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Everywhere they touch, Lo burns, a fever sweating up her thighs and pulsing beneath Frankie’s fingertips. She wants to be engulfed by them completely. She wants their touch to be the last touch she ever feels, their mouth to be the last mouth to ever kiss her. “Yes! Yes, it’s okay. Obviously. Like, of course it’s okay. Better than okay, actually.” Tears are beading in the corners of her eyes, where her waterline’s dusted with glitter, and leaving sparkly little snail trails along her cheeks. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying! I’m so happy!” Her laugh is raw as the ragged edge of a piece of paper folded and ripped along the straight edge of a ruler. It’s a vulnerable kind of laugh, like the one she might give in a dressing room followed by a ‘...wait. what?’ when a casting director asks her to take off her clothes. “I love you. I’m so happy. The happiest anyone’s ever been, probably. I think everyone should be in love, all the time.” She wants to give them something tangible as a token of her love. Her hand sinks into the pocket of her white suede fringe jacket, a gift from Frankie’s aunt Suzette, who’d said she hadn’t worn it since the eighties, even though it felt like a lie. It smells like Frankie’s house ━ like Frankie. Lately, Frankie’s aunts have felt more like a family to Lo than any family she had ever been thrust upon, their kindness enough to make her reconsider her decision to live apart from him at all. Her hand sinks deeper into the pocket, fingers rummaging through bus tickets and magpied bottles-caps and loose change before they close around the small figure of a Sylvanian rabbit, her most favourite of her whole collection, a faithful companion and lucky charm. Tugging it out, Lo closes it in her fist and holds it tight against her chest. “Here’s my heart, okay?” Lo says, as earnestly as she would were she playing Ophelia, or Desdemona, or even Juliet (though the last time she’d auditioned she’d been told she was ‘too old’ to play Juliet, and had ended up as her nurse instead). She slides the rabbit into Frankie’s shirt pocket, just above their heart, and taps it twice to tuck it in, nestled against his chest. “I want you to have it. Please be careful with it ━ I know you will be! ━ but please don’t lose it or drop it because it’s very delicate.” The tip of her nose slides along the length of Frankie’s, nuzzling it at the end and sealing it with a kiss. “I want you to have it, though. So it’s yours now. It feels safe with you.” She hopes their souls tangle together and their roots become so entwined that when one of them’s in danger, the other intrinsically knows it, can feel the same pain and the same joy because their heart’s are so in sync with each other. She hopes their lungs are in sync, and the two of them breathe together, as if they share a body. She hopes when she gets her period, Frankie feels an instinctive connection to the moon. The only thing she doesn’t wish for them to be in sync on is their bladders, purely because it would be inconvenient if they were living in a flat with only one bathroom and both needed to take a dump.  “God. You’re terrific. I really do think you’re the bee’s knees, y’know?” Their smile ━ no matter how small ━ is her favourite smile, because when it happens it feels earned, like spotting an extremely rare bird. Their face is her favourite face. If she dies, she hopes that Frankie is the last thing she ever sees. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Frankie.”

For a moment, Frankie thought they’d done something wrong. They’d been here once before - a particularly rowdy ex that liked to settle arguments with swift, open hands instead of anything that resembled words. The first time Frankie had said they’d loved her she’d screamed at him for being off his meds. Which he’d never been once, too scared of reverting back to what an unmedicated life had been, but Frankie recognised he wasn’t exactly reliable with his emotions. He’d meant it then, though, and he meant it now, even if Lo didn’t want to hear it. “Um.” Muffled around her hand and staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers. Stuck between picking her up and off them before and scuttling out of the party as subtly as possible or just stabbing them self in the eye with the first sharp knife he laid eyes on. At least some people would be traumatised with him. But Lo always proved him wrong - in the best way; just when Frankie thinks she’s ready to up and leave, eyes opened to whatever insanity rested under the surface. Dormant until the right person came along and made him chip and crack until there was nothing left. Somehow with Lo it was the opposite - Frankie had never felt more structurally sound. “Oh.” Realising just how much this meant to her shifted something inside of them. No one had ever been so moved at hearing about Frankie’s feelings for them - most had grown weary of his excessive need for affection and validation, but Lo seemed to pick up on when they needed it most and gave it tenfold without asking for anything in return. Her touch made Frankie - doe-eyed and utterly stupid. Bottom lip moulding to her touch before he had the wherewithal to kiss the pad of her thumb, corner of their mouth quirking - there and gone, blink and you’ll miss it. Still incapable of openly beaming the way they wanted to but feeling so deeply for Lo that he couldn’t completely hide it. “Yeah - I mean it.” Frankie barely gets out the sentiment before she’s swinging herself into his lap firmly - more firmly. Straddling him instead of the side-saddle approached that they’d been getting away with before. Side-saddle was casual, normal even, friends did it all the time. Physically straddling them in the middle of the dinner table was a different story. Frankie had meant to say something about it, but instead their hands find their way under her thighs, holding her closer. Trying to keep up with her as she peppered kisses on his mouth but getting away from him then, entire face dusted wherever she could reach. It was overwhelming, being showered with so much attention - Frankie blushed with it, cheeks aching like he’d just eaten a sour candy with how intensely his body reacted. “Lo -.” Trying to steer her clear of any doubts and simultaneously attempting to get her to focus - Frankie’s hands reached to cup her face delicately so that they could swallow her repetitive question with a kiss. They were shit with their words, but Frankie wanted to try for her. “I mean it. Really - I really mean it. I want you… to know because. I mean it. I promise. I wouldn’t - say it otherwise. Is it… okay? That I said it?”

#⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ threads. #lo & frankie. #lo & frankie 003. #⥂ verse. ╱ murderverse.

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Pablo and Giovanni are long forgotten footnotes in a chapter that’ll surely be titled Dominic. All she can think, breathe, smell, feel is Dom, Dom, Dom, like a monkey frantically crashing its symbols against the cushy cerebellum of her brain, daring her to try and process anything else but him. She feels sick with it. The kind of sugar rush sickness you get as a kid when you eat too much cotton candy and sherbet saucers and cartwheel off the excess energy until it all comes spewing up out of your guts and onto the asphalt. She feels as giddy and as anxious as she was at thirteen, arm pressed flush against his arm in the back row of the cinema, wondering if this time he might lean down and kiss her on the mouth when he walks her home after the movie. “Oh my god. I can’t believe it’s really you! Dominic Evans.” She knows his name like the back of her hand, because she’d written it in her diary so many times. Mrs. Fiona Charming. It feels like she’s in a cheap gag TV show, and they’re about to pull back the curtain and shout ‘surprise!’  and tell her that its a lookalike, but if she answers their riddles three she’ll be in with a shot at calling up the real Dom — one of those Long Lost Families type situations, only with The One That Got Away. They could call it The Dom That Got Away. Did they do TV shows for that? Lo often finds herself staring out of Greyhound bus windows on her way back from auditions wondering how many people have ever thought of her as their one that got away… He pulls her into a hug and it’s like her entire body buckles, muscle memory filling in the blanks of how it used to feel to be this close to him. Scarcely has she allowed herself to breathe in the scent of him and he’s drawing away, eyes falling over her in a way that renders her sheepish and self-conscious, and trying to remember how to arrange her body in a way that makes it look its best. Is she as skinny as he remembers? Is she as cute? She feels naked as the day she was born, suddenly a teenager again, high tops kicked beneath his bed, stripping off her knee-socks as he fiddles with her bra. The first boy she’d ever been naked in front of. It feels like a secret tucked behind her teeth, and she can’t help but blush and grin, girlish and tender-hearted and dumbstruck that he’s even here. “I’m… Yeah, I’m good. I’m really really good.” Was he always this handsome? “Were you always this handsome? Oh, fuck! Sorry, I didn’t mean to… That was a thought. That wasn’t meant to be said aloud.” All at once, the blood’s rushing to her head, six vodka cranberries hitting her like a train. “Is it hot in here? I feel like, super hot all of a sudden… I think I might—” Lo never makes it to the end of her sentence, a hot flush rising in her cheeks. She teeters towards the smoking area, one foot in front of the other and then suddenly legless. For a moment, she sways in mid air, a ballerina in a jewellery box, before white spots blot her vision and she goes down like a sack of spuds tossed down an elevator shaft.

Staying organized, filling each time slot with something to do — a task to finish, someone to call, dishes to wash, Dominic had become an expert early on, needing to take over for his dead father and numb mother. A protective coating around his mind, less time to think about the things that hurt, the questions left unanswered, and the people he missed. He relied on those distractions more than usual now. But even if it felt like it sometimes, there wasn’t always something to do. Sometimes work ended early and he was alone and his texts to his friends went unanswered and the thought of going home to either emptiness or roommates who could offer nothing beyond pleasantries (not that he blamed them) was too much. Dominic wasn’t someone who drank alone. Not until this very moment when he found himself at Fanny’s, opting to at least be somewhere where the noise could wash out his thoughts and a beer could dim the sharp edges that threatened to poke through. He thought he was hallucinating. Something slipped into his drink, maybe, or his mind’s way of taunting his attempts to subdue reality, offering instead fanciful visions. A few blinks later, she was still there and Dominic stood from his stool, but didn’t make a move forward. “Lo?” The single syllable hung dumbly from his mouth, but with it came a smile; the most genuine one he’s had in a while. Her touch grounded him more so and he was thankful for it, even if it left him sore — not just where she pinched. Moved into action, Dominic pulled Lo into a hug — a quick one, before pulling back to examine her, take her in. “I — shit, wow. How are you?”

#lo & dom. #murder on the dancefloor!!!! #HSKGHSDKGHDJHGDSG #i feel like i shd clarify to everyone......... she's not dead! #this isn't even related to an event plot she genuinely jst swooned and fainted like a victorian waif. #lo & dom 001. #⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ threads. #⥂ verse. ╱ murderverse.

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It’s hard not to notice Freya’s absence. He’d found the poems he wrote about her in the handful of weeks they’d spent hanging out after college and tucked them into a shoebox with the remnants of other people, places, and pets who had slipped through the net, lest they happen into his hands by mistake and catch him off-guard. There’s bits of Teddy in that box too — tickets to concerts the two of them had attended together, old love notes on the back of bus receipts, black and white photographs detailing sloppy kisses in club photobooths — tucked away like a secret the last time he lost him. They’re choosing to see Teddy’s re-entry into their life as something hopeful, to frolic in the wild green pastures of the moment rather than spend every second waiting for the other shoe to drop. They’re choosing happiness over the stress of waiting to get hurt. “My fanny pack of what now?” Rory asks, lips curling up into an easy smile as he leans in for a peck, and another, then folds his lips in on themselves to avoid stealing any more kisses from Teddy. “Jeez. I forgot about those days.” The only thing he deals out these days is harsh critiques of The New Flesh’s sound. Patting down the pockets of their trench coat, Rory uncovers a grand total of three throat lozenges, a receipt from the record store, and a scrunchie belonging to Piper, none of which will aid them on their quest. “Wow. Crap potion seller I am. You’ll have to like… Wait a couple of hours then refresh the whole game and wait for me to spawn somewhere else on the mini-map. Hopefully then I’ll have something worth your trade.” He claims one of Teddy’s hands, shoving their linked fingers deep into the pocket of his trench coat, and snags the proffered cigarette between his teeth. “Maybe you just need to rest,” Rory notes, cigarette clenched between his teeth. “Like, actual, nine-hour REM deep sleep stuff. My mom has this Yoga Nidra playlist she sent me…” It’s no good. This speaking-through-the-teeth tough guy toothpick malarkey might work for James Dean, but not for Rory. Antsy, Rory unlinks their fingers, if only to take the cigarette out of their mouth to free it up for speaking. “It’s like guided meditation stuff to help you chill the fuck out before bed. I dunno, it’s probably bullshit, but worth a try.” They puff-puff-pass on the end of the cigarette and slot it back between Teddy’s lips, thumb lingering on their mouth like a kiss. “I’ve probably got ket back at mine. You could come back? We could, um… Watch a movie. Wait, fuck, what time is it?” He turns his wrist over only to realise he’s neglected to wear his trusty Casio. “I don’t even know how late it is, but you could sleepover. I’m not even that fussed about a movie, actually. Kinda just a ruse to get you to come home with me.”

for: @plantfeed location: outside the pearl

After the ball - after Freya, after everything - Teddy felt nothing short of worn out. Overrun and taxed and constantly worried. No one was well, Lana least of all, and there was nothing Teddy could think of to fix it. This wasn’t something that was fixable - so instead of being stressed, Teddy decided to be drunk. And with company that made his chest feel less heavy. “Where’s your fanny pack full of goodies?” He asked, holding out his cigarette towards Rory. Originally he’d thought to offer them their own smoke, but sharing felt like a good excuse for excess intimacy that he didn’t have to practically beg for. “I need fuckin’ Tylenol or something. I’ve had a headache for a few days straight - do you think it’s an aneurysm? I’m half convinced my brain’s seconds away from exploding as is.”

#⥂ rory bergström. ╱ threads. #rory & teddy. #rory & teddy 002. #its so wrong.... tht this is thread 2...... #what about the history.... what about the lore..... #⥂ verse. ╱ murderverse.

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lately, jude’s been feeling like a nineteen-fifties housewife. he gets up, cooks junior some eggs, changes the linens if he’s sweated through them in the night, walks the dog, puts a spin cycle on, does the dishes, figures out which bills they’ll bother to pay this month and which they’ll let fester in the bottom of a drawer, by which point it’s usually time to start making junior lunch ( a greasy fry up, or something loaded with protein and carbs ). sometimes, when the afternoon rolls around, jude will sling his camera over his back, half-heartedly carry out a freelance gig for this start-up brand or that family-owned sandwich shop, or take headshots for some actress determined to get the hell out of dodge and make her fortune shaking her tits on broadway, but more often than not he’ll get stoned and watch reruns of the simpsons with junior. jude doesn’t resent him for it ━ it’s nice to have somewhere for his brain to sit, where it doesn’t rest in the cavern of jenny’s absence ━ but it’s becoming part of a humdrum routine, and he can feel his body getting restless. there’s a hunger beneath his skin that boils and bubbles like molten earth, and if he doesn’t scratch it, he’ll start to lash out and say things that he can’t take back, like how junior’s obvious annihilating guilt over leo’s recent worrying episode is probably a symptom of a larger fuck up. he should go and see leo. in the hospital, jude had barely left his side, or junior’s side, but since then he’s felt more like his roommate’s caregiver than his friend, and it’s a feeling that’s starting to outstay it’s welcome, despite his better intentions. tonight’s a rare night off from his wifely duties. junior’s round at mimi’s, or charlotte’s ( jude can’t really keep up ), so jude’s been down at fanny’s with logan, drunk enough to take the edge off and make everything feel slightly out of focus and hazy, like the camera assistant's switched off mid-take, but lucid enough to follow the episode of top gear he’s stumbled upon, channel-flicking. in his loneliness, it feels like a small slice of home ━ like a hand has reached out of the television screen and pulled him into a brotherly headlock ━ until a knock at the door cuts him from the escapism of watching three middle- aged british men traverse the dirt roads of bolivia and back into the reality of his too-small sitting room. who the fuck would be knocking at this time of night? something instinctive in him knows, even before the door clicks open, it’s lana. 

still the sight of her slaps him like a cold salmon to the cheek, bustling her way into the trailer before he’s even had a chance to get a word in, all smudgy and sharp-edged despite the undercurrent of vulnerability that trails behind her like the extravangant train on a wedding dress. “hi?” jude says back, startled and dumbstruck and fucking ecstatic to see her, though it pings at some string inside of him coiled tight around the deep-rooted sense of not being enough. “are you…? sorry, what?” it’s been months since he’s seen her. feels like it could have been years. and suddenly here she is, walking around the place he lives, asking him to play fucking scrabble. “um… do i look like a person who owns scrabble?” jude asks, noting the bottle of whiskey, the slight stumble to her usually self-assured steps. “sorry, i’ll just go and check the fuckin’ activities hamper in the rec room… maybe i’ll bring you some enid blyton novels while i’m at it.” the closest thing junior and jude have to a rec-room is the cabinet of dvd’s, xbox games, and car boot sale antiques behind the tv. somewhere in the chest is the sculpted figures of him and jenny, their clay hands wrapped around each other’s fingers. she’d given it to him months ago, a surprise talent he’d never known she had. despite the break up, he still can’t bring himself to toss it away. at least in that reality the two of them are still together. “surprised you’re not asking for buckaroo…” that at least seems more like lana’s style, a chaotic donkey rampantly bucking everything off its back, leaving a tearaway trail of havoc and mischief wherever it goes. he has to remind himself that lana isn’t just chaos ━ that spending time with her can be calm as a sunday morning sunrise and easy as breathing ━ only most of the time when she drunkenly trots her cowboy boots into his life, he finds himself entirely uprooting himself to fit into whatever pot she’s in, abandoning everything just so that his roots might get to twist around hers. “think we’ve got a magnetic travel-set of chess, but… that’s about it. i’m watching top gear if you wanna’ join. feel like richard hammond’s probably your type. a bit ratty and cheeky and kind of hard to pin down.” and probably a bit of a knob. “siobhan used to have a massive crush on him.” siobhan had also told jude that she’d kill him if he ever went back to lana. not that this is going back to lana. still, her words ring true in his head when he takes a step closer, fingers fastening around the whiskey bottle to examine the label. “do you wanna glass for that? or… i dunno, if you wanna sober up that’s cool. we’ve even got taps and running water in locke row now.”

there’s a desperate need in his stomach to ask her why she’s here. at the party, their eyes had met without a single word exchanged, just a pulsing zeroing in like a dolly zoom, until everything else felt out of focus. before that, radio silence for months, the kind he’d grown accustomed to with lana. jude knows better than to rock the boat so soon. he can’t help but feel like her being here is the result of another classic teddy lawrence misstep, foot falling through the broken panel in the staircase where she thought he would catch her and landing in empty air, stumbling to jude only to claw her way out of the absence. still, he’s glad it’s his door she’s chosen to rap her knuckles against; not leo’s, or dom’s or whoever else exists on the revolving door of her roster. it feels special to be chosen by lana, like he’s useful for something, even if all she wants him for is a half-arsed game of scrabble and a shag. “i can make you a tea, if you want. we’ve got herbal shit.” or maybe it’s the other kind of herbal shit she’s craving. “could get stoned.” shrugging, he pushes past her, knocking her hip with his hip, her shoulder with his shoulder, and flicks the kettle on, reaching for his medical tin. it’s got paddington bear on the front of it, and his name printed out by an embossing label maker. as a kid, he’d keep his milk teeth in it for the tooth fairy. feels like blasphemy that it’s now home to his grinder, and rolling papers, and baggies of shit laced with ground up pencil sharpenings. “i’ve got sex and the city on box set, if you want. junior pretends to hate it, but i know he secretly wants to fuck the shit out of samantha. everyone wants to fuck samantha.”

where: locke rowe for: @plantfeed

Lana wasn't entirely sure where she'd been for the past twelve hours. Everything had been compacted together like a diamond inside her head, light refracting off of the world in a thousand different rainbow strands, and the edges of her periphery winked with each shard of kaleidoscope whenever she hastened to blink. She was drunk. High, maybe. Both. Neither. Hadn't slept. There was still dirt crusted onto her knees, palms, her lifelines turned a mucky shade of brown. It left a faint, ugly handprint on Jude's trailer door when she slapped against it, once, twice, trying to create a bang loud enough to distract her from the faint chirps of police radios, the lights still flashing from Dylan's cornered off trailer across the park. Whenever anyone tried to reason with her, pin her butterfly wings against the corkboard of reality, she snagged another tear and wonkily fluttered free. Soon she wouldn't be able to fly at all. "Hi," she greeted, all breezy and artificial, as soon as Jude opened the door. Didn't wait for an answer. Pushed her way inside, accidentally clunked a bottle of whiskey against a countertop, didn't even notice the noise. It was the brand Danny liked, Jensen as well. Strange, how their mouths had always tasted the same; fitting, too. "I wanna play Scrabble. Do you, um --," Lana pawed a hair from her cheek, fingertip blurring her red mouth at one border, a tiny little smudge, some half-finished X to mark the treasure on a pirate's map. "Do you have Scrabble? Come on, hop -- hop to it, make like a -- like a bunny, 'cause I -- I wanna play Scrabble."

#sorry............... dont match..................... hides behind my hair..................... #i literally dnt kno whats wrong w me..................................... #⥂ jude dempsey. ╱ threads. #jude & lana. #jude & lana 001. #feels wrong to tag a thread of them as 001 when this is like their 20th thread but!! here we go bby. new start

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mimi’s ex used to say that he only fucked her so often because for fifteen minutes or so after, she was quiet. there’s a calmness that comes in the silence after sex, her head against junior’s chest, his hands in her hair. neither of them have spoken for a while. their mother tongue is touches, kisses, scratches, sighs. she’s worn out, but not worn out enough that her eyes can’t roll when junior claims he didn’t come here for that. “you always come here for that,” she tells him, and it feels true, even if lately it’s begun to toe the line of wanting more. the sharp points of her nails run themselves over his chest, his heartbeat a dull thrum against her left ear, where it presses to his ribs. there’s a tonal shift when junior starts to speak. whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t fowler lore. this feels like something she’s too low level a relationship with him to have unlocked, like she’s entered a cheat code and suddenly revealed his dark and troubled past without really having earned it, or worked for it, but maybe the fact that she’s here, accepting him with his faults and insecurities is enough. despite the questions stirring, she doesn’t interrupt. instead, she rolls onto her stomach, pressed chest-to-chest with his, and watches him, the deep-set furrow of his brow as he tells her things that not only border on vulnerability but strip it down to the bone. her chest feels tight with worry, and shock, and at first all she can verbalise is. “wow. okay, trauma dump alert…” a sharp little pull tugs in her stomach as she pushes to her feet, breath sharp in her chest. for a moment, she paces, wishing that she smoked so she would have a way to destress, a way to occupy her hands. “that’s like… a lot. like… what the fuck.” it’s way too much intel for a casual hook up. her brain’s still moving a mile a minute trying to process. it’s the second time this evening he’s left her lost for words, only this time the cause is far less blush-inducing.

“i wish i could offer you a cigarette. do you want a glass of wine?” this feels like the kind of conversation you’d have three wines deep, not in the tender recesses of a love affair. living alone comes with its benefits ━ there’s no need for her to dress herself, no looming fear of housemates when she struts out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen, returning swiftly with a bottle of red and two glasses. in silence, she twists the corkscrew into the bottle, pulls the plug from the neck and lets it glug, red as the blood inside him, into their glasses. all she's seeing is blood, junior’s and the other guy’s. mimi’s glass is downed in a matter of seconds. she pours herself a second one, and sets it down on the bedside table beside junior’s, as she settles back onto the bed. “sorry, i don’t know if you’re sober at the moment or whatever…” her hand reaches out to rest against his forehead, as if gauging his temperature. is he burning up like she is? her chin drops down against his chest, finger tracing over the line of his brow as she looks at him. “fuck, junior. that’s scary.” she feels the need to clarify: she’s scared for him, not of him. “i’m not… it doesn’t put me off, before you assume that’s why i’m being weird. i just…” there’s so much she wants to ask, but she can’t even wrap her brain around it without the edges of her questions spilling out the sides. had he told her to put her off, in the hope that it’d drive her away? is he looking for suggestions, an escape, or just a simple ounce of sympathy? “god. what the fuck. isn’t there someone you can go to? i know the police are as fucking useless as a marzipan dildo, but there must be someone, right?” she already feels like she knows the answer to that question.

closed — @plantfeed

In his defense; he did come to inform her about the development with Charlotte although he wasn't sure if he could give the rich princess what she wants since he can't seem to keep it in his pants when he's around the woman currently laying next to him. His hand rests on the top of her head as he plays with the strands of her dark hair. "I didn't come here for that," he murmurs. He isn't sure how she doe it but she brings it out of him. He's hardly able to contain himself around her, maybe it's because with her he doesn't have to... feel like he should be better. He can be him. He brushes his tongue along his lower lip as his eyes lift up to the ceiling. He also wants to keep her, keep this to himself for a moment longer. He's not sure what he wanted to really talk about, the beats of silence almost prevents him from speaking. "When I was in New York, I opened a bar I thought I could have something that was mine, ya know? Not something I needed Mikhael for or my dad. I met a girl and all the money I borrowed from a loan shark was gone in the blink of an eye. He told me I needed to work it off." His fingertips playing with the strands of her hair. "I started fighting for him, I would let myself get the shit beat out of me when the night bet against me, I would fight for my life when they voted for me." He glances to her. "My last fight, I put this guy in the hospital." He whispers. "My brother found out recently." He narrows his gaze. "He's blackmailing me and I'm not surprised but I have no fucking idea what to do."

#sorry this got long............. #again....... it was a lot to process 4 her................ #⥂ mimi martínez.╱ threads. #mimi & junior. #mimi & junior 003. #tw violence

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frankie doesn’t want kids. it’s a thought that’s been skittering around her brain like a rabid hamster in a wheel for the past two hours. frankie’s four and half years older. when lo’s his age, he’ll be thirty-three, so maybe he’ll have changed his mind by then? maybe she’ll have changed hers. she could always freeze her eggs, in case she marries frankie and they’re together for ten years, and then they dump her for someone younger and hotter with a brazilian butt lift and a sexy portuguese accent and by that time her ovaries are all shrivelled up like forgotten satsumas in the bottom of a fruit bowl. why is she thinking so much about kids? forget about the kids! at least they both have their health. it’s frankie’s birthday, and it’s a secret, and her lips feel so tight with the pressure to keep her tongue inside of her mouth and in the same breath swallow it completely. it’s his birthday, and tonight she will kiss every inch of frankie’s skin until her mouth gets numb with it, and there isn’t a single inch of him she hasn’t laid claim over. lo feels like she knows frankie intimately, in her bones, like the two of them were cut from the same star. sometimes she’s so totally overwhelmed by what they say, and their original slant on the world, and their way of phrasing sentences in a way she’d never have thought of. other times, she feels like she can predict what they’re going to say before they even think it. this is one of them. the second the words break from his lips lo’s shoving her hand over his mouth, keeping it closed, her eyes slamming shut. “don’t.” for a second, lo can’t even breathe, just sits there, fingers over his mouth, allowing the words to wash over her. they’re words she’s imagined herself hearing so many times, perhaps at the top of the grand canyon, or on a cruise ship, or in bed with a faceless lover. instead, she’s hearing them at a lasagna party, and she’s struck with how simple it is, how perfect. the warmth she feels for frankie bubbles up out of her chest and consumes her. she softens, thumb sliding over his lower lip. his beautiful mouth. “don’t say that unless you really mean it, frankie.” because otherwise she’ll start to believe it, and that’ll only make it harder when he leaves, because they always leave. when she thinks of love, she pictures a shadow with a suitcase in its hand.

a pang sounds along the violin string of anxiety that sits inside of her chest. dom’s here. did he hear it? would he even care? should he care? the last time she’d ever loved someone, it was dom, even if she’d never said it in so many words. she turns her focus back to frankie. only seconds previous, lo had been sat on their lap, side-saddle, discussing UTI’s and IUD’s and the benefits of period sex with fryda. now, that conversation’s completely forgotten, head whipping round like the red-light-green-light doll in squid game, one leg swinging over frankie’s lap to turn herself totally in on them. there’s the clamour of plates and conversation around them, and half-eaten lasagna, and it’s far from the intimate, candle-lit affair overlooking the eiffel tower she imagined, except it’s perfect, because it’s them, and today is frankie’s birthday, and he’s surrounded by people who love him, and yet he only has eyes for her. he loves her. “don’t say it unless you mean it. because i mean it.” still she struggles to form the words. her mouth meets frankie’s, peppering it with sharp little woodpecker kisses. one hand slides up into their hair, an anchor point, lips carving their way across their jaw, her other hand travelling south, over their shirt, down to their belt. she should probably calm down, but her more base instincts aren’t above fucking him at the dinner table. there’s a deep-seated urge to please him in any way she can. in every way she can, her rabbit heart thrumming like it’s sprinting for it’s life, wolves gnashing at the tip of it’s cotton-tailed edges. “do you mean it? do you really really mean it?” she so badly wants for frankie to mean it. please mean it.

for: @plantfeed location: piper's lasagna party (????)

Despite having her right in their lap, Frankie felt miles away from Lo. It wasn’t her fault - they regularly felt as if they were floating outside of themselves on a regular basis, she was just a part of the… fantasy. Their text conversation earlier had popped the shiny pink bubble they’d been living in together - it’d done nothing to dampen Frankie’s feelings, but doubt crept in and latched on like a leech. All night he snuck glances at Lo, wondering if she was about to finally say she was tired of him, never saw them going anywhere, wanting a kid now or for him to hit the road. She always said all the right things, there was no reason for the panic, but it ate at Frankie anyway. “I love you.” There was a conversation about how painful IUD insertions were on their left and the world’s most awkward date happening on their right. A half-eaten lukewarm plate of lasagna shared between the two of them on the table in front of them. It was the worst time and worst place to tell someone they loved them for the first time, but it’d slipped out with ease. “A lot. Just thought you should know.”

#i ws gnna say this thread is unhinged bt. every thread we do w them is unhinged frank(ie)ly so..... #DONT MATCH. SORRY. AGAIN. IT WS JST A LOT 4 HER TO PROCESS. LITERALLY U CAN GIVE ME 1 SENTENCE AND I WILL SUCK THE MARROW FROM THE VOWELS. #I LOVE U. IM SORRY. #⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ threads. #lo & frankie. #lo & frankie 003.

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location: the pearl. closed: @reversecreek

“jesus. what the fuck is she doing here?” resentment lodges like a hard boiled sweet in the place where her affection for willa used to sit. she feels like a stuffed toy from the-build-a-bear workshop that somebody forgot to put the heart in, and now there’s just an ache in her stuffing. when was the last time she saw her? was it the press night she’d thrown a drink on her, when willa had turned up on the arm of the lead in the fucking film, stare cold as she had looked right through her, or the moment where the two of them had wound up in the same aisle speculating over which of them was the hottest girl in the grocery store, which avocados looked the most ripe? all of it seems to blur into one love-island-best-bits style shitty montage that they play at the end of your journey, forcing you to watch yourself back like a stranger whose face you know only from photographs, analyse the micro-transactions of power, the shift of alliances, the pluck of desire that felt so fertile but now only feels wilted. she should ignore her. she should move on with her night, the crux of which is honouring freya’s memory by getting so fucked up she forgets she possesses a body. but even in her sober states, mimi often finds herself unable to avoid the tidal pull of drama. add a few cosmos, and she’ll gnaw the hand that feeds her down to it’s spindly bone, crack the knuckles like a wishbone, swallow them down until she chokes, if she has to, just to be certain she’d had the last word. “mimi, she's not worth it, don’t━” before her friend layla can even finish her warning, mimi’s on her feet, cosmo in hand as she stalks over to willa. “you’ve got nerve, showing your face here.” when surely she knows that kai’s a planet who revolves around the periphery of mimi’s orbit, so by default that makes the pearl more hers than willa’s. “or deneurve.” her eyes are rolling like a tragically upturned tortoise. “isn’t that like, your catchphrase or whatever?” who the fuck does she think she is? dwayne ‘the rock’ johnson? if there’s one thing that’s cringe, it’s having a fucking catchphrase, especially on a reality tv show. the screen doesn’t do willa justice ━ she’s still devastatingly beautiful and beautifully devastating. her energy would be magnetic, if the two of them weren’t two south poles, bound to slip out of the force of each other’s cosmic pull. like poles repel. it’s opposite poles that attract. for a second, mimi almost slips up, admits that she missed her. “you cut your hair…” she continues, a slightly vulnerable quality to her voice. “it looked better longer.”

#mimi & willa. #mimi & willa 001. #⥂ mimi martínez.╱ threads. #⥂ verse. ╱ murderverse. #not proofread..... sry my love<3. hope its fine.

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Aimee Lou Wood for The Laterals Magazine, September 2021.

#⥂ edie mccready.╱ mirror image.

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i get a strike at the bowling alley and the screen shows the exact time and place that i die

#⥂ milo de la cruz. ╱ musings. #milo is canonically obsessed with bowling and has been for years. #watched the big lebowski n it became like. a hyperfixation. #has his own bowling shoes and a customised shirt with his name sewn on the pocket n everything like donnie in the big lebowski #he is also obsessed w death so. this checks.

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jude + family.

let’s face it. none of us are ever gonna have a happy, normal relationship.

#⥂ jude dempsey. ╱ musings. #might submit jude's younger sister as a wanted connect tbh.......... feelin fruity...........

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#⥂ milo de la cruz. ╱ musings.

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finally saw batman. during the scene in the iceberg lounge my dad leaned over to me and said "club penguin" and then didnt look at me for the rest of the film

#⥂ finn o'callaghan. ╱ musings. #finn is the dad. #finn is everyone's dad.

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#⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ mirror image. #⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ aesthetics.

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I'm starting a collection. Idk what the aesthetic is. Blorbocore

#⥂ finn o'callaghan. ╱ musings.

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my baby talks at a mile a minute / she sings like a church with a choir in it / she shoots for the moon to land in the stars / and wakes up heavy with a sunken heart

#⥂ lo barrymore. ╱ musings.

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Julia Fox

#⥂ mimi martínez.╱ aesthetics.

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mimi doesn’t really have a leg to stand on considering the fact that she’d fucked junior in the bathroom, but the raw and gaping wound of her victim complex refuses to let sitting dogs lie. obviously it’s the man’s fault. if he’d paid her more attention, then clearly she wouldn’t have been forced at gunpoint to seek affection elsewhere. in the proverbial court of law lined up like polly pockets on sardine cans, she’d claim that kai drove her to fuck another guy, so in earnest he only has himself to blame. his question has her feeling caught. in truth, yes, she wants someone to tear another guy away from her if they have to. she wants someone who’ll smack talk anyone who dares to insult her. she wants the drama of a love affair that everybody talks about. maybe what she wants is reality tv. “no,” she lies, brushing off the suggestion. “but i mean, it would have been nice to feel like you’re bothered. otherwise why did you even ask me? am i just an ice breaker for you? someone to look hot on your arm?” she could see in his eyes he’d spent his whole night thinking about other girls, and mimi can’t compete with the dead ones. “don’t act like you’re any better.”

Gaze focused on her, the club owner seems to find himself lost for words. It's not as if she didn't have a point she did agree to come with him and not Junior. He also wasn't someone who played games, it was never his thing. It makes him think about how much fucking easier it was with Bella, the way she used to just tell him what she wanted at least until it mattered. He adjust his stance, even Marcy wasn't afraid to let him know what she was after, what things actually meant. So, this wasn't something he was good at. Entertaining a girl who clearly liked the kind of shit that just happened. He wasn't sure if she was expecting him to come crashing into the dance floor to spilt her up form the other guy when he... just wasn't looking to slide into something else that could be serious. Especially with someone who wants to get under people's skin, wants them to obsess and act out of their mind for her. "Did you want me to rip him away from you or something?"

@plantfeed

#mimi & kai. #mimi & kai 001. #⥂ mimi martínez.╱ threads. #oculiaperticlausi.