#mels prima vista

[imninahchan]

𓂃 ഒ ָ࣪ ⌜ dev patel headcannons ⌝ ⸙. ↷

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ↳ sfw + nsfw.

[✰] literalmente o maior malewife patético do mundo. Se apaixona por ti à primeira vista, daqueles que até pensa pronto, vou casar com essa mulher e vem chegando devagarzinho, porque é tímido e tem medo de mulher bonita;

[✰] no primeiro beijo, na cabecinha dele vocês já tão namorando. Manda mensagem no outro dia dizendo bom dia meu anjo😊 dormiu bem?, pergunta o que você tá fazendo de bom e marca um encontro o mais rápido possível. E é tão bom estar ao lado dele, pois da pra sentir pela energia dele o quão romântico e nerdzinho ele é. Tudo tá bom pra ele, se preocupa se você está gostando, e o melhor: não muda nadica de nada quando estão, finalmente, namorando;

[✰] como o relacionamento de vocês é uma mistura de culturas, ele se mostra muito empenhado em desbravar o brasil e o seu estado. Se perguntar, não há nada no brasil que o desagrade (mas é porque ele é do tipo que gosta de agradar todos, principalmente pra sua família gostar dele). Vai estar de bermudinha e regata velha no sofá da casa da sua mãe, naquele calor do verão brasileiro, tomando cafezinho quente, comendo um pão de sal e assistindo caminho das índias na televisão;

[✰] e por falar em caminho das índias, dá o segundo capítulo da novela e tá a sua mãe, a mãe dele, ele e o pai dele tudo na sala assistindo. A sua sogra dizendo que a juliana paes parece muito uma prima que ela tem, e chocada em saber que ninguém ali do elenco tem ligação com o sul asiático. O dev assistindo as cenas da maia dançando e deitando a cabeça no seu ombro, discretamente, com um sorrisinho, pra perguntar bem que você podia dançar assim pra mim também, hein?;

[✰] embora super fascinado com o brasil, ele demora um pouquinho a abrir as portas das raízes dele pra você. Um pouco envergonhado, quiçá receoso, até que finalmente deixa a mãe dele te ensinar um prato típico, ou aquelas histórias que ela costumava contar pra ele quando pequeno, antes de dormir pra não se esquecer das raízes, sobre a cultura e a religião;

[✰] uma viagem de casal, estar no taj mahal cantando aquela música do jorge ben jor (tetê teterê terê), e você olha pra cara dele e ele ????

[✰] é por sua causa que ele começa a gostar mais de filmes de romance, seja bollywood ou não, especialmente aqueles vintage. Você até nota que ele meio que tá “aprendendo” com os protagonistas pra fazer igual contigo, falar igual contigo;

[✰] a personificação de um romântico incurável e mommy's boy. A mãe dele vira a sua mãe, ela é uma parte muito importante na vida dele, então você se dar bem com ela é crucial.

[✰] o tipo que manda bom dia e boa noite, um dorme bem, ou sonha comigo, quando não pode te ver. Que você fala algo sobre si, e ele nunca esquece. Que gosta de te contar sobre o dia dele, sobre as coisas que gosta, com os olhinhos até brilhando;

[✰] o homem que carrega a sua bolsa e o seu sapato, sem nem dizer um a;

[✰] te mostra os roteiros que está escrevendo. Diz, com as bochechas queimando, que se inspirou em algum traço seu pra escrever aquela personagem na trama;

[✰] o casamento de você dura uma semana. É um dia de festas no brasil, com os seus dois lados da família, uma festinha mais intimista em Londres, e o restante festejando com os parentes mais distantes da árvore genealógica dele. Lua de mel em alguma cidade histórica, depois uma passadinha numa praia pra fazer fotinhas caseiras de casal;

[✰] o maior marido pau-mandado. Sem discussões nesse tópico👩‍⚖️;

[✰] na cama, se você for esperta, vai saber muito bem como domá-lo. Ele, naturalmente, já é mais retraído, mas pode ser mais saidinho quando bebe uma gota de álcool ou quando você está muito tímida. Porém, é só pegar nos cabelinhos pretos dele e dizer um comando simples, que ele quebra;

[✰] do tipo que te fode com respeito, até te pede desculpas se te sujar demais de porra;

[✰] sexo com ele pode começar e terminar com os lábios dele entre as suas pernas que já tá bom. Muito overstimulation — mas como algo que vem naturalmente, porque ele ama tanto o seu sabor, que não sabe quando parar. Você pode estar tremendo, suada, sem voz e com uma lagrimazinha escorrendo no canto do olho, que ele vai continuar imerso no seu aroma, no gosto, na sensação gostosa que os seus gemidos abafados trazem pros ouvidos;

[✰] grande mamador de peitos;

[✰] a concha menor na conchinha. No entanto, porque não suporta a ideia de te ver xoxinha, é o maior abraço de urso quando você está mais manhosinha;

[✰] na verdade, com ele é uma competição pra ver quem é mais manhoso;

[✰] não é alguém de muitos fetiches. O grande fetiche dele é você, como vocês vão transar não importa. O importante pra ele é estar com você, dentro de você, podendo te dizer que te ama enquanto olha nos seus olhos;

[✰] bodyworship. sexo matinal lento. food play — porque ele é preguicinha, pode estar comendo algo que, se sentir tesão, não vai querer nem levantar da cadeira pra começar a te dedar;

[✰] o tipo de homem que se você pede pra ele te dar um tapinha, ele quase chora e diz mas você é minha princesa...

[✰] aqueles que não faz nada sem te consultar primeiro. Comprar essa roupa? Comprar essa verdura pro almoço? Cortar o cabelo? Pendurar esse quadro na parede? Sair da cama e ir trabalhar hoje? Hmm, vou ver o que a minha mulher acha...

[✰] se depender dele, vocês vão ter um time de futebol. As crianças correndo tudo numa casinha á brasileira com quintal, todo mundo poliglota;

[✰] dev pai de menino;

[✰] ciumentozinho, mas não sabe agir que nem macho alfa, então só fica com um bicão e mal humor;

[✰] músicas pra ouvir pensando nele — coleção (cassiano), planos (BK'), intimidade (liniker e os caramelows), madagascar (emicida), elephant gun (beirut), mania de você (rita lee), a história mais velha do mundo (o terno), samurai (djavan).

Bônus de momentos aleatórios com ele

chegar em casa depois do trabalho, e ele tá lavando a louça, abrindo um sorriso largo quando te vê | é o pai que vai ter toda a paciência do mundo pra sentar e ajudar os filhos a fazer dever de casa | época de provas na escola e as paredes da sua casa estão cheias de post it colados com tópicos que ele anotou pros filhos não esquecerem da matéria | acordar de manhã e encontrar um presentinho que ele comprou pra você, com uma cartinha e a dedicação dizendo benquisto amor da minha vida | ele está em todo lugar que pode pra te dar suporte, tirando foto das suas conquistas e acenando dentre a multidão pra você notar ele ali.

#novamente um hc q zero pessoas pediram mas eu fiz respeitando as vozes da minha cabeça #imninahchan #dev patel #dev patel x reader #dev patel headcannon #headcannon #dev patel fanfic #monkey man

[tempi-dispari]

New Post has been published on https://www.tempi-dispari.it/2022/11/02/letatlin-noi-sappiamo-esprimerci-in-forma-incompiuta-solo-con-la-nostra-musica/

Letatlin: "noi sappiamo "esprimerci" in forma (in)compiuta solo con la nostra musica"

Il post punk è un’etichetta fluida, che non ha confini in quanto a contaminazioni, cambiamenti e ammodernamenti. Come spesso accade in Italia è relegata a genere di nicchia, per pochi eletti. Ma non sembra essere un problema. Rappresentanti della corrente musicale ci sono e continuano a produrre notevoli dischi. E’ questo il caso dei Letatlin, duo reduce dalla recente pubblicazione del loro ultimo disco. In questa intervista a Tempi Dispari Mel de Vivre e Hans Plasma raccontano il recente lavoro, il loro genere, e il loro punto di vista della scena in Italia.

Una veloce presentazione per chi non vi conosce.

Letatlin esiste da fine anni 90. La band ha assunto da tempo una formazione a 2: Marc Mal de Vivre e Hans Plasma. Entrambi suoniamo chitarre, synth, drum machine varie, basso.

Testi scritti rigorosamente mai a 4 mani…insomma tutto (o quasi tutto) lo si fa’ a meta’.

Amiamo la sperimentazione come il garage rock, la new wave e l’elettronica.

Abbiamo autoprodotto il nostro primo LP  “missili sul giappone” nel 2002. “seaside” il nostro nuovo album e’ il 5to (escludendo alcuni EP) della nostra discografia e lo stiamo promuovendo con l’aiuto della (R)esisto distribuzione.

Stiamo già lavorando a un nuovo disco.

Se volete saperne di piu’ www.letatlin.net o potete ascoltare molto materiale su www.letatlin.bandcamp.com

Quanto è difficile essere post punk in Italia? 

Non conosciamo molti gruppi post-punk in Italia oggi. Comunque esprimersi nel nostro paese con questa attitudine musicale è stato sempre piuttosto difficoltoso. Pensiamo ad esempio a un disco notevole, veramente di respiro europeo come “Sick Soundtrack” (1980) dei Gaznevada che è rimasto praticamente (e purtroppo) sconosciuto eccetto per un pubblico super selezionato.

Il vostro disco, un’ esigenza espressiva o una necessità tecnica?

Noi sappiamo “esprimerci” in forma (in)compiuta solo con la nostra musica. Dunque diremmo che è prima di tutto un’ urgenza esistenziale! Suonare e fare nuovi pezzi ci accompagna da tanti anni, sopravvive a tanti cambiamenti. 

Perché il post punk?

Per semplicità di comunicazione, come tutti i gruppi (spesso loro malgrado) per comunicare “cosa suonano” anche noi dobbiamo citare qualche band di riferimento per dire da dove veniamo, insomma dichiarare “piu’ o meno” a quale tribù apparteniamo. 

Per come lo intendiamo noi definirsi “post-punk” è dichiarare di avere un’attitudine che include direzioni stilistiche anche differenti (vedi gruppi come Joy Division, Suicide, Nick Cave, The Fall, Sleaford Mods, Felix Kubin, Pixies, Pavement, Tarwater, Wire, Wall of Voodoo, the Residents, Devo,  etc) che hanno in comune però un mood e dei testi sempre diretti, urgenti, abrasivi e sperimentali. 

Sappiamo benissimo però che il giornalismo musicale ha ingabbiato il post-punk in un periodo molto preciso e con un sound molto più definito, molto piu’ chitarristico, di quello che noi attribuiamo ad esso. Per quanto ci riguarda pensiamo che un’ attitudine “post-punk” possa ritrovarsi già in gruppi garage metà / fine anni ’60 come pure nel primissimo Brian Eno o nei Neu! …e che dire dei Residents! 

E’ un genere ancora così di rottura o è stato edulcorato? 

Se per edulcorato intendi ibridato da altre influenze musicali diremmo di SI. Ma e’ nella sua natura! Vedi Sleaford Mods. Grande gruppo contemporaneo che usa semplicemente un laptop con basi prefatte e la voce del cantante. Sono essenziali, aggressivi e molto originali. Orgogliosi della loro formula.

Circa essere di “di rottura”: rispetto cosa? Il post-punk scalzò i 4 accordi “così di rottura” del Punk perché dopo pochissimo era diventato “stile” pure quello. 

Dunque crediamo che definirsi post-punk abbia un vantaggio: quello di avere libertà espressiva all’interno di una formula comunicativa che rimane underground e che rifiuta dunque la pura tecnica come primo requisito. Noi ci affidiamo più alle intuizioni e ai collages sonori.

I vostri testi sono piuttosto intimisti. Da cosa prendete spunto? Situazioni o sensazioni?

Ci piace sperimentare, spesso più che emozioni vorremmo trasmettere visioni. Le mascheriamo davvero molto usando giri di parole, layers di synth analogici, interminabili ripetizioni, dislessie, etc. In più siamo anche un tantino timidi. 

…ma a parte questi difetti, in “seaside” siamo riusciti a tirar fuori 8 “paesaggi sonori” che ci piace definire post-punk. Ognuno di essi vive di vita propria. Storielle brevi con un sound adeguato e che soprattutto non comunicano fra di loro.

Se mi volessi avvicinare al post punk, quali dischi e band consigliereste?

Il cuore ci direbbe The Fall ma data la relativa ostilità di quel rompicoglioni che era M.E.Smith alla fine sarebbe forse più saggio iniziare da dei classici come Real Life dei Magazine, Unknown Pleasure dei Joy Division, The Queen Is Dead degli Smiths o (insistiamo) anche Divide and Exit dei contemporanei Sleaford Mods.

Il disco sembra voler portare il messaggio che esiste ancora uno spazio in cui si può essere liberi di esprimersi, quel centimetro quadrato di cui parla Moore in V per vendetta. Questo spazio esiste o no? 

Per noi questo spazio deve esistere per forza dato che sappiamo esprimerci solo li dentro. 

Una domanda che non vi hanno mai fatto ma vi piacerebbe vi venisse rivolta?

Una domanda che ci piacerebbe potrebbe essere:

“descrivete un vostro brano di seaside”.

La risposta potrebbe essere: 

“the return of the Yeti” parla della freddezza e dell’ incomunicabilità tra due persone che a volte esiste in maniera inevitabile e naturale. Il sound è composto da suoni elettronici e da una chitarra fredda e tagliente che esprime la difficoltà di questi rapporti. Essi si contrappongono al basso e alla chitarra di accompagnamento che seguono invece un ritmo lento dal sound più caldo e vivo a suggerire che siamo fatti di carne e sangue.

Domanda Tempi Dispari: se foste voi gli intervistatori, chi intervistereste (vivente e non) e cosa gli chiedereste? 

Marc: Yello o Iggy Pop. “quando e quanto” si sono più divertiti nella loro carriera.

Hans: mi piacerebbe intervistare Rose Selavy e passare una notte d’amore con lei.

art cover SEA SIDE inside double final- nuova

[npimoveis]

House T2 in Vila de Frades, Vidigueira, Beja, Portugal

Typically Alentejo and between Alto Alentejo and Baixo Alentejo, 1h30m from Lisbon, this villa comprises a living room with fireplace, equipped kitchen, 2 bedrooms, one with built-in wardrobe, a bathroom with shower, a room where you can access to the attic in which it is prepared to make a division (bedroom) and a WC, with a storage room and a garden with fruit trees and a well.

Excellent property for holidays and that you can easily rent in the months that you don't use it, or you can also live in this wonderful village quietly with everything you need around you and with an incomparable quality of life.

With a whole new world around you, here you can discover something out of the ordinary in big cities, with excellent restaurants (País das Uvas and Taberna da Tia Jacinta), the Adega Cooperativa da Vidigueira where you have access to excellent wines, wine estates all around the village, with a medical center, schools, wine producers, mini markets, with many museums in the area such as "Adega-Museu Cella Vinaria Antiqua" and the complex of Carlos Goes Municipal Swimming Pools.

FESTIVALS IN HONOR OF Nª SRª DAS RELÍQUIAS IN VIDIGUEIRA from the 25th of May. with groups singing from the region and Portuguese popular music, dj's, the mesh tournament, the bullfight, sports games and the traditional procession in honor of the patron saint.

Location of the famous wine of Talha, winemaking process developed by the Romans, Talha derives from the Latin “Tinalia” which means vase or vessel of large dimensions, the cellars are located a few meters below the ground so that the environment during winemaking is the same as as fresh as possible and with less oxygen, a very pleasant wine.

Lisbon: 1 hour 30 minutes Vidigueira: 5 minutes Beja (town): 30 minutes Évora (city): 50 minutes Comporta (beaches): 1 hour 30 minutes Grândola (town): 1 hour Sines (Beaches): 1 hour 30 minutes Porto Côvo (Beaches): 1 hour 30 minutes Faro: 2 hours Badajoz: 2 hours Seville: 3 hours

"Between Beja and Évora, in the heart of Alentejo, lies the municipality of Vidigueira. With an area of 315.8 km2, the municipality of Vidigueira is the fourth smallest in Baixo Alentejo, with a population of around 7,000 inhabitants.

This small municipality is bounded by the Serra do Mendro to the north, the Guadiana river to the east and the plain that extends as far as the eye can see to the south. It is in this harmony between the mountains, plains and river that the richness of the land is based, where vegetable gardens, orange groves, vineyards, olive groves and cereal fields proliferate.

In the mountains, the Montados feed the Alentejo pig with acorns, producing tasty sausages and ham, and the wild flora provides the bees with the raw material for first-class honey. In the plain, the vegetable gardens, the orange groves, and the Mediterranean trilogy that dominates the fields, made of cornfields, olive groves and vineyards, give rise to famous quality products (bread, olive oil, and above all, wine) that project the name from Vidigueira abroad." Text acquired on the website of the Municipality of Vidigueira.

Nuno Pires

([phone]

[email protected]

www.npimoveis.pt

[hala2021]

Las mariposas

¡Mira! Te voy a hablar con toda la sinceridad del mundo. Recién entré a mi Facebook y vi una imagen que decía «Farah», realizada en una joya colgante. Y arriba de la imagen tenía una mariposa, y abajo, un corazón. Y me puse a pensar, al ver la mariposa, en las cosas escondidas.

Te digo algo, te pueden gustar las mariposas, son muy bellas, pero cuando conoces que muchas personas utilizan esa imagen como un símbolo de la pedofilia y el abuso de menores, las mariposas pierden su brillo. Por supuesto, no tienen la culpa las mariposas y no porque esa gente inmunda las use como símbolo de sus aberraciones uno tenga que tirar a la basura una bella joya.

Bueno. Pero aquella imagen me hizo pensar en mi niñez, cuando mis hermanos me hablaban de las mariposas. A simple vista, no parece nada llamativo ni que denote nada extraño que tus familiares te hablen de mariposas. Lo que sucede es que tú ves el producto final, lo que yo te cuento; pero no, el proceso. Tú no viste el entorno o la forma de vida de mi familia. Lo extraño era la comunicación, casi nula, entre mis hermanos. Hablábamos, pero nuestras conversaciones se trataban de los programas de televisión, del calor en el verano o de los pájaros que volaban en el cielo. Lo cierto es que si alguien te habla algo más allá de lo cotidiano, ese «algo» es llamativo. ¿Entiendes la diferencia? Y mis hermanos me preguntaron qué opinaba de las mariposas. Ese bicho es un gusano, que a simple vista se ve asqueroso, pero que se convierte en algo bello. Ese «convertirse» era la idea que imperaba dentro de la ideología de mis hermanos. Ellos ponían énfasis en la transformación. Y muchas veces, me detuve a pensar en cómo una persona puede con los años transformarse en algo vomitivo y siniestro, como para llegar a violar un niño, por ejemplo. Claro, en apariencia, la mariposa tiene una transformación inversa de lo que estoy diciendo, porque se convierte de un gusano a una mariposa; es decir, de algo feo a algo bello. Pero lo extraño es que alguien que no te habla nada más allá de lo habitual, como el televisor o el calor del tiempo y los pájaros, de repente tome tanto interés en el tema de las mariposas. Me preguntaban, los dos, qué opinaba, qué pensaba, cuáles eran mis sentimientos internos. ¡Y eso es lo extraño! No es extraño que alguien hable de las mariposas.

Pero te digo la verdad, yo odio las mariposas desde que sé que se utiliza su imagen para la violación de infantes. Por supuesto, no voy a pensar mal de todo aquel que ama las mariposas.

Pero aquella situación no fue la única que padecí en mi niñez. Mis padres no tenían muchos libros, pero entre ellos había uno titulado «Alicia en el país de las maravillas», de Lewis Carroll. Y aquel libro se conoce, si investigas un poco, que es un libro muy utilizado por los pedófilos. Hasta ahí, nada llamativo, porque cualquiera puede tener ese libro en su casa. Pero también fue llamativo que siempre quisieran mostrármelo, sus dibujos, sus conejos. Nunca lo leí, pero mis hermanos insistían. Por lo poco que leí, de niña, me pareció un libro aburridísimo y con lenguaje adulto, algo que no me agradaba. Pero aquel libro hablaba de una madriguera, que sería como un agujero en la tierra. Y si eso lo asociamos al mundo de la religión, más precisamente al cristianismo, sabemos que el infierno está abajo; y el cielo, arriba. Nosotros caminamos por arriba de la tierra, pero ellos se ocultan debajo de la tierra, en sus madrigueras. Y eso es algo que salió a la luz con denuncias como las de Mel Gibson y los túneles, tipo catacumbas, con niños atados con cintas. ¡Un espanto! Te dije que te voy a hablar con la verdad, pero no sé si estás preparado para escucharla.

Recuerdo a mi prima, hoy muerta, que me confesó que le habían vaciado el útero, y que no podía tener más hijos. Con el tiempo, mi mamá me dijo que mi prima había quedado embarazada. Tuvo una hija, ahora mi pregunta es: ¿de dónde la sacó? Porque nunca puedes quedar embarazada con un útero vacío.

Con el tiempo entré al Facebook de mi prima. En el centro, se ve la cara de ella, dentro de un círculo, y en el medio muchísimas mariposas; la mayoría de ellas, violetas.

Claro, tú puedes pensar que todo es casualidad, que todo es pura coincidencia. Lo cierto es que la imagen que hoy vi, que tenía un corazón, en su parte inferior, también es utilizado como símbolo de la pedofilia. Un corazón pequeño, encerrado dentro de un corazón grande, es símbolo de los pedófilos que siente atracción sexual por niñas; y un triángulo pequeño, encerrado dentro de otro más grande, representa la atracción sexual de un adulto hacia los niños varones. Y yo recuerdo haber visto ese símbolo colgado como joya, en el cuello de una familiar, cuando visitamos unas tías.

Y recuerdo que lo tomé entre mis manos y dije: «¡qué lindo colgante!». La mujer sonrió, de manera extraña. Y a eso me refiero, que todo lo que ves, sacado de su contexto, puede parecer normal, pero tú no viste el proceso, no viviste años con ese tipo de personas, como para darte cuenta de que lo cotidiano es en realidad invadido por símbolos que solo ellos conocen.

Y yo sufrí el proceso. Desde un taxi perseguido por personas que yo no sabía ni quiénes eran, conducido por mi primo; hasta un arma en mi casa, con la que jugaban mis hermanos, cuando mis padres nos abandonaban, solos; una casa de campo, en donde me dejaron una noche, con gente extraña; la complicidad de mis padres con mis hermanos, una tarde, que llegaban no sé de dónde; la confesión de mi prima, en relación con su útero vacío; las miradas de atención de mis hermanos, cuando me mostraban la madriguera, en el libro de «Alicia en el país de las maravillas»; mi padre, cuando le decía a su mejor amigo: «vos sabés que los dos estamos en la misma causa»; mis partidas de nacimiento, con varios números diferentes, algo imposible si eran auténticas; los cambios constantes de domicilio; familiares que solo tenían un apodo y que jamás llegabas a conocer sus verdaderos nombres; la doble documentación de mi padre; en fin... ¡Yo sí sufrí el proceso! Y fue peor que el proceso militar y los desaparecidos. Y me pregunto si los desaparecidos no estarán allí, en esas madrigueras ocultas, dentro del infierno.

Tan solo busca el caso de Natacha Jaitt y sus denuncias de pedofilia en contra de varios políticos poderosos. ¿Y cómo terminó esa chica? ¡¡¡Muerta!!! Yo no quisiera terminar igual. Amo la vida, a pesar de todo lo que me pasó.

Ayer nos pusimos a hablar con unos profesores sobre los «zurdos», que serían las personas que se adhieren a las políticas de izquierda. Y una profesora en Lengua me dijo que los de Artes Visuales eran casi todos de izquierda. Y es verdad, lo artístico se relaciona mucho con las políticas de izquierda. ¿Y qué tiene que ver esto con las mariposas y con lo que comencé a contarte? Pues, mucho, porque en el ámbito artístico, lo que más llama la atención son los símbolos. ¿Y no estábamos hablando de que las mariposas son utilizadas como símbolos de la pedofilia? Entonces, puedes pensar en que todo es azar, una simple casualidad. Lo cierto es que existe una realidad, esas personas existen, lamentablemente. Y tus hijos corren riesgo.

Si eres inteligente, entenderás lo que quiero decirte. Está todo en este escrito. ¡Vuélvelo a leer! ¡Léelo como diez veces! Tú te preguntarás por qué no hablo más claro. ¡Más claro que esto! ¿¡Quieres que termine como Natacha Jaitt!?

No sé cómo voy a titular este escrito, pienso que: «las mariposas». Son tan bellas, tan hermosas cuando vuelan, pero desde que sé que las utilizan como símbolo de algo siniestro, he llegado a odiarlas.

[atomicgiveranchor-blog]

MEL-ENSKY. E' già amore a prima vista

#youtube

[titan-fodder]

PRIMA VISTA MASTERLIST

Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader

Rating: E

Word Count: 95,833

Warnings: provided at the beginning of every chapter

Summary: The first party of sophomore year, frat boy and lacrosse god Mike Zacharias wants you to shotgun a beer, and the rest is history.

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

#mels prima vista #masterlist #mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader

[jeanbeaux]

I know you're being social but I wanted to send this in to PARTICIPATE

anyway my frat boy is Miche obviously, and I wouldn't have to be dragged to a party exactly, but I would definitely have to be persuaded.

and would need help with an outfit otherwise I'd just be there in leggings and a t shirt cringing over shitty beer, trying and failing to look casual and just gkdhdh uncomfortable.

also ily 💞

MEL u done did set me up when you wrote a 91k masterpiece on this exact situation shdkdkd i hope you enjoy <3

as the crowd goes crazy in front of you, you're starting to regret being convinced to come here. the beer is flat, its the kind that none cares about when you're drunk, but you aren't so blessed to be in that state as you chip at it from the corner of the room.

"nice shirt," a voice behind you offers, and you turn around to see that you're talking to an actual tower, a big smile stretching across the face of the man with shaggy hair.

you look down to see what you're wearing again, a borrowed outfit from your roommate you hadn't even bothered to give much thought about -- looking at the denim skirt paired with a shirt for a band called The Garrison before craning up to look back at him.

"Ever listen to their music?"

"Do I have to listen to their music to get a shirt from Urban Outfitters?"

He snorts at that, saying "I didn't think they would be that big to be at that store." And now you're confused, but before you can open your mouth to ask a question he's moving away, the bizarre interaction throwing you off.

The crowd starts moving you outside, and your friends are tugging you into the backyard, shaggy hair and friends standing on the porch with band instruments as a pompous looking blonde introduces them.

"WHO WANTS TO LISTEN TO THE GARRISON?”

and then shaggy hair is taking the mike from him, finding you in the crowd before he says 

“this one goes out to urban outfitters girl, hope you can see if we deserve to be that big now.”

join rush week!

#rush jeanbeaux #✨: mel #shskddn everyone go read prima vista

[pockcock]

hey don't let that crit get to you. I would honestly fight that anon if I could cause they actually weren't super nice about it. I get wanting to grow as a writer, but you're doing fucking amazing as it is, so you should pat yourself on the back. I cannot imagine the challenge of writing in an entirely different language. You're a damn superstar. Next time someone comes at you like that, tell them to fuck off. Starting a message with "dOn'T tAkE tHiS pErSonAl" doesn't make it less offensive.

anyway yeah I'm ready to throw down. pls drink water or tea and find something to snuggle. you're wonderful 💕

mel...

you have no idea what these words mean for me seriously.

When I first read your work, I was hypnotized! Everything about it was just perfect and so well thought. I remember thinking to myself "This must be your goal." No joke. And now, you're in my inbox, encouraging me and telling me that I do amazing?! I'm... I'm shedding happy tears baby <3

I love you and thank you so much <3 you're everything seriously 🥺💞

AND PLEASEEE LET'S FIGHT THAT ANON TOGETHERRR <3

#📩: zey's inbox #💞: zey's moots #mel <3 #she is amazing #i still can't get over prima vista #should re-read it #I HAVE TO RE-READ IT!!!!!

[lady-lauren]

Hi, Lauren! 🤗❤️ For the fanfic asks, 23, 24, and 25. I’m so curious! I hope you had a lovely holiday!

Becca you are so sweet, I had a lovely holiday and I hope you did too!!

23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t

Geez, like, a lot. I went on a writing hiatus for like 4 months before making this new blog and I had quite a few ideas I just never got to. Most of them with AoT characters, some darker content for Erwin in particular. I think I’ll get back to those ideas one day, but I’ve got a whole new batch of ideas that I’m excited to start writing soon 🥰

24. favorite fic you read this year

It’s so hard to choose a favorite, especially because there’s so much talent floating around right now, but my personal favorite is probably Prima Vista by @titan-fodder. Mel is one of my all time favorite authors (and just so happens to be my best friend), and this series is legit a little masterpiece. It’s emotionally riveting, so funny, realistic, and so well written that it is too easy to fall in love with the story. 💕 plus I love frat boys so

25. a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read

It would have to be Give You My Wild by @spacelabrathor! It’s such an interesting read and totally changed my perceptions on what a hybrid fic can be. It’s so compelling, like I legit laid in bed at night and thought about this fic and was eager for each installment to come out. I think I annoyed the piss out of Cee in her DMs talking about how much I loved this fic and asking questions about what’s coming next 😂💕

Ask me fanfic end of the year questions!

#lauren answers #ask game #writing #writer recs #I loved answering this 💕

[cleaninoutmyclosetx]

Vorrei farle capire tutto l'amore che provo per lei e invece ogni volta faccio l'esatto contrario. Non so come dimostrarglielo, perché le parole a che servono? A niente. Ogni volta che ho una crisi provo ad affrontarla cerco di capire cosa sbaglio e cerco di non farlo m, ma sbaglio comunque....

Sto provando con la terapia, vorrei davvero cambiare, essere l'uomo che merita... a volte penso che faccio troppo schifo e che merita di meglio. Forse è così. Però io la amo più di me stesso, rinuncerei alla mia felicità (lei) se wuesto la rendesse felice. Non basta questo devo fare di più e lo farò.

Dq quando c'è lei, ogni compleanno, 00:00, quando passi sotto un ponte e c'è il treno o quando quell'unica volta vedi una stella cadente (e quando ti capita? Mai), ogni volta che dovevo esprimere un desiderio era sempre lo stessoc, anche ai miei compleanni, chiedevo solo che fosse felice. Vorrei solo questo. Se la merita tutta la felicitá lei. Vorrei essere io la sua, ma non è più così. Sono solo il motivo della sua sofferenza ed è una cosa davvero brutta, ma la colpa è mia.

E mi manca tutto di lei, potrei fare un elenco infinito. Mi manca anche litigare con lei, per poi abbracciarci e fare il pace.. tutto mi manca. Sarebbe più facile se il mio amore fosse, come dice, il riflesso del suo. Non soffrirei così.. invece la amo con tutto me stesso e soffrirei così altre mille volte se tornassi indietro, anche di più, ne varrà sempre la pena. A me non importa nulla, solo di lei. Anche se non le importa più e non vuole più me, anche se ormai io sono solo la persona che la fa soffrire. Fa male ma soffrirei qualunque dolore per una minima possibilità o anche per nessuna. Forse ci spero troppo, credo troppo mel nostro amore. Forse davvero non torna più. Ma se nche fosse, se non lotti per le cose per cui vale la prna, per cosa? Ha riempito il vuoto che mi pprto dentro da ann, mi ha insegnato cosa significa amare er essere amati e per me sarà sempre la migliore amica, l'amore della mia vota r la mia persona. Ti porto dentro e questo non passa. Spero di dimostrartri di essere all'altezza di te, spero che sarò abbastanza. E mi dispiace che il mio amore non lo è stato, vorrei davvero che lo fosse.

Sei la mia felicità e lo sarai sempre, anche se non dovessi più tornare, sarai sempre tu. E io che sarò sempre un cretino impulsivo che ti fa arrabbiare, ma come ti ho amo io, non lo farà mai nessuno. Ti sento dentro dalla prima volta che ti ho vista.

boh che stupido che sono

[sanfrancisco101-rp]

MEET YOUR NEIGHBOUR @sfc_munez!

NOME: Carla Muñez. DATA DE NASCIMENTO/IDADE: 09 de Dezembro de 1995 / 24 anos. NACIONALIDADE: Colômbia. ETNIA: Colombiana. GÊNERO: Feminino. ORIENTAÇÃO SEXUAL: Bissexual. OCUPAÇÃO: Gerente da Wildflora Boutique. APARTAMENTO: Apartamento 404. USER NO TWITTER: @sfc_munez CARRD: -

Moradora do San Francisco 101 desde 2013.

PERSONALIDADE: Leve e livre poderia ser facilmente a frase de efeito de Carla; extremamente tranquila e com o bom humor imperando, a jovem tem em seu semblante um sorriso que é capaz de acalmar qualquer coração turbulento com a paz que emana, juntamente com a doce melodia que é a voz da mesma quando esta profere qualquer mísera sentença. Nunca gostou muito da ideia de ser presa, controlada ou dita de receber regras, essas seriam uma das poucas coisas capazes de fazer Carla perder seu equilíbrio e se irritar em níveis catastróficos para quem estiver por perto na hora; com um humor consideravelmente ácido às vezes e sem dosagem em suas palavras, pode acabar sendo muito mal interpretada, mas nada que a maturidade de uma conversa bem explicada não possa esclarecer. Aprecia as companhias mas nenhuma mais que a sua, vivendo em seu próprio mundo e da sua própria forma, sendo um privilégio se ela te deixar fazer parte dela.

HISTÓRIA: Carla nasceu e foi criada em seus primeiros anos na Colômbia, país de descendência de seus pais, avós e demais outros ancestrais de sua família que, desde então, sempre foram nativos do lado oeste daquele continente imenso que era a América do Sul. O senhor e a senhora Muñez se conheceram na faculdade de Artes Plásticas, ambos aspirando a ideia de se tornarem grandes artistas e poderem viajar pelo mundo expondo suas obras; a senhor Muñez dominava as técnicas de pintura em tela como ninguém, sabendo valorizar cada traço de seu talento de acordo com o material utilizado, fosse tinta acrílica ou óleo, enquanto o senhor Muñez gostava da argila, do barro, da cerâmica e de tudo o mais que ele pudesse esculpir, trazendo forma e vida a coisas até então vistas como materiais de pouco glamour pela sociedade.

Foi dessa união leviana e cheia de amor que nasceu Carla, a única filha do casal e sua maior fonte de felicidade. A pequena se divertia muito através da profissão dos pais, sempre inventando de pegar as tintas da mãe para pintar algo (que ia de uma folha de papel até as paredes da casa) ou mesmo os materiais do pai para fazer uma bolotinha de argila que ela podia jurar que ela uma obra prima. Era harmônica a forma como eles conjugavam a vida familiar com a vida profissional sem nenhum estresse, claro que precisando se ausentar por um final de semana ou outro devido a requisição das obras de ambos em exposições, mas nada que durasse muito ou que gerasse algum tipo de trauma na garota.

Grande parte da vida de Carla seguiu esse ritmo até poder finalmente acompanhar seus pais na adolescência para as viagens e conhecer cidades e até países que diferiam muito de seu lugar de origem, mas que enchiam igualmente seus olhos cor de mel. Todos esperavam que ela fosse a pequena prodígio da família, mas a realidade guiou a jovem para um rumo diferente; Carla gostava de apreciar a natureza e as pequenas coisas do dia a dia que poucos davam valor, desenvolvendo daí um interesse muito grande pelas plantas, flores e todos os seus segredos, desde aromas até potenciais curas que as mesmas pudessem oferecer.

Uma das diversas viagens feitas junto aos progenitores tinha como destino São Francisco, sendo essa uma cidade especial para os três devido a receptividade com estrangeiros e a sensação de estar em casa, mesmo estando tão longe dela. Carla sugeriu diversas vezes aos seus pais para que se mudassem para os Estados Unidos, mas os mesmos eram muito apegados às suas raízes para firmar um lar definitivo em outro continente de uma hora para outra assim. Dessa forma, tomou a iniciativa de se mudar sozinha para São Francisco para cursar a faculdade de Ciências Biológicas com enfoque na área de Botânica, o que lhe ocasionou um emprego na Wildflora Boutique poucos meses depois. O San Francisco 101 parecia o local perfeito para se alocar nesse tempo sozinha, escolhendo um apartamento que fosse de acordo com as suas necessidades e com o que pudesse pagar. O trabalho na Wildflora lhe rendia bem, além de ser algo que ela gostava de fazer e que lhe rendia muitos momentos agradáveis; começou como uma das atendentes do local e com o tempo conquistou a confiança de seus superiores, conseguindo subir de cargo com o passar do tempo e hoje ocupando o cargo de gerente do estabelecimento, mas mantendo a mesma paixão e comprometimento de quando chegou naquele pequeno antro de paz para sua alma.

PLOTS DE INTERESSE: Angst; Fluff; General; Crack; FACECLAIM: Camila Esguerra.

#carla munez #camila esguerra

[azerothlore-blog]

Ficha: Annabella Dathrohan

Arte por Marie Gazzani, Creammy da página Trifoxes no Facebook.

Informações Básicas:

Nome: Annabella Dathrohan (Summerfeld quando solteira)

Apelido: Anna

Alcunha: Agatha (Ágata de Sangue) – não mais utilizada

Raça: Humana

Idade: 29 anos (nascimento: ano 6 Depois do Portal Negro)

Aniversário: 21 de Março

Local de Nascimento: Lordaeron

Classe: Guerreira, Mestre de Armas

Alinhamento: Leal e Neutra

Gênero: Feminino

Sexualidade: Heterossexual

Relacionamento: Casada

Cargo na Guilda: Vice Comandante Imediata

 Aparência:

Cor dos cabelos: Mel

Cor dos olhos: Mel

Altura: 1,67m

Peso: 70kg

Tipo de corpo: Voluptuoso e fortalecido

Detalhes de sua aparência:

- Os traços de seu rosto são extremamente belos e femininos, o que impressiona qualquer um que a vê tirando o elmo após uma batalha. Ela também aparenta ser mais nova do que realmente é. - Além dos ombros bem marcados, braços fortalecidos e pernas musculosas, Annabella possui seios bastante fartos, quadris largos e coxas grossas. E nítido que seu biotipo é de engordar facilmente se abandonar sua rotina de exercícios. - Possui diversas cicatrizes nas costas, por açoitamento, e uma de corte na parte posterior do ombro esquerdo.

 Ocupações:

Profissão: Mercenária (antigamente). Atualmente é a Vice Comandante e treinadora da Investida Fulgurante.

Hobbies: Ler, treinar e comer doces.

Residência: Aluguel em Ventobravo (antigamente). Atualmente vive no Forte Summerfeld, recuperada pelos membros fundadores da Investida Fulgurante.

 Família:

Marido: Warren Dathrohan

Pai: Hector Summerfeld (falecido)

Mãe: Cecília Summerfeld (falecida)

Tio: Almond Summerfeld (paradeiro desconhecido)

Prima: Adamaris Summerfeld (paradeiro desconhecido)

 Informações Complementares:

Personalidade:

          Annabella é extremamente militar, o que a faz parecer séria e dura na maior parte do tempo. É reservada e evita de falar sobre seu passado. Quando em situações formais, costuma se portar seguindo as regras de etiqueta, devido à educação nobre que teve até seus 14 anos. Na informalidade, exagera na bebida e aparenta dificuldade de se relacionar com pessoas novas.

          Quando trajada com sua armadura completa, assume uma postura fervorosa e não apresenta misericórdia de seus inimigos, adotando uma postura impiedosa e sanguinária.

          Apesar de ser vista majoritariamente portando machado e escudo, Anna também é uma exímia combatente com um machado de duas mãos.

 História:

          Nascida em uma família nobre que cuidava das Terras Altas em Strahnbrad – terras que antigamente pertenciam ao reino de Alterac, mas que depois da Segunda Guerra, foram determinadas como terras fronteiriças de Lordaeron com as terras que foram designadas à Stromgarde –, Annabella fugiu para o norte após perder quase toda a sua família no ataque do Flagelo há 14 anos. Fugiu com seu pai, Hector, para Andorhal e depois para o Monastério da Luz (mais tarde conhecido como Monastério Escarlate), onde souberam de toda a extensão do que afligia seu povo. Lá eles ingressaram na Cruzada Escarlate e Anna adotou a alcunha de Agatha após ser submetida à um duro treinamento e uma cruel doutrinação.

          Depois de terminar seu treinamento com o Mestre de Armas Harlan, foi transferida para a Manopla de Tyr, acompanhada do pai.

          Após anos servindo cegamente aos propósitos da Cruzada, Agatha viu seu pai ser brutalmente assassinado durante o massacre cometido por Cavaleiros da Morte no Enclave Escarlate (Manopla de Tyr), o que a fez desertar, sem rumo.

          Atuou como mercenária até o ano 32, quando tomou iniciativa de participar dos exércitos da Aliança contra a Legião Ardente. Mesmo sentindo-se deslocada, Agatha finalmente enxergou que agora sua arma talhava seus inimigos por uma causa realmente nobre e importante.

                     No ano 34, Agatha se alistou para lutar sob o manto da 7ª Legião em Arathi, mas em seu dia de folga em Ventobravo acabou por reencontrar o assassino de seu pai, e apesar de aparentemente conformar-se com o ocorrido sem conflitos, uma dúvida pairava em seu coração.

          A guerreira conheceu então a Inquisição Escarlate, onde conheceu Karina Burroth e Warren Dathrohan, a primeira tornou-se uma irmã, e o segundo o amor de sua vida. Uma missão para salvar Saiden Mãoferro (o filho de Galdhor, assassino de seu pai), foi o divisor de águas para que sua reputação e esforços na Inquisição fossem questionados, e assim, Warren e Annabella decidiram se desligar da companhia para fundar a própria.

                    A Investida Fulgurante então foi fundada, e sob seu manto Annabella abandonou sua alcunha e agora cresce à cada dia como guerreira, Vice Comandante e esposa de Warren Dathrohan.

#ficha de personagem #ficha da investida #annabella

[carmenvicinanza]

Alice Walker

https://www.unadonnalgiorno.it/alice-walker/

Il viola è stato considerato a lungo il colore che si vedeva di meno. Proprio come le donne maltrattate, le cui vite non viste restavano sullo sfondo.

Alice Walker, scrittrice e poeta statunitense, ha scritto più di trenta libri tra saggi e opere di narrativa su razzismo e tematiche di genere.

È da sempre in prima linea per i diritti delle donne nere e delle lesbiche.

Nel 1983, è stata la prima scrittrice nera a vincere il Premio Pulitzer e il National Book Award per il suo capolavoro, Il colore viola.

È nata il 9 febbraio 1944 in Georgia, in una famiglia di otto fratelli e sorelle, il padre era un mezzadro e la madre, domestica, lottò affinché i suoi figli e figlie studiassero.

È cresciuta immersa nella tradizione orale delle storie del profondo Sud degli Stati Uniti, raccontate dal nonno, che le ispirarono il romanzo capolavoro che iniziò a scrivere da quando aveva otto anni.

Nel 1952 venne ferita accidentalmente a un occhio da un colpo di fucile sparato dai fratelli e perse la vista. Cominciò a sentirsi diversa e emarginata e passava molto tempo chiusa in casa dedicandosi alla lettura e alla scrittura di poesie.

Successivamente a scuola divenne una ragazza molto popolare, ma la ferita le aveva permesso di iniziare a “vedere davvero le persone e le cose, notare le relazioni ed essere abbastanza paziente per accorgersi come si spengono”.

Sin dagli anni del liceo è stata attiva nel movimento per i diritti civili. Ebbe modo di incontrare Martin Luther King Jr quando studiava allo Spelman College di Atlanta, e ha partecipato alla famosa Marcia su Washington del 1963. Si è laureata nel 1965, grazie a una borsa di studio, al Sarah Lawrence College vicino New York, nello stesso periodo scriveva il suo primo libro di poesie.

Nel 1967 ha sposato Mel Leventhal, avvocato ebreo con cui ha abitato a Jackson, furono la prima coppia di diversa discendenza legalmente sposata del Mississippi diventando il bersaglio preferito del Ku Klux Klan. La coppia ha avuto una figlia, Rebecca, nel 1969 e divorziato nel 1976.

Attiva nel movimento per i diritti civili in Mississippi, ha esordito nel 1968 con la raccolta di poesie Once,  due anni più tardi ha pubblicato il suo primo romanzo, La terza vita di Grange Copeland. Assieme a Gloria Steinem, è stata una delle prime editor di Ms.Magazine, una delle riviste femministe più influenti di sempre

Un suo articolo del 1975 ha contribuito a rinnovare l’interesse per i lavori della scrittrice Zora Neale Hurston, sua grande fonte di ispirazione che era stata completamente dimenticata, addirittura sulla tomba, in Florida, non c’era nemmeno il suo nome.

Nel 1982 ha pubblicato Il colore viola, la sua opera più famosa. Narra la storia di una giovane donna nera che combatte contro la cultura bianca razzista e, al contempo, contro quella nera patriarcale. Il libro divenne immediatamente un bestseller da cui è stato tratto il famosissimo film del 1985 candidato agli Oscar e un musical a Broadway.

Negli anni ’80 ha coniato il termine womanism, il femminismo delle donne nere. Lo creai per quelle donne che non appartenevano alla cultura dominante, in particolare le donne nere del Sud. Era anche un modo per sottolineare che la loro cultura era molto di più del colore della pelle.

Alla base delle sue opere, infatti, ci sono le lotte e gli sforzi delle donne nere, considerate le autentiche eroine d’America, contro la società razzista, sessista e violenta, e del loro ruolo nella storia e nella cultura. Ha elaborato un linguaggio altamente musicale, che definisce black folk english, inglese nero popolare.

Tanti i premi ricevuti, nel 1995 anche una laurea honoris causa dal California Institute of the Arts.

Nel 1997 è stata riconosciuta umanista dell’anno dall’American Humanist Association.

Il suo attivismo non si è mai arrestato, l’8 marzo 2003, alla vigilia della Guerra in Iraq, è stata tra le persone arrestate davanti alla Casa Bianca, per aver attraversato una linea di polizia durante una protesta.

Nel 2009, si è recata a Gaza con un gruppo di altre 60 donne del gruppo antimilitare Code Pink, in risposta all’offensiva israeliana, per portare aiuti e persuadere Israele e l’Egitto ad aprire i loro confini a Gaza. Presente anche alle manifestazioni Black Lives Matter e nelle battaglie femministe contro le politiche di Trump e precedentemente del #MeToo.

Attraverso le sue parole e le azioni concrete continua a portare avanti la sua lotta  e le sue idee. È una delle scrittrici più importanti degli Stati Uniti e del pianeta tutto.

#unadonnalgiorno

[dweemeister]

Braveheart (1995)

The summer of 1995 provided moviegoing audiences with a third Die Hard movie, Casper, batnipples, Disney’s problematic Pocahontas, Apollo 13, Waterworld, and one of the most understanding children’s films of all time in Babe. That is a busy summer to say the least. Amid that clutter, one of the most successful movies of that period could not possibly have been made now, let alone find the audience it did twenty-three years ago. Released by Paramount in North America and 20th Century Fox internationally, that film is Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, a thirteenth-century war epic about Scottish knight William Wallace (played by Gibson) taking arms against King Edward I of England in the First War of Scottish Independence. Braveheart was Gibson’s second directorial work after more than a decade as a figurehead for 1980s Australian cinema and presence in the Lethal Weapon series. This is a visually striking, technically accomplished film rife with homophobia, misogyny, and historical howlers that continues to sharply polarize viewers about its cinematic merits. Through the fires of these controversies, the extremely violent Braveheart has bludgeoned its way to becoming an iconic fixture of 1990s Hollywood.

It is 1280 in Scotland. As a child, William Wallace survives King Edward “Longshanks” (Patrick McGoohan) invasion of Scotland. Following Scottish defeat, Wallace is taken on a European journey by his uncle Argyle (Brian Cox). Years later, Wallace (Gibson as an adult; James Robinson as a child) will return to his village and marry childhood friend Murron MacClannough (Catherine McCormack as an adult; Mhari Calvey as a child). But Longshanks has granted his English nobles in Scotland right of the first night, and Wallace’s successful attempt to save Murron from rape eventually ends in her execution. Enraged, Wallace – assisted by his fellow villagers – massacres the English forces sent to his hometown and drives the remaining English military from Scotland. Longshanks will not take military defeat without response, ordering Prince Edward (Peter Hanly) to quash the rebellion. War and royal intrigue breaks out, leading to Edward’s wife, Isabella of France (Sophie Marceau), being sent to negotiate with Wallace and the two falling for each other far too quickly.

With that plot in mind, viewers should understand that the only historically accurate aspects of Braveheart are the names of the historical figures involved and place names – really, that’s it. The Scots wear kilts, despite the fact kilts would not be invented for another several hundred years. If one wants to understand the First Scottish War for Independence and the history surrounding this era, read a book instead. Screenwriter Randall Wallace admitted that his script was based less on history than on the epic poem The Actes and Deidis of the Illustre and Vallyeant Campioun Schir William Wallace, written by Blind Harry in the fifteenth century.

In its medieval swordplay, Braveheart has more to do with Spartacus (1960) than anything in a 1930s-40s 20th Century Fox or Warner Bros. swashbuckler. The film’s enormous battle scenes – shot in Ireland with over 1,500 members of the Irish Army Reserve participating on both sides of this cinematic conflict – are excellent collaborations in deploying men on foot and horseback smashing into each other on a grassy plain with a frantic camera attempting to make sense of the scrum. The use of 200-pound mechanical horses running on nitrogen cylinders even fooled an animal welfare organization that decided to investigate the film because of the effect’s realism. When not indulging in ill-advised slow-motion, these battles, perhaps too frequently placed into the film to the point they becoming fatiguing, are spectacular in their choreography. The collaborative effort between Gibson, cinematographer John Toll (1994′s Legends of the Fall, 1998′s The Thin Red Line), editor Steven Rosenblum (1989′s Glory, Legends of the Fall) and second unit crew members contributes to a blood-soaked, crashing symphony of mangled limbs and human brutality that no other film depicting medieval warfare has since equaled – especially the Battle of Stirling Bridge, which is horrifying in its impact despite the absence of the crucial, eponymous bridge. Many films since Braveheart portraying contemporary war likewise pale in comparison.

Braveheart would be a disastrous film without John Toll’s cinematography, whether in action sequences or peaceful moments. The use of natural lighting and the on-location shooting in Ireland and Scotland appeals to Toll’s strengths for exterior shots, lending Braveheart a near-mythical angle amid large landscape shots blessed with eerie cloud covers and looming, verdant mountains. Toll makes Scotland a place of dreams – especially in the blue of twilight when the sun’s reds have retreated westward, welcoming the cool and comfort of the evening. This suits the film, as Gibson is not filming a historical drama. No computerized flourishes or too many swooping helicopter-aided vistas pry the viewer from the film. Toll’s camera for these landscapes and shots of the village (reportedly built by the production crew to Toll’s specifications) remain still or are gently heightened or lowered by crane shots. Close-ups are mercifully spare, reserved almost entirely for violent scenes.

The word “freedom” is tossed around with such promiscuity and depthlessness that Braveheart’s 178 minutes cannot be justified. Wallace’s screenplay touches lightly on the era’s politics, Wallace’s love life, and the ideas why Scotland should be independent from England. Political philosophy this is not. Look elsewhere for films of military leaders with a wracked conscience, psychologically impacted by the slaughter they have initiated. Instead, we are presented with anachronistic dialogue like this: 

WILLIAM WALLACE: Before we let you leave, your commander must cross that field, present himself before this army, put his head between his legs, and kiss his own arse.

Sure, dude. If possible, maybe that commander might have a future as a contortionist.

Braveheart presents William Wallace as a man on a revenge-fueled mission who will consider all possible means to liberate his people – he has an irreverent sense of humor that makes given scenes a tonal mishmash. Wallace’s romantic interludes with Murron and Isabella? Gibson, McCormack, and Marceau, respectively, are all unconvincing – despite an enormous assist from Toll in these passionate scenes.

Casual homophobia is directed toward Prince Edward (later King Edward II), the son of Edward Longshanks (Edward I; who was a bellicose monarch, but becomes a cartoonish archetype in this film). Prince Edward is depicted as effeminate and gay, and his lover Philip (Stephen Billington) is killed by defenestration. The film further compounds this depiction by associating the Prince’s homosexuality to his ineffectual character – Longshanks constantly chastises his son’s lack of masculinity and Princess Isabella also disapproves of her husband for those qualities. This is not to say homophobia did not exist in the late thirteenth century, but that Gibson and Wallace are doubling down on the Prince, making him a punchline puppet of a leader because of who he is. Aggressive masculinity and sexual expressions inundate the battle scenes, too – swinging swords should be interpreted as one might think.

Women have almost zero agency in Braveheart, as they are depicted as sexual vessels to remain pure and chaste while the men fraternize and fornicate all they wish. Wallace’s campaign of violence begins not because the English lords have invoked right of the first night (prima noctis) for other women, but because prima noctis has been invoked for Murron (whose sexual faithfulness is idealized after her death in a pair of visions Wallace – who, by sleeping with Isabella, does not return that same faith – has). One of the few topics that women speak of throughout the film is sexual interest/satisfaction or lack thereof – Isabella’s only purpose in the film is to bang Wallace so that she can deliver an inflammatory piece of news to Longshanks on his deathbed.

Other than Toll, another craftsperson showcases their mastery in this film. That master is composer James Horner (Glory, 1997′s Titanic). 1995 proved to be a career year for Horner, having composed the scores for Apollo 13, Balto, and Casper. His second-best score of the year behind Apollo 13, Braveheart’s score is mostly devoid of the wanking masculinity described above, combining cultural elements that might seem inappropriate for a film about Scottish warriors – given the use of Japanese woodwinds in Legends of the Fall (a generational epic drama about a Montana ranching family), Horner’s instrumental appropriation knows no bounds, for good and ill. Along with the requisite bagpipes (rather than the Great Highland bagpipes that are generally associated to be “bagpipes”, Horner utilizes Uilleann pipes – Irish in origin, Uilleann pipes are softer and considered to produce a less harsh sound than Great Highland Bagpipes), this heavily orchestral score also benefits from a boys’ choir reminiscent of Casper, Horner’s affinity for Irish music, and quena (an Andean flute) for “The Secret Wedding”.

Three major motifs exist in Horner’s score: for Wallace, Murron, and Isabella. Wallace’s motif is first in the main title through the Uilleann pipes and will be the most-repeated theme in the film, fragmented up by percussion in the battle scenes, and often accompanied by strings in melodic unison (most heroically at 6:05 in “Freedom/The Execution Bannockburn”). Murron’s motif assumes melodramatic, (and very quickly afterwards) tragic connotations upon its most memorable appearance on quena in “The Secret Wedding”, chorally reprised at 3:10 in the “End Credits”. Dominating the final third of the film is Isabella’s motif, best outlined in “For the Love of a Princess” by the entire orchestra, and containing echoes of “The Ludlows” from Legends of the Fall. Credit the London Symphony Orchestra for providing a gorgeous recording, even if Horner’s score to Braveheart is not the most musically interesting effort of his career.

Producers Bruce Davey (Gibson’s longtime producer) and Alan Ladd, Jr. (son of legendary Paramount contracted actor Alan Ladd) navigated numerous obstacles at 20th Century Fox and Paramount to complete the film. This enormous, nearly three-hour production of a time period unfamiliar to North American moviegoers could not be produced at this scope today. A 2018 Braveheart would require even more major studios from various nations to finance the project, as epic films have all but disappeared from the multiplex because of their forbidding costs and lack of action star/superhero connections. Gibson’s ambition is staggering here. Yet Braveheart is let down by Gibson’s hypermasculinity and homophobia – reflective of his troublesome political dimensions.

The film’s cultural importance when it was released is unquestionable, but it remains to be seen how time will treat Gibson’s directorial breakout work. By being released in the mid-1990s, it is among the last Hollywood epic films largely untouched by excessive CGI – the effects are gruesome because they are practical. Though the characterizations are simplistic, Braveheart is an effective character piece for many, if not for this writer. Caught between the praises of fanboys of a certain demographic and those who loathe Gibson and/or Braveheart, I can neither adulate nor dismiss this movie outright. Bring on the insults on my manhood, but say it with a Scottish accent, would you kindly?

My rating: 6.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

#Braveheart #Mel Gibson #Sophie Marceau #Angus Macfadyen #Patrick McGoohan #Catherine McCormack #Brendan Gleeson #Peter Hanly #James Robinson #Mhairi Calvey #Andrew Weir #Randall Wallace #John Toll #Steven Rosenbaum #James Horner #Alan Ladd Jr. #Bruce Davey #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part I

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk​ who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.

God, you hate frat boys. 

Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable. 

So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party. 

Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that. 

Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now. 

The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought. 

Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!" 

Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening. 

"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?" 

More cheers, more hollers. 

"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!" 

You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day. 

When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse. 

Again—you fucking hate frat boys. 

To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst. 

There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer. 

You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt. 

Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team. 

You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!" 

"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

"Hell no!" 

"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."

"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike." 

Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving." 

You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed. 

"Hey, what's your name again?"

Again. As if you've actually formally met before.

"Why do you care?" 

Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."

You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.  

"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly." 

He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer. 

"So? Name?"

After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little. 

"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?" 

Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along. 

It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though. 

"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?" 

"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.  

"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."

"Aw, flatterer." 

That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers. 

"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in. 

He does, and you let out a breath of relief. 

"Sophomore."

His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?" 

You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?" 

"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."

Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."

Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you." 

"Sure, let's go with that."

Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs. 

"Can't handle beer?"

"Can't handle shitty beer."

"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"

He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.

"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."

"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue. 

"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."

It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?" 

"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."

"We've been talking for literally two minutes."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."

"Not any good ones obviously."

Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself." 

"Take it however you want. I don't really care."

His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon. 

Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip. 

"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice. 

"Just go get another drink."

You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach. 

A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum. 

"Four's whores!"

"Categories! Different beers!"

"Seven heaven!" 

"Ayyy, waterfall!" 

You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced. 

"Wanna play?"

"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."

Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch. 

"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."

"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"

"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up." 

"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."

You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game. 

"Excellent."

You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.

Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards. 

It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace. 

Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup. 

"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you. 

"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."

As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. 

You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.

His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely. 

*

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you. 

God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before. 

Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team? 

Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you. 

Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out. 

Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult. 

You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt  Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…

Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes. 

Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses. 

You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way. 

Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls. 

Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”

“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you. 

*

Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc. 

A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.

“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.

Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”

Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover. 

“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.

Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall. 

His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster. 

He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.

“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”

You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him. 

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”

“Whatever.”

Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them. 

“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.

You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”

“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”

“You need a list?”

Mike nods. “Would probably help.”

“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”

“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it. 

“I—”

“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”

You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”

“Does that mean I can have it back?”

You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”

It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.

The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms. 

You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees. 

After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.

Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”

“No you do not.”

“Definitely do.”

“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”

He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.

“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”

“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested. 

Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”

He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins. 

“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”

“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”

“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”

“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”

“Not good for the cool guy image?” 

“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.

“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”

He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”

You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away. 

It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him. 

You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave. 

Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning. 

Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you. 

Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”

Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too. 

He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was. 

You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips. 

When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble. 

“Too much?” He asks.

You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”

He moves to suck on your neck, promising, “I will.”

Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”

“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”

When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”

“Shut up.”

He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere. 

Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.

He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.

“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out. 

Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb. 

You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper. 

“God dam—”

Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”

“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind. 

Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.

You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—

He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind. 

“Holy—” 

Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs. 

“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”

He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass. 

You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”

Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately. 

A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress. 

This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”

He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan. 

Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”

He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you. 

You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.

And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it. 

With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed. 

“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to. 

He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door. 

Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”

Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.

Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.

*

You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias. 

This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again. 

You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot. 

Is still hot. 

Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong. 

You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner. 

While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits. 

He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face. 

Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you. 

His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago. 

"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head. 

"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick. 

God dammit, why is he so sexy? 

Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so... 

Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body. 

Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face. 

"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."

He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."

And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted. 

For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip. 

Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock. 

The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat. 

Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion. 

You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth. 

You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue. 

It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you. 

Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward. 

You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot. 

You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit. 

He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to. 

You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine. 

Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts. 

More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight." 

Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you. 

You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed. 

He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach. 

You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression. 

It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support. 

"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot. 

"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?" 

"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."

You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee." 

"Oh. Right."

You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out. 

He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side. 

"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth. 

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."

You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.

*

"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like. 

"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."

"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."

You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?" 

"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!" 

She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together. 

It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave. 

"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."

You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it. 

Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove. 

"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?" 

And, there's that point. 

"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."

Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."

You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request. 

Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea. 

To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times. 

But, it needs to stop. 

You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth. 

And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer. 

At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call. 

Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven. 

Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it. 

This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them. 

You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious. 

All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before. 

Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.

You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods. 

“Right. Did you watch the game today?”

Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.

He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.

“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.

“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”

“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”

“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”

You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated. 

“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”

He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."

Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."

"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."

He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself. 

Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee. 

"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."

He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much. 

"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."

Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully. 

"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."

You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?" 

"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."

You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.

"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?" 

Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."

"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."

"So, you were watching."

"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?" 

He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."

You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to. 

Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."

"So? I can get tired too."

He's got a point. 

"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you. 

"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."

"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."

Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie. 

"Fine, but I have some stipulations."

"Oh, do you?" 

"I do."

Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."

Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."

"Deal." 

You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?" 

"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."

You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended. 

He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards. 

"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."

"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day." 

"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."

"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."

"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face. 

"Don't get cocky, Zacharias." 

"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."

Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick. 

"You have any classes?" You ask. 

"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."

You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place. 

"Sucks," is all you can come up with. 

"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."

"Probably?" 

"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."

You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself. 

"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'. 

Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?" 

"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."

Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals. 

You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it. 

"God dammit." 

"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear. 

"I said we weren't—"

He cuts you off, "But, you want to."

He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to." 

It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan. 

He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole. 

When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane. 

You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name. 

That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit. 

It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air. 

Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess. 

That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat. 

Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate. 

And, words like that scare you.

[ n e x t ]

#miche zacharias x reader #mike zacharias x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #mels prima vista #mels frat house

[jeanbeaux]

aman! 300 is so cool! and the milestone event is adorable. everyone is so damn creative with these. anyway, I have tarot questions! The Star (have you ever seen a psychic?) and The Moon (have you ever written a love letter?)

and if you're up for it, I'm curious about your astrology knowledge 👀 if you don't feel up to it, it's fine. I'm sure you're getting a buttload of these matchups, but if you have the time, I wanna know about my Libra sun, aquarius moon, Sagittarius rising ass with my man Miche 💌

I hope you're having a wonderful day/evening 😘

aw thank you so much mel 🥰🥰!! im gonna answer your questions in a seperate post bc i have a feeling you’ll like your paring :)

libra & scorpio:

this is a pair that runs deep, libras are naturally romantic signs and scorpios are incredibly emotional silently, so there is an incredible loyalty you two would have with each other. when a scorpio loved you you will know it, and it has the power of grounding a libra who can be a bit indecisive and flitty. what these signs teach each other is in regards to communication, because they differ so much at first, you both have the power of showing each other the middle ground.

#aman hits 3hundo #✨: mel #the stars are saying theres a reason reader & miche are like that in prima vista essentiallt #essentially**