#spot de television

[pedgito]

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐘 — one: beginnings | Joel Miller x reader

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chapter summary | You're dead weight, a burden on Joel's shoulders after the death of his daughter and the collapse of the world. But, if there's one person to challenge him, it was you.

author's note | this spurred from jo (@undercoverpena) and i, a conversation over kinks and wanting to explore them in separate chapters but somehow create a cohesive story and here we are. she spun for me and gave me a collection of beautiful kinks to try out. this is going to be BIG one for me, so if you plan on staying along for this ride, i love you so much.

chapter warnings | 18+, early outbreak, age gap (early 20s, mid 30s), canon character de*th, canon typical violence, m*rder tw, morally grey!joel with trust issues, tommy is buffer, use of weapons, weapon training, unjust decision making, reader is such a nuisance to joel, sex as a distraction, joel is so emotionally stunted he can't help it, awkward aftercare

word count —6k

SERIES MASTERLIST, PLAYLIST, AO3

You’ve never seen so much blood.

His shirt was soaked to his neck, expression blank and void as Tommy rounded the truck to open the door—it wasn’t the same one you’ve seen pull into their driveway for years now. It was new, unfamiliar. Joel’s weighed down, his arms straining as he heaves whatever he’s holding up in his arms, finally coming from around the door and into view. Her curls fell first, body limp in Joel’s arm as he held her close–it was Sarah. Little Sarah who you would babysit in high school for extra cash when the Miller brothers had to work a few extra jobs to pay the bills, little Sarah who always had the biggest smile on her face. Not so little anymore, years gone and passed as you graduated and went off to work some dead-end job to stay afloat in hopes that you could attempt to pay a college tuition.

But, that all seemed futile now. 

It was late September when the world ended—Joel’s birthday, you’d know that from the fact Sarah had mentioned it to you that morning as she checked the mail that Joel had forgotten from the day before. A normal day for you, for everyone else. But, for Sarah and many others, it was their last.

The neighborhood was quiet now, the hoard of freshly turned infected heading for the inner city and toward the noise, like one singular hivemind following a predetermined path. 

And your parents—they weren’t even here. They had left for vacation a week prior, spending the next two weeks out of the country, celebrating their anniversary far away from responsibility and the barrage of news from all over the world. But, they would come back to nothing. You couldn’t stay, you couldn’t wait around—it would get you killed; starvation, lack of resources, it would only get you so far. 

The infection was worldwide, incurable—it was the last thing you heard before the satellite on your television cut out, snuffing out any last bit of hope you had left.

In the midst of Joel’s mindless walk to the front door of his home, Tommy glances over his shoulder to survey, likely for more infected. But, he spots you.

His eyes squint slightly, like he’s seeing a vision of you. They widen as he realizes you’re real, you here—you were shaking, arms crossed over your chest and your fingers digging into your biceps as you hid by the shadow of your door.

Tommy knows that look, your eyes go wide but soften as he approaches. 

You can’t say you’ve held a conversation longer than five minutes with either of them, even after living next to them most of your life, but his hands are held up as he approaches and carefully, almost as if you were going to scurry away like a feral cat.

“You alright, honey?” His voice is quiet, a hushed whisper as he comes closer and stops a few inches, peering inside of your house and finding it empty, “Are they—did they—”

He looks over at you wearily and your fingers dig into your skin, peering over his shoulder and staring at the open door, Joel no longer in sight, “They left on a trip and I—I don’t,” You sigh through your nose, closing your eyes to blink away the stinging tears, “They’re dead either way, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t answer, but his hand reaches around to rub at your back and you fall into him easily.

“Sarah–” Tommy tenses up, pulling away slowly to look at you as you peer up at him, noticing the near permanent frown on your face, your expression unchanging as you attempt to process and fail—it wasn’t fair, none of it made sense, “is she dead?”

The sound of something fragile falling and breaking in Joel’s house startles you both, sending you both apart and rushing toward the house without thinking. The idea of being alone now was more fearful than anything else—no survival instinct, no plan or method to stay alive. You’d be dead by next nightfall if you stuck around though, that much you knew.

The sight sends your heart into your stomach. Joel was hunched over Sarah’s lifeless body, his arms sticky with blood—some of it dried and some of it not. There were a few broken picture frames on the floor at Sarah’s feet and you felt your breath catching in your throat, watching as Joel brushed her hair from her face and cried, silently.

“Joel,” Tommy begins, slow and careful, “we’ve gotta figure out a plan.”

“We’re buryin’ her first,” Joel tells him, “not leavin’ her like this.”

Tommy nods in understanding, looking over at you briefly.

“Listen, Joel…”

“She ain’t our problem, Tommy.” He bites harshly, resting Sarah down gently as he rose from his knees, “Kid’s got her own family.”

“Joel,” Tommy stresses, motioning toward you subtly—Joel looks reluctantly and he can see the fear, practically smelling it on you—it’s the last thing he needs right now, “they’re gone—can’t leave her here.”

“We can.”

“We won’t.”

You take a few careful steps back, quiet and timid, away from the brothers.

“Jesus, Joel,” Tommy moves in, blocking his brother’s face from view as you lingered near the open front door, staring out toward the street as you couldn’t bare the sight of Sarah’s body laying a few feet to your right, “she used to babysit Sarah—helped you out in a pinch a hundred times. I understand this—”

“This is my daughter—”

“She’s my niece too, goddammit—don’t try and spin this, Joel.” Tommy rocks on his heels, hands hugging his hips as his shoulders stretch out, broad and wide, “We bury her, we get our shit and we go–I’m not losing you, too. I will drag your ass out of here if I have to.”

There’s a sliver of Joel’s face that comes into view as he peers over Tommy’s shoulder at you, eyes dragging over you carefully before he returns to Tommy, “She’s ain’t worth the trouble.”

He’s completely tossing aside the fact that you were an adult, young but still—you sigh shakily, “I can carry my own weight, you know?”

He’s stoic, a long stretch of silence as Tommy stares him down, lingering and waiting for Joel to come to his senses, but even when he does—it’s forced.

“Then start loading the truck,” Joel tells you, “anything—food, water—”

“Yeah, I got it.” You respond in a pinched tone, trying to stifle your own emotions.

Joel doesn’t argue further, picking up Sarah with a sudden gentleness that returns at the sight of his daughter while Tommy disappears to the attached garage and you linger for a brief moment as Joel admires her, knowing that this was all he had. Knowing that eventually even this memory would fade over time.

His guard softens as he looks at her and you find that was the right time to speak more candidly.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” You tell him, your voice quiet as you approach and he looks at you briefly, acknowledging with a nod as you move beyond him and toward the kitchen, “she’s a sweet kid.”

His voice breaks but barely wavers, a subtle sign of emotion that he was suppressing deep down.

“She was.”

His departure after that is quiet, meeting Tommy at the backdoor as he reentered from the garage with the shovels and blanket in hand, a sorrowful look on his face that furrowed his brow.

They both worked silently in the backyard while you loaded up what you could. Their house was mostly scarce, knowing Joel was probably creeping up on a shopping day that would never come. There’s a few canned goods you manage to scavenge along with a decently untouched pack of water bottles and while you couldn’t brave the other houses in fear that something else might be lingering, you gather what you can from your own. 

By the time you’re closing up the truck bed they’re both walking toward you, a gun tucked away in both of their waistbands and a rifle in Joel’s free hand—his arms were cleaner, albeit still dirty.

He’d changed, rid himself of the bloody clothes and brushed past you silently, his eyes dark and empty. 

Tommy stops at your feet, offering up a knife sheathed in a leather casing that you could attach to your jeans, “Ain’t got another gun, but it’s somethin’.”

You nod slightly and take it from his grip, “Thank you,” You tell him, turning to find Joel waiting with the door open, expecting that you would climb into the middle as there was nowhere for you to go, unless the truck bed seemed like the better option—it didn’t.

It was blind trust, putting your life in the hands of both brothers. 

But, you had no choice. All that mattered was living.

—

And for Joel, the cost didn’t matter.

It’s jarring, frightening. His emotions are like a light switch—when on, he’s calm and able to hold small talk, but even that was forced and uneasy. But, when your supply dwindles down after a week or so of driving and camping in the deep brush of forest, you find what the light switch is like when it’s off.

It was a stranger, a helpless guy alone and clearly on the verge of death. All of you were on edge, the dwindling September heat still lingered into October and you had blew through your last bottle of water the night before, sweat dampening your clothes as you sifted through the aisles of the convenience store that was bare bones and empty by now but you were hoping, praying—but then you hear it and to Joel, it was prey. 

He yanks your knife from where it’s secured at your waist, so quick you barely even feel the tug as he carefully steps around the corner toward the counter, finding an older gentleman with feeble hands and energy that was dying out by the second. He was starving, dehydrated. But, so were you. And so was Joel.

“Joel, don’t.” You speak from behind him, “There’s another store in town. It’s bigger.”

“Hand it over,” Joel demands, the knife tucked away in his right hand behind his back as he held out his left, beckoning with his fingers as the man stared on, bottom lip trembling in fear as he squeezed at the plastic bottle, “now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation where the man begins to speak, shaking his head, but Joel is on him before he gets the chance, shoving the knife through the center of his throat—quick, quiet, efficient. You sigh deeply, knowing it was already coming. Joel wipes the blood away on the now dead man’s pants and snatches up the water bottle before he’s shoving it into your chest and sliding the knife back into the holster.

“You killed him,” Joel looks at you torsely, eyes half-lidded as he waits for you to continue, “you—you didn’t have to kill him, Joel.”

“You’re welcome,” He answers with finality, “Tommy’s waiting’, let’s go.”

You glance at the dead body with a grimace, the weight of it pulling down as the man slumped to the floor and his blood pooled closer and closer toward you. You step back quickly and follow after Joel who’s already ringing the bells on the door above the entrance.

“That was quick—no trouble?” Tommy asks when you return to the truck, climbing over Joel’s lap as he refuses to move, digging your knee into his thigh out of annoyance.

He takes it in stride, though. Doesn’t even react.

“No,” You lie easily, “Last one, though.”

You’ve learned to not speak on it—Joel’s quick tendencies for anger and bruteness. Hell, most of the time you could just ignore it, like now. Arguing never worked, Joel didn’t care enough.

Besides, you were just a waste of resources. Joel said it so often that it echoed in the back of your mind every time he slashed, stabbed, or gutted someone for something you needed, or wanted.

It started in small glimpses, you or Tommy could say a word, make a noise, and Joel’s brow would pinch together and the scowl on his face would deepen. 

And Tommy was objectively selfless, which bothered Joel more than it should—but given how things were, it made sense. Good karma wasn’t going to do anything for your conscience in a world that was based on self-preservation. In Joel’s mind, it was kill or be killed. And he always killed first. He learned not to take chances, hold out on good faith. It didn’t exist anymore.

And he didn’t just attack on his own behalf—he’s done it for you on a few occasions. You’ve never killed an infected, Joel always got the first hit in. Your knife would be at the ready, shaky in your grip and he would look over at you with dismay, knowing that if you did manage to have a shot you would ultimately miss. So, instead of coaching, he yanks the knife from your grip and plunges it into the skull of the infected. 

He hides his tendencies from Tommy well for a while—you always sensed Joel’s underlying itch for conflict after Sarah’s ultimate death and the few weeks you spend together on the road. You didn’t stay anywhere longer than a couple days, different cities throughout Texas as you made your way upstate. Utah, Boston, Pittsburg. Anywhere but here.

The early mornings in the forest after an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement—no rain meant sleeping in the bed of the truck or setting up camp in the one tent you had to share. But, when it did, the three of you would be forced to hunker down inside the four feet of truck cabin with nowhere to angle yourself but one of the brothers. Joel almost always shrugged you away, so by default, Tommy was the one you always chose. He didn’t seem to mind, thankfully.

Regardless, early mornings usually meant that Tommy would take his time teaching you a few things while Joel slept heavy in the truck, the low rumble of his snore heard as you both paused and Tommy readjusted the position of the knife in your grip.

“If you’re gonna hold it the way you gotta keep the dull side close to your arm,” He tightens your fist around the handle, “that way you ain’t accidentally cutting yourself with your own blade.”

You nod, squeezing down on your grip until it feels comfortable and Tommy leads your hand back toward you before guiding it through and back towards him slowly, “Always aim for the head on infected—right to the brain, kills ‘em instantly.”

You already knew that, but the reiterating is a nice reminder. 

Everything had a weakness.

“People,” Tommy starts hesitantly, “I mean, they’re livin’ and breathin’—if you let them close enough anywhere is gonna hurt them, but try to aim for the neck or the face.”

The stark image of Joel forcing the knife through the center of the man’s throat is heavy on your mind and Tommy pats on your arm as you lower it, but your eyes focus on his waist.

“Can you teach me how to shoot?”

Tommy looks at you wearily—not because he doesn’t trust you, but there’s something there.

“What happens if one of you is in trouble?” You ask him, pressing on the issue. “And I’m the only one who can do anything? I don’t even know how to shoot a gun. I’m not asking for everything, just enough to know. Tommy, come on.”

Tommy sighs, scratching at his slightly grown-out facial hair. It wasn’t nearly as thick as Joel’s, but it was clear you had all been deprived of basic hygiene over the last several weeks.

“Alright,” He relents, but holds up a finger at you, “Just the basics, for now.”

“I mean, Joel’s planning to drop me off at the nearest QZ anyways,” You joke, shoving your knife into the casing at your waist as Tommy pulls the gun out of where it’s tucked into the back of his jeans, “might as well learn as much as I can before then.”

“He won’t,” Tommy assures you, “we’re not abandoning you like that.”

You didn’t agree, but you push the words back down and take the gun that Tommy is offering as he comes to your side, arms coming around your back and around you. He’s positioning your fingers alongside his own and speaking over your shoulder and neither of you hear the car door that opens over your shoulder.

Within seconds the gun is being yanked from your grip and into Joel’s, his fingers dangling through the loop of the trigger and his eyes locked on his brother, “You lost your damn mind?”

Tommy snatches the gun back from his brother, tucking it away into his waistband.

“She’s got just as much reason to learn,” Tommy argues, “—I don’t see you makin’ an effort to teach her anything.”

“It’s not my problem,” Joel says dismissively, “we’re better off just doing the work ourselves. Kid can’t even kill an infected, she’s not gonna save your ass in a gunfight, either.”

The frustration in you boils, simmering over the edge as you push through both of them and toward the truck, closing the door with a slam as their angered voices muffle into the cabin of the truck.

“She’s not our problem, Tommy,” Joel tells him, “the sooner you realize that the better.”

“That why you plan on droppin’ her off on the doorstep of the first QZ we stumble into?”

There’s a long beat of silence before Joel speaks, “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Tommy answers, his voice laced with smugness that even you could hear, “she’s already got it set in her mind that you will and you know what—don’t blame her, either.”

Eventually, the argument settles. It’s abrupt and both of them sandwich next to you in silence as Tommy follows the path back to the road, his fingers drumming quietly against the steering wheel. But, you can feel the charge of Joel’s frustration as his fingers twist around each other. You tune it out eventually, the silence drowned out by the low hum of a cassette tape that was playing a song you had heard a thousand times by now.

You knew your own weakness was hope and it was dwindling every day.

-

By Denver, you’re all irritable. Eleven hours cramped in a truck on days of very little sleep and small scraps of meals you’ve made stretch for weeks. All the tension, arguing, and frustrations comes to a head when you stumble upon an abandoned cabin on the outskirts of town, close to the mountains and secluded. It was perfect. 

There was a large, brushy forest to hunt and it was right beside a stream. You knew it was better than nothing and that the three of you could make it work for a time—the only problem, it was already occupied.

“Stay in the truck,” Joel orders to you, cocking his gun in his lap before he’s stuffing it back into his jeans and nodding at Tommy to follow. You almost expect him to argue, but he doesn’t. He follows, like a dutiful little brother as they both stalk toward the cabin calmly.

It was one car, clearly hot-wired and stolen alongside its broken windows.

It was clear that whoever was in the cabin wasn’t the original owners either, spotting the pile of dead infected burned to a crisp beside a stack of logs that you assumed were to keep the fire burning inside the house, watching as the black smoke creeped out of the chimney.

The minutes that pass feel like an hour and you begin to wander if they both decided to keep going, abandon you and try their chances down the stretch of highway without you.

You scoot into the driver’s seat and open the door, stepping out carefully as they muddy ground causes you to slip until you regain traction and as you close the door you hear it—a loud crash, a scuffle, and then Tommy’s voice alongside Joel’s.

You run in without thinking, crashing through the slightly open door to find them both with their arms around the neck of two other men, the strangers your eyes set on are already fading. They claw, scramble for air but they’re losing. Joel slams the butt of his gun into the back of the head of the guy he’s holding before they’re both twisting at their necks in unison, the signifying crack louder than the bodies as they hit the ground.

It isn’t shocking as it should be, having seen so many people on the other end of Joel’s violence—but for Tommy, the guilt of you having to witness that is immediate.

“Kiddo, I’m sorry,” He approaches, his hands out in front of him—he was approaching you the same way he had on outbreak day, timid and careful, “you shouldn’t have had to see that.”

You glance at Joel briefly who’s gun drops to the floor behind him as he heaves the dead man up in his arms and drags him out the back door of the cabin, there’s a subtle shake to his head at Tommy’s words that makes your ears ring, drowning out his profuse apologies.

“It’s us or them, right?”

It cuts off his line of speech and his eyebrows raise slightly, “What?”

“Us or them—I’m always going to choose us, for as long as that is. Joel would too.”

Suddenly he realizes that his justifying is naut as Joel rounds the corner and continues to drag the other body out before he’s joining you both in silence as he rubs his hands against his jacket.

“Alright, uh—I want you both to settle in here, try and make it more homey for the time being. I’m gonna drive into town and see what supplies I can scavenge, should be back by nightfall.”

“I’ll come with you,” Joel adds, but Tommy stops him.

“No,” He tells his brother, a quick shake of his head, “stay here with her, get another fire going.”

And for once, Joel listens to his younger brother. His tongue is poking at his cheek as he looks away with a begrudging annoyance as he stalks toward the fireplace.

“Keep an eye on him,” Tommy whispers to you, “alright?”

You nod and smile at the gentle squeeze to your bicep that Tommy offers as he departs.

When he’s gone, the silence is deafening. Joel’s gun was still on the floor, somehow forgotten by the man who never let anything slip past him, always on guard, always ready to attack.

His back is turned when you pick up the gun, the deafening click making his head turn on a swivel.

-

He’s on you in seconds, standing from his crouched position but you were quicker, stuffing the gun behind your back with a faint smile, taking a few steps away.

“Give it to me,” Joel commands, palm extended in waiting.

“Not like you to leave stuff layin’ around,” you comment jestingly, “I think I’ll keep it for a bit.”

He stalks, heavy footsteps against the hardwood floor as you retreat further and further until you’ve ultimately cornered yourself and Joel lunges for it behind your back but you take the opportunity to sweep under his arm and slip from his grip, dangling the gun from the grip of it with two fingers.

“What? You don’t trust me with it?” you taunt, “Think I’m gonna shoot you, don’t you?”

“I’m not askin’ again,” He charges and despite your quick reflex his hand is on your wrist first, the other coming around your neck as he presses you against the back of an old, dusty couch. It creaks under your weight and sends a cloud of dust up with the movement, “drop it.”

“Say it to my face,” you retort behind a strangled tone, feeling the heavy pressure of his thick fingers around your throat, tilting your chin up at his face where he towers over you, “say it and I’ll go—you won’t see me again, hear from me. I won’t be your responsibility anymore.”

Joel shakes your wrist and squeezes and the gun drops, clattering against the floor but he doesn’t let go, not yet.

“You’ll die out there.”

You squint your eyes in disbelief, a soft laugh bubbling from your chest.

“Yeah, I’ve heard you repeat that to Tommy a million times over the last few months.”

You pull at his grip but find that it only tightens, your fingers clawing at the hand around your throat, his fingers tucked under your jaw as it pulls your chin up and up, nearly touching his chest with how close he is to you now, your feet scrambling slightly underneath your for proper footing as you leaned against the couch. 

You speak again, hoping to crawl under his skin and make him uneasy, bothered.

“What? Sudden change of heart?” you ask, “Suddenly I’m worth protecting? Tommy would love to know about the handful of men you’ve killed in my honor, you know?”

Joel’s face twitches at that, his eyes dragging toward the gun on the floor—that was your window.

You force your knees up and into his stomach, shoving him away as he stumbles but the feeling of his arm coming around your abdomen has you squirming, turning and hitting him with weak, balled up fists that didn’t amount to half the strength he encompassed. It was barely a struggle for him.

Eventually you give up, waiting and waiting for him to let you go. His gaze is heavy, almost curious in the way he watches you go through the stages of resistance to acceptance and then finally giving up before your eyes are peering up at him, pressed against him at every point of contact, the cold metal of his belt buckle digging into your stomach.

“You’re stuck with me and I’m sorry,” you tell him out of desperation, “I just want to learn and you could teach—”

It takes you a second to process when his lips press against yours, a biting kiss that is forceful and startling, gasping into his mouth at the action but your body reacts instinctively, arms wrapping around his neck and hands fisting into his hair, the subtle essence of salt and pepper that was only noticeable this close. Joel groans softly, the first true and honest sound that has come from him all evening.

“Irritating,” Joel speaks against your lips, mumbled as he leads you, bumping your legs against the arm of the couch before you’re both tumbling over, “—do you ever fuckin’ shut up?”

He’s coined you vexatious in his own mind, not realizing how impossible he was to be around either—stubborn, impossible. An unmoving force of rigidness, but here he was—pliable to the fingers that slip under his shirt as he settles between your open legs, his own pulling at the button of your jeans.

You don’t need words, knowing that you both have communicated off eye contact at a level that was never spoken about but just worked. It clicked and when he pushed, you gave into the blow.

Silently you work alongside his own hands, pushing your jeans down and off. You kick them to the floor, working at your underwear while he undoes his own jeans, feeling like you were both working against the clock with your heart hammering in your chest. He was eager, impatient—still Joel, but it was a new look. It was the dynamic that, for you, felt like the missing piece.

Weeks of constant bickering and side-eyed glances all boiling down to one break in his mulish personality, this was the resolve.

The warm touch of his palm against your upper thighs pull your attention to him and he breathes out harshly through his nostrils, his jeans shoved down his thighs and his free hand palming himself over his underwear, squeezing at your skin as he offers only one word in acknowledgement. A question.

“Yeah?”

You nod shakily, answering with a soft, “Yes.”

-

There is no build-up, no gentle touching that leads to soft caresses as Joel presses himself inside of you. His hand is gripping the arm of the couch above your head as he grips himself at the base of his cock before he’s pushing in with one solid jerk of his hips, a hurried and desperate movement to bury himself inside of you. Your fingers pull at the hair by his nape and he grunts, head pulling back as he snapped his hips back and pushed into you again, sharp and angered. His jaw was tense, the subtle peek of teeth bared behind his lips

It’s a harsh disjunction; a man you would watch from your window on weekends as he spent mornings chasing Sarah out in the lawn—softer, happier. Her protector.

With reluctance, he’s become your own. Whether he would admit it aloud or not, he knows. But, it isn’t the same—you were extra baggage, a burden, but one he felt chained too. And more importantly, distraction.

You could see his humanity slipping week by week, a dull shell of himself most days. He won’t even look at you now, his eyes squeezed shut as he thrusts into you, your eyes dragging from his face to his cock, your hand traveling down to fist at his shirt, dragging it up his stomach. 

The dark, coarse hair at the base of his cock traveled up his stomach, across his thighs. Big, strong thighs that held your legs apart and the thickness of him ached, stretched you open after months of unintentional celibacy forcing you to grip him tight, wincing with every continuous snap of his hips, feeling a hand come around to cup the back of your head, cradling it as his forehead drops and presses against your own, blocking your line of sight and forcing your eyes closed. Just feel, he’s trying to convey. Don’t think.

And it works, lingering thoughts fading away as pleasure bleeds in. His top lip grazing against the round part of your nose, his hot breath fanning over your mouth as he huffs and you moan against him, a soft and broken noise that only forces his grip to tighten against the back of your head and the other hand at your thigh, finger digging into the flesh so harshly that the ache would linger for days.

You feel the crest creeping up on you but it isn’t enough, slipping your fingers between your body silently, but the fingers around your wrist startle you, dragging you back to the surface and opening your eyes to his, his expression earnest but stoic.

“Don’t,” He shakes his head, “—just close your eyes, I got it.”

You can’t find the energy inside to argue, feeling the hand cradling your head circle around to the crown of your scalp, fingers digging into the hair and pulling taut, forcing your head back and then he’s touching you, two thick fingers circling your clit in time with his harsh, hurried thrusts.

You do close your eyes, feeling the soft tuft of his hair against the side of your face as buries himself there, his movements jerkier as his fingers work quickly, squeezing around him as your fingers dig into his forearm, hips working against his fingers instinctively to search out more and more until you’re tipping over the cliff and free-falling, coming with a soft gasp as he pulls away suddenly, fisting his cock tightly as he came over your stomach, hastily shoving your shirt out of the way as he grunts quietly, his face pinched and completely unreadable when you do finally find the energy to look at him, eyes dragging toward the ceiling as you breathe and try to process what the fuck just happened.

There’s a distant rip of fabric somewhere to the right of you and far away, noticing that Joel’s already redressed when he approaches and wipes gently at the mess of cum dressed across your stomach, shoving your jeans back into your hand in the same movement. 

You look at him oddly, shuffling the jeans and underwear in your grip as you rise, eyes following as he moved around, started building the fire Tommy had told him about a half hour ago and is so glaringly ignoring what had transpired just now—you move quickly, redressing to avoid the judgment if he looked back and you were still staring.

And you notice the itch, the unavoidable twitch in his shoulders as he can’t settle with his movements, occupying himself to keep running on the clear adrenaline high he was on—he’d killed a man and immediately directed his frustration at you and used it as a means to stall, distract, satiate that monster dwelling inside him that always came out around you.

“So, can I leave now?” You ask him, his eyes peeking over his shoulder as he shoved a new pile of wood into the fireplace, “Are we finished?”

“You’re not leaving,” Joel tells you—you weren’t moving, weren’t planning to, but you wanted to see where the conversation would go, whether Joel would admit that he cared more than he let on, his emotions so stunted since Sarah that they came out in bouts of violence and rage, “I’d never hear the end of it.”

You offer a smug chuckle in response, “So, I was right. You don’t want me around.”

Joel turns on his knee, allowing you to see the remnants of flush in his cheeks, his messy hair and his response that rips a hole straight through your chest, “I’m stuck with you because Tommy wants you around.”

It wasn’t a direct answer, but you could read into it enough.

You glance over the back of the couch, wondering if the gun was still laying on the floor where Joel had squeezed it out of your grip, but the click to your right has you turning in an instant, staring down the barrel of Joel’s gun.

“You got a lot to learn,” Your glare is less than impressed as it lands on him, petulant and annoyed, “Don’t ever touch my gun again, alright?”

“Oh,” you respond airily, an impish smile creeping onto your face as you tilted your head slightly, “so—you fucked me as punishment or because of some silly little fantasy you've always had of fucking your neighbors daughter?”

And to your surprise, Joel's response is less angered.

“You could do with a little punishment,” He rises on his knees, pocketing the gun back in his jeans, and smirking at your dumb-founded expression, “—couldn’t you?”

Joel approaches closer, motioning with his fingers for you to stand and without thinking, you follow. His subtle smirk grows wider and he’s reaching for the forgotten knife on the floor, having fallen off your pants in the midst of your hurried undressing.

“I ain’t here to teach—I’m keepin’ us alive. The sooner you learn to shut up and follow, the better,” He reaches for your hand, placing the knife into your open palm, “and you kissed back, so that look on your face, that regret—”

“Who said there was regret?”

Joel’s eyes stick to you, meeting yours fiercely for a moment as you take the knife from him and reattach it to the loop on your jeans. His tongue licks at his bottom lip briefly, watching the subtle grin spread across your face.

Your words were a challenge. 

And for you, that meant game on. 

-

dividers creds: @/saradika-graphics

[featherandferns]

Halloween and horror movies were nothing new, but JJ seemed bored by the concept... (MDNI)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Outside on the porch sits Kiara's butchered children. At least, that's how she saw them. Her pumpkin babies that she'd planted and watered and kissed and nourished and grown from the ground up sat picked, gutted and carved. Inside were two tealights, creating an eerie glow through their hollow eyes. Yours was classic: two triangles above a brimming, fanged grin. JJ's? Your boyfriend had decided to create an homage to the stoner community: a joint sat between a doped smile, with half-set eyes somehow perfectly capturing that absent, blissed-out stare. Age appropriate? Absolutely not. But not a lot of children would come trick-or-treating out this way. With that in mind, yourself and the rest of the Pogues had opted for a movie night.

Nothing with the Pogues was ever simple. Sarah wanted to watch Beetlejuice but Cleo was adamant about a modern day horror. Pope swore against jump scares because it was cheap thrills and the science of a good psychological thriller is just too much of a mindbender to pass up on, right? Well, Kiara said that she thought psychological thrillers were trivial and dragged on. John B? He didn't want anything paranormal. That limited things quite a lot. What did you all agree on? The most harmless Halloween flick of all time: Hocus Pocus.

You're cuddled against your boyfriend on the farthest end of the old couch. A scratchy tweed blanket sits across both of your laps. Beneath it, JJ's hand rests comfortably on your thigh. In his other hand he hoards the bowl of Halloween candy. The lot of you were working your way through the gummy worms and chocolate eyeballs. Lights down, volume up, curtains closed: it was the picture of cosy, fall fun.

"This movie blows," JJ mumbles into your ear.

You roll your eyes and whisper back with a smile, "It's a classic."

"C.H.U.D. is way scarier."

"This isn't meant to be scary."

"But it's a Halloween movie. Isn't that the whole gimmick?"

"It's meant to be enchanting."

"La-de-da."

"Shush!" Kiara hisses from her spot on the floor. Her head turns so fast it reminds you of the exorcist, and that just makes you want to watch that movie again. Sighing, you sink against the warmth of your boyfriend. You had to agree: this was a lot better of a movie when you were a kid.

It's as if he can hear your boredom calling out to him. The moment Kie's attention is back on the crackly television screen, JJ's hand starts to shift. It's innocent at first, no different to the usual way he absentmindedly caresses at your skin. The first time his finger slips against your inner thigh, you think it's an accident. But then it's again, and it teases at the hem of your pyjama shorts, and you shoot him a look. The smirk on his face and the glint in your eyes tell you everything you need to know.

You lean up and hope it looks casual to your friends as you whisper into his ear, "we're literally watching a children's movie about witches with our friends right now. You cannot be horny."

"I'm bored," comes his excuse. "'Sides, they're all watching the movie. They're not even gonna notice."

You pull back to let your eyes flit across your friends. Pope and Cleo are in an armchair that you had thrifted, cuddled up, with Cleo half-asleep against his chest. Pope's eyes are so focused on the movie that you wonder if he's analysing each frame. John B lounges on the spot on the sofa near JJ, though there's a safe little gap between the two. He seems pretty hooked on the movie too. Kie and Sarah are on the floor sharing a bowl of popcorn.

JJ's hand continues to massage your thigh. His finger is ghostly in its teasing against your thigh, the touch just enough to wake up every neuron and every cell, but not enough to please them.

Your silent mark of consent to your ADHD ridden boyfriend is the slight opening of your legs, giving his hand more space to explore. You can see his grin in your peripheral. Talk about obvious.

But it becomes increasingly harder to care about the others in the room when JJ rubs your clit through your panties. Sighing slowly, relieved, your head leans against JJ's warm chest. It shakes with silent laughter and you debate cussing him out in front of everyone. The circles he draws are methodological; he knew your body like he'd read the handbook. Every touch and every kiss had reason and rhyme, and it had been months since JJ had struggled to flip on every switch that had your body singing.

Your cunt clenches around nothing as he picks up the pace and pressure. As the sounds of the movie fade away, you become keenly aware of your unsteady rise and fall of breath. The cool metal of his rings somehow bleeds through the thin veil of fabric as he fingers press against your slit. Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you fight away the moans and sighs of pleasure. The hot, damp feel of JJ's breath against your ear is cruel.

"So fuckin' dirty. Letting me feel you up right next to our friends, huh?"

You shoot him a glare but you know it falls flat when you're literally biting back the moans he's reasonable for. The weight of your look weakens as you chase your climax. So close, so close, so close...You rock forward gently when you come, before sinking back on your boyfriend. He eases up slowly, reeling it in. JJ plants kisses against your neck and behind your ear.

The moment your mind returns to your body, you're keenly aware of what just happened. You scan the other people in the room in mild panic to check nobody is shooting you disgusted daggers. But, no, everyone is still watching the three witches fly around on their mops and brooms and vacuum cleaners.

JJ's eyes find yours and you try your best to look unimpressed, but it's hard when your pussy is still convulsing. His voice is hushed and low when he teases with a grin:

"Guess you're not the virgin who lit the candle, huh?"

[iovebarca]

La Roja - Fermín Lopez

Authors note: why do schools feel the need to give sm work when the weather is nice

WC: 700+

warnings: incorrect grammar (probably), my first language isn't english so if you notice any mistakes please tell me, fluff.

send me requestsss 🫶🫶

You sit on the edge of the sofa, phone clutched tightly in your hand, eyes flicking from the muted television to the closed door of your shared apartment. Your heart races with a mixture of anticipation and hope. Fermín, your boyfriend, has been waiting for this moment his entire life, and you’ve been waiting right alongside him.

The past weeks have been a whirlwind of tension and excitement. Every time the phone rang, both of you would jump, hoping it was the call from de la Fuente himself. You’ve seen Fermín play his heart out on the field, every match an audition, every goal and assist a plea to be noticed.

Today, though, feels different. There’s a buzz in the air, a kind of electricity that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. Fermín left for training this morning with a determined look in his eyes, more focused than usual, if that’s even possible.

As you glance at the clock, you realize he’s due back any minute now. You stand, unable to sit still, pacing the room. The TV, still on mute, shows highlights from last night’s games. You spot Fermín in one of the clips, effortlessly dodging defenders and setting up the winning goal. A smile spreads across your face, pride swelling in your chest.

The sound of keys jangling in the lock snaps you back to the present. The door swings open, and there he is—Fermín, your Fermín. His usually confident stride is hesitant, and his expression unreadable. Your heart skips a beat as he steps inside.

“Hey,” you say softly, trying to gauge his mood. He looks up at you, and for a moment, you can’t read his eyes.

Then, slowly, a smile breaks across his face, growing wider until he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I got the call,” he says, voice trembling with excitement and disbelief.

You let out a scream of joy, launching yourself into his arms. He catches you, laughing, spinning you around in a jubilant dance. “You did it! You really did it!”

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs into your hair, holding you close. “I’m going to play for Spain.”

You pull back to look at him, tears of happiness in your eyes. “I knew you would. I’ve always known.”

The two of you collapse onto the sofa, still holding each other tightly. He tells you about the call, about how the coach praised his performance and dedication. You listen, hanging on every word, your heart soaring with pride.

As Fermín talks, your mind drifts back to when you first saw him play. He was just a teenager then, full of raw talent and unrefined skill. You remember the muddy fields and cold mornings, the way he would practice for hours, driven by a dream. You stood by him, cheering at every match, nursing his bruises, and celebrating his victories. Each step he took, you were there, his biggest fan and unwavering support.

“We should celebrate,” you say, jumping up. You decide to cook his favorite meal, filling the apartment with the rich, comforting scents of home-cooked food. Fermín calls his parents, his voice animated as he shares the news. Later, you both head out to your favorite spot in the city, a little ice cream parlour with a view of the sea, to toast to his success under the starlit sky.

The conversation naturally drifts to what comes next. The training camps, the matches, the possibility of playing in the Eurocopa. You discuss the logistics, the travel, and the new routines you’ll both need to adapt to. There’s excitement in the uncertainty, a sense of adventure in the new chapter unfolding before you. Fermín squeezes your hand, promising that no matter how busy things get, you’ll always come first.

Back at home, you give him a small, wrapped box. Inside is a bracelet with a simple charm—a small football and a heart intertwined. “For luck,” you say, fastening it around his wrist. He pulls you close, his eyes soft with gratitude. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he whispers, and you know he means it.

As the evening fades into night, you talk about the future, your dreams intertwined. Through it all, Fermín keeps one arm around you, as if he can’t bear to let you go.

[magicfootballstuff]

Dirty Little Secret - part 5 (leila ouahabi x reader)

Summary: A love story about secrets, flirty messages, football rivalries, and useless lesbians who don’t know how to communicate. And it all starts with one badly timed challenge in the Champions League.

Leila Ouahabi x Arsenal!reader

Part 5/?

Read other parts here.

———

You’ve hardly spoken to Leila since the news broke that she’ll be playing for Manchester City next season, and not at all since the tournament began. You’re completely focused on your goal of winning the Euros, as Leila probably is too, and you immerse yourself in the bubble of the Lionesses camp while trying to block out outside noise. That includes talking to Leila. 

You watch her games though. In between your own matches and the intense training schedule, there’s plenty of downtime and you manage to catch quite a few of the other games on the large screen in the Lionesses’ television room, including the Spanish team’s group games. You act like you’re watching them out of professional curiosity, knowing the likelihood of having to face Spain in the knockout rounds, but you’re as focused on Leila as an individual as you are on the Spanish team as a whole.

Sure enough, after a successful unbeaten group stage, England have to play against Spain in their quarter final match and it might be the hardest game you’ve ever played so far in your career.

It’s not just the physical aspect - one hundred and twenty minutes on a muggy summer evening against a team that has the majority of the possession - but also the mental side. When Spain go ahead, it’s the first goal that England have conceded all tournament, the first time you’ve found yourselves in a losing position, and it takes resilience like you’ve never seen before to pull yourself back not just level, but into the lead.

You almost forget that you’re playing against Leila’s team. She’s on the bench, which you feel conflicted about, having been looking forward to facing her on the pitch again, but at least it removes that possible distraction.

The final whistle blows and thanks to Georgia’s extra time worldie, England are through to the semi-finals.

You walk around the pitch, grinning and hugging your own teammates in celebration, while shaking the hands of the heartbroken Spanish players. Some of them, you know from the Copa de la Reina afterparty, where you were Leila’s guest, and it’s hard to look them in the eye knowing that you’ve just crushed their dreams of progressing further in this tournament.

You walk past Ona Batlle, who you’ve played against many times in the league, and who is being comforted by Rachel. Then Mapi Leon, who you know is one of Leila’s closest friends, lets you pull her in for a brief one-armed hug, but all the time you’re looking for one person.

You spot Leila from across the pitch, still wearing her purple substitute bib, and she must see you too because you end up slowly meandering towards each other as you do the rounds on the pitch.

Leila isn’t quite crying, not like some of her teammates who left everything out on the pitch in one hundred and twenty minutes of gruelling football, but the look in her eyes is one of heartbreak.

You don’t know what to say.

In the end, words aren’t needed. You’re not sure who initiates it, but you end up in each other’s arms. Leila is slightly taller than you and her arms wrap around your shoulders, one hand cradling the back of your head as you lean into her and wrap your own arms around her back. The warmth of her body against yours is comforting and you almost drown out the sound of the jubilant crowd singing Sweet Caroline because suddenly the only thing that matters is Leila.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into Leila’s shoulder.

“Don’t say sorry,” Leila replies. “You’ll make me cry.”

You want to apologise for that too, but you obey Leila and stay quiet instead, still full of adrenaline from the game and knowing that seeing Leila cry will probably set you off too.

You wish you could freeze this moment, to exist just the two of you in each other’s arms, as you did for those short days in Barcelona a few weeks ago. Leila’s body fits against your own in a way that you’ve never fully appreciated before, but you feel like this is where you belong. She’s just a little bit taller than you, her hand cradling the back of your head, and though it should probably be you comforting her now that you’ve knocked her team out of the tournament, the embrace is as much of a comfort to you.

Though you’d like to remain in Leila’s arms forever, you eventually break apart, but with promises that you’ll talk properly as soon as all the formalities are done and you can get a moment of privacy.

You have to wait until after the huddles, when some of the girls are still doing media duties and you’re back in your tracksuit after a shower, but you get a message from Leila on your phone.

Leila Can I see you? Is there somewhere we can go?

Knowing that your time is limited before both teams have to leave the stadium, you reply straight away.

You Meet me outside the changing rooms?

You pull a hoodie over your head and slip your socked feet into your sliders, then leave the England changing room. Leila emerges from the Spanish dressing room within seconds, and you silently lead her in the opposite direction from the media zone, until you find a deserted hallway deep within the underbelly of the stadium. There, you end up on the floor, side by side with your backs against the wall, thighs pressed together and your fingers intertwined with Leila’s in her lap.

You’re reminded of the only other time you and Leila snuck away after a game - after the second Champions League game at the Emirates. Back then, your actions were fuelled by lust and secrecy. Today, you just want Leila’s company for as long as you’re allowed to have it, and you don’t care about getting caught.

“Are you mad?” you ask Leila, as you trace your thumb over the small tattoo on the back of her hand. “That we knocked you out?”

“Some of the girls are angry,” Leila says with a shrug. “Like Aitana - I think her head might explode. But I’m not mad. Just sad. We wanted to win. We really wanted to win for Alexia.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologise, leaning into Leila’s side and letting your head fall against Leila’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” she tells you, her fingers still absently toying with yours.

“It kind of is,” you point out.

“No,” Leila insists, shaking her head firmly. “We have such good players but you need something extra to win a tournament. It feels like there’s always something missing with us. I can’t describe what it is, but I know your team has it.”

You think you know what Leila means. You’ve played in many different teams over the years - youth teams, professional clubs, national sides - and with that you’ve experienced the full range of success levels. The teams you’ve been a part of that have won titles have all had that special something that Leila refers to, a connection between teammates, the two-way trust between the coach and the players, the special spark that allows you all to push through, even when it’s tough. 

You think that the Lionesses have probably demonstrated that tonight. You’ve played in so many teams that would have crumbled as soon as they went one goal down against one of the best sides in Europe, yet you came from behind to earn your place in the semi final. That’s the mark of a team that has something special.

Spain, for whatever reason, doesn’t have that, despite the obvious talent in their squad. You wonder if Leila is more mad at that than she is at you for knocking them out of the tournament.

“You’re gonna win this whole competition, you know that, right?” Leila tells you.

If there’s one thing that Sarina has brought to this England team it’s belief, but while you know this team is more than capable of winning the Euros, you’re still not sure whether it will actually happen.

“You think so?” you ask Leila.

She nods and says, “I hate it. My heart says anybody but England. But I also want it for you. You deserve it.”

“I know it’s the whole point of sport, that only one team can win, and don’t get me wrong, I love winning. But sometimes I hate it when my dreams have to come at the expense of my friends’ dreams.”

“Is that what we are?” Leila asks, and when you lift your head from her shoulder to look at her, she’s smirking back at you. “Friends?”

She gives your hand a performative squeeze, as if to emphasise the beyond-friendliness of your relationship.

You open your mouth to say something witty in response, then close it again. Because the thing is, you and Leila haven’t actually defined what you are. Football rivals with benefits is probably the most appropriate term, because to be honest, you’re not entirely sure if you know Leila well enough to call yourselves friends yet. 

But with Leila looking at you with curiosity in her eyes, eyebrows half raised as if she’s expecting you to confirm the exact nature of your relationship, you don’t know what to say. You could joke, but that would just be deflecting. You could be honest, and tell her that you don’t know what you want but that you like the way that things have been going. Or you could field the adrenaline still coursing through your body from the match into telling Leila that you’d like to maybe explore making things a little more serious when she moves to England soon.

What if she doesn’t want things to be more serious? What if she’s more than happy with just an occasional hookup? More to the point, are you sure that you want anything more than what’s currently going on between you?

The door at the end of the hallway crashes open before you can even begin to vocalise any of the confusion in your mind, and your head jerks up to see that it’s Mapi who is interrupting you, stopping in her tracks when she sees the two of you sitting together on the floor in the middle of the corridor.

“Shit, my bad,” Mapi says in English, before she switches to Spanish and addresses Leila.

You let your fingers slip out from between Leila’s as they converse and use your hand to play with your hair instead, running your fingertips through the damp strands, until eventually Leila turns back to you and says, “Sorry, I have to go. We’re leaving soon.”

Leila pushes herself to her feet, then offers out a hand to help you to yours. You keep your hand in hers as you follow Mapi down the hallway, only letting it drop when you pass into a more public area where there might be some media. The last thing you need is for pictures of the two of you holding hands to appear on social media before you even get the chance to figure out how to label what Leila is to you.

There are a few more people around, and one of those is your captain Leah, whose frowning face relaxes when she sees you.

“Oh, there you are,” Leah says to you. “I’ve been looking for you. Nobody knew where you were. The bus is leaving soon.”

Leah’s eyes flick curiously between you and the two Spanish players, but if she suspects anything, she doesn’t comment on it.

Mapi leaves you, entering the Spanish dressing room, but Leila stays and you know it’s time to say goodbye. At least this time, with Leila’s move to Manchester imminent, you hope there will be chances to see her again sooner than usual once your own tournament is over.

You migrate towards each other and wrap your arms around Leila as she pulls you against her chest, burying your face against her shoulder. She smells divine, and you try to commit it to memory as you inhale.

“Good luck,” Leila murmurs into your hair, her voice soft enough that only you can hear her. “I’ll be cheering for you.”

“For me or for England?” you can’t help but tease her.

“You,” Leila says, speaking at a normal level again as she pulls out of the embrace. “Fuck England.”

There’s an amused glint in her eyes as she says this, but it quickly vanishes when she realises she’s still standing within earshot of the England captain, and you can’t stop yourself from grinning as Leila raises an apologetic hand in Leah’s direction.

“Sorry,” she says. 

“No need to apologise,” Leah replies diplomatically. “In your position, I’d probably feel that way about us too.”

You think about going in for a goodbye kiss with Leila, but Leah’s presence causes you to hesitate, and before you can make a decision Leila has already said her final goodbye and followed Mapi into the Spanish changing room.

“You alright?” Leah asks, now that it’s just the two of you.

You and Leah know each other incredibly well, playing alongside each other for over a decade, first in the same England youth age groups, then at club level with Arsenal. And while you can tell Leah is curious about the interaction she saw between you and Leila, and that her question isn’t so much asking about your well-being as it is inviting you to open up to her, you also know that she’s not going to push you to tell her anything that you’re not ready to share.

“All good,” you respond.

Leah drapes an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into her side as you re-enter the now almost empty England changing room.

“You bossed it tonight,” she tells you. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“You too, captain.”

She smiles at you - the whole England captain thing still hasn’t fully sunk in yet, for either of you, and while you can’t quite believe that the skinny girl with the white blonde hair and the gangly legs who you first met over ten years ago is now leading her country to a European Championship semi final, you know that this is something Leah has always been destined for.

You don’t want to get ahead of yourself but you’re still on such a high from the game that you dare to wonder if Leah is the person who will finally lead England to a major trophy.

“Two games left,” Leah tells you, and you know that she’s reminding herself as much as you. “Two games left to change our lives.”

———

“You’ve got a new girlfriend, I see,” Georgia grins at you as you sit down for breakfast the morning after the Spain game.

“What?” you ask, nearly choking on your granola.

“That’s what Twitter thinks, anyway.”

“Show me.”

Georgia flips her phone around and shows you a tweet that reads “new woso couple alert?” accompanied by a couple of pictures of you and Leila embracing on the pitch after the game. You can feel your cheeks start to heat up and you hope they don’t visibly redden, especially as you feel Leah’s eyes on you, the only person around the table who might be able to guess how close to the truth this fan ‘rumour’ actually is.

“Oh, because I consoled a player after a game now I’m dating her?”

You scroll through some of the comments. There’s nothing too outrageous there - some about the length of the hug, some speculating how or even if you and Leila actually know each other, mixed in with a couple of theories that it’s purely professional and that Manchester City will soon be announcing your return to the club where you spent your formative years thanks to “agent Leila”. It’s not new either. You’re no stranger to being shipped with other footballers, it sort of comes with the territory of being semi-famous in a fanbase of mostly queer women, but never has a rumour about your dating life been so close to the truth.

Suddenly, you’re wondering if you were wrong to hug Leila in public after the game. At the time you followed your instinct, wanting to comfort somebody who means a lot to you. But if you’d waited until you were alone to do that, you wouldn’t have strangers on the internet speculating about the nature of a relationship that you can’t even define yourself yet. Leila was hurting, but was being there for her in that moment really worth potentially outing this to everybody before it even has a label?

Stewing over a decision that you made in the heat of the moment and didn’t think twice about, you return Georgia’s phone.

“It’s just the fans though,” Georgia says with a shrug. “They come up with all sorts of crazy theories sometimes.”

“Yeah, there’s some fans that think I’m dating Ella,” Alessia interjects with a laugh.

“Wait, are you not?” Leah asks, managing to keep her expression deadpan for a few seconds, before it cracks open into a grin.

“Alessia wishes she was dating me,” Ella says.

“I do actually,” Alessia replies, reaching out for one of Ella’s hands as she adds, “El, I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you how I really feel…”

“Shut up!” Ella snatches her hand away and rolls her eyes as the rest of the group descends into a fit of laughter.

With the group’s attention now elsewhere, any opportunity you might have had to finally admit to your friends what’s going on between you and Leila has passed.

There’ll be other times. When the tournament is over, maybe then you’ll tell them. But with a semi final coming up and the possibility of a final too, you can’t deal with any distractions, whether those come from outside opinions on social media or your friends teasing you about the developments in your personal life.

You feel Leah’s eyes on you and you suspect she knows the truth, but you’re grateful for her silence.

———

England makes it past Sweden with relative ease and you can hardly believe that you’ve made it this far. The final at Wembley is all that stands between you and your wildest dream, but it also means you have to face up to the dilemma that’s been on your mind since you knocked Spain out in the quarter finals.

Should you invite Leila to watch the final as your guest?

You haven’t actually talked to Leila since the quarter final. You know that she’s probably been busy getting ready to move to England, meanwhile you’ve been caught in the bubble of the Lionesses camp.

But once the excitement of winning the semi final has passed and you’re back to focusing on training for the final, you realise that you want Leila there to support you. Just as you went to see her play in the Champions League and Copa de la Reina finals, you want her in the crowd as you compete for the European Championship trophy.

But you don’t know if she wants to come, especially after it was your team who knocked hers out of the same competition.

Plus, though Twitter moved on from the hypothetical of you and Leila after a matter of hours when something else became more interesting, you’re sure that a sighting of Leila in the crowd at Wembley, in the England friends and family section no less, will be sure to bring those rumours right back to the attention of the fans.

After a day of deliberating, you eventually decide that it’s a risk you’re happy to take, if it means Leila might be in the crowd to watch you play the most important game of your entire career.

You text her on your way to lunch after a conditioning session in the gym two days before the big final.

You Do you want to come to the final? I can get you a ticket…

And then, you add a second message as an afterthought.

You Don’t worry, I won’t make you wear an England shirt 😉

Leila doesn’t reply immediately

Leila Sorry I move to Manchester this week 😔 but good luck!

You’re disappointed, but you knew this was a likely outcome. Besides, it’s probably for the best. If Leila had accepted the offer, not only would you have had to explain everything to your teammates, but you’d probably have ended up introducing Leila to your entire family too, which sounds like way too much for somebody who isn’t even officially your girlfriend.

You No problem! Good luck with the move!

———

Leila was right - this England team does have something special.

It hits you, strangely enough, not when the final whistle blows nor when Leah lifts the trophy and a shower of confetti rains down over you, but when you crash Sarina’s post-final press conference with the rest of the team. It’s so ridiculous, your socked feet slipping against the floor, Mary shimmying her hips as she dances on the tables, two dozen journalists watching on in amused disbelief, but there’s no group of people you’d rather have done the last month and a half with. And the medal around your neck, hanging heavy with the sheer importance of what you’ve just achieved, is a permanent reminder of the best summer of your life.

You return to the dressing room, where an England-branded bucket hat somehow finds its way onto your head, and sit down in your cubby to check your phone. Messages have been flying in since full time - friends, family, even distant acquaintances you haven’t seen in over a decade, all wanting to congratulate you on the win. But there’s only one person you’ve been waiting to hear from, and you feel giddy when you see her name in the list of notifications.

Leila Congrats campeonaaaa! I told you that you were gonna win 😋

She’s accompanied the message with a picture, a selfie in which she’s wearing the England shirt emblazoned with your number that you traded for hers during the Arnold Clark Cup. 

You take a selfie to send back, keeping the ridiculous hat on your head and lifting up your medal to catch it between your teeth. You grin as you snap the photo and send it to Leila.

Almost as soon as you send it, your phone starts ringing with an incoming FaceTime. You’ve ignored a few calls since you won, overwhelmed by the number of people trying to congratulate you already, but when you see Leila’s name, you accept immediately.

“Hey,” you say, when Leila’s face appears on the screen of your phone.

“Nice hat,” she greets you, stifling a laugh.

You raise your eyebrows, then say, “Sexy, huh?”

Leila gives you an incredulous look, before she says, “Show me your medal then.”

The dressing room is already noisy, but somebody turns the speaker up and it’s almost impossible to hear Leila, so you make your way out of the central changing area and towards the showers, where it’s slightly quieter, before lifting the medal so that it’s in the frame of your front-facing camera.

“Does it suit me?” you ask, shooting her a teasing smile.

“I like it,” Leila tells you. “Winning is very sexy.”

You open your mouth to flirt back, but you’re interrupted by a shout from a few metres away. When you glance up, Leah has emerged from round the corner, a half empty bottle of champagne clutched in one of her hands.

“Oi!” she cries out. “Come and dance with us.”

“Two minutes,” you say to Leah.

Leah’s eyes flit between your face and the phone in your hand, and realisation washes over her face, perhaps remembering the interactions she saw between you and Leila after you played against each other last week.

“Oh!” she says, eyes wide. “Take your time!”

“I’ll be there in a second,” you promise Leah, before turning back to your phone.

“Go and celebrate,” Leila urges you. 

“I wish I was celebrating with you,” you admit.

“Sorry,” Leila says with a grimace.

“No!” you interject. “I’m not blaming you for not being here! How did the move go?”

“It was good,” Leila shrugs. “The apartment is nice but I need to go to IKEA to get some furniture.”

“Maybe I can come and visit when you’ve settled in?” you suggest optimistically.

“Okay, but you lose the hat,” Leila tells you, and it’s more of an order than a suggestion.

A thought pops into your brain, probably fuelled the bottle of beer you just downed on top of a shit ton of adrenaline from the match, and you cheekily ask, “What if I’m wearing just the hat?”

“No,” Leila warns you firmly, though she rolls her eyes playfully.

“Fine,” you concede.

“Go,” Leila tells you. “I don’t want to stop you celebrating.”

“Okay,” you say, trying to draw out the goodbye as long as you can. “But I’ll see you soon, right?”

“See you soon, champion.”

[demibats]

how to survive a horror movie - the first to go. . .

we aren't gonna talk about the fact that it took me an entire year to revisit this fic and post the first chapter ok? but without further ado, WE ARE SO BACK. give the masterlist a visit for context if you'd like <3 -demi xx chapter warnings: weed mention, brief description of homic*de and violence. minors do not interact!

word count: 3.4k

July 1991.

You’re practically being boiled alive in the tin can castle known as Munson Manor. The Indiana heat isn’t the awful part, but the humidity has you and everyone else in Hawkins choking on the air. The measly little air conditioner situated in one of the living room windows is working overtime to cool off the small trailer to no avail. You and Eddie lay on the floor, staring up at his ceiling, opposite of one another. He turned his head to look over at you, but your eyes are closed, trying to think of anything but the heat. You can feel his heavy stare on you, but you keep your eyes closed, knowing that the blood would rush to both of your cheeks if you caught him staring. 

“It’s hotter than Satan’s ass crack outside, can’t we go swimming or somethin’?” Eddie complains next to you, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

You take this as an appropriate cue to open your eyes and turn to him, watching him writhe in the uncomfortable temperature. It makes you chuckle a little, examining the way his ‘Slayer’ muscle tank sticks to his torso from sweat. 

“I recommended that two hours ago and you whined at that too,” you challenge, resting your hands on your stomach, folded neatly there. Eddie shifts, taking his hands away from his eyes, those chocolate buttons fixating onto your gaze.

“The people of Hawkins don’t deserve to see what I’ve got underneath the denim and leather, sweetheart, but I’m bakin’ like a pie and I’ve already undressed to my comfort level.” He sounds too much like some kind of massage therapist as he says that last part, earning another breathy giggle from you. 

Your gaze lingers too long on his cut-off jeans, muscle tank, and bunched up crew socks that he ends up snapping his fingers in front of you, “Hellooooooo? Do I need to adjust the antennas on this thing?” He teases, gesturing to the top of your head as if it’s his old television. 

Waving him off, you push yourself onto your elbows, then off the cool carpet you’d been laying atop of for the last few hours, trying to will the heat away with Eddie at your side. He scrambles to his feet as well, long limbs making him look less like an agile ballerina and more like a newborn giraffe. All leg, no coordination. 

“I’ll give Robs and Steve a call, see if either of them can get a hold of Jonathan and Nance. You can be in charge of recruiting Argyle,” as you give him his set of instructions, he pushes his bottom lip out in a faux pout, “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, they don’t work on me anymore, Munson.”

He mumbles something along the lines of ‘they used to’ before heading toward the front door, the jingling of his keychain making you turn your head toward him, his landline nestled between your ear and shoulder, “Make sure he brings sunscreen this time and not just pizza nachos!”

“I’ll make sure he brings both!” Eddie quips before the door is closed between the two of you.

. . . 

Hawkins Community Pool is always packed during the summer. It’s the one reliable spot to cool off, unless you prefer the hose from your backyard. The poolside is lined with women in bikinis, magazine in hand and sunglasses shading their eyes from the harsh light of the midday sun. Kids splash around in the pool, being scolded by lifeguards being underpaid to make sure none of the little shitheads drown. It's the picture perfect scenery for a small midwest town summer. 

Sitting at the edge of the pool, your legs barely in the water, you sway your feet and the crystalline liquid ripples around you. Jonathan and Argyle are two knuckles deep in pizza nachos, a delicacy only the ladder’s cannabis-coated mind could craft. Underneath your dark shades, you lift your gaze over to watch Eddie in the pool with Robin on his shoulders, Nancy on Steve’s as they poorly attempt a game of ‘Chicken’, before one of the lifeguards beckons them to stop. 

After getting reprimanded by the pool police, Eddie hangs his head in pretend shame as he slides next to you at the pool’s edge , the ends of his curls wet and dripping onto his shoulders. “I bet you could’ve knocked Nance over. Robin’s too soft to head into a brutal ‘Chicken’ battle and win.” He says this because he knows it to be true, although you aren’t so sure.

“I’m surprised Robin was being so nervous about it.” You respond coyly, pretending like neither of you know about Robin’s enormous crush on Nancy. 

Disregarding the conversation about Robin and Nance, Eddie looks around the pool at the moms helping their kids towel-dry off and the meatheads and their girlfriends either arguing or borderline fucking poolside. It makes his skin crawl a bit to see such blatant public displays of affection. 

However, you think otherwise. It might be nice to have someone dote on you the way some of the boys of Hawkins do to their girlfriends. Maybe not the kind of boy like Tommy Hagan or Billy Hargrove, but someone like— 

“Hey! Come play Marco Polo with us!” Steve shouts, Robin and Nancy wading around him like sharks circling their prey. 

Eddie immediately slides back into the water, but he’s facing you, droplets sliding down his tattooed skin, glistening in the sunlight, “Come on, it’s not every day you get to see how oblivious Steve is to echolocation.” He chides, bringing a ring-adorned hand up to rest on top of your knee. His gesture sends a shiver up your spine, but you nod, more excited than you should be about the prospect of playing Marco Polo. But truthfully, you know why you're vibrating with joy.

The first two games are way too easy. Robin is Marco the first round and finds Eddie first, bumbling around the water like a scared duck. Once Eddie is Marco, he finds Steve and nearly drowns him, causing the lifeguard to give Eddie a final warning. When Steve is Marco, he can’t find a single one of you to save his life. 

“You suck at this, Steve!” Robin shouts from her spot. Nancy even tries splashing water at Steve to make him find her easier, but to no avail. Eddie has half a mind to try to drown him again. You wade around, trying to stay away from the other three stooges, especially since they’re actively trying to get Steve to catch them. It’s amusing, watching the four of them seem so carefree. 

Marco Polo ends on a high note, Steve finally finding Nancy (by accident). The five of you exit the pool to reapply sunscreen and try to pick at the crumbs of the pizza nachos, but the two megastoners have demolished more than half of them. The heat and water games have you exhausted, skin dry and pruning from the chlorine water. You slip your plastic flip flops on, your towel still wrapped around your torso. 

“Credit where credit is due, it was a genius idea to go to the pool today,” Eddie compliments, drying his frizzing curls with an old Power Rangers towel, “Wanna ditch these crazies and get a slushee?”

. . .

Eddie convinces Nancy to load the whole gaggle of twenty-somethings into her station wagon while you and Eddie leave from Hawkins Community Pool early. She agrees with a roll of her eyes before she’s back in the pool with Robin and Argyle as she tries to explain how to play mermaids to the long-haired boy. 

Your thighs stick together in the heat of his van, the chlorine-water creating a layer of discomfort against your skin. You try not to squirm in the seat, flesh itching from the pool drying out your pores. After shoving miscellaneous items into the already packed and trashed back of his van, Eddie most elegantly thrashes into the driver’s seat, his typical dopey grin seated perfectly on his pink lips. He’s fumbling for a tape to slide into his player, realizing how disorganized his music collection is, he laughs at himself, “Maybe I’ll have Robin organize these by alphabetical order or somethin’, Jesus.”

“Do that and she may try to sneak some Madonna,” You quip, thinking about Eddie’s disgruntled disagreements with Robin about her taste in music. 

Turning around, his arm reaching around the back of the passenger seat, he cranes his neck and torso to look back as he backs out of his parking spot. There’s something about this gesture, something so simple and plain, that makes your cheeks burn. He doesn’t see this, but he notices how you straighten your back up into your seat as you turn to look out the window, “You’re good on this side,” you offer.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ve got us covered.”

Eddie’s not the best driver, but he’s confident and has always kept you safe when you’re riding shotgun. He’s even let you pick the music that plays, despite his limited options, leaning toward 80’s thrash metal more than anything else, but it’s grown on you. 

The drive to 7/11 is about fifteen minutes, give or take. The sun is fading behind the tree line, the bright orange orb glowing beneath, creating a silhouette of twisted tree limbs. It’s as haunting as it is beautiful. Eddie drums along the steering wheel with the beat to ‘Sweet Leaf’, his hair still dripping onto his muscle tank. 

You adjust the flimsy cover over your bathing suit, trying to find a more comfortable spot in your seat. Eddie turns into the parking lot to the 7/11, pulling up right in front of the doors. You’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt, but Eddie is quicker, hopping out of his driver’s seat to run around the hood of his van, opening your door for you, “M’lady,” he purrs, offering his tattooed hand out to you. 

You take it with a gentle courtesy, “M’lord,” you respond as you jump onto the pavement, your flip flops clapping against your heels as you do so. 

“I’ve always pictured myself as the court jester. Yknow, fuckin’ around and makin’ a fool outta myself just because I can.” He opens the door to the mini mart for you as well, earning a hushed ‘thank you’ from you. 

You laugh at his comment, reflecting on his words, “Don’t you do that anyway?”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, so thank you.” Eddie’s tone is a bit sassy , assuming you meant your comment to be an insult, but it is in fact a compliment. 

The 7/11 is desolate, with the exception of one customer talking to the sole cashier who looks bored out of her mind. She’s twirling her red curls around her fingers, popping bubblegum between her lips as the middle-aged man in a baseball cap tries to flirt with her to no avail. Meandering through the maze of aisles, Eddie snags a bag of chips off the shelf before skipping up to the slushee machine, “What flavor of tooth-rotting sugar can I interest you in today?” He jests, eyes fixated on the sloshing colored ice in the machine.

Aftering pondering over the two options you have, cherry and blue raspberry, you decide to mix the two flavors, Eddie following suit. Walking through the sweet treats aisle, eyes scamming over the packaging to see if anything in particular looks good, the two of you head to the register, seeing that the man flirting with the cashier had left. Offering a smile to the ginger behind the counter, who’s name appears to be ‘Barb’ from her nametag, Eddie chats her up a bit, asking how her shift is going and commenting on the weather finally cooling down. She responds blandly, while ringing up the slushees. You reach for your wallet but Eddie’s already handing over bills from his own wallet. Always one step ahead. 

The bell above the door dings as you exit, Eddie holding it open for you as you step outside, a skip in your step, “I think her and Nancy used to be friends,” Eddie chides as the door closes, “She was in school with us.”

You nod, agreeing and acknowledging, “Yeah, I never got the full story out of Nance, but they had a falling out.”

The conversation ends there as the two of you climb back into Eddie’s van, treats finally acquired, mission accomplished. Blue raspberry and cherry slushee in hand, you take leisurely sips as Eddie drives, unsure of his decided destination. The Munson trailer had become like a second home to you, your tiny closet of an apartment being the unfortunate first. Even though having your own space is nice and preferable to any alternative, it’s stuffy and during the summer tends to smell like a gym locker room if air isn’t properly circulating. 

In the end, Eddie drives the both of you back to his trailer. Once his van comes to a shuddering halt and the metalhead removes the key from the ignition, the two of you climb out of the vehicle, goodies in hand, and head into the trailer. Wayne’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, you assumed he still must be at the shop, despite the slowly setting sun off in the distance. Unlocking the front door, Eddie gives it the typical shove the break the seal of the door against the frame. In the summer it’s indefinitely worse due to the heat and humidity. 

Kicking his damp converse off, his curls beginning to frizz up upon drying, he places the plastic bag on the small, cluttered dining room table, “Movie night?” he asks, gesturing to the tv, sitting low to the ground atop a beat-up entertainment center, a few stacks of VHS tapes piled up next to it. 

“Have I ever declined a movie night invitation?” You quip at him as you saunter backward toward the trailer’s bathroom, ready to change out of your still damp swimsuit. Backpack slung over your shoulder, turning on your heels, you can hear Eddie chuckling and making a snide comment under his breath. 

Once you’ve peeled yourself out of the fabric, you exit the bathroom adorning a clean and dry t-shirt and pair of jean shorts settling snugly around your waist. Eddie has already poured the chips from the corner store into a bowl, a smaller bowl of gummy worms sitting next to it on the couch. Eddie sits on his knees in front of the entertainment center, looking through movies that the two of you have watched numerous times before. Two tapes are set aside, as he picks through the rest, “The Evil Dead, Hellraiser… those are the two I’m feelin’. Penny for your thoughts, Dear Watson?” he looks over his shoulder behind you with a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Hellraiser, undoubtedly.” You chirp in a faux English accent back to him. 

. . . 

Before the end of the movie, both you and Eddie are passed out on the floor, the snacks only half-eaten and forgotten before your inevitable slumber. You wake with a start at the sound of the landline ringing, nearly jumping out of your skin the moment you’re awake, eyes wide open. Eddie, still sleeping peacefully, isn’t bothered by the phone ringing. You harshly nudge him awake, both hands shaking his shoulder. 

“Eddie, the phone.” You say with a yawn, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. 

Curls matted to the side of his face, he’s barely awake as he clambers off of the floor, limbs adjusting to consciousness. Sauntering too casually to the phone, he lifts it off the hook and up to his ear with a yawn, “Munson residence.” He states through the yawn. His demeanor shifts all too quickly, spine straightening at the drop of a hat, dragging the palm of his hand over his face roughly. He speaks in a calm manner, giving you pause. 

“Wayne, slow down… Yeah, I’m fine… she’s here, yes… We went swimming, left earlier than the others, grabbed some snacks… What?” He answers his uncle, who you gathered was on the other end once Eddie spoke his uncle’s name. 

Eddie shoots you a worried look over his shoulder. You hadn’t seen Eddie this pale since the summer he was set to graduate, worried half to death that he wouldn’t be walking across the stage with the rest of the class of 1986. But this worry… was more akin to fear than anything else. Climbing up off the floor, you tiptoe over to him and stand beside him, still unable to hear Wayne on the other side of the call. 

“When did this happen?” Eddie asked, his tone borderline frantic. There’s another pause.

At first, you think there’s been an accident at the auto shop Wayne (and Eddie) works at, that he or someone has been injured and he has to wait for the ambulance or police to arrive. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you wait for the brunette man to speak again. 

“Jesus Christ… No, she’s standing right next to me… Yes sir… I’ll see you when you get home… Okay… Yeah, I know, I know… Alright,” he mutters the last part under his breath as he hangs his head, as well as the phone back on the hook. 

“Shit…” he blows out a breath of air, cheeks puffed up as he exhales.

“What, what’s going on?” you ask meekly, anxiety spiked through the roof already. 

Eddie lifts his head up, expression damn near impossible to read, but that fear is still there, even more prominent than before.Extending a tattooed arm out, he brings you in for a tight embrace. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around his torso, holding his figure just as tight against you. As you separate, Eddie’s sluggish as he walks over to the couch, plopping down. 

“I uh, I think you should sit down for this.” He pats the spot next to him, chewing the skin on his bottom lip. 

Even as you sit down next to him, you can't shake the uneasy feeling that’s raging in your chest. He won’t meet your gaze, even with you staring daggers at him, trying to will the words out of him with just your eyes, though he doesn’t budge just yet. The metalhead leans forward, elbows balancing on his knees as he holds his head in his hands. “Wayne just called me from the shop… Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins were murdered.”

The anxiety dropped into the pit of your stomach like a large stone dropping into a calm pond. Bile burns at the base of your throat, but you quickly swallow the thick, intangible lump stuck there. A hand over your stomach, you take a deep breath, then another, trying to remain calm. Neither you or Eddie were particularly fond or even close to Tommy Hagan. He was a bit of an uncouth airhead during the years in high school together, and Carol was about as much of a girl’s girl as Tommy Hagan himself, always following him around like a lost puppy, but that didn’t mean that anyone wished any harm to either of them. 

After an unnerving silence between the two of you, Eddie hesitantly reaches over to take your hand into his. He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, noticing the subtle way your hand shakes. “He didn’t… say much. Carol’s mom found Tommy in the backyard, face down in the pool… Carol was… Listen, Wayne’s gonna be home soon, okay? Him and I can take you home-” Before he’s able to finish his line of thinking, you’re cutting him off.

“Can I stay with you?” you mumble, lifting your chin up to meet Eddie’s sorrowful gaze. He softens immediately, nodding. 

“You don’t even have to ask, m’lady. This castle is just as much yours as it is mine.” Hand over his heart, he gives a small bow, trying to incorporate his signature humor to such a grim time. 

Even with Eddie keeping you company through the night, both of you back to back in his bed. His pillow smells like his laundry detergent and stale weed and the dip next to you in the mattress gives you a sense of peace. Shifting in the bed for what seems like the fifteenth time in the past hour, you can’t get comfortable. Between the news of the double murder of your former classmates and the unruly heat, there is no finding comfort. 

A tattooed arm snakes around your waist, the warm fan of breath over your shoulder, “Quit fidgeting,” Eddie’s sleep-riddled, raspy voice says next to you. Part of you wonders if he realizes what he's doing, or if he’s not awake enough to, but you don’t argue. Though, you find your eyes drifting shut as you keen against Eddie’s touch, sleep slowly pulling you under, even with the macabre thoughts of the evening still plaguing your subconscious. 

tag list: @yaspillz feedback is always appreciated, and let me know if you're interested in being apart of the taglist <3

[kingyo-konbini]

hello hello, this is my first time requesting on your blog so i’m sorry if i make any mistakes with my request !! but can i please have a drabble of any of these men: shinsou hitoshi, daichi sawamura, koushi sugawara or yu nishinoya comforting a pretty stressed out female s/o? she’s been working and studying that she doesn’t have much time for herself, thank you so much!

TAKE CARE [SUGAWARA KOUSHI X READER]

[SUMMARY] sugawara helps you destress [PRONOUNS] she/her [GENRE] fluff [POV] second person [WORD COUNT] 964 [CONTENT] sugawara being the best bf [A/N] THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST you have no idea how much it means to me (*´ω｀*) AND I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ;-; I hope you enjoy!!

“I think I’m dying.”

“I also think you’re dying.”

You tossed an unimpressed look his way, pouting at the teasing grin on his lips.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

Sugawara chuckled and closed the textbook in front of him, shuffling a bit so he was facing you instead of the table. “It’s true. Listen, I’m all for studying, but you’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“Have not.” You huffed, turning away from him to focus on the textbook before you. “Exams are coming up and I need to do well on them.”

“And you will.” Sugawara’s voice was certain, as were his movements as he placed a hand over the page you were reading before gently tugging it away from your grasp. “You’ve been spending all your time either studying or working. When was the last time you had a proper meal?” 

You let out a heavy and reluctant sigh, watching as your boyfriend slipped a spare sheet of paper into the textbook to mark your place before closing it.

“When was the last time we went out to eat?”

This time it was his turn to sigh, and his teasing smile turned sympathetic as he gazed at you. “[Name], listen to me. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, I need to study-”

“If you don’t ace these exams, then no one will. You’ve been going nonstop for weeks.”

You avoided his eyes. “I’m fine, I promise!”

Sugawara let out another sigh and from the corner of your eye you watched him shake his head. “Well, if you won’t take care of yourself, then I guess I will.”

“Huh?”

Before you had time to question his statement further, Sugawara had gotten to his feet and was tugging you up to do the same, quickly placing his hands on your shoulders and spinning you away from the table you’d been sitting at for hours. “You are incredibly stubborn, you know that?”

“Am not.”

Sugawara laughed at that and grinned before shoving you out of the kitchen and towards the couch. “You may act like and say that you’re fine, but I can feel the tension in your shoulders. You need to de-stress.”

“Do not.”

“And luckily for you, I know the perfect way to do that!”

You yelped as he shoved you (rather unceremoniously) onto the couch. He grinned proudly from his stance above you as you wiggled around in a subconscious attempt to get comfortable, settling his hands on his hips in triumph at your defeat.

“Now you just lay there and look pretty and I’m going to be right back. Don’t you dare get up from that spot– I’ll know.”

“Koushi, what are you-”

“Put something on TV or pull up a game; my Switch should still be connected.” He grabbed the remotes and shoved them into your hands before leaning down and planting a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Remember: no moving from this spot.”

“You’re a menace, you know that?”

“Be back soon!” He said with a laugh, prancing out the door before you had another chance to argue.

Resigned to your fate, and appreciating the softness of the couch on your aching back (hunching over while reading was probably not the best idea), you snuggled further into the cushions and turned on the television, your eyes drifting closed after only a couple of minutes.

...

The sound of rustling plastic woke you from your spontaneous nap.

“Koushi?” You mumbled, sleep thick in your throat and slurring your speech. You rose into a sitting position and rubbed at your eyes, trying to rid them of their blurriness.

Once you were able to fully comprehend your surroundings, you spotted your partner crouching down by the kotatsu and looking rather sheepish with his hands in one of the many plastic shopping bags that littered the surface.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. You’re cute when you sleep, you know?”

“You always say that.” You grumbled, stifling a yawn. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Seems like all of my sneakiness was spent on that feat.” He chuckled, pulling a box of takeout from the bag. His nose was still red from the time he’d spent outside, and if you focused you could feel the chill from the winter winds radiating off of him.

“What’d you get?” You swung your legs over the edge of the couch, sliding to the floor to waddle closer to the kotatsu and slip your legs under the cover. 

“Your favorites. Thought it’d be a nice surprise and reward for all of your hard work.” Sugawara beamed, continuing to reveal box after box until there was a pile of discarded plastic bags on the floor and the surface before you was overflowing with your favorite foods and drink. “And a chance for you to actually eat something and take a break.” 

Your heart swelled. “Thank you.” You smile, almost shyly, at him. “You’re too sweet.”

“Nah.” Sugawara dismissed your claim, handing you a pair of chopsticks he seemed to pull out of the ether. “I’d say I’m the perfect amount of sweetness.”

You couldn’t stop the laughter from escaping your lips, Sugawara slipping under the kotatsu as well and bumping his legs against yours in a playful manner. 

“Besides, you’d do the same for me.” He shrugged, opening the box closest to him. “Not that you’d ever have to, of course, because I’m able to properly balance my work, studies, and self-care… unlike some people.” You kicked him. “Ow.”

“Shut up.” You stuck your tongue out at him, before following his movements and opening a few of the boxes before you.

“Thank you for the meal.” You both said in unison, and with another heartfelt smile sent his way, you began to eat.

[retiredkat]

Red-UK Magazine Raising the Stakes interview with Jacob Anderson

Must give email address to read the full article

“Jacob Anderson has a very sweet tooth. ‘I’m, like, addicted to sweetness, ever since being in America,’ he says, sipping tea with a sheepish smile. Having come to meet me in North London after dropping his daughter at nursery, the 34-year-old star of AMC’s hit series Interview With The Vampire is sitting with his face towards the morning sunshine, a move unlike the supernatural being he plays. ‘It’s good to have everything in moderation,’ he muses, opening a sachet of sweetener. ‘But the minute you start paying too much attention to quantities of things…’ he pauses, ‘it’s like sucking the joy out.’

It’s an apt metaphor for the show we’re meeting to discuss. Based on Anne Rice’s 1976 novel, the lavish revamp sees Anderson play the brooding vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac as he recounts a life of eternal love and bloodlust to journalist Daniel Molloy (Eric Bogosian). In an era when television feels increasingly bland, the show pulls off theatrical magic with its epic, queer reinvention of Rice’s work. ‘You don’t really get weird stories with scale,’ notes Anderson. ‘And I feel like this show has managed to hit the sweet spot of scale and oddness.’

Having attempted to despatch his paramour Lestat de Lioncourt (Sam Reid) and then moved to Paris with his adopted daughter Claudia (Delainey Hayles), Louis works to untangle his manipulated memories in the second season. ‘There’s a lot of tension building,’ says Anderson. ‘In episode one, in particular, I remember thinking Louis has a tension headache for years. It affects his decision-making, and his outbursts. And he makes a lot of poor decisions in season two.’ There’s a great deal of unresolved trauma, he observes, ‘Louis is very emotionally constipated in that way. I think he’s not quite able to embrace his grief, embrace his first 30 years of vampirism. He’s also unravelling in the present; all of that suppression and repression is coming back to get him.

Therapy is the place where Anderson goes to figure things out. ‘I don’t want to be like a ball of confusion and contradiction. I have two daughters to raise,’ he smiles. ‘I don’t want to be another angry man, because they’re gonna meet a lot of angry, oppressed men in their lives.’ Since playing Louis, though, he suspects the boundaries between fiction and real life have become blurred. ‘There are things about Louis that I justify, like, “I understand this decision, and therefore we’re the same.”’ he laughs. Getting deep into character, I suggest, must lend itself to overthinking. ‘Yeah, I’m a huge overthinker,’ he says emphatically. ‘Sitting here, I just noticed my own body language, and my brain is firing off.’

Despite having been in the public eye for most of his life (both on TV and in his music, which he records under the name Raleigh Ritchie), Anderson keeps a low profile. ‘I’m quite a private person,’ he chuckles. He largely avoids social media, as he has an ‘internal compass’ that guides him towards negative criticism. ‘I think it would be unhealthy to spend too much time indulging in how other people are looking at me,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’d lose my sense of self; the sense of self that I’ve been trying to build up all this time.’

As a child, he was always waiting for adulthood to begin. He moved to London at the age of 17, not specifically to pursue a career in acting, but mainly to leave his home city of Bristol. ‘I have a really healthy relationship with my home city now,’ he says, ‘but at the time, I just wanted to escape.’ He was always resourceful in his pursuit of opportunities. ‘In the beginning, I would get coaches up to London at four in the morning to get to an audition at nine. And I would do that a few times a week. And then if I stayed over for some reason, I’d stay at like a backpacker’s hostel for £19.’ Since that point, he’s worked solidly. ‘I think I have a bit of a work thing,’ he confesses. ‘I really feel like myself when I’m working. I feel like I can key into the version of myself that I most want to be, and it gives me a real sense of purpose.’

Playing the stoic Unsullied warrior Grey Worm in HBO’s Game Of Thrones was an ‘emotionally taxing’ experience at times. ‘The challenging bit was giving myself something to do sometimes, like, keeping myself alive in the scene,’ he recalls. ‘Trying to stay present was a real challenge.’ But it also proved to be a valuable learning curve. ‘You don’t need lines, you don’t need words to tell your part of the story. You can do it with your face. You can do it with your body language. So I learned a lot from doing that. But I was ready for it to be over.’

When he finished the show in 2018, he felt burnt out. ‘That last year was so brutal. It was an amazing experience in lots of ways, but I was also very low and so I just took a break for a bit.’ He considered giving up acting. ‘I was just losing my love a little bit,’ he says. The thing that inspired him again was playing recurring character Vinder in Doctor Who, a show that he aspired to be on as a child. ‘That gave me back my play. It re-energised me.’

He certainly wasn’t prepared for the phenomenon that Thrones would become. ‘It was really surprising,’ he recalls. ‘Whenever we went through the press for it, it felt like being in The Beatles or something. But when we were making it, it was really intimate.’ In any case, he isn’t driven by conventional measures of success. ‘The processes are really important. I’ve really learned that, for me, it doesn’t matter if the thing is good. If making it isn’t a pleasant experience, or joyful in some way, fulfilling or cathartic, then it wasn’t worth it. I don’t really care if something is, like, quote unquote, a hit or success, if making it was miserable, you know?’

What really drives Anderson, is creating work that helps people feel seen; and the enthusiastic response to Interview With The Vampire (plus an early season three renewal) has proved that it’s resonating with audiences on a deep level. ‘To be a part of something that people take into their hearts so much is really special,’ he says. ‘Through music and films and TV was how I learned how to be a human, you know?’ He pauses, looking deep in thought. ‘To see that I’ve contributed in some way to something that does that for other people gives me a sense of “it’s the right thing to do”. Like, I’m still doing this for the reason that I got into it.’ He smiles, ‘So yeah, it’s lovely.’”

[theroyalsims]

BREAKING: NOT YOUR ORDINARY BUILDER - GUS IS A SELF-MADE MAN AND ANYA’S ELUSIVE FIRST LOVE

There’s more to him than meets the eye! More details of Anya’s latest love have emerged and it looks like he’s not just a regular builder, contrary to what was earlier reported.

“Gus” is actually Baris Gustavo Aslan, a licensed Engineer and owner of Aslan Builders, a construction company operating in Rennaux, Tartosa, and Champs les Sims. He graduated from the Université Royale de Rennaux with a degree in Civil Engineering. He also holds a Masters in Engineering from the same university. If that university sounds familiar, it’s because it happens to be the very same school that The Crown Princess attended. While they were, indeed, schoolmates, the pair reportedly first met as children. Gus also served in the Rennaux Army (Rennaux has mandatory military service), and prior to moving permanently to Tartosa, was a volunteer firefighter in his neighbourhood's fire brigade.

(Above: Anya's new -old- beau is her first love and childhood sweetheart, engineer Gus Aslan.)

Gus is the eldest child of Lucia, a native of Tartosa, and Emir Aslan, who emigrated from Ekhkare, a country located north of Al-Simhara. He has two younger sisters, Dilara and Gül. His dad was a train conductor, while his mum worked at the Rennaux Palace gift shop as the store manager. It is there that Gus reportedly first met Crown Princess Anya. Anya, along with her siblings Eleanore and Alistair, used to "work" at the gift shop during their summer vacations in Rennaux. A source reveals:

"They first met as children. The Queen's oldest kids, Anya, Eleanore, and Alistair, used to 'work' at the gift shop where they would be paid in cakes and cookies. It was something they looked forward to during their summer trips to Rennaux. That's when Gus and Anya first met. They were maybe, seven, eight years old? At that time, the Aslans were living in Rennaux. Gus' mum was the shop manager.

Gus and Anya became quick friends, and their friendship lasted throughout their teens. They secretly started 'officially' dating right before they both entered uni. I think Gus was a major factor why Anya chose to study in Rennaux. However, they broke up shortly before graduating from uni."

(Above: Gus and Anya were spotted having a lunch date in Rennaux over the weekend. Rennaux has become their "middle ground" as of late, meeting halfway to make time for each other despite their very busy schedules.)

Although it was common knowledge that Anya was seeing someone when she was studying in Rennaux, not much was known about the Crown Princess' elusive "first love." The radio silence was attributed to rumours of an NDA and threats from both the Rennaux and Brindleton royal families. Further, Anya's godfather, the Duke of Fjord, owns television and radio networks, as well as major publications in Rennaux - making it completely possible to bury any news about young Anya's relationship.

Why Anya's past with Gus was kept hidden is unsure. However, what's certain is the fact that they're giving their relationship another go. The two reportedly rekindled their romance last year when Anya traveled to Tartosa to purchase a villa. The source further reveals:

"Anya had her eyes set on this beautiful villa, so Anya made a few early trips to Tartosa to see the place. She loved it, but it needed a bit of work. When she returned during her hiatus, she was introduced to a 'contractor' who specialised in restoring historic houses. Of course, that contractor turned out to be Gus.

These two were inevitable. They were like two magnets drawn to each other. I'm convinced Anya tried to fight it because I genuinely think that Gus was her biggest heartbreak - him being her literal first love and all. Gus, too, was a bit apprehensive because he's had his heart broken before. But things just clicked into place. They started talking and hanging out again. Anya extended her stay and they spent more time with each other. When they were apart, they stayed in constant touch via video calls and text. Gus flew in a few days before Winterfest. Anya made stealthy trips to Tartosa during the holidays. By then, they both knew that they wanted to be with each other."

(Above: These two only have eyes for each other! Anya loves being in Rennaux because unlike in Brindleton, she can go around town -with bodyguard in tow, of course- without making too much of a fuss.)

As for Gus being a "measly" builder, the source further spills:

"To begin with, there's nothing 'measly' about the job. Being a builder is honest and decent work, and Gus knows that - that's why he's not at all afraid to be hands-on with his projects. He could very well just sit in a comfy chair, wear a tie, and boss his people around, but having come from very humble beginnings, he knows the value of hard work. He's well-loved by his people and he treats everyone as his equals. He's not Mr. Aslan. With his team, he's simply 'Gus.' But don't let the tattered hat and muddy boots fool you. He's very well-off. He's a self-made millionaire who lives very comfortably - he just doesn't like to show-off."

The case of Anya's Mystery Man is officially solved! A second chance love - who'd have thought? You know what they say - love is sweeter the second time around. Hopefully that saying rings true to Anya and Gus! And can we just say, these two make a very beautiful couple! Here's hoping we see more of our new favourite lovebirds soon!

[harveyguilleniconodelamoda]

Welcome to Harvey Guillén: Icono de la Moda!

A blog for celebrating the unique style of queer, Latino, plus size fashion icon Harvey Guillén.

Please do not send donation or post boosting requests to this blog. Any such requests should go to my main blog, @darkshrimpemotions.

To explore what's already here, click or tap on the tags on this post! For some explanation on the purpose of the blog and how things are tagged, check under the cut!

About This Blog

Over the last few years, Harvey Guillén has emerged as an important voice in the conversation around inclusivity in fashion, repeatedly making best dressed lists at red carpet events with his bold choices and taking every opportunity to advocate for greater diversity and inclusivity in the fashion world.

Since 2022 he has gone from mostly styling himself for his public appearances (and even for some of his roles!) to having a team of artists dedicated to helping him look his best in the spotlight. Through all of those changes, what remains consistent is the way he ignores the gender- and size-based limitations placed on fashion.

With excellent tailoring, bright prints and colors, bold flashes of skin, and the seamless integration of masculine and feminine details in stunning combinations that go beyond simple androgyny and venture into the realm of joyful, defiant genderfuckery, Harvey's personal style is all about obliterating barriers and inspiring others to do the same.

Here you'll find posts analyzing the costumes of Harvey's most iconic characters such as Guillermo de la Cruz, Cousin Blobbin, Andy from Cursed Friends, and others as his filmography continues to grow! You'll also find deep dives on Harvey's red carpet looks, street style, casual wear, and photoshoots, examinations of recurring motifs in Harvey's personal style, and deep dives on his staple pieces, accessories, and more. Wherever possible, links will be included to the actual clothing items and/or affordable options for similar styles.

Is there a costume, outfit, or staple piece from Harvey's style you'd like to know more about? Feel free to send a request via the ask box!

Tagging Method

All posts are tagged with Harvey's name, "fashion," and a basic category for the occasion/purpose of the featured look(s), and the names of any key designers or brands mentioned within the post.

Posts about Harvey's staple pieces we see over and over are tagged "staple pieces." Any general blogging or research updates are tagged "blog update." Posts featuring brands that have size ranges that include plus sizes are tagged "plus size fashion." Posts focusing on accessories are tagged "accessories" and posts featuring interviews or excerpts from interviews with Harvey are tagged "interviews."

The basic categories I use for the various looks featured here are:

Character Costumes - Costumes worn for/as fictional characters in feature films or scripted series, or BTS photos/footage of in-character outfit options that may or may not appear in the final product.

Photoshoots - Outfits worn in photoshoots.

Red Carpet Looks - Outfits worn to red carpet events, including award shows and film premieres.

Work Attire - Outfits other than character costumes worn to rehearsals, stunt rehearsals, table readings, voice recording sessions, etc.

Street Style - Outfits worn out and about in public, but not to a planned media event.

Casual Wear - Outfits worn to family and friends events in private spaces, i.e. outfits Harvey wears at home (please note - I am only ever sharing these photos here if they were shared publicly on social media and are relevant to the subject of this blog).

TV Appearances - Outfits worn in unscripted or live television appearances, i.e. talk show appearances, guest hosting spots, or Drag Race and other competition reality show guest spots.

Media Event Looks - Outfits worn to planned media events that are not necessarily red carpet events or award shows.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Sao Paulo mayor's race heads to a runoff without a controversial outsider in Brazil's elections

The mayor's race in Sao Paulo is heading to a runoff, while Rio de Janeiro incumbent mayor was reelected in the first round of Brazil's local elections

Incumbent Ricardo Nunes and leftist lawmaker Guilherme Boulos will face each other in a runoff to decide the next mayor of Sao Paulo, following a first round of voting Sunday in Brazil’s local elections.

Nunes, Boulos and self-help guru turned far-right politician Pablo Marçal were running neck-and-neck ahead of Sunday’s vote. Marçal only just missed out on earning a spot in the second round, slated for Oct. 27.

Much of the attention leading up to Sunday’s vote had been on Brazil ’s biggest city, where the race has been marred by episodes of violence involving Marçal.

Last month, José Luiz Datena, a former TV anchor turned candidate, slammed Marçal with a metal chair during a televised debate following references to allegations of sexual misconduct. In a later debate, an aide to Marçal punched an adversary’s counterpart, resulting in a bloody face.

Marçal sparked more controversy on Friday, when he published on social media a falsified medical report indicating cocaine use by Boulos. The document was widely debunked by local media that pointed to inconsistencies including the fact that it was signed by a doctor who had died.

Continue reading.

[demifiendrsa]

Star Wars: Visions volume 2 will stream on Disney+ on May 4, 2023.

Volume 2 shorts:

Title: “Sith”

Studio: El Guiri

Writer-director: Rodrigo Blaas

Rodrigo Blaas is an Emmy Award®-winning director who has spent more than 20 years in animation. After co-founding Stromboli Animation in 1997, Blaas joined Blue Sky Studios in 2000, working on the feature film Ice Age, before transitioning to Pixar Animation Studios. There, he worked on such projects as Finding Nemo (2003), The Incredibles (2004), Ratatouille (2007), and Wall-E (2008) and on the Oscar®-nominated short film La Luna (2011). More recently, Blaas partnered with Guillermo del Toro to develop the award-winning series Trollhunters, served as creative director for Mikros Animation Paris and, in 2021, created El Guiri Studios in Madrid with his partner, Cecile Hokes. He also wrote and directed 2009’s award-winning short film Alma.

Title: “Screecher’s Reach”

Studio: Cartoon Saloon

Director: Paul Young

Paul Young is a co-founder of Cartoon Saloon, an IFTA winner and Oscar®, Emmy® and BAFTA nominee. He produced the animated features My Father’s Dragon, WolfWalkers, The Secret of Kells, Song of the Sea, and The Breadwinner as well as award-winning TV series including Puffin Rock, Dorg Van Dango, and Viking Skool.

Title: “In the Stars”

Studio: Punkrobot

Writer-director: Gabriel Osorio

Gabriel Osorio majored in Fine Arts at Universidad de Chile, later specializing in 3D animation. After working in commercials, movies and television series, he founded Punkrobot Studio. Since 2008, he has directed projects for children’s television including Flipos, Muelin y Perlita, Soccer Girls, and television spots. In 2016, his short film Bear Story became the first Latin American project to win an Oscar® in the animated short category.

Title: “I Am Your Mother”

Studio: Aardman

Director: Magdalena Osinska

Magdalena Osinska is an award-winning director who has been with Aardman for eight years. She has directed stop-motion, CGI, 2D and live-action commercials including Wallace & Gromit’s “The Great Sofa Caper” and “Share the Orange.” Osinska directed development of the children’s series Joyets and has also directed films including Spirits of the Piano and Zbigniev’s Cupboard. A graduate of the National Film and Television School in Beaconsfield, UK, as well as the Polish Film School in Lodz and Art College in Warsaw, Osinska is currently developing the feature film Jasia, based on her grandmother’s memories of WWII Poland.

Title: “Journey to the Dark Head”

Studio: Studio Mir

Director: Hyeong Geun Park

Rising star Hyeong Geun Park had already made a name for himself when he entered the Korean animation industry in 2017, thanks to his strong drawing and animation sensibilities. He has directed animation for dozens of cinematic game trailers and has since expanded into animated series, working on projects including Dota: Dragon’s Blood: Book 3 (2022) and Lookism (2022). Journey to the Dark Head is the first title he has executive produced from start to finish.

Title: “The Spy Dancer”

Studio: Studio La Cachette

Writer-director: Julien Chheng

Julien Chheng is CEO of Studio La Cachette, an Emmy Award®-winning French animation studio he co-founded in 2014 with fellow Gobelins school’s alumni Oussama Bouacheria and Ulysse Malassagne. Chheng was trained in visual development at Disney and has worked as a character animator on acclaimed 2D animated features The Rabbi’s Cat, Mune, and the Academy Award®-nominated Ernest and Celestine. In 2021, he won an Emmy Award® as animation executive producer of Genndy Tartakovsky’s Primal, for which he also served as animation supervisor. In 2022, Chheng directed with Jean-Christophe Roger the Cesar-nominated feature Ernest and Celestine: A Trip to Gibberitia.

Title: “The Bandits of Golak”

Studio: 88 Pictures

Director: Ishan Shukla

Ishan Shukla started his career as a CG artist in Singapore. For more than a decade, he spearheaded projects ranging from TV commercials to series and music videos. His 2016 animated short, "Schirkoa," was long listed for the Academy Awards® after receiving dozens of awards and playing at 120 international festivals, including SIGGRAPH Asia where it was named Best in Show. He then set up his own animation studio to work on adult-oriented animated feature films including a feature-length version of Schirkoa, set to hit festivals in summer 2023.

Title: “The Pit”

Studios: D’art Shtajio and Lucasfilm Ltd.

Writer-director-executive producer: LeAndre Thomas

Co-director: Justin Ridge

LeAndre Thomas is an award-winning writer and director from Oakland, Calif., whose most recent film won Best Director at the Pasadena International Film Festival. In addition to his independent films, Thomas is a part of the franchise studio team at Lucasfilm Ltd. where he has worked for more than 11 years being credited on recent titles such as Light & Magic, The Mandalorian, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars: Tales of the Jedi, and many more.

Justin Ridge executive produced the Emmy®-nominated series Star Wars Resistance. His credits also include Star Wars Rebels, Storks, The Cleveland Show, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Title: “Aau’s Song”

Studio: Triggerfish

Writer-directors: Nadia Darries and Daniel Clarke

Nadia Darries is a director, animator and co-founder of Goon Valley Animation, with an avocation for songwriting. Born in the Cape Flats in South Africa, Darries has worked on high-end animated film and motion design as an animator, project manager, creative director and director since 2015. Her experience includes animating at Triggerfish Animation Studios on the award-winning BBC films Stick Man, Revolting Rhymes, and Highway Rat.

Daniel Clarke is a Cape Town-based director and artist working in animation, film and illustration. He started his career in animation in 2008 at Triggerfish Animation Studios, where he has served as production designer, art director and director on projects such as the feature film Khumba, BBC’s Stick Man, and The Snail and the Whale. In 2018, along with James Clarke and Daniel Snaddon, he completed the graphic novel Kariba.

[caltropspress]

DISPATCHES FROM 2ND ST. STUDIOS: Fatboi Sharif & DRIVEBY in session

I went to DRIVEBY’s apartment in Jersey City because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of documenting musical exxxprrrimentation, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I knew witnessing Fatboi Sharif in the studio would be morbidly rewarding—I felt it in my critik’s skull-and-crossbones (memento mori, pirate flag, poison pictogram). It was New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord Have Mercy 2024, and I had to pull myself away from a tree documentary that had, sadly, begun to disappoint. I had opened a stocking-stuffed box of Goobers and was reluctant when Sharif sent the invitational text. I had settled in for the night. But it was my idea to watch the man work his black magikal esoterika hammer-don’t-hurt-them-witches recording session, so I’d be a real punk to rebuff the offer. I got into the Toyota and headed down Route 3 toward Jersey City. I was on the 1&9 in no time—the truest highway to hell, if one ever existed. Ate de Jong could never scout such a location. AC/DC roadside appliance wasteland. Potholes pave the way, but in a De Nah Soul manner. I finished eating the Goobers in the car, by the palmful, and lost one to an erratic lane merge. I motherfucked and shitted at the thought of a chocolate stain on my upholstered driver’s seat, or worse, the seat of my pants. My dad delivered Blimpie’s for thirty-plus years in Jersey City, long before it became Brooklyn-of-the-West, so I know parking spots there are at a never-dream-of-’em premium. I parked several blocks away from DRIVEBY’s studio and cloven-hoofed it while huffing brick air. Texted from outside, but Sharif was already ushering me through a wrought-iron gate (suitable for guttings and impalements) and into the basement apartment: DRIVEBY’s 2nd St. Studios. That gate was like an entrance into a secret garden—overblown and overflowin’ with a riot of root rot, weeds, and (of course) crumbling-but-still-grumbling gargoyles, most with the medieval motif of mooning jutting out from the church buttresses. DRIVEBY’s had a William Shatner’s TekWorld comic next to his speaker. Dusty keyboards lined the floor. Sega Genesis cartridges, a Sharp boombox, and the requisite vinyl collection on bowing crates completed the scene. The space stored antiquated and dead media—ghost machines humming and haunting.

⤧

Sharif told me he’d be recording some tracks for his upcoming album with Blockhead, something for Bigg Jus, and several features. When I arrived, he was in the middle of recording one of the Blockhead tracks. The mic and the iso shield were directly inside the door of the apartment, and I sat on the couch to the left of that. Sharif would be spitting at me, beyond me, as he did his thing—an intimate setting, to say the very least. Beans of Antipop Consortium sat on this same cushion months earlier, I thought. They recorded “Sex With the Leopard Print Lady” here. While I pondered the legacy of stylist berzerkers of past and present, Key & Peele played on the television in front of me. I wanted to make myself scarce, invisible as possible, Brundlefly-on-the-wall, non-participatory, so I watched the “Laron Can’t Laugh” sketch on mute and registered how Laron’s noiseless convulsions and eventual shriek expertly pantomimed Sharif’s vocals. These layers of silence allowed me to hear some of what Sharif was spewing forth and commit it to memory. He spoke of avenging the death of Candyman. The words loom like Tony Todd—tall as a ponderosa pine in a Cabrini-Green courtyard. Caroline crossed eyelids…90 degree pressure… Closing in on 400 degreez, but we’re talking below zero. The winter of our disconnected selves. Sharif tells DRIVEBY he wants his voice to sound “fucked up.” He’s snorting, super sinusy. He wants to cultivate a specific sound—it coats the inner concavities of his skull. He just needs to externalize it into a self-portrait in a convex DAW interface. “The soul establishes itself,” John Ashbery writes. Sharif is shoeless, I should add. He’s black socked as he cuts the song’s first of three adlib tracks. The first is completely muddled, barely audible—a grumbly grumble grumb. The second is a helium-huffed high pitch mania. The third, a yell—“the banshee,” as DRIVEBY calls it. Sharif slackens the headphone wires and walks across the room. He does “the banshee” from as great a distance as possible. You’ve no doubt heard the banshee adlib track before (B.A.T. for short, as in, the hematophagic vampire bat). If you’ve heard a Fatboi Sharif recording, you’ve likely heard a hotly desperate and deranged voice coming from the depths of a hellmouth—sinners swallowed and still writhing, quasi-alive, anticipating rigor mortis. DRIVEBY captures the natural reverb. Sharif asks him to put distortion and echo on the last word of the verse. 

⤧

Fatboi Sharif was reading lyrics off his phone, but by then he was Loosifa loose—engaging me, inviting me to dialogue, reveling in the job.  His feet are light and nimble, like McCarthy’s Judge. He says that he will never die. And, you bet, he dances in light and in shadow. He’s a craftsman and possesses an engineer’s ear, an ant-infested and severed one he probably plucked from a manicured lawn in Scotch Plains, NJ, Jeffrey Beaumont style. For the second verse of the song, he makes an alteration and decides to end the verse earlier than he had written it, stopping at the phrase “role model” because he likes the “swing of it.” Okay, Nuke Hellington. I see you, Benny Badman. A natural performer, the recording session reflects both technical know-how and impassioned delivery. He doesn’t quite lose himself as he does on the stage (or the audience floor where he so often ends up), but he’s unequivocally locked in, as he kids say. Locked in a room with padded walls, more apropos. On the next, he requires a seemingly endless run of retakes. I begin to wonder if my presence is a burden, a distraction. But the session keeps its devil-may-care air intact. Still, Sharif has a sonic vision he yearns to achieve. He won’t settle for less. He eventually gets the take he desires and tells DRIVEBY he’s gonna do three adlibs. These two men work in harmony to develop their songs of disharmony. They’ve been boys, and so that keeps the chemistry alchemical for the duration. Open and honest, DRIVEBY tells Sharif that three tracks of adlibs is “too many.” FUCK THAT! Sharif shouts at him. Sharif wants the adlibs to sound beneath everything—six-feet deep, or “buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways” (unexpressed emotions, that is), as Freud or a Freud-fraud once wrote. Sharif wants echoes. He wants to sound like he’s a signal coming in and out of the radio as you drive through the night. These are the requests he makes, delicately selected from his mental doom board as DRIVEBY adjusts the mix, adds effects. “Do you do a lot of vocal mixing on the spot?” I ask. Sharif shakes his head, points to DRIVEBY slumped over his computer monitor, clicking and dragging, random access memory maybe lagging: “He’s on his Bob Power shit.” Listening to the playback, Sharif tells me he wants to be like Joker in the children’s hospital scene. What kinda clown carries a fuckin’ gun?! I’m waiting for the next Sharif release, crossing my fingers into an arthritic mass of flesh and bone in hopes of his cover of “If You’re Happy and You Know It” appearing on the tracklist. 

⤧

DRIVEBY puts Joker on the TV. It’s the bus scene; he can’t stop laughing. He hands a fellow passenger his card: Forgive my Laughter: I have a Condition. Sharif still sleeps to beats. He’s told this story numerous times to various media outlets, and so it’s beginning to take on the tone of lore. But it’s not. Even wilder, he’s not listening on headphones as he sleeps; he blasts the beats on speakers. Sharif prefers to record late, well into the wee hours of morning. DRIVEBY’s couch often becomes Sharif’s bed. “He’ll have the same beat on for five hours,” DRIVEBY explains. He’ll be in his bedroom, unable to sleep. Sharif grins and tells me, “That’s when I’m in the mindfuck.” Sharif reapproaches the mic. Another Blockhead track. “He told me he made this one especially for me,” Sharif says. The beat sounds like a Gregorian chant in a cavern. Beware of the Shroom Monster. Sharif has managed to amass an intimidating number of releases over the past several years while not indulging us to excess. He’s conservative with his run-times. Clocks ain’t shit to him. Many of his projects are EP-length, but categorizing them in any terms would seem to discredit his ingenuity. As the session unofficially ends and we settle into more casual conversation, Sharif implores DRIVEBY to play selections from their unreleased album, currently on ice like a corpse. I listen and hear of an exorcism of Antoinette, of Elvira and death resurrections, of Basquiat painting in Transylvania, crossroads, and plosive sonic samples from The Pagemaster—a film I have absolutely no recollection of but DRIVEBY speaks almost as highly of as his Fantastic Damage instrumental CD-R. OneShotOnce shows up, presumably for a session, but not before he and Sharif pillage DRIVEBY’s fridge. They feast on cold chicken while I gather myself to leave. 

Images: Astronomical table detail from the Almanach Purpetuum of Abraham Zacuto (c. 1500)

[thatone-girly]

ON TOP

"i want you on top. i want you to find your favorite spot."

"𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄.", Savannah sighed to herself as she closed the door to her and her boyfriends shared loft. the smell of the brand new Jasmine and Lavender candles Savannah recently bought filled her nostrils as she stepped further into her home. she dropped her purse and her briefcase at the door before making her way down the hallway.

the faint sounds of Luther Vandross filled her ears as she walked closer and closer to the living room. as she stepped into the carpeted area. the familiar smell of cannabis filled her nostrils. she sighed once she saw the heavenly sight that sat upon her. her boyfriend, DeVante sat shirtless on the black suede couch with a lit blunt resting between his lips.

he was in a man spread, with his head resting on the back of the couch. his eyes were closed as he enjoyed the slow jams coming from the built in speakers connected to the television. his caramel, tattooed skin and gold hoop earrings glistened from the moon light coming into the living room from the ceiling to floor windows.

"De'?", Savannah called out softly. the males eyes opened slowly before his head lifted at the same pace. his blood shot red eyes looked up to see Savannah's standing in front of the huge windows. he put the blunt out on the ashtray that sat on the glass coffee table before standing off of the couch and pulling his sagging grey sweatpants up.

he licked his plump lips as he made his way over to his girlfriend. his long, slender arms snakes their way around her waist as he bent down, planting a firm kiss to her lips. "hey. how was ya' day, baby?", his deep, nasally voice filled Savannah's ears. he nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck as he pulled her body closer to his. Savannah damn near melted at the intimate contact the male provided.

"stressful.", she answered simply as her dainty, manicured hands found their way to his muscular arms. DeVante hummed before letting go of her. Savannah's eyes followed his tall frame intensely as he went and sat back on the couch. he sat back and lightly pushed his pelvis upward to get back into his comfortable man spread.

"come here. sit down and tell daddy about it." Savannah laughed and rolled her eyes but did as she was told and sat by De' on the couch. she reached down to take her shoes off, but was stopped by DeVante. "Nah, I got it. lemme get ya' shoes off, baby.", he spoke, his voice low and smooth. "you just lay back and relax." he softly pushed Savannah back onto the couch and took her feet into his lap. he removed her heels and began to massage her feet. "now tell me about ya' day."

♡︎♡︎♡︎

"wait, so she was mad that she plead guilty even though they had evidence that she did it? and she cussed you out?", DeVante asked in disbelief as Savannah told him one of the many bad experiences she had today. "yes, De'. i had to remember that i was in a court house cause if i wasn't, i would've daffy ducked her ass."

DeVante let out a deep chuckle as he continued to rub Savannah's feet. a comfortable silence fell over the pair as they let the slow music play in the background. DeVante rotated his thumbs on the soles of Savannah's feet, relieving pressure that was bothering her for the whole day. she released a soft moan and closed her eyes as DeVante worked his magic on her feet. "mm. De', that feels good, baby." a smirk took over DeVante's face before running his tongue over his bottom lip.

"you know what else would feel good?" Savannah opened her eyes and smirked, seeing De' looking down at her feet. "what?", she questioned. once again, a deep chuckle fell from DeVantes lips. He grabbed both of her ankles and gently put her feet on the ground. he then grabbed her hand and pulled her upper body up. pulling her onto his lap, he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. "me making you feel good.", DeVante spoke as he planted soft kissed up and down her neck.

"me hittin' ya spot while you scream my name." Savannah's breathing picked up as DeVante whispered dirty words in her ear. the husky tone in his voice plus his plump, soft lips moving up and down her neck made a pool form below. her left hand rested on his shoulder while her right hand rested on the back of his head. she bit down on her lip as small moans left her lips. "me makin' you cum over and over."

"De'", Savannah moaned as DeVante sucked on her neck, leaving a love bite. her fingers ran through his curls as his long, slender fingers maneuvered to her shirt. he began unbuttoning the small buttons that held her shirt together. "me havin' ya legs shakin' while you lay there whinin' and cryin'." continuing to unbutton her top, DeVante continued to whisper dirty statements in her ear.

"me makin' ya' toes curl and ya' eyes roll back." after finally getting her shirt unbuttoned, he softly pushed at the fabric and let it fall to the floor behind Savannah. after getting the shirt off, his large hands made their way down her back, sending shivers down her spine. "me makin' you scratch my back while you try ya' best not to be too loud." a louder moan fell from Savannah's lips as she felt DeVante palm her ass through her stretchy pencil skirt.

"me makin' you have to bite the pillow to keep you from screamin' and wakin' the neighbors up." DeVantes lips moved to her chest as he left love marks on the way. "take this off fa' me, baby.", DeVante said as he lightly tugged the fabric of Savannah's skirt. pulling away from her chest, DeVante lifted his hands from her hips and allowed her to stand up. Savannah began to take her skirt off, but was stopped.

"aht. turn around.", DeVante instructed Savannah. she smirked as she turned around and faced the huge windows of their shared apartment. hooking her thumbs into the hem of the skirt, she slowly pushed the article of clothing down her melanin legs. licking his lips, DeVante watched as Savannah teasingly bent over to push the skirt to her ankles. to his shock, he got an instant view of her full ass and wet pussy, revealing that she wasn't wearing panties. with a dark chuckle, DeVante reached out and grabbed Savannah's hips, pulling her towards him with her back still facing him.

his fingers reached up and unhooked her black lace bra and let it fall to the ground. he turned her around and pulled her back onto his lap. he wrapped his hand around her neck, but he wasn't choking her- yet. he pulled her down so her lips would meet his. the kiss was slow and passionate. DeVantes other hand rested on her thigh as she began to slowly grind her hips. DeVante released a groan into Savannah's mouth as the couples heavy breathing and slow kissing noises filled the room.

"keep doin' that, baby. just like that." Savannah listened to her man as she released a moan, feeling her clit rubbing against De's clothed shaft. "you wanna know what's gone happen tonight, Sav?", DeVante asked as his hazel eyes burned into her brown ones. Savannah nodded as she continued to grind her hips into his, receiving pleasure herself. "i want you on top to start off. and while you on top, i want you to find ya' spot.", DeVante rasped in Savannah's ear. releasing a moan, Savanna listened to the whole plan DeVante had for the night.

"when you find it, keep ridin' till you feel ya'self cummin'. you hear me, baby?" Savannah nodded again and closed her eyes, receiving a hard smack to her exposed ass. she let out a mid-volume moan at the harsh contact De's hand made with her skin. "keep them eyes open. keep 'em on me.", he demanded as Savannah's eyes shot open. "once you feel ya'self cummin', ima finish what you started. ima get on top, and once i get there, i ain't stoppin', ma."

Savannah released a small whine as DeVantes deep, husky voice guided her through their whole rendezvous before it even happened. "i'm not stoppin' till ya' legs shakin'. i'm not stoppin' till you screamin' my name and beggin' me to stop. and even then, i might not stop, baby.", he husked as he held a semi-tight grip on her hips. Savannah's eyebrows furrowed slightly as her and De' held their burning eye contact. she could feel herself coming to a finish from his eye contact and voice alone.

"now help daddy take his pants off so he can make you feel good." Savannah halted her pleasurable movements and assisted the male with removing his sweats and underwear. she climbed back onto his lap and leaned down to connect their lips. to make sure his dominance was still asserted, DeVante wrapped his hand around her neck again and added pressure, this time lightly choking her. with his other hand, he tapped her thigh, signaling her to lift up. she took the signal as De' used that same hand to grab his shaft.

rubbing the tip on her clit to tease her, DeVante smirked against Savannah's lips as she moaned into his mouth. after finally aligning himself with her entrance, Savannah slowly lowered herself onto his length. pulling away from the slow and sloppy kiss, Savannah let out a loud moan and threw her head back as she felt DeVante stretch her out. "fuck, De'!", she moaned as he slid deeper into her walls. DeVante bit his lip as he watched her reaction to his girth stretch her walls.

"look at that, baby. i already got you screamin' my name." with a whine falling from her lips, Savannah moved up and down slowly on his shaft to allow herself to get used to his size. DeVante groaned as he felt Savannah's walls fit him like a glove. his large hands rested on her thighs as he patiently waited for his girlfriend to adjust to his size. when she finally did, her pace picked up a bit.

"ohh, fuck!", Savannah moaned as she held on to DeVantes broad shoulders. her nails slightly dug into his shoulder blades as she bounced on his large shaft. she bit her lip at the euphoric feelings of his veins throbbing against her slick walls. "there you go. ride yo' dick, baby.", DeVante groaned out as his fingertips lightly dug into her thighs. trying her best to contain her moans, she bit her lip, but honestly, it was no use. DeVante had such daddy dick, didn't even have to be doing anything and he could make still her scream. he was literally just sitting there and he had Savannah damn near going crazy.

her eyes slightly rolled back before they closed completely. once again, her head fell back and her mouth hung open as sinful noises fell from her mouth. DeVante planted kisses up her neck and jawline before grabbing her neck again. "ride it till you lose it, baby. i got you." he pulled her lips into his and took control, shoving his tongue into her mouth.  Savannah struggled to kiss the man back as she felt his phallus getting closer and closer to her spot. their steamy and sloppy kiss was interrupted by a loud moan from Savannah. her movements halted as she breathed heavily. DeVante smirked, realizing that she had found her favorite spot.

"what's the matter, baby? it feels too good?", he teased with a smirk as he tilted his head to the side. Savannah, who sat in the same squat position with her eyes closed just whined. "De', that's- that's..", Savannah stuttered over her words from the amount of pleasure she felt as DeVante sat deep inside of her walls. "that's ya' spot?", De' finished the statement for her making her nod quickly. if it was up to DeVante, once he had found her spot he would've kept going, but he told Savannah to get on top and find her spot, which she did.

"that spot right there?" Savannah let out a yelp of pleasure as DeVante thrusted his hips upward harshly. Savannah's eyes rolled back and so did her head as DeVante continued to thrust upward. "oh my -fuck, De'! right there!", Savannah moaned as she placed her hands on the back of the couch, holding herself up into a squat position. "right there? you like this?", DeVante teased as he continued to hit her spot with his upward thrust. his pace was quick and steady as his hips snapped upward into Savannah's.

"yes! yes! right there, fuck!", Savannah screamed out in pleasure. DeVante respect her wishes and kept his stroke the same to hit the same spot. "o-oh my fuckin' god! De', i'm finna cum!", Savannah warned as her eyes rolled back. "ride it out, baby.", DeVante said as he finally rested. ignoring the burning sensation in her legs, Savannah quickly began to bounce on DeVantes shaft again to ride out her orgasm. with her breathing heavy and beads of sweat forming along her hairline, she stared into her lovers hazel eyes as she felt her peak coming. her nails dug into the back of the couch as her stomach caved in. 

suddenly, her eyes rolled back into her head and her already sore legs gave out. her body got weaker by the second as she felt her orgasm rush through her. she sat in De's lap and breathed heavily as he watched her lose it right in front of him. her hands weakly ran down the man's arms as she felt her body began to fall backwards. DeVante quickly grabbed her forearms and pulled her back up right before she fell. keeping a hold on her arms, DeVante waited till she got it all out to check on her. "damn, you good?", he asked with a chuckle as he watched Savannah try to catch her breath.

she nodded as she finally regained her composure. her legs trembled slightly as she tiredly laid her head in the crook of his neck. "you tired, baby?" with another nod, Savannah wrapped her arms around his neck. he shook his head and laid her down on the couch. he began to kiss her neck, leaving more hickeys next to the ones he'd already left. "you remember what I said though, right? i said after you found ya' spot and you came, I was gone get on top", DeVante husked. Savannah wrapped her legs around the mans waist as he rubbed his hands up and down her thighs.

"i know you tired, but don't worry 'bout it, baby. daddy gone put you straight to sleep."

[that-struggling-writer-lh]

A Flower For Every Secret

WARNINGS FOR THIS WORK: No/Pre Outbreak. Minor language, suggestion of drinking, 18+ themes, no smut here but there will be eventually. Some fluff, Joel is not a grump here! No age gap specified, I guess use your imagination?

Word count: 1796

It started one week after I had settled into the small ranch-style house in a suburban neighborhood just outside of the Austin city limits. Summer was at its peak, the telltale signs all around. Children running and biking through the cul-de-sac, parents chasing and chastising children of all ages, the smell of fresh-cut grass and the smokiness of late-night bonfires lingered through the neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if I’d like it here, but in just two weeks, Austin had stolen my heart.

The rapid knocking at the door pulled me from my dinner preparations. With all of the windows open, letting the evening breeze let in the warm light of the sunset, I could hear the soft argument on the porch from the kitchen.

“Shut up, Dad, everyone likes brownies.”

“Maybe not her, feel bad, it’s dinner time, I don’t want to intrude.”

I smirked, recognizing the voices of Sarah and Joel Miller, my neighbors from across the street. Joel was a single father, who devoted his time and energy endlessly to Sarah and her friends. Unlike most of the parents in the neighborhood, Joel was often rompusing the streets with the children, kicking soccer balls, pitching baseballs, and leaving out coolers of fruit and water bottles for the kids to grab at their leisure. Carol, my neighbor to the right, had seen me grinning ear to ear at Joel riding a tricycle fit for a four year old the same day the movers were in and out of my house with boxes and boxes of things. She explained that Mr. Miller had so much time to spend with the children because his business was practically running itself after several years of success. Joel did mostly paperwork and HR things now whileTommy, his younger brother, handled on site management, and the rest typically fell into place aside from needing to be on site a few hours a week for touch ups and client issues.

Other than polite greetings and a short introduction, I knew nothing else of the eldest Miller brother.

Another rapid knock knock knock, “Sarah, honey, she’s probably not home.”

“She’s always home, Dad. Her car is right there.”

I abandoned my station at the cutting board and moved to the front of the house, opening the door and smiling at the family of two, “Howdy, Neighbor.” Joel greeted, running a hand through his curls slowly, “Sarah here was in the kitchen with one of her friends this afternoon and they decided this batch of goodies needed to find a home across the street.”

“Dad took one already.” Sarah interrupted, “There was supposed to be a dozen.”

Joel eyed me apologetically, “Quality control.”

I let a quiet laugh fall from my lips before turning my attention back to Sarah, “Well, one person certainly can’t eat all of these by herself. I’ve got enough dinner cooking for three people, if you guys want to join.” I offered, stepping aside and leaving room for the pair to enter my home.

“We shouldn’t.” Joel sucked in a breath.

“It smells good.” Sarah looked up to her father.

“Hate to let it all go to waste.” I shrugged, locking eyes with a reluctant Joel.

He hesitated for a moment longer before nodding to his daughter, “Alright, go ahead in, Sarah.”

They quickly made themselves at home, Sarah, with a nod of permission from me began flipping through television stations after she abandoned her brownie tray on the countertop, and Joel found a spot at the kitchen island opposite me while I finished chopping vegetables for a salad. “It’s just roasted chicken and potatoes with some salad. Hope that’s alright.” 

“Better than ordering a pizza tonight.” he smirked and watched as I sliced into a tomato.

“So, Mr. Miller.” I started,

“Joel.” he corrected quickly.

“Joel.” I nodded in confirmation, “How old is Sarah? I see you guys outside all hours of the day.” I smiled slightly at him.

He grinned, “She’s twelve, going on sixteen, I think.”

I chuckled softly, “I remember being twelve. Special age. She seems sweet from what I can tell.” I looked through the dining area to see Sarah sprawled on the sofa like she had been in my house dozens of times.

Joel followed my eyeline and clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Sarah Miller, God’s sake get your feet off of her sofa.”

“She’s fine.” I laughed, as I watched Sarah reluctantly settle back into her lying position on the sofa, “Houses are meant to be lived in.”

He softened considerably and let his gaze fall back to the cutting board as I chopped a head of lettuce into small pieces, “Sorry about her.”

“She’s a kid, Joel.”

He nodded in response before turning his attention back to me, “What do you do?”

“Front desk for the police department. Busy job, but luckily I got a normal 9-5, Monday to Friday.”

He nodded, pursing his lips carefully, “Real important stuff.”

I nodded back as I scraped the salad ingredients into a serving bowl as the oven timer went off, “I got it, don’t worry.” Joel jumped into action, grabbing the oven mitts from the counter and moving behind me to take the baking sheet out of the appliance.

“Oh, thank you, Joel.” I went to the dining table to set the serving bowl in the center before returning to the kitchen to grab a cup for Sarah, wine glasses for Joel and I. “Is white wine okay?” I went to turn back around to approach Joel and was met with a firm surface. I gasped in surprise as he grabbed my elbow to steady me.

“I’m so sorry.” he apologized, stepping back and dropping his hand.

“No, no. I wasn’t paying attention. Not used to having people in my kitchen.”

He huffed a laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck, “White wine is fine,” he answered my previous question before continuing with his thought, “I understand that, it’s usually just Tommy coming over and wrecking my house. Sarah is better than he is.”

“Your brother?” I asked, before realizing he never told me that bit of information, I quickly stammered to save myself, “Carol told me a bit about you.”

He let out a tentative laugh, “Yeah, Tommy’s my brother, and Carol is a busybody. You stay away from her.”

“She has all the good gossip, though.” I laughed as I grabbed three plates and the bottle of cheap wine that had been chilling in the fridge.

“She has all the gossip because she can’t mind her own business. I’m convinced that woman’s flower garden is a sham, she only keeps it to keep her ears and eyes on everyone.”

“A flower for every secret.” I giggled as Joel grabbed the plates from my right arm, and he started to set the table.

“A flower for every secret.” he repeated with a sly grin, not looking up as the plates settled on the wood surface with quiet tapping sounds.

I poured generous helpings of wine for Joel and I, and he called Sarah to the meal, preparing her plate for her before sitting down himself.

She hardly got a word in over dinner as Joel and I opened up to each other easily, only remarking how good the meal tasted.

It felt as if Joel and I had known each other longer than just the hour we spent eating and the passing remarks in our yards, we talked about neighborhood changes he’s noticed, his work, my work, Sarah’s school projects and sports events, and Tommy’s antics at neighborhood barbecues. It felt so natural, as if just catching up with an old friend. 

I grabbed ice cream from the freezer and brought the tray of brownies out for everybody to enjoy, which Sarah indulged in immediately.

“Your kid might have a future in baking.” I remarked with a raise of my eyebrows, “These came out really nice.”

“Thank you.” Sarah said with her mouth full of ice cream.

“She certainly didn’t get it from me.” Joel pointed at Sarah with his spoon before returning to his dessert.

Joel, of course, insisted on helping to wash the dishes after the meal finished, “I wanna thank you for letting us in like this. Definitely not expected of you or anything.”

“It’s nice to not have a silent house on a Thursday night.” I smiled down into the sudsy water, scrubbing gunk off of a plate.

“I owe you one.” he stopped drying a fork and turned his face to look at me.

I matched his stance, eyes finding his. Joel’s lips darted around my face, “You don’t owe me anything, Joel.” I stated, his brows furrowed slightly and he took the plate from my hand gently, running the clean, dry rag across the surface.

“I want to, though.” he sighed softly, “I’m grilling Saturday. Steaks, nothing fancy, but-”

“I’ll be there.” I cut him off, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

“Seven okay?” he asked as I resumed my scrubbing, cleaning out a wine glass slower than necessary. Drawing this moment out.

“Seven’s perfect.” I handed him the glass by the stem and his hand brushed mine as it transferred from my hand to his.

I studied his face carefully, a hot, fluttering feeling spreading through my stomach as I realized our proximity. How I could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and I swear he must have seen something in my face, too. Because he leaned in ever so slightly.

“Hey, Dad? I forgot to mention it, but Anna's birthday sleepover was tomorrow, and I forgot to tell you we needed to get her a present.” Sarah’s voice sent him reeling back, spinning around to face his tired-eyed daughter.

“Shit.” he looked at his watch, “Sarah, it’s eight-thirty at night, Sugar.”

“I’m sorry.” she looked between Joel and I apologetically.

“No, no, no. I should pay attention to the calendar more I guess.” he sighed, running a hand through his curls and he let out a flustered breath, “I gotta-”

“Go.” I smiled ear to ear, “I get it, Joel.” 

“Thanks.” he stuffed his hands in his back pockets and looked carefully between Sarah and me for a moment, “Go get in the truck, if I have to go to the store you’re comin’ with me, Kid.”

She didn’t answer, but hurried out the front door, Joel trailing behind her, “Thanks for the brownies, Sarah!” I called after her, and she didn’t answer.

“Thank you for dinner.” Joel nodded from the open doorway before he retreated to the now-dark street.

“Any time. I mean it.” I wiped my soap-covered hands on the drying rag as he slipped out of the house.

[justforbooks]

Steve Wright, who has died aged 69, helped to redefine the role of a disc jockey when he established his BBC Radio 1 afternoon show in the 1980s. To the usual formula of linking almost back-to-back music, he added gossip, trivia, guests from the world of entertainment such as Paul McCartney and Warren Beatty, and a general feeling of chaos that became known as the “zoo” format. It made him the most popular UK radio presenter of the era, with audiences of more than eight million.

“The show’s a little bit of everything you fancy,” he said. “I invented the format myself. It’s a tabloid newspaper of the airwaves – fast, fun and packed with info. Something for everyone.”

Some of the regular “guests” or “listeners” phoning in – including Mr Angry, Gervaise the hairdresser and Damian the social worker – were fictional spoof characters voiced by actors, while Phil Cornwell, whom Wright described as “a crazed, inspired genius”, provided impersonations of David Bowie, John Lennon, Robert De Niro, the Rolling Stones and others. Cornwell’s interactions with the DJ were improvised. A compulsive collector of information, Wright was particularly fond of the “factoids” and bizarre true stories he dug up to entertain his listeners.

Alongside the showbiz guests, Wright was also trusted by politicians, although things did not always go well. On one occasion he was waiting in the prime minister’s study at 10 Downing Street, preparing to conduct an interview with John Major, when he spotted two paracetamol tablets on a table. As he was suffering from a headache himself, he popped them into his mouth.

“When Mr Major walked in, I think he spotted the empty packets – because there was an immediate atmosphere,” recalled Wright. “He wouldn’t really loosen up. I asked him what clothes he liked to wear and he said, ‘Er, um, casual.’ I asked what sort of casual, but he wouldn’t be drawn.” However, Wright did elicit the revelation that the prime minister’s favourite record was the Marty Robbins western ballad El Paso. “A very strange song indeed,” observed the DJ.

Wright first took to the Radio 1 airwaves with a Saturday evening show in 1980 and, within weeks, was presenting Top of the Pops on BBC television. Then, he hosted the Saturday mid-morning show before switching to his long-running post-lunch weekday slot in a programme eventually titled Steve Wright in the Afternoon (1981-93).

At the beginning of 1994 he moved to the flagship Radio 1 breakfast show, titled Steve Wright in the Morning, in a bid by the BBC to halt declining ratings. He added 250,000 listeners within four months and kept a steady audience of seven million while audiences for other shows plummeted. Nevertheless, Wright walked out on his £165,0000-a-year job in 1995 – following differences with Matthew Bannister, the recently appointed controller of Radio 1 – and joined Talk Radio for an unhappy few months.

He was back at the BBC in 1996, switching to Radio 2 to present a Saturday show and launch Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs, a mix of classic songs, dedications and real-life romance stories, before returning to familiar territory in 1999 with Steve Wright in the Afternoon. When his departure from the afternoon slot was announced in 2022, he handed over typically graciously, saying “Now, I’ve been doing this programme for 24 years at Radio 2, and so how can I possibly complain? Really, I can’t hog the slot for ever, so let’s give somebody else a go.”

Wright was born in Greenwich, south-east London, and brought up in New Cross, the son of Richard Wright, who managed a Burton’s menswear store, and his wife, June (nee Saunders). Following the family’s move to Southend-on-Sea, Essex, Steve attended Eastwood high school, where he broadcast on school radio over a speaker system from the stock cupboard.

Leaving with three O-levels, he went through jobs as a shipping insurance company clerk, telephone engineer and backstage theatre worker, as well as running his own jingles business. He also had an unsuccessful stint singing on the club circuit, and worked in hospital radio in his spare time.

Joining the BBC in the early 70s, he spent three years working in its pop record library, digging out vinyl discs for DJs to play, followed by a period as a researcher in radio. He left in 1975 to host a show on Radio Atlantis in Belgium, then worked as a reporter and presenter on LBC in London.

In 1976, he moved to the newly launched commercial station Radio 210 in Reading, making promotional trailers and jingles before hosting his own show – he and a fellow 210 DJ, Mike Read, also contributed a pop column to the local newspaper, the Reading Chronicle. Wright switched to Radio Luxembourg three years later and returned to the BBC in 1980.

Radio fame brought Wright television appearances not just on Top of the Pops (1980-89), but also as a panellist on gameshows such as Blankety Blank (1987-89) and That’s Showbusiness (1990-93). He then became the presenter of Home Truths (1994), with celebrities answering general knowledge questions and revealing skeletons in their closet, and Steve Wright’s People Show (1994-95), featuring celebrity guests. From 1997 until 2009, he narrated the Top of the Pops archive footage programme TOTP2.

On radio, Wright’s other shows included Wright Around the World for the BBC World Service (1999-2003) and Radio 2’s Pick of the Pops (2022-24), and he continued to present Sunday Love Songs until his death.

He was appointed MBE in this year’s new year honours list.

In 1985, Wright married Cyndi Robinson; they divorced in 1999. He is survived by their children, Tom and Lucy, his father and his brother, Laurence.

🔔 Steve (Stephen Richard) Wright, radio and television presenter, born 26 August 1954; died 12 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[8iunie]

Måneskin: “When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re f**king”

The global Italian rockers open up about discovering themselves, mastering fame and finding their genderless sound. (posted on 20.01.2023)

It’s late morning and Italian rock band Måneskin are comfortably seated in a swanky West London hotel room, already kitted out in signature Gucci, jet-black eyeliner, and clean-cut 70s-style statement suits. The quartet, an electric gleam of cool against a silver-spotted setting, are nonchalantly scrunched into a deep turquoise couch. Their suave image serves as a reminder of how far they’ve come since their early Italian X Factor days.

Over a year has passed since the group’s whirlwind takeover as glam rock stars conquering the Eurovision Song Contest 2021 and they’re showing no signs of slowing down. In fact, the band’s authentic image and relentless sound has earned them over six million followers on their band’s Instagram account — a figure greater than the population living in their fashion capital hometown, Rome, where the rock and rollers were born. Måneskin’s rise as next generation figureheads isn’t too unconventional, after all, plenty of breakthrough acts – ABBA, Celine Dion, One Direction – have cut their teeth on televised competitions. And as game-changing winners, the rock band are eager to start writing their own legacy.

Måneskin’s commitment to being more than a hazy Eurovision memory is not to be unexpected. The band have committedly popped where you would least expect them – the 2021 BRIT Awards, Gucci’s luxury Aria campaign, or Disney’s live-action adaptation of Cruella – reminding us that they’re not going anywhere. And, just yesterday, the Italian artists spontaneously flew to London for a glitzy one-off showcase to debut their emo ballad, The Loneliest, co-written by British producer MNEK. While they’ve marginally recovered, the band are still buzzing from last night’s sweaty reception at Camden’s The Underworld in front of 500 die-hard fans. (“Oh my god, it was like a sauna in there,” bassist Victoria De Angelis chimes in, her voice hoarse from the manic show). It doesn’t matter if they’re pulling off last-minute sold-out performances or rubbing elbows with Guns’N’Roses, the Eurovision victors are doing it in style: flamboyantly dressed and with a compelling sense of gratitude.

Now, whether they’re rocking fashion red carpets or main stages, Måneskin are ready to make their presence felt. “We’ve gained a lot of successful things in the last year and we’re really happy about all the paths we’re going through,” drummer Ethan Torchio says, gesturing to the wider band. “We never had a specific ambition to gain or to achieve anything. It’s all about how we approach it day by day.”

While the band may not have pinned their hopes on a specific accolade, Måneskin’s shared teenage experiences primed them for their rapid accession as one of Europe’s hottest rock exports. Forming at high school as a unified three-piece, Ethan Torchio joined the gang after responding to an online open call out for a drummer. This fateful pairing, alongside the band’s long-standing friendship has become the crux of Måneskin’s outlook. “We all have a very clear vision — we are very bitchy,” Victoria says confidently, smiling. “We have very specific ideas. Being only four [of us] and not having overproduction, we think that our individual sound really makes the difference”. Ethan, who’s taken to perching on the couch armrest, echoes his bandmate: “We’re perfectionists.”

As Måneskin’s latest album, RUSH!, dawns, the artists have been busy splitting their legacy between Italy and the rest of the world – from showcasing support for Ukraine at Coachella in California to bringing their rock and roll swagger to The Green Fashion Awards alongside style icons Karolina Kurkova and Elisa Sednaoui. “These two ways of expression (rock and roll) are ways in which we have always liked to measure ourselves,” youngest member Thomas Raggi says in accented English. “We like to alternate them because they represent the different musical souls of which the band is composed.”

Måneskin’s rock and roll philosophy is more than a reliable shoehorned statement. Much like their striking clothing, it fits like a well-worn mantra. (“In a younger age, it really helped us define our personality and stand out in some way,” Victoria says.) Growing up in a “very conservative country”, the artists found the music scene as an opportunity to experiment with their image as teenagers. Labelled as “weird” or receiving “a lot of judgements” wasn’t going to hold Måneskin back. Instead, the alternative act learned to lean on each other for support, she says, and strengthened their bond. “It really helped to have a purpose and have this project together. It made us feel reassured that we’re doing something cool and we were allowed to be ourselves.”

As the band found themselves migrating from headline to headline, they became accustomed to facing off gossip together. Ask them about the cocaine-meets- Eurovision moment and they all laugh, sharing familiar smiles with each other. “We were already so successful in Italy so we got kind of used to hearing speculation about us,” Ethan shrugs. “The huge Eurovision blowout was a good moment of our lives because we were all at a point of growing and personality building.”

But the speculation didn’t just stop there. The questions of drugs subsided and talk about sexuality quickly rose to the fore. At the time, a quick internet search of Måneskin’s name would lead to autofills poking questions at everything to boyfriends, girlfriends, and identity labels. “We’re not very touched by these kinds of comments. We all are very sure of what we are and how we want to show it,” Ethan responds. Although the band were quickly dismissive of the online talk, a bigger lesson loomed, frontman Damiano David reveals. “In Italy, we did not discover that there’s more than one sexuality until we got to use social media. Just like everybody else, I was [use terms] ‘straight’ or ‘gay’,” he candidly shares. Since then, the vocalist admits he’s taking on “more knowledge” to better himself as an ally — “I’m fully straight but this doesn’t stop me from being an ally. I’m on the side that has to learn new things.”

The band’s public discussion of identity has been one they’ve decidedly kept close to their chest, until now. “We understand people can get very affected by [speculation] because they’re making themselves sure of what they are and how to express [themselves] to their parents or to their friends,” Ethan empathises. As a member who has faced the brunt of opinion, the drummer pauses, choosing his words carefully: “[Trying] to guess people’s sexualities is one of the worst things to do — it’s very bad.”

A time that was particularly testing for the band was when Måneskin’s provocative Want To Be Your Slave music video hit the internet. A visual centred on sexual liberation and self-expression, the band quickly faced questions on their aesthetic and affiliation to queerness. “People are curious about it because it’s been quite a taboo topic for many years, it’s something now that other people are so interested in, not only with celebrities, but just generally with everyone,” Victoria says. She recalls times in high school where similar-aged teenagers would guess whether an effeminate boy is gay or not. “Like, who the fuck cares?!” she huffs. “People are really interested in the private lives of the artists. They look it up because it makes them feel like they know you better or it’s just to gossip or break a scandal.”

A brief pause falls over the band and Damiano shakes his head, prepping an answer: “I think it’s easier. It’s just not that complicated. When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re fucking. It’s just sick curiosity.” The inner-band debate strikes up again as Ethan proposes the media curiosity is fuelled by a misdirected want for knowledge and understanding.

While this is one the few times the band disagree, they respectfully onboard one another’s opinions as they take stock of the bigger conversation. The root of animated discussion breaks open as the members begin to turn the question inward. “I don’t really know how to identify. In the past years, I’ve been identifying as bi, but, lately, I’m having no interest in boys. I’m discovering [my identity is] developing,” Victoria says, her striped brown tie falling forwards. “I like some girls and then it changes to ‘okay, I almost don’t like any boys at all’. It is something constantly… It’s lesbian but also Harry Styles.” Damiano cracks up with laughter and Ethan quips that the former One Direction star is christened “the chosen one”. Circling back to her line of thought, the bassist proves she’s hardcore with her closing line — “It’s just who you are and you can really express yourself and I think this is like what matters the most and what we think is real rock and roll and freedom.”

Måneskin are no strangers to taking a stand. If you ask us, it looks like they love causing a bit of a stir. Mid-last year, the band, once again, caught headlines after Damiano and Thomas shared an unplanned kiss on stage at the Polsat SuperHit Festival. The band vividly recalls fans sharing the impact their music had on them. “When you get there and see how you can help thousands of people, it really makes you understand the difference you can have in that moment,” Victoria reflects. The group’s commitment to ensuring freedom of expression is larger than a few lyrics in a song – it feeds into their interviews and on-stage actions too.

“Being part of this generation it’s hard. It’s useful to take some strong positions on topics, because we need some strong actions. We’re just trying to do our part,” Thomas elaborates, explaining Måneskin’s move to be controversial every now and then. “We also try to improve ourselves every day. But at least you can try to find and to look for the right thing to do.” Lead singer Damiano backs up the decision to use their platform to back political causes. “If you have the courage to speak up about things, I think it’s very, very helpful,” he says earnestly. “We have to be able to understand when it’s better for us to take a step back and let those really affected people talk about it, because we are just allies and we’re not getting discriminated against, but we can try to be empathetic and use our voice and our power to help everybody.”

The four-piece have chalked up a reputation for being unpredictable and stylishly outrageous, but this consensus doesn’t sway the young band. If anything, their years in the on-screen media pipeline has taught them how to utilise the spotlight. It doesn’t matter whether they’re discussing music, tours or politics, the band inevitably comes back to the value of being authentic for their fans (“We just feel very close to them,” Victoria says protectively.) At the centre of their overlapping comments on friendship and frenzied life changes, Måneskin are humbly aware of how their fanbase supports them. The bassist continues, saying it’s important to create a place where everyone can be who they want. Pausing, she periodically slips into Italian, asking her bandmates to translate a term.

“It’s obvious everyone wants to be free for who they really are. In my experience, at first, I was so concerned and worried ‘who am I if I do this’ or that I’m something else or that I’m changing, but it’s [best] to not be worried about these things,” she says passionately. “We want to create with our fans and to put everyone in this healthy environment. And doing this really gives strength to young people or people who are in more oppressed situations to have courage to see that it’s okay.”

There’s no doubt Måneskin have distilled their lived lessons into this new record to create a rock and roll oasis. From beat-thumping inductions to media gossip to tongue-in-cheek comments on becoming the “kool kids”, the monstrous, hardcore noise of RUSH! has it all. “For me, it is a very personal record. It tells the story of how I came to discover myself and what I want to be as a person and as an artist,” Damiano explains. “All this frenzy led me to look inside myself, somehow I felt free to express a part of me that I had kept more hidden.”

The album is a chaotic amalgamation of crushing guitar riffs, full-throttle lyrics, and sonorous vocals sways through lines of Italian and English. Måneskin’s charge forward with spluttering drums, cranked up instrumentation, with songs pouring their original larger-than-life stamp into their broad rock productions. At their height, the band’s best tracks (La Fine, Gossip ft Tom Morello, Kool Kids) ignite like a blazing stage sign giving direction to Måneskin’s inevitable rise as one of today’s spirited rock acts.

An evolution from their gutsy sophomore studio release, Teatro d’ira: Vol. I, new album RUSH! captures the spark of each member. “Each of us had the freedom to follow our own personal direction. This time we didn’t look for the synthesis, the lowest common denominator between our different personalities, but we kind of added them up, exalted them all to the same level, and despite everything I think we still retained our identity,” Victoria shares.

With that, the band did not shy away from splurging on animated guitar hooks or fret over going too heavy with the familiar political zing of their rock tunes. Victoria adds: “We live in the concern of a progressive loss of people’s rights and we are afraid that this common thought is growing. In the track La Fine we refer precisely to this thought. Our music wants to be free and genderless. The goal is that people can identify with our message without having any definition of gender or category.”

After months of mania and unrelenting bouts of success, Måneskin are eagerly positioned to take on what’s next. And with a sold out arena in London already on the cards, it won’t be long before they’re greeting roaring fans once more. But, for now, as they savour the release of RUSH!, the band have found renewed strength in their amped up sound. “We have found our synthesis in diversity. This record is a point of pride and artistic growth for us,” Damiano reaffirms. And in a lesson learned by all, Victoria shares a final note of uplifting advice: “Never be afraid to express yourself. Always be free!”

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH

PHOTOGRAPHY BY FABIO GERMINARIO