#i know it can sound pretentious to be like 'this is ~MY ART~'

[shalom-iamcominghome]

Another mini update because I think I deserve to talk about this:

I am changing game plans! I'm not sure if I've mentioned this but... The shell stitch is such a yarn eater. I have four rows of shells, but you actually don't see that there are about eight rows in this because there are intermittently small ones to set up the space for all the shells. These four rows have basically eaten up ninety percent of my skein of 210 yards (192 meters). My question is: should I make one more shell stitch row before transitioning into double crochet, or is four sufficient?

My new plan now is something like this: shell stitch four rows, double crochet until I reach the center of the tallit. The middle will be a few more rows of shells, then back to double crochet until I make it to the other side. I genuinely can't think of a worse idea that thirty-three inches (eighty-four centimeters) of solid white in shell stitch.

(Do note that my camera has completely altered the colors. It does this automatically and I hate it so much. These colors are so much richer and more interesting than how this camera decided to mess with it)

[roxynugget]

Guys, please, Tango doesn't consider himself a builder in the same way Michelangelo might not consider himself a painter* (see tags). You can accept you're very good at two things, and still consider yourself better at one over the other. It's not negative talk when he calls himself a redstone guy.

[yellowocaballero]

I just finished your New Wave fic. I’m convinced everything your write is gold. I loved your TMA fics, with the most heartbreaking demon AU imaginable and the hilarity of Fahrenheit 101. I loved your moon knight fics, starting with Steven talking to animals on the reg at work to the system growing closer with a focus on Jake, i- there’s- it’s sooo much packed into it. When I’m on burnout, of art or writing (maybe life in general at times) I revisit your work and am thrown back into a creative headspace.

You are my favorite writer, you cram so much meaning and thought into your work and it shows. The characters are dumbasses and say the most ridiculous shit and turn around the next chapter and say the most thought provoking thing, and I don’t get whiplash from it because these characters just work! They just do, and I… am very much off track!

Anyways I just got into Batman and reading your fic is fueling that flame! I can’t wait to see what you have in store next, and I shall now stalk your blog for writing tips! I hope you have a nice day broski 💙

Thank you!! This is so sweet thank you so much! This ask is so nice!

Trust me, if there's meaning then it's because I get obsessive over these fics and I massively overthink them. I honestly wish I was better at making simpler, more elegant stories. I feel like nothing I do is truly going to be good until I can find that simplicity.

"Dipshit who says stupid stuff and then turns around and spouts ridiculous philosophy" is just how I talk. But I habitually approach my life from a standpoint of finding humor in everything, if only to soften the blow. I was once told that it's really hard to tell when I'm joking, because everything I say is always half-joking and always half-serious. I feel like that's pretty evident from my narration too...

As for writing advice...um, I was just speaking about this with somebody. When you're plotting a story, the first thing I like to figure out is what I'm trying to say. Everything else should be built around that. The joy of writing is that I think we all have something we want to say, or something we want people to know, or that we have an aspect of ourselves and our lives that we want to express. Most of the time, trying to convey those things verbally just results in a frustrating approximation of your true feelings. I find that when I manage a successful story, the depth and scale of what I'm trying to impart is fully understood and felt. It's rewarding. I think if people aren't understood on some level, by somebody, they kind of die.

Thanks for the sweet ask!!

[bmpmp3]

I NEEED to go back to making art that makes it ABUNDANTLY clear that theres something wrong with my brain BUT NOT in a cool or stylishly interesting way. i need to do it in a way that makes people say "hm." and walk away

[laika-of-the-stars]

im about to make a post so personal u guys gotta prommy not to bully me /j

[girlboyburger]

to elaborate, there's so many parts that make up art. which medium you're using, the shape language, how you use colors, linework, expressiveness, style, ect. ect...

it always frustrates me a little to hear someone claim that "[x artist] is better than [other artist]" or they themselves are better/worse than [other artist] because it's just... not true? i'm *not* saying people who make these claims have bad art, (or they aren't often coming from a place of insecurity, which, understandable 🤝, godspeed on finding your confidence it's an uphill battle,) but i've seen so many artists out there who are just starting out that have a WAY firmer grasp on color theory than me, or who texture their work in a way that's nice on the eyes, or who just have a fascinating style that i can't help but be intrigued by. when people say things like "oh you're so much better at art than i am" i wanna shake them cause that's not true!! i probably envy your ideas or crisp lines or the way you draw eyes!! there's always something to love in a creation made with your heart and hands. it's unique to you and you're so skilled at making it your way!

i'm kind of getting rambly now, but. i think it's just cool that there's always something to learn with art. i think the fact that even though i've known i've wanted this to be my job for like 14+ years now, i'm CONSTANTLY inspired by budding artists who started so recently and are already so talented in all their own ways.

my hot art take is that there's no objectively being a "better artist" than any other artist.

[hornychristianprincess]

wasted (leehan x fem reader) pt. 1

paring: leehan x fem reader genre: smut, fluff, angst, fuckboy!leehan, college au word count: 6k summary: hooking up with a stranger at a party is fun when said stranger is a tall, attractive philosophy major whose name you don’t learn until weeks later. warnings: explicit sex scenes, oral (female and male receiving), a lil butt action but nothing too crazy

ao3 link can be found HERE.

“You’re a new face,” remarked the rich, husky voice belonging to the stranger who had just approached you. In a house party that was relatively packed, you thought you were blending in by sticking to the wall and enjoying your solo cup full of unlabeled liquor. And yet, here was the approaching figure of a man so tall you had to crane your neck to face him, knowing nothing about you and yet still managing to observe how out of place you seemed.

“That obvious, is it?”

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing about you, per se. It’s just, these things are usually pretty tight-knit; the same people come every time. So when someone’s new, you notice,” he tells you, his slow, calm way of talking making you feel relieved and deeply curious at the same time. “Do you go to school here?” 

You nod your head in confirmation, though it feels foreign to do so when parts of you still feel more like a visitor than a student. “I just transferred here.”

He smiles hospitably at this, gesturing his arms out towards the room of people who surround you. “Welcome to our vibrant community. Please enjoy your stay. Refreshments are in the back and the ice machine is down the hall.”

You giggle genuinely at him and the sort of clumsy, awkward way his words seem to land on you. He’s the kind of person you were expecting to meet when you transferred from your rural state school to this smaller liberal arts college. There’s something almost dorky and strange about him, from the way he dresses in an oversized cardigan and big round glasses to the way he holds eye contact with you for what you deem longer than normal. And yet, his self-assuredness is crystal clear to you. It’s at this moment that you acknowledge to yourself how attractive you find him.

“Did you come here with someone?” he asks you, his posture changing so that he’s leaning into you just slightly.

“Yeah. My roommate is here somewhere—” you gesture aimlessly around you, “—probably getting tongued down in someone’s bathroom.”

At this point, you had been fighting off the inclination to assume that the man in front of you was chatting you up for any reason outside of sincere curiosity. But his intentions are made crystal clear when he replies, “Yeah? Care to follow suit?”

You laugh both out of amusement and shock at his forwardness, and even he seems taken aback by his own candor as he smiles in a sheepish, apologetic sort of way. Still, the way that his piercing dark eyes never seem to cease their burning into you, there’s no doubt in your mind that he meant every implication embedded in that response.

“You know, you never told me your name,” you point out, not sure why you are prolonging what feels like the inevitable moment tonight when you’ll find yourself tangled in bed with the handsome man in front of you. Perhaps you’d just like to talk to him for a little bit longer, enjoy the gratification of his attention. Or maybe it’s just fun to tease him and watch the way his eyes crinkle in bashful embarrassment.

You’re pleased when he seems no less interested in you even as you divert from his advances. In fact, he perks up at your observation. “That I did not. Call me pretentious, but I like to think that learning my name is a privilege.”

You show your disinterest in this notion with a scoff, something the stranger seems to take in stride. “Is a man’s name not all that he has in this world, from birth to death?” he asserts with a prideful smirk.

“Philosophical. That your major?”

“How’d you know?”

You’re starting to feel a little scared with just how much you’re beginning to love the sound of your overlapping laughter. When it dies down, you bask in the brief moments of silence where neither of you knows what to say next and instead just stare at each other’s faces in an almost innocent, child-like way. It’s so different from what you’re both feeling inside, anticipation and lust and desire swirling in a mix that makes your bodies feel charged.

“So since you’re not telling me your name, should I tell you mine?”

“Only if you feel I’m worthy of it,” he replies. The game that he’s playing confounds you but you see no harm in playing into it, something tantalizing and freeing about not being bound to the expectations of each other’s names.

“That, my friend,” you reply, “is yet to be decided.” You raise your hand to push against his shoulder, surprised at how sturdy the skin under his cardigan feels. He ricochets dramatically against the force of your hand, and when his body returns to yours, it’s closer than before. He rests his hand on the wall just above your head, the way he’s angled making him appear even taller than he did before.

“You know, I was exploring this house earlier, and there’s a room in the back with a comfortable-looking king-sized bed,” he says, words that would sound fuckboyish and crude if anyone else said them, but come out dorky and amusing when he does, especially when his next statement is, “And the entire time I was in there, all I could think was, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to pillow fight with?”

You smile, the expression mirrored on the stranger’s handsome face as he watches you react to his off-putting way of flirting. You decide to help him out by being more direct. “Are you asking me to pillow fight with you, stranger?” you ask, voice tilted in your best attempt at sounding seductive.

“Only if you’d be willing, stranger.”

When your roomate convinced you to go out with her tonight, you were intrigued by the notion of getting to know this new campus community, plus the always-tempting chance to get a few drinks in your system. You weren’t thinking that you would be in this position, about to hook up with a guy who won’t even tell you his name. 

You’ve been feigning confidence up until this point, an easy enough task when the man in front of you is good-looking and talkative. But now, as you prepare to follow him with the pretty certain chance of having sex, you have to finish off the remnants of your drink first, allowing the heat of liquid courage to wash over you like a warm blanket.

“Lead the way,” you tell him, taking the hand that he offers you before being led through the crowd of partygoers.

He takes you into a bedroom that’s on the ground floor, allowing you to settle in in front of him as he takes heed to lock the door. The bass from the loud music outside vibrates against the enclosed walls of the room. You’re grateful that it’s not completely silent, otherwise this would feel more awkward. 

“See,” the stranger says, walking over to face you. “I wasn’t lying about the king-sized bed.”

With the way he’s standing over you, combined with the looming implications of what you’re about to do – or rather, what you’re about to let him do to you – you’re too anxious to laugh. Instead, you stare at him, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you like to kiss when you hook up?” he asks you, straight-forward and to the point. You like that. You’ve never understood people who don’t like to kiss those they’re having sex with. Is the act of kissing somehow more intimate than letting someone inside you?

“Depends,” you reply, already moving to cradle the side of his face with your hand. “Are you a good kisser?”

He doesn’t answer verbally, moving instead to lean in so that your lips meet. Everything about this man feels like a paradox. Your interactions thus far have felt innocent, awkward even, and yet they still led to you following him into a stranger’s bedroom with the intention of having sex. And now, though his looks and the way he carries himself feel so clumsy, the way he kisses you is intense, all-consuming. 

He wastes no time trying to build up to something intense. Without pretense, his tongue is invading the wetness of your mouth, forcing your lips open as an audible whimper of surprise spills out. One of his hands comes up to lace itself into your hair, and in another act that surprises you, he pulls on it so that your faces come even closer. You’ve never found the taste of liquor on someone’s lips more addicting than you do now. 

You pull away to find a smirk on his lips, cockiness written all over his expression as he asks, “What do you think?”

It’s hard to conjure up any words when his hand is still in your hair, tipping your head back so that his eyes can comfortably rake over your face and particularly linger on your reddened lips. “I think I really, really want you to fuck me,” is what you manage, and even if you were the type to feel shameful at such remarks, it would be hard to when your words visibly light up his handsome expression until he’s kissing you again.

Your lips melt into his in a kiss so passionate it has you both walking backward in an eager effort to get each other onto the bed. You waste no time in pawing the clothes off of his slender body, satisfied as you hear his jeans then his cardigan hit the carpeted floor with a soft plop.

He does the same when it comes to your dress, a flowy, strapless piece that required you to go braless for it to work. Once it’s off and you’re both down to just underwear, you’re met with the feeling of his bare skin against your bare skin, your bare chest against his bare chest, and more relieving than anything else, the feeling of the bed frame meeting the back of your thighs as you finally reach the bed.

Pushing you up onto the edge of the bed, he lets his hands wander the expanse of your body, enjoying the feeling of your tits squeezed in the palms of his hands. You lean into his touch, moaning a little in his mouth as he never stops kissing you, even as he reaches down to breach the waistband of your underwear. 

You don’t realize how wet you are until his slender fingers push out to separate your folds, a task made difficult as your sticky arousal glues your lips together. But he manages it dextrously, wasting no time in finding your clit and drawing slow, teasing circles with the pads of his fingers.

His other hand, which had up until this point been palming your breast idly, now comes up to hold your face as he regretfully pulls his lips from yours. He studies your expressions with furrowed eyebrows, a teasing lilt in his voice as he asks, “Do you like it when I touch you here?” 

Just as soon as you part your lips to respond, his fingers dip lower until he’s sliding two of them into your fluttering hole. Your wetness provides no resistance, and now he’s coiling them deep inside of you. “Or here?”

You can’t think or respond when he’s pumping his long, slender fingers in and out of you, an act made more intense as he forces you to look at him with his hand on your jaw keeping your head in place. 

If you had to describe sex you’ve had in the past, vulnerable isn’t a word you’d use. 

And yet, it’s exactly how you feel as his eyes never leave your face, overseeing every expression you make from overwhelmed to whimpering to having your lips parted in a moan. 

A faint part of you wonders if you should feel more uncomfortable with how intimate this sex feels. 

And yet, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more pent up just with someone's fingers inside of you than right now, especially when he opens his mouth to praise you in his deep voice.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says, his breezy tone of voice reminiscent of a lullaby. “I’m so glad I met you tonight. Can’t wait to fuck you.”

He fucks his fingers deeper inside of you as he says this, causing you to mewl as you throw your head back in his hands. “Don’t make me wait, then,” you challenge, gripping his arm to steady yourself as another moan threatens its way to your lips.

“Such a needy girl, aren’t you?” he wolfishly remarks. “Well, if you insist.”

With am amused smile on his face, he pulls his fingers out of you, raising them between your two faces so that you both can look on at the wetness which coats them. You’re not at all surprised when he brings them to his lips, only turned on as he sucks both fingers clean with a wet smack.

“Wanna know what you taste like?” he proposes, his expression and tone of voice far too innocent for what he’s just done. You don’t respond, only pull him into you for a kiss so lewd it makes your insides jump. You reach your hand between your bodies as you kiss him, attaching your fingers to the bulge protruding from his boxers. You enjoy the feel of his clothed cock, large and substantial in your hands, before he’s pulling away to sigh against your lips. 

Your hand leaves his body as he moves away from you. “Don’t go anywhere. Need to grab a condom.”

You watch him in amusement as he goes to hunch over his discarded jeans. In his absence, you relax on your stomach, facing him on the edge of the bed. “Where would I go, stranger?”

“I don’t know,” he intones, returning to you with a silver packet in between his fingers. “But If I could freeze you like this forever, so pretty and waiting for me to fuck you, I would.”

The stranger’s way with words has your body responding once more, a ripple of electricity traveling up your legs and even more so when he takes off his boxers in front of you. You’re not ashamed at whatever expression of suprise is surely showing up on your face at the sight. 

You’d likely use the word pretty to describe his dick, veins bulging out of it like little vines and a tip that matches the rosy color of his lips. You decide then that he’s the biggest you’ve ever taken, though you suppose you should save that judgment for when he’s actually managed to fit inside of you.

Your thoughts are broken by his touch as he lifts your chin up with his hands, a smirk ever so prominent on his puffy lips. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

You both giggle at his cheekiness, a moment of humour that is promptly ended when the opening of the condom packet grabs your attention. You reach out to cease his movements with a hand on his wrist. He meets your gaze with a cute, confused look on his face. “Wanna taste you first, stranger” you assert with a blink.

“You’re so cute,” he remarks enjoyably, “But I won’t last if you do.”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, batting them extra hard as you say, “Just a peck?”

As you already suspected from the lack of conviction in his earlier refusal, he’s not at all stern as he moves to rub his thumb across your cheek. “Since you asked so nicely,” he replies permissively.

You barely have to lean forward off the bed for your mouth to reach his cock, tall and straight and hard in front of your face. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you press a kiss just underneath his tip, making eye contact as you pull away to watch as a heavy sigh leaves his lips. You don’t stop at just one peck, peppering them all along his shaft and enjoying the smoothness of his skin against your lips.

“I thought you said just a peck?” he reminds you when he notices what you’re doing, placing a hand on your hair but making no effort to push you away.

“Am I not pecking?” you ask, relishing in the groan he lets out when you wrap your puckered lips over his reddened tip. You’re just about to open your mouth fully before he finally shows some restraint, pulling you off of him with a tug of your hair.

“That’s enough,” he asserts, the mattress dipping from his weight as he hops onto the bed behind you. “If I’m not inside of you within the next 5 seconds, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Conscious of his presence behind you, you raise your body into an arch and feel pleased when he immediately grabs at your hips to pull you in closer. He ignores the impatient little wiggles of your ass that you do in attempt to get him to fuck you, prefering instead to spread your pussy open with his fingers and groan as he watches arousal spill out of you. “You’re so fucking wet,” he remarks dreamily, sliding a languid finger inside of you in a way that makes your arch deepen. “And it’s all for me, isn’t it, baby?”

His vocal tone has taken a shift so that he sounds less adoring and more sadistic, the observance of your arousal being just for him stated almost matter-a-factly. You don’t know why it turns you on even more than before, but it does, especially as he plays idly with pussy as if he forgets it belongs to a living, breathing you.

You’re fighting off whimpers as his fingers continue their exploration of your entrance. You hear him let out a long, drawn out “Fuck,” under his breath before he’s withdrawing from you entirely and asking, “Can I eat you out?”

Images of his plump, rosy lips flash through your mind like a movie sequence before you’re humming out affirmatively, excitement of what’s to come making your body tense as you feel him laying down on the bed, feel his breath against your mound as he becomes level with your pussy, feel his lips against your clit as he goes in to take all of you in his mouth.

The sounds that fill the room now are nothing but a lewd combination of your moans, his slurping, and the continued blaring of music coming from outside the walls. The way that he eats pussy is almost just as clumsy and unsure as he is, but he somehow manages to make you cry out as his tongue expertly flicks against your clit, or he licks into your entrance to taste the arousal there. 

You feel yourself becoming lightheaded and breathless as he licks you closer into orgasm. Already worked up from all the time he spent fingering you, what feels like the last straw is when he experimentally licks upward and brushes his tongue against the tight skin of your asshole. Noticing how it makes you moan and reach back to pull at his long hair, he keeps going, wetting your ass with his tongue. 

Alternating between this and your cunt, it’s only a matter of time when you find yourself mewling and tensing as your orgasm takes over your body. Your thighs are shaking and your hands are pulling so hard at his hair that you’re afraid you’ll rip it, but nonetheless he holds you up with two large hands against your ass and groans as you come all over his face. 

When he finally pulls away from you, your body collapses against the bed, all the marks of a good orgasm hitting you at once – ringing ears, tensed limbs, rising chest. You’re brought back to Earth by the feeling of faint, fleeting kisses being left on the expanse of your spine, the stranger’s body pressed against yours before he’s level with you and moving to pull your head to face his.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, sweet and innocent in yet another moment of tenderness that feels inappropriate for the setting you’re in. Nonetheless, you nod and relish in the feeling of his mouth against yours once more, acknowledging faintly to yourself that he just might be the best kisser you’ve ever been with.

He brings your body back to life by snaking his arms underneath you, grabbing at your boobs and almost making you feel ticklish as he gently caresses your stomach. Pulling away from your lips, he mutters the command of, “Turn around,” against your lips that you follow with zeal.

Flat on your back, you’re brought face to face with the man who has exceeded your expectations in almost every way compared to anyone else you’ve slept with so casually. Long locks of dark hair drape against the sides of face as he holds himself above you, making him look intense, but only briefly before he’s asking through an impish smile, “Are you intimidated by eye contact?”

He says it to you like it’s a challenge, like he hopes you’ll be shy so that he can guide you through it anyway. You shake your head stubbornly. “No,” you answer, “But I’m intimated by you.” It’s true. You’ve definitely never met a person like him, never had sex feel so intimate with a complete stranger. It scares you.

“Don’t be. I’m really a softie,” he assures, a childlike expression of excitement lighting up his handsome features. He presses a hand against your cheek in a gesture of affection, lips curling into a grin. “Only, my dick is as hard as a rock right now. Kinda wanna bury it inside of you.”

“What’s stopping you?”

You’re surprised when, in reply, he adjusts his body so that he’s lined up perfectly with your entrance, his latex covered tip pressing just slightly into you. “That’s a great question,” he quips, and without any further pretense, he slots himself inside of you.

You let out identical sounding sighs as his cock is engulfed by the sensitive, wet inside of your pussy. He presses his hips against you, making sure he’s as deep as he possibly can be before looking down at you for your approval. “Feels good?”

“Yes. Oh god, yes,” you’re whimpering in reply, head already thrown back as you get used to the feeling of his girth filling you. 

Hearing you express how good you feel is all the stranger needs to hear before he’s pulling out of you, methodically ensuring that just the tip is left inside before pushing back in. His vigor catches you by surprise, leaving you no time to adjust as he continues at a feverish pace. Unintelligible, broken-sounding cries spill out from your lips with each moment his hips meet yours.

“You have such pretty eyes,” he remarks as he watches you, a compliment you don’t think you’ve ever heard before while being fucked into the next dimesion. “And a pretty mouth, too,” he adds, his thumb breaching the wet insides of your lips before he’s leaning down to kiss you. The kiss is messy as you struggle to meet each other’s mouths, devolving into a mixture of tongue and spit and broken breath.

“Talk to me. Tell me how good I’m fucking you,” he groans against your mouth, sitting up on his knees to fuck you in an angle that’s deeper that before. With the pounding that he’s giving you, you’re just barely able to catch your breath, let alone form the words to respond to him.

“Can’t…scream your name if I don’t know it,” you manage to say in a teasing sort-of-way, your smirk widening into an open-mouthed cry as you’re sure he grazes your g-spot with a particualrly deep drive of his hips. 

He chuckles at your way of trying to get him to share his name, and whether he’s truly serious in wanting to withhold it from you or because he just wants to tease you, he says, “Come on my cock, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Fuck me harder, and I will,” you reply tauntingly, not because he’s not already, but because even through the haze of your approaching orgasm, you want to see how he’ll respond to your challenge.

He smiles at this request, though while maintaining his same pace. “But I don’t wanna break you, sweet girl,” he remarks, and if he weren’t, too, about to crash into his approaching climax, he’d surely make it a point to tease you for how you clench at the pet name. Instead, he opts to slot a hand between your legs and make work of your clit, rubbing it in tantalizing circles. “Does this help?”

Just as you were sure this sex couldn’t get any better, the added stimulation to your clit has your entire body reeling with pleasure. “Oh god, yes. Don’t stop.”

With each approaching second, you can feel yourself about to fall apart, a condition only worsened when the stranger pulls you down by your hips, bringing him even deeper inside of you. You love the sound of his deep voice from above you, sounding almost far-away and dreamlike as he mumbles remarks like, “Keep making those pretty noises for me, baby,” that shoot straight to your core, only adding to your wetness.

“Fuck, you’re killing me baby,” is what he says as his own pleasure begins to reach it’s peak. You love the expressions he makes, the almost painful look on his face as he says, “Wish I could come inside this tight little pussy.”

Even with the knowledge that he put a condom on, you can’t help but react positively to the notion of being filled with his hot, sticky release. And without intending it, your walls close tightly around his cock in tandem with the loud moan that on its own revealed just how much you enjoyed that little tidbit of dirty talk. And without fail, the stranger is quick to pick up on it and tease you for it, though through his own gritted teeth and groans as he inches closer to release.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you? If I filled you up with my cum? You wanna have my baby and you don’t even know my name?’

It’s the half-degrading, half-awe-inspired tone of voice he uses that throws you over the edge, your thighs shaking in anticipation of what you’re sure will be an earth-shattering orgasm. “I’m close,” you confess through baited breath.

“I know you are,” he acknowledges in reply, and without warning, your body convulses with the strength of your climax. “That’s it. Come on my dick.”

You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything quite like the overwhelming pleasure that washes over you in a series of pulsating, neverending waves. The stranger fucks you through it without any alteration in speed, and it’s just as you’re about to squirm away in overstimulation that he finishes with one last, deep thrust inside of you. The sound of his groans are just as melodic and husky as his voice is, sending little afterschocks of arousal up your belly until finally, he pulls out of you with a grunt.

Looking up at the ceiling, you feel the mattress dip beside you as he collapses onto the bed. Usually, this would be the point where the post-nut clarity hits you and you’d begin to regret another series of bad decisions that led you to a stranger's bed. Instead, as you lock eyes with who might possibly be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, you only wonder what you did to deserve such good fortune to have met him tonight.

“That was fucking amazing, stranger,” he remarks, putting voice to your own exact thoughts as he rolls over so that he can stroke your cheek idly. You try to hold off the pestering inclination to blink so that you can take in the rosy-cheeked, delicately striking state his orgasm has left him in. 

You thought that after giving you what was surely the best pounding of your life that you’d be less inclined to view him as a total weirdo. Instead, there is something so innocent now about the way he looks at you, as he can’t even believe this happened. Wanting to tease him, you reply, “Good enough for me to learn your name?”

He considers your question with an impish chuckle, and though you’re not at all desperate to know his name, you’re still surprised when he replies, “Will you forgive me if I say something tells me I want to keep you hanging for just a little while longer?”

There is an air of mysteriousness to his words that you pick up on but have trouble interpreting. And while you itch to know what’s going on in that big brain of his, you decide not to question him any further, instead just appreciating the ease and contentment of this moment. 

“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” you tell him candidly, leaning in so that the tip of your noses touch. “But I’m glad I met you tonight.”

You’re not embarrassed at all when you lean in to kiss him, because even though the sex is over, you just want to feel his lips against yours one last time before you go back to being two strangers who will likely never see each other after this. He reciprocates, seemingly ignorant to the idea of kissing someone chastely as he pulls you in and slips his tongue into your mouth.

Nevertheless, when you pull away, you know the moment is over when he says, “Walk of shame out the door together?”

You’re not sad, only content as you turn to him and answer. “Let’s.”

It’s a cozy Thursday morning on your campus as you step outside to meet with your friend, Jaehyun. When you had allowed him to borrow your computations textbook, you had no idea it would lead you to his apartment complex, where he swore he had left the book on accident.

“I promise you, I thought I brought it with me to class, but I must’ve left it in my room,” he explained sheepishly, patting his pockets as he searched for his apartment key. With his straight-cut bangs and habit of forgetfulness, Jaehyun was about the closest thing to a friend that you had since transferring. You went to the same high school together, congregating in the same social circles but ultimately going two separate ways after graduation. 

It wasn’t until your first day at this new school that you sat down for your morning class and discovered that Myeong Jaehyun went here, too. Since that moment of recognition on both of your ends, he’s been your only piece of relative familiarly in a place that still feels new to you.

“Here we are,” mumbled a disgruntled Jaehyun as he finally managed to unlock the door to his apartment. It was your first time seeing the place, and as far as student housing went, you were impressed. The space was populated with nice-enough-looking furniture and boyish decorations that you could tell belonged to Jaehyun and whoever his roommate was.

“I’m gonna go get your textbook from my room. You can wait out here,” said Jaehyun, turning to head into the hallway where the rooms were. You were just about to get comfortable, maybe sit on his couch and chill as he invariably spent ages looking for your textbook, until the noise of a door opening startled you into attention.

“Oh hey,” said Jaehyun casually to a familiar silhouette that appeared into the hallway. “Y/N, this is my roommate, Leehan.”

You fought the urge to laugh out loud as you were met with the image of the stranger who, just a few weeks ago, was drilling his cock into you in some of the most mind-blowing sex of your life. When he first came out and hadn’t noticed you yet, he simply looked curious, as if he was coming out of his room to see what was causing the noise. But now, he barely fights off a smirk as he, too, processes your presence. All of this goes unnoticed by an unsuspecting Jaehyun, who proceeds into his room to rummage for your textbook.

Left alone with the boy who you can now identify as Leehan, you look him up and down, taking in his casual appearance and hair that has only grown longer in the time since you last met. He leans against his doorframe, looking you over with a gaze just as intrusive before saying, “So. Y/N, huh?”

Both of you laugh out loud at the same time, the humor and awkwardness of the situation hitting you all at once. The smile on Leehan’s face forces his eyes into crescent shapes that you faintly acknowledge as endearing. 

“Leehan,” you state with a grin, returning the preceding instance of acknowledging each other’s names. “It suits you. Although, I’m not sure it’s special enough to justify you withholding it.”

He shrugs indifferently at that, looking not even a little embarrassed as he replies jokingly, “What can I say? I prefer an air of anonymity when conducting my one-night stands.”

“Is that what that was?” you quip back with a tilt of your head. You know exactly that that’s what it was, but playing coy about it is how you save yourself from the embarrassment of having to address the weird sexual-tension-mixed-with-awkwardness that lingers between the two of you.

He runs a hand through his hair, maintaining the smile on his face as he shrugs noncommittally and replies, “I don’t know, I was too drunk to remember. In fact, who are you again?”

You both giggle, the atmosphere and banter between the two of you surprisingly easy, even outside the context of being drunk at a house party. You can faintly hear the sounds of Jaehyun’s rummaging becoming louder a few doors away, letting you know he’s no closer to finding your textbook. To your own internal surprise, a tiny part of you is relieved to have the time to see where this interaction with Leehan will go.

“So, you’re friends with Myeong Jaehyun?” he asks, gesturing his head in the direction of his roommate’s door just a few feet away. You notice how he slips his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and straightens his posture, a move somehow making him look 10x taller.

“It’s a love/hate sort of thing. But yes, I’ve known him since high school.”

The corner of Leehan’s lips switch into a half-smile, something foreboding in his tone as he then says, “Then I guess I should expect to see you much more often, Y/N.”

You raise a questioning eyebrow, and through a confused grin, ask, “Why do you say that so ominously?”

Leehan doesn’t answer at first and instead just maintains his piercing gaze on your face. He’s so strange, but what’s even stranger is that you find yourself attracted to him. Attracted to him and his weirdly crooked smile and habit of staring at people for longer than normal. His shaggy brown hair and pouty lips that you can’t forget were once meshed with yours.

“No reason,” he finally answers, and before you can question such obviously purposeful ambiguity, it’s just then that Jaehyun comes out with your textbook.

“Found your book,” he says, cradling the thick textbook underneath his arm. Looking over at Leehan, whose open-mouthed expression obviously reveals he was in the middle of saying something, he pauses. “You good, Leehan?”

Leehan maintains a passive expression, though the hints of a smirk just barely bleed onto his lips as he gestures his head in your direction. “Yeah, just talking to Y/N.”

Jaehuun exchanges an inquisitive look between the two of you. “You guys know each other?”

Not sure how to answer that question, you look to Leehan for any non-verbal guidance. And funnily enough, he looks to you with the same sort of expecting look, and now you’re staring at each other for longer than normal, fighting back laughter as a confused Jaehyun looks on.

“You could say that,” Leehan replies, nodding his head affirmatively.

part 2 can be found HERE

taglist: @lailols @papichulomacy @0310s

comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist!

[dollyhyuckii]

BROOKLYN’S PRETTY BABY —!⋆୨୧˚ (엔시티 드림)

📞 ⋆୨୧˚ based on brooklyn baby by lana del ray ⋆୨୧˚

in which… in brooklyn’s chaos, jeno adores you, his “pretty baby,” but love blurs who’s in control. — 이제노 x fem!reader ⋆୨୧˚ suggestive /full fic ⋆୨୧˚ wc • 935 pet names such as my baby, pretty baby, pretty girl, baby! made with love by autum ⋆୨୧˚

⋆୨୧˚ authors note- likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated, everything is in lowercase on purpose, enjoy reading ⋆୨୧˚

the loft is loud with laughter and cigarette smoke, the hum of a pretentious jazz record playing from a beaten up vinyl player in the corner. you sit on the floor by the window, your back against the peeling brick wall, a notebook sprawled open in your lap, your pen hovers over the page, thoughts half formed as you glance around at the crowd.

jeno across the room, leaning against a rusted radiator, his arms crossed and his head tipped slightly to the side. he’s watching you. he always is. you can feel his gaze even when you don’t meet it , heavy and steady, like your the only thing worth noticing in the whole chaotic scene.

“my baby” he calls over the din, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. his voice carries, low and familiar sending a ripple through the group. heads turn, but he doesn’t care. he only had eyes for you

you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “what, jeno?”

he crouches down beside you, his leather jacket creaking softly as he moves “what masterpiece are you working on now, pretty girl?”

“it’s not for you” you said, closing the notebook before he can peek inside. “i don’t expect you to get it”

jeno laughs, and the sound feels warm against your skin. “your so full of it” he plucks the pen from your fingers like it belongs to him and twirls it between his fingers. “but that’s why i like you. you’re my baby, even when you’re acting all untouchable”

you roll your eyes, through you can’t help the small grin tugging at the corners of your lips. jeno always knows how to disarm you, breaking through your carefully crafted armor with a single well placed word or trust.

the night wears on, and the conversation around you blurs into white noise. jeno says by your side, his presence steady and grounding in a way you don’t like to admit. he doesn’t try to join the debates about the art and politics, he just sat there, his arm slung casually over the back of your chair, watching you with that soft look in his eyes.

at some point, his lips find your ear, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. “lets get out of here baby”

you hesitate, glancing around the room. these people, the scene it’s your world, the one you created so carefully. but jeno doesnt belong here, and somehow, neither do you.

“fine” you say, standing and grabbing your jacket. “but only because this place is boring”

he laughs, low and teasing, but he doesn’t argue. instead, he takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as he leads you out into the cold brooklyn night.

the city is alive, the streets buzzing with honking cars and the chatter of strangers. neon signs flicker overhead, casting their glow on the slick pavement. jeno walked beside you, his hands warm and steady in yours. he doesn’t ask where you want to go, he just keeps walking, weaving through the chaos like he knows exactly where you’re meant to end up

eventually, the noise fades, and you find yourselves alone on a quiet street, a single street lamp flickering above. jeno leaned against the lamppost, his dark eyes meeting yours in the dim light.

“you think you’re better than everyone in that room” he says, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “and you are.., but you’re also mine”

you cross your arms, tilting your head. “oh im yours now?”

he steeped closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “yeah, my pretty baby, you are. even with your big words and your bigger attitude”

you don’t reply, not with words, anyway. instead, you let him kiss you, his lips soft, his touch grounding you. in the moment. jeno has a way of making you feel small and infinite all at once , like your both the queen of the city and the girl who can’t resist the boy who calls her “baby”

when the kiss breaks, he smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “see?, told you”

you scoffed, stepping back but letting your hands linger in his “you’re insufferable”

“and you love it” he says, his grin widening as he tugs you closer again.

maybe you do, but you’d never admit it.

as the two of you wander further down the quiet street, he suddenly stops by a graffiti covered wall. the bright colors and the bold strokes of paint are almost hypnotizing under the streetlights. he pulls you close, resting his chin on top of your head.

“someday, im gonna paint you” he muttered, his voice soft. “something that’ll last forever. you’d look good up there, don’t you think? my pretty baby on ever wall in brooklyn”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re delusional, jeno”

“maybe..” he says with a grin, titling you’re face up to meet his gaze. “but you’d love it, don’t lie”

the truth is , you would. you’d love to see yourself up there, to know that even in the chaos of the city, you’d left your mark. for now though, you left jeno to think he’s the dreamer, the artist, the one with the vision

but between the two of you, you know who the real muse is.

and the city?, it can wait. tonight, it’s just you, your boy, and the dream you both keep pretending doesn’t scare you.

[feralgirlfeelings]

★ what kind of music each love & deepspace boy would listen to! ★

hcs of zayne, rafayel, and xavier's music taste ♫꒰･◡･๑꒱

pairing: lnds boys x reader

warnings: none

zayne:

he listens to classical music 90% of the time. it's not because he particularly likes it, but he just got used it after listening to classical music to focus while studying 12 hours a day as a med student. now, in pavlovian fashion, he'll play it while performing surgeries to really get him in the zone. the other 10% is, surprisingly, cutesy kpop girl group songs. think "russian roulette" by red velvet, "magnetic" by illit, and "only" by leehi. he doesn't go out of his way to find these songs, but he'll hear them in passing and get one stuck in his head. he's one of those people that'll get hooked and listen to a song over and over again, especially while he's working out or when he needs an energy boost. he's embarrassed about it, so he'll try to hide it from you, only listening to music with his earbuds in. but there's been times where you catch him:

"zayne, i didn't know you were into red velvet," you stifle a giggle. you hold his phone up to him, the song "russian roulette" on the lock screen. he crosses his arms, ears turning pink, "what's so funny about that? ...it's catchy." "nothing! i just didn't expect that from you," you laugh. you hand him his phone back, "i can teach you the dance, i know it by heart," you tease. "hmm," he raises an eyebrow, an amused look on his face. "i'd like to see that."

xavier:

he likes a few different genres of music, but he tends to like classic rock and alternative the most. some of his favourite songs are "little dark age" by mgmt, "eyes without a face" by billy idol, and "let it happen" by tame impala. he doesn't like to explore new music often and will usually just stick to what he already likes. he'll often blast music through his through his earbuds when he's fighting wanderers alone or when he's trying to stay awake. he's had a lot of time on earth, so his taste spans a lot of different music eras. there's been a few times when he's complained about how he "just doesn't get music nowadays." sometimes he'll show you a super old song and be surprised that you've never heard of it before:

xavier hands you an earbud, the other one in his ear. he shows you a song on his phone that you don't recognize. after a few seconds of listening, you shake your head, "i don't know this one." "really?" xavier looks at you shocked. "this song was huge in the 80s." you hand him back his earbud, "see that's why i don't know it, i'm not 40," you tease. "they just don't make music like this anymore," he sighs. you laugh, "xavier, that makes you sounds so old!' he smiles back at you, "i think those songs are just timeless."

rafayel:

he's into artsy stuff. he's one of those people who listens to a song or album multiples times to dissect and analyze every part of it, appreciating it as an art form. some of his favourite songs include "my love mine all mine" and "washing machine heart" by mitski, as well as "movement" by hozier. he plays music while working on paintings, because apparently, "listening to complex music helps with the artistic process." he also experiences sound-to-colour synesthesia, which explains why the music helps him paint. he has a really pretty singing voice and will often hum or sing his favourite songs, but will get shy when you ask him to sing for you. despite his usual pretentious music taste, he'll occasionally get hooked on some generic top 40s song, like something by drake.

rafayel had been humming the same song over and over again while working on a painting of you. you couldn't help but close your eyes and focus on the melody, "what song is that?" you ask. he pauses from humming, his concentration on his painting unwavering, "my love mine all mine by mitski." "it's nice, i've never heard of it before," you reply. "i'm not surprised, i have spectacular taste, you know," he boasts. you stare at him blankly, "wasn't your top song last year passionfruit?" holding back a laugh. his ears and cheeks turn bright red, "those are never accurate anyways."

[haru-dipthong]

Ep3 of my Utena fansub is out!!

This episode's translation discussion:

でも私、人が大勢いるような場所は苦手なんです。なんだか、みんな同じような顔の人に見えて、怖いんです。

But I feel it's hard for me to deal with a place where there are so many people. Somehow, they all start to look the same, and that frightens me. (from ohtori.nu)

But I’m not comfortable in large crowds. Everyone’s faces start to blur together. It’s quite frightening. (my translation)

If you’ve seen all of Utena, you know the real reason why crowds trigger Anthy’s trauma response. I think the phrase 同じような顔の人に見えて is less about the fact that they all literally start to “have the same face” and more about the fact that they’re seen as one mass, losing their individuality and becoming a mob. Based on this read, and on the visual that happens later (pictured above) I decided to go with “blur together”. I’m sure no one will ever really notice this tiny detail, but I’m hoping if I can make as many translations that are similarly informed by the themes of the work as possible, it’ll be a stronger translation for it!

あのねー、こう見えても僕は健全な女子なの。

Look dude. Despite how I seem, I’m just a normal girl.

I really wanted to preserve the hilarious contradiction present in the Japanese where Utena is saying they're a normal girl while still using boku. They’ve got one foot on the accelerator and one foot on the brake of their gender with this line — ending it in a feminine なの particle.

Courier: 桐生会長からです。 Utena: え？僕に？

Courier: From the student president. Utena: What? From him?

Although Utena’s Japanese literally means “For me?” I think that English phrase sounds quite feminine in the context of receiving a gift. However, Utena is using their masculine 僕 pronoun, so the Japanese doesn’t sound nearly as feminising as the English literal translation. I decided to change their reaction to be “From him?” because it’s less feminine, and because the gendered implications in this scene and following scenes are more important than the literal meaning of the words.

甘えん坊だな、わが妹君は。

Ah little sister, always fawning over me.

A difficult translation. 甘えん坊 is often translated as “spoiled” but in this case it’s meant more as someone who sucks up or craves attention of their parents (or in this case, brother). Also, Touga is using some extremely pretentious vocab here, the possessive わが which is very old fashioned, so I wanted to get some of that pompousness into the translation as well. I think “fawning over me” was a great find that fit really well!

Touga: 想像以上だ！

Touga: Even more beautiful than I imagined.

I almost made this “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined”. The reason I didn’t was because I think Touga here is almost not even talking to Utena as a person. He’s so deep in the objectification vortex that he’s talking about them to himself, like they’re a piece of art.

-----

Thanks as always to @dontbe-lasanya for their amazing editing!

For all released episodes so far, go to this link:

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Gamyga Debut: Super Smash Bros. Brawl

Hey! I want a turn on the "talking about Subspace Freaks"! Gimme! Gimme! Subspace was like, one of my formative Weird Enemy Experiences! How have I NOT talked about any of these guys yet?!

Gamyga has always been one of my favorite Subspace Emissary enemies, and you wanna know why? It's because I have good taste, that's why! I mean, this is a really visually striking design, if you ask me. The trophy description it has in Brawl describes it as looking "like an avant-garde work of art from some young art-school grad." That's awesome. You KNOW I love things that are weird and abstract and artsy and pretentious! Gamyga is right up my alley!

I'd say this enemy was made for me, but it was more-so made for the purpose of having a really tall enemy that can serve as a road block that can shoot lasers at you from above while you take it apart piece by piece... That is, unless you are brave enough to take out the mask first and watch the whole thing fall apart all at once!

Of course Mod Hooligon likes the abstract, multi-segmented enemy that you can slowly dismantle or alternatively attack the head of to deal with it instantly. So what? I have a type! Don't judge me! I see no difference, love is love!

As I said, this thing is tall, which probably adds to the visual-strikingness, especially when combined with the fact it pops out of the ground without warning when you get near it! No wonder this thing left such an impression on me. I mean, imagine if you were just taking a stroll in the park when this thing appeared in front of you without warning! How would you feel? Gamyga Jumpscared? Or perhaps Gamyga Pleasantly Surprised...?

Well, no, you would feel "in pain" on account of the Gamyga Laser Blasts.

Sometimes, springs or platforms will be placed nearby that let you jump over Gamyga, or alternatively you'll be playing as a character like Kirby or Pit who can just fly over it. Otherwise though, this thing is going to block your path and soak up a ton of damage. But hey, if it's gonna do that, it may as well look good while doing so!

Man, I spent so long talking about the Whole Enchilada that I haven't even gotten around to talking about the Gamyga Bases on their own! That's right! With every Gamyga, you get Five Guys for the price of one, with One (1) mask and four of These Things! Could a Gamyga be considered a form of colonial organism like a siphonophore...? You don't need to sell me on this thing any more than you already have!

Though maybe it'd be better to analyze these as being something mechanical, given their stiff movements, and how every time they wiggle their arms, it sounds like someone moving a pinball flipper. I almost feel this design would be more interesting if it was biological, but there's something enticing about describing these things as being like "a robotic siphonophore". I honestly don't know which interpretation appeals to me more.

The posing of the arms and the hollow facial features almost remind me of the haniwa statues Gyroids are modeled after, but the presence of pupils and Teeth here makes them look considerably freakier, which as far as I'm concerned is only a good thing. Watch out! Gamyga Base can BITE YOU! Not in the game, mind you. I'm talking about real life.

Gamyga was one of the Subspace enemies they decided to give a trophy in Super Smash Bros. for Nintendo 3DS, for some reason. It's not in Smash Run at all, so I guess whoever was deciding on what things to include as trophies in this game just believed Gamyga was an absolutely vital part of Nintendo history that people needed to be aware of.

They were right, for the record.

[baconcolacan]

ColaLosers vs TomTord: Different Fonts - Same Font Family [short essay]

ColaLosers is rivals-to-lovers and TomTord is enemies-to-lovers. That’s the main talking point of this post. I could end this here, but I really REALLY want to gab about them so indulge me.

It’s probably obvious by now but I’m such an avid fan of the rivals-to-lovers and enemies-to-lovers trope, and yes, I do differentiate the two, but I also think they share an umbrella under the ‘antagonistic’ branch of the relationship types. They’re in the same family, but not exactly the same thing. To me, they are very closely tied to each other but only in a way that they can be viewed as two sides of the same coin, except one side is a bit shinier than the other.

Moving that pretentious preamble aside, this whole yapping session is just me explaining how I personally see ColaLosers and TomTord’s relationships, so buckle down a bit and listen to me over analyze two fictional fanon gay relationships.

Like I said above, there is a lot of overlap in how their relationships are portrayed by the fandom, but I really do think there’s a fundamental difference between the two with regards to the people who are involved in them. Now I’ll be very very subjective about this, because I know that my opinion isn’t shared by the fandom collective, we aren’t a monolith, so take whatever I say next as a personal take and doesn’t reflect everybody’s interpretations, even if I might sound like I’m preaching gospel truth with how I word things.

My opinion is formed by most of what I consumed from eddsworld [of course. i.e. eddisodes and comics] plus whatever crumbs we have of Tord [of course] so it might not even be accurate but like I said; this is the musings of a queer man over analyzing fictional fanon gay relationships.

So, ColaLosers, to me in the fandom they’re very peak rivals-to-lovers. Eduardo does have some unaddressed grievances with Edd, which drives a lot of his actions against him, but all in all, this really just comes out to a competitive drive that he cultivates between the two of them. While yes, he doesn’t like Edd for upstaging him in their past, and quite possibly giving him a minor trauma and inferiority complex, his reaction to him would at most be resentment and at the least irritation.

It doesn’t mean his negative feelings towards Edd is light of course, but his way to go about it is to create competition when he finds opportunity, albeit a little unfair as he doesn’t inform Edd about them, but sometimes he does, like when they both agree to art competitions or when he gives Edd the chance to one up him if he can. See hammer and fail, though he’s very mocking about it and makes a spectacle out of the situation, but we can argue that he’s trying to recreate his minor trauma to make Edd feel what he felt in that moment.

Eduardo, while petty and catty, really just wants to facilitate competition with Edd, partially to prove that he can be at the same level as him or more [mostly more], and he has shown that he’s able to show care about Edd [see PowerEdd] and would rather have them settle their score one-to-one without much outside interference.

In a ColaLosers lens, you can see this as him wanting to have Edd’s full attention focused solely on him, he isn’t looking for approval from people around them, though he may have once wanted that, he’s looking to have Edd’s acknowledgement, someone who everybody seemed to love on principle. Every time he does something, or accomplishes something, who does he tell first? Edd. If he could have his approval, it was more than enough, worth more than enough.

On Edd’s side, the relationship feels like something that drives him to be better. Usually, Edd doesn’t seem to mind the world around him, or what other people think or are doing, while he does have a penchant for competition, it’s mostly on the average level where he strives to prove that he can win it, like most people might when finding themselves in a competitive environment.

When it comes to Eduardo though, he seems to take it a lot more seriously. It might have started out as mild irritation, but Eduardo’s insistence to take his first place, and not a first place, has made him more inclined to defend his position with gusto rather than to prove something, because usually he has nothing to prove, why should he? It usually goes his way, woopie! And if it doesn’t? Who cares? It was dumb anyway.

But with Eduardo, ooh, a point lost to Eduardo would incense him.

Eduardo seems to be the only person who can push his buttons and fuel his drive, usually Edd’s the one who does the gloating, but Eduardo targets him specifically and that just drives him up the wall.

I like characterizing Edd as someone who has a subtle MC syndrome [lmao], and Eduardo is the only person to rip him from his fantasy that the world revolves around him [double lmao. EDDSworld], and that his spotlight could very easily be taken if he isn’t doing his best to defend it.

So yes, ColaLosers, they have an antagonistic relationship, but they aren’t praying for each others’ downfalls, not genuinely at least, and they foster the relationship through competitions and verbal jabbing.

I feel like Edd and Eduardo already know the kind of people they are, while there is room for growth, they’re sure of their positions in life, which makes their relationship already grounded on sure footing, the only thing left for them to do is to learn how to stop stepping on each others’ toes when they dance to their respective songs. They aren’t opposites, in fact, I would say that they’re very similar to each other [lol]. It would be easy for them to compromise, even if their egos don’t outwardly let them or show it. Plus, they might even enjoy their little back and forths.

Now, TomTord, ough good god, this ship is the death of me. I have been obsessed with this dynamic for such a long time, especially since I’m a fan of opposites attracting. Unlike ColaLosers however, they are the enemies-to-lovers ship, and I do mean enemies.

Tom and Tord have never seen eye to eye, they might have started as rivals, but they are unable to fully reign themselves in before they take it too far, unlike how I view what Edd and Eduardo do. Sure the latter can cause some damage to each other, but it doesn’t seem to become as lasting and bitter than when the former do it.

To be honest, I think Tord was the one to try and start a ‘friendly’ rivalry with Tom, but he wasn’t good at reading the kind of person that Tom was as they grew together. Seeing as Edd was his best friend, he might have mistakenly tried to carry over his friendship with Edd, into whatever relationship he was trying to foster with Tom. Edd is much more cavalier about things than Tom is, as despite acting like he doesn’t care, Tom is a very emotional person who’s just good at hiding away his feelings when he’s hurt. Tord could have mistakenly thought that Tom could handle what he dishes out, but Tom instead got hurt and started to harbor a growing resentment for him that was seeded by very negative feelings.

Tom is also known to lash out angrily, so it would be no surprise if Tord and he got into a very bad altercation, it might not even be physical, just really bad, where you know that hurtful, personal, and threatening things may have been said.

I genuinely think that, despite growing up together, Tom and Tord didn’t give each other time to understand the kind of persons they were, not caring enough to get to know each other on a deeper level and instead making assumptions about each other, and with Tom being very quick to anger and retaliate, and Tord perhaps taking things too personally and refusing to back down, their irritation with each other could very well become openly hostile as the years go by.

They do not know how to compromise.

Tom doesn’t care [at least when it comes to Tord], and Tord doesn’t want to learn.

They’re both convinced that the other is a straight-a douchebag. Tom thinks Tord is self-centered and grossly, maliciously, petty, and any positive thing about him, be it his devil-may-care attitude or extroverted tendencies, is extremely overshadowed by his flaws.  Meanwhile Tord thinks Tom is an angry asshole who gets ticked off at every minor thing, although Tord acknowledges that Tom is smart and can truly get in his way if he really put an effort into it, which to be honest, is somewhat of a backhanded compliment considering he thinks he puts his emotions first before logic.

They both have very strong personalities, but their selfishness and self-centered mentalities gets in the way of good personal growth, they both have a lot of issues as far as I can tell. Relationship-wise, they have already shown each other the worst of themselves, and would keep to their hostile relationship if they aren’t willing to disregard their preconceived notions.

I think, really, that any relationship they could start at this stage would purely stem from rage, and would most likely only be physical at the start [emotions are high, and loathing feels very similar to love on a physiological level], it won’t be a very good relationship as neither party is willing to compromise. It’s a doomed relationship, even from the very beginning.

To be honest, they need time apart, so Tord leaving could be a blessing in disguise, their [lets face it] obsession with each other is distracting them from their own personal growth, and becoming a healthier person requires a lot of vulnerability and ‘softness’ that they would refuse to show each other or would find shame in. Without a distracting outlet in their lives [i.e. them antagonizing each other], they would be forced to face the negativities about themselves without fully taking it out on someone else like they are wont to do with each other.

I think they both have the potential to compliment each other [be it good or bad depending on who you ask] but they need time and space to figure out who they are first before trying any sort of relationship with each other, they need to address their own issues before a good and healthy relationship can form. And with their old perspectives on each other, they would be very pleasantly surprised to discover the person behind all that negative light, and find that, well, he could be someone who could understand them, as they had already seen them at their worst.

I find it endearing for love to bloom when the other person had already seen your ugly parts, and slowly get to know the good in you, it’s very easy to fall in love with someone you already feel so strongly about, only to find that they aren’t as bad as you think, especially when it all stems from a misunderstanding, like I believe TomTord to be.

Also, its funny when they get together and be the cattiest fucking gay couple you know, they’ll be gossiping about everybody and be totally vile about it, but what does that matter to them? They’re both assholes, and they love each other, the outside world doesn’t exist to them, they live in their bubble and can be horrible together if they so wished. What’s a more devoted action than pressing the nuke button on everyone together? Date night would be a blast.

Anyway, that’s it I think, thanks for listening, this was awful, goodnight.

[rizlowwritessortof]

Dangerous In More Ways Than One

Here we go, my first entry for @jacklesversebingo24 🥰 Prompt is 'Dangerous Suggestion.' Hope you enjoy!

Danger is sometimes just in your mind - but Dean is definitely danger of another kind.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 1954

Warnings: None really, except Dean in a tux; fluff

The warmth of Dean’s hands seeps through the silky fabric of your dress as he holds your waist, kissing you without warning, and the shock steals your breath away. The deliberate clearing of a throat makes it all stop, both of you looking wide-eyed towards the sound.

“Sir, ma’am – sorry, but you’re not supposed to be in here.”

You don’t have to fake your blush, and Dean glances down at the floor with an embarrassed smirk, expertly fooling the security guard standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, man – we were, uh, just looking for a little privacy, and this door was unlocked, so we just…”

“I understand. But you’ll have to find your privacy elsewhere. This office should have been locked and off-limits.”

Dean nods and takes your hand, leading you out the door as the guard steps aside, and he apologizes once again for good measure as you follow him back to the banquet hall. He parks you next to the wall and bends to whisper in your ear. “Sorry about that. Had to think fast.”

Your eyes slide up to meet his for a second, then you stare back at the floor, unwilling to let him read you quite yet. You nod, responding quietly. “Yeah, of course. At least we didn’t get caught.”

He sighs in frustration. “Didn’t get what we were after, either. So we have to come up with a new plan.” He looks over at the buffet table, cocking an eyebrow at the tempting offerings there. “How about we grab some food and a drink, sit down and figure it out.”

You agree, relieved at the thought of getting off your feet. Your heels are killing you. “Sounds good to me.”

He slips an arm around you, and the muscles in your stomach clench as his hand rests possessively at your waist again. He looks incredible in his borrowed tux, and you are having thoughts that you normally batter into submission with focused research, beer and violence against evil creatures. Unfortunately, none of that is available at the moment, but a glass of champagne can’t hurt.

You claim one of the small tables scattered throughout the room, letting Dean play the gentleman and hold your chair as you sit. Who knew he had that in him? You take a gulp of the bubbly, pop a cheese puff into your mouth, and mentally remind yourself to guard your expression before looking up into those stunning green eyes. “So, now what?”

“Well…” he managed between chewing, “I think I should head for the bathroom.”

You laugh softly. “Okay. That’ll teach ‘em.”

“I mean as an excuse, smartass. I should go, look for an unlocked door so we can duck inside and wait until everybody clears out. Then we pick the lock again, grab that fucking cursed statue and we’re home free.” The amused smile is still on your face, and he can’t resist responding with a slow grin that makes your heart skip a little. “Well, that’s my suggestion. You got anything better?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I think that’s probably the best plan. So – go tinkle or whatever, I’ll guard your baby quiche.”

He stands up, narrowing his eyes at you. “Just so you know, I counted those.” You can’t help but giggle as he turns to go. The man is serious about his food.

He isn’t gone long, sits down and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Okay, we’re good. Just need to wait until the crowd thins out a little so we can get in there without Mall Cop catching us.” He glances down, then glares over at you. “You ate one of my quiche.”

People have finally started to leave, and you are so ready for this night to be over. You had taken as long as possible to eat, each had another drink, strolled around pretending to look at the art on display, but you are officially over wearing heels and trying to act like you fit in with this rich, pretentious crowd.

The guard Dean had dubbed ‘Mall Cop’ is busy manning the door as people leave, so now is as good a time as any to get yourselves settled in for the next hour or two until the place is empty. Dean guides you down the hall, a couple of doors down from the office you needed to get into later, looking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear.

“Ok, let’s go,” Dean says, his voice barely above a whisper. He opens the door, craning his neck to look over his shoulder as he urges you past him to the doorway. “Get in there before somebody sees us.”

You step around him, and your eyes grow wide as your hands fly out to brace on the sides of the door frame. “This is a bad idea.”

Dean’s voice hisses in your ear as he pushes you inside. “You agreed to it, sweetheart, now move.”

He squeezes in behind you, pulling the door closed quietly. It’s pitch black and there’s barely enough room for both of you in the tiny broom closet, which is luckily empty of all but a couple of brooms and a mop leaning in one corner. “I changed my mind. I hate your suggestion. It’s a very bad suggestion. A very bad, dangerous suggestion.”

Dean scoffs at your comment. “It’s not dangerous. As long as we’re quiet, they’re not gonna know we’re here. They’ll all clear out in an hour or so, and then we can hit Maitland’s office, get that damn statue and then we’re outta here.”

Your breathing is quickening, your heart beginning to pound. “It is dangerous. I can feel it.”

You feel his hand on your shoulder, his fingers trailing down the length of your bare arm as he chuckles softly. “Afraid to be in the dark with me?” His hand covers yours, and he freezes for a moment, feeling the trembling of your fingers beneath his. When he speaks, the tone of his voice is completely different. “Claustrophobia? But I thought you were okay with hiding out until...”

“I thought it would be a room. Like, a real room, a whole, big room with, you know, room and – and air. Lots and lots of air. Not a tiny death trap. We’re gonna get stuck in here, the walls are going to close in on me and I… I can’t breathe.” Even though you are whispering, your fear comes through loud and clear.

Dean moves both of his hands up to your upper arms, supporting you. “We’re not going to get trapped. All I have to do is open the door, there’s not even a lock on it. Okay?” His voice is gentle as he continues. “The walls aren’t going to close in on you.”

Your trembling continues, and each breath is coming in soft, desperate little whines. “I… can’t…”

He says your name quietly. “Do you trust me?” After a second, you nod, and he gives your arms a squeeze. “Okay. First of all, take off those ridiculous shoes. You need to get comfortable.”

You slip out of your heels, doing what he asks without question, and the cool floor on your bare feet is actually soothing.

“Okay, now just lean back into me.” He moves his hands to cover yours, bringing them up to rest at your waist. “Just relax, feel when I breathe and breathe with me. In – out. In – out. In – out.” His hands stay on yours, holding you in place, grounding you as he slowly guides you out of your panic.

You are tense at first, but gradually you lay your head back against his shoulder and relax against his firm chest, your body responding and your breathing syncing with his. Your quaking begins to calm, and Dean gives your hand a squeeze. “Better?”

You nod as you answer. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You draw in a shaky breath. “Just – talk to me. So I don’t have to think about where I am.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Anything.”

He blows out a breath. “Okay. So – you look amazing tonight.”

You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Wow, you really are trying to distract me.”

He sputters a little as he answers. “No! Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I should have told you before, but when you came out in this slinky dress and those sexy high heels, I couldn’t get any words to come out. So, I’m telling you now.”

You blow out an incredulous breath. “I – didn’t think you even noticed how I look. Like, ever.” You tilt your head back as if you can look up at him, even though it’s too dark to see. “And you said my shoes were ridiculous.”

“Well, they are. I mean, they can’t be comfortable. But they are sexy, and when you walk, it kinda puts a little extra swing in your step, it’s – ah…” he clears his throat. “Yeah, sexy.”

“Women are used to being uncomfortable just to look good for men.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to. I mean, you always look good. Barefoot, in your old jeans, or those cute little cut-offs you wear sometimes. And that old sweatshirt that hangs off your shoulder, that’s good, too.” He leans down so he can speak softly in your ear. “Kinda makes me want to take a bite.”

You’re finding it hard to breathe again. “You’ve never even tried.”

“Well, maybe the time’s never been right. Or maybe I just didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Wow. And I thought you could see right through me.”

“You’ve always kept your distance, and I thought that’s the way you wanted it.” His thumb is brushing over the soft skin of your hand.

“I thought that’s the way you wanted it. I didn’t think you were even interested in anything else.”

“Shhhhh,” Dean whispers, and you both go silent. Footsteps echo in the hall, then a voice right outside the door makes you jump.

“Did you check the bathrooms?” A distant ‘yeah’ came back in reply. “Good, then let’s get the hell out of here and go grab a beer.”

The footsteps retreat back the way they came, and you let out the breath you were holding. “Just a few minutes to make sure they’re gone,” Dean says softly, and you nod.

After a few long minutes have passed, he finally reaches behind him and opens the door. The dim nightlights in the hallway let you see your way out, and you take a deep breath. “This is much better.”

You start to take a step, but Dean takes hold of your hand and stops you, backing you into the wall.

“You still owe me for that quiche you stole,” he says, his eyes shining playfully. Then he bends to kiss you, gentle at first, then more hungrily as you grab at his jacket to tug him closer. When he finally lifts his head, you are both panting, his eyes searching yours as he waits for your reaction.

“I knew this was gonna be dangerous - in more ways than one,” you tease, and he grins, a touch of relief in his eyes.

“Danger is my middle name,” Dean quips in his best Austin Powers voice, and you giggle, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him again. You smile slyly up at him as you slide out from between him and the wall, heading towards the office that holds your target. “Hey,” he says, and you stop, turning to look at him. He holds out his hand, your shoes dangling from his fingers. “Don’t forget your ridiculous shoes.”

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[elliesbelle]

skinny dipping

ellie williams one-shot

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: it's a wednesday and you go to a coffee shop. you hear the barista call a name: ellie. your ex-girlfriend. after some nonsensical chatter, she asks to catch up. have you both changed or are you still those scared little kids?

content warnings: modern au, ex-girlfriend!ellie, also ex-best friend!ellie, also artist!ellie, also a bit of mean!ellie, ellie and reader are in their mid-20s, cursing, verbal arguments, kind of angst, mention of character death, ellie and reader break-up, non-sexual nudity, minors don't interact

word count: 6.1k

my masterlist

i have a ko-fi if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

based on the sabrina carpenter song “skinny dipping”

It’s 8:47 on a Wednesday morning. You’d gotten an early start to your morning and figured you could treat yourself to a cup of coffee. Since you work just around the corner from the coffee place and had a few minutes to spare, you were at your leisure. 

You stand to the side from where the pick-up counter was, patiently waiting for your name and order to be called out. Scrolling through your phone absent-mindedly, your ears suddenly perk up when one of the baristas calls out, “Oat milk latte for, uhhh… Ellie?” 

There’s no chance that it’s actually her. 

But it is. 

You look up from your phone to see a flash of auburn hair. The barista places the oat milk latte on the counter to be picked up by a woman in a simple black t-shirt tucked into dark grey jeans and wearing a pair of old, black Converse. 

The woman mutters a thanks to the barista before turning around to suddenly meet your stunned gaze. Her green eyes mirror the expression on yours. 

“Hi.” Your ex-girlfriend suddenly blurts out. 

“Hi, E-Ellie.” You blurt out right back. 

The sounds of chatter from other patrons and chairs scraping and the cha-ching of the register are all drowned out suddenly as you’re both being pulled into a bubble. 

“Then go, Ellie! Just fucking go!” You screamed. 

“The fuck does it look like I’m doing, huh?” Ellie yelled back, throwing up her hands in frustration before going back to stuffing her belongings from her desk into her backpack. 

“Running away, like you always do!” You responded angrily. “You’re a fucking coward!” 

“Uh, huh, sure.�� She scoffed, keeping her back turned to you as she zips up her backpack. 

“Just go back to your fancy fucking college with all your fancy new friends and go ahead and make your pretentious art and forget about all of this!” You said, tears uncontrollably streaming down your face. 

“Yeah, maybe I will!” Ellie retorted, whipping around to look at you. 

“Fine.” You sneered. 

“Fine!” She replied. 

You glared at each other, her angry green eyes meeting yours. 

After a moment of loaded silence, you sniffled, wiped your nose on your sleeve, and shook your head. 

“Well, you can go ahead and forget about me too, then.” You professed, making your way to storm past her and out of the garage. 

Before you reached the doorknob, you felt Ellie’s hand suddenly grab your wrist. 

“Wait,” She said, voice a little softer. 

You kept your eyes focused on the door, knowing that if they met hers once again, you’d beg for forgiveness that you didn’t need to receive from her. 

“Don’t.” You said firmly. You attempted to shake her off, but her grip stayed secure. 

“Let’s just—let’s talk about this.” She said with an attempt at rationality in her voice. 

“I’ve been here the whole time to talk. There’s no point in it anymore. Now let go of me.” 

“Baby—” 

“I’m not your fucking baby, Ellie!” You suddenly yelled, relenting to turn around and say this directly to her face. Her eyes were welling up with tears. 

“Please, I love you.” Ellie pleaded. 

You scoffed. 

“No, you fucking don’t.” You proclaimed. 

You shook off Ellie’s hand from your wrist once you felt her grip loosen. You yanked the door open and ran into the night. 

The flooding of memories is put to a stop when you hear the barista call out your name and order. You jump and so does Ellie. 

Awkwardly, you break the eye contact to walk to the pick-up counter right next to her, reaching out to grab your drink. 

You pull the coffee cup to your chest, as if the heat could radiate comfort through your body. Something within you summons a sliver of courage, so you decide to break the silence and dared look her right in those ocean-green eyes again. 

“How are you?” You mutter, so quiet that you weren’t sure if she heard you. But you were both so close to each other that you swore you could hear her heartbeat. 

“I’m…I’m good.” She mutters right back. 

Ellie surprises you with a tiny smile. You return it with a bashful one of your own. 

“Good.” You say. “I—I didn’t know you were back in town.” 

“Yeah, actually I—” Ellie hesitates for a second. “I moved back last month.” 

“Oh.” You say, shocked. “Oh, wow. I didn’t know that.” 

“Yeah, it was–it was a little sudden. But I’m here.” 

“Right.” You reply, taking a nervous sip of your coffee. 

“Umm, so…how’s your family?” She asks. 

“Oh, they’re…they’re the same.” 

“That’s good. How’s your sister Kiko?” 

You smile, touched that Ellie remembered your little sister. You’re reminded of how close she was with her, how much your little sister looked up to Ellie. 

“Oh, Kiko’s…Kiko. As always.” You say. Ellie smiles. 

“How old is she now?” 

“Turning 19 this month. She just graduated.” 

“Oh, wow. That’s amazing. I feel like she was just 5 years old, like, yesterday.” 

“I know, it’s so crazy. She’s actually taller than me now.” 

“My little dude, taller than you? That can’t be true.” 

“Surreal, right?” 

“That looks awesome, little dude.” Ellie said. 

“Really?” Your little sister Kiko beamed. 

“Yeah! You’ve got talent, kid.” 

You walked into your bedroom, holding a glass of lemonade in one hand. 

“What are you doing in here, Kiko?” You questioned, seeing your sister sitting next to Ellie on your bed with her sketchbook open on Ellie’s lap. 

“I was showing Ellie some of my drawings!” Your sister piped. 

“Oh, yeah?” You said, coming over to sit on Kiko’s other side. You handed Ellie the glass, to which she uttered a quiet thanks. 

“Check it out,” Kiko said, pulling her sketchbook closer to you. “This one is a picture of an apatosaurus eating a leaf.” 

She pointed at a charcoal drawing of a long-necked dinosaur eating from a tree. She flipped the page and pointed at a sketch of a girl who looked roughly the same age as her. 

“This is my friend Peni. I drew it while we were eating lunch the other day, but she said I made her eyes too big.” 

“And I told her to punch Peni for that when she sees her at school on Monday.” Ellie said. 

“Ellie!” You exclaimed, reaching behind Kiko to smack Ellie’s arm. Ellie cackled. 

“She deserves it! Her drawing’s perfect!” Ellie said. 

“Okay, but don’t tell my little sister to resort to violence!” You complained. 

“I think more people should be resorting to violence.” Ellie shrugged. 

“Oh my god.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Whatever,” Ellie laughed again. “Show us more, little dude.” 

Your sister enthusiastically flipped through more pages of her sketchbook, describing each of her drawings. You and Ellie listened happily and attentively, Ellie occasionally taking sips of her lemonade. 

“Oh, and this is you guys!” Kiko suddenly exclaimed. She pointed at a half-finished pencil drawing of you and Ellie. 

Your eyes widened and Ellie choked on her lemonade. 

You and Ellie were laying down together on your living room couch, fast asleep. One of Ellie’s arms served as a pillow for your head while the other embraced your hip to pull you closer. Your head was nuzzled in Ellie’s neck, arms wrapped around Ellie’s waist. You were both covered with a throw blanket, and you could catch a glimpse of your feet intertwined with Ellie’s at the end of the couch. Though just a sketch, you could tell that you were both in deep, unencumbered sleep. 

You weren’t sure when it was that Kiko drew this because you and Ellie had fallen asleep with each other countless times. It wasn’t rare for you two to cuddle either; you’d been best friends for a while now and you were very physically comfortable with each other. But something about the way Kiko captured this intimacy on paper felt further than that. It awakened something dormant in you, something you didn’t realize was there in the first place. 

Neither you nor Ellie seemed to know what to say. You both stared at the sketchbook dumbfounded, Ellie not realizing that she had some lemonade dribbling down her chin. Luckily, Kiko didn’t seem to notice the sudden tension in the air. 

“Oh! Hang on, I have to grab my other sketchbook! I’ve got a couple more dinosaur drawings I wanna show you, Ellie!” 

Your sister jumped up and bounded out of your bedroom, leaving her sketchbook in between you and Ellie. 

You continued to stare at your sister’s sketch. Even if you were five years older than her, Kiko was far more artistically talented than you at just the age of 12. 

Your fingers reached out to lightly brush across Ellie’s and your etched faces, but they were suddenly met with Ellie’s own fingers, who had the same idea. You both quickly retracted your hands after accidentally zapping each other as your skin touched hers. 

“Shit, sorry.” Ellie said, breaking the silence. 

“Oh, it’s okay.” You whispered. You tore your eyes away from the drawing to stare at your legs dangling from the bed. 

“That Kiko is a… pretty funny kid, huh?” Ellie said, laughing nervously. 

“Right,” You said. “Well, Kiko is Kiko.” 

“She really is.” 

An awkward silence continued to loom over you two, neither knowing how to break it. This was unchartered territory for you. You usually felt so at ease with your best friend, but something suddenly shifted. And you weren’t sure what it was. 

You eventually looked up at Ellie, who was twiddling her fingers. You noticed her chin still dripping slightly with lemonade. You giggled as Ellie met your eyes. 

“What?” She asked. 

“What is the matter with you?” You laughed, getting up and walking towards your desk. 

“What!” Ellie repeated. 

“You’ve got lemonade on your chin, dummy.” You said, grabbing a kleenex from a tissue box. 

“Oh,” Ellie brought her hand up and felt the wetness. “Shit.” 

She chuckled, grabbing the bottom of her shirt to wipe her face. 

“Hey, no!” You scolded, running over to her to slap her shirt out of her hand. 

“What!” Ellie said, indignant. 

“Were you raised in a barn?” You scoffed, handing Ellie the tissue. 

“Yup,” Ellie replied, accepting it. “Oink, oink.” 

You rolled your eyes and laughed as Ellie cleaned off her face. 

“You are so annoying!” You said, taking your pointer finger to push up the tip of Ellie’s nose, giving it the appearance of a pig’s snout. 

Ellie swatted your finger away playfully, snickering. 

“And yet you still laughed anyway!” 

“Whatever!” 

“Hey,” Ellie said, holding her hands up. “Not my fault I’m a comical genius.” 

“A comical dumbass, maybe.” You rolled your eyes once more. 

“Oh, you love me.” Ellie said, grinning widely. 

You and Ellie both chuckle. You’re surprised to find that you missed the sound of her laughter. 

After a few moments, you both fall silent. You feel heat rushing to your cheeks at the same time that Ellie’s freckles turn pink. Suddenly you don’t feel the need for coffee anymore. Your heart beats like that of a hummingbird and you feel as if you were sweating excessively underneath your short-sleeved button-down. Your lungs feel like they were fully submerged in water. You had to tear your gaze away from those ocean-green eyes. 

It’s Ellie’s courage this time that breaks the silence. 

“Well, uhh. Let her know I say hi, will you?” 

“Y-yeah. Of course.” You say. “And uhh, say hi to your Uncle Tommy and Aunt Maria too.” 

Ellie smiles, but you notice a hint of sadness behind it. 

“Sure.” She says. 

You give her a slight nod. 

Fidgeting with your coffee cup, you feel your chest tighten from the rising awkwardness. 

“Well, uhh, I gotta get to work.” You say. “Umm, it was nice seeing you.” 

You give Ellie a final smile and a wave, whipping around and heading out the door before Ellie could respond. 

The sound of a bell tinkles as you walk through the door of the coffee shop. You take several deep breaths as a million emotions wash over you. You take a sip of your coffee before turning towards the direction of your workplace. But before you could get far, you hear another tinkle of the coffee shop bell. 

“Wait!” You hear Ellie’s voice call out. 

Before you could turn around, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. You both immediately withdraw your hands as you feel Ellie’s skin accidentally zap yours. 

“Fuck, sorry.” Ellie says apologetically. 

“It’s okay.” You reply, pulling your zapped hand to your swiftly beating chest. 

“Umm,” She begins. “This was really nice. Catching up, I mean.” 

“Y-yeah.” 

“We should…do this on purpose sometime.” She says, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. An old Ellie habit you recognize. 

“Oh, umm.” You bounce lightly back and forth on your feet. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Cool beans.” She says, smiling. “Are you free tonight, by any chance?” 

“Oh, I have to stay late at work tonight.” 

“Oh, okay.” She says, her smile faltering. She seems to think you were making up an excuse to flake. 

“But I’m free Friday night!” You say quickly. “I get off at 5:30. But if you aren’t free or if that doesn’t work for you—“ 

Ellie smiles. 

“Friday sounds great. Do you wanna do 6:30 at Raja’s?” 

You grimace slightly. 

“Won’t that be too nostalgic?” 

Ellie chuckles. 

“Maybe, but let’s do it anyway.” She says. Your cheeks feel warm from her sudden boldness. 

“We won’t sit at the same old table or anything,” She says, holding her hands up. “Just dinner. Nothing more.” 

You consider this for a second. 

“Yeah,” You say slowly. “Yeah, okay.” 

Ellie beams, knowing she won you over. 

“Friday at 6:30 then.” 

“Oh, that’s so fucking cool.” You say. 

“Yeah, you think so?” Ellie responds. 

It was Friday at 6:54 in the evening. Ellie was right on time, but you were kept at work longer than expected and were several minutes late. You’d rushed home to drop your work things off and make yourself presentable as quickly as possible for having dinner with your ex-girlfriend, thanking past you for already laying out the outfit you planned on wearing for the meeting. 

The diner was a 10-minute walk from your apartment, but you made it a 6-minute run instead. It had rained the previous day, so you’d nearly slipped several times. But you caught yourself each time, determined to make it in one piece. 

When you arrived, Ellie was already sitting at a booth, drinking water. You arrived completely winded, breathlessly muttering a hundred apologies. Ellie just smiled, telling you to take a deep breath and that it was completely okay. She seemed grateful that you showed up either way. 

After taking generous sips from the glass of water that was already waiting for you, you’d greeted Ellie properly with a smile. She returned it, and now you were both discussing all the tattoos she’s gotten in the past few years. You’d noticed one on her left arm when she pushed the second glass of water towards you. 

“How about the one on your right arm?” You ask. You’d gotten a slight glimpse of it the other day at the coffee shop. 

“Oh, umm.” She says, placing her arm on the table so you could get a better look. She seems almost reluctant to do so. 

You lean in closer, moving your head around to better inspect the ferns that decorated her forearm from different angles. There was something else engraved on top of the ferns that you couldn’t quite make out, but it somehow seemed familiar. Your right hand hovers over the tattoo, an impulse to touch it nearly coming over you. But you keep your fingers to yourself, afraid to cross that line just yet. 

“It’s beautiful, Ellie. Did you design this one yourself?” You ask. 

“No, uhh,” She begins awkwardly. “My ex-girlfriend Cat did.” 

“Oh” was all you said in reply, unwittingly withdrawing your hand. 

“Yeah, uhh. I got it freshman year of college. After…after my dad died.” 

“Oh.” You repeat once more. 

“Y-yeah. It wasn’t the easiest thing to deal with, and Cat thought it would help with like, the grieving process and all.” 

“Right, of course.” You say, feeling remorseful for having brought attention to the topic. 

Ellie begins to unintentionally run her fingers over the tattoo out of nervousness, drawing your eyes to it once more. You suddenly recognize what the final part of the design was. 

“That’s the…the moth. From your old guitar.” 

Ellie looks down at it sadly. 

“Yeah, it is.” 

You’re both drawn into yet another awkward silence. Fiddling with your fingers in your lap, you feel as if an anchor was dropped onto your chest. You’d known that the topic of Joel’s death might come up, but you were nervous nonetheless. 

You look up to see Ellie’s face to find that she was already staring at you. She didn’t look like she was upset with you in any way at all; in fact, it was guilt that flashed across her features. You realize why, and there was an unspoken acknowledgement that you were both thinking about the same thing. 

Ellie withdraws her arm back to her side. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispers. 

“I know.” You whisper back. 

You were sitting on the couch in Ellie’s makeshift art studio that she’d set up in her garage. You hugged your knees to your chest, rocking back and forth as you drowned in your tears. It had been almost a week since Joel’s funeral and nobody had heard from Ellie. Everyone asked after her during the wake, but neither you nor her Uncle Tommy or Aunt Maria could answer. She hadn’t made it to the funeral, and you were worried. 

It was four months into your freshman year of college. You decided to attend a university closer to home, only a half-hour drive from Jackson. But Ellie chose an art school in Boston after receiving a scholarship, all the way across the country. 

Deciding on a long-distance relationship seemed like a no-brainer when you and Ellie had discussed it after you both graduated high school. You loved each other, both as girlfriends and long-time best friends. It felt as if your love would be able to survive anything. 

The longer that Ellie was away, however, the more difficult it got. Your college was much smaller, compared to hers. You preferred it that way; that was a factor in your choosing to attend. Some of your peers that you grew up with in Jackson were even in a few of your classes, and this eased the anxiety of being away from home. 

But Ellie, a couple thousand miles away, was in a brand new town with brand new faces. You were nervous for her, fearing that she’d be a fish out of water. You knew how awkward she could be sometimes and you worried that she’d get lonely. But after a few weeks of college, she’d made several friends and grew to love Boston. This made you happy, but part of you was sad that you couldn’t experience this milestone in your lives together. 

You’d been inseparable since childhood, growing up together and going to the same schools and having the same friends. Along the way, you’d realized you were in love with each other. It was bliss, to fall in love with the one person you trusted most with your life and to have them love you back. You were both so in sync, even and especially after you started dating. She knew you like the back of her hand, and you knew her the same. 

But as you sat there in Ellie’s garage with only the comfort of your own arms, you started to wonder. You were trying to convince yourself that Ellie was pulling away from you because of Joel’s passing. But all the unanswered phone calls, missed flights to visit home, the growing disinterest in your side of the conversation affirmed that Ellie was becoming someone you no longer knew. You were still where you always were, but Ellie had traveled oceans away from you.  

You had your head buried in your knees when you heard the sound of the door unlocking. As you dropped your legs to the ground, you watched as Ellie entered the garage. She flicked the light on and jumped when she saw your miserable figure sitting on her couch. 

“Oh, fuck!” She yelled. “You scared me, babe.” 

She placed a hand on her chest as if to slow down her rapid heartbeat. 

“Sorry.” You whisper meekly. 

“What are you doing sitting here all alone in the dark?” She asked, walking over to her desk and placing her backpack on top of it. 

You stared at her in disbelief. 

“Where the fuck have you been, Ellie?” You said, ignoring her question. 

“What do you mean? I’ve been around.” She replied, her back towards you as she collected some belongings. 

“You missed Joel’s funeral.” You said bluntly. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” She said, a little too nonchalantly. 

You watched as she continued to move around the room, rearranging a few things and rifling through drawers. She felt your gaze on her but avoided eye contact with you. 

“He was your father, Ellie.” You said after a few minutes of silence. 

“Adoptive father,” She corrected. “He wasn’t my real dad.” 

“He fucking raised you.” 

“Yeah, well,” She said, placing a few paintbrushes in her backpack. “Look how that turned out.” 

You were exhausted. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ellie?!” 

She finally turned around to face you. 

“What?” She asked, taken aback by your raised tone. 

“Where the fuck have you been? Why weren’t you at Joel’s funeral? Everyone’s been worried sick about you, wondering where the fuck you went off to. Your Aunt Maria nearly called the cops, but your Uncle Tommy and I had to convince her that you wouldn’t be so stupid to go and get yourself hurt!” 

You’d risen from your seat on the couch now, glaring at her. 

“And now this about Joel? He was your fucking father. I don’t give a fuck what you say! He loved you so much, and it would break his heart to hear you talk about him like this.” 

Tears were streaming down your face as Ellie watched you silently continuing your outrage. 

“I know you need to deal with your grief in your own way. I know you’re sad and need time, but…” You sniffled. “Please don’t shut us out. Don’t push away the people who love you. Joel wouldn’t have wanted this for you.” 

Ellie scoffed, which took you by furious surprise. 

“You don’t know that. He’s gone. It doesn’t matter what he wanted anymore.” 

It felt as if she slapped you right across the face. 

“I’m so fucking sick of this.” She finally said after a moment of silence. 

“What?” 

“I’m sick of this town. I’m sick of the people here. I can’t fucking stand being here for another second. I don’t want this.” 

You stood there shocked, staring at a stranger who looked remarkably like the girl you loved. 

You and Ellie continue to look at each other from opposite ends of the table. She seems as if she wants to say more, to apologize further. But she stops when you give her a forgiving smile. 

“It’s okay.” You say. 

She returns your smile, sadly but with gratitude. 

Your moment of reminiscence is interrupted when your waitress approaches your booth. 

“Oh my goodness, it’s the troublemaking duo!” Your waitress exclaims. “I didn’t know it was you that Ellie was waiting on!” 

Heat rises to your cheeks. 

“Hi, Wendy.” You say, recognizing the old woman. 

“It has been so long since I’ve seen you two together! Oh, and now you’re both so grown up!” Wendy gabbed. “Oh, Ellie, it’s so nice to have you back in town! Your Aunt Maria has been going on and on for weeks about how excited she and Tommy are that you’re moving back!” 

“Yeah, they seem pretty psyched to have me home,” Ellie says, smiling kindly. “It’s good to be back, Wendy.” 

“Maria kept wishing you would move back after you’d graduated college! And I kept telling her, ‘kids gotta get their feet wet first!’ But look at you, back home again finally!” 

“Yeah, Boston was pretty great. But it wasn’t for me, and I really missed Jackson.” 

Wendy smiled at this. 

“Oh, having you two back here like this feels like things never changed. I wish that I knew you were both coming in; otherwise, I would have saved your usual table!” Wendy says, gesturing towards a booth in the corner of the diner. 

You glance over and see a young couple sitting together, holding hands across the table. They were slightly obscured by this old, beat-up jukebox that was playing some old 80s song. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Wendy,” Ellie says, waving her hand. “We’re good here.” 

“Well, okay!” She dips her hand in her apron. “Oh my, I forgot my pen and pad! Oh, and I haven’t even brought you your coffee yet! I swear, I think my brain is slowly spilling out of my ears every day!” 

Ellie laughs and you grimace at the image. 

“Let me go grab those things real quick, and then I’ll take your gals’ order!” Wendy says gleefully. 

“That’d be great.” Ellie replies. 

Wendy beams at both of you before making her way back to behind the counter. 

“Since when did you drink coffee?” You ask Ellie, to which she shrugs. 

“Kind of grew on me back in college. Still have to drink it with tons of sugar and creamer, though.” She says. 

“Ahh, well, that explains the oat milk latte from the other day.” 

“Memorized my order, huh?” She teases. 

Wendy the waitress saves you from your bashfulness by arriving with two coffee cups in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. As Wendy pours into each of your cups, Wendy decides to gush more over the two of you. 

“I was just telling Esther in the back how much we would dread when you two rascals would come in here. I remember how you two would come in and order one milkshake to share and a plate of fries and then pay us with dimes and nickels! Drove us nuts to count it all out!” 

You and Ellie laugh nervously, embarrassed over your childhood antics. 

“And you’d come in here and play that one a-ha! song over and over again if you had any leftover change! Oh, we all got so sick of that song that Raja almost took out the jukebox at one point!” Wendy chortles. 

“Right, “Take on Me” was what we always played,” You recall. “Sorry, Wendy.” 

“Oh, it’s alright,” She says, waving you off. “In fact, someone put that song on the jukebox a few weeks back and it made me miss those good old days.” She sighs, reminiscing. 

Ellie glances at you while you look at Wendy in her reverie. Ellie’s eyes look gentle and affectionate, an expression that hasn’t adorned her face in years. 

“Oh, I do miss you youngsters and your shenanigans. Drove me crazy, but it kept me young. Do you recall when you came in here absolutely sopping wet, Ellie?” 

Ellie blushes suddenly, scratching the back of her neck as her freckles turn pink once more. 

“Y-yeah. Sorry about that.” 

“Oh, you got the floor all wet and dirty, and your usual booth smelled like wet dog for a week!” Wendy cackles. 

“Oh?” You ask. “When was that?” 

“It was back in—” Wendy starts, but another waitress called behind the counter. 

“Wendy, honey! Table 12 spilled orange juice everywhere; can you grab the mop?” 

“Oh darn,” Wendy says. “Let me go take care of this mess real quick, sweethearts! And I’ll be right back for your orders!” 

Wendy walks off quickly and leaves the two of you alone once more. 

You glance at Ellie. 

“When did that happen?” You question curiously. 

“Umm,” Ellie says nervously. “It was that day. At the lake.” 

Your face softens in recognition. 

“Els, come on!!” You yelled, pulling her with you. 

“Dude, no!” 

“Els, 17 is way too old to be afraid of the water!” 

“I am not afraid of the water!” Ellie said, breaking free from your grasp and crossing her arms. 

Joel had dragged you and Ellie with him for a fishing trip by a nearby lake. He’d forgotten his bait box back at his and Ellie’s home, and he left you and Ellie to your own devices while he drove back to grab it. Bored out of your mind, you were trying to convince Ellie to jump into the lake with you from a large rock that oversaw the water. 

“Then you won’t have any problems if I just…” You made the motion of pushing someone. “...throw you into the lake, by any chance?” 

Ellie backed away from you, holding her hands up. 

“Don’t you fucking dare, man,” She said. “I will never, ever forgive you.” 

You groaned then dragged your feet to the edge. You looked over at the lake. 

“It’s not that high of a jump, Els! Come on, Joel and I taught you to swim two summers ago!” 

“Let’s just get back to the shore, dude. He’ll be back any second.” She said. 

“You know Joel won’t be back for another half hour.” You replied, knowing that Joel would find a million other things to do before heading out again. You skipped over to where she stood feet away from the edge of the mini-cliff. 

You grabbed both of her hands in yours. Her breathing hitched when your skin touched hers. 

It had been a month since your little sister unveiled her drawing of you and Ellie sleeping together. Ever since then, Ellie seemed nervous to be near you, much less be touched by you. You were still best friends and still as close as ever, but there’d been a palpable tension in the air after that awkward moment in your bedroom. It was as if you were both just waiting for something to happen, something inevitable. 

“Pretty please, Els?” You asked your best friend, batting your eyelashes at her. She blushed furiously. 

“You’re gonna catch your death if you jump in. It’s chilly.” Ellie said. “And I’m not lending you my jacket if you get your clothes all wet.” 

“Fine.” You said. You release her hands and walk towards the edge once more. Ellie’s eyes widen as you begin shedding your clothing: first, your shoes, then your pants, and finally your shirt. 

Ellie averts her gaze as you were left in just your underwear. 

“Problem solved.” You said boldly. You walk back over to her. 

It wasn’t as if you and Ellie hadn’t seen each other intimately before, having been best friends for many years. But for the last month, she started seeing you in a much different light and looking at you this intimately was opening the floodgates.  

“Come on, Els.” You said, tugging on her shirt. “Take a leap with me.” 

Before Ellie could respond, you sighed and turned away from her to walk back near the water, discarded the rest of your clothing, and jumped off the edge with a scream. 

“Goddamn it.” Ellie said, rushing over to see where you’d dove. She watched as you eventually emerged, ripples reverberating around you. 

“Let’s go, Ellie!” You yelled from the water. 

Ellie backed away from the edge, took a deep breath, and said, “Fuck it.” 

She replicated your actions and took off her clothes, all the way down to her black sports bra and boxers. 

You were swimming around in circles when you saw Ellie’s stark naked figure plummeting into the lake before landing ten feet away from you. You beamed, wading towards her as she rose from underneath. 

“You actually did it!” You exclaimed. Ellie splashed you, lake water getting in your eyes. 

“Ellie!” You whined. 

“You’re the fucking worst!” She said, pouting. 

“You love me!” You said, ribbing. 

“No, you’re the worst, I hate you.” Ellie said, splashing you once more. You splashed her back. 

You both waded closer to the shore until you both felt your toes touch the bottom of the lake. 

“You jumped in for me, you fucking adore me!” You giggled. 

“Oh, please, you wish.” Ellie scoffed before you reached over to squeeze her cheeks together. 

“Hey!” She said, muffled. 

“Don’t deny your love for me, Miss Ellie Williams.” You teased before giggling again as you release her face. 

“Nope, hate you ‘til I die.” Ellie said stubbornly, to which you shove her shoulder.  

“Well, too bad, because I love you!” You said. 

“Uh-huh.” Ellie replied, rolling her eyes. 

She began to turn away from you to paddle towards the shore. 

You take a leap. 

“I do love you.” You suddenly said. 

“Yeah, I know, man.” 

“No, Ellie, I—” You said, stuttering. “I-I love you.” 

She turned back to face you. 

“What?” 

You swam closer to her until your faces were inches apart. 

“I love you, Ellie.” 

Ellie blinked. 

“I—” She began, unsure of what to say. 

“Sorry, I just—I just wanted to tell you that, that’s all.” You whispered, looking down at your submerged and naked figure instead of at her. 

“No, it’s okay, I—” Ellie started once more. “I-I love you too.” 

Your eyes shot up to meet hers. 

“What?” 

“Y-yeah, I—” Ellie began, but she’s cut off when your lips suddenly meet hers. 

It was as if fireworks began erupting within you. As the shock of your kiss wore off, Ellie melted into you as she grabbed your face to draw you closer to her. You wrapped your arms around her neck as she pulled you in tighter. 

No amount of fantasizing could ever prepare you for the euphoria that was kissing Ellie Williams. It was like everything fell into place, like your entire friendship was leading up to this. It felt so foolish that you hadn’t realized this sooner, that you had to wait all this time to let yourself fall in love with your best friend. 

You were both pulled into this bubble where it was just you, Ellie, and the lake. You felt inevitable. 

You broke off, needing to catch your breath. Your foreheads were pressed up against each other, both of you breathless. Your head felt empty but your heart was full. 

Before you could say anything, you felt Ellie’s hands leave your face. Your eyes shoot open to see Ellie already at the shore, bounding towards the rock you’d jumped off from. 

“Ellie!” You called out, but she didn’t respond. 

You watched as she reached the mini-cliff where you’d both left your clothing. You thought for a second that she was going to jump back in, but instead, she was pulling her clothes back on. 

You made your way to the shore, shivering and embracing yourself. 

“Ellie!” You called out again. “Where are you going?!” 

Ellie had pulled on her Converse, quickly tying the laces into knots. Fully dressed, she looked down at you, still bare and exposed. 

You could make out her face from where you were, but you didn’t recognize the look she wore. It wasn’t anger or pity or sadness. You’d never seen her make that expression before. 

You started towards the rock, but Ellie was quicker. She ran off before you even got close to her, dripping lake water behind her and leaving you still at the shore, naked and screaming for her to come back. 

“Oh,” You say. “This is where you came after that?” 

“Yeah,” Ellie replies. “Wasn’t sure where else to go.” 

“I always wondered,” You say. “Cause when Joel got back, we drove back to your house, and you weren’t there. You never said where you’d gone.” 

“Yeah, well. I was just some scared little kid.” She admits. 

“It’s okay,” You reassure. “Me too.” 

You stare once more into the ocean in her eyes. You didn’t mean to bring up the past. You’d wanted to keep this meeting bureaucratic, free from the judgment of yesterday. 

You decide to break the silence with humour. 

“Kind of crazy how you ran away from me real fast.” You giggle, taking a sip of your coffee. 

Ellie doesn’t laugh; instead, she takes a leap and reaches over to your free hand that you’d placed on the table, putting hers over it. 

Your eyes widen as she looks at you in a way that no one else ever has. 

“But I’m not running away now.” She says genuinely. 

You place your cup down and give her a soft smile. 

“Good.” You reply. 

You feel the water finally flow under the bridge. 

author’s notes:

sabrina propaganda, sabrina propaganda, sabrina propaganda, sabrina propaganda, sabrina propaganda, sabrina propaganda

sorry for teasing this for so long! i have issues

the reader's sister's name is based on my little sister's name kiko :) they're also an artist and currently studying to be an animator!

hope y'all enjoy this! spent so much coming up with the concept and writing about it cause i have such a connection to this song! let me know what you think and reblog if you can ♡

taglist: @digit4lslut, @jajsnjz, @callmelola111, @thatgiraffefromtlou, @gold-dustwomxn, @machetegirl109, @ximtiredx, @fireflyelllie, @brownshirtelliesgf, @sawaagyapong, @uraesthete

[queensunshinee]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 12

Part 12:

"Your apartment smells funny," Liana said as she entered the building and moved towards the main window. "We can buy a rug for the living room. Do you want one?" she asked after walking around the rooms in Patrick’s apartment. It was small. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a bathroom. It had been a month since she settled in the Oxford dorms. Patrick had arrived three days ago, and this was the first time they were meeting.

"Hey Amanda. I missed you too." Patrick leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching her with amusement. She just couldn’t help it. She had to fix something. She would always find something that needed tidying and organizing. He had learned not to argue with this trait from a young age. He had learned that if he refused, she would withdraw into herself, and it would bother her until she could do something about it.

"Hey." She smiled genuinely and hugged him. Patrick looked almost the same as she remembered. Jet-lagged but pleased with his choices for a change. "Hey..." he refused to let go of her, inhaling her scent deeply like he always did when she allowed him.

"You're here." She took a step back and examined him, as if not believing it was really happening. As if she had been waiting her whole life for this moment. That’s how Patrick decided to interpret her facial expression, even if that’s not what reality was showing him. He would take the current smile any day over another day where she was at a certain point on the map and he was on the other side of the world. "So many possibilities, Amanda." He couldn’t stop smiling. "Let's find you a rug and some pillows for the couch, okay?" she replied, trying to solve the current problem she had found for herself; his apartment.

They wandered around London for hours. Stopped for lunch at a small Italian restaurant. Went into a small museum and did some window shopping at brand stores neither of them could afford. Liana’s laughter filled the space occasionally. A sound Patrick prayed to dream about when he would be alone without her scrutinizing gaze around.

As the sun set, they sat on the grass in a park near Liana’s dorms, each holding an ice cream cone. "I think I found a job," she said, trying to eat as much of the ice cream as she could before it melted completely. "Where?" he asked with curiosity. "There’s a cafeteria in Oxford that sells smoothies and other things that pretentious people willing to pay unreasonable amounts. I’ll probably start next week." She smiled, pleased with herself. "Will you be able to balance it with your studies?" he asked. "I have to try. My parents were barely willing to keep paying for my studies as long as I'm not at Stanford, and I don’t want to take an actual loan just to be able to pay for food. It feels unnecessary and lazy." She shrugged, as if it was self-evident.

"You're tough. You’ll make it. When do classes start?" he asked. "In a week. I’m stressed. But a friend of my roommate, Flor, is starting with me, and I met her. She seems nice." Liana chatted about people she had met in the past month. "You're nice." Patrick smiled his characteristic smile when he tried to dodge the implications of what he was saying. It was a toothy grin that included a dimple. It usually highlighted his eyes, showing something mischievous that at age 20 should have started to fade. But not with Patrick. "You're a jerk." Liana rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder, which automatically made him grab her hand.

Liana couldn’t help but think about Art. About the fact that it was the same gesture. Art had held her just like that at the Christmas party. She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat for a moment. Not wanting to change the atmosphere too much but feeling the shift anyway.

Patrick felt the change too, but it was like background noise. He understood something happened but didn’t know what. This wasn’t the first time he touched Liana. You could say he was a touchy person by nature. It wasn’t new and didn’t characterize just his relationship with her. "What just happened?" he asked with a chuckle, as if it wasn’t really important. As if it wasn’t serious. As if he could breathe properly and wasn’t trying to correct the mistake he made a moment ago. As if he wouldn’t do anything to make her laugh again and not look at him with furrowed brows.

"Nothing. It’s getting late. Shall we go?" she asked, with a smile that didn’t reach her ears. One that showed teeth but not all of them. One that hid from him what she really felt. He hated that smile.

"Patrick! You'll have ants in your house!" Liana scolded. No, she wasn’t just scolding; she was fuming. Three months had passed since Patrick moved to London. His coach, Kirk Fucking Morcich, was objectively the best coach he had ever had. He had improved tremendously. From the moment Patrick decided to take tennis seriously and not just as a way to avoid a real job, he started seeing results.

He still had to attend the annoying courses his parents signed him up for. But he had already won a tournament in Europe. Something he didn’t think would happen, and certainly not so soon.

His parents were proud of him. A strange feeling. An almost unfamiliar feeling. His mother called him and actually said those words, “Hey Pat, your dad and I read about you in the paper. Well done.” And he wanted to find something bad and start a fight because he didn’t know any other way to talk to his mother, but he said “thanks” quietly and felt himself blush. Like a little boy needing a kind word from an adult who was never really responsible. Not for what mattered.

“You can’t just leave your food out like this, Pat.” Liana interrupted his train of thought. “It’s not that bad.” He responded with an eye roll. “Patrick, it’s moldy. It’s been sitting on your table with actual mold. How am I supposed to wash this? It’s disgusting!” she fumed. Her cheeks were red, and her hand moved quickly over her nose.

“You don’t have to wash it. Did I ask you to wash it? Just throw the plate away; I have more plates.” He rolled his eyes again. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?!” Liana nearly stomped her foot. “Did we get married or something? Because this relationship doesn’t have the benefits of marriage, you just yell at me after I haven’t been home for a week.” He sighed and sat on the couch, officially tired of this argument. “No, Patrick, we didn’t get married, and sorry I don’t want you to die of dysentery while you’re living alone.” She shot back, and he heard the plate land in the sink. “So instead of throwing it away, you decided to break it?” He started getting angry too, because lately, that’s how all their conversations looked. Conversations about why he didn’t wash dishes, why he left the milk out, why he didn’t water the plant she bought him, why he didn’t show up at the bar her friend worked at, why he didn’t.

And he just wanted to tell her that if she acted like he was her boyfriend, then she should let him touch her the way he wanted to touch her. But they hadn’t had that conversation yet. He hadn’t told her that when he wasn’t thinking about tennis, he was thinking about her, and to be honest, if he wasn’t thinking about those two things, he was thinking about Art. And he knew she was thinking about Art too. And maybe they needed to have a conversation about fucking Art.

“I didn’t break it. Calm down.” She muttered. Liana had managed to somehow find herself in London. She couldn’t say that about any other period in her life. She enjoyed her studies and had met quite a few new people. People she liked being around. People she wasn’t embarrassed around and felt comfortable drinking wine with. She was a person who enjoyed wine now. Some might say Liana had grown up. She would agree with them.

One time, after drinking wine with her new friends, she called Art. She would say it didn’t happen until her dying day. She wouldn’t have anyone to say it to because he didn’t answer, and she didn’t plan on going around telling the world she drunkenly called Art Donaldson. It was embarrassing.

Patrick was always busy. Tennis. Fucking tennis. She hated tennis so much, and as someone who didn’t even know how to hold a racket properly, she couldn’t escape this terrible game.

So as close as Patrick had been during these months, he was still far away. She had hoped so much that he would be an integral part of this experience. That he would love London as much as she loved London, but he just loved playing tennis in London, and she was losing to the ball and racket again and again throughout her life. “I haven’t seen you in a week. Why are you mad at me?” Patrick stood up, moving towards the kitchen, leaning against the door in his characteristic way. “I’m not mad at you.” She rolled her eyes, her back to him, trying to wash the plate he ruined with food he didn’t clean up in time. “This is pointless.” She muttered to herself. “That passive-aggressive vibe might work with Art. It doesn’t work on me. Either tell me why you’re mad or let me go rest.” He said, not taking his piercing gaze off her back.

“Do you want me to leave?” She turned to him. Her expression made it clear she was hurt. She completely ignored the comment about Art. Patrick didn’t want to keep ignoring comments about Art. “I want you to tell me what you want from me, Liana. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request.” He started moving towards her. “I don’t want anything from you, Patrick. You’re my friend. We came here together, and I care about you. That’s all.” She shrugged and looked everywhere in the room except his face.

“Liana.” He stood in front of her, demanding. Something in his tone made her look directly at him. “What?” Her voice was quiet. She hated her voice. Why did she always sound so desperate?! “Why are we fighting about dishes when you don’t live here? You understand that’s ridiculous?” He asked, not letting go and not changing his tone out of pity for her soft voice. “I’m not fighting with you. I want you to be reasonable. Do you think I enjoy playing mommy with you?” She asked, raising an eyebrow and folding her arms beneath her chest.

Patrick stared at her chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. Fuck it. “You can’t act like we’re sleeping together while not sleeping with me. That’s absurd.” He realized he had said it only when he saw her eyes widen and her face turn red. “You think I’m hitting on you, Patrick? Is that what you think this is?” She asked, her voice unsteady. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. God. Why is this happening to her? “Eat from your disgusting plate with mold for all I care. I won’t say a word.” She said and tried to move past him. It was her cue to leave before this conversation escalated. He pulled her back with a quick but not overly forceful hand movement. She knew he had a lot more strength in him. She knew he was fire. In the pair Fire and Ice, he would always be Fire. “Patrick.” Her weak voice almost whispered. “You’re not hitting on me?” He asked, also in a low voice. He seemed relatively calm considering the storm of emotions within him.

Patrick decided he had nothing more to lose. He was improving. He was maturing. He asked his parents for help. He had moved halfway across the world to be close to her. He was becoming the best version of himself. And to be honest, Patrick knew that if Liana had settled for the mediocre and basic version of Art, there was no reason he shouldn’t at least try. So Patrick decided to try.

“No...” She bit her lip and looked at him without breaking eye contact. “Bullshit.” He laughed. He just laughed in her face and didn’t release his hold. “You’re walking around my apartment, dressed in short clothes in fucking December in London. Getting mad about plates. Liana. Even you can’t be that naive about what this does to me after a week of a tournament. A grueling week of victories without anyone to celebrate my success.” He considered kissing her neck at that moment. He thinks she would let him. Now, looking at her, he was sure she would let him do whatever he wanted with her. And he was a greedy bastard. He wanted everything.

“Liana. Look at me.” He demanded. Not letting go. She looked. “Why are we fighting?” He asked. The stern tone made her blink. “I missed you.” She said, defeated.

“It’s really hard when you’re supposedly here but not really here, and I know you’re here for tennis, but I wanted you to be here for me too, and it’s okay if we have separate lives here, I do too—” Patrick cut off her endless ramblings because he knew she wouldn’t stop talking if it was up to her. His lips found hers, and his hands held the back of her head. and somehow she actually kissed him back.

The feeling of Patrick’s lips on hers was different from the feeling of Art’s lips. Liana hated herself for comparing him to Art. She wondered if every person who will kiss her would automatically be compared to the person who hurt her the most. She wondered if that’s how she would live the rest of her life. And during these existential thoughts, she realized the bitter truth. Art Donaldson would be a part of her forever.

“Pat. Wait. We can’t. We can’t do this.” She put a small hand on his chest, and he took a step back. Because when a girl told Patrick she wanted to stop, he stopped. “Why can’t we?” He didn’t look amused. He looked angry and hungry and tired, all in the once. In the same body movements. “You know why” Liana sighed.

Silence fell in his kitchen.

"You don't owe him anything," Patrick stated. This time he felt like he's the one who could stomp his foot like a kid in the middle of a tantrum.

"I know." She bit her lip.

"I don't owe him anything," he said, this time not looking at her. Because if she saw his face, she'd know he was lying to himself. Liana always saw him. She saw him stripped of defenses. And his biggest defense right now was tied to the girl in front of him and the fact that they both missed Art. And he did owe him the love of his life.

Because Liana still didn't know what Patrick and Art both knew clearly; Patrick had won. She would be his the moment he decided so.

"Liana. Please let me kiss you." His voice was weak, and his gaze shifted to her. His eyes still screamed fire. Fire. Fire. Danger. Run. Fire. Stay away. Get closer. Fire. Danger. Fire. "Liana." He said again, closer now, breathing the same air she breathed. The air she exhaled entered his lungs. He moved his hand back to her neck. The other hand, unashamedly, grabbed her ass in a half-pinch. It was a grip that didn't retreat, didn't regret, didn't shy away. As if he was born to hold her exactly like this. Exactly how he wanted. "Patrick." She didn't recognize the sound that escaped her mouth out of surprise, but she recognized Patrick's smile just a second before his lips were on hers again. Patrick had decided.

Hey thereeee It's London and it's Patrick's time to shine. What are we feeling about everything? Talk to me. I'm dying to know what you're thinking as usual.

taglist: @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[beneaththehalo]

nfwmb [rafayel x fem! reader]

an exploration of your married dynamic with rafayel based on the song. there are references to sex and murder, but nothing explicit. the song lyrics are indented, small text, and bolded. 1.3k words. link to ao3!

When i first saw you / the end was soon / to Bethlehem, it slouched /And then it must’ve caught a good look at you / Give your heart and soul to charity / ‘Cause the rest of you / the best of you / honey, belongs to me

another charity gala as rafayel’s wife. parasitic leeches of linkon hoping to boost their image through large donations that barely make a dent in their generational wealth. a drink at the bar, a waltz with a man fifteen years your elder, and the flick of your hair to drain their wallets. it would all be worth it once you could present the large donation check to your favorite ocean conservation charities — saving the sea turtles, clean the beach, etc. in fact, your knack for playing the game is what attracted rafayel to you in the first place. a measly event reporter drowning your sorrows in seconds at the buffet table, ranting to the poor photographer. in a crowd of fairweathers, you were the first real person rafayel had seen. it intrigued him.

you could say the rest was history, but you certainly didn’t make it easy for him as you were wary to trust another snooty, rich man. artist types tended to be uppity, over pretentious, and full of themselves, but their big pockets made them an easy target for charity. you changed your mind on him when you heard him talk about his paintings for the first time, no longer filtered through the PR-lens of Thomas, you saw the true tortures, loves, and muses of a real artist. of course, you were both a bit inebriated at the time which helped forego the filters as you both ranted over the pompous event. when you found out who he was, you thought you’d lose your job and never speak again. you will forever be thankful that the opposite happened.

ain’t it a gentle sound, the rollin’ in the graves? / ain’t it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes? / ain’t it exciting you, the rumble where you lay? / ain’t you my baby? ain’t you my baby?

it wasn’t always easy. the attention that came with being rafayel’s significant other was something you weren’t used too. microphones shoved in your face, constantly ending up on worst-dressed lists, and never knowing who you could trust out of your business contacts. it was fatiguing — this image of mr. rafayel’s perfect wife. she never said anything controversial, so she didn’t have morals or values. she never demanded attention away from her husband. she hardly ate in public or sipped more than one cocktail. yet, she women still seethed with jealousy and found any excuse to tear her down. they told her she would never meet his needs. she wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough to understand his art or tall enough or whatever bullshit excuse the media sold. rafayel’s ability to be a sex symbol as well as an artist was important, you were a threat to the brand.

you can imagine all that external pressure caused an implosion. insecurity breakdowns at home, intimacy interrupted tears, anger, and frustration. rafayel was ever-understanding, his patience with your struggles admirable. and on one such night, he said, “fuck my brand. i fell in love with you because of your capacity to care, tenacity, and raw emotion when you discuss your passions. i could lose my whole career, but i can’t lose you. not to people who don’t know you,” he says, planting a firm kiss upon your forehead. from then on, the dynamic shifted.

nothing fucks with my baby / nothing can get a look in on my baby / nothing fucks with my baby / nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

you were married within a year or so, quick for some, but why wait for something you know will never change? the wedding naturally received a lot of attention despite it being a private elopement. tabloids clamored for the exclusive interview about the marriage of the famed rafayel and if he had any regrets about marrying at his younger age. would this effect his career? was he considering children? intrusive vultures thinking they were owed answers just because of rafayel’s fame. they never received any.

for rafayel was too busy burning every detail of your body into his mind each night. memorizing his favorite canvas and painting purple hues upon the skin of your neck. he touched you as if to prove that you were the only one who could ever draw his attention. all of your insecurities reduced to ash with his steady rhythm and guidance. he was everything you would ever need, and no one could satiate you more. it was heaven on earth, the connection you both shared. you’d both rather be damned than give that up.

if i was born as a blackthorn tree / i’d wanna be felled by you / held by you / fuel the pyre of your enemies

and here you are, back at the scene of the crime, aka this month’s charity gala to benefit coral reef restoration and preservation. you’re a few cocktails deep, the liquor always making things much easier to bear when conversing with the wealthy elite. men who hated their wives, women who loathed their husbands, and children far too privileged to be well-adjusted. people always found you easy to talk to, a little too easy to talk to, which normally you didn’t mind, it caused them to open their wallets all the same. however, tonight was not your night.

one of the men was blathering on and on about his petulant divorce. nothing you had not heard before. he was bolder than the others though, his words slurring a bit as he drapes himself over you. most people knew not to mess with you. for one, you could handle your own. for two, rafayel was rather possessive. so when this man thought he was clever, groping you inappropriately and making inane comments at your behest, something had to be done. so in your best, pseudo-sympathetic voice, you coax him into a private hall. rafayel isn’t far behind.

ain’t it warming you, the world gone up in flames? / ain’t it the life you, you’re lighting of the blaze? / ain’t it a waste they’d watch the throwing of the shade? / ain’t you my baby? ain’t you my babe?

the smoldering, remnant ashes of the man are promptly flushed down the toilet. rafayel cleans his hands at the sink, the small cut across his face already healing. you fix your hair, and blot at any of the smearing of your makeup. “better off anyways,” rafayel mutters, giving you a once over. he gingerly takes your face in his hands, resting his forehead against yours, “Ça va mon amour? [are you alright my love?]” he whispers. you nod, nuzzling your nose against his.

he peppers delicate kisses across your face. then drapes a few more down your exposed neck and collar. all your worries assuaged for the time being as you float in his attention, the memories of the disgusting socialite washed away as he fans the flames of your nerves. “rafayel,” you sigh, leaning into his touch, “you keep at it and the coral reef will never receive their generous check.” he whines in protest, but ultimately agrees and accompanies you back out to the party.

nobody mentions the missing man, and rafayel was such a smooth talker that any questions were easily forgotten. in the end, you had raised over $1.2 million for coral reef restoration, which was a feat in itself. when the party finally concludes and you tiredly shed your personas at the door of your shared home, you couldn’t be more grateful rafayel was who you had chose to spend your life with. and now that you were finally alone again, he would take that chance to remind you.

nothing fucks with my baby / nothing can get a look in on my baby / nothing fucks with my baby / nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

beneaththehalo || est 2024