#the HOOPS i had to go through to post this
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backspin | bbf!frankie
surprise! we're taking a quick detour to fuck around with our brother's best friend again. what else is new.
pairing: bbf!frankie morales x fem!reader
summary: you try to get even with frankie. it works.
warnings: reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, enemies to lovers, mention of throwing up, alcohol consumption, cursing, oral, more dickhead frankie and more sassy reader
word count: 6.3k
part one: rack 'em | main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💙
So, you fucked around with Frankie.
It’s no big deal, right? It was just a one-time thing. There was tension, you guys relieved it. Scratched an itch. Served a purpose. You still fucking hate the guy, and he still fucking hates you.
Nothing’s changed.
Right?
Mal sprays wine all over the kitchen table when you tell her. Gargles a, Sorry – fuck – sorry, through what little of the alcohol is left in her mouth.
You wipe your face clean in the crook of your elbow. It’s in your fucking eyelashes. You blink the room back into focus, and – “Jesus, Mal!”
Dark droplets teeter around the edge of the table, threatening to plunge straight down onto your mom’s chair cushions – thus damning you to her very own personal hell for all eternity. You can feel the flames licking at your feet already.
Your best friend rips a sheet of paper towel and drags it over the wood – white bleeding violet at the first swipe. “Why’d you tell me as I was taking a sip?”
“I didn’t think you’d fucking hose me down,” you hiss, taking the soaked crumple from her hands.
“You didn’t think I’d be a little surprised that you and Catfish Morales hooked up? Are you fucking ser–? Actually, you know what? I’m not that surprised.”
You glare at her from the sink, upper lip curled.
Mallory Bennett has been privy to your every thought since you were six years old. Hand in hand, arms swinging as you marched into first grade together.
Most days, you barely have to open your mouth – one flinching expression, one flash of eye contact, and she can parrot your own thoughts back to you.
Francisco Morales going down on you two nights ago is the first thing you’ve ever had to confess to her. It’s the first thing she never saw coming.
“Shut up,” you breathe, eventually thawing and sweeping over to your chair. The table sticks to your arms when you sit back down.
“There’s a lot to unpack there, alright? A lot of tension. I mean, you gotta fuckin’ feel it. You two hate each other’s guts! And you’re both single, and you’re only here for two weeks. And – he’s Santi’s best friend. It’s just…it’s the perfect storm.”
Another exasperated sigh passes your lips. You settle back, eyes closed, and lift your palm. “Enough. I’ve heard enough.”
“You wouldn’t’ve told me if you didn’t wanna talk about it. Was he good?”
“Mal.”
“Was he?”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit.” Her face screws up; the gold hoops wobble from her ears. “Like hell you don’t remember. Tell me.”
Your eyes slip from her over to Ange. The old pup pushes herself to her feet with a huff, her joints stiff and bones frail. She moseys over to your side. You scratch the back of the dog’s neck, shrugging to Mal.
“Maybe if you hadn’t cheated your way to a free round of drinks, I’d remember enough to share.”
“Fuck you,” she snorts, voice rounded by her wine glass. “Maybe that just means you gotta do it again – sober.”
You scoff.
Angie looks up at you – watery eyes blinking, tail slowly fanning.
Mal’s already recounting the time Frankie snitched on the two of you for raiding your mom’s makeup bag. She waves her hands in the air, eyes bulging.
Do it again. The thought actually makes you want to laugh.
You and Frankie – you and Catfish, hooking up again. As if the first time wasn’t a total mishap, the biggest mistake in judgement you think you’ve ever made.
He drove you home, he made you come, he left.
One nil, right? You have one up on him. You got yours, and he probably went home and jerked off to the thought of it. Alone in his room, tongue licking at the corners of his mouth where he could still taste your release.
You won.
You won, against Frankie Morales.
“…and then fuckin’ – Pope tried to help us tidy it up, remember? He was scrubbing the hell outta the lipstick on the mirror. But that asshole – Frankie,” she seethes, “he went downstairs as soon as your mom came home. As soon as she…And he fucking ratted!”
She growls, balls her fists. Screws her eyes tight shut like the enraged eight-year-old she was back then. She still has the same little crease between her brows. “What the hell got into you that night? We hate him, junior!”
Ange slumps to the floor with a sigh.
“Me too, girl,” you mutter to her, twirling the base of your glass. You look back up at the crazed woman opposite. “I don’t know,” you insist. “I was drunk, we were on our own…It just happened, alright?”
Her shoulders roll in a shrug. She lifts her glass to clink the neck of the bottle against the rim, purple wine spilling in a swirl. “Maybe it’s the start of something.”
You scoff. “Mal. Come on.”
“I’m serious. Perfect storm.”
“Nope. No storm. Stop that.”
She jabs a tipsy finger in your direction. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you messed around with your arch fucking menesis– arch fucking…with – with Frankie, and you just – still feel nothing for him?”
“No,” you admit, “I feel plenty for him. I hate his fucking guts. I used to wish every birthday that he’d disappear. One time in church, when Father Joseph told everybody to bow their heads ‘n pray, I actually asked God to kill him for me.”
“Not Father Joseph!” Mal shrieks, grinning. “He was so fucking hot, by the way, for a dude with no hair. When the sunlight caught that cueball just right…that was a real fucking miracle. Goddamn.”
You bat her snicker away. “Me and Frankie used to brawl so bad that our moms had to separate us,” you continue. “I had to sit in the front seat if we drove anywhere – and that still didn’t stop him! He’d reach around the headrest and flick my fucking ear.”
“You gave as good as you got, though. I’m surprised he can even still get hard, the number of times your foot…” She swings her leg and kicks your thigh softly. “He was an ass, I know.”
“He was an ass then, he’s still an ass now. That’s all there is to it.”
“Okay,” Mal concedes. Her dark, glossy hair surfs around the lip of her wine glass when she leans in. “But you wouldn’t’ve told me unless it was still on your mind. ‘s all I’m saying.”
You throw yourself back with a quick, angry shake of your head. Your tongue flicks over your top lip.
“All I’m saying,” she repeats, holding her hands up.
But I won, you think – in a petulant little whine. Like you could shake your fists and stamp your feet at the same time. You got one up on him. He – he made you…
He made you come. He saw you. Felt you. Tasted you.
He knows what you sound like, whimpering his fucking name. Drunk on him, begging him not to stop. And now, the image of him fisting his cock over the memory of it feels less like a victory, and more like –
Another fucking loss.
You have no idea what he looks like, coming undone. No clue what his fragmented moans sound like as they tear from the bottom of his throat and rain down over you. You don’t know the weight of him in your hands, the wet slip of his tip as he leaks over your tongue.
Mal’s onto something new. Taken by a Facebook post from some girl you went to high school with. Biggest head I ever saw on a fucking baby, she mutters, wincing and then sprinkling a handful of salted peanuts on her tongue.
Frankie’s cocky smirk clouds over the sight of her at the opposite end of your kitchen table.
Francisco fucking Morales. The asshole wins again.
All at once, you hear his rotten little jeers in your ear – curbed painfully by his middle finger searing across your lobe. You feel his heavy palm on your skull, fingers scrunching roughly into your scalp.
A temper boils between your ears, heavy over your head. It feels juvenile, as if it’s armed with a Barbie in one fist and a juice box in the other. Sunken and wallowing in shame and rage, red-hot waves which wash over you as Mal cackles at some video on her phone.
You feel Frankie’s hands around your legs; the flicks of his hair tickling the inside of your thighs. The swarm of butterflies deep in your belly as you watched his figure swagger back across the street to his truck.
Loss after loss after loss. Each one wearing a satisfied smirk and a Standard Oil baseball cap.
Each one staining deeper than red wine in varnished oak.
You grit your teeth.
Frankie –
fucking –
Morales.
Santi floats the idea of a barbecue. Because of course he fucking does.
He says his place is too small, too many neighbors in earshot – and as long as Ms. Teller takes both hearing aids out, she won’t even know it’s happening.
“Just the guys ‘n us,” he chirps. “You, me, Will, Benny…Fran-kie…?”
You gag down the line. Body instinct whenever his name is mentioned, worsened by the latest developments in your relations. Ange glances up from her spot beneath the oak tree – her milky fur stark against the velvet green grass.
Santi chokes on a laugh. “Mal, too, if that helps with the Catfish thing.”
You lean the phone on your collarbone, sitting forward to apply a second coat of polish to your toes. The red gloss shines in the early morning light. “He is not welcome in my house.”
“First off: not your house. Second –”
“My house for the next eleven days.”
He says your name flatly. It sounds like a door being slammed. It shuts you up as though you’re nine again. “…Second: he won’t be in the house. He’ll be in the backyard.”
“You owe me,” you protest. “For ditching me the other night. I’m cashing in, Santiago. You want a cookout? No Frankie.”
Your brother sighs. “And how am I supposed to explain that to him, hermana?”
“Don’t,” you tell him. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
Santi mutters something incoherent, though you know from the razor-sharp tone of voice that it’s no compliment. Still – he’s a man of his word.
Eventually he agrees: no Frankie at the barbecue.
The store is chilly, plucking goosebumps along your arms.
You round the aisles, scanning your list. You’ve been battling with a janky front wheel which has squealed and veered off-course at every fucking turn. It almost mowed over an elderly woman in the meat aisle.
You’ve cleared most of what Santi told you to get. Drinks, ice, buns, meat, corn on the cob. He wanted to use Mom’s dinner plates – but that, you countered, runs the risk of them being scraped, chipped, or worst of all, smashed.
That’s not a risk you’re willing to take. So you’ve piled in some paper plates and plastic cutlery, too – just to be on the safe side.
The cashier cuts a familiar figure at the checkout: her navy apron and full-cheek grin. She’s a staple sight from your childhood – a pair of dimples and sweet giggle trailing after you as you’d follow your mom’s skirt back out to the parking lot.
Her eyes widen and she clasps her hands when she notices you approaching. “Well, would you look who it is?” she sings.
“Hey, Pol,” you say, fanning yourself with your scrawled shopping list. “How you doing?”
The belt jolts your supplies closer to her bejeweled fingers.
“Same as always, honey. Rockin’ and rollin’. What brings you back to town?”
“Housesitting, dog-sitting…Santi-sitting. Mom and Dad are on a cruise.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says, nodding. “She told me last week. Caribbean, right?”
You nod, sucking a deep, unenthused breath in.
Pol hums, smiling to herself as she clicks the barcode for your hotdogs into her computer. She begins telling you what her granddaughter thinks of second grade – her two times table and the tadpoles they’re keeping in class.
Your eyes sweep around the store as she chats. Everything looks the way it always did, a time capsule from the nineties. Speckled floor and fluorescent lights; placards hanging overhead which sway each time the great glass doors pull open.
Baskets of fruit and veg lined alongside a lawn set on offer. Beside that, heaps of flowers and stacked planters. Beside those, a discarded shopping cart. And beside that –
Frankie fucking Morales.
Well – the silhouette of him. It’s pretty bright outside. But you’d recognize the outline of that dumb baseball cap anywhere. He’s talking to one of the assistants.
You hand Pol the cash Santiago gave you, and she trades it for a receipt. Dumping your bags back into your cart, you nod to her in thanks and stalk off towards the sliding doors.
Frankie tosses and twirls a pack of cigarettes in his hand. The assistant is telling him about some big college football game.
Your grip tightens on the janky-wheeled cart. You feel your skin begin to heat; prickling all over your arms, flushing down between your shoulder blades. Gathering somewhere south of there.
But you walk by him with purpose, choosing to ignore that warm feeling. Choosing to ignore…him.
He doesn’t turn. Thankfully.
The doors grant you exit and you give your cart one good shove across the threshold, back out into blinding daylight and sticky heat.
“Alright, man,” Frankie’s voice calls from behind. “Good talkin’ to ya.”
You nail your eye on the car. It’s, like, fifteen paces. You can make it fifteen steps without having to deal with him, right? If you take longer strides, it’s probably more like ten.
Ten steps, and then you’re in the sanctuary of your car. You don’t have to see, speak to, or deal with him.
So why are you slowing down?
You’re slowing down. You are. You’re borderline fucking loitering. Quietly hoping he’ll notice, catch up, maybe talk to –
You click the unlock button. The car beeps in response.
Five steps out. The front wheel is rattling. You’re doing your best to ignore it.
Four.
Three.
The wheel spins, flitting like a confused compass needle, and stops dead in the opposite direction. The cart hurtles out of your grip for less than a second before you recover it and haul it close to your car, cursing under your breath.
But a force – stronger, steadier – reaches around your body and takes hold of the thing. It guides it back to course. A force which, when it speaks, sounds a shit ton like –
“Woah, lil Santi,” Frankie mutters, and your chest leaps.
You freeze in your tracks. His weight is still around your back. He’s right fucking there, when you turn to look.
The brim of his cap bumps against your head. He steps back with a smirk on his face. He’s so fucking smug, you could slap him. “You tryna cause a goddamn accident with that thing?”
You pull a disingenuous smile. “Hey, Fish. Ever tried minding your own business?”
He feigns a wounded sound and clutches his chest. “Ouch. I’m just looking out for ya.”
“Feels more like you’re pestering me.” You pull on the door handle and slot the first bag along the backseat.
Frankie lifts his chin, peering in at the contents. The star-spangled plated, the dripping bags of ice. “Having a party?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.
You yank the bag from his sight, spinning to push it alongside the others. “Nope.”
He crosses his arms. “Sure looks like you’re having one.”
“Well, I’m not.” You slam the door and turn back to him, staring blankly.
“Forgot,” he sniffs, “you need friends to have a party.”
“Hilarious. Those shit jokes how you make all your friends?”
He nods, impressed. Pouts his lips like an annoying little fish. Suits his stupid fucking nickname. “Then why’d Benny call ‘n ask if I’ll be at Pope’s parents’ tonight?”
Shit. Fucking – Benny.
You sigh, eyes rolling closed. Your fingers massage your temples. “It’s not…it’s…”
“Cookout, right? Yeah. That stings, baby. No call, no text. You owe me, remember?”
“I owe you jack sh–”
“Two drinks,” Frankie clips, holding a finger up to shush you. “Three, if you count saving your car from one hell of a scratch.”
“Fuck off,” you breathe, and then give voice to, “It’s a small gathering of friends, and – now you, apparently.”
He sways forward, bumping the cart into your hip. “You need me to bring anything?”
You heave it straight back at him, hopefully hard enough to bruise. “Tranquilizer gun, if you’ve got one.”
“Can get something even stronger, if it’s a party you’re after.”
Your eyes thin. “Wouldn’t be my mom’s favorite for much longer if she found out you were doing coke in her backyard.”
Frankie smiles. That trademark Catfish grin. “I’ve done worse in her kitchen, baby.”
He’s so goddamn cocky. So full of it, it makes you want to scream. He studies you, eyes shadowed by his cap. His hair flicks out around his ears, dark curls doused in golden sunlight.
When your eyes trace the shape of his jaw, the wiry hair above his top lip – the faint flicker of a memory glows across your skin.
The weight of his hand on your stomach, pinning you to the bed. The bristling feeling ghosting the inside of your thighs. Your desperate wet, his tongue covering ground across your body like claiming territory.
Every shade of wrong. Ignoring every atom in your body – betraying every version of yourself for ten minutes of euphoria. He brought every numb nerve under your skin to attention, the second he knelt between your knees.
But he’s looking at you now, the same way he did the other night. It’s boyish and dangerous. A naked match just waiting to fall.
Maybe you’re waiting for an excuse to drop it.
Frankie gives his cap a quick tug, and makes off for his truck.
“See you at seven, Garcia.”
Daylight melts into dusk and with it, goes the sharp sting of summer. A pale blue rolls across the horizon, covering the yard in a hazy sort of chill. A relieving breeze, like satin over newly burned skin.
You’re still fucking sweating.
“Are you going to help me, or you just gonna lie there and text your girlfriend?” you call across the yard.
The dark figure spilling over the edge of the hammock grunts in response.
“Santi.”
Your brother groans, rolling free from the marigold fabric. He strides across the lawn, swinging an arm down to ruffle Ange’s ears. “Not a girlfriend,” he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “She’s…she’s more of a…”
You lift your hand. “Not something I need to know.”
He laughs and looks at the spread on the table. He lifts the corner of a tricolor napkin, straightens a plastic fork. The foil over the hamburger buns crinkles. “We did a good job. Looks great.”
“We?” You scoff, slapping his wrist away. “Yeah, me and the fucking dog, more like.”
“How much did it all come to? The food and shit?”
You shrug. “Like, forty dollars. I don’t know.”
“Gave you sixty. Where’s my change?”
You frown, hands on your hips. “If you don’t know how to budget properly, that’s not my problem.”
“And if you don’t know when to just lie and say you spent it all, that’s not mine. Twenty bucks, kid.” He holds his hand out, fingers beckoning.
The squeal of the gate interrupts, followed by a barrage of voices. Will and Benny and Mal and – as you lean back to watch them parade through the yard, you spot the figure of Frankie at their heels.
“Pope?” Will calls. “Pope, do me a favor. Remind me which one of us threw up at Busch Gardens that one time. Remember – right after we rode Gwazi?”
Santiago chuckles. “I remember Mallory wearing her raspberry slushie.”
Will guffaws in Mal’s face.
“I spit up!” she protests. “I spit up in a flowerbed. I was not wearing my slushie.”
“You were fluorescent pink the whole day,” Will says. He slings an arm around your shoulders. “You remember, lil Santi?”
You frown. Yeah, you fucking remember.
You remember being forced to sit between Frankie and Mal the entire way home. Santiago got dibs on the front seat by pretending he was carsick, and Mal had to sit by an open window so she didn’t stink your dad’s car out with all her raspberry-flavored puke.
You and Frankie bickered the whole journey. Both absolutely certain that the other was leaning too far over your seats. Your dad vowed he’d never let you both in his car at the same time, ever again.
“Mhm,” you grit, shooting daggers at your best friend.
She mouths a Sorry, and then places her salad bowl in the middle of the table. “Enough about throwing up. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
The boys spend twenty minutes arguing over how the barbecue works, before a single bit of food is cooked. You and Mal watch from the table, sneaking Ange slices of cheese and giggling when Will and Benny break into their fifth argument of the night.
Santi and Frankie take charge, shoving the brothers out of the way.
Pope passes over the meat, while Frankie mans the grill. He lifts his cap and wipes his brow with his bicep, giving his head a shake as he flips burgers and turns sausages.
And no, you’re not watching him. You’re focused on Mal and her story about some guy from work. Or – it might be a guy from her yoga class. The instructor, maybe? You’re not sure. Frankie just flapped the collar of his shirt and the hem lifted, exposing a sliver of his tummy.
You’re not watching him, though.
He runs his tongue along his top lip, focusing on the sizzle and spatter of the grill. His arm tenses, turning the tongs over and over. Wide shoulders stretch when he reaches for a plate.
He’s laughing quietly at whatever Santi’s babbling about at his side. His eyes are stuck on the barbecue in front of him. His fingers twirl around the tongs again. He never looked so lean and so broad and so fucking different, all at once.
Weird different. Good different?
You feel your cheeks flush with heat. This time, it’s not so much anger, as it is –
Oh, shit.
Mal gets up for a refill at the same time Santiago jogs inside to grab more meat. You and Frankie are alone on the patio – Will and Benny are kicking a ball for Ange to chase on the grass.
Morales turns, and you instantly stare down at your beer. You take a forceful swig as he approaches.
“Hotdog?” he asks, holding a plate down to you.
“Huh?”
He glares at you and scoffs. “Are you dumb? Hotdog.” He slips it onto the table in front of you.
You squint at the grill marks, and then squint up at Frankie. Puzzled and…offended, at the same time. You come back to your body with a jolt. “Why the hell are you–? Have you laced it with something?”
He shoots a glance over his shoulder, tongue between his teeth. “No, I haven’t fucking laced it with anything. I just figured you should have the first one, since you put all this on for us. But – Jesus, give me it.”
Your fingers lock around the paper plate when he tries to steal it back. For all that he’s a dick and might actually try to poison you – you’re fucking starving.
You figure you can stomach the poison.
Frankie sighs. He lets go. “I’m tryna be nice, alright? You know nice?”
“I know nice. You’re not it.”
“Shut up and eat your hotdog, lil Santi.”
You mimic him in a squeak as he strolls off, shaking his head. Still, the second he’s back at the grill, you rip into the hotdog.
Frankie stays at the opposite end of the table for the entire meal – closest seat to the barbecue, and furthest seat from you. There’s too much chatter, too much hilarity being thrown back and forth between you for either of you to kick up a row.
Probably better for the guys’ sakes, but – you want to fucking row.
It’s like a hit, now. A rush of electricity, any time Frankie looks at you for longer than it takes his face to twist into a grimace. You’re hunting for ways to ignite something – anything. Looking for an excuse to drop that naked match and set the whole thing alight.
Because it’s fun, when you’re in the heat of it. Feeling his eyes on you, as hot and angry as flames. Being suffocated by the smoke of it all; breathing in less and less air and more…him.
And, anyway – who knows you better than the one person who pisses you off the most?
As the sun is snuffed by the heavy hand of dusk, you disappear to a quieter corner of the yard. Tucked between two thick beech trees, you throw yourself into the hammock – one leg draped over the side, swinging idly through the night air.
A beer bottle balanced on your tummy, the round base seeping a chilled ring into your shirt. The swish of leaves overhead and the annoying midges at your ears for company.
That is – until the sound of footsteps over crisp grass, and the creak of an old, splintered garden chair disturb your peace.
Frankie adjusts his cap, flatting his fringe beneath it, and sits back. “You never change, do you, Garcia? Still the same little longer you always were.”
You hold your hands out, gulping back beer – and glee. “Can I fucking help you? I’m minding my own business.”
“Thought you might want some company.”
“Not yours, dickhead. You think I’m way the hell over here ‘cause I wanted you to come annoy me?”
He hums, picking at a flake of paint on the armrest. “Sure wanted me to annoy you the other night.”
“Alright,” you clip. “Cheap shot. You been practicing that one all afternoon?”
“Since I saw you at the store.”
You roll your eyes.
Frankie slips a cigarette from its pack and lights it, tipping his chin to blow a white cloud to the sky. “You’re too much fun,” he tells the stars.
You squint through the dark, staring at the glowing cherry. “What?”
“You. You get so pissed, so easily. Always have.”
“Well, you antagonize me. Always have.”
His cheeks lift. It’s something softer than a smirk, still laced with too much attitude to be a smile. “That’s ‘cause you were always around. Everywhere Santi went, there you were. Closer than his shadow.”
“Well,” you glower, “’s what happens when you have a big brother. You’re void of love; I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“No, I get it,” he says. “It just got fun to mess with you, after a while.”
“Uhuh,” you take another swig, “so is that what you’re doing? Messing with me?”
Frankie’s shoulders jump. “You tell me. There were two of us in your room that night.”
You swing your legs down to the grass. It’s brittle under your socks when you stand, still focusing on the end of his cigarette. “Damn, you really can’t shut up about it, can you? How many times have you tugged one to the thought of it?”
“Tugged one,” he snickers, but he seems nervous – watching as you approach. “What age are you?”
You push his knees wider, slotting between his thighs. “Which part does it for you? What sends you over the edge?”
“Come on, lil Santi,” Frankie says, averting his eye. “You’re embarrassing yourself now.”
One knee up, resting on the crease of his jeans. You lean forward and nudge his hip, lay your hands gently on his shoulders. “I bet you still hear me in your dreams.”
He scans up and down your body, lingering on your bare thigh. “Not – not gonna work, kid,” he promises, shaking his head. “You still annoy the fuck outta me.”
“Right, right.” You pinch the pale stick from between his teeth. “’cause nothing’s changed, yeah?”
His head sways in agreement. He’s distracted, watching as you lift your hand to your mouth.
You smile down at him. “’cept you know how I taste now, so.”
You slot the damp end of the cigarette between your lips and suck. Sharp, acrid heat sails over your tongue and down your throat, filling your chest in one inhale. You cough a little, batting the smoke as you blow it out.
“Tastes fucking disgusting,” you croak. “How can you smoke these?”
Frankie’s eyes never leave your lips. “You get used to it.”
You take another draw, letting the smoke soar through the space between you. “Gross,” you say, and prop the cig back between his lips. “Just like you!”
“Sh…shut up,” he groans, adjusting in his seat.
“Make me.”
But he doesn’t bite. Doesn’t flinch. He just stares back, rolling the smoldering stick between his thumb and finger. Running his tongue along his teeth.
You spill the last of your beer onto your tongue, cocking an eyebrow at him, and push from his lap.
You make it no more than five steps, before that same weight from the parking lot is around your shoulders.
He pings the cigarette somewhere in the grass, and grabs onto your elbow.
“Fran– Jesus – Where are we–?”
He drags you through the dull dusk to the other side of the lawn, ignoring the click of the motion sensor. You’re thrown through a wooden door onto cold concrete before the yard light floods over you.
It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. Weak slivers of moonlight illuminate each tool hanging from the wall. The fairy lights outside lose their battle against the darkness the second they creep through the window.
Before you can sling something mocking at him, Frankie has you pinned against the wall.
“You want me to make you shut up?” he growls, teeth grazing your neck. His fingers slip behind the waist of your shorts, plucking at the button. “I’ll make you shut up. Make you shut up all goddamn night.”
“Frankie,” you gasp, grabbing hold of his shirt. You push on his chest, walking him backwards over to the workbench.
The thing shudders when he rocks against it.
“The fuck are you doing?” he murmurs, watching as you kneel before him.
“Getting used to it,” you reply.
You pull his belt apart, loosen the fly on his pants, and pull until they’re low on his hips.
Frankie holds onto the bench with a white-knuckle grip. He lays his hand over the crown of your head, rubbing small circles. A laugh slips across his tongue. “This what you’ve been thinkin’ about?”
You ignore him, instead focusing on the solid shape in his underwear.
His hips flinch when you drag your palm along it. He’s hard already. He hisses at your cold fingers on his stomach, tensing as your knuckles skim below the elastic.
And then…he’s in your palm. All of him. Frankie fucking Morales.
You’re trying not to think too deep about it.
Your fingers wrap around him, barely meeting around his width, and you slip him from his boxers.
His cock springs free, swaying once, twice – then settling to the right.
Your mouth fills with saliva. Suddenly – there’s no way not to think too deep about it.
He’s…he’s big. He’s thick; smooth and sculpted, veins trailing around his shaft. It’s not like you ever considered what he’s walking around with before, but looking at it now – you can’t believe it’s him.
Without thinking, you lean in and kiss him all the way down to the hair at his base. A wet trail, lips curving around the size of him. You run your tongue up and down, circling the tip and toying with it.
Frankie cups your cheek. “Pretty little mouth,” he utters. “Put it to good use, huh?”
You don’t need him to ask twice.
You sink down on him. Every inch of him – every aching, choking inch. Your jaw slackens to take him; nails digging into his thighs when he bumps the back of your throat.
“Oh, shit, baby,” he hisses. His hand comes down on your head a little too heavily.
You yelp and pull back, gasping when he slips out. “Prick,” you breathe, closing your lips around his tip again.
“Just too sweet with it,” he murmurs, guiding himself back across your tongue.
You suckle on him, using your hands to pump the inches your mouth can’t take.
Frankie’s head tips back, panting at the roof. His hips thrust to meet your movements. “Feels so – goddamn – good,” he moans, and you hum with glee.
You take his balls in your hands, kneading them as you work your way lower. He’s so deep in your mouth that it makes your eyes water. Each slip of his tip against the back of your throat makes you gag, pulls a lewd, muffled sound from your chest.
It shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t be enjoying it this much. But he’s falling apart under your fingertips, he’s unwinding right before you. He’s whispering your name, begging you not to stop. Just like that, just like that, just like that. Oh, fuck, just like that.
It’s addictive. Now that you know how he looks, how he feels, you’ll never go back to before. When the most thrill he gave you was a burning temper; feeling your pulse jump in your throat with rage.
This – whatever the fuck this is – is all you know, now. Pulling threads from one another, watching the way they unravel. Watching each other unravel. Flashes of eye contact, salt and slick and sex dripping from every secret word.
Frankie’s hips jerk. His cock spasms.
You don’t want him to come down your throat. You don’t want him to climax when he’s too deep for you to taste it.
You want him all over – your lips, your tongue, dribbling down your chin. You want to mix him with your saliva and swallow; warm, salty, Frankie.
He got his taste. Now you want yours.
You bring your hands up to his thighs, purposefully pushing back off him.
His grip loosens, and he looks down. Brows low and close, eyes blown wide like he’s higher than any drug could take him.
He’s as addicted as you are.
“My mouth,” you mumble, head of his cock circling your glistening lips. “In my mouth.”
“Yeah?” he says, and the weight of his cock slaps on your bottom lip. “That where you want it, baby?”
“Mhm.” You wrap your lips back around him.
“Fuckin’ filthy,” Frankie spits, laughing. “Shit – just like that. Yeah, that’s it.”
Three, four more soaking strokes of your tongue and he’s twitching again.
You pull back only enough to rest his tip on your tongue, feeling the pulsing heat as he comes. Watching the way his face tightens, the pull of his brows as it overcomes him.
His eyes stay locked on you. Your fluttering lashes, your puffy, glossy lips. He fills your mouth and then some – semen spilling from the corners and dribbling down your jaw. And the sound he makes – this broken, scattered moan, bordering on a fucking whimper – is fucking perfect.
Frankie’s hand locks at the base of your skull, holding you steady until he’s done. His cock slips from your bottom lip. He gives one last satisfied sigh, petting your head as you stroke him slowly, tenderly – swiping kitten licks at the dripping mess of him.
“Fuck,” he moans, letting his eyes close over. His weight slumps against the workbench. “The fuck do you spend so much time yapping for when you’re that good with your mouth?”
You hum in amusement, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. He’s softening, but still a decent size. Still a weight to it that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
One last little kiss, and you tuck him back into his boxers. You drag the back of your hand across your chin.
Frankie holds his hands out, and you pull yourself up. He fixes himself into his jeans, turning away to do up his belt. He had his cock in your throat two minutes ago, and here he is pretending to be shy.
He turns back around, half disappeared to the dark shed. “I, uh…I don’t want you to think that I came here just to…just for that.”
Your tongue dabs at the inside of your cheek, all salty. “Then this is awkward, ‘cause that’s the only reason I hadn’t kicked you out yet.”
He laughs, dropping your gaze. “You…” he shakes his head, “…are such a little shit, you know that?”
It’s nicer than he would’ve worded it half an hour ago. But still – having an exchange with Frankie that doesn’t involve spitting insults or jagged glares, warms your blood in a way that’s new and…unsettling.
“We should probably…” You toss a thumb over your shoulder, eyes flitting to the string bulbs outside. “We don’t want them wondering what’s…you know.”
He nods and strides over to the door. The wood squeals against concrete as he pulls it open.
The summer swirls around you again, sweetening the stuffy heat of the shed. Mal’s voice surfs through the breeze – she’s still arguing over the Busch Gardens story.
You make to step out, and Frankie’s arm halts you.
He opens his palm. “Even,” he tells you. “We’re even.”
He seems sure of himself. Sure of you. He looks you in the eye and doesn’t blink.
You smirk. Your hand slips into his, letting him shake your fist once. You stare straight back at him.
“We’re just getting fucking started, Francisco.”
#frankie morales#frankie morales fic#frankie morales smut#bbf!frankie#pedro pascal#triple frontier#triple frontier fic
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What would Wei say? (🔞choices below the cut)
➡️"So can you make multiple copies of me here?"
➡️"How about you make a bunch of other Damiens?"
*Links above lead to gratuitous, self-indulgent smut. Definitely not safe for work.
Behold, the fruit of the bashful Chen poll. It was meant to be a single pinup-like illustration, but one thing led to another (and with valuable inspiration from @ladyshivs and @extreme-neutral), it ended up as another choose your own smut 😌😌.
(Also, reblogs are disabled on the linked posts. So, if you’re planning to, reblog this one instead 🫣)
#fhr#fallen hero#steelstep#marshal steel#sidestep#fhr sidestep#fhr steel#wei chen#damien becker#art#my art#this is my contribution to the telepathic sex body of knowledge#also nice to draw damien nerding out about his telepathy for a change#since a lot of his burdens have been associated with his powers in the books#he's doing it for himself as much as for chen here#until it got derailed (in a good way)#the HOOPS i had to go through to post this#i'm sorry for the additional clicks 😭 had to do it to 'em
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DOCTOR WHO • 1.01 'Rose'
It's like when you're a kid. The first time they tell you that the world's turning and you just can't quite believe it, because everything looks like it's standing still.
#doctor who#dwedit#dwgifs#doctorwhoedit#new who#the doctor#ninth doctor#rose tyler#christopher eccleston#billie piper#vindicia#apocalypsekid#thelvadams.gifs#let's go full new who rewatch before the 60th#it's been so long since i've watched series 1#the hoops i had to jump through to get this to post...
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Gravesfield + Gravesfield County probable locations in TOH
So, out of all the Gravesfield speculation I’ve seen so far, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone try to actually parse out its specific location within Connecticut, which is a shame because that window is SURPRISINGLY narrow now that we have certain bits of information about it on our hands. Not only that, but we also know that Gravesfield is part of its own county (”Gravesfield County Zoo,” anyone?), which has a lot of interesting implications as well. At least location-wise it does—I don’t know if it has any lore connections or not, though it’d be interesting to see if it did, at least. Not the point of this post though, so whoever wants to figure that out can have at it. Anyway...
TL;DR: I’m almost 95% sure that Gravesfield is located somewhere in southwestern irl Litchfield County along Route 109, and that its county should surround it and some other cities in mostly the same area. All the evidence I have to support this is below the cut:
The main source I'm drawing from here is this image:
Source: Tweet from John Bailey Owen, posted Oct 14 2022
For those who don’t know, this was a promo image of a fake Gravesfield website homepage screenshot that was posted October 14, 2022, just before Thanks to Them aired. For the most part, it looks like a regular, albeit slightly clunky 2000s-era-looking, website, except for the bits of weirdness/dark humor littered about the text (”Escape Routes,” “The Truth About This Place,” “Sightings,” “if you visit once, you may even wind up staying”) and the hidden text in the bottom corners of the page (which spell out “HELP THEM”). People of course freaked out about this stuff, as is evident in the replies of the original tweet, analyzed all of it to death, blah blah blah, that’s pretty much old news at this point.
There’s also a small calendar on the right side of the page that indicates that the events of the show are possibly happening on some year that the first day of October lands on a Saturday, and when accounting for Luz’s age (14/15) and her modern lingo and stuff, those years could be 2005, 2011, 2016, and 2022. Smartphones like what Luz has in her possession were definitely not around in 2005, and probably not around in 2011, so either 2016 or 2022 are reasonable in-universe years to guess, with it probably leaning more towards 2022 because of the irl show’s creation date.
I could probably make a whole separate post on my thoughts on the date stuff and speculate the hell out of it, honestly, but that isn’t the subject I want to cover in this particular post. No, I’m more interested in what seemingly no one else has picked up on here: the location hints.
The fake screenshot doesn’t explicitly say where Gravesfield is located, obviously, but it does have two pieces of information that narrow down the possibilities significantly when put together.
The first piece of information is this:
Route 109 is an actual route in Connecticut, which spans from New Milford to Thomaston as seen here:
Source: Connecticut Route 109 Wikipedia page, retrieved Feb 1 2023
In order for this route to be relevant to Gravesfield news, the town has to be along this route somewhere, or at least nearby it in some measure (aka it has to legally be within city bounds, which I’ll get into later). Route 109 is located in southern irl Litchfield County, which means that Gravesfield is also located in southern irl Litchfield County somewhere.
That’s pretty good and all, definitely a lot better than just throwing a dart at the map and hoping it lands somewhere decent, but it can be narrowed down even further. The second piece of information we have is this:
This is a real thing too. Regional School District 12 (or the RSD 12) is one of many school districts in Connecticut, and it happens to serve the towns of Washington, Bridgewater and Roxbury, all of which are, coincidentally, located in southern irl Litchfield County.
Washington is pretty much right on Route 109, as seen in the map above, so that means that in order for Gravesfield to be both within RSD 12 bounds and nearby Route 109 at the same time, it has to be within irl Washington’s city bounds. I’ve drawn up a diagram of sorts below with this information in mind:
Source: me :D (and google maps)
The speculatory boundary I marked between the Washington and Gravesfield city bounds here is really just one rather simple possibility of how it might be cut up while still accounting for a part of Route 109 being within Gravesfield’s jurisdiction. Again, if the route weren’t part of it, it wouldn’t show up on the city website as a relevant announcement (and if it were part of a county-wide thing, it probably would have stated it as a county announcement or something).
So there you have it: most likely locations for where Gravesfield might be in Connecticut, give or take. I could speculate even further on where exactly within these areas Gravesfield could be placed, with analyzing the smaller roads and all that, but that would honestly just be pure speculation based on personal bias/preference/etc. and not, y’know, anything concrete enough to be a plausible theory, so I’ll just leave it as it is and let individual headcanons do the rest of the work on that front.
But there’s also Gravesfield County to worry about, as shown here:
Source: The Owl House Season 3 Episode 1: “Thanks to Them”
(The fact that this is even a canon background thing in the show is bonkers, because holy shit I can’t imagine what kind of butterfly effect nonsense this must’ve made in-universe compared to irl history, but I digress.)
What this means is that the southern part of irl Litchfield County at minimum is actually Gravesfield County in the TOH universe by default, since it has to include Gravesfield in it, being the town its ultimately named after. And since we’ve already established Gravesfield’s approximate location here, its county could possibly look something like this:
Source: me (and google maps) again
It’s a lot less concrete than the location of Gravesfield itself, obviously, but that’s because I don’t have much else to work with here other than that one screenshot from Thanks to Them and what I’ve theorized about Gravesfield so far. For all I know, the entirety of irl Litchfield County is Gravesfield County, not just a part of it, or maybe Gravesfield County goes even further south than what I’ve depicted and contains parts of the Fairfield and New Haven counties for whatever reason—who knows, really? Whatever it might be, it’s definitely somewhere in western Connecticut, surrounding New Milford, Washington, Route 109, etc., and that’s good enough for me in the interest of sticking to the concrete stuff.
Fun fact: apparently Connecticut doesn’t have county governments nor county seats, so despite the fact that Gravesfield County is named after Gravesfield, the town itself isn’t, like, a grand authority on other places nearby or anything. Each city within the county deals with their own police, fire department, schools, hospitals, etc. (and zoos. Gravesfield is apparently big enough to have a whole-ass zoo in it. Wild.)
The only thing that might break this in some respects is, well, potential butterfly effect shenanigans. It can be argued that because Gravesfield and Gravesfield County exist in the TOH universe, the exact positions of the other counties, towns, etc. could be drastically different from where they are irl, and things like the regional school districts could have totally different boundaries and thus the triangulation I just did using them is pretty much useless, but there’s nothing confirming any of this in Word of God or in the show canon as of today, so I’m fairly confident that we’re working with a world that’s very similar to the irl world Except For Gravesfield. Unless the last special pulls some sort of epilogue nonsense in Gravesfield that completely obliterates my base-line irl world assumptions for this universe, anyway. You never know lmao
So basically, in short: Gravesfield and its eponymous county are most likely located in southern/southwestern irl Litchfield County around Route 109 or thereabouts, and probably replace that particular area as their own governmental entities instead of being part of a different county or something. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk
#the owl house#toh#gravesfield#gravesfield county#i haven't posted on tungle in a hot minute how is everyone doing#to any remaining people still following me: i am v sorry fhjkgYHFGBHDFDF#this is not like any of my previous content rip#i got into TOH back before Thanks to Them came out (which was Scatter's fault. you know what you did you jerk /j)#and i've been obsessed with the lore about Gravesfield and the Wittebane brothers ever since because WOW are they interesting#i. basically started creating a few TOH AUs and was researching tons of stuff about Puritan life and historical Connecticut + other things#and then i basically got hit with this whole thing last night and i HAD to see it to the end. it was VITAL for me#so now i'm posting this all here so that others don't have to go through the same cross-referencing hoops i had to for this#uhhhh okay now for as many other relevant category tags as i can possibly think of#analysis#speculation#toh speculation#toh analysis#gravesfield analysis#gravesfield speculation#my text#i'll probably disappear again after this (because being active here is tiring) but i just had to get this out here man#for all the other lore researchers out there who might need something like this#and also for me. because i actually really really really need it for an AU project of mine#so there you go lmao. time to vanish back into the aether again wheeeee#edit: i am Big Fucking Idiot who doesn't know their directions#i mix up east and west/right and left ALL THE TIME
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the way we handle medical leave in the states even for people with good benefits is cruel
#the number of hoops i have to jump through. the way that my requirements for one surgery are apparently different from another surgery#even though there's nothing in the paperwork to indicate any need for that and the surgeries don't differ all that much#the way that they lost my initial letter and now i'm up against my deadline next week and they haven't even told me what day next week#so i'm worried that it's literally tomorrow#the way i am not receiving ANY pay for an entire month because of all the delays so i'm having to live off my savings#the way that every single person i've talked to has said something different about what is and isn't required#the way that for a lot of this i had to be navigating it while high on painkillers immediately post-surgery#the way that the group my employer contracts through has two different emails and names and flips between them constantly#the way that my healthcare provider does it differently than every other healthcare provider so i need special forms from them#instead of the leave group but then the leave group doesn't seem to accept the forms that they send#the way that the doctors office has seemed incredibly confused by my requests#the way that the ROI office told me they'd send over a completed form and never did#the way i literally don't even know who to call next to try and sort this out or if it's possible TO sort out#like i guess i'll call the leave group tomorrow and cry and beg for an extension. i guess i'll grovel bc it's the difference#of getting a few thousand dollars or not and i can't just be like oh well guess i won't get my short term disability pay#especially bc none of the hospitals have billed me yet and i'm getting scared bc i don't know what my ER bill is going to look like#bc they did xrays and a CT scan and they gave me a splint and a sling and a lot of drugs#so i do need the money. just sitting here like. idek what to do lmfao.#not tagging this bc i'm on desktop and i can't do the accent mark easily and idk where my phone is rn sorry
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...I’ve spent so much time on Lofter / Bilibili lately. One of these days, I’m going to forget that “CP” in English is NOT the same as “CP” in Chinese. That’s not gonna be a fun experience asdfghh
(CP = Character Pairing btw)
#bay mumbles#thinking about this#cause I've been writing fic#and I thought it'd be Very Funny#to post English Fanfic on Lofter#a Very Chinese website that I had to go through several hoops just to create an account on
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different anon. it does for some people but not everyone. (also, some people may find the feature annoying in certain cases because the length it decides is Too Long is kiinda arbitrary and peoople have differnent lines.)
So in the spirit of Under-The-Cutting, I guess.
First thing of address, I guess: I can't control if people turn off the auto Tumblr readmore function. If it doesn't work for you, you can't control that either. But I find it a bit unfair that someone might, hypothetically, turn off the useful tool for cutting back on longposts on your dashboard, and then come into my inbox and be passive-aggressive about me not doing the function for them on my side of the equation. If that's the circumstances that kicked all this off, it's a bit... ahm... self-centered. I personally have it turned on, less because I want to filter long written posts [I like reading the fics posted on Tumblr] but because I like to filter long image posts, and those generally don't get censored under a readmore.
For that matter I also can't control someone's scrolling speed. I get what the second anon is trying to say: maybe only censor posts of a certain size. The issue here is what I think is long isn't the same as what someone else does. For me personally, I think long is a written work that tops out around 10k words. I'd get annoyed scrolling through that on my dashboard. The fic I posted yesterday was a rare 5k-ish. Most fics I've posted here in the past are around 2-3k, but I've posted an 8k fic here before with no resistance. Something I'm learning from this is other people think 2-3k is fine enough to scroll through, but 5k is a lot. So... noting that for the future.
So I personally don't like censoring my posts under the readmore function for a couple or reasons:
It cuts back on engagement, noticeably. It's the side-effect of social media that you want instant gratification as quickly as possible. When someone is given the choice to either click a button and sit on a post for awhile, or continuing to scroll through their dashboard for something quicker to engage with, normally they'll pick the second option. That's how social media was made, and while the Tumblr platform subverts this a little by it's nature, it still buy-and-large holds true.
Read mores, as far as I'm aware, can only be added on desktop. The snippets that make it to Tumblr, barring when I archive them for myself on a separate document, are all written on mobile. If they aren't completely mobile, they're at least started/drafted there and then moved to desktop later - but I want to say 9/10 of these are written and posted completely from my phone. And they're going to lean even more into that, since for various reasons, it's currently easier and more reliable for me to write on my phone. I won't be able to continue writing fics here if I have to wait until I have access to my laptop every time before posting them. Which leads me to my incredibly me-only dilemma:
Writing these quickly and posting them rough to Tumblr is the only reason these quick fics get written in the first place. I started posting written work to Tumblr because I was tired of abandoning so many ideas in the shuffle between "Is this good enough for AO3?" and "Is this good enough to be written at all?" But if I have to re-add roadblocks that make posting here more trouble than it's worth, I know myself, I will end up not posting fics here anymore. I'm sure it sounds silly. It sounds silly to me. But it's less of a "readmores make me not want to write" and more of the mental gymnastics of: Is this fic long enough to need a readmore -> If it does need a readmore, when will I have the time to add it -> Do I post it now and edit it in later? Probably not, because I won't remember to add it later -> Since I waited to post it, do i even remember hours later that I had a fic I wanted to post -> Would it have been easier to post this on AO3, even though it doesn't meet my standard of craft of AO3 fics? -> Why am I bothering to do this when I have so many other things I'd rather spend my time on?
If you've ever done that thing where you got nothing done on a free day because you had (1) thing you had to do in the afternoon, and all your mental faculties were taken up going "No I can't do X, I have to do that thing in 4 hours!" That's kind of the odd cascade the whole readmore thing is doing for me right now.
My thoughts on this currently is I have 2 compromises and 1 definitely-not-a-compromise. And the one not-a-compromise is I ignore all this ever happened, and continue doing what I have been doing. I don't want to do that because I like to be accommodating? I'm very community focused. I like building an atmosphere that's welcoming when it comes to the blog. But that might also be what I resort to just because, as I said above, if this turns into more trouble on my end than I think it's worth, I'll just stop posting fics here, and I don't want to do that. Which leads me to--
Compromise 1: I stop posting fics here. It's not really a compromise, but it's easy. Ish. Eh. Not really. Tagging everything on AO3 is a pain in the butt for something quick and dumb you wrote up because you thought it'd be fun. But being able to post a link to a fic like with my LongFics is a think I could just fall back on. I think it also means I'll probably stop writing this stuff though, because I'll get bogged down in things like trying to edit them, or link them together cohesively when they're out of chronological order [Like the Hels/Wels fics, which currently are all over the place in their timeline, and will continue to be so probably]. Regardless it's an option.
Compromise 2: We can go back to the old standby which is me tagging anything longer than 3 paragraphs as "long post" and then if anyone doesn't want it popping up on their dash, they can filter the tag. I also don't like this option because it blocks even more than a readmore does. But it's quick and easy for me, and maintains the integrity of "I wanted to post this to Tumblr and not worry about it anymore."
This is all stuff for me to stew on. I don't expect people to weigh in on these options, though you're welcome to if you think you have some good input for it. But that's about where I'm at right now.
#spazzcat barks#delete later#answering asks#the readmore debacle#well that's exhausted me for the night#i was going to draw but now I think I just want to sleep#Anyway I hope no one takes this as me like? Threatening them?#I'm not trying to say 'arghh you've made me upset no more writing for you'#i just know myself and i know my personal hangups when it comes to productivity#and as soon as something requires marginally more hoops to jump through i drop it#i became inactive on DeviantArt because it was easier to post art on Tumblr and write a few tags#than to slog through the filtering system for posts DA had#Same thing with FurAffinity the short time I was on that site#And AO3 is really high on the threshold of 'this is more trouble than it's worth' to me#which is why very few of these quick fics have been archived onto AO3#but if this turns into a thing where it's harder to post fics on tumblr than not -- i'll do like I did with DA and FA and stop posting#its a storied trend and i dislike it :'D
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🙄
#brooOoOOoOoOoOo#this is why I don’t like to post sometimes#my mind is like#uhm you didn’t get any notes right when you posted ir#*it#the post is ugly and you should delete it#bah humbug#it got instantly flagged and had to go through some hoops so y’all better appreciate it pls and thanks 😤#shut up rosie
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went to the most validating therapy appointment the other day. i was like “i feel like i’m crazy.” and she was like “you’re not crazy. you’ve been coming to me for years. you’re a logical person with incredibly high emotional intelligence. If you think someone has issues with you, or is being passive aggressive, you’re probably right. But you have to let it go. you’re putting too much of the responsibility on yourself. You can’t control how they feel. Stop, get out of your head. let it go.” and i’m just like damn, she’s right. I just need to stop caring so much.
#i feel like a straight white man coming to the most basic conclusions of all time#like that post about men getting high and having philosophical revelations that 6 year old girls had at sleep overs#and i’m men#like holy shit#you guys were just out here letting it go?#you don’t take on the full responsibility for every failed relationship you’ve ever had#you don’t jump through hoops to make everything your fault?#and your still a good person????#you can admit other people were in the wrong???#like such a huge weight was lifted off my chest#and it seems so silly#but just to hear someone say#you’re right#you’re friends are treating you passive aggressively#and it’s not fair of them to treat you that way#but you just have to let it go#because they aren’t mature enough to come to you with their problems#so they have no intention of fixing the relationship#so you just have to let it go#it’s no longer your responsibility#WHAT THE FUCK#YOU CAN JUST DO THAT????#i’ve literally never felt better
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What the motherfucker is this hiring process even.
#the valley is posting#don't rb#it's currently thursday afternoon. they want me to come in for a THREE HOUR WRITTEN TEST next week either mon tues wed.#they have not provided any information about what the test is going to cover#i have taken tests before for jobs and none of them were three hours#my current job; i was told ahead of time what the test would cover & i was given an hour but it was not designed to take that long#another job i interviewed for also had a test but it was a 20 minute test and they also told me beforehand what they would be testing me on#you want me to come all the way out to another city for a 3 hour test on short notice#without even telling me what the test is going to cover#and the job is a casual hourly position with no benefits despite management responsibilities?#lmao good luck hiring anyone#i'm sure someone out there really needs the work and will be forced to jump through all your hoops#but this is frankly ludicrous
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#polls#so apparently I do have the ability to do this#absolutely wild#seeing as how I cannot see polls myself without some hoops to go through#and by hoops I mean clicking on tags and profiles linked to the polls post before going back out and hoping the words appear so I can click#on an option#now will this poll get much traction?#no#because I have a lot of bots following me apparently and this is secretly a side blog#I know you would never guess with a name this mysterious#also love pretending that my main blog had many followers anyways#I actually don’t know which blog the bots are following#I also don’t know what to do about them because I never noticed them appearing until I noticed I had followers when turning off tumblr live#as I must suffer through weekly#also what’s the point of even turning that off if I still don’t just go automatically to the search page?!??#there’s three tabs in there now#why#I just like looking at the top nine to see what’s news and when ao3s down#suspicious how there’s actually 10 now#yes that makes more sense but consider it was nine and so why if ten is secretly an imposter#very sus#I bet I won’t be able to vote/view my own poll without workarounds#what a broken little app (affectionate)
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nice boys and sour hearts | satoru gojo x reader
wc: 4.6k
cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it
post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends
i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one
not proofread!
satoru hates arguing with you.
it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.
it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.
of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.
but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.
it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.
it was small. barely worth fussing over.
he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.
a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.
"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.
his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.
you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.
"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.
(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)
you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.
he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.
you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.
"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.
you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.
"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.
he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.
then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.
"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.
his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.
(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)
but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.
"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.
the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.
and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).
a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.
but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.
you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.
"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"
"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”
...
he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.
maybe.
a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.
it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.
"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget cane on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.
"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)
his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.
you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.
he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.
the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.
what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.
eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.
wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.
despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.
and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.
"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.
"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."
you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.
"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— satoru likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.
(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)
"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.
"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.
you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.
he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.
you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off in that one spot so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.
you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.
you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.
you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.
"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.
even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.
its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !! the black betta in question is suguru btw
my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !
#i rlly like this one yayayayyayya#toru who uses lipgloss my beloved#smth ab his gym fit#i think about how school was after suguru left a lot..#hes such a loserboy but he loves you soso much he makes me wanna puke#thinking of u as his favorite msurhoom makes saotru giggle fs#gojo satoru x reader#satoru gojo x reader#gojo satoru x you#satoru gojo x you#gojo x reader#satoru x reader#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#billet-doux#jjk#listened to mary by alex g on loop while writing this. like the entire time#nice boys once or twice#if u see this pls don’t read the link it put my og idea as the title 😕#ot probably did that for all of my other fics too thatsembarrasjng#gojo x y/n#gojo satoru x y/n
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eva/natsuhi - "i hate u"
thought the song choice was kind of funny. they had, like, the worst breakup ever despite never having actually been "together"
#umineko#eva ushiromiya#natsuhi ushiromiya#evanatsu#eva#natsuhi#i made this on my phone and had to go through annoying hoops to get it here#so hopefully the quality/timing on it doesn't get messed up too bad#anyway this is like 10 months old now#i definitely put in some young evanatsu there for wmebsd vibes#videos#my posts
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Gym Class Heroes
Pairing: Regina George x Reader
Warnings: head injury, blood, homophobia
Word Count: 1600, Part 1/?
Part Two
Anonymous asked: Hey hun, sup? can i make a lil' request? i'd like to ask for a Regina George x Reader (reader is afab but kinda androgynous) where a fight breaks out at gym class and Regina steps in breaking out the fight because she gets really protective of reader (even though they never spoke before that day but both have like this unspoken attraction to one another) and takes care of reader's injuries? might lead to kissing. it's fluff with a bit of angst mixed in pls? Thanks a lot!!!!
It was your least favorite part of the day: gym class.
You hated it. Hated it.
Not that you didn’t like being active or didn’t enjoy learning about exercise and the human body and nutrition, that was all fine.
You hated the locker room. You hated the jocks. You hated getting sweaty and smelly halfway through your school day. You hated the stench of the gym and the feel of the rubber floors. You hated fitness tests. And you didn’t particularly enjoy Coach Carr.
But… It wasn't all bad.
There was always Regina.
At first, you were terrified to have gym with her. You were certain that she would find ways to make you feel self-conscious the entire semester, not necessarily intentionally, that was just her way. But, that didn’t end up being the case.
You still never spoke to her, but every once in a while, you caught her glancing at you. In the locker room as you changed into your cutoff shirts, when you were running laps or doing sit ups, even when you were just taking notes, you could feel her eyes on you.
You would look, and she would look away, and you’d get all flustered by her cropped tank tops and high-waisted leggings, then you’d look away again, trying to hide your reddened cheeks.
You had to be delusional, though. There was no way that Regina George was actually crushing on you. You had to be making it up.
Thank goodness for small miracles. It was Friday and when you entered the gym, Coach Carr yelled out that it would just be a free gym day. No particular lesson or game to worry about, everyone could just pick an activity and do what they wanted as long as they were being active. You breathed a sigh of relief and went to go grab a basketball.
You posted up at one of the hoops with a few others who were just going to practice taking shots quietly. You put your earbuds in and started playing music on your phone and began to just blissfully zone out. You took turns with your peers practicing layups and free throws while sneaking glances across the gym at Regina who was lobbing a volleyball back and forth with Gretchen. You couldn't help but notice how good she looked.
You didn’t notice Coach Carr leaving the gym to take his daily smoke break.
You didn’t notice Shane Ohman and his buddies approaching you.
You didn’t notice them hollering insults at you, not until it was too late.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, you fucking dyke!”
Shane chucked his basketball through the air at full force and it smacked into your temple. You saw stars and went straight to the ground, feeling the sting of the skin of your eyebrow splitting and the warm wetness of fresh blood pouring down the side of your face from the wound.
One of Shane’s friends said, “ohhh shiiit.”
“That’s what you get for fucking checking out my girls’ ass, you lesbo!” Shane shouted.
The group of guys were only egging him on, and as far as you knew, everyone else was stunned into silence. You vaguely saw the shape of Shane hovering over you before a flash of blonde ponytail entered your vision.
“Your girl!? Now I know you better not be talking about me you fucking piece of shit. I dumped your smarmy ass so what fucking business do you have coming to my defense against someone who’s half your size? Get the fuck out of here before I get your dad and Principal Duvall in the same room and tell them you committed a hate crime and get your athletic scholarship flushed down the toilet or worse!”
You heard the sounds of feet quickly sprinting away on the gym floor and then saw the blonde crouch down beside you through your good eye.
“That looks bad,” she winced, lightly touching your shoulder. She turned her head to speak to someone else, “Gretchen, go get Coach Carr and tell him what happened, yeah? We’re going straight to the nurses’ office.”
Before you could process, Regina was helping you stand up and was acting as a crutch for you. She helped you make your way out of the gym through the locker room. She stopped for a moment to grab a clean towel and pressed it against the wound on your head and the pressure made you feel faint.
“Fuck I need to sit…” you gasped.
“Okay, okay,” she quickly guided you down to a bench and sat beside you, still holding the towel to your head, “There you go, take it easy.”
You peered at her as she slowly came into focus.
“Regina, why are you helping me?”
“Why not?”
“Well… because you’re you?”
The corner of her mouth raised into a little smirk, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t take you for the helping kind.”
“How about you worry less about talking and more about staying conscious. Do you think you can walk with me to the nurse?”
You made a solid effort to stand back up but you immediately felt lightheaded and plopped back down, shaking your head lightly.
“Alright, we’ll stay here then.” Regina looked around the locker room and located a first aid kit on the wall, “okay, I need you to lie down slowly on the bench, slowly, and hold the towel, I’m gonna get the first aid kit just hang in there.”
You replaced her hand on the towel with yours and held it against your head as you lied down and she got up. She came back a second later holding the first aid kit.
Regina carefully peeled the towel away and winced along with you, “okay, I’m not a doctor obviously but I don’t think you need stitches? You probably have a concussion, though, so I think you should go to a doctor or something but I don’t want to move you for now.”
She started fussing with things in the first aid kit and explained, “I’m just going to clean the cut and bandage it up for the time being, okay? It looks like it’s not bleeding anymore so that’s good.”
You nodded and watched her, “you’re surprisingly caring…”
“What did I say about talking?”
You snapped your mouth closed.
“Little sting,” Regina covered your eyelid with her hand and sprayed antiseptic solution onto the wound then gently wiped it with gauze.
“How do you even bandage an eyebrow?” She muttered.
“The butterfly ones, or the strip-type bandages to pull the edges together, and then gauze over it.” You offer.
“Huh, okay.”
Regina took her time finding the right things and carefully tending to you.
“Do you think I’m going to have a scar?”
“Maybe. Probably,” Regina answered, “it’ll look cool if you do. Very rugged.”
“Stupid story behind it…”
“I’m going to have Shane roasted on a spit for doing this to you, I promise you that.”
“Oh jeez, Regina. You don’t have to do that.”
“Did it sound like I was asking?”
You swallowed and tested sitting up slowly after she finished bandaging you up.
“Slow, slow…” she commanded, holding onto your upper arms.
You nodded and came to an upright position without feeling faint, “I already feel a lot better. Thanks, Regina.”
“I still think you need to leave school and go to the doctor to get checked for a concussion. You don’t need an ambulance or anything like that, probably. We can call your parents or honestly I can drive you if your parents are working…”
“Oh… that’s really nice of you. I’ll call my mom and see what she thinks.”
She nodded and checked your bandages again. She was fussing over you in a weirdly concerned, maternal way.
“Regina?”
“Hmm?”
“How come no one sees this side of you?”
She raised an eyebrow, “most people don’t earn this side of me.”
“But I do?”
“Sure.”
You didn’t really have a good response to that so you just stayed quiet while Regina got up and got you some water and then texted Gretchen updates.
“Gretchen will bring Coach Carr in here in a sec to check in, is that okay?”
You nodded.
Regina examined you again, “can I ask you a question?”
“What’s up?”
“Were you actually checking out my ass earlier?”
Your face flushed like crazy, “wh-what?”
“Shane said you were checking out my ass. Were you?”
You just stared at her.
“You can be honest, I won’t be upset either way.”
“I…” you took a deep breath, “yes. I was. You look incredible in those leggings.”
Regina smiled, “good. I mean, not good that you took a basketball to the face for it, but good that you were checking me out.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No. Why would I be upset?“
“Because… I dunno, I guess because I’m no better than a gross guy?”
Regina rolled her eyes, “no. Trust me, it’s a compliment from you.”
Coach Carr came into the girls locker room while unnecessarily covering his eyes and quickly checked in with you, saying, “alright chief, we already called your mom and she’s on her way to pick you up, okay? We’ll get you to the front office to wait. After that, Regina, Gretchen wants you to come with her to Principal Duvall’s office to tell him what you saw happen, k?”
Regina nodded.
“Go team,” he added before ducking back out.
Regina looked at you, “Did he just call you chief?”
You shrugged, “I guess so.”
You both laughed and Regina walked you to the front of the school to wait for your mom. She waved at you as you got into your mom’s van and you watched as the blonde turned and angrily stormed in the direction of the principal’s office, now on a new mission.
Next Chapter
#regina george#regina george x reader#regina george fanfic#regina george fanfiction#mean girls 2024#renee rapp regina george#my fanfiction#my writing#original writing#writing request#anonymous request#regina george fluff
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Theodore nott x Gryffindor fem! Reader fluff and soft smut she’s reading in his lap while he’s leaning against the bedpost reading with her holding the book and Turing the pages while she keeps reading it and it’s super smutty (maybe the actors spin-off book abt nesta and cassian-) and she just traces his arm veins while they read (and if you decide to make it smutty pls make the reader LOVE LOVE LOVE his hands, abs, arm viens-)
a l l u r i n g
fandom- Harry Potter
pairing(s)- theodore nott
a/n: hullo, I have my midterm math exam on Monday so its all rushed and i barely have time to post but this has me screaming and crying all at once.
i could not find any hardcore smut from a court of silver flames , I couldn't find any hardcore smut from court of silver flames, I'm so sorry abt that. the scene you're reading out loud is written by none other than @lustingbones, featuring Dick Grayson. I've written her fanfic in cursive so as to not get confused. she has single handedly created an obsession for nightwing in me.
here's the link to the inspiration :)
requests are forever open,
luv,
teddy
requested- yes
warnings- mf this is an advanced apology, i've never written smut. i've never even held someone's hand romantically, hell, i can't even keep eye contact, soft smut, fluffy, vulgar language, they both are minors, no protection is mentioned, it might make you uncomfortable, the reading of smut, the writing of smut
The sleeves of your black satin shirt had already fallen down your arms, the shirt itself was only being held up by two thin chains over your shoulder. it was basically as good as transparent, there wasn't a thing you couldn't see through it.
Theodore had leaned himself on his bedpost, his shirt was long gone. You were reading to him, your legs were on either side of his hips, your ass was cupped by his hand as he found utter joy in this situation. Your breasts were Infront of his face as he struggled not to get hard under you so quickly. Theo was never this grateful for being taller than you, he could just look down at you and get a perfect view. he wanted nothing more than to hold them in his hands and squeeze it or just rip the shirt off at this point.
"He moaned softly at the squelch of your cunt swallowing him, a creamy white ring surrounding the base of his cock every moment he pulled out."
your flingers grazed the hoops of his trousers, hooking them absentmindedly. sometimes they paused and was placed next to his hips.
“D-Dick, p-please baby-” a hitch in your voice. you could feel your pussy, but more than that, you could feel a lump in his pants.
"its so attractive when you say baby like that, but when i fuck you, its gonna be theo" he mumbled by leaning closer to your ear.
all you could do is nod as he signaled for you to continue.
“Gotta breed you baby.. Show all these fuckers that you’re mine and get you pregnant. You’d like that huh? All full with my baby, my cum deep inside this needy lil’ pussy, hm? You want that princess?” You felt him smirk against your skin as he never faltered, his cock reaching so deep inside you–fuck this man would be the end of you."
Theo's eyes were fixated on you. the way your voice was wavering, the way you squeezed your thighs, how a blush crept to your face. he loved how you got so shy with the pregnancy kink. it made him wonder if she had one herself.
"you're into that? why read about it when i can give you the full experience in 6D?"
you tried to waver him off, this was the last thing you needed in this situation
" "All I do is treat you so fuckin’ well, don’t I?” Dick mumbled as his fingers started to toy with your clit, his middle finger rubbing the sensitive nub in circles as he continued his brutal pace on your weeping cunt. “F-fuck..” he whined as he pulled away for a moment to look down at where the two of you were connected, his cum from earlier rounds already starting to pool onto the bedsheets and trailing down your thighs. “S’good to me, ya know that? Such a good girl..” Fuck it was starting to become too much for him, but it felt so fucking good.."
you could feel your own pussy throbbing. If you were being honest to yourself, you were thinking about you and Theodore. your head keeps going to the idea of him saying this to you, doing this to you and feeling him so hard just got you more turned on.
“G-Gonna come, Dee–fuck!” you whimpered as you fell back into the sheets with your face squished against the pillows, gripping the blanket into your hands tightly."
your palm grazed his veiny arms, has he been working out? they've gotten so big..
“F-fuckin’ come baby, come all over this cock..” He coos through clenched teeth, his nails lightly digging into your plush skin as his thrusts sped up."
from palms to fingernails, they slowly trail up his forearm and roamed around his chest.
"Whiney breaths leave your throat as your climax starts building, before the coil in your tummy finally snaps, your juices gushing around him as he let out a whine and threw his head back."
you find yourself adjusting to place your pussy right above his cock. you could see his face trying to not to show any signs of satisfaction. that was all you needed.
“C-Come inside me, Dick–please!” you squeal with your face squished into the pillow to muffle your needy whines as his cock twitched inside you."
all he could concentrate about is trying not to break character. his eyes fixated on the elegant curve of your back beneath the clear fabric. her rough voice ran through his head in circles. he lifted an arm from his side, letting it play with the bottom buttons, almost only leaving one left. The only thing covering you up.
“I know baby, I know–fuckk!” he groaned as you felt him release inside you, thick ropes of his cum painting your walls a creamy white, giving a few shallow thrusts before stilling inside you, pants and heavy breathing leaving both of your lips as you sat in silence."
you ran your arms down his abs, he loved your not so secret fixation you had for them. but you loved it more.
"You whine as you try to crawl away from his needy hands before he grabs you by the waist and pulls you back to flip you onto your back, a few pieces of his hair stuck to his forehead as he looks down at you with a grin painting his plush lips. Gosh it’s like he was trying to kill you."
“Said ya’ wanted to help me..” he cooed as he leant down with his lips ghosting over yours. "
“So, help me..”
Theodore was done. He gently picked the book from your hand and placed it on his nightstand. both his hands went under your thighs as to place you on the bed so he could tower over you, his chain dangling Infront of your eyes.
"hi handsome" you said peering up to him. you pulled his arm to examine it. his veins looked so hot, just absolutley lovley to have around you.
"hey beautiful"
you take his hand, a quiet smile made way too your face as you rest it on your breasts
Theodore felt your hands as it unzipped his trousers leaving him in boxers. your hand slid up and down his dick in slow strokes, just to drive him mad.
he takes her into my arms still kneeling, hitching your leg around his torso before pulling you as close as possible. The kisses you shared were soft, unbothered needy but never rushed.
#theodore nott x reader#theo nott#mattheo riddle x reader#theodore nott x you#blaise zabini#theodore nott#theo nott x reader#theodore nott angst#theodore nott smut#theodore nott soft smut#theodore nott fanfiction#theodore nott fic#theodore nott imagine#theodore nott x y/n#theodore nott masterlist#theodore nott fluff#theodore nott drabble#theodore nott headcanons#theodore nott scenarios#harry potter preferences#harry potter imagine#harrypotterimagines#harrypotterimagine#harry potter fluff#george weasley#harry potter incorrect quotes#harry potter headcanon
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‘𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤’ 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 | 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬
Summary: Small acts of service Miguel would provide to his favorite waitress
Content Warning: MUTUAL PINNING BITCHES HAHA. Two idiots in love, slow-ass burn. It is the same type of burn where you get a sunburn, and you have to peel away the dead skin off of you slowly.
Word Count: 😏 (jk, it's +1.7k)
Author’s Note: THANK YOU FOR 200+ NOTES FOR ‘WAITING’ FOR YOU OMG 🥹 I honestly thought it would flop, but seeing you guys enjoy it warms my heart up. Once again, thank you all. You all mean the world to me 😚🩷
← Part One (‘waiting’ for you)
→ Part Three (‘waiting’ for you)
To my new followers, thank you <3 💌
“Man, I'm so hungry,” Jess sighed to you. The woman looked over to you while adjusting her golden hoop earrings. “Girl, have you had the time to take a break and eat?” You questioned her, seeing the exhausted, sickly look on your face. “No, ever since that new manager, Alex, he's been on our asses about managing our time.” You massaged your temples slowly before leaning against the hostess's stand. “I get you, my headaches have been awful…” You mumbled to her.
As Jess stood at the hostess stand, she heard the deep voice of the restaurant owner echoing through the space. "If you have the time to lean, you have time to clean!" he bellowed, causing her to quickly abandon her post and hurry along with attending to her tables.
From a distance, you noticed the manager eyeing her sternly, and you spoke up in defense of the new, pregnant employee. "Take it easy on her," you implored, hoping to ease the situation. As you watched from afar, you could see that she struggled to keep up with the job demands. “You know what? I don't appreciate the talking back. Instead of an hour break, you're down to thirty minutes.” Alex sneered.
Your mouth opened agape, wanting to argue back. But you held back instead while you looked at Alex and walked away. “Thank you,” He sneered once again while walking away.
Way to go. You just had to talk back. Son of a bitch, I can't even take a proper break.
A long sigh escaped before Miguel made his way to the hostess stand where you were, resting half of your body on the counter, and a long sigh escaped from you, deep from the gut. “Hey, I just wanted to check how many reservations we have left for today.” He trailed off, seeing how hunched over you were on the counter.
“Yeah, let me just see…” You sat up quickly, allowing your hair to look a little messy. It was a cute sight for Miguel. It made it look like you just woke up from bed. Now seeing that, the man began to wonder how you looked in the morning, in his bed, under HIS blankets, in his SHIRTS—
"The manager informed me that we have five more reservations for tonight," you interjected, stealing his attention from the little fantasy he imagined. A yawn escaped your lips as you glanced at the list, betraying the exhaustion you felt from the long day. “Long day?” Miguel questions you. “Yeah, then Alex just cut my break short. He got mad that I defended Jess.” You grumbled.
“Jess… Jess…” He repeated before he turned to you. “The pregnant one, right?” You quirked a brow up by the way he memorized the newly hired waitress. “You know, you can't associate her being the pregnant one all the time; she's about to pop soon.”
“Sorry, I call it by the way I see it.”
“…touché.” You nodded before you put the reservation list away. A big, awkward silence fills between the two of you. “So, what do you associate me with?” You asked eagerly.
Miguel made a dismissive sound with his lips and then momentarily paused as if thinking. "I don't associate you with anything, to be fair," He finally said. You furrowed your brows, feeling a bit confused. "What? What do you mean?!" You exclaimed with a hint of annoyance in your tone.
“You're just there; not much to say about it.”
“What do you mean? We work on almost all shifts together!” You argued before Miguel left for the kitchen.
The man had a particular association with you - he didn't want to say it out loud.
/
Alex is a hard ass.
While waiting for your lunch break and assisting your tables, you decided to help the bellboy, Miles, wipe some tables down since the restaurant fell into some downtime. But when Alex saw, a scowl formed.
“It's Miles’ job to wipe tables down. Your job is to greet guests and create reservation lists.” Alex hissed. “I understand, sir, but Miles needed help, and it's a dead hour at the restaurant now and—” Alex raises a hand, pausing you. “No, I've heard enough; you'll have a fifteen-minute break instead.”
Oh, hell no, he didn't.
“And you can't legally do that. That's forced labor; look it up.”
Alex turns to you, showing anger in his expression. You could already see the premature wrinkles on his forehead. Wanting to say something snarky about the thirty-year-old to smile every once in a while, you stopped yourself.“You know what? We can fix that attitude by… taking away your employee discount for today.”
You looked at Alex with furrowed brows and your mouth slightly agape. “Thank you for understanding.” Alex walked off, and as soon he was no longer in sight, a sense of anger entered your body. You stormed back to the hostess stand, feeling steam escaping your body.
Talking back to him in a manner like that? What the hell is wrong with me?
You grabbed the messily piled menus and straightened them out, somewhat slamming the menus down on the hostess stand. “Easy there.” You looked at the voice and saw it was none other than Gabriel, another waiter who came in during the weekends and holidays. Rolling your eyes, you huffed in anger and leaned against the counter.
“I heard what went down.”
“What else is there to hear, Gabriel?”
You shooed him away from the stand when new customers entered the restaurant. After being pushed around by your clientele on where they wanted to sit instead of where you picked for them, you seated them and stormed off, still ticked off by Alex. You sat at the hostess stand, groaned in frustration, and realized that Gabriel was still there. “What?” You snarled.
“I heard what went down.”
“Yes, you told me that minutes ago.”
Gabriel furrowed his brows for a moment and sighed. “Listen, we can share my lunch…” Gabriel suggested while you hastily cleaned up the stand in an angered manner. “I ordered too many portions, and it hasn't been touched—” You turned to him quickly, almost to the point where it made the grad student jump in fear.
“Are you asking me out for dinner?” You ask him, poking fun at the bashful young man. “Yeah, I mean—” The sound of a food container landing on the counter made the two of you see Miles leaving it behind. “Miguel told me to leave this for you,” Miles says with a simple shrug before returning to the dining area. “Messed-up order. He didn't want it to go to waste.”
You opened the container, and the sound of a sizzling steak with sauteed onions, topped with melting pepper jack cheese. The smell of fresh, cooked veggies and mashed potatoes makes your mouth water. While looking around for Alex, you hid the container in one of the cubbies behind the stand.
“Guess you don't have to invite me for dinner after all.” You shrug to Gabriel before you run off to help the next customers who enter the restaurant.
/
9:37pm
The humid air filled the outside as you held your phone close, waiting for your Uber to arrive. The sound of the restaurant door opening and closing greeted your ears until you two young college students walked past you, showing the two lovebirds happy with each other’s company.
Must be nice…
A vibration from your hand brought you back to reality and caused you to look at the mobile device. “Your Uber has canceled.”
What.
You glared at the mobile device before a groan of frustration escaped from the back of your throat. “Damn it!” You groaned before you looked to your left, seeing the busy sidewalk of pedestrians. “That’s just great…” Almost as if life hated you a little bit more than usual, a couple of raindrops landed on you, soon turning into a downpour of rain landing on everyone else. “Oh lovely, thank god…” You grumbled before stepping out to the sidewalk and walking home through the rain. The cool rainwater felt surprisingly calm and relaxing, even though it probably had infectious diseases.
You walked along the sidewalk, feeling the refreshing sprinkle of rain on your skin. As the raindrops started to fall more heavily, you realized you had forgotten your umbrella. Just then, you felt a tap on your shoulder, making you turn around. You were greeted by a tall, hooded figure standing beside you. You squinted through the rain to see his face, but the hood obscured most of it. The stranger gave you an umbrella, and you gratefully accepted it. Before you could thank him, the stranger walked ahead and bowed his head as he looked at the pavement.
You continued to squint through the rain, wanting to see who this generous man was, but to no avail.
/
Miguel stepped into his small, cozy apartment, dropping his soaking jacket on his sofa, not caring about the soaking fabric soaking the leather. A small mewl greeted him. A tabby marmalade cat soon jumped onto the couch and kneaded the cushions. The cat meowed out loud once again, soon looking up at Miguel with its wide brown eyes. "Hola, Lyla..." He sighed at the orangy cat before taking off his soaked clothes and throwing them to the side into a laundry bin.
While changing his work clothes in his bedroom, the marmalade cat jumped off the couch and reached the front door, soon pawing at an umbrella stand. The cat continued doing this until Miguel stepped out of his bedroom in sweats and slippers. "Lyla," Miguel paused as soon as the feline pawed at the umbrella stand. The cat continued to mewl out, unfamiliar with the missing umbrella her owner always brought home.
"Come on, I'll cook you a fish fillet." Miguel sighed, soon grabbing the tabby and moving her away from the door. A sniffle escaped from the man as he and Lyla made their way to the kitchen.
/Bonus Scene/
"Good morning-" You happily greeted but paused the greeting and got a jaw-dropping view before you. "Morning..." Miguel sniffled. His hair had little raindrops decorating his dark hair, with some bags under his eyes. What a sight to see... The sound of someone entering the workplace interrupted your train of thought. "Damn, Miguel. You look..." Peter greeted his coworker as he stepped into the restaurant and took off his coat that shielded him from the rain. "Not that great." Peter nervously greeted the executive chef. "You don't think I know that?" The aggravated man grumbled before he took off his coat and mumbled under his breath.
"I think I'm falling in love with someone, and it's a bad idea, right?"
Tag list:
(Do y'all think that the slow burn ended? Think again...)
@miguelzslvtz @safixiovi @rosegnome @leafyturtle @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @famouscattale @soymiguelsesposa @tryhardingatlife @huniedeux @peachey-pie @itswhateversworld
(I suck at tagging, so if you didn't get tagged, I'm sorry. I suck at using tumblr)
#miguel o'hara#atsv miguel#miguel spiderman#miguel x reader#across the spiderverse#miguel x y/n#miguel x you#miguel fanfic#miguel ohara fanfiction#miguel fluff
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