those forty meet and greets for fans that want a moment and a picture and a couple autographs. Fans that only know him from the magazines and interviews and two hours at a time in a couple hundred concerts, but think of him like a brother, like a lover, like a demigod. Ace doesn’t know him, he wants to insist, but that’s a lie. Ace knew him when he was no one. 

Ace knew him when the Hotel Diplomat was the best they could manage. When they hauled their gear in a milk truck. When the KISS t-shirts were iron-ons they cut out themselves. When Bill was signing them onto Casablanca. When every show was a rush of adrenaline, instead of a slog. When it didn’t hurt, when he could bounce back from anything, just anything–

(when)

(when)

Long skinny legs spread across a cheap yellow duvet. A girl’s head between them. The room assignments had swapped; Peter was rooming with his wife, and Ace, Ace was lying there, getting head from that girl as Paul stepped out from the shower. 

(you want in on this, paul? and his finger crooked, beckoning lazily)

(and he did. and he did. that was the first sidle into something new, something filthy. he had taken the girl from behind while she sucked off ace, but it was only after she left that it really mattered. it was only after that that they’d fooled around together, feigning drunk after only three beers apiece.)

(you want in on this, paul?)

Those same legs in faded jeans, close to fifteen years later. No girl this time but the hotel might as well have been the same. Ace’s fortunes had declined even worse than KISS.’ And yet he’d had enough reason to spend the night with him, after the Limelight show, without a girl there for that edge of rockstar excess.

Another ten years. Another scattered handful of moments. Ace high on pills.  Paul edging on the verge of divorce. The disgust had started to fester long before then, disgust and awareness. Ace was throwing it all away again, casual and careless. Ace wasn’t what he wanted, in or out of bed, and he never had been. He was still just some crude kid from the Bronx that played guitar better than him, that crashed cars, that drank himself to stupors, only then he was nearly fifty instead of twenty-five.

He couldn’t change. Just kept making the same mistakes. Just kept playing the same old chords, the same chords anyone could play. He’d proved that afterwards, hadn’t he? He’d proved that. The fans had taken Tommy for twenty years. Ace had never been special at all. 

Paul tries to think that. Tries to assure himself of that. But looking Ace in the face stops him cold. There’s defeat there, sure. But there’s a spark in those dark, hooded eyes, too. There’s a spark that no stupid tea outing and no amount of barbs from him could ever manage to completely extinguish.

It’s a spark he remembers, and for the barest sliver of time, it’s just enough to almost make him look young.

“Maybe I’m better off trying them. Gene’s not so sore at me anymore.” Ace lifts a macaron from his tray. “He’s still the one paying his old band.”

“I know.”

“Peter’ll let it all go if I visit him.”

“He would.”

“It’s just you I wanted, that’s all.” Ace gets up, having to lean against the table in order to stand. He reaches for his Gucci purse, hooking it to his shoulder. “It’s always been you.”

“Ace–”

“Don’t let them get too weird with you at the event. Pretend you can’t hear ’em.” Ace’s words are only a little dry as he crunches the macaron, then reaches for the remaining scones, wrapping them in a napkin. Paul’s stomach starts to twist. All the fight seems out of him, all the acidity, all the hope. In tearing Paul up, he tore himself up, too. Mutually-assured destruction. “Your girl that sold me the painting, she said–”

“Which one did you buy?”

He says it suddenly, barely realizing it’s out of his mouth until Ace answers.

“What?”

“Which one?”

“The, uh, one of the abstracts.”

“Which one?”

“The blue and purple. Anyway, she said–”

“Sit down.”

“Paul–”

“Finish off the food. I will, too.”

“I’m not–”

(i want) 

“You’re coming with me.”

“Paul, c’mon, I know you don’t wanna, not after–”

“I do.”

A couple of old men drinking tea in the Ritz Carlton. A couple of young men under the covers of a Motel Six. Age shattering vocals, crippling fingers. Bitterness seeping in from every raw deal and every undercut and every canceled show, a lifetime of old pains without a salve. And yet, as Ace sits back down, easing into his chair, reaching for the strawberry on top of the tea tray, Paul finds himself almost ready to let it all go.

[thesullengrrrl]

We'll Meet Again - Chapter 3

London called, Elaine Byrne answers...without warning.

A/N: Someone's going to make an appearance here because I love that character and I want him to be here. Hope it won't take you out of here or something. Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. AO3 link is here if you prefer reading there. On to the chapter!

Chapter 3: somehow, somewhere

Hammersmith, London

November 2026

Hal Byrne never really drove around London. He always considered this city as a walkable one, and driving is just another way to add more in his carbon footprint. However, her daughter is in his city and sure as hell he would spoil her, even if it means he would get honked at by fellow drivers.

His passengers were the loves of his life—his partner David and his only daughter, Elaine. 

“Hal, you know you could go faster,” David urged him. 

Hal groaned. “I’m fine, dear. Just talk to Laney.” 

Elaine and David shared a look.

“I offered to drive but he wouldn’t budge. He said he wanted to drive you just like he did in New York before,” he shared. 

“Dad, you only drove during the summer when we went upstate,” she revealed, smiling. “We always took the subway.”

“Laney! Not fair! I was trying to show—” 

“Watch the road!” the two shrieked. Hal managed to smoothly turn the car, and the building was already on sight. There was no parking in front of the hotel, so Hal went to the nearby park where there were other cars parked. When he was properly parked, they got out of the car. 

Hal opened the trunk and pulled his daughter’s suitcase. 

Elaine watched David and her father tag team on locking the doors and closing the trunk. Both of them are in their 50s, and she does not miss the looks of women whenever she’s walking with them. David has worked as an art director, while her father Hal, works as a professor in Oxford. 

The three of them walked towards the hotel, while David was motioning ‘stop’ to oncoming motorists. A doorman opened the door and welcomed them.

“Laney, darling, I’m going to see you on Monday, all right? Call me or David if you need anything,” Hal reminded her daughter as they stood in the lobby. 

“Dad, I got both of your numbers with me,” Elaine repeated to her father, waving her phone. They had spent the first two days of her stay in a house in Norfolk where they attended a will-reading of Hal’s great uncle.

They both received a reasonable sum of money and a few books—copies of some classics and modern poetry books. The money was directly deposited on their accounts while a box of books was given to them when the reading ended. Elaine was a little touched by this act. She did not realize that across the pond, there was an old relative that thought of her despite the passing of time and distance.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us?” David asked. “We’re happy to have you, you know.”

“I’m sure. Don’t worry about me,” Elaine assured them. 

Hal hugged his daughter. “All right, darling. Your old men won’t bother you and your secret boyfriend anymore. I’ll see you on Monday. Keep safe and call me.” 

Elaine laughed. “If I do, you would’ve met him by now.” If you only knew, dad. You could write about this. “I’ll be fine. Love you.” 

“Love you too, Laney.” 

Elaine hugged David too, saying her goodbyes. 

Hal and David walked back to the exit and Elaine watched them until they crossed the street. She will always be thankful that her father found someone to love and loves him back. 

She went to the reception to check herself in.

“You’re all set, Ms. Byrne. You’re in room 215,” the kind-looking woman told her while handing her the key with the hotel fob in it. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

She took her duffle bag and headed to her room.

--

It was spacious enough for two people, she thought.

She hung her coat at the back of the door and strode across the room to inspect it. The bed was decently sized with clean sheets and pillows, and fresh towels at the foot of the bed. The walls were sage green and white. It has a small wooden study table and chair near the window. She opened the windows and it has a good view of London. It wasn’t very high, but enough for her to have a scope of it. The wardrobe was spacious. She tried to place herself in it and was comfortable. Perfect, she thought. Next, she visited the bathroom and was pleased that it had a tub. It was also accented with green checkered tiles, which added to the charm. 

Putting the towels on the nearby chair, she laid down on the bed. In a few hours, she may or may not see Rosie. She hoped for the former. It has been a long time and an apology is something she needed to say. 

It was only 3 in the afternoon. Rosie told in his letter that they’ll meet at 6 in the evening in the Hammersmith Palais. Wherever that is, she’ll figure it out later. For now, she has to settle her place at the other side of time. 

Wearing her coat back on and empty duffle bag, she entered the wardrobe and moments later, opened it up to find room 215 now with different interiors. The room was now cozier with printed curtains and plain cream walls. The desk was now in front of a window, and a few steps from it was a vanity and a stand lamp. A reading chair in burgundy was adjacent to her bed, which is now smaller than her present one. This is good enough, she thought. 

She tiptoed until she reached the outside. Room 215 is not her room at this time, at least not yet. When a bellboy almost bumped into her, she just smiled at him and walked to the nearest elevator. She tried not to look as if she’s a woman on a mission. 

The elevator pinged and as she walked to the reception, she spotted a tall figure in an olive army dress uniform, writing in the hotel’s ledger. Could it be…?

Elaine went to the nearby lobby chairs to observe who it was. She picked up a newspaper to hide her face, which she found funny but who cares. When she heard keys jangling, she lowered the paper and it was too late. She watched the backs of two tall men in olive uniforms walk beside each other and carrying duffle bags. Damn, I didn’t get to see their faces! 

The elderly man beside her cleared his throat. “Miss, could I…?” 

She turned to him and he motioned for the paper she was holding. Elaine gave it to him and walked towards the reception. 

“Hello. I’d like to check in please,” she requested. The young man in a gray, buttoned hotel uniform smiled at him. His name tag has THOMAS written on it.

“Only for the night, ma’am?” he asked. 

“No, until Sunday, please.” 

“Very well, sign your name here and payment,” he instructed. Elaine did as she instructed and paid upfront. 

As she wrote, she said, “A friend stayed here and she was in room 215. Lovely view, she mentioned. Can I request that same room, too?” 

Elaine saw it first. The keys of the room for room 215 are on the board behind the man. She let the man check it, so as to not tempt anything.

“Well, you’re in luck, ma’am. It’s empty and now yours,” he replied as he plucked the keys from the board behind him. He slid the ledger back to his view and read where she wrote.

Handing it to her, he said, “You’re all set. Have a wonderful stay, Miss Byrne.” 

“I will, Thomas. Thank you.” she grinned and went back to the elevator. 

Now with a secure line from both times, she laid down on her bed for a moment. It wasn’t as soft as the one in the present, but that will do for her. A clock on the bedside table said it was fifteen minutes to four. 

After a long drive from Norfolk to London, a nap is in order. 

---

It was 5 in the afternoon and Elaine was done showering. Her hair demands a little bit more of time now, since she got it a tad lighter two weeks before. Bunny taught her how to take care of it, and now she’s detangling her hair, groaning. The shoulders of her navy shirt are slightly drenched as she combed. The price of looking presentable, she thought. 

Fifteen minutes before six, and she was ready.  The brown box coat fit snugly on her and its big pockets were enough to bring her essentials—some powder, lipstick, a hanky, and mints. Her phone was locked in the hotel’s provided safe. One more sweep of red lipstick across her lips and she was all set. She opened the wardrobe and entered inside.

---

Hammersmith Palais

November 1943

Elaine reached Hammersmith Palais at exactly 6 in the evening alone. While walking, she caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby store window. Her navy dress with slight puffed sleeves draped well on her, her heels did her legs a favor, and her hair felt a bit too formal for her liking, but she liked the contrast of her hair against the dark dress. The red lipstick was the main highlight of her outfit, she observed. I look good! 

Thankfully, it is only a few blocks away and with other people walking with her, she’s safe. 

In 1943, she had to show up and trust that he would show up as well.

Men and women started lining up ten minutes after she came. She started searching the lines if he was there, maybe he lined up already to save time. But he was not there.. She shifted her weight on each leg and wrapped her coat around her more as the wind breezed in the area. I should’ve written to him. Damn it, why didn’t I try to write from the future to the past?

Twenty minutes later, she decided to line up. She still continued to scan the area as the line moved. When she finally reached the doors, she took one last look at the area to see if he was there. Still no Rosie. Maybe he forgot. Made other plans.

When she entered, the lively jazz music welcomed her and the guests, signifying a start of what might be an exciting night. 

There was a stage at the end of the room, a bar and tables and chairs on each side of the dancefloor. There was also another area upstairs where guests could sit, dine, and observe dancers. Couples gathered on the dancefloor, dancing, touching, some fully making out under the dim lights. The ceilings were decorated with lights and different flaglets of assorted colors.

Elaine couldn’t help but get absorbed in the excitement. This place felt like its own country, as if there was no war going on outside the walls. 

As she sat at the bar and nursing a tall glass of beer, she heard the chair beside her creak. As she turned, she saw a handsome brown haired man in an olive army uniform. The US and winged pins on his lapels gleamed. His hair is tousled due to the humidity of the room making it shine too. His sparse mustache is evident, like a teenage boy’s first mustache. Why do some men not commit to an actual mustache instead of half-assing it! Be better, men! 

She did not realize she was staring until he came up quite close to her face and grinned.

“Hi there,” Elaine greeted, a little off guard. 

“Oh, an American!” the man observed. “That’s new. Where are you from?” 

“Brooklyn,” she shared. “How about you, sir?” 

“Manitowoc.”

“And where is that?” 

“Wisconsin!” the man declared, a little bit too proudly. “I’m John Egan. People call me Bucky.”

She shook the man’s extended hand with a smile. “I’m Elaine. Elaine Byrne.” 

Bucky motioned his hand towards the dance floor. “Wanna dance, Elaine Bird?” 

“I said Byrne,” she asserted. 

“Ah, I heard ‘bird’. That’s what I’m gonna call you now. Wanna dance, birdie?” 

This charmed Elaine enough. “All right, John Egan.” 

He finished his clear shot and paid for both of their drinks. Then he extended his hand, which she accepted and they went off to the dance floor. There was still space to move around, so they stood adjacent to each other and started moving to the beat.

She took a glance at the sidelines, checking any signs of another American uniformed officer. Nothing.

Rosie can go find me on the dance floor.

---

When three lively songs ended, thankfully, the band turned into more somber music. 

Bucky smoothly slid his arm at her back, while she struggled a little to reach John because of his height. She thought he must be around over six feet. The two caught their breaths for a moment then they moved in closer, almost cheek to cheek. Elaine felt a bit feminine with this tall, broad man towering over her, swaying with her to this soft music. She avoided John’s gaze, feeling a little shy. He must have sensed this and started talking. 

With his deep voice, he asked. “What brought you to England?”

“A will-reading,” Elaine answered, without thinking.

“Whose?” 

“My father’s old uncle. He asked me to come with him because his partner couldn’t make it, so here I am.”

“And…what brings you to this side of town?” John questioned, this time his breath near her ear. 

“I’m meeting a friend…” Elaine trailed off. “But that friend seemed to have forgotten, so here I am. Dancing with you.”

“Good thing he forgot,” John replied, winking at her. 

Elaine felt the corners of her mouth pull a smile and shook her head. Bunny would’ve liked Bucky.

“Say, what brought you to England, John Egan?” she asked, deciding to match his energy.

“My job,” he answered. “I’m a pilot.” 

That explains the game and air of arrogance, she thought. “Ah. That makes sense.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You have this air of casual confidence, you know? Like you can do anything,” Elaine observed. “And you will do it even though someone tells you not to.”

John’s eyes widened by the observation. 

“That’s…something. Well, I’m not God.” 

“I know.”

“By the way,” she started. “Any chance you know a guy named Robert Rosenthal?” 

His face turned from surprise to recognition. “Oh shit, you’re Rosie’s girl from New York?” 

“What?” 

John let out a half-laugh. “Few days ago, Rosie and Pappy—that’s his co-pilot—were chasing each other around the barracks because of a picture. It was a picture of him and some girl…” 

She raised her eyebrow. 

“Or so I’m told,” he added quickly.

Men gossip. They’re just better at hiding it. 

“That’s what he’s been saying? I’m his girl?” she scoffed.

“No, he didn’t say that,” he immediately jumped in. “It’s just assumed since Rosie…he’s a pretty focused guy. He never really danced with anyone and when we saw the picture, we thought maybe you’re the reason why.” 

“So you really saw the picture?” 

He was about to say something when he stopped moving and his head jerked up. “Wait, I think I saw someone.” 

He moved them near to the sidelines, to the tables and chairs until they were only a few meters away from a certain table that was a little crowded with women chattering. Breaking away from each other, John held her wrist and led her to the table he was spying on. A couple of excuses to the women later, it revealed a uniformed man, nursing a glass of amber liquid, hunched and seemingly defeated.

“Rosie!” John called. “You came!”

Rosie? Is it him?

Bucky pulled a chair before the man and motioned for his new lady friend to sit on. Then he followed suit. The man before them raised his head and it was actually him! 

Elaine trailed her eyes on his features, now slightly worn, bulked, and a little heaviness on his shoulders. His curls are now a bit tighter (too much pomade, perhaps) and his eyes now have dark circles compared to the last time he saw him. 

Rosie’s gaze remained on Bucky and slowly, he turned to her. His mouth parted, and the two did not notice until Bucky placed a finger under his chin to shut it. 

“Rosie, you didn’t tell me your girl is coming!” John laughed. 

“I didn’t…” Rosie trailed off.

“I wanted to surprise him, actually,” Elaine cut off, finally speaking for Rosie who was still visibly confused from everything. He only nodded and then drank the remaining liquid in his glass.

“Really? Well, boy, you really were surprised, huh?” Bucky observed. “So how’d you meet?”

He waved at a waiter, and ordered a few drinks–six shots of vodka and three glasses of scotch.

“Robert and I met on the night before he enlisted for the army,” she shared. 

“Robert, huh,” Bucky observed. “In the base, he’s called Rosie.” 

“He looks a little unfriendly right now, so Robert it is,” she replied, smiling weakly.

“Robert is in a bit of a sour mood, all right?” Rosie shot back, his voice cutting against the loud music of the band.

His tone startled the two for a bit. Bucky knew this man to be usually collected, but tonight it didn’t seem like it. Elaine on the other hand, just looked at him.

Rosie felt his cheeks warm up, and swirled his glass while looking at the two. “Sorry.”

The trio fell in silence. Elaine stared at Rosie, wondering whether to apologize or just go. Rosie, embarrassed by his sudden raising of voice, avoided her gaze.

Bucky suddenly felt tension in the air that could be easily sliced by a hot knife. He planned on charming Elaine tonight, and if luck is on his side, maybe sleep with her. After all, he doesn’t encounter American women outside of the base often. 

However, from the scene in front of him, luck isn’t his. Instead of wallowing, he turned to the band and focused on the energetic music being played and people in the dancefloor—a complete contrast to the current situation.

Elaine started to think about the situation she is in. She’s here in 1943, surprising the guy she ghosted two years ago and now he’s somewhat agitated. What was she thinking? Who does she think she is, just popping down in miserable ol’ England, expecting the guy she ghosted will be happy to see her? Without writing to him earlier? 

The band is as lively as ever and they should be, it’s still early! She noticed both men were now intentionally avoiding her. Bucky was itching to dance with the way he was moving, while Rosie was out of sync with his finger tapping. Then, he took one of the five shots of clear liquid (probably vodka) and drank it.

Her gaze shifted between the two men, waiting for someone who would talk. Until she gave up and downed two shots. It’s not called liquid courage for nothing. 

 She cleared her throat loud enough to catch their attention. 

 Bucky saw it as his cue to leave. 

 “Alright," he started, standing up. "I'm gonna go. I think you two have things to talk about."

 Rosie and Elaine watched him make his way to the bar while greeting people around him. She glared at him, while he just looked at her, his eyes glassy. Getting uncomfortable, Elaine took Rosie’s glass and finished it. 

 She winced at the taste. 

 “That’s scotch, you know,” Rosie commented. 

 “I know that now,” she croaked, the scotch still burning on her throat. “Can you tell me why you’re late?” 

 He sighed. “I fell asleep when I got here. I didn’t realize until there was this man knocking on the door, asking for someone named Nancy.” 

 “And you’re not with anyone named Nancy?” 

 “Of course not!” he defended. “Now, were you dancing with Major Egan?” 

 “He’s your boss?” Elaine asked, unbelieving. 

 “Yes, is that hard to believe?” 

 She turned and saw Bucky talking happily with a blonde woman. “Honestly? Yes.” 

 “Were you dancing with Major Egan?” 

“Why not?” Elaine challenged. “You were late and he found me. He asked me to dance, and I didn’t want to look like a sad woman in the bar.” 

Rosie tsked. “I should've found you first.” 

“You found me now.”

“I’m really sorry, Elaine. I set it up and I’m the late one.” 

“To be fair, I didn’t write to you,” she reasoned. “But we’re here now. What are you going to do about it, Robert?”

He remembered how she used his legal name when she was convincing him to find a girl while he’s on the battlefield. Elaine smirked at him, daring him. 

 Rosie stood up and extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Byrne?

 She grinned at him and took his hand. “Yes, Mr. Rosenthal, you may.” 

The band started playing In the Mood, which made the crowd howl in excitement. They joined the other couples on the dance floor, jovial and excited.  Elaine watched Rosie dance with enthusiasm despite being a bit out of the beat. 

 She grinned at him and continued to dance.

 When In the Mood ended, a slow love song played. Rosie pulled her closer, almost cheek to cheek. Elaine inhaled deeply, noting for a second that this was real. 

 She’s there, and he was there. Close to each other. Holding each other. They danced in silence for a while, just relishing each other’s presence after a while of not seeing each other. 

 “I heard you’re a pilot now,” Elaine told him, breaking the silence. 

 “How’d you know about that?” 

"I asked around…I was waiting for quite some time, you know,” she teased, a smile obvious. Rosie groaned.

 “Well, yes, I’m a pilot now,” he confirmed. 

“Fancy man,” she teased. “You’re probably seducing young village maidens with your aviator glasses, promise of America…” 

“No, I’m not. I don’t even wear those glasses,” he stated. “If I was, then I wouldn’t be here.” 

“Charming me now, are you?” 

“Is it…working?” 

Elaine slapped his back and laughed.

“How about you? What have you been doing for the past few years?” Rosie asked. 

“I work as an assistant now in a publishing house,” she shared. “I tried being a nurse, but they wouldn’t have me. I couldn’t do a tourniquet. One time, I vomited at the same time as the patient. We shared a vomit bowl. It was very intimate.” 

Rosie blinked. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.” 

“Just the publishing part is true,” she confirmed.

He chuckled, perhaps in relief or humor. “Oh good, because I don’t think I would trust you as a nurse.” 

“Right call. Even if it’s a thinly-veiled insult,” she grinned.

Rosie moved his head so that he could see her face. It still looked the same, except with her now longer and lighter hair. The thin scar below her hair line is almost invisible under the lights. 

“I’m glad you made it, Elaine. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’ll be here. Writing to you is shooting for the moon and I didn’t really expect it to reach you,” he admitted. 

She nodded. “I didn’t expect I’ll hear from you, ever. But I had to come, Rosie.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to apologize for what happened. It was rude and I could’ve been more graceful. I’m sorry I left things that way.”

He smiled. “We’re even. Like you said, we found each other now. What are we going to do about it, Elaine Byrne?” 

She rested her head on his chest. “This. Just this.”

At a distance, Bucky watched the two slow dance to the music. He turned to the bartender who’s name was Rick, saying, “Called it.” 

“He stole your girl,” Rick commented. 

“Eh,” he replied, a cigarette dangling on his lips waiting to be lit. “She’s his before we met, Rick.” 

The bartender could only shake his head.

---

The two left the Palais nearing midnight. They wanted to say goodbye to Bucky but the bartender told them he exited minutes before. Elaine did not miss the meaningful look of the bartender. Fair enough, he did see me downing drinks with one guy then leave with another.  

“Where are you staying?” Rosie asked. 

“Brooke Green. How about you?” 

“Brooke Green, too.” 

Rosie offered his arm to her. She eyed him suspiciously but with humor. What’s next? Is he going to tell me he’d lasso the moon for me and make me swallow it until the beams flow out of me? 

“Elaine, you’re staring.” 

Her eyes widened. “Am I? Sorry. What are you doing?” 

“I figured since we’re staying at the same hotel, we should walk together,” he answered, lifting his offered arm. 

“That's so corny,” she commented.

He shrugged. “That’s me, I guess.” 

Elaine looped her arm around his and they started walking. She looked up to him, his expression a bit more chipper and relaxed.

After a few minutes, the two reached Brooke Green. 

Entering the elevator, Rosie asked which room she was staying in. 

“I’m in 215,” she answered. “You?” 

“217. Major Egan is in 216.” 

“Right.”

When they reached her door, he stopped her from turning the knob. "Elaine."

“What?”

“I should’ve asked this earlier, but can I see you tomorrow?” Rosie invited her, his voice a little shaky. 

“Yeah, sure…what time should we meet?”

“How about breakfast?” Rosie suggested.

“No can do. How about lunch?” she countered. She wanted to have some sight-seeing in present-day Hammersmith.

He thought of it for a moment. “All right, lunch it is. We can have lunch outside if you like.”

“All right, I’ll wait for you here by lunch. Just knock.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Slip a note if you can’t make it or something.” 

“I don’t think you’ll like that.”

“Yeah, I won’t. But I trust you,” he stated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Elaine nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Rosie.”

“Good night, Elaine.”

He finally let go of the door knob and Elaine entered the room. She gave him one last look and closed the door. Leaning her head against her door, a smile formed in her face. 

All the messages and calls she may have received during her night out will have to wait. The future is always there, but for now, the past is a good place to stay in—for a few more hours, at least.

[beardedmrbean]

Las Vegas police on Tuesday arrested eight teenagers on murder charges in connection with the death of Jonathan Lewis, a 17-year-old who was pummeled by a mob of his classmates in an alley outside their high school, authorities said.

The eight suspects charged with murder are between 13 and 17 years old, said Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Lt. Jason Johansson in a news conference on Tuesday. Police along with the district attorney's office are beginning the process to charge them as adults. Johansson added that there's no evidence indicating the attack was "a hate crime."

On Nov. 1, students from Rancho High School, including Jonathan, met in an alley just across the street from the campus to fight over "stolen wireless headphones and, possibly, a stolen marijuana vape pen," Johansson said. Police believe the items were stolen from Jonathan's friend but once they were all in the alley, it was Jonathan who fought instead.

Johansson said as soon as the first punch was thrown, 10 people swarmed Jonathan, pulled him to the ground and began kicking, punching and stomping him.

After the fight, a passerby found the teenager unconscious in the alley and carried him to the school, where staff performed CPR. First responders rushed him to the University Medical Center of Southern Nevada, where it was soon determined that he had suffered "non-survivable head trauma," Johansson said. Jonathan died several days later.

Police search for two more suspects, ask public for help

Videos of the incident – called "extremely disturbing" and "void of humanity" by police officials – circulated social media and were used by investigators to identify eight of the 10 suspects. On Tuesday, police and the FBI coordinated arrests of the eight students and executed search warrants at nine homes throughout Las Vegas. Johansson said clothing worn by teenagers in the video and cellphones were recovered.

Las Vegas police will be releasing photos of the remaining suspects and urged the public to assist investigators in identifying them. Johansson asked that people submit footage of the incident to police and called on parents to speak with their children about the videos, which have been shared widely across multiple social media platforms.

"If you're a mentor with youth, if you're a parent, you have to assume that your kids have seen this video ... don't put your head in the sand," Johansson said. "Please talk with your kids about it and explain – people need to know right from wrong and that this act was heinous."

Jonathan's father seeks 'deeper justice'

Jonathan Lewis Sr., an electrician who lives in Austin, Texas, said his son was "a hero" who stuck up for his friend.

"That's just the kind of person he was," Lewis, 38, told USA TODAY. He described his son as an avid hip-hop fan who liked to make digital art.

Lewis said when he got the phone call that Jonathan was attacked and in the hospital, he could "could barely walk."

His family arranged to get him a flight to Las Vegas, where he and Jonathan's mother stayed at their son's bedside for days. During that time, they started planning a foundation that would address youth violence issues through counseling, mentorships and after-school programs.

Lewis created a website for the foundation, Team Jonathan, and is beginning to work on what he hopes becomes a nonprofit that'll prevent incidents like what happened to his son.

"Justice is a much much deeper issue to me than these children go to prison," Lewis said. "This is an all-encompassing issue that involves all of humanity and how we behave and the lack of empathy and compassion that we have. I just feel like my son's legacy deserves a deeper justice."

[stalwart-spirit]

16. Do you have the same OC (broadly speaking) across multiple fandoms or settings?

I saw that the answer to this is 'yes,' but I figured this would be a good excuse for you to talk about what bits carried over and which parts you shed to put 'em into FFXIV better and such!

I start levitating ominously. You do not know what you have started (thank you though, I love talking about my characters!)

As you said, yes, all my characters have started off elsewhere before FFXIV, mostly just lil guys I make up in my head! I'll take this chance to go into a little more depth though, since I can source some development art for some of them!

Saeed is a good example, since he goes back to 2016! I don't have any art I'm willing to share for this initial version of him cause it's so old and so basic, but he was made for a duel roleplay and art group back on deviantART, back when you had to draw out and write full applications for roleplay groups and contribute both roleplays and art to get little rewards and be involved in the plot!

Fast forward to 2020, and I decided to revamp him and use him for another roleplay group (same vibe as above, but based on Discord but hosting art and writing via dA)

These were actually some of the concept sketches I made to get a feeling of him! And yes, that IS an Emet-Selch quote I used for some dialogue, I'd literally just finished SHB I think when I made him. As you can tell, he had COMPLETELY different vibes to what he has now. More of a bastard, not someone that people could get along with, a lot more selfish.

Then I started playing FFXIV, and through that I met my D&D group who asked for me to join their group and current campaign in 2021. When thinking of who to make, I thought "Huh, party doesn't have a rogue or someone who can deception their way through things... I know a character I could use who does that-"

Above is some concepting sketches and other stuff from when I was first making him. Some of his old personality remained, but in the end it ended up being developed as he was like that due to some trauma, and eventually grew out of it and ended up being party dad with some wonderfully warm and close bonds with the party!

2023, I still adore this finale painting I made for the whole party upon campaign ending <3

Just as the campaign was wrapping up was when I added Saeed to FFXIV as an alt but now he's become my main! Honestly still shocked at how pretty damn close I managed to get him considering FFXIV's chargen limitations!

It's kinda what I do though, I get attatched and still wanna write and roleplay a character actively with others. His plot honestly transferred over super well, keeping the plot as a rogue rising to a position he never intially expected, fighting against a corrupt empire (though in D&D it was his own empire home that was being corrupted internally).

I also happen to play him in other games, like I have him in GW2 (no plot, no pics to share cause that's just when I take the nostalgic urge to play Baby's First MMO again) and he's also my Drifter in Warframe!

I could go on endlessly about all my other characters, especially since Saeed isn't my oldest in terms of creation, but this is already quite long, and they follow a smiliar pattern!

Also shameless plug, I have more art of him both on my Twitter and my website :^)

[salmon-sushi-monster]

It’s hard to engage in the new PJO show fandom because I have to constantly fight against the urge to talk about just how much this series means to me, like.

I remember the exact moment I started reading the books as a 9 year old. I was in a boarding school and had finished the assignments early. As I was walking back to my seat after handing in my homework I saw a classmate reading Sea of Monsters. I borrowed it from him as I was already interested in Greek Mythology and started reading, and was so confused because it was the second one. The next time I went to a book store I made sure my mom would help me find the first and the third books. And at the time there were only three because even though the PJO series had finished the books were slow to be translated to Chinese, my 1st language.

This series saw so many of my first times. I engaged in online fandom for the first time, by finding an online Sci-Fi & Fantasy forum, to share the news that the Battle of Labyrinth were about to be translated to my language, and people there made fun of me because they had already known for a year. The PJO fandom was where I made my first fandom friend. It’s the fandom that got me into writing fanfics and making art. I started venturing into international websites - sites that are not in Chinese - for discussions and fan content. I became interested in the world out there because of PJO.

When Mark of Athena first came out our side of the fandom was enraged. To me, a closeted queer 12 year old troubled with ADHD and depression in China, Nico di Angelo would be the first ever character that I could see myself in, a gay character that I would actually be able to read about in a published book. A gay character that’s normalized, who was troubled by his identity. Someone who is just like me. And his confession about Percy was censored in the Chinese translation.

I started translating fanfics - and translating content in general - because of this. I didn’t want other Chinese fans to have to wait years for new content like I did; and I didn’t want them to read a filtered, censored version. In high school I would finish a non-official translation of the first Trials of Apollo book. It took me more than a year, but nothing was censored. I hope it is still up there.

I chose my English name - a name that I tie a huge part of my identity to - because of a character in PJO. I started going to my local foreign language library and began to read, read, and read because of PJO. I picked my college major - anthropology - partly because of PJO. Heck, I decided to study abroad in college in the US because I had a crush on a girl who was also into PJO in high school and she was planning on going to the US.

When RR started writing the series I’m sure he did not intend for it to have this big of an impact on a little Chinese girl’s life. But it did, and I’m eternally grateful for that.

[bluebeaniefrog]

So I have fallen ass-backwards into (back into?) The TMNT fandom and had the idea for a ROTTMNT x TMNT!2012 fic hit me like a rubber chicken. All I've got so far is that 2012 turts show up in Rise!verse bc reasons and Rise end up just pranking the shit out of them. Because they were raised by an actor, and they're little shits. They would absolutely do this.

Inspired by the uniquely Australian urge to mess with people for no reason, and for other Aussies to join in on the act, no questions asked.

What I have so far:

2 year after Krang

Rise!folks = Rise!Raph 19, Rise!Donnie & Rise!Leo 18, Rise!Mikey 17, Casey Jr 18

Rise!turts all look WAY older than their actual age, bc Rise were created to be supersoldiers. you can't tell me that Draxum didn't fiddle with their DNA to make them more dangerous/efficient/etc.

The massive growth spurt they all had means they're all like a foot taller than they were during the movie.

This does not help poor Casey Jr (who goes by CJ, purely to make things easier)

He kept accidentally calling Leo "dad", to the point where Leo started to respond to it

This did not help CJ.

CJ ended up getting a concealment broach, and uses it to make himself look like a mutant turtle.

When asked why, he says "because" (he wanted to fit in, and topside NY still freaks him out too much.)

Hey, trauma isn't logical

He keeps his hair as a turt though, which weirded everyone but Leo out until they got used to it.

And four fingers instead of three (purely so he knows which one to flip people off with)

When he uses the broach, he can make himself look any age he wants. Usually, he chooses anywhere between the ages of 8–12.

This was originally an accident, but Mikey encouraged it, as well as acting his apparent age while cloaked, as a healing method and a way of reclaiming his childhood.

They eventually figure out that CJ is kind of flipping between voluntary and involuntary age regression

Leo starts actually being a father to CJ while he's regressed and he absolutely thrives.

Donnie managed to recover Shelldon's memory drive from the wreckage post Shredder

He also started kind-of-but-not-really-more-like-less-than-half sharing his lab with Draxum after the yokai starts living with them full time

Thus meaning that sometimes things (like leftover ooze) might be left lying around

Unrelated, Draxum found a three-legged turtle hatchling and decided to keep it as a pet

Everyone else finds it weird, but it's not an issue

Until the turtle somehow manages to get into Donnie's lab, EAT Shelldon's memory chip  and then trip into a bowl of ooze.

Everyone FREAKS THE FUCK OUT because there's now ANOTHER MUTANT TURTLE DRAXUM WTF!

ALSO WHY TF WAS THERE A BOWL FULL OF OOZE????? JUST LYING AROUND??????

They manage to somewhat calm down, and then the new turtle tot speaks in a kiddy version of Shelldon's voice, and calls Donnie "Dada".

Cue the second freakout in as many minutes.

So now Donnie has a kid as well.

They figure out that Shelldon is now the equivalent to a two-and-a-half year old toddler.

Splinter doesn't know how to feel

He technically has grandkids now, but his kids are still kids!

Also it's Draxum's fault (again) so he doesn't know whether to thank him or throttle him

2012!verse turts appear bc reasons

They are all 16 (set early-like/s2-ish)

Rise peeps all have a standing agreement to prank the living daylights out of any alternates they come across.

They unanimously decide to tell 2012 that they are all 10 years older than they actually are, and to leave out the fact that CJ and Shelldon are not actually their biological children.

Coincidentally, Mikey had been practising his hyper-realism and special effects make-up skills for his online art degree that morning, and used Donnies shell as the canvas.

So now Donnie's shell now looks like one big burn scar

They very much use this to their advantage. *Cue evil laughter*

Draxum shows up in the middle of them all trying to figure out what to call each other

2012 turts freak the fuck out when Rise!Mikey calls him "dad"

12!Mikey: "wow this really IS an alternate universe your Slpinter isn't even a rat!" Rise!Mikey: What no this is Draxum. Splinters our other dad."

Cue yet another freakout from the 2012 folks.

Draxum sees them and goes "another lot of turtles? Free reign to fuck with them and be the dramatic ass bitch that I am? Count me the fuck in" and goes absolutely ham

CJ comes in uncloaked but regressed, calling Leo "dad"

12turts freak out (12!Leo: "I'm a DAD????? ....wait isn't that CASEY WTFFFF") while Leo puts his dad voice on and reminds CJ to "take off" (read: put on) his cloaking broach

CJ does so.

Yet another freakout from the inter-dimensional peanut gallery

Shelldon starts crying and Donnie goes to grab him (praising his dramatic timing as he does so)

Again: freakout (12!Donnie: "I'M a dad??????")

(Basically the entire fic is just 2012 turts freaking out over Riseverse's ..... everything)

April and Cassandra are in on it, of course

They decide to be little shits and show up in their foot clan uniforms

*Cue 2012 freaking out for the billionth time*

Then Splinter shows up, tells them to shut up, sit down, and talk (ie give their life story)

Or in Rise's case, "life story"

Basically a fic where Riseverse just bullshit the living daylights out of the 2012 turtles. Whether or not the truth comes out, I haven't figured out yet. Either way, 2012!turtles spend the entire time freaking out and go back to their dimension questioning everything ever.

I've got so many ideas I'd probably have to make a separate fic purely for worldbuilding my Rise!AU. Thing is, I actually really want to write this fic, but have no idea where to start. Any tips or tricks to get started, or even someone to bounce ideas off of would be a godsend.

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 27: Market & Friend

Find all of my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

“C’mon old friend, let’s not sit and drink today! There’s a street market not far from here.” Hob says one day a few weeks into their new arrangement. He jumps from his seat in the New Inn, snatching Dream’s wrist in his hand.

Dream follows as he is pulled out the door, eyes stuck to where Hob’s skin is touching him. Despite the chilly air around them, Hob’s hands are warm and comforting. He feels as though he’s sat in front of a hearth, safe at home in Hob’s touch. He’s not quite sure what to do with this feeling, new and tingly and making his inhuman chest tighten like nothing before it.

When he had fallen for someone before, it had been fiery and passionate and intense. And it had burned out fast, ruinous, and ashy in the pain left behind. But the way he feels with Hob is different. In his imprisonment, he’d reflected on their relationship, as tenuous as he had left things off on. Hob’s outlook on life was so different from his own. The man found joy in everything from playing cards to hosting the Queen herself, where Dream only found despair.

Perhaps spending more time with Hob would aid in his recovery, he’d thought. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

And so the pair had arranged to meet on a more frequent basis. Hob shared bits of his life as a professor and Dream revealed more of his function and upon Hob’s insistence, himself, separate from the function.

With Hob, things were easy. Dream felt more at ease in himself than ever before. And as they’d continued on, he knew he wanted to stay in Hob’s presence evermore. The way he felt around him was strange. It wasn’t the flaming love he’d had before but something softer. Gentler. It matched Hob’s demeanor in this era, a kind man teaching the leaders of tomorrow about the past. A man who fought for the rights of others, who made time to put his students at ease.

Which brings Dream back to the present, where somewhere in his gut he feels fluttering anxiety. Not the kind where he feels he is about to do something rash, but it makes him want to giggle. The Dream King does not giggle. He resists the urge, as much as the contact between him and Hob makes him want to.

Hob slows once they’ve made it through the throng of people milling around the edges of the market, releasing Dream’s wrist.

“Sorry about the touch, I just didn’t want to lose you in the crowd. But look!” he throws his arms out in excitement. “There are so many booths! All sorts of things people’ve made with their own hands, delicious treats, and so much art! Perhaps I’ll convince you to try something this time,” he grins.

Dream’s skin throbs at the loss of contact. He puts a hand out to grab Hob’s hand again, then thinks better of it. Instead, he gives Hob a tiny smile to signal his approval at their arrival.

“Perhaps,” he rumbles. He does not find much pleasure in eating in the Waking world, but if it makes Hob happy, he will consider it.

“Well, where to first?”

Dream surveys the scene, sifting through the daydreams of shoppers and vendors alike until he finds a series of shops selling warm, knit clothing. He starts to step in that direction, expecting Hob to follow, but then he stops himself. Without looking at his friend, he finds Hob’s hand hanging at his side and slips his own into it. Then, he starts walking at a brutal pace, hoping that Hob won’t make a comment while preoccupied with keeping up.

Despite Dream using his long legs to his advantage, he still hears Hob gasp at the contact. He trails behind, the length of their arms going taut as Hob’s brain catches up. Then Dream hears the scuffing of feet against the pavement quick, quick, quick and Hob is by his side, grinning.

“Find an appealing daydream, did we? Are you gonna tell me where we’re headed or will I just have to wait and see?” Hob squeezes Dream’s hand briefly.

Dream looks over at him, eyes glimmering.

“The latter, eh? Alright Dream Lord, lead the way.”

He tries not to shudder at the use of one of his titles, but the smirk on Hob’s face shows that he isn’t doing a good job of hiding it. They walk hand in hand until they arrive at the booth Dream had targeted.

There’s an array of knitted and crocheted items spread across the table, the rainbow of colors reflecting the multitude of types of items. There are scarves, hats, and mittens, of course, but Dream also notices tea cozies, hot pads, and… is that a set of lingerie? Dream tucks that thought away for later.

Two women are seated at the stall, one busy with a ball of yarn in her lap and a crochet hook. The other is sipping from her thermos, trying to beat the chilly breeze that passes through the street.

“Hello, gentlemen. We’ve got knit items over here,” she gestures to the left side of the table, “and crocheted items over here,” she gestures to the opposite side. “Do you boys know the difference? I’d be happy to explain.”

Hob interjects. “We know! I actually knit myself sometimes. Gives me something to do on the tube, y’know.”

The woman smiles knowingly. “And yet your boyfriend here looks like he’s about to freeze to death! Don’t you make him any hats or scarves?”

Both glance down at their attached hands, realizing they hadn’t let go. Hob is bright red, to the point he couldn’t blame it on the weather.

He moves to drop Dream’s hand as he says, “O-oh, we’re not—”

“He has not offered me any of his creations. A grave oversight if you ask me,” Dream cuts Hob off. He laces their fingers together, refusing to let go of their hands.

“Well, you better get yourself something warm to wear then, dearie. If that handsome young man won’t take care of you, we grannies certainly will. You look like you’re going to blow away!”

Dream’s lips quirk up, happy to play out the fantasy of having Hob to himself. He studies the scarves on display, running his free hand over the yarns. Tracing his hand over the variety of textures reminds him how humans feel all the time. The rougher yarns butt up against those spun for babies; cheaper acrylics next to fine cashmere. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere that Dream stores away in the vastness of himself as he finds the perfect scarf.

It's black, to match his ensemble, but as he looks closer, there are strands of silver interwoven that catch the light. It reminds him of the lining of the coat he wears in the Dreaming. He slips it out of the stack one-handed. It’s perhaps a task better done with both hands, but doesn’t dare let go of Hob now lest he never have a chance again. He hands it over to the vendor.

“I would like this one,” he says, avoiding Hob’s face.

“You know, I thought that one would be your style,” the old woman remarks. “Let me get my glasses on here, and I’ll let you know the price.” She hobbles over to the cash box, pulling out a well-worn pair of readers. She squints at the tiny handwritten tag.

“That’ll be 50 pounds.”

Dream looks at Hob, feeling color impossibly filling his face. In his excitement to pretend they were shopping together he’d forgotten that shopping costs money.

Hob sighs the kind of sigh a long-suffering husband sighs at his partner’s antics.

“I’ll buy it for you, dove, if you really want it that bad. I do need my hand back to do that, however.”

Dream reluctantly drops his hand, sticking his own in his jacket pocket. Hob reaches for his wallet and pulls out the necessary bills. The woman gives him his change but falters when she goes to wrap the purchase.

“I suppose you probably want to wear this now,” she chuckles, handing it over the table. Dream lifts his hand to receive it but before he can reach it, Hob grabs the scarf.

“Thank you very much, young ladies,” Hob winks and turns away. As he does, to Dream’s surprise, he puts his hand through the loop of Dream’s arm, pulling him towards a nearby alley.

Once safely tucked away from the crowd, Hob separates from Dream. He grabs him by the shoulders and turns him so they’re face to face. Hob unfolds the length of the scarf, stretching it to his full wingspan. He takes a step closer.

“So, are you going to tell me what all that was about? You seemed to like that she called me your boyfriend, huh?” He drapes the scarf around Dream’s neck, each end trailing down to his midriff.

Dream remains silent, unwilling to break the spell that has Hob so close. Hob’s hands run down the length of the scarf and Dream feels like his non-existent heart is in his throat.

Hob drops his left hand and grasps the section of scarf in his right tighter. He takes another step towards Dream. He can feel Hob’s hot breath on his skin at this distance. Hob takes the scarf and wraps it around his neck once, twice, three times. It’s not too tight, but it would not fall off if he moved his head around.

“And making me buy you pretty things, seems like a pretty romantic thing to do, Prince of Stories.”

Dream does not even attempt to hide the full body shudder this time.

Hob grabs the loose end of the scarf and pulls Dream toward him. He follows with no resistance, beholden to Hob’s manipulations as long as he doesn’t stop touching him. He’s only stopped by the solidity of Hob’s chest, broad and strong despite his sedentary lifestyle these days. Dream gasps, caught by Hob’s stare.

As their eyes lock, Hob releases the scarf moving his hands to hold Dream’s hips.

“Something you’d like to say, old friend?” He emphasizes the word friend, but there’s no aggression behind it. It’s teasing, like he knows what Dream wants but Hob wants the pleasure of hearing it from his mouth instead. His eyes are warm, and Dream feels as though he could drown in the depths of them. He clears his throat, if only to gather himself together.

“I admit I found the experience… pleasurable.” Hob huffs, squeezing his hips in his hands. “When you grabbed my wrist, I craved your touch after you released me. Your hand in mine…” He trails off, struggling to collect the words.

Hob, as always, waits patiently for him to find the words. There’s no frustration in his face, just open affection for Dream.

“It feels… correct. That we are perceived as thus. I should like it to be the truth. If you would accept my suit?”

“You silly creature,” Hob laughs. “Do you really think I didn’t like it too?”

“But you attempted to deny—” Another squeeze to the boney curve of his hips.

“Because I thought you might go ballistic! Because I just got you back and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna lose you again!” Hob shouts.

“I neglected to consider my actions the last time you attempted to name our association,” Dream looks at the ground, unwilling to look at Hob as he recalls that disastrous meeting. “I believed that we had moved past that.”

“Well, as much as I wanted to, there’s a little voice in my head that is still afraid, Dream. That I want more than you can give. That I’ll slip up and you’ll be gone again,” Hob’s voice breaks and Dream’s eyes snap up to meet his watery ones.

Dream finally brings his arms up to wrap around Hob’s waist, pulling him into a hug.

“Beloved, I swear to you on all that I am that I shall never repeat my mistake. My previous romances have ended in disaster. I had thought I was protecting you from further pain, as I am the one who has been told my love is too much.” He lets go just enough to pull back to look Hob in the eye. “However, it has come to my attention that my feelings regarding you are… Different. Than before. Perhaps it is because we have been friends first.”

Hob sniffles, but the tears have disappeared from his eyes.

“You know, that could be. If you’re willing to try, old friend? I swear to you that even if this is a disaster, we’ll still be friends afterward. But I’ll let you know ahead of time, I don’t intend to ever let you go,” he says, a playful glint in his eye.

Then, Hob’s hands are on his scarf again, pulling Dream’s head toward him. He lets himself be moved, and when their lips finally meet, Dream feels as though he’s been waiting for this since he escaped. Months—no, centuries—of longing coalescing into one kiss. Then another, as they press impossibly closer to each other in the alley. Hob’s musky, oaky scent is intoxicating. Dream drinks it in as he licks across the seam of Hob’s mouth, desperate to get more. Hob lets him in gladly, parting his lips as his stubble scratches against the porcelain of Dream’s skin. Dream tastes as much of him as Hob will allow, flicking his tongue across the wet heat. He thinks he could die happy, but then he would have to leave Hob.

When they finally pull apart, Dream lets a whine escape his mouth, unable to accept the fact that Hob needs to breathe. Panting, Hob chuckles.

“No need to whine, my sweet. There’s plenty where that came from. Just need a breather or else we’ll be caught out here for public indecency.” He lets Dream go but Dream still clings to him.

“Darling, I’m serious. I promise I’ll take you home after a bit, but we did come here with the intent to shop. As much as I’m happy you’re my… boyfriend? Lover?” Dream nods at the second title. “Lover, right. I want to spend some time out here in the market with you, okay?”

Dream lets him go but grabs his hand almost immediately, unwilling to stop touching for any reason now that he knows he’s allowed. Hob laces their fingers together, dragging him back out of the alley.

“Now, shall I tempt you to actually eat something for once? For me?” Hob bats his eyelashes at Dream, and damn him, it works. Anything to see Hob’s beautiful smile. He lets Hob tug him down the street toward daydreams of fresh-made bread and pastries, excited for millennia to come.

[rockybloo]

Hi, feel free to ignore this ask, or point me wearily to the FAQ if i missed it, but can I asked what inspired the world of Lore? Specifically the holistic nature of it, where different tales live side by side. I am a…hopeful, one-day fairy and folk tale scholar, and in my studies I’ve seen this concept pop up in a lot of more modern retellings/reimaginings, and one of my projects has been to see if i could find a source. When i say inspiration/source, I don’t mean singular piece(s) of media that gave you the idea (if you have one id love to know it though!) i more mean sorta your own internal source, the emotional trigger that led you to grouping separate fairy tales into one larger world. I know theres a lot to be said for the simple concept of “because it fucks, thats why” (some of my favorite interpretations of tales spawn from similar concepts) but if you have the time or energy, id love it if you’d be willing to ponder deeper motivations.

Sorry for the long ask, im absolutely obsessed with your characters and the worlds you create by taking archetypical settings and twisting them into something new and intriguing. Thank you for sharing your art (in all senses of the word) with us!

Thank you! And I very much love overthinking fairy tales and their existence SO I SHALL DO EXACTLY THAT!

For me, the reason I just plopped down every fairy tale into the same world, aside from a simple "Because everyone else does it and it's my favorite type of fantasy world" is because it makes so much sense to me.

There's a ton of repeated themes and characters in fairy tales to the point they have a classification system to make folklorist's lives easier when categorizing them. There are so many different Cinderellas, and I don't mean just the European one, as it's a fable that has been found all around the world. There are very much big differences in each story but the literal age old tale is still noticeable.

I took a mythology and fairy tale class in high school where we talked about "The Hero's Journey" which is like a template nearly every story falls into regardless of where a story is from. And for me, it was wild seeing just how many shared tropes humanity has as a whole in our storytelling.

A character that pops multiple times, aside from Prince Charming, is the Big Bad Wolf. OF COURSE it's because wolves were (and still are somewhat) dangerous animals and so that is how they are characterized in fables such as Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs. But it's still noticeable that these stories overlap with each other so fitting them into a single world just makes a lot of sense.

Another gigantic reason is that we all live in reality. There's a general understanding of what can and cannot occur on Earth. We know we can't fly without some machine to aid us or talk to animals and have them speak our language back to us. And many mythical beings can potentially be traced back to specific interactions early humans had with rare instances in nature and a need to have a reason "why?".

In fairy tales, reality is fantastical. Numerous tales have talking animals, super natural beings, shapeshifting, characters defying death and recovering from "should have been" fatal injuries, and being able to live happily ever after with never ending love.

We humans don't really get that. Especially that last part with happy endings and love. Sure, we can live a peaceful life or try to but there's this level of joy in some tales that only exists in fairy tales. And love so so much more complicated than the typical "love at first sight that lasts forever without problems".

With all these elements that land fairy tales in a different realm of reality than us, I thought it made sense to actually make a realm (or rather a planet) that explains why things in the world of fairy tales are so much more different than us and even somewhat explain why our reality doesn't have magic in it.

It basically traces back to that age old human urge to explain the unexplainable with some story.

[katabay]

I'm going to be honest finding your account has sent me down a rabbit hole I did not expect to find myself in, yesterday I spent six hours, looking at all of your stuff and I'm absolutely amazed, I have no words. Your art and everything you talk about I'm absolutely fascinated in a very normal way I don't mean to sound weird. I was wondering if you had any thoughts to share with someone who's hating everything they draw and have lost the fun and passion when creating, I want to snap out of it.

I've been holding onto this ask for a minute because a few years back I went through a phase (I call it a phase, I fully intended never to pick up art again) where I also hated everything I was making

ultimately, what got me out of it was mostly doing other stuff. not even in a 'get a new hobby,' kind of way, I hated drawing in my sketchbook, so I started cutting out washi tape as clothes over old sketches and filling in the negative space between scribbles with highlighter and pen colors I thought looked nice. I went out to daiso, bought $10 worth of stickers, and started putting them where I thought it would look nice when I got the urge to do something but still couldn't bring myself to actually pick up a pencil.

if there's something that you know for sure you don't like about art, it can help to confront it and then go in the other direction. there were a lot of things I used to draw because I felt like it was expected, only I was unhappy all the time, and once I realized I was unhappy because I wasn't actually exploring what I thought was interesting about the subject holding my attention, it was sometimes easier to see what I DID want to do, I just had to acknowledge what I DIDNT want first.

that said, I still have an on-off again antagonism with myself and art, it's messy and it's always going to be that way for me, but whenever I feel stuck, I do try to change things up, or head off to a space that I feel has absolutely no expectations from me whatsoever. like. whenever I get really annoyed on my history blog, I actually turn to watching 2PM's vlogs on youtube. I have enough 2PM art in my sketchbooks I almost thought about making a dedicated HOTTEST twitter account lmao.

probably my last thought on this might be: try keeping two sketchbooks. nothing expensive. one can be something more serious, but keep a space just for yourself to fuck around in. don't draw in it unless you want to. put stickers in it, press flowers that you think look neat. buy some cheap water colors and see if you like the blues that you get out of it. it's okay to feel antagonistic towards art, but if you aren't ready to break up with it (and art will always be there if you want to go back, that's an important thing), I've found the straightforwardness of 'I like these stickers, so I'm going to put them on top of this square of blue I liked,' to be akin to leaving messages for someone you aren't ready to talk to face to face just yet, but maybe someday.