#especially the THOUGHT of bread and butter

[fairycosmos]

i've been really getting into bread and butter

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

Sometimes in life all you can eat is garlic toast and ya know what? That’s okay garlic toast is fucking scrumptious

[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 :)

[murdrdocs]

always has been, always will be

description. it was only a matter of time before you realized how hard you've fallen for your roommate.

includes. roommate!tyler owens, so much fluff, pining, appearance of reader's ex, protective tyler, sexual tension, copious amounts of pet names, minor display of anxiety, drinking,

wc. 3.5k+

a/n: before you ask, i am not opposed to a part two. no promises.

You’re jolted out of a deep, and much-needed, sleep by the sound of bowls crashing onto the floor. You lay there for a second, trying to listen for any other sound while calming your racing heart. When nothing else comes, you grab your phone from the nightstand and through squinty eyes start to check locations. 

Your parents are home, your best friend is at work, and there—Tyler Owens, 0 miles away. His contact, the cartoonish drawing of him usually seen on a tee shirt, hovers right above the blue dot that represents you. 

The giddiness that instantly floods your body is embarrassing. It pulls you out of bed, somehow being the only thing to convince you to wake up on your day off, and drags your feet into the kitchen. You don’t bother checking your appearance on the way out, Tyler has seen you through your worst since he nursed you back to health during flu season, and he’s seen you first thing in the morning many times before. 

But when he lifts his head from behind a cabinet at the sound of your slippers dragging against the floor, the shock on his face momentarily scares you. Do you look like absolute shit?

It’s not until Tyler grins, luckily a split second later, that you relax. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking back into the cabinet and closing it with three ingredients in his hand. “Butter fingers.”

You yawn, walking into the kitchen and sitting at the island. “‘s okay. When did you get back? I thought y’all were gonna be in Missouri for a few more days.”

Tyler brings the ingredients to the island, settling them down in front of you on the other side. It’s then that you realize what he’s making. Brioche bread that’s about to expire, sugar, eggs, milk, cinnamon, a tub of fruit that definitely wasn’t in your fridge. 

The memory of the taste of Tyler’s French toast makes itself familiar at the tip of your tongue without your permission. 

“We were, but then Boone got a tip that there would be some action happening right back here,” he cracks the egg into one of your mixing bowls, “so here we are.”

Home. Tyler’s back home for the first time in weeks. He won’t be here for long, but that’s okay. It’s the deal you initially wanted whenever you talked to Tyler with interest in him being your roommate. 

It was nearly a year ago now, right at the end of peak tornado season of last year. Tyler had been in Arkansas doing what he usually did, wrangling tornadoes with the others with him. You knew who he was, it was impossible not to, especially living right outside of his hometown. But you had never crossed paths, not until your sweet, but meddling, grandmother—bless her heart—told you that the grandson of her Bingo partner was looking for a place to stay. Permanently. Or, as permanent as a home for a storm chaser could be. 

You were desperate, struggling financially and emotionally with a still-fresh breakup weighing on your mind. So when Tyler Owens swooped in with a brunch recommendation, promises to pay his half of the rent on time, and explanations that he would rarely be home during summer months, you jumped on the deal. 

You should’ve known that you would’ve developed a small crush on him, but that’s all it is. A small crush on a guy who was sweet enough to make you breakfast since he dropped in. It would surely go away soon enough. 

“How long are you staying for?” You’re already preparing yourself for heartbreak when you ask the question. Initially, you liked the idea of having your house all to yourself. All of the freedom, half of the financial responsibility. 

But when you and Tyler grew closer, you started to hate the summer. 

“Um…” he hesitates, adding copious amounts of cinnamon into the mixture while he drags the word out. Is he stalling? “A couple days. Maybe three?”

You try to hide your disappointment but Tyler is already trying to make you feel better. 

He looks up, mouth broken into a wide smile that shows his white teeth. “But I’m here to make it worth your while. Breakfast, I’ll take you wrangling with us if you’d like, and then Betsy’s on me. Yeah?”

The promise of quality time and fattening barbecue was enough to brighten your mood. 

“Yeah.”

You knew you weren’t particularly fond of storm chasing, but you found yourself with the others anyway. And after an EF-0 where you prayed and clutched the harness strapped across your chest and Tyler’s hand across the console, you swore to yourself—and mostly Tyler—that you would never do it again. Even though the joy from the others was infectious and you found yourself giggling with Tyler when it was all over. 

Tyler quickly made it up to you, though. He called it a day earlier than you thought he would. You knew he did it on your behalf, but he pretended like it was a strategic decision. 

“Most of the action will be tomorrow anyway.” 

And he was probably telling the truth, but you saw the shock in Boone’s eyes as Tyler told the others that the two of you were going to split off for Betsy’s just when the day was getting started. He ditched the others for you, and it made your heart flutter. 

The two of you end up in a familiar place, seated in the back corner booth of Betsy’s. You’re nestled up against the window, wearing the sweatshirt you left in Tyler’s car months ago. You’re shocked he still had it, but he assured you that he would never give it away. And if he did, he would’ve given you a Tornado Wrangler one for free to make up for it. 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to while I was gone.”

You tear your eyes away from the window to look at Tyler. You shouldn’t be shocked that he was already looking at you, he was speaking to you, but something about the way he looks at you will always make your heartbeat a little extra hard for a moment. 

You hum, lifting your eyes and thinking. There’s nothing you’ve been doing other than trying to keep sane.

“There were a few weeks there where I almost bought a dog.”

Tyler’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Really?” he asks. 

You nod, reaching out to take a sip from your drink. “Yeah. Someone in town had rescued a puppy and he was just calling my name.”

“What would you have named him?”

You hesitate, trying to keep the embarrassment from finding your face as you fix your lips to tell Tyler the truth. “...Wrangler.”

He grins and you’re already trying to do damage control. Tyler beats you to it. 

“You missed me that much? C’mon, sugar.”

The pet name almost slips by you in your haste. Almost. 

“That wouldn’t even have been why! You’re so full of yourself, Ty.”

“You make it so easy. Don’t blame me.”

Your laughter refuses to subside even when the waiter comes to check on you both. Tyler manages to tell her that everything’s fine, while also smoothly ordering your favorite slice of pie. You didn’t even have to ask for it. He just knew. 

By the time the order’s placed, you’ve calmed down a bit, taking small sips of water in an attempt to calm down the heat in your body. 

“A German shepherd…” He nods to himself. “Loyal. Intelligent. Good search and rescue dogs. I bet Wrangler would’ve been a good addition to the house. Someone to keep you company while I’m gone.”

You try to pretend that’s not the exact reason why you wanted a dog in the first place. “And I would’ve taught him to chew on the bottom of all your jeans.”

“Well, luckily I like the rugged look.” A second goes by. “What else were you doing?”

You shake your head, your way of telling him that’s it. 

“He didn’t come by again, did he?”

A painful kick meets your insides at the mention of your ex. You knew Tyler would’ve asked you about Beau since the breakup is what allowed Tyler to move in in the first place. He hadn’t ever mentioned him before, not until Beau showed up drunk one night and demanded you let him back in. It was a terrifying and embarrassing moment for you, but it also started the bond between you and Tyler. 

Unfortunately, if it weren’t for that night, you and Tyler would’ve never been as close as you are today. He wouldn’t have even known your pie order and you probably would’ve had a year-old dog for companionship by now. 

“No. I haven’t seen him since that night.”

Tyler nods, grinning up at the waiter as she brings your pie and Tyler’s banana pudding over. 

“That’s good. And the security system works well on the house, right?”

You nod in a response, sticking your fork into your pie. 

“I’ve been checking in periodically when I’m on the road. Testing the cameras. You’re giving the tomatoes too much water, by the way.”

You’re instantly on the defensive, abandoning the next perfect piece of pie that you’d just separated for yourself. Your eyes lift, settling on Tyler, but quickly you glance behind him, and shit. 

He’s here. 

Your face must drop or something because Tyler instantly sees that something is different. He quietly asks you what’s wrong, the same tone he uses whenever you’re sick smoothing over his words, but when you don’t answer, he turns around and looks for himself. 

He swears, already turning back around. “Do you wanna leave? If you go ahead out to the truck I can cover the check. Here, pull your hood up, and you can wear my hat—”

You shake your head, staring right back at Tyler and ignoring the pull that tries to get you to look at Beau. “No. Let’s finish our dessert.”

Tyler blinks, his lips parted. You can tell he wants to ask if you’re sure, but he doesn’t. He takes a second, staring at you, and then he sits back, clears his throat, and dips his spoon into his banana pudding. 

Your heart speeds up until it’s painful in your chest. You worry for a second, image after image of everything that could go wrong flooding your mind. Tears sting your eyes but you try to sniff them away, busying yourself with dividing your pie up into pieces that you don’t even attempt to eat. 

“Honey,” Tyler says, “eat your pie.”

You feed yourself a bite and are instantly reminded of you why like it so much. 

Tyler continues to talk to you about the garden, telling you that the conditions this summer weren’t really living up to last summer so the lackluster harvest from your tomatoes wasn’t necessarily you’re fault, but the entire time you’re simply praying that Beau will leave before he notices you. 

You glance his way multiple times, staring at the side of him as he stands at the bar, likely waiting on a to-go order. Briefly, you can’t help but miss him and the way he would always pick up dinner here on Sundays. 

It’s a Friday. 

You wonder what else about his routine has changed.

Tyler continues. “There might be better conditions leading into the Fall but truly, I doubt it. It might just be time to say goodbye to the garden for now…”

You nod, mindlessly eating pie while Beau grabs his bag and turns around. You should’ve looked down or at Tyler because as soon as he turns, he looks at you. 

He lingers for a second, staring, and you do the same. Beau smiles, tight and friendly, and lifts a hand in a wave. 

You do the exact same, not giving more energy even though something in you wants him to come over and speak to you. 

Quicker than you can realize, Tyler turns around and throws up two fingers in a wave to Beau. Beau leaves not long afterward, and you can’t help but wonder if he thinks you and Tyler are dating now. 

The idea is appealing. 

“Why does it always take you so long to get out of the car?”

“You don’t have to wait, just go inside.”

“Now that wouldn’t be very chivalrous, would it?”

“Thought chivalry was dead.”

Tyler scoffs as if you’ve offended him. “As long as I’m alive it sure ain’t.”

You purse your lips to fight off a smile. “You sound like Boone.”

“He’s my brother from another mother for a reason.”

Their twin-like synchronization will always be equal parts weird and admirable. 

Tyler watches you struggle to put your boot on, holding the door open for you the entire time. You really do feel bad that you’re taking so long, but midway through the drive your purse opened and spilled its contents out onto the floor. That, paired with your tendency to get really comfortable in Tyler’s truck, has you taking longer than usual to get out of the car. 

Tyler stood silently for the first minute, but after that, he’d—rightfully—grown frustrated. 

“Okay, almost done. Just looking for my lip gloss.”

You hear the tension in Tyler’s voice when he responds. “Just leave it. I’ll find it in the morning.”

You squint, searching under the seat through your spread legs. “You’ll forget.”

When you jump out of the car, he seems excited, until you bend over and peer under the seat with a better look. Tyler sighs but you ignore him. 

You swear you’ve almost found it but then it comes out of nowhere—a crack of thunder that resounds throughout the sky, immediately followed by rain pouring down. There are no warning drops, it comes out altogether, but Tyler acts quickly. 

He pushes you into the house, treating you like you’re in the military, yelling “Go! Go! Go!” against the sound of rain. 

By the time you get inside, you can feel the damage done to your hair. You’re already wincing, looking into the mirror in front of the door, turning your face this way and that. 

“If you weren’t taking so long—” Tyler doesn’t get to respond before you’re glaring at him through the mirror. He throws his hands up in surrender, but they soon drop to your waist instead. 

Just this casual touch warms your chest. 

“You look fine,” He reassures, even though your hair textures are different in multiple spots. But he says it like he means it, and not like he’s just trying to make you feel better. He stares at you through the mirror, his body right behind yours. 

You give up trying to fix it, besides there’s not much you can do without products and tools. Instead, you turn around, watching Tyler easily slip off his boots. You do the same with yours, placing them both together by the door. 

It looks right. It is right. 

Just as right as Tyler’s suggestion of popping open a bottle of wine and throwing on reruns. 

He tells you about the storms they’ve been chasing while you pass the bottle back and forth, occasionally stopping to criticize the actions of the characters on your TV as if this is the first time he’d seen this. 

It’s not until you’re three episodes in and trying to fight off the wine sleepiness (and horniness) that Tyler turns to face you. 

“Hey,” he says, resting his hand on your ankle that sits right beside his thigh. “You doing okay?”

At first, you don’t understand the point of the question. “Yep. Trying not to fall asleep.”

He smiles as if he shares the sentiment, but still shakes his head. “‘s not what I mean. After earlier, are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. ‘m fine, Ty. Thanks.”

He doesn’t press it anymore. 

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s what we agreed on.”

“I know but it doesn’t feel right leaving you here all alone.” 

“I’m fine, Tyler. Seriously.”

“I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. But I like taking care of you, too. I like being here for you.” 

You turn to face Tyler, staring at the way the pink lights of a commercial illuminate the side of his face. He looks so honest as he usually does, but there’s something in his eyes that you haven’t seen before. Maybe it’s always been there, but you hadn’t been looking for it. 

Now, it’s plain and simple, sitting right there for you to do something with. 

Just as you’re about to do something, Tyler turns back to face the TV. You push away the dismal feeling that threatens to crawl up your throat. 

It fizzes away a bit whenever Tyler rubs his thumb over your ankle. 

You feel like you’re dreaming. Maybe you are. Maybe you dozed off on the couch to Tyler rubbing soothing circles over your ankle and the arch of your foot while you both mindlessly watched reality TV. You glance down at your hand, seeing only what you’re supposed to be seeing, and then you look back up at Tyler to see what you shouldn’t be seeing. 

You’ve lived in denial for a while. It’s been easy to pretend that you didn’t like Tyler because there’s no way he could like you too. He’s just a gentleman, raised right by his momma, and that had always been the explanation. Tyler’s upbringing explained why he was so eager to risk the flu just to help you out, why he drove an hour just to give you a jump when your battery died, why he taught you line dances until you were a puddle of sweat on your living room floor. Why he ditched his friends to hang out with you, why he briefly abandoned his one true love—tornado wrangling—to give you a day he thought you deserved. Why he punched your ex without any hesitation at the first sign of disrespect.

But Tyler’s upbringing didn’t put this look in his eyes. A look so defined that you cannot deny it anymore.

Both of you stand in front of your bedroom doors, backs turned to the wood in order to face the other. Tyler stares down at you, eyes lidded with bags beneath, but no less infatuated.  

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks. 

You speak first. 

“I missed having you home, Ty.”

This surprises him. He tilts his head, letting the surprise show on his face as his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen. “I knew you did, honey bun. But what happened to loving the place all to yourself?”

You shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though your feelings are anything but. “Turns out that’s boring and too quiet. I miss your chaos.”

“You miss my chaos?” He nods as he says it, astonishment on his face. “And that’s supposed to be a compliment?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, turning around, and reaching for your door. “You knew it was a compliment, asshole.”

He’s laughing through his apology. It’s as lighthearted as your chastising. 

He extends his arms, wrapping them around your body and hugging you from behind. You don’t mean to meld with his shape as quickly and easily as you do, but maybe that’s the thing. It’s natural for you to fit yourself right into Tyler, just like it was natural for him to fit himself right into your life.

He hums, resting his chin against your head. 

“I missed you, too, love bug.” Ugh, the nickname. He makes it sound like you’re in love with him. 

(Are you?)

You spin around in Tyler’s arms, doing so easily with the space he gives you, but then he’s right back on you, arms wrapped around your shoulders and your head resting on his chest. 

You have your arms wrapped around his waist, breathing in the soft scent of laundry detergent, outside, and his cologne all melding on the cotton of his shirt. 

You sigh, content with what life has given you. 

When you say, “I’m glad you made it home”, it comes out naturally. You feel it deep within you, glad that whatever divine intervention or luck was on your side to bring Tyler back safely. 

When he agrees with an earnest, “I’m glad I’m home”, he says it like he means it too, and you’re sure he does. 

A moment goes by and Tyler calls your name. You hum, waiting for him to say something as you lazily blink at him. 

“If I asked to kiss you, what would you say?”

Your answer is quick. “I would say yes.”

Tyler nods. “And if I asked you to come spend the night in my room, what would you say?”

You think about it for a second, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach and the way your heart has kickstarted. “I would say no.”

His face falls. You pick it back up. 

“My room’s better.”

Tyler smiles through his annoyance, already stepping towards your bedroom. You lead him in, one hand on the doorknob as you continue to face him. His hands find your waist, holding you steady and close to him as you both enter your bedroom. It’s not until you’re both standing in your room that he pushes his lips to yours. 

[l0nelyish]

It‘s about that sandwich!

natasha romanoff x fem!reader

prompt: where you just can’t help but stun Natasha… and maybe get on her nerves? she doesn’t know which one it is.

nothin but pure fluff and nat being pouty af

lil bit of grumpy nat x sunshine reader if you squint.

3rd pov

„That‘s it.“, Wanda turned around, confused. Witnessing Natasha angry, sure thing. Witnessing her confused? never.

“What’s the matter with you, everything alright?”

Natasha huffed, pouting almost childlike. It’s so not like her to seem this openly frustrated, but she couldn’t care less. “Do I seem alright to you? No. This is the fifth time this month she’s been emptying one of the pbj ingredients before i could make one for myself.”, she dragged her eyes across the room, almost analyzing as in ‘hide and seek’. Where could you have been? And why do you have to steal ‘her’ ingredients? Natasha was bothered by you, yes. Extremely.

Wanda took another look at Natasha and chuckled: “Damn, does a peanut butter and jelly sandwich really have that much value to THE black widow? Oh my Lord.”

Natasha almost wanted to hit Wanda in the head with her slices of bread. It was really tempting, she had to admit. The witch shot her a knowing look, most likely hearing her thoughts. Again, the Russian woman huffed. Her temper was really not her strongest suit. Especially not after provoking it.

“It has a decent amount of value, thank you. What do you want me to say? ‘Oh my God! I can’t live without a pbj sandwich! Help me!’ ?”, Natasha shot her a glare, sarcasm being her best suited form of selfdefense. She truly is a witty woman.

On the other side of the kitchen aisle, Wanda tried her best not to fall into a laughing fit. Never has she ever seen Natasha this distressed, this fuzzy. And then, after really considering who they were discussing, she sent her friend a knowing smirk:

“Are you really this cranky about two bread slices or is it because of your ‘definitely not crush’ ?”

Natasha stared at her, eyes blown in shock: she got caught. Again. She usually wouldn’t let someone else read her this easily, but since this is you they’re talking about, and it’s Wanda she’s talking to, there really is no reason to facade it. Still, she tries to deny: “I told you a hundred times, I don’t like her! I can’t even stand her. I mean, she empties the food. What am I supposed to eat now?” So wrong. Even Natasha knows her whole act of trying to hate and blame you for everything is not working and it’s just her best shot at ignoring the rising feelings she’s got for you. But could anybody blame her, really? When you were this excited, extremely beautiful, empathetic and shiny human being?

You entered the kitchen, unaware of the ongoing dispute. Hot on your heels, you scanned the room and reacted to Natashas last sentence: “Did Steve forget the groceries? Are you hungry?”

And just like that, after merely 5 seconds, Natasha dreaded holding a grudge. Her whole demeanor snapped (no pun intended) and her eyes gazed almost neutrally into your warm gaze: “Someone emptied the whole peanut butter jar. And now I can’t make my dinner.”

Surprisingly, you sent her a goofy smile: “Oh! That must have been me, I’m extremely sorry, Tasha. I do have another half of my pbj sandwich left though, I was about to refrigerate it.”, you held up your plate. She gave it a look and panicked internally: were you really about to share your meal? As if gathering her freight, you again sent her a toothy smile and handed her the leftover half. “Enjoy!”, was all you stated, leaving both women standing around the kitchen isle. Plus the pbj sandwich, which Natasha stared at for longer than necessary. The corners of her mouth started to form a smile, which after some contemplation she insisted on not following through.

Wanda, who encountered the whole interaction, had a huge smirk on her face.

Natasha on the other hand, without having to look at her friends face, mentally face palmed herself for always getting so stuck up around you.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything… but enjoy your meal.”, with that, Wanda left a flushed Natasha stood in the compound’s kitchen.

The widow took another look at your, no her, plate. And after a year, she still can’t wrap her head around it:

What was she going to do about you?

[copperbadge]

This is not to sniff at packaged food in any way, because cheap, uniform, nutritious, premade food is important and necessary. And despite what your local tiktok orthorexic may tell you, packaged food is still capable of providing solid nutrition.

That said, I've been making my own bread for about twenty years, and for the last ten or so it has often been easier to make bread than buy it, solely because I don't need to leave the house to do so, and I live alone so a decent loaf can last me a good ten days. Being able to make ones own bread in this modern era is a product of privilege -- the resources to buy the ingredients (especially high quality flour, not cheap), the time and space to bake, the stamina to knead or equipment to make kneading easier -- my breads improved a lot when I got a good stand mixer, and those aren't cheap. But also, to make a decent edible boule you can get by with flour, water, yeast, salt, and time. Throw in a little oil and you can make pizza crust; add in kneading and a bit of sugar and you have bagels.

It did somewhat change how I eat, because homemade bread is often a little difficult to make a sandwich with, but I was never a huge fan of sandos anyway. These days I often don't even make loaves -- I make rolls or bagels, or flatbreads.

But all of this is to say that because I'm now accustomed to eating my own bread, which is necessarily small-batch and produced without stabilizers that make commercial bread so soft and uniform, I am starting to struggle when I do buy bread because the flavor and texture often feel off. It's not that it's objectively bad food, but it's very different from what I'm used to, which is unpleasant. I've been aware of the issue for a while but previously even if the bread wasn't as good to me as my own, it was edible and convenient, so it was fine. Making your own hot dog buns is a pain in the ass.

I just bought a loaf of Italian bread, reasonably fresh, a brand I used to eat regularly, because I wasn't feeling up to baking anything. I've been making toast with it mostly. But yesterday morning -- admittedly while dealing with some nausea -- I bit into a sandwich I'd made with it (cashew butter and strawberry jam) and thought, "this feels like eating upholstery fabric."

I haven't been able to eat any more of it since. The soft, dense texture, the specific preservative flavor, the mouthfeel. I tried to eat some toast just now and had to spit it out because it felt like buttered brocade and I started to gag. I'm kind of mad about it, honestly.

The bread won't go to waste -- if I can't eat the rest of the bag I'll dry it out and crush it for breadcrumbs for fried chicken or a panade -- but it's both sad and funny that I have functionally baked myself into a corner where packaged bread is no longer even an option.

It feels like I'm becoming one of the middle-aged eccentrics I used to know when I was a kid -- older people or couples in my church, sometimes parents of my school friends, who were just kind of oddballs, hippie leftovers, what I still think of as Berkeley Weirdos (affectionate) even though Berkeley has long since gentrified. The lady who didn't have a functional oven or stove because she ate raw vegan or the family that converted their old station wagon to biofuel but kept the rear-facing back seats with no seatbelts and would give us death-defying rides to the community pool in them. I'm already growing my own basil because I eat an unlikely amount of pesto for one person. My signature potluck dishes are kiwi dip or egg-free meringues.

I don't mind, exactly. I loved the Berkeley Weirdos and the community they built for us kids. But it's definitely not a place I imagined ending up.

[giuliettagaltieri]

Smile for Me

Pairing: President!Coriolanus Snowx First Lady!Reader

Synopsis: With your family involved with the politics of Panem, it was expected of Coriolanus to make you the First Lady. Only, he cannot return your affections as he long gave up on such pursuits and only wanted a loveless marriage, until he had to listen to you make a stand for your beloved fabric.

Warning: arranged marriage, angst, unrequited love, mentions of sex

Word Count: 1653

Coriolanus Snow swore to himself to never make the same mistake as to fall in love again.  The last time he tried, he had come undone, almost destroying himself while doing it, almost sacrificing what could have been his.

Still, a President needs a First Lady.

You come from a family with deep roots embedded in the politics of Panem.  One could call you a political dynasty, but nobody ever pays it any mind, at least inside the Capitol.  You are so good to your people, always putting the Capitol first above anything else.

When Coriolanus asked for your hand in marriage, your family and all of Capitol were simply elated.

But marriage with Coriolanus was not the fairytale you thought it would be.

He was not unkind.  But he was never warm with you either.  He tends to sleep on his side of the bed, his back turned to you.

But you never really gave up on him.  You wanted the marriage to work, even if he cannot offer his heart to you.

Coriolanus lets you join him for breakfast, nodding to your narration of your shopping escapades, shyly smiling at him, thanking him for paying for all the bags he let you buy. 

You would butter his bread for him, pour him his tea as you tell him that you are planning to take cooking lessons so you can cook for him one day, especially when you are to have children.

There were times in which you would bother him in his office, bringing him his lunch that you oh so carefully packed in your pretty woven basket.  You would show up in your long flowy dresses that he liked to see.  It made you look like a real spouse and not just the Capitol socialite that cling to his arm during parties.

When you become intimate, you never let your lips touch.  You are always faced with such great disappointment.  He always pleases you good but there is nothing intimate about what you do. 

You cannot forget how he pushed you off like you burned him when you kissed his lips as you chased your carnal rapture.  His eyes were hard when he glared at you, a thousand of unspoken words being lashed at you with that single look. 

With shaking hands and a crumbling heart, you pull the blanket up to your chest to keep your modesty while he stalks off to a table in the corner of your room in the nude to gulp a glass of whiskey.

He never spoke nor looked at you for days after that.

You have come to understand that the marriage was just an agreement between Coriolanus Snow and your father, another ploy of your family to take power in Panem. 

You would not let them.

Coriolanus noticed how no more stories filled the warm morning air of your dining area upon breakfast.  Still, you offer him smiles when you do decide to talk.

Loving you is not and never was in the plan of your husband, you accept that now.  Still, you take care of him as you know that in his own way, he looks after you.

Your card is never empty no matter how mad your shopping spree was the day before.  The dining table is always filled with your favorite food.  Your home is decorated with your favorite colors.

Coriolanus wanted a First Lady, not a wife.

He chooses not to say anything when he finds you in his office one day, staring at the map of Panem, your eyes scanning over the borders of each District.  He stands by the doorway, your back to him.  

A small smile falls to his lips as he observes how you dolled yourself with your latest purchase.  A pretty white dress that suited you so well.

You grasp your hands behind you and you walk curiously to his bookshelf, hardbound books of various shades and thickness fill every space and he watches how your head tilts to the side, making your heavy gemmed hairpins wink under the sunlight.

Coriolanus heads to his desk quietly, only clearing his throat to announce his presence when he is seated.  He watches from the corner of his eyes how you jolt in surprise.  He almost felt bad.

“Looking for something, wife?”  He asks as he opens a letter.  He does not have to look at you to know that you are squirming from having been caught.

“Not really.  I am sorry for barging in.”  You laugh lightly to try and cut through the tension.  You know he does not like having anybody in his office.  Even if it was you.  “I was simply admiring your collection of books.”  That was a lie, they were all about the history of the leaders before your husband and battle strategies, you liked your books fiction.

He smiles briefly, it does not reassure your spirits but it was an attempt from him.  “Are you starting to get interested in politics?”

Your eyes widen as you laugh a little lighter.  “Gods, no.”  You hold your wrist behind you.  “I’m content with being the First Lady.”  You have enough on your plate.  Being a perfect companion to your husband, role model to the women of your great nation, and a daughter of your family.

“I thought you would be having tea with your mother today?”  Coriolanus glances at you and you press your lips to a thin line as you walk over to the couch and straighten up the throw pillows.

You take your time to answer, a small and gloomy smile on your lips.  “I decided not to come.”  You are not in the mood to feed your family information about your husband.  They were very good at it, extracting information from you without you doubting any ulterior motives behind them.  But you changed.

“Well, since you’re here.”  Coriolanus sits straighter in his chair and beckons you closer with a gentle tip of his head towards the seat in front of his desk.  You take it and you look at him with apprehension.  “Why don’t you help me decide a few things?”

Your brows immediately meet in concern.  “Oh.  No, Coriolanus.  I do not wish to overstep.”

He brings a hand up and you shut your lips.  “You are not overstepping.  I am asking for your advice.”

A gentle scoff escapes your smiling lips as you look at him with playful incredulity.  “Surely, I do not know more than you do.”

Coriolanus shrugs, he agrees to that to some extent.  “District 8 plans to discontinue producing Vicuña wool-”  You cut him off with a dramatic gasp.

“They cannot!”  You say in distress.

He leans on his chair to smile at you charmingly.  “Read their letter.”

You reluctantly take it.  Coriolanus watches how your lips form a pout, your eyebrows meeting as you huff, and your eyes dropping to the side in pity.

“Poor Vicuñas.”  You whisper as guilt and desire battle in your eyes.

“Do you support their decision?”  Coriolanus asks as he opens another letter.

“No.”  You immediately say, which piques his interest as he did not know you as someone who passes any opportunity to protect animal life.  “But perhaps we can put it to a pause?” 

You were begging him with those wide glassy eyes of yours as you continued.  “We can put the production to a halt for a few years to let the Vicuña population grow to a reasonable number and once they reach that, they will be shorn under strictly regulated conditions.”  You bite your lip.  “Vicuña wool has been a staple in the wardrobes of the Capitol women, it would cause an uproar if we shut down the productions for good.”

He stifles a laugh as you justify your disapproval.  You were about to continue when you saw the crinkle in his eyes, making you break into a small smile.

“I sound silly, don’t I?”

He shakes his head though he does not bother to hide his grin.  “Not at all.”

You groan as you place the letter firmly back on his desk.  “This is why I never want to get involved in politics.  I just embarrass myself.”  You say while standing up and smoothing out your dress, just to try and hide your flushed cheeks.

“No, no.”  Coriolanus walks over to you and cradles your face.  You still all your movements as you meet his eyes.  He seems to recover from his brief enjoyment and realizes what he has done.  You never know your husband to back down and he chooses to dig his heels right at this moment.  “You have made a brilliant point, wife.  I would have approached this issue with only one perspective, thank you for enlightening me.”  And to both your surprise he presses a soft kiss on your forehead.  You at his sudden display of affection and him for his lack of control of his own impulses.

Your hands grip his coat for support even as he parts from you.  For a moment, you held each other’s gaze, not quite wanting to break it as you know that once you do, whatever you have created between you will burst like a bubble.

“I-I’ll make us dinner.”  You smile shyly.  “There’s this dish I learned recently.”

He nods, a small smile still on his lips.  “I am looking forward to it.”

You smile back in response and reluctantly, you let go of each other.  Coriolanus clears his throat as he returns to his desk as you head towards the door.

“I’ll be joining you at seven.”

Glancing one last time from the door, you nod as you offer him your sweetest smile.

Coriolanus Snow swore to himself to never make the same mistake as to fall in love again.  But when you smile at him that way, he wonders how long he can keep his affections in check.

[ckret2]

Any thoughts on the Stodehttcennoc code and all the Ciphertology lore it gave us? It’s interesting to get such a look at what an actual bill cipher cult looks like, even if the majority of it is played for surreal laughs.

yeah, i'm changing all the death valley girls' last names to Cipherwife

Right when I thought we'd run out of big packets of lore and were down to the dregs, we get the stodehttcennoc story, immediately one of my favorite things to come out of TBOB. In no particular order:

a Snapewives reference??? Unexpected. Hilarious.

i LOVE the mental image of just how unhinged Bill must have looked running around in Silas's body. Like i'm imagining that by the time of the big showdown at the end he's wheeling around his limbs like Jack Skellington dressed as a scarecrow cackling like a maniac surrounded by flame. Did he have fun, i think he had fun, it sounds like he had a lot of fun. I had fun.

on a doylist level i understand that Alex wrote Bill stealing all the wives in town because that is, in fact, something that real cult leaders tend to do. however real cult leaders tend to do it because they're straight human men horny for human women and realized their power lets them get away with anything they want. so on a watsonian level, why'd BILL do it?

LOVE the look into how Bill recruits people into a cult. His interview is actually a very good example of REAL cult recruitment tactics: mystical manipulation (using tricks to make you look magical/holy/psychic/etc); driving wedges between a recruit and their loved ones; flattering the recruit, offering to help their dreams come true; but dangling the answer to all their problems just out of reach, only after they make a big commitment (often financial) (and then you require them to keep upping their commitment); pressuring them FAST to make a decision, don't give them any time to think... that's actually how it works, all packed into one page

did bill take 100+ wives because HE's horny for human women? Is he horny ONLY for female humans or did he just figure he couldn't get away with also marrying the males in 1952 rural Kansas?

Something about Bill being delighted about having so many fingers just tickles me. Especially after he dissed humans for only having five fingers in TBOB. Human hands are a joke, are they?? Seems like five fingers are enough to make him happy! ... i realize how that sounds, i won't apologize for it

I feel like a cult that's willing to eat off its fingers for you and turn a blind eye to you taking 100+ wives would probably not draw the line at something as prosaic as homosexuality. Bill, you could have had 100+ husbands too. Why didn't you.

to me, somehow the goofiness & speed at which this cult came together felt more sincerely Gravity Falls-ish than most of TBOB. Like TBOB is still Gravity Falls, but most of the content doesn't feel 100% Gravity Falls. Bill Speed-Recruits A Cult While Wearing A Corpse He's Frantically Trying To Keep From Falling Apart feels closer to 100%. It's got that je ne sais quoi, that core dumb silliness.

Why did you want over 100 wives, Bill Cipher. Why only wives. What was your motivation.

This works well with my headcanon that Bill's bread & butter isn't just manipulating individuals, but specifically cult leadership. And it's given me a lot of material to work with in as far as writing him as a cult leader. I underestimated how himself he's willing to be while courting fresh victims, I figured there'd be more "trying to sound normally appealing by human standards" going on. He calls his soon-to-be cultists dim plasma bags before he even started pitching his cult. He's REALLY willing to let his charisma do all the heavy lifting. His technique clearly isn't "convince you that he's offering the things you want" but "convince you that you want the things he's offering"

Was stealing all those wives just a power trip, Bill? Is that all it was? If it was, wouldn't persuading guys to marry you in 50s Kansas be an even bigger power move??

how did Silas get involved in this. We don't see Bill take one corpse and KEEP piloting it for long periods of time like that anywhere else, even though it's clearly an effective method of interacting with humans. Was Silas just a conveniently available corpse, or did he make a deal with Bill before he died? Or maybe Bill DOES do this frequently, and it's how he starts most of his cults.

He CAN'T have taken all those wives for "I'm attracted to humans but only the female ones" purposes. In spite of the sheer quantity of references to female exes I am unable to believe that this triangle is heterosexual.

I'm requiring anyone who draws young skinny white human Bill Ciphers from hereon to switch from the sexyman human Bill to Silas Birchtree. 1950s huckster with a golly-gee-whiz face and evil in his eyes and rot on his breath is the pinnacle of what any young skinny white human Bill could possibly be. Also it's interesting to see Bill's justification for being a snappy dresser, that it's a trojan horse for chaos.

questions about bill's orientation aside, my gut says Bill MUST have wanted a bunch of wives and not husbands for some other reason, he didn't ACTUALLY want 100+ wives for sexual/romantic purposes.

or did he

bill explain the cipherwives

[jackoshadows]

Firstly, why is it that Sansa can only be praised by comparing her to Arya? Secondly, in what world is Arya physically strong and more than Sansa?!

The masculinization of Arya Stark by tradfems in fandom has become so commonplace that I suppose many of them imagine this is how Arya and Sansa are in the books:

In case folks don't know this: ARYA IS TWO YEARS YOUNGER THAN SANSA! She's the younger sibling!

Anyone who has read a Jon POV chapter should know that Arya is a skinny, little girl. Jon specifically makes a small, lightweight, thin sword for Arya to handle.

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. - Jon, AGoT

Arya has been on the run for two years, hunted by Lannister men, a slave put to hard physical work and starved for food.

She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese's pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. - Arya, ACoK

Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares. - Arya, AGoT

"Lommy's hungry," Hot Pie whined, "and I am too." "We're all hungry," said Arya. - Arya, ACoK

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Ary, ACoK

I knew we should never have left the woods, she thought. They'd been so hungry, though, and the garden had been too much a temptation. - Arya, ASoS

"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. - Arya, ASoS

Rabbits ran faster than cats, but they couldn't climb trees half so well. She whacked it with her stick and grabbed it by its ears, and Yoren stewed it with some mushrooms and wild onions. Arya was given a whole leg, since it was her rabbit. She shared it with Gendry. - Arya, ASoS

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

We have the contrast of Arya having to trade some carrots and cabbages they picked from an overgrown garden to get some food and the innkeeper complaining about the lack of lemons to the sumptuous 64 dish feast in the Vale with a 12 feet tall lemon cake made especially for Sansa.

Anguy shuffled his feet. "We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some." "Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don't you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too." She shook a finger at him. "Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem's cloak, if you like, but not till it's hung for a few days. You'll eat rabbit, or you won't eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you've got a hunger. Or might be you'd like it stewed, with ale and onions." Arya could almost taste the rabbit. "We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you." - Arya, ASoS

Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out. Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more. - Alayne, TWoW

Arya was already a little, skinny girl smaller than Sansa when they left Winterfell. She has been worked to the bone, sleeping rough and gone hungry. Again, by what logic is this Arya supposed to be physically strong and more than Sansa?!

There is this idea that's often pushed where Sansa is some dainty, fragile princess while Arya is this strong executioner henchwoman and it's just so tiresome and toxic.

Arya is also not Brienne! They are two different characters. If you want physically strong warrior types to compare to Sansa, there is already Brienne. Arya is the smaller, younger sister. In canon and logically, it's the taller, bigger, elder sister with access to good, rich food who would be physically stronger.

The Stark looking Starks tend to be slender and quicker compared to the bigger, stronger Tully looking Starks.

He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favorite thing." Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" - Jon, AGoT

Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she's just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth. - Jon, ADwD

This is one of the reasons for why Jon Snow is so protective of Arya Stark - he certainly doesn't see her as some physically strong warrior type, despite gifting her with a sword. He's scared for her because he knows that despite how clever she is, Ramsay can kill, rape and torture her - she's 'just a little girl'.

Arya deserves to be protected, same as Sansa. She is not there to be anyone's henchwoman, she does not have super strength and she is certainly not physically stronger than Sansa.

[luveline]

kbd steve and r dealing with two of the girls holding a grudge/fighting and helping them make up 🥹🥹🥹

kbd —mom!reader and dad!steve attempt to get their girls to forgive each other

“I thought they’d just forget,” you whisper. 

Steve looks over your shoulder, hand on your waist, the smell of hot butter bubbling on the stove like an itch in his nose. “Right? Like, they’d sleep and forget. Especially ‘cos they like sharing the bed.” 

Avery and Beth sit as far away from one another as is humanly possible. Beth sits with Dove toward the head of the table, frowning as her little sister climbs onto her legs and tries to comb her hair, while Avery sits by the open kitchen door. She’s pretending to poke at the snail that lives under the stoop, but she’s really on the edge of tears. 

They’re fighting because Avery took one of Beth’s fruit slices yesterday at lunch (warm pastries that all the kids can’t get enough of). When Steve asked her about it, she lied and said Beth actually ate one of her fruit slices, and Beth had been so betrayed she actually got mad. Beth never gets mad. 

Avery couldn’t take the guilt, confessing in tears the night before that she’d lied, and so you and Avery knocked Beth’s door together to apologise. Only Beth didn’t forgive her. 

It’s weird to see them not getting along. Avery and Beth are so sweet to each other usually. It’s odd that they aren’t sharing their breakfast, that they aren’t trying to feed the baby her mushy eggs. You and Steve are used to a more lovey-dovey feeling in the mornings. 

You dip down to sit with Avery when she does eventually start crying. “What’s the matter?” you whisper. 

Steve knows you’ve got the reins on that one, taking a seat by the other disgruntled party. 

“Is she crying?” Beth asks him softly. 

“Yeah, baby.” 

“‘Cos of me?” 

“It’s not like that.” He pulls Dove off of Beth’s lap before the toddler can trample her. Dove frowns at him but decides to allow it, resting in a lump against his chest. He pats her back. “She feels bad that she upset you, and she lied, and she wishes you were feeling better.” 

It must be strange to be young and be terrified that nobody will believe you, even over something as small as a fruit slice. Steve can’t imagine what he’d feel like now having to justify things to his parents. Or maybe it was that Avery’s never done something like that, at least not that Beth could remember. 

“She lied,” Beth stresses. 

“I know. But she did say sorry, honey, and she promised you two of her fruit slices today to make up for it. Maybe we can be friends again?” Steve says. 

If Beth wants to be mad a little while longer, that’s okay, but from the looks of her where she’s looking back and forth between Steve and the open kitchen door, she’s ready to forgive, or make her sister feel better at the very least. 

“It’s nice to forgive someone,” Steve says. “It’s kind. Avery didn’t wanna get in trouble, but she got you in trouble instead, so it’s cool if you’re still grumpy.” 

“I’m not grumpy.” 

Steve gives her an encouraging smile. “I know. It’s up to you, baby. Between you and me though, I think Avery’s super duper sorry.” 

In your lap, Avery sniffles. Dove climbs down off of Steve as Beth slips from her chair, then looks back for Steve. “Will you tell her I’m not mad?” Beth asks him. 

He wriggles his fingers. She takes his hand. 

It’s an unusually cold morning for the season, Steve can see your arms have wrinkled with goosebumps where they’re wrapped tight behind Avery’s back. You’d already given her a scolding for lying last night, and you and Steve are one and done with parenting; you don’t comfort her reluctantly, you just comfort. “It’s okay,” you say under your bread, swaying her from one side to the other. 

“Hey,” Steve says, crouching down to catch your attention. 

“Hello.” You see Beth, and you smile with relief. “Hi.” 

“Beth has something she wants me to tell you, Ave,” he says, nudging her arm gently with his knuckles to catch her attention. She peers up tearily from your arm. “She said she’s not mad anymore, okay? She wants to be friends again.” 

Avery looks at Beth cautiously. “Really?” she asks. It’s hard not to hear how hopeful she sounds. Steve feels extremely sympathetic, and he can’t help thinking she’s cute. She’s such a sweetheart, just like Beth, and Dove, and baby Wren he’s sure will end up the same. Like you. He can’t count how many times you and him have argued over the years, but every time it ends with you being more sorry than you need to be, and usually some of Steve’s guilty tears. 

“Yes,” Beth says, “so please don’t cry anymore.” 

Avery pouts. “You wanna give your sister a hug?” you prompt. 

Avery jumps up and throws herself at Bethie, almost knocking her younger sister down. Steve puts his hand behind them to stop a calamity. “I’m sorry, Bethie,” Avery squeaks, her voice high with upset and scratchy as she squeezes Beth tightly. 

“It’s okay! I’m not mad!” 

“I know!” Avery sniffles. “I’m still sorry. I told dad you ate my slice but you didn’t, I’m sorry.” 

“She’s forgiven you, baby,” you say, patting Avery’s shoulder. “It’s all water under the bridge. Yeah?” 

Beth holds Avery by the arm as they pull away. “Yeah. Water un’ the bridge.” 

“Thank you,” Avery says. “I don’t like when you’re mad.”

You and Steve make similar expressions of love and empathy over their small heads.  

[maniacwatchestheworld]

Making up things about Danny Phantom herb lore for fun #1: Blood Blossoms

The specifics as to why Blood Blossoms have such strong ghost-repelling qualities are still unknown. The Blood Blossom flower has a strong and pleasant smell and is edible by humans, having a light, flowery, and sweet flavor to them. Traditionally, it was often used as a famine food, and it was not uncommon for the flowers to be put on bread as they were- cut straight from the stem- and consumed with a bit of butter. As summer turns to autumn, unharvested blood blossoms turn into a fruit known more colloquially as 'Blood Berries.' Blood berries are also edible by humans, maintaining a similar level of sweetness as their flowers, but with a much richer, often overpowering taste. As such, the berries would often be reduced and put into jars of preservers or used as a marinade for meats. Only a little was needed to draw out the richer dimensions of food. While the scent of blood berries will still drive away ghosts, the scent of blood berries is not as strong as their flower counterpart unless actively being cooked. However, dried blood berries, and preserves using them tend to keep especially well in the cold winter months.

While one may assume that Blood Blosdoms were named for their vibrant, red, blood-like hue, it is thought by many historians that blood blossoms were especially favored by the Blood family who hailed from England, and it was them who named the flower. The Blood family's coat of arms features a design that incorporates flowers that look very similar to blood blossoms, perhaps proving to be evidence of this theory.

There are many theories as to why Blood Blossoms repel ghosts, among which is the idea that the scent of these flowers is exceedingly repulsive to ghosts, that something in their chemical makeup makes ectoplasm react in adverse ways when a ghost consumes one, or that it is a component of ghost-repelling spells- therefore ghosts feel a natural aversion to them. However one legend purposes that the reason for why ghosts are repelled by blood blossoms stems from their origin- There is a legend that says that once upon a time, a man would secretly worship at a shrine to a local forest spirit of life and the harvest. The man and his family had been cursed by evil spirits some years before, and where the Christain God had forsaken him and his family, the gentle forest spirit took pity on him and gave him what help she could. He did not have much to offer her. He would work all day in the field and barely yield enough to feed his family. His wife had been injured some years before and so could not work the fields with him anymore, nor could she even ready his meals for him when he returned home each day. And his daughters had fallen under some kind of mysterious illness that, while it fortunately had yet to take their lives, also refused to subside. Still, what little he could spare he would sacrifice to the forest spirit in hopes that she would bring them better fortune, a better crop, and protection from the evil spirits that had cursed him and his family. But one day he came to the nature spirit's alter, a gaping wound in his chest. The ghosts that had cursed his family before had returned for their souls. He did what he could- cast incantations around his humble home, but this injury had been the cost of trying to keep his family safe. The spirits were stronger than his incantations, and it would not be long until the spirits broke through them. He begged the goddess to protect and help his family. Without him, how would they eat? How would his family survive? The humble farmer died on the forest spirit's alter. She wept for the man who sacrificed everything he could to her to protect his family. And so she thought that the least she could do was to grant his wish. Plants erupted from the ground where his blood had spilled, bearing bright red flowers with black thorns. They traveled along the forest path to his home, where they surrounded the building, forcing the ghosts away. They would never return to hurt the family ever again. And with the spirits gone, the daughters were able to heal from the illness. It was soon discovered as they trimmed the wild black thorns back that the flowers were edible and delicious too. The stems and twigs burned especially hot, helping them to keep their hearth warm throughout all the autumn and winter. And the berries kept all the winter through. And so the man's wishes had all come true. For the rest of their days, his family would be protected from the spirits that had haunted them, and they would never need to go hungry ever again.

[cursedlovesstuff]

Fixing us. Part 5.

Nat heard the door open and close, followed by Y/N’s worried voice. “Nat?”

“I’m in the kitchen,” Nat called out, focusing on the garlic bread. It wasn’t long before she heard footsteps walking towards the kitchen.

“What happened?” Y/N asked, her voice tense.

“What happened?” Nat repeated, looking up from the oven.

“You called me. You called me and asked me to come home. The last time you did that was when Bucky almost died on that mission. So, who got hurt? Who died?”

“Relax, Y/N. No one’s dead and no one got hurt.”

“Oh...” Y/N said, setting her phone and purse down on the counter before leaning against it. “Well, then why’d you call me?”

“Can’t I call my wife, check up on her, and ask when she’s coming home?”

“You usually don’t. You text me, but you never call. Your definition of checking up on me is saying a few words before bed and then going to sleep,” Y/N said truthfully. “So, what's wrong? What do you need?”

“Nothing’s wrong and I don’t need anything. I thought maybe we could have dinner together,” Nat said as she finished preparing the garlic bread, the aroma of garlic and butter filling the kitchen.

“You made dinner?"

"Yes, why do you sound so surprised?"

"In the seven years that we have been together, you've never cooked. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Did you have someone make this?"

"I had someone teach me how to make this so that I could surprise you. I know it's your favorite."

"It was my favorite... I haven't eaten it in over a year. Once you have too much of a good thing, you stop appreciating it."

"I— It's fine. I can order pizza."

"You don't have to order pizza. Thank you for dinner, but I'll eat it when I get back."

"When you get back? Where are you going?"

"Carol invited me and the girls out to talk and for drinks since we were, well, interrupted."

"When did she invite you?"

"She called right after you did. I told her I wasn't sure if I could make it because you needed me."

"I do need you."

"Dinner's ready and no one's hurt. It seems like you've got everything handled," Y/N said, looking around the kitchen. "I won't be gone long. I'm going to get dressed. I'll see you later."

Y/N left the kitchen, leaving Nat confused. She quickly wiped her hands clean before heading up the stairs to their shared bedroom.

"Y/N."

"Yes, Nat?" Y/N said, looking away from her clothes.

"You can't go out with Carol."

"Why not?" Y/N asked, pulling out a dress.

"Because Carol doesn't have your best interests at heart."

"When was the last time you had my best interests at heart?" Y/N shot back, making Nat let out a frustrated sigh as she ran her hands through her hair.

"I get that you're upset with me, especially after last night, but—"

"I'm not upset about last night."

"You're not?" Nat asked, confused.

"No, I'm not upset. If I were, you would be the first to know."

"If you're not upset, then... why would you go out for drinks with Carol?"

"Because I need a break, Nat. I need to breathe. You can’t just call me up and expect everything to be fine because you made dinner for the first time ever."

Nat’s shoulders slumped, and she took a step closer. “I know I’ve screwed up. I know I haven’t been here the way I should be, but I’m trying, Y/N. I really am.”

“You’re trying?” Y/N scoffed, shaking her head. “How many years have we been together, Natalia?” she asked, the use of her full name stinging Nat.

"Seven years."

"Seven years. Married for four, dated for two and a half years, engaged for five months, and you're the one trying?"

"For the past seven years, I have been trying. I have cared for you and protected you with my life. When you come home bloody and bruised from missions, I'm the one cleaning and stitching you up."

"When a part of your suit rips, I'm the one putting the pieces back together so that you don't get grilled by Fury."

"When something happens and it triggers you and you start to remember your past and lose yourself, I'm still here putting the pieces back together. And you're the one trying? One dinner isn't going to fix all of our problems."

"I know."

"Do you, Nat? Because it's only been 24 hours and that is not nearly enough time for either of us to decide what we really want."

"For either of us to decide what we want?" Nat repeated, her voice cracking slightly.

"I know what I want, Y/N, but I don't know what it is that you want from me."

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What does that mean? What do you mean you don't know?"

"It means I don't know, Nat. Okay? I finally started to figure things out for myself. I started going on morning runs and working out. I have a job now, and I have friends. I don't just sit around and wait for you to come back to me anymore. And now that I give you an ultimatum, you want to take it seriously."

"I have always taken our relationship seriously," Nat said, earning a skeptical look from Y/N.

"Do not look at me like that. I know lately I put my job and the team above you and our relationship. I realize that now and I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out."

"Sorry doesn't fix things."

"I know that, Y/N, but I can't fix things if you don't talk to me. I can't read your mind and I won't know what's wrong if you don't tell me."

"What's wrong is me, Nat. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"What?"

"I keep thinking about the past and how things used to be. When we used to be happy. When I used to be happy."........

~~~~~~

Is this what you guys wanted? I had a friends advice and help but im stuck on part five I know where I want this to go but I can't get pass this part. Should I just drop the rest of part five or switch it up?

Also I'm writing so many other story's at once it's hard to keep up.

[trashmouth-richie]

masterlist

eddie x fem reader

chapter summary: how sweet it is, to be loved.

series summary: You were desperate for a roommate after Nancy got married and moved out. An ad in the paper goes unanswered until someone comes knocking on the door.

special thanks: to anyone and everyone who read a single chapter or kept up with this series to the end, thank you so much- this story wouldn’t be possible without your support.

author’s note: I can’t believe this is the final chapter for this series, I’m feeling so many emotions right now but mostly just love for Eddie and Tooty and everything in between. Thank you to anyone who has helped me beta ( @sweetsweetjellybean especially!)this story or fan girled with me over upcoming chapters. To any of the very talented artists who have made any art for this series, thank you so very much, each and every piece holds such a special place in my heart. To anyone who is mentioned in this story, thank you so so much, @loveshotzz @chechelia @carolmunson @mopeymopeymouse and everyone else— thank you for allowing me to include you in this series. To everyone who has liked, rb’d left a comment or interacted in any way with this series— THANK YOU. This series has brought such joy & heartache to me, and I’m so lucky to have people enjoy it. 🖤

Cereal

Hotdogs

Bananas

Jelly —grape, not strawberry

Bread

Crackers 

Toothpaste 

Noodles 

Chicken thighs— babe are you making fun of me?

Heartburn medicine

You tap the chewed cap of your pen along the lined paper of a scribble heavy grocery list. Desperately wishing you had x-ray vision to see inside your cabinets and remember what you were in need of, you chew the cap again.

Giggling to yourself every so often at Eddie’s notes on the grocery list. Crossing off items he thought weren’t needed, mostly vegetables he didn’t like. And always making sure you got his favorites. And not, “that healthy bullshit cereal, give me sugar or kill me babe, I will not eat Raisin Bran” 

Peanut butter 

Sunny D

Thyme 

Heavy cream

Basil

Carrots

Onions

Chicken stock

Hey sweetheart can you please get me some candy? I like skittles but you know I love m&ms.. and twizzlers, it’s for the shop. :) 

The lady behind the desk chirps a name again, but you are still racking your brain on what else was needed. The soup you had planned on making tonight would be perfect for the chilly weather rolling in. November was coming in like a lion, ferociously cold and temperatures already dipping below zero. 

Eddie loved your potato soup, so much that he begged you to make it after another long, grisly week at the shop. 

He loved everything you made, even your chili that he doctored up by adding sour cream and Doritos to it. Bon Appetit he would say with a smirk on his lips, a heaping bowl steaming in front of him. 

The clerk behind the desk tutted and huffed, the schedule was getting behind.  

“Tooty Munson! Is there a Tooty Munson here?”

You glance up quickly at the sound of your name, “shit,” you breathe, “here, yes,” you scramble shoving the list and pen into your purse, buried amongst the gum wrappers and a spilled container of tic-tacs. 

The receptionist clicks her papers against the formica counter and holds her nose in the air, as if this job and you were beneath her. 

“He’s ready for you now.”

—-

“…alright, Ed, did ya look o’er those applications yet? ‘Tween you D and Mike I don’t think we are going to be able to keep up everything that we got on the schedule.” 

Wayne’s eyebrows are raised as he looks over the bifocals perched on his nose. He had been scouring over the schedules and the books for the better half of the afternoon since lunch hour—trying to figure out how to swing their overloaded schedule. 

It wasn’t that they couldn’t do the work, they were simply short handed. After Boom closed his doors  in Hawkins, he had recommended to his regulars that they travel to Bridgeport to Master Mechanics to see Eddie and Wayne. Business was booming, and the Munson’s could barely keep up.

Early on, Wayne and Eddie decided they would only be open until noon on Saturday’s but now with the packed schedule, they worked til almost dark every night of the week, including some Sundays.

Wayne rubs his short nails through his scratchy mostly white scruff, “we can’t have these boys workin’ like this, they’ll quit on us before you can slap a tick.”

Eddie was leaning against the doorway, a bottle of Coca Cola held limp in his hand, a greasy rag stuffed in his back pocket. 

“Yeah,” he yawns, stretching out his back, “let’s hire ‘em all, we need the extra hands, or I’m gonna need an extra back.”

Wayne grunts in confirmation. The highlighter squeaks as it’s drug across the phone numbers on the applications, “I’ll call ‘em first thing in the morning,” he straightens up his desk and shoves the papers into a drawer. 

His glasses clink as he folds them up and lays them next to a picture of the newlywed Munson’s. He leans back in his chair, the leather crinkling beneath his worn coveralls, “I’m callin’ it for the day,” he exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, “it’s been one helluva week and I’m shot, tell the boys to go home to their wives.” 

“and you too,” he points, “go take care of your wife, Ed, tell her I hope she starts to feelin’ better.” 

Eddie’s curls bounce as he nods his head, completely drained from the week, shit maybe he was getting sick too? “she went to the doctor today, probably just the flu, Max told her it was going around.” 

“Well then,” Wayne says, standing up and clicking off the table lamp, “take tomorrow off and rest–

both of ya, hear me?” 

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” 

—

Eddie’s tires crunch on the ice and hard packed snow of the driveway, a silent serenity, meaning he is only moments away from holding you in his arms, seconds away from kissing your lips, and if he was lucky, minutes from eating something delicious to fill his grumbling stomach. 

He throws the truck into neutral, killing the engine and tossing the keys around his finger. Tracks from your Jeep tires lead into the garage he had built last spring. A huge project that your friends were paid in beer and a bonfire when it was all finished. 

Thrusting his sore hands into his canvas coat, he ducked his chin into the zipper and braved the asthma inducing gust of wind to the front door as it whipped through his curls. 

The house was oddly quiet, only the hum of the refrigerator making any sort of sound. Usually when he came home you’d be playing the radio, or talking on the phone to Max or Nancy, greeting him with a pop of your head around the wall in the kitchen or from the hallway, the prettiest smile put on your lips. 

“Princess?” he called out in endearment as he untied his boots and put them on the shoe rack. His coatwas already hanging on its hook, usually next to your purse but your purse was thrown onto the arm chair, and your shoes were in the hallway like you had walked right out of them. 

He undid the buttons of his work blues, letting them hang at his waist like a mechanic cape. Socked feet trudge down the carpeted hallway, you must not be feeling any better, probably too exhausted to make it out of bed.

But Eddie was wrong.

You were perched on top of the comforter, coat still on but unzipped staring at the door waiting for his arrival, fuzzy socks on your wiggling toes. 

“Hey, handsome,” you said, trying to keep your pitch even. 

“There’s my girl,” his velvet voice wrapping around you like a hug as he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for your left hand and kissing the finger that adorned the prettiest ring he’d ever bought, “how’s my beautiful wife?” 

It had been five months since you said I do. A June wedding in your own backyard, filled with friends who had served as family for years, gathered by your sides. 

“I forgot the potatoes,” you say blankly, a weird little smile on your face. 

Eddie sits down next to you, rubbing your thigh back and forth and letting out an exhausted yawn, “That’s alright, I can make us some grilled cheese if you’re up for—”

“I was looking at my grocery list, and couldn’t remember what I’d forgot.”

Eddie’s confused, but wants to reassure you that its no big deal, he’s a grown man he can certainly make supper for himself and his wife. “Sweetheart it’s okay, don’t beat yours—“

“Can’t make potato soup without potatoes.” And this time you laugh, kind of whimsically and in disbelief. 

His brows turn inward, still he just keeps reassuring you that everything is fine, “It’s okay Tooty, seriously. Let me go make you some—”

And for the third time tonight, you interrupted him, “doctor said that’s normal.”

He’s exhausted and is honestly more confused than he would like to admit, “what? The flu?” 

“No, no. “ you say, a twisted little smirk on your face, “forgetting things, throwing up in the morning, being exhausted… totally normal.” 

“Babe?” He moves to touch the back of his hand to your head, wincing when he realizes that he’s probably freezing.

“I was so scared the last time,” you whisper, teary eyed, “terrified.. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but now—.”

Eddie reaches for your cheeks, holding them softly, his eyes searching yours, desperate to figure out what the hell is going on, “what am I missing here? It’s normal to have… the flu?” 

“No, it’s not the flu,” you finally admit, looking up at him and rubbing the back of his hands with your thumbs, 

“Eddie, I’m pregnant.”

— 

You could fill an empty pool up from the tears that sprung from Eddie’s eyes that night. He was overjoyed, holding you tight while he wept into your hair. Kissing your belly and whispering to the baby. Small streaks of tears flowing down your swollen skin and the faded scar across your lower belly. 

Each month that ticked by, Eddie’s worry only doubled. 

The day after you had found out, he woke early. Watching as your chest rose and fell as you slept soundly in the original mock up of his hellfire shirt.

It was threadbare, cotton worn so thin it was practically see through— but you claimed it as your own back in the early days of your new relationship, hands on your hips and the infamous pout on your lip as you playfully argued with him about how it was now yours. 

Dusk painted the diamond covered ground from the fresh snow over night. Falling as delicately as his lips allover your skin. Soaking up the dainty noises from your throat when he carefully slid into you, tears spilling from both of your eyelashes, love filling the room more sweetly than it ever had before. 

The soft cotton of the blankets hugged your curves, and he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he gazed down at his beautiful— now pregnant— wife. 

His sweet Tooty, carrying a gift more precious than gold. 

Kissing your cheek—he dressed quietly, scribbling a note on the bedside table about going into town for a bit, but to just relax in bed until he got home. 

-

You were having a dreamless sleep, not even sugarplums could dance in your head with the overwhelming exhaustion that your body was trying desperately to catch up from. 

Something cold then silky smooth brushed against your cheek, and a velvet voice sang a little good morning greeting into your ear. Your loving husband. Pressing sweet angel kisses behind your ear and on your eyelids. 

Your bedroom was lit with the glow of a warm sun in the afternoon light. Playing a yellowed hue of warmth across your comforter, pulling the caramel color from Eddie’s curls and making his eyes look like a dreamy cup of coffee swirling with creamer. 

His lips hug yours, both smiling into one another. Heart swelling more than your toes would in the months to come. 

C’mon, got a surprise for you, princess. 

The spare bedroom that was once a room for band equipment, then Max’s bedroom for almost a year before she eventually moved in with Gareth and Will, now held storage, was completely organized, and held a wide array of items. 

A crib, brand new and still in the box, a pack n play, a swing, every box of diapers ranging from size 1 - 5, baby gates, outlet covers, fancy locks for cabinets and drawers, rubber bumpers for sharp corners and edges of tables. 

A bookshelf full of baby books, how to’s for new parents, nursery rhymes by mother goose, books suggesting baby names and their meanings, and a guide on how to quit smoking. 

Tucked into the corner of the room by the bookshelf and near the window, was a rocking chair. 

 “Eddie,” you gasp, running sleep from your eyes, “wh-what is all of this?” 

He’s smiling ear to ear, trying to curb his enthusiasm a tiny bit. “I might have gotten a little carried away.” 

Turning towards the shelf you see a plastic sack, full of candy and bubble gum, and mints. “Edward Joseph Munson.” 

“Don’t scold me, mama,” he jokes, grabbing onto your hips and kissing your hairline, “I’m just spoiling our baby.”

God you loved this man, he’d break his neck to give you the world. He was the most loving husband, and now you got to see him step into a new role. One completely foreign to you both, only have shared the idea for a few moments before it was ripped away. 

You lean into him, holding him tight and working your nose into the crook of his neck. “You’re gonna be the best dad, Eddie.”

He doesn’t hide the tear that slips down his cheek, just lets it slide and collect under his chin, his voice is quiet when he asks, “you really think so?”

“I know it.”

—

Wayne and Karen followed behind the new family in his pickup all the way home from the hospital. They were going to stay for a few days, help you both get adjusted to life as parents.

Karen and Nancy had filled your freezer with casseroles, soups and fresh bread. It was a hot July day when you were scheduled for the c section, and when it was all said and done four days in the hospital was more than enough and you were ready to be at home, snuggled up with your new family. 

It was a battle of which Munson man could shed the most tears. Eddie and Wayne were both wiping away tears for hours. Overjoyed with emotions that everyone was healthy. 

“No you don’t,” Wayne said as you reached for the back door to grab the diaper bag, “you go right inside and get comfy, get them legs up!”

You do as your told, leaving Wayne, Eddie and Karen to carry the load in. The hospital stay was overwhelmingly sweet, but you knew Eddie was itching to get back to normalcy, still not liking the way he felt cooped up in the hospital even though it had been years since you both had the horrifying visit. 

Bags and suitcases are carried in and set into your master bedroom to be unpacked later, bottles and diapers are stacked and put into their respectable places. Karen starts warming up the chicken casserole she had prepared earlier that day. Wayne fussed around with the new dishwasher that he and Eddie had installed the month prior. 

Throughout the commotion you had fallen asleep, legs propped up in the recliner, but you woke to the sound of the front door closing, and there he was.

Eddie was holding them both, large hands cocooned around their swaddled little bodies, crooked into each of his arms. Something he was nervous about but slowly getting the hang of, the nurses told him he was a natural, and Wayne wept into Karen’s shoulder when Eddie introduced the twins to their grandpa. 

His normal obnoxious voice was murmuring low and quiet like a soft lullaby so as not to stir awake the sleeping little babies. 

He looked at them both, adoration and tears springing into his eyes. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. How he could have helped make something so small and delicate, he wouldn’t understand. But, he didn’t need to. 

A boy, born first— with his dark eyes and brown hair, and later the little girl, almost identical to his Tooty, and just as stubborn, both already wrapped around his fingers.

He murmured their names, and caught your eye as he said it, a smile so wide on his face that you were sure new dimples would bust through his cheeks, and you only heard the end of what he was saying. 

If you would have told yourself five years ago that you would one day own a home, get married to and have twins with Eddie Munson, you would have laughed on the spot. That loud mouth jackass of a guy you had once regretted letting move into your home, had moved right into your heart and never left. 

The demons inside you both were finally at bay, finding solace in one another in more ways than you had thought possible. Being loved by Eddie was everything you had thought love should be like. 

And you pinch yourself to make sure it's real, and each and every time, it is. 

“…babies,” he says, a smile on his lips and tears in his eyes as he looks over at you, his family, “we’re home.” 

The end

♡tag list: @dashingdeb16 @emxxblog @pretendthisnameisclever @mommybaby-witch @eddies-acousticguitar @tlclick73 @figmentofquinn @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @whenshelanded @micheledawn1975 @3rd-conchord * @leelei1980 @browneyes8288 @emilyslutface @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @eddiesxangel @elegantkoalapaper * @str4ngergirlw0rld * @corrodedcoffincumslut @nailbatanddungeon @crybabyddl @zenathebeautiful @astela17 @taintedcigs @bettyfrommars @munsonsuccubus @munson-blurbs @hollandweather @serasvictoria @steviesgrl @curiositydooropened @ashyyboyy @urlbitchin @sllooney @lame0o @ali-r3n @bangaveragewhitewine @b-irock @enam3l @luxaeterna13 @manda-panda-monium @elthreetimes @joejoequinnquinn

[katshelluvacritic]

So…. Glitz and Glam huh… y’know what that means my fellow artists and critics…

REDESIGN TIME!!!! + (A bit of critics/opinions on the characters and the og design :-] )

To start it out a lil’ positive, If I gotta be honest I actually kinda liked these two characters from the mid-season special, even though they were just the bitchy woman character your supposed to hate (as if we needed any more of those characters than we already got viv), they were still really fun as characters in my opinion!

I feel like bitchy esc kind of character very much works for these two coupled with them being very competitive towards fizz in the episode, I feel like those two things were like the bread and butter for these characters and if I wanna be honest… I kinda wanna see these two again but wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t happened bc c’mon this helluva boss we’re talking about after all!

The only thing I would have to say negatively about these two is that they literally got crushed by a rock in the end, like I get it viv hates writing characters who are woman but COME ONNN, you had these two characters that seem really interesting and the only climax you could’a think for them in the ep was to crush them with a rock? That’s literally lame.

But other than that, I think overall these characters were alright! At least writing wise….

Now for the redesign + critic thing on the og designs

I decided to change her outfit bc although I loved the character’s personality, the outfit viv gave them not fit them at all. The jester esc outfit personally I think doesn’t really work for these two because 1. The jester theme Fizzarolli’s thing and 2. It doesn’t really work well with their personality, the song they sang in my opinion shows that.

So I thought I’d base their outfits off of the bratz outfits and also any outfits similar to that, to try to fit their characters more!

That and I’m just getting real sick and tired of the jester/clown theming that’s going on in hb because oh my god it feels so out of place, especially with the theme of greed ring being a trashy polluted city. And even if, EVEN IF viv wanted to give them clown esc themed outfits, I feel like it would’ve made more sense if she gave them outfit that were similar to mimes because technically those guys are like elegant clowns! While jesters aren’t even the same as clowns at all.

I also kept the green ish’ tones while also giving them a bit off red and purple colors to compliment the identical twin duo thing they have going on! Because like… do I even have to say why I did it? Their colors are literally just black and the same exact hues of green, it was literally hard to focus on them when watching the episode because of much they blended in with the background.

I also took inspiration from this fish when designing them because from as far as I can tell (and do correct if I’m wrong), they’re supposed to be fish demons??? So I tried to add more fish motifs for them!

I also made them half succubus from the horns looking similar to that and also because I thought it’d be fitting for them!

I also made their hair look like fish fins because oh my god their hair in the canon design was probably the worst part about their designs, not only did it have too many details that it was too distracting when I was trying to pay attention to the characters but also I just trying to figure out how the hair works in general, because it honestly their hair kinda looked like paper instead of fish fins or even actual hair.

But other than that uhh…

TLDR: I love these guys sm, they deserved much better and uhhh I love women /hj

[allastoredeer]

My favorite appleradio dynamic is prejudiced Lucifer x sassy bitch Alastor.

In Dad Beat Dad, Alastor may have started the passive aggressive jabs, but Lucifer escalated to death threats (Alastor's head on a plate) with shocking ease.

Like: "Okay, Luci. You're at a 10 and I need you at a 2." Man literally needed less than half a reason to start that Loony Tunes bout.

I like to imagine it's a side effect of his need to control everything. Like he was fighting both sides of the argument rapid fire in his head and was then meeting the escalation of an imaginary Alastor.

Sort of like how he answered for/with Charlie when she thanked him mid-song for offering his help free of charge.

It's the type of overreaction that someone that aggravates others for fun would love! Enter Alastor, Certified Public Troll with only a passing acquaintance with self-preservation.

New Mission: How far can I go before this could be considered self-destructive tendencies?

Alastor unintentionally disproving Lucifer's "All sinners are the same" philosophy by just being the worst... and then Lucifer has to face the horrifying realization that he likes the bastard. XD

Lucifer: All sinners are bad.

Alastor: *being the absolute worst person Lucifer's ever met*

Lucifer: You know what, maybe other Sinners aren't that bad actually

But yes, prejudiced!Lucifer x sassybitch!Alastor is my bread and butter. It's so good. They clash so much and that's what makes it fun.

And literally, Alastor may have been passive aggressive first, but the way Lucifer ramped it up was impressive. I made a post before going over the scene when they officially met, and, like, Alastor's comments overall? Not very antagonist. Or, the words at least. Passive aggressive, sure, but the most outright antagonistisitc he got was when he called Lucifer short.

Whereas it was immediate dislike on Lucifer's side.

All Alastor said was (both in response to Lucifer's reaction to his bar and the very first time they spoke to each other): Just some of the renovations we had done. Adds a bit of color! Don't you think?

And THIS was Lucifer's face ⬇️

"And you are?"

Like, Alastor didn't even sound that passive aggressive. The most I could give him was the smirky little face he gave Lucifer

(god, why is Alastor so pretty right here though??? maybe that's why Lucifer was so mad. Boi turn down those bedroom eyes, Luci can't think. That was Alastor's first plan. He was going to seduce the king of Hell, but then Lucifer insulted his bar, and he decided they were throwing hands instead).

I'm of the opinion that Lucifer was antagonist towards Alastor first and Alastor was just matching his energy (albeit very readily LMAO his eye was twitching the moment Lucifer walked through the door).

Also, yes, thank you for bringing up Lucifer answering for Charlie, cuz I think that's something a lot of people overlook.

Well, maybe he didn't answer for her exactly. I imagine it's just what he wanted her to say, but still, look at Charlie's face ⬇️

She doesn't look very comfortable.

In fact, she looked awkward, annoyed, frustrated, and uncomfortable throughout most of her interactions with Lucifer in this episode.

(there's a lot more but tumblr has a picture limit)

Wheras, this is what she was like with Alastor:

like

DAMN

Okay Luci, I see why your insecurities were firing on all cylinders.

We all know that Alastor wasn't genuine about being a father figure to her, but there has to be something to his and Charlie's relationship if she's looking at him like this. Especially in front of Lucifer.

I'm getting off topic though, I could do a WHOLE other post on my thoughts about Charlie's relationship with Lucifer VS Charlie's relationship with Alastor, and why it is the way that it is.

Anyway, yes, I agree with you. Lucifer 100% escalated the fight between him and Alastor. He went from zero to sixty with no hesitation, and he wasn't even AWARE of Alastor and Charlie's relationship yet. Essentially, the way I see it, he was acting that way toward Alastor for the sole reason that he's a Sinner which is the definition of prejudice.

And I want to clarify to anyone reading this, this isn't me hating on Lucifer. I love Lucifer. I love his character and his flaws and his insecurities. I love the way it all affects how he interacts with other characters, both negatively and positively. This is what makes him so interesting to me.

He holds so much capacity for love while also being so heavily flawed and it is 😙👌 delicious.

[barefoot-joker]

Two Lonely Hearts  Yandere!Miguel O’Hara X Reader

Hey, guys! I hope you all are doing well. This is my first time writing for Spider Man and for Miguel O’Hara. I just think he’s neat. The Spanish I did Google Translate so please let me know if it’s wrong so I can fix it! I hope you guys all enjoy and have a great day/ night!

Words: 2010

Warnings: Implied suicidal thoughts, anxiety, depression, yandere tendencies, kidnapping, talk of forced mothership

BEEP!

BEEP!

BEEP!

I sighed and groggily turned off my alarm. Last night I did not get a lot of sleep, even with my sleeping pills. It has been like this a lot lately and it sucks because the night is when my mind wanders the most. I hate that I have to deal with my anxiety and depression even while I try to sleep. It really sucks the life out of you.

Today I was in the mood to not get out of bed. I just wanted to lay there and let the day pass while I wrapped myself up in a blanket cocoon. I indulged myself and lay there for a while when I suddenly felt like I was being watched. I brought the blanket over my head similar to what a child does to try and get rid of the feeling. 

It didn’t go away.

I might as well get up. 

With that, I shrugged the blanket off my body and slumped my way out of bed. My bare feet slid against the wood floor as I was too tired to try and lift them. It’s going to be one of those days. 

I tiredly made my way to my closet and picked out a f/c t-shirt, a pair of basketball shorts, and my undergarments. With those in hand I made my way to the bathroom and turned on the shower. I set my clothes down on the toilet seat and when the water was scalding hot, I got in. I liked hot showers. They felt like they got rid of some of the grime my emotions left. After I completed my normal routine, I just stood there and allowed the warm water to run down my body. Let the water take it all away, Y/n. Let it take it all away.

Soon the water turned frigid and I knew this was my cue to get out. While I didn’t like wasting water, it felt nice to just stand there and not have to worry about anything. The shower was like a safe haven for me. I could block out my adult responsibilities and emotions for a while and just concentrate on the water. 

Turning off the spigot, I allowed the cool air to pass by the shower curtain and tingle my skin. It was like my actual wake up call for the day. Sliding the curtain open, I stepped out and grabbed my towel to dry off. The fuzziness of the towel was calming and as soon as I dried off I slowly put on my clothes. I looked at myself in the mirror when I was all done. My eyebags had gotten worse and I looked a bit pale. I could almost compare myself to that of a zombie with how tired and dead I looked. 

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, seeing if that would take the dreadful image away. Of course it didn’t, so I left the bathroom in search of breakfast. I hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a long time. Being around people lately was scary to me. It felt like their eyes were always on me and judging my every move. Looking in my fridge I knew I would have to conquer my fear and go out today to get some food. Especially since the only things I had in my fridge were apples, two slices of bread and some jelly. Jelly sandwich with some apple slices it is.

I took out my ingredients and set them on the countertop. I turned to my cutlery drawer and took out a butter knife. Looking at the blade, I regretted taking it out. My hands started to twitch as I gazed at it, ashamed of my thoughts going through. Breathe, Y/n. Breathe. In. And out. In. And out.

I followed along to my breathing technique and placed the jelly on one slice of bread. As soon as this was done, I disposed of the knife in the sink as fast as I could. My thoughts still lingered on the blade, but now that it was out of my hands I felt a bit better. Turning back to my breakfast, I placed the top piece of bread on to complete my sandwich. I also decided not to slice up my apple. I took my breakfast to the couch and began to eat, the silence in the apartment was deafening. I took my time since I wasn’t in a hurry to go outside and be an adult quite yet, not that I liked being in my apartment either. I was hoping to be in a place that was away from the world, my own little dimension. It would be so lovely.

I finished up my breakfast after a while and then wrote out my to do list. After this was done I put on some sneakers, grabbed my bag, and headed out. The walk from the fifth floor down wasn’t a bad one fortunately, so soon I was out on the street. The surge of people out and about made me want to crumble, but I forced myself to trudge on. Once again it felt like I was being watched, but I assume it’s all the people around me. Things can get like that sometimes. 

It only took me a few minutes to get to the grocery store, which is nice that it’s not too far from my abode. I grabbed a basket from the front entryway and began my journey. I had only gotten a few items in when I saw a child looking scared on the side. She had tears in her eyes and I felt bad for her. Even though my anxiety was high, I wanted to see this little girl safe. I walked over and knelt to her height. “Hi there, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I can’t find my M-mommy-y,” she said through sobs.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I said as nicely as possible, “I’ll help you find her.”

“R-really?”

“Uh-huh. Now, do you know what color shirt your mom was wearing?”

“It was r-red, a dark r-red.”

“Okay. C’mon, kiddo.”

I held out my hand for her to take and luckily she did. The two of us walked around the store when the little girl gave out a happy shriek. “Mommy!”

A woman with a dark red shirt and braided hair quickly turned and smiled wide when she realized her child was safe. “Sarah!”

She ran towards us and hugged her daughter tightly. It was honestly a very fulfilling scene. “Oh I was so worried about you!”

“I’m sorry, Mommy. But this nice lady helped me!”

The woman looked up at me and smiled wide. “Thank you so much, dear. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“I understand, Ma’am. It was my pleasure.”

She nodded at me, took her little girl by the hand and walked down the aisle. I sighed happily and continued my shopping trip.

It took me a bit to get everything, but in the end I completed my to-do list. Walking back to my apartment, I thought about the events in the grocery store. I helped out others all the time. Even though I was suffering on the inside, why should somebody else? However, even my kind deeds did not make my sadness go away, no matter how hard I tried. It was pointless. 

After I got back to my house and put everything away, I decided to take a nap. I was tired after all the social interaction. Quietly, I snuck back to my bed and laid down. My eyes closed and it took about twenty minutes before I finally fell asleep.

It felt like a few hours had passed when I finally woke up. I yawned, stretched and got up…or at least attempted to. I was confused when I felt more bed when normally I’d have my feet on the floor by now. Sitting up quickly, my eyes widened. 

I wasn’t in my room.

I was somewhere completely different.

I scooted myself over to the side of the bed and rushed out of the room towards the nearest door. I got out a few feet before I smacked into something muscular. I tilted back and strong firm hands grasped at my arms. “Hey slow down, Y/n,” a voice I didn’t recognize said.

I looked up and gasped. The man standing before me I had seen a couple of times in my city walking around. He was so tall with light brown skin and dark brown hair. He wore a skintight dark blue and bright red jumpsuit and his eyes. God his eyes. The red irises stared down at me and seemed to eat me up. He guided me back into the room I just left and I finally took a long look. It was minimalistic in design. All it had was a king size bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a couch, coffee table, another room off to the side and a balcony. He sat me on the end of the bed before sitting next to me. He grabbed my hands with his and squeezed gently. “Now I know all of this is new to you, but I can assure you you’re safe, Y/n.”

“Where exactly am I? W-who are you?”

“I am Miguel O’Hara, but you can call me Miguel. You do not need to know the exact location, just that you are safe.”

“How did I get here? I mean you kidnapped me-”

“Think of it as relocation, not kidnapping, mi amor. As for how you got here…you were sleeping and I grabbed you. I thought it would be the best time so you wouldn’t panic and stress yourself out.”

“Grabbed me?! That sounds like kidnapping to me! And of course I’d panic, I was taken by a guy I don’t even know!”

“Calm down-”

“No! I won’t! I want to go home!”

“You’re safer here.”

“No! I want to leave! I want to go home, please!”

“But mi querida, you were so unhappy there. I saved you! This way I can protect you!”

“Protect me from what?!” “Yourself!”

There was a deafening silence between us. “M-myself?”

“Yes. While I was watching over you I saw how sad you were over everything. I figured you needed some company and this way I can keep an eye on you. You’ll come to love it here, I assure you. Besides, I feel better knowing you’re here. I will protect you, that I can promise.”

I didn’t know what to say. This man claims he’s been watching me and knows what’s best. I stayed silent. Miguel grasped at my hands a bit tighter and he tried to look into my eyes. I kept them forced on my lap. “Why me?”

“Querida, you have such a kind heart. I’ve seen the things you have done to help those in need. You’ll be a perfect mother.”

“Mother? Mother?! What are you talking about?”

“Yes, madre. I have lost so much and so have you. Why not let our two broken hearts mend together?”

“Because I barely know you!”

I ripped my hands from him and stood up. He followed. “But you will come to know me. I will be the best husband you could ask for.”

“N-no. No! Get away from me, you creep!”

I turned and started to run but Miguel leaped on top of me and restrained me with his arms. “Let go of me! Let go! Please!”

“Shh, mi amor. You’re just tired. I understand. Let me help you.”

I struggled until I felt something pinch my neck. Within minutes my body went limp and numb. Miguel picked me back up and laid me under the covers in the large bed. 

I struggled to blink.  

I struggled to breathe.

“Hush, mi amor. All will be well when you wake up.”

He leaned down and nuzzled my forehead. Just as he was going to pull away he gave my forehead a kiss as well.

My blurry vision then became dark.