#apparently i still had feelings about this jfc

[frecklystars]

Hi, I need some help if anyone has advice or something. Or even just a “that’s rough buddy”

Last night I had one of the worst breakdowns I’ve had in a long time bc I saw a commission of my abuser with stsc. She commissions artists just about every single day of herself with TF characters, so I always avoid the tumblr search tags. Even non-TF artists I feel wary of bc it doesn’t matter, if you’re an artist and your comms are open, she will buy from you and it’s always her self insert/OC. I never look up self shipping or transformers or anything like that in the tumblr search. I never interact with anything she’s a part of. But this time I was simply searching up something entirely unrelated in a browser, and she just - she showed up. She fucking showed up! All of this time I take to be so careful, to limit my tumblr experience drastically just to protect myself, and yet I still see her. I cannot believe how easy it is to find my abuser floating around online because she commissions people every single day. I wasn’t even on tumblr and I still managed to see her. It was just… Google images. No keywords that could have possibly led to me seeing that, but she showed up as one of the first results in the images and I just. had the worst reaction ever. Understandably

It was her pink OC, and very long story I won’t bother you with, my abuser’s pink OC is the reason why the color pink became a cptsd trigger for me in 2022, and I was really struggling with that shit when it was fresh. Obviously I got better with it because uh, I’m a Barbie blog now, but I still have my bad days with it and I’ve never been fully okay with pink. I never feel fully “safe” around it. Which sucks. But I was at the point where I could tolerate it. Well, until now 😭 ugh

Seeing my abuser was already a big shock, obviously horrible. Seeing my abuser be lovey and soft with stsc was also really horrible. But seeing the pink and immediately my brain saying “oh look it’s pink, that’s dangerous, but maybe it’s Barbie pi— ohhh nooo, that’s your abuser, she’s right there!!! That’s her!!! In the pink!!! I told you pink was a trigger!!! You’re in danger now you’re gonna die!!!” makes me feel like I’ve gone backwards in my healing process and I’m afraid that’s irreversible. I know healing isn’t linear and I know setbacks are normal, but this feels different. It was Barbie pink, like the hot magenta color you see on the album cover? I feel sick typing this jfc. My abuser is now associated with Barbie pink in my brain. I don’t know how to fix this. It used to be more of a milky pink that would bother me bc THAT is what her OC color used to be, but now apparently she’s? Barbie pink???? And a paranoid part of me believes she might have changed it on purpose just to fuck with me because she knows I see her commissions everywhere I go, because one of our last conversations we ever had was her saying she was fully aware how much her own s/i was a trigger for me. This is so much worse bc now every time I see Barbie Pink I’m not gonna think of Barbie! I’m thinking of the person who nearly fucking killed me multiple times!

I was doing soo much better with my pink trigger. I associated pink with how safe and loved Barbie and Ken make me feel. The hot magenta Barbie Pink made me feel the safest because that’s LITERALLY Barbie pink. I would still get tense seeing it but then I’d immediately say to myself “that’s Barbie pink. That’s Barbies color. Barbie would never let my abuser come near me, because she’s a girls girl, and she’s smart, she would not allow herself to be manipulated, she’d keep me safe” etc etc. and I would almost immediately be totally fine with looking at the color, my tense feeling would melt away most of the time. i was doing so much better but now it’s like this is ruining all of my progress. My abuser’s main color now is Barbie pink and I feel really sick.

I’m extremely shaken up over not just seeing my abuser again, in a commission no less (which she’d often use against me, so seeing TF commissions of any sort give me bad reactions, hence why I don’t even look at TF fanart whatsoever even if I wasn’t triggered by the actual franchise) but also seeing the very Thing that turned pink into a trigger in the first place. I feel very hopeless bc I miss stsc but seeing him be romantic in a commission with my abuser, on top of the trauma associated with him just in general because of said abuser, makes me feel so impossible to reach him. So not only do I feel hopeless and miss my starlight so fucking badly, as I do everyday, but now I feel worse with the color pink. I don’t want this to ruin Barbie for me. I don’t want to be scared of the very thing that was helping me heal this far.

I don’t know how to fix this. I’m hoping I will eventually bounce back from this major trigger of seeing my abuser AND tf together, like this was a triple hit on me, had three major triggers in one image — I’m just hoping I’ll… move on?? And then maybe pink will go back to being tolerable again? But I’m scared it won’t. I’m scared I really cannot heal no matter what I try to do

Anyway idk what kind of advice I’m even asking for, maybe reassurance that it’s gonna be ok. Or something 😔 literally anything helps I don’t care WHAT it is, if anyone can spare something nice in my inbox or the replies, I will super appreciate it

#vent #ptsd #ok so. actually I’ve queued this post and I’m not online rn . i am hopefully asleep #but when I wake up I will read and appreciate any messages 😭

[endeverous]

.

#god damn it why do the loneliness and shame have to kick in at like 10:30 #i still have so much evening left and I thought I was over this #guess not apparently #i just. feel bad. #and I don't want to. #and I know I don't shut up about this shit but like. i want a person #and I feel like it shouldn't be shameful that I don't have one YET HERE WE ARE #*have never had one. important distinction. that's what I feel the most ashamed of #jfc girl nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy #i think time away from a given corner of the internet would probably be wise for me #who needs therapy when you have ramble in tags #endev talks to herself #she probably does that too much #toss another log on the shame fire ig #the joys of having a brain that's a kitchenaid mixer on full blast 24/7

[still-a-morosexual-help]

Part 2 of this (diavolo & lucifer being very gay in canon) because I ran out of space in the first one

1. The entire Devildom thinks Diavolo & Lucifer are dating/in love;

2. It just sounds cute okay

3. Diavolo apparently notices when Lucifer's pupil dilates by 2mm 😐

4. Diavolo probably has a 500pg book about how great Lucifer is

5. Remember how much Diavolo gushed about Lucifer's butler uniform, took a lot of pictures of it etc? Apparently he saved that uniform or had a new one made, then took the first chance he saw

6. Cottagecore?

7. Diavolo finds Lucifer sneezing cute😬

8. Diavolo prioritises Lucifer over everything, even his own kingdom & the way Simeon keeps poking at it & Diavolo keep avoiding directly answering him + Simeon later teases Lucifer about Diavolo liking him in S3👀

9. The snow sculpture which looked incredibly realistic and had absolutely nothing to do with Christmas

Can't have more screenshots so here's some important conversation word for word:

10. Diavolo, after meeting Lucifer for the first time, Lucifer tries his best to act like an ass to make Diavolo hate him but Diavolo still treats him kindly. Lucifer despises Diavolo at the moment because he's a Demon who according to Lucifer & the Celestial Realm can't even have a "well-ordered society". Diavolo somehow in a single night manages to form a crack in Lucifer's prejudices & make him doubt his Father who he holds in very high esteem. Diavolo also uses chess to prove his point about creating peace and a balance between the three worlds. This is the conversation that follows:

Lucifer (an angel): I see. ...Diavolo. Your strategy truly is fascinating. Do you think we could get together sometime? I'd like to learn more about it.

Diavolo: Are you talking about chess now? Or the nature of our relationship?

Lucifer: Heh...

^The ambiguity Lucifer uses when talking gives that old queer feeling of: Our relationship (whatever it may be) is very forbidden and anyone catching wind of it will be bad so for plausible deniability I'm going to tie the true meaning of this conversation to something more innocuous

11. Conversation they have after this^ flashback/particular conversation:

Diavolo: ...That's when you finally held out your hand to me, and we shook. The way you radiated charm as you smiled at me. I still remember it like it was yesterday. When I saw the look on your face I was convinced. You were fair and righteous, someone who would be able to lend an ear to anyone, to listen to what they had to say. Someone who had a truly beautiful spirit.

In other words Diavolo has the worst case of rose-tinted glasses, specially considering Lucifer was choking Mammon & trying to rip his arm of while Diavolo said all this.

12. Diavolo (in demon form): Back when he was an angel, he was so divine, so awe-inspiring that it was intimidating. But now he's attractive in a different sort of way. He draws your eye toward him and then doesn't let go. He truly is worthy of the moniker "Morning Star"! Even steeped in the darkness of the Devildom, he shines just as brilliantly as ever!

Lucifer (in demon form), blushing: ...Diavolo, could we change the subject, please?

Lucifer (in demon form): I've told you that it embarrasses me when you shower me with such excessive praise in public.

Diavolo (in demon form): Afterall you're already beautiful enough as it is!

a.) This is Gomez Addams level of devoted jfc

b ) Diavolo was straight up reciting poetry at one point

c.)......What's with "in public"....so it's fine in private?

d.) Diavolo gushing about Lucifer has the same energy as Mammon gushing about MC

e.) What do I have to do for someone to be this in to me?

13. Diavolo has multiple copies of Lucifer in a swimsuit saved in different places (not the swimsuit he wears around MC & his brothers btw but the one he wears around Diavolo which is actually just trunks and & an open hoodie/shirt)

14. Diavolo might actually have a whole file of rare pictures of Lucifer? He's got the butler ones, the swimsuit ones and the candid glasses one that he threatened some poor guy to delete after saving a copy for himself

15. The ship in a bottle that Diavolo gave Lucifer, that he loves so much he keeps it in a place where he can always see it

16. Lucifer: No, that scream was far too vile to have come from Diavolo.

....so you know what he sounds like when he screams and you think it sounds good...?🤨

17. Diavolo gives a flustered Lucifer a piggyback ride around RAD

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me! #shall we date? obey me! #swd obey me #dialuci #lucidia #diavolo x lucifer #lucifer x diavolo #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #om lucifer #om diavolo #obey me! lucifer #obey me! diavolo #om! lucifer #om! diavolo #shall we date lucifer #shall we date diavolo #swd diavolo #swd lucifer #swd obey me! #shall we date obey me

[diamondcitydarlin]

i think probably the worst part of the whole thing is that I just don't really care anymore, the investment I had at the end of season 1 just straight up no longer exists. no, it's not just bc a blorbo got killed off (and there's a lot of reasons to be angry about that), it's mainly bc most of the characters at this point feel like hollow shells of who they were a season ago, including the stede x ed pairing as a whole (which I really just don't care about anymore at all, sorry). and no it's not bc 'Izzy got all the development and there was no time for anyone else' like of course there was time for everyone else, provided that they hadn't opened the season on all those characters making 180 character changes with no real explanation, provided they hadn't overloaded the damn season with nonsense that goes nowhere. JimxOlu was my OTP after StedexEd in season one, both of them were some of my faves, and not only did neither of them even really resemble who they were in s1, their relationship which was of such great importance in the former just suddenly...is something else now. Not people in love, but 'friends who have fucked once lol' and are wingmen for each other now because...??? Oh but Jim's dating Archie who...*checks notes* was in a Snake Cult? I think? That's about all we get on her, apart from the fact that she likes making out with Jim I guess. And I guess Zheng can't just be a powerful woman character that exists in this narrative without a romance of her own, so let's just toss her together with Olu and never explore or explain that with any kind of depth. Jim has neither trust issues anymore nor do they have ANY interest or investment in their revenge scheme or the Siete Gallos (REMEMBER THAT PLOTLINE?? REMEMBER?? APPARENTLY THE WRITERS DON'T) they're just kind of goofy all the time now for no reason. Olu's leadership arc? His being a confidant to Stede? Where the fuck did any of that go? Are they all a polycule or are they all just separate couple friends? IDK WHO CARES THIS IS HOW IT IS NOW I GUESS. Like, why am I supposed to care about any of that? It doesn't even feel like the characters I watched before.

And StedexEd. Jfc there's so much to say that other people have said better but the constant bringing up of conflicts, breakups, and then immediately resolving those issues with heartfelt reunions/kissing as if that's supposed to be sufficient got really old for me after awhile. The lack of explaining how their 'whim-prone' romance to this point was bad, the lack of explaining how they reconcile their different goals was also bad, but oh they can just go RUN AN INN NOW! Yay happily ever after! ????? "Ed, you've got family" which he immediately leaves to go try another life path he's probably going to suck at and hate WOW so romance. Like either figure it out or break up for good, it just makes them an obnoxious toxic couple who never seem to communicate or bother to try but are supposed to be the one we love the most and are rooting for. And that sucks, because I loved them once! GARBAGE!

There's only so much blame one can put on external factors for this. I worked in production once, I edited scripts and was a go-between for notes and writers, and this is the exact kind of thing I would've felt compelled to point out; we only have x amount of time and x amount of episodes to properly tell these stories, we know this, so maybe lets be realistic about what we can fit in here and do justice and what we can't. Maybe let's not just throw every fucking thing we think of at the wall to see what sticks while completely ignoring/retconning character traits and stories we set up in season 1. But nah, that's what happened!

Like, what is there to watch for at this point if s3 gets greenlit? I fail to find anything that I'd care about seeing continued, even the peripheral characters like Frenchie and Wee John and Roach, whom I also loved before and still do but barely did anything, so I guess I can tune in to watch them do more of nothing? Idk man it sucks when it's not just 'wow that was bad I hope next season is better' but instead 'wow that was so boring and incohesive I have no more interest or emotional investment in this to continue'

#ofmd critical #were there good moments in s2? of course #was it on the whole kind of an overpacked incoherent nightmare? yes #was it a fitting continuation of the s1 story? absolutely fucking not #posting in this tag so that hopefully the toxic positivity crowd doesn't get offended lol

[empressofmankind]

Things I enjoyed about writing my Crocodile/female!OC smut, in no particular order:

If you had to imagine the walking, talking embodiment of all Buggy's insecurities (imo), I feel like you'd get Sir Crocodile, and that's pretty much how I went into writing him. I set out to absolutely maximize Buggy's: "Oh no, her ex is (insert self-deprecating qualifier) than me". You know, tall(er), confident, masculine, accomplished, infamous, intimidating, actually scary, redundantly rich, pretty conventionally attractive and the scar just adds to the sex appeal. He has a voice like that, and no doubt a way with women? He's even near perfected his control over his devil fruit powers! Absolutely aces the whole Bounty Hunting business thing. Rolls in and out the Grand Line like it's his backyard. He's even better at being Disney-levels of evil! Complete with a better villain laugh. How dare. How dare he absolutely nail most of everything Bugs covets? Poor Buggy. The fact that his girlfriend is technically still married to the jackass is just an extra kick in the gut while he's down, tbh. Basically, if Bugs were a piniata, this is currently my stick of choice to go at him with. I just keep finding new aspects for Bugs to be insecure about and it doesn't matter how often Shivs tells him not to worry about it.

As you know, I wrote the whole thing first in three sits, ignoring most of the limb logistics. And then I went in and revoked hand privileges. That sucked? But it was also kind of fun to then try and either make it work with one hand and/or integrate his hook. Some of the instances actually got far better with it: neck pulling, ahoy! is a big one, hitching up clothing for a close second, but also being casually threatening for no apparent reason (and then for a really apparent reason, omg). Croc seems to lean towards preferring to use his hand, and sometimes he misses having two of them for this and I tried to show that. I mean, I get it - hands have tactile sensation. Plus, we wouldn't want to kill her. Not at this point in the timeline.

God tier banter, if I may say so myself. I specifically enjoy writing (sexual) banter, but I feel like I've outdone myself here. Their beats are also pretty even-handed and so well attuned to eachother, like this isn't their first verbal rodeo, this is the end stage mega evolution of years of practise.

The way Shivs walked into her ex's office with the intention of manipulating him with sex, but did so while explicitly and recognisably wearing her current boyfriend's clothes. Balls of steel, this girl. But, she knew who she was confronting. If he turned out at all amenable to her scheme, he'd want her out of these rags stat. And that was five free steps in the direction she was meaning to go. In addition, I am a firm believer of him being a high-key closeted bisexual and we all know what they say when boys excessively pick on you. All it takes is squinting just right and imagining her with a different hair colour, and that just made me chortle. I am probably the whole target audience for this, but yolo.

The way his pet name use corresponds to his emotional headspace, apparently. I wasn't doing this intentionally, but I noticed during editing. He says 'doll' a lot (a grand total of 14 times, jfc), uses it the way guys tend to use 'babe'. I felt doll suited him, perhaps because I strongly associate it with Noir films, older Bond & Mafia movies, and crime bosses in general. Showing my age there, maybe. Then he also uses 'sweetheart' quite a few times (9 iirc), and I am pretty sure he does so in an endearing manner. Lowering those emotional walls a teeny tiny bit as fondness seeps through. And then, like, once or twice, he uses 'honey'. And, again, I feel like he uses it in an older manner, the way stereotypically a husband fondly refers to his wife. It feels intimate. Like he briefly forgets all of this is dust? I think about that a lot.

Did you notice how she doesn't use any terms of endearment? I did wonder if she had any, but I felt like she wouldn't use them. Not at this point. Not any more. She loves Bugs. She did slip up once though, did you notice? She is the queen of mildly awkward nicknames.

It may not seem so at first pass, and it's certainly not super obvious, but it seems to me like he's trying pretty hard to put Shivs' relationship goals bar somewhere on the roof. He wants nothing and no one to be able to even remotely compare to him, especially not the clown. So he throws everything at this that he can? Which, arguably, is mostly material because that's in his nature and fundamentally how he interacts with and relates to the world and people around him. But you saw how fast he was to gtfo that couch the minute she alluded to any part of this being cheap (Mediocre? Sub-standard? Blasé?). Does he genuinely not want to cheapen the whole thing? Or can he just not stand the idea of her thinking this whole thing is cheap? Or both? I suppose these aren't mutually exclusive.

I like that she can make him laugh, and vice versa. They've got really solid chemistry, dammit.

Two people that just really enjoy smoking. Like, they are Smokers with a capital S. That's a whole relationship dynamic unto itself. I am really pleased with how I managed to actively integrate it into their shenanigans. It was a lot of fun and something unique to them.

The way he just repeatedly fails at trying to engage her in a little girl dynamic. Was that a thing in the past? They had (and have) a fairly notable age difference (7-8 years, give or take). And he takes it so well when she just, doesn't play along or only does so for like five entire seconds, or blatantly wields it against him. Poor guy. Just spank her already, I know you want to.

The way Shivs goes from being mildly nervous and quite determined to: 'Oh fuck, I'd forgotten how good this actually used to be'. Like, been there, done that, didn't end well. But man, it's a mood.

Press F in the chat for the fact that she only had one orgasm in this whole thing, and it barely took the edge off. Jerk knew what he was doing. It's a power play, of course.

Sneaking in background information and then doing absolutely nothing with it. Like the comment he makes regarding both their facial scars. But also every time either of them alludes to their past relationship but doesn't actually tell us anything.

Mihawk is a wine aunt. Even Crocodile seems to think so. I am sorry, I don't make the rules.

The part where he just happens to have things on hand that she either likes (i.e. that specific brand of cigarillo's his company makes) or that fit her way too precisely (i.e. that outrageously swaggy negligee). This dude is not OK. My man, if you still know your ex' dress sizes this well after several years, you need to do some introspection. And maybe see a therapist.

The infamous fancy panties were originally a gift from him, and she evidently kept them these past years? I am not sure what makes me frown deeper: the fact that she still has them, or the fact that he immediately recognised them. I don't think she was necessarily wearing them on purpose? She does really like them and wears them often. RIP those undies. I think she's way more upset about losing them than she lets on. I wonder if she'll accept new one(s)? I suspect she may, something about gift horses. Maybe he figures? Maybe that's the point. A renewal of something. A visual reminder of the casual control he can exert over her when he wants to. It may seem insignificant (she will definitely not overthink it), but underwear is very private and intimate. He's staking a claim even without particularly saying so. But I am sure every other man in the room will figure that one out. (Counting on Mihawk to say it out loud in that bored drawl of his. The Bisexuals Straights Are At It Again.) Doubly so if they're particularly prone to feeling insecure. Poor Bugs. Just take this one lying down, you silly clown. She wants them because she thinks you'll like them and she knows neither of you can gdamn afford anything remotely like it.

Did you notice she isn't truly naked at any point? Partially undressed, yes. A little exposed, also. But not naked. Meanwhile, he's stomping around in his bare ass half the fic. I like how he gave her something nice to wear and then didn't take it off.

At this point, I feel like he gets pants problems the minute she calls him 'sir', no matter the context. Some things just get sexy tainted forever, and there's no going back, lmao.

The unnecessarily expensive details. I had so much fun with those? The layout and details of his office and bedroom, for one. Both their smokes are implied to be well out of Shivs paygrade. Any brands come to mind? Or take the wine, for example. Can you guess which one I am referencing? And the lace - I am from a traditional lace-making area. Handmade lace was and is hella expensive. Don't even start about lace featuring custom tailored designs. There was absolutely no need to throw this much Beli at the nearest wall. But he did it anyway, because he does it all the time.

The way he keeps verbally reminding her of how different things used to be. For the better, in his opinion, of course. Like, are we casually trading favours here, or are you trying something?

On that count, did you notice how often Shivs is actually thinking about Buggy in this? At no point is he far from her thoughts, it seems.

I didn't set out with this mindset, but based on how the whole thing came out - I think Crocodile might miss her (or the idea of her) ? At any rate, I don't think he's OK. You stupid dick. You self-marooned on this island of misery and now it's too late. No changies, no takebacksies.

I came up with the title post-fact. Maybe it's his thoughts, not hers?

#sir crocodile #crocodile one piece #one piece crocodile #crocodile x oc #crocodile x reader #one piece headcanon #crocodile headcanons #one piece fanfiction #have some headcanon #buggy thoughts #one piece

[someplace-darker]

Kinktober Day 12: Hate/Angry Sex | Frank Castle

Pairing: Frank castle x reader (no y/n)

Wordcount: 2.1k (jfc)

Warnings: 18+, PWP, hate sex, canon-typical violence, blood, floor sex, they fuck in a dingy abandoned building, reader is afab but no pronouns are used

Summary: Frank makes a mistake that you pay for, and you hate him for it. You hate him for not saying anything about it. Or do you.

A/N: This is so much longer than I intended it to be but this is for leo and my roommate who is also feral off the fucking walls for frank. Which i mean, yeah, understandable.

The bullet wound in your leg is throbbing, metal still buried in your thigh as Frank had  so graciously observed when he prodded at entry wound. “There’s no exit, we have to get that outta there,” he mumbles and the pain makes you want to scream at him to speak up, tell him to stop with the fucking bedroom voice when you’re two seconds away from passing out. Then again, Frank always talks like that and you can’t tell if it’s a you thing or if he’s truly just a man who sounds like a caged animal growling at its captor. 

“Jesus christ Frank, get us out of here before I start crawling,” you grit your teeth, fighting with everything in your body not to cry out when Frank scoops you up off the concrete floor and heads toward the black truck parked outside the door. “Just stole this car too,” you groan once he pulls open the door and sets you on the tan passenger seat, apparently feeling kind enough to pull the buckle across your chest and pressing it into the clip. 

Time is beginning to warp in your head, blinking sluggishly as he closes the door only to open them to lamp posts passing you on the highway.

“Try not to fall asleep,” Frank’s jaw is tense, only glancing at you for a second “you might have a concussion, and it’d really suck to hide your body if you bled out right now.” That gets a huffed laugh from you, deciding against biting back at him just for now. You’re too tired, and the cool glass of the window feels really good against your cheek. 

It takes singing softly under your breath until you reach the warehouse to keep yourself alert, much to Frank’s chagrin, his stone faced expression as he carries you through the entryway saying more than he ever will. 

The shock of the night is beginning to wear off by now and you wish you had something to mute the pain, something to keep you from screaming when you inevitably will have to remove the bullet, but you don’t so you resign yourself to the agony prematurely. The small room you find yourself in is incredibly barren, the walls stripped of color, the grey paint making your head spin more than it already is. 

He sets you in a rickety metal chair, the steel digging into your ass uncomfortably but you brush it off, the hole in your leg more of a concern than your comfort. “I’m gonna have to pull that out, and I can’t have you fighting me while I have tweezers in your leg,” Frank grumbles, squatting down to rummage through a cabinet until he finds a bottle of alcohol and dollar store medical kit. 

“So you can steal cars but you can’t steal better medical supplies?”

Frank just ignores you, dragging another chair to stop in front of you so he can sit, setting the kit beside his boots. He brings the bottle to his mouth and bites down on the cap, popping it off with his teeth before passing it to you. You don’t even bother to sniff it to find out what it is, taking a swig instead to hopefully dull the pain. It burns going down, the air in your chest being punched out by the potentness of it. 

The distraction is fleeting, bottle being taken from your grasp and poured onto the open flesh without warning. 

It’s too much, an unbearable flare spreading throughout your body, scream tearing its way from your chest before your vision goes black and you slump forward. 

-

There’s something weighing you down, holding you to your spot on the cot for the next however many days, unable to keep yourself conscious for more than thirty seconds. You see brief flashes of Frank between it all, sat by your side, pacing the room, sleeping on the ground next to you. At one point you even think he’s holding onto your hand. 

When you finally do properly wake up it’s dark outside, the frosted window in the room showing no sign of the sun outside. Your leg twinges uncomfortably but it’s bearable, the voice in the back of your head rattling the cage of your conscience. 

Never again. I will not go through that ever again.               

It takes another day or two after that for Frank to even consider speaking to you, and it’s only to change the bandage. Fury simmers in your chest and you put your hand against your sternum and rub in an attempt to make it go away. You’re too tired to fight with him, but he’s said absolutely jack shit since that night. 

“You could at least say something to me after you almost got me killed,” you snap when he begins to clean up the wrappers and cotton swabs, packing everything back into the case. A muscle twitches in his neck at your comment, shoulders rolling back like he’s shrugging off your presence. 

“No,” you seeth, standing from your seat to hover over his crouched form “you’re going to acknowledge me. The big bad Punisher can’t handle himself long enough to check that there’s no collateral? That maybe he should stop beating the already down man and check on the person who came along to help?” Somewhere between the two of you is a line that you’re ignoring, a line that is being grazed against a bit too much but you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“I have stayed quiet. I have gathered information for you, I have-” you swallow the lump in your throat, fighting the urge to cry from the overwhelming amount of rage in your system “I have dragged your ass from situations where you would’ve died had I not been there.” Frank still isn’t looking at you, instead wiping off bloodied medical sheers and placing them in the box. 

Only when you rear your healthy leg back and kick the kit across the floor does he blink up at you. You still stand above him, looking down at his face for some sign that you’ve gone too far. Despite your lashing out, Castle is a soldier through and through, giving no tell that you’re treading on thin ice even if you yourself can tell. 

“Fucking say something Frank! Anything at all would be great,” you shout, taking a staggering step back when he stands abruptly to his full height, looming over you. 

“What do you want me to say, huh? That I fucked up? I’ve been aware of that since you passed out from shock and blood loss,” his voice is tight, the mix of tone and lack of facial expressions making you uneasy. His eyes are his biggest downfall, that being the only source of emotion you can read off him. 

“Maybe,” you hiss, jabbing your finger into his chest to get your anger across. You know you’re being excessive, you know that if he wanted to he would stop this, but he’s not. So you continue.

“I think you’re too focused on your own bullshit agenda to care about the people around you and I hate you for it,” you turn your jab into a shove, pushing at his chest and causing him to step back. It’s kind of annoying that you put genuine force into it and all you get in return is three more inches between the two of you. Still, your lips curl into a sneer, reinforcing your statement.

“I hate you.”

Frank processes what you’ve said, a crack in his mask forming when he licks his lips. He nods, and you think that’s going to be it. You’re going to go your separate ways and you’ll never see him again. But Frank is a many of many surprises, opting to close the distance between your bodies and grip your chin tightly in his hand. He tilts your head up to eye level, tipping his head down and you think if you moved in the slightest, your noses would brush together. 

“See I don’t think you do,” he husks, eyes flitting from your eyes to your mouth and lingering there “I think you want me so bad it makes you look desperate. It makes you angry that I don’t give you the attention you need. Is that what you want, huh? You want my attention?”

His statement has you glued to your spot, stomach twisting into a knot with excitement. The delay in your response makes him grunt and he pats your cheek with his hand to get your focus. “Yes,” you force out, aware of the slow inching of his mouth towards yours “I want your attention. I want you, Frank.” 

Frank’s mouth is on yours immediately, his kiss so possessive it feels like he’s two seconds away from consuming you in your entirety. There’s no sense in making it to the makeshift bedroom, the cot won’t be able to support both of you. You slide your hands down to the waistband of your pants, hooking your fingers in and shimmying them down your legs between frantic kisses and shared breaths. 

Frank follows suit, undoing his jeans and letting you help, taking the task of kicking them off to himself while you dip your hand into his boxer and grip him. He’s only semi-hard and already big, and for a moment you wonder how he walks around with it. Groaning into your mouth he pulls away, pulling his shirt over his head and then reaching for yours. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, growling in frustration when he’s unable to get it up off of you, grabbing the neckling and tearing it with ease. Despite yourself you laugh, delighted with the outcome of your argument, now pumping his cock in your hand with one less shirt than you had before. 

It’s like your brief self defense class with him all over again, wrestling each other to the floor in a pile of skin and sweat but this time the outcome is different. Instead of you tapping out, he’s holding himself above you on his elbows, waiting until you’ve positioned him at your entrance before pressing in slowly. Hatred melts into lust, melts into a kind of affection that had been previously submerged deep within you. 

“You run your mouth so much but the second you get my dick in you, you forget how to speak,” Frank scoffs, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours. The wound on your thigh burns with the position and aggression of it, but in some sick twisted way it makes the gratification that much heavier. Maybe that’s what this is, you think, a sick and twisted relationship between two fucked up people in an abandoned building. 

Frank fucks you like he hates you.

You dig your nails into his shoulder to draw blood.

It’s a struggle between predator and prey, a clashing of teeth and skin and mouths and limbs. But god if it doesn’t feel like the most fucked up depiction of heaven. 

Frank grabs the back of your thighs and pushes them up close to your chest and you shout, blinking back tears when blood begins to seep through the white gauze taped to your leg. “So fucking close Frank,” you plead with him, fisting your hand in his hair and pulling his head down to press your nose against his cheek, panting in his ear. It seems to spur him on, his cock  deeper into your cunt and his hand shifts to slide against your clit. 

“How pathetic,” he groans, palm bearing down against you in a circular motion “you hate me so much but you’re about to cum on my cock. Come on then, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, curling in on his body and pressing your face into the crook of his neck, cumming with a body wracking shudder. He coaxes you through it, removing his hand from your pussy to lift your ass. Frank cums not even thirty seconds after you, burying himself as far inside you as possible to finish. The concrete floor is beginning to make your back ache, and the throbbing in your thigh is more prominent as you come down from your high. 

Frank notices the blood and curses under his breath, pulling out of you with a hiss and reaching for the supplies that you had kicked away earlier. It’s quiet as you collect yourselves, Frank handing you his shirt to put on since he ruined yours, repatching the wound in silence. Guilt rises in your body and you clear your throat, reaching a hand out to rest on top of his.

“I don’t hate you. I shouldn’t have said that,” you whisper, blinking up at his brown eyes. 

Frank nods, thumb coming up to rub your hand “I know. And I won't let you get hurt again. I promise."

#kinktober #my writing #frank castle #the punisher #frank castle smut #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #the punisher x reader #the punisher x you #frank castle fic #the punisher fic #nmcu #time to go to bed again #the blood vessels in my eyes are bursting from writing for hours on end lmao #Someone buy me eyedrops #leo if you read the tags: bark bark #yeehaw shawty

[grumpycakes]

SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE VOTE 2, DISASTER BOOGALOO CONT. **UPDATED

DAY 3 10/19/2023 • OOPS NO VOTE • 12 Noon EST

< Previous (Day 2)

So McHenry saunters in w the entourage, calls them to order, and the Chaplin leads in on prayer.

Chaplin’s prayer is basically “we’re over it but got grant us the compassion and wisdom to get our shit together and govern for the country, Amen” just flower-ier and less sassy.

Still hate that we gotta have a prayer before govt work but

Still gotta have them pledge allegiance

AND THEN MCHENRY IMMEDIATELY CALLS A RECESS.

So what TF happened?

Jim Jordan in a moment of clarity (and probably some shaming from his colleagues) realized he doesn’t have the votes, and won’t for a while. So he has TEMPORARILY pulled his bid for the Speakership.

In the meantime, it looks like they are working on a proposal for McHenry to take over some speakership roles for a LIMITED TIME. We won’t know how long until the proposal is made/put before congress.

This move is most likely JUST to get the budget done and agree on how much aid we’ll be sending to Ukraine and Israel. Otherwise the Government will shut down and shit will go into free fall. This covers the asses of the Republicans while still not having to pick a speaker.

It also is taxing to force them all in session DAILY for at least 2 hours to do these votes.

SOME TAKEAWAYS I’VE SEEN

We could still get a 3rd vote today depending on how fast they make up the legislation

This isn’t great for Jordan, it’s a weak move to let someone else do speaker things while you beg and bribe people to vote for you

A lot of the far rights/hardliners are mad about the move to give temporary powers. Basically advocating for making everyone stay and suffer multiple rounds of voting again (cannot fathom why when it just made McCarthy look stupid last time, unless they truly just would rather burn the govt to the ground than do anything helpful)

Reportedly McHenry doesn’t want temporary powers either rofl

While the republicans will whine and moan that the Dems should have bailed them out (either by voting present for McCarthy or by the same for the new speakership votes) it is not their job NOR DID REPUBLICANS HELP THEM AT ALL WHEN THEY HAD THIS NARROW OF A MAJORITY. And they didn’t devolve into this kind of chaos

Dems are just asking to pass budgets and aid, and are probably just stepping out of the way of this train wreck

This has never been an issue till this year (and this partisanship/far right monstrosity the Republicans have fomented)

The next speaker will most likely IMMEDIATELY reverse that dumbass rule that one person can force a vote to remove the speaker

APPARENTLY some of the republicans that did not vote for Jordan have been receiving “Credible death threats.” Over it????? JFC

Yes, since they called a session to vote, they HAD to gavel in, pray and get set up to CALL IT OFF. And that’s hilariously stupid

ADDED EDIT 8PM 10/19/2023

Lolll fuck. So Jim Jordan had a “Closed door meeting” with the rest of the republicans to work out how/if to give McHenry additional powers and CAME OUT AN HOUR LATER SAYING THERE WILL BE NO SPECIAL POWERS. HE’S GONNA GO AGAIN. (Didn’t happen today lol) They apparently were fighting over whether or not it’s LeGaL or cOnStiTuTiOnAl to give the interim speaker powers. Loll but according to McCarthy when Gaetz tried to argue they basically told him to shut up. So it sounds like some of the repubs are still mildly homicidal abt Gaetz.

But a few things,

1. It’s legal and constitutional if y’all MAKE LEGISLATION FOR IT. And you can make the legislation be like ONLY THIS ONCE CAUSE WE GOTS PROBLEMS

2. I cannot fathom why they are so down bad to embarrass themselves. This doesn’t look good, this isn’t inspiring confidence, and since no one on the repubs are willing to budge or concede for each other you’re fighting a losing battle. You have the majority, use it.

3 . This feels like weird toxic grandstanding of if you just stand your ground it’ll bend but like, it’s not HAPPENING. And people will hate you worse for fucking w the government.

4. OH AND IF YHEY PASS THIS AND DEMS JOIN IN FOR IT TO HAPPEN IS RHAT NOT A WIN FOR THE REPUBS????? That they can get ANYTHING DONE?????

McCarthy talked to reporters and said it’s the fault of Gaetz, the “Crazy 8” (really classy dude) and the dems. And that he was taken out by less than a quarter of the house. But my dude. If it was 8 of your Repubs and then ALL THE DEMOCRATS. That’s. That’s a MAJORITY OF THE HOUSE.

Jim Jordan apparently did denounce the death threats agaisnt republicans.

END ADDITION

So that’s where we are @ u @ chaos-ville. I’ll make a new post or update y’all if they do a vote today.

Next (Day 4 Vote 3) >

#speaker of the house vote #October 19 2023 #10/19/2023 #day 3 #us politics #disaster boogaloo #oops no vote

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 12

Summary: You gave in to Benny, sort of, and now you have to go buy a goddamn car. You and Frankie find yourselves alone together for the first time in nearly 16 years.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: cryptic mention of self-harm.

A/N: Voilà, they're talking. Jfc the struggle... I'm still in a state of shock (and exhaustion). I think I'm satisfied about the substance of this chapter, not so sure about the form. Some of you might recognise some lines from the movie... I'm insanely grateful for anyone who interacts with this story, for your support and for sticking with them this far! *presses post now and goes drink a tall glass of Bailey's*

Word Count: 7.1k (oops)

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Chapter 12: The Drive Home

The two of you didn’t talk much over the course of the weekend because there was no need for words. The synchronicity between you was evident, if one that he couldn’t explain. The implicit trust and shameless want he saw in your wide eyes was a high he never found anywhere else, no matter how many drugs he tried.

You were you, and you craved him.

Most of the talking had been done on the fire escape. Favourite books, favourite movies, favourite musics. Politics and values, dreams and allegiances. The differences welcome, no real divergence, only promises. 

In retrospect, this was another regret. So many questions he should have asked. He never forgot your reaction when he called you baby. How you tensed up in his hold like a wild animal, like you’d never known love, or you had forgotten that life could be sweet. Your sadness had torn a gaping hole in his chest. How many times had you say, “sorry”? The first night, at least. He’d spent the following days erasing it, thoroughly, lovingly. There was what you were, and what you’d been taught. Who had done this to you? 

And yet, in spite of your apparent wounds, you had let him in. Your softness towards him all the more special. Uncertain, at first, and suddenly all in. Resolutely unguarded, a strength in its own right. He wasn’t sure, then, if he possessed that kind of courage. But he knew what he felt, this consuming urge to right all the wrongs. He would gladly unleash hell on anyone trying to hurt you again. 

Is Benny good enough to you? Most probably. And he should bottle up his questions and leave you the fuck alone. Turns out you didn’t need him to flourish.

He understands clearly now, with enough years behind him to name the feeling, why he’d been so eager to feed you, to get you cleaned up. He remembers that shower together, before you started fooling around again, he had come in your mouth less than an hour before, fuck he’d been relentless, and you’d taken it all. 

Standing behind you in the narrow tub, he had washed your body, lathering soap with the palm of his hands on your shoulders and your back, the curve of your hips, along your thighs, his satisfaction tinged with regrets for you’d lose his scent, but he would imprint it on you again later, deeper, definite, and you kept leaning into his touch, eyes half closed, humming quietly to yourself, your skin a constant thrum. Like you’d been starved of any form of attention, of affection. He could tell. Yet he never asked. 

And perhaps it had played into what had happened next, how he had lost it completely, when he took you on the bathroom floor, after nearly two days restraining himself, his arms caging you with an iron grip, his teeth sunk into the soft flesh at the base of your neck, pinching your nipples so hard you had cried out his name. Your body vibrating endlessly with it. He had to carry you back to bed. 

You were still laughing from that disastrous attempt at a romantic fuck when he stepped out of the bathtub behind you. His cock felt heavy as he palmed himself through the discomfort of the condom, and he was about to take it off when his eyes flickered up to you. You were wiping the steam off the mirror above the sink with your right hand, and you turned around to face him, radiant, with a candid smile. The yellow light from the bare bulb hanging above the mirror ricocheted on every single droplet of water clinging to your body, your skin glinting in a golden hue. 

You were golden. 

Something snapped in his brain. His breath caught in his chest, and he shut his eyes quickly, but the vision was dancing under his eyelids and when he reopened them, his gaze had turned dark and wild. He was on you in one step, his right hand curled around your nape. He pulled you in with all of his strength, tilting your head up with a tug of your hair, his mouth crushing your mouth, his tongue forcing you open. You responded immediately, his hunger bleeding into you through the kiss and you sank your nails in his back and his shoulder. It felt more like wrestling than kissing, your bodies slippery and wet, and he laid you down underneath him on the rough rug as you whispered a needless plea he couldn’t hear, with the thunderous noise of the blood rushing in his ears. 

He had fucked into you at a punishing pace, with the maddening thought of ripping that damn condom off his cock to have you bare and paint your slick walls with his cum, his blunt head bumping against the cup of your cervix and it still wasn’t enough. He had to possess you, encase every part of your body with his, crush you with his weight, mark your skin with his mouth and his teeth and his spit and his cum, fuck your cunt, your mouth, your ass, your tits with his cock, his fingers, his tongue. Ruin you for other men. You were his. He was yours. 

He should have been terrified by the intensity of it, and perhaps he was, but your every movement spoke that confession.

There hadn’t been anything to fear within the realm of the orange bedroom. But then, how to explain the deafening silence that came when he never heard your voice again?

He waited. He waited on the car ride with his sister to basic training, realising in a panic that you two hadn’t even exchanged last names. He waited the following hours, days and weeks. He waited as he helplessly observed the quick fading of the red crescents your nails had left on his skin. He waited all through the pilot training program, his first tour and the second. He waited, patient and focused and cool-headed, and with each passing year, the certainty waned. He waited until one day his phone got stolen, and a Verizon vendor who looked like a drowned rat flatly told him he had to change his line. He had remained perfectly calm, but he could have murdered the man.

What began after that was a brand-new kind of hell. One morning he woke up and he couldn’t convoke the memory of your taste. That was when he started fucking all these random women, their faces and bodies morphing into a blurry composite of anonymous features. The doubt drove him insane, but he could no longer find it in himself to believe it had really happened. Maybe he had dreamed you. A filthy fever dream that had meant everything. Finding the book with your red lips etched on the page barely helped, only adding to his confusion, edging on resentment.

But when he saw you, when he saw you walking into the familiar setting of the bar where he meets with his friends every week, holding Benny’s hand, beyond the fury of those years, beyond the anger and the pain, he looked into your eyes and found hope again.

So now he’s back to waiting. Back to that goddamn piece of plastic burning through the back pocket of his jeans. But waiting is fine. Waiting is seven years of his life. Nearly a sixth of his years. He knows how to handle that. Waiting is what was before everything went south, before his phone got stolen, before his first kill, before Al-Qa’im, before the brothels and before the doubt. 

And so, he waits. He waits as April slowly dies, as May drags by and as June blossoms under a thin drizzle. He waits until, one perfectly mundane Thursday morning, you text him. Three messages sent in quick succession. 

Hey. Is this coming Saturday at 10am ok for you?

It’s me by the way. 

He stares at your name. It’s been 16 years since he’s said it out loud. His thumb hovers over the screen. He tells himself the burning sensation from the scar on his left side isn’t real. It’s not pain. It’s guilt. 

—

Yea. I’ll pick you up outside your building. 

Frankie 

You never gave him your address and he hasn’t asked, you have to assume Benny gave it to him. Have to. 

Nine weeks and four days since you last saw him. Since he walked in on you in Will’s spotless kitchen, basking you in his scent and his heat and his strength, and demanded that you let him come with you to buy a car you don’t even want. A goddamn car. Not a table, or a plant, or even a TV, a goddamn car. And you didn’t even think twice. You straight up consented without taking a second to think about the consequences, just like you had instinctively and consistently reacted to everything he had ever asked. 

In the course of those nine and a half weeks, you’ve reverted to the proven ways of your former life, doing what you do best: act normal amidst the rumbling storm inside your brain. Constantly, expertly compartmentalizing, your mind an oversized closet of neatly folded fears and neurosis. Immediate pleasures and comforting memories. Sadness, fondness, regrets, remorse. Restless with your time, headstrong against your anxiety, no pause to reflect. The great escape. 

The very next day, you started to fill up your boyfriend’s house with your belongings, scattered across every room. Panties, bras, socks and t-shirts in the newly emptied chest drawer by the bedroom window. Books he never gives you time to read on the nightstand. Deodorant, creams and shampoo in the bathroom cabinet. An umbrella by the front door. Records stacked by the vinyl turntable. A tin mug in the kitchen. You stay there four to five nights a week, now. He is delighted. 

On three separate occasions, Benny had to go away for a fight and remained out of town for a couple of days, which is not uncommon, and you ordinarily welcome the time alone. 

The first time provided you with the perfect opportunity to get together with Yovanna, the two of you meeting in a downtown Russian restaurant of her choosing, sharing copious appetizers and laughs and strong liquor, along with your respective backstories, yours carefully redacted. She recounted the first twenty years of her life, traumatic by any standard, matter-of-factly and without bitterness. She defines resilience, and the following morning you woke up revived, if a little hungover.

By the time Benny had to leave again, however, an indistinct, murky dread had settled in your chest and between your shoulders. You proceeded calmly, with resolve, asking him if you could spend the evening at his place in his absence, which implied him giving you a set of keys. You trusted him not to make a big deal about it, and sure enough he didn’t, but you did not anticipate the way he made love to you that night. With an unusual softness, and intent, as if to communicate how much he had no desire to be away. 

And when the time came, a Saturday, you curled up on the empty couch in the silent living-room, hunched over a book you could not focus on, eventually falling asleep on his side of the bed. 

The third time had been rough, perhaps because you chose to stay at your apartment, chain-smoking again, drawing from your experience the necessary resources to hang on until dawn, when you know the morning light will dissipate your darkness. The morning always comes. All it takes is for you to bite the bullet and await. You know the dance. 

You haven’t told anything to Rosie, even though you’ve had several opportunities to do so. You know what she’ll say, and you don’t care to hear it. You’re getting a car, not a room. You’re an adult. You’ll be fine. 

And anyway, Rosie knows something’s not right. You haven’t missed one single Taco Tuesday since you skipped that first one, back in April, and you’ve done your absolute best to act natural, like it means something, but she’s been closely observing you ever since. Like she used to when you first arrived here, after she’d dragged you out of your isolation, like you’re a saucepan of milk over the stove, ready to overflow. You don’t know how she does it, but she knows something’s askew. 

Seemingly innocuous questions of “everything good with Benny?”, “Still happy with your job?” cue you in. Sideways glances. Her dark eyes overshadowed. 

And if she only had doubts, your behaviour on her 36th birthday probably confirmed them all. 

She had made plans to celebrate with a girl’s night out, inviting some of her friends from work, along with Yovanna, to her favourite place, a Mexican restaurant with a garden room in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, which brought you way too close to Greenpoint for comfort.

You didn’t just get drunk, you got blackout drunk, downing shots of tequila, knowing very well your body doesn’t tolerate those, polishing off everyone’s drink until you got sick and just about passed out, and Rosie had to take you home, where you woke up with your head split in half to a handwritten note on your kitchen table that read, simply, “call me.” Which you haven’t done.

You spent the next day glued to your sheets, only crawling out of it to stick your head down the toilet bowl, throwing up, seven times, grand total, your body painfully collapsing on itself, getting rid of the alcohol, but not of the guilt, and not of the pain. No, those remained, sticking to your clammy skin, weighing down your soul.  

You know this road, been down it many times. The automatic deflection through invisible, self-inflicted physical pain. You recognise the symptoms, the warning signs for that shifting cloud of thick black smoke swelling in your chest, like a fast-growing beast made of nothing tangible but two glinting, yellow eyes. 

So the following day, when you got to work, you picked up your phone, and texted Frankie, at long last. When his answer came, immediate, as if he had been waiting all along with his phone in his hand and did not care in the least if it showed, you informed Benny, and asked Suzanne for your Saturday off. 

A sequence of events that has you standing in front of your bedroom mirror, now, applying mascara, nervously fiddling with your hair, unsure whether you’re wearing the proper outfit. You’ve been up since dawn, and as you gulp down your third cup of coffee along with your fourth cigarette, ignoring your throbbing throat, you tell yourself it’s not really stress, it’s only the morning light, because you still haven’t installed the curtains you bought over a year ago. 

You can feel a contraction building up in your left calve. It would be wise to drink some water. But you don’t.

The smell of nicotine clings to your hair and your clothes, but it’s too late to shower again, or even to change, and it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re getting a car. Not a room, after all.

Your eyes flick down to your watch for the umpteenth time. 9.55am. You peer out at the sky, through your bare bedroom window. It hangs low and overcast, the temperature chill, for mid-June. It all adds up and lies heavy on your lungs. You don’t know the first thing about buying a car, but you’re not exactly eager to take a test drive on wet asphalt.

When you pull open the front door of your building at 10am sharp, you notice the pattern formed by the wet dots as they agglomerate on the pavement. 

Frankie’s here, parked just in front, as promised. Faded red t-shirt and light-coloured jeans, he’s standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the hood of his red truck, arms crossed over his chest. The vehicle is ridiculously massive but his broad figure and square shoulders look perfectly on scale. He’s been waiting for a while, judging by the dampened patches on his shoulders, but his face doesn’t show any sign of impatience. The deep lines between his eyebrows only giving the slightest hint of tension under the brim of his cap. 

“Hey,” his voice sounds rusty, as if he hasn’t spoken in weeks.

“Morning,” yours is too breathy, and impossibly high.

You don’t stop and walk straight to the passenger side of the car, ignoring the way his head tilts to the right to follow you, instead cringing at how inelegant you must look, as you climb awkwardly into the high cab. You drop your bag on the floor and fasten your seatbelt, admonishing yourself, one more time, that none of it matters, not how you move, nor what you wear, nor what you smell like, because you are only getting a car. 

He waits until you are settled in to join you inside and when he shuts the door, his scent fills up the space, brushing against your skin, and you pinch the side of your right thigh as hard as you can. His moves are measured and deliberate, and you will your heart to slow the fuck down and align its erratic rhythm to that of his movements.

You risk a glance in his direction when he lifts up his cap and combs his fingers through his thick dark curls. You remembered them a lighter shade of brown. During the few hours you’ve spent observing this older version of him, you’ve come to decipher the gesture. He readjusts his thoughts, just like he does his hair. Once the cap is firmly deep-set on his head, the mountain that is Francisco Morales is set in motion. 

But you don’t know him anymore, not like you did. Years after years, unwanted layers of separate lives, wounds, and emotions have altered the fabric of your innate connection. He has become a guarded man, remote, distant. To you, at least.

Then why are you here?

There’s a pause and the air hangs still for a moment, save for your uneven breathing, louder than the few street noises. Frankie’s perfectly poised when he turns towards you and asks, “So where are we going?”

You blink wildly, your mouth falling open at the one question you didn’t anticipate. 

“What– what do you mean, where are we going?” you stutter. 

“To what dealership?” he offers patiently. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe out, with a shake of your head, “you said ‘let’s go get a car’ and I–” you trail off, you don’t know how to end this sentence. 

“I said, ‘let me go with you to buy a car,’” he corrects, and you sit there, dumbstruck, and exposed. 

“What kind of car do you want?” he tries again, and as you remain silent, rubbing your palms on your thighs in a subconscious attempt to dry them of the sweat your entire body is breaking into, he averts his eyes, looking down at the steering wheel. A smile tugging at his lips. 

“How about we go somewhere, get a drink, first?” he finally proposes. “We can talk about it, see what are the options?”

“It’s 10am,” you reply blankly, as if it makes any difference. 

You immediately wince and his smile broadens. 

“A coffee, then?”

—

Your nervousness drives him mad. You stare out the window as he drives, refusing to look at him and he can see your fingers compulsively fumbling along the side of your thigh when you think he’s not watching.

He put you in that impossible situation. You look pale and tired, there’s a faint smell of cigarette about you, and what’s worse is that he can’t help but smile like a fucking idiot, no matter how hard he tries to bite it down or cover it with a grimace. You’re sitting next to him in his truck. Once more, all he had to do was ask.

You look like a misplaced stereotype of a French girl in your stripped boat neck shirt, and he struggles to focus on the road, scanning the exposed skin of your neck, where it meets your shoulder, searching for a mark that has long faded. 

By the time he pulls into the empty parking lot in front of the Dunkin’ on Tonnele Ave, fat raindrops are splattering on the windshield. 

“You wanna stay here? Or sit inside? I can go get our orders and–”

“Oh yeah, here is nice”, you acquiesce, apparently relieved at the thought of not having to go out, “I mean it’s fine. Please.”

You say “please” like you used to say “sorry.” 

“Milk, no sugar?” he asks quietly, immediately regretting it. He shouldn’t let on how much he remembers. He’s going to freak you out.  

You draw in a deep breath and answer, “Please.”

—

It all begins with small talk. Absurd and mundane. The weather, the traffic, the coffee that’s never strong enough. And before either of you realise it, the parked car feels like an island, the paper cup nicely warming up your stiff hands. 

You’re the first to chance a diverted evocation of your shared past, inquiring about his sister. She’s fine, he tells you, not without pride, a well-established professional photographer, whose work you’re likely to have seen in news magazines and art catalogs.

Your left knee propped up on the seat, your back leaned against the door, you’re finally facing him, your posture relaxed. His broad frame doesn’t allow him that much space, but he too seems at ease, his legs stretched as far as they can, his left arm resting on the wheel. Still, you recoil imperceptibly at his next question. 

“What about you? Are you an archaeologist?”

You take the involuntary hit and think about the best way to present that part of your life, so you don’t come across as worthless as you systematically feel every time you have to discuss that particular subject. 

“No,” you eventually sigh, “I failed.” Ignoring the tick of his jaw, you carry on, “I mean, I graduated, got my BA degree. But I couldn’t get any internship, just like they said. So I moved on to a master’s degree, but in contemporary history,” you chuckle at the nonsensical turnaround in your resume, easing into the topic, “and then I got tired of starving,” you laugh, lifting your palms upward, “so I became a civil servant. Got a position with the historical library of the Hôtel de Ville de Paris. I mean the Paris City Hall,” you shrug, uncertain with your whole translation. 

“Did you like it? The job?” he asks.  

“Well, it’s not what I had set out for. But I think it fitted me better. No pressure, no deadlines. Old books, manuscripts, first editions–” you start to enumerate before your voice fades.

“Do you miss it?” 

You nod wordlessly, your throat suddenly a little tight. His voice is so low you struggle to hear him when he asks again, “Why did you leave?”

You take a brief moment to gather your thoughts, looking vacantly at the neon letters spelling Dunkin’, blurred by the rain running off the windshield. You’ve been asked this question about a million times since you’ve landed here a little over two years ago. Offering countless consensual variations of the same explanation, none of them ever sounding quite right. 

Next to you, Frankie’s waiting, hung from your lips. 

“I think it’s because I had a purpose, but no goal, you know?” you say as you turn toward him again, in time to see him gritting his teeth. 

The crease between his brow deepens before he says, barely audible, “Do you have one, now?”

Somehow, you find it easy to maintain eye contact, and your own voice is steady as you tell him, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Frankie wants to follow up on your answer but he finds himself incapable of speaking. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if you told him that the life you share with Ben provides you with both. Yet, your eyes tell a different story. Your eyes tell him this is not about a man. It is not about him, or his friend. This is entirely about you. 

“None of it sounds like a failure to me,” he eventually says softly. 

There’s no sign of the stress that tensed up your body earlier. He likes the sight of you sitting comfortably in his truck, absentmindedly playing with the empty paper cup in your hands. Perhaps you’d like another coffee, but he fears that if he leaves the car, he might find you gone when he returns. 

Outside, a tall blond woman is running on high heels towards the front door of the Dunkin’, her gait cloddish and imbalanced has she tries not to slip. You watch her until she makes it inside.  

“I don’t know. Anyway, nothing much I can do about it, anymore,” and perhaps for the first time ever, you’re ok with it. “But you, you made it! You became a pilot.”

He shakes his head, and before he can stop himself, mutters under his breath, “Yea, at what cost.”

Uncertain if you heard him right, you sit up straighter and ask, “How was it?”

“How was what?” he frowns. 

“The army. Was it what you thought it would be?”

“Yes and no,” he sighs. He has never given himself the time to reflect on that before. Rather rushed in the opposite direction. “I never expected it to be easy, but– I joined so I could get my pilot’s license. And I ended up doing stuff I hadn’t really signed up for.”

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“Why the fuck you wanna know that for?” he narrows his eyes at your face, his voice an angry rumble. 

You want to crawl onto his lap and wrap your body around his, knock off that damn cap and run your fingers through his curls, get a glimpse of the lighter shades they used to shine with. You want to press your lips against his forehead, ease the crease of his brow with your thumb, let your skin reach out for him, like it used to, when words were unnecessary, you want him to hear it, because I care, because I wasn’t there, because I wish I could carry it with you. Because I spent too many nights awake, wondering where you were. Because, even when I thought the morning would never come, I hung on, in hopes that the thread between us would keep you safe and sound. Hear everything you cannot pronounce.

You lean back against the door, cranking your brain for another approach. “Did you know that Will kept a ledger of his body count?” 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before running a palm over his face. “Jesus… No. But I’m not surprised. Did he tell you how many?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s for me to tell you. Although he’d probably tell you too, if you asked him,” you reply in a casual tone. 

“You two really talk about everything,” he says with an empty smile.

“No, not everything. But we do talk a lot,” you offer no further insight into your relationship with the older Miller brother.

“And did he tell you how’s his sleep?” he snarls.

“He says it’s better than it should be,” you shrug as if you were still discussing the weather. “You haven’t answered, Frankie.”

He presses his back into the back of the seat to crush down the shivers that run down his spine when his name passes your lips. A lot may have changed. But not this. 

He knows what you're doing. At least he thinks he does. And anyway, that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. To your voice, he complies. 

He runs his knuckles under his chin, seemingly weighing his next words. “I did what I had to do. I was– I was often too quick on the trigger. I didn’t count them.”

Between his spread thighs, his hands have joined, his right thumb scratching the small tattoo on his left hand. 

“Were you ever scared?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “not for myself anyway. For Izzy. Anything happens to me, she’s alone.”

The leather seat creaks when you scoot closer to him, seeking his heat. He rubs his skin harder, so he won’t think about yours. The rain has become a heavy downpour, the drops falling onto the roof of the truck in a loud racket that nearly covers your voice when you speak next. 

“What about that thing Tom mentioned, that night at the bar? About you being grounded. Does that mean you can’t fly anymore?”

His hands still. He turns his head and glares at you, his eyes black and cold. Your face is so soft. You said you’d take anything. But that was long ago. That was before.

He licks his lips, clears his throat. You won’t back down. So he tells you.

“I was suspended. They ran a random drug test at work,” he leaves Giovanni out of the picture, the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s not taking full responsibility for his own fuckups, “it’s a flight school for rich assholes over in upstate New York, and– they found traces of coke in my system.”

“Coke?” your eyes widen with shock as the image shoots through your chest, and he can’t stand the way you look at him right now, like you don’t know him, like you never did. 

“Does it help you? With your– sleep?” There’s no judgment in your voice, and you hope it gets through to him, pass the thick skin and the shame. And, perhaps, he’s more surprised than you that it does. 

“Yea,” he says, looking down at the little tattoo again, shifting in his seat, “it did, yes. And with the rest, I guess. But I’m not using, anymore. Izzy would bite my head off. She found me a good lawyer, the case got dismissed, somehow–” he shrugs, “I got my license back. I’m clear.” 

“What are you going to do, now?”

“I think they’re going to take me back. I gotta go there Monday, actually.” 

“I mean about your sleep, Frankie.” 

God, your face is so soft. 

“You don’t worry about that.”

As if it were that simple.

—

Cars have come and gone in the small parking lot. A composite Saturday morning crowd of busy moms and weekend workers hurriedly flowing in and out of the coffee shop, holding white paper bags and cardboard trays with tall paper cups. 

The outside world resurfaces around Frankie, as you two sit in silence side by side in his truck. 

You peeled him open. Picking out the jagged pieces of his life one by one, with infinite tenderness, and methodically reassembled them. Sought him out in the darkest confines of his existence. Left him with no place to hide. Weaved back the thread. 

“I think I need another coffee,” you stiffen a yawn. 

“Yea.”

The rain abated, without your realising it. You walk in together this time, and when you return to the car, you pull out your phone from your bag, to find Benny has texted you. Your eyes are heavy and your movements slow, you’re suddenly exhausted. 

You answer Benny’s question, “Are you guys done?” with a half-truth about waiting for the weather to get better, inwardly smiling at his abusive use of emojis. 

The conversation resumes, with more trivial topics. You mention the curtains laying untouched in a bag on your apartment’s carpeted floor. 

Eventually, Frankie asks about the car again. Secondhand, you say, and small, preferably European, although you can’t say why. An expression of your homesickness, perhaps. An extra comfort.

It’s a ten-minute drive to Autoland, a dealership on Communipaw Ave that Frankie pretends to know but really only googled the previous day. 

He parks in a lot across the street from the dealership, and gets out of his truck with a spring in his step. 

This time, you circle the vehicle over to Frankie’s side and wait for him, uneasy and apprehensive, seeking the reassurance of his tall figure before you can take one more step. The place looks reasonably sized, for once, you’ve seen bigger ones in Parisian suburbs, but you’ve never bought a car in your life and you’re utterly out of your depth. 

He looks at you as he tucks his t-shirt in his pants, and smiles. Before the two of you cross the busy road, he places a large hand on the small of your back, his fingers splayed, and gives an imperceptible squeeze. You lean into his heat, let it seep in and run through you. You’ve spent years worth of sleepless nights trying to imagine how it would feel like if he ever touched you again. Like electricity, like a dam that gives, like the end of your world. It’s none of it. It’s quiet relief. It’s a close circle. 

The cotton of your shirt feels warm under his palm, it catches at the calloused pads of his work-worn fingertips. Your skin, just underneath it. It’s not it, not yet, and it can’t be. This would be the end of everything. 

True to his profession’s stereotype, the salesman jumps you the very second you step into the lot and introduces himself as Gary. But the cliché ends there. Gary is a lean man of average height, in his late twenties-early thirties, with olive skin and strands of straight black hair that frame his face like a stage curtain. Shiny buckle shoes, skinny black jeans and a tight button-up shirt in a loud pattern, he looks just as misplaced as you in the somewhat depressing dealership.

Gary speaks with a quick flow you struggle to understand and swallows half his words, and when you discreetly peer up at Frankie, you catch him trying to repress a mocking smile. He tilts his head down and raises an eyebrow as he mouths, “I think he’s high.”

You’ve clearly stated what you were looking for, yet Gary keeps walking you towards sedans the size of your living-room. European, alright, Volvo and Volkswagen you wouldn’t know how to maneuver on an empty racetrack. He keeps addressing Frankie, who tries his best to suppress the scoffing off his tone every time he has to remind him that you are the client, and when Gary, at long last, takes note, he punctuates his well-rehearsed speech with a “sweetheart” that send Frankie’s shoulders heaving with a soft chuckle. 

After ten minutes that feel like an hour, you lose patience and cut him mid-sentence. 

“Hey listen, Gary, let’s forget about the European thing, ok? I want a small car. Small, you know, like three doors?” 

“Oh yeah, right, small car, got it!”

He turns on his heels and start walking briskly. You turn to Frankie, eyebrows disappearing into your hairline as you tell him, “Is he fucking serious?” and revel in the sound of his breathy laughter.

You join Gary at the rear of the dealership, where half a dozen compact cars are parked, when his cellphone rings. Raising a heavily bejeweled index to excuse himself as he picks up, he steps away from you. 

Hands on his hips, one leg extended to the side, Frankie watches you impatiently checking the time on your wristwatch.

“Hey,” he starts in a husky tone, “you know, I did fly over the Andes.” 

A wildfire flares up in his chest as you lighten up with the first genuine smile he’s seen on your face since you came back into his life, one that reaches your eyes, that has you beaming, and that he recognises, and you too recognise him when he smiles back, his dimple deeper in his fuller cheek when he adds, wiggling his eyebrows, “Twice.”

You let out a thrilled little gasp, your voice failing you, a little hoarse when you whisper, “How was it? Was it what you expected?” 

“Almost,” he answers. 

You’re so close, so fucking close he can smell that new perfume, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same, your eyes are, what if he leaned in a little closer and brushed your lips with his, what if he asked you to leave with him? Would you follow him, again?

Your gaze fall on his plush lips when he licks them, but you back away at the sound of Gary’s voice, standing in front of you.

“Ok guys, sorry about that! So, small car?”

Frankie’s mouth twitches and he stares daggers at the salesman.

“Hey Gary, would you mind giving us a minute?”

He doesn’t wait for his reply to place his hand on the small of your back again, and you take a few steps with him, on shaky legs. 

“Look,” his dark eyes plunge into yours, “if you don’t want a car, we can just go. Tell Benny there wasn’t much choice, which is kinda true,” he gestures towards the yard. “Just– please, promise me you’ll take a cab, when you go out at night.”

Your mind’s racing, going through the options, you need more time to think, so you stall and retort with your usual argument, “I’m a big girl–”

“From a big city, yea, I heard you the first time. Please.” There’s no scorn in his tone. You’re a big girl. He does believe that. But he needs to hear you say it. 

To you, however, it doesn’t sound like a request, most definitely like a direct order, and your mind reels unwillingly as you picture him on the field, in his military uniform, a gun in his deft hands, shouting instructions in his assertive, deep tone, his force and temper barely contained. You’ve seen his control slip. Experienced it firsthand. And you’ve no business being this aroused right now.

You let it ripple down your limbs before you push it away, before you sigh, “Ok. Let’s go, then. I’ve had more than I can take.”

Getting rid of Gary proves itself challenging. He follows you all the way back to the street and hands you a business card you politely decline at first, before changing your mind, in hopes it will shake him off faster. 

His nasal voice is still ringing in your ears when you climb back into the safe-haven of Frankie’s truck. He turns on the ignition and merges into traffic, taking the direction of your apartment, the only possible destination, the decision tacit and unspoken. 

This time, you watch him drive. In fact, you can’t stop staring, the lean muscles undulating under the freckled skin of his forearms, the shape of his solid shoulders, the line of his throat, and the curls on his nape, the sharp edges of his profile, the bare patch in his beard, the thin wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. For the first time, you notice his watch, big, square, utilitarian. 

You jolt yourself out of your trance and decide to call Benny. You can hear his disappointment through the phone, and you feel terrible, like you haven’t tried hard enough, before it occurs to you that the last time you placed your own needs below those of the man you shared your life with, it didn't end up so well. Granted, Benny’s not Éric, not by a stretch, which might be the very reason why it affects you now. So you repeat your promise to take taxis at night, Frankie’s eyes flicking between you and the road. 

He steers slowly through midday traffic, praying for red lights. The silent stillness between you hangs heavy when he double-parks in front of your red brick building. You can’t move. Not when you don’t know if you’ll see him again. 

Drawing in a shaky breath, you gather your strength and unfasten your seatbelt, Frankie once more lifting his cap to readjust his hair. 

“I never thanked you. For coming with me, today. For your help–” you trail off.

The sun has come out and you feel hot in your jeans and thick t-shirt. He doesn’t look at you, his head down, his brow once more knitted. 

“I– I guess I’ll see you,” you murmur. 

You want to wish him good luck, for Monday, ask him to call you afterwards to tell you how it went, but it all gets stuck in the back of your throat, so you grab your bag, instead, and put your hand on the door handle. 

He moves fast, gripping your arm, unclenching his jaw to ask you to “Wait.”

You face him, resigned. If not ready. You know what’s coming. 

Funny how, when the opportunity finally presents itself to get an answer to the one question that has obsessed him his entire adult life, the words won’t come out. And Frankie struggles to look at you as he whispers, “Why didn’t you call?”

You take the punch, breathing in deeply, thinking that the question you so dreaded wasn’t that terrible, after all, when you register the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

“What’s it gonna change, now?”

He lets go of your arm. “Please,” he breathes out. 

Images overlap as your vision blurs, your last kiss, not far from here, so long ago, you cupped his face with both hands and sought his eyes with yours. 

You blink back the memory before you open your bag and pull out your wallet, moving slowly, as if in a dream, your body rebelling against the injunctions from your brain. You take the rectangular note, and with a trembling hand, place it on his lap. Frankie tilts down his head, narrowing his eyes on the little piece of paper, ink-stained and torn out. You’re not sure that he understands what he’s looking at. 

“I got caught in a rainstorm on my way back to Rosie.” It’s hard to speak with the heavy lump in your throat. “I– I was going to call you, that night, but that’s all that was left of your number.” You pause to aggressively brush off a stray tear rolling down your cheek. “I went back to your place, I thought I might catch your sister. I was too late.”

Look at me, Frankie. I tried. I swear.

Frankie hasn’t moved. He’s glaring at the paper, teeth clenched, breathing heavily through his flared nostrils. 

Wiping another tear from your cheek, you open the door and get out of the car. Your strides are long and hurried as you walk toward the front door of your building. 

****

Additional note: Thank you for reading this far 💕

I have no idea when I'll be able to work on and post the next chapter. Good news is, it's already half done, and entirely outlined. However, it is also my favourite, so I want to make sure I get it right. I am truly exhausted and clearly need to refill. Plus the holidays are never easy on my mental health... Everyone, be gentle to yourselves in this time of year 🧡 I'll keep you posted (bad pun always intended). Never hesitate to drop me an ask, I really love those. Love 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos

#pleased to meet you #Francisco Catfish Morales #Frankie Morales #The Pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fic #ben miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #will miller #william ironhead miller #triple frontier #pedro pascal #garret hedlund #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam #frankie friday #my beloved Yovanna #adria arjona #feral frankie friday #francisco catfish morales #the pilot™️ #the husband one #the one and only #Frankie #Frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales/fem!reader #frankie morales/you

[howdoyousleep3]

im absolutely shameless soooo this one is gonna be nice a filthy for ya

warehouse daddy and i had the day off yesterday and today (wednesday and thursday for when you open), so we kinda stuck to our separate schedules until naturally i got bored ans i started being brat/tease while he was at the gym (mama if you would please attach the pic i sent you yesterday) i was sending him pics like thoseeee and my pretty new lingerie anddddd some one sided sexting too ngl. sent him some pics playing with her, ans after i finished 😮‍💨 and when i tell you, he came back to my apartment with A Problem. mama i couldn’t even get a word out before mans had me pinned against the countertop with his hands around my ducking neck (back to th collar thing, we didn’t like the actual collar but we both like his hand around my neck, either to get my attention, keep me in the moment or when he feels like being a lil shit. it’s like i have a pavlovian response to his hands aeound my neck jfc. i get so weak im the kneeeeees)

i couldn’t even find it in me to be sassy bc mans looks me dead in eyes ans is all “peaches if you wanted to play today all you had to do was say so” PROCEED TO MAN FUCKING GIVING JT TO MEEEEE UGH

mama he was so fucking rough and meannnn 🤤🥴😮‍💨🫠 last night i was delirious with it. before we even got into it, he gave me a spanking for teasing him all day and then made me finger MYSELF AS AN APOLOGY TO HIM BC I DIDNT SEND HIM VIDEOS JUST PICTURES

mama he ate me out until i cried, i can’t tell you how many orgasms i had just from that. i didn’t think nips ans tugs at her would do it for me but apparently warehouse daddy was playing me like a fucking fiddle ok and then once i was stupid with it, he lays me across the bed and face fucks me until it’s sloppy oml and we were both a mess AND HE WASNT EVEN CLOSE TO DONE

i can’t even begin to tell you how many different positions he had me in, my tits are sore from how much he was biting, pinching and slapping them (this is a new kink of mine apparently, the sting from having my tits slapped could have me coming in seconds i swear) my poor ass mama, i’m pretty sure i have a permanent hand print oml

AND TO FUCKING FINISH ME OFF THIS MAN 🫠 HELD ME UP AGAINST THE WALL ANS FUCKED ME UNTIL I WAS SCREAMING FOR IT AND EVEN THEN HE DIDNT STOP HE JUST KEPT GOING 🤤🤤🤤

(oh and we said the three magical words over breakfast and had my favorite position of sex which is missionary. he had his hand around my throat and anytime i closed my eyes or looked away he would stop 🫠🫠 i love this man so much jfc, i swear he was trying to make room for himselfff ughhhhhh. the military ball is next weekend and i don’t think im ready to see him in his suit)

-🍑 the fucked out simp

here is said pic 😈

honestly there's so much here and we've talked about this a lot but i still can't believe you said i love you 😭 our peach and her Daddy have come so far 😭 and i'm so thrilled you're being loved the way you deserve 😭

#askK #peach the simp #she's simping so hard 😭 #warehouse daddy

[vole-mon-amour]

I know it's irrelevant now but Jack calling Keeley her friend instead of girlfriend and them not even ACKNOWLEDGING it and how awkward and dismissed Keeley for that and just going about their day? And Jack ghosting Keeley on end for weeks?

Sorry, but it kind of has the same vibe for me as Roy and Keeley having sex and presumably dating again as soon as Roy shows up and tells Keeley he loves her, but Keeley never tells him how shitty past couple of days were for her and they never discuss their breakup in the first place and how shitty it was and how it made Keeley feel. Just "You're Keeley fucking Jones" & "I love you" and Keeley suddenly follows Roy like a puppy, all forgiven, nothing hurts anymore. You think that's ok? With Roy not doing any kind of work, the same way Jamie had to for years? Bc Roy has barely matured. "It was me. You're cool. I love you. Bye."

And oh, god forbid Jamie tells Keeley he still loves her (even if it happened when she was dumped by Jack and/or on her doorsteps with that sex tape leak). The fandom would eat Jamie alive for that, but HE DIDN'T. He's better than that. But for Roy it's all good apparently.

This one really doesn't sit well with me. Keeley should have thought on that. Clear her head. We could at least have had a good talk between Roy and Keeley about how shitty she felt about the breakup and how shitty she feels right now bc of her company being shut down.

Not whatever happened in 3x10. Jfc.

#ted lasso #keeley x jack #anti roy x keeley #if they're endgame with no jamie i—

[saunteringvaguelydownwards]

what are the fics you’d consider required reading (as you said in the tags of another post) ? any fandom i’d say for required reading or if there’s too much, for warrior nun ?

*heavy sigh* I had this post 90% complete when the power went out at my house and I had to rewrite the whole thing.

I'm gonna give you a scattershot approach, one fic for a few different fandoms, different types of fic, and hopefully something resonates.

🦗 (Recommend any fic, wild card!)

Avengers/MCU - The Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail series by owlet (tumblr?)

Set immediately at the end of CA:TWS, Bucky's scrambled brain does a hard reset and decides his new mission is to protect Steve, covertly. Meanwhile, he kinda gets adopted by the senior citizens that live in the shitty apartment building he's crashing in while he learns how to be person again. It's snarky AF, touching, funny, great action, fluffy domestic Avengers Tower stuff. There's some Stucky eventually, but it's not the primary focus and doesn't really show up until like the 5th story in the series. There are 7 stories, and a Q&A with the author.

OUaT - The Secret's in the Telling by @the-pyrophoric-one

Emma is being pranked by a thief while living in the mansion with Regina and Henry, and there's also magic fuckery afoot. This story is just neat. It's tightly-plotted and funny. I can't actually say too much because the whole point is that there's a mystery to solve and I'd hate to spoil it. Even when I had kinda figured out what was going on, I still had no idea how it would end. It's told from two different POVs, so it's fun to reread the first part once you know the ending. Apparently there's also a sequel, but I don't believe I've read it yet.

R&I - Calamity Jane Meets Dr. Isles, Medicine Woman by @jobethdalloway

Rizzles 1800s western AU. Maura is a fancy lady from Boston who moves west to live with her fiancé Garrett Fairfield, Jane wears pants, drinks whiskey, and roams the countryside as Jake Wyatt, an outlaw who's hunting for Charles Hoyt, the man who killed her parents. The immersion in this AU is stunning, the characters feel true to the originals while allowing for how things would change given the time and circumstances, and the buildup from their unconventional meeting to friends to more is a lovely and authentic slow burn. There's also a completed sequel, but it's still on my to-read list.

The 100 - Lightning Only Strikes Once by fiona_249 (tumblr?)

Lexa gets shot and dies, Clarke climbs to the roof of the building, gets hit by weird lightning, then suddenly she's back on The Ark, about to be sent down to Earth with 99 other teen prisoners, and no one remembers the events of the past year besides her. The ultimate fix-it fic. How do you fix your mistakes while still trying to keep the good things that happened? Balancing future knowledge with ripple effects, how much can you change before you don't know what's going to happen anymore? What do you do with a second chance? I think I've read this fic at least half a dozen times.

Warrior Nun - What If I Told You I'm a Mastermind? by @sapphicstacks

Avatrice actress AU. Ava is an unknown actress working as a bartender, Bea is a famous but reclusive actress making a comeback after several years away from the spotlight, and they get cast together in a sapphic love story. You ever read a story and go "JFC, will you two just talk to each other?" Yeah, the reason is because all of the healthy communication got requisitioned for this fic. It's incredibly wholesome and overwhelmingly romantic and also ridiculously hot. Like, prep a cold shower or make sure you're somewhere private when you read it. There's a regularly-updated WiP sequel.

#fanfic #recommendations #avengers #stucky #ouat #swan queen #rizzoli and isles #rizzles #the 100 #clexa #warrior nun #avatrice

[detransraichu]

another breakup vent lolz

my ex told me "yeah i was experimenting all along dating you for years and turns out i was just too shy to breakup and i felt too bad about you being disabled. we still had sex sometimes despite clearly not wanting a woman bc i wanted to please you BUT it wasn't me using you for sexual gratification and i mostly didn't let you touch me, so that's not as bad!!" and sure i wasn't (always) used as a sex toy by a hetero at least but like..... it still feels bad!!!! it was still a bad thing to do!!!

turns out i was getting naked and letting myself be touched by someone who was daydreaming abt some dude with a big dick. turns out all my insecurities and anxiety during sex bc they seemed stilted, but always reassured me, turns out those were true. i guess i sorta relate to how het ppl feel when their partner comes out as gay, it all makes sense now but it fucking hurts and feels violating to have shown ur most intimate side to someone who was just indulging you and was never into you. except i'm a dyke and my partner was hetero all along. complimenting my tits and jumping me when i teased they said was just them recreating pornos. i lived a lie for years. the romantic shit we did, they blamed their lack of romance on their autism, but it was bc i wasn't male and now they're all loveydovey crushing on some dudes. my constant insecurities and anxieties WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG!!!! like holy fuck. a bicurious person fucked around w me and felt too meek to say no when i asked if they wanted to date that makes me feel like a fucking predatory lesbian stereotype. WE ALMOST GOT MARRIED!!! i talked abt bearing their children!!!! i stuck around even once they transitioned and we passed as straight (til now, they're off hrt and lowkey detrans, tho they had top surgery cuz they hated how their breasts looked). i stuck around bc i was (on-and-off) in love. but it was always unrequited AND I KNEW IT!!!! i was in love w a hetero. i gave myself 100%. but they were always distant. stiff. i always asked and they told me it was all in my head. they apparently had been thinking of breaking up w me for years but they were worried i wouldn't survive without them cuz i'm broke on disability aid. like FUCK OFF!!!! my disabled dyke ass woulda figured it out, much better than living a life of lies, i always gave them a way out and they never took it, under the guise of protect me.... so infantilizing.... and now i just gotta live with that. with 5 years of lies in my past. how do i even process this y'all.... like damn 😭😭 i have mega trust issues now jfc. they're very kind and have been very generous to me over the years but this betrayal almost broke me

#lay text #another dating life vent lmaoooo #i'm still bitter #i fell out of love finally but it still hurts #i'm glad we're still best friends but the feeling of betrayal is hard to get over

[craetor]

Genderbend Death Note AU expansion

(Lawlight headcanon to an AU I created of an existing story... Yeah.)

In this AU, I decided to keep Misa a (as far as audience knows) cisgender woman for added sapphics, except she's ramped up the campiness. Her style is still gothic, but branching towards French-accented vampire goth. Still a bit cheeky and clingy but more theatre dramatic. Red satin weaved with her black leather & stilettos-heeled knee-highs, emanating any given Lady Gaga song where she drops The Voice (initially I thought of her while listening to the "Monster Ball version" of Alejandro)

She's a model as well as a fashion designer. Needless to say, part of her love language is making Light her muse (which might be the most lesbian thing in the whole series, but would still be used by homophobes/armchair art historians to be like "SHES JUST HER MUSE ITS NOT GAY ITS NOT GAY" & we'd be like "bitch about every famous painter in history who had a muse romanced them jfc..." Anyways.) . She even draws her in her Death Note. It just has that kind of risky, exciting feel to it, and as much as Light silently enjoys to be drawn, she's a little paranoid that 1. The death note might one day respond to pictures as well, who knows, & 2. Anybody who'd find the note would see little doodles of her all over it, which is slightly incriminating to say the least, even with a 'stalker' argument in the back pocket. It ties her to it, period.

Headcanon (idea I'm too cowardly to incorporate):

After figuring out L is also somewhat seasoned when it comes to paining (idk why but apparently people of the fandom eat that idea up), in a moment of boredom & homoerotism she asks L to draw her. Draw her the way she truly sees her. It is followed by her completely nude on their bed, as a homage to the most legendary piece of sapphic angst - Portrait of a Lady on Fire, holding a mirror to obscure her pubic area.

It isn't like L hadn't seen her undressed before, as the magazine scene is exchanged for Light trying on lingerie (L had seen it coming & sent Soichiro off with 10.000¥ to get her a cake from a bakery downtown. The one that id also mentioned in Change the world. That'd be a subtle reference in addition to the canon LABB case connection to Another Note) and it also being Yotsuba Arc, wherefore they frequently shower together, so it's simply some rather sensually loaded naked bonding.

#didn't know if i wanted this out of my drafts but i suppose everyone who feels this blog might like this too #death note #genderbend #fem l lawliet #fem light yagami #misa amane #death note au #lawlight #lesbian lawlight #lesbian yagamane #light yagami #l lawiet

[tuiyla]

I know you're on your BtVS feels rn, but I was wondering what are your thoughts on how Cordy was treated in AtS season 4...

Oh boy!! BtVS and AtS feels are pretty much the same to me. I'm so glad someone asked but rest assured I was going to rant about it unprompted anyway, at some point.

My thoughts are 👿👿😒😕🙄 Buckle up!

After how good season 3 was Cordelia and how I finally felt like she was on a show that deserved her, they go and do this. I found the whole season disappointing but particularly Cordy's role, or lack of it. So like, what, was Cordy just not actually there for the majority of the season? They're gonna retcon my girl like that, make it divine intervention that she got the visions and used them valiantly? It feels very disrespectful to the character who's grown SO much. It's like spitting in the face of her whole LA journey. The audacity to have her arc end like that last season only for them to turn around and say SIKE! Ha, you thought she could earn being a higher power? Please. It was all orchestrated.

Ngl part of me was glad it wasn't actually Cordelia who slept with Angel's son (choosing to believe that was fully Jasmine's possession) but still!! And the fact that she was nothing but a puppet this season. The fact that they had to go with a stupid pregnancy storyline. They reduced her to not only a pawn in what was going to be a hugely empowering story but also to little more than an incubator. I already disliked the one episode storyline of forced magical pregnancy that she had with Veronica Mars co-star Ken Marino back in s1. And the Darla pregnancy already didn't sit well with me at all in how it used her character as a prop to further Angel's story. But this? This is both of those combined and worse. I quite honestly hated it more than I've ever hated any other Buffyverse storyline. The Trio were just annoying and not funny. This was insulting.

I was going to make a disgusted post when Cordy and Connor slept together but I was like, well that is Yikes but let's wait it out. Maybe... maybe the moment can be redeemed. And then joke is on me because it somehow got worse with the Jasmine reveal. I found it so hard to take this story seriously and all the while I was thinking of how callously Cordelia's character was sidelined in favour of this bs. I hate that she became something for Angel and Connor to fight over, I hate how she was robbed of her agency and I hate how she ends the season in a freaking coma. I hate that all of this happened to her without Cordelia having any say whatsoever. I think she was treated appallingly this season. Again, how much of it was even Cordy at all? Maybe Spin the Bottle really was her but that was (pre-)BtVS season 1 Cordy. Where was my AtS s3 Cordy? In a fucking coma apparently. Ah, I'm just mad about it. Clearly, lol. All of it is highly disrespectful and frankly gross.

Please tell me I'm not alone in feeling like this Anon, please tell me what your thoughts are on Cordy in s4. Justice for Cordy, jfc.

#i'm really disappointed that ats gave cordy so much #only to take it away #i'd hope s5 is better but i already know charisma got the boot from whedon #before the finale #so that doesn't bode well #yikes #cordelia chase #buffy asks #ats #the buffy asks tag is for the whole buffyverse #anon #thanks i hated it <3

[clatterbane]

The next thing up is another day in that new outpatient surgery hell scheduled for Tuesday. 🤨

I did go ahead and successfully ask for some premedication. Ended up just telling the doctor when he came by after the procedure that I really wasn't sure if I could make myself come back, due to some past experiences elsewhere (making sure to emphasize that everyone had been great there, even as fried as my brain was by that point). I really hate feeling like my autistic ass is forced to play some kind of multidimensional manipulative social chess to try and get some needs met, which is tricky enough when I am in much better form than I was after that day. But, it apparently worked. The guy did actually seem sympathetic when my composure kinda broke down talking to him, and frankly he had probably already heard about my little PTSD meltdown earlier. I was afraid that would hurt me in general, but maybe not so much.

I now have some Oxascand waiting, which I am supposed to take far enough in advance that I am not sure how much effect there will still be by the time I even get to the hospital. (Also planning some preemptive Tylenol and take more along with me for after, as much musculoskeletal pain as my bendy ass ended up in from being stuck on a fucking gurney for hours last time. It always hurts to lie flat on my back, and I also kept ending up there. Felt like I had been hit by a truck, which probably struck my previously broken butt before sending me flying. Plus the inevitable effects of their Migraine Potion after the procedure, while I'm stuck there under fluorescent lights for at least a couple more hours before they'll let me go. Gonna bring along some cough drops and a rescue inhaler too, because coughing with the throat irritation from the damn anesthesia trach tube set off my asthma last time. Thankfully that did calm down on its own, but jfc. Do not need.)

Especially given the way my adrenaline-charged system seems to blast through benzos. But, at least that will hopefully help me get out the door to go to Lund for their early morning outpatient surgery cattle call. Idk about the hours of waiting until they wheel me back, but hopefully that will be slightly more bearable now that I do know what to expect. The premedication will at least hopefully help keep my white coat blood pressure down enough that this doesn't lead to more delays. Not surprisingly, the first reading they took while I was still sorta melting down was high enough that they waited to get a less alarming one.

The gastro endoscopy people really did burn through most of the trust they had managed to earn with this latest poor communication shitshow, I tell you what. I was down to mild dread of a quick unpleasant procedure before this, but I am back to looping unhelpful thoughts at the prospect of another round like the last one. Even going back in with a much better idea of what to expect, and prepare for.

And yes, it's starting up before the weekend for a Tuesday repeat.

I do at least trust them to be competent, try not to hurt me, and actually talk to me like I am a living human being rather than an annoyance. That is much better than I could say for the bunch I was stuck dealing with in the UK. That unfortunately still doesn't completely override the dread of being trapped in a fucking surgical unit pretty much all day.

#personal #venting #medical ptsd #medical trauma

[shwarmii]

hi, i'm @/shwarmi, and tumblr tERMINATED MY BLOG (AND ALL MY SIDE-BLOGS WITHOUT WARNING ME) and i messaged them to get it back but idk when theyll get back to me, so here i am in the meantime, hello, i guess this is my back-up account now, yes, my url is a pun on Roman numerals, anyway, sure do fucking hope i gET MY BLOG BACK JFC

edit: i've been filling out a ticket form about Account Termination once a day (here's the link to it if you ever need help finding it for yourself in the future; please don't try to help me via spamming the ticket form or anything, they explicitly ask to not involve other people uninvolved in your account AND i feel bad enough doing spam once a day already; but, anyway, yes, i recommend doing what i did and having bookmarked the aforementioned link and just copy&paste my form answers into the ticket from a seperate document, like from Google Drive or something, so you don't have to retype it everytime), and i have recieved no reply nor even a confirmation e-mail. hence the lack of updates on how my account is doing. there's no other way to contact staff, except maybe via Twitter, as their support e-mail is no longer accepting messages (hopefully bc of the following they will be in contact with you sooner than they have been with me, bc i didnt know this following tip this past week i've been filling out that ticket and noW YOU DO, you lucky bastard. do what i did with a seperate document to prep in case this is a multi-day process, but hopefully you'll get farther in less time than i have bc jfc i wasn't even getting a confirmation e-mail beforehand big McYikes)

BUT!!1! a friend of mine who was terminated last year said to attach my un-terminated e-mail's account (aka the e-mail i am using right here for @/shwarmii, and not for the terminated @/shwarmi like i had been doing liKE A DUMMY APPARENTLY) to the ticket's general "Put your e-mail here" slot and to explain within "The more details, the better" part your original e-mail attached to the terminated account in addition to the rest of your explanation. and i finally got a confirmation e-mail that my ticket has been recieved! yes, it was just an automated response but yay! finally!! progress!!1! i at least got a fUCKING CONFIRMATION E-MAIL, HAHA, VICTORY!

god i fucking wish i knew about the "just dont use your e-mail linked to your terminated account" tip a week ago jfc on a hot dog stick, my guys, finally, a confirmation e-mail, gahhh

since i now have a confirmation e-mail, i will wait five buisness days (so today is the 8th and a Monday, therefore, i'll wait until Saturday which is the 12th except i said "business days" ergoooo Monday the 14th) to e-mail them again. i hate waiting tho ughhh like, fine, i'll do what i gotta do but also ugghhhhh

↳ additional note: this update/edit was made on 8 August 2023. @/shwarmi has been terminated since 31 July 2023 (or 30 July 2023, and i just was too exhausted to make the account/post until the 31st. i forget. i was in the middle of moving and im disabled, so i was over-exerting myself big-time. i had processed that my account had been terminated at the time and just responded by taking a nap lmao rip but yeah, therefore, it's all been a blur)

NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. COOL. (Narrator: It was not, in fact, "cool".) I WAITED AS PLANNED (this update is being written on 14 August 2023) AND STILL NO FOLLOW-UP TO MY CONFIRMATION TICKET. HATE THAT FOR ME.

instead of sending in a new ticket as i originally planned, i replied to their confirmation email since it said i could do that (for permalinks or whatever) so that they will HOPEFULLY get back to me without me having to be a pest about their automated systems, ugh.. (i have cropped out my email and the Ticket Number(? i assume that's what that string if letters and numbers are anyway) for privacy reasons, but here is what the confirmation e-mail looks like and how i replied. i am including this mostly to help out anyone who may be terminated in the future have an idea of what to expect and an expectation of "OH, okay, so i can reply to THIS email-address, got it" kind of nonsense or whatever. why not lmao)

i will wait another five buisness days, so that'll be on the 21st of August 2023. hopefully, i will update with good news before then (aka: they'll haVE REPLIED MAYBE PLS PLS PLS) but i guess i will have to be annoying if not

it is the 20th (so they have one more day before i have to be annoying anD I DONT WANNA BE.. pls send me ideas of how to be annoying that doesnt include the Hateful Xitter pls, my only idea is to DM them there and i dON'T WANNA) and even my gmail thinks the lack of response is fucked up lmao rip

having a Bad Brain Day streak rn due to my (abusive) dad's failing health and unpacking and all this other shit i have to do post-moving like switching my insurance and renewing my liscence and fuck all, so bothering tumblr about not replying to me is gonna take a bit more of a backseat for a minute, hold on

it.. is now August 30. brain still in gutter, but i forced myself to make a xitter/twitter (don't follow, ill delete the account after they help me or not). and it wouldnt let me dm, so i had to just @ them and post. brain so sad that i cannot even be amused rn that @/shwarmi on there was taken by a shwarma restaurant. @/tumblrsupport's Replies tab shows signs of helping people as recently as 2 hrs ago, but idk if there's another queue here. i guess we'll find out?? i just want my accounts with all their posts and shit back pls, this has taken so long to try to do 💔

edit: if you're curious, it is 3 Sept 2023 and i am still waiting (it looks like they are looking at people who @'ed them on Sept 1 rn and iM LIKE "PLSSSS, I @'ED YOU ON THE 30TH OF AUGUST PLSSSSSSS", gonna give them until the 5th before i tweet again i guess 🥺)

i am not god's strongest soldier. i continue to cry out for help, alas, i have yet to receive an answer

it does not help that the twitter account sometimes says to people: "What is your Tumblr URL? We can check and see if there was a glitch of some sort. But be advised that if it is a TOS violation situation or a bigger tech issue, we cannot assist/reply on Twitter" so that doesnt make me panic aT ALL that maybe i broke TOS without any form of a warning or knowledge that i wasnt following tumblr's terms of services regarding things like nsfw and whatnot (narrator: they were panicking)

i hate it here. staff should at least be able to tell me (via email, if not twitter) that i wont be getting my account back or whatever else instead of just saying NOTHING??????

going to do all this again (tweet support, make a whole new ticket (i still have the info saved thankfully), reply to my old email confirmation) on September 27th (an arbitrary date based on I Have A Lot Going On Rn) if they continue to not reply. if i hit the 30 images limit, guess ill be reblogging and adding even MORE to this thread jfc juST TALK TO MEE!!!1!

#me #shwarmi #never have i been so glad that i have a google doc of mcs and all the i.f. games theyre from &&& also #how much i screenshot from tumblr to tell me who i was following before lmao rip