#I never did find my arm sleeve but mom had one black one

[miss-floral-thief]

Bro got rice roni? Seems a bit odd to buy it in a pack

[lovelytaez]

𝑴𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌 (teaser)

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺.”

Genre: romance, smut, a bit of crack, angst

Pairing: biker!heeseung x fem!reader

Synopsis: Dating your boyfriend wasn't easy with such disapproving and strict parents. They took one look at his bike, leather jacket, dyed hair, and piercings and gave you an automatic no. That didn't stop you though. You were in love with him, and he loved you and that was all that mattered. 

est wc: 10k-18k?

release date: tba but im hoping in a week or two😥

a/n - I might change this a bit if I don't like it but this is it for now! Reblogs and likes are appreciated! <3 comment to be added to taglist <:

➡️ snippet!

teaser wc: 1k

teaser undercut!

Dating your boyfriend was one of the best things you’ve ever done. Despite his disheveled and rough appearance, he was a sweetheart.

The day you became his girlfriend was probably the best day of your life if not the best. Not only was he good-looking, treated you well, and loved you, but he had a fun side too. He believed you only live once and you should live it how you want.

You still lived with your parents because it was close to your campus, ten-minute walk tops. One night, when Heeseung walked you home and kissed you on the forehead before running away, your parents went ballistic as they saw the romantic scene unfold through the window.

Your mom and dad took one look at his bike, piercings, and dyed hair and thought he was 'irresponsible' and a ‘heartbreaker’ and a man ‘who wouldn't be able to take care of you.’

You were never allowed to date in middle school or high school, as far as your parents said, ‘Live under our roof, live under our rules.’ You were good. You had good grades, hung out with sweet girls like yourself, and had a good future ahead of you.

Heeseung was your opposite. He wasn’t as keen on attending lessons and rather spent most of his free time at the garage that he and his friends owned, fixing up his bike.

He only went to class for you. To see you, sit beside you, to kiss you in between boring words the prof droned about. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do in life, certainly not become a lawyer or a doctor like his parents. He loved racing. The thrill, the adrenaline, the risk; it made him feel like he could do anything in the world.

Tonight, he was going to pick you up at eleven to take you to his race, after weeks of begging for him to take you. You've never been but he was known for winning every race, or so his friends said.

You were getting ready, wearing black jeans and a white tank top, clipping in some hoops into your earlobes.

While you were getting ready, there was a knock on your window. "Hey, sunshine," he lightly tapped on the window, waiting for you to let him in.

A smile spread across your face when you saw him, his crimson red hair, honey skin, and signature leather jacket. You opened the window, kissing him as soon as you did. “You're here early,” you said against his lips, as he looked up at you.

“I couldn’t wait to see my girl, is that a crime?” Your boyfriend teased, hopping inside your room. “Of course not, I missed you too, Hee,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“That’s good, baby. Are you wearing that? You’ll be cold,” he said softly, taking off his jacket and putting it on your shoulders. ‘I can find a jacket or something- it's fine-” you said, as you stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung off your closet.

Heeseung had his hands on your shoulders, looking at you through the mirror and kissing your temple. “Babe, it's okay. Wear it. Let everyone know you’re mine.” His voice was husky, laced with possessiveness, as he helped you slip your arms into the leather sleeves.

“What about you?” you asked with a frown filled with guilt.

“Don't worry about me. I have like ten more, now let's get out of here before I push you on the bed and fuck your brains out,” he said in a joking tone, though he was serious.

Seeing you in his jacket, your smaller frame making the jacket look oversized, the sleeves longer than your arms, it was the cutest he’d ever seen and he just wanted to protect you from every bad thing in the world.

“Okay, let me just grab my bag,” you said, scurrying over to your closet to retrieve your little Bambi backpack. You turned back to see his face, his lips pursed as he tried not to laugh. “Don’t laugh,” you pouted, as you put your phone, a small bag of chips you stole from the pantry, your AirPods, and your keys into the small bag.

“No, no, it’s cute. It suits you, babe.” He chuckled, jutting his chin for you to put it on. “Shall we, princess?” The red-haired boy asked, extending his hand to you.

Taking your smaller hand into his, he swung his legs out your window, leading you out with him. Luckily for him, your room had a roof below and a tree beside it, which was his signature pathway for sneaking into the house to see you.

He stood on the roof, helping you out of your room and onto the shingles, holding your hand comfortingly as if it were to tell you he wouldn't let go.

He guided you to the tree, making a jump onto the thick branch of the tree beside the roof, whispering, “Slow, slow, I've got you, sweetheart,” softly before you made the jump. You’ve escaped countless times without worry, but his words comforted your heart in a way no one else ever has.

He jumped down the tree, his boots stomping against the concrete of your driveway. “Jump,” he smiled, holding out his arms to catch you. You slowly slipped onto a lower branch, letting go of the trunk and jumping into his embrace.

Heeseung caught you, your arms clinging around his shoulders. “Told you I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured, tucking in his chin and pressing a kiss to your temple.

He set you down on the ground, leading you over to his bike parked on the curb. “Safety first,” Heeseung chuckled, handing you his helmet as you snugly put it on your head. It was a bit big on you, your pout covered by the chin strap.

He helped you adjust the tightness, ensuring it wasn't loose on your head. “There. All set, gorgeous?” Heeseung asked, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek. You smiled with your eyes and nodded. ‘That’s my girl,” he whispered, lifting your hips to help you onto his bike.

“Spread your legs for me. In a nonsexual way,” he grinned, showing off pearly whites as you giggled, sitting on the leather seat of his bike. He nestled in front of you, his large frame shadowing over you as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Ready?” Heeseung asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at your approval. He flashed another pretty smile as he revved up the engine, pulling out of the curb and on the road.

[januaryembrs]

FIGHT TALK | Eddie Munson x Sunshine!Reader

Request: Hi! Can I request a Drabble with the character Eddie Munson, with the prompt “I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever.”. Imagine that Eddie being protective and acting as a bodyguard to the reader who is being bullied a lot, he feels sorry and guard her.

description: Eddie is not very happy when he finds his darling girlfriend stashed in the AV room after her first fight

word count: 1.1k

trigger warnings: swears, blood, mention of the f slur, broken nose? very quick dirty thought from Eds (it’s Eddie what can I say)

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authors note: eddie x sunshine reader is about to be a thing around this neck of the woods since my beloved @palacearcaderadiostation demands more 💗

“He’s gonna fucking kill us,” Dustin held his hat scrunched tightly in his hands, as if he were in church or in mourning. “I never even got to say goodbye to Tews, my mom’s gonna be crushed,”

“Are you shitting me, he’s gonna make us wish we were dead,” Mike rubbed a hand over his tired face, “Do you remember what he did to Tommy H when he shook her soda can and it exploded in her face? My mom said the Hagen’s had to take him to a specialist in Chicago to get his nose fixed.”

Dustin paled even more, as Lucas returned with a sweat on his brow, the older boy hot on his heels.

“Move! Move out of my way- Out of my way,” Eddie cursed, shoving the other students hard enough they shot him dirty looks over their shoulders. Not that he cared, he had a sneer of his own as he looked down at the three boys that seemed to quiver in their place under his sable gaze, “Where is she?”

“Eddie, please understand- We tried to tell her-” Dustin spluttered as Mike seemed to biting the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from doing the same. Eddie simply put his hand in the kids face, glaring at him hard enough to silence him immediately.

The three of them would rather face the Wyvern they’d fought in their last campaign head on than have to deal with their dungeon master like this.

“Where is she, Henderson?” He growled, and the boys could do nothing but point to the AV room they’d stashed her in to keep her from the other student’s nosy gaze. Eddie didn’t need any other instruction, he was at the door in seconds, bursting through into the small, darkened room, his eyes falling on the girl sat on the table, legs swinging back and forth happily as if she wasn’t sporting a black eye and a bloodied nose. His breath hitched, his chest constricting tightly as he watched her own gaze flick to his. “Oh, baby,”

“Eds! Did you see? Did they tell you what I did?” She asked, her lips pulling into a smile as her boyfriend came closer, his hands grabbing the sides of her face, thumbs stroking over her cheeks.

“Mother of Christ, what did those shits do to you?” He snapped angrily, though his eyes were wide, the sadness written clear over them. Waving him off, she held onto his wrists with split knuckles, another factor that had him nearly clutching his pearls in aghast.

“It wasn’t their fault Eds, David Johnson was picking on Dustin for his lisp and calling them all-” She stopped, her nose scrunching in disgust when she thought of the word they’d used.

“Gay?” Eddie asked, to which she shook her head, though his eyes were quick to notice how the movement tugged on her split nose, “The other one?”

“The F one,” She muttered, hating that she even had to say it, “I dunno, I can take it when they say it about me. I just couldn’t stand to hear that about them, they’re good kids,”

He felt his expression soften, watching as she fiddled with her sleeve, another thing that had fallen casualty to her heroics as a thin tear trailed up her arm.

“You are just the bravest maiden there is, huh?” He asked, his chest butterflying when she looked up at him with the same happy smile she always had when he spoke like they were in one of his games, “And oh, your teeth! Those beautiful teeth, are they okay? Did they survive the warfare? Let me see,” Within seconds he had puckered her cheeks with one hand effortlessly, his other thumb lifting her lips up and down as if giving her an oral exam.

Her giggles vibrated on his palm that rested on throat as she tried to pull away from his grip, only partially succeeding as he took his finger out but held her still.

“-ds” She mumbled through her pursed lips, feeling him loosen on her jaw for just a moment before he gave her a gentle peck, careful not to bump her nose. Trying to pull away to tend to her ailments, he was stopped when he felt her fingers loop through his belt, tugging him forward for another longer kiss, her pretty lilac nails brushing against his tummy.

Chuckling as he pulled away, his hand moving from her jaw to cup her cheek sweetly, his eyes seemed to zero in on the cut on the bridge of her nose, the skin around it mottling into a bruise. He couldn’t miss the way it seemed to welt with fresh blood, the sight of it worrying him despite it being no bigger than his nail.

“You are just in luck, brave maiden, your medic has arrived prepared,” She smiled wryly as he dug through his bag until his face lit up as he brushed against the packet, “Ah, ha!”

Pulling out two from his collection, he held the bandaids up to her face so she could see for herself.

“Dangermouse or Ducktales?” He asked, the two brightly coloured cartoons staring back at her as she pointed to the three little ducklings.

“Ducktales, please,” She said, watching him peel the paper from the back, gently sticking it over the bridge of her sore nose, “I bet you do this for all your patients,”

“Only the most valiant of warriors,” He murmured, pecking the tip of her nose with soft eyes, “That’s just because you’re my favourite,”

She giggled again, as he picked up her scraped hand delicately, scanning over the small cuts attentively. Putting his hand to his mouth, he fake retched, covering his eyes in horror.

“Oh God,” He gasped, turning away from the sight, “Oh, god. I think we’re gonna have to amputate,”

Shoving him on his chest, she snickered at his dramatics, her fingers already scabbing over from their minor wounds. “Quit playin’. I was very brave today,”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, baby,” He said, giving her knuckles some tender kisses, not caring it seemed gross seeing as she was bleeding. “Did you get him good at least, honey?”

She perked up even more, eyes alight with a sick little delight he hadn’t seen in her before. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t have his boxers stirring.

“I split his lip, would have gotten his nose too if he hadn’t jumped on me,” She said, and Eddie couldn’t help the raucous laugh that left his throat.

Pressing more kisses to her hairline he smiled, down at her from her place still sat atop the table. “Don’t worry, you’re on the bench in round two, Balboa. I’ll give him something to cry about,” He smirked at her, his nose brushing against hers sweetly, “I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever.”

Taglists:

PERMANENT TAG LIST:

@greeneyedblondie44 @liadamerondjarin @pedrosgirlx @andy-rocks @musicartmayheminmyheart @howlerwolfmax @ciarra–mae @lou-la-lou

[macfrog]

rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

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When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

taglist: @serenaxpedro @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @pattwtf @pascalpvnk @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Jacket | Seth Jarvis

wc. 1.6k

Jarvy sees you in the wags playoff jacket for the first time

(not my best writing tbh. im sorry!)

Growing up, you never had an affinity for fashion. 

Your mom was the one who always dressed you and middle school was always that awkward fashion era of everyone’s lives. In high school the different outfits everyone wore had started to pique your interest, wanting to finally find your own style and make yourself feel more confident overall. 

By college you had hit your stride and everyone in your life was incredibly confused when you decided to major in fashion business. Your dad was over the moon that you added the business side of it, being a finance director himself, and while your mom was still confused, she enjoyed the new fashion advice from her daughter. 

You grew up in North Carolina, heading to FIT in New York for your undergrad before returning home. You spent that summer trying your best to figure out what to do with this new degree, when your life intertwined with Seth Jarvis. Through a mess of awkward run ins, late nights, and a final first date that sealed the deal, you were quick to realize that Seth was it for you. Three years later and you and Seth were closer than ever. He was on his way to another playoff run while you had been living your dream job for a couple of years now. 

As April loomed near and the season was coming to an end, the wag groupchat had started to pick up. The girls were discussing playoff chances and who should be planning the wag jackets this year and you were voted the number one choice. You tried to get out of it, worried that what you made wouldn’t be good enough but the girls shut you down quickly, knowing whatever you make would be iconic. 

You found yourself dreaming up ideas in the middle of meetings, doodling in the corners of your notebooks, looking up colors and fabrics, and finally caving to create a full fledged design when Seth had come bounding home with the news of a playoff clinch. 

The drawing you come up with is a high school varsity style jacket in black, the front saying Carolina in uppercase bold red letters, with the words cause above one pocket and chaos on the other side. One sleeve has the previous cup win dates while the other sleeve has the boy’s number and the original canes logo underneath it. Lastly, the bottom hem of the jacket is decorated with the storm warning flags similar to the boys jerseys and classic name and number on the back in the same color and font as the Carolina. 

Ever since finalizing the design, you instantly headed to the store and grabbed a blank black varsity jacket and started your work. You had fallen so deep into the job, focusing on each tiny detail for your prototype that you didn’t even hear Seth coming home. You had just finished on the front when you heard the door of your office creak open and you turn to see Seth with a tired smile on his lips. 

“Hey there pretty girl,” he says, sauntering his way into the room and your heart skips at the sight of him. You’re distracted for a moment just at the sight of him, but when you notice his eyes flicker over to your current project you flinch and get up. 

“No!” you screech, taking quick steps towards your boyfriend and covering his eyes with your hand. Seth freezes against you, concerned in his movements but when he hears a breathy laugh escape from your lips he knows everything is okay. 

“Uh why can’t I look?” 

“It’s bad luck!” you squeal, nudging your boyfriend out of your office and Seth rolls his eyes, his lashes fluttering lightly against your hand. 

“I’m sorry did I propose and forget or something?” he asks when you finally drop your hand from his eyes and shut your office door behind you. 

“No but if you are going to propose I’d wait till off season,” you respond cheekily and Seth grins. 

“I was making the wag jackets,” you tell him, slinging your arms around his neck and bringing him closer to you. 

“Mmm were you?” 

Seth leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your neck, trailing one up to your cheek and then finally on your lips, his hips pushing you back against the door so you’re caged in his embrace. 

“Mhm,” you murmur against his lips and you feel his grin, the scruff of his beard scratching against your skin. “And you need to go so I can finish them.” 

“Or we could do this,” he says and before you know it, Seth has grabbed you around the waist, throwing you over his shoulder and marching his way towards your shared bedroom, your protests of work and prototypes deaf to his ears. 

The week leading up to the first playoff game was complete chaos. You hadn’t seen Seth at all, occasionally when he was slipping out of bed and you were just slipping in, bumping into each other when he was out the door and you were coming in and so on. 

You were finalizing all of the wag jackets, making sure the matching shoes had arrived and were in good condition as well. You had decided to add a pair of nikes with the players last name on the side to match the jackets and you couldn’t wait to see how each girl would style their outfit. One by one as each girl received their jacket you would be on the other end of a million texts and several facetime calls of the girls freaking out about the job you did. You couldn’t help it, you started to feel good about your work too after being praised so much. 

Unfortunately due to both your schedules, you couldn’t see Seth before the playoff game but promised to make it in time for warmups. You and a few of the girls head out together, taking pictures both at your place and when you get to the arena. You head straight for the front, your nerves getting the best of you and you’re bouncing up and down on your heels waiting for Seth to come out on the ice. 

Somehow even with the nerves you miss his initial entrance onto the ice. Normally Seth is all serious mode when he starts warmups, only deciding to relax and goof off towards the end of them but when he sees you first, he’s a complete goner. 

You’re facing away from the glass but Seth could spot you from miles away in a crowded area, it truly didn’t matter. Your hair was pulled up and out of the way so everyone could see his last name and jersey number plastered on the back of the black varsity jacket. Your smile is wide and he knows you’ve been nervously fidgeting by the way you twist and bounce as you stand. 

His heart is pounding twice as hard now, not even registering the world around him as he sees you in your heavenly state with his name on your back. His. His jacket. The one that claims you’re his. God, how did he get so lucky? 

He doesn’t know when he stopped paying attention to the movements he was making on his skates until he’s smacking embarrassingly into the glass just before you, startling both you and everyone around. You look up, Seth with an unreadable expression on the other side of the glass and you can’t help the shy smile that creeps onto your lips. 

Seth tries to regain some kind of confidence again, shooting a wink in your direction and mischievous grin before taking off on the ice again. 

You swear your face hurts from smiling and your throat is no doubt sore from the screaming you had done all of game 1. You and the girls make your way down to the tunnel and talk about the events of the game while you wait for the boys. One by one each girl disappears in the arms of her man, you smiling and bidding goodbyes while you impatiently wait for Seth. 

“Is that the future Mrs. Jarvis?” you hear from behind you and you turn to see Jarvy smiling like he just won the damn lottery. 

You rush forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing kisses anywhere you can reach. You exclaim your praise between each kiss and Seth grins shyly against you. 

“You did amazing,” you say leaning back to finally look into your boyfriend's big brown eyes and they shine with pride at your words. 

“Thank you baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips before pulling back and staring at you, his eyes roaming your figure, his fingers tracing the outline of his number on your shoulder and his name on your back. 

“What’s up lover boy?” you ask, nervous under his gaze. 

“You look damn good with my last name,” he murmurs and your face flushes further. 

What Seth doesn’t tell you is that from the first day, he’s known you were the one from him. He doesn’t say that since you had your first date he knew you’d be married one day. He doesn’t say how he wants to spoil his proposal right now and just ask you to marry him because he can’t go another second without having you share his name. 

He doesn’t tell you that one piece of clothing has made him imagine the next 50 years of his life in the matter of seconds. 

But you don’t need to know that. Not yet at least. So Seth settles for another searing kiss to your lips before slinging an arm around your shoulder and leading you home so he can take that jacket off of you and love you properly.

[mattheosgyat]

Cat Distribution System

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Contents: Major fluff, cute kitty, Benjamin Wadsworth fan cast as Mattheo Riddle, Hogwarts, fun fun fun

Important Info: You are a Ravenclaw that lives at Hogwarts, your character is named Rory. U little cat mom.

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It was around 8pm, about the time I calm down for the night. I'd much rather be watching tv by myself in the peace of my bed rather than entertain bimbos all day and night. My room was dimly lit, the brightness flashing away every now and then as South Park distracted my attention. I felt nothing but peace in the moment, well, until something brushed against my hand..

If the loud smack of my hand against the wall didn't alert my neighbor that a monster was coming to take me, my scream sure did. I jumped out of bed, immediately putting my back to the wall because of a stupid superstition. But just then did I realize it was a cat. I reached my hand out and slowly started petting it, trying to find a collar, but nothing. I uploaded a picture of it to the school profile before laying back down, playing around with the grey cat. It looked like about a 3-5 year old cat, pretty lazy but playful nonetheless. In about 5 minutes, a text rang through my phone. I'm never one to keep up with messages, it being no different this time. I brushed off the first 3 or so messages, finally checking after getting annoyed

Maybe: Mattheo Riddle

Hey, why's my cat on your bed?

Because there's no way she just snuck into your closed dorm..

I want her back tonight.

Great, an asshole to come ruin my night

Maybe: Mattheo Riddle

My air lock is broke and my roommate is out to pick up food, so I kept the door cracked

My dorm is Ravenclaw, 3rd floor, room 312, you are more than welcome to come pick her up

I'm not coming to your dorm when you took my cat

Read 3m ago

I set my phone down, done with what I needed to say. Get the cat or not, I'm fine either way. I slipped on a hoodless sweatshirt over my sports bra, just incase the guy does actually end up showing up. Mattheo Riddle, Mattheo Riddle, Mattheo Riddle, the name didn't ring a bell. Not in any of my classes I'm pretty sure, and Ravenclaws stay out of other houses business. He must be a bit careless if his cat is wandering around Ravenclaw dorms, but maybe the guy had a tough day or something.

I didn't even hear a knock or a door creak, just my bedroom door swing open. A fairly sized man stood at my doorway. He had a long sleeved plain dark blue shirt on and blue plaid pajama pants, his strings untied and his waistband crooked on his hips. He had dark brown curly hair, matching his dark black eyes. He looked like he was ready to be in for the night too, obviously annoyed by having to be here. His eyes studied my face as he stayed silent, his arms crossed and his fingers tapping in order on his arm. It was almost like he was judging me; reading into every good and bad thing about me.

"I have a busy night wheres Birdie?" He muttered, pissed off that I didn't read his mind apparently. His cat was tucked against my stomach, curled against my legs as I laid on my side. I moved my legs down, showing him where his cat was since he couldn't see past my legs in the blanket.

"Birdie? Odd name for a cat. Doesn't look like you have anything planned." I said as i scanned his clothes and messy hair. His plans included scrolling on his phone, watching tv, and sleeping.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, reluctantly walking over to wrap his hands around his sleeping cat, lifting her against his chest. He backed up quickly, trying not to invade my personal space as he headed back to my bedroom door.

He nodded as a 'Thank you' and walked out of my apartment with his cat back. I heard my front door shut and immediately jumped up and ran to it. Fuck, I'm locked in. I grabbed my phone and had no time to text, immediately facetiming the Mattheo guy. He couldn't have gotten too far. He answered the phone with a confused face, still walking down the hall.

"Hey so sorry to bother, do you have your credit card with you by chance?" I asked quickly, not waisting any time. My face was close to the phone, not giving a care in the world what I looked like. His eyebrows scrunched up even more, a confused laugh coming out of his mouth slightly.

"What crazy cat girl?" he said as he stopped walking, waiting for me to explain further. That probably did sound confusing and not what I meant at all, I should've thought about that first.

"My door, it's broken and when it shuts it jams. Do you have your card with you? And it's Rory." I explain, rolling my eyes at the last part. With a small chuckle he hung up the phone, a card flying under my door about a minute later.

"If you steal it I'll release Birdie on you. She does some serious damage" he raised his voice over the door, joking with me. I giggled a little to myself as i stuck the card through the latch trying to open the door. It took about 7 tries, but it finally stuttered open. When it opened, I saw Mattheo sitting on the hallway floor against the wall, his cat sleeping in his lap as he pet her slowly, glancing up at me when the door swings open finally. I handed his card back with a smile, doing a dramatic pose when i opened the door.

"I'll give you your card ifffff you let me see Birdie again next week" I say with a stupid little smile on my face, looking down at the cute kitty asleep in his lap. He rolled his eyes and snatched the card out of my hand, standing up with the cat held against his chest again.

"And I'll definitely need to re-discuss this with you over text!" he mocked, walking away from me. He took a couple steps backwards and kept his eyes on mine before he turned around, heading out of the dorms and the Ravenclaw common room. He's not even a Ravenclaw? How the hell did his cat get into my dorm...

I'll make a part two if this does good!! This is my first Tumblr post and my first time writing so I hope this isn't too bad!

[noctivagant-corvid]

happy freak week. freak week under the cut . gryffon jrwi wirth tha steeal chair

also this uses an oc i made up for jrpwi content . its also canon to jrpwi!

i kinda hate it but shhh

When he gets phantom pains, Gryffon thinks about his father's disembodied head. To be fair, it's a pretty hard thing to forget.

He was fourteen when Grimm's armies came to his island. He was still growing into his body, ears too big for his head that made him look kind of cartoonish. Kede used to tease him about them, when she ran out of other material, but then Gryffon would point out the fact that hers were just as big, and it'd devolve into blowing raspberries from there.

The day they came was K’or Mirpa, he remembers this. It was a holiday, celebrating the beauty of the dark and rotting. Fitting, for a genocide.

He remembers how the musicians were out in the street with their fiddles and their cellos, filling the air with song and the clacking of shoes on stone, dance and dance and dance. Him and Kede had grabbed a bag of sugared almonds and ducked into an alleyway, laughing and stumbling through a mockery of the dance.

He remembers when they’d squinted at the horizon line and seen ships. Assuming them to be friends from a nearby island, come to celebrate, Gryffon had ignored it.

Then the screaming started.

It mixed in with the dance and the song, the enchantment of the strings, but Kede had noticed.

“Something’s wrong,” She’d said, tugging on Gryffon’s sleeve. “We need to go.”

By that time everyone had started to notice. People were running and yelling, and it was all a mess of chaos and fear. Gryffon was fourteen and scared, so he did what scared fourteen year olds do.

“We should find my parents,” He’d said, eyes flitting through the crowd. Kede had tugged his arm toward her. “There’s no time, Gryff, we need to go-” But Gryffon was stubborn and scared, and had gone deeper into the chaos, Kede following behind out of fear or some need to protect him.

“Dad? Mom?” He screamed over the shouting, working against the tide of running people- and Kede, still trying to pull him away.

When he first laid eyes on one of Grimm’s soldiers, he froze in place. The man was too pale and his canines too sharp, held an axe high in the air. He was smiling wide, a maniacal look in his eyes, clad in all black. There was a pandaren pinned under him, one Gryffon recognized just a split second too late.

Gryffon never saw his father cry. But he did hear him scream as an axe split his neck in half.

He doesn’t remember screaming, but he knows he did, and he knows the soldier had spotted him and slashed at his arm. It hadn’t come off fully, then. It all happened in maybe twenty seconds.

Kede pulled him into a run, away from the docks, both of them panting, Gryffon crying out everytime something touched his arm. Kede didn’t look back.

She took the two of them through some backalleys she knew from being on the streets so long, taking them both into the thick forest that dominated the south quarter of the island.

“Kede,” he’d grunted, once they got deep enough into the forest, “There’s something wrong with my arm.”

She finally looked back at him, and immediatly threw her hand over her mouth.

“Sweet Aster above, Gryffon-” He went to look at his arm, but she pulled his face away. “Don’t look at it! You don’t want to look at it, oh Aster-” “Tell me what’s wrong, then!” He shouted, wincing when it jostled his arm.

“It’s… it’s barely still connected to your body, Gryff, we gotta cut it off.”

Gryffon bit his tongue to stop crying. Kede squeezed his still-attached hand.

“Do it quick, please.”

Kede fumbled for her dagger. She squeezed his hand again. “Just a second, it’ll all be over.”

He hadn’t realy proccessed the pain until then. Maybe that’s why it was so bad- it hit all at once. Gryffon couldn’t even scream, his body was unwilling to move, his vision white, his arm felt like it was burning. He could feel Kede’s hand on his flesh, no doubt being stained with his blood. He couldn’t move. He was going to die there, he was sure.

When he woke up, he was laying on a cot in an unfamilliar hut. Kede was sitting across from him, looking at the ground, hands clasped like she was praying. He found out later that when a different island sent warriors to rescue them, she’d carried him to a boat and gotten him help.

Of course, he’d done nothing when the black sea had eaten her.

It’s two days after the anniversary, and Gryffon’s got phantom pains. He’s sitting in his room, laying on his back, trying not to touch the stump. In his mind, he can see his father’s head, rolling on the ground.

[that-one-random-writer]

Rowdy Romance Part 2

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x (Southern! Female) Reader

Summary: Jake comes back to the Ranch. You both had been flirting through text, but he didn't expect you to be at home waiting for his return home.

⚠️ Fluff just pure fluff and allusion to baby making thanks to his momma and his dad.

The fluffiest of all the fluffs.

Part 1. My masterlist

Hangman had taken a week off to fly out to his family. Little did know that his mother had a surprise for him.

You sat at the dining room table with your beer in hand. His mom had placed it in your hand, saying this was the one her son likes.

She was trying so hard to get you two together. She was begging her son not to find an interest in a girl up in California. She wanted her grand babies around for holidays.

You heard the door open, and there Jake stood. As soon as he walks through the door, he puts on his black cowboy hat. He had on the most handsome cowboy get-up on.

A pair of boot cut light wash jeans with a black tee shirt. It was so simple but looked so good on him. He hugged everyone around him.

His sisters, his mom, his dad, all piled on him for a hug and you stood up making your way over a little slower than the rest of the family. Of course, they deserved the greetings first.

You smiled nervously. "California cowgirl. How are you doing?" He never questioned why you were there. He knew his mom had something to do with it, but he was genuinely excited to see you. His smooth talking ways hadn't changed even though the outfit and the location had.

"I'm doing good! How are you doing?" He bent down and picked up his four year old niece. "I'm doing much better now."

You stayed in the shadows while he visited his family, joining in some small talk. "Jake honey, show ol' honeydew around the farm." She called you by her nickname she gave you.

Jake smirked. "Hasn't she been here before?" He poked fun at his mom. Their relationship was exactly what you would expect.

She grabbed some ingredients for dinner while she popped back. "She's fed our chickens and our cow multiple times. Now do as I say and yall go outside. Hell, take jóse the bull out. Maybe she can show you how eight seconds is supposed to look."

She shooed the pair off and went back to the kitchen.

"Your momma is sweet." You laughed.

"She can be when she wants to be." He chuckled.

"It's been about three months since I've seen you. What has the cowgirl been up to?" He smiled, grabbing your hand lacing your fingers with his. "I've just been working out on the farm. The Rodeo wasn't too long ago. I wish you could have made it for that. I took on jóse. I made it 8 seconds." You smiled brightly.

He raised an eyebrow. "What was it, that crazy woman in there was talking about? Showing me how it's done?"

You laughed. "No, I mean I could, but I'm not really dressed for a bull ride." You clenched a piece of your dress in your hand.

He smirked, nodding. "Sure, take the easy way out," he playfully rolled his eyes.

You grabbed his arm and wrapped yours around his. "I don't doubt you can keep a hold on a bull. Especially with these arms. I can't imagine your grip on his back, " you giggled.

He smiled confidently. "Yes ma'am, I do a lot of push-ups and leg work." He had the pride worn on his sleeve.

"Oh, I can tell," you spoke softly, admiring his arm, trailing your fingers up and down slowly.

"You know I've thought about you everyday since you left." He smiled down softly, looking into your eyes.

The moonlight was brightly shining on the full moon night. It gave him a perfect view of you. He was slowly falling for you. Yall had been texting here and there for the time in between the vacations.

He really did miss you. He slowly leaned down. He looked down at your lips, almost asking for your permission like a true gentleman. Butterflies fluttered around in your whole body.

You looked down to his lips, then closed the gap. You both kissed under the moonlight on the gorgeous ranch. He picked you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist.

He sat you on the wood beam fence. You both broke apart and rested your foreheads against each other. "Do you want to come back to California with me? Take an extended vacation." His eyes were full of hope and wonder. He was a hardass at work, but back home, he was just a southern man. He was a chip of the old block, took the rough edges from his old man, and his kindness from his momma. You smiled softly, nodding. "I would like that." He smiled with his laugh lines showing how genuine it truly was. You both connected your lips once again.

Jake's dear old momma watched from the window. "Honeyyyy," she called in a sing song voice to her husband.

"Yes dear?" He called back from the living room.

"Get ready for some more grand babies, they're out there smooching on the fence post." She walked back to the living room and sat next to her husband. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you remember when we did that?"

He chuckled. "Yes honey, that's how we ended up with her." He pointed to his oldest daughter. He laughed a huge barrel chuckle.

Jakes sister gagged. "Gross!" The pair on the couch laughed. Jakes mom smiled with her whole body radiating happiness at the thought of little grand babies running around. Little did she know she was going to get more then she bargained for. Triplets ran in your family.

You and Jake were dancing the night away to old country songs on a moonlit ranch he stole kisses where you allowed. He knew this was the start of something incredible.

I do not give permission for my stories to be posted anywhere. Stealing stories makes you a c u next tuesday.

[desiresiwant]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.7k~

warnings: strong language, a stalking presence, mentions of suicide, shitty French translations

a/n: this is the 4th chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). I know the lore around vampires; Rebekah and Elijah are just being weird, already full. And just weird. This chapter has slight omniscient pov. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻

        𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄, Deena woke up with a gasp almost as if she was drowning. She immediately sat up on guard as she remembered last night's situation. However, she wasn't in a graveyard, she was in bed, in someone else's room. And it wasn't night. The morning sun blinded her and blocking out the light didn't help either.

        At her feet, a pair of folded clothes lie. It came from out her suitcase—a pair of blue mom jeans with a short-sleeved basic shirt and a yellow smiley face in the center. This house, this room, must belong to the people who saved her that night. Or was it last night?

        It's unsure how long she's been unconscious.

        Maybe Davina ended up finding her afterall and brought her home? Which meant another long day finding Klaus all over again.

        She sighed as she got out of bed, cocking her head at how easily she stood without any aches or pain done to her body, which made no sense. She almost died. That pain...that feeling of extortion never left her memory. It was nothing she has ever felt in her entire life, something she never wants to feel again. And Deena wasn't dumb, whatever happened that night should've had a bigger impact to her body. So why did she feel completely fine?

        She decided to think about it later as a foul stench came under her arms. I've definitely been out for some days. She grabbed the clothes and took a nice long, warm shower in the spacious bathroom connected to the room. After getting dressed and pushing back her thick hair with a black cloth material headband, she was left with only one door yet to explore—the door which led to whomever house this was.

        There was no sign of life as she followed down the thick gray hallways decorated with a minimalistic taste. Her hand brushed against the rails peering out toward the open courtyard. Also empty. Deena even noticed a faded red color beneath her feet, a broken window a few doors down, and a door with its handle broken off. The place appeared somewhat rundown but it had a nice homey touch to the area. It was pretty huge so it had to be expensive.

        But where the hell are the people?

        She has passed by a few rooms, yet there was no sign of life, or the people who saved her that night. Not even Davina showing out from somewhere to greet her. It was so quiet she could hear her own breathing.

        Making her way down the old stairs toward the open courtyard, Deena couldn't help but feel like there was someone behind her. Someone so close she could feel their warm breath against her neck, but when she spun to confirm her suspicion while rubbing her neck red, there was no one there. However, for a moment, she could've sworn a shadow was standing at the top of the stairs.

         "Hello?" Deena decided to finally speak. She touched her throat slightly, remembering the thick feeling of blood clogged in her lungs. "Is there anyone here? N'importe qui (anyone)?"

        The strange tingly feeling of someone's presence returned. She ignored it.

        Deena found herself in a huge kitchen. It was the biggest kitchen her eyes had ever laid upon. If her mom was here, she'd love this kitchen and be in it all day. Herself too. It was spotless and brand new, almost as if it's never been touched. Odd how the house appeared as though it went through hell but the kitchen remains untouched.

        A gust of wind blew against her backside as Deena furthered into the kitchen.

        She was about to reach for the fridge handle in hopes there was something to eat, until a deep voice rumbled her organs. "I would not open that fridge if I were you. It's a bit of a mess and not prepared for your arrival."

        Deena spun around with a gasp, slamming her body against the cool fridge. She's faced with a tall, brown-headed man dressed in a sharp freshly-steamed black suit. She eyed the kitchen for a weapon to defend herself from the mysterious man with a familiar tone of voice.

        Recognizing her fear, he took a respectable step back to allow Deena her space. "My apologies, I tend to be silent on my feet." He explained. She only stared. "Where are my manners, my name is Elijah Mikaelson—" Deena's head perked at his surname. Mikaelson? "—Niklaus's elder brother, your...uncle I suppose is the proper word." Elijah noticeably cringed at the word 'Uncle'. Just as Klaus, it tasted foreign on his tongue.

        It took Deena a moment to connect Niklaus to Klaus Mikaelson, her father. So this wasn't Davina's place afterall. "He's alive?" She lets down her guard with a question that's been on her mind.

        Elijah sized the child for unhealed injuries. "Very much so. He is a tough man to kill." Of course, she'd be perfectly fine with Rebekah's blood in her system, but he was worried for her mentally. No child should ever have to go through a tragic experience even by the hands of witches and their long history of child sacrifices. "How do you feel? You weren't in the best shape when we found you."

        "I feel..." There were many things Deena currently felt; confused, energetic, powerful, relieved to be alive and to have found her father though she's yet to meet him, a lot better than when she arrived, and... "Hungry. Very hungry."

        "Yes," He searched around the kitchen for food that wasn't there. "Hunger. We should get you something to eat and I will make that happen. Come with me."

        Deena followed behind Elijah. "How long have I been out?"

        "About two days or so."

        Deena stopped in her trail.

        Elijah also heard when her footsteps haltered. When he faced her, he noticed a distant look in her brown eyes. "There seems to be something on your mind? What is bothering you?"

        Deena shook her head. "It's nothing. I shouldn't bother you w—"

        "I don't mind the bother. In fact, I would be more than eager to know whatever is on your mind at all times if you, of course, permit me to know."

        Her lips parted as she took a step back, not expecting his response. His attention. His care for her well-being and a will to listen to her and whatever was said out her mouth. She hasn't felt this way since her mother passed away and liked it. A lot. It was what she wanted, for someone to care about her again. She could only wonder what her father was going to be like when they met.

        "I-I don't," Deena shrugged, stumbling over her words to make sense of everything. "I don't understand what happened when I woke up in that graveyard. That woman seemed to know me but I don't know her—I don't know anyone here! She told me I could help her coven, that I was upsetting the balance of magic...and threw a girl I met against the wall like a wizard. And caused so much pain to my body without touching me. I don't...how? How's that possible?"

        Elijah took note of Deena's confusion. He was as well confused himself given her mother and her long history of heroic acts. "Your mother never told you..." He trailed off to leave the answer up for his niece to fill in and make sense of.

        Deena blinked. "Told me what?"

        Elijah fell to silence with a soft hum.

        Wishing to press the matter no more and lead the child to a source of human food, his ears perked at footsteps heading in their direction. He took a cautious step in front of Deena in a protective manner until the footsteps came with a face entering the kitchen. Elijah then backed down.

        A white woman with long, flowy blond hair dressed in a leather jacket with a light pair of jeans (in this heat) entered the kitchen they were just about to exit. She noticed Deena on her way in and rose her threaded brows in surprise almost as if she'd seen a ghost. "Well, look who is alive. Of course, you would be, you're a Mikaelson; we always survive whatever hell is thrown our way." She paused, thinking. "Well...not all, but most find a way."

        Deena looked to Elijah for confirmation. "This is R—"

        She stiffened as the woman went in for a hug. She failed to warn Deena of this action and looked to Elijah for help who simply allowed it to happen. "Wow. You smell good," She inhaled deeply. To the vampires, to Elijah more specifically, the saying could've meant anything and he was going to stop his sister from whatever impulse until Rebekah sensed him. "Relax, Elijah, it's a compliment. You know I would never harm a child nevertheless my niece."

        "Sorry...who are you?"

        "Rebekah Mikaelson, but you may call me Aunt Bekah. I quite like it; It has a nice ring to it. Aunt Bekah." She repeated to see how it sounded off her lips again.

        Another Mikaelson whom Davina mentioned. His sister. Unsure of their ages, they both appeared quite young. Rebekah near her age or older and Elijah in his mid 20's. She wasn't sure where her father fits in yet but given the picture he took with her mother, he should be in his late 30's or early 40s possibly. Davina also mentioned they were troubling and terrorizing the city, but they didn't seem all that scary to her. She admits, there was something definitely off about them but not entirely questionable.

        "I'm Deena Salée...which you know already." She laughed nervously, overwhelmed by meeting her family. It used to be only her and her mom, but now she has an uncle, an aunt, and even a father...wherever he might be.

        Elijah smiled. "Salée it's a French surname and judging by the accent, you are?"

        She nodded proudly. "Oui,"

        "Mon frère a vraiment une attirance pour les françaises, du coup, je ne suis pas vraiment surprise." (My brother definitely has a thing for French women , so I'm not surprised)

        Deena lifted a brow at Rebekah's perfect pronunciation. "Tu peux comprendre le français (You understand French)?" She asked. She was happy to have met someone who spoke her native language.

        "Please, I probably invented it." Rebekah mused as she pulled herself onto the squeaky clean counters. She brushed her fingers through her long locks before flipping it effortlessly over her shoulder. "With all the time we have, acquiring languages is like teaching a baby to walk. It's easy. Après tout, tu est à New Orleans (After all, you’re in New Orleans). French is everywhere."

        "We want you to be comfortable, Deena. If you prefer us to communicate in a language you're most comfortable with using, we will be happy to abide." Elijah reassured.

        Rebekah agreed as well.

        Deena only met these people today and they would go to great lengths to make her comfortable even enough to speak her language. It was all too real to be true. More dreamlike than true. "I appreciate it, but we spoke both English and French at home. I can use the extra practice anyway so English is perfect for me."

        "As you wish,"

        Both vampires flickered to Deena at the sound of her stomach growling. It was the tiniest growl. One she couldn't hear though she felt its soft vibrations beneath where her hand rested. Rebekah jumped off the counters, searching through cabinets and hidden spots when Deena lifted her head from her growling stomach, which growled more. A sound Deena heard this time.

        She slammed the nearest cabinet with a dragged groan. "No matter how many bloody times I check, no human food lies about. You must forgive us, Deena, we weren't expecting guests. Alive at least." Human food? Deena looked to Elijah who was glaring at Rebekah, who paid no mind to either of their stares and faced Deena with her arms crossed. "What do you say, little niece? Shall we eat a restaurant dry?"

        Despite her confusion, Deena gave a nod. "Okay," She eased into a smile.

        "Rebekah," Elijah called pressingly. "A word please in the hallway." Once acquiring his sister's attention, he gestured to the hallway outside of the kitchen.

        Of course, she arrived within seconds using vamp speed. Elijah released a stressful sigh at her rash actions. Luckily, Deena was occupied with an ancient-looking vase in the kitchen to witness it.

        "Did I say something wrong? You know I've never been great with children, but I'm willing to learn. Always."

        "It's not that," Elijah peered into the kitchen to check on the child once more. She sat at the counter waiting for their return.

        Oddly, she felt the vibrations of their voices speaking. The same vibrations she heard from those around her. And sometimes if she focused hard enough, she'd hear sounds she could not see. But she couldn't hear them. It was an on-and-off thing that started a month ago. Possibly a special gift. Like a mutant from X-Men.

        It was so strange to Elijah—to all of them—after living an immortal life with no care for mortals who surrounded them as they all perished in time and often by their hunger, to now having a mortal child of their blood in their care. He couldn't keep his eyes off her and believed it to be a fever dream.

        "I'm afraid the child has no knowledge of this world and the creatures which lie within it. I believe her mother has failed to inform her."

        Rebekah scoffed. "Her mother is a powerful witch, an unforgettable one who has done a lot for the communities in her prime time. How could she not know? You can't just turn off magic whenever you want."

        "Her mother might have her reasons. Though she was respected by the deeds she sow, she was as well a threat to those who despise her coalition outside her community." Elijah explained, placing himself in her shoes. "For now, we should reframe from making Deena think we are otherwise but human, which begins with the choice of your wording sister."

        "Well, how the hell do you suppose we do that? The Quarter is roamed with vampires and witches, including her hybrid father who can't control his impulses. Not to mention tonight's a full moon so every vampire who's not across that river will be here. And if she's anything like her mother, I'm sure there's a magical storm cooking up somewhere in her. If not now."

        Deena's ears perked, the vibrations of Rebekah's voice repeating back 'if not now'. She heard her. As clear as day, as if she was standing right over her shoulder, Deena could hear their conversation. Well, not all. She only heard that part and what's to come after. Anything else before that line, nothing.

        But that wasn't all. The ancient-looking vase she once admired before she took her seat at the counter, rattled. Right before her eyes, a force once used after her mother died. When she mourned her death, every window in the house shattered and papers flew everywhere—the same that's happening now. Against the vase.

        She peered back to where Elijah and Rebekah conversed and continued watching the vase, until her focus was brought back to Elijah's speaking. "I have the means to do some digging. Afterall, she is a Mikaelson born from a hybrid father and w—" Deena jumped to her feet with a yelp as the vase continued to rattle, more violently now. Its rattle kept her from concentrating on their conversation and putting together the mixed pieces.

        "...but for now, we are human. And we are hungry..."

        There was something about the rattle, around this very room, within her, which was calling to her. And when she lifted her hand, not knowing what else to do, or why she should do it—it stopped. The rattle stopped. Astonished, Deena peered down at her hand. Then at the vase. What the hell? Did I do that?

        "Deena, are you ready to go?"

        Deena jumped with a gasp at Elijah's voice scaring her from behind without any warning. Her heart thudded in their ears and intensified as she followed his curious gaze toward the vase...the vase she stopped with her hand. 

        "Y-yeah, I'm ready. Just waiting for you two."

        Rebekah revealed herself from behind Elijah's tall figure. "Great because I know an amazing place that will make you feel right at home." She cheered.

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

        𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃’𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐇 were only going to watch Deena eat instead of eating themselves. They acted as if she was filming a mukbang or was fascinated by how much food she digested though all she ordered was red beans and rice with ham hock and lemon water on the side. They brought her to this local spot which served traditional dishes famous in New Orleans. She was overwhelmed by the menu and asked the waiter for recommendations. After having a taste of this delicious delight, Deena could never go back. This was currently her favorite spot.

        A hand soft on Deena's shoulder, "How you liking your food, baby?" It was Lovelie, the owner of the restaurant 'Mama's Joint'. She appeared in her late 40's though with her hair braided individually and pulled back into a half-down style, she looked even younger. But she was sweet and her aura reminded Deena of her mother in a sense.

        "I might become a regular." Deena replied. Judging by the red sauce on her lips, she enjoyed the food a lot more than expected.

        Lovelie smiled. "I'm pleased to see it's a Mikaelson thing. They sure favor this place. Kept me in business for years."

        It was new to be referred to as a Mikaelson though her surname legally remained a Salée. She didn't feel worthy of having their name when they were still strangers to each other. She felt it's a name she must earn and not be given on a silver platter. But stranger or not, it didn't stop Elijah from introducing Deena to Lovelie as his niece.

        "Much more than your delightful cuisines but the culture you put into your work. We always appreciate the city inside and out." Elijah complimented.

        "I'm touched," She sent him a pleased expression before she tapped Deena's shoulder again. "Let me know if you need anything else."

        After she left, Deena took note of their untouched food. Rebekah ordered a drink while Elijah ordered a chocolate fudge cake—all which still remained untouched. The most Elijah had done was poke his fork in the cake.

        "Are you guys not eating?" They followed Deena's furrowed brows to their untouched items.

        "I'm afraid I ate before coming here," Elijah replied, crossing his arms. And he had, but it wasn't human food.

        Deena looked to Rebekah waiting to hear her excuse next. "Me too, but this cake looks tasty," She slid Elijah's cake in front of her and began eating. She ate as if Deena was holding a gun to her head when it was only a simple question, and smiled when feeling Deena's stare. "Just as I remembered...eating this a day ago."

        They both went back to eating. Rebekah actually enjoying the sweet delight though full from an earlier feast.

        But for now we are human and we are hungry. The words played back into Deena's head as she ate her food silently. She inspected them—two perfectly statued humans who appeared human for the most part. They act like humans. They sort of ate like humans. So what did Elijah mean by that statement? Were they not human at all? Or didn't believe they were? They were a bit weird in a sense but Deena brushed it off. It was nice to be around family again.

        Elijah felt the presence of someone near and peered out the window to confirm his suspicion. A fainted smile then curled his lips after narrowing his gaze to the hand fidgeting with the folded napkin.

        Deena went to follow his gaze wanting to know what caught his attention, but her view was clouded by Rebekah's head as she barged the young teenager with questions as if they were in an interview. "Tell us about yourself, Deena. I feel the better we know each other, the more we won't feel like strangers." She continued, shoving a forkful in her mouth. "How about we start with the basics? What's your favorite food? Favorite color? Any boys you fancy? Or girls? Do you recall a moment in life where you felt...magical?"

        Elijah's eyes went big at Rebekah's question and cleared his throat loud enough to put her in her lane, but she ignored Elijah, waiting patiently and eagerly for Deena's response. More so the lather.

        Deena looked between the two. "Um..." She trailed.

        While Deena thought of what to say, Elijah decided to speak in his word while he had the chance. "One question at a time, Rebekah. She is still eating." He told her in a calm, pressing manner.

        She rolled her eyes. "You can't blame me for being excited, but fine. I will wait until she's finished eating. I forget mort—" Caught herself with a smile. "—we tend to eat slow at times. Take your time, dear. Just not all day."

        "It's okay, I'm finished."

        Deena continued to stuff down ham despite her mouth already filled with rice. She was trying to finish her meal in a couple of bites, but her calculations were way off. Much off. The servings here were much bigger than what's given in her country, it would probably take her a day or two to complete. But it didn't stop her from trying.

        Elijah saw she was forcing herself to eat faster and grew worried, as well as the stalking guest across the street before a phonecall occupied his attention. "Please, do take your time and be careful to not choke." He reached for her drink, placing it in front of her and held it there until she took the cup to sip from. "If you wish to finish your meal, we can wait. Believe me, we have all the time in the world to hear the side of your story."

        And Deena did just that. She ate as much as she could hold with the help of lemon water washing down the food. The rest would be scooped in a to-go box and bagged up for a later dinner or midnight snack.

       After a moment of letting everything settle, she sat in her chair with nothing on her brain as she began to think about herself. Of course, she knew all of the things she liked and found passion in, but having to form them into words so that another person could understand her was hard. It reminded her of the first day of school when the teacher chooses a student one-by-one to stand up and share what they've done over the summer including three interesting facts about them. Deena was normally picked last and when she couldn't think of what to say—despite being given a 20+ student headstart—she'd repeat what another had said in different words. But this time, she was the first to be picked.

        "I'm not really a picky eater so I can eat just about anything, but I love cheesecake! It was so bad at one point my mom had hidden the cake and forced me to eat something real. But no matter where she kept it hidden, I always found it. I like oranges too—my favorite fruit. I eat them mostly in the mornings but I like them as a fresh snack throughout the day. And..."

        Deena paused just to make sure she wasn't talking too much or boring either of them to death, but they seemed to not mind her chatter and were genuinely interested in her life.

        Rebekah shared a smile upon hearing the story. "Damn. I guess I'm the only picky eater in the family." She jokingly smacked her lips.

        "Continue on," Elijah prompted.

        "Uh...I like pastel colors, nude is nice too. Better most times. Opposite from my mom who wore every color on the rainbow, she would change her clothes four times a day if it wasn't as crazy or expressive enough. And she would..." Deena stopped herself before she got carried away speaking too much about her mother. Because when she did, she would get emotional, and when she's emotional, she will cry; and when she does cry, it will be hard to stop. And weird things happened when she cried. "Sorry. I was supposed to be talking about me, but I'm here talking about my mom instead. I probably killed the mood." The chuckle Deena let loose was painful, easy to see through, so she stopped and started messing with her unfinished food.

        Elijah handed her a napkin he wasn't fidgeting with the moment a tear shed. "It's quite alright, Deena." He was never great at comforting children, but he was better at it than most of his siblings. So he believed. "I don't mind either story you tell."

        "Speaking of your mother, does she not know you're here? France is very far away, you're a minor, and I'm sure your mother's stapling missing posters across towns."

        Silence.

        Elijah sent his sister a soft glare. She has a big problem with not reading the room and saying whatever was on her mind without thought. "If you prefer we talk about something else we can," Offered Elijah. "Maybe even about ourselves so you don't feel the spotlight is only on you."

        Deena admired her uncle's compassion. She actually would rather talk about them instead of herself because what she was practicing in her head failed to translate properly out her mouth.

         But since they were on the conversation, Deena assumed now to be a decent time to tell everyone the truth. "My mom doesn't know I'm here," She started, fidgeting with the napkin under the table to avoid their contact. "But I didn't run away either. The truth is, she died a month ago; suicide. And when she left, I sort of went through her things—which is where I found a letter about my father and where he lived—then came here on a whim without much planning. I know she didn't want me to come here for whatever reason, but..." She shrugged. "I came anyways and I don't regret it. But if my presence here complicates anything, I don't mind leaving. I can—"

        Rebekah calmed her racy thoughts by grabbing her hand and bringing her mind back to earth. "You're a Mikaelson, love. There is no other place we want you to be but here with us." She reassured her niece, relieved they weren't shipping her back to France so soon.

        When both siblings exchanged a glance, it was clear they shared the same thought surrounding Vanessa's death—flawed. Neither knew Vanessa on a personal level or as well as Klaus did, so maybe it was true and she was fighting some inner demons she couldn't beat. But in a world they live in and the person Vanessa was, suicide was just another easy stamp on cases with evidence beyond the human's capacity. Either it was a case they couldn't understand, or was too lazy to solve and threw it away.

        Elijah stood from his seat, almost jumping in action, and acquired both their abrupt attention. "I will have to hold off on my introduction since a matter has come up." He sent a smile foolish enough to fool Deena, but Rebekah saw past it. "I will make it up to you another time, Deena."

        She frowned a little. "I understand."

        They watched him leave.

        Rebekah then scooted in. "Now that it's just us girls, do tell, do you have a lover back home? A prince charming or princess missing you and waiting for your return?"

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

[rowdyhughesy]

i saw you were taking requests, so i have one (:

maybe like, jack gets down on one knee and asks y/n to be his fake date for a wedding he has to attend?

Cats and Wedding dates - J.Hughes

Thinking about doing a part 2, let me know what u guys think!

Jack was completely freaking out, with all the stress from the season he had forgotten about one of his family friends wedding. He’s known about it for months but it still slipped his mind and with forgetting about it he also forgot about getting a date.

Pacing back and forth in Nico’s living room he’s running his hands through his hair. “Jack calm down its not life or death if you don’t have a date.” The devils captain laughs from his place on the couch. Watching one of his best friends stressing over a wedding is slightly amusing. He knows that Jack could get a date in two seconds if he wanted to so what’s the problem?

“No but yes! I’ve already told everyone I’m taking a date and if I don’t bring one they’ll all know I forgot about it and then mom will lecture me.” Stopping in his tracks Jack let’s out a noise between a whine and a laugh. He doesn’t even have a suit. Or a present. Fuck.

Scrambling to gather all of his belongings Jack rushes out of the apartment. Yelling about how he needs to go as he runs out. Nico blinks in bewilderment at what just occurred in front of him but decides that he doesn’t even want to know.

Walking down the streets of downtown New Jersey Jack has the suit bag thrown over his shoulder, music blasting in his headphones as he’s in his own world.

Suit? Check

Present? Nope

Date? Absolutely not

Stopping outside of some fancy gift store he ponders for a moment before going inside. Surely they must have something for the couple. The strong smell of vanilla and cinnamon hits his nose and Jack pulls the headphones of in case he needs to ask for help. Which he probably will because he has no idea what to buy.

The store is small but cozy and filled with small unique Knick knacks, candles, porcelain and what looks like some type of fancy candies. It feels like a store his mom would love, he takes a mental note to bring her next time they’re in Jersey.

Suddenly Jack feels a presence by his feet grabbing his attention, looking down he’s met with the sight of a cat that resembles a fluff ball. He’s never been much of a cat person but having those blue eyes staring at him Jack can’t resist squatting down and petting the light fur. The cat lets out a small meow, stroking it’s head against the palm of his hand. “What’s your name huh? Cute lil buddy.” Jacks voice is soft as he continues petting the animal, the cat purring in answer.

“I see that Dude has made a new friend.” The unknown female voice makes Jack freeze in place. Hand still in the air he turns his head. A girl dressed in a white long sleeve, black overalls and converse stands above him. A huge smile on her face as she looks down at the boy and cat. “His name is dude?” Jack laughs turning his attention back to the cat. “Hey there Dude. I don’t really like cats but you seem cool.” The girl let’s out a snort at him telling Dude that he doesn’t like cats.

“Is he yours?” Jack stands up from his previous position, he notices that the girl is about a head shorter than him making him tower over her. “Yep, been my partner in crime the last three years.” She bends down picking up Dude in her arms. He seems content with it as he starts rubbing his face against the exposed skin of her neck.

“How did you come up with the name dude?”

“I tried about 100 names and one day I got frustrated and yelled come on dude at him and it was the only thing he reacted too.” The admission earning a loud laugh from the hockey player.

“I’m Jack by the way.” She takes his outstretched hand and he misses the warmth of her skin as soon as she lets go. “I’m Y/N, nice to meet you Jack.”

The two stand there for almost an hour just talking and Y/N helping him find a present for the wedding. It’s easy to talk to the store owner, she’s sarcastic and funny. Like a breath of fresh air after a thunderstorm. Maybe she could be his date? She seems like the type to help a person out and they just met so if she says no he won’t die of embarrassment.

Deciding to take caution to the wind Jack takes a deep breath he goes down on one knee as Y/N has her back to him wrapping the present on the counter. A noise of surprise rises from her throat when she notices this almost stranger down on the floor. “What is going on?” Y/N flicks her gaze between Jack and Dude who is sitting next to the male staring at him with confusion. Or at least as confused as a cat can look.

“This might sound crazy but Y/N will you please be my date to the wedding? I told everyone I would bring a date and I don’t have one, I’ll owe you a favour.” She thinks about it before loudly laughing. Jacks face burns from embarrassment, certain that she’ll reject him. Then a beaming smile spreads across her lips and Jack feels like he can breath again.

“Yeah Jack I’ll gladly be your date to the wedding. Do you have any purple ties?”

[picabrush]

AAAA okok i wanted to reply to this days ago bc its a PERFECT opportunity for me to yap i just forgot WKWBOE

FIRSTLY THANK YOUUU IM REALLY HAPPY WITH THESE DESIGNS!!! Ive gone through SO many Michael variations over the years and this is my favorite set of em.

So for the jacket I originally had it be this like!! Black or dark grey maybe a year or two ago? His necklace used to be pink too because i kinda wanted him to have something of his moms that wasnt just an obsession with cheesy drama shows. I felt it was too dull so I changed the jacket to red to match the mask? He's associated with red in fnaf4 so why not!! The 3 sets of colors though was because I was thinking of those colorblock jackets!! I didnt want to make it super bright and pastel, it didnt fit his vibe for it(maybe for like. Fnaf2 era though?) So I stuck with 2 red tones. Its why the separation on the top of thr jacket and top of the sleeves is different! I threw in that yellow for an extra touch of color. The necklace also changed to blue to kinda match his eyes more!

I ADORE the idea that Michael always tries to keep something of his siblings to remember them by, a way to keep them close despite being gone. He couldn't find something of Evans (not till SL at least) but he did fine one of Elizabeths old ribbons bc lets be real, she had to have SEVERAL and he obv couldnt have the one she wore when she died because technically shes still missing and only declared dead!! How would he get it otherwise? It gets a bit ripped and dirtied by ffps due to time and. A few minor accidents setting the place up </3 but its still mostly intact!

With the cane I just never thought like.. how could he move? How could he walk without a lot of the functions and organs he had? Even with remnant he'd be SO weak physically. Said it in the post but!! I figure he replicates what ennard was a bit just without the.. souls and AI. Building a metal spine and ribs or something to feel and look a bit more normal. With the direction the scooper went it practically took off a good bit of his arm (hah. Parallels to scraptrap) so he just. Got rid of it and had a new metal one built? Its hard to see the difference with gloves on :)) the cane, plus all the metal helps to keep him stable and moving around. Also had the idea for leg bracers but I probably wont draw it too often !!

Post-SL and FFPS Michael 100% needs mobility aids that man has NO organs and that scooper tore his skeleton APART!!!11!! Ennard def didnt help with anything wearing him as a skinsuit it had to have fucked SO many things up!!!

Anyways thats all <3 thanks for liking it so much im real proud of the designs!!!

yiPPEEEE (Talking about this post)

[c0zmo-writes-archive]

Hello! I was inspired by the always amazing @possum-quesadilla to write some details, background stuff, and other little notes for my harpy Beetlejuice fanfiction, Birds of a Feather. This is just chapter one for now.

Chapter 1- Feathered Finds

“It had what was either a scraggly beard or lichen on its face. Maybe both?”

Beej has plant life growing on his body! He could be his own little forest if he wanted to.

“My name is Shilo. I study cryptids and monsters. Ever since I found out that a harpy lived in the deepest part of these woods eight years ago, I dedicated my life to finding it! Yes, I moved to the woods and built my own house here, and yes, all my friends and family think I’m crazy, and yes, they tried to get me diagnosed with something, but it’s all been worth it! I knew you were real! Oh, what’s your name by the way?”

Fun fact: Shilo is autistic and has ADHD! She is also a big infodumper. She either talks to herself a bit, doesn’t talk for three days straight, or never stops talking. She’s just like me fr.

“And to answer your other questions, first, because when I get focused on a project, I get focused, and I’ve been interested in cryptids and monsters my whole life.”

Special interest moment !!

“Shilo wanted to fight back, wanted to argue that she didn’t wait this long searching for him just to not be able to publish her findings,”

By “publishing her findings”, Shilo was really planning on screaming about Beej on Reddit. I love this nerdy mad scientist loser girl <3333

“Before she could change her mind, Shilo wrapped her arms as far as she could around the harpy. He smelled of roadkill and pine sap. His soft chest feathers tickled her nose and she held her breath as his body stiffened.”

Is it a good idea to hug a large forest bird monster that you’ve just met? Probably not. Not that Shilo cares. 

“You, my feathered friend, are a whopping seven feet and two inches tall!”

He’s a tall boy!! Even larger than the average male harpy (based on my slightly modified version of the species at least)! I wonder if there’s a reason behind that…

“Yeah? What, is parrot Shilo comin’ back again? If she is, you should dress the part. You’d look good in a bit of color.” He gestured to her current attire, a long sleeved black undershirt, ratty lab coat that looked older than time itself, and some black pants, stained with grass and grime”

All of her clothes are either stained or dirty. This girl is Not Good at keeping up with laundry.

“I dunno about immortal, ‘cause my mom definitely wasn’t. I guess I just have a long life span? I never really questioned it.”

…

“Wow!” Shilo stretched the word out, speaking a few octaves higher than normal. “That’s… such an interesting answer!” Beetlejuice didn’t seem to see her discomfort.”

Shilo isn’t amazing at picking up social skills, but Beetlejuice is worse.

“It was populated with tables, corkboards, and journals. So. Many. Journals.”

She has around 50-ish journals. She’s written in about 34. She’s actually completed about 10.

“He kept roaming the lab, sniffing at books, tables, and walls. From upstairs, he could hear the quiet clattering of what he assumed were pots and pans. He crawled onto the mattress and inhaled deeply. It smelled like her. Sweat, earth, and something vaguely floral. He liked that. He nuzzled against her pillow a bit,”

Sensory input is incredibly important to him, especially scents and sounds! He’s got a very sensitive nose and ears.

“SALMON!!!” Beetlejuice leapt up from his spot on the floor and lunged for Shilo. In his rush, he bit down on both the salmon and the plate, narrowly avoiding Shilo’s finger.”

Poor guy was starving :(

“He tried to sit down the way Shilo did, but his wings got in the way. After a bit of struggling, he stood up, made a low growling sound in the back of his throat, then kicked the chair over in a rage, sending it flying.”

When you try to fit in with your new friend but you’ve got two heavy duty feather dusters permanently strapped to your back.

“He jerked his head up, face smeared red with raspberry carnage.”

I picture him looking like a baby eating cake for the first time. 

“A soft purring sound emitted from him as he dozed off again. Shilo made a mental note to write about that as she ran her fingers through his crest of hair, eventually joining him in slumberland.”

Despite being half bird, Beetlejuice purrs like a cat!! His feathers and hair are also very soft and fluffy! 

[doctorguilty]

A

I went out today to pick up meds and get my covid and flu shots (was gonna get the sat but had to reschedule) and then went to goodwill for a bit to look for some work clothes (need some like black underlayers and could use an alternate pair of boots cause like my usual work boots are steel toe and kinda heavy for like Halloween acting where I might be like crawling around and my fashion boots and getting pretty worn out and they've got the kind of lace up things that come undone if you're also, like, crawling around.. need crawling around boots), ended up finding some stuff I needed + couple extra goodies including some little gifts for my mom, I've been feeling less tense spending money this week knowing I'll have a paycheck incoming, MOSTLY it has just been necessities like pet stuff or like work related thing like I preemptively ordered some clothes online as so if I can't find even cheaper stuff irl before work starts I have it but otherwise I can totes return it, but even that has been a relief like yay I'm super prepared here, I got black long sleeve shirts because I'm gonna be outside so this way I won't freeze, I did in fact find some perfect boots at goodwill today a little on the higher side for second hand faux leather at like $15 but I'm like, but you know what I'll be paid I don't need to leave behind what I need to be comfy and regret it if I can't find anything else just cause I'm like "well maybe if they were $10 🙄" cause that's the thing like I'm always having to forgo my comfort to shave off dollars here and there it sucks!! Ultimately it's not gonna be like an ENORMOUS check it's a seasonal gig with only a certain amount of days buts it's still significantly more money I usually rake in per month so

I've made like one single more luxurious purchase of a couple skincare things cause I'm like scraping the end of my last jar of moisturizer and I really need to do something about my facial hair coming in it's getting itchy and feels kinda dry, I perused reddit and men say like working a quality balm into it down to the follicles before bed really helps, and wouldnt you know it the etsy shop that makes the moisturizers I really like makes a beard balm too??? 🥺 I'm using the word luxurious so loosely though like even that's not all that expensive it's just like fhjdgjkf I almost never buy any special things for myself these days like Me as a person is just not in my budget, but anyway that's probably mostly it for now at least until I find our like when checks get deposited like if it's weekly, biweekly, or what, and at the end of the whole season I'd like to see what my checking account looks like after evenings all deposited and my credit card balance is at 0

Oh I got so side tracked all I meant to get at originally was I passed out dead asleep when I got home and woke up less than an hour ago after having super weird stress dreams all afternoon/night... also my arms hurt, both of them, I'm gonna feel so shitty I just know it I just hope it passes before my rehearsal on the 14th

[millermenapologist]

https://www.tumblr.com/millermenapologist/753018718824660992/ive-read-right-now-your-list-of-topics-you-would?source=share

Actually, that was a smart fucking response!! I doubt I would answer in this level, I mean, you made me realize I talk like a teenager compared to you (that's a compliment btw💖)

And I as someone who haven't read the book, You managed to clarify some things I had no idea about, and the whole concept of 90s is actually true and a point that never came to my mind when thinking about lolita: this was an era in Hollywood with this concept of "oh naughty teenager falls in love with older man or a male with some kind of power (like a teacher)" - I mean, The Crush starring Alicia Silverstone is an example. Those really had a part of internalize to people the belief that teen girls have a dubious innocence.

And what you said by the end just confirmed that this movie is truly what I was thinking: a coquette horror story🫠

I feel bad for her. I mean, she had a hard ass fucking life even after him, and then died so early giving birth. When I remember about the girl reading in her backyard or loving a normal life with her mom, it's hard to imagine that this person is the same one that had that life and ending. Does the movie says something about her baby and husband, or not?

Anon you're too kind (๑•з•)))⋆♡⋆ฺ=͟͟͞͞=͟͟͞͞

Also, I 100% talk like a teenager too. I'm one of those annoying ass people who repeats "like" every other word, the magic of having learned English by watching YouTube videos from 2016. My writing just happens to be a lot more curated in style because my college internship was at a place that required a lot of writing and not only I was the only woman, but I was also the only ESL, so... it was the trenches. The trenches, I tell you!

Oh, and on this topic! In his entire career of (bestselling) writer, Nabokov rarely did impromptu interviews: if someone wanted to interview him, he'd ask for them to send him a letter containing all the questions they wanted to ask him, would type down the answers, and then read them out loud during the interview. He claimed that his reason to do so was because English wasn't his native language, but it was very much another way for him to fuck with people.

Rest of the "professional" answer below the cut, and beware that, because of the very last question, I'm gonna mention stillbirth.

We are still getting this kind of movies, tbh. Miller's Girl is from this year, and it comes with a very similar premise too: young girl (albeit this time we managed to get her to turn 18! Let the kingdom rejoice!) goes out of her way to seduce a much older man because the idea of it tickles her fancy, and, as a consequence, his life is ruined from top to bottom despite him being the actual victim of the story.

We did get a lot better, as a society, at treating kids like kids (just look at the stark difference between Katherine Hardwicke's Thirteen and Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade), but as soon as we're talking about (especially) girls in their late teens, then it's still treated like open season.

Anyways, yeah, the movie is a coquette horror story, and I can't but find funny the fact that so many people on TikTok got up in arms when others started referring to Lolita as "coquette." It is. We can acknowledge it's a story about a child being abused while also recognizing its soft atmosphere and pastel tones.

I do wish that the coquette people would also find a way to include the horror too, tho...

[...] to buying beautiful things for Lo. Goodness, what crazy purchases were prompted by the poignant predilection Humbert had in those days for check waves, bright cottons, frills, puffed-out short sleeves, soft pleats, snug-fitting bodices and generously full skirts! [...] Did I have something special in mind? coaxing voices asked me. Swimming suits? We have them in all shades. Dream pink, frosted aqua, glans mauve, tulip red, oolala black. Part 1, Chapter 25, p. 107

You picked them? They're just there for a second, a small detail that your brain barely notices, but Humbert did, indeed, refer to the shade of pink he wanted to buy for Dolores' swimsuit as "glans mauve," and the black swimsuit is not simple black, it's "oolala black," which hints towards it being a lacy undergarment designed to look sexy.

The whole book is littered with descriptions of what Dolores wears, and although the coquette style definitely does fit those descriptions, what it constantly misses is that sense of uneasiness that comes from them, the little details that make you furrow your eyebrows, re-read, and go "Oh."

Also, I definitely forgot to mention this in the other response, but I think that the movies (both) aged Dolores up, brought her to a very vague age that was around ~16ish, but in the book Nabokov was very clear: Humbert is only attracted to children aged from 9 to 14 at most (he has a whole monologue about it that wasn't brought up in neither of the adaptations), and Dolores was 12 when they first meet. The bulk of the novel takes place between the summers of 1947 and 1949, and Dolores was born on January 1st 1935. At her oldest, when she was with Humbert, she was 14.

Sooooo... to your actual question (the yapping I do, my god...).

Charlotte wasn't exactly a good mother to Dolores, and the movie sweetened her a lot, and not just because he brought Humbert into their home (it's a common trait of predators, to target single mothers to have easier access to children).

In the book, Dolores used to have a younger brother, a child who had died at 2 in a very tragic accident (he's never brought up again afterwards, but it does reinforce one of the main themes of the novel: childhood lost, in the most literal of senses), and Charlotte is hinted as having greatly preferred him to her daughter.

The reason why Humbert escalates to plotting her murder isn't because Charlotte sent Dolores to summer camp (although he complains and complains about it, defining it as him losing two months of her beauty), but because she wants to send her away forever.

"Ah," said Mrs. Humbert, dreaming, smiling, drawing out the "Ah" simultaneously with the raise of one eyebrow and a soft exhalation of breath. "Little Lo, I'm afraid, does not enter the picture at all, at all. Little Lo goes straight from camp to a good boarding school with strict discipline and some sound religious training. And then - Beardsley College. I have it all mapped out, you need not worry." Part 1, Chapter 20, p. 82-83

We have no reason to doubt the truthfulness of this conversation because it works in Humbert's favor: of course he planned to murder his wife! He wanted to take away from him the love of his life, whatever else was he supposed to do? Wouldn't the kind gentlemen of the jury understand his actions, had they been in his place?

So... Dolores would've probably ran away from her mother too, if she had had the possibility. Or from boarding school.

As for her husband and baby, the movie greatly diminished their role in the themes of the plot.

For starters, when she writes him the letter asking for help, she does so by opening with "Dear Dad," and then continues to do so for the entirety of it, referring to herself as "Dolly" in the bottom signature. She desperately wants to believe that that's what he'll now be for her: a father, nothing else. Just... she was terribly scared, and this is a sentiment that's completely overshadowed by Humbert's feelings. She's pregnant and penniless, and so terrified for her future that she went out of her way to contact the man who abused her for years (and that she suspects killed her mother) in the hope that he wouldn't act like a monster and lend her just enough money to get to Alaska, where her husband wants to go because he heard that there are a lot of jobs there.

And you know what his response to the letter is? He becomes angry, violent, and plans to murder her and her husband both. He goes to her house with the intention of doing so, and the only thing that stops him is that he suddenly finds himself recognizing his Lolita in Dolly.

Her husband, Dick (and yes, the name is not a random choice), is a hard-of-hearing man who is completely oblivious to what happened to her. Dolores, a girl who spent her entire life being unheard, ultimately married a man who cannot hear her either. She has to yell at him to be heard, has to scream or force herself into his field of vision to make sure he's paying attention. No matter how much the people say they feel for her, she's still isolated, she's still alone, she's still unheard. Dick is as deaf to her needs and voice and personhood as Humbert was.

As for the baby, we gotta do some plot "rearrangement". The movie opens with Humbert reminiscing his early adolescence spent on the French Riviera with Annabel (again, I still don't understand why in the adaptation they have sex, but whatever), and only at the end (and in text) we're told that Humbert died in prison, Dolores died in labor, and that her baby was a stillborn.

In the book, we get this information as a first thing, in a Foreword written by John Ray Jr, PhD, who informs the readers that:

[...] their author, had died in legal captivity of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. [...] Mrs. "Richard F. Schiller" died in childbirth giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. Foreword, p. 3-4

Nabokov makes you read the entire plot already telling you how it ends: Humbert gets arrested and these are his confessions, a woman married to a certain Richard Schiller dies in childbirth. You already know, and yet, plot-wise, it makes perfect sense that he'd spoil it within its very first few pages.

The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when Lolita is no longer alive. Part 2, Chapter 36, p. 308-309

Again, Nabokov is fucking with us. The sole act of getting the book published means that Dolores is dead, and therefore it should be of absolutely no surprise, when the reader realizes that "Mrs. Richard Schiller" is no other than the titular Lolita and that she died in childbirth (and generally, though, the very last paragraph of the novel contains so much information and deserves so much analysis that it'd require a post of its own lol.)

So, now for the baby.

One of the main themes of the story is that of the double (Dolores is the double of Annabel; Humbert is the double of Quimby; Charlotte is a double of Humbert's mother; Humbert's name itself is a double; in the scene in which they walk in their room at the hotel where Humbert assaults Dolores for the first time, he describes it by saying that each object has itself and then its twin reflection in the mirror), and Dolores' baby has a double too.

Some motels had instructions pasted above the toilet (on whose tank the towels were unhygienically heaped) asking guests not to throw into its bowl garbage, beer cans, cartons, stillborn babies. Part 2, Chapter 1, p. 146

It's the slightest of mentions, just as with many other things, but it's there, aids the theme and serves as foreshadowing for what's to come. And, again, Nabokov just genuinely liked fucking with his readers.

Uhm... I think this response is finished here? Lemme know if you (or anyone else) wants more of this, because I could seriously go on all day ʚ♡⃛ɞ(ू•ᴗ•ू❁)

[bell-the-reader]

Woven memories

I look through my closets and dressers, between my drawers and coat hangers, and soon enough I am drawn into a moment in time. I remember the hoodie I let him use because it was cold out that November night and I didn't want him to freeze while we were out having fun. I remember how it made him so soft and Golden Retriever-like with his blue polo shirt. I remember teasing him with kisses and pulling the hood over his head while under the lamplight. "He looks cute in my hoodie, is this how guys feel when girls steal their hoodies?" I remember my blouse that night, a nice auburn color with cold shoulder sleeves. I remember taking off my other jacket, an army green embroidered with flowers on the back, and he delicately traced patterns on my bare skin. The softness of his fingertips, the careful attention to my every reaction from him. The gentle tease from him. "I can see that your eyes rolled back. You like it, huh." My mouth couldn't form any smart words to say back, solely occupied with his fingers and where I wanted them next.

I remember the shirt I wore when I first kissed him, how it was hot that autumn evening, yet he still gave me giddy chills. How he traced patterns on my thighs and I did the same with the palm of his hand, on his pants leg. "I really want to kiss you right now, may I kiss you?" I remember the slight fear, the drop and flutter in my chest. How close our faces were when he said that. How badly I wanted it. "Yes, you may." It was nerve-racking and a little awkward and yet all so natural. The softness of it all, his lips on mine, the gentle and curious press and push from one another, how we stayed like that for a good minute before gently pulling away. How I desperately wanted more. "Can we please kiss again?" I pleaded softly. "Yeah," he said in a husky voice. How we started it gently before exploring more, before getting more passionate, before we broke apart, out of breath. Soon the use of our tongues and the tugs at each other, pulling ourselves closer was part of our routine. I would find him at the door of his class and gave him a passionate kiss before wishing him luck. In greeting, a bear hug before going in for a kiss, soft and sweet or wanting and yearning, the press of his hand on my back, my arms around his neck tugging him closer to me. How I wish for it to never end.

I remember the orange T-shirt and black jeans I wore when I first met his mom when he first held me in his arms, and when I felt the most comfortable with him after only knowing him for three weeks. I remember how tense he was to let me rest my head on his shoulders before he eased into it, gently rubbing my back and playing with my hair, how he placed his head atop mine. How drunk I was on this idea of love. And how even more drunk I was in love when we went to his dorm in those next few weeks, learning about each other's bodies and beginning to feel comfortable with the bareness, one less piece of clothing each time. There wasn't enough time for there to be nothing on each other.

One of the last times I had him with me, I wore my best sweater and jeans and had on my favorite boots and my pearl jewelry set. That December morning was chilly but the afternoon sun made it shine. I waited on a lawn chair for him, the jump in his step and the golden mess of his hair before getting up and running up to him for a hug. The impact left me breathless yet I was comforted by his open arms and tight embrace, like I was returning home. Soon our eyes met and we held gazes until we kissed. Kissed like there was an eternity, kissed so slow and deep as he was drawing me and leading me backward, not fearful of stumbling over my feet because he would catch me if I fell. I remember the weight of his hand on my waist and the gentle pressure he placed. I remember us sitting together for lunch, under the tree, and discussing our families' religions and memories in the church. As well as our personal issues, and how you were becoming less attracted to me. I remember you laid down while I was still processing your words. "In all honesty, my attraction for you has decreased in the last few weeks." You then patted the space beside you for me to lay down on and I complied, comforted by the fact that you still wanted me nearby, that you still wanted to hold me, that you still wanted to kiss me. And so I laid my head on your stomach and felt his hands make familiar patterns from under my tank top because he convinced me that the afternoon sun was warm enough to take off my sweater. How he decided to place his precious hat atop my head of curls so I wouldn't be blinded by the sun as he wore his sunglasses. How he made a promise to cook breakfast for me with fresh fruit and meat, and waffles and pancakes were on the table. How good he looked in his white T-shirt that made his arms bulge out with all that muscle. How I would love to stay like this forever if we could.

But we didn't last forever. I know because I remember I wore a new navy blue pajama set when I called your phone and you broke my heart. When I tried to stay calm and brave on the phone before my tears came flooding out like a dam broke. When I heard your own voice crack a few times even though I don't know if you shed a single tear for me. When I cried for days and days because I missed you and loved you. How I still love you. How I imagine things would be and associating these false memories with pieces of clothing. And I think how can I be guilty as sin for wanting you with me. For us together in my green dress for new years eve, or in one of your shirts while under your sheets. How I want to explore everything with you and yet I am limited to only the ghost of you and your gentle touch. Your kind eyes and sweet smile and beautiful laugh. Oh what trouble indeed with these memories woven into my being and the thread of my favorite T-shirt.

Sharing Clothes

Prompts about fictional people sharing their clothes.

enveloped in their warm jacket, with a soft blush

always stealing their cap and putting it on their own head

wearing their jersey, proudly displaying their name

sharing gloves, so both of them don't freeze

wearing their worn shirt to have a better sleep

wrapping their scarf around their neck, breathing in their smell

no one knows who the piece of clothing belongs to, because they're both wearing it

drowning in the other's clothes, because they are way too big, but loving it

loving to see their partner drowning so cutely in their clothes

having the same size, so strangers couldn't tell that they are sharing clothes, but they know and feel warm thinking about it

finding their own clothes in the other person's appartment

using the other's clothes as a pillow

wrapping the other person in the hoodie or jacket they are still wearing, so both of them can stay warm

dressing the other up in their own clothes, feeling a tiny bit possessive, but both loving it

[c0zmo-writes]

Notes for chapter 3 of Flock Together.

Warning!! There are several descriptions of injuries in this chapter!!

Chapter 3- And brother for a moment there / the world came back to life

@possum-quesadilla @crawlingcarcass @raineisinkless @katslitterbox

Chapter title is from “Livin’ it Up on Top” from Hadestown.

“I’m obsessed with this camera because was the last birthday gift Dead Mom ever gave me,” Lydia said.”

Emily is also the one who got Lydia into photography! She has a lot of attachment to that camera.

“She shivered and hugged her red and black spider web poncho close to her body.”

A reference to what she wears in the cartoon.

“At one point, she found the skeleton of a squirrel lying on a rock, which she took a selfie with.”

Perhaps this will come up again…

“It was a line of mushrooms, all black with bright blue spots, like an inverted fly agaric.”

Fly agarics are those mushrooms with red caps and white spots. Probably what you imagine when you think of a mushroom. They are also poisonous! They’re called fly agarics because they have ibotenic acid, which draws in and kills flies. Perhaps this is foreshadowing!

“A woman appeared in her view. She had split dyed black and green hair. She wore a light pink tshirt with a white long sleeve top underneath. She wore jeans and black combat boots. She was talking to someone Lydia couldn’t quite see.”

Shilo!!

“Nah, that fucker’s still lurkin’. I can smell its fear.”

Beetlejuice can, in fact, smell the fear on the squirrel.

“It was covered in pink feathers that trailed down its arms, legs, and chest. Like a flamingo.”

Little reference to chapter 14 of Birds of a Feather. He still does not enjoy being called a flamingo.

“She hoped that whatever it was wouldn’t hear the camera. A click. A turn of its head. Its inhuman eyes staring into hers through the tree branches.”

He heard the sound especially well due to his sensitive hearing.

“What tea is that?”

He was drinking green tea if anyone was curious.

“Lydia did notice Delia eyeing her scrapes and bandaged wounds. Lydia also caught Delia cleaning her blood-stained poncho that she left in the laundry room.”

Delia is worried about her. Even though they’re at each other’s throats all the time, Delia does still care about Lydia.

“When she came around to the staircase, she pushed her arms against the walls and swung her legs up.”

I tried so hard to find an image to describe this but I couldn’t. I’ll draw it eventually. I don’t even know how to properly describe it. I don’t know if the way she did it is possible. But I’ve got a vision.

“She would never get out. She was stuck like this, stuck in this basement until the end of time.”

Maybe a bit dramatic, but she’s a terrified kid. She’s probably not going to be thinking rationally.

“Come on, Adam. Let’s give her some space, she looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

Do you get it. Do you get the joke. Because they’re ghosts. It’s a ghost joke. Do you get it. Do you get the ghost jo

“really the only off putting thing about her appearance was the giant gash in her right arm that went from shoulder to wrist. It was deep, going all the way down to bone. There was another deep wound that circled around her other wrist.”

Barbara’s death wounds.

“Yes! We’re scaAaAry ghoOosts!” Adam waved his arms around, oohing and ahhing.”

Dorky Adam Maitland my beloved.

“We tried to scare away people with possession and simple tricks, but when that didn’t work, we had to up our game.”

Unlike the other iterations of the Maitlands, these guys actually became scary.

“so she decided to rent it to others at a very low price.”

It’s like $50 a night to stay there.

“Would you and your family mind leaving and never coming back?” Adam said.”

Musical reference.