[rhcdesrhys]

mickeysvillegas​:

for: @rhcdesrhys​ location: cornell

Len’s words were a mocking echo in his ear— a taunt that felt more like prophecy as he watched the students of his class file in. Mick’s jaw tightened as one of them brightened in recognition, sliding into the seat furthest from the blackboard. In his memory he was something sun-soaked, a dark creature grown light in the warmth of summer: but the man who leered at the back of his classroom was something demonic and hungry, eagerly waiting to follow him into shadows. He reached for his water, swallowing down a hard gulp.

—

Class came to an end and the students began to file out, shrugging their bags over their shoulders and their notes under their arms, but at the back of the class, Rhys still sat as if made of stone. Mickey let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding— it burned in his chest as he made his way through the rows of seats to the very back of the room, finally facing the man who hadn’t taken his gaze off of him the entire lesson. “I didn’t know you were interested in Spanish.”

.

Amusement blooms in tune with the strum of familiarity, and Rhys would have been shocked if his enrolment hadn’t been intentional - he had recognized the name on the class options from a summer of misplaced packages and a shitty delivery boy, and it had been a game too divine to turn down: the cat and the canary, folded together in such a proximity that Rhys’ digits slip beneath a waistband to readjust. Those surrounding stir to depart, though the raven boy remains still, broad frame spread beneath a desk’s surface, a tongue prodding against the flesh of a cheek to keep a beam at bay; this, he’d enjoy. “Only some,” his head tilts, “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about counting to ten or asking about for the cheque - I want to know the shit that matters.” He moves then, a slow rise: languid, honeyed, as though the earth spun on its axis for Rhys alone. Their chests nearly touch, and Rhys’ features tilt to drop velveteen syllables near the shell of an ear, "tell me, professor, how do I say yes, fuck, take my cock - just like that,” he retracts enough to gauge a reaction, irises the hue of obsidian ascending from the curve of Mickey’s mouth to amber irises, “I’m fucking the girl in the first row - you know, the blonde with the tits that can hardly fit in one hand, and I think she’d be into it.” 

[rhcdesrhys]

and these are the snapshots of rhys rhodes - a dog snarling through chainlink, a gold cross on a chain hanging against vermeil flesh, a split lip grinning something unholy

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬.

name: rhys rhodes age: 24 birthdate: december 1st, 1998 occupation: unemployed, student at cornell neighbourhood: cayuga heights

𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬.

tattoos: house number on his side scars: many, mainly wounds from fight club that didn’t heal properly   style: black tees that are stupid expensive, jeans that are ripped at the knees, sleeves rolled to the bends of elbows 

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭.

tw: violence, abuse

the murmurs of glory have nearly ceased by the time the third rhodes is born - a brother proceeds you, the sun fleshed out in mundane form, a lustrous visage of each reverie your father could have envisioned for an heir. a sister follows shortly after, gilded features tethered to the wit of a raven, your mother’s favoured companion. a utopian visage of a foursome, an american ideal for the kin of a media mogul, swiftly fissured by the addition of another.

last born, the tips of your digits only know fragments, leftovers — and perhaps it is there, in the soil of resentment, where your anger takes root. it grows bulbous between the ridges of your spine, coats the satin of your tongue acidic; you’re indifferent to how your mother recoils at the porcelain that leaves your grasp in a hurl to shatter at walls nearby as long as she looks your way, how your father attempts to settle your ire with a fist to the crescent of your mouth, but it’s the only time you’ve touched.

you become feral for what scraps you’re tossed: the glacial disappointment, anger’s inferno; you grow starved for it, dependant on it, you stir chaos simply to stoke a reaction: an ambassador’s daughter pressed bare to a window’s expanse makes headlines before morning, you stroll to premiers on a starlets arm with a split lip and a shit-eating grin. how easily you age to be a mar to the rhode’s gleam, or so your father spits, and how well it suits you: you’re darkness spread languid to a rooms centre, a bruise that all can’t help but wish to sink their digits into.

your arrival to ithaca is calculated, departing from our father’s alma mater a year before your senior and enrolling in cornell instead intended to unravel your father like never before, and oh how it does; you have never seen his knuckles so white as when they are swung to greet your jaw, when he does not let up until your brother tugs him off. 

what you keep from them, all of them, is this: you enjoy ithaca, and you hate that you do - how love is now a tender press you can’t seem to shake, your house filled with the treacle of laughter, how it breeds guilt like something serpentine against your throat. you feel undeserving, and the itch to stir chaos returns.