#Cheat For Space Frontier

[tieronecrush]

all i need to hear

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M

word count: 5.1k

summary: part II to 102 -- frankie lies to you to get out of your weekly meetings when he needs space. when you confront him after finding out, everything comes to a head.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor, osito), use of spanish, unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use, triple frontier boys teasing you, lying/deception, mentions of substance abuse

a/n: thank you everyone who wanted a part 2, and thank you to the lovely @cannolighost for beta reading <3

Frankie runs his thumb and index finger through the condensation on his glass, the foamy amber liquid downed halfway despite only getting it dropped off at the table a couple of minutes ago. His leg bounces under the table, half listening to the conversation happening around him at the round booth. Pope, Will, and Benny sit around the table, all with drinks of their own and chatting about Benny’s fight last week. His leg bounces under the table, but he keeps his eyes on the area of the table to attempt to tune into his friends around him. He can’t focus on what they're saying, hearing the words and not connecting them into sentences, and his mind races as he glances at the front door of the bar & restaurant. He can swear he feels the tick of his watch against his wrist, in time with his pulse. A hand lifts his cap off his head, running his fingers through his hair from front to back three times.

The doors moving in his periphery catch his attention. He stands when he sees you, raising his arm halfway in a short wave when you look around the bar for the group.

When you notice him, that sanguine grin of yours stretches across your face and crinkles the skin next to your sparkling eyes. His palms get sweaty at the sight of you nearly gliding through the restaurant, noticing people’s stares being drawn to you. You always managed to brighten every room you occupied effortlessly; he’s watched people sink at ease around your presence, just like you do for him every time he sees you or hears your voice, or feels the warmth radiating off your body and your smile.

The complete opposite of his shy diffidence.

A positive attraction to his negative.

Like those magnets on the North Pole and the South Pole that create a magnetic field, the energy between you two is constantly charged. At least to Frankie, it was; he couldn’t pull himself too far away when you were around.

He grins back at you, one side of his mouth reaching higher as you approach the booth. Your hand reaches up to tug a loose hair behind your ear and Frankie’s fingers itch to do the same on the other side.

“Hey, Osito,” you giggle as he rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hold back a grin at the nickname you’ve dubbed him with since you were teenagers.

“Hi Solecita,” he draws you in with an arm around your shoulders, yours snaking around his waist to squeeze you against his torso before pulling away. The other guys greet you, half hugs leaning over the table and Pope giving you a kiss on the cheek like he always does. He’s teased Frankie about it before, and it used to annoy him, but now he sees it as a sign that you, his best friend from before, have been fully integrated into his found family.

Frankie gestures for you to climb into the booth first, everyone cheating around the round table to make room. It’s a bit of a tighter squeeze with five people, so when Frankie sits down, his knee rests against yours.

He relishes in the contact, resting his hand on the leg closest to you. Silent short inhales fill his lungs every time you shift slightly, the comfort between you two over the years making you completely ignore the seemingly accidental touches. They’re no accident to Frankie — his hand is glued at the spot on his thigh, the other hand around his glass squeezing it tighter with each brush of your jeans.

Conversation turns to making plans to go see some new blockbuster comedy, all of the guys agree to a showing on Monday night. Santiago extends the invitation to you, and Frankie turns his head as everyone waits for your answer.

“I actually can’t make it, I’m sorry guys. You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

“Well, Miss Popular, where are you gonna be?” Benny asks, a corner of his mouth kicked up and a wink sent your way. Frankie turns, rolling his eyes to himself as he takes a swig of his second beer.

“Um, I’ve got a date, actually,” you admit slowly, and as each word leaves your mouth, Frankie feels his body temperature increase. With his glass still as his lips, he downs the rest of his drink and gingerly sets down the empty cup. Pope eyes him with a sympathetic gaze directly across from him.

“A date? Damn, Sol, who’s the lucky guy?” Benny grins at you and Frankie tenses, shifting to sit up straighter on the leather bench. Heat burns at the nape of his neck from Benny’s casual use of the nickname he gave you years ago; it’s become your call sign for the group, but he can’t help the flickering flames of jealousy every time he hears it. They’re only brighter from the mention of your date; it’s like gasoline poured over the fire, a burst of blazing warmth rising up his throat to blister his esophagus.

“His name’s Tristan. We’ve gone on like four dates so far?” You glance around the table as silence falls over the guys. With one look Frankie can tell what they’re all thinking, an involuntary chuckle slipping from his lips and shaking his shoulders. Your head immediately turns to him, confusion clear on your face.

“What? What am I missing?” You snap back to look at each of the other men, a disbelieving laugh escaping you, trying to play into whatever the unspoken joke is.

“Tristan? That’s really his name?” Benny asks with a baffled smirk on his face, eyebrows raised. Santiago explodes in laughter, the infectious sound roping in the rest of the guys. Frankie joins in quietly, glancing over at you and biting his laughter back when he sees your adorable pouty expression.

With a huff you cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes. “Y’all are a bunch of dicks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sol. You have to give us some slack, the guy’s name is Tristan. What kind of name is that? He sounds like he’s like a personal trainer that creeps on women in the gym.” Santi says through his wide smile, shaking his head.

Benny gets even more of a kick out of Pope’s joke, adding to it, “Or sounds like he should be rolling up on a skateboard and asking if you want sativa or indica.”

A guttural groan comes from you and Frankie smiles softly as you bend forward to rest your elbows on the surface and bury your head in your hands.

He’s living for the guys ragging on this dude, but a larger part of him wants to make sure you know it’s only teasing.

“Alright, alright, give it a rest, pendejos.”

He lays a hand between your shoulder blades and rubs a slow circle, giving you an empathetic, tight smile when you raise your head. Frankie’s eyes drop to where you’ve placed your hand on his knee, patting twice before laying it back in your lap. Your touch has eased the burn of jealousy in him like a cold bucket of water thrown over his head and shocking his system.

“Frankie’s right, we shouldn’t be so judgmental just from his name. Even if it’s a little ridiculous,” Pope grins and Will shakes his head, cutting him off before he can attempt to crack any more jokes.

“Just tell them to shut the fuck up whenever you want to, Sol. They’ll actually listen to you, not Fish,” he nods and grins at Frankie, turning his gaze back to you, “So what’s this Tristan like?”

It’s been a few more hours, and you have not stopped bringing up Tristan at every chance you get now that the news was broken to the guys. Little things like Santi ordering a new beer from some local place, “I just went to that brewery with Tristan”, to something that Frankie certainly didn’t need, and desperately didn’t want, to know. Benny being Benny had brought up the third date rule, citing some conversation he had with some girls who work at the gym where he asked if girls have the same thought about the third date as guys. The younger Miller had turned the question to you, asking if you’d followed the third date rule with the new dude. Immediately flustered, you scrambled and Will stepped in, smacking his brother over the head in reprimand.

“Can’t just ask someone shit like that, Benjamin. God, you’re getting more clueless the older you get, I swear.”

It’s dropped after that, but Frankie is stewing inside over the fact that you hesitated. Being friends for years, he knows you would have shut Ben down immediately if nothing happened between you and Tristan.

He checks the time on his phone, thankful for the excuse he has to get an early night. Gently hitting his fist against the table, he grabs everyone’s attention and moves to stand from the booth.

“Gonna head out, got that early morning meeting for my hearing shit tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait! Do you mind giving me a ride? Sorry, I meant to ask earlier and totally spaced,” you smile sweetly at him, the look in your eyes saying ‘I love these guys but please don’t leave me here alone with them’.

Screaming at him, the voice inside his head tells him to say no, that he will just end up feeling worse than he already does if you bring up the other guy with no one else around to listen for him, but when he looks at that face that seems to always melt his resistance, his lips stretch into the softhearted smile that he reserves for you.

“Don’t mind at all, Solecita. C’mon,” he reaches a hand out, grasping yours when you take the offering, sliding out of the booth and turning to say your goodbyes to his friends still sitting. Frankie sends them each a nod goodbye, the lazy raise of his hand in a wave. He clocks the look that Pope gives him, his eyes saying wordlessly, “Do it, cabrón.”

Frankie strides next to you, walking a step ahead to his truck. You catch up with him at the passenger door, a light laugh breathed out as you speak.

“Geez, Frankie, you’re walking like your ass is on fire.”

He mumbles an apology, opening the car door for you and helping you up with a hand. It’s quiet on the road, the low hum of the radio filling the dead space. Franke’s suddenly the poster child for proper driving, sitting up rigidly straight, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, and eyes trained at the road in front of him, only flickering to check his mirrors.

He doesn’t dare look at you when you adjust in the seat, the swoop of movement in his periphery. Never thought it would happen, but he is incredibly grateful for his interrogation training, being able to sit in droning silence without succumbing to the need to break it. You, however, don’t have the same steal as him and decide to fill the pin-drop quiet with your plans for the weekend. Including seeing Tristan.

No physical reactions give him away, but the thought he has makes his insides roll like the barrel of a wave, crashing over and dissipating nervous energy throughout the rest of his body. 

Your voice fades into the background of the buzzing in his ears as he pulls up to your house, his eyes flay from the reach of the headlights in front of the truck and he looks over at you with a rosy, cushioned smile that he wants to fall into.

“Thanks for the ride, Osito,” your hand reaches across the center console, knuckle of your index finger lightly knocking against the stubble of his chin, “See you Sunday?”

The skin there burns reddened, hidden by the darkness of the car. All his frustration, at himself, at the situation, at you (albeit, misplaced, but still there), sits in his chest, fueling his spiraling thoughts that corkscrew into one decision. The words spill from his mouth before he can fully think about them.

“I can’t make it on Sundays anymore, or at least for a while. My, um, my NA meetings that I go to, y’know the ones closest to my place that are run by my sponsor? They got moved to Sunday mornings cause some church group needs the hall on Thursday nights now.” Eyes averted from you, he only glances lightning quick to see you visibly deflate in your seat. Guilt creeps across his skin, the disappointment evident in your face but you stay silent in your feelings, never going to ask him to do anything that would possibly affect his sobriety.

“Well, maybe we can chat next week and figure out another day that could work?” Moon-eyed with a stunted, mirthless quirk of your lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you later this week, Solecita.”

“Alright, um, probably should head into bed. Night, Osito. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“Will do. Night, mi mejor.”

He sends you as loose of a smile as he can muster, idling at the curb to make sure you get inside your door. The engine revs when he pulls away, letting out a large exhale that he was holding in.

Maybe with some space, he can finally move on.

TO: Frankie 🧸

Hey, any chance you have a few minutes to talk? Got a little bit of time on my lunch left.

Can’t, sorry Sol. At work, don’t have lunch for another 1.5 hrs.

No worries! Call me when you’re off?

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Sorry I missed your call

About to go into another meeting with my lawyer, talk later?

Sounds good! Call me whenever

Hey, how’d the meeting go? Have time to chat?

TO: Frankie 🧸

Sorry to bother, do you have a couple minutes to talk? Just feeling a little meh after work today

Fuck

Sorry I missed this Sol

Guys dragged me out to celebrate my hearing getting scheduled for next month

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Hey Sol

Guess what

Did something you’re gonna hate

Francisco what have you done??

Got a haircut for my hearing

I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY WRONG

God, you’re such a dork

I forgive you for cutting your hair, it’ll grow back

How’s the license stuff going by the way? Haven’t gotten to hear about it from you!

TO: Frankie ​​🧸

Ran into Ben and Will at the grocery store

They said you need some character witnesses for your hearing?

I’d do it for you Osito

TO: Frankie 🧸

Everything okay? We haven’t talked in a while

Just wanted to check in with you 🩵

I miss you

It’s been an adjustment to have Sunday mornings free.

Normally you’d sleep until the last minute before you needed to get out the door, throwing on whatever clothes are clean and cozy, stopping for coffee on your way over to the park to meet Frankie. It was always early enough that there weren’t too many people, but consistently late enough to not be caught by a creeping dawn. Some of your favorite mornings with Frankie had been the ones where both of you still met in the pouring rain, parking right next to each other and him running out of his car and quickly over to the passenger seat of yours.

These days, your Sunday mornings have been quiet. Slow. No scramble to get out of bed on time. No feeling of warmth radiating off of Frankie. No sunlight wrapping you two in its embrace. No smell of Irish Spring soap, mint toothpaste, or his cologne you’d helped him pick out before a date years ago — notes of black currant, bergamot, patchouli, and birch that waft from his sweatshirt and tickle your nose, placating any anxious thoughts with one hit.

No, Sundays now are waiting. Waiting for the morning to be over to move on from the ache in your heart. Waiting for a message or a phone call from Frankie. Waiting for the word that his NA meetings have been moved back and your sacred routine can begin again. Waiting for the day that you don’t have to miss him anymore.

This week, you decide not to wallow at home. It will be a productive morning or at least a distracting morning; there’s a bookstore on the other side of town from you, close to Frankie’s, that you have been meaning to make a return at. You thought you would do it the next time you were on your way to his house, but with the way things have been, that day is further and further away. And you only have another week left, according to your receipt.

Rubber soles of your sneakers shuffle against the pavement as you walk down the street, taking in one of your favorite areas of the city that you haven’t visited in a while. You cross your arms over your chest, pulling the flannel jacket you’re wearing tighter to you to block out a chilled autumn breeze. The sun is shining, and it hasn’t quite dropped to an uncomfortable cold, so there are still tons of people milling about along the street. The cafe next to the bookstore even has outdoor tables arranged, and as you approach, the sight at one of them stops your feet from moving and glues your eyes to the spot.

Frankie is sitting in the sunshine, coffee in front of him, and Santiago across from him. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you check the time to make sure you weren’t off in your thoughts.

Yep, definitely should be in his meeting.

God, if only the sidewalk could swallow you up, leaving you to never have to face this. Why isn’t he in his meetings? He should be showing up to everything he can to prove that he’s sober for his license hearing. He would be a fucking idiot to mess that up.

Another thought crosses your mind, bubbling in your stomach and sending bilic, steamy breath to burn your throat as your newfound rage cooks you from the inside out.

Does he even have meetings on Sundays? Was he avoiding you? Lying to you?

Frankie would never do that to you. He couldn’t. He was your best friend. Your Osito. You were in lo—

No. No spiraling. No wasting any more energy on chasing your tail about him, feeling like a lost puppy begging for attention.

Instead, your anger forces your feet forward before your brain catches up, crossing the yard-width sidewalk and standing right in view of Frankie, next to Santiago’s chair. He looks away from Pope, the grin on his face dropping as soon as his eyes register that it was you. Mouth ajar, grip on his coffee cup tighter, and eyes wide —  embarrassed and apologetic.

“Are you skipping out on meetings or did you not want to hang out with me anymore?” Your eyebrows raise, glance darting to the side to see Santi sink in his chair. Frankie blubbers his lips, living up to his call sign as he gasps for air under your blazing vexation, “Y’know what, it doesn’t even matter, cause either way I can’t believe you. I’m so pissed at you. I thought you were better than this.”

“Solecita, wait.” He stands from the table and follows you as you walk away, tears stinging your eyes. You can’t even face him anymore, the fury inside ashing as it fades into icy dejection.

“No, Frankie, I can’t talk about this right now. I really don't even want to look at you right now,” he catches his hand on your bicep, turning you to face him as you stumble. He steadies you with a hand on your waist, the apologetic look in his watery brown eyes and the smolder of his touch making you step back breathlessly.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I really am, it’s just— you wouldn’t understand, I’m—”

You hold a hand up to stop him, shaking your head and attempting to cover the emotion in your voice, failing miserably when you open your mouth.

“Please, Frankie, I can’t,” you lock your eyes on your sneakers, blinking back your tears, “I need to go.”

Frankie doesn’t protest again, standing frozen on the sidewalk and watching as you walk past the table. Pope’s eyes flick up from his phone that he pulled out to keep his attention away from the private conversation. When you disappear around a street corner, his limbs loosen from their marbleized rigidity, sulking over to the small bistro table and sitting down in silence.

One of his hands drags down his face, his mind is willing away the tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Santiago looks at him with a grievance, clearing his throat and speaking bluntly.

“That was fucked up lying to her about that, Fish.”

Frankie glares, rancor jagged in his voice, “Obviously I know that. But I couldn’t sit there every week and listen to her brag about this guy…I want her to be bragging about me to her other friends. It’s not fucking fair.”

“You’re the one who stopped yourself from taking the chance to tell her how you feel. And you’re still doing it.”

“She’s probably in a relationship by now, I can’t just dump all my shit on her.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know if she’s even still dating the dude 'cause you’ve been avoiding her!”

That shuts Frankie up and makes him even more annoyed — mostly because Pope is right. And he fucking hates when that happens.

He stews for a taciturn minute; thoughts hastened in plotting. He runs a palm flat against the stubble dotting his chin, working his jaw side to side.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says it as almost a question before his brain is yelling at him to move, “I gotta go find her. Do you think she’s in her car yet? Fuck, I don’t even know where that is. Should I go to her house and wait if she’s not home? Do I drive around the city to find her?”

Pope chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he stands and claps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“I think you know exactly where she’s gonna be.”

It’s nearly midday now, the blinding autumnal sun casting short shadows in the trees as he jogs from the parking lot along the paved trails. It’s busy — way busier than when he usually comes here on Sundays. He’s dodging strollers, slipping sideways between groups of friends and families, juking with runners in the middle of their workouts. When he almost reaches you, he nearly misses his foot getting caught in the slack of a dog lead, lifting it in a skip as he calls out an apology behind him, either to the dog or owner, he doesn’t really care who hears it.

 Darting his eyes around the field, his ears are filled with the sound of his thumping pulse, blood rushing as loud as waves. He’s standing in the middle of the path, getting dirty looks and passive-aggressive comments, but it all falls away when he sees you. Sitting on the usual rock, arms hugging your knees to your chest and head bent to rest against the joints there. Inside of his chest, his heart is squeezed to mush, seeping into the deepest ache he’s felt between his ribs and down his vertebrae.

Never, in all your years as friends, did he ever hurt you like this.

And with what he has to tell you, there’s a possibility that he’ll never be able to make it up to you. That you’ll never want to see him again.

In spite of it, his legs drag him forward, paying no mind to those around him having to stop in their tracks or swerve to avoid him. He’s chartered on a course directly to you, climbing onto the stone quietly until a scrap of his sneaker catches your attention and lifts your head to look at him.

Fuck, you were crying. All because he was a fucking stupid coward.

No sound breaks between you two as Frankie sits next to you, a foot of space separating you. He picks up a small pebble that’s broken off the larger boulder, rolling it with his fingers before tossing it into the water and watching the ripple form and dissipate. After another beat, his head turns to you, your own stuck straight ahead.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I am so fucking sorry that I lied to you. My meetings didn’t move. And—and I promise I’m still going on Thursday nights. Still sober. Nothing like that has changed. I wouldn’t do that to you—I wouldn’t put myself back in that place after all the help you’ve given me to get my life back…”

Your voice is thick with sadness when you respond, eyes trained ahead on the water, “So, why did you do it? Why did you lie? Why didn’t you want to see me anymore? I’ve been trying to think of something that happened, something I did. What did I do to drive you away?”

“No. Please don’t think like that. You did nothing, Solecita. Nothing. It was something I didn’t do that made me put space between us. It was a selfish thing to do, and I am so sorry that I did it.”

“What didn’t you do? I can’t think of anything I expected of you. Well, besides our Sundays and being my best friend. You’ve been doing both of those for years.”

“It wasn’t…It wasn’t anything you asked of me, Sol. It was something I’ve been needing to do for years,” he swallows hard and sits up, squinting in the sunlight reflecting off of the rippling pond.

“I understand if you need some space for real after this. Or if you’re angry, or if you wanna just get up and leave. I’ll understand.”

“Frankie, you’re kind of scaring me. Just tell me,” you rest a hand on his arm laying on his propped knee, tender eyes melting his heart, “Always here. Always, Osito.”

He takes a deep breath, nerves haywire, and shakes jolting energy throughout his body. He trains his eyes on his shoes as he begins the confession he’s held in for nearly as long as he’s known you.

“I’m…Sol—Fuck. I’m sorry. I want to tell you, I do, but the words are really not coming to me how I want them to.”

“Francisco Pedro Morales, just tell me. Whatever words are in your head are the right ones,” you lean closer to him, reaching a hand up to brush the hairs at his forehead that stick out from his cap.

His eyes close for a long minute, attempting to relax his galloping heart.

With no luck in calming down, he opens his eyes and turns his head to you, stare locking at yours as a meek voice leaves his mouth.

“I love you.”

You’re perplexed for a moment, eyebrows pinching together before a faint laugh slips out, “I love you too, Frankie. But…you’ve said that to me before. Like many times.”

“No, no I don’t mean — I’m in love with you, Solecita. I have been since…well, since about a month after I met you. You’re this—this radiant, lustrous, fucking dazzling, gentle, and gracious presence in my life that I can never stop thinking about. All I want is to see you smile, and hear your laugh…I want to make you proud of me. I would kill to protect you, even from myself, and stupid shit I do that hurts you. I want to be able to look at you when you walk into a room, and I see everyone fucking glued to you because you’re so shining and joyful and know that you’re mine. That anyone else could try, but I would know that you’re coming home with me, that you chose me. I would fucking worship the ground you walk on, cause I already do. Your word is like gospel to me. It’s like…you’re my true North in life, I just point myself toward you to be able to find my bearings and keep moving…I just, I fucking love you. Te amo infinitamente, con todo en mi. (I love you infinitely, with everything in me.)”

“And I know you’re with Tristan now, so I get it if you can’t—”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not with Tristan. We broke things off weeks ago. I broke things off weeks ago — when we weren’t keeping up with each other because I realized — I realized that I didn’t want him. He was a placeholder. And he could never live up to the person whose place he was holding.”

“Who’s that?” he says defensively, a puff of air leaving his lips in frustration that there’s yet another guy he needs to compete with.

“Que tonto, Francisco. (What a fool, Francisco.)” You shake your head with a creeping grin, the corners of your mouth slowly rising as your eyes sparkle in the sunlight. His own brow furrows in confusion until it clicks a moment later. His own smile matches yours, sheepishly hanging his head before he turns back to you.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, 'Oh.'” The trill of your laughter knocks up his spine and he rolls his eyes playfully, scooting closer on the cool stone.

“So…is this other guy you’ve been waiting around for just like, wickedly handsome? Es él todo lo que soñaste? El tipo de chico con el que te gustaría montar en la puesta de sol? (Is he everything you dreamed of? The type of guy you'd want to ride into the sunset with?)” He smirks, wagging his eyebrows as his eyes flicker to your lips. His pulse races with the real possibility that he’s finally going to get to kiss you, after all of this time and after imagining it in countless daydreams.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about riding into the sunset with him…but I have thought about flying into the sunset with him. Tiene alas para llevarme (He has wings to carry me). Anywhere.”

“Anywhere for you. Te llevaría a cualquier parte, amor (I would take you anywhere, love.)”

Frankie closes the gap between you two, one of his hands reaching up and holding your cheek in his palm. His lips press delicately, featherlight to yours as if he’s scared of breaking the spell with his touch on your skin.

You, always the more assured and decided, hold onto Frankie’s wrist near your face, deepening the kiss. It knocks the air from his lungs, every ounce of his breath is given to you as his lips begin to ebb with yours, tilting your head back to slant his mouth down. You pull away first, his head chasing after you. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you with a gentle smile, eyes twinkling with the dwindling sunlight. A silent laugh is shared between the two of you, a giddy, boyish grin on his face as his heart continues to race.

It’s you who speaks first, voice no louder than a whisper, as if you couldn’t dare share this moment with anyone else around you.

“I love you, Frankie. Always.”

“Siempre, mi amor. Siempre.”

tags: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @deathwife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif @meveispunk @bitchwitch1981 @marisemonteiroo @brittmb115 @axshadows @cannolighost @titabel @the-wrong-providence @wretchedmo

#frankie #writing #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales angst

[stra-tek]

Who doesn't love a good Shuttlebay?

Almost always bigger on the inside, they fit whatever the plot needs💕

Here's where it all started, the U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701 from the OG Star Trek series.

Here's the 1701-A from Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. Insanely enough, the set was originally the palace from Coming to America. This is the only time a full size shuttlebay has been a practical set.

The Next Gen Enterprise-D had an enormous main shuttlebay designed. Enormous and majestic and WAY too expensive to depict, so we only ever saw little secondary bays in the neck of the ship like this one. The set was also used as every cargo bay ever needed.

U.S.S. Defiant NX-74205

This shuttlebay is extra magical, since it didn't exist until it was suddenly needed for an episode. As you can see, it went from a having a protruding tractor beam emitter to a recessed set of doors in the space of a few episodes.

U.S.S. Voyager NCC-74656

This shuttlebay never looked the same twice and changed size to fit whatever was needed at the time. Here it barely fits the Delta Flyer but at other times it holds the Delta Flyer and other ships with room to spare and somehow one time Neelix's ship (not shuttle, ship!) was revealed to just be sitting in storage since the pilot episode

U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701 (AOS)

The Kelvin Timeline movie Enterprise featured the King of shuttlebays. Requiring a massive size cheat to fit inside (this Enterprise is supposed to be 725 meters long, but to fit the shuttlebay it needs to be 1200 meters), it features more than a dozen shuttles in racks along the walls. Tons of high up walkways for crew to fall from and enourmous support beams that are seemingly designed to make landing as hazardous as possible

The U.S.S. Discovery NCC-1031 has an enourmous shuttlebay, and the doors get jammed open after the first season so we always get to see inside.

U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701 (SNW)

Nice and roomy, but not roomy enough for the hundred or so drones they launched at the end of Discovery season 2

#star trek #star trek discovery #star trek aos #star trek the original series #tng #ds9 #starship design #shuttlebay

[wannab-urs]

Pedro Pascal Character Fic Recs | Vol 36

AO3 | Kofi | Main Masterlist | The Spreadsheet Masterlist

Howdy folks!

Welcome to my bi-weekly fic rec list! This is everything I read in the last two weeks. There's some seriously amazing shit on this list, y'all. If I counted properly there are 9 fics, two of which are series.

All info provided by the author unless it was blank, in which case I filled it in.

Punish me, Officer Djarin

Din one shot by @beskarandblasters

You've been thrown into an imperial prison for anti-empire speech. During your sentence, a new prison guard is hired, Officer Djarin, and you take a liking to him.

f!reader, reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, uneven power dynamic, brat taming, degradation (scumbag), fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, his glove in your mouth lol, no use of y/n

To Tell You the Truth

Ezra series by @concussed-to-pieces

Our story begins in the Green, after a certain meeting that culminates in an explosive Truxican standoff...

Survival, Worldbuilding, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Healing, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Extreme Duress, My First Work in This Fandom, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Past Abuse, Feelings Realization, Artist Reader, Reader is a prospector, Outer Space, Sharing a Bed, Roommates, Mutual Pining, Vaginal Fingering, Praise Kink (if you squint), Religious Terms used improperly, Catholics H8 Me, Remember, no man's penis will heal you okay, and fanfictions are not research, But I'm an indulgent fuck so it's okay, Vaginal Sex, big dick energy, Eventual Smut, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Just get it all in there, adoration, Very Flowery Terminology, Happy Ending

Sanguine

Ezra one shot by @marisferasiop

since being turned as a boy into- whatever liminal state of cryptid he is now- Ezra has walked this earth ageless and alone, never finding his place or a partner for long. He interrupts your meal in the city one evening, and brings you home to strike up a deal; feed from him, alone, and keep one another safe from discovery. The fact that he finds his purpose under the soft graze of your teeth and home between your thighs is a nice side effect.

lots of blood, smut, soft yearning sweet boy Ezra, mapuche mythology and monsters, schmoop. Ezra is a subby little sap in this.

Routine

Frankie one shot by @endlessthxxghts

Frankie makes a new routine for himself to help with his mental health. In that routine, Frankie stumbles upon you.

POV switching - stops towards the end, then POVs are combined. Friends to lovers. Slightly scared and reluctant friends to lovers. Slow burn. Canon divergent to Frankie’s Triple Frontier storyline (No history of lady or child for Frankie). Brief mentions of South America and Frankie’s mental health. Brief therapy talk. Overthinking!Frankie, but Reader comforts and reassures him. He’s not insecure the entire time, promise lolol. Hints of angst, but this is me we’re talking about — always will be a happy ending here🫶. No physical description of reader besides coffee shop uniform (no size descriptions used) - any descriptions are neutral, no adjectives to describe (purely things like “your thigh” etc.). No use of “y/n”. SMUT heheheh (making out, cunnilingus + fingering, unprotected P in V sex + cumming inside, breast worship/titty sucking).

Go Your Own Way

Javi P one shot by @schnarfer

Loving you isn’t the right thing to do

1979 Texas, very toxic relationship, sort of enemies to lovers if you squint a bit, absolutely no happy ending for our fuckboy Javier, no descriptions of reader except she has hair and there are outfit references, no specific ages mentioned in 1979 but they would both be early 20’s, Cheating/infidelity mentioned, smoking (OF COURSE), mention of drinking and drugs, two mentions of vomit, the good stuff? we’ve got flirting, kisses and smut; protected PIV, oral (f receiving), fingering, very light dirty talk, couple of light slaps, pet names (cariño, baby), Javier POV, I’ve tried to remove any overt British-isms but some may have slipped in, probably a bit of canon divergence, as well as wild historical and geographical inaccuracies but we’re going for vibes, yeah? and a note, we’re always Fleabag coded here.

Some fools fool themselves

Javi P one shot by @freelancearsonist

You were meant to be a mission—an insider that Javi could wring information from on some of the biggest names in the trade. It didn’t go to plan, but maybe that’s not so bad.

Rated MA for unprotected p in v sex (don’t do this irl pls), oral (m receiving), throatfucking, handjobs, creampie, spanish dirty talk (both javi and reader - translations in footnotes), reader has female anatomy and uses fem pronouns, reader wears a bikini, smoking/nicotine use, cheating (reader is married this is the mob wife fic you all asked for), kind of angsty but mostly just porn with the slightest sprinkling of plot for ✨flavor✨

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

Marcus P one shot by @whataperfectwasteoftime

I am a visitor here. I am not permanent.

angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane

Cabuorir

Oberyn/Din/Reader series by ToricTailor (AO3)

You would have torn the heavens asunder to stop it.

Fix-It, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Get This Man A New Ship, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Reader sandwich, Force-Sensitive Reader, Polyamory, DVP, more

I want it, I got it

Joel one shot by @beskarandblasters

Joel gives you unlimited access to his credit card to shop online while he eats you out.

reader is able-bodied, no outbreak AU, porn with little plot, no age specified for reader, reader sits on Joel’s lap, established sugar daddy relationship, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, squirting, pet names (angel, baby), no use of y/n

Happy Reading!

#fic recs #the spreadsheet digest #fanfiction recommendations #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

[movedtohypnocus]

How Did Sonic See “The End”?

This is just a theory, but I will be using as much canon basis and evidence as I can to back it up. Unlike most of my other theories though, I took this one seriously and I find it quite fun.

At a first glance, The End monologue comes off as a typical ego boost villain speech (probably). That is until you learn and take into consideration what The End really is, or more so what it represents. We now know that it is almost a literal image of death.

As for it being a deity of some kind, we aren’t sure. However, it presents itself as whatever we view death to be. We as the players and audience see a moon because that is a common symbol for death. Sonic and Sage saw something completely different.

So what did Sonic see? Everyone’s curious, everyone’s been asking this because it’s a genuinely interesting concept: death incarnate being a Sonic game’s main antagonist. It becomes clear then that The End knows its purpose, albeit a dark one. Its doing its job, to a fucked up extent.

I propose that Sonic saw nothing. Almost nothing, anyway. I was thinking more along the lines of a void, akin to space (Boötes Void for example). This seems like a stretch, and maybe it is, but I have spent many hours over-analyzing The End monologue, so naturally I am very normal about this.

Why, though? A lot of the monologue sounds like utter nonsense, but it hit me. Everyone’s favorite game Sonic 06 is still canon, just that only Sonic remembers it. This would mean that Sonic remembers dying, or that he definitely did die. But now The End knows this, too.

One specific line stood out to me the most: a question.

“I saw your mind. Your courage never wavered. Why? Arrogance? Ignorance? Stupidity? I was contained once. Once. Is that why?”

At face value, due to the lines that come after, it seems like The End is talking about Cyberspace being its prison. Which of course is true, but I don’t think that’s what it's referring to here at all. It seems more to me like it is referring to Sonic dying and being revived in 06; containing death, if you will.

Sonic cheating death would give him less of a reason to fear it. I think this frustrates The End to a degree, as Sonic is ditching his fate in both 06 and Frontiers.

If there’s nothing to fear in death, why would Sonic see anything at all?

#postnocus #sonic frontiers #sonic frontiers spoilers #sonic the hedgehog #ok lol this is a massive stretch but i love it sm

[tripleyeeet]

My brain has been rotting with Romero and Wyll so buckle in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride in infodump land.

To refresh, Romero is a bard, one son of the famous bard Gerhart Tulb, who left a lot of families behind on his own adventures. Gerhart reconciled with his lovers, married most of them, and built a large house for his kids and partners to live in. Anyway,

Wyll is an only child. He's used to a small, compact family. He would love a kid or two of his own one day, but the idea of a large family (especially one as large as Romero's, with ~11 parents and ~14 or so kids) isn't really on his mind.

In comes Romero, somewhere-in-the-middle-child of a huge family, who isn't used to having a small family. He get married to Wyll after the tad-venture and lives with Wyll, helping with politics and social reforms where he can. But it's empty. Too empty. Romero is literally begging to fill the space up as quickly as possible because it's off-putting for him. He's used to taking care of his little siblings and helping in family matters.

They take the time to settle into home living again, take time to really talk and think things through and just enjoy life and love. And then they adopt a few kids. One to start, but then comes another, and another. I haven't actually put much thought into their kids, but at least one is definitely a tiefling.

Wyll is the sweet, always gentle parent. He'll teach his kids how to fight and be brave and all that, but he never hurts them in their little sparring sessions. Not even a scratch. He's busy with being a Duke, but he always finds time for his family. It's everything he could have dreamed of and more.

Romero, on the other hand, pure chaos. He's picking up the kids and swinging them around by their feet, carrying them around everywhere under his arm and slung over his shoulder. Their littlest, the tiefling, he's more careful with, but even then he's pretending to toss her into the Chionthar. He teaches them music and instruments, and magic. He's a little shocked if any of them don't want to take up music - almost his entire family are bards, to the point it feels like it runs through their blood. But he takes it in stride, trying to be a good dad and help them get where they wanna go.

I also imagine Wyll and Romero spar each other with their rapiers to put on a show for the kids. Who's to say if Romero cheats by trying to distract him?

They both tell the kids stories each night. Usually they switch off, but sometimes one is busy and the other takes over. Romero's a great story teller without music, but he loves getting to play his lute while traveling from bed to bed as he sings about their adventures. He'll also tell them about the Blade of Frontiers, about the Blade's triumphs, but he doesn't tell them one of their dads is the famed hero. He leaves that to Wyll, because he left the Blade behind to become Wyll Ravengard, Duke of Baldur's Gate. It's not his place to put the mask back on.

I've rambled on for long enough, but!! They deserve a family and kids and all the happiness in the world!!! I love themmm <33333 I'm currently 3k words into a smutfic for them and it is the sweetest thing istfg

If you want me to infodump again, I have so many thoughts on Wyll's "forgive but never forget" versus Romero's "never forget, never forgive, especially if it wronged someone I love"

Also bc idk if you saw it, here's some art I did perfectly displaying their parenting styles okay I'm done lmao

first of all, LOVE ROMERO TO DEATH. i remember when you first mentioned him to me (i think it was the scene where he's helping take care of wyll's horns?) i was kicking me feet. they're so cute together. and the idea of them growing alongside each other and getting the opportunity to raise their own in the way that they want must be so healing for wyll?

like, i know this is about romero but i just have to mention the idea of wyll getting to provide his kids with the love he didn't receive growing up has my heart HURTING. that man went through hell and back and came out humble and loving and just???? he'd be the best dad.

same with romero though. in a different way, obviously. but nonetheless in one that both of their parenting styles i think would compliment the other.

also. screaming at the pics you've provided. that meme format is one of my favourites. <3

#asks #romero #wyll ravengard #show and tav

[scottsumrners]

If you like tales of self-discovery, I can interest you on Bending The Lines (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords) and ---But I'm Straight! (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords)

if your thing is the supernatural; the unknown, I got The Alpha's Bite (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords) and Hunger (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords)

if it's space! the final frontier, try JOYSTAR: PAST IS PROLOGUE (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords) (free!) or the sequel, JOYSTAR: ROYAL ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords)

if you want the escapism of fantasy and fairy tales, try the Neverland's Chase saga: As White As Snow (Amazon: epub - paperback / Kobo / Smashwords), The Deep Blue Sea: (Amazon: epub - paperback / Kobo / Smashwords), In Sheep's Clothing: (Amazon: epub - paperback / Kobo / Smashwords)

if you're more into horror and mystery, try Hell O' Ween (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords)!

and, of course, if you want forbidden/spicy relationships, there's The Ties That Blind (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords) and (In)Decent Proposal (Amazon / Kobo / Smashwords) ;)

Caution/Trigger Warning: most of these stories feature sexual themes of some sort (all except Hell O' Ween have some sex scenes, even if not all of them are explicit). There are also mentions and depictions of some themes that may be unsavory to some readers, including rape, incest, CSA, cheating, homo/transphobia and violence.

#writers on tumblr #polls #books

[nerendus]

Space should be the final frontier, but we have one issue: the motherfucking ocean. 90% of the ocean remains a mystery to us due to its vastness, and as such, money is given to the ocean to explore it, however slowly it may be. That's precious money that we could be sending into outer space to kiss aliens on Alpha Centauri.

So, in order to solve this problem, I suggest that we hold an Olympics sort of deal where every country sends submarines/divers/USOs with GPSs attached so we can track how much of the ocean is being actually explored. And the game does not end until 100% of the ocean has been explored. People on submarines are not allowed to take lunch breaks, divers cannot resurface for oxygen, USOs do not get paid by humans until we know absolutely everything there is to know about the ocean.

Not only does this eliminate unnecessary spending on something that isn't space, we would have a 50% chance of ending all wordly conflicts and we all become friends (more money for space)....the other 50% chance is that someone will accuse another country of cheating and another war breaks out.

Suffice to say, I do not think there is a single flaw in this plan. Someone hire me.

#texts from the underbrush

[mikurulucky]

Since Leiji LOVED reusing character designs he likes, especially back in the early 70s, there are TONS of short lived and oneshot manga starring alternate versions of my smol spectacled f/o and perhaps an alternate version of his space wife lol. Some more adult oriented than others (albeit without anatomical details because, this was the 70s and standards for that seem to be a bit more strict then).

Want Tochiro working as a salaryman with a plot surrounding a lady taking spicy pictures? There's a oneshot manga for that. Tochiro in more of a 20th century war setting? There's a oneshot manga for that. Tochiro running a business dedicated to having wives... *ahem*, cheat on their husband with him so the husband could divorce them with a dash of social commentary on 70s Japan (oh, and with a baby sister he has to care for via the money from said business)? There's a short lived manga for that and it predates Gun Frontier!

Yeah, there's a LOT of one-off manga out there from Leiji, many that haven't been translated in English.

#it's wild just how much he's written up until his passing #like wow #and that's not even mentioning the pre-gun frontier stuff he's done for the shoujo demographic #that shit had a COMPLETELY different art style too #so that's real fucking interesting #leiji matsumoto #meta

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: The Nicest Thing

Read on Ao3

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Santi x you/librarian!reader, Frankie x same reader, eventually Marcus Pike x same reader

Warnings: This one is a mess of angst, bad self esteem, shame, kind of slut shaming of the self, kind of sloppy seconds, kind of cheating but not really, super bad judgment calls, alcohol is involved, PiV sex, other people hearing you have sex, cunnilingus, basically public sex in a car, hangover. I think I got all of it?

Words: 5,740

Summary: After having turned down Frankie, the nice dad who visited you regularly in your workplace the library with his daughter, you meet Santiago and hook up. However, you had no idea who Santi's best friend is...

A/N: This is a sequel to What We Don't Know Can't Hurt Us. It's been long in the making but here we go. I originally started writing this together with @missredherring but she later bequeathed the story to me. Props to her thought for getting me started on this! This is not a happy story, so be aware of that. Song to go with it: The Nicest Thing by Kate Nash.

All I know is that you're so nice

You're the nicest thing I've seen

I wish that we could give it a go

See if we could be something

Your heart drops when you see Frankie come to a stop by the table you managed to grab for you in the busy bar, and you feel sick when he nods his hello to Santiago.

Frankie is one of Santi’s friends.

His brown gaze rests on your face and you can barely return it. You haven’t seen him at work anymore: after he asked you out and you turned him down, you talked to your supervisor and asked to be transferred from the children’s section. You didn’t want to see Frankie or his kid again and the section for adult fiction seemed like a safer place when wanting to avoid a single father and a child. The library, a space you always enjoyed spending your days in, became something of a video game where you were constantly on your guard, always dreading the sudden appearance of a handsome man armed with a shy, kind smile.

You never saw him at work again but now he’s standing right in front of you in this bar. Frankie, here, with you and Santiago, your new boyfriend – no, not boyfriend: fuck buddy – are to meet his friends for a couple of drinks. Santi makes the introductions and Frankie extends his hand, pretending not to know you. Oh. Okay.

“Good to meet you,” you mumble, shaking his hand quickly before releasing it, like you burned yourself.

Two more show up as well, brothers, and you realize that they are the ones that Frankie mentioned to you a couple of times when talking to you in the library, you keeping an eye on the service desk and he on his girl. Hopefully, the men won’t put two and two together and realize who you are. You’re pretty sure Frankie has mentioned you to them. If not Frankie, then his kid. Judging from how the men are asking Frankie how Sofia is doing, they’re all a tight bunch who know his kid and are actively involved in her life in some way.

You keep a low profile, smiling and answering questions politely without initiating any conversation. Santi’s hand is on your thigh most of the evening, and you do nothing to remove it. But in the presence of Frankie, whom you so very recently turned down because of his history, the hand on you starts to feel heavy and wrong.

You met Santiago not long after that catastrophic goodbye to Frankie. Your girlfriends thought you needed a night out, have some fun, get laid, and you decided to at least try in order to get your mind off the Frankie mess. When Santi’s velvety dark eyes met yours across the dancefloor of a club, you weren’t hard-pressed to accept his invites. He was a great dancer, moving his strong body sensually, always with a hand on your hip or your waist, occasionally on your ass. He was funny. He was a good kisser. He was great in bed, where you ended up with him that very same night.

He was handsome and charming, and you were honestly surprised that he texted you the next day. You met up, mostly for sex, but he would actually cook for you as well. He courted you before blowing your back out, and you appreciated that. He was thoughtful that way.

But you didn’t see yourself ending up with him, not long-term. You sensed that he wasn’t the type. And while you decidedly enjoyed fucking him, you didn’t see yourself ever loving him. You were having fun, that was all. Sure, you probably wanted more in the future from some other man but right now, this was enough. You felt beautiful and appreciated in bed with Santi, but you knew this thing has an end date.

And now, with this new revelation, it’s pretty clear that you’ve reached the end date. It’s tonight, right this minute. This isn’t right. But for some reason, you can’t seem to just get up, excuse yourself, and leave. Maybe it’s your mother’s voice deep inside your brain, telling you to be a good girl no matter how uncomfortable you are, just smile and nod, or maybe you feel sorry for Santi. Or, quite possibly, you just enjoy being in Frankie’s presence again. You avoid his stare but you feel it on you, your skin tingles with it, and you find yourself craving it. When Santi kisses you it feels wrong but exciting. You lock eyes with Frankie right after the kiss, blushing when you see the conflict painted on his face, plain for everyone to see before he seems to catch himself and carefully arrange his features into something more neutral.

The evening drags on and you drink a little too much. When an afterparty at Santi’s place is suggested, you are too dazed to protest. So you go with them, get into Will’s truck with Santi and Benny, Frankie driving himself. At Santi’s place, you end up on his lap while Frankie, Benny, and Will fool around the living-room. Benny is a bit of a brawler and keeps challenging his brother to wrestling matches. Santi accepts a challenge as well, leaving you on the couch for a drunken wrestle on the floor. Casually, Frankie sits down next to you, a little too close. He looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes. What he didn’t drink at the bar in order to be in driving condition, he’s making up for now. You ignore his gaze stubbornly but it’s hard because he’s just so near you. You feel his thigh against you and his shoulder is crowding you towards the arm rest… it’s torture. It’s ridiculous how bothered it makes you. How horny. How guilty and disgusting. Why does he have to smell so good? Old leather and sweat and beer and something sweet like… pomegranate?

You try to focus instead on the juvenile and idiotic match between Santi and Benny but the question that keeps ringing in your head is: What are you even doing here? Why are you still here where these two men that you don’t even want are pretending to fight each other for your hand?

Frankie leans closer. “Sofia asks about you.”

“Don’t,” you mumble, still refusing to look at him. You may have stared brazenly at him earlier when Santi’s lips and hands were on you but now you just feel dirty. You should leave, just take your shit and leave. But you don’t have your car and you’re too drunk to drive, anyway. Maybe an Uber?

A winner seems to be declared in the fight and Santi staggers over to the couch, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. He kisses you, panting from the wrestling, his alcohol breath puffing in your face making you wrinkle your nose.

“I think I’ll get an Uber,” you suggest carefully. “It’s getting late and I’m tired.”

“I’m not letting you into an Uber by yourself,” Santi shakes his head, suddenly sobering up. “No way. Stay the night.”

For some reason you end up agreeing. Maybe it’s pity: you know you’re going to break up with him – or whayever it is one does with a fuck buddy – or maybe you just want to spend one last night in his company. Whatever it is, the two of you end up in his bedroom, kissing desperately, Santi’s confident hands touching you in all the right places with the exact pressure you crave. He stops to make sure you are consenting in your inebriated state and doesn’t go on until you’re begging him to fuck you. When he finally pushes into your quivering cunt, he’s wearing a rubber and you’re already shaking from two orgasms he gave you with his fingers. He fucks you fast and hard, like he usually does; not without precision, but with a heated urgency that he keeps up for much longer than you ever expected. It’s his thing but it doesn’t make any less thrilling now than the first time. His skin turns shiny from sweat but he keeps nailing you to the mattress without showing any signs of slowing down, nearing his climax, or getting tired. You suddenly realize that it’s because you don’t matter to him more than he matters to you. If the two of you were committed and in love, would he be cradling your head against his shoulder, whispering in your ear how good you feel, how well you take him, how lucky he is to be fucking you like this, how he want to keep fucking his good girl like this until the end of time? Instead, he keeps himself high above you, arms straight in a push-up position, as he thrusts into you until he pulls out and makes you turn around so that he can continue from behind. His stamina hasn’t suffered as he goes on pounding you for at least another ten minutes while you struggle more and more to keep your voice down. The two of you may not share an emotional connection but fuck, he’s good, you’ve never been fucked like this in your entire life, it’s so insanely good and it will get even better when you cum on his cock, so you reach between your legs and rub your clit furiously, your moans rising with the tightening of the string deep within you. When it finally snaps you shout out and Santi curses, his thrusts turning more erratic.

“Can I cum on your ass?” he pants and you wail out a Yes! to which he replies with a growl as he pulls out of you, slaps your ass, then grunts loudly as the condom snaps off and he spurts hot cum on your ass and lower back.

He cuddles you for a little while after but the alcohol and orgasm are overpowering him and he’s out like a light, snoring blissfully next to you. You lie awake in the dark, exhausted and satisfied but unable to sleep because of his loud snores. You’ve spent nights with him before but he has always slept quietly and you guess the alcohol has something to do with his vibrating tissues.

The sound of steps in the apartment outside the closed bedroom door makes you freeze. Is someone still here? Didn’t everyone leave? Will would drive Benny but Frankie did drive his own truck here.

Oh no. No. Is Frankie still here? You vaguely remember something about crashing on the couch and driving home tomorrow morning, but you can’t be sure. Oh God. He’s heard everything, he must have.

You feel sick and tears of shame burn in your eyes. Slowly, your head aching with the beginnings of a hangover, you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Quietly and without turning on the light you collect your clothes and get dressed, managing to put everything on right without waking Santi. Eventually, you slip out of the bedroom and slink into the kitchen for a glass of water.

The empty bottles and beer cans smell revolting, and there’s a slice of pizza sitting alone in an opened, greasy box. You don’t even remember having pizza earlier but you’re not hungry so it must be so. Turning on the tap and letting the water run until it’s ice cold, you fill a large glass and then drink all of it in one go.

Heavy footsteps enter the kitchen behind you and you turn around, heart in your throat.

Frankie, his t-shirt wrinkled and his wavy, thick hair tousled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Did you know?” he asks you in a low voice. Your frown tells him that you have no idea what he’s talking about, so he specifies:

“Did you know that he was a friend of mine?”

“No.” You shake your head, relieved that you can at least be honest about this, but terrified that the conversation turned to this giant elephant in the room immediately.

“He doesn’t do relationships, you know.”

“That’s not what this is,” you immediately let him know, then correct yourself: “Was.”

“Maybe you could try Will next.” Frankie’s harsh tone is like the slice of a well-sharpened knife. “Goldilocks is maybe more your type.”

You bristle despite feeling like absolutely shit about yourself.

“If this is how you are when you don't get your way, Frankie, then I'm glad we didn't get together.”

It hurts, but he has no right. You bet he’d never talk like this to Santiago. It’s probably bros before hos there, a pat on the back, an “I love you, hermano”, and you’ll be just an ugly memory.

You want to get away but Frankie’s blocking the kitchen door and while you don’t think that he would hurt you, there’s again that good girl voice inside you that tells you to stay and deal with this. You made your own bed with this and now you have to lie in it.

“Why him?” Frankie now demands, but there is no heat in his voice, only sadness. Nevertheless, it gets you worked up. Why does he think he has the right to question you like this? The honest, ugly truth is on the tip of your tongue.

Because he doesn't have a kid. Because I can't see the hurt of his last relationship still in his eyes.

But you can’t say that, it’s unfair. How much you want him and how much you know that the two of you won’t be good is unfair. The whole situation is unfair. It’s not Frankie’s fault he has a kid and a failed marriage behind him. It’s not your fault that you don’t want that, it’s not him, it’s his past, it’s just a dealbreaker for you.

“It just happened,” you offer helplessly. “I didn’t know. It just happened.”

You don’t owe him anything, you know that, but it’s Frankie – the sweet, kind man who would talk to you during your tedious hours at the children’s section, who would ask you about your day so far, about your job, whose child would be so well-behaved that you allowed yourself to fantasize about the father despite knowing you didn’t want a child in your life. It’s still that Frankie, his handsome face, the beautiful, soft brown eyes, that hair that you had hoped to maybe be able to touch one day. His smile that just made you want to open your heart as well as your legs.

You feel the tears rising again, and you sniffle and put down your glass.

“I think I should leave.”

For some reason, you grab a half empty vodka bottle from the kitchen table as you elbow past Frankie. Without your purse and your coat, you just shove your feet into your shoes, fumble with the lock, and stumble out. You take a deep swig of the vodka with the insane intent of drinking until you don’t have to feel any longer, but the liquor is room temperature and tastes foul in your already stale, dry mouth. As soon as you’re out of the apartment complex, you take another swig and fish your phone out of your pocket.

“Hey!”

You don’t turn around when you hear Frankie’s voice. Instead, you’re trying to see enough of your phone screen to open the Uber app.

“What are you doing?” Frankie has now caught up with you and is taking the bottle from your hand. You whine in protest but he just throws it to the side. The glass shatters in the dark and you realize that it’s chilly and you don’t have your coat or purse, so you have no keys.

“I’m trying to get home,” you mutter. “I need to get home.”

“You can’t go without a coat. And I’m not letting you go anywhere by yourself in your state.”

“Oh, so now you suddenly care about me, huh?” You want it to sound angry but you’re sobbing. The mere idea that Frankie cares about you is… heartbreaking.

“I do care about you.”

You look up at him, your hand holding the phone slowly falling to hang by your side, the phone slipping out of your grip and clattering to the asphalt. You’re shivering now, both from the cold and the shock, the adrenaline, the hangover, and as you try to speak, you find your teeth are chattering too hard. Frankie wraps his arms around you, quickly, and pulls you into his broad, warm chest. He’s in his t-shirt but still so warm. How can he be so warm?

“I care about you,” he repeats in a low whisper, and your arms slowly rise to his waist, where they tentatively come to hold him. Frankie hugs you closer still and you take it as an invitation for you to hug him tighter. So you do, and you start to feel his warmth seep into your limbs, your chest, your stomach, concentrating in a pool low in your groin.

“Frankie,” you whisper, turning your face up towards his. Your eyes fall close when you feel his lips on your cheekbones, kissing away your tears.

“I got you,” he promises, a soft puff of warm air against your face. “Don’t cry, querida. It’s alright.”

For a moment, you believe him. And you act on it, letting your lips find his softly, almost shyly. You have wondered for so long what it would be like to kiss him, and now it’s okay to do so. It’s okay, it’s alright, you tell yourself, and so you brush your lips over his, gently, with feeling. His chin and cheeks are filled with bristles that scrape your skin a little but it’s what you anticipated. Your raise one hand from his waist to his cheek and trace the patchy beard, touch the bald spots that you have been wondering about. You don’t ask him about them, though: there are so many other things that you want your mouth to do. You want to kiss him, kiss him for the rest of the night, and so you carefully slip your tongue out to lick at his lips, and Frankie parts them and lets you in, sucks you in with his own tongue, and before you know it you’re making out like teenagers and feeling just as young and stupid and horny.

His truck keys are in his pocket, you can feel the hard outline of them through the denim, and that’s not the only stiff outline poking at you. You rub yourself against him and he breaks the kiss for a moan.

“I want you,” you gasp, cupping his cheeks. “Frankie, I’ve wanted you since – “

“I know.” His hands come to your cheeks and you stand in the cold dark on an apartment building parking lot, staring into each other’s eyes and seeing anything only because you happen to be standing right next to the ring of light of a street lamp.

“Let’s go inside,” he tells you, his baritone dripping with want that makes your gut drop from desire. You’re brought back to where exactly you are: outside of Santiago’s apartment. Santiago, you’re fuck buddy. Frankie’s friend. You can’t.

“No,” you shake your head. “Your truck.”

You expect him to protest but he doesn’t, only takes your hands off his cheeks and pulls you away with him. He unlocks the car and pushes you up against the door, trapping you for a deep, hungry kiss that tastes of beer and a budding morning breath.

“You sure?” he asks you in a low voice. You take his hand and bring it between your legs.

“Yes.”

He helps you into the backseat, gets in after you, and shuts the door. It’s dark and cold but he drapes himself over you and breathes warmth into you with his kisses and wandering hands. He explores your body, so unlike Santi who seemed to just go for specific spots on you that he figured to be erogenous. Frankie caresses every inch of you, pausing when your breath hitches or a moan escapes you. He gets in under your clothes, under your skin even, and your head spins when he whispers into your ear how beautiful he finds you.

“Sweetheart, can I go down on you? Will you be able to cum on my mouth?”

You swallow hard and find your tongue for a whimpered yes.

“Say it,” he begs of you, not commanding you to use words but pleading with you to communicate what it is you need.

“Go down on me, Frankie, please.”

He kisses you deeply, with a slow passion that promises more for nights to come, before working his way down your body. After some rearranging and some limbs knocking into each other, followed by ouch! and giggled apologies as well as soothing kisses, you’re reclining naked against the corner of the backseat and side door. Frankie is half on the floor, half on the seat, licking your tits with dedication, his big fingers softly teasing your wet folds, conjuring all kinds of sounds from you. When he finally slides lower you’re almost embarrassed at how wet you already are, but Frankie soon has you dripping as he starts to lick his tongue into you, gathering your slick and spreading it all over you. When he latches onto your clit and sucks, you scream straight out from the shocking intensity. Your bury one hand in his hair and hold onto the door handle with the other, sobbing when he goes on sucking your clit before finally relinquishing it and switching to licks.

Santi would eat your pussy with a clear purpose in mind: orgasm. Frankie eats it with another agenda: pleasure, a long rollercoaster of ups and downs before he finally unhooks the train from its tracks and has you falling through the air and plunging into his arms. He doesn’t finish until the car windows are fogged up and you’re begging him with kicking legs.

“You taste so good,” he tells you with a satisfied sigh as he comes up to kiss you, his lips obscenely slick and the taste of you overpowering the staleness of teeth unbrushed.

“Could eat you all night,” he mumbles, “but I’d like to be inside you as well.”

“I’d like that too,” you smile, dazed but aching for him. You push him off of you and sit up, groaning a little at a strained muscle. When you start to unbuckle his belt, Frankie puts his hands on yours to stop you.

“I… don’t have any condoms. I’m sorry.”

“I’m on the pill,” you assure him. “And I’ve always used protection with… other men.”

“I’ve used condoms too, not that I’ve had the opportunity in a long while.” He sounds hesitant.

“If you don’t want to, Frankie…“

“I want to,” he cuts you off, “but I don’t want you to feel obligated. You can just jerk me off. Or I can do it myself.”

You know you’re clean and you sincerely doubt that Frankie has had any action in a while. And you need him inside you, there’s no way it’s not happening tonight.

“No,” you tell him and continue to open his fly. “We’re doing this. I want to, Frankie.”

His pants come off and his cock springs free, thick and veiny and a lot bigger than you had expected. Your cheeks flush red at the thought of having it bursting deep inside, and you’re happy it’s dark so that Frankie can’t see you. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen a dick, after all.

You straddle him in the middle of the back seat, sighing out a throaty moan when Frankie comes forward to lick one of your nipples before closing his lips around it and suckling it softly, tweaking the other nipple between forefinger and thumb. You find him between the two of you, get up on your knees, and nock him at your entrance. You hold your breath when you slide down his thick shaft, all the way down to the thick base. Frankie’s gaze is interlocked with yours, his lips are parted and he’s breathing audibly. When he’s all the way in, he leans his head back, closes his eyes, and groans low, a deep vibration that travels through him and you, making you clench.

“Mierda,” he curses as his eyes open anew and his hands come to hold your hips. “You… damn. You feel so good. I’ve thought about this for so long, querida…”

“When we talked at work?” you murmur, dazed by the feeling of being filled up so completely, by his body, his hands, the heat he exudes. You raise one hand to the back of his neck and bring him to you for a kiss, losing your fingers to the softness of his thick curls.

“M-hmm…” Frankie moans into your mouth when you start to swirl your hips slowly. “Just like that…”

You wrap your arms around his neck and lean into him, moving on his cock in search of the right spot to take you to heaven, as if heaven wasn’t already here, with every inch of Frankie inside of you, finally, his hands on you, his hot breath on your cheek when you trail your lips to his neck and leave your mark there, mine, he’s mine, I wanted him since I first saw him…

He’s vocal; constantly telling you how good you feel, how wet you are, what you do to him. Your ears are filled with his intoxicated words as you hit that right spot and start to work it, your tits bouncing when you start to chase your high to the rhythm of your combined pants. Frankie’s hands are everywhere, on hips and ass and tits and face and waist and he kisses you sloppily, hungrily, asking you in a strangled voice to ride him, ride it home, take what you need from him before he cums, he’s close, you’re close, your body is dripping with sweat as you ride his cock harder, faster, almost there, there, there, oh God, fuck, Frankie…!

He holds you against his chest as you come down and the wild thumping of his heart is thunderous, just like your own. When your breathing is back to normal and the sweat has dried, you start to shiver and your head starts to pound.

“Let’s go back inside,” Frankie tells you, reaching for your clothes. His cum runs down the inside of your thigh when you climb off him and you suddenly remember that it’s not the only semen that has stained your skin tonight.

You suddenly feel sick. What the hell are you doing? You scramble to open the car door and barely make it out before you throw up. The cold night air has you shaking harder than ever before in your life and you feel feverish. Is this what it’s like to die from all those diseases they had in the nineteenth century? Hot and cold and sick and shaking so bad every inch of you is vibrating?

“Fuck, are you okay?”

Frankie’s plaid lands on your shoulders and he’s bringing you against him, his strong arms wrapping around you for warmth. You try to speak but your teeth are chattering too hard, so he helps you with your clothes, even remembers your phone that you dropped on the ground, and takes you back into Santi’s apartment. You don’t ever want to see Santi again but neither you nor Frankie are in any condition to drive, and you owe both of them an apology, so you let Frankie tuck you in on the couch. He covers you with blankets and sits down next to you, his sleep deprived gaze still attentive as he looks you over.

“I’m sorry,” you finally manage to whisper. He caresses your cheek and smiles softly.

“Don’t be. It’s okay. We’ll talk in the morning, okay? You need sleep, we both do.”

“I’m not sure – “

“Not now, querida. It’s been a long night.”

Gratefully, you accept the extra time you get before you have to do anything unpleasant, and you let him kiss your forehead before settling next to you. Despite feeling wretched, you fall asleep within minutes.

You wake up with a double hangover: physical and emotional. Frankie is next to you on the couch, half sitting up, half lying down, head lolling to the side. It doesn’t look comfortable but nothing has been comfortable for the past twelve or so hours.

So stupid, so fucking stupid!

You just want to leave. It shouldn’t have happened, you shouldn’t have given in to those urges that wouldn’t lead to anywhere good. You had perfectly valid reasons for not getting involved with Frankie but you just couldn’t help yourself. The alcohol had part in it, of course, but you hadn’t been uninhibited. You could’ve stopped yourself, but you wanted him too much. You could’ve gone without knowing what it was like to be with Frankie but you fucked it up and now you’re hurting.

Heaven was Frankie inside of you: his cock, his hands, his voice in your ear telling her how good you felt and how much, how long he’s wanted you.

Once you can move without feeling dizzy, you get up and quietly look around for your purse. When you find it, you check to see that you have your phone, wallet, and keys. Your panties are missing but that doesn’t matter, and you have nothing else at Santi’s place. It’s time to sneak out, one final act of cowardice and immaturity. Least you could do is wait for Santi and Frankie to wake up, then have an honest conversation with them, face to face. But no, you can’t do that. Your head is swimming, your stomach is upside down, your pussy is still beating with the echo of Frankie’s cock, and you need to get away from here. You’re done with this, done with Santiago Garcia and Francisco Morales.

On the way out, you hear Frankie move on the couch. His voice, cracking with sleep, says your voice. At the same time, Santi’s bedroom door opens and he steps out, wearing only boxer shorts. With eyes narrow and sleepy, he looks at you, putting together the pieces of what he sees. Involuntarily, your gaze moves from him to Frankie on the couch, both of them rumpled from sleep and sex. Santi sees it, and you know that he immediately knows. Throat snared up and aching almost as much as your head, you open the front door and slink out, misery in your heart, shame suffocating your body.

Epilogue

Marcus is kind, just like Frankie, but seems to possess a greater sense of self-reflection. He tunes into your needs in a completely different way than Frankie: less “I want you” and more “I want you to feel good about yourself”.

You were in a bad shape when you met Marcus Pike. What happened that night with Frankie left you completely broken. The shame turned into self-loathing that swallowed you whole. You even had to take a week off work, but it didn’t do you any good: you sunk even deeper into despair. Your nights were sleepless and when you did sleep, you had wet, scary dreams where you were roughly fucked by Frankie and Santi at the same time. They filled up your holes, used you, and you exploded in one painful orgasm after the other, but whenever you looked at them, tried to kiss them, you discovered that their faces were empty, like those of mannequins. You woke up sweaty and horny but scared shitless. Were you going crazy?

Your shame did not diminish but you learned to live with it.

And then, one day, you ran into Marcus Pike, quite literally. It was a typical romcom meet-cute, the two of you crashing into each other in the door to a coffee shop. You spilled your drink all over his shirt. You were appalled, he was just smiling.

“I didn’t like this shirt anyway, I don’t know why I keep wearing it,” he told you with a smile so warm you had to smile back. You insisted on buying him not only a coffee but also a new shirt, and somehow, he managed to convince you that it was in fact he who should’ve watched out when coming into the coffee shop, so the drink was on him.

You exchanged numbers, one date became several, and you found yourself falling for him. You played it safe, though: you waited with sex, you didn’t touch a drop of alcohol when spending time with him, and as soon as you realized that you had feelings for him you decided to come clean about the Frankie/Santi mess. Marcus deserved to know this about you and after a homecooked dinner at his place, comfortably reclined in his couch corner, you told him.

Marcus was not put off by your past. Neither did he flinch when you told him about your aversion towards kids.

“I always figured I wanted kids,” he told you, “but happiness doesn’t have to include those.”

He waits patiently for you to be ready to have sex, seemingly happy with just cuddling in front of the TV. You appreciated his knowledge of old Hollywood movies and the way he talked about them without lecturing you. He just seemed really excited about finding someone to talk to about the things that interested him, but was equally focused on you when you talked about the books you had read.

When you finally felt ready to go to bed with him, he almost exhausted you with his constant questions. Where Santi would not speak, and Frankie would tell you how good you felt, Marcus was always checking in with you.

“I wouldn’t be moaning like this if I didn’t feel good,” you whimpered, and he scoffed out an embarrassed giggle.

“I’m sorry. I just want to be sure.”

“Don’t stop, you’re doing great.”

Marcus is kind. Marcus helps you heal, provides you with the light you need to find your way back to loving yourself.

Look, all I know is that you're the nicest thing I've ever seen

And I wish that we could see if we could be something

#triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #francisco frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #my fic

[incubabe]

Ms. Riley Cross. VLFS Battle Frontier's Battle Factory Chief. 28. Hailing from a town southwest of Aspertia (not technically incorporated in Unova), Miss Cross is considered a diamond in the rough -- a battling ace with no professional pedigree. No trainer schooling laurels, no badges, and yet, in the confines of the Factory, she has triumphed over former Champions -- big names. Wallace, Alder, Peony.

Of course, she chalks this to a strong degree to those trainers being out of their element, used to their proper teams. The environment of the Pokemon League simply doesn't cultivate ad-hoc strategies like the Factory does. Riley has otherwise gained no ranking in various local leagues and most paper-trail information regarding her began only five or so years ago.

Because she's a Faller, those unlucky few plucked out of space and simply shunted elsewhere. She's lucky enough to retain her memories and identity, but it's a small comfort. Still. Turns out when your back's up against the wall and you need to construct an identity quickly, charm magic helps. Yes, it's not Pokemon-world Riley, it's Riley-ass Riley, doing the best she can after a blink gone very wrong. It's not an isekai thing, she wasn't aware of Da Pokermans before, and there's no cheat skill other than those with which the Accounting Hellspawn class starts with. But approaching a world with the mindset of it not being your own -- and the things that dominate it -- allow for a certain removed perspective.

Though skilled in battles, Riley has difficulty with Pokemon handling and rearing. Her removed perspective allows her to break down Pokemon into strengths and weaknesses, figures on a spreadsheet. She lacks the innate comfort many have with their Pokemon. Her usual on-hand team, therefore, consists of little more than a Porygon-Z; an innately unnatural thing, so no problem. If such a trainer could be considered to have a signature move, hers would be to empower Porygon-Z with a Normalium crystal, boosting its Conversion move to boost all of its stats by a stage and becoming Electric type. This pseudo-Terastal would of course be banned under Frontier official rules, and her Factory doesn't allow personal teams anyway, so it doesn't get pulled out often.

She has also taken custody of two Lilligants -- that of the standard phenotype, and a rare specimen that markedly exhibits the fighting-type and an alternative appearance. These were once under Thorton's care, but were left behind when he left. Presumably, these were used for testing of some kind. Her few captures -- using the Lilligant duo, natch -- were of a Zorua and Ditto. Later, she was given an Egg from a Factory challenger that hatched into a Wooper. It's named Spot in recognition of her 'back-home' dog, who she hopes is okay in her absence.

#(ooc.) #please i want to get this out of my head so i can focus on other things

[asklittlepip]

I’m not surprised, but Starfield looks and feels a LOT like Fallout, but in space!

The run cycles, the animation when you pull out your gun, traits that have advantages & disadvantages, how the UI looks like it’s got a skin on it, with even the controller prompts being in the same spot as Fallout 4 and 76′s.. this isn’t actually a bad thing! They clearly see that the building aspects of the last two Fallouts have been the most popular and enduring feature, so expanding that to your starship is logical. While the ground-based combat they showed was very familiar, space battles are a new frontier (pun intended) for Bethesda, and actually look good!

I didn’t expect anything revolutionary here, merely evolutionary, and I think that’ll be the case. But the ability to land on and explore a hundred different worlds? It’s not as crazy as you may think. Back in 1986, a little game called Starflight came out, and it was one of my favorite childhood PC titles. It inspired the likes of Mass Effect, and used advanced for-the-time techniques to create a galaxy with over 800 different planets, all of which had terrain, resources and wildlife, and was able to fit on a single low-density 3½” floppy, or two 5¼”s! Of course, it was a 2D game, and since you’d be killed by trying to land on say, a gas giant, you couldn’t actually explore ALL of them (without cheating), but it was there!

Now, I doubt Bethesda’s hand-crafted dozens of worlds, even with all the years it’s been in development, but I imagine they also didn’t leave it all to math or we’d be getting No Man’s Sky numbers; so there’ll be developer-made areas on each of these which are worthwhile to explore and that have some cool stuff to interact with. Give it a few days before players have found the best spots to land on every planet with the most worthwhile goodies to collect!

Let’s just say I’m a lot more positive on it and anticipating the game more now that we’ve actually seen gameplay and been told about what’s ahead.

#bethesda #starfield #fallout

[starsnheroes]

Memes & Ask Box Prompts -> Accepting // do you really think that inviting the Hawkguy to space is a good idea, @danversiism you've basically brought along a personal complaint machine -> " join the fun ! " ( clint ! )

GO TO SPACE THEY SAY.

Star Trek says it's the final frontier. These are the voyage of the starship BLAH BLAH, it's five year mission (dear fuck almighty please don't be a five year mission ⸺ let's change that to mission of indeterminate time), to explore new worlds (scratch that not applicable), to seek out new life and new civilizations (pretty sure they had already fought very old and familiar problem and kicked their ass), to boldly go where no man has gone before (he could name several people off the top of his head that has probably been here before)

Tony Stark, Sue Storm, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Bucky Barnes, Thor, Vision, Hank Pym, Bruce Banner, Spiderman, the list goes on, do you get the point?

THE CAPTAIN MARVEL HERSELF.

He could name even more NERDS AND GEEKS who would be thrilled to be hijacked for adventures in space. What were none of them available, granted this had started out as a dimension hopping, fall into a portal kind of thing that only went one way.

Clint had a whole speech thought up just special for Carol Danvers on why him being out here was a terrible idea. HE DIDN'T REALLY HAVE A CHOICE ANYMORE. It had started like this with complaining about the last time that he had gotten hijacked and ended up in space. HE HAD BEEN NAKED, and than he had to rescue Agent Coulson and Agent Fury from a space and terrifying cybiote called The Fury.

NOT A FUN TIME.

Than said speech, which he thought was a real winner except it had done the opposite of what he had wanted and had in fact proven his competence as one of the older aveners, when the OGs retired beside CAP? Who was on the new team, the first next set? HIM. Clint went on to explain how archery worked, with the idea that his counter point was that he would be in useless in space.

A BOW IS BASICALLY A LONG ROD WITH TWO ENDS CONNECTED BY A STRING. The bow bends when the archer (him, the master marksmen) pulls back on the string. The bow can bend because it made of an elastic material. Bending the bow gives it elastic potential energy. DO I NEED TO EXPLAIN ARROWS TO YOU, CAROL? The arrow is a long, straight shaft. It has a pointed object on one end (the arrowhead but I have more cooler trick heads) and a balancing device, such a feather (that's the fletching; the hen, and cock or index, plus the nock) on the other end. WHAT DIDN'T EXPLAIN OLD HAWKEYE TO UNDERSTAND PHYSICS? The archer (again him, greatest archer alive) hold the feather end of the arrow against the string while pulling it back. Releasing the string thrusts the arrow forward with the elastic force of the bow. The elastic potential energy of the bow is converted to the kinetic energy of the arrow. GRAVITY IS INVOLVED. SPACE DOESN'T HAVE THAT EARTH RULES OF PHYSIC DO NOT APPLY. SPACE SUCKS SEND HIM HOME, DANVERS.

Beside that, he had taken some tech and spent an eternality figuring out how to rig his arrows to function more like mini rockets which he has had rocket arrows before so this wasn't that much a stretch. DON'T LET ANYONE KNOW HE'S SMART. This is the only thing he was good with to be far, ask him for no help with anything else; all his ideas come stolen from others or breaking down tech from all his smart friends (tony stark is his biggest victim) and macguyvering some bullshit.

❝ Join the fun ! ❞

And here he goes being dragged down the hallway and presented with a table of cards. GO TO SPACE THEY SAY. IT'LL BE FUN. Now the old carny, the thief and the conman in him knows what a card game was. He knows how to rig them, win them, and lose them. Knows a card trick or two, nothing like Gambit but he's cheating (he's got powers and all Clint has is childhood raised by criminals).

He's particularly good at strip poker. ❝ Please tell me this is strip poker. ❞ Not that he thinks there is chance he's getting lucky with anyone here, either indisposed like the particular captain was for a particular Peter (probably one of the better peters even if he knows for a fact he did not own hawkeye merch because he's clint barton's biggest fan but he would agree on being a kate bishop fan himself so he gets the pass) or they scared him.

He's just a mortal human man who liked keeping his heels dug firmly in Earth dirt. HE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT UP THE COWBOY ARGUMENT. He's a cowboy, a fan of the old Wild West, not an astronaut.

❝ I am very good at strip poker. ❞ He loses on purpose, because it than mean he gets to strip and the ladies he typically played with would oogle him and perhaps make a bad decision with him for one night only (unless Natasha or Bobbi was there but not the other than that could turn into three night mistake for his heart). NO ONE IS NAKED YET, so he has to rule out strip poker which is a pity; as Clint determines this since he had been brooding in his cot (dealing with cravings and yearning for home) while it sounded like games had started. No one is nude which rules out stripe poker. DARN.

❝ Alright, so what's this game and how do I win all the loose change in in your pocket, Cap? ❞

#that entire first part was clint's ego getting in the way and wanting to bitch #anyways hello hi have this :) thank you very much for this <3 #Hope you enjoyed me hijacking a 3 word prompt and turning it into Barton brain Bitch Fest #ALSO ENJOY THE REFERENCE ! to Secret Avengers (2014) and Peter Quill wearing a I <3 Hawkeye shirt panel #ic; clint barton #asks; clint barton #rp; danversiism #danversiism #clint barton; danversiism #long post warning #content warnings #alcoholism cw #just to be sure since im nudging this in somewhere in present time (while ignoring all trash plot) & thats just a general fact about clint

[flutter-rosemary]

Highlights of 2022 so far:

so looking back(and reply to me if i missed anything)

we have

Stray, ROTTMNT movie, Sans vs Reigen, the QUEEN OF ENGLAND DYING, Bendy and the Dark Revival, Amanda the Adventurer, The IRIS Project, In Space with Markiplier, TEOS Hype, The Bad Guys, a LOT of Helluva Boss content, Hazbin Hotel trailer, Learning with Pibby(Jakeneutron content, April Fools), Twitchcon, Dream Team stuff(George moving to Florida, Dream face reveal and drama), Elon Musk buying twitter, Plenty of people dying from Tiktok trends, Pink Sauce, Taylor Swift Album, Demi Lovato Album, Panty and Stocking Season 2, Heartstopper, Our Flag Meets Death, House of the Dragon, Metaverse and it going in the dumps, The Owl House Season 3, MLP ANG: Make Your Mark, Splatoon 3, Slime Rancher 2, Cult of the Lamb, Markiplier OnlyFans, Resident Evil DLC, Cuphead Show and DLC, Stanley Parable, Boyfriends Webtoon, new virus apparently, homophobic bills, Disney movies(Turning Red, Lightyear, etc.), Among Us in everything we draw, Ranboo is non-binary, a bit of Far-Fetched content, Futurama revival, DHMIS show, The Quarry, Smile Movie, Jeffery Dahmer show(yall are disgusting. /srs), Cookie Run: Kingdom Disney and BTS crossover and new CR games (#SaveRose), Misha Collins opening then closing the closet, Ned Fulmer form the Try Guys cheating, YGO creator death, Technoblade death, The Wolf Among Us Season 2, Chainsaw Man, Spy x Family, Mob Psycho100, The Backrooms: Found Footage, Miraculous Ladybug(new content), SnapCube Shadow fandub, Ghost Files, Tumblr Top 5, Baller, Sneegsnag Wedding, AI Generated Art, Hermitcraft and Empires crossover, Tinfoil Chef death, The Magnus Archives 2, HBO mass removing shows, Wendell and Wild, the rise in analog horror, Ryan Reynolds on Tumblr, Sonic Frontiers, The Pope death

yeah reply to me if i missed anything and i'll edit it

#rant #i think

[hoppinkiss]

like. okay. here are the questions I need to answer for myself.

- do I even bother making trilogy!harper and an.dromeda!harper different? should I just slap the same guy in two locations chronology be damned???

- h. how could I be useful enough on a new space frontier to be out of cryo by the time the story gets going...... how might I cheat

- is what I've already written about trilogy!harper good enough.

#harper has spoken #harper's s/is #s/i: defender 🌌🏠 #s/i: explorer 🌌🚀

[midnight-and-his-melodiverse]

Stars, Bits, and Bytes! What a great wip title!

Can I get the (clearly chosen at random) words midnight, melody, and universe?

Thank you for that title compliment!!

From Episode One: "The Discovery of the Titania" - The kids seemed to stare into the black abyss which was the cockpit windows spanning across from left to right, getting a slight glimpse at a rainbow of buttons inside the spacecraft. Those black windows were adjacent to that of an ethereal starless midnight sky. They were taunted by its height; it was like they were standing beneath a titan. Both of them being below average height for a child didn’t help matters in quelling the silent terror of laying their eyes on Titania’s seemingly massive stature as a spacecraft. 

Now, this may be considered "cheating", but here is a pantsed beginning for Episode Two that I'll write in real-time! (even though I haven't finished episode one yet LOL) -

EPISODE TWO: "Intra"duction

"We're counting on you to save us, Miss Arietta and Mister Quintus," exclaimed an old and gruff voice, reminiscent of military generals out of the AI's front-facing speakers. Through the confident and assertive cadence that came with his voice, they noticed that those vocal frequencies lightly rumbled through the ship, and that startled both the kids, but mostly Lyric.

Quintus leaned forward to click off the communications, with a sharp click that let him know that process had been successful. Turning his sight to the rainbow of buttons in front of him, he clicked a light blue one, and almost instantly, the harsh, and noisy melody of the engines let everyone know that life had officially been given to this long-dormant craft that had sat in construction for a long while.

---- ---- ---- ----

Almost ten minutes had gone by since the initial startup of the Titania, and Lyric looked outside the large plexiglass dome window. Many thoughts had run through his mind as he stared into the vast, and beautiful abyss of pure darkness speckled with many little dots of white light. Many of which seemed to twinkle a sort of greeting as they left behind the distant blue-purple marble of Terra Melodiae.

He had remembered that in science class, Lyric was never given the answer to how big the universe was. At the time, it seemed inconsequential to think that the universe had an unlimited breadth of many planets, stars, and other unexplored galaxies.

Yet, he had the perfect piece of logic to complete that puzzle. The one piece of logic that stated that yes, the universe is in fact an endless wasteland with an extraordinary abundance of intergalactic landmarks that have been untouched by human footprints.

As he zoned out on these many thoughts, he noticed that the number of specks of white light outside the window had grown significantly. That couldn't have just been a dream, Lyric thought to himself.

The ship seemed to abruptly slow to a halt as it hit orbit and was taken into the merciful weightlessness of the final frontier. It was like they had dove into a large sea of stars, because they shined so marvelously against the dark sky.

They seemed to be slow dancing in space, like a graceful ballerina following steps with a leisurely waltz, because they were moving so slowly in the orbit, that it was hard to percieve if they were actually moving.

#answered asks #wip: starsbitsandbytes #incandescent-creativity

[wyn-n-tonic]

10 characters, 10 fandoms, 10 tags.

thank you @obiknights, i love these kind of games.

1.) Leia Organa, Star Wars (aka the reason i wore crown braids and space buns when i was allowed to grow my hair long enough and studied politics, international relations, justice studies and sociology in college).

2.) Éowyn, Lord of the Rings (my namesake).

3.) Lizzie McGuire, Lizzie McGuire.

4.) Winston Bishop, New Girl.

5.) The Entire Cast of The West Wing (this is cheating and i don't care).

6.) Sansa Stark, Game of Thrones (book and television version but they did my girl dirty as hell and talking about it actually upsets me so much).

7.) Erin Kennedy, Someone Great.

8.) Gabriel, Supernatural.

9.) Francisco Morales, Triple Frontier (i just.... i love him so much).

10.) Rhett Abbott, Outer Range (current obsession, leave me tf alone).

no pressure tags: @pilothusband @green-socks @leiakenobi @moon-kn1ght @chaoticgeminate @darnitdraco @knivesareout @mourningbirds1 @kesskirata @fuckoffbard

#long post #tag games