#enemies to lovers is my bread and butter

[heygreyyart]

Hello!! It's been ages I wrote something this long in my second language and holy. shit. This was hard you guys, i think i'll stick to drawing lmao. This only fuels my admiration to you, writers!! also, enjoy this art wip in the meantime (●'◡'●)

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For Janna’s sake -- if she could shut up for only five seconds.

Calloused fingers run through the curly back of his chestnut hair, as Viktor shut his eyes attempting to pace himself down.

An exasperated sigh escaped from his pursed lips, the slender scientist had been unknowingly trapped against the desk from his own laboratory as the small, freckled frame against him defied the towering height between their bodies, thin arms positioned around him menacingly.

In a way, he found this endearing - Viktor knew she was trying to compensate for the lack of physical height between them by cornering him...little did she know, the scientist enjoyed it behind his unamused facade.

On the other hand, he hated the loud and dramatic antics Ella constantly played whenever they didn’t agree on anything – an unfortunate daily occurrence. 

“You’re making a scene, again. “ He muttered, his hoarse, tired voice lacking patience. He spent the past thirteen hours tinkering and testing some new calculations for the Hextech crystals. Just like his co-worker, the blue gems frantically reacted out of proportion. Dark eyes locked into his golden gaze, demanding him to continue speaking. Plump lips huffing as her arms slowly backed away, crossing around her chest in a swift motion. He noticed the red swelling in her eyes. Viktor assumed Ella spent the afternoon crying – a habit he once witnessed only because he found her wrecking her own sketches and cursing in a language he didn’t quite understand a night after sharing a meeting with council Medarda and the rest of that godforsaken rounded table. The little firecracker hated it when someone else had so much control over her… so of course, the most obvious route of action was to crawl back to him for a rematch. 

“You interpreted everything I said earlier in the worst possible way. As usual.” The red haired woman took a deep breath, puncturing eyes silently stared at his now perplexed features. If looks could kill, he knew for sure he’d end up laying cold dead for being too blunt for his own good. The grasp in his cane strengthened as he embraced Ella's impact.

Hot or cold and no way in between, that’s how it had always been. Ella would either ignore him for a couple of hours (or maybe a day or two if he was lucky enough), then she’d return to the lab in the middle of the night, angrily slam the door while making everyone around aware she was pissed as hell and curse him in every colourful and possible way.

Viktor didn’t care too much, he’d gotten far too used to her explosive attitude after spending six tortuous months working together. “Now it’s a good time for you to say whatever you actually meant to say today during our meeting.” She spat. 

What Ella lacked in height she manifested with her threatening attitude. For once she decided not to call him by his name. “Viktor” had a nicer ring in her ears but he didn’t deserve her sugar coated purrs.  

“You do realize what you did today will basically, fuck me and my team all over. Right? We need the funding. Jayce was this close to close the d–” “I am aware.” Viktor snapped quickly, dark eyebrows furrowing with frustration. 

“What you were not aware of, is the fact we do not need these businesses to use –exploit! – what we are doing here. We have enough resources to allow them to turn this revolutionary step for all humanity into a pathetic sponsor deal." 

The slender man got up and backed away from the bomb exploding right in front of him. He noticed the redhead clamped her hands furiously and impulsively slapped the hard and cold surface of the desk. 

“So fuck the rest, right? As long as you and Jayce have enough toys to play in your lab. Is that all you care about, Viktor? This funding would have allowed us to display this project everywhere in Piltover, all of Runeterra even! Alas, improving our chances to continue what we’re doing for at least two more years.” The artist let out a frustrated, resigned sigh. Manicured hands covered her face in a fruitless attempt of self soothing. White spotted fingers quickly moved to the immense hair bun to remove one thick brush that kept the hairdo from falling down only to re-do her characteristic hairstyle. Viktor had noticed that this was another habit of hers, a routine to avoid descending into madness. Nothing this woman did went unnoticed by anyone– especially to his attentive eyes. “I understand you never actually had to go through cutting expenses, the academy has a tendency to only reject the art department’s projects and practically fire everyone... “

She started, eyes wandering around the laboratory looking for anything to distract the angry and loud pounding of her heart. “Excuse me? You don’t have the faintest idea what I had to endure to get where I – “ 

Viktor raised his voice, his accent thick and rabid. His slender figure drew near to her, and for a moment he fantasized of whacking the brat’s head with his cane. “--But we’re required to explain every little spending we do.” Ella cut him off defiantly. 

“And unfortunately…I can’t say “science happened” like Jayce and you love to tell Heimerdinger whenever you spent last three month’s expenses for just one test.” “Science happened?” Viktor repeatedly exasperated. Speechless.

[tommensbaratheons]

Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know

[fatalelity]

addison dating villains (or really just anti-heroes / anti-villains) is just her like "ok yes they're dangerous but have you seen their beautiful eyes? have u seen how love starved and touch starved they are? that's my babey"

[hexedrosel-arts]

There is something wrong with me (I'm making content for myself and people who I think are vv cool)

Also funky little bonus

[oyaoyaoyaa]

I literally don’t even care if Koza is bad (which idk if he is even really), I want him and Vivi to be HAPPY TOGETHER

[rose-maidenn]

🔸️Pick a card 🔸️

1-2-3

♧Let me describe the way you speak

♤What do people think of that

◇ A tip

Hi guys so nice to see you here I hope life's been extra sweet to the sweet angel that you are ❤️✨️ for this reading choose a picture from the above intuitively, take what resonates and leave the rest , enjoyyy ✨️

Images via Pinterest, dividers by @enchanthings

Pile 1 :

♧Let me describe the way you speak

What I get is that your voice is kinda breathy and you speak like an ancient wanderer who has seen a lot of the world, I feel like you're someone to whom people come for advice , also one of your friends is forwarding your voice messages to a secret lover omg 😂 don't worry this isn't creepy because that can be someone from your friend group . Your prime aim of speech seems to be motivating people, though you don't claim to know a lot but whatever you know you know it by your heart and that's what makes you loved among your friends and feared among your enemies

♤What do people think of that

People think you're the light to their shadow no really you sound like an angel like a billie eilish , lana del vibe really 💌 it screams a bunny like maiden energy but also a very wise women by the way you speak , I feel like some people are naturally inclined to ask you for directions the visitors in your city , you might have a mole on your face that's so attractive . People might wanna set your voice as a lullaby .

◇ A tip

Okay so get that you might stutter at the pronunciation of a certain letter in the alphabet , I get that you should observe the mouth movement of the people who talk to you it will help you a lot , Avoid cold foods if you have migrane issues . Elevate your knowledge to about some recent social or celebrity news as well because soon you're gonna find a group that's gonna help you go far ahead so win the world my little angel 🎀

Pile 2 :

♧Let me describe the way you speak

I think most people here are people who are contralto , alto or husky voiced , more men might be here as well , your voice seems like the one in those youtube audios all I can say is your voice is ultra s**y it's silky like butter on fresh bread or water , your voice is versatile you also might be into beat boxing or rapping . You have nice breath control . The prime aim of your speech is to keep your thoughts to the world , you're up to date in studies and social affairs .

♤What do people think of that

People down right want your voice ❤️‍🔥 you're like an husky Ariel .you have nice pronunciation, because of having a deep voice if you rap often people find it so attractive and want to learn they literally mimic how to speak like you but it's actually so natural to know you don't even try . You're someone who might be able to talk to a room full of people and make them listen to what you have to say because of how much emphasis you can put through your voice .

◇ A tip

Though you're good at sentence formation, you often mess up a little on how to say a certain word in a sentence like " I think a bird is meant to be free " here if the subject is the bird your voice might put more focus on the meant and it's very subconscious so try putting more emphasis on what you want to get through to the people. What a good life to be as amazing as you ❤️‍🔥

Pile 3 :

♧Let me describe the way you speak

You have a very indigenous voice, a voice that reeks of mountains or ancient voice very beautiful sultry or gorgeous✨️ , a very country or folk song oriented voice , a voice that reaches the blood of the people your larynx seems to work like an instrument, some of you might have learned music as a child like doremifa or saregamapa you're a great singer . On the other hand some people in this pile might also have a very shrill feminine voice that's loud but commanding very unique voice like 2000s Paris Hilton vibe .

♤What do people think of that

You remind people of their roots I feel like your political stances are very appreciated they like the way you speak about your art and the instances of your life almost like poetry in motion. You might be good at selling things because of the way you passionately speak about the things you wanna Market . You will make a great youtuber because you know how to cater each audience you're very street smart . The prime aim of your speech is expression .

◇ A tip

One tip for you might be to focus on speaking up more you have so much art inside you but also you're an introvert but you know you'll do more good to the world by speaking more than keeping it to yourself , ofcourse take your time as to be comfortable around your setting to let your true thoughts flow from your heart to your throat , it's more like this because you're a little scared also a blockage in your heart chakra work on it I'm sure you're a rock star ✨️

Thanks for being here ❤️ dm to book a personal reading ✨️

[joelscurls]

stalemate

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

words: 7.2k

summary: Frankie Morales is your best friend — until a drunken hookup tears you apart.

warnings: 18+ minors dni; friends -> enemies -> lovers, TF characters without the TF plot, no Tom (in this house we hate Tom), alcohol consumption, smoking, angst, jealousy, pining, Frankie & reader being idiots in love, explicit smut, size kink, brief mentions of drunk sex, bad / regretful sex (between reader & OC), oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (bebita, querida, baby, etc.), grilled cheese as a love language, happy ending, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

a/n:  thank you so much to @javisashtray & @pedgito for beta-reading this for me <3 this is for all my frankie lovers out there (aka bitches with good taste). dividers are by cafekitsune. follow @joelscurlsupdates for fic notifications! enjoy :)

Frankie Morales makes the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had. Perfectly golden bread; gooey, melty cheese — just the thought of it makes you drool. He says he has a secret ingredient. Won’t let you in the kitchen while he cooks for you, lest you find out. 

Sometimes, upon entering his apartment, you can already smell melted butter. He’ll have started on one without even asking if you want it. He knows you always do. 

Sit, he’ll shout from the other room. I’ll be right there. Feel free to put something on — but please, not 13 Going on 30. You’ll thank him and question his distaste for Mark Ruffalo in the same breath: you’re the best, but it’s not my fault Matty is the dream man.

He’ll bring you the wafting plate along with a Corona, and insist that you eat before it goes cold while he makes one for himself. Ever the gentleman, ever the friend — at least he was.

Because the two of you haven’t spoken in a month; not since the drunken hookup that you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

You’d laughed the entire cab ride home from the bar. That last round of tequila shots had left you feeling good, all warm and giggly, and Frankie mirrored you in the backseat with his drunken grin. Eyes glassy, lips pulled wide, he’d smacked you lightly on the shoulder as you recalled Santiago’s pitiful loss in that third game of pool. “When he pocketed the eight-ball…” he trailed off into another fit of laughter. 

“And then—“ you attempted, voice caught in your throat as another giggle barreled out. “—the cue hitting his drink!” Your entire body folded over, hands braced on Frankie’s thighs as the two of you struggled to regain composure. Through labored breaths, you squealed. “He’s never going to live that down!”

After a few particularly stressful months at work, you lived for these nights out with your friends. You’d met Frankie through your best friend Mal, who was dating his friend Benny, and your circles had eventually meshed into one. Sometimes it felt like it had always been that way, like you’d known the guys your entire life.

Especially Frankie.

Your friendship was a special one — punctuated by frequent trips to the movies to watch the latest horrible slasher film; by nights spent yapping on the phone about nothing in particular. He’d become a constant in your life. Never, in your right mind, would you even dream of doing anything to jeopardize that— 

“You look really hot tonight, by the way.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have. But then it was you who leaned in closer, you who rested your hand on his hip and plucked the Standard Heating Oil cap off his head, placing it atop your own.

It was you who kissed him first.

He deepened it though — that was all him — large, restless hands grasping at your sides, your back, your face; tongue pushing past the seam of your lips to press against yours. He’d groaned into your mouth when the cab stopped at the curb in front of your building. Cursed under his breath when you pulled away.

And then, your voice ragged and breathless, you’d asked, “do you want to come in for a bit?”

It was a mistake. A horrible, blissful mistake. Waking up with sticky thighs and Frankie’s thumbprint bruised into your hip, you’d found his side of the bed cold; your inbox empty. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Still hasn’t.

The aftermath is cursory glances. Half-assed greetings and pleasantries murmured across the bar. Which you don’t mind, really. You don’t want to speak to him. He’d probably just feed you some lie about losing track of time, not remembering what happened that night.

You wish you could forget it.

The visual is fuzzy; fleeting. But his voice — god, his voice — it still rings in your ears, drips at the nape of your neck like a leaking tap: fuck, baby, knew you’d take my cock; feel so good wrapped around me.

Your friends don’t know. They can’t; they wouldn’t let you live it down. Benny has made plenty of offhand comments already about you and Frankie being perfect for each other, having the same stubborn disposition. Mal does nothing to shut him up. Instead, she encourages him. Tells him he’s so right. 

You’re pretty sure your eyeballs are going to fall out someday from glaring too hard.

Because you’re not perfect for each other — far from it, actually. Fuck, you can’t even communicate effectively. How could you ever be in a real relationship? 

Not that you want that. Frankie is…well, Frankie. Sure, he’d felt undeniably incredible on top of you, inside of you — but he isn’t the type to settle down. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Frankie talk about dating. 

Besides, he’s clearly not interested in being anyone’s anything right now. Not even your friend. 

It hurts; cuts deeper than you care to admit. Just weeks ago, you’d spent an entire weekend at his place, marathoning the X Files and gorging on cold pizza. Now, he won’t even look your way for more than a few seconds. 

Won’t make you a fucking grilled cheese.

It’s a Friday night, which means you’re meeting your friends at Sid’s. The glow of neon seeping through the windows of the old dive bar is warm and inviting as you step out of your rideshare and make your way toward the doors.

Frankie is sitting at the bar with Santiago when you enter. Hunched shoulders, narrowed eyes trained on his bottle of Corona, he appears detached from whatever Santi is saying to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you stroll up to them — not until his friend’s hand lands hard on his back, pulling his attention away from the beer. He offers a half-assed hello and an even more half-assed half-hug, and then he’s sliding back onto his barstool. 

Ever-oblivious, Santiago doesn’t seem to notice the way Frankie curls in on himself; the way your back is up like an agitated cat’s.

Mal and Benny turn up minutes later, immediately ordering a round of shots for the group. You down the liquor eagerly, not bothering to lean on salt and lime to numb the sting. You want to feel it. You order another before joining Mal and the guys at a pool table in the back, letting the acid slide down your throat with no more than a wince as Santi racks the balls.

“Alright Fish, you’re up,” he says. “Me and you. Whoever loses buys the next round.”

You watch as Frankie quirks a brow at him. Takes a swig of his beer. “You sure you want to make that bet, Pope?”

Santi grins; nods confidently. “Hell yeah, I do.” The rest of you don’t bother to suppress your laughter. You catch a glimpse of Frankie, head thrown back, his broad, glistening neck exposed, and you have to fight to ignore the sudden panging in your chest.

When Santi inevitably loses, you order a vodka soda. You’re already feeling a bit tipsy after two shots in less than twenty minutes, so the drink goes down smooth; quick. There’s a rush to your head as you settle back at the bar and fiddle with the wrapper to your straw, letting the slightly soggy paper roll between two fingers.

You barely notice when Frankie slots in a few seats down, your attention drawn only when you hear his voice. It’s deep — sounds just like it did when he had his chest pressed to your back in the dim light of your bedroom — and his intonation nearly gives you whiplash. 

When you snap your head up to look at him, you find he’s speaking to a woman. Her back is turned to you, long, dark hair tossed over her shoulder and her elbow resting casually on the bartop, but you imagine she must be beautiful by the way Frankie is visibly fawning over her. You’re staring, you hear her tease. Can’t help it, comes his reply.

Something like discomfort builds in your throat. Rises up up up. You take a long sip of your drink, letting vodka and sugar push it down. 

You’ve never seen Frankie flirt with anyone, apart from you. It’s strangely unsettling, listening to him smooth-talk her. I’m a pilot, you know, he brags; could take you up in the sky someday if you wanted. Her giddy squeal comes seconds later; really? You’d do that for me?

You feel bad for her. She doesn’t know yet that all he’ll do is disappoint her.

He feeds her lines as you sip on your drink, citrus and grain burning only when he tells her: yeah, I came with friends; they’re all over there. Gestures toward Benny, Mal and Santi standing around the pool table in the back.

Scoffing, you stand from your seat at the bar and retreat to the patio. You don’t bother to check if Frankie is looking. 

It’s cooler here, a sobering breeze carrying salt air with it as it wafts by. A few patrons have spilled outside, most smoking on faintly glowing cigarettes as they talk and laugh boisterously among themselves. You’d planned to sit alone, to plant yourself on a bench and enjoy your drink in solitude. But then a stranger is approaching you — a man, cigarette grasped between two of his fingers — and he’s asking you for a light.

He’s in his mid thirties, if you had to guess. Curly, dark hair sprouts every which way from his scalp; rounded, green eyes studying you as he awaits a response. He’s tall, though not as tall as Frankie.  His shoulders aren’t nearly as broad and his chest isn’t quite as wide. His t-shirt hangs loose around his torso, swallowing his narrow frame — dissimilar to the way Frankie’s button-down clings to him. 

Then again — why are you even comparing? Maybe the opposite of Frankie is exactly what you need. 

You’ll have to seduce this stranger first, though. Not that it seems like it’ll be very difficult. His eyes are already raking over you, lips turned up at the corner as you take a casual sip of your drink.

“I don’t smoke,” you admit apologetically. 

“Ah — that’s alright.” 

He has an accent; midwestern, maybe? You don’t bother to ask. You don’t care, really. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is—

“You here all by yourself?”

“Yeah,” he laughs at your lack of subtlety. “Are you?”

“No,” you say. “My friends are inside.” Lowering your voice, you add, “but I was thinking about leaving soon.”

“Why’s that? Early morning tomorrow?”

You shake your head. Rub at your neck as if working out a knot, a contented hum pushing past your lips at the press of fingers into skin. Your stranger’s eyes trail rather conspicuously downward.

“Just over it,” you sigh exasperatedly. “I’d much rather be home…in bed���out of these clothes.”

You pull gently at the strap of your dress, as if you can’t bear the sensation of it against your shoulder any longer.

Your stranger’s gaze darkens, and the grip on his box of cigarettes grows tighter.

“You uh — want some company — once I find a light?”

Too fucking easy.

“Sure,” you giggle.

He slips away only for a minute or two, giving you just enough time to second-guess yourself. You know nothing about this man, not even his name; only that he smokes American Spirits and smells like tobacco. Should you really go home with him? 

But then you think of Frankie inside  — talking up a woman at the bar, pretending that you don’t exist — and that just about makes up your mind for you.

Your stranger reappears, now-lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The tip of it rages red and angry, and you think you know how that feels.

He smirks at you as he stuffs the pack into the front pocket of his jeans. An unceremonious silence hangs in the air as he sucks on the filter and puffs out a string of smoke. You wait patiently for him, quietly. 

He snuffs the butt of his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. Takes your empty cup and discards that too. 

Can’t wait to get you home, he whispers in your ear then. You feign arousal, peering up at him and batting your eyelashes. Me neither, you mewl. Let’s go.

You lead him back through the bar, finding Mal and letting her know that you’ll be going. She seems a little perplexed, quirking a brow at you as you grip tightly onto your stranger’s arm, but she tells you to have fun anyway. Text me, she mouths as you make your way to the exit.

You only get a few feet, though, before you’re intercepted.

Frankie is blocking the door, arms crossed, a panic-stricken look on his face that you can’t quite comprehend. “Hey,” he says, “can I talk to you real quick?”

Your stranger backs off. Lets go of your arm and starts out the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he says, slipping away with a wink before you can protest.

The bar is bustling with noise, people in every corner drinking and laughing and dancing. Strangely, though, you’ve never felt so alone. So vulnerable. And you hate that Frankie has this power over you, the innate ability to make you feel so fucking small. It’s infuriating, it’s—

“Are you sure you want to leave with him?”

“Excuse me?” you scoff. 

Frankie stares you down, face red, eyes inky-black. “You don’t know this guy, do you? What if he’s a murderer or something? Or like — a pervert?” 

He’s grasping at straws, you know it. It’s why you laugh; roll your eyes. 

“What are you, my keeper?”

“No, it’s just — I’m just concerned for your safety, okay?”

You’re briefly stunned. After weeks of ignoring you, he cares about your wellbeing? How can he be so hypocritical?

“I’m fine,” you bite back. “Why don’t you go back to your girl at the bar? Worry about getting yourself some instead?”

He’s wounded, if only slightly. His lips part like he might retaliate, but he’s silent. Dejected. Satisfied, you brush past him. March out the door without so much as a parting glance.

Finding your stranger leaning against the bar’s brick exterior, you force a smile. He outstretches a hand and you take it, reluctantly. “Ready to go?” he asks. 

You’re not so sure anymore, but you nod anyway. Squeeze your stranger’s bicep and preen under his lustful gaze when he tenses in your grip. “Yeah,” you purr. “I’m ready.”

Cold air bites at your toes the following morning. It wakes you from a deep slumber; bitterly pulls you into consciousness. Confused, you yank at the covers. But a mysterious weight holds them in place, and only then do you remember then that you’re not alone. 

Eyes sliding open reluctantly, you scan the room. Your dress from the night before is draped over the chair in the corner, your stranger’s clothes piled up on the floor nearby. He snores next to you, an arm raising to hang above his head, and you shift. Slip out of bed and pull a t-shirt on before padding into the bathroom.

Early morning light spills across tile, bounces off the mirror above the sink. You squint, shuffling over to the window and yanking the blinds closed. Then you check for damage in your reflection. Your makeup from the night before has stained your cheeks and your eyes look as tired as you feel, but otherwise there appears to be no physical evidence of your rock bottom.

The sex wasn’t great — not even good, really. Your stranger had lasted all of three minutes, had fanned his hot breath across the shell of your ear as he came, and then collapsed on top of you. Rolled over and drifted to sleep. He’d started snoring before you could even process what had just happened.

Cold water splashed across your cheeks does nothing to cool the burn of regret that scorches your skin. You feel uncomfortable, almost as if your body is tainted, now, remnants of your stranger leaking from between your thighs as you steady yourself at the edge of the sink. 

He must’ve heard the tap, or maybe the pounding in your chest, because he emerges seconds later. He yawns and stretches, feline-like, in the doorway. “Hey,” he mutters. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good,” you say, eyes twitching slightly as you will them to stay put above his waistline. 

“You always up this early?”

You nod. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that you’d nearly jumped out of bed at the sight of him still there. He doesn’t need to know that for a split second, you’d almost hoped it was Frankie.

He asks if you want to get breakfast. You shake your head in faux-sympathy. “Sorry, can’t. I was hoping to get some cleaning done.”

“I could stick around and help,” he offers. 

Jesus Christ. Just take the fucking hint.

“That’s so nice of you; I’m just more efficient by myself,” you lie again. 

If Frankie were here, he’d grab the cleaning rags out of the closet just off the kitchen. He knows where they’re kept: second shelf, on the left. He’d wipe down the counters and the coffee table while you’d work on clearing dishes, disposing of pizza scraps. And he’d probably put on his dad-rock playlist — against your wishes — though you’d inevitably find yourself dancing to Foo Fighters and giggling when he’d sing along and mess up the words.

It begins to sink in then, as you shoo your stranger, now dressed, out the door, that your attempt to use sex as a way to get Frankie out of your head was useless. He’s still there, refusing quite adamantly to budge, all mussed curls and big eyes and deep voice. There’s no evidence that he’ll be leaving any time soon.

The revelation renders you nauseous. You spend the rest of the day with a hangover that you’re sure has not been induced by alcohol. And by the time night falls, darkness descending over your bedroom like a fog, you still feel sick.

A week later, you drag yourself to Benny and Mal’s for their monthly game night. You’d tried to get out of it, told Mal you haven’t been feeling great — which isn't a total lie — but she’d begged you until you broke. 

Will is coming, and it’ll be the first time we’ve all gotten together in over a year, she’d whined through the receiver. 

And then-

I know things were weird between you and Frankie last time at the bar, but you can’t let that stop us from seeing each other.

How do you know that, you’d asked, chewing on your bottom lip, the phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder.

He basically moped around the rest of the night after you left. Kept bitching about you leaving with that guy. He seemed really…agitated. You don’t have to tell me what happened, just please don’t bail.

So you’re here, steeling yourself as you climb the steps to the front door, hoping that if nothing else, you can make it through the night without strangling Frankie for his lack of discretion. 

You enter the house with baited breath.

Your eyes immediately catch Frankie, tucked into the corner of the sectional, fingers wrapped tightly around his beer. He meets your gaze briefly before letting it slip to the floor by his feet, as if he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t seen you at all. 

“Hi,” you try.

He looks back up at you, or rather past you. Taps his fingers along the bottle for a long moment. “Hey,” he says finally, to the wall behind your head.

“How have you been?” the words come out forced, almost foreign. You shift your weight awkwardly and he sighs. 

“Fine. I’m fine.” 

“Right,” you mutter. More silence. “Me too, in case you were wondering.”

“Good,” he says, voice cold. “That’s good.”

You’re not sure whether you want to slap him or kiss him. Because as infuriating as he’s being right now, he looks gorgeous, denim shirt hugging his biceps, his shoulders; stray curls peaking out from under that stupid Standard Heating Oil hat. You yearn to rip it off his head, run your fingers through his hair, nip along the sharp line of his jaw; the broad expanse of his neck.

You long to feel something other than the prominent ache that’s permeated your body for weeks, now. And you fear that he’s the only one who’d be able to alleviate it.

Your mouth opens again just as Benny emerges from the kitchen. Whatever words you were about to utter are lost in the ether as he pulls you into a suffocating hug and thanks you for coming. 

“Mal’s in the kitchen,” he says. Grabs a handful of Lays from a bowl on the coffee table and shovels them into his mouth. Still chewing, he adds, “we got those wine coolers you like; they’re in the fridge.”

With a hurried thanks, you slip away unscathed.

You find Mal crouched in front of the open fridge, rustling through a produce drawer stocked with beer cans. 

“Hey,” you announce. 

She seems almost surprised to see you when she cranes her neck toward your voice, despite your promise to show. Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, it’s as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulls another drawer open. Fishes out a wine cooler and passes it to you with an outstretched arm. 

You take it in one hand. Help her up with the other. 

“You’re here,” she says, and it sounds like more of a question than a statement. 

“Yeah. I said I would be.”

“I know, I know. It’s just — I wasn’t sure. The whole Frankie thing…” 

“It’s nothing; I promise,” you lie. “Water under the bridge. We’re fine.”

She quirks a brow at you, disbelief coloring her features, but she lets it go. Closes the fridge with a thunk and adjusts her sweater at the hem. “Good,” she says. “I don’t want you two ruining game night.”

It’s half a joke, but you know deep down she means it. She takes this all very seriously. Back in college, she’d forced you and your suitemates to play Cards Against Humanity with her every weekend. None of you had the heart to tell her when it started to grow monotonous, and so the tradition carried on well past graduation, eventually evolving into a new tradition with new friends.

Games bring people together, she’d said once over a round of Monopoly that had stretched well into the night, resulting in delirious laughter and a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest.

You’d believed her at the time. Now, you’re not so sure that it’s foolproof.

The two of you rejoin the guys in the living room, Santiago and Will having shown up in your absence. You greet them as Benny pulls out a stack of game boxes. Settle on the couch, as far away from Frankie as you can manage.

It starts during the second round of Charades. 

The first round had gone fine — good, even. Teamed up with Santi and Will, you’d avoided eye contact with Frankie for the whole of it. Focused only on guessing Santi’s horribly-mimed clues in between handfuls of trail mix and sips of watermelon-flavored bubbles.

It’d felt a bit like old times, all of you in one room again. Mal snuggling into Benny on the loveseat; Will catching his brother up on time spent touring the country, giving motivational speeches to recently discharged veterans. He’d asked you how you’ve been as Santi studied his next word, and you’d remembered then that everything was very much not how it once was.

And you hadn’t missed Frankie’s discomfort at the question; the way he set his beer bottle down on the table with a bit too much force, glass clanging against wood. Though if Will noticed too, he hadn’t said anything. Just moved into a story about some woman he met on the road that reminded him of you.

Santi’s turn had ended with a whopping zero points for your team, and now Frankie is standing at the front of the room, unfolding the scrap of paper in his hand and reading it to himself. In the lull, you find yourself staring at him, eyes near glazing over at the sight of the tiny paper pinched between long, thick fingers. Fingers you remember the reach of, the weight of. 

He crumples the paper and stuffs it into his pocket, signaling that he’s ready to go. Mal flips over the sand timer on the table. And you almost don’t notice at first when he starts, mind occupied by equal parts lust and annoyance, that he’s fucking mouthing the phrase.

You watch, enraged, as Benny squints to read his lips. He raises his hand excitedly and jumps to his feet; yells out the answer with a sureness that Frankie affirms with a nod. 

“That’s right. It’s the Empire State Building.”

“That’s fucking cheating!” you shout, a bit angrier than the situation calls for, and the room grows quiet. Fury coursing through you, you add, “are you fucking serious, Frankie?”

You feel the eyes on you; the awkward sheen you’ve cast over the room. Mal shifts across from you, glaring when you turn to face her, and you laugh defensively. 

“What, nobody else thinks that’s unfair?”

“Please,” Frankie sneers. 

“No, she’s right,” Santi tries — ever the peacemaker. “We’ll just add a rule going forward; no mouthing the words.”

“Fuck that,” you hiss. “I want their point taken away.”

Frankie scoffs from the other side of the room. “Bullshit! We earned that before the rule was added.”

You’re fuming now, standing to get a bit closer to his height; though he still towers over you. Mal is right on your heels, placing a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to placate you. You brush her off. Take another stride toward Frankie.

“There shouldn’t need to be an official rule against it, Frankie. It’s common fucking sense — which clearly, you have none of.”

Visibly offended, he says nothing. Just tenses his jaw.

“Why did you come tonight?” you continue, voice more level now; direct. 

You hear your name uttered behind you, tone pleading, warning. You ignore it. 

“Seriously, why?”

He’s quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, eyes pointed at the floor again.  

“What are you talking about?” he spits, finally. 

You laugh, amused and irritated, and these things somehow feel one in the same. “I mean, clearly you don’t want to be in my presence or even acknowledge my existence — unless it’s to cockblock me — so why are you here?”

His brows furrow; lips twist. For a second, you think he might actually leave. He adjusts his cap, jangles the car key in his pocket — but Benny stops him before he can take a step.

“Just — cut it out, okay? Both of you.”

“He’s the one-“

“I don’t care,” Benny interjects. Scanning the room, you catch sight of Santi and Will and Mal, all visibly agitated, and you sigh.

Guilt washes over you, then. The twisting of Santi’s face, Mal’s doleful stare, the wordless look exchanged between Benny and Will. All confirm your fear that you’ve effectively ruined their night. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

Frankie echoes your apology. Still, the others aren’t impressed. 

“I don’t know what’s been going on lately with you two, but you need to figure this shit out,” Benny says. He sounds like a parent: stern and slightly disappointed. “Can you please just — go in the other room and talk through it?”

Though you haven’t much cared for Frankie’s opinion as of late, you still turn to him to gauge his reaction. He appears just as hesitant as you are, just as guilt-stricken. But something more lurks behind his eyes — something like fear, anxiety. Why, you aren’t sure.

You raise a brow at him, a wordless question. He answers with a sigh. 

“Fine,” you both say at once.

“Thank goodness,” Mal chimes. Herding you two like cattle with a hand on each of your backs, she leads you out of the living room and into the adjoining hallway. 

Her voice drones behind you as you make your way toward the third door on the right. Shall we continue the game?

The guest room is primly kept. It appears almost untouched at first glance, though you know that to be untrue. You’ve stayed here before, after blurry nights spent drinking shitty gin and singing karaoke. That must’ve been years ago now, though, after Mal and Benny first bought this house, and you begin to wonder if your tumultuous friendship with Frankie only made you neglect your friendship with her. And that only adds to the anger stirring inside of you — because what was it all worth, if it’s ended up like this?

Frankie closes the door behind him with a click, and the air in the room feels exponentially thicker. 

“What the fuck was that?” you hiss. 

He scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who freaked out and started an argument over nothing!”

“It wasn’t nothing. You were cheating.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. Takes two steps toward you. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “so you are aware that you’ve been an asshole?”

He says your name, voice suddenly lower, softer. Your entire body tenses as you struggle to keep strong, to not think about how it sounded in your ear in the midst of pleasure.

“I wasn’t trying to be-”

You throw a hand up; silence him. “Well you have been,” you groan. “You’ve been a huge fucking asshole. You hurt me, Frankie. You were my best friend, and then you just… stopped returning my texts. You won’t even look at me when we’re in the same room together. Did you regret it that much?”

The room goes still. You watch as Frankie’s chest rises and falls arduously, his eyes settling on you. They’re dark, pupils blown wide, squeezing shut as he exhales long and hard.

“No.”

You quirk a brow at him, confused.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, averting his gaze. “And that’s the problem — I didn’t regret it at all.” His eyes lift slowly, finding you again, voice more sure when he adds, “I’ve wanted it for a long time”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, your heart climbing its way out of your ribcage and up your throat. You gulp, feeling the shape of it there as saliva slowly slides past. 

He takes another two steps forward, mere inches from you now, and your breath hitches.

“Do you know how difficult it’s been to look at you without getting fucking hard?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve fucked my fist in the past month imagining it was you?”

Your mouth falls open, stunned. “That girl at the bar-”

He shakes his head. “I thought maybe if I fucked someone else, it would help.”

“And did it?”

“I didn’t — I didn’t go home with her,” he admits, a little bashfully. “I couldn’t do it.” 

His hand lifts, then, cautious and shaky. It finds its way to your face, grazes your jaw so softly you’d think you imagined it if you couldn’t see.

“Why not?” you squeak.

He nods, as if he’s finally accepting something he’s known to be true, admitting it to himself before he does so out loud.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

It feels as if your entire world has spun on its axis. 

Without thinking, you wrap your hand around Frankie’s neck and pull him toward you, crashing your lips into his with a groan. He’s quick to respond, desperately tangling his fingers in your hair and winding his tongue around yours, a broken moan slipping from his throat. 

For a long moment, that’s all it is. It’s clashing teeth and restless hands; the draw of blood and the taste of it, earthy and metallic on your tongue. It’s the two of you, reconciling for lost time and unshared feelings and the overlooked need for each other through tangled bodies. 

And when you finally pull apart, his lips are swollen and his eyes are glazed over, and you’re sure you don’t look much different.

“Frankie,” you whine as his mouth latches to your neck, warm and wet. He doesn’t retreat; just hums against you. 

“Need you,” you say breathlessly. “Need you to touch me.”

His large hand skates down your front, under the waistband of your leggings. He presses two fingers against your clothed clit, and your knees buckle. You lean into him, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest as he begins rubbing small, deliberate circles into cotton. 

Lips trailing up to your ear, he nibbles at the lobe. Presses his tongue just behind the shell of it and sighs. “Been wanting this since that night. Want to make you feel good. Want to do it right.”

You mewl in response, high-pitched and too loud, and you have to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out again. He’s still working you toward the brink, pace relentless, beseeching you every time you buck into his hand. 

There you go baby, that’s it; I got you. 

You know he does, can feel the support of his unoccupied hand at the small of your back, holding you to his strong body. And god, how you’ve missed the feeling of it pressed to yours. You think that that alone could make you come.

You feel yourself slipping as your orgasm approaches, legs slumping underneath you more and more with every pass of his fingers. “Frankie,” you warn, teeth still anchored in his skin. “I’m going to-“

The words are muffled, but he gets it. Presses down harder and works his fingers faster. “Come on baby,” he growls in your ear, “come on.”

Your orgasm hits you so hard that you collapse, your body dead weight in Frankie’s grip as you writhe. He grasps onto you tightly, working you through it with his unyielding touch, swiping back and forth, back and forth as the final waves crest. 

You’re panting when it ends, and still when Frankie helps you to the edge of the bed. Perched there, staring up at him with glassy eyes, you realize you’ve never felt so sated and so needy at the same time.

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, baby?” 

“Please fuck me.”

He should probably say no. After all, you’re in your friends’ guest room, people just a few hundred feet on the other side of the door. But then again, he’s already made you come.

You watch him consider it, eyes flickering to the door and back to you, dark and deep and pooling with want. 

In the end, he can’t help himself.

“Can you be quiet, querida?” 

You nod, though you’re sure that even if you said no, he wouldn’t care. He’d do just as he’s doing now: pressing your shoulder, encouraging you to lay down on the bed; helping you pull your sneakers off, then your leggings, then your shirt; stepping back to marvel at your half-naked form before him. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and your entire body heats from the inside out. You feel like you’re on fire, his stare keeping you alight as he undresses down to his boxers.

He climbs over you with a hand on either side of your head, pressed into the mattress. The lip of his hat bumps you, and you immediately rip it off of him, tossing it aside and tangling your fingers in dark curls. 

You tug at them, dragging him down until his face is hovering just above yours, and he responds with a strangled moan. His body pressed to yours now, you can feel the weight of his hard cock against your clothed pussy. Your mouth finds his again in a languid kiss — slow and deep. You feed each other sighs and moans, taste each other’s longing. His hips roll into yours with every exhale, teasing you — reminding you, and you feel like you’re steadily going insane.

He pulls back, panting. Rests his forehead on yours.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, plucking at the strap of your bra. You nod furiously. Lift the upper half of your body so that he can undo the clasps.

Breasts suddenly exposed, you feel your nipples begin to harden. Frankie groans at the sight of them, so pert and needing. Wordlessly, he dips his head, buries his face in your chest. His tongue wraps around one of your nipples and you cry out, hand flying to your mouth in an instant. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan into your palm.

“Feel good?” he asks, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he shifts his focus to the other nipple. You feel so sensitive everywhere, the heft of his tongue going straight to your clit, and you can barely answer him. A shaky yes tumbles from your mouth — the best you can do. He hums, so low the vibrations burrow under your skin and barrel through you, and you keen at the sensation.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he sighs as he rolls one of your stiff peaks between two fingers. His other hand drifts down your body, dips between the two of you and pulls your panties aside. 

“Fuck,” he curses, fingertip brushing over your seam just barely. “You’re soaked, bebita. That all for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine. “All for you Frankie; fuck-“

He’s shifts down your body, hooks both arms under your legs and drags you toward him in one swift motion, leaving you no time to process before his tongue is on your pussy. “Have to taste you,” he babbles drunkenly, plunging into your leaking cunt and lapping at you.

“Oh, oh shit,” you moan as he drags his tongue up to your clit. “Please baby, please.”

“I know; I got you,” he soothes. Then he begins to lave your clit with the soft flat of his tongue, warm muscle encircling the throbbing nub. Wide eyes staring up at you, he observes intently. Responds to every sound, every tell with a switch in direction or an increase in pressure. He’s so attentive, so desperate to make you come on his mouth, and it sends you into a sort of delirium. 

Your second orgasm hits you out of nowhere, slams through your body with so much intensity, you don’t even have the strength to warn Frankie before your release is gushing all over his face and, undoubtedly, the bed below. 

He growls against your cunt. Comes up for air and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he tugs his boxers down and frees his aching cock. Notches at your entrance without detaching his lips from yours.

It’s a stretch — you recall it being so last time too — though the alcohol had done wonders to loosen your body. Now, you feel every devastating inch of him as he pushes in. He’s gentle. Tells you how good you’re doing as he feeds you more and more of his cock. There you go, that’s my girl, taking it so well for me. And for some reason, him calling you his nearly makes you come again. 

He notices the way you preen in response. Thumbs across the slope of your jaw as he settles inside you. “You like that, baby? Like me calling you mine?”

“Yes, Frankie — fuck. Want it.”

You don’t specify whether you mean him or his cock. You’re not entirely sure. Not that it matters. You know he’ll give you both, give you anything. Can feel it in the way he gazes at you through heart-shaped eyes as he lets you adjust to him.

 “So fucking beautiful, you know that?”

Your eyes roll back and saliva pools in your mouth. “God,” you breathe.

“I’m serious,” he says, finally beginning to move. The slow drag of his cock brushes your g-spot and you gasp. “Was so stupid before, fucking you drunk. Wanna remember every second, every noise you make, every inch of your perfect fucking body.”

“Jesus, Frankie.”

He pushes back in with one deep thrust. Sets a pace that, while not rough, definitely isn’t gentle. You begin to babble and writhe under him. Hook your legs around him so he can get even deeper.

He groans. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so fucking good,” you cry. “Feels like fucking heaven, Frankie.”

“Nah, that’s you.” He lets his head fall on your shoulder, drives into you faster. Pants into the crook of your neck. “Perfect fucking pussy.” 

It ends all too quickly — with your fingernails dug into his back and his sweaty curls sticking to your forehead. Your cunt clenching around his cock, pulling his orgasm out of him just as yours begins to roll through you. You free fall from the cliff’s edge together, breathless moans spilling between your slotted mouths, his warmth flooding you and leaking from the place you’re still connected.

As the room around you slowly comes back into focus, you hear the sound of distant laughter. Benny’s boisterous chuckle and Mal’s much softer one. Clearly distracted, they’re likely blissfully unaware of what’s just happened. You giggle, covering your face as Frankie pulls out.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, prying your hands away. 

“We’re gonna have to get them a new bedspread. We just defiled this one.”

He stands, then, pulling you upright with him. You squeal as blood rushes to your head and your vision goes staticky. 

“Worth it,” he smirks. Gives you a chaste kiss. “Got my girl back.”

You dress and rejoin the group as inconspicuously as possible. Pray they don’t notice the way you’re wobbling on your feet, or the sheen of sweat that’s coated your skin. 

“You sort everything out?” Santi smirks knowingly as you reassume your place on the couch, Frankie settling back into the corner.

“Yeah,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact. 

“It’s about time,” Benny shouts from the kitchen. Frankie’s head shoots up, pivots toward his voice.

“What do you mean?”

He emerges in the doorway with a shit-eating grin. Mal stifles a laugh from the loveseat.

“Just saying it’s about time,” he shrugs. “That’s all.” 

Shit; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you thought.

The others chuckle as you and Frankie exchange a mortified look. The embarrassment is short lived though, Will clapping his hands together, asking what game you all want to play next.

An hour later, after a couple rounds of Codenames and another wine cooler, you head out the door with Frankie right beside you. It feels odd, not hiding anymore. But more so, it feels right. 

He leans you against your SUV under silver moonlight. Kisses you with plush, soft lips against yours; restless hands roving up your sides. Pulls back with a suspiciously large grin.

You cock an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just glad I stopped being an idiot.”

“I don’t know about that,” you tease, and he smacks you gently on the arm.

“Come over?” he asks, his hand draped over your waist. 

You think on it for only a second. Nod. “Yeah. As long as you make me a grilled cheese.”

“That can be arranged.” 

end notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider commenting and/or reblogging :)

[cloudcountry]

auburn's 3k followers bake sale!! (lasts from july 24st to august 6th)

order a baked good, get a complementary drink & fic! menu below!

(thank you all so much for 3k!! ever since getting back into the twst fandom after a six month break, ive been reflecting on my time here a lot. i feel like the twst fandom is one of the few fandoms that i'll actually be able to look back on fondly and feel comfortable doing so. i've been connected to all of these character for about 3 years now and now 2 years with you guys. i know some of you may think i'm scary but i encourage you to take part in this event ^^ it wouldn't the same without you <3 and while im at it, thanks for 3,100 followers too!!)

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[hagscribes]

🦇 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

═══════════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹═══════════════════

✦ Hello all! Very new to writeblr, though I've been writing on and off for years now. I go by Lamia. 27, they/she, black.

✦ I write mostly high/dark fantasy with romance themes. Expect a lot of (gothic) horror and (some) science-fiction every once in a while. Enemies to lovers is my bread and butter, angst my drink of choice. Throw in a little tragedy, a few metaphors about the terror of religion, blood, and it's a feast. My writing is explicitly queer and so am I.

✦ Fanfiction and personal works will both be housed here. I am currently drafting a novel with a magic system that uses dragon remains as its primary fuel. Heavily in the research process, might even dabble with conlangs.

✦ I consider my main writing influences to be Anne Rice and Angela Carter. I do an awful lot of reading as well, so feel free to talk to me about anything book related! Some of my other favorite authors are Mary Shelley, Brandon Sanderson, and Holly Black. Please give me all your horror recs 🖤

✦ Asks and requests are encouraged, especially if they're about my OCs. I'd also love to learn all about yours!

✦ Mature and erotic content will be very much present in my works, though I will always do my best to tag appropriately. Please read any tags/warnings thoroughly. 18+ only.

✦ main blog is @princeofhags. ao3 is bitterhags.

writing | wips

[maaikeatthefullmoon]

Someone asked about places where they could find my creative works & how I make a living.

I’ve been a self-employed artist since 2017. The current economic climate is making that *very* difficult and I may well be giving up my beautiful business soon, but for now, I’m still clinging on by my fingernails. I’ve survived a lot longer than many of my colleagues and I’ve been VERY grateful and fortunate. (Yes, my profile photo is actually me, very cold, in my freezing workshop, in my ok-to-get-covered-in-paint-ugly-clothes 😂)

You can find me/support me here:

Etsy: I have *two* Etsy shops. I make fan-based clothing, bags, and cushion covers at FullMoonFandom. and I make fan art and children's home decor, all hand painted on high quality medite wood at Lioncub Creations. This shop has been my main business for the past 8+ years and is my bread & butter. It's been hit HARD by the cost of living crisis and it's literally getting worse every month.

Ko-fi: If you enjoy my writing, or just generally take pity on me, I'd think you were bloody amazing if you could please buy me a coffee (although I'll actually spend it on bills...sorry). No pressure, though, I know money's tight.

AO3: I write Good Omens fanfic under the username imposterssyndrome, I’ve been writing since November 2023 after my trauma therapist recommended it and it’s been the best thing I’ve ever done (especially after my mother told 8yo me that my writing was shit and I literally never wrote another piece of fiction until age 40). I skew angsty, love historical anything and researching stuff. Did I mention Here Be Angst?

Wavelengths & Frequencies - I'm writing this wonderfully fun enemies-to-lovers human AU with the ineffable @shadesofecclescakes. This is a DJ AU and bloody hell does it ever help that Eccles is a professional DJ, because I would have given up in the first chapter otherwise. This longfic will be funny, VERY piney, a teensy-tiny bit angsty (but not too much), smutty, and just generally a whole lot of fun. And it's got footnotes! And newspaper articles! And texts, and tweets, and an awful attempt at a forum, and and and...Rated E (and P for Piney-As-Fuck). WIP, published every *now totally off schedule, we publish when we can*, due to be completed by *who knows when*.

Epistolary Series - Aziraphale's diaries, read by Crowley, a romp through history, the series includes an Aziraphale POV and more, rated E, made of 3 completed works.

Ineffable Inspirations Series - Individual oneshots, all based on songs. Currently 2 stories, based on Fiona Apple’s Shadowboxer (set in 1941) & Finger Eleven’s Paralyzer (set in 2021)

[morose-marble]

Incoherent ramble bc I have the brain worms about Apo

I am very annoying and also unwell, which is why I have taken to scrubbing through a not-insubstantial amount of episodes from Apo's lakorns (without subtitles) to form some kind of picture of what kind of roles he was cast in while employed by channel 3, and sending screen caps to literally anyone with a messaging app in my immediate social circle (they are in hell, thanks for asking). So, now that I have run out of people to torment with my obsessive tendencies, I am left with posting into the void on good ole tungle dot com.

So far, it seems that Apo's bread and butter was a wholesome, boy next door, nong type character (this is based on quite shaky interpretations of Sut Khaen Saen Rak, Buang Banjathorn, Chaat Payak and Prakasit Khammatep) with some exceptions, such as Tiang in Chat Suer Pun Mungkorn, a hot-headed young gangster. These aside, I have not yet formed a comprehensive understanding of his profile as an actor, as I can't seem to get my hands on some of the dramas at all.

The aforementioned roles were all supporting ones, and I could only find episodes for one of his two lead parts, that of Pong Khun Boon Jirakit in Pra Teap Rak Hang Jai, an enemies to lovers story(?). His character sells artisanal traditional Thai silk(?) and ends up falling for a rich woman (Preeyakarn Jaikanta) down on her luck who needs to become independent and better herself as a person(?). Quite a straightforward premise. (He wears a bunch of plaid in the show, he looks uncomfortable.)

Now. What I have noticed about Apo's career in supporting parts is that the male leads he supports are very...narrowly masculine, in comparison to him. Apo has talked about having faced homophobia/general cishet discriminatory nonsense in the industry at that time, and flicking through these shows really illuminates how rigid the concept of a lakorn romantic male lead was (maybe still is, I don't know). Obviously, I gathered that lakorn gender roles were a tad more conservative, but I still struggled slightly with understanding why Apo was treated the way he was, bc I feel like he is relatively conventionally masculine (my european perspective impacts my perception of what constitutes normative gender roles, I know) to the point where picking up on any ~queer~ vibes would be a gays only event. However, I feel like I get it a bit better now.

Apo is very handsome. He is also beautiful in a way that a lot of these leads aren't. They are pointedly conventionally masculine, not necessarily hypermasculine, but going towards that direction, something that is emphasised by their role in the narrative and acting style. Lots of stoicism and displays of quiet suffering and anger. I know, it's very reductive to place gendered presentations onto a spectrum etc etc, but if one were to operate within rigidly delineated binary requirements for gender presentation that exist in media (and society, there's nuance), Apo does not quite fit the criteria of a leading man within the given parameters. Which is terrible, of course. I can absolutely understand why Apo got fed up with the industry and decided to leave it all behind.

Additionally, as pointed out above with the repeated archetypal character traits, I feel that he did not get to flex his acting muscles in the narratives of these shows, which is another thing he has commented on, though maybe not in those words exactly.

Thinking about all of this makes his recent successes with Kinnporsche and Man Suang terribly interesting and delicious. I recognise that narrativising a celebrity's experiences as an affective story like this is mad parasocial brain rot behaviour, but the idea of him taking something that he was disparaged for earlier on in his career (perceived queerness) and turning it into a factor of him surpassing that which held him back is very attractive in a story sense. Like, what a triumph?

I'm not sure if any of this makes sense or if this is completely old news to everyone, but for some reason I had to get it out somewhere. I'll probably read this back in the morning and cringe mightily.

Anyway. What an interesting time to follow his advancement and the changes in the Thai BL industry, namely the increased attention from the government. I have fears, but I don't know how to articulate them yet. Therefore, I will focus on enjoyment for the time-being.

[thebennettdiaries]

I'm so happy you have Klonnie on the brain! What is it about Bonnie and Klaus as a ship that speaks to your muse? When did you start shipping them?

It's the push and pull, enemies to lovers vibe. That has always been my bread and butter for a ship. Give me arguing, giving me sexual tension, give me reluctant allies forced to work together --- Klaus and Bonnie are on opposing sides for most of TVD and that hits so many of the tropes that I have always loved.

As for when I started shipping them --- probably well before they even met for the first time. It came down to Klaus having a respect/attraction to witches and power (something that they dropped conveniently when they wanted to push Klaus towards a certain blonde but I won't go into the mess that was KC). I wanted him to take one look at Bonnie, see the power within her and want to do anything to get that on his side.

Of course, Plec had other plans, which is why the fanon for Klonnie has picked up the loose ends and ran with it.

Also, does anyone remember the 'spoiler' that Bonnie was going to play a big role in Klaus and Stefan's storyline when Klaus made Stefan go with him in S3? I was so hyped for that. Let down by Plec and co but that's okay, I'll take care of the ship in a way that she never could!

[olympeline]

@endlesscolddreams and @liemurienn dropped some really good replies on my USUK vs. FrUK post and it’s made me think about the differences between both pairings and why they might attract their respective fans the way they do.

Let’s begin with USUK, which nearly from series start has more canon on its side. Or rather it has more “serious” moments. Hetalia is a gag show at heart and its non-jokey parts are few and far between, ship tease included. The first gut punch most fans will encounter is Alfred and Arthur’s battle during the American War for Independence. That will definitely stick with a lot of people if for no other reason than it’s so unexpected. The funny, silly anime about pasta and gag war abruptly pivots to a main character sobbing his heart out in the rain while another looks on, stony faced, with no joke at all. This can’t not leave an impression. Even fans who loathe Alfred never try to pretend his effect on Arthur isn’t huge. Then the series carries on teasing the things left unsaid between them in both serious and silly shapshots. With all this is mind, it’s not hard to see why USUK became the big, swinging dick of Hetalia’s ships. Aside from the borderline canon Gerita, nothing else really has the weight behind it I think.

This definitely makes it what I would call an “easy” ship to get into. That sounds bad because fandoms can be very judgey about pairings they find to be basic. Just like everything else in the arts, there’s a perception among some people that if something is popular then it must be dumber/less deep/worse. Pure elitism basically. And it’s bollocks. Just because something is popular with the masses doesn’t make it worse. It just means it’s popular. Plenty of people hate USUK for the perfecly legitimate reason that it just doesn’t gel with them. But there’s always been a minority undercurrent of “I hate this just because it’s the fandom’s most visible ship!” Seen this happen a million times with other communities over the years.

USUK also has the almost universally beloved tropes of Happy, Gregarious, Extroverted one loves Moody, Gloomy, Introverted one. Who loves him back but can’t say it because tsundere. FrUK on the other hand is more subtle. It has Slowburn, Rivals/Enemies to Lovers as its bread and butter. These tropes are well loved but there’s no big, attention grabbing dramatic moment early on that makes use of and cements the FrUK interpretation of them in the minds of fans. Francis and Arthur share a lot of screentime but it’s all jokey and fun. Even the ship tease is all gags relating to Francis being comically pervy and Arthur being comically stuffy and flustered. Francis gets some heart rending moments later (Joan of Arc, the wish for a mortal life) but Arthur isn’t included. Even though he could have been because of what happened to Joan. It’s left up to the fans to add him. In another universe the Closet Cleaning arc was replaced by a Bitter Hundred Years War arc, and FrUK subsequently took the top spot in the fandom’s ship rankings as a result.

Leaving plain, old personal taste aside, I think all this divided the fandom between shippers who wanted something they could leap into and get early gratification (USUK) vs shippers who wanted to expend a little more energy on interpretation (FrUK). Because there’s plenty of drama to be had with Francis and Arthur thanks to the French/English historical rivalry (see above). But it’s not offered up on a plate in canon like with Arthur and Alfred. A USUK shipper gets drama given to them while a FrUK shipper has to dig deeper and make their own fun. Different strokes.

This kind of thing is very interesting to me. Please feel free to add on your own interpretations if you like ☺️

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: This was one of my all-time favorite chapters to write despite how sad it is. Be wanted, y'all, this one is HEAVY. Warning for parental death, violence & childhood trauma. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

EIGHT: GOOD DAMAGE.

“So you got a mom or dad?” Gojo asks, wearing Geto’s denim jacket as he slurps on your goodies. 

The question is so random and hard-hitting that it makes you pause from eating the bowl of soup inspired by your mother’s recipe and made with ingredients given to you by the townspeople of Bull’s Creek. 

After seeing Benji’s former bandits off to prison and receiving the thanks of the townspeople, including Miwa, Momo, Mechamaru, and Kuskabe (who does so with a nod your way), you and the gunslinging duo left Bull’s Creek and got on the road. It was only when the sun began to set and twilight sett in that you all decided to take a rest for the night. 

At that point, you had entered the mountains and found a tiny alcove near a cave and a brush of bushes and trees whose branches serve as hangers for your and Geto’s soiled clothes from the creek. Above the cave is a hot spring bubbling with hot water while down below the rocky mountainside, a field of wildflowers and fireflies that float up to meet you, lighting up the darkness the further the sun sets.

“Why don’t we rest tonight?” Geto suggested. “This will be a decent place, I think.” 

“And there’s a hot spring just above us!” Gojo excitedly said. “Ah, I could use a hot bath.” His stomach rumbles, evidently so by the sound that escapes his stomach. “And somethin’ to eat,” he sheepishly chuckled. 

You had already begun to shed your bags after tying Reneigh up with the duo’s horses up at the hot spring, letting them chomp on the wildflowers that sprout there. “Well, we’ve got all these goodies the townsfolk gave us,” you said, digging into the sack of food.

In total, the Bull's Creek folk gave you two sacks: one of food and the other of fresh clothes. Between the three of you, you divided the coin you received and kept them for yourselves. 

You looked inside the sack, pulling out each item: “Bowls, plates, bread, butter, rice, oooh, chicken broth!” Your excitement grew, happy to see such goodies.

Geto kneeled beside you, smiling fondly at the ripe tomato and the head of broccoli he found. “And all kinds of fruits n’ veggies,” he hummed, pleased with the turnout. “This will last us the whole trip if we ration well.” 

Your hand touched something soft and you pulled out a whole raw chicken. Holding it up to the duo, you gaped at it. “Uh…anybody know how to cut a whole chicken?” Two began to laugh, mostly at your hilarious reaction. “Why? You cookin’ it?” Gojo joked. 

You thought about tossing the chicken at him but decided not to. “Well, we’ve gotta eat and nothin’ beats chicken soup and wild rice.” Geto looked at you, shocked. “Oh…I was gonna cook for us.” But Gojo is pleasantly surprised, hands on his slim hips. “What a change of heart, little miss! Ya must like us now.” 

You glared at him as you began to set up the steel pot for cooking. “Don’t push ya luck, boy,” you snapped. “You two can set up camp while I cook.” You stood up and hurried up the slanted, smooth rock to the hot spring to wash your hands, mostly to get away from them. “Ah, so you tryna do the easy work!” Gojo called out to you, but you didn’t answer. 

Once you finished, you busied yourself building a small fire using some loose twigs, branches, and one of Gojo’s matches before preparing to cook. You roasted the chicken first which Geto kindly sliced the chicken up for you using one of your pocket knives. You had to turn the spit periodically on the fire while chopping vegetables (carrots, peas, broccoli, corn), so it was a lot of running back and forth. 

But you didn’t mind. You love cooking. Fixing something to eat is the one time you feel normal. It’s what makes you feel close to the people you left behind in your childhood, including your old self. 

Once the chicken is done roasting, its skin golden brown and juicy, you slice in into strips. You then fill the pot up with hot water from the spring, boil it, and fix the rice until its fluffy and white. Finally, you pour the chicken broth into the pot with the rice, sliced vegetables, and chicken, stirring it with a big wooden spoon you found in Geto’s bag. 

Speaking of Geto, he and Gojo set up camp during your cooking session. They set up sleeping bags, yours included, and place a blanket underneath to keep the dirt out of them. They set their boots, hats, and jackets aside, separated from your things. It seemed that they gave you your own spot, allowing you privacy and space. You appreciated that. 

Once the soup was finished, you announced that dinner was done and stood in front of the pot when they came running with their wooden bowls. “Hold up!” you exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop them. “Y’all wash y’all hands?”

The two looked at each other cluelessly which gave you you’re answer. “Hurry up before it gets cold,” you said and they went scurrying up the hill like rabid dogs, making you giggle to yourself. 

Minutes later, they returned and helped themselves to the meal. You sat down on a log with your own bowl, stretching your legs out. The duo sat on either side of you in a circle, passing a bottle of Jack between the three of you and ripping off pieces of bread to dip in your soup.

Gojo was sloppy, slurping greedily at his meal and making you wonder about some naughty shit. “Mmm, shit!” he moaned. “This is the best soup and rice I’ve ever had in my life!” 

In contrast to his partner, Geto was neat, taking his time eating his meal and (once again) making you mind wander. “I agree,” he sighed. “You’re quite the cook, little miss. Truly gifted.” Both compliments made your stomach flip. “Thank you,” you softly say, barely above a whisper as you took a sip of the Jack. It let a burn in your throat that you eased with the warm, hearty soup. 

Then came the burning question: “So you got a mom or dad?” 

You sit here now, the soup just at your mouth. Gojo looks at you expectantly, still slurping down his bowl. “Satoru,” Geto firmly says and shakes his head. Gojo raises an eyebrow, not understanding that this is a hot button topic. 

“No, it’s fine,” you protest. I suppose it’s only fair to tell you since y’all have told me so much about your lives.” You lower your spoon into your bowl, the fire crackling in front of you. “I have a mom and dad, yes, but adopted. I never knew my birth dad, but my birth mom always told me he was a rollin’ stone.” You chuckle to yourself. “Guess that meant he was a playboy.” 

You nod at the simmering pot on the ire. “This is my adopted mom’s recipe.” Geto smiles fondly, taking a swig of Jack. “Well, now I can see who you got such a gift from. Is she a cook?” 

You shake your head. “Not professionally, no. She’s a schoolteacher. My adopted dad is a farmer.” Gojo hums thoughtfully, chomping on some bread. “Where’s your birth mother now?” he curiously asks. “Still in your hometown?” 

You don’t think twice about it. You don’t even hesitate. “She was murdered,” you blurt. The silence that follows after this is deafening. The duo stare at you as if you just told them you’re pregnant. Placing the bowl aside, you tu​​rn to the crackling fire, not wanting to look at them and see their pity. 

“I was a little girl when a bunch of outlaws invaded my town,” you explain to the flames. “They ransacked every store, destroyed every home, and killed nearly every single person…including my mom.” You can feel yourself going back to that time, your mother’s terrified eyes behind your eyelids when you blink. A hot rush of tears begins to build.

Sensing your discomfort, Geto steps in. “You don’t have to go on,” he soothingly says. But you shake your head. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s not,” you argue, forcing the tears away. “I need to tell you why I hate outlaws so much. I need to tell you why I am the way I am.” 

You turn back to them, staring them in the eye. “But y’all are sure you wanna hear this?” you wryly joke. “I have to warn y’all that it’s quite long and tragic.” And the two stare you right back in the face. “I thought we already established that we’re ones for long and tragic backstories, darlin’,” Gojo replies. “Take your time.” 

Geto passes you the bottle of Jack and you take a much-needed swig. “I was nine years old when they came,” you begin and the memories come flooding back like a tidal wave. 

********

The summer you turned ten years old was supposed to be a joyous one. 

It was supposed to be a day where you and your mother spent the day in your hometown of Pinewood, known for its farms and heavy population of flowers.

Your mom would usually wake you up with pancakes covered in strawberries and whipped cream (your favorite), presents, and then take you into town to the bakery, the library, the movies, the fruit orchard to pick peaches and plums, or any other place a young girl like you would love to visit for her special day. 

But that was further from the case. It was only two weeks until you turned ten that your home was destroyed and burned to the ground. 

Pinewood was once a small but humble town of a couple hundred people. Everyone knew each other and there was community. Adults looked after neighbors’ children late at night and pies were brought over to welcome newcomers to the town. Farmers, teachers, landscapers, florists, bakers and cooks, etc…you would find them all here, building their lives and careers. 

The autumns were crisp and the summers were warm. This particular summer night you remember you were asleep in your bed, the sound of buzzing cicadas having hummed you to sleep earlier. Your bedroom, pink, cozy, and girly, was still except for you–the sleeping girl in her pony PJs. But late into the night, you awakened, feeling compelled by something to do so. 

You sat up in bed and looked out the window. Your backyard of honeysuckle and your mom’s prized vegetable garden looked back at you. The sweet summer breeze blew your curtains around like pink wisps. You don’t know why you woke up. You usually can sleep through a tornado. But this time, you couldn’t. 

Something felt…wrong.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. And then you realized it: the cicadas had stopped singing. A warm night that was usually filled with the buzzing song of the cicadas in the trees had ceased, leaving the night eerily quiet.

Then, suddenly, your bedroom opened, and in rushed your mother. You were too deep in your sleep fog to see that she was frazzled and scared, still in her nightgown and slippers. 

“Mama?” you mumbled sleepily, rubbing at your eye. “What’s going on?”

She came over and ripped the covers off of you. “Baby, get up,” she hurriedly said, pulling you out of bed by your arm. “C’mon, get your slippers on and follow me.” 

You stared at her, confused and still sleepy. “But, Mama–” 

“Stop it, Y/N!” she yelled. You are startled, confused, and afraid. Your mother had never yelled at you like this before.

And then you saw her eyes: wild and scared like a cornered animal. It scared you. “We need to go now,” she firmly said. “Now get on your slippers and let’s go.” This time, you didn’t argue or protest. You slipped on your slippers and took your mom’s hand. 

She squeezed it as she led you out of your bedroom and down the hallway, walking past the bathroom, kitchen, dining area, and laundry room. Your home was a ranch, so it was only one floor with the bedrooms located at the back. Your mom guided you to the front door but looked back at you before she opened the door.

“Follow me,” she instructed. “Don’t let go of my hand, understood?” She didn’t wait for you to answer. 

After unlocking the door, she yanked the door open. You still wish she hadn’t. Your town, once blossoming with businesses, cozy homes, and life was now burning.

Flames that exploded from buildings licked the night sky. Crops were on fire. Guns exploded in your eardrums that sounded like firecrackers. People and animals alike ran for cover and safety. People in black clothing and bandanas covering their mouths ran after them, hooting and hollering. Some of these intruders also ran in on horses, rifles and pistols drawn. 

You didn’t see any bodies, thank God, but it didn’t matter. The trauma was already set in your body from that very moment you and your mother stood outside of your home in the chaos. 

“Mama, what’s happening?!” you yelled, pulling on her hand. 

She then began to run with you, hurrying down the road. “I don’t know, baby,” she answered, “but we’ll be okay! Just don’t let go of me.” You didn’t, but someone did it for you. As you were running with your mom, you unfortunately didn’t get that far away from your house when you suddenly felt two arms snatch you away. 

You screamed, wriggling around in the stranger’s arms. Your mother looked back and rushed to help you, but she too was grabbed by another stranger in black and tossed to the ground. “Mommy!” you squealed.

You tried to struggle out of the arms binding you, but your mom’s assaulter took out a long-barreled pistol and pointed it at your mother’s temple. “Shut up, you little brat,” he snarled. “Keep that mouth shut or your ma gets it.” 

You immediately went quiet and the bandit behind you cackled. Despite his own bandana covering his mouth, you could smell the booze on his breath. You looked down at his hands around you. One of them had a rose tattoo on his knuckles. 

The bandit nodded at your ranch. “Nice house ya got here, bitch,” he chuckled. “Even nicer land. I bet ya got some pretty pennies for a pad like this, eh?” He crouched down beside your mother. She lied in the dirt on her side, her clothes ruined and her knee scraped by her fall. 

“No,” she whimpered. “My people are humblefolk. We don’t have much money and neither do I, especially with a child.” 

The bandit took a handful of her coiled hair in his fist, yanking her up. “So you callin’ me a liar?” he snarled. “I don’t like bitches who talk back, y’know.” He cocked his gun at her, but your mother was afraid like you were watching. “I don’t have what y’all are lookin’ for!” she snapped. “Please just let us go!” 

The bandit tossed her down and shared a look with his partner. “If you don’t give us money then you’ll have to give us somethin’ else,” he growled at your mother. “How much you think her kid will cost, man?” The bandit hugged you to him, making a show of caressing your face. “Mmm…’bout a couple hundred at least.” 

You shook in terror. What did they mean? Were they going to take you away from your mother? She seemed to know what they meant though and looked like she wanted to murder both bandits. “You wouldn’t do that,” she hissed. “You know damn well that the law is already out for y’all for this, so you’d only be sinkin’ your ship farther if you do anything to my daughter.” 

The bandit pressed the bun to her temple, laughing. “You think we give a fuck about the law, bitch?” he cackled, tossing his head back. “The law won’t ever find us and half of them are pussies anyway. The bossman is like the Boogeyman to them.” Your mother’s expression softened and she suddenly looked hopeless. That scared you even more. 

The bandit smirked and pressed the gun to her chin. “Now what should we do about that mouth of yours?” he whispered. His partner chuckled suggestively. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he sniggered. Despite the gun in her face, your mother turned her head to you, her eyes glassy but filled with acceptance. “Y/N, my little flower,” she tearfully said. “I love you.” 

Before you could even blink, she bit down on the bandit’s hand hard. Hard enough to draw blood. The bandit screamed as he pulled his hand away now coated in deep, bloody teethmark. 

“Oh, you bitch,” he spat. “Now you’ve pushed your luck.” He took her by her hair again and threw her down onto her stomach execution style. 

“Mama, no!” you wailed, reaching for her. She looked up at you, eyes wild and dirt caked to her face. “Run, Y/N!” she screamed. “Run until you reach the fields!” 

As your fight or flight kicked in, you elbowed the bandit behind you in the stomach, loosening his grip. Just as you turned to run, two shots ran out behind you. You never turned around to see if it was your mother. You just knew it was.

So you ran as you cried, your eyes blurred with salty tears and fear pumping in your blood. “Get that little bitch!” the bandit yelled, pointing at you. 

Hooves began to thud against the ground behind you, but you didn’t turn. You didn’t stop. You just ran, something pulling you along despite your fatigue. You still don’t know if it was God, your mother’s spirit, or just your will to live. Either way, it got you all the way down to the cornfields three minutes outside of your town. 

At this point, the sound of the bandits behind you faded, but you knew they would eventually gang up on you. Wheeled wooden carts sat beside the fields that usually were used to deliver food, flowers, and other deliveries into other towns. You chose quick and jumped into the back of one cart of flowers. You hid deep beneath the many plants, petals, and bulbs, keeping quiet. 

Even as you heard the horses and saw torches flash beneath the flowers, you held your breath and imagined yourself as but a rock. A head of corn. A flower like the ones surrounding you. 

“Where’d she go?” he gruffly asked. A light flashed in your face and you coveved your mouth. 

“I think I saw her go in here,” his partner said before they walked into the cornfields together. You didn’t move even as the light vanished. Even as the rustling of the corn stalks got further away. Even when all you heard were the bandits’ horses chuffing to one another.

You don’t know how long you had been there–minutes? Hours?–, but suddenly, you heard footsteps and hooves beside you and then the cart moved slightly as someone got in the front to drive off. And then the cart began to move, taking you away and into the unknown. 

‘The unknown’ turned out to be Elden Valley, a small town a two-day travel away from Pinewood. It is home to humble, quiet folk. Humble, quiet folk like Eren Tokiyami, an older farmer with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands, and his wife Yuri, a longtime baker.

Eren and Yuri ordered flowers and seeds specifically from your town’s florist to plant and decorate the outside of Yuri’s bakery. Imagine their surprise to find a scared, dirty, and traumatized little girl lying beneath the bed of tulips and petunias. 

You found yourself in a barn smelling of manure and animals. Yuri covered her mouth while Eren stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. “My God,” he gasped. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

You could barely speak. You hadn’t had water or food in two days. “P-Pinewood,” you whispered, and then everything went black when you passed out in Eren’s arms. 

After taking you to the town’s doctor and nursing you back to help, the couple adopted you as their own. The town of Elden Valley and all others in the county heard of the massacre of Pinewood. Dozens of people died, including your mother, but you didn’t any any detectives or coroners telling you that. 

For nine years, Eren and Yuri fed you, dressed you, and cared for you. But it wasn’t enough to thaw you. It wasn’t enough to melt the ice that had formed and hardened around your heart and soul.

You had grown tough, taking your anger out on kids at school and constantly skipping to ride horses. It was when you turned sixteen that you met Reneigh for the first time who was no more than a stubborn, violent horse that Eren recently saved from an abusive owner. 

You felt like she was just like you and maybe she did too, so she was always calm in your presence and became yours. Eren and Yuri thought that with Reneigh, along with some guidance and love, you would be able to get back on track. You did for a little while. You baked pies with Yuri, planted crops with Eren, studied, and graduated from school. 

Then, one day, you just left.

It was a month after you graduated at age eighteen. You knew you couldn’t spend your life in Elden Valley, pretending that vengeance and bloodlust weren’t inside of you. To do something constructive with that anger, you took one of Eren’s many guns that he taught you how to use and went out to the woods beyond his and Yuri’s house. In the blue of dawn, you set up an old glass bottle there and stood yards away from it. 

As Eren taught you, you kept still and calm, aimed, and shot. You missed. So you tried again. And again. And again. Every morning before your parents awakened, you went out to practice in secret. And every time you drew that gun and shot, you were better. Quicker. Sharper. Then, one day, you finally it: you aimed and the bottle broke. You knew what you had to do from that very moment. 

So after a night of dinner with your parents and telling them how much you loved them, you waited until they went to sleep to pack, tossing everything you could into a bag. Including two of Eren’s pistols. You hid your identity behind a cowgirl hat and bandana, forever your disguise. 

Before you left, you wrote a letter to your parents, not wanting to leave them without any last words: 

Dear, Mama & Papa, 

I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused you over the last nine years. I thank you both from the bottom of my heart for taking me in as your own. I’ll never forget your kindness. It is what is needed in such a cruel world. Please don’t come looking for me and don’t worry about me. Just know that I’m fine. If I never see you again, I love you both endlessly. Thank you for giving me back my innocence.

Love, Y/N.

And like a thief in the night, you hopped on Reneigh and you were gone. And so the Fatale Femme was born. You didn’t feel anything when you caught your first outlaw body…only more vengeance.

It got stronger the more you killed. The more you fled. The more you pulled that trigger. You have been doing this for so long that you believed that this coldhearted tyrant is you now. For so long you thought you had lost yourself and only the Fatale Femme remained. 

But now, sitting here among two outlaws, feared and loved by many, you feel as if you’re finally getting yourself back. Geto and Gojo stare at you in the firelight, sadness in their eyes. You sit there, ravaged by your past and trembling.

“I never thanked y’all for savin’ my life today,” you say. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I didn’t see that y’all are different from the others. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to acknowledge it.” 

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, too hot and too quick to stop. The real you, outside of the bandana, the guns, and the cool exterior, has been released. “That’s why I do what I do,” you tearfully explain. “That’s why I am what I am. That’s why I need to find Benji.” 

Geto puts his gloved hand in yours, warm and comforting. “And we’ll help you,” he softly promises. “We had a deal, remember? We’re a team now, so do you ever go thinkin’ you’re alone in this.”

His brown eyes are firm but gentle, reminding you so much of Eren’s. “Thank you for sharin’ with us and I know you won’t believe me, but I know your parents are proud of you, includin’ your birth mother.” 

He offers a smile that seems to melt you. When Gojo gets up to move next to you, squeezing you between them, you feel like you’re about to turn into a puddle. You feel nothing but warmth that overwhelms you in the best possible way. It is foreign and weird, but good. Real good. 

Gojo’s blue eyes sparkle at you, as beautiful and as alluring as the fireflies that float amongst you. “Did I ever tell ya about the time I got my ass stuck on a bear trap?” he randomly asks. “Oh, or that one time Geto got eaten up by leeches?”

Geto rolls his eyes as he puts his hair back into a long ponytail. “Damn, you tellin’ her that one?” he sighs. 

And that’s when you realize that the strange warmth you’re feeling is gratitude. You smile at Gojo and wipe your tears, knowing he would ask you to. “N-No,” you giggle through a sniffle. “I don’t believe you have.” 

For the rest of the night, you laugh and drink with the duo, not a single care in the world despite your past and scars. At some point, the alcohol rears its ugly head and pulls you down into the ink black of a booze-induced sleep. You pass out in front of the fire and barely feel Gero cover you with a blanket...and lightly kiss you on the forehead. “The sweetest dreams, Y/N,” he coos. “We’ll try to have the same.” 

When the long-haired outlaw sits up on his knees after closely examining the way the flames of the fire flicker across your beautiful face and the serene expression you wear, he looks at Gojo who wears an equally pained look. “You feel it too,” he states.  

Geto looks down at you again and sighs a heavy, tired sigh. “Yeah,” he replies. 

“So we’re fucked," Gojo once again states.

And Geto, now looking up at the stars for answers, once again sighs, “Yeah.”

[jolalibrary]

i'm part of @pedroscouts, and i thought i'd share some of the things that have helped me earn my badges (like a fic recs/masterlist of sorts). i will admit some of these are things i've created myself to earn the badge, so i have included them.

I’d recommend all of these so highly, and ofc I’ll keep updating as I enjoy and collect ❤️✨

CHARACTER BADGES

JOEL MILLER

☰ oh, summer nights by @ozarkthedog

☰ warm bread & honey by @trulybetty [tiny angst]

☰ the beef by @beefrobeefcal

FRANCISCO MORALES

☰ let me by @polaroidpascal [frankie morales]

☰ transient nights by @pedgito [frankie morales]

also, i write a lot of frankie so 💁‍♀️ my masterlist

JACK WHISKEY DANIELS

☰ love at first...fight by @goodwithcheese [jack 'whiskey' daniels]

☰ palomino by @fuckyeahdindjarin [solo travel romance]

MARCUS MORENO

☰ afterword by @secretelephanttattoo [marcus moreno]

DIETER BRAVO

☰ taste by @huntingingoodwill

MAX PHILLIPS

☰ day four - teratophilia

by @palioom

GENRE BADGES

FLUFF/SMUT

☰ as you've always been by @ezrasbirdie, joel miller x f!reader

☰ paranoid heart by @goodwithcheese, javi p x f!reader

again, i feel this badge is my bread and butter so... there's me.

HURT COMFORT

☰ it's a scratch by me, joel miller x f!reader

GIFLET

☰hunted by @morallyinept, frankie m x reader

☰chase by @morallyinept, javi p x f!reader

☰ when his eyes open by me, joel miller x f!reader [giflet]

TROPE BADGES

FRIENDS TO LOVERS

☰ meet me in the city by me, javi p x f!reader [friends to lovers]

☰ i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine by @chronically-ghosted, frankie morales x f!reader

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

bluffing season by @beskarandblasters, frankie x reader

ONLY ONE BED

good morning by @nothoughtsjustmeds, frankie m x reader

SLOW BURN

☰ on call by @luxurychristmaspudding [frankie morales]

ROMCOM

☰ do me yourself by me, frankie morales x f!reader [i think it's fair i claim this one for my baby.]

☰ the kindness of strangers by @schnarfer, neighbour!joel x reader

FORCED PROXIMITY

☰ let us pretend by me, javi p x reader. ugh i hate self-reccing, but they do have to remain in the same hotel room and pretend to be married so...

[viridianevergarden]

I dont know why but I feel like if we get azriel and gwyn, it would be just another acosf. like I love the warrior girls but can we just get something different?? 😭

I’m with you. It would be another ACOSF and yet no longer than Frost and Starlight tbh.

All that would need to be done is for Azriel to magically get over Elain who he is obviously more down bad and whipped for than Mor herself.

And then proceed to get closer to Gwyn and get feelings for her?

And if we really want to give people grace and even attempt to give that type of book some length and substance then we could somehow incorporate Gwyn as a savior of Illyria with Az? Somehow do something regarding Koschei and the prison? (Even though she isn’t Made and quite literally wouldn’t be able to do shit to help).

It is the absolute weirdest and the most diabolical, worst writing I could ever imagine with the way the current story is set up.

My thought is this:

People have a near criminal obsession with enemies to lovers and strong badass “I will cut you down with my sword” type of fictional women.

They think that because this has been SJM’s forte since the start of her writing career, that she’ll continue to recycle it Every. Single. Time. Same with mates always being endgame. And that’s wrong.

By all means, enemies to lovers and strong fictional women is my bread and butter but…

Elriel’s current relationship and potential that’s been built through the course of 4 books has been fabulous.

They are such a unique and completely different turn for SJM.

We need something new. Something that SJM hasn’t really experimented with.

And that’s elriel.

Almost every ship that SJM has written involves strong women + enemies to lovers in one.

Give us friends to lovers, give us that forbidden love trope, give us that miscommunication trope, give us that soft and traditionally feminine woman who is strong in her own femininity and ability to love softly and quietly. Give us a couple who defies all odds, the gods, and Fate itself just to be with one another.