#v. hometown cooking

[thelastspeecher]

some fucking French chef on Chopped was just like "why are French techniques so important for food? bc they are centuries old"

my guy. you aren't fucking special. techniques from like. every culture are centuries old.

[wuishu]

Hamzah the fantastic yapping about his girlfriend: compilation

Not a lot of people know about Hamzah’s relationship, but once he has a chance to talk about you, he will not shy away from talking about you. Fans could not help but make videos of them as tiktok clips or compilation videos on youtube.

There is no denying that he is head over heels for you, but some moments top others. The most popular one was a YouTube compilation named “Hamzah Being in Love: compilation”

The first clip was in an OOC podcast, where they talk about the most efficient thing: buying food outside or cooking food at home.

“No, 'cause my girlfriend always cooks food for us,” Hamzah says, as he's holding his mic, and Martin nods “I guess cooking food is good.”

“Of course, when you have a great cook at home.”

Martin smiles as he can see Hamzah being passionate about this topic, “I’ll give you and Mandy some of Y/n amazing cooking. If there's any left, though.”

“Cause sometimes I just finish them all,” he replied, “One of the best foods I've eaten was made by Y/n, God, now I'm missing her cooking.”

“I miss you, babe,” he said, looking at the camera as Martin laughed, folding like a plastic chair. Hamzah smiling.

The second clip was of Fortnite gameplay in the slushy noobz youtube channel. They were playing the game, and when Hamzah could hear the door slowly swing open, his gaze was on the door. He sees his girlfriend slowly trying to find something.

He could hear Martin trying to get a backup while he gets tag teamed, “Hi, what are you trying to find?” Hamzah said, as his Fortnite character was on all fours, leaving Martin defending himself

“Dude?!”

“I got it.” Your voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough to pick up from the mic, “Okay, I love you,” Hamzah said, Martin clutched the three v one fight, and he sighed loudly, snapping Hamzah out of his long stare

“Dude, what happened?” he said. Martin's face turned sour as he scratched his head, indicating he was irritated. “You are what happened.”

The next one was one of Hamzah’s old livestreams, where he was just talking to his chat, trying to pass the time. He got a donation asking what he would do this weekend

“Ahh, well, I'm gonna hang out with my girlfriend since she will be coming back to her hometown. Might as well show her around until she has to leave.” people are curious, asking if they can see her.

He wasn't hesitant and called you on the phone, “baby, people want to see you; can you come here?” and without a minute, you can see his girlfriend popping, waving to chat as a greeting

You can see the messages scrolling quickly as they compliment you. You smiled, “There she is, my beautiful other half.”

The next clip shown was Martin and Hamzah playing FNAF, It was getting dark, and they didn't know how many hours they wasted while they played the game.

Hamzah showed his phone to show what time it was, and his wallpaper was you standing up, flash on while you were holding his hand, “It’s 9:45, I'm getting sick of this game”

Martin nodded but continued to control and run. “If they keep doing this to us, then… developers. Get ready for my fist.”

He sighed as he shifted in his seat to get comfortable. He kissed his phone screen as Martin looked at his antics and asked, “What was that?”

“Missing her right now-” and suddenly got jump scared by Monty; they jumped out of their seats. They nervously laugh.

The video transitioned to another OOC podcast clip, but instead of just Martin and Hamzah, you and Mandy were in it. You were sitting next to Hamzah, and Mandy was sitting next to Martin, so they were still in the frame. Since they didn't expect you to join them, you shared the microphone with Hamzah.

The four were talking about who always wakes up early in the morning and how late one wakes up. “Sometimes I wake her up since she works at dentistry so she gotta be extra early, and I cook her food because she always says she doesn't like the food near their clinic.”

He handed the microphone to you and said, “Yeah, 'cause the food there just doesn't hit right like you're cooking.”

“You like my cooking?” he curiously said, as you nodded and got the microphone, “Of course, I especially like the notes you put on my lunchbox. Always a cliché quote like ‘love you to the moon and back’ or ‘I think you're tooth cute’ and it's so cute.”

He grinned and looked at you. “Glad you like them.”

“Isn't it funny how both of our girlfriends are health professionals, while we are… just influencers?” Martin said as he was racking his brain up.

The last clip was another bake-off, and you finally cave into their pleas to be there, and for the first time, the place they use is in Hamzah's kitchen.

The measuring cup and ingredients were on the island table, big bowls were laid as they were mixing their batter, and you pre-heated the oven.

“You don't have to over-mix it, Martin. Now you won't have stiff peaks!” you said as you looked at Martin’s bowl. He was making meringue for his spin-off lemon meringue pie but instead of lemon, it was a simple blueberry pie with meringue.

“I’m sorry! I did not know!” He said as he raised both his hands like he was at gunpoint. Hamzah noticed your face was sweating, and your hair was sticking to it. He grabbed a piece of tissue paper and wiped your face while you were talking to Martin.

“Yeah, I need that cinnamon.” You knead your dough for the cinnamon rolls you were going to make. Hamzah decided to pull you away from the table so that he could tie your hair.

“Hold still,” you said, lowering a bit so he could tie your hair properly. “Thank you, babe”

You kissed his cheek, leaving your preferred glossy lip tint print on his face. He smiled like he had won the lottery. “You're welcome!”

“Now I feel like I'm the third wheel right now, jeez,” Martin pipped, as you smiled and continued to knead the dough. “You do this all the time, Hamzah?”

“Yeah, when we do it in the back-” the clip cut off, and they continued to do what they were doing. Let's just say that Hamzah did not wipe his face for the entire video.

(I'M BACK! I love Hamzah sm, and I'd totally do a part two of this if ya'll guys want!!)

[woso-dreamzzz]

Difficult V

Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x Child!Reader

Summary: A trip to Mami's hometown

It's not often that you don't go back to Norway with Mumma for the international break. You go with her most of the time to see her parents but this time you're staying in Spain with Mami.

It's a shorter break than usual so uprooting your life and forcing you through jetlag is probably worse than just leaving you in Spain with Mami.

Which is why you're in the car driving to Zaragoza, where Mami is from, for the week to see your Abeuala and Abuelo. Mami says she's got a fun week planned for you both but you don't know if you believe her.

She said that she had a fun day planned a few days ago but all you did was feed the ducks at the park and then spent nearly an hour in the art shop as Mami debated different types of pencils.

"There she is!" Abuelo says as you jump out of the car. He grabs you, throwing you in the air and catching you again.

"Abeulo!"

"Look at you, bebita! Looking more and more like your Mumma everyday!"

You grin. "That's what Mami says!"

"Your Mami has good eyes." He puts you back down on the ground. "Now, I'm pretty sure your Abuela has made a cake just for you inside. Do you want to go in and check?"

You're off like a shot before he even finishes his sentence and Mapi is left to bring your bags in by herself.

"What, no welcome for your daughter?"

"Hello, María," Her father says," Thank you for bringing the little one with you. Your mother has been getting ready for her all month. You'll be lucky if you get the bebita back."

"She'll have to take it up with Ingrid," Mapi replies, dragging the bags inside.

You're already sitting on the kitchen counters, being fed bites of cake as Mapi's mother multitasks between feeding you and whipping up another dessert from scratch.

"Hola, Mama."

"Hola, María," Her mother says," You are late. We expected you earlier."

"It is a long drive, Mama. We had to take a break for lunch."

Mapi's Mama raises a brow. "Why did you stop? Are my lunches not filling enough? You had to stop somewhere else to eat? I made lunch specifically for you."

"Mama! Stop putting words in my mouth. We-"

"Can we have second lunch, Abeula? I'm still hungry."

"Of course you can, bebita! I can always trust you to eat my cooking."

"I love your cooking!"

Abuela swings you up into her arms as she flits around the kitchen getting out the lunch she'd put in the fridge.

"Now, you go and watch some tv with your Abuelo. If you eat all your lunch then there is dessert waiting for you."

Your time in Zaragoza is spent very much like your first day. Abuela cooks more food than you've ever seen in your life and you eat it all like you've been starving for years.

Today is different though.

Today Mami has taken you to a storage locker. She hasn't said much about it and she stops in front of the door.

"Bebita," She says," It's very important that you keep this a secret."

You frown. "From who, Mami? From Abuela and Abuelo?"

"No," She laughs," From your Mumma."

"Why?"

"Bebita, I'm serious. Promise this is our secret."

"Okay."

Mami opens the door to the locker and you gasp.

"It's a motorcycle! There's a little one too!"

You're right.

There's a big one that looks like Mami could sit on comfortably. She doesn't touch that one. She grabs the little one. It's exactly like the big one but smaller.

She wheels the little one out of the locker and pops it into the back of the car. It doesn't take long at all for Mami to drive to a dirt track.

"This is your helmet," She says, attaching it to your head and knocking on it to prove it works," And these are your kneepads and elbowpads. What is the important rule?"

"Don't tell Mumma."

"No, the other one. The one I told you in the car."

You think for a moment. "Oh! Squeeze the breaks if I'm scared!"

"And?"

You pout. "But, Mami-"

"No, what's the other rule?"

You sigh. "Don't let the arrow go over the five."

"That's right. I'm going to be holding you the entire time. It's just like your normal bike at home. Now, if- Bebita!"

Mapi scrambles after you, grabbing onto the back of your little motorcycle to keep you upright.

You have no fear though. In fact, you're thoroughly enjoying yourself as you go up and down the bumps in the track, shrieking your joy for the whole world to hear.

"Mami! Mami!" You say," Can I go faster?"

"I don't know, bebita. I think-"

"Is it because you're scared? You don't have to hold on if you're scared. I'm a big girl now!"

Mapi sputters. "I absolutely do need to hold on!" She tells you," And I'm not scared."

"I think you are."

"I'm not!"

"Are!"

"Not!"

"Are!"

It takes a lot of convincing to get you to accept that your dirtbike is staying in the secret storage locker in Zaragoza with her own bike. It's all you talk about as Mapi drives you home at the end of the week.

Your whole short life has now been taken over by the dirt track and your bike. It's all you want to talk about, even as Mapi tries to turn on the radio to drown out your words.

Ingrid is waiting for you both in the house but you completely bypass her, ducking under her arm and immediately running to the tv.

"She hasn't seen me for a week," Ingrid says," And it's like I don't exist."

You fiddle with the remote, flicking through channels until you find the motocross race that's currently going on, falling to the floor so you can watch, pressed up against the tv as close as you can get without being told off.

Ingrid's eyes narrow.

"Mapi," She says," What have you done?"

"Why do you always think I've done something?"

"Because I know your parents didn't introduce her to that. What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"Bebita, what did Mami show you while I was away?"

"Nothing, Mumma!"

[hellishjoel]

slow shift

7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Next Chapter

series summary: Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, talking about w33d, alcohol consumption (not by reader or frankie, but discussions of alcohol), oral (f! receiving), discussions of periods and Plan B, frankie having a fat d!ick, slightly public sex, unprotected p in v (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), you know how I roll

A/N: welcome to the first part in my linecook!frankie series! It's all just going to be chaos!! enjoy dirty dishes, cussing, and decent food made by the hot linecooks. I’ll have a title as soon as I stop putting it off <3 enjoy! let me know what you think! also how LIT is the banner

here's my masterlist!

**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle.  You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 

Welcome to hell. 

A makeshift building somehow still holding up four walls that housed a small restaurant inside. 

This wasn’t some secret treasure that belonged on an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives or a hidden hole-in-the-wall five-star Michelin Restaurant. This was Tommy’s Diner. 

The locals had different names for the run-down dump you called your place of employment: the Hometown Heartburn Hut (true), American Pie ( ha-ha funny), the Rusty Spoon (some guy OD’s behind the place one time, and no one ever forgets), or Tumbleweed, your pothead coworkers liked to call it. It was a tumbleweed because the restaurant was barren, emphasis on the weed to accommodate the faded line cooks that lurked in the back of the restaurant. 

Don’t let today’s slow shift fool you; there were times when Tumbleweed was cram-packed. Friday night football games were busy with tailgaters, bustling with teens after a championship game. Other times, it was when a Greyhound bus or a similar cross-country vehicle drove through and took a stop for the passengers. 

The most popular time of year was in the summer. Tommy’s Diner hosted Saturday night Cruise Nights. The town would flood with classic cars and hot rods, and the diner would transform into a drive-in. Their engines revved through different cities from far and wide to be at Tommy’s. That’s when the place felt the most alive, bustling with people and their laughter, little kids running with their milkshakes and flipping quarters into the rigged claw machine. 

But it wasn’t a Saturday in August. It was a Monday. You were stuck with the misfit motley crew that did everything from dishwashing, cooking, bussing, running the register, being half-ass managers, and, of course, the token pretty waitress. You. 

You will admit that each character working at Tumbleweed had a unique story etched into their grubby hands or baggy-eyed faces. They’ve weathered years of late-night shifts and condiment, grease-stained aprons. 

Tonight there was Lou, the jaded by heartbreak teenage busboy. He walked with a shuffle, always sniffling about an ex-girlfriend. He worked slow and god damn, did that piss you off. 

Then there was Tina, the aspiring singer stuck in a small-town type. She was newer, still learning how things worked since she had never waited tables a day in her life. She had that fresh twinkle of stardom in her eye despite being in her late 30’s. You were training her and trying not to let her drive you up the wall whenever she started singing different songs on the jukebox. Note to self: Put a sticky note saying it’s busted every time you work together. 

Paul was the do-it-all guy. Toilet clogged? Get Paul. Dishes piling up? Ask Paul to do it. The cashier on a bathroom break? Paul can run the till. He was useful, just complained and grumbled a lot. 

Tommy of Tommy’s Diner hasn’t worked a day in years. He’s older, so it’s understandable. Last thing you heard was he was down in Florida, living out retirement in a cheap home with a gambling addiction. Sounded like he was doing well for himself.  But now his idiot son Rudy ran the place. Tommy’s picture was still on dusty display, toothy smile and all at the front door that people huddled in and out of—speaking of. 

Your head lifted to attention as the bell above the door chimed, sighing in annoyance as you leaned back onto the counter. It was just Frankie. 

“It’s fifteen after. You were supposed to be here on time today because we have to set up for Carla’s thing.”

Frankie breezed past you, aviators and stupid ballcap on, his smile lifted in a sneer. He was smacking on pink bubble gum as he neared your part of the counter and purposely shuffled past you with his hips against yours in an attempt to get into the kitchen. You couldn’t help but lean into him with a little smirk. 

“Tommy said it was fine I was late.” He joked once he ducked into the back, your arms crossed as you followed him aimlessly. 

You sigh and lean back against the locker next to his, watching him shuffle off his jacket.

“You disappoint me, Frankie.” Your face held a teasing pout. 

“Never meet your heroes, baby.” That stupid fucking cocky smirk painted his face. 

You opted to roll your eyes and look away as a defense tactic against Frankie’s flirty moves. Frankie calling you baby made your guts twist. 

He was an ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but you two were hired the same summer a few years back and were the only ones who stayed once summer had run its course. You supposed it was bonded trauma after that. 

New workers had come and gone, but you and Frankie were still at Tommy’s, still working crappy shifts on crappy hourly pay. Despite Frankie being a douchebag, he made the place bearable. He was comfortable. You knew each other. 

“Can you just meet me on the floor like you were supposed to fifteen minutes ago and help with the banner? Carla’s going to be here at five, and you still have to make her special-”

“Jesus fuckin’- yes, I’ll be out in a few.” Frankie playfully groaned, shoving the brim of his hat into his mouth to hold it, his hands busy as he tied a tattered red bandana around his forehead before he replaced the cap back on. Okay… hot. 

He took a deep breath once he finished, and leaned against the locker beside you, arms crossed, mimicking you as your shoulder brushed his bicep. You looked up at him, so many inches taller than you, as he looked down. Maybe too far down. He started at your eyes, but those eyes of his tended to wander right down to the cut of your shirt.

“Ugh- Frankie!” You rolled your eyes and pushed him away, readjusting your top as he playfully threw his hands up on the defense. 

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous today, by the way!” He shouted as you exited the locker room, smiling and shaking your head with your back to him and throwing up your middle finger before the door swung closed with your exit. 

---

You stood on the top of a dining table in your sneakers, attempting to hang a shitty banner you had painted for Carla’s birthday. You glanced down at the table and made a little face about the scuff you put in it. Oops. You can try and scrub it later. 

There was no other person you or Frankie would do this stuff for. But it was Carla’s birthday and she was a diamond in the rough at this dump. 

Carla's position at Tumbleweed is a mixture of human resources, accounting, decent management, and a mother figure to not just you but the entire staff. Besides Carla, we could all care less about everyone else's birthday. You were burning this ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner as soon as the clock struck midnight. 

You let out an exhausted huff as you attempted to tack the final hanging string into the wall, but it was just out of reach. That’s when you heard the smacking of his stupid pink bubble gum. You didn’t even have to look. 

“Are you gonna help me or not, Morales?” Your voice seethed in annoyance, not only to Frankie but also cursing your short legs and your just not long enough arms. 

He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the differential space between you and took the tack and string into his meaty fingers. 

You glanced down, watching his teeth capture his lower lip in concentration, checking to see if it was straight. Pushing the pin in, he backed up to where you stood on the dining table and crossed his arms in observance. 

It was incredibly crooked. But it was the thought that counts, right?

“Good enough for me. You?” You glanced down at Frankie, and he was biting back a smile. 

“What?” You pushed, narrowing your eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good.” Distracted by something else. “D’you paint this?” The warmth of his hand slowly crept onto the back of your calf, your chest tightening as he slowly skated it higher with no interference from you. 

You gently nod, avoiding his eye contact as you look at the sign. Now, his hand was on the back of your thigh, and you had to take a breath. A mhm was all you could muster up. 

His fingers delicately skimmed the skirt of your uniform, knuckles brushing against your backside. You used to hate these 50’s style waitress uniforms, but now they didn’t seem so damn bad because Frankie’s movements were making you lightheaded. Snap out of it!

“Need help down?” Frankie asked, hand at the ready on your hip. 

You shook your head despite using his assistance anyway. You squatted on the table, black lace panties peeking out as you used Frankie’s broad shoulders as leverage. You put one foot down onto the linoleum and then the other, wiping your hands cleanly down your uniform as you both returned to look at the lopsided sign. 

You hoped it was enough. You hoped she appreciated it, especially all that she’s done for you over the years. Covering your shifts, leveling out the register when you accidentally gave someone the wrong change, tucking extra tips into your apron when she knew your rent was coming up. Everyone needed a Carla, not everyone was lucky to have one. 

“She’s gonna love it,” Frankie seemed to sense your nerves as he lifted his cap to bring some air to his sweaty dark curls before putting it back into place. “I’ll start workin’ on her special. Mushroom Swiss patty melt?” He said before disappearing into the kitchen again, only leaving once you gave him your little nod of assurance. You liked that he remembered.

---

“Happy birthday, Carla!” Uncoordinated voices cheered as Carla entered Tumbleweed right on time for her shift. 

Her face lit up, and she looked beautiful. She packed a little extra blush and eyeshadow to commemorate the special occasion. 

“Oh, shit- oh my- You guys! Thank you!” Carla made special eye contact with you, knowing you were the only one caring enough to orchestrate this shindig. 

Carla has this soulful charm about her. Raised in Louisiana, she loved to cook family recipes and bring the leftovers to work for you and Frankie to fight over. You remember she had three kids at home, so she had this curvy mom's body that put a proud sway in her walk. A playful and confident woman at heart, she was all the regular’s favorite to see. And she knew everyone. And she knew everything. She put Tommy’s back in business during the slower seasons. People would come to see her face on Sunday mornings over their coffee and runny eggs. 

“Oh, baby, thank you.” She cooed as she cupped your cheek and squeezed, making your face tick. “This the red velvet?” Her voice hummed as she observed the cake in your hands, pushing her finger lightly into the frosting to taste it. 

You had pulled one of the cakes from the display case and shitily piped it with chocolate sauce ‘HBD!’. 

“Of course, your favorite... Right?” You pursed your lips and snuck a nervous glance at Frankie before you set the cake down on the countertop. 

Carla looked beyond touched for something you’d consider a bit lackluster. “It’s my favorite ‘cause you made it. Thank you, baby.” 

You glanced around for the cake cutter, watching as Tina pushed a quarter into the jukebox and got the party started. Everyone was doing shitty dance moves, even the one or two customers that had filtered in for a cheap dinner. 

You sighed as you looked behind the counter for the cake cutter, grabbing the cake and its stand to haul it to the back. 

You thrust your shoulder blades into the swinging door, setting the cake stand on the counter as you started sifting through the different drawers to find the serving knife. 

Half a carton filled with cigarettes; Frankie’s. Matches from an old jazzy gentleman’s club; Rudy’s. Hair ties; yours. Where’s the fuckin’ cake cutter?!

The music from the jukebox was more faded in the kitchen. The serving window, professionally called the pass, was just big enough to see faces and hand plates through from the kitchen to the front. 

You made a face when you found the cake server inside a  large pot-- how, no, why? Jesus Christ. Fucking idiots. 

The swinging door to the kitchen wooshed in before slowly creaking closed, seeing Frankie coming to stand beside you in your peripheral. 

You carefully plunged the slicer into the soft sponge of the cake, carving a piece for Carla and setting it on a plate. You reached forward across the counter for another small plate, the short skirt of your uniform revealing the curve of your ass to an overly curious Frankie. You could feel his heat burning through his chest. 

“Could you be less obvious?” Your voice held teasing notes, putting another piece of cake on a plate and pushing them away to make space for more. 

He had tried this a handful of times with you, and he had yet to be successful besides that one time when you both drunkenly made out at the last December holiday party. You were pretty sure he had been hung up on you ever since. You enjoyed watching him try. 

Your eyes flitted over to his, observing his body and facial features. 

He looked gross, honestly. The two meals he cooked including Carla’s special before she came in for her shift made his face and neck sweaty and his hands greasy, his apron to match. It was white at one time, a long, long time ago. His stupid red bandana was still tied around his forehead, catching the spare sweat droplets, as the kitchen became unbearably hot in the middle of August.

You probably didn’t look much better. Hair all over the place with makeup you put on in the morning probably half smudged off by now. Your hands were checkered in pen ink, a spare papercut from snagging a receipt from the register. But still decent. He was still decent. 

His hand was back in dangerous territory, lingering low on your waist. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. You could feel warmth flooding your body, heat from the heart of his hand burning into your hip. He was admiring your body, slow and appreciative as he cupped the curve of your ass. And then he squeezed. 

Your shaky hands barely got the fourth slice you cut onto a small serving plate. The cake cutter clattered onto the metal counter as Frankie shifted his body behind yours, his watchful eyes on the pass. No one was watching, stupid and oblivious. You swallowed a lump down your throat, your small hands clenching the rim of the counter. His hips were flushed against yours. Worst of all was that you really fucking liked it. 

“This okay?” You’re flattered he asked after the fact. 

You leaned back into his touch, quietly humming on the brink of a little moan. You were a little desperate for touch, maybe you’d be on your period soon. “Mhmm..”. 

Frankie was a douchebag, but you two have been flirting back and forth with one another for years like an ongoing tennis match. He was older, he had years on you. Not an obscenely amount, but enough to make people raise an eyebrow. You were surprised he had the balls to actually make a move on you like he was right now. 

“Like you in black.” Frankie’s voice was cut down to a murmur, low and all-enveloping. You weren’t sure if he was referring to the black in your waitress uniform or your black panties. Probably the latter. 

His fingers brushed past your goosebump-covered ass and slipped between your legs to your clothed pussy. You softly gasped, eyes shifting closed as your hips involuntarily leaned into Frankie’s touch. You didn’t look subtle at all. You looked like you wanted to be touched, manhandled, kissed, fucked… 

“Open your eyes, baby girl.” He purred, your chest already heaving. “Act normal.” You forced your eyes open, looking back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Needy pupils connected with his blown-out ones. The back of your head brushed his shoulder, setting it there for just a moment before he looked straight ahead. 

Frankie nodded back to the pass, your eyes following his eye line to everyone distractedly dancing and sipping coffee mixed with bourbon on the floor. 

You bit down on your lower lip, knuckles cast over in a milky white with the iron grip you held on the metal rim of the counter. Frankie’s body heat had disappeared from your back, and now you felt it cast against the back of your legs. You glanced around, seeing him on his knees behind you with his mouth now latched to the back of your thighs. Oh, fuck. His kisses sponged up higher, towards your heat. 

Your eyelashes fluttered, Frankie’s act normal echoing through your hollow head. With distracted hands, you resumed cutting the cake. You probably looked slow and stupid, but feeling his patchy beard hair nestle between the sweet skin of your inner thighs had you in a haze. 

Frankie’s big hands reached under your skirt, lining the black panties that sat snugly on your hips with his forefingers. He slowly peeled them down, feeling the material roll as he stopped them to rest halfway down on your thighs. 

Your shoulders shuddered as your warm pussy met the slight chill of the outside world, panties adorning a little soaked spot. 

“Frankie,” Mm? “Someone’s gonna see.” But you weren’t stopping him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t kicking him right in the gut like you probably could. In fact, you were leaning into him. 

“Such a pretty pussy... Can’t stop, baby.” 

A helpless whimper left your lips, thighs shaking at his affectionate, warm kisses. 

Frankie’s hand swatted at the inside of your right ankle and then the other, hinting for you to spread yourself for him. You pursed your lips and shakily sighed, parting your legs as your sneakers lightly squeaked on the checkered floor. Fuck me, Frankie. 

You didn’t know how much longer you could be patient. The waiting was tantric, hypnotizing you into seduction. 

Spread for him and dripping, Frankie’s mouth finally attached to your slit. Your knee lightly jerked up and smacked a bus tub filled with dirty dishes, a few eyes on you through the pass as you nervously laughed. “S-Sorry!” 

Frankie couldn’t help but let out a warm puff of laughter against your cunt, and you swore your insides were twisting at the sensation. 

“Easy pretty girl… Don’t need us gettin’ caught. You want me to stop?” Frankie’s voice was husky, warm palms spreading your thighs, your body lightly bending over to lean on the counter. You tried to look busy with something, stupidly polishing a random fork. With the extra exposure, he had full access to your sex. 

“Does it look like I want you to stop?” You finally punched out through air-abducted lungs, anxiously chewing on the skin of your lip. “Frankie.” You said in a hushed warning tone, wanting more and not knowing how to ask nicely for it. But that’s what he liked about you. You weren’t nice. 

His lips finally attached properly to your pussy, his devilish tongue lining the center of your cunt and flicking off your clit. Your head dropped, ears ringing at the sensation. 

You wondered how good he would feel if he could take his time instead of giving you head quick while all your coworkers were distracted.  Maybe he could run his thumb over the front of your panties, trace the seam of your pussy, and feel how soaked you were for him and his attentive fingers. You thought Frankie had always been so down bad for you. He probably dreamed about getting this opportunity. He finally got you when you were just as horny for someone with a pulse. But this wasn’t all the time in the world; this was a slow shift at Tommy’s. 

You rut your hips back into Frankie’s face, hot pants fanning fog onto the cool metal of the counter. 

Frankie put his mouth where you needed him most, his tongue dedicating a poem to you. He flattened his tongue and licked a wide, wet strip up through your core, taking in all your juices. His tongue lapped at your weeping hole, thighs shaking against his head as you stifled a moan into the counter. 

He was good, manipulative, a fucking menace. 

Frankie’s tongue made precision flicks against your bundle of nerves, a gasp a bit too loud leaving the kitchen as you whimpered broken fragments of his name. 

You weakly looked up, seeing Tina pluck another quarter in the jukebox, cranking the volume to some seventies soul music. Fuck being quiet. 

Concealed by the groove of Stevie Wonder singing We Can Work It Out, your moans were hidden by the shake of a tambourine and plucks to an electric guitar. 

“Goddammit, Frankie, mmm, so fucking good,” a gasp and a moan followed suit, lazily smirking with your eyes closed. “So fucking… hot.” You murmured. 

Frankie’s mouth was a welcome wonder, dedicated to making you cum. He was swirling his tongue around your clit, weakly flattening your front over the counter again and pressing your cheek against the cool metal. Don’t be a douche right now, Francisco Morales. Make me fuckin’ cum. 

The kitchen door swiftly swung open, and your body flew up to stand straight as Carla waited in the doorway. 

“What’s taking you so long to cut my cake, baby? I know that bitch is stale as hell, but that don’t mean I don’t want it.” 

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in an attempt to speak, but Frankie’s movements didn’t cease despite Carla’s unexpected intrusion.  You bit back a whimper as he lined his tongue just barely into the tight entrance of your walls, his greedy fingers piercing into the flesh of your thighs to keep you spread. Thank god the counter covered your waist down. 

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.” 

Carla looked you up and down, curious but ultimately not giving a damn. You could feel Frankie’s dirty smirk against your thighs. 

“Alright... Hurry up. I’m tryna get my dessert.” 

And with that, the door swished closed, and your back slumped at the relief. 

Frankie’s unexpected voice made you jump lightly, his words echoing against you. “Gotta make ya finish fast, princess. Want my dessert, too.” 

You whimpered but willed yourself to stand up straight and turn around to face him. He looked like a mess. Lust-filled black eyes and a cocky smirk to match. Your juices glistened on his lips and chin. Frankie would be incredibly hot if he knew how to keep his mouth shut. 

“Taste as good as you look, princess.” Frankie stood up, tall and broad body making a white hot spot form in your stomach. Fuck,  you couldn’t do this right now. Not right here. 

He could tell. He took a few cautious steps away, you watched him carefully like a rattlesnake. He knew when not to push you and when to let you make the decisions. He also knew how to give you orders when you were too pussy fucked to think straight. 

“Serve that cake and meet me out back.” He was looking over you, enjoying the few times you looked totally fucked like you did right now. He stepped back into your space and pulled your panties back into place, a sobby whimper leaving your lips as he gently cupped your aching mound with a smirk. “So fuckin’ needy, huh?” 

“Fuck off.” You mumbled, fixing the bottom half of your uniform. 

You watch as Frankie grabs the beer bottle you all used as a makeshift door prop and his half-carton of cigarettes you had brought out of a drawer in an attempt to find the cake cutter. He disappears out back into the alley. Shit, the cake. 

You hurriedly sliced the remainder of the cake, placing a few stray candles into the slices. You lit them once you greeted the group waiting on the floor, singing a shitty rendition of Happy Birthday.  Paul lights his cigarette from one of the candles, puffing smoke across the frosting. 

The crowd hastily grabbed one of the small plates and a fork. Most of you only tried a bite or two. The cake had been in the display case for far too long. 

---

Anxious and impatient, you slip into the back with everyone’s dirty dishes and sneak back into the kitchen. You do nothing more with them than chuck them into the sink for Lou to wash up at some point or another. Your eyes stare at the beer bottle keeping the back kitchen door ajar. You take in a deep breath, leaving a shaky sigh before following Frankie out into the alley. 

The air was warm, a welcome breeze passing over you. The alley was everyone’s hideaway, littered with crushed beer and soda cans, two large garbage dumpsters, and a large one for recycling. You could see the highway in the distance. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning purple and blue. You’d watch those cars drive right past your little town, paying no mind, probably off going to somewhere bigger and better. The only people from the highway who stopped to visit Tommy’s were people who didn’t know any better. 

A flick of a lighter crackled, dividing your attention. Frankie was smoking his cigarette, his back leaning against the brick wall of the diner. He was trying not to smirk. Seeing you out here was way too much power for him. He took a drag, the end of his cigarette lighting up in a glowing orange haze before he pulled it from his mouth. The smoke he exhaled was taken by the breeze. 

“Happy to see me?” His goading tone asked.

“No.” A challenge. A pause. 

“So, you want me to go back inside?” 

“No.” Another beat. A step closer to him, arms crossed. He’s smart enough to let his cigarette land on the ground. 

“So, you want me to stay out here?”

Silence. Staring. Gauging each other’s reactions. Your tight jaw meets his cocky smirk. Too stubborn to ask meeting too stubborn to give without begging. Fuck. 

Maybe it’s because you’re both desperate. Maybe because Frankie knows you. Knows you’re too stubborn to ask for him to fulfill your needs. Your inaction meets his unwillingness to waste another moment that he could be inside of you. 

Stomping on his cigarette before closing the distance between you two, he envelopes you in a kiss that robs you of your breath. He tastes musky and bitter. The smoke that recently captured his lungs was hot on your lips. 

Your heart was beating with excitement, happy to lose control for a moment as Frankie walked you blindly backward into the brick wall. Ouch. 

Your tongues danced in a rhythmic motion, seducing you into letting him take the power as the kiss deepened. The flavor was subtle but distinct. The Marlboro’s held an acrid undertone, an unexpected layer of the kiss you sort of liked. If he tasted like spearmint gum, it might have turned you off. 

It was like you were his cigarette now, breathing you in and clinging to you in addiction. It was his bad habit, but who were you to judge. You had a closet full of skeletons you weren’t open to anyone seeing. Maybe this was one of his. 

His hands were a welcome guest, feeling his warm palms explore a body he had probably fantasized about. 

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle. 

You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 

Frankie guided you further from the backdoor, hearing voices enter the kitchen. Probably Paul and Lou to start working on closing chores. He took you behind the dumpsters and hiked up your dress. You decided to be useful and push your panties down. He rounded up the material that was tying you up at your ankles and shoved them into his pocket. You were not letting him keep those. 

You pushed his apron aside, fingers fussing over his belt buckle. He watched, amused, unwilling to help. He liked seeing you so desperate for his cock. Unbuttoned. Unzippered. Black boxer trim peaking out now. You made slight eye contact with him before you shoved his pants and boxers down to his thighs. Your heart clenches at how girthy he was. Fuckkk, this was gonna feel good. 

He didn’t take his apron off, merely shoved it to the side as it haphazardly swayed on his hip. He closed the distance between you again, a greedy kiss, a kiss to mark you with. You pulled away to spit into your hand, taking him by his base and squeezing. 

Frankie’s eyes shuddered closed, his head dropping as you took his manhood in the small of your hand. He was.. more than a handful. He was so meaty, not even able to wrap your fist fully around him. 

You purred out a little moan as you worked your hand over him, feeling him grow heavy in your hand as you lubed up his tip, slowly circling your thumb teasingly around the pulsing head. 

“Enough.” He muttered. He didn’t like you toying with him. 

Frankie hiked up your leg by the underside of your calf, hooking around his hip as you leaned your back against the cold brick wall. It wasn’t comfy, but when you fuck against a run-down diner, you don’t get many options. 

Your chest shuddered as you felt his cock heavy against your folds, erect and brushing up against where you needed him most. He was running his hand up and down himself now. You watched as he put down another line of spit from his mouth to his cock before his knuckles shuffled up and down his shaft a few more times. 

The sight made you reel your head back and stare up at the sky. As eager as you are, you’re worried about feeling how thick he is. He knows. 

“M’gonna go real slow.” He punches out, setting his forehead down against yours, and you shakily nod. Please don’t fucking split me in two, Frankie Morales. You still have a shift to finish, after all. You’re thankful he at least acknowledges his girth. It’s sort of the elephant in the room. 

You both look down at your centers, your dripping one and his angry, pink head meeting in unison. It’s sort of fucked up the way that you’re two horrible people. But you knew horrible people always seemed to find each other.  

You wet your lips and bite down. Hard. You weren’t a fresh spring virgin, but this wasn’t any other half-decent dick. 

You lay your head back against the wall as Frankie guides himself into your welcoming entrance. Your wetness lubes him up well, but he’s still large. 

You clench your eyes close and smile. The pain is always pleasure. “Fuck,” you mutter, your head wanting to come back down and watch. 

Frankie’s being gentle, an odd word you’d never describe him as. He’s grunting and impatient, but patient for you. He fills you up to the brim and your head is flooded with clouds. You’re in the sky, lightheaded, but so fucking horny. 

His hips meeting yours are a gentle greeting, both of your lips brushing as you shared pants of desperation as well as relief. Your stomach was tight, recoiling with the pressure he was providing to the inside of your walls.

“God-

“Jesus-

“-fucking damn.”

“Christ.” 

The two of you moaned in unison. 

Your nails are piercing into his shirt, bunching around the tops of his shoulders. You move to grip his apron for some sort of control. There is none. 

One of his hands is still supporting your leg wrapped around his hip, the other flattened against the brick wall beside your head. You took solace in his arm, resting your forehead against it weakly. 

He was cocky for a reason. His length in inches was his amount of reasons. 

“Fuck me.” You finally mustered up enough strength to demand. He shakes his head against yours. 

“Give it a minute.” He mutters, barely coherent. You’re scrumptiously tight around him, and you know it. You both do. 

“We don’t have a minute.” You feverishly bite back, attempting to shift your hips against his. He retaliates by planting his hips against you, fucking the final few inches of his dick into you as you both fell deeper into the wall. 

A hot moan rolled off your tongue, hiding your face away in his forearm and shuddering your eyes closed. Frankie’s hand slipped from your leg, cupping the globe of your ass in his warm hand. He squeezed and it made you smile as he reeled his hips slowly back. 

He grumbles something. 

“What?” You asked with a dopey grin. He pushes back inside you and wipes the smirk clear off your face. 

“I said… you’re so fuckin’ impatient.” His voice was tattered with grunts, your tight little pussy making it hard for him to breath. 

Now he was creating a rhythm, fucking you into the wall in steady thrusts. You were already feeling your insides tug eagerly in excitement, the hot pool he had created in your guts simmering to a boil. 

“Mhmm, mhm, mhm,” you moaned in silent begs, moans you had to read between the lines to understand. Fuck me, fuck me harder, fuck you feel good, I-I can’t think of anything other than fuck! Fuck me, Frankie!

He filled you up to a brim you had yet to discover you had. His tip tickled your cervix with each snap of his hips. He was getting greedy, a little sloppy. You’d judge him on this short-lived fuck later, for now, it was perfectly timed to get back into work without anyone noticing. 

Your eyes widened and met his murky brown ones as he moved the hand he had against the wall nudged between your thighs, circling your clit. It was messy at first, but he found what made you tick and adjusted. Now he was running tight circles around you, and you were finding it hard to stay silent. 

“Feel so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He murmured, his lips ghosting over yours in a teasing motion. You actually wanted to taste him again, so you leaned into it, your tongue lining his mouth and tasting his old cigarette with a moan. 

Now he was filling you up, no hesitancy in his hips as he snapped the full extent of his length into your cunt. Your head flew back against the orange and red brick, a fucked moan leaving your mouth. Neither of you cared. Frankie’s face was nuzzled against your jawline and neck, sloppy kisses tasting old perfume as the circles on your clit intensified your impending orgasm. 

“F-Fuck, Frankie, shit, I’m gonna-” You gasped and closed your eyes, clutching your arms weakly around his shoulders and holding him to you. His body enveloped you like a shield protecting you from anything in your surroundings. 

Your orgasm crashed over you, coursing through your body like a million volts of electricity as you whimpered and moaned into his neck. Your eyes were clamped closed, your walls clenching and fluttering around his sensitive cock. 

His moans were heavenly, guttural and deep, a little shaky even as he puffed them into your neck and shoulder. His hips twitched against the inside of your thighs as he came undone inside of you. It felt like he was cumming for days, filling you up with white rope after white rope of his semen and painting your insides with only remnants of him. 

You couldn’t think. You just focused on the distant sound of the highway, creating a bustling amount of white noise for you. You gently held his head to keep him close, your shaky hand winding into his hair as the two of you reconciled over your orgasms. 

He was the first one to move. He slipped himself from you and gave you a few lazy kisses. Your stomach fluttered before you shook your head.

Stop it, Frankie. 

‘M not doin’ anything. 

Teasing smiles. Hands softening their holds on each other’s bodies. Fixing hair. Fixing undergarments. 

He would have held onto your panties. He probably hoped you forgot about them. You tugged them from his pocket and attempted to slip into them with ease, but you ended up having to use the brick wall as a support to lean into. 

You steadied his apron straight, and he pulled the skirt of your uniform down. Teamwork. 

You don’t really talk, just clean yourselves up, nod, and dart back inside before anyone can really notice or give a damn that you were missing in action. You kept having to excuse yourself to the bathroom, feeling Frankie still seeping from you. It made your chest hot, an embarrassed smile on your face. 

Fuck it. That’s what Plan B is for. Or you can just wait to see if you get your period in a few days time. 

---

You and Frankie danced around one another during the closing shift. Carla went home and took the cake in a to-go container to give to her kids. It was shitty that she had to work on her birthday, but she said that getting to see your gorgeous face was a present of its own. 

You tiredly yawned, seeing it was a few minutes past ten. You helped Tina even out the cash register, putting today’s earnings in an envelope, then putting it in the safe for Rudy to take to the bank at the end of the week. 

“You sure you don’t mind cleaning up on your own?” Tina asked, giving her a tired smile and a soft shrug. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you Wednesday.” Despite her annoying singing, Tina wasn’t that bad. She gave you a big grin before she hopped off the stool and left out the front door. Lou and Paul had already left at the start of closing. You didn’t know if Frankie snuck out the back early. 

You did a double take to the jukebox, watching Frankie flip his baseball hat backward and push a quarter into the machine. Your face softened, seeing him flip between the different records before landing on one. 

Something by Fleetwood Mac started playing. You watched him reach up and untack your banner from the wall easily. You nodded softly before grabbing the spray bottle filled with disinfectant and began wiping down the counters, seats, and tables. 

He walked up to you once you finished cleaning, handing you your folded-up banner. You twisted your lips in thought, rolling the banner around in your hands. 

“Wanna help me burn this in the burn barrel out back?” 

Frankie sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Fuck it. Got nothin’ better to do.” 

---

With Frankie’s lighter, both of you watched with glassy eyes as the Happy Birthday! banner burnt to ashes. His face was lit up in orange and yellow hues. He haphazardly tried to lean into the flames with a cigarette dangling between his lips, a stupid laugh leaving you. He shrugged and put the cigarette behind his ear. 

“Fuck it.” He huffed, both of your eyes transfixed on the fading flames.

There was a beat of silence. 

Frankie’s eyes met yours. “We should do that again sometime.” 

Half of your mouth quirked up into a smirk.  “Do what?”

He cocked his head to the side in annoyance. “You know what.”

You shrugged and shoved your hands into your jacket pockets. The hum of the highway in the distance made you flashback to just a few hours ago with Frankie railing you against Tumbleweed. A black and purple-streaked night sky submerged the two of you, making you feel tiny. You sigh and shift on your feet, keeping your eyes on the flames that licked up the ay! in Birthday!

“Maybe.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Maybe?” 

“Mhm.”

Frankie teetered on your half-ass decision. Even the notion of having an open door left for him to sneak in was enough to make him happy. “Okay. I’ll take a maybe.” 

God, you were bluffing so hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be sooo bad to throw him a bone every once in a while. 

Your fantasizing was cut short as ashes of the banner spewed up from the depths of the barrel and fluttered up into the air between you and Frankie, both of you taking a preemptive step away.

His lighter clicked again; he had to do it a few times before the end of his cigarette caught a flame. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He murmured. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was trying to walk you to your car, wanting to leave, but not until you started heading home, too. 

He swung his body into the driver seat of his beaten-up pickup truck. You decided to follow suit, sliding into your car. You saw Tommy’s fade away from the rearview mirror in the distance. But the thoughts of Frankie between your legs, fucking you into oblivion, and begging to serve your aching center would sit with you until your next shift at Tumbleweed. Sorry. Tommy’s Diner. 

---

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[tokkiwrites]

in which you finally come home from college. it's been almost 4 years, and you're shocked to see how hot your dad's best friend has gotten ㅡ but he can say the same for you.

tags: dbf!joel miller (yeppeee), dom!joel, sub!reader, afab reader, age gap (reader is 23 n joel is in his mid 40s), rough sex, unprotected p in v (wrap that up yall), pet names (lots of em), no use of y/n (ik shocking), spit, choking, trying to have sex in secret (idk what you call that), oh yeah readers dads name is William but every1 calls him Will ok?? pls let me know if i missed anything!!!

You step off the bus, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and anticipation as you gaze at the familiar sights of your small hometown. It's been four years since you last set foot in this place, and the memories flood back. You know you'll find your dad, Joel and Sarah waiting for you, but there's also that fluttering in your stomachㅡㅡ that secret crush on him that you've never quite been able to shake. As you walk down the street, you can't help but wonder how much things have changed.

Hopefully, not much.

As you approach your childhood home, you can't help but notice how the old oak tree in the front yard has grown taller, casting a welcoming shade on the well-worn swing that still hangs from its sturdy branches. Your heart flutters as you step onto the front porch, taking in the familiar scent of your dad's famous apple pie wafting through the screen door.

You open the door to find your dad, in the cozy kitchen, wearing his favorite flannel shirt as he carefully pulls a bubbling pie from the oven. His eyes light up when he sees you, and he rushes over to engulf you in a warm, tight hug. "You're finally home, sweetheart," he says, his voice filled with genuine joy.

Joel's daughter, Sarah, stands a few feet away, her eyes lighting up with a bright smile as she watches the reunion. "Welcome back!" she exclaims, stepping forward to give you a warm hug too.

And there he is, tall and way too massive. when did he get so big? ㅡㅡ you're not complaining, though. His hair has started to gray, and his beard is gruff... your eyes sparkle as you stare up at Joel, waiting for him to say something.

"welcome home, darlin'" he breaks the silence, your heart racing as Joel's deep, rich voice washes over you. he steps forward, embracing you warmly. his arms are strong, and you can't help but take a deep breath in as you inhale his musky scent that's almost intoxicating.

As he pulls back from the hug, you meet his warm, hazel eyes, the world almost stopping. You've always been drawn to him, all though you thought it was just a stupid kid crush but now, with the years of separation and growth behind you, that attraction only seemed to intensify as you get to look at him again.

you're brought out of your trance as your dad's voice echoes through the room "c'mon, kiddo. made your favorite: cinnamon apple pie!" You can't help but giggle as you see the sheer excitement in your dad.

"dad, you didn't need to."

"course i had to, you've been away for years, and i aint lettin you off that easy, girl."

You can't help but chuckle at your dad's enthusiasm, feeling a warm sense of belonging. "Well, in that case, I'm not going to argue with your logic," you reply with a playful wink. The scent of the freshly baked cinnamon apple pie fills the air, and it's a comforting reminder of the home you've missed so much during your time away.

"good thing you're home." Joel speaks up "now he can cook for you and not stuff me full of all his kitchen...experiments." his chuckle is low, making your heart thump. you nod, slicing up the pie and placing a piece each on four different plates, adorning every slice with some fresh cream.

"Oh, I think I've missed those kitchen experiments more than anything," you quip with a sly grin, sharing a secret look with your dad.

Sarah chimes in, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "We've been Will's taste testers for years, but now you're back to rescue us, right?"

You all sit around the kitchen table, enjoying the warm pie and the laughter that fills the room. It's moments like these that make you grateful for being back home, surrounded by the people you love, even if it does come with a side of unspoken desire for the one man who has always had a special place in your heart.

does that make it sound better than saying you want your dad's best friend to fuck you? maybe.

"god, can you believe it's been four years? feels like only yesterday i was givin' you piggyback rides." Joel smiles, eyes crinkled at the corners as he takes a sip of some bear. "hey, Sarah is still little, you can give her all the piggyback rides you wanna." you laugh.

"don't give him any ideas, girl." the teen furrows her brows as she takes a large bite from her pie. "actually, me 'n joel thought it would be a good idea if we had a movie night tomorrow, for old times sake. do you remember those? god, they were fun, huh?"

"dad! you're saying it as if I'm ancient... I ain't 40." Joel turns to you, raising his brows "careful, missy. don't discriminate against 40 year olds." your cheeks light up as your eyes meet his, unable to say anything. you just swallow what you've been chewing and nod away.

Joel's laughter fills the room, and he playfully nudges your shoulder. "Alright, enough teasin'. Let's focus on planning that movie night. Remember how we used to pick out our favorite films and stack up the snacks like a mountain?"

Sarah chimes in, excitement in her eyes. "Can we make cheesy popcorn with chocolate chips?" you scrunch up your nose,"gross, sarah! you still like those? thought it was just weird kid cravings, you know?"

"you didn't even try them, stop bein' a hater!" she groans, slumped in her seat. You chuckle at Sarah's determination. "Alright, alright, I'll give your cheesy popcorn with chocolate chips a shot. After all, it's all about making this movie night special."

Joel grins and pats your back. "That's the spirit, kiddo. We're up for some culinary adventures, ain't we?" your heart jumps, and you feel like a teenager againㅡㅡ god, some things never change.

As the night falls, Sarah heads to sleep in your room, and your dad leaves you and Joel to clean up what's left in the kitchen. It didn't take long, 10 minutes at most, so you decide to sit for a bit.

The living room is bathed in a gentle, dim glow from the soft, ambient lighting. You and Joel settle onto the couch, the familiar cushions cradling you both. As you chat and reminisce, the comfortable silence that has always defined your connection fills the room.

Joel reaches for the old photo album your dad always kept on the coffee table, and you watch as he flips through its pages. The photographs tell the story of both your family's journey together – from vacations at the beach to the holidays you celebrated. Memories cascade from each page, and Joel's gaze lingers on a particularly cherished photo.

He turns to you, a wistful smile on his face. "Remember this trip, that cabin by the lake? Sarah was so little then, and she caught her first fish. You were so little..."

"yeah, I remember..."

"you're all grown up now. I honestly thought you'd forget about your dad and I." Joel chuckles, wrapping his bicep around you, pulling you in closer. "Don't be ridiculous. never in a million years." you reply.

then there's silence. your gaze locks on his, and you can hear your heartbeat in your headㅡㅡ his eyes never leave yours. Joel's calloused palm reaches your face, tracing small circles onto your burning cheek.

"think your dad's gonna come out soon?" he asks, licking his bottom lip as he waits for your response. while he looks at you, words get stuck in your throat, and you can't get them outㅡㅡ so you just shake your head 'no'.

"thought you'd grow out of this shyness, darlin'. i guess it's that effect I've on ya, huh?" smirking, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, causing you to shiver lightly.

Joel's presence, so close, and his touch have you captivated. The room feels charged with tangible tension. His teasing remark makes you smile, though you're still struggling to find words, the unspoken feelings hanging in the air.

"c'mon, sweetheart, answer me."

"j-joelㅡ" what does he want you to say? is he testing you? does he feel it, too? better yet, does he hear how fast your heart is beating whenever he leans closer to you.

"ya still hear the water runnin?" you nod. "good." he licks his lips before grabbing the back of your head, pulling you inches away from his lips. "can I?"

you muster the fastest 'yes', and when realization hits, your face grows red as an apple, causing joel to laugh. "eager girl." and with that, he leans in, placing his lips atop yours. the kiss is deep, a bit sloppy, but it feels like it's been heavy waiting to happen for so long. his beard scratches at your skin, drawing soft hums from you as it does so.

a few moments pass, and joel pulls away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips, one that he breaks when his rough thumb drags itself across your bottom lip. "pretty, pretty girl." you moan, you feel so pathetic. he's barely touched you, yet you feel the pool growing inside your panties by the second.

"p-please, joel.."

"please, what, darlin? gotta tell me exactly what ya want." he smiles, prepping soft pecks onto your face. "t-touch me..please." you gather the courage to speak up, watching his eyes grow darker as he hears your request.

"fuck, baby...what would your dad say if he heard you just then, huh?" chuckling low, his fingers tangle themselves in your hair, making you whimper. "don't c-care.."

"that so?" he tilts his head to the side, his thumb urging your mouth to open. "c'mon, girl, open." and you do as you're told, opening you mouth wide, tongue lolled out. he then gathers some spit in his mouth before letting the glistening droplet fall from his lips onto your tongue.

"swallow." he commands, and you obliged. "atta girl."

its so overwhelming, so dirty, and he didn't even do anything. at this moment, it feels as if only a slight nip at your skin could send you over the edge.

suddenly, you both hear steps upstairs, followed by a door closing. it's your dad. "you guys alright? think ive had too much to eatㅡ nothin' new there. imma head to bed, you guys cand manage yourselves, yeah?" and with that he closes the door to his room, leaving you and Joel staring at each other.

"tell me, you really wanna do this, darlin' ?"

"please, joel...need thisㅡㅡ need you."

Guilt clawed at your heart. Yet, you couldn't stop what you felt. it was wrong, but in this moment, it felt so right. "fuck, okay angel."

his large hands start to pull at your clothes, undressing you in an instant, leaving your naked body shivering. "i got you, babygirl." joel leans in, trailing soft kisses down the curve of your hip all the way to your mid thigh. your body jolts as you try to remain quiet.

"gonna let me ruin you, sweet girl?" and it feels like your heart could run a marathon. you nod away, eagerly. you feel so pathetic, all sprawled out naked under him, whilst he's still dressed. "words, baby."

"fuckㅡ please, joel, please..." you almost cry.

he laughs, fingers reaching your folds and swirling around them "fuck, darlin', you're so wet. all this for me, hm?" he teases "yes, f-for you...please."

"shh.." hushing you, he finally pushes inside one of his fingers, making you bite back a moan. you cover your mouth with your hands, a warm sensation flooding your bodyㅡ it feels like you could come just now.

"so tight, baby. can't wait to feel you 'round my cock." you choke back a pathetic whine. "you like it? like it when i fuck you with my fingers and talk to you like this?" you nod, pushing yourself further onto his digits. "filthy girl, s'it turn you on knowing your dad could walk in in us, huh? want him to see ya full of my cock? c'mon, answer, girl."

"yesㅡ shit, yes, please, joel, please..."

"s'okay, baby, don't worry. 'll fuck you so good you'll forget your own name. make you take this cock until you can't walk no more."

your vision was hazy from all the tears in your eyes, and your heart felt stuck in your throat. you watch the man discard himself of his clothesㅡㅡ holy. fucking. shit. all of your fantasies of Joel couldn't prepare you for what was going to happen. he stood there, tall, gruff as he stroked himself. his length was girthy, almost too thick, veiny, with a red, angry tip. he knew he was huge, that's what made it so exciting to him watching you gawk at his cock.

"c'mon, doll. it won't bite...open wide now. widee ㅡ there you go..." he preaises, sliding his length between your lips. it was hard to adjust, and honestly, your jaw was hurting from the first minutes you had him in your mouth. but the way his lips dripped with quiet moans, 'goodgirls' and 'thats rights', it made you push back the pain. it was bearableㅡ you just wanted to make him proud.

"jesus christ, girl, you look so pretty, mouth full of my cock." the man laughs, pushing his length further down your warm throat that was constricting as you gagged around him. "shitㅡ gonna make me come, sweet girl." hissing, he pulls out, leaving you gasping for air.

"joel, need you inside...please.."

"you're so gorgeous like this, baby. my gorgeous girl, begging for cock." he sighs, caressing you cheek before his hand slides down to wrap around your neck, squeezing it and making you light-headed. "gonna let me fuck you stupid, darlin'? c'mon, answer."

"y-yes, Joel, want you t'fuck me s-stupid, please..."

joel scoffs, placing a little kiss on your forehead. with his other hand, he grabs his shaft and drags the tip along your folds, collecting all the juices that dripped from you. "fuckin' soaked for me, baby."

"jus' for you.."

"i know, baby. i know.."

without stalling, he pushes in just the tip making you yelp as the sting spread through your pussy. you stare him deep in the eyes as he pushes in further, hushing you along the way. it was so bigㅡ too big. but you loved it, you loved that it was all you dreamed about and more.

"s' everything good, darlin'? want me to stop?"

"please don't...move, please, i need youㅡ please.."

"gonna give me a stroke if you keep on beggin' like that, baby..." with that, he pushes in all the way, ripping through you, his precum mixing with your juices that were flowing over his cock. he thrusts in you cunningly, gripping your hips tightly and licking long strips down your neck. all you could do is sit there and take it. take it and make him proud.

"so pretty, baby. so, so pretty and tight, shitㅡ " joel moans, indulging further into you. your hips crash with his, and you try your best to say quiet as you feel his cock hit so deep, you're sure it reached your stomach. the room spun with you, you could only mutter little 'joels' as he pounded into you.

after a few more pumps that familiar feeling was pooling at your core, causing you to tighten around Joel's length, which made him grunt and pull your hips flush to his "that's it, girl. come around my cock, let me feel ya."

you let go. bliss and pleasure take over you as your body contorts under joel, your walls fluttering around his shaft perfectly. it doesn't take him long reach his high, pumping a few more times into you before he take his cock out and paint your stomach with white, silky strands.

you both sit there in silence for a bit before you finally decide to speak up. "movie night tomorrow will be...something."

"now you're talkin' , darlin'? c'mon, let's get ya cleaned up and pray no one heard us."

⁽⁽ଘ( ˊᵕˋ )ଓ⁾⁾‎  토끼's NOTE : yall are eating good today. here with another fic this time our fave insane dilf JOEL !!! this has 2.78k words and probably lots of grammatical errors ITS NOT PROOFREAD OK?!?!?! hope you like it guys <3 tysm and ily!!!

[childrenofcain-if]

I absolutely love how my MC for D and C are vastly different. For C, my mc is definitely a bit of a menace and a boldfaced flirt, and i lived for it. Where as for D i chose a very shy sweet mc and how they treat them made me go "awww" then "fucking hell" because i know the pain will eventually come 😭

I wanted to thank you for the gay panic from V in the update because, honestly, it made me feel like a 14yo with my first crush and how insanely confused i was at that. It really made me feel nostalgic to read and i smiled at how far we as a society have actually come in terms of how accepting we are even in countries like my own where there's still so much shit surrounding sexuality as a whole. Shoutout to the South African in the demo 🙌 lmao i never see my people mentioned, so it was cute 🤣

And i am so obsessed with W... well with everyone, really. You've made a whole list of ROs that each need their own save slot because it's very hard to choose a route. I really enjoyed the update. ����

oof you’re certainly not underestimating the pain that is to come 😭 NO ONE IS SAFE FROM THE ANGST WAVES, THEY CAN RUN BUT THEY CAN’T HIDE 😈

i’m so happy you liked V’s section, honestly theirs was the sweetest route i could write and hopefully i did it justice. there’s different responses to the budding feelings based on their and MC’s gender and i was hoping it was clear 👀 MC has the potential to be V’s bi awakening after all. it is still going to be painful for them to completely accept it tho, unless you’re going for more traditional route with both the characters being the opposite sex.

ahh i see alison has one more appreciator to add to the list! shoutout to jo’burg, especially, because that’s her hometown 🫶🏻

thank you so much for your comment ahh, i’m so pumped to keep writing and get the story going so y’all can see what tragedies i’m cooking up 🤭

[venus-haze]

It's a Nice Day To Start Again (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: Bo brings you back to Ambrose, your hometown that you never thought you’d step foot in again, but when you’re one of the most wanted women in Louisana, there’s no place like home.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. This could be considered a follow-up to Creep, but you don’t need to read that to understand what’s going on in this. Writing this was a bit of a challenge, since most House of Wax fics don’t involve a reader who isn’t Bo’s captive, but I want to explore the concept more after writing this. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Descriptions of murder, violence, and kidnapping. Really warped morality on the reader’s part. Sexually explicit content involving oral (m. receiving) and some elements of public sex (the congregation is dead so…) in a church. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

The stagnant swamp water that had settled deep in your lungs from the day you were born seemed to ripple with each breath you took as you became acquainted with your forgotten hometown again. You never felt particularly homesick for Ambrose after your family had moved, not until you’d run into Bo again, he a seemingly salt-of-the-earth mechanic and you a sad and lonely housewife brought back to Louisiana by a tar-like mixture of pure chance and her now deceased philandering husband. Looking at the past through rose-colored glasses couldn’t conceal the rot no matter how hard you tried. You became part of the rot, too.

There was no option but to accept the Sinclair brothers’ perverted preservation of your shared hometown, a wax-encased time capsule. Some of the residents you recognized, people you knew who stayed in Ambrose because they didn’t have anywhere else to go–the shop owner whose livelihood had been wrapped up in the dying mill town, a childless elderly couple who gave out pennies instead of candy on Halloween, a woman who’d gone through a messy divorce and became a recluse. As you looked in the latter's waxen eyes, you began to see yourself.

You almost wanted to move back into your childhood home, filled with dust and mold that reclaimed the floorboards you’d played with your dolls on, the walls that had your height scratched into them as you grew each year. Bo wouldn’t let you. He moved you and your frantically gathered belongings into his bedroom, keeping you on a short leash for a time, as if he thought you’d turn on him, on Ambrose. You’d never do that, not when Ambrose was your only sanctuary from the outside world, teeming with rabid dogs biting at your heels. Seeing your photo in a newspaper accompanied by the words ‘WANTED’ and ‘ARMED AND DANGEROUS’ made you sure of that.

Puttering around the Sinclair home and playing housewife to Bo felt comfortable, having done nothing else since you’d married your ex-husband. As volatile and sadistic as Bo could be–and he more often than not was–you considered him an improvement from your ex. At least he was actually around to eat your cooking and have sex regularly. No more dinners on TV trays and falling asleep alone on the couch to wake up alone again with a crick in your neck. Loving Bo was a different kind of hurt from the way you loved your ex-husband, but you’d never been one to take long to adjust. 

Even besides the fact that you owed him, the familiar intoxication of being in his presence was enough for you to acquiesce to every perverted and downright disturbing request he made of you. After all, he had been the guy you’d stare at in class only to look away when he caught your gaze, a juvenile delinquent with none of the nobility of James Dean. Back then you would have never admitted aloud that you preferred him that way, not to your parents who warned you to keep away from him, your friends who’d whisper about him in the halls, nor the priest who somehow managed to make every homily a thinly-veiled jab at him on the off occasions he attended mass. They were all gone now. Only Bo was left. No need to pretend. 

Any therapist within a hundred miles would be itching to sit you down in a chair and figure out what made you the way you were. There was nothing to figure out, though, nothing that you could say or do that could explain things any better than stepping foot your hometown could reveal. It didn’t take long for the taste of Ambrose on Bo’s lips in that motel room to send you into a spiral, regressing to a dark mirror of the way of life your family had abandoned.

You didn’t see much of Vincent, which kind of disappointed you. You thought you and him were friendly enough in high school, but you supposed there weren’t very many people you went to school with that you’d be eager to see again either, especially if they suddenly moved into your house. At the very least, he kept the history project, as you went poking around his room one day out of curiosity and saw the wax diorama of JFK's assassination on a shelf, covered in dust but nevertheless intact. 

As winter crept its way across the landscape, colder than you remembered, you found yourself drawn to your childhood home. Digging through your old bedroom felt like tunneling your way through a decomposed heart, setting up camp in its decayed cavity. You were desecrating a corpse. It’d catch up with you sooner or later. 

Despite not being in any sort of rush when your family moved out, you were bewildered by how much you’d left behind. Dust-covered dolls lined one of the shelves, and there were a few moth-eaten dresses and shirts in the closet. Lester helped you clean out your old room one day, claiming upon your reintroduction that he did remember you, even if just vaguely. 

“Mama liked you–least, more than she liked most people. I remember her sayin’ what a shame it was your family was leavin’ town,” Lester said.

“Huh, I feel like I never made a big impression on her,” you said.

He shrugged, shoving a tattered sweatshirt with your high school mascot on it into a garbage bag. “She had a funny way ‘bout her sometimes, y’know.”

You nodded. You knew that much. You knew what kind of woman Trudy Sinclair was just like you knew Ambrose’s gravel roads that lead to the paved main street by muscle memory. In the years you were gone, though, you knew less about the town and its residents than when you had left. 

In particular, the woman in the gas station vexed you. There was no way for you to help her, not without sacrificing your own refuge. She suffered because you refused to turn yourself in, put yourself and Bo at risk, not after everything he did for you. Considering yourself, Bo, and Vincent, the faded sign on the outskirts of town may as well have read– 

Ambrose Population: 3 (sometimes) ‘The most fucked up town in Louisiana.’

Later that afternoon, you walked down to the church, the place you spent every Sunday morning from infancy until you started middle school, and your family attended less frequently except for Christmas, Easter, or a funeral. The cold familiarity offered you some kind of emotional sanctuary, and you’d find yourself in the one pew not occupied by a wax congregant, hands clasped together until your joints ached on the padded kneeler. 

It was a crapshoot whether or not Bo would be in there, though you knew he came in often enough to pay his respects to his mother. For how much she didn’t seem to care for Bo while she was alive, Trudy may as well have been canonized in his eyes. 

You avoided the open casket, though out of morbid curiosity from Lester’s comments about Trudy, you walked the extra few feet to the front of the church. Making a sign of the cross, you knelt down before the matriarch on display. 

She looked similar to how you remembered her, only older. Vincent seemed to have preserved the whisper of a snarl that was always on her face. Her facade of doting mother may have fooled the rest of Ambrose, but it never fooled you–lemon drop cookies that were always a little too sour, compliments through pearly-white gritted teeth, and a holier-than-thou attitude despite raising demonic offspring. You didn’t want a woman like her to have ever liked you. 

“Vincent did a good job for her bein’ his first one.”

Your shoulders jerked a bit. You hadn’t heard Bo come in. Regardless, he didn’t need to elaborate, and you didn’t want to know the catalyst behind their deciding to go a far more brutal and morbid route in carrying out their mother’s vision. The few times you’d been at the Sinclair house, you sat politely through Trudy’s ramblings about how if she had the kind of money Walt Disney did to make Main Street USA, she’d do the same out of wax. 

Bo knelt beside you, making a sign of the cross as he did so. Though he clasped his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, you wondered if he actually prayed. You and the twins had been in the same small catechism class, making your first confessions and first communions the same year. The former never had nearly as much fanfare as the latter. 

The small church had been as packed as it could be on a warm May morning, making the place feel like a furnace. White dresses with matching white patent Mary Janes contrasted the black and navy suits the boys on the opposite side of the church seemed to swim in. Then, in a ceremonial fashion that you all had rehearsed several times in the days leading up to your first communion, the small group of boys and girls went up to the parish’s two priests in pairs to make the sacrament. 

You always wondered why the first instance of you receiving the Eucharist felt like a wedding ceremony. The deja vu you experienced when you married your ex-husband was uncanny. For your first communion, you and Bo had been paired up, walking next to each other in sync to receive Catholicism’s most significant sacrament. Bo had made a face when he put the communion wafer in his mouth. The actual body of Christ tasted like cardboard. What a let down. 

The sacrament of confession, that’s what left the impression on you. Somehow seven was the age of reason, of accountability, when you could be expected to know right from wrong, when your sins were actually held against you. What sins, though? Was lying a sin if it was the option that caused the least pain? Should you feel bad for disobeying your parents even if they were ones who were wrong? You had walked into the church that day feeling like you had nothing to confess. Even still, after lying, cheating, murdering, and being complacent in so much more, you felt it was all justified. 

“Do you remember your first confession?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah, told the priest I disobeyed my parents. Think he gave me ten Hail Marys or somethin’.”

“I made somethin’ up,” you said. “I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong, so I just lied.”

He snorted. “That’s screwed up.”

“That’s where you draw a line?”

“You got some fuckin’ mouth on you. Mama always thought you were on the straight and narrow, even pestered Vincent to ask you out after y’all worked on that project in high school,” he growled. “She’d be real disappointed if she knew how much of a whore for my cock you are. Killed your damn husband over it, didn’t ya?”

You grabbed Bo’s belt with a force that made him grab the side of his mother’s casket. He cursed under his breath as you shifted to the low steps in that lead up to the funeral display, nimbly unbuckling his belt and tugging at his jeans. He stood up, your face level with his crotch as you unzipped him, pulling his pants down to his knees.

Looking up at him, you were met with a cruel, icy gaze. He reached down, his long fingers digging into the base of your skull as he pressed your face against his clothed crotch.

“You’re gonna have to earn it, slut,” he snarled.

You squeezed your thighs together before pressing a kiss to the fabric that separated your lips from his cock. Fondling his balls with one hand, you trailed wet, open-mouth kisses along his hardening length, unsure whether one prominent wet spot in the cotton was from your saliva or his leaking precum. 

You hadn’t been religious in a long time, let alone stepped foot in a church since your wedding day, but it made sense you would be worshiping a man like Bo Sinclair’s cock in the empty parish. There was no god in Ambrose, only he and Vincent meticulously seeing to every detail in the ghost town. 

The bulge in his underwear became hard to ignore, and he pushed your head away to pull them down, freeing his hard cock and wasting no time in shoving it in your mouth. You gagged as the head of his cock pounded against the back of your throat. You had no time to adjust, your eyes welling up with tears as you tried to breathe. Bo was never gentle, and being in a church, even in front of his own dead mother, was no exception. 

Grabbing his thighs, you attempted to steady yourself, your knees aching on the carpeted church steps. There was no organ playing, no choir, no homily, just the obscene sound of him abusing your mouth, your chokes and whines muffled by his cock. 

Unexpectedly, he pulled his cock from your mouth, allowing you a moment to breathe a little as he stroked himself. 

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue,” he ordered.

You presented your tongue to him without hesitation. He sneered at you, spitting in your open mouth before placing his hard cock on your tongue. His length was throbbing, wet from your warm mouth that had no other choice but to take it. You could taste the salty precum that mixed with your saliva pooling on your tongue until it dribbled down your cheeks as you drooled, unable to close your mouth and swallow. You could feel it land on your dress, the damp fabric sticking to your sweat-covered skin.

In the split second you were distracted by your dress, he pushed his cock into your mouth. You choked as he fucked your throat mercilessly, as if to punish you for something. You supposed that was the point, a public penance befitting an adultering murderess. 

“Fuckin’ whore,” he spat. “Church full ‘a people and you’re takin’ a mouthful of cock. Can’t believe mama thought you were some good little church girl.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to pretend the congregation was real, heartbeats and whispers ringing in your ears. Maybe they’d think you deserved the humiliation, to be put in your place and atone for the sins you’d committed. The thought made you moan, and you resisted the urge to slip your hand between your legs. You were soaked, able to feel the slick that coated your bare thighs.

Despite his harsh pace, you tried running your tongue along the veins that ran up the length of his cock. His thrusts started to become more erratic, his teeth gritted as his hand squeezed harder against your head. 

“Swallow it all, slut,” he grunted, his cum pumping into your mouth. 

Fuck, if you didn’t try swallowing, but you could feel his seed dripping from the corners of your lips, down your chest and further soiling your dress. He finally released you, and you gasped for air, leaning your head against his thigh. 

“Consider that your penance. Cock-hungry little freak,” he snarled, his insult laced with a perverse adoration. “‘S all you’re good for anyway.”

He shook you off of his leg, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt before leaving you to catch your breath alone at the front of the church. As soon as the doors shut behind him, you finally slipped your hand between your legs, playing with your clit as you tilted your head back, looking at the mural of Christ's ascension when you came. 

After a few minutes, you stood up, gasping in pain as your knees lifted from the hard floor. You stumbled over to the bronze font by the doors, dipping your hand into the holy water. You splashed your face with it, a stale and earthy smell on your skin–it was probably old tap water anyway, nothing about it had been blessed or sacred for a long time. Even if it was, who was there to care? 

Neither you nor Bo acknowledged what had happened in the church when he arrived back at the house later that night. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his work shirt discarded as soon as he walked through the door. You noticed dried blood on his hands, but didn’t comment, only gave him a kiss and heated up the plate you’d made him for dinner. 

“I could use your help down at the shop tomorrow,” he said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

You’d been planning to go back to your old home and dig through the forgotten relics, but nevertheless, you nodded in agreement, waking up bright and early with him the next morning to head down to the gas station. He only asked you to help with the charade when he knew there’d be people coming around. At first, you found it disturbing when he told you that he and Vincent would sometimes go out at night and purposely mess with people’s cars so they had no other choice but to get help in Ambrose. Then you figured, you weren’t in much of a position to judge.

When he let you out from the truck, you walked into the store part of the station. Something drew your gaze to the metal door that Bo always kept locked, the one you’d occasionally hear muffled screaming or crying from. You never asked him about it, but just this once, you took a few steps closer, until you could reach out and touch it if you wanted to. All you could hear from the other side was silence.

Bo walked up behind you, his footfall not rushed or angry, but a steady, confident pace. He threw his arm around your shoulders, guiding you into the garage. 

“She’s gone, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”

“Who was she?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Does it matter?”

“Guess not,” you said.

You didn’t inquire further. You didn’t like that she had been there, for ethical reasons, sure, but mostly selfish ones. You were done sharing your men. There wouldn’t be others down there. You’d make sure of that much. 

The next few hours dragged on, and you wondered why Bo even asked you to help out in the first place. Maybe without the other woman there, he wanted company. You sat on a stool in the garage, watching as he worked on some old muscle car and being entirely unhelpful whenever he tried asking you to hand him a tool. It wasn’t your fault your high school didn’t allow girls in shop class.

The sound of Lester’s old truck grew louder, and you hopped down from your seat, rushing into the shop to take your place behind the counter. You watched as the man got out of Lester’s truck and walked over to Bo. Lester gave you a smile and waved from outside which you returned before he drove off. 

Since he hadn’t shown up in his own car, you assumed the man had left it somewhere, and it’d probably be towed back to Ambrose by nightfall. Sometimes you’d see Vincent head out with the tow truck alone, returning with a victim’s car or fresh bodies. You knew Bo would get anxious if Vincent left town by himself–though he hated when you called him anxious, saying ‘Only women are anxious’–so you’d act like you didn’t see a thing. 

Bo gave the man a friendly clap on the shoulder, a fake yet charming smile on his face as he pointed to you inside the shop. The man walked in through the front door, but he froze in his tracks upon seeing you. Did he recognize you? He took a tentative step forward, avoiding eye contact with you. Fuck.

“Hi there, how can I help you?” you asked cheerfully, your hand wrapping around a wrench Bo had left beneath the counter.

“Uh, do you–can I use your phone?” he asked.

You gave him the fakest smile you could muster. “Go right ahead.”

He skittishly walked past you, goosebumps visible on his skin as he picked up the phone. You could see his fumbling fingers pressing the button on the dial pad. 9-1–the wrench in your hand made contact with the back of his skull just as he was about to press that final 1. 

The man collapsed to the ground, groaning as he held his head. It was too late. Blood began pooling where he lay. You grabbed the phone, listening for a moment to the dial tone before hanging up. He began dragging himself across the floor, as if you wouldn’t be able to catch up with him in a few steps.

Both of you looked up when Bo walked in from the garage. The man groaned out what you could barely understand as a plea for help. You nearly scoffed. It was no use anyway, the nearest hospital wasn’t for miles. He’d hemorrhage before could hypothetically even drive him there.

Bo frowned, grabbing the wrench from your hand. “One ‘a these days you’re gonna have to learn how to finish what you started.”

[svtcupid]

Cupid

Stage Name: Cupid

Position: Main rapper, sub vocalist, sub- dancer, Soloist

Birth name: Na Jieun

English name: Joanna Na

Birthday: December 30th, 1996

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

hometown: Jeonju, South Korea

Nationality: Korean

Height:156cm

Weight:

Blood type: AB

MBTI Type: INTP(2022-According to her members), INFP(2019-Done herself)

Representative emoji:🐼

Sub Unit: Hiphop subunit

Instagram: Its_cupid

Cupid Facts:

-Cupid was born and raised in Jeonju with her grandparents.

Education: Yonsei University (Master degree in Accounting)

-trainee for 5 years

-Her nicknames are: Luna, Queen, Princess, Beloved sister, second mother

-Cupid has one brother (4 years younger than her)

-She was casted when she was out with her friends in seoul

-Cupid can speak 2 languages fluently which are korean and english however she can also speak japanese, mandarin but she said she isn't fluent in these two languages.

-Speciality: Figure skating, ballet and gymnastics

-Hobby likes to play badminton and basketball with her members.

-Cupid hates doing ageyo

-Jieun likes spring and winter

-Cupid was originally supposed to debut with Pristin in 2016

-Her favourite Korean singers SNSD and H.O.T

-Used to be a professional figure skater

-won the free ice skating in 2010 Olympics

-Her favourite colour is blue, purple and red

-favourite number is 4

-Favourite food: sweet desserts, she loves cheese and Korean food

-Food she dislikes: Spicy food, she doesn't really like pork fat or ttebokki. Doesn't like the taste of coffee

-Cupid is one of the members who can cook really well.

-Cupid revealed she studied in England for 3 years during vogue whats in my bag.

-Cupid is closest with Scoups and Woozi.

-Cupid is friends with V of BTS, IM of Monsta x, Jeongyeon of Twice.

-Jieun made a cameo in Hwarang 2016

-Cupid made her acting debut in Love Alarm Season 1 2019

-Cupid acted in Love Alarm Season 2, Uncanny Counter season 1 and season 2, True Beauty and Twinkling Watermelon.

-She sang the Love Alarm season 1 OST.

-She sang the Twinkiling Watermelon OST

-Cupid is the official ambassador for Reebok, Corsx, Burberry and Celine

-Jieun says compared to all her members she is the weakest.

-Cupid used to share dorm room with Scoups since debut 2015 but now she lives with her manager.

-On weekly idol cupid said she chose this name as her stage name as she wishes to give people love through her personality and through music.

-Cupid used to share room with Scoups before moving to her own dorm with her manager.

-Cupid Ideal type: honest, childish, goofy, best friend who she can speak with no filter and can find comfort.

-In Na Pd video 2023 Jieun said the member closest to her ideal type is Scoups.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

mi media naranja [holiday!AU - mickey "fanboy" garcia x fem!reader, aka "cielo"]

A/N: For Fanboy’s fangirls - a holiday celebration with Fanboy y Cielo. Lots of callbacks to my original Fanboy HCs  – so if you’ve been following their journey thus far, there will be lots in here for you. Bonus points if you get the references! 

Pairing: Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x fem!civilian!reader (aka “Cielo;” as always no use of y/n – my readers are written ambiguous, but with a latina!reader in mind.)

Warnings: my writing is its own warning, smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, unprotected sex, v mild breeding kink, references to oral sex

Word Count: 5.8k of the warmth of a holiday spent together with your beloved, of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, of the cinnamon-orange passion of sharing half of yourself with someone else.

Summary: You spend your holidays with your sweet boyfriend. Mickey takes you home to visit his family, but of course, you make sure to indulge in the magic of the holiday, just the two of you [part of the Fanboy y Cielo ‘verse].

(moodboard courtesy of lovely @ouralcohol)

--

Divided holidays were a challenge. 

You and Mickey had opted to spend the few days preceding Christmas with his mother and his sisters, which meant, of course, holiday travel.

You'd left your beachside home in San Diego, packing gifts and luggage alike to make the trek to Mickey’s hometown. Artoo was set up with your friend for the few days you’d be gone. And it wasn’t as though you weren’t coming back in just a few days to celebrate Christmas with Mickey, just the two of you. It would go by in a flash. So why were you nervous?  

You had met his family before. And, of course, they’d never indicated anything other than that they’d liked you … Still, you’d felt the perpetual need to impress. To ensure that they still liked you, as though their opinion would have changed in the six months since you had seen them for the family’s summer beach weekend.

And the drive was pleasant enough, Mickey expressing to you ad nauseam that he was glad you were coming, 

“You don’t understand, cielo,” he urged. “Every time I talk to my tía it’s like – ‘¿Y tu novia? ¿Y tu novia?’” he parroted. “I swear, it’s like she’s convinced you don’t exist, even though my mom has literally met you.”

You patted his arm in comfort, offering him your coffee cup, which he eyed warily – all too familiar with your penchant for bitter brew. Politely shaking his head in refusal as he turned his eyes back to the road.

You shrugged.

“Oh, I’m familiar,” you assuaged. “My auntie is nosy, too, she does the same. Ever since I was in high school, always asking me where my boyfriend was, judging me if I didn’t bring anyone.”

“And?” Mickey’s eyes darted to you, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time with the radio (and not at all nervously himself). 

You chuckled, quirking an eyebrow at your boyfriend’s a-little-too-curious tone.

“¿Estás celoso o algo así?” Are you jealous, or something? “Don’t worry, M, I don’t bring anyone around unless I think they’re worthwhile.”

You popped across the console on your elbows, enough to press a kiss to your boyfriend’s cheek, pleased at the blooming flush making its way across his finely-peaked, mole-dotted cheekbones. At his happy realization that you had brought him home to meet your family for nearly every Thanksgiving since you’d gotten together. 

That you had deemed him worthy.

And though Mickey had assured you that it would be a relatively quiet few days, a few meals and a gift exchange with his mom and his sisters, you couldn’t help but wonder – had Mickey deemed you worthy? Had the women in his life? 

So, yeah, you couldn’t help the little prickle of nerves that tingled their way through you as your playlist wound down, the dulcet tones of Sam Cooke’s “Any Day Now,” fading as Mickey turned into his driveway, his mother and sisters waiting to greet you with waving hands and identically-beaming faces. Their smiles were all-to familiar to you – a virtual carbon-copy of the one that regularly greeted you on the face of your beloved. 

And it was foolish to worry, really, you thought, as you were crushed with hugs and ushered inside by Mickey’s mother and his three shrieking, giggling sisters, all wearing variations of the same, slightly threadbare sweater (no doubt handmade and worn annually). Leaving Mickey to carry your bags and gifts into the home while his trio of sisters fawned over you,

“She looks gorgeous, no?” Said the eldest, Luci.

“I told you, she’s got that glow,” from Eiza, the youngest. 

And it was foolish to worry – when they had shoved a glass of ponche navideño in your hands and began filling you in on all the chisme as your boyfriend huffed his way up to his childhood bedroom, laden with bags. 

Hours later, you were packed into the hearth-warm kitchen, virtually up to your elbows in masa as you continued to knead, by hand, the sticky dough for enough tamales to feed an army under the approving (but ever-watchful eye) of your general – Mrs. Garcia. The way her lips had split into a smile when you’d refused the stand-mixer and opted to go manual was something you’d burn into your brain for eternity. 

Maybe approval wasn’t so far off. 

“Bien, mija,” she appraised, as Mickey sipped his punch from the corner he had been relegated to in the the kitchen, watching with honeymelt eyes as the women who shaped his past, his present, and – his eyes lingered over you – hopefully, his future, all worked in tandem to make homemade tamales. Gossipping away and giggling with each other as though you had been their friend for decades. 

“Ma,” Mickey piped up, “you’ve got her making all of this by hand? She’ll cramp up. She’ll have witch's hands by the time we leave. She’s an artist, you know, it’s how she makes her living. How many tamales do you need, anyway?” 

Mrs. Garcia whipped the dish towel that was draped over her shoulder at the back of her son’s head, effectively silencing him.

“Miguelito,” she hissed, “Tradicion. And your cousin Shawn says he’ll eat at least forty, and you know they’ll be here til New Year’s.” 

“Yeah? Well, cousin Shawn is full of shit.” 

Mickey’s sisters rolled their eyes at their brother’s antics, the middle sister, Olivia, bumping her hips against yours, her eyes full of playful mirth as she finished stirring the filling. 

And you could make out the living room through its swinging door to the kitchen, Vicente Fernández warbling away on the record player in the corner, as Eiza finished decorating their tree with a few of the ornaments that you and Mickey had brought – one, an orb with a photo of the two of you and Artoo on your couch at home, she displayed prominently at the center of the tree next to some that were clearly school projects from the kids’ elementary school years. 

It was nice, you thought – to be in a home that felt like a home for the holidays. To see these little pieces of your love’s life that had preceded you and that had shaped him. To let the magic of the season wash over your lives. 

After dinner, you helped Mickey’s sisters store the tamales for the long haul (and the arrival of the cousins) while Mickey did the dishes. 

Sliding on stockinged feet over the linoleum in their kitchen, you sheepishly produced a pink box tied in twine, with a tag that had a roughly-hewn, hand-drawn likeness of the Garcia household that you had seen in photographs, offering it to Mickey’s mother – a box stuffed full of pan dulce and Christmas cookies. 

“Mija, you made these?” She asked, hand hovering over the open flap, debating which to choose. “They all look so perfect.” 

“You should, like, have a baking insta,” Eiza agreed, words muffled by a mouth full of fluffy pink pan dulce. 

“They aren’t alla that,” you huffed, waving your hand as though to wave away the compliments.

“She’s modest,” Mickey assured, taking the box from your hands and setting it on the oaken kitchen table before lacing your fingers with his. “She loves to bake. She makes cookies for everyone in the squad for Christmas and birthdays.” 

“Really?” Mrs. Garcia appraised. “What did you make this year?” 

Rooster was positively gleeful at the sight of the red tin bedecked with snowflakes. 

“Are those what I think they are?” He bent down to kiss your cheek as you pressed the box into his hands. “Our Marigold’s famous Christmas gifts?” 

You had come down to the base to deliver the baked goods in person, on a day the squad had all agreed to meet for a holiday lunch. A cardboard box full of tins, each with their own personalized tag, awaited each of the Daggers. Javy had taken his – with its tag featuring a little drawing of a howling coyote – and absconded with it, thanking you through a sprinkling mouthful of crumbs and peppermint icing. 

Bradley’s, with its tag adorned with a strutting cartoon rooster with its tail feathers made of flames, was full of iced shortbread. Something he had confided to you that his mother had made on holidays past. You hoped he’d like them, not that the recipe you had found online could ever touch Carole Bradshaw's.

Mav had winked, thanking you for the classic chocolate chip, chuckling at the cartoonish aviator sunglasses on the tag.

Chocolate-chili cookies for Phoenix. Peanut butter for Jake. Cinnamon swirl for Bob. Lemon-lavender for Halo. Sweet mochi cookies for Reuben… and so on.

“If he doesn’t marry you, Marigold,” Rooster not-so-quietly announced, gesturing at Mickey with a cookie in his hand, “I will.” 

It was then that Mickey had swooped in, looping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek, waving Rooster away with a, 

“Yeah, yeah… she’ll definitely call you, buddy." Waving at the squad as he spun you and made to take your leave. "Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.” 

��

Mickey's childhood room was, like the rest of his family home, like the man himself, warm. Belying a coziness you cherished in all spaces, replete with a checkered quilt on the bed that you were certain his mother had made. Posters bedecked the walls, shining with the grins of baseball and soccer players whose names you'd recognized from the backs of jerseys hanging in Mickey's side of your shared closet. Star Trek DVD sets on the bookshelf, nestled next to Tom Clancy novels. Model planes, jets, and Lego sets were intact and displayed – proudly, you were sure –  on the desk. It was all so overwhelmingly Mickey, you were certain you were falling in love all over again, more pieces of himself falling into place in your heart. The nature of him, ensconced by his childhood, filling the gaps in your heart. 

"It's, ehhh," Mickey scrubbed the back of his neck, placing your bag at the foot of the bed on the side he knew you'd preferred af home. "A little geeky, I know. Ma insists on not changing it."

"She shouldn't," you clarified. "It's perfect. It's you."

Mickey beamed at that, coming to your side and surveying the room from your perspective before shrugging his shoulders.

"It's more perfect seeing you here. Honestly, a pretty girl in my room? My sisters never thought they'd see the day," he chuckled, sweeping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your shoulder before gazing up at you through his lashes. "And I gotta say, cielo, it's doing a number on me, you being in here."

You batted your lashes at your beloved before patting his cheek, 

“Easy tiger,” you breathed. “I’m not trying to disrespect your mother, or anything. We can wait til we're back home.” 

"Yeah, about that," Mickey said, extricating himself from you and readying himself for bed. "My mom is probably still laughing at you for offering to sleep on the couch. They know we've been together for a while, babe. It's fine."

"Still," you hissed, shimmying out of your jeans and into your joggers, sliding beneath the covers. "It's… awkward, no? To be in your boyfriend's house, them thinking we’re like … hooking up in here?" 

"If you feel that strongly about it," Mickey slid in beside you, leveling you with his best serious gaze, "you really should make more of an effort to keep your hands off me. Like, damn. Let a man sleep in peace."

You swatted his arm with the back of your hand, scoffing at him as he turned to turn out the bedside light. 

"You're unbelievable."

"Tell me something I don't know, baby."

And it had to be some kind of record, really. How quickly you’d gone back on your own word.

As soon as you and Mickey had turned the lights out, he had wrapped his arms around you, and pressed a goodnight kiss to your lips, you were a goner. The rustle of sheets met your ears through the blanket of darkness that had fallen in Mickey’s room, his fingertips meeting the skin of your waist where your t-shirt had ridden up, his lips meeting yours in kind – a clandestine, weighted feeling that you often felt yourself lost in. 

Mickey would often tell you that he felt a sort of gravitational pull near you – when you kissed him. That he was helpless to your gravitational pull, like the crashing tides. No choice but to worship you.

It was utter bullshit.

Utter nonsense. Because there was no way he could feel that way about you, when it was exactly how you felt about him, as he trailed his lips along the skin of your neck, feeling his way across your skin, through you, over you, the very heart of you. Rendering you slavish, devoted, insane. No choice but to heed to his beck and call, like the routine surrounding the permanence of a rising and setting sun. 

At the breaking little whine shattering its way through your throat, Mickey smiles against your skin, knowing he’s won. His mouth is warm, kisses like rich cocoa against your silken skin as he slips his way down your body, a trail of teasing touches and toying temptations – leading with lips and tongue.  

 He presses his way down your body, pleased at the heavy sigh that pours from your throat like water in the desert as he slides the soft fabric of your t-shirt up your torso, allowing his lips to chase the mapping progress of his fingers – a path he’s travelled many times, but never feels the same, and never renders the exact same reaction from you. 

“Fuck, cielo,” Mickey murmurs in reverence, his tongue swirling your nipple, the heat of his mouth and honey of his lips following. His hands slipping down your waist as he peppers kisses to the ridges of your ribs, the softness of your stomach. Shucking the quilt down to the foot of the bed as he makes his way between your now-parted legs. 

His palms skated the skin of your thighs, your calves, your ankles, mumbling muffled endearments against your skin as his lips traversed to your hips, inching closer, closer, closer to your center. Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, with honeyed sighs, lashes fluttering and fingers lacing through Mickey’s curls as you acquiesced, always, to the pull of him, the swelling ocean tide sure to wash you away into the depths of him.

“You should feel how warm you are, amor,” Mickey’s lips were wistful and wanton, cruel yet comforting, as he pressed  open-mouthed kisses heating the insides of your thighs. A perpetual tease, as tongue followed. “I bet you’re sweet, too.”

Mickey’s eyes met yours as he glanced up at you from between your thighs, glimmering with the dance of mischief and amorous intent. Pleased at the hitch of your breath evident in your chest, the fluttering of your lashes, the part of your lips.

God, you were well on your way to looking as wrecked as he felt. 

Mickey smiled then, a splitting peal of glimmering happiness, before he endeavoured to shatter you – cheeky as he inclined his head to lick a firm stripe along the seam of you, through the dampened cotton of your underwear.

You yelped at the feeling, slapping your hand over your mouth to muffle the too-loud noise that had shattered the relative silence of the room (save for your collectively heavy breaths), eyes wide at the sound that had spilled from you.

You tugged Mickey’s curls, beckoning him up as you hurried to close your legs – the moment shattering as you realized that once again, you had lost sense of yourself. And under his mother’s roof, no less.

“M!” you hissed, shuffling to readjust your clothing as you gently swatted at his pec, the small thwacking sound vindicating to your own traitorous ears as you attempted to recover from the embarrassment flooding through your body, heating your chest and cheeks. “Y-you … I can’t believe you. Zorro. Baboso.” 

“H-hey,” Mickey was cupping his own pec where you had swatted at it, eyeing your fluster and bluster with barely-concealed mirth. “You wound me, baby. I was just trying to kiss you goodnight. I just wanted you to know I love you.” 

“Sneaky little good-for-nothing,” you hissed, no malice in your voice as it spilled from lips that were trying, against your better senses, to tug into a smile. Shaking your head. “What would Ken Griffey Jr. think?” You tugged your shirt down, beckoning with pointed finger to the larger-than-life splashed likeness on the poster of the hall of fame ballplayer, staring down at the both of you, frozen smile ever-affixed. Not judgmental, but not-not judgmental. 

“He’d high-five me for a home run?” Mickey shrugged.

“You’re shameless, you know?” You readjusted yourself under the covers, making a show of pulling them up to your chin, obscuring your body from his view.

“Well, what do you suggest we do instead,” Mickey queried.

“Um, sleep?” 

“Baby,” Mickey’s voice was low, lilting – a slip of a tease in the wintery-darkness of his room. “I don’t, uhhh, think I can go to sleep right now.” 

You arched an eyebrow at him, “I want to go on record as saying that this is a self-created problem, but because I love you …” you sat up, allowing the covers to fall to your waist, bending forward and cupping Mickey’s jaw, urging him to you to press a chaste kiss to his lips. 

“Lie on your stomach,” you eased. “Let’s play the word game.” 

The word game. Something you had invented with your siblings when you were little. When you were too hyper to sleep, filled with the sugar from Christmas cookies and hot cocoa, waiting for Santa Claus, urging the morning to come … you’d come up with the game to pass the time. A game you had passed on to friends at sleepovers, graduating to giggling wine-drunk iterations in college. And now to your beloved. 

One of you would lie on your stomach, while the person that was “it” would pick a word or phrase, drawing each letter on the expanse of the other’s back. If the guesser chose the letter correctly, you would move on to the next letter, until they’ve spelled the word and identified it. Then you would switch 

Now, with the twinkling of stars outside of Mickey’s window and the luminescent glow of the moon to light your way, you rubbed your palms along the smooth skin of his muscled back, perusing your mental catalog for your word. Mickey groaned beneath you, pleased at the feeling of your hands working their way along his skin, his contended exhalations leaving his lips like a purr. 

“Ah,” you began, “I’ve got one. Okay.” 

You traced an “R,” the curving bow of the letter causing a shiver to wrack through Mickey at the featherlight touch of your fingertip, the gentle scrape of your nail.

“Cielo, this is supposed to relax me, not turn me on,” he turned his head to the side, allowing it to rest on his arms so he could glare, balefully, at you through cocoa-swirled eyes. 

“I can’t be breaking the rules if everything I do turns you on. Control yourself,” you replied primly, easing the sting of your jest with a sweet kiss pressed to his tanned shoulder. “I’ll draw again.” 

“It’s an ‘R,’” he supplied, huffing. “Stupid, sexy ‘R.’” 

You beamed, nodding so that he could see, before drawing the next. E. 

As Mickey guessed each letter, you proceeded. Giggling at some of his mistakes, signaling wrong answers with a wiping, swirling motion along his spine, not unlike the sweeping shake of your head, until – 

“Regalo,” Mickey guessed. Present. 

“Bien,” you smiled. Rewarding your beloved with a sweet kiss to his lips, breezy and sweet like honeysuckle in spring. 

“And what present did you get me, my love?” 

“You’ll have to wait to find out,” you eased down next to him, cuddling into his side. “Or maybe my presence is the present. Either way, you’ll have to be good, or you get nothing.” 

“Always,” Mickey murmured, the facile lovingness of your touch, the game, having lulled him some, easing into the routine of relaxing by your side.

Whether he was referring to you always being a gift, or that he was always good, you weren’t sure. And you didn’t ask, his evening-breathing suggesting that he was well on his way to drifting off – one step closer to dancing dreams of swirling ardor. 

–

As you sat around in the morning with Mickey’s sisters in their matching sweaters, waiting to exchange gifts, they eyed you with something like mischief. A look you were all too used to seeing in their brother’s eyes. 

Mickey was in the kitchen, chipperly helping his mother plate the pan dulce you had baked and pouring coffee. The sunshiney nature of early-birdedness seemed to be a Garcia family trait, you thought, as Mickey’s mother greeted you with a million-watt smile and a kiss to your cheek before ushering you to be comfortable by the tree. 

“I heard the strangest thing last night,” Luci began, her lips curling into a grin. “Did you hear it, Oli?” She looked to the middle sister.

“Oh, yeah,” Olivia continued, knowingly. “Some noise coming from down the hall, like a strangled little cat. Very strange.”

“We don’t have a cat,” Eiza piped up, helpfully-unhelpful. 

And if your face didn’t bely your embarrassment at Mickey’s sisters clearly having heard your little yelp from down the hall, you were sure that the heat rushing through your body might melt you, like a shameful wave of lava, bent on your destruction. 

“Ehm,” you began, plucking intently at the very apparent little loose thread at the hem of your joggers… 

“We’re teasing you,” Luci appeased. “Don’t worry. Quite honestly, the fact that you’d choose to be with that little nerd is astounding –” 

“You’re too cool for him,” Eiza finished from her end of the couch. 

“He’s, uhm,” you smiled weakly at each of his sisters, still recovering from the mortifying ordeal of having been put on the spot. “He’s pretty great.” 

“Yeah,” Olivia rolled her eyes. “If you think Star Trek Christmas sweaters and talking about jets and G’s is cool.” 

You shrugged. “I do.” 

Mrs. Garcia and Mickey entered, then, distributing the steaming cups of coffee and reheated sweet breads. Your beloved pressing his lips to your temple as he pressed the warm mug into your hands.

“Buenas días, mija,” Mrs. Garcia greeted you, easing next to you on the couch. 

“Good morning, señora.” 

She knocked her shoulder gently into yours, smiling between you and Mickey, as he began to distribute gifts.

“Oh, M, give out mine first, please?” You urged, the little prickle of nerves from yesterday tickling at your throat (or maybe that was just the warm swallow of bitterly-strong coffee, just the way you liked it) as you were eagerly-anxious to see if his family liked your gifts.

Mickey nodded, passing soft wrapped packages to each sister – their names calligraphed on each tag in elegant, looping letters. Urging each sister to tear into the paper, an extra smile for Eiza as he passed her a firmer, square box. 

Luci cooed over the hand-knitted scarf and hoop earrings, assuring you they were just the pair she wanted.

Olivia had beamed at the hand-painted mug, admiring the white oleander blooms you had painted. Thanking you for the book of poems. 

Eiza shrieked at the pink gamer headset as she unwrapped it, looking up at you with awestruck, eager eyes. 

“Now you can join M, Reuben and me on our Call of Duty nights,” you smiled. “You’ll need some face masks, though. We multitask our self-care.” You nodded at the box, urging her to check as she pulled out a pack of Korean sheet masks (the same that you had separately gifted Reuben). She swept you in a hug, promising to set up a time to play with you. 

Mickey passed his mother a large, flat package, urging her to tear into the paper.

She ripped away the shining green, revealing a canvas with a watercolored likeness of your beachside home. The cerulean of the swirling ocean and the grapefruit-pink of the sunset stippled into in the background. 

“She painted it, mama,” Mickey gestured to you, eyes swimming as he took in the pleased smile on his mother’s face.

“I just wanted you to have something, a piece of our home in yours, until you can come visit us,” you eased. “I hope you like it.”

Mrs. Garcia nodded, reaching to clasp your hand in hers. “It’s beautiful, my darling girl.” 

Mickey’s sisters had gifted you with a stocking full of puppy goodies for Artoo. A set of bath bombs and a new sketchpad for you. Gifting Mickey with some games he had his eye on.

Senora eased her way up from the couch, pulling a small wooden box from beneath the tree and handing it to you. 

You admired the hewn wood, popping the lid on the box to find a handful of recipe cards in what you recognized form letters and cards to be Mrs. Garcia’s handwriting.

“Just a few recipes for you – so the two of you can have them for your home. And start some of your own traditions.”

You thanked her, with teary eyes and a warm hug, all vestiges of worry set aside as you enmeshed yourself into the warm welcome of the Garcia home.

"You make him better, no?" Mrs. Garcia was sitting with you as Mickey packed up the car, his sisters twittering around him about taking leftovers (seriously, Shawn did not need that many tamales) and promising to FaceTime them after you and Mickey opened the rest of your gifts. The snippets of their conversations meeting your ears as you visited with his mother.

“-- I swear, Miguelito, you better marry her,” Luci’s voice caused your heart to lurch a little. 

You turned your attention back to Mrs. Garcia,

"He makes me my best."

–

Artoo was overjoyed at your reunion. He leapt at your feet before you’d even had the chance to exit the car, his tail moving a mile a minute as he bowled over Mickey, licking at his face and his ears.

The two of you had settled into a lazy morning together, Artoo contentedly tearing into the stocking of gifts from Mickey’s sisters from his perch on the couch as you gifted Mickey with a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs – a Christmas morning breakfast tradition in your home.

“I like the shirt,” you acknowledged, beaming at the Mickey Mouse shirt that had been your birthday gift to him the prior year – a tradition of his own making, to wear the shirts you’d gifted him on Christmas. Each year a surprise as to which one he’d pick. 

This year’s – a grinning Mickey hugging Pluto – a splash of color adorning Mickey’s torso. A welcome sight painting the picture of your holiday backdrop while you made chili-spiced hot cocoa as your father had taught you, the sweet tickle playing on your lips as you grinned at your boyfriend.

And it was a cosmic, karmic collision – something in the stars, you think. Watching him play with Artoo, watching him eat his breakfast, watching him pluck packages from beneath the tree, ready to give to you. And maybe it was the magic of the holidays – that tinges everything in evergreen romance, warm and sweet and cinnamon. But you think, perhaps, that it will always feel this way with Mickey – as though he was the sunshine in your wintery sky, iridescent and luminous.

“Here,” you passed a package to your beloved, waiting with bated breath and eager eyes as he set his cocoa cup aside and ripped into the paper, marveling at the bound graphic novel in his hands – 

A full, illustrated edition of “The Adventures of Fanboy and Payback,” their space-exploration adventures that you had invented and drawn now captured fully, rather than in the piecemeal etchings you would stick into care packages when Mickey was away.

“Baby,” Mickey breathed, “you did all of this?”

“Well,” you worried your lower lip between your teeth. “The binding isn’t the best, but I tried. Do you like it?”

“Ah-mor,” he swept you off the couch and into his arms, his lips meeting yours, full and flush. “You literally made me a sci-fi hero. This is the best ever.” 

“I’m so glad,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his tapered waist and squeezing. “You’re definitely my hero, M. Callsign: Romeo.” 

Mickey chuckled, disentangling himself from you and pressing another kiss to your lips. Assuring you he loved it as he gently set aside the book as though it were made of glass, turning to pick up your gift.

Mickey gazed at you expectantly as you held the small, unexpectedly dense box in your palm, searching his face for any hint as to what could be in the box,

“Don’t –” Mickey started, trailing off as you gently shook the box, “shake it… Fine.” 

You smirked, peeling the paper off the box and peering into it, met with the fiery hue of —

“An orange?” You query, lifting the small fruit from the box, its stippled rind leaving the pleasing, citrusy smell on your fingertips as you examined it. The blazing blue sticker on the side of the rind boasting the phrase, “Sweet Valencia.”

“Por supuesto, cielo.” Of course. 

“Well, you know I love oranges,” you smiled at him. “Thank you, my love.”

“Cieloooo,” he snickered. “If we were to share it. To peel it in half, what do you have?” He pressed you.

You gazed at him, glancing between the orange in your hand and your beloved’s shimmering eyes, dark and luminescent as the night sky.

“A half of an orange. Is this a riddle? What am I missing?” 

“Si, cielo, my brilliant, beautiful girl.” Mickey kneeled before you know, cradling your hand that held the orange in his palms. “An orange half. Mi media naranja.”

Your breath caught in your throat. 

And it was one of your favorite things about the Spanish language, your favorite endearment.  Embodied by the gift your boyfriend was handing to you now, the fiery-hued orb in your palms, perfect. The sweet smell of citrus tickling your nose. 

Mi media naranja. His soulmate. Literally translated, mi media naranja – “my orange half,” in reference to you.

Mickey dropped your hand, turning to pick up the box you had gently set aside, plucking something from the bottom of the box before picking up one of your hands. 

The coolness of metal slid along the ring finger of your right hand.

You tore your gaze down in time to see the coppery rosiness of a simple rose-gold band against the skin of your hand.

“I’m going to marry you one day, mi naranjita,” Mickey assured, looking between the ring on your hand and your starshine eyes. “Until then, consider this my promise to you.” 

With your artist's eyes, you can appreciate the watercolor brushstrokes of the moment, the way in which you saw the world, textured and swirling. Rosy and perpetually-perfect as your lips met Mickey’s, tugging him toward you with a finger crooked in his silly shirt.

“You’re perfect, M,” you murmured into his mouth. “Impetuous … but perfect.” 

You dragged Mickey down the hall, toward your bedroom, your lips fused to his as you made to peel the cartoonish shirt from his torso as you went, reveling in the firm feel of him beneath your fingertips. 

When had the script flipped? You were beneath Mickey now, him rolling his hips into you, the sweet, heavy drag of him inside of you sinfully sweet as you tipped your head back to watch your beloved watching you. The tight heat of you squeezing around him, causing him to roll his eyes back, bucking his hips into you harder. 

“Baby,” Mickey groaned, “you're so pretty it hurts.” He dragged his teeth over the column of your throat, soothing the stinging scrape of teeth with a pretty little brushstroke of his lips over the canvas of your neck. "I'll give it all to you – give you more, more, more …" he murmured into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy.

And watching you come apart, to shatter in his embrace, was the gift you kept on giving. One he’d never tire of as he spilled inside of you as you urged him to, “Please, baby, come inside me,” urging, urging. “I want it.”

He never stood a chance.

You draw your finger repeatedly along the curve of his nose, pressing kisses into his neck and begging him not to move from inside of you as Mickey rests his head on your shoulder, puffing exhalations evening into the deep, easy breathing of the satisfied. 

And as you glanced down at the rose gold band on your hand – the simple little gift that held so much weight, you drifted to the afternoon you had spent with Mickey before leaving his mother’s home. The tour he’d given you around town, narrating the lives of the ghosts of his hometown as you drove past the movie theater where he’d had his first date; the park where he and some friends had gotten drunk as teens. Stopping to climb to the roof of the school building, to watch the late-afternoon wintery sunset. 

"I wish you knew what it feels like," you sighed, carding your fingers through Mickey's curls, his head in your lap as the two of you watched the blaze of orange sunset turn purple like tufted cotton candy.

"What what feels like?" He asked tilting his chin to allow his eyes to prove your form, appreciating the fiery hues of the sky splashed against your skin.

"To love you," you glanced down, meeting your beloved's eyes with a smile.

Mickey's million-watt grin beamed back in response.

And perhaps that's the reason for the setting sun, you thought. It has no choice but to retreat in the face of something so radiant as your beloved's smile, a second fiddle at its own game.

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea, cielito" Mickey sat up, warm hands coming to cradle either side of your face, to appreciate the curve of your jaw as you smile at him -- little reminders how every part of you, delights in every part of him.

At your arching eyebrow, he continued, "After all, I know what it feels like to love you."

His lips met yours, the feel of his kiss like night-blooming jasmine, like petals against your wistful mouth -- eternal against the evening dusk of his hometown's little skyline.

Perhaps traveling for the holidays wasn't so bad.

--

some tags for my usual suspects: @joaquinwhorres @withahappyrefrain  @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @the-navistar-carol @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid   @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @callmemantha @mxgyver  @andrewrussgarfield @bioodforbiood @the-purity-pen @luxuryberzatto @liz-allyn  @moonlight-prose @thegirlwhowritesfics @phoebe-danvers ​@jadore-andor  @marvelousmermaid @spidervee ​@t-nd-rfoot​

[misschanadlerbong]

Tangled Up

A/N: This was supposed to be uploaded yesterday but I am a lazy writer lol. So pretend like this is a little something from me to all of you for V-Day. Also, this is my first FRIENDS fiction and really did not see many Chandler fics so here it is. Honest feedback is welcomed :)

Summary: You just moved to Paris for work and one day bumps into your high school best friend Chandler. Seeing him desperately in search of a place to stay, you invite him to stay with you. You were already in a relationship but would the entry of your best friend change anything for you?

Pairing: Bi-sexual!Chandler Bing x fem!Reader

Genre: F.R.I.E.N.D.S!AU, Chandler!AU, angst, fluff, suggestive

Warnings: Swear words, mentions of sex, make-out, mention of alcohol, insecurity.

Word Limit: 2.5k

You were a woman in her late twenties who recently moved to the most beautiful city in the world, Paris. What could be more exciting to work for Gucci in the fashion capital itself? It had been a couple of months since you moved here, and Paris was nothing like your hometown Normandy. Sure both places were part of the territory of France but Paris was the city. Everything was fancy, different, and difficult.

Slowly and steadily, you were getting the hang of the big overwhelmingly serene city and one day you decided to explore a new restaurant that gave a perfect view of the river Seine while having your meal peacefully, You ordered yourself a bottle of white wine and chef’s special.

A familiar face approached your table with your wine, “Chandler?”

“Y/N?” he questioned.

The man was Chandler. Chandler Bing. He was one of your best friends from high school and you guys have not been in touch for the past six or some years.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Umm, working.”

“I mean here in Paris?”

“I could ask you the same question Y/N,” you were confused at this attitude of his. But it was also true that Chandler could never answer any questions straight, this was him being classic Chandler.

“I work here, at Gucci. Isn’t that amazing? You tell me! I thought you were aspiring for uh… not a waiter I guess?”

He looked down at the floor in embarrassment and said, “I came here in Paris to get a new shot at life, I still am figuring out life.”

You asked him to join you at the table and you both started talking about the good old days when the only thing you had to worry about was school and stuff but now there are endless bills, a job, rent, appraisal, etc. You exclaimed, “I am surprised you still remember me.”

“Of course, I do, we were best friends. How can’t I?”

You sipped your wine and said “Well, because you were popular and certainly did not care about introverts like me. I mean we hung out a couple of times but still, you only talked to me when you had to copy notes or when you broke up with your girlfriends or boyfriends.”

Chandler chuckled awkwardly “and look where am I being popular and look at you! Having a real job in Paris and a decent place to live. Being popular couldn’t even get me a comfortable place to live.”

Even though you guys didn’t talk in a long time, he was your friend and you impulsively asked him to live with you as your roommate. It would be nice to have someone live with you in an unknown city who can also cook for you and crack you up with his witty jokes.

You put the offer in front of Chandler, and he was surprised as if you asked him for his kidney.

“Really? Would you be able to handle me as your roommate?”

“Handle you? What do you mean? What could you possibly do?” you questioned raising an eyebrow at him.

“Would you be able to keep your hands off your insanely hot roommate? Isn’t that against the rule or something?”

You scoffed, “Hot? You? Don’t think so highly of yourself Mr. Chandler Bing.”

You both chuckled and enjoyed a nostalgic meal by the river. Since then, Chandler was living with you, and it was blissful to have him back in your life.

One evening you came back home tired and all you wanted to do was relax on the couch, watch your favorite show, and eat something sugary. You opened the door and saw Chandler making out with an unfamiliar girl on the couch. As soon as you saw them you yelled “What the fuck Chandler?” and poor Chandler scared of you threw the girl off himself and she fell on the floor. Chandler quickly puts his shirt on while walking the girl out of the apartment.

“I am so sorry Y/N, by the way, this is Janice.”

The girl laughs in the most annoying way you have ever imagined and stretched her arm to introduce herself. You shake her hand and say “Bonsoir stranger, get out of my house. Au revoir.”

“Why is she so cold?” asked Janice while walking out of the door.

“I’ll explain it to you later baby, bye see you!” said Chandler.

“I told you not to bring girls over when I want the place to myself. And on the couch? Seriously? You have a room,” you complain.

“I could bring guys over if you want. I bet you’ll like that.” He winked at you smiling to himself. You groan at his response and go to your room slamming the door shut.

After a while, there’s a knock at your bedroom door, you open it and to your surprise see Chandler with hot sizzling brownies out right from the oven. You settled yourself in your bed with the brownies breaking the ‘no food in bed’ rule.

Chandler stands in front of you apologetically and says, “I am sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“No, it’s okay, I overreacted. I am PMS’ing and at work, I got yelled at by my boss. She doesn’t seem to like any of my ideas, and she even scolded me in front of my other colleagues.”

“I am sorry to hear that, but you are Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. You show her that you are better than any of the other employees because I know you are, and I hope the brownies help with your PMS.”

He gently kissed the temple of your head and started walking out of your room. You ask him with a mouth full of brownies “Aren’t you gonna have these?”

“Nah I had a couple while baking. Do you need anything else? I am leaving for Janice’s place.” He asked before shutting your door.

You gave him a look and said “No, have fun!”

“Sure will!” he replied through the other side of the door.

On a lazy Sunday evening, you hopped on the couch where Chandler was watching television and put your head on his lap staring at the ceiling you shot a question at him casually, “Any plans for V-Day?”

“Nothing, why?” he replied.

You sat up straight to face and said, “Nah, I just wanted to know if you are doing anything because I am.”

“Going on a date? With me?” he smirked.

“Oh, you wish Chandler Bing.” You rolled your eyes and continued “of course, I am going on a date, with my boyfriend,” emphasizing the last phrase of the sentence.

“You have another man in your life that I didn’t know of?” he exclaimed.

“Okay drama queen, easy there. His name is Antoine, and you didn’t know because I was just looking for a fling but things serious and he asked me out on a real date. Additionally, I wanted to let you know that you can have the place all to yourself in case you want to invite any special somebody as I will be staying the night at his place.”

Chandler gave you a look from the side of his eyes and you just simply smiled.

Valentine’s Day finally arrived, not that you were a big fan of this day but you were in the city of love and you wanted to consume every square inch of love this city could give you. This was your first Valentine's Day in a city like Paris and you were genuinely excited. You wore a red bodycon satin dress revealing your sexy cleavage. You were feeling confident about your look and were deciding upon what shoes to wear until you heard a knock on the door.

“Who’s there, Chan?” you shouted from your bedroom.

Chandler opened the door and replied “A man with flowers” with a look of confusion on his face.

You came out of your bedroom looking chic and approached the man, both of them were startled to see you.

“Wow” exclaimed Chandler in awe under his breath.

Antoine became very conscious of Chandler’s reaction and looked at Chandler with apprehension. The air in the room was awkward but you turned it around by distracting your date giving him a peck on his lips and greeting him “Happy Valentine’s Day baby”

He kissed the back of your hand like a gentleman and gave you flowers. While you were putting the flowers in water the men introduced themselves to each other.

Chandler stretched out his arm saying “Hi, I am Chandler. I make jokes when I am uncomfortable.”

Antoine shook his hand and said “Bonjour! Chandler, what an unusual name.”

Chandler smiled at his response and added “Antoine what a usual name to find in Paris.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his sassy answer. That was your best friend Chandler who will not be embarrassed by anyone even if it meant putting your relationship at stake.

The introduction of your boyfriend to your roommate was not smooth and easy as you hoped for, but you did not want anything to ruin your romantic date.

You were in Antoine’s car as he has driving he held your hand with his free hand. The night was bright, and the city lights were gleaming with the glow of love in the air. You could see lovely couples walking sideways off the road holding hands and spending time with their loved ones. It was a sweet evening.

Out of the blue Antoine asked a question, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a roommate?” You could hear insecurity in his words. You dodged the question by saying “Today’s our day honey, let’s not talk about him tonight.”

Since that day, you three use to hang out together. Though Antoine questioned a couple of times about Chandler and your relationship and insisted you stay with him instead. But you always use to change the topic because no one could have that much control over your decisions. You were the one in charge.

One night Antoine was staying over for the night and you both were just talking about random stuff staring at the ceiling and holding hands.

Out of nowhere, Antoine asked a question in a serious tone “So, who’s the better lover? Chandler or me?”

You were surprised to hear that and could not understand where all this coming was from.

“I mean there is no chance that you guys haven’t slept together ever, I could the way he looks at you and the way you change when you are around him.”

You sit up straight and in an irritated voice ask him “Where is all this coming from? How could you even say that?”

You both got out of bed and started arguing and yelling at each other. You did not even know how from one thing you came to a completely different topic. Whilst fighting you both reached the living room and Chandler came out of his room hearing your voices.

You did not expect to see him tonight as he told you he was working late. You felt bad fighting in front of him and wanted to take the argument somewhere private.

“What’s happening, guys? Is everything all right Y/N?” he asked with a concerned look on his face.

“Antoine let’s talk inside our room and Chandler is it nothing just a normal couple argument, you can sleep.” You suggested.

Antoine interrupted “No no no, you stay right here, it is all happening because of you. So, tell me how’s it going huh?”

Chandler still could not understand anything and asked, “How’s what going?”

“You fucking my girlfriend” yelled Antoine.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” questioned Chandler.

“Antoine for god’s sake stop accusing my best friend like that. Mind your tone!” you shouted.

Antoine starts coming at you in a rage and yelling at you. Chandler did not like the way he was talking to you so he comes in between defending you putting Antoine at a distance. Furious Antoine tries to punch Chandler out of his way and they start getting physical. Antoine was attempting another punch at Chandler until you yelled at both of them.

“Get out of my house right now, Antoine,” you demanded “No one gave you the right to talk about Chandler this way. You are such a manipulative, possessive, and insecure person. Get out right now, it’s over!”

Those words came out of your mouth in so much anger that you could not even realize what you were saying. Antoine grabbed his things and walked out of the apartment slamming the door hard.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

You ignore him and go into your room. Chandler stood in the middle of the living room thinking about whether to go in your room to comfort you or not. He decides on the former and knocks on your door and as he comes inside he finds you sobbing.

“I am so sorry Y/N, I know it’s my fault. I was hanging out way too much with you guys. I can understand why he feels what he feels. I will talk to him first thing in the morning and will move out.”

You hold his wrist and say “don’t you see what’s happening? It’s not your fault. Since high school, it had always been you. You came back into my life and so did my buried feelings for you. It changed everything.”

“You like me?” questions Chandler in shock.

“Of course, you dumbass.”

“How come you never said anything to me before?”

“I was afraid about the way you would react, and I did not want to ruin our friendship. What if I scared you off?”

Chandler gently wipes off your tears and hugs you “I would have never judged you. Out of all the girls or boys you were different Y/N. I was naturally attracted to you…I still am.”

Your heart skipped a beat hearing those words. You look deep into Chandler’s eyes and have long eye contact until Chandler hesitantly initiates a kiss. That night a stupid, sarcastic, and clumsy best friend turned into an insanely hot roommate whom you could not resist. You instantly gave in and started kissing him back with equal passion and hunger.

The night turned into the best sex you have ever had in your entire lifetime. It was gentle yet passionate and you could feel a connection that you have never experienced before.

The sun poured through your window, and another day had dawned in your life bringing new hopes and aspirations in your life. As you open your blurry eyes from sleep you find Chandler gazing at you.

“Argh you are watching me sleep, it’s so creepy.”

“I don’t care, you look so adorable while sleeping.” He cupped your cheeks and planted a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I…” you were cut off by the doorbell and you wondered who could be there at your door this early in the morning.

“I got it” suggested Chandler and realizing he is naked jumped back into the bed.

You chuckled and put on your night robe while tossing him his clothes. You go and open the door and see Antoine standing in front of you with your favorite flowers meanwhile when you were processing your thoughts, Chandler comes from behind shirtless asking “Who’s there sweetheart?”

Chandler freezes at his position on seeing your ex-boyfriend at the door and it follows a pin-drop silence between the three of you.

A/N: oh my god, that is some serious mess. What do you guys think would happen now? tagging @mrstaylorswift because she loves friends as much as I do &lt;3

Shower your love by liking and commenting on the post. Refrain from copying, plagiarism, or posting on any other platform, honest feedback is welcomed.

THANK YOU!!!

P.S.: I also upload on Wattpad @immafreakingmoonstone, feel free to check out my account :)

[woltourney]

ROUND 1 / SIDE A / POLL 5

Merle Rouge (@vamp-galactica) v. Hali Aloke (@starrysnowdrop)

Merle Rouge:

q. What is your WoL name and pronouns? a. Merle Rouge, She/Her

q. What is your WoL's species? a. Roegadyn

q. What is your WoL's class? Or classes? a. Warrior

q. What data centre/server are you on, if you want people to find you? a. Famfrit

q. Tell us a bit about your WoL! a. Merle lived in a small fishing village on an island just a little ways off the coast of La Noscea, but had never gone to the mainland! Her father abandoned her and her mother to go be on the sea, and washed up on shore years later. Merle decided to rebuild his ship with the piece of wood he washed up with and take her mother sailing, but she died of old age before they could set off. She took her mothers ashes with her and set off, running a fishing company off the boat for a while. Then, one morning, she docked in La Noscea only to be approached by a representative from the adventurers guild. Needing a distraction from her woes, she decided to sign up, and found a whole new joy in her journeys. She’s a bright and merry woman with a big heart who fights with all her emotions, never holding anything back. The people she’s met on her travels are like family to her, even the ones she’s only met once. When all the world is your family, you’re never alone, after all! Even through the hardships, she has never considered being the hero a burden- it’s a duty she takes on for the world she loves. She likes to fish, cook, and dance, and considers Ishgard her home despite being a bit of a fish out of water there. As part of her blessing from Hydaelyn, when her warrior spirit is amped up and she’s feeling the heat of battle, her clothing and armor will turn a bright shimmery blue!

q. Why should YOU win? (Answer IC!) a. “There’s so much of me t’love! Seven feet n’ three inches, in fact! WAHAHAHA! I also make a real mean coconut cod n’ I made an Ishgardian tailor rich with all the custom sized dresses I needed!”

Hali Aloke:

q. What is your WoL name and pronouns? a. Hali Aloke, she/her

q. What is your WoL's species? a. Dunesfolk Lalafell

q. What is your WoL's class? Or classes? a. Astrologian Main, can also DPS support as Dancer

q. What data centre/server are you on, if you want people to find you? a. Seraph (Dynamis DC)

q. Tell us a bit about your WoL! a. Hali was born in Old Sharlayan, specifically in Labyrinthos, to two prominent scholars. A graduate of the Studium, and a well known Astrologian, she was tired of being stuck in Sharlayan and she left to see the world. Hali first went to Ul’dah, her grandmother’s hometown, where she met a man named Thancred, and she soon got wrapped up in fighting primals and joining the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. When she’s not busy with her Scion duties, she is teaching Sharlayan Astrology and Astromancy and spending time with the love of her life, a certain Ishgardian knight in blue.

q. Why should YOU win? (Answer IC!) a. Why should I win? Well, I didn’t fight dozens of primals and thousands of Garlean soldiers over the years to lose now! Besides, if I don’t win, I’ll cry. ;_;

[aerodaltonimperial]

Reading speculation about Jack's TNT Open Challenge on r/AEWOfficial and I don't think it'll happen (because Collision is a taped show and it'll probably be someone local for a hometown pop) but somebody suggested Nick Wayne as his opponent and it is just too perfect a scenario and now I refuse to accept any other option. Christian did say that he and Nick would hold titles at the same time!

I have been ALSO thinking about the open challenge, and I agree, they won't waste any of the big names (Copeland, Nick Wayne, even someone like Hobbs) with a taped broadcast, especially not one that airs four days later BUT THINK OF HOW STORY-FUELED THAT EVENTUAL JACK V NICK CONFRONTATION WILL BE?? I will actually DIE if whoever wins does so via Christian's Killswitch, because WHAT A FREAKING INSANE MOMENT THAT WOULD BE. I actually haven't been over to the subreddit today, I ought to see what they're cooking!!

[repomyheart]

GTA V Universe:

John and Roberta Asky, Robert Sky, Kyle Brown.

More information under cut: + facial representations.

John Asky - 20, cis, gay.

Hometown: Birmingham, England.

New Home: Strawberry, Los Santos.

Siblings: Roberta Asky.

Likes: Men, grunge music, indie music, Burger Shot, hanging around with Jimmy, Fame Or Shame, Mario Kart. Dislikes: loud music, Trevor, Homophobes, riots, tomatoes, the beach.

Roberta Asky - 28, transgender woman, pansexual

Hometown: Birmingham, England.

New Home: Strawberry, Los Santos

Occupation: store clerk at a small smoke shop.

Likes: painting, Pinterest, muffins, cooking, being trans, make up, dresses.

Dislikes: loud music, Michael, video games, cream cheese, cars but puts up with them, being sick.

Robert Sky - 25, cis, bisexual, paralyzed from the waist down.

Hometown: Birmingham, England.

New Home: Muerrita Heights, Los Santos.

Occupation: Burger Shot Employee

Likes: his cousins, y2k, driving whenever possible, being disabled, decorating his wheelchair, Kyle.

Dislikes: his ex wife, homophobes, being disabled, his past, being sick, working sometimes, sushi.

Kyle Brown - 6, boy, Robert's son.

Hometown: Birmingham, England.

New Home: Muerrita Heights, Los Santos.

Likes: his stuffed animals, Bluey, being in a car, Lamar Davis, candy, strawberries, carrots, stews, baby games.

Dislikes: loud music, feudes, being away from his father, bananas, eggs, spaghetti and ketchup, porridge, being home-schooled, not having his dad's last name.

[littlemoonyslife]

What I think Peter is like in a relationship:

Honestly I feel like Peter is one of the sweetest guys ever. You’d definitely have the least fights out of the Marauders. But let’s get started!!

- leading off of what I said earlier I think the only MAJOR fights you would have is of his insecurities; he would def be jealous of every and any guy but not because he doesn’t trust you it’s the fact that he doesn’t trust them and he thinks you’re too perfect and they’ll just steal you because they are “better than him”

- he LOVESSS baking and cooking just in general; he would love to just bake or cook with you to pass time it would be a regular occurrence

- I imagine him with one older sister and a single mother because his father left them so he’s very well aware of periods and all the girl stuff

- I also feel like he’s really close to Mary, Marlene, Lily and Dorcas so he knows the scoop of the drama and he’s a bigger gossiper than Sirius

- cat lover more than a dog but he loves dogs

- he’d be the type of boyfriend who would make you a bouquet instead of buying one

- he would want 2 kids but if you didn’t want kids then he would want 2 cats so you can still have some type of babies whether or not it’s a furry baby

- he’d have a crush on Dorcas as his first crush and then you forever and ever only

- he wouldn’t care what house you were in tbh or if you played quidditch

- if you were really good in school then he’d be really good in school for you just to impress you

- friends to lovers vibesssssss + love at first sight

- his favorite spot to kiss you (SFW) is your temple and his favorite spot to kiss you (NSFW) are your thighs and your hip bone

- his favorite spot to be kissed (SFW) is his cheek or the outside of his earlobe and his favorite spot to be kissed (NSFW) are his v-line and his collarbones

- back to the love at first sight mention; I totally feel like he would have a promise ring for you and have your guys wedding planned out immediately

- he’d bring you and your mom flowers

- ngl out of all the Marauders (yes including the girls) I feel like he’s the least scared of insects and would handle it for you; by handling it I mean taking it outside to the greenhouse and if he doesn’t get to it then he will be upset at Remus for killing it because he knows Sirius and James don’t get their hands dirty and he won’t let you do any dirty work

- he’d drop everything for you

- he hates the idea of being in a relationship only because Sirius and James are so insufferable and he knows he will be teased till he dies so the idea of being in a relationship with you is exciting and new but scary at the same time so he will start off as shy and distant but after a while you won’t be able to get him off of you

- king tbh he’d be jealous of girls crushing over you but insecure if guys crush over you (girls because he thinks they are obviously prettier and girls just connect better so bestfriends to lovers is the ideal ‘steal your bae’ factor)

Coming to the end………….

I feel like being in a relationship with Peter is soft and quiet. Little city, little hometown, little everything. He didn’t grow up with a big family so when he found you and the Marauders it was overwhelming. You soon find out that he prefers the peace of love and family rather than the chaos, he still LOVES the chaos but he loves the peace more than anything. His sister and mom made him feel so loved with just them two that he felt like that’s all family was. Everything to him needs to be small with the expectation of big Marauder schemes!! He’s the most simplest gentleman ever who just wants to shower you in love all the time. You’re a godsend and he knows it too well. If you wanted to blast your favorite artist for a 7 hour road trip, he won’t complain at all and gladly listen to you pour your heart out in screams (maybe for a bit but only as a joke) He’s the type of guy you would read with, either separate books or the same book while being cuddled up in bed. Waking up early? Hard time because he will just keep pulling you back in.

He’s a Joe Alwyn.

A/N: I made myself SOBB with the ending. Hope you enjoyed it!! Other Marauders are on the way😇😇

[tomashernandcz]

TOMÀS HERNÀNDEZ

BASICS:

full name: tomas hernandez

nicknames: -

age: 40

dob: december 21st

hometown: briar ridge, south carolina

current location: briar ridge, south carolina

neighborhood: downtown & beach front

occupation: owner of golden hour beach bar / military vet

gender: male

sexuality: heterosexual

relationship status: single

theme song: till i collapse - eminem

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:

face claim: octavio pisano

hair color: v dark brown with some graying

eye color: hazel

height:  6'2"

weight: 210lbs

build: athletic

piercings: used to have his left eyebrow pierced but had to remove it when he enlisted

tattoos:

FAMILY:

Siblings: Julieta Hernandez (WC) & Hector Hernandez (WC)

Children: none

Pet(s): none

Significant Relationship(s): both his siblings mean everything to him as they grew up during tough times.

HEADCANONS:

lives in a small house downtown but does have a beach house in beach front that he frequently stays in solely to sit on the beach when he can't sleep which is basically every night

there isn't a day that goes by when tomas thinks about popping a pill

loves to cook and tries different recipes whenever he's able to

in therapy for severe ptsd, depression and anxiety

has a purple heart but threw it in his junk drawer

rocks the man bun and dares anyone to say something

owns a motorcycle even though his siblings beg him to get rid of it

BIOGRAPHY:

There have been many back-and-forth discussions about addiction and what it actually is. Is it mental illness? Is it hereditary? Is it a choice? For the Hernandez children, it was the monster hiding in their closet, under their beds. It was the demon scratching at their every thought. It was the downfall of their family and the reason why they were separated and ended up in foster care. Luckily for them, their grandparents fought the system and gained custody of the three children but it was too late - they were all deeply traumatized by the whole situation.

Tomas vowed to keep his sister and brother safe from that moment on. He was their protector - as a big brother should be. For anything that happened in school, Tomas was there. Someone broke his sister's heart? He broke their face. Someone bullied his brother? Tomas fought back. Everyone knew to stay away from the eldest Hernandez brother and to be kind to his siblings in fear of him.

However, Tomas was forced - by his grandparents - to enlist in the military once he graduated. This broke him. How could he protect his siblings if he wasn't around?

Once there, the higher-ups quickly realized how talented Tomas was at combat. It was all thanks to the years of street fights. Then, later, they saw how deadly he was with a sniper rifle. From that moment, Tomas had a new job and a new position. Years went by and his services were deeply sought out. And weirdly, Tomas enjoyed it. He liked being needed - wanted.

Then, that night happened. Tomas saved his platoon after hearing chatter of something going down. The result was him getting severely injured with third-degree burns from his torso down to his foot, his leg bones getting shattered, and a few broken ribs. No one believed he would make it, but miraculously, Tomas did. He was honorably discharged with a Purple Heart.

When his recovery from the burns was completed, Tomas needed to get surgery on his leg. Then came physical therapy. Then came the addiction to painkillers. His sister didn't see it, nor did his brother. Eventually, it did get out of hand, and his sister finally saw the signs. They had an intervention, and Tomas went to rehab, covered by the VA. During his tenure there, his grandparents both passed away, leaving money and their home for their siblings.

With that money, Tomas used most of it to open Golden Hour Beach Bar while the rest bought a small house Downtown and a small beach house in Beach Front. Not a day goes by that he doesn't miss his grandparents. But he promised them he'd no longer use pharmaceutical pain killers and now uses medicinal remedies for the pain.

[achy-boo]

Nightshade Belladonna Libya

Name: Nightshade Belladonna Libya

Romaji: Libya Belladonna Nightshade

Quote: "It does not matter what anyone says: I am the main puppeteer..the true controller of the show.."

V/A: Coquelic from Path to Nowhere(English) and Hamel from Path to Nowhere(Japanese)

Gender: female

Sexuality: Pansexual

Age: 20

Birthday: February 14th

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius

Eye color: Blue(more like a mixture of dark blue and light blue)

Hair Color: dark blue with teal end

Height: 5'5

Weight: 100 lbs

Race: undead vessel(Puppeteer abilities)

Homeland: Shenzhen, China(Move in Tsukii's mansion in Yokohama, Japan with Dawn and Jeanne)

Family: A mother, father, Valeria Libya(older brother), and Dawn Melody Libya(Identical twin sister)

School Status and Fun Facts

Dorm: Sapphire Lake Dorm

School Year: 2nd year(house warden)

Class: 2-B

Student Number: No.8

Occupation: Dj, babysitter and bartender

Club: Light music club(Her dorm has a gaming club and a tea cup[for gossip of NRC])

Best Subject: Flying

Favorite Color: shades of blue along dark and pastel colors

Favorite Food: It depends on her mood but sweets, homemade food from Tsukii's, Jeanne's or her and Dawn's hometown makes her happy

Least Favorite Food: Lilia's cooking, bitter food and drinks, liver, olives(she only eats it if its was one of the said girls' cooking)

Likes: Night like reading, she also likes spilling the tea at the Tea Club, she sometimes likes school, the night sky, walks in woods or rain, her cursed bunny, plushie(her name is Kianisha btw) and music.

Dislikes: Heat, being interrupted, Crowley, loud noises, people interrupted her reading time, She don’t like Rook at all. She also can’t stand Azul nor Leona

Hobbies: making handmade gifts, doll making, making stuffed animals and singing along with dancing

Talents: She is empathetic and if she is distracted enough, you will see her eye colors began to swirl around(it’s rare for that to happen)

Nicknames: Nini (Tsukii and Jeanne) Little BunBun(Jamil, Ace and Vil), My night sky(Dawn)

Other Nicknames: La Princesse des Marionnettistes or La princesse des poupées(Rook), Silent pup(Crewel tho he rarely used that nickname to Night)

Appearance and Personality

Appearance: Night has dark blue hair that reaches her mid back)her eyes are a mixture of dark blue and light blue which she always shows without shame. Night appears to be petite which she is but she had a lot of strength when it came to fighting. She always carried her cursed bunny plushie around her at all times. Her plushie, and that silent yet soft look on her face are her signature items.

Personality: Night is…special to say the least. Even if you knew her, she is always timid. A girl with a few words,an outcast of the NRC. But when she in her dorm as a house warden, she is the most stern and yet laid back house warden. (Which often leads people to think that Night is a combination of both Riddle Rosehearts and Leona Kingscholar). She had no bullshit tolerance and she will make sure her voice is heard. She always value safety, privacy and wellbeing so she is very determined to keep it the way it is. After time has passed; Night is still timid but she actually expressed her emotions more, actually start to say what’s on her mind. Anger her and she will become your nightmares. She can be spiteful..only if you deserve it. She is mostly the type to just stared at you in a silent judgment before walking away

𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒂

If she just stares at you blankly, she is silently judging you

Doll's wrath and bloodlust is Night's um(never used after what happened years ago)

She is the one of housewardens in NRC and she is not the type to just go with the flow

Night has Jeanne, Tsukii and Dawn accompany her throughout NRC(even House warden meetings)

She has no filter when she is pissed

She is multilingual but she loves Korean and Japanese more

Her nickname is The Puppeteer and nobody knows why

She knows that Kianisha is a cursed bunny plushie and she really don't give a fuck about it